“Might we buy some food off ye?” Duncan asked, doing his best impression of his brother’s charming smile. “The lady and I are hungry.”
The man’s gaze flicked to Skye, who sat haughtily atop the horse in her now tattered silk gown. Still, he didn’t comment on the claim she was a lady, and instead dipped his chin. “ ’Twill cost ye.”
And of course, Duncan had no purse. Hoping the man would be amenable to trade, he simply nodded in return.
“The missus made bread today,” the man said with a grunt. “And she can wrap up some of the fish me lad caught.”
“We would be grateful, sir,” Duncan said with another nod.
“Three coins for the lot of it.”
Duncan hid his wince. He was about to offer his finely tooled sword belt—which was useless now that his fine sword was lying in the dirt of the road where he was attacked—when Skye interrupted him.
“Seven coins!”
What?
Duncan half-turned, sending her a glare.
By St. Simon’s uvula, what was she doing?
But the crofter, clearly enjoying the idea of bartering, was quick to snap in return, “Four coins!”
Squinting in surprise, Duncan gaped at the man.
Did he not realize Skye had bid up?
Apparently not, because Skye hummed, as if pondering. “I can go as low as six.”
“Six? Bah!” the man spat. “Five, and ‘tis my final offer.”
Wait, what?
The man had been willing to accept three coins not a minute ago, but thanks to Skye…
Duncan turned back to the horse to see her perched up there like a queen. A queen who looked only a mere moment from laughter, and quite proud of herself.
It was that pride which had him smiling in return. “Who taught ye to haggle, lass? Ye’re bad at it. Ye’re a verra bad haggler.”
Her chin rose, and she met his gaze with twinkling blue eyes. “ ’Tis my duty to make things hard for my captor, is it no’?” she said in a low voice, as the crofter ducked into his home to gather the food.
Knowing they were alone for a moment, and knowing he could make her blush, Duncan winked.
“Och, lass. Ye’re making things verra hard for me right now, if ye ken my meaning.”
She didn’t blush.
Well, she did, but to Duncan’s surprise, her gaze darted to his kilt, and when she looked back at him, there was something very much like anticipation in her eyes.
He was still thinking about that look an hour later, when he decided to stop for the night. It was dark enough, and he didn’t want to push the poor horse any further. And besides, there hadn’t been any sign of a pursuit.
Which was a little odd, all things considered.
“Are we going to stop for the night?” Skye asked in a treacly voice.
He wasn’t fooled. Not by this, or the half-dozen other tests she’d masked as insults since leaving the crofter’s hut. He wondered if she realized yet they were heading for MacIan land…and if not, what she’d do when she did.
For that matter, Duncan wondered what he’d do. He wasn’t really planning on turning her over to her brother for punishment…was he?
If only he knew why she’d turned highwayman!
But she was still waiting for an answer from him.
“Aye,” he sighed. “We’ll stop and wait for yer men to catch up.”
In fact, there was a likely-looking copse of trees just up ahead, which was set back from the road and would offer some sort of protection, but still near enough he should be able to hear them coming.
“And we’re waiting for them, because ye’re sick of being with me?”
With a smile, he swung down from the horse. “Nay, lass. Being with ye is like being drunk. I cannae be sick of it. Until I am.”
In the waning light, he thought he saw her frown as he reached up for her.
“Was that an insult?”
By St. Simon’s armpit, she felt good in his arms!
He pulled her from the horse and placed her on the ground between him and the animal, keeping hold of her as she got her footing.
And then a bit more.
She was frowning, aye, as she stared up at him. So he smiled in return.
“I suppose ‘twas. I dinnae like being drunk.”
“Yer brothers do, for certes.”
Well that surprised a burst of laughter out of him, and he finally dropped his hands from her waist and stepped to the side to untie the bundle of food from the saddle, which had cost him his sword belt after all.
“No’ all of them drink,” he began in a nonchalant tone, hoping she understood he was just trying to set them both at ease. “Malcolm is the scholar of our bunch. He’d much rather be scribbling notes or inventing a new kind of lantern than drinking.”
