The Highland Chieftain

by Amy Jarecki

  Mr. MacRae swiftly closed the gap, heading directly for her. The fluttering of her insides increased ten-fold. No other man she’d ever met had drawn such an averse reaction from her soul. She clenched her fists behind her back. Dunn MacRae might wield the deadliest sword in the Highlands, but he was merely a laird, perhaps a member of the gentry, though not an aristocrat, as her father had put it. But Mairi wasn’t as convinced. Mr. MacRae rode at the head of his army and was constable of the illustrious Eilean Donan Castle. Indeed, Dunn MacRae commanded respect from all corners of Scotland.

  Though not a peer.

  Mairi blinked, admonishing herself for staring.

  He approached like a warrior fixated on his prey.

  He’s a rogue. My father wouldn’t lie about that, would he?

  “’Tis good to see you, Lady Mairi,” MacRae said, dipping into a bow that was deeper and more reverent than necessary.

  “And you.” She curtsied hastily and started to turn. “If you’ll excuse—”

  He caught her arm. “I was hoping you would grace an old clan chief with a dance, m’lady.”

  “You’re hardly old, sir.” Good gracious, she made the mistake of looking up into his eyes. They were a smoldering shade of deep blue, and she imagined they harbored a lifetime of secrets and unseemly deeds.

  “I’m older than you, lass,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly.

  Mairi knew exactly how old he was, but the nine-year difference in their ages did nothing to ease the heat making her skin flush. She flicked open her fan and cooled her face. “Is that so?”

  The music started, blast it. Now she had no choice but to stay and dance lest she look like a simpering fool. They moved to their respective lines. He bowed. She curtsied, keeping her gaze lowered to avoid looking into those haunting eyes—eyes as dangerous as nightshade.

  Nonetheless, she felt him watching her, the intensity of his stare boring into her, the silence between them unsettling.

  Mairi stumbled with a gasp.

  Mr. MacRae’s fingers closed around her elbows. “Are you unwell, my lady?” He pulled her to the wall.

  She looked at his hand—tanned, rough, flecked with white scars. Unwell? Why did I not think of that? Drawing her arm from his grasp, she rubbed away the sensation of his touch. “I-I’m afraid I must have eaten something that disagreed with me.” She hastened for the door and away from prying eyes, but Mr. MacRae followed.

  “Please allow me to escort you to your chamber. Are you staying in the tower?”

  Dear Lord, must his voice rumble through her insides as well? “No.” She pushed outside. “I mean, yes, I’m staying in the tower, but I am perfectly capable of making my way there without an escort.” She mustn’t be seen alone with him; it would be scandalous.

  “Aye, but I’d be no kind of gentleman if I left you unaccompanied, especially with so many Highlanders milling about.” He offered his elbow.

  She didn’t take it.

  He leaned closer. “Come, Lady Mairi, I do not bite.”

  Curses. She squared her shoulders, her temper bubbling to the surface. Good heavens, a serving maid had been in his lap when she’d first entered the hall. That proved his suit of marriage had been a gesture of charity. How quickly he’d forgotten proclaiming his undying love to her father. “You mightn’t bite, sir, but, as I’ve observed this eve, you are not above taking liberties.” There. She outranked him. And as such, she must push aside her melancholy and assert herself. She was no waif to be taken advantage of. Mr. MacRae would not discombobulate her further.

  His face looked stunned, guilty. “I—”

  “Do you think I did not notice your friendliness with the serving wenches? I will have you know this instant, I am not to be trifled with.”

  “I…ah…I would never…” He dropped his arm with an edge to his jaw. Before he bowed, his eyes narrowed and filled with pain—the same torturous look she’d seen at the gate earlier in the day. “Good evening, m’lady.”

  Mairi suddenly found herself standing alone against the wall, dozens of people staring her way. Women whispered behind their fans, doubtless all gossiping. She knew this would happen, and now she was the laughingstock of the fete. Covering her mouth, she dashed from the hall, her eyes filling with tears.

