Tying the Scot (Highlanders of Balforss)

by Trethewey, Jennifer

  “Da! Why did you stop me? We had them. We had them!”

  His father grabbed the front of his coat and yanked him until they were nose-to-nose. “Because I don’t countenance murder!” he shouted, then shoved him away. A vein in John’s temple pulsed with anger. “We no longer settle scores by the sword in the Highlands. We will take Patrick Sellar down, but we will do it with the law.” His father cocked a warning eyebrow at him. “Do you understand?”

  Declan and Magnus sheathed their swords. After a few seconds, his bloodlust somewhat abated, and his breathing recovered, Alex sheathed his, as well. “I understand, father.” He swallowed the remainder of his rage even though it threatened to choke him.

  A woman’s baleful cry split the morning air, calling the men’s attention toward the croft. Mr. Clyne stepped out, leaving the door ajar. “Mrs. Mackay has passed,” he said.

  “She’s free of pain, now. May she bide in God’s good hands,” John said.

  They bowed their heads and murmured a chorus of “Amen.”

  John turned to his men. “Fergus. You, Declan, and Magnus see Mrs. Mackay receives a proper burial. Then help Callum and his mother gather their things and escort them to Balforss. I’ll find a place for Mrs. Mackay. Alex, you and I will return Mr. Clyne safely to Invernaver. I want everyone gone from Strathnaver by noon today. Understood? I’ve ruffled Sellar’s feathers, and he’s bound to take action. Be on your guard.”

  Well after dark, Alex and John strolled their horses into the yard at Balforss. They had seen Mr. Clyne to Invernaver, thanked him, and continued eastward. But Alex and his father hadn’t spoken to each other the whole way home.

  All of Balforss was asleep. Not a candle lit. Alex pulled Goliath to a stop and dismounted. His father groaned as he swung a long leg over his mare. After two days in the saddle, both men were road weary and longing for their beds.

  “I’ll see to the horses.”

  “Where’s that wee groom?” John asked.

  “Fast asleep, nae doubt.” Alex headed off toward the stable without bidding his father good night. Their disagreement over Sellar had not been resolved. According to his mother, he and his father were as stubborn as rocks. They often butt heads about stupid things, and Alex was always the first to back down because his father was always right. But on this, John Sinclair was wrong. If they waited for the law to deliver justice, others might suffer at the hands of Patrick Sellar. Someone had to act now. Someone had to protect those unable to protect themselves. If his father refused to do it, then Alex would take care of the sodding bastard himself.

  The horses followed Alex into their stalls without protest and patiently waited to be released from their trappings. He fumbled next to the door where the lantern and flint were normally stored.

  “Damn.”

  “You looking for the lantern, sir?”

  “Is that you, Peter?”

  “Aye.”

  “Where’s the damn lantern?”

  “The rain was getting to it, so I moved it to the other side.”

  “Thanks. Go back to bed.”

  “I’ll help you.”

  Alex held a dry bit of hay and struck the flint several times. A moment later, the lantern cast a golden glow around the stable and its occupants. Peter stood in his nightshirt and boots, rubbing his eyes.

  “See to the laird’s horse. I’ll see to Goliath.”

  “Mrs. Swenson said you and the men went on an adventure.”

  “Did she, now?” Alex peered over the stall wall at Peter. The boy had to stand on a stool to remove the mare’s bit.

  “Aye. She said you were venturing into Sutherland on a dangerous mission.”

  “There was some danger, to be sure.” He dug a wooden scoop into a barrel of oats and dumped the contents into the feeding trough.

  “Did you see any pirates?”

  Alex chuckled. Whether it was the stable surroundings, the boy’s company, or sheer exhaustion, he felt the tension of the last two days slip away. “Oh, aye. But not the regular sort of sea pirates. We saw land pirates.”

  Peter sidestepped out of the stall, grunting with the weight of a saddle larger than himself. He hoisted the saddle onto a rail and, huffing with exertion, asked, “What did they look like?”

