Scot on Her Trail

by Lee, Caroline

  “ ’Tis no’—” Duncan shook his head, then wiped the sweat out of his eyes with the rag, wondering if he was going to get his sword finished tonight. “I’m no’ angered at her, so much as the circumstance.”

  His brother hummed in understanding. “Ye want her, but ye cannae have her?”

  How’d Rocque guess that?

  Duncan wiped his hands down his kilt—a new one, because aye, he’d had to clean the old one, thanks to Skye’s touch, and ‘twas still drying—and reached for his hammer.

  “Ye might look like a boulder, Rocque, but ye’ve got a brain in that hard head, huh?”

  “Och, nay. My uncle used to say the only thing my head was good for was hitting things.”

  That shot another spike of anger through Duncan, and he hid it by slamming the hammer against the anvil as he pulled the blade from the coals.

  Everyone at Oliphant Castle knew Rocque and his twin, Malcolm, had been raised away from their clan. Their maternal grandfather had banished their mother when he’d discovered her pregnancy, and the twins had been born in the home of a distant relative—not truly an uncle, but that’s what they still called him—who’d treated all three of them like dog shite. When their mother died, the lads eventually made their way back home, where the rest of the Oliphant bastards had welcomed them the way true brothers did.

  For another long while, the only sound was the hammer shaping the metal. Eventually the familiar motions began to sooth Duncan, and he was able to forget about his brother’s past, Skye’s deed, and the future.

  Until Rocque finally spoke.

  “Why no’ marry the lass?”

  The hammer slipped from his hand and narrowly missed his foot.

  “What?” Duncan growled as he bent to pick up the damnable thing.

  Rocque, the complete donkey’s bollocks, merely shrugged. “Marry her. Da says we all have to marry, so why no’ the woman who has ye so wound up ye cannae tell yer arse from a hole in the ground?”

  “First of all”—Duncan pointed at his brother with the hammer—“that makes nae sense. Second of all, do ye no’ think I’ve considered that? Bah!” He turned back to his anvil, and took a deep breath. “We wouldnae suit. And there are other…complications.”

  “Are ye certain ye wouldnae suit? I might’ve thought the same with my Merewyn, but we get along fine.”

  “Well, why do ye no’ marry her?” Dunc snapped.

  Rocque’s grin grew. “Mayhap I will. But we’re speaking of ye. What are the complications?”

  She’s a highwayman.

  She willnae tell me why.

  She makes me forget my own name when she kisses me.

  Even now I want her.

  “Fook,” he whispered.

  “Aye!” Rocque chuckled, then crossed the smithy to slap Duncan on the shoulder. “Complications are complicated, but ye’ll never ken for certain ye’d suit just fine, unless ye quit yer moping and go ask her.”

  Duncan shrugged off his brother’s hand. “ ’Tis no’ that simple.”

  But Rocque was chuckling as he headed for the door. “Ye dinnae ken that. The way ye look right now, I’d say there’s something verra simple the two of ye have in common, and it has everything to do with yer cock. Figure out how to make it work, Dunc.”

  “Dinnae call me that,” Duncan muttered reflexively, remembering the way the nickname sounded coming from Skye’s lips.

  Remembering everything about Skye’s lips.

  Rocque stuck his head back in the smithy. “Oh! And, Dunc?” He jerked his chin to the half-forged blade on the anvil. “Dinnae give any of my men that piece of crap. We’ll stick with Edward’s swords, thank ye verra much.”

  When Duncan lifted the hammer threateningly, as if he would throw it across the space, Rocque ducked out, his laughter following him.

  Figure out how to make it work.

  Duncan stared down at the red-hot blade—not his best work, he could admit.

  Make it work.

  Could he?

  He swallowed. Da had told him he had to marry, and while the idea had been horrifying when he’d first heard the demand, since meeting Skye…

  Well, being commanded to marry was still frustrating, but he could understand how two people might want to agree to spend the rest of their lives together.

  But would she marry him?

  He snorted to himself as he plunged the blade back into the coals.

  Marry him?

  She’d likely chase him from her family’s keep with her own blade.

