by L. L. Muir
Rory raised his arm to cover his ear, ignored the sounds of the camp stirring to life, ignored the orange glow of sunshine demanding attention from the outside of his eyelids, and slept on.
When next he awoke, it was nigh ten o’clock and the Kennison siblings were at war again. There was no hope of sleeping through it.
With eyes only half open, he extricated himself from the ground—where he’d have been more than happy to sleep until the second coming of Christ Himself—and stumbled away in search of fresh water. He’d only had wine with his supper the night before, but after wracking his brain until dawn, he woke with something akin to a hangover—something a fresh cup of wine couldn’t easily wash away. What he needed was a dip in the cold, deep loch.
In spite of his frigid bath, it was half an hour before he was able to stand completely upright and alert. And, though he wore the same shirt and kilt as before, he walked back into camp feeling an entirely different man than the one who had stumbled out.
Phin grumbled and paced along one side of the smoldering pile of ashes from last night’s fire. Vivianne and Ian watched from the edge of the clearing, standing close to each other but not touching. Three Englishmen stood on the far side of the carriage as if ready to shoot anyone who peeked out, and John, Phin’s captain, pressed his weight against the near door of the vehicle while the occupants beat upon the box from the inside.
Surely Bridget couldn’t make such a ruckus alone.
Rory braced his feet apart and folded his arms. “Well?” he barked at Phin. “What have you done now?”
Phin inhaled sharply and prepared to bark back, but at the last second, he released a heavy sigh. “She wants to come out. But look at this.” He bent and scooped up the remains of his sister’s dress. It couldn’t have been more tattered. I can’t allow her to wear this. She might as well walk about nude.”
Rory felt his face flush to match Kennison’s.
“You know what I meant,” Phin grumbled.
The pounding ceased and a tentative quiet settled on the camp. No one spoke. A moment later, John called one of the others to take his place at the door, then he strode toward the dead fire.
“What now?” Phin ran a hand through his unkempt hair. He looked as if he hadn’t been able to sleep half so much as Rory had. And the five of them—he, Phin, John, Connor and Ian—had all plotted through the night. No wonder he was cantankerous and willing to fight with his sister.
John sported the kind of wry grin that might have been solely due to his own lack of sleep. “Lady Bridget thinks she has the solution.”
“Oh?” Kennison looked displeased to have his pacing interrupted.
The grinning man nodded quickly. “She suggests you climb into the carriage…allow her to wear your clothes… and you enjoy a nice long lie-in.” John shrugged. “I’d happily give Lady Mallory my clothes if it meant I could rest my eyes for a while.”
Connor still slept with his back against a tree to John’s left. He never opened his eyes, but made his dissent plain with a simple growl.
Phin shook his head. “Ridiculous.”
John laughed and shrugged again. “Well, then. I promise to avert my eyes as much as possible.”
Rory didn’t care for the sound of that.
Phin’s eyes flew wide. “She wouldn’t dare.”
“Haven’t you learned yet,” Rory said, “that you should never say the word dare when referring to your sister?” He headed to his saddle bags and hollered over his shoulder. “She’s going to need a clean shirt. I’ll see to the rest.” Then to Vivianne, “When I return, I’ll show you how to make a skirt out of my plaid. I don’t believe Kennison would appreciate me dressing his sister.
~ ~ ~
Bridget stepped out of the carriage and took a deep breath of cool air the taste of which, thankfully, held no hint of the inside of a carriage. She was sure she might have started stripping the box apart, cushion by cushion, if she’d been locked inside a moment longer.
When she was solidly on the ground, she shook out the green plaid Vivianne had belted around her and was quite pleased when the clever pleats fell straight. Phin’s shirt sleeves billowed out from her shoulders and arms, but the body of it was held close and warm against her by the tail end of the lovely wool. It nearly covered her back, then draped over her shoulder before the end was tucked neatly inside her belt. It was difficult to believe it had recently been wrapped loosely around the Highlander in a completely different fashion that allowed his knees to peek out when he walked.