Behind him, she’d moved away, stepping into the clearing and kicking at the coals from the last traveler’s campfire. “Aright. That’s one—two, counting ye—out of six.”
“And Alistair doesnae indulge, because he’s too busy keeping the clan running. He’s the one in charge of our finances and futures more often than no’.”
Sensing it was a good time to try to get more answers from her, Duncan turned, food in hand, to see her kicking some stones into a circle around the coals.
“Do the MacIans have a seneschal? Or does Stewart handle the clan’s funds?”
She glanced up at him. “If ye’re asking if he’d notice the coin and gold I bring in, the answer’s nay. We list it in the books as coming from one of the outlying properties, and he‘s never bothered to check.”
Duncan opened his mouth to ask, once again, why she felt it necessary to thieve, when she began heading for the shadows of the trees. “Where are ye going?” he blurted instead.
“I have to piss,” she called over her shoulder.
“Wait!”
When she turned with a huff, her fists on her hips, he felt his lips pull upward. “Ye expect me to allow ye to just gallivant off St. Simon-kens-where? I need to keep an eye on ye, if I’m to have any chance of retrieving my master’s art.”
She blew out a breath. “I’ll count out loud. But I do have needs to see to, ye ken.”
“Count?” Pursing his lips, he pretended to think it over, as he propped his foot up on a tree stump. “Nay, that willnae do. Ye’ll have to sing.”
“Sing…?” she repeated flatly.
He smiled. “Aye, sing! Good luck.”
He was laying out the bread and fish—and discovered the crofter’s wife had included some early-harvest apples as well—when her voice rang through the trees.
No one would ever accuse Skye MacIan of having a dulcet-toned singing voice, but she’d likely chosen the most vulgar song she could think of, simply in an attempt to irritate him.
It was the one he’d been singing himself, just that very morning.
“Her stockings ‘round her ankles and her shift oot o’the waaaaaayyyyyy. I grabbed her ‘bout the arsecheeks, and that’s when I heard her saaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyy!”
Chuckling now, Duncan joined her in the chorus, certain she was the most interesting lass he’d ever met.
“Ooooh, buck-a-diddle-diddle, buck-a-dilly-ay—”
His laughter drowned out her curses of displeasure, and soon, she rushed back into the clearing. It was hard to see her expression in the dim light, but from the way she had her hands planted on her hips, he could tell she was angry.
“Ye ken that one?” she barked.
“Ye’re unlikely to find a song I dinnae ken, lass,” he said, still chuckling. “Da taught us that one years ago.” Beckoning toward the food, he sank down to his haunches beside the stump.
“All of ye?” she asked, as she crossed the clearing.
He waited until she snatched up a piece of the bread, then took his own. While she remained standing, he made himself comfortable, with his back against the remnants of the old tree.
“Nay, just Kiergan and I, as I recall. Kie
rgan, of course, was more interested in the mechanics of the lyrics, while I was fascinated with anything musical.”
She watched him in silence as she ate. Finally, she swallowed. “Ye’re an artist, are ye no’? Interested in songs and creating things?”
He had to think about her words for a moment, before finally shrugging. “Aye, I suppose so. Rocque has tried to teach me a warrior’s ways, St. Simon kens it, but…” He took another bite of the bread. “But I’m nae warrior,” he revealed, around the mouthful.
Instead of mocking him, Skye hummed thoughtfully. “Rocque is the brother who’s so big?”
“Malcolm’s twin, aye. The two of them look as unalike as Finn and I are identical. But they’re closer than any of the rest of us.”
“And Rocque is the Oliphant commander, aye?” Mayhap she was more at ease with this topic, because she sat down on the stump, near enough to him, so all he would have to do is twist his head to be able to kiss her knee.
If he wanted to kiss her knee.
There’s other places I’d rather kiss.
Wait, what was it she asked about?
Oh, aye, Rocque.