  But…

  But she—or rather, her men—still had something which belonged to him. He’d been able to return all of Master Claire’s work to the elderly goldsmith, and was thankful the only missing piece was the simple braided ring he’d made.

  It had taken him almost until Lairg—and it was bloody uncomfortable to ride a horse with the inside of his kilt being as sticky as it was—to count the gold pieces he’d been returned. Only one was missing, and he wondered who had it.

  That ring would be the excuse he needed to go to the MacIan keep. To see her.

  To get some answers.

  To see her.

  To ask her to marry him.

  To see—

  Nay. Nay, he didn’t just want to see her. He wanted to taste her, to feel her, to love her.

  St. Simon’s left bollock, love?

  Shaking his head, Duncan blew out a breath and pulled the blade from the fire. He had a lot of thinking to do.

  * * *

  “Ow! Ye’re gripping my chin too tightly!” Allison scolded, pulling out of Skye’s hold.

  Skye gritted her teeth, knowing full well that she was in full view of her sister-in-law, and thus, couldn’t roll her eyes the way she wanted to. “I need ye to hold still.”

  Allison narrowed her eyes. “I can hold still just fine without ye leaving bruises on my fair skin. What would yer brother say if I told him ye were the one to hurt me so?”

  “What would he say if yer eyebrows grew together atop yer face like some kind of bushy orange worm?” Skye snapped in returned.

  Her sister-in-law reared back with a gasp, and rage flashed in her brown eyes. For a moment, Skye tightened her grip on the tweezer in her hand, not sure if Allison was going to slap her, or burst into tears.

  Either was possible, as the MacIan twins had learned over the last year, ever since Laird Stewart MacIan had married the woman. Allison was the eldest daughter of a smaller clan, but despite the MacIans’ hardships, she seemed to think she were now just as high and mighty as the Earl of Sutherland.

  Instead of lashing out this time, Allison’s eyes filled with tears.

  Shite.

  When Allison cried, Stewart gave her anything she wanted.

  Which is why we’ve barely enough to support the clan as ‘tis!

  “I cannae believe ye’d say something so cruel to yer verra own sister,” Allison sniffed.

  This time, Skye couldn’t stop her eyes from rolling, but she turned away under the pretense of reaching for a wet cloth so Allison wouldn’t see it.

  “Ye’re married to my brother.” ‘Twas as close as she’d come to telling the manipulative bitch she was no sister of hers. “And I told ye I’d help ye, because ye cannae pluck yer own brows yerself. But ye have to hold still.”

  “Well, ye’re the one ripping hairs out of my face!”

  Snorting, Skye tossed her the rag, ignoring Allison’s shriek of protest as the water splashed her.

  “Aye, and it’ll hurt. ‘Tis the price ye pay for beauty.”

  Allison pressed the cool material to her forehead and sighed mightily as Skye crossed back to where she was sitting, wielding the tweezers like a blade.

  Her sister-in-law had remarkable carrot-orange hair, and rather unfortunate eyebrows to go with it. And since falling pregnant, her hair and nails have grown at prodigious rates. Her curls were thick and luxurious…but so were her eyebrows.

  Allison must’ve been thinking the sam
e thing. “For certes, breeding comes with its own collection of trials nae one tells ye about.” She sighed dramatically from under the cloth. “But ‘tis worth it—”

  Skye had heard this last part enough to be able to mouth the words along with her sister-in-law. And as Allison’s eyes were covered by the cloth, Skye did so.

  “—to bear the next laird of such a great and powerful clan.”

  With a sigh, Skye settled herself in front of her brother’s very pregnant wife—the heart of all the clan’s current troubles—and lifted the tweezers once more.

  “Are ye ready, Allison?”

  “Oh, verra well.” Allison lowered the cloth and lifted her chin, her eyes closed. “The price we must pay for beauty.”

  This time Skye was careful not to grip Allison’s chin too hard as she tilted the other woman’s face back to catch the morning light from the window.

  How in damnation do I get stuck doing this each time?

