He’d never said what clan he called kin.
“Do you ken him? The man you’re supposed to wed?”
After tearing off a piece of bread, Coburn popped it into his mouth.
“By that if you mean, have I met him?” She gave a brief nod and shivered when the angry wind-born hail pummeled the window and a draft whisked over her, raising her flesh from neck to waist. “Aye, many years ago.”
Or did premonition make her fine nape hairs tingle?
“But… I’m doing my utmost to have the agreement nullified. I winna willingly marry a man I only remember meeting but once in almost nineteen years. A man whose only interest, as far as I can discern, is my dowry and land. He winna even answer my letters.”
Coburn swallowed and patted his mouth with his serviette, his manner hesitant. Or was that reservation?
“I’d like to call him a fool and condemn his thoughtlessness, but is it possible he didna receive them?”
At the intensity in his arresting eyes, she paused then frowned at the rumpled lace edging her bosom.
Could she possibly appear anymore disheveled and dowdy?
She straightened the scrap and inclined her head.
“I suppose so, but not likely. I’ve sent more than twenty over the course of three years. Da sent others. I have nae idea how many. And that still doesn’t excuse the younger Rutherford ignoring me. Da said Rutherford agreed to court me or ask to have the agreement voided. He’s done neither.”
“Ignoring you is unconscionable, I’ll admit. If he kent the beautiful, fascinating, intriguing woman sitting opposite me this instant, trust me, he’d count himself a thousand times a fool.”
Condemnation seeped into Coburn’s voice as he fingered his knife handle.
Mayra almost missed the last part of what he said, having grown deliciously hot to her toes, when he called her beautiful, fascinating, and intriguing.
Did he truly think so?
For he but echoed her thoughts about him.
Searching his handsome face, she examined each plane, every angle; the seductive dimple so quick to appear, his strong, chiseled jaw covered with that smattering of russet stubble she longed to brush her cheek against, his brow with its three narrow furrows, the crinkling at the corner of his eyes, and finally came to rest on his lips.
Coburn gently probed. “What will you do, Mayra, if he refuses to release you? He may have reason you ken not of to do so.”
“I’ve written His Majesty as well, and I’ve decided upon a rather reckless course, if I’m forced to go that far. I ken verra little of my affianced, other than the lasses sigh over him, and I’ve heard, he’s rather a stickler for propriety. Any whisper of unseemliness or scandal, and he sniffs disdainfully, points his pompous nose in the air and marches away, stiff-arsed.”
Coburn choked and slapped his serviette over his face, coughing into it. Eyes watering, he managed to sputter, “Stiff-arsed?”
Mayra grinned and leaned low over the table once more.
“Ach, aye. Like a poker’s been rammed up his—Erm. Well, you take my meaning. Rutherford’s verra pretentious. Plucks his brows, paints his face—pox scars, you ken.” She nodded knowingly. “He sniffs snuff. His wigs are said to harbor vermin—the tiny, creepy crawly kind, and he wears gallons and gallons of scent, ’cause he doesn’t bathe except twice a year.”
She shuddered delicately and pinched her nose in mock horror.
Coburn shout of laughter drew the other common room occupants’ attention, and they smiled when he continued to laugh into his hand. Shoulders shaking, he shook his head and swiped the corner of his eyes.
“Good God. Nae wonder you didna want to marry the sot. He sounds repulsive. If you’ve never been outside Glenliesh, how do you ken so much about him?”
Eyes twinkling, she leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms.
“I made all that up. Except the part about scandals. That much is true. The other is how I imagine him. Probably screams and jumps on a table when he sees a mouse or a toad too.”
“Undoubtedly.”
Coburn pushed his food aside, and leaned back in his chair, hooking an ankle over his knee.
She offered Maggi a bright smile as she bustled to their table, and whispered out the side of her mouth to Coburn, “I’d rather nae speak of him with Maggi here.”
“Wise, I think.”
Wouldn’t do to have the curious servant be privy to their intimate conversation. And Maggi would never broach Mayra’s betrothal, fully aware the subject distressed her.
