Ronat read the doubt in their eyes. They didn’t trust Malcolm.
“The new laird could never stand against a Highlander like Maccus,” Peggy said.
Annie MacDonald hurried up the hillside to them. “Fergus says we must come down and make Maccus welcome,” she said, clutching her plaid tight around her throat, her cheeks flushed and her eyes wide. “How can he ask that?”
“Make him welcome?” Catriona cried. “I remember the last time Maccus was here. I was just a wee girl, but no lass was safe from him.” She looked at Ronat. “He’s a dangerous man when he drinks. He doesna take no for an answer.”
Annie folded her arms over her breasts. “Call it what you like. It’s rape.”
Peggy shook her head. “I don’t care what Fergus says. I’m going to hide in the shieling till Maccus goes. Are you coming, Catriona?”
“What about the others? Isla was helping Diarmid make bannock,” Catriona said, and looked around in panic. “Where’s my brother? Has anyone seen Lochie?” She shook her hands. “Last time Maccus was here for a month. Archie finally had enough of him. He tossed him back on his ship, told his men to take him home and tell the chief he wasn’t welcome here. Malcolm Ban wasn’t here, then. He won’t know what to do. We’ll be at Maccus’s mercy!”
Ronat felt indignant heat rise up her neck. “Why? Because Malcolm is a gentleman?”
They all looked at her in surprise. Beitris swallowed. “Well, aye. Maccus isn’t a gentleman—”
“He’s a barbarian!” Peggy said.
“A pig,” Catriona added. “He has no manners, no reason. He only understands force, the fists of a warrior, a firm hand.”
“Or a sharp dirk,” Beitris said.
“Can the laird even use a dirk?” Peggy asked.
“I can,” Ronat said sharply. She wondered how it was possible that she remembered that but not her own name, but she was certain of it. She looked at the knife in Beitris’s belt. “No man should be able to take a lass unawares. She should always be capable of defending herself,” she said, and knew she’d heard that somewhere before. “Give me your dirk,” she said to Beitris.
Beitris shook her head. “Now lass, Maccus is a big man and used to fighting other big men. A lass is no match for such a—”
In one quick move, Ronat took the knife from her and held it to Peggy’s throat.
Peggy’s eyes widened. “I thought we were friends!”
“We are,” Ronat said as she let her go.
“That’s a marvel!” Catriona said. “Can ye teach me how to do that?”
“And me!” Peggy added, and Annie nodded as well.
“Aye,” Ronat said. She looked down the hill. The boat had reached the frothing shallows. Four men jumped out and hauled the vessel up the beach. They were all as tall as Malcolm, just as broad shouldered and long legged. Then another man jumped over the side. He dwarfed the rest of them.
“Maccus,” Beitris hissed, and pulled Glenna against her broad bosom.
Peggy whimpered and clung to Annie and Catriona.
“Go and hide,” Beitris whispered. “I’ll go down to him, see why he’s come. The rest of you go up to the shieling. Run while ye can.”
But Ronat tossed her chin in the air. She dropped the walking stick in the heather and pushed Beitris’s wee knife into her own belt. Then she picked up her skirts and ignored the twinge in her ankle as she strode down the hill toward the visitors.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“Laird?”
William found Malcolm in the solar, now turned into a kind of library, a place that William didn’t entirely understand. He stood in the doorway, not daring to venture further in now, though he’d spent many an evening here drinking with Archie in times past. Archie’s son sat at the same table, but the scarred wooden surface was hidden beneath a stack of paper and books. He had a quill in his hand and appeared to be lost in the task before him, drawing plans for some kind of machine. William had never seen the old laird doing such a thing. The change made him nervous, as if he were standing before a king.
“Aye?” Malcolm said without looking up.
William snatched the bonnet off his head, suddenly aware his boots were muddy. “Yer cousin Maccus is sailing into the bay.”
Malcolm looked up, pinning William with a sharp look. Och, but the lad looked like his da—save for the fancy cloth at his throat, the waistcoat over his snow-white linen, and the knee breeches. He still dressed like a Lowlander and hadn’t yet worn a proper kilted plaid like every other man at Dunbronach. William shifted his feet and swallowed hard. He wouldn’t need to catch an extra rabbit to feed the visitors after all—Maccus would eat his cousin Malcolm for supper instead.