Vivianne looked pleased as well, so Bridget assumed she was sufficiently modest. Phin snorted and walked away. But she was more interested in finding Rory. Not only did she want to witness his reaction, she wanted to see what he was wearing now that his kilt was draped around her lower half.
She turned in a circle and finally found him behind her. Instead of plaid, he wore brown leather breeches that disappeared into his square-toed boots and his wet shirt stuck to his chest. The sight made her suddenly hungry for supper.
His hair was damp and dripping—a darker shade of red. His eyes smoldered with a vain satisfaction, but the impression only lasted a heartbeat before it was hidden by a lowered brow.
“Mind my kilt, madam. Those are my colors ye’re wearing. A sacred garment that I expect to be returned to me.”
“Of course. Thank you.” She offered a quick curtsy. “Since my brother has ordained we shall not travel today, I could not have borne another day inside the carriage.” She smirked. “And if I was to be driven mad, I was determined to take as many of you with me as I could.”
Not surprisingly, only she and her friends laughed.
Connor appeared at Rory’s side and looked beyond her. His mouth dropped open, and Bridget didn’t need to turn to know that Mallory had finally emerged wearing a tartan of blue that the sober Scot had provided for her.
“Now that all captives have been released,” Phinny gave a mocking bow, “I trust you will give us peace for the rest of the day. The three of you won’t be allowed near the horses or the road. And you can rest assured there is not a man here who trusts you.”
Bridget nodded. “Of course.” A day spent at leisure with Rory Macpherson wasn’t something she planned to run from in any case.
“And you needn’t worry about the Scots,” Phinny said with an unpleasant smile. “I plan to keep them close to me, so when Braithwaite asks if you’ve spent time alone with your escort, I can tell him I haven’t seen as much.”
The pleasant morning was suddenly overcast with gloom and she didn’t know whether to blame it on the sobering effect of the baron’s name or the fact that she wouldn’t be allowed to speak privately with Rory.
She took a deep breath and tried to console herself with the chance to at least be near him, to look at him and listen to his voice—to commit as much of him to her memory as possible. For that was all she would have of him.
Obviously pleased with himself, Phinny turned away and headed for the tree line. The three Highlanders followed without question. But since they couldn’t possibly have business in the middle of nowhere, she assumed they wouldn’t be gone long.
Suddenly, her brother stopped and faced her again. “By the way, I’ve sent a man on to Edinburgh to get suitable dresses for the three of you. He should be back by morning. But don’t worry. He’ll speak to Grandmother in private. The baron will never know your own clothes were damaged, let alone the reason we had to cut them to pieces.”
She shook her head. “The baron? What are you talking about?”
Her brother frowned at Vivianne. “I thought you would have warned her by now.”
Viv lowered her chin and shook her head.
Bridget put a hand on her arm and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Warned me about what?”
Viv looked up with regret in her eyes. “I intended to tell you after things quieted down this morning. Baron Braithwaite is in Edinburgh, waiting with your grandmother. Phinny thought it would be best for you
r reputation if you returned to England with your fiancé. He sent messages to the baron and your grandmother before he left England. They should both be waiting for us at the Duchess’ residence.”
Bridget’s heart stopped. She was sure of it. Tomorrow, she would be face-to-face with that man again.
“Macpherson, please.” Phinny’s voice was kind, but stern.
Rory had retraced his steps half the distance to her and stopped. She could see he was worried by the dread that must be written on her face, but Phinny’s concern for her reputation kept him from comforting her. And so, to ease his struggle, she forced her mouth into a smile and gave her head a shake.
“Fine thinking,” she said cheerfully. “Thank you, Phinny.” Then she turned stiffly away before her face betrayed her again.
Mallory stomped to her side. “The baron,” she grumbled. “I’d like to tell Phinny just what your betrothed is up to. I’m sure he’d kick himself all the way home if he knew—”
“Mallory! Don’t you dare,” Bridget hissed. “There is no need of upsetting Phinny when he can stop nothing but the wedding. And that won’t help anyone. Besides, you gave me your word.”