  “Ugly as sin.” Alex launched into a stream of dramatic embellishments for the boy’s entertainment. “Their faces were covered in weeping boils. Their mouths hung open, slathering and drooling, and one of them’s teeth were filed to sharp points. Another had hair that looked like nothing but long, black snakes. The biggest had a silver ring pierced through his nose just like a bull. Och, they were a lowpin’ looking lot. Their horses were prettier than them.”

  “And did you do battle with them?” Peter’s eyes were big as robin’s eggs.

  “We came close. But I drew my sword and let out a war cry that could frighten a banshee.”

  “Then what?”

  “They turned tail and ran awa’ like scared rabbits.” He laughed and ruffled the boy’s dirty hair.

  “Will you teach me to use a sword?”

  Alex unsheathed his dirk and made a notch on the side of the stable door approximately five feet from the floor. “When you’re this tall, we’ll begin your training. Now get to bed.”

  Peter flashed a brilliant gap-toothed smile before scampering off toward the bunkroom in the back of the stable. He’s a good lad. He was very happy for having brought Peter to Balforss.

  Alex entered the house through the back door and groped his way down the dark corridor, through the dining room, and into the entry hall. He paused at the foot of the stairs. A faint light flickered through the open door to the library. Most likely his father was having a dram before bed. They should reconcile, put this disagreement to rest. He went inside to apologize.

  Instead of his father, he discovered Lucy curled in the wingback chair, fast asleep, an open book on her lap, and her wee dog snoozing before the dying fire. His eyes flit from Hercules back to Lucy. She was wearing a robe of some sort with lacy edges and pink ribbons, which meant she wasn’t wearing all the stiff sorts of things underneath that guarded women’s soft parts like armor. Alex felt a stirring below his belt. His heart thumped so hard in his chest he woke the damn dog.

  Hercules barked a greeting, and Lucy’s eyes fluttered open. She looked at Alex for a half second as if determining he was real, then she launched herself out of the chair, the book slipping from her lap to the carpet with a clump. Alex saw a blur of bouncing curls before her body thudded against his. He let the rush of gladness wash over him when she flung her arms around his neck and buried her head under his chin. He placed his palms on her slender back and, for the first time, he felt the give of her soft form under his hands, the warmth of her skin through her clothing, the press of her plush breasts against his hard chest.

  “You feel so good.” He wished he hadn’t spoken.

  Spell broken, Lucy pushed herself away from him and folded her arms over her bosom. “You were supposed to be home hours ago. You had your mother worried half to death.”

  Alex grinned, liking the pink patches on her cheeks. “I’m sorry.” Christ, he was always apologizing to her. “I didnae mean to worry you.”

  Lucy unfolded her arms and looked at the floor—something she did when she told white lies. “I wasn’t worried. I was angry you weren’t more considerate of your mother’s feelings.”

  “Did you get my note?” Alex reached for her. She made a half-hearted attempt to free herself before allowing him to embrace her like before.

  “You smell like a horse,” she said, sounding petulant.

  “You smell like Heaven.” He nuzzled her neck and inhaled deeply. “I thought of you all day and dreamed of you all night,” he whispered.

  She melted against his body. In an instant, he was rock hard, painfully so. Jesus, she made the most intoxicating sounds when he squeezed her.

  …

  Lucy made an involuntary mm sound when his velvety beard
stubble brushed against her cheek. Then Alex placed his soft lips on hers. By some unspoken command, her mouth opened to him, inviting his tongue to delicately probe the inside of her mouth, slipping in and out just like she imagined—oh dear. That was exactly what he was doing. Demonstrating how he would—his hands slid down her backside and cupped her bottom—a roguish thing for him to do, but dear Lord, it felt so deliciously wicked.

  Alex and his roving hands seemed determined to undo her, and if she lingered in his arms one more moment, she might let them. Lucy pushed herself away again.

  “I’m glad you’re back,” she said, catching her breath. “Good night.” She fled through the library door with Hercules at her heels, both of them bounding up the stairs. She narrowly made it into the safety of her room and put the latch on. Once she had her breathing under control, she listened to Alex’s unhurried footsteps, his bedchamber door opening, closing, then a soft scratch on their adjoining door. Smiling, she put her ear to its surface.

