by Amy Jarecki
“I wish I had your confidence.” William turned and kicked a stone. “What of Miss Mary?”
Good God, would his brother ever stop asking maddening questions? A chunk of lead sank in Don’s gut. He never should have kept her in Glasgow so long. He’d practically seduced the woman last eve. Practically? He had done everything but take her maidenhead. Damnation, she was turning him into a lecherous debaucher of heiresses. He might have enjoyed a toss with a widow or a wench at the alehouse now and again, but Mary of Castleton needed to be strictly off limits. He couldn’t chance a slip with her again lest he end up forced to marry the lass. “’Tis time to take her back to Dunscaith,” he mumbled under his breath.
“Will there be time?”
“A detour to Castleton will only set us back a few hours at most.” It was the right thing to do.
“I think she’s rather enjoyed her time here,” William said.
“Aye.”
“I also think you’ve enjoyed having her in the guest chamber.”
“She’s a pleasant lass to have about for the most part—and she’s been good company for our sister.”
William guffawed. “You say that as if she were a pet deerhound.”
“How else would you have me speak of her?”
“I’ve seen you steal glimpses of Miss Mary when she wasn’t looking. You like her—in fact, I’ll venture to say you’re in love with her.”
“Don’t be preposterous. I cannot afford to be in love with her.”
“So you’ll take her back to Dunscaith Castle and applaud when her betrothal to some well-to-do, much-older laird is announced?”
Don’s gut twisted tighter than the lock on a strongbox. “I didn’t say that.”
“But still, you’re letting her go?”
“Have you lost your mind?” Don stopped at the corner of Saltmarket and Bridge. “In case you have, let me remind you that our situation is precarious. We must secure our place as a supplier to that vile Mr. Smith, else England will starve out not only us but all of the Highlands. We have pledged our lives and our swords to the cause. Never forget it.”
William executed a pretentious bow. “Forgive me, my lord. With such enthusiasm I have no doubt you’ll soon be declared the revered duke of Jacobinism.”
“Mute your insolent tongue.”
“Pardon me for stating the obvious. If you are hell-bent on breaking the young woman’s heart, then by all means, I’ll not stand in your way.” William started toward the riverfront. “If you’ll excuse me from your pig-headed presence, I have a galley in dire need of repair.”
Don’s blood boiled beneath his skin as he watched his brother cross the road. He ought to teach Willy a lesson, too. God knew the impertinent lout needed a good sparring session. How on earth could Don think of properly courting Mary at a time like this?
Besides, she’d be far better off with someone not so dedicated to the cause. Christ, if the Williamite Party uncovered his ardent loyalty to King James, he could very well be tried and hanged for treason.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Dressed as a chimney sweep, Balfour hid in the recesses of the close across the street from the Baronet of Sleat’s townhouse. God, he hated this town. The streets were cluttered with beggars and filth. It hadn’t been difficult to find his garb—flicked a bob at an urchin who gladly removed his shirt and bonnet, scampering after the coin like a dog. The only problem was it stank worse than a sewer.
Balfour nearly retched with every inhale. Christ, when he removed these tattered garments, he would burn them. But not yet. Licking his lips, he watched the windows and doors of the ritzy city home—a vile abode in truth. It lacked everything Balfour loved from the Highlands. But just like the Baronet of Sleat, it stood as a false façade. Behind its doors hid the evil of the Jacobite Party and their miserable code of clan law.
Not long after Balfour had slipped into his hiding place, he’d seen the baronet head out with his brother. He chuckled silently at the grave expressions on their faces. Last eve, he’d drawn a great deal of satisfaction when, from afar, he watched the warehouse burn to the ground—watched the guttersnipes battle the blaze in vain, throwing useless buckets of water onto the inferno. Unfortunately, MacDonald had been too fast—cunning even—using the damned siphon to pump water onto the flames. But Balfour had hurt the man and he doubted Donald MacDonald’s deep pockets would weather the setback.
