The Valiant Highlander (Highland Defender #2)

by Amy Jarecki

  The baronet settled beside her. “Mayhap we do, but that’s none of his concern. My coin is still the same.”

  “True.” Letting it pass, Mary watched out the window while the coach began to amble along. The buildings were so different from Dunscaith Castle. Many were made of wood and they were all so very close together.

  The sound of saws came from the timber yard. The stench in the air grew worse and Mary had to cover her nose with her arisaid. The source of the smell came clear when they passed a sign reading Slaughter Yard.

  Sir Donald pointed. “We’ll turn up Saltmarket now and the unpleasantness of the waterfront will soon fade.”

  True to his word, moments later, the entire scene had changed. All manner of folk strolled along the footpath. The buildings were all made of stone, but with no gaps between them. Some had shop fronts on their lower levels while others had bay windows from the first floor all the way up to the third—definitely looking like townhouses. Some even stood five stories high, just like a keep. They passed the coal warehouse and the cabinet maker’s shop and a block later, the store fronts gave way to stately buildings with ornate doors with stained glass. It seemed every door they passed was more lavish than the last.

  Sir Donald pounded his fist on the roof of the coach and the driver pulled the team to a stop.

  Mary twisted her mouth. “We didn’t travel far. Goodness, we could have walked.”

  “Oh no.” The baronet hopped out, then offered his hand. “I’d not allow you to walk the streets of Glasgow wearing only a shift and a blanket.”

  After he paid the driver, Sir Donald pulled a skeleton key from his sporran and unlocked the leaded-glass door made more ornate by a relief of cast-iron. Stepping inside, Mary had never seen such modern splendor. Every furnishing in the entrance hall was polished to a sheen, the hardwood floor covered with a silk Oriental carpet swirling with reds and blues.

  A man wearing trews, shirt and waistcoat pattered down the stairs. “Sir, we did not expect you for another few days. Is all well?” His hawkish gaze shot to Mary.

  “We had a bit of unforeseen complications with the Government troops but, with luck, William should be on his way down the shore with our cargo.”

  “Donald!” said a beautiful woman, dressed in blue taffeta from the top of the stairway, seemingly to float all the way down. “I’m ever so glad you are home.”

  She took the baronet’s hands and kissed both his cheeks. “How are things on Skye?”

  “We had a few setbacks, but all is well, my dear.”

  The hackles on Mary’s nape stood on end. His dear? He never mentioned a wife. Who is this woman?

  The fair-haired beauty regarded Mary, her frown deepening as her gaze traveled from the arisaid to Mary’s bare feet. “You’ve taken in a new servant?” Then she looked to Donald’s bare feet and drew her hand to her chest. “My heavens, you both seem to have misplaced your shoes.”

  “Forgive me.” Sir Donald gestured to Mary. “This is Miss Mary of Castleton, daughter of John, Chieftain of Castleton.” Then he swung his palm toward the woman. “This is my sister, Barbara. She will see to your comfort.”

  Barbara offered a warm, if not quizzical smile and took Mary’s hand. “You’ve brought me a companion from Skye? And how did you come to arrive in such a disheveled state, may I ask?”

  Mary cringed. “’Tis a long story.”

  Barbara tugged her toward the staircase. “Oh, how I do love stories. And by my brother’s shabby appearance, I am sure this one will bring more amusement than I’ve had in a very long time.”

  “Order shoes, gowns, cloak…whatever Miss Mary requires,” Sir Donald called after them.

  Barbara stopped, a spark of mischief flashing in her eyes. “Honestly? This will be fun. Mr. Kerr, please send up a tub and water to the guest chamber.”

  The trews-wearing valet bowed. “As you wish, Miss Barbara.”

  ***

  Don stood and watched the women ascend the stairs while he scratched his head.

  “Shall I order a bath for you as well, sir?” asked Mr. Kerr.

  “You’d better.” He continued to stare after Mary. “Have there been any missives?”

  “I’ve put all your correspondence on your writing desk, sir.”

  “Anything from William?”

  “Not that I recall.”

  “Blast.” Don started up the stairs.