  “Did you dream of me while I was gone?” Alex asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Oh God, Lucy. I cannae wait to marry you.”

  “Only one more week.”

  Her bed was cold. The hot stone Haddie had left had lost all its heat. Lucy snuggled close to Hercules, her body trembling. Though, whether from the chilly bedding or from her recent encounter with Alex, she couldn’t tell. She liked Alex’s kisses. A lot. She liked the feel of his big hands on her back. And when he squeezed her bottom…

  One more week. Only one more week and she would be Alex’s wife. In seven days, she would sleep in the same bed with Alex. He would see her naked. She would get to see him naked again. All of him. Lucy’s nipples tightened. Did all brides feel this way before their wedding? Would Lucy have felt this way if she were marrying Langley?

  She didn’t think so. It was Alex who made her shiver. Only Alex, her fierce Highland warrior, could make her feel so…wanton.

  Chapter Twelve

  Lucy spent most of Monday morning trying to learn how to knit. Aunt Agnes and Mother Flora were extremely patient with her. She was, it seemed, utterly hopeless when it came to knitting. After several hours of dropping stitches, losing count, and battling with tension, Lucy gave it up for lost.

  “Nae mind,” Aunt Agnes said. “My niece never took to knitting. She’s fine with a krokr, though. Would you like to try hekling?”

  “What’s that?”

  “It’s a way to make lacy things. Only instead of tatting, you use a krokr or a small hook. I ken French folk call it crochet.”

  “I know what that is.” Lucy conjured delicate lace collars and cuffs. She liked the idea of making those more than making dull woolen socks.

  “Here, I’ve got a krokr in my basket and a spool of cotton,” Agnes said.

  A volley of shouts interrupted the serenity of Mother Flora’s parlor. Out of curiosity, Lucy went into the hallway to investigate. The shouts were coming from Laird John’s library. Loud Gaelic curses, biblical invectives, accusations involving animals and dung heaps—all very nasty sounding words and most of them from Alex’s mouth.

  “What’s going on down there?” Lucy asked.

  “Och, pay them nae mind, dear,” Flora said. “John and Alex quarrel constantly. If they ever stopped, I’d call the doctor to have them looked at.” She and Aunt Agnes laughed.

  “But why? Alex worships his father.”

  “Because they’re two sides of the same coin. Or had you not noticed?”

  Lucy startled when the library door slammed. She went to the top of the stairs in time to see Alex storm out the front door. So, someone else could whip Alex into a fury as easily as she could. She darted back to the parlor and snatched her shawl from the back of her chair. “I’m going after him.”

  “You do at your own peril,” Flora called. “Dinnae say I didnae warn you.”

  When Lucy had riled Alex on previous occasions she’d seen him disappear down a path through the hedgerow. Flora had said the path led to the mill. She suspected that was where she would find him now. The dense stand of trees let little sunlight through their branches, and the path grew dark and silent but for the dried pine needles crunching under her slippers. Gradually, the roar of the falls grew louder, and louder, until it drowned out all but the creak and groan of the mill’s giant water wheel. Still, no sign of Alex. She faltered. Had she taken the wrong path?

  The trees opened up on a steep stone staircase set into the side of the embankment. Lucy peered over the edge, calculating the risk. Someone would have to be a mountain goat to manage them. If she lost her balance and fell, it might be days before anyone found her. Even if she called out, no one would hear her over the falls. Nevertheless, she picked up her skirts and started down, determined to find out what Alex and his father had quarreled about.

  At the bottom, she took a moment to congratulate herself for not breaking her own neck, and then paused, spellbound, bewitched, transfixed by the falls. The bouncing, crashing, splashing River Forss—the torrent from which Balforss drew its name. She understood why Alex would choose this place for his refuge. One look at the falls and anyone could forget their problems.

  Having acknowledged its majesty, she tore her gaze from the mesmerizing sight and walked down the bank around the bend in the river. There he stood, a good ten yards away with his back to her. By the set of his shoulders, he was still steaming.

