Kilt Trip: (Scottish Historical Romance) (Scavenger Hunting Book 1)

by L. L. Muir

  At last she topped the hill and immediately turned to look down on the valley out of which she’d emerged. No large, moody Highlander stalked through the feathery bracken and heathery carpet below. The hands of a breeze brushed wave after wave over the fragrant fields with no looming shadows to interrupt them, and a final weight gently lifted from her shoulders.

  She circled her horse and froze. When she finally realized what awaited her, she screamed in frustration.

  “Damned, bloody Highlander!”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Rory watched Bridget turn away from the breathtaking view with her shoulders slumped like those of a weary child. He sat near a small fire, not twenty feet from where she stood panting. Her exhaustion must have played a part in the length of time it took her face to fall. Either that, or she really didn’t believe what she saw.

  “Damned, bloody Highlander!” She ran at him then, her hood and cloak flying out behind her.

  He was on his feet in time for her body to collide with his, and he caught hold of her pummeling wrists before she could hurt herself. It took a bit more strength than expected to hold her at arm’s length. If she had taken the time to arm herself, he could well have been seriously injured, or dead.

  Once again, he’d been so distracted by an Englishwoman he might have lost his life. But he’d been so relieved to see her, he hadn’t been thinking just how English she was.

  When she’d veered to the east, he’d suspected she’d done so only to throw him off her trail. In truth, he’d counted on it and had used the chance to get ahead of her. But he’d fashed for hours that he might have been wrong, that he’d let her slip away, unprotected, easy prey. He’d been kicking himself all the while until she’d finally stumbled into the glen and started picking her way toward him. He’d rather be damned than go through that worry again, and if he had to tie her up to keep her from getting beyond his reach again, he’d do it.

  Aye, but first he’d let her realize—and accept—the chase was over.

  With a surge of effort, she twisted her wrists in his grasp. He could feel her flesh strain, so he released her. She came at him again, beat upon his chest, and even though each strike was weaker than the last, she showed no signs of stopping.

  She wasn’t accepting well at all, so he decided not to share his thoughts about ropes. Neither could he just stand about and wait for her to remember her weapons. So he did the only thing he could do, under the circumstances.

  He had no choice really…but to kiss her.

  The lass didn’t notice his wide arms encircling her, so she was surprised when her own arms were crushed between them in an embrace. She looked up to find his mouth waiting to cover hers, nearly as gently as the first time, in Frenchie’s room.

  He felt her knees give way, not from a swoon—he’d harbor no delusions of romance between himself and the hellcat granddaughter of Faith Kennison—but from sheer exhaustion. She’d played out her remaining strength in her wee tantrum, and now he held them both upright. While distracting her with his lips, he used one arm at a time to collect her knives and toss them far behind him. He was rather pleased with himself when she didn’t notice her dagger and short blade land in two separate thumps against the grasses beyond the fire.

  When the search was complete, he found his hand cradling the back of her head and allowed himself to enjoy the embrace for a moment or two. She smelled of heather and cool skin. Her lips were soft and salty. Her tongue was sweet and warm...and he’d stopped breathing.

  Lord help him.

  He lifted his head away since she clearly had no inclination to stop. Then he pressed her cheek to his chest while she caught her breath and found her feet, poor lass. She’d be embarrassed, surely, and want to compose herself before looking him in the eye.

  Something lifted from within her skirts. He felt the rush of cloth against his leg—

  And he turned just in time to avoid a knee to his groin!

  “You’re mad!” He released her head before it twisted off her wicked neck. “Where the devil did you learn such a thing? Your grandmother, I presume.” He felt a bit faint with the image of himself folded up on the ground, writhing in pain. The wee witch would likely make off with both the horses while he lay there with his eyes watering!

  He couldn’t help but stand to the side and well out of her reach as he recovered his wits.

  While she rummaged through her skirts, he tried not to notice her full, well-kissed lips.

  Skirts! She was looking for her blades.