“My cousin has come?” Malcolm rose to his feet, picked up the green velvet coat from the back of his chair, and began to put it on. William held up his hand to stop him. He had to say something, prevent bloodshed and death if he could.
“Now, I know ye think you’re dressed as a proper gentleman, Laird, but perhaps ye might wish to consider wearing your plaid just now.” Malcolm’s brows rose. “This isn’t Edinburgh. A plaid is proper dress here in the Highlands for a laird when greeting an . . . honored guest.” He nearly choked on the word honored.
“I see. When in Rome, I suppose,” Malcolm said, and William frowned.
“Eh?”
“It means to follow the customs of the place where you are,” Malcolm explained.
“Oh,” William said. “Best hurry, Laird. Fergus has already gone down to welcome them.”
“I see. Ask Beitris to serve ale to our visitors.”
“Beitris is taking the lasses up to the shieling to hide,” William said.
“Hide?” Malcolm’s eyes widened, and he went to the window, which looked out over the bay. “Where’s Ronat?”
“With Glenna. They went up toward the waterfall. She’ll be safe there.”
He followed Malcolm down the hall, waited outside his chamber as the laird went in to freshen up, wash the ink off his fingers. He shook his head and screwed up the bonnet in his hands. Maccus would take one look at Malcolm and . . .
The door opened and William gaped. For an instant he almost believed it was Archie come back to life. Malcolm Ban looked fine indeed wearing his MacDonald plaid with Archie’s fine brooch at his shoulder. William felt tears of pride sting the backs of his eyes at the sight. “Och, ye look fine, lad—I mean Laird. Like yer da.”
As if on cue he heard the sound of the pipes, the notes clear, bright, and merry, and William’s heart rose a little. It had been a long while since he’d heard the pipes played well at Dunbronach. Then he frowned.
“Lochie’s improved, I see,” Malcolm said as they strode down the hall.
“Nay, it’s not Lochie—they’ll have brought a piper from Dunscaith,” William said. “It means this is an official visit. We’d best hurry.”
Malcolm exited the castle with William just in time to see Ronat flying down the hill toward the beach. Glenna was racing behind her, tugging at Ronat’s skirts. The men on the beach saw her as well and had stopped to stare. Even the piper stopped playing to watch the fine sight of Ronat hurrying toward them.
“What the devil is she doing? She should be hiding with the rest of the lasses,” William said. “Once Maccus sees her—”
Malcolm looked toward the beach. He assumed the tallest, broadest man in the small group of strangers was his cousin. He was the biggest man Malcolm had ever seen, with legs like tree trunks, fists like whole gammons. He hadn’t even glanced in Malcolm’s direction. His eyes were fixed on Ronat.
She seemed bent on reaching him, her eyes on the big Highlander, her stride long and sure. Lightning struck Malcolm. Did she know him? Was it possible the sight of Maccus MacDonald had made her remember something? She looked determined, nay, angry, her color high, her hair flying out behind her . . .
Malcolm burst into a run and reached her a hundred yards from the beach. “What are you doing, lass?”
“Sa
ve her, Laird. She doesna understand about Maccus,” Glenna pleaded.
Ronat stopped so suddenly Glenna crashed into her. Malcolm caught Ronat’s elbow to steady her. He scanned her flushed face. “Do you know him?”
“Know him? Of course not, but I will not be afraid of him, or anyone else.” She turned to look at Maccus, and he saw her eyes widen at the size of his cousin. She swallowed, far less certain now. Still, she lifted the stubborn point of her chin. “I have a dirk,” she said, and put her hand on the hilt. “I know how to use it.”
“Ye wouldn’t even make a dent in his thick hide with that wee thing,” William said as he caught up to them. “Why aren’t ye both with the rest of the lasses?” he asked Glenna.
Glenna glanced at Ronat and stiffened her spine. “I’m not afraid either.”