Maggi set tea and a fresh Scotch pie, the pastry flaky and scrumptious smelling, in front of Mayra then placed another cup before the empty chair beside her. The chair scraped as Maggi pulled it from the table, and once she’d plopped onto the seat and scooted it forward, she heaved a great sigh.
“I can only spare ye a few minutes. Since my Caronwyn married, I’ve been running my tail feathers off, I have. She was a huge help with the cooking and cleaning. ’Specially the dishes.”
She jumped when thunder boomed loudly overhead, shaking the inn’s rafters.
Hail littered the mucky lane, and the afternoon sky, heavy with churning clouds occasionally lit with streaks of jagged lightening, sent long shadows into the inn. Two shingles blew off the blacksmith’s roof a block down the street as the wind whistled and pounded against the common room’s window panes.
Mayra took a sip of bracing tea, welcoming the warmth spreading from her stomach, soothing her frayed nerves. Her first time to town on her own and the worst spring storm in years descends.
Only an idiot would attempt to cross the street, let alone try to reach Dunrangour Tower in this.
All was not dismal, however.
Now, she had a legitimate excuse to linger with Coburn.
From the looks of the tempest, she might truly be forced to accept the MacPhersons’ hospitality for the night. She hadn’t funds with her to pay them, but she could send payment later. She’d not impose upon their generosity.
Pretending to adjust her serviette upon her lap, she observed Coburn chatting with Maggi.
He caught Mayra’s subtle perusal and an enigmatic smile arced his lips.
Hours and hours of Coburn’s pleasant company.
She couldn’t imagine anything she’d prefer more.
“Please congratulate Carowyn for me. I have a small gift from Mama and me.” Mayra bent and collected a brown paper wrapped package. “It’s not much, just embroidered handkerchiefs, and a crocheted doily.”
“Ye and Lady Findlay needn’t have done that, Miss Mayra.”
Maggi accepted the gift with a grateful smile.
Plunking four lumps of brown sugar into her cup, she gave Coburn the gimlet eye. As she stirred her tea, she angled her head and continued to study him. “Mr. Wallace, ye remind me of someone. I cannae put my finger on who, but there’s something about yer eyes.”
Coburn winked and dipped his spoon into his stew. “It’s admiration for you and your fine cooking, Mrs. MacPherson.” He tasted the soup and sighed dramatically. “Why if you weren’t already married, I’d go down on one knee this verra moment.”
Color blossomed on Maggi’s cheeks, and she fluttered her work-reddened fingers at him. “Oh, pish posh. Yer a born charmer, ye rogue.”
“What’s this? Wallace be ye flirtin’ with my darlin’ Mags?” Searc approached, wiping his hand on a towel. He gave his wife’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “My dear, I’m afeared the bread’s burnin’.”
“Och. I plum forgot. My mind’s gone to pudding, it has.” Maggi, as slender as her husband was round, sprang from her chair so quickly it would’ve toppled if he hadn’t grabbed the back.
“Do either of ye need anything else?” MacPherson cast a worried eye to the nearly deserted street as the last of the patrons dared the hostile elements.
Only a young couple with a small child and two middling-aged gentleman—one who looked to be a cleric—remained. Likely overnight guests or
travelers unwilling to brave the storm’s wrath.
“I’m perfectly content for now, but thank you.” Mayra took a dainty bite of her Scotch pie. “As always, the best I’ve ever eaten. Someday, I’ll have Maggi’s recipe from her.”
Coburn hadn’t missed the innkeeper’s pensive glance at his nearly empty establishment. Times were hard for many. “I’m fine, as well.”
“I want to make sure my lads have the stock and stable secure. This looks to be a fierce storm.” MacPherson threw the towel over his beefy shoulder, frowning as a gust slammed into the inn, rattling the windows and sending the walls to trembling. “Miss Findlay, ye cannae return home in this. It’s near dark as dusk already, and ye have the forest to travel through.”