  How dare Dunn MacRae have asked her to dance. He had no business making butterflies swarm in her stomach. He had no business escorting her about the gathering or becoming familiar in any way. Not after she had refused his suit. Whatever friendship they’d once shared was now severed forever.

  Da had an alliance to make with Mairi’s hand. She was the firstborn daughter of an earl, a fact she’d best never forget. If only Seaforth had honored their agreement. All her life she’d been sure of her place. Everything had been neatly arranged—predestined. But now her world had crumbled. She was lost. She was hopeless.

  Chapter Three

  Before the games started, a row arose between Ewen Cameron and Robert Grant. The two clans were always at odds, accusing each other of thievery, and nary a one was right. The Camerons left without breaking their fast. And if Dunn hadn’t been friends with Grant, he would have ridden for home as well. But his reasons for wanting to leave were of a personal nature.

  The chiding he’d received from Lady Mairi last eve had put him in a foul mood. Fortunately, heavy events were scheduled for the morn. Dunn needed something to work out the ire simmering under his skin. He’d thrown himself into the stone put as well as the four-stone weight over the bar. No one came close to besting him. And now if he won the caber toss, he’d take the heavy events as the undefeated champion.

  His lieutenant, Ram, paced off the length of the caber. “Twenty feet, three inches by my calculation, sir.”

  Dunn used the blade of his dirk to gauge the thickness of the log. It measured ten inches at the base. He eyed it critically. Every man would use the same length of tree. “I reckon she weighs a good eleven stone then.”

  “I’d say you’re right,” said Ram.

  “Contestants for the caber toss, address the judges!” hollered the steward.

  Dunn took the center spot in a line of twenty men facing the judges’ tent. With three earls and the Duke of Gordon in attendance, the judging was almost as fierce as the competition. The nobility quibbled over every event, each man favoring his own contestants.

  “All competitors will be allowed three throws of the caber. The entrant may take any length of run he wishes and may toss the caber from where he chooses, so long as it is within the judges’ boundaries. The caber must be evaluated on its landing position, not the position to which it may bounce or roll. The winner shall be determined by the toss nearest to the twelve o’clock mark…”

  Dunn stood at attention while the steward droned on, repeating rules he’d heard a hundred times. He tried his best to keep his eyes on the man, but by the time the oration was finished, his gaze had shifted to Lady Mairi.

  She sat in the judges’ tent behind her father with her hands folded. It was odd to see her so reserved and sad. He’d always known Lady Mairi to be full of laughter and joy. In previous years, she would watch with great enthusiasm, standing in the center of a circle of admiring friends.

  Dunn growled under his breath as he clenched his teeth. Her Ladyship’s plight was none of his concern.

  Mairi peeked from under the brim of her fashionable straw hat. As if she’d known exactly where he was standing, her gaze immediately met Dunn’s. His jaw twitched. His shoulders tightened. Hell, a great deal more than his shoulders tightened. He inhaled sharply.

  I should smile.

  But before the corners of his lips turned up, those lovely eyes shifted back to her hands.

  Jesus Saint Christopher Christ, I have completely lost my mind.

  Thankfully, the Duke of Gordon stood in all his royal finery. He drew his sword, and raised it over his head. “MacRae, you shall lead off the competition for the caber toss. And I wish good sport to all.” The blade sliced through t
he air with a hiss followed by cheers from the crowd. They shouted words of encouragement to their champions, though Lady Mairi didn’t even bother to look up.

  Dejected, Dunn assumed his place, forcing himself to throw his shoulders back with a pretense of pride. There he stood, the champion of the morning, and the one person he wanted to cheer for him sat staring at her folded hands. Ballocks, he never should have come to this accursed gathering.

  Removing his sword belt and resting it beside the starting line, Dunn readied himself for the task at hand. There was no time like the present to block Lady Mairi from his thoughts once and for all. No woman was worth the amount of time he’d spent thinking about her. How many times must he hear that she didn’t like him? That she and her father didn’t think he was good enough for the daughter of an earl? There were plenty of gentlewomen who would be happy to be seen on his arm, who would accept his suit of marriage. The chieftain of Clan MacRae never embarrassed himself by chasing after simpering lassies. Robert Grant had been right. Dunn needed a woman. But not a serving wench. Dunn needed a well-bred, hearty Highland woman. In fact, as soon as this day’s games were over he would set his sights on finding the lass of his dreams.

