The Forbidden Highlands

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Taking her elbow, Logan guided her the few feet back to the cart.

  “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Findlay. I pray I might have the honor of seeing you again.”

  Chapter Three

  Wicked of Logan to suggest it. To test Mayra.

  Without giving her any notion of his status or standing.

  He couldn’t decide which he wanted more—for her to politely defer and say she couldn’t, or to eagerly agree.

  Hesitation shadowing her features, as if she weren’t certain how to respond, she brushed a stray strand of silky, flaxen hair behind her ear. Indecision warred with desire in her lovely eyes. She sensed the immediate attraction too, but if she were the innocent he hoped, unlike him, she wasn’t sure precisely what she felt.

  Mayra gazed at him with such intensity; innocence mixed with keen interest and perhaps more than a little uncertainty.

  She doesn’t ken who you really are.

  She would. And soon.

  After all, he didna have time to dawdle in an extended courtship. A month—two at most. For the time being, he’d pursue and enjoy this peculiar enchantment.

  He well kent he might not like what he uncovered about Mayra Findlay, but he kent his duty too.

  “May I help you?” He canted his head toward the cart’s seat, while gesturing.

  She searched his face and something deep within her eyes mellowed.

  “Aye. Please.”

  In one adroit movement, Logan placed his hands around her trim waist and hoisted her onto the cart. His hands continued to tingle, wrist to fingertips, from the completely chaste contact.

  “Thank you, Mr. Wallace. I should like for us to meet again.”

  Once settled on the seat, she accepted the reins he extended.

  “I come to the village twice a week. Tuesday and Friday mornings, and I generally take tea at the inn with Mrs. MacPherson when I do.”

  Clever lass. She hadn’t committed to seeing him, but she’d let him ken her interest, all the while staying inside propriety’s boundaries.

  “I shall eagerly anticipate Friday’s arrival then.”

  Giving him her fetching, slightly off center smile, she clucked her tongue. “Get on, Horace.”

  The portly gelding reluctantly ambled forward, and hands on his hips, Logan didna move until the cart rattled rounded a corner.

  Look back.

  Just before Mayra disappeared, she cast a furtive glance over her shoulder, and he waved once.

  Her lips tilted, but she didna return the gesture.

  Swinging to face the inn, he bumped into a passing matron.

  Hell’s bells and cockle shells.

  “Logan, lad? Be that really ye?”

  Two days later, the tension bunching Logan’s shoulders eased as the drizzly dawn’s pewter gray revealed a figure lounging, one knee raised, on a boulder beside Loch Tolhorf.

  A horse grazed nearby, and fog drifted lazily upward from the ebony waters, shrouding all but the topmost limbs of the pines dotting the far shoreline.

  Coburn had received his message.

  At Logan’s approach, his cousin turned his head and pulled his tam lower over his ears but didna bother rising.

  “Pray tell what was so urgent I had to freeze my ballocks off waiting for you in the dark at this ungodly hour, Logan? I had to ride most of the night to make it here on time.”

  A tiny vapor cloud accompanied each peeved, weary word. Coburn didna like to be separated from his mattress or whatever lass had warmed his bed before the sun rose.

  A grinned threatened, but Logan wrestled it into submission. He needed his cousin’s cooperation. Must have it, else his plan would evaporate as surely as the thick mist hovering between the trees’ trunks.

  “I want to assure you stay away from Glenliesh while I’m there. Actually, it might be better if you left the area altogether for a while. Mayhap a trip to Edinburgh.”

  Jacca, Logan’s smoky cream gelding, snorted and stamped his feet, and Coburn adjusted his collar higher to block the bone-piercing breeze.

  Even with coat and plaid, frigid little toes scampered the length of Logan’s spine, and a shudder shook him.

  Aye, wretchedly brisk this morning.

  The cold dampness crept into the creases and crannies, and settled heavy and dank in a person’s marrow, reluctant to leave even when one went indoors.

  “And why would I want to do that, cousin?” Coburn arched a smug brow.

  Logan scratched his temple, tempering what he had to say with a hitched shoulder.

  “I may have led the villagers and my betrothed to think that I’m you.”

