The Highland Chieftain

by Amy Jarecki

  After crossing the drawbridge, Dunn, chieftain of Clan MacRae, glanced over his shoulder. Thank God Lady Mairi hadn’t followed him across. He’d naturally assumed she’d send her apologies for this gathering and stay home. Late for a meeting with Robert Grant, he’d been riding at a brisk canter when the woman stepped in front of him without looking where she was headed. Dunn had almost run right over the lass.

  Why Her Ladyship, and not any other woman in the Highlands?

  Well, she was Cromartie’s burden, and Dunn wouldn’t give the lass another thought.

  Robert Grant, laird of Glenmoriston, had planned a fine midsummer’s gathering in the medieval remains of a once-formidable fortress. Presiding over the shores of Loch Ness, Urquhart Castle still commanded a sense of awe—even with the turret of the gatehouse upside down in the dry moat, having been ravaged by Cromwell’s cannon during his invasion of Scotland sixty years prior.

  A cool wind caressed his neck as he searched for Robert inside the grounds. Aye, air cleansed by the waters of the loch gave him a refreshing sense of freedom. There was nothing he enjoyed more than riding the Highlands with a dirk in his belt, a sword at his hip, and a flask of whisky in his sporran. Aye, Scotland pulsed through his blood with the rush of a roaring river.

  Robert Grant bounded toward Dunn with a grin as wide as Black Rock Gorge—a grin as sincere as Highland hospitality. “You’re late, MacRae.”

  “’Tis still Friday, is it not?” Dunn dismounted and passed his reins to a groom. “Give the big fella an extra ration of oats. Beastie’s a Scottish-bred champion, none faster or stronger.”

  “Aye, sir.” The lad smoothed his hand along the stallion’s neck. “He’s a beauty.”

  “That he is,” said Grant, grasping Dunn’s hand in a firm handshake.

  “Och, ’tis good to see you this fine day.” Dunn tossed the lad a coin before the boy led the horse into the stable. Then he squeezed his friend’s arm, giving him a challenging grin. “Are ye favoring muskets in the games?”

  Affecting an affronted grimace, Grant thwacked him on the shoulder. “I can give you a right royal thrashing in the wrestling arena any day, any time.”

  Dunn threw his head back and laughed. If ever he had heard a bold-faced lie, Robert Grant just spewed a gross fabrication. Too right, Dunn hadn’t been bested since he’d achieved his majority, and everyone knew it well. “Forever the combatant, are you not?”

  “Life wouldn’t be nearly as fun without a healthy feud to keep one amused.” Grant, renowned for feuding with most of his neighbors, gestured toward the manse. “Come, allow me to treat you to a dram of whisky to wash away the dust from the trail afore the others arrive.”

  That brought a smile to Dunn’s lips. He wasn’t surprised he’d arrived first. And he’d hoped to catch up on the latest news with his old friend. “Words to warm a man’s heart.”

  “And his gullet,” added Grant.

  Once inside the tower, Robert led the way to the old solar. “I’ve brought in a table and chairs for meetings during the gathering. ’Tis rustic, but will do in a pinch.”

  Dunn looked between the ancient stone walls while the heavy oak door closed behind them. “I think this is the perfect spot for the gathering. It will remind the Highland Defenders of their purpose—the reason why we’re still at odds with the English. Tell me, when was Urquhart last occupied?”

  “A Jacobite garrison in 1692. It’s been falling into decay ever since. It would cost a king’s fortune to make it livable again.”

  He looked to the rafters. “Well, at least she still has a roof.”

  Grant gestured to a high-backed chair before he moved to the sideboard and pulled the stopper out of a newfangled decanter. He poured two drams. “What trouble has the Earl of Seaforth encountered of late?”

  Sitting, Dunn scratched the stubble on his jaw. He’d shaved that morn, but his unruly beard always made a showing in the afternoon, the damnable whiskers. “Now that His Lordship is married, it seems his strife has gone on holiday for the time being—but it has only been a fortnight.”

  Grant placed both glasses of whisky on the table. “I reckon that’s a good thing. At least it affords you a chance to tend your own affairs.”

  “And ’tis about time, too. I’ve been watching Seaforth’s back for so long, my rents haven’t been collected in two years.”