  His men raised the caber to vertical while the judging tent remained clear in his periphery.

  Lady Mairi looked up and drew her hands to her lips. Dunn’s heart hammered out of rhythm.

  Stop, blast you!

  Bellowing like a prize bull, Dunn hefted the base of the caber into his cupped hands, ran like a possessed demon, and hurled the log as far as he’d ever thrown a caber in his life. The momentum made him stumble forward until he gained his balance by resting his hands on his bent knees. The twenty-foot log landed and stood upright for what seemed like an eternity.

  Tip over, ye bastard.

  As if a breeze picked up, the caber fell on a line to one minute past twelve and thundered to the earth. The crowd erupted in a raucous applause. Hell, even Dunn couldn’t help but take in a deep breath and puff out his chest. He’d thrown countless cabers in his life and nary a one had landed so close to the mark.

  As his men collected the log, Dunn glanced to the damned judges’ tent again. Ignoring him, Lady Mairi stood and whispered in her father’s ear, then slipped away.

  He grasped the caber for his next turn and looked to the skies. It was probably best if the lass weren’t watching. Her Ladyship was too distracting.

  The second throw was good, but nothing would beat the first.

  Before the third throw, he spotted Mairi. She was heading straight for the wood. Alone.

  Damnation! As soon as the toss was finished he’d have a word with her about wandering off alone, whether she liked it or not. She could go ahead and berate him all she liked; she wasn’t going to walk off unescorted under his nose.

  Horses thundered in from the west.

  Dunn shifted his gaze toward the approaching company. Blast. Redcoats—an entire company of them.

  What the bloody hell do they want?

  Led by a captain wearing a tricorn hat over a periwig, they headed straight for the judges’ tent while the soldiers encircled the crowd. Dunn moved in slowly.

  The Duke of Gordon was the first to stand. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your presence? Have you come to enjoy the games?”

  “Aye, I reckon the troops might learn a thing or two.” Seaforth moved in beside him, resting his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  “This is an unlawful gathering,” said the captain, not bothering to dismount.

  Dunn moved his hand to his sword, but grasped nothing. Blast, his weapons were still on the ground at the starting line. He cast a backward glance and spied his sword belt and dirk while three mounted dragoons heading for the wood caught his attention. He shifted his gaze to Seaforth, then inclined his head in the direction of the soldiers, indicating his intent. The earl knit his brows, giving a wee shake of his head.

  Dunn took a step closer to his weapons.

  “You there, stay where you are,” a lieutenant barked, his eyes trained on Dunn.

  He froze, his gaze shifting back to the wood. Birds flitted above the trees, squawking a warning. Dunn’s heartbeat raced. It was only a matter of moments before the soldiers would happen upon Lady Mairi.

  “Do you realize whom you are addressing, sir?” asked the duke.

  “It matters not who you are, Your Grace,” said the captain. “I have it on good order that this is a Jacobite meeting, and must be disbanded immediately.”

  “You are sorely misinformed.” Cromartie stood. “This is a friendly gathering of clans meant to foster kinship and goodwill.”

  The captain drew his saber and pointed it at the duke. With a scraping of blade against scabbard, every Highlander in attendance unsheathed his weapon. Horses skittered while soldiers raised muskets to shoulders. A peaceful gathering was on the verge of turning into a bloody battle, and Her Ladyship was taking an afternoon stroll alone.

  The captain flicked his wrist, sweeping his blade across the scene. “Tell them to gather their things and head for home, else I shall command my men to open fire.”

  “’Tis of no consequence to us,” Dunn shouted, marching toward the captain, making sure the nobles had his attention. They might not know his motives, but they all trusted his judgment. “Our celebrations are nearly at an end.”

  “Laird MacRae is right,” said Seaforth. “There’s nothing unlawful going on here.”

  The captain pulled a flintlock pistol from his belt and pointed it at Seaforth. “I beg to differ. Tell your men to stand down.”

