Truthfully though, it was more difficult being around his mother, who he felt had picked Albert over him, although Albert was long dead by now. He knew that before Albert they had struggled for food and shelter, yet when it had been just the two of them, they’d always been happy. Then Albert came along and pushed him out, even when his younger brothers were born, Albert had pushed him out of his own family.
Duncan cleared his throat, trying to rid his mind of such memories. It never did any good to think about them.
“She’s had her things taken,” Duncan finally uttered.
Helen tsked. “Poor lady.”
“I fear she has a bump on the head. She doesn’t remember anything.”
“Does she complain of being in pain?”
Duncan shook his head, remembering how Fleur had challenged him to touch her. Released from its holder, her long black hair had curled around him, ensuring how much he wanted to bury his face in her floral-scented tresses. Ach, to pull her off the horse and hold her in his arms, smelling her, would have been like heaven come to earth. Lightning-like impetus stirred in his solar plexus at the memory, the want, but, damn, he was in front of his mother.
Helen inhaled. “Doesn’t remember anything, hmm?”
For a moment Duncan considered telling his ma about Fleur’s confession that she was from a different time, except she’d asked him not to tell. And he kept his word. Always. No matter what.
“I’ll brew some willow’s tea, see if that helps her head.” Helen snorted a laugh, and held her fingers over her mouth. “I’m so taken with her, ye ken, that I asked her to stay with me, in the house. I suppose she’s really to go to Tongue and stay with Laird Reay. She is nobility, eh?”
Duncan almost grinned, thinking his mother was helping with his wishes. He wanted Fleur close. Although he didn’t sleep in his mother’s house, still preferring the barn, he wanted to keep an eye on the lady. Nay, he wanted...he wasn’t much of a conversationalist, and he knew it, but he wanted to listen to Fleur for days on end. He loved her pretty voice. It was breathy yet simultaneously had a bite of feminine huskiness to it. He’d love to hear her tell him of her adventures of how she landed here. Even if it was insane, he still wanted to hear it.
Lord, what was wrong with him? Having Fleur here was the last thing he needed. Helen had to give him her blessing to go to America and then get his brothers back. Jesus, the thought nearly had him crumble to his knees. He missed his brothers, Jacob, Michael, Thomas, and—oh God—Douglas. He could hardly believe Dougie was truly gone. After all, he’d been too late to attend the funeral or the wake. Lord, all his brothers were gone.
On the day trips Helen had let him go on, he’d discovered the ship his brothers had sailed to Virginia in, the John and Sue. He’d also found when they’d arrived in the colony, and to whom they were sold. If he ever found a Preston Fairchild from America, he’d kill him with his bare hands.
He’d never thought much of slavery or indenturedness until his brothers had been taken as prisoners of war then sold. Now, Duncan couldn’t stop thinking about the African folks who must feel like him, ready to tear out the eyes of the people who thought they could own his kin. His brothers, if they had served out their time, would be free within twelve years. A wholly unchristian sentence, many said, since the Bible wrote only of seven years a slave. However, Duncan had heard how the American plantation owners were beginning to treat their slaves with lifetime commitments. Always treatment of slaves was harsh, but he’d heard rumors that in some places it was inhumane and evil, especially toward the African slaves. They were becoming...chattel. Duncan couldn’t help but shudder at some of the reports he’d been told.
Then he’d received the first letter from Jacob, mentioning that a tribe—how did Fleur pronounce it?—Yamasee, helped them escape and took them in. Within the tribe, there already were some German, Irish, and African men and women. The letter had given Helen hope, and she’d smiled as Duncan had read it. However, he wouldn’t take such comforts until his brothers were back in Scotland, where they belonged.
After that, mayhap he’d go down to the tropical Africa and find a way to stop slavery. He might be in a losing battle, but it would be one hell of a way to die, fighting for something virtuous, rather than all the money he’d accumulated throughout the years, even if he’d given most of it to his mother.
“I—I can hardly believe I have a lady in the house,” Helen said, reminding Duncan of where he was. She giggled, then swooped in and hugged him around his waist. “Thank ye, son. This is the best gift, save when ye give me a grandchild.”