  The shorter but solid chieftain took the chair opposite. “Good Lord, the crofters will never be able to meet the back payments.”

  Dunn raised his glass. “I do not aim to make them.”

  “What? Are you going soft in your old age?”

  “Old age? I’m thirty.” Dunn wasn’t soft, either. The harvests for the past two years had been lean, and his kin needed respite. What kind of man was he if he did not give it?

  “’Tis generous of you.” The Grant laird gave him a once-over. “What other news? At thirty the chieftain of Clan MacRae ought to be thinking about settling down.”

  The whisky burned all the way to Dunn’s gullet. Moreover, it burned with his friend’s words. When was he supposed to find time to marry? Not that he wanted to marry anyone, especially after Lady Mairi’s quick refusal. He looked at his glass and, rather than replying to his friend’s probing question, took another healthy swig.

  Grant stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. “A tender subject, is it? I heard about your proposal to Mairi MacKenzie. But knowing you, I figured you’d brush it off, go out and wrestle a bull.”

  “Och, I was daft to think the lass might favor me,” Dunn said with more of an edge to his voice than he’d intended. At every gathering he’d ever frequented where Lady Mairi had been in attendance, the lass had flirted with him mercilessly. And he’d done nothing but think back on all those encounters for the past several days. Had her favor been a figment of his imagination? All those smoldering looks, those coy glances across the many halls—her compliments and her light touches on his arm. Had she vexed him because she was promised and therefore unavailable? None of it made sense—but then Dunn had never met a woman who wasn’t confounding.

  “If you ask me,” said Grant, “she has her head up her arse on account of being the daughter of an earl.”

  “But I always thought her amusing. I reckon her father has soured her—the bastard is hell-bent on marrying her off to a peer.”

  “Mairi MacKenzie?” A loud snort rumbled from Grant’s nose. “It had best be a Scottish peer.”

  The sarcasm in his friend’s voice made Dunn’s entire body tense. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because the wee lassie will be a handful, and I reckon she’d ride roughshod over any English nobleman. Sassenachs are just too damned soft.”

  Dunn chuckled and swirled the liquid in his glass. He wouldn’t mind having Mairi MacKenzie ride roughshod over him—or try. It certainly would make for good sport. Then he scowled, internally admonishing himself. I need to erase the woman from my memory.

  “What you need is a good romp with a sturdy Highland wench.”

  He raised his glass. “Now that’s the most agreeable thing I’ve heard in days.”

  * * *

  After Dunn and Robert enjoyed two drams of whisky, they moved to the hall and switched to ale. The festivities were just beginning. Clan chiefs were expected to lead the merriment, and Dunn never slighted his duty. A stalwart devotion to clan and kin had been ingrained in him by his father from the cradle. MacRae’s lot wasn’t only to protect his own, but to protect and serve the lofty MacKenzies. An oath of fealty had been pledged centuries past, and the two clans had held up their side of the bargain ever since. Though it did chap him a wee bit to always walk in the shadow of Seaforth, Dunn knew his purpose and he would never turn his back on it.

  No matter how pleasurable it was to sit in the sanctity of the solar with Robert Grant and sip fine Scotch whisky, social duty called, and ale would have to suffice for the duration of the night. The hall was already filled with shouts and laughter rising above th
e fiddlers and drummers on the mezzanine. A serving wench swished in from the kitchens, her hips swaying with her every step. She had ample curves both top and bottom, and a saucy smile to boot. The woman’s gaze shifted to Dunn, her expression growing bolder, looking as if she wanted to give him more than one of her frothing tankards of ale.

  Possibly Grant was right. Dunn might enjoy a raucous toss in the hay with a buxom lass. God knew he needed it.

  The corner of his mouth turned up as he assessed her from head to toe. She wore a corset atop her kirtle with a neckline scooping scandalously low. “I’ll have one of those ales, lassie,” he said, beckoning her nearer.

  “I have a tankard for you, Laird MacRae.” She stopped beside him and set all four on the table. Dunn reached for one while the other three disappeared into the hands of the gentlemen at the table.

  “Ye ken the way to a man’s heart,” he said, taking a sip.

  “Och, I ken the way to a great deal more than your heart, sir.” She brazenly pulled away his tankard and set it down before she plopped onto his lap.