Malcolm tucked Ronat’s hand under his arm. She leaned on him, resting her ankle. She was trembling slightly, perhaps from pain, or fear. Malcolm glanced at his cousin. Whatever Maccus had in mind, Malcolm would not allow him to harm Ronat, or any other lass here. He nodded to William. “You’d best introduce me,” he said, and went forward with Ronat on his arm, her hand tight on his sleeve, her expression utterly fearless.
He was aware that Maccus’s eyes—every man’s eyes—were on Ronat. He read surprise, envy, and male admiration. She carried herself like a queen as she approached the fierce strangers. There were two spots of high color in her cheeks and a look of steely determination in her gray eyes. She hid any hint of a limp.
Malcolm felt pride make him taller, braver. His confident smile was genuine as he looked up at his cousin. “Good day, Maccus. I’m Malcolm Ban MacDonald, the laird of Dunbronach. You are most welcome.” He refrained from bowing, stood straight.
Maccus dragged his gaze away from Ronat, and his dark eyes flicked over Malcolm, from head to toe and back again. “They told me ye were a Lowlander. Ye look like Archie.”
“He’s Archie’s son,” William said proudly.
Malcolm held his cousin’s eyes. “I’m a MacDonald. I was born here at Dunbronach. That makes me a Highlander.”
“And who’s the bonny lass?” Maccus asked, stepping toward Ronat. She tilted her head back to look up at him. He blocked out the sun. Malcolm felt her fingers tighten on his arm, though her expression didn’t change. She held the big man’s eyes bravely.
“She’s my wife,” Malcolm said quickly, without thinking.
Maccus’s jaw dropped. “Your wife?”
“His wife,” William said. “Newly wed.”
Maccus frowned and scanned her from top to toe. “It’s clear she’s not a MacDonald. Where’s she from?”
“She has a name, thank you very much,” Ronat said tartly. “I am—” Malcolm saw her lips working, but she was lost.
“She’s a Cameron,” Malcolm said quickly. He’d once met the Cameron chief in Edinburgh, a client of his uncle’s. It was the first name that came to mind.
“A Cameron,” Maccus muttered, his burly dark brows rising to the edge of his bonnet.
Ronat squared her shoulders. “A Cameron,” she said.
“A Cameron?” Glenna asked.
“Now a MacDonald,” Malcolm said.
Malcolm felt Ronat relax. She even smiled at Maccus and at the men with him as she nodded a gracious welcome. She took Malcolm’s breath away, and he watched every man turn to porridge at her beauty. So did he. “Won’t you come inside?” she invited as he stood there and stared, unable to speak, as if she were indeed Lady MacDonald.
She led the way up to the castle, her hand still tucked into his arm, her bearing proud.
Malcolm’s heart hammered against his ribs. These men believed that Ronat belonged to him. For a moment—nay, for more than a moment—he wished it were true.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Fergus had been struck dumb by the sight of Malcolm Ban in a proper plaid. Malcolm had greeted Maccus boldly, correctly. It was a good start—for Malcolm. Maccus was what he had always been—big, unkempt, and mannerless. Doubt gripped Fergus. Had he made a mistake in sending for Maccus? And Ronat—the lass had swept in on Malcolm’s arm, a rare beauty, a consort fit for a king, but married?
He grabbed William’s arm as Maccus and his men followed the subtle sway of Ronat’s hips up toward the castle.
“What the devil is he doing? She’s not his wife!”
William grinned. “He’s protecting her.”
Fergus glared sourly at Malcolm’s retreating back. “Aye, well, the lass isn’t his—”
“Yet,” William said smugly.
“Then she should be wed to the rightful laird, not that Lowland fool.”
William’s grin faded. “What are ye saying?”
It was Fergus’s turn to smile. “I’m saying that Maccus is as much a MacDonald as Malcolm Ban is. He’s more used to our ways, our customs. He’d make a better laird, a proper laird. He’d stay if we promised him—her.”
William grabbed Fergus’s arm. “Is that why Maccus is here? Did ye send for him, promise he’d be laird?”
Fergus jerked free. “What if I did? We’d have the ear of the chief . . .”
“Ye didn’t ask us what we thought, did ye? Ye’ve betrayed us, Fergus—both the living and everyone who died of the Sickness, and Archie too. He named Malcolm as his heir, not Maccus.”