“He’s been training the men since we were lads, feels like, but Da made him commander a few years back. He’s the warrior in the family, right enough. And he’s almost as big as yer man…Bean, was it?” Something had been bothering him since they’d made their escape. “Speaking of Bean, why, in all that’s holy, is his sword broken?”
Though he wasn’t facing her, he could hear the smile in her voice when she replied.
“Did ye see the size of his fists? The dear man doesnae need a sword. He broke it years ago, but when he tried to go around without it, he said he missed the feel of the scabbard at his side.”
“I suppose I can understand that.” Duncan finished his bread and wiped his hands together to dust the crumbs from them. “Are ye ready for the fish?”
“I’m no’ hungry,” she said quietly.
He couldn’t tell if she was lying, but he wasn’t about to push her. The lass had made the choice to become a highwayman, by St. Simon’s kneecap, and he knew she was no weakling. If she didn’t want to eat, then she didn’t want to eat…so he reached for the dried fish for himself.
While he chewed, she stood and brushed the crumbs from her gown. The sight of all that ruined silk actually made him smile, because it was a symbol of her ingenuity, certainty, and downright bollocks.
It wasn’t until she began to shuffle about the clearing—hearing the swish as she used her feet to check for obstacles, because the moon hadn’t risen with enough light to see by yet—that he steered the conversation back to where he wanted it.
“Rocque is my father’s commander. Is Bean the MacIan’s commander?”
He couldn’t see her look of disgust, but he could feel it. And even though Duncan knew she couldn’t see him either, he still hid his smile by biting into the bland fish.
“Broad shoulders doesnae make a man a leader, Dunc.” She sounded exasperated. “Bean is a sweetheart, aye, but he’s as dumb as a sheep stuck in a bog.”
“So sheep stuck in bogs are dumb then?”
She clucked her tongue as she turned back to her task. “ ’Tis clear ye’re nae crofter.”
And she was?
He loved the way she stood up to him, the way she matched him—blow for blow and wit for wit.
“I was merely wondering if yer brother—or his commander, or seneschal, or whatever—kens what ye and Bean, and the rest of them, are up to.”
Her foot ran into a branch, and he could see her silhouette as she bent over to pick it up. “And if he doesnae, ye’ll be the one to tell him? Ye’ll run to him, because ye are somehow the one who gets to determine how I live my life? Bah.” She broke the branch in half and tossed both pieces toward the old campfire.
“Mayhap,” he said, noncommittally, as he finished off the piece of fish and reached for the other. “But I’m no’ yer keeper.”
Although I wouldnae mind.
Where had that thought come from?
He wanted to be with her?
“Damn right ye’re no’.” She bent to pick up another stick. “Ye have a big enough family, Dunc. Just because my sister is married to yer brother doesnae make us family.” The sound of the wood breaking punctuated her irritation. “Ye can just mind yer own bloody damn business, with yer half-drunk brothers and yer daft aunt yelling, ‘Doooooom!’ all the time, and that stupid drummer of yers.”
Duncan’s brows had risen the second time she’d used his old nickname, and when she began listing the particularities of life at Oliphant Castle, his lips twitched.
“Ye’ve heard him?”
“Who?” she snapped, crouching to collect a handful of twigs.
“The drummer.”
“Aye— Nay” Skye muttered, as she stalked toward the ashes to drop her newest collection atop the other sticks she’d already gathered. “ ’Tis daft to think a ghost warns of doom.”
“Aunt Agatha claims only those who are doomed to fall in love will hear the drummer, Skye. Did yer sister tell ye that?”
From the way she wrapped her arms around her middle, he suspected Fiona had.
In a small voice, Skye asked, “Have ye heard him?”
“The drummer?” He’d been hearing him more and more frequently since the summer had started, and up until that moment, he hadn’t stopped to consider why. But all he said in reply was, “Aye.”
And from the way her shoulders slumped, he knew for certain she’d heard the ghostly drummer of Oliphant Castle as well.
“What are ye doing with all this wood?” As if he couldn’t guess.
She crouched down and began laying the twigs. “I’m making a fire, since ye cannae be arsed to do it.”