  Across the table, Grant gave her a wink, the schemer. Doubtless he’d given the wench a bit of coin. Every man watched, amusement flickering in their eyes. Dunn’s gut twisted with a warning, but he ignored it. Hell, it was midsummer and a gathering of clans. He lowered his hands to the lassie’s waist. “Do you, now?”

  “Aye.” She leaned into him, the softness of her breast plying his chest. “You’re a braw Highlander, MacRae.” Her fingers gathered up the hem of his kilt. “And you’re my choice to win the games.”

  Licking his lips, he grinned. The lass wasn’t bad. Curvy—just what he liked. His hand slipped up and down her spine. “I reckon that’s pretty brash talk, considering present company.”

  She rocked her hips from side to side, stirring his loins. Dunn clenched his teeth, willing himself not to roll his eyes and moan. Having a female in his lap reminded him how long he’d gone without one. She pressed her lips to his ear. “Aye, but you’re bigger and stronger.” Her hips rolled again with her wanton chuckle. “And my guess is you have the longest sword.”

  He considered a quick departure afore the meal was served. His men had erected his tent in the castle dry moat. It wouldn’t take much to arrange a tryst beyond the gates. Hell, he was so ready, he ought to throw the wench over his shoulder and offer Grant his apologies on the way out.

  Over the noise, a high-pitched gasp ripped Dunn from his fantasy. He shifted his gaze toward the sound, and a lump the size of a cannonball sank in his gut. Holy hell, Lady Mairi stood at the far end of the hall staring directly at him, her hand covering her mouth.

  Even from a distance, he could see the accusing glint in her sky-blue eyes. And from across the room, her disgust shamed him. The woman looked like a highborn queen, passing judgment without a trial. Though small, her presence was all-consuming. Voluminous red hair, a fair complexion, square shoulders, a tiny waist that fanned into folds and folds of plaid skirts. There she stood, the woman who’d shunned him, yet he was not impervious to her beauty. If anything, Mairi MacKenzie stood looking even bonnier than she had a mere fortnight ago.

  In a blink, his throat thickened, his mouth went dry, and suddenly the wench on his lap became as enticing as a snorting sow. Sinking his fingers into her waist, he lifted and set the woman on her feet. “I’m sure you’re being paid to provide a service,” he said gruffly. “You’d best tend your duty.”

  Gaping, the lass moved her fists to her hips. “But—”

  “Thanks for the ale, miss.” Dunn picked up the tankard and guzzled it while the maid huffed and went on her way.

  When he next looked across the hall, Mairi had moved to one of the high tables, where she sat with her back to him.

  God bless it, Dunn shouldn’t have acted so abruptly with the wench. He was a grown man, a chieftain of a well-respected clan. What did Lady Mairi care if he was about to head for his tent and give a buxom tart a crown for her favors? Her Ladyship had refused him. He was free to behave as he wished. There was nothing more to be said between them. The haughty lass was higher born and destined to marry a nobleman, as her father had so succinctly put it.

  The Earl of Cromartie, seated at the far end of the high table, was a royalist in Highlander’s clothes. And after his rebuttal, Dunn was convinced of it. The best thing for Dunn to do was to forget the Cromartie MacKenzies ever existed. Dunn might owe fealty to Reid MacKenzie, but he sure as hell didn’t owe a farthing to Lord Gilroy MacKenzie and his heart-crushing, redheaded daughter.

  Grant jabbed Dunn with an elbow. “You should see your face, MacRae.”

  “Aye, you look as if you’re set to ride into battle.” Ewen Cameron patted his dirk and scowled. “But you might affront our host this night. Come morn, I’ll be more than happy to join you—take back those cattle Robert thieved from beneath my nose.”

  “You’re talking shite,” Grant growled, giving the laird across the table a scowl. “I’ve never thieved cattle.”

  Reid MacKenzie, the Earl of Seaforth, approached with his new bride on his arm. “At least not Cameron cattle, what say you, Grant?”

  The tension in the air instantly eased. Highland gatherings were no place for petty feuds—even quibbles that had endured for centuries.

  Grinning, Robert stood along with all the others on the dais. “’Tis good to see you as always, m’lord.”

  Dunn clasped his friend’s hand, giving it a hearty shake. “Seaforth, you always had a knack for showing up at the most opportune time. We needed a diversion.” He bowed to Her Ladyship. “’Tis a pleasure, Countess.”