Despite the uncertainty marring her forehead, Mayra gave him a reassuring smile. “I ken. Maggi graciously said I might stay until it passes. I’ll have to send payment for the room later. I hope you dinna mind. I dinna have more than a few shillings with me. I do hope Mama doesn’t fret too much, but I ken she’d prefer I remain here where it’s safe than try to reach home in this squall.”
“Ye needn’t worry about payment lass, and yer mother would want ye to stay.” With a slight nod, MacPherson scuttled to the kitchen.
Lower lip clamped between her teeth and brows knitted, Mayra peered outside. “Do you think I might try to make it home? Mama will fuss something awful if I dinna, and she mightn’t let me ever come to town again on my own.”
Assuredly she wouldn’t, and besides, Mayra loathed spending money on a chamber when a perfectly comfortable bed awaited her at Dunrangour.
Lifting her head, her gaze landed on the two armchairs before the hearth.
She needn’t accept a room from the MacPherson’s at all. She could wait out the storm before the fire.
Coburn laid his palm atop Mayra’s, yanking her attention to him—to his big tan hand covering hers. “I think she’d want you to be safe most of all. But if you’re really worried, I shall take you.”
The shrieking gale attacked the shutters, hammering them violently against the inn, and a wooden bucket hurtled down the street, bouncing end over end.
“Nae. Searc’s right. Trees could crash down. I think it wisest to stay here.”
Her gaze sank again to his hand still resting upon hers. Fine bronze hairs covered the knuckles and back.
“Coburn, I think I may have conceived a way to rid myself of Rutherford.”
Did she dare tell him her reckless plan?
She barely kent him—really kent him—so why did she trust him so completely? Feel like she could share anything and he’d understand?
Well, almost anything. Certainly nae her blush-worthy musings regarding him.
Coburn spread her fingers, lacing his with hers, and tipped his mouth upward, the seductive curve lighting his handsome face and turning her joints to jelly.
Mayra ought to pull her hand way, but all thought of doing so vanished when he started rubbing his rough thumb slowly over the back of her hand. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the simple yet intimate, hypnotic movement.
The rest of the room, the other occupants, faded into a distant haze, until it was just she and Coburn.
“I ken you feel this between us, Mayra. It’s too powerful to ignore. I think we’ve stumbled onto something rare. So beautiful and precious, we mustn’t ignore it.”
Aye, impossible to ignore.
The desire and warmth in his rich, deep voice paled to the heat sparking in his hooded eyes.
Her nipples puckered in answer to the longing shimmering in his molten gaze.
Coburn raised her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles in a swift, hot kiss, and an electric jolt raced up her arm.
Breathless, caught up in the moment, she didna care if anyone noticed.
“Aye, it defies understanding because this gift came upon us so swiftly, but it’s real. Tell me you dinna feel it too, my bonnie Mayra.”
“Aye, but I dinna understand it,” she shyly confessed. “We’ve only met these few times. I ken nothing about you.”
Still she didna withdraw her hand. Instead, Mayra turned hers over so that their palms met, and her fingers—the strumpets—curled into his in the most natural clasp.
The knowledge he felt the same irresistible, irrational draw enveloped her in comfort and confidence. And hope. Real, genuine, viable hope.
For the first time, she dared contemplate loving someone.
Coburn’s forefinger strayed to her wrist and traced a narrow path, and she bit her lip when little sparks zipped along her nerves. How she wanted him to move higher, to trail his fingers up her arms, over the span of her neck…
Perhaps—heavens, her thoughts ran along a naughty path—brush the swell above her bodice.
“I have a solution too.” He firmed his grasp on her hand, his eyes now a deep, mesmerizing forest green.
Did desire turn them that color?
Desire for her?
“Solution?”
To what?
Och, aye, Logan Rutherford.
“You could marry me, Mayra. As soon as the storm passes, we could find a rector. In fact, I think that mon yonder,” he jutted his head toward the quiet mon, “might be a cleric.”
Chapter Seven
Mayra’s breath stalled.
Nae wink or mocking smile accompanied Coburn’s extraordinary statement.
What a scrumptious, novel solution, even if he did but jest.
Quite the most perfect, insane, absurd and oh, so tempting idea she’d heard in a great, great while.