Smiling, he stretched his legs out in front of him, and crossed one booted ankle over the other. “We dinnae need a fire.”
She stood so fast, and inhaled a gasp so sudden, Duncan wondered if she went light-headed.
“Nae fire?” she repeated.
Slowly, Duncan’s lips stretched, and he stacked his hands behind his head. “Nae fire. I ken ye only want to set one to alert yer men. Well, I want a decent night’s sleep, and I’ll no’ get it if I have to worry about that Bean of yers breaking my head, or yer Frenchmen stabbing me in my sleep.”
She planted her hands on her hips again. “ ’Tis Fergus ye have to worry about, but ye’re wrong; I wasnae going to alert them. I was— I was cold.”
Och, now he knew she was lying.
“Come here, lass,” he beckoned, with a low voice, as he dropped his hands to pat the not-very-comfortable dirt beside him.
“Why?”
She sounds mulish.
He couldn’t keep the laughter from escaping. “Because I’ll keep ye warm.”
With a muttered curse, and a sigh of surrender, she stomped over to him. He took this as a good sign, because surely she wouldn’t sit so close to him if she were afraid of him, no matter what…would she?
But when she sank down beside him, her silk-swathed arm brushed against his, and he sucked in a breath. She was cold, and he instantly felt like an arse for not believing her.
So without a second thought, he reached one arm around her and snugged her up close to his side.
And she allowed it without argument.
“Ye smell like fish,” was all she muttered.
“I’m saving the apples for the morning to break our fast,” he tossed back at her, realizing she was only satisfied when they were arguing.
She’d take his comfort and warmth, but she refused to let him know she appreciated it. He knew that much about her at least.
Neither spoke for a while, and when her cheek dropped to his shoulder, he wondered if she were sleeping. But her breathing hadn’t evened out yet, so he decided to help her along.
“Both Finn and Fiona heard the drummer, ye ken. They might’ve already been in love, but the drummer sealed their fates.”
&n
bsp; When she hummed, he felt it.
“They were already pledged to one another.” She yawned. “The betrothal was just a formality.”
After the last kiss he’d shared with Skye—when she’d punched him—she’d run to her sister and told Fiona that Finn had been the one to kiss her. Which had understandably broken Fiona’s heart, considering she and Finn had spent the following night together.
Once that particular comedy of errors had been resolved, Stewart hadn’t been convinced Finn had been the one to take Fiona’s virginity, and had demanded both brothers lift their kilts, right there in the great hall—in front of all, including the Lord himself—to determine which brother was which.
It had been humiliating for certes, though he could now admit it had been a bit funny. And when Skye’s shocked eyes had landed on his dangly bits, the scene had become more than a little arousing.
In fact, just the memory was doing wonders for him right at that moment.
Shifting, he tried to adjust his cock into a more comfortable position, without doing something so crass as to alert her by using his free hand.
What had they been talking about?
Oh, aye, Finn’s betrothal.
“When Da told us his plan—his ultimatum, really—Finn was the first one to jump at the opportunity. He’d been wanting to marry yer sister since the day he’d met her.”
Skye snuggled a little closer, and Duncan swore his heart skipped a beat.
“I heard about yer Da’s plan when I was at Oliphant Castle. He expects ye all to marry? And the first to have a son will be laird?”
He snorted, half in agreement, half in dismissal. “As if we all wanted to be laird!”
“Ye dinnae?”
He jerked in surprise. “Nay.” When he turned to stare at her, his chin slammed into her forehead, and she jerked as well. “Would ye?”
She sat up, rubbing her forehead. “Want to be laird? Nay.”
“What about a laird’s wife?”
He couldn’t see her expression, but the slightly bitter tone of her laughter answered his question, making her next words unnecessary.
“I have enough responsibility, thankyeverramuch.”
“Sorry,” he muttered, pulling her back toward him once more. “What do ye want? In life, I mean. Is being a highwayman yer ultimate goal?”
Scot on Her Trail Page 5
