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

by L. L. Muir

  She only hoped it would be in the direction of Glasgow.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Vivianne woke to the smell of meat cooking. She rose onto an elbow and looked around.

  Ian sat on the ground before the fire still meddling with the two halves of his wooden flute. In a move she’d learned from Bridget, Vivianne had used her knee to defend herself from what she thought was a dangerous part of Sir Ian’s body. But it turned out to be less of a…weapon…and more of a musical instrument the man had made with his own hands—in his youth!

  She was immediately contrite. No one appreciated sentiment like she did, and she’d apologized profusely. Sir Ian had been stoic, insisting that the fife could easily be replaced. But the way he petted the pieces when he thought she wasn’t looking broke her very heart! She’d caused the man much more pain than she might have if her knee had actually struck his body the way she’d intended.

  To defend oneself in such a manner had seemed dubious in the first place. She should never have attempted it. Or, at the very least, she should have practiced on one of her uncle’s men until she mastered the technique. Though none of them had been willing opponents, she should have kept asking until she found a volunteer. Surely they couldn’t all have been too busy…

  Sir Ian cleared his throat. “Good morrow, lass.” The remnants of his fife were no longer in sight.

  She glanced at the fire, wondering if he’d tossed them into the flames. “Something smells delicious.”

  “A hare to make amends for not feeding you enough last eve. Your stomach rumbled well into the night.”

  More likely, it was guilt that ate at her insides and soured what food she’d consumed.

  “I apologize if I kept you from sleeping.”

  He forced a smile. “Not at all.”

  She sat up and stretched her arms over her head. “Shall we call a truce for the day?”

  His brows rose. “Can we?”

  “Of course. We’re both headed for Edinburgh, and I am in need of a protector…”

  “For which I am to blame, aye?”

  “Let us leave the past in the past. Today, I require protection.”

  “Then, I am happy to offer it.”

  An hour later, riding separate horses, they headed north with full bellies and less strain between them for two reasons. First, she owed the man a great deal of consideration for destroying his fife, the sentiment of which could never be replaced. And secondly, he’d made no attempts to distract her—or seduce her—in any way since their little misunderstanding. He’d been appalled when she’d fled, shocked when she’d tried to harm him with his knee, then heartbroken over the damage to the fife. But when the dust had settled and she’d explained why she’d fled, he hadn’t laughed at her. For once, he hadn’t laughed. And he’d treated her with utmost respect ever since.

  She could at least treat him the same.

  “How much farther, before we meet up with your friends?” she asked.

  He grinned. “Auch, you mean, our friends? Less than an hour, I’m fairly certain.” He chewed on his lip for a minute or two, then turned to her again. “We’ve made a wager, Rory and Connor and I. We understand the three of you are on a quest, and the first man to discover the nature of your quest will win a handsome amount from the other two. I would happily split the sum with you, Vivianne, if you share your secret with me now.”

  She gasped mildly. “Sir Ian, I believe you are cheating.”

  He clicked his tongue. “We set no rules, lass.”

  She shrugged in any case. “No matter, sir. I will tell you nothing.”

  His eyes sparkled with reflections of the rising sun and the devil came to mind again. “Perhaps I could persuade you—”

  “Never.”

  “I accept the challenge.” He looked down the road, lost in thought, silent for so long she ached for his attention again.

  “Do not fear, sir,” she said. “Neither Bridget nor Mallory will give up our secret, so your purse is safe.”

  He smiled and nodded. “We shall see.” He stared at her lips for a trice, then looked back to the road.

  Heat flooded her face and she couldn’t stop herself from licking her lips. It was if he’d placed in her mind the yearning for a kiss! And it shocked her even more than it had the day before when they’d been sitting the same horse!

  She wiped her sleeve across her mouth to soothe herself and wrapped her cloak tightly about her. Sir Ian McDermott would certainly not kiss her secrets out of her, especially when they were not her secrets to tell. At least not all of them. And she was not about to divulge that her own wish was to inspire a love letter from a poet. The man would laugh her all the way to Edinburgh without her saying another word along the way. He laughed at her too readily as it was.