Mallory nodded, still frowning at the spot where the men had disappeared.
Bridget remembered Vivianne slipping back into the carriage in the night and decided to confront her after all.
“So, Viv. I thought you’d been meeting secretly with Ian McDermott, but it sounds like you were sharing secrets with Phinny instead.”
Her friend took a nervous step back, but in a heartbeat, Bridget and Mallory both had their arms wrapped around her.
“What else, Viv?” Mallory narrowed her eyes. “We’ll know it if you lie to us. Remember that.”
Viv snorted and tried to shrug them off, but they held tight. “You don’t suppose I’d really try to lie to you, do you?”
Bridget raised a brow.
“I’m hurt, truly,” her friend said, then tried to wriggle free again.
“Tell us,” Bridget said quietly. “What else do they know?”
Viv bit her lip and tried to hide behind the curtain of her golden hair, but they waited her out. Finally, she looked up. “They know about the scavenger hunt.”
“Vivianne Kenton!” Mallory released her hold and stepped back like their friend was suddenly covered with something slimy and unspeakable.
“I didn’t tell them, you dolt. Phinny did.”
Bridget’s eyes closed and she groaned, then groaned louder when she remembered the look in Rory’s eye when he saw her wearing his kilt. A satisfied smirk if she’d ever seen one. He’d handed her the object of her quest. The significance hadn’t been lost on her when Vivianne brought the folded plaid into the carriage, but she never would have accepted it if she’d known that he’d known.
She was tempted to run back to the carriage and remove it, but that would mean the end of her freedom. And, chagrinned or not, wearing the plaid he held so dear had done strange things to her heart. Truth be told, if she’d come to Scotland for some other reason, she’d still be entertaining the notion of absconding with a Highlander’s kilt.
Her Highlander’s.
Mallory didn’t seem embarrassed that Connor now knew of her quest for a piece of pirate’s treasure. But perhaps it was no shame to take something from a man that didn’t first require him to disrobe.
“Is that the end of it then?” her cousin asked Vivianne. “Anything else you wish to confess?”
“No. Nothing. I’m only sorry I didn’t tell you sooner, but I’ve hardly had the opportunity.”
Bridget sighed and nodded. “You’re right. I feel as though I’ve been shouting and beating on things since the sun came up. And we shouldn’t be wasting our last days together in misunderstandings. Besides, if I’m not careful, Rory Macpherson won’t wish to come anywhere near me.”
“But you want him to, don’t you?” Vivianne squeezed her hands.
“Yes. I do. If Braithwaite is waiting… Well. My adventure is ending tomorrow, so Heaven help Phinny if he tries to keep Rory and me from speaking to each other.
CHAPTER THIRTY- SEVEN
As it happened, it wasn’t Phinny who kept Rory from speaking to Bridget. For the remainder of the day, it seemed to be the Highlander’s choice to keep his distance. If she happened to stroll in his direction, he all but fled. If he happened to stumble upon her or her friends, he would mumble some bit of Gaelic and head into the trees again.
His friends seemed to be having the same aversion to women. Vivianne pretended to stumble and fall over a raised tree root, and Bridget was pleased to see that Ian wasn’t as indifferent as he pretended to be. He hurried to her side and bent over her to see if she was hurt, and Viv had the presence of mind to grab a hold of his shoulders and pull him close for a kiss.
The man’s face twisted as if he were truly in pain, then he admitted he could not trust himself to be near her. He pulled Viv to her feet, then stepped away. The last glimpse Bridget saw of his face convinced her he’d been sincere.
Rory and Connor had witnessed it as well. They exchanged a look of horror, then fled after their friend as if someone were chasing them with outstretched arms and pursed lips.
“Damn her.” Mallory stood at Bridget’s elbow and glared at Vivianne.
“Why?”
“Because she thought of it first.”
In spite of Rory’s reaction, the little drama left Bridget a bit lighter on her toes. She reasoned that Rory was avoiding her because he was tempted by her, and the idea was a balm to her wounded pride. But still, it wasn’t balm enough to make up for an entire day of neglect.