  “Hah! Missing something?” he taunted.

  Her head snapped up and her eyes narrowed. Then her mouth dropped open and lingered. Acceptance wasn’t as welcomed as he thought it would be. She clapped her mouth shut and slowly straightened, her attention on the ground. Even in the warring light of the gloaming and the small fire, the flush to her face was plain.

  “Give them back,” she said quietly.

  Other than screaming at him when she’d found him waiting for her, he realized this was the first he’d heard her true voice. No fury. No gruffness. No manly falsetto. Just a bit of embarrassment at having been kissed merely to be disarmed.

  “You really shouldn’t be surprised,” he reasoned. “You’re English, for pity’s sake. You don’t truly believe I’d have kissed you if I’d had a choice in the matter.” He couldn’t help the edge of disgust to his voice—most likely the aftermath of nearly being unmanned.

  It surprised her, however. If he hadn’t been watching closely, he would have missed it. When she glanced up, there was a fleeting flash of pain in her eyes, but it disappeared beneath a facade of smooth stone. The transformation was unnerving.

  Served her rightly. The pain her knee might have caused would have been much worse. And it was high time she realized how dangerous her little game was. She now toyed with more than her own life, and the lives of her friends. She’d pulled him, Connor and Ian into her quest, whether or not she’d intended to. The responsibility was hers alone for placing her foolishness between him and everything he wanted, even if he couldn’t quite remember what that was...

  Of course. He wanted a wife, a family, a clear name. He wanted to show his clan they were wrong to be ashamed of him, of what had happened in England.

  No. That wasn’t right.

  He wanted to go home. Just...home. But as long as he carried this mud around with him, he wasn’t worthy. Perhaps when word reached his father that he’d turned the tables on the Kennisons, that the Grahams were now owed the boon, the older man might see the mud as little more than a layer of dust.

  He merely had to get Bridget Kennison to Edinburgh and on a ship for home. After that, she was someone else’s problem.

  The stone angel stared at him. “Give them back.” That voice again. Cold as marble, though it warmed him like whiskey. Demanding the same as before.

  Ah, the blades.

  He nodded firmly. “You’ll have them back when we reach Edinburgh.”

  She swallowed and the warmth was gone. He nearly wished it back. The moisture in her eyes disappeared like ice turning to mist. Those eyes filled with promise. He just didn’t care for what they promised.

  “I’m not going to Edinburgh, Mister Macpherson. Give them back.” Her arms hung at her sides, as if the only fight she had left was in her words.

  It took a bit of concentration not to look in the direction he’d tossed the blades.

  “We are going to Edinburgh, even if I have to truss you up to get you there.”

  She straightened those tired shoulders. Bad sign, that. Even worse, she smiled. That bonnie row of white teeth sunk into her bottom lip, and he wondered how many hearts they might have sunk into as easily.

  Her forehead smoothed, her arched brows rose as innocently as butterflies. “I’m certain that won’t be necessary.” The sweetness of her smile had seeped into her voice.

  Oh, it’d be necessary all right.

  She turned and walked away. He followed.

  “Wher
e do you go?” He could play the innocent as well.

  “To care for my horse.”

  He reached for her hand, but she jumped back like he’d come at her with a torch.

  He held up his empty palms. “Sit ye by the fire. I’ll care for the beast.” And he’d get her sword from her saddle.

  “I know what I’m doing.” She headed for the edge of the bluff where her horse pushed its nose into the deep turf.

  Rory jumped in front of her.

  “Aye, and I know what you do as well. I’ll take your sword with the rest. I’ll not have another Englishwoman try to run me through!”

  He hadn’t meant to say the last, but he took a deep breath and waited for the worst.

  The lass stood stock still. Did she wait for an explanation? If so, he wasn’t going to give it.

  “You were the one? Tilda’s groom?”

  He flinched at the sound of his dead fiancée’s name. Dear Lord, this one had known her! She’d be laughing at him next, so he steeled himself, lifted his chin and dared her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice all whiskey again. “I knew Tilda. It was a terrible thing they tried to do to you.”