  No. Her lips were sealed. And even the beautiful, cunning Sir Ian McDermott could not seduce those secrets out of her.

  Her dilemma?

  She was beginning to wish he would try.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Rory's fitfull night was only bearable because Lady Kennison didn't seem to be sleeping well either. He'd hobbled one of her ankles to one of his own, and she'd spent all night reminding him of it; waking him was her silent protest.

  He wasn't sure when he'd fallen asleep, but as he clawed his way back to consciousness, he realized just how deep into the black abyss he'd gone. He thanked God he heard movement, that she hadn't cut the tie and slipped away. She'd promised he would not wake alone, but he hadn't trusted her, of course.

  For some reason, she was panting, and when he finally turned toward her and forced his eyes to focus, he found himself face to face with a foul-breathed collie.

  “Good day to ye,” said a lad perched behind the dog.

  Rory looked around. One horse.

  Damn her!

  He started to get up.

  “Show him yer teeth, Yer Highness.” The boy grinned.

  The dog growled and Rory sat back on his arse.

  “You named your dog Highness?”

  “Nah. He's Robert the Bruce.”

  The dog wagged its tail happily at the sound of its name, so Rory started to rise again. “Good morning, Sir Robert.” But the dog growled again. Not a mild growl, that.

  “Sir Robert won't do. He fancies himself king.”

  Rory tried backing away, but the dog moved forward. They were tethered together!

  “Easy, Yer Highness.”

  The dog got angrier. Spittle dripped from its fangs and lips.

  Rory stilled. “And I suppose yer William Wallace?” He didn't dare look away from the animal as he spoke.

  “Nay, but he seems to think yer Edward, don't 'e?” The boy giggled so hard he tumbled sideways.

  “And what price must I pay to call off the king?”

  The lad righted himself and pulled a bannock out of his pocket. He took a bite before answering.

  “Ye must wait a wee while, is all. King Robert and I promised to keep ye, uh...occupied for a bit.”

  “And how little did it cost her to turn yer loyalty to England?”

  His Majesty had stopped growling, but sat at attention. The boy frowned, but then his face lit up.

  “That's right! She was English. I'd forgotten that.” He giggled again. “Her Scots was pitiful, to be sure.”

  “And yer price?”

  The lad waved a hand. “Oh, she gave me a copper piece to buy the king a meaty bone. But my part was bought with but a kiss.” He grinned and touched a finger to his cheek. “Just here.”

  “You feel no sense of duty to a fellow Scot, then?” Rory shook his head sadly.

  “She said you'd mention duty, she did. We made a wager on it.” There was no wiping away the lad's grin, so Rory stopped trying. Another heart won on her road to the Highlands.

  “And what did you wager?”

  “Oh, another kiss, of course. But the next would have been on the lips, had ye but not mentioned duty. So I suppose since ye've cost me that k
iss, I'll keep ye a wee bit longer, I reckon.”

  Rory took his temper in hand. If he threatened the lad, the dog would bite him for sure. He at least thought to cross his knees and protect his personals.

  “I'm sorry for yer loss, lad. Truly. But just how long is a wee while? I'm fearing for my lady's safety, I am.”

  “She said you'd say that as weel. I think ye might want to go back to sleep. Two wee whiles is a long time indeed.”

  Rory huffed. “Did she have other predictions on what I'd be sayin'?”

  “Oh, no. But she left a message.”

  After waiting patiently for the lad to finish his bannock, he wasn’t content to wait until all the crumbs were found. “What's the message?”

  The lad grinned and licked a white speck from his dirty fingers. “Ye should turn around and go home, to care fer yer ailin' boy.”

  Jamie? She thought Jamie was his own? Then she musn't think much of him as a father, if he'd leave his wounded son to go chasing after her. He'd just have to set her straight on both accounts.