“I did what’s best for this clan,” Fergus said stubbornly.
“Leave Ronat out of it. She doesn’t know what Maccus is capable of. Let Malcolm’s deception stand, Fergus.”
Fergus looked uncertain for a moment. “For now,” he said. “But if it becomes necessary, I won’t hesitate to give her to Maccus.”
William looked disgusted. “Ye’re a fool, Fergus MacDonald. An old fool. I only hope it’s not too late to fix your mistake.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“I didn’t intend to say that you’re my wife,” Malcolm said in the privacy of the solar a few hours later. “It just came out, and it seemed safest. I understand my cousin has a poor reputation with women.”
She had played the part of Dunbronach’s lady well, even serving their five guests ale with her own hands. His cousin’s sharp little eyes hadn’t looked at anything but her, and he’d not said a word. The men in his tail remembered their manners and thanked her. The tension in the hall had been stifling. At last Malcolm had insisted she must rest and had escorted her firmly out of the hall and up to his study. Now she sat by the fire and watched him pace the room.
“You were protecting me. The lasses have already told me about Maccus. They said your father banned him from coming to Dunbronach.”
“Aye, but vultures are known to gather over a corpse.”
“Now what does that mean?” she asked.
“It means he’s come because he wants something now that my father is gone.”
“He shan’t get it.” She raised her chin, and fire flashed in her gray eyes like a storm at sea, as if she truly were his wife. Now who was protecting whom?
She tilted her head and smiled at him. “Have I mentioned how well you look in your plaid, Malcolm Ban MacDonald? You make a fine laird, and it’s not only the plaid that makes it so.” Confidence shone in her eyes, admiration. No woman had ever looked at him like that.
She made him feel like the rightful, capable laird of Dunbronach for the first time, as if he belonged here, could protect his people and change lives for the better, starting with his own. He stopped pacing for a moment to stare at her. If he was to choose the perfect woman to be his wife, it would be—
He stopped himself right there.
Which brought him back to the matter at hand.
“William says Maccus is a dangerous man. I want you to stay away from him. The other lasses, other than Beitris and Glenna, are in hiding, I understand. Perhaps you should—”
“I’m not afraid of him.”
He could see by the look in her eyes that she meant that. She pulled a knife from her belt. “I know how to use this, Malcolm, how to
protect myself from the kind of man who’d take advantage of a woman they believe is weak and incapable of defending herself.”
He stared at the blade in her hand. “Who taught you that?” Were the MacLeods a clan of warrior maidens? When he carried her, held her hand, looked into her eyes, touched her silken skin, it wasn’t a warrior he held, but a woman.
Her long lashes swept down over her eyes. “I don’t know. I only know that someone showed me how to protect myself, and I promised the other women that I’d teach them.” She looked up at him again, the fire back in her eyes. “They’re so afraid of Maccus they feel they must hide. This is their home. They shouldn’t be afraid.”
“They all lost someone to the Sickness—fathers brothers, husbands . . . They were used to being protected,” Malcolm said. “Now they must protect themselves. If other clans—enemy clans—knew how vulnerable we were, I daresay we’d have even more to fear than Maccus.”
“Then that’s all the more reason why the lasses should learn to fight. A woman has the right to protect what she loves. Beitris said I must have your permission. Do I have it?”
He tried to picture his mother, or Nancy Martin, or any other Edinburgh beauty holding an attacker at bay with a wee knife. He couldn’t imagine it. They’d swoon, scream, or cry. But he saw the determination in Ronat’s eyes, the certainty that she could keep herself safe, and knew she would never endure any man’s unwanted attentions without a fight.
He was tired of seeing the fear, the grief, the hopelessness in the eyes of his clan. “Aye, you have my permission.”
“And you, Laird? Shall I teach you?”
He folded his arms over his chest and leveled a look at her. “Edinburgh is far more dangerous than Dunbronach—there are footpads, murderers, and thieves on the streets. I’m skilled with a rapier, and with my fists.”
Interest kindled in her eyes, and one brow rose. “Then perhaps you have something to teach me,” she said. He almost groaned. A great many things came to mind, and not one of them involved punching her or leveling a blade against her.
When a Laird Finds a Lass Page 11