  His heart had dived to his boots and squirmed there, like weevils in porridge oats, several uncomfortable moments when he’d bumped into Lockelieth’s former cook.

  How could he possibly have forgotten Annag Homles now lived with her daughter in Glenliesh?

  Annag promised to keep his secret, but unease nipped sharply, nonetheless.

  As a child he’d heard her blethering with the other servants, though never maliciously. Now he prayed her loyalty would keep her lips sealed. At least long enough to win Mayra’s favor.

  “May have? By chance? In passing?” Coburn lurched to his feet, glaring at Logan. “Are ye aff yer bloody heid?”

  “Nae, just a fool who acted impulsively and didna control his tongue.”

  Logan dismounted and explained his encounter with Mayra, leaving off his immediate, profound attraction and fascination.

  His cousin wouldn’t be able to resist roasting him.

  “I want to discover why she’s so desperate to end our betrothal, and after what Rodena did to Da, I dinna want any foul surprises after we’re married.”

  Fishing around in his coat pocket, Coburn grumbled, “You’re a damned, stupid imbecile, and what’s more, it’s not like you at all. In fact, you despise charlatans and frauds. Anything remotely disreputable and you distance yourself.”

  He shook his head, puzzlement folding his brow. “You ken she’ll be furious when you tell her? And you’d better hope to God she doesn’t uncover the truth on her own.”

  “I’ve considered that, which is why I asked you to meet me here at this miserable hour.”

  Mouth pressed into a bitter line, Coburn shook his head. “Bloody glad I am that I’m not you.”

  “So you’ve mentioned several times previously.” Irony, dryer than burnt toast, leeched into Logan’s voice. “I promise you, if you met her you’d think differently.”

  “Aahhh.” Coburn dragged the word out, his eyes fairly dancing with gloating amusement. “So it’s like that, is it? She’s grown into a beauty and yer itching to bed her. Explains a lot. Aye, it does indeed.”

  Logan donned a battle-scarred glower but choked off his immediate retort.

  He found Mayra’s keen wit every bit as attractive as her face and form—well almost—but he’d forsake whisky for a month before admitting any such thing to Coburn.

  “Go bugger yerself, cousin.”

  Coburn’s shout of laughter startled a large bird from its nest. The annoyed ke-ke, identified a goshawk taking wing.

  “Nae need. I have lasses lined up to warm my bed, and unlike you, I occasionally—” more often than not, cousin—“take advantage of their generous offers.”

  “Since I have nae desire to hear about your latest romantic exploit, I’ll be on my way. Mayra leaves for Edinburgh shortly. I’ll send word when she does. Wouldn’t do for her to encounter you there, though—even if I have told her the whole of it by then.” Logan raised a commanding brow. The one that told his cousin to hold his wheesht. Or else. “If I’m successful, we may have a wedding date set by then too.”

  That didna give him long to accomplish what he needed to. Mayra’s twice weekly trips to Glenliesh would have to suffice unless he found other opportunities to spend time with her.

  But not at Dunrangour Tower pretending to be Coburn Wallace.

  Lady Findlay mos
t definitely wouldn’t approve or permit it.

  “Just a moment.” Coburn finally withdrew a crumpled letter then proceeded to try to smooth the creases. Extending the hopelessly wrinkled missive, he wiggled the paper, which crackled and rattled in protest.

  “This came for you yesterday. It’s from your Miss Findlay.”

  “Nae doubt another appeal to terminate our agreement.”

  Accepting the note, Logan grimaced, and after quickly glancing at her neat, feminine script, tucked the rectangle into his jacket. He wasn’t about to read it with his grinning-like-an-imbecile-cousin looking on.

  He patted his chest. “I believe this makes three-and-twenty. She’s persistent. I’ll give her that.”

  Persistent. Intriguing. Beguiling.

  Not what he expected at all, although what he had anticipated, he couldn’t quite define. His thoughts marching along those sentimental paths might prove worrisome, however.

  Coburn angled his coppery head, his astute gaze probing. “And after you’ve finished poking about, do you intend to cry off if you uncover something … ah … untoward or unpleasant?”

  If only Logan could have.

  Heaving a gusty breath, he gave his head the merest shake. “Nae, I cannae. Ye ken Da spent part of the dowry, and I have nae way to repay it.”