Helen felt so small against him, the bones of her shoulder blades and spine rubbed against his arms and hands. Lord, why couldn’t she put on more weight? He still had money to spare and considered going to Tongue to buy more pastries she might like and fatten up on.
“I’m sure the lads,” that’s what his younger brothers had been called, “will give ye plenty of grandchildren.”
She pulled away and looked up at him, her small hands still on his belly. Searching his eyes, Helen shook her head. “But I want ye to give me a grandchild, little bairns that look like ye. Ye look so much like yer father.” Her voice and face traveled to the distant shore of past love. Duncan didn’t have a memory of his father, since he died when Duncan wasn’t quite the age of two. What he did know was what Helen had said, but more than that it was the way she looked when talking about him. She had loved the man something fierce. And she never held a look like that for Albert. Helen gazed back up at Duncan, despair apparent through her pleading eyes. “Duncan, I ken I wasn’ a good mother after—”
“’Tis fine, Ma,” he interrupted, knowing she’d say something about not being the kind of mother she should have been for him. She’d been trying to apologize ever since Albert had died.
“I should ha—”
“I said ‘tis fine.” He hadn’t needed to yell, yet turning his voice to ice had made his mother release him from her embrace, frowning. Then he felt like a royal jackass. “Sorry,” he muttered and tried to push past Helen. “I shouldn’ kept the lady waiting. She might be hurt.”
His mother caught his arm, and even though she looked as frail as a newborn foal, she held him still, scrutinizing him once more. When Duncan finally met his mother’s stare, he saw his own eyes, the same colors reflected back—green, gold, and the odd bursts of orange here and there. He bowed his head.
“Truly, ma, I’m sorry. I didn’ mean to be short with ye.”
She smiled and took a small step closer to him. “Ye’re such a good lad, Duncan.”
He shook his head, still glued to her by her grip on him.
“Ye are. Always givin’ me yer money. Makin’ my home so grand, it made me think I could invite the bonny lady into my house.”
“Ye can.”
“If she stayed with me, would ye sleep in here too?”
He shook his head again. “I don’ think the people of this town—”
“Ah, fick ‘em and what they think.”
That was almost as severe a shock as getting kicked in the bullocks, when his mother had sworn like that. She hadn’t merely said damn or some other oath he’d started using when he was a child. Nay, she’d used the big cannon of an expletive, shocking him down to his toes.
Helen started to laugh. “Ah, the look on yer face. ‘Tis priceless, my lad. Priceless.”
“Ma—” He could only mumble.
She took a quick breath. “Ye’re right. We should attend to our lady. Do ye think she likes wine? I have some, ye ken. All the way from France. My wonderful son bought it for me, probably from one of his mistresses down there. Lord in heavens, I wish the lad would settle down with a nice lady.”
He rolled his eyes. “Ma,” he huffed. “I didn’ have many mistresses in France.” He waited until she rolled her eyes too, then said, “Now when I was Venice, that was a different situation.”
She smacked him across one of his arms, while she smiled. Then she h
eld her hands over her ears as she walked back into the house. “I don’ want to hear it. To me, ye’ll always be a virgin until ye’re married. And even after that, if ye give me a grandchild, it’ll be a blessing from the Lord, granting Immaculate Conception once again on earth.”
Duncan couldn’t help but snicker as he watched his wee ma enter her house, still holding her ears. He realized it hadn’t been the first time he’d laughed today. He’d chuckled earlier with Fleur. However before today, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed. Really laughed.
The clopping of horse hooves nearing interrupted his levity. He sighed when he spotted Rory approaching at a trot, no less. Duncan raked a hand through his messy red hair, seeing the brightness of the color from the periphery of his eyes. He probably looked affright—identical to the savage he’d proclaimed himself to be earlier—and tried to catch his hair back in the leather tie at the nape of his neck. But then wondered why he’d go to such lengths when Fleur had already seen him looking more a beast than a man, like now.
As Rory approached, the bright orange and yellow setting sun hit the golden colors of his hair and his new palomino’s too, making the man appear to have a golden halo. Angelic. Fickin’ perfect, Duncan huffed, thinking of his ma’s language.