  “She's right, of course. I should go back. My son needs me, even if she doesn't.” He made to stand.

  His Majesty growled and snapped at his knee, but Rory pulled it back just in time.

  “Aye, ye should go.” The lad grinned wider. “And ye may—as soon as yer whiles have passed.”

  ~ ~ ~

  By the time Rory found her, he was fit to be tied.

  He took a moment to thank God for Connor McGee and his foresight in marking the shoes on all their horses. If she ever realized why he found her so effortlessly, she would be nearly as angry as he was. She’d changed directions again, but the notch in her tracks had been easily found. And it was providence that got him headed on the right path before the rains came to wash the hoof prints away.

  Luck. God. Fate. Some force kept bringing her back into his reach and he wondered at it. When his task was finished, would he finally be redeemed? Or did Destiny keep placing her in his path for some other reason?

  He waited for his stomach to turn at the idea brewing in his head, but it didn’t.

  He took a deep breath, then spit into the muddy yard behind the White Boar. He’d tracked her horse to the stable there. She was somewhere inside the large white-washed building and he paused, savoring the moment—he’d caught her, finally. And if it killed him trying, he would never allow her to escape him again.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It was afternoon when Bridget awoke in a warm bed and, for a heartbeat, couldn’t remember where she was. The sunshine burned through the thin curtains over the window and she marveled she’d been able to sleep in such bright light. But then, she’d been bone-weary when she’d arrived at the inn sometime around noon. After riding west for five or six hours along the Roman trail, she’d practically begged for a soft, safe place to collapse.

  The farther she got from the Borders, however, the less inclined the Scots were to pay her much mind. It was only after she’d asked again in Gaelic that they’d consented to rent her a room, but with the stipulation that she would vacate that room if a Scot came along needing a bed.

  She wasn’t offended because she wasn’t particularly surprised. Thanks to a certain Highlander, she was becoming quite familiar with Scottish pride, and she did what she could to tip-toe around it. She paid generously for a bath, then hurried into bed with her hair still wet in order to sleep as much and as fast as possible before more travelers might arrive and want the room.

  She was almost certain Rory Macpherson wouldn’t come looking for her. At least not in the small village of Oggscastle. She’d ridden hard for hours along the Roman road, to the west and slightly south for the last little while. The big Scot surely wouldn’t have expected her to lose ground, so even if he dismissed her advice to go back and see to his son, he would have searched North for a while before realizing he’d lost her trail. By the time she headed north again, she’d be far to the west from where he searched, if he hadn’t already given up completely.

  Now the war was truly over. Only this time, Rory Macpherson had lost. And she was finally left alone to do what she willed. Free to travel to the Highlands. Free for just a while longer before that freedom would end at Braithwaite’s door.

  She felt both exhilarated and terrified.

  She blinked at the ceiling and wondered if the Scots would grow progressively unfriendly as she continued toward the Highlands. Would she be wiser to don Phinny’s clothes before setting out on the morrow? Or would the Scots be even more belligerent to an English man? If someone took offense from her accent alone, she certainly wouldn’t fare well in a fight, unless she was able to use her blade. But the unfriendly faces in the taproom downstairs didn’t belong to men likely to fight like gentlemen.

  She shivered and pulled the blankets higher, then turned on her side and closed her eyes tight. Obviously, she was still too fatigued to think clearly. At the moment, she was tempted to purchase the first plaid she came across and hurry on to Edinburgh. Given that Scotland seemed more hostile than she’d expected, perhaps Mal and Viv would forgive her for cutting the quest short.

  She tried to imagine where her cousin and friend were in their own journeys. If God was merciful, both women would still be enjoying their quests with their Graham escorts. Hopefully, Macpherson’s friends hadn’t found them, though she couldn’t imagine the women would be any worse for it. Two escorts would be better than one, after all, and the men would pose no danger to them. They might force the women to go directly to Edinburgh, but Viv was headed there in any case, and Mallory could probably find a pirate in the capital almost as easily as Glasgow…

  For that matter, there were probably Highlanders aplenty, down from the mountains…

  Heaven help her, she’d fled from a perfectly good escort. Why, oh why did I cover my tracks?