  “Aye. I ken. Logan, if you’re still keen on wedding and bedding the lass, why skulk around?”

  Logan studied the Scots pines’ angular forms ringing the loch’s other side where a rare, brave moonbeam slashed the fog and tickled the glistening surface.

  “Just a few more minutes, boy,” Coburn patted his restless mount’s withers.

  Devil it.

  Logan was loath to admit the ugly truth, even to the person he held dearest. Though he was obligated to marry Mayra, if she turned out to be a wanton harlot, he could at least refrain from giving her his heart, nae matter how enticing her lips, mesmerizing her eyes, or alluring the rest of her luscious form.

  “Well, Logan? I have a right to ken why you’re impersonating me. Particularly since my decorum, charm, taste in clothing, and appeal to the fairer sex far exceeds yours.” Coburn gave him a rakish wink.

  His cousin baited him, but Logan refused to take the lure.

  “I’d like to ken what I’m getting beforehand. I winna be made a fool, an object of scorn and pity, like Da.”

  Head tilted, Coburn regarded Logan for an extended, contemplative moment.

  “Fine. You can pretend to be me, and I’ll keep my distance.” Coburn’s derisive smile revealed his grudging acquiescence. “But my advice, my preference, is that you tell Miss Findlay the truth. And sooner, rather than later. Deception’s always a two-edged sword. And mark my words, Logan, you’ll bitterly regret this sham.”

  A jot more tension dissolved, easing the tautness squeezing Logan’s ribs.

  He could always count on Coburn to have his back.

  “Mayra’s attending a wedding in Edinburgh in April, and I hope to put things right long before then.”

  “Speaking of Edinburgh,” Coburn gathered his horse’s reins, “Rodena took Isla and trundled off to her sister’s there. A Lady Featherstone…? Featherspoon..? Featherbrain? Lady Feather Somebody-or-other, she claimed.”

  Good riddance.

  Logan had wanted to send her packing for week, and only Isla prevented him from doing so.

  “Did my stepmother abscond with the silver and anything else of worth she could steal?”

  “Nae.” Coburn shook his head and gave the cranky sky and equally cantankerous frown. “I had the servants watch her every move. She screeched and swore like a hoore, but in the end, she only took their clothing and personal affects. Wise of you to lock the family jewels in the safe.”

  “Honestly, I expected all of the more valuable pieces to have been sold. I suppose I owe that small reprieve to Rodena’s greed and lust for glittery baubles.” Logan rewrapped the wool scarf circling his neck.

  Damned fickle weather. Worse than a popular courtesan.

  “The poor, wee lass sobbed uncontrollably. She didna want to leave Lockelieth. Or you.” Coburn patted his restless stallion again.

  Rodena ought to have left Isla at Lockelieth. She’d have been better off away from her sluttish mother.

  Coburn swung into the saddle. “I haven’t been to Edinburgh in over a month. I’ll go to town and see what mischief your promiscuous step-mother embroils herself in. I’ll admit to feeling sorry for Isla. She’s a sweet thing. Do you ken yet who sired her?”

  “Nae, and I doubt Rodena does either.”

  Logan scowled, relief that his stepmother had departed, but pity for her child nudging his conscience. “Whilst you’re in town, would you mind doing a bit of research about silver and copper mining in this region? Supposedly, there’s a lode on the dowered parcel of Dunrangour’s land. I’d like to ken if there’s any basis to the rumor.”

  “Wouldn’t the locals be more likely to ken that?” Coburn scratched a bold eyebrow as another disgruntled bird took wing.

  Logan inclined his head. “Possibly, but I’m guessing official records would be kept in Edinburgh.”

  “Aye, I shall poke around.” Coburn pressed his lips together, his countenance gone serious and stern. “Logan, dinna wait too long to tell Miss Findlay. A marriage begun with distrust and deceit likely winna improve in time.”

  Since when was his rakehell cousin an authority on the fairer sex?

  Logan offered a twisted grin. “I ken you’re right. But I’m calf deep in shite now. Nae help but to wade through it.”

  He, too, climbed into the saddle. “Coburn?”