  Mr. Kerr followed. “If you don’t mind my asking, what happened? Were you not to attend the gathering at Dunscaith Castle and then sail to Trotternish with William? ’Tis a wee bit baffling, your returning with the Laird of Castleton’s daughter and not your brother.”

  “Baffling is right, along with confounding, maddening and downright frustrating.” Don told him about the galley being seized, then continued up the stairs. “Please inform cook we have a guest.”

  “Yes, sir. How long will Miss Mary be staying with us?”

  “Until I can secure safe transport home for the lass—which I’m finding is a lot easier said than done.”

  With that, he marched to the third landing and to his suite of rooms. By God, it felt good to be home. He crossed through the drawing room and straight for his bedchamber. Sorting through the missives on his writing desk, he found nothing from William. Curses, he hated not knowing. He opened another—the shipment for the Americas had been delayed by a fortnight. Thank God. That was the only shred of good news he’d had in what seemed like an age.

  He sunk into his overstuffed chair, propped up his feet and started reading.

  Perhaps an hour later, a knock came from the servant’s entrance. “Your bath, sir.”

  “Come.” Don normally made quick work of bathing, but the big wooden tub and buckets of hot water brought in by the servants looked incredibly inviting. Lowering his paper, his exhaustion hit full force.

  Mr. Kerr set the bath salts, lye and drying towel on a stool beside the bath. “Is there anything else, sir?”

  “No, thank you. I aim to enjoy a long soak free of interruption.”

  Mr. Kerr added coal to the fire and then bowed. “Very well, sir. I’ll attend you before the evening meal as usual then.”

  “Ahhhh,” Don sighed, lowering himself into the warm water. Sennights of pent up stress melted away as he leaned back and closed his eyes. Simply being home helped the tension melt from his shoulders. Though he did love Skye, his townhouse was equipped with modern conveniences—glass in the windows, no drafty chambers, hearths built to emit more heat. The worries of the cause faded in his quiet chamber which overlooked the rear courtyard and stables.

  When the water started to cool, he sank down and soaked his hair, then worked up a lather, washing all the dirt away. He held the soap to his nose—lilac this time. Miss Mary’s scent. He chuckled. Mr. Kerr had a fancy for sweet-smelling, flowery scents.

  Mayhap the soap would make Miss Mary feel at home. Doubtless she would be bathing with the same scented soap a floor above—naked just like him. If only he could be the one to run the bar of soap over her lily-white shoulder, to massage it in with swirls of his fingers. Oh yes, he’d splay his fingers down her back, slowly moving his hands forward—beneath her arms until he cupped her breasts. Pert, ripe breasts, the same he’d filled his palm with when he’d kissed her in the box bed at the A’chul Bothy Croft.

  If only Miss Mary weren’t in his care. If only she were a nymph who’d come to tempt him, he might be able to act on his fantasies. But to take advantage of the lass would be akin to betraying the trust of the exiled King James, the trust of the Jacobites and the Highlanders he so dearly loved.

  No. He couldn’t ravish Miss Mary no matter how much his cods ached. And they ached plenty. He’d practically been hard for the past sennight and there was no respite in sight.

  A howl came from the floor above—the guest chamber.

  Sitting up, Don’s eyes flashed wide.

  Another howl sounded, followed by more muffled yelling.

  Leaping from t
he bath, Don grabbed the drying cloth and wrapped it around his waist while he sprinted up the servant’s stairs. What had happened now? Good God, would he ever enjoy a moment’s peace?

  Bursting through the guestroom door, he skidded to a stop.

  Barbara looked up, her mouth agape as she stood beside Mary, sitting erect and bare naked in a wooden tub. “What on earth are you thinking, charging in here like a mad bull?”

  Don glanced down at his bare chest, streaming with water that grew colder by the second. “I beg your pardon? You pair were the ones squealing as if you were being attacked by said bull. What was I to think?”

  Crossing her arms over her breasts, Mary slid deeper into the tub, but not before Don got a good eyeful of sweet alabaster tipped by rose—a breast, not large, but round and so perfectly formed, merely the sight of it turned his knees to mush. Blinking away his lust, he clenched his drying cloth taut over his groin. Now was not the time to show Miss Mary exactly what her body did to him. Good God, his sister stood there gaping at him like he was some sort of lecherous swine.