  In her next breath, the image and taste of Rory Macpherson filled her senses. Her very blood seemed to cry out for him, though she couldn’t explain why.

  Perhaps she wished he could come for her simply because she was frightened at the freedom stretching before her. Or was it more of a debt she felt for the man who held her in his arms and rescued her from Frenchie? Did she really care about him? Or only miss the comfort of having a large, awe-inspiring Scot to keep her company?

  It thrilled her to look at him, that was true. But his friends had no similar affect upon her, though they, too, were taller than most, and handsome in their own way. If she hadn’t been so stubborn in her quest to reach the Highlands, she might have seen Rory as an honorable man for stepping forward to pay the debt of a dead man. Perhaps she wouldn’t have fought him, run from him. Perhaps she might have traded a kiss for his kilt. Would it be so bad to have a warm memory attached to a black and gray plaid she took for her souvenir?

  Was Alistair Graham the same kind of man? Did her grandmother feel this way about her Highlander, only to have to give him up for Bridget’s grandfather? Of the two men, which did the woman love best? Could she have loved both?

  Of course, Bridget’s story would have been much different. When she returned to England, there would be no love between herself and Braithwaite. There was no love in the man, and nothing honorable about him. Nothing to commend him. Nothing to admire.

  But she would always remember Rory Macpherson, the man who always happened to kiss her in the darkness. And perhaps there would be another Highlander before her adventure was over.

  As she drifted back to sleep, She wondered if he would be tall like Rory. Striking? Dark, like Connor McGee? Blond and Norse-like as Ian McDermott? Or would he be an old, balding man who wouldn’t realize his kilt was missing until he felt rain or a north wind kiss his arse?

  As it turned out, he looked just like the first one.

  ~ ~ ~

  Damned, bloody Highlander!

  She couldn’t be free from the man, even in her dreams! Though she was tucked up in a warm, dry room on the second story of the White Boar, she spent her sleeping hours
trudging through field after field of heather that grew higher than her head with no path in sight. And each time she stopped, Rory Macpherson would be there, waiting for her. But always, his back was turned and she was able to stare at length at the black and gray plaid draped over his muscled shoulder and falling, in pleats, over his backside.

  Since he couldn’t see her, she would eventually sneak quietly back into the heather to strike out in another direction. But there he would be, waiting with a fire and a burnt bit of rabbit on a stick. She’d tried to wash the aroma out of her hair, but it was there, still. Heather and burnt rabbit. It was a wonder he never smelled her coming up behind him.

  “Bridget,” he said softly, still not facing her. “Ye’re dreaming, lass. Wake up. Wake up.”

  She opened her eyes, relieved there was no more of the wickedly tall heather she was forced to make her way through. She looked down at the blanket, expecting thousands of the little purple bells to be covering her. Though she ran her fingers through her now-dry hair, no blossoms fell to her shoulders. She was finally free of it.

  And she was free of other things too, like the need to get to the Highlands, the need to be out on her own.

  She decided to get dressed and go downstairs. Surely there were trustworthy men in the town who would be willing to escort her to Edinburgh for a fair price. Maybe she could hire a man and wife…

  She shook out her green dress and brushed it before pulling it on. When her hand slipped through the sleeve, tiny purple balls spilled out onto the floor.

  Heather.

  She stared at it, waiting to see if the mere sight of it might whisk her back into the tormenting dream. She almost wished… She wished she could see his face again, just one more time, to see if she remembered it correctly. That was all.

  A knuckle rapped three times against her door. “My lady? Are ye awake? Are ye dressed?”

  It was the innkeeper’s wife. But she’d told the woman she would be sleeping for the better part of the day. Something must have been wrong if she came to wake her up. Perhaps her husband wanted to rent the room to someone else for the night, like he’d warned. Scots would take precedence, he’d said.