  Lady Audrey curtsied. “Thank you, Dunn.” She then regarded the men with a gracious smile. “I see this is the gentlemen’s table. Perhaps I should join the wives.”

  “Not at all, my dear,” Seaforth said, pulling out an empty chair.

  As Her Ladyship sat, Dunn caught the stricken expression on Mairi MacKenzie’s face. The poor lass blanched, clapping a hand to her chest. Beside her, Janet urged Mairi to turn back around. She did so, clutching her arms across her midriff while her shoulders shook. Janet looked back and cast a hateful glare at Seaforth, which, fortunately, His Lordship missed.

  Months ago, Dunn had known Lady Mairi would be devastated when it was clear Seaforth had developed amorous feelings for Audrey. Dunn had tried on numerous occasions to remind the earl of his duty, but his words had fallen on deaf ears. And now Lady Mairi, the most vibrant young woman he’d ever met, sat in the midst of a happy gathering looking as miserable as a half-drowned puppy.

  Dunn ground his molars. If only he could join the lass at her table, take Janet’s place, and offer a consoling shoulder to cry upon. But she had rejected him. It was final. He needed to move on.

  Jesus Saint Christopher Christ, I’m daft. I never should have offered for her hand so soon after Seaforth’s hasty marriage.

  “How are things at Eilean Donan?” asked Lady Audrey, smiling warmly. He could fault the countess for nothing. She’d risked her life to help Seaforth clear his name and deserved to be happy.

  “It was good to visit clan and kin, thank you, m’lady.” Dunn picked up his tankard. Finding it empty, he glanced to Mairi again. Her back was now ramrod straight. Aye, she was a survivor, that one, and Dunn had no doubt she’d eventually land on her feet. Her shrewd father would find her a suitable match in short order, and the fire would return to her eyes once again.

  But that did nothing to help the roiling of Dunn’s insides. He pushed back his chair and stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I must step out for a wee bit of Highland air.”

  * * *

  Mairi pursed her lips. Curses to Janet!

  Once the meal was over, the Cameron lass fetched her brother Kennan, and now Mairi had no recourse but to dance with him. It only took one look at his face to know he’d rather be doing anything other than dancing, but Janet had practically shoved the pair of them onto the floor.

  At least dancing provided a diversion, though
there was nothing Mairi wanted to do more than steal away to the stables, saddle a horse, and gallop for home. She could practically feel Seaforth and his new bride watching her. Thank heavens the couple sat out this set. In fact, the earl and his countess had yet to take a turn.

  And thank heavens the musicians were playing a country reel Mairi could perform in her sleep. Though she couldn’t bring herself to paint on a smile, she executed the steps flawlessly, as one would expect from an earl’s daughter. Janet’s brother, on the other hand, obviously paid a fair bit more attention to sparring than to dancing lessons. Kennan had a reputation for his skill with a blade, but clomped around the dancefloor like an oversize workhorse.

  None of it mattered. Da was still seated on the dais talking politics and, as long as Mairi held her head high, no one would fault her even though she didn’t feel like dancing as she usually did. In fact, she usually laughed gaily and looked forward to dancing every set at these gatherings. A fortnight ago, she had not a care. It had all been so easy. Her life had been planned for her. All that was expected was that she live it.

  But no more.

  As she joined arms with Kennan, her attention was drawn to a lone figure who’d slipped inside the door. Tension radiated off the man, and Mairi knew who it was before her gaze locked with his. Her gaze was always managing to lock with that brooding Highlander. No matter how hard she tried, her accursed eyes insisted on straying his way.

  And when they did, she was helpless to suppress the jitters spreading through her insides. Who wouldn’t go a wee bit boneless when in the presence of such an imposing man? King’s crosses, Dunn MacRae was as wild as the Highlands. Even his face was a work of brooding masculine ruggedness.

  Holding her gaze, his midnight-blue eyes grew even darker as he took a step toward her. His thigh stretched the wool of his kilt, the flex of his calf powerful beneath the hose held in place by silk ribbons as all men wore. But ribbons seemed too genteel for this brawny Highlander.

  The music ended and Janet’s brother bowed.

  Mairi hardly noticed.