Had Fleur noticed that his new captain was a man who made grown women tremble in excitement? Had she as well?
Duncan imagined punching Rory in the jaw. As hard as he could. For no reason, of course. Not that he was jealous, he told himself.
God, he hated being home. Hated the discomfort of it all.
Through it all though, he wondered if delicate, delightful, divine Fleur thought of him, the uncomfortable oaf, at all.
Chapter 7
As Rory trotted along the dirt road, he easily spotted huge Duncan in Mrs. Cameron’s back garden, while the lovely Lady Fleur was sitting in the front, the sun’s setting rays bouncing off her dark hair, making some of it appear scarlet. He smiled. Oh, the lady’s tresses were bonny. Making him appreciate the scene before him even more was the fact that Duncan was nowhere near her. Rory had heard the women of the MacKay territory chatter about the large man—the warrior returned; the good son who had given his mother so much money, she was almost as rich as his own brother, the laird. Duncan, the man who would make the chits swoon as he silently stalked by. Although Rory knew himself to be a very different man from Duncan, if anyone was his competition, it would be him.
He took a deep breath though, thinking what he could offer the lady. Conversation for one thing. It seemed that Duncan could only talk when giving orders. Aye, the lady wouldn’t want that. Rory could talk to her at length about a variety of subjects, unlike the immense soldier. He could also seduce her with wealth. All right, Duncan might have riches too, and—Wait, Rory told himself. He was already thinking of seducing the lady?
Rory knew better. He was a gentleman after all.
He chided himself for his rushing urges, which would never win the lady to him.
Duncan started to walk along his mother’s fence line. He gave a nod and a quick wave. It wasn’t truly a wave, but more of an acknowledgement. It irritated Rory more than it probably should have. He knew Duncan in the last four years had served as a bodyguard to the Swedish king, whatever his odd name was, and as such mayhap being around lairds and lairds’ brothers might not be all that exciting anymore. Nonetheless, he thought Duncan should have more respect for his rank and authority.
Duncan somehow found his way to the front garden as Rory did. Damnation. Rory dismounted from his new horse gained from a nearby neighbor of Mrs. Cameron’s, then tied the reins to the front fence, close to the steed Duncan had stolen from him. He nodded at Duncan as the too tall man held the gate open for him. Walking through, Rory finally caught exactly where the lady sat in Mrs. Cameron’s garden. Apparently Duncan did too, for the man gurgled a kind of gasp. They both gaped as she weeded through a row of carrots. Dirt smeared along her thin hands, she looked up at both men and smiled.
“I haven’t done this since I was a kid. It’s actually kind of fun once you get into a rhythm.”
Her hair appeared to be tied in a literal knot at the back of her head. A few black strands hung around her face and neck, somehow highlighting her appearance, making her seem so soft and feminine. Delicious.
Rory heard a squawk, then looked up to see Duncan’s mother hold her hands over her mouth in horror. Finally, she came rushing from the porch of her house to the stone path, close to Lady Fleur.
“My lady, you can’t—”
“I’m sorry,” Lady Fleur said, quickly standing and wiping dirt from her extra long legs. “I—I should have asked first, but I thought I could help. I’m sorry.”
Duncan’s mother stood transfixed a few feet from Lady Fleur looking at the pile of dead weeds then to the lady’s dirty hands. “I should have done it myself. I’m so embarrassed I had weeds for ye to find.” She looked over to Rory. “Oh, Honorable MacKay, ‘tis such a pleasure to have ye at my house. Dear me, but I had weeds for the lady.”
Surmising the situation quickly, Rory said, “Nay, weeds grow so fast. ‘Tis hard to keep up. I think the lady merely wanted to help.”
Lady Fleur smiled at him and nodded. “Please, don’t be embarrassed. As, er, Mr. MacKay said, weeds can grow overnight, sometimes within hours, right? It’s the gardener’s plight, weeds. I was only trying to help. I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Cameron smiled at the lady. “Would ye care to go inside and clean up a bit? Then the lads can talk for a spell, the way they always like to do.”