  He gave them both a good scowl. “What on earth were you doing?”

  “Miss Mary was telling me about how you met—and the fact she won a crown in a shooting contest.” Barbara laughed. “My heavens, if only I could have been there to see the look on your face.”

  Mary sank so low in the tub, only her head was visible. “Sorry,” she mouthed with a cringe.

  Moving toward him, Barbara took his shoulder and turned him back toward the door. “Miss Mary needs her privacy—and ’tis a bit awkward seeing my brother with only a wee cloth wrapped around his waist. Not a good style for a baronet, I’d say.” She followed him into the servant’s passageway.

  Descending the stairs, Don shot an annoyed glance over his shoulder. “Mind your own affairs.”

  As usual, his sister ignored him. “You rescued Miss Mary from a retinue of dragoons all by yourself?”

  “There were only seven.” The fact that the lass had made his job easy with her escape out the back of the tent helped matters significantly as well, but repeating such to Barbara would be a waste of breath.

  “Well, the lass is smitten.”

  “Hardly.” Arriving at his door, he faced her. “Mary of Castleton has been sheltered all her life. How could she possibly ken what she wants?”

  “You’d be surprised how much young maids know their own minds,” Barbara said like she had a great deal of experience in the matter, but at the tender age of nineteen, Don sincerely doubted such wisdom. Possessed by some sort of deep-rooted feminine insight, Barbara shook her finger under his nose. “You’d best behave. I saw the look on your face when you glimpsed her in the tub—you’re not as impervious to the lass as you may think.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You charged into her chamber with naught but a wee cloth around your hips. What would have happened if I hadn’t been there?”

  Don scowled. How dare his little sister challenge him so? “If you hadn’t been attending Miss Mary, I would have been content to stay in my own bath—which is where I intend to return anon.”

  He pulled down on the latch, but Barbara moved forward as if she planned to enter his chamber. “How long do you plan to keep her here?”

  He stopped, blocking the doorway. “Until the shipment bound for the Americas sails. Only then will I have the opportunity to take her back to Skye.”

  “You?” Barbara crossed her arms like an indignant waif—a knowing look fixed in place. “Why not let William do it?”

  Well, he had a staunch reply to such a nonsensical barb. “If you haven’t noticed, William isn’t here.”

  “I meant when he returns.”

  “For your information, I believe Miss Mary is in danger. Presently, she’s safer here with me. In the interim, take her on as your project. She can use a bit of city refinement before she traipses back to the Highlands.”

  Barbara rolled her eyes with a tsk of her tongue. “But she’s delightful as she is. Besides, more women should become proficient with a musket.” She covered her damned mouth when she laughed. “I still cannot believe she bested you of all people.”

  “Stop. Miss Mary’s mother passed away when she was very young. I’m certain you understand what I mean when I say she can use your flair for refinement. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I aim to return to the peace and tranquility of my bath while there’s still some warmth left in the water.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Wearing a borrowed gown of yellow silk, Mary gave herself a once-over in the mirror before heading to the dining hall to break her fast. Though taller, Miss Barbara loaned Mary two sets of clothes until the tailor could pay a visit. The gowns and shifts were a very close fit, though they had to pad the slippers with lamb’s wool. Nonetheless, Mary felt a bit out of sorts. Her kirtles and arisaids were always made of wool—very practical and necessary for the Highlands. In winter they helped stave off the bitter cold. Even then icy winters on the Isle of Skye could pierce through the woolen weave like a thousand knives.

  She turned in place and watched her skirts billow. The silk rustled with her every move—made her ever so aware of how expensive the gown must be. She turned again and regarded her image in the mirror. Goodness, she looked so stylish she doubted anyone in Castleton would recognize her.

  Though modern and grand, the guest chamber was a bit smaller than her chamber at Dunscaith Castle. They burnt coal rather than peat, which seemed to keep the room warmer, but the best thing was the feather mattress she’d slept upon. Had it not been for the chambermaid coming in to light the fire and lay out her clothes, Mary might have opted to sleep all day. After her ordeal, a night spent sleeping in sublime comfort had been exactly what she needed.