  Already picking his way along the rocky terrain, his cousin glanced up. “Aye?”

  “Thank you.”

  Coburn jostled his shoulders. “Yer all I have left for kin, and I dinna want ye unhappy. Yer an insufferable grouch when ye are.” Affection crinkled the planes of his face and thickened his brogue.

  “Send word if ye need me, cousin, and I’ll keep ye appraised of yer stepmother’s activities.”

  Chapter Four

  Mayra cast an anxious eye to the sullen, armor-tinted sky, and clicking her tongue, held the dogcart’s reins with one hand while pulling her arisaid over her head with the other. She absently checked to assure the brooch securing the plaid rested in its designated place above her breasts.

  “Get on with you, Horace.”

  The obstinate gelding flicked his ears back, but ignored her prompting and continued his unhurried plodding.

  By crackers, she’d have made better time astride a ram.

  Sidesaddle.

  “Come on. Go it!” She changed her tone to cajoling. “I’ll give you an extra portion of oats if you pick up your pace, sweet boy. An apple, too.”

  Horace lazily glanced over his tawny shoulder, a distinct superior glint in his soft brandy-brown eyes, and barred his yellow teeth—does he dare mock me?—before facing forward and continuing his same sluggish gait.

  A black slug did trot along swifter.

  “Och, ye … ye stubborn, dafty … mule.”

  Nae ruder insult could she have hurled upon the gentle beast’s head. She loved him, but he could be so verra obstinate. And today of all days she was in a terrible rush. For reasons other than the belligerent weather too.

  The day after tomorrow she departed for Edinburgh, and she didna ken when she’d see Coburn again. Chances were, he’d not still be in the village when they returned at the end of April.

  At the unwelcome truth, heaviness settled in her middle.

  This was her fourth trip to the village since meeting him, and each prior time she’d encountered him, he’d given her a sigh-worthy smile, warm and inviting, as if he was as happy to see her as she was him.

  And when he trailed his gaze over her, her flesh reacted in the most remarkable way—at once tingly and prickly, but also languid and melty.

  She tipped her mouth sideway.

  Was melty even a word?
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br />   Seated in The Dozing Stag’s common room, like old friends, she and Coburn had chatted about all manner of polite, mundane things. She’d nibbled shortbread and sipped Maggi’s special blend of tea while he savored a warm ale.

  Her brothers, Bhric and Monroe, eager to visit village friends, left her to herself, either unaware of her rendezvous with Coburn, or deeming them harmless in a public room.

  When the time came to depart for home—always far too soon—Coburn had asked to walk Mayra to the village’s edge, despite her brothers’ certain curious gazes and mocking grins.

  She’d wanted to agree, but nonetheless, prudence dictated she decline his offer.

  The lads would surely tell Mama, and that would be the end of any outings.

  Still, as faithful Horace had moseyed home, and her brothers good-naturedly ribbed one another or sang risqué ditties, she’d dared harbor secret thoughts.

  Hopeful, fanciful, impossible thoughts.

  And today, she’d see Coburn again.

  She sighed, bending her mouth into a private smile.

  Her heart raced and her tummy quivered in anticipation. Nae downright, well…giddiness.

  Mayra hoped—oh, how she hoped!—providence favored her today.

  A dreamy smile bent her mouth once more.

  She’d never met anyone—more specifically, any toe-curling, nape-raising, stomach-tumbling mon—quite like him.

  A charmer who, in an instant, made such a lasting, and pulse-stuttering impression, she could yet recall his brilliant smile and his hands on her person. Never mind his intelligent, sable-lashed mossy-green eyes, chestnut hair, glinting deep bronze where the sun caressed it, or his angular face—high cheek bones, chiseled chin, noble forehead.

  His deep, lyrical voice, like melted chocolate—sweet and warm—mesmerized her from the instant she heard him laugh at something MacPherson said as they exited the inn.

  In her mind, he’d become an incomparable.

  Another fretful survey of the irritable heavens, and Mayra puffed out her cheeks in frustration. Sure as chickens clucked, the portly, vicious looking clouds were about to burst, and she’d be a sopped wretch by the time she made Glenliesh—guaranteeing her visit and the trip home would be utterly miserable.