  Allison likely viewed it as a bonding experience. Or else she just didn’t want her maid to see her this vulnerable.

  At least she’s willing to come to my room, instead of dragging me to hers. Last time I went there, I had to hear all about her physical relationship with my brother. Ew!

  The tweezers were sharp, and she was able to grab three of Allison’s carrot-orange hairs—the ones growing right above the bridge of her nose—and yank them out all at once. Her sister-in-law flinched, but didn’t cry out, and Skye knew ‘twas mean-spirited to take even the tiniest bit of pleasure in Allison’s discomfort.

  But she did anyhow.

  “Do ye think we’ll be done soon? I have an appointment.”

  An appointment?

  “Where would ye be going?” Skye murmured, her attention on the left brow.

  “Oh, um.” This time when Allison flinched, Skye got the impression it was because she’d said more than she’d intended. “I told a—a friend I’d pick up something for him from the blacksmith.”

  Skye straightened, frowning down at her sister-by-marriage.

  Why would Lady MacIan need something from the blacksmith?

  “What are ye picking up?”

  Allison peeked open one eye. “Caltrops,” she answered in a breezy voice, as if trying to dismiss it as silly. “Silly things, are they no’?”

  Frowning, Skye bent down once more. “Aye,” she murmured.

  She and her men had spent ages trying to find the source of Hoarse Harold’s caltrops, and here it turned out that the MacIan smith was willing to make them?

  She made a mental note to visit the man and see if he’d sold any to the highwayman.

  The other highwayman.

  They worked in silence for a few moments more, before Allison sighed again, her eyes still closed. “Aye, ‘tis a rough price, but worth it to be thought beautiful by one’s husband. And while pregnancy has its trials, ‘tis worth the joy of kenning ye’re bearing yer husband’s heir. When ye marry, ye’ll understand this, Skye.”

  Frowning, Skye focused on grabbing a particularly wily hair. This wasn’t the first time her sister-in-law had hinted about Skye’s marriage, and ‘twas likely only a matter of time before she approached Stewart about making an alliance with another clan. If Allison had her way, likely a clan far away.

  But…

  But Skye was needed here on MacIan land. ‘Twas only thanks to her and her men that the clan hadn’t fallen into debt thus far. And although she and Fiona now lived apart, the idea of being even farther away made her stomach churn.

  As did the thought of marriage.

  Belonging to a man? Her only purpose to bear him heirs? Her only meaningful attributes her appearance?

  His hands on yer body. His lips on yers. His cock in—

  Swallowing down a sick feeling in her throat, Skye straightened.

  She stood, staring down at her sister-in-law, but she wasn’t seeing the bushy orange brows, or even the red irritated skin from her work.

  Nay, she was thinking about lying with a man.

  A man who wasn’t Duncan Oliphant.

  And was honest enough with herself to admit that was the reason she was feeling sick to her stomach.

  Unconsciously, her free hand crept to the base of her neck where his ring dangled from a strip of crimson silk. When she and her men had snuck back into the MacIan keep—as easy as always—she’d considered transferring it to a chain. But ultimately, the silk reminded her of her adventure with him, and she’d kept it.

  Kept it and the ring, which he’d made.

  Sometimes at night, in the big empty bed she’d once shared with Fiona, she would pull the ring from under her chemise and slip it over her finger. ‘Twas obviously made for a woman, and it fit Skye’s third finger perfectly. She wondered if she could still hold a blade with it on.

  And then she cursed herself for the thought.

  The ring wasn’t for her to wear! ‘Twas for her to sell and support her clan!

  So why hadn’t she?

  “Skye?” Allison peeked open one eye. “I appreciate ye giving me time to recover, but I am well enough for ye to continue.”

  Typical Allison, assuming everything was about her.

  Stifling a sigh, because she knew irritating her sister-in-law would only create headaches for the rest of the clan, Skye nodded and leaned down again.

  But the knock at the door had her snapping upright.

  “Skye!”

  She recognized Fergus’s voice as he pushed the door open and burst in.

  Three things happened at once.

  One, Skye blurted, “What’s amiss?” as she tossed the tweezers into the basin beside her.