  However, once awake and laced into her stays by Hattie, the efficient chambermaid who must haul buckets of water all day long to develop muscles large enough to corset Mary within an inch of her life, her growling stomach won out and she headed toward the smell of good cooking. Scarcely able to breathe, Mary wondered where she’d put any food whatsoever, but by the growling, she had to try.

  “Miss Mary, how lovely to see you this morn,” said Mr. Kerr as soon as she entered the hall, lavishly appointed with tapestries depicting pastoral scenes. The groomsman pulled out a chair and gestured toward it.

  “Good morrow.” At first Mary didn’t recognize Sir Donald. Wearing a velvet doublet and a flaxen colored periwig that curled down past his shoulders, he was seated at the head of the table reading some sort of missive with a great deal of writing on both sides. Even more perplexing, the table had been prepared as if they were to eat a five-course meal, not a simple bowl of porridge and a few rashers of bacon.

  Mary thanked Mr. Kerr and took her seat.

  Sir Donald looked up. “Ah Miss Mary,” he said as if she were merely an acquaintance come to call. “Did you sleep well?”

  “Indeed, I slept like a bairn on your feather mattress—could have stayed there all day.” She reached for a scone and buttered it.

  Mr. Kerr presented her with a platter piled with food. “Blood pudding and eggs?”

  Nodding, she pointed. “And I’ll eat two of those fat sausages as well thank you.”

  Sir Donald, who had resumed his reading, peered over the parchment.

  She tried to look pleasant, though she wondered who on earth the man at the head of the table was. His entire demeanor seemed nothing like the Baronet of Sleat who had ridden double with her through the rugged Highlands and who’d seemed as comfortable as a lad sailing a galley with bare feet.

  “Where is Miss Barbara?” she asked.

  “My sister hasn’t arisen as of yet,” he mumbled, reverting his gaze to his reading. “You’ll find Barbara is more of a night owl. And she rarely takes the morning meal—says it always adds inches to her waistline.”

  Mary gulped down her mouthful of sausage and egg and studied the title of Sir Donald’s document. The Oxford Gazette. “Why, pray tell, are yo
u reading that rubbish?”

  He folded the parchment and slapped it on the table. “’Tis full of information and the best way to beat your enemies is to ken what they’re up to.”

  “Hmm,” she snorted and took a drink of watered wine. “Is that why you’re dressing like them? I think I prefer you without the pompous wig.”

  He patted the gauche curls. “But ’tis the style and what is expected from a man of my station.”

  “Well I don’t care for it. I prefer not to put on airs and wear what is comfortable—what I’ve always worn.”

  “Aye? Though I daresay the frock you’re wearing now is becoming.” He sighed. “But when you’re in a war, the one for the cause that are in at this very moment, sometimes it is imperative to behave as is expected rather than as one pleases.”

  Mary nudged her egg with her knife. “I suppose.”

  “’Tis why I asked Barbara to work with you on etiquette.”

  Jolting upright, Mary gaped. How dare he? She leveled her knife at him, a bit of egg flying across the table. “You think I am unmannerly?”

  “Ladies, especially those who are first daughters of chieftains, do not go about pulling stoppers out of powder horns with their teeth and firing muskets.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Nor do they head off to borrow eggs afore dawn.”

  Mary’s stomach churned. “Are you saying my abduction was my fault?”

  He eyed her—and without amusement as if he’d never felt a shred of fondness for her. “I’m saying a young lassie doesn’t set out alone—ever.”

  “But we’ve never had outlaws and highwaymen around Dunscaith Castle. It has always been safe to wander about.”

  “You believe so? But what of the dragoons? I understand Lieutenant MacLeod had been stationed near Teangue for two years.”

  “The army is supposed to support and protect the citizens, not kidnap them and force them into marriage.”

  “Now you ken differently, do you not?”

  She banged her knife beside her plate. “Is that what you think of me? I’m some sort of fool who has no common sense?”