Word on the street was Smith would give his business to whoever could fill his cargo hold and MacDonald’s salt pans were too far away. Balfour laughed again. The baronet would also be forced to wait two seasons to shear his sheep again. His wool was lost and with luck, his clan would starve.
Balfour froze when Mary of Castleton exited the front door with Don’s sister with those two Highland cads accompanying her. They all wore smiles on their faces as if nothing were amiss—all except Miss Mary. Something didn’t seem quite right with her, though she opened her parasol and rested her hand on Sir Kennan’s offered elbow. Christ, the slobbering maggot looked upon Miss Mary as if she were the only woman in the county.
What the devil? Balfour’s gut turned upside down. The wench could be involved in all manner of immoral practices behind the doors of the baronet’s townhouse. Was she whoring with every Jacobite laird in Scotland? Ballocks to that. Walking in front of Mary, Sir Donald’s sister and Coll of Keppoch were fawning over each other like a pair of shameless dogs.
Balfour’s knuckles turned white as he squeezed the handle of his chimney broom. He’d best do something fast or there would be no turning Miss Mary to his way of thinking. She was his, goddammit. No one else’s.
***
“Come,” Don responded to the light rap on the door. It could be only one person.
Miss Mary popped her head inside. “You sent for me?”
“Yes.” He gestured to a chair then held it for her. “Please be seated.”
“My thanks.”
You’ll not be thanking me after you’ve heard what I have to say. Don took the seat opposite. “I’m sure you’re aware my cargo is lost.”
White teeth scraped over her full bottom lip. “All of it?”
“Aye, even the wool. But William and the crew are hastily making repairs to my galley.”
“Thank heavens.”
“Regardless, there’s little chance we’ll make the next shipment to the Americas.”
“But there’s always the next one,” she said, her eyes too bright and hopeful.
Don looked away, refusing to allow her optimism to sway his good judgement. “Possibly, but last eve’s fire was a terrible setback, terrible.”
She nodded, her smile faltering a bit.
Taking a deep breath, he grasped the arms of his chair. “I sent for you because I wanted you to hear from me first that we are sailing north on the morrow.”
The smile now gone, a hushed gasped slipped through her lips. “Oh? So soon?”
“We’ve not a moment to lose.” He drummed his fingers. “I must retrieve another shipment from Trotternish, and I’d be remiss in my duty as the leader of the Defenders if I did not take you home to your father.”
Mary’s face blanched. “To Dunscaith?” she muttered as if forgetting her roots.
“I thought you’d be happy with the news. Are you not looking forward to being reunited with your family?”
She stared at him, mouth agape as if she were holding something inside. Though her eyes flashed with disbelief, the slight parting of her lips made her look more kissable than she’d ever been. Don swiped his hand over his sore eyes and tender nose. He could not be influenced by her wiles at a time like this.
“I beg your pardon, but after last eve, I thought…” She pressed those luscious lips into a thin line.
Don knew full well what she’d nearly uttered. But she’d silenced herself before voicing what would have been an embarrassment for both of them—improper as well. His fingernails bit into the armrests as he fought to remain impartial. His very
existence was in peril. It was no time to allow a young woman to twist her desires around his heart, no matter how much the goddamned organ wanted her to do so. “You must ken I cannot make promises.” He didn’t need to give her an explanation, but for some reason, he felt he must explain. And she sat there looking like a puppy that had been left out alone in the snow on the coldest night imaginable. “God bless it, Mary, the cause is in crisis.”
She squared her shoulders and looked him directly in the eye—the redheaded minx. “Och aye, the cause. ’Tis far more important than people’s feelings, or families or…or love.”
Jesus, she had to use that bleating four-letter word. “Mary, I—”
Shoving away her chair, she stood and backed toward the door. “What about Sir Coll and Sir Kennan?”
Don marched around the table, fists balled at his sides. “Why the devil are you bringing them up at a time like this?”
She tilted her defiant face up to him. “Are they sailing north as well?”
“Aye. They’re returning to their clans. ’Tis time.”
“Did you decide it was time? Did you discuss such inconvenient timing with your sister?”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Now you’re speaking gibberish.”