  Two, the dear older man skidded to a stop, likely in horror, as he took in the sight of Allison in a robe, and half her brows all red and inflamed.

  Three, Allison screeched and grabbed the wet cloth, pulling it up and over her face, in an attempt to hide herself.

  Of course, that meant she knocked over the basin of water, which drenched her entire left side. And then, the soaked cloth was sucked inside her mouth when she inhaled to scream again, so her second screech came out as a sort of wet gurgling sound.

  Deciding ‘twould be wrong to allow her sister-in-law to drown in her bedroom, Skye reached over and pulled the soaked cloth from Allison’s mouth, while keeping her attention on her man.

  “Fergus, what’s amiss?” she repeated, hoping her calm tone belied her nervousness.

  “Skye— Milady, I mean.”

  He offered her a quick bow, which she waved away. They’d never bothered with such formalities.

  “Is aught wrong? Is it Bean?” The old man knew her fondness for the gentle giant, and that was the only reason she could imagine him fetching her.

  But Allison had finally gotten her breath back. “What do ye think ye’re doing? Bursting in on me like this!” She still held the cloth, but now she pushed herself ponderously to her feet, shaking her fist at Fergus. “How dare ye think to interrupt the laird’s wife in the middle of her toilette! I’ll have ye flogged for this!”

  As Fergus paled—likely from the full sight of Allison riled up, rather than her threat—Skye rolled her eyes.

  “ ’Tis my room, Allison,” she reminded her sister-in-law.

  Who promptly whirled on her, the wet cloth slapping hither and yon, as she waved it in her clenched fist. “And that makes it better? Is this a normal occasion?” Her pitch rose with each question. “To have crofters and peasants coming into yer room during yer toilette? Calling ye by yer given name?” With a gasp, she slapped the cloth to her chest. “What would yer brother say?”

  Her theatrics were simply adorable.

  “Sit down afore ye stress the bairn,” Skye snapped. “Fergus is nae crofter; he works in the stables. If ye kenned more about yer new clan, ye’d ken that. He’s likely here with a question about my horse.”

  “Ye have a horse?”

  She really didn’t know anything, did she?

  With a sigh, Skye tur
ned back to the door and planted her hands on her hips. “Aye, Fergus? Forgive Lady Allison’s outburst. She’s breeding, ye ken.”

  Bless him, but the dear old man glanced down at Allison’s protruding stomach, then slammed his eyes upward. “Anyone with two brain cells can tarting tell that, milady.”

  His cheeks were pinking under his beard.

  “Is my horse aright?”

  He kept his attention locked firmly on the ceiling. “Aye—nay. I mean, aye, he’s fine. ‘Tisnae why I came to fetch ye.”

  Fetch her?

  Frowning slightly now, Skye stepped toward the door, instinctively checking her dagger was in place at her belt.

  “Is aught amiss?” she repeated, this time in a near-whisper.

  “Ye have a visitor, milady.” Fergus must’ve thought the joists of the ceiling were the most intriguing thing he’d seen all day. “He’s asked to see the laird, but as soon as I recognized him, I ran figtart to warn ye.”

  Warn me?

  When he finally dropped his eyes to hers, she realized she must’ve repeated the words aloud. And the fear in his gaze terrified her.

  “Fergus?” she whispered, her heart now slamming against the inside of her chest. “Who is it?”

  He swallowed once. “Duncan Oliphant. He’s come to see yer brother.”

  Oh, figtart!

  Chapter 7

  Figtart, figtart, figtart!

  Skye likely showed more than a few MacIans her ankles—and possibly her knees—as she ran through the keep, but she was past caring. They all knew she was a little strange, and at that moment, all she cared about was getting to Duncan before he found her brother.

  Was he here to tattle on her?

  And once he told Stewart what she’d been up to these last months, what would Stewart do? Would she be able to explain her reasons, point out the necessary money she’d brought the clan? Or would he punish her outright?

  Better not to even reach that point.

  Better to stop Duncan altogether, before he could tell Stewart about her highwaymanning.

  Highwaywomaning.