  She watched him hurtle stones one at a time as far down the river as his arm could throw. Burning off his anger, she thought. She could sneak up on him so easily. He’d never hear her with the falls drowning out all other sounds. Just then, though, he paused and turned his head, not at all surprised to find her, as if he knew she was there all along. He didn’t welcome her, but he didn’t warn her off, either. He just nodded slightly, turned away, and resumed his violent stone tossing.

  Once he’d exhausted his supply of projectiles, he let his arms fall to his side. His head dropped forward and his shoulders slumped. Defeat? How could that be? Her heart skittered. Alex—her Alex—could never be defeated. He was her protector, her valiant knight, her fierce Highland warrior.

  She went to him, wanting to shake him out of his ill humor, but stopped herself in time. Heat radiated off him like a furnace and his entire body, strung taut like her bow string, vibrated. She’d heard people use the expression shaking mad, but she’d never seen it until now.

  “He says I’m—” Alex cleared his throat, clouded by strong emotion. “He says I’m rash. That I dinnae consider the consequences before I act. He says I endanger everyone around me.”

  It took strength and courage to say those words. Courage she never had. A marvel, really. His willingness to reveal himself to her, to lay down his weapons and expose his soft parts. She stood perfectly still, afraid to shatter the moment.

  He cast her a sidelong glance so sharp she caught her breath. “Are you sure you want to marry a man like me?”

  “Yes,” she said without hesitation. “I want to marry a man exactly like you. One who is decisive and quick to act. Because only a man like that can protect me no matter the danger. I know when I’m with you I’m safe.”

  Alex turned to her, his shoulders and spine molding back into his characteristic cocky stance. A slow smile spread across his handsome face, and cool grey eyes fixed her to where she stood.

  “Do ye now?”

  Apparently, her answer had a healing effect on him. A moment ago, she’d felt like a brave mouse removing a thorn from a lion’s paw. Now, though, the lion turned his hungry gaze on the mouse. He took a step toward her, and she squeaked.

  Alex laughed. “Every time I think I know who ye are, you do or say something that knocks me back on my heels.”

  Relieved she was no longer in danger of being his lunch, Lucy folded her arms and fired back a pert, “I certainly hope so. I would never want anyone to say I was predictable.”

  “Nae lass. No one could ever say that about you.”

  Still grin
ning profusely, Alex plopped himself down on the grassy riverbank and rested his arms atop his knees. He plucked a long stem of grass and chewed the end contemplatively. Then, as if suddenly remembering she was still present, he darted a look from her to the spot next to him—an invitation to sit. And so, she did.

  “Did you follow me down here because you were afraid I’d toss myself in the river?”

  “I didn’t follow you. I… Well, I followed you, but I wasn’t…” Lucy huffed. She didn’t like being cornered with double-edged questions.

  “Ah. You just wanted to be near me.”

  Lucy let out an exasperated growl. “Why must you be so impossibly full of yourself? I’ve never met such a self-centered, self-important, supercilious braggart in all my life.”

  Alex drowned out her tirade with a belly laugh and stretched his long body out on the grass with his arms folded behind his head and his legs crossed. Infuriating man. She refused to look at him. They stayed quiet for a while, listening to the falls in the distance, the birdsong, and the river burbling by.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  She twisted around to see if he was indeed as sincere as he sounded. “For what?”

  “For coming to find me. For putting me in a better temper.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “Do you ever wonder what it will be like?”

  “What what will be like?”

  “Being married.”

  This was new. They were having a serious conversation. One in which they weren’t arguing and he wasn’t vexing her. “Do you mean what will the wedding be like?”

  “Nae. I mean what will we be like together. Will we be happy? Will we like the same things?” He hesitated for a moment and asked in a softer voice, “Will we have children?”

  The mention of children warmed her from the inside. “Would you like children?”

  “Oh, aye.”

  He tickled her neck with the tasseled end of the grass stem he had been chewing.

  “Sometimes I lie in my bed and I wonder how it will be to sleep next to you. I’ve never slept next to someone in a bed before.”