She took a daring step toward him. “Only because you are completely blind.”
Don planted his fists on his hips, refusing to back down. “I beg your pardon?”
Mary snorted as if Don were a blasted numbskull. “Barbara is in love with Sir Coll of Keppoch.”
Every muscle in his body clamped taut. His sister could not possibly be in love with anyone without Don’s consent. “Preposterous! I’m her guardian and have heard nothing of the sort.”
“That’s because you’ve had your nose so deep in the Oxford Gazette you pay no attention to the world around you.”
For the love of God, this woman could be so infuriating. And she was standing so damned close her scent had his mind completely flummoxed. Who could manage a rational thought with oil of lilac radiating around him while the most perfect heart-shaped face regarded him with such heated fury? Ruby lips, blue eyes the color of sky, hair as red as her temper. By God, Mary would bring any man to his knees with merely the arch of an eyebrow. Coughing out an exasperated growl, he grasped her face between his palms and devoured her mouth with the deepest, most probing kiss he’d ever imparted to a woman.
His ploy seemed to work because she moaned and melted like honey, sliding her lithe fingers around his waist. Dear God, he was harder than a stallion in a mating paddock filled with mares in heat. He’d hoped his release last eve would quell his hot-blooded desires. He’d never been more wrong in his life. The deeper he probed, the more his body demanded he pull her taut to his chest, feel those pliant breasts mold against his flesh. Mm, yes, just as he was doing now.
Mary pulled away breathless. Her kissable lips swollen and puckered. Her face flushed as if ready for a romp in the bedroom. “You see?” That damned look of defiance flashed through her eyes. “You cannot even face your own feelings. You kiss me like a rapturous suitor and yet you’re planning to leave me in Castleton, hoping to never see me again.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Mary dabbed her tears while Barbara blew her nose in her kerchief sounding like a blast from a trumpet. “My brother is ruining my life,” the blonde beauty wailed.
A fresh bout of tears welled and streamed from Mary’s eyes. “He’s ruining mine, toooooo.” She’d been crying ever since she fled to Barbara’s chamber. Both of them had been bawling like a pair of mourners at a funeral. Mary couldn’t even catch her breath, her head swooning with her short gasps. If only she could tell Barbara about how Sir Donald had behaved last eve. Merciful fairies, he’d stripped her bare—she’d lain prostrate on the bed for him while he had his way. Dear God in heaven, it was but a miracle the rake hadn’t taken her maidenhead.
She still couldn’t understand it. They’d been intimate together. Didn’t that mean love? Mary had been so sure he loved her—he mightn’t have spoken the words, but he’d shown it in so many ways. Her mind boggled. How could she live without him?
A wailing lament escaped her lips. How could he touch her like that and cast her aside with such callous indifference?
Barbara followed with a sobbing wail of her own. “With my luck, Sir Coll will be married before I ever see him agaaaaaaain.”
Married? Mary’s mind blanked. What would she do if Sir Donald took a wife? Holy Moses, she couldn’t even imagine him showering another woman with attention—kissing her, touching her intimately, baring her breasts…Oh, Lord in heaven, the notion of losing him was enough to send her into a frenzy. She dropped onto the bed and curled into a ball, crying with abandon, not caring who heard, not caring what anyone thought. Especially the accursed Baronet of Sleat.
Barbara sat beside her and rubbed Mary’s back. “You mightn’t see it now, but my brother is doing you a favor. He has no capacity to care for anyone.” She let out a high-pitched wail and hid her face in her kerchief. “Yoooooou can do so much better than Donald MacDonald.”
“You’re daft.” Mary buried her face in the crux of her arm. “I’ll be tucked away in Dunscaith Castle with no prospects.”
“It couldn’t be as bad as Duntulm on the north end of Skye. ’Tis absolutely desolate there.”
“So is Castleton. There are no suitable matches within miles and miles.” The image of Balfour MacLeod flashed through her mind. “Unless you want to be plundered by a vile dragoon.”
Barbara removed the kerchief from her face. “Thank heavens that awful lieutenant will no longer be bothering you.”