  Rory had been pitied by many since his mishap in England, but hearing those words from the mouth of this English lass sounded far different—felt far different. It offered no pity. It tasted like…regret. Someone understood Rory Macpherson had been wronged. And they were sorry.

  His stomach made an odd move all on its own.

  “Sit ye by the fire,” he said again. “Rest. Ye can have yer blades when needed.”

  She sighed. “Sleep will be impossible.”

  “I’ll protect ye fine,” he said, then turned away.

  “And who will protect me from you?”

  He was insulted, truly, and faced her again. “Ye ken the truth of what happened with...Matilda, and yet ye fear me?” He was finished trying to school his words to fit her English ears.

  She looked away, started toward the fire, muttering. “It has nothing to do with Tilda.” She sat and pulled her knees to her chest, then laid her head upon them.

  She’d been thinking about the kiss. Perhaps the first one as well. Was the lass back to feeling hurt again? Her moods turned as constant as a wagon’s wheel. Keeping pace with her would make him dizzy.

  He bit his tongue when it tried to tell the hellcat where to find her weapons, the traitorous thing! Beyond the fire. In the grasses. Don’t cut yourself, it wanted to say.

  Her horse looked at Rory, judging him.

  He laughed and began to unpack the poor beast. “She needs a moment or two,” he crooned loudly, “to realize the war is over, and she has lost.” To her he said, “I’ll do yer duty, lass, and care for yer beast. I ken ye dinna have much sense about it.”

  She spun on her rump. “You think I don’t know how to care for my horse? Ha!” She turned back to the fire. “You, sir, are mistaken.”

  “Nay, lass. I’m but allowing ye to rest. What I meant was that ye dinna have much sense about duty.”

  Her scream of frustration frightened the horse, but Rory soothed it with his voice and a hand to its neck. “There now, calm ye doon. Nothing to fear. She’s but another Englishwoman with a red-headed temper.”

  He dared sneak a look toward the fire. Bridget faced him, mouth open like an outraged fish. The flames lit the edge of her hair where it framed her face and shoulder, and he had to look away or be caught admiring something about her.

  “I’m sure ye can see how weary is your beast, and will show him some pity.” He mumbled once more to the horse. “Unlike poor Jamie.”

  “I beg your pardon. I didn’t hear that last bit.”

  Mutely, he led her horse over to hobble next to his own, then brought her things. He dropped her great sack at her feet, then spread her bedroll on the ground. She probably needed as much pity as her horse, but he couldn’t seem to save his disgust for the morning.

  “I said you should have taken pity on poor Jamie.” He plucked up his wineskin and dropped it on her skirt, then sat opposite her to take from the fire the bit of rabbit he’d saved for her—back when he’d cared if she were hungry. At the moment, he didn’t.

  Lord help him, he’d caught her mood-ridden madness!

  He burned his fingers, dropped the meat in the ashes, and bit back a curse. Taking the stick by the cooler end, he carried it to where he’d left his jug of water. After washing away most of the ashes, he returned and handed it over, daring Bridget Kennison, with his frown, not to take the meat.

  Her eyes were heavy with unshed tears as she accepted his offering. “Thank you. I’m sorry. I was thoughtless not to ask. How is Jamie?”

  Rory felt a right fool. “He’ll recover.”

  “Recover?” She blinked her tears away, if he hadn’t imagined them in the first place. “What did you do to him?” Her voice rose, but after a glance at the horses, she lowered it once again. “Couldn’t you see he’d been damaged enough? If you so much as touched his poor head—”

  “I? You think I would harm the lad? After what you put Jacob up to? A hard ride would have killed Jamie, and you think I would raise a hand to him?” He hurried back to the far side of the fire. Best to keep the flames between them. He sat and tried to breathe normally. It would take his blood a bit longer to settle.