Ever, truth be told.
But entirely impossible. Impractical. Unfeasible. Dangerous.
Even had he been serious, the risk was simply too great.
To have Dunrangour, everything the Findlays owned, forfeited to the Crown and face imprisonment or worse?
Nae. Imprudent at best and catastrophic at worst.
She kent full well why Da and Mama had agreed to the union between her and Rutherford. They’d told her plainly, because they wanted her to ken just how callous and treacherous her future father-in-law was so she’d never trust the scunner.
She squeezed Coburn’s broad, strong fingertips between hers. “I ken you’re teasing, Coburn. I’m sure you’ve nae more desire than I to bring a monarch’s wrath upon your family or mine by defying a king’s edict.”
“Wrath? Surely nothing so verra severe.” His fingers continued to work their seductive magic.
For certain wantonness flowed in her veins if she responded like this to the mere touch of his hand upon hers.
“You think not, Coburn?”
Her gaze riveted on their interlaced fingers, she debated whether to tell him all.
Why not?
And she could also discover whether he counted the Rutherfords as friends. May a goose nip her bum if he did, for he’d not like what she had to say.
“Are you acquainted with the Rutherfords of Lockelieth Keep?”
“Aye. I ken of them. Artair Rutherford died recently.” Head canted, Coburn regarded her, his mien suddenly more reserved.
Mayra’s jaw sagged, her spine going rigid.
“He did? His son, Logan, is my betrothed. How could we not have heard?”
Coburn shrugged and resumed his sensual onslaught on her hand.
“It takes some families longer than others to talk about great loss, and you’ve admitted, you’re rather secluded at Dunrangour. The news didna reach you yet. That’s all.”
She well understood lingering grief. Mama yet mourned Da, and often her eyes misted with sorrow. But Da had been a wonderful, loving father and husband, while Artair Rutherford…
Blast Mayra’s stays, but a slow, heady fire tunneled through her veins.
She swallowed and with some effort focused on the topic at hand. “Still, I would’ve thought Rutherford would have sent us word of something of such importance. Just another instance of his flagrant disregard, I suppose.”
Wou
ld Logan be less inclined to grant her request now or more that he was Lockelieth’s laird? The emotional storm raging inside her exceeded the unrelenting tempest thrashing the Highlands.
“What makes you think breaking the betrothal will raise King George’s ire?”
At Coburn’s soft question, she veered her attention from the tumultuous outdoors.
She sighed and peaked her brows high on her forehead for resigned instant. “The king must approve the termination, or if he winna, then Rutherford must be the one to cry off. I canna.”
“Because…?” Coburn would have the whole torrid tale, it seemed.
Mayra finally withdrew her hand when Searc began lighting additional lamps and candles about the dim room. She’d been too bold already, and to continue to permit Coburn to fondle her hand atop the table was pure foolishness, nae matter how splendid it might feel.
“It’s nae a pretty tale, Coburn. At least not the portion I’ve been told. But I have nae cause to doubt my parents.”
The gentle upward melding of his lips spread tenderness across the carved planes of his dear face. Encouragement shone in his kind gaze. He was the type of man she could love, the type who tempted her to pelt responsibility and reason to next December. And beyond.
“Tell me, Mayra. I want to ken everything about ye.”
After a moment, she gave a small nod. “I dinna wish to speak ill of the dead. But Artair Rutherford was a covetous cur as well as an intimate confident of King William.”
Coburn frowned, twin lines crinkling his forehead from temple to temple, and drawing his taut mouth into a stern line.
“Why do you believe that?”
“Rutherford whispered falsehoods in William’s ear about my Da’s loyalty to the Crown. He went so far as to produce witnesses, attesting they’d heard Da’s treasonous murmurings. All fabricated, paid for lies, of course. But Da’s great uncle had conspired decades before, and he swung from the gallows for his treachery.”
All a rouser needed to stir fear was a thread of truth, nae matter how farfetched and false the nefarious accusation.
Tense lines framing his mouth, Coburn rested his forearms on the table.
The Forbidden Highlands Page 38