Lady Fleur nodded and waved at both Duncan and Rory. “Excuse me, but I’ll be right back.”
“All right,” Rory said, then noticed Duncan held his hand up in a proper wave to Fleur who smiled as she stepped away. Duncan even bore a small grin for the lady.
Once Lady Fleur disappeared into the giant stone house, Duncan and Rory turned toward each other, both their smiles gone.
“Duncan,” was the only blasted thing he could think to say.
“Captain MacKay.” Duncan bowed his head a little.
Well, mayhap he’d overreacted earlier, Rory reconsidered, since Duncan had clearly opened with a respectable title.
“Did the troops find anything?”
Rory shook his head. “Nay. Not a thing. Not a trace of any mosstroopers either.”
Duncan grunted an acknowledgement then looked toward his mother’s house.
“I thought perhaps I should buy her new things.” Rory wanted to kick himself at the way his voice sounded a pinch intimidated—higher than usual and perhaps a tad whiny too. “Did ye ken what she lost, so I could replace whatever it was?”
Duncan looked at Rory again, his red brows arched slightly. “I can’t believe it, but I forgot to ask what she lost. Good thinking, Captain.”
The compliment mixed with the fact that clearly Duncan hadn’t thought of what Rory had shot a boost of confidence in him that he’d wished he’d had all day. Rory didn’t know what it was about Duncan, mayhap the slight age difference or the fact that the man had half a foot on him or he had much more battle experience, but he felt slightly off balance around him. Rory’s brother, John, had asked for Duncan to help train the troops, which Rory hadn’t felt he needed. But the truth was, he did. Duncan knew a hell of a lot more than he, and Rory was trying to glean as much as he could. Afterwards, he’d prefer to be rid of Duncan. Besides, wasn’t the man itching to go back to Sweden? It was obvious he hated being here by making ugly scowls every time someone said the word Durness.
But Rory thought this one of the most beautiful places in all of Scotland. He’d been to the Lowlands, he’d been to London, but for him nothing compared to MacKay country. Ach, the lochs that surrounded the land, the majestic green hills, everywhere was a treasure of colors and sights. Hell, he even loved learning about the agriculture. What kind of irrigation ditch could bring the most water to which kind of crop had been fascinating to study, and he was seriousl
y considering offering some farmers a little money for trying their hand with a few potato crops. With all his thoughts regarding the land, Rory often wondered if he might appreciate it more than his older brother, always so busy with the politics of survival, thanks to conniving Cromwell.
Rory couldn’t help but smile up at Duncan after receiving the praise. “Thank ye. That’s kind of ye to say.”
Something about Duncan seemed to relax as he nodded. But he looked toward his mother’s house again, which annoyed Rory.
“We’ll ask about her things when she returns, hmm?”
Rory nodded and reminded himself to make sure and say something before Duncan. Even if it was petty, he wanted Lady Fleur to know he had thought about her things more than Duncan had.
“I should warn ye . . .” Duncan turned back to him, his shoulders flexing as if he were nervous. “My mother asked for the lady to stay with her. After, my ma thought it best for the lady to stay in Tongue, but the request was offered nonetheless.”
Rory looked to the house too. Muffled sounds of the two women laughing filtered through the manor, and he wished he could feel carefree like that. He wanted the lady close. He wanted her within an arm’s distance, and if she stayed here . . .
Well, he’d have to find a reason to stay in Durness too, wouldn’t he? His troops needed to rest before the journey back to Tongue anyway. Why not have them holed up in the local inn and taverns? He’d splurge on them. They deserved it. Although, he wished they were more physically fit like Duncan, but they would be in time.
He decided not to say anything to Duncan just yet. Best to see what the lady wanted to do. However, it would be considered rude for Lady Fleur not to stay with Mrs. Cameron once the invite was issued, although forgivable, he thought.
He nodded and stared at the front door, hearing the women talking animatedly. Finally, Mrs. Cameron emerged with her guest, both smiling and talking about French wine.
Mrs. Cameron beckoned with a wave of her hands. “Come in, lads. We’ve decided to sup and have wine.”
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