“What are you thinking, cousin?” Mallory lowered her voice and turned her back to Phinny’s men who were forever shadowing them, likely so they couldn’t guess her words as they formed on her lips. “Please tell me that you have a plan.”
“Not yet,” she confessed. “But it cannot be too difficult to catch a Highlander…who already wants to be caught.”
~ ~ ~
Much to Bridget’s disappointment, Phinny and the Scots disappeared just after the mid-afternoon meal and were gone for hours. Bridget, Mallory and Vivianne settled on a small knoll and looked out over a glen of swaying grasses. Heather, in a variety of shades from purple, to pink, to white, covered the mountain opposite.
Bridget gestured toward the patch of white. “That is rare.”
“What? The white heather?” Mallory had excellent vision and could usually recognize things and faces that were only a blur to Bridget.
“Yes. Grandmother says the Scots consider it lucky to find white heather for a wedding.”
The others were silent for a long moment and she knew they were thinking about the monster waiting for her in Edinburgh.
Mallory stood and carefully brushed her blue plaid pleats. “Lucky, you say? Well, why don’t we see if some of that luck will rub off on us?” She took a few steps down the hill, then turned back. Her grin was all mischief. Her eyes darted to the handful of guards that dogged their steps. “Come on,” she whispered. “I wager we can reach it before they catch us!”
Vivianne popped to her feet, and helped Bridget rise. A moment later they were all running so fast down the hillside it was only a little more controlled than falling. Men shouted far behind, but Bridget didn’t look back. She might have been faster running up through the heather if she hadn’t been laughing so hard.
Their pursuers had no such problem and gained quickly. The white heather beckoned. Vivianne was suddenly there, dancing in the center. Mallory stood at the edge, reaching a hand out, waiting so they could reach the prize together. Bridget summoned an extra burst of effort, and just as their hands clasped, she felt a tug on her skirt. Mallory pulled, and in one long stride, they were safe inside the patch of white. Bridget turned and held a hand out to stop the guards.
She pointed to the edge of their imagined sanctuary. “Don’t come any closer!”
The man at the fore looked down, confused.<
br />
“We claim this white heather as our sanctuary. No men are allowed.”
“Sanctuary!” Mallory shouted. “Be gone!” Then she melted into a giggling pile of plaid.
The guards grumbled and moved twenty yards away, then started settling in.
“Not far enough,” Vivianne called to them. “Go on!” When the soldiers obeyed, she, too, dissolved into laughter.
Bridget stood panting knee-deep in a sea of pale blossoms. The tiny white bells clung to her dark green skirt.
Luck. Let us give you luck.
Breathless and temporarily weakened from the sprint, she succumbed to the invitation and lied down among the flowers. Then she rolled back and forth until the blossoms clung to her sleeves and hair. Covered in luck, she was quite pleased with herself.
The Highlander standing over her was not.
~ ~ ~
When Rory reached Bridget, he was out of breath and ill-tempered. He’d returned to a camp in chaos. The women had run off, one man reported. But their guards were close on their heels.
For a long moment, he’d actually been surprised.
“I’d like the pummel someone,” he grumbled.
“Me?” Bridget lay breathless in the heather with her underskirts and his tartan twisted around her.
The picture stole more of his breath than the run across the glen. Bells of white heather—wedding heather—stuck to her face and hair. If they were alone, he would have demanded a kiss for every blossom, punishment for wallowing on the ground in his kilt.
“Nay, love. Not you. I’d like to pummel the man who told me you’d run away.”
She started to sit up, but he stopped her with a gentle touch to the center of her chest. “First, Lady Vivianne should help ye right yer plaid, aye?”
“Aye,” she whispered.
His heart melted. His hand lingered. He remembered how Vivianne had tricked Ian into a kiss earlier, and he realized he should back away quickly. After all, if Bridget could soften him enough, he might reveal his secrets—and it was vital that he keep them.
But, Heaven help him, when her hand reached for the front of his shirt, he could only watch it come.