Mary shuddered. “I’d rather die than marry him.”
Barbara dropped to her back and stared at the canopy above. Mary rolled and joined her while their tears slowly ebbed, followed by deep sighs and thoughts of gloom.
“How far is Dunscaith Castle from Sir Coll’s lands in Glen Spean?” Barbara asked, her voice soft and dreamy.
“Not sure.” Mary wiped the dregs of her tears. “Perhaps two days’ ride, if not more.”
Barbara groaned. “If only it were closer I might gain an opportunity to see him if I accompanied you home.”
Mary rolled to her side and faced her friend, placing her head on her hand. “That would be fun, regardless. Though I’m afraid you might grow bored.” She chuckled—at least it wasn’t a wail. “What would your brother think if I taught you to shoot a musket?”
“Me?” she spouted through blubbering lips. “He’d be absolutely mortified.”
Mary sat up. “Why should you not have an adventure? With or without Sir Coll—besides, he’s a chieftain with a great many responsibilities. During the gathering, I heard he’s in the midst of a feud with the MacIntosh Clan.”
“You don’t say?” Barbara looked almost like a normal person with her face all blotchy from crying. “He never mentioned that to me.”
“Men.” Mary threw up her hands. “They always think they need to protect us from the bad things.”
“The bastards,” Barbara swore.
“I beg your pardon?” Mary was, by far, more uncouth than the younger woman, yet she’d never uttered such a curse.
“Well, they are.” Suddenly spry, Barbara hopped to her feet. “I will travel to Dunscaith Castle with you. If nothing else, it will give me a wee bit more time with Sir Coll, and even better, it will infuriate Donald.”
This time Mary’s belly shook with her laugh. “I do like how you think.” Perhaps if Miss Barbara accompanied her home it would give Sir Donald a reason to pay a visit himself.
***
The black chimney sweep’s costume had proved to be quite useful. Balfour had been a soldier for so long, he didn’t realize how tight-lipped people were when he was in uniform. During the evening meal, he’d sat among the vilest characters in the alehouse, but the information he’d gathered had been invaluable.
MacDonald’s men were scurrying to make repairs to the bast
ard’s galley so they could sail to Skye on the morrow. Balfour had nearly fallen off his rickety wooden chair. He needed to act, and fast. Now he’d been reassigned to Fort William, he’d never find an opportunity to see Miss Mary once she returned home. And she would. Through his questions, he’d learned there had been no announcement of a betrothal. Not to mention it would be scandalous if the baronet kept Mary in Glasgow whilst he sailed right past her father’s home. Och aye, he needed to seize his chance forthwith.
Once darkness had fallen, it hadn’t been difficult to slip down the close leading to the back of MacDonald’s townhouse. Not a soul had given him a second look. Now he stood in the shadows of the stable, looking up at the windows. Bloody hell, why one man needed so many windows was beyond him. The place looked even larger from the rear than it did from the front.
The windows illuminated by flickering candlelight caught most of his attention, though silhouettes on the lace curtains had been rare.
I’ll not give up, God bless it. And I’ll be damned if I’ll stand idle while that milk-livered haggard traps her in his snare. She’s mine.
A clank snapped Balfour from his thoughts. He ducked behind a stack of hay bales right before the stable hand pushed a barrow within inches of his nose.
Balfour lowered his face and held his breath. Then he laughed to himself. The dull-witted cad had no idea of his presence. The lad had just strode past, focusing on his barrow of shite. Christ, he could have run him through the back and the stable hand wouldn’t have known who’d attacked.
Numbskull. No one suspects a thing. The bastard’s men are all on the waterfront repairing the doomed galley—the sops.
When he again scanned the windows for movement, his heart froze. All the way up on the fourth floor, Miss Mary was holding the curtains aside. She stared beyond the stables, as if she were dreaming about something far away. Perhaps she missed home?
Perhaps she now realizes that I am the better match for her.
Such a thought emboldened him. He cared not if she was locked away in a tower with seven floors. He would slip inside and take what he wanted.