  Dunn closed in, focusing on the weapon.

  At the far side of the field, a horse whinnied. Women screamed. A musket fired with a thundering crack.

  In a blink, the entire dry moat of Urquhart Castle erupted in pandemonium. The captain’s mare stutter-stepped while the man took aim. Sprinting, Dunn rushed for the pistol and batted the flintlock skyward just as it fired.

  “I’ll kill you for that!” The captain swung with a backhand aimed at Dunn’s face.

  In a heartbeat, he caught the arm and used the downward force to pull the bastard from the horse. As the man fell, Dunn slammed his fist into the base of the varlet’s neck—not a lethal strike, but a vicious one. Grunting, the captain dropped face-first to the dirt. His body fell limp and didn’t move.

  Wasting no time, Dunn mounted the horse and galloped to his weapons. Taking his weight on the left stirrup, he grabbed a fist of mane, swept downward, and clamped his fingers around his sword belt.

  In the judges’ tent, Seaforth and Gordon fought like badgers while Cromartie and Sutherland cowered behind them. Bellowing his battle cry, Robert Grant and a mob of Highlanders broke through the redcoats’ line and rushed to the aid of the nobles. The battle raged with flashing blades and the screams from fleeing women and children while Dunn kicked his heels, racing for the wood.

  Hold fast m’lady. No scoundrel will lay hands on you this day!

  Chapter Four

  Mairi could watch no longer—or listen. Everyone at the gathering continually hollered, “MacRae!” as if the chieftain were the champion of all Christendom. Further, the laird managed to be in the center of every event. No one for miles would mistake him. He stood nearly six inches above everyone else, his shoulders wider, his arms as big around as a man’s thigh, and his legs…well, she’d already established that his legs were enormous. MacRae had earned his reputation because of his behemoth size and his skill on the battlefield. He was a warrior who ran into the face of danger when others were tucking their tails and fleeing.

  And he completely disarmed her.

  Having MacRae present only made her torture worse. No, she couldn’t deny she harbored some sort of feelings for the man—awkward, unnerving, heart palpitating—all of them able to be summed up in one word: nervousness.

  If only Da hadn’t made her attend this accursed gathering. He could have allowed her to remain at Castle Leod, but he thought being around pe
ople would make her feel better. Da was wrong. And now that Janet had left for Achnacarry with her kin, it made things all the more difficult to bear.

  Mumbling an excuse to her father, she’d fled the crowd at the games and now strolled along a well-used path in the forest, keeping the loch on her left. For the first time in her life, being alone infused her with a sense of calm, a sense of empowerment.

  She didn’t expect to see a soul, so the sound of horses from the direction of the castle startled her. Mairi stepped off the path to allow the riders to pass.

  Then her heart nearly leaped out of her chest.

  Bright scarlet flickered through the trees.

  Dragoons!

  Gasping, she broke into a run, frantically racing for cover behind a fallen tree.

  Her skirts caught on a broken branch as she dived for shelter. Stopping a cry in her throat, she reached back to free herself, but the riders were already upon her. Heart racing, Mairi looked both ways. Curses! No place to flee. Before she straightened, she reached inside her sleeve, pulled out a wee dagger, and hid it behind her back.

  “What do we have here?” asked a soldier, his lips stretched in a sneer.

  “Ha ha. It looks like a tasty morsel for all of us to share.”

  Mairi slashed an arc with her knife. “Stay back!”

  One of the men dismounted. “A feisty redheaded wench, are you?”

  She squared her shoulders and addressed them. “I am Lady Mairi MacKenzie, and if you dare lay one finger on me, you will face the entire army of the Earl of Cromartie.”

  The other two dragoons slid to their feet and sauntered forward.

  “Do you believe that, mate?” one said.

  “Not at all. No noblewoman would be wandering the forest without a chaperone.”

  Mairi gulped and shook the dagger. “Go on your way. Leave me be.”

  “Oh no, we’re not about to let a bit o’ fun pass. And if your father is the Earl of Cromartie, he’s in more hot water with the queen on account of presiding over a Jacobite gathering.”