  Her fingers were tangled in the hair at the sides of her head, the bit of meat forgotten on her lap. “He said he was fine. I couldn’t dissuade him. So stubborn. If he’d told me—”

  “If he’d told you, you would have used another lad and he’d have missed an adventure,” Rory admitted. She was still guilty of offering the adventure.

  “I should have come alone. There would have been no need for escorts. No one would have known...” She had spoken to herself.

  He imagined her picking her way to the Highlands, passing Graham land, right beneath his nose, while he sat in his grandsire’s chair, oblivious. He conjured a dark shadow reaching out from the trees, plucking her from her horse, weapons left dangling on her saddle. And she’d never be seen again...

  A fierce shudder rose from his belly and out through his shoulders as if he’d come far too close to danger. Must be the English Plague setting in once again.

  Suddenly he wanted no part of foolish notions, be they her thoughts, or his own, so he stood and walked to the edge of the bluff. The heather swayed in the darkness at his feet, a slight but vast movement of shadow upon shadow. The scent tasted more bitter than sweet to him then, and not because of the burnt coney. He’d willingly take back everything he’d said since she’d crested the hill, and suspected she probably felt the same. What a poor couple they would make.

  Not that he’d entertained such foolishness.

  So the lass had no sense of duty. So she had little sense about boys and their pride. So she wasn’t familiar with tending lads with blows to the head. She was merely an English wench with no more sense than the last one he’d dealt with.

  No. She was less than that. She was a package and he had only to deliver that package to Edinburgh.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Mallory alternated between pushing her horse as fast as it would run without unseating her, and then hesitating, forgetting to encourage the animal at all, her mind occupied with worry for her friends. She should have argued harder for the three of them to stay together, but when Bridget set her mind to something, it was nearly impossible to dissuade her. And her cousin had indeed set her mind on spending time away from her and Vivianne, to adventure alone for a bit. But Mallory suspected it was more than just a desire for separation—Bridget wanted to make certain there was a space of time for which no one could account for her whereabouts. She was absolutely determined to destroy her reputation in order to punish Baron Braithwaite, knowing the man valued her dowered lands too much to refuse her for any reason. Or so Bridget believed.

  But Mallory was fretful. No matter how despicable the man might be, there simply had to be a line he would not cro
ss. And she both feared and hoped Bridget would push him too far.

  Of course she wished Bridget wouldn’t go through with the marriage, but she also knew her cousin’s secret—the baron’s wickedness could only be stopped if Bridget married him. And if his atrocities continued because Bridget had crossed that line, her soft-hearted cousin would never be able to forgive herself.

  Mallory shook her head vigorously to rid it of such worry. All she could do at the moment was pray for some miracle that could save Bridget from either fate.

  Jacob patiently waited for her to catch up yet again. His head of black hair never shook in disgust. His eyes never rolled in exasperation. A more patient lad there couldn’t be.

  She resolved to set her mind to her own adventure, as she’d promised Bridget she would. It would require patience on her part to learn how Bridget and Vivianne faired once she met up with them in Edinburgh. But first, she was on to the port city of Glasgow to find some happy pirate who might find it amusing to part with a small piece of treasure in exchange for a kiss.

  Or two.

  After she had her souvenir, she would apply to some Scottish nobleman for a few men at arms to see her safely to the capital city and the planned rendezvous point. Patient Jacob would be free to head home.

  It was unfortunate she and the lad had to travel away from the main road in order to hide from Rory Macpherson and his handsome friends. She was certain she could have managed her horse much better on a smoother, straighter path. Wrestling with Old Hamlet across rocky terrain wore her down much earlier than her first day in the saddle, even though her horsemanship was improving by the kilometer.

  The sad beast simply trailed off after whatever animal tracks they crossed instead of following Jacob’s horse, and she came to suspect Old Hamlet’s vision was failing. If it was—and though it would embarrass her to no end—it might be better if she were to give her leads over to the boy and let him pull her and the ornery bag of bones behind him.