Highlander of Mine

by Red L. Jameson

  She shrugged. “Well, awful’s a strong word.”

  “But applicable, I’m sorry to admit.”

  She studied him taking in everything, he was sure. Could she see straight to his heart? Until yesterday, he wasn’t sure he even had one anymore.

  He inhaled a sharp breath. “I’m out of practice. I’ve been alone a lot.”

  “You’ve been a mercenary?”

  He nodded. “Well, the last few years I’ve been a protector, a personal guard to a good man, a wealthy man, so—”

  “You were around people in that time then. What do you mean you’re out of practice?”

  “Well, aye, I was around people. And I told ‘em where I thought a suspected threat might be comin’ from. I planned with other men how best to protect our charge, but conversing...talking about anythin’ beyond my sword or someone else’s, I haven’ done in a while.”

  She nodded. “That I can understand. I can understand that really well, actually. I’m a bit the same. I talk about my work a lot, my job, my career, my—does that translate?”

  His hands stopped, but he nodded. “Ye have a job of work?”

  She nodded with another rueful smile. “I—this might sound so crazy to you—but I’m a scientist. A—um, what would it be called here?—a philosopher of the material kind? Does that make sense?”

  “Aye,” he said skeptically. He didn’t want to believe this part. But the more she talked, the more he did.

  “I’m a genealogist, which basically means I study where people came from. Now, if you don’t believe me, what I’m about to say might lead to you wanting to burn me at a stake for witchcraft, but I figure out where people descended from, and my research goes back thousands and thousands of years.”

  He was amazed at what she was telling him. “Oh,” was all he could blurt out. Remarkably, his knees felt weak, as if she’d hit him over the head. He saw a nearby patch of soft grass. “Mayhap we could sit for a spell. Let me work this over in my mind.”

  “Yeah, sure.” She smiled and followed him closely, sitting less than a few inches from him.

  She looked up at him expectantly, and that’s when he realized he could no longer hide from the truth. He believed her. He wished it wasn't so, because that would mean she would leave, go back from whence she had come.

  “Ye like yer job?” His voice cracked more than usual.

  She nodded. “It—it’s been the one thing in my life that has given me a sense of accomplishment and . . .” She seemed to be searching for words that Duncan knew too well.

  “It gives yer life meanin’, eh? It makes it seem that while yer doing what ye do that all’s well. That things aren’t as bad as it might be.”

  “Yes,” she answered breathlessly.

  He nodded and looked away from her. “I don’t mean to be awful, especially not to ye. I’m out of practice talkin’ and the like, but one reason why I’m not my best is that I hate bein’ here.” From his periphery, he caught her looking at him and continued. “’Tis the town I was born and raised, and I suppose I should love it, but I don’t ken how I feel. I hate it, but then I don’t. I love it and miss it terribly, especially my ma and brothers—” He couldn’t talk after he’d brought them up. By now he should have fetched them, brought them where they belonged. Here.

  Fleur wrapped her long delicate fingers around one of his hands. Lord, she must have been a princess of science, for her hands looked so refined and elegant. He couldn’t stop himself, but placed his other hand over hers, ensuring she keep touching him.

  “I think we have a lot in common.” She smiled. “Because I know exactly what you’re talking about. It’s such an odd dichotomy, the love we have for our family and then the feelings that are...less than love. The utter loyalty we have towards a place, without understanding why.”

  He smiled down at her, finding that she had discovered the exact words for what he’d been struggling for. Fleur scooted closer to him, settling her hip against his, one of her arms melding with his. Slowly she leaned her lovely head on his shoulder, her delicate floral scent wafting around him, making him hold his breath in the hopes she might never move again.

  “My grandmother opted to send me away when I was fourteen. I know why she did it. I know she was trying to give me a better future, and I know many kids have life a lot worse than I did, and, hell, I met many kids in my same predicament. But the hurt and resentment was still there, and no matter how much I tried to circumnavigate it, it came back. Then, ten years later, my Na needed me because she was dying. I returned to my hometown, Porcupine, where I was born and raised, and hated it and loved it. Resented everyone around me and adored them. Through it all, I should have taken really good care of my Na, and I tried so hard, but I asked her why she’d done it, why she’d sent me away. She’d tried to tell me, and some part of me listened, but then...I should have done better for my Na. I lost her, and I can’t help but think that I’m here to help your ma.” She looked up suddenly, her eyes wide. “I mean—not that Helen’s—”

  “She’s sick, aye. I ken.” It pained him to admit as much out loud, and that was when he realized how dreadfully skilled he’d been at not admitting things to himself. He patted her hand, because he knew Fleur was trying to comfort him, but he feared for his mother too.

  “I think”—she wrapped her hand more firmly around his— “I can take care of her, make her life comfortable and maybe even fun. I think I’m here to make up for what I didn’t do for my Na.”

  That made sense, and honestly it did him good to think that she was here to help him do what he thought he was botching horribly. Mayhap Fleur was here for his ma, but he would learn from her. He didn’t want his mother to die and think he was an ungrateful son. God, the thought tore him to pieces.

  He reached an arm around Fleur’s shoulders, pulling her even closer. He’d hoped in the process he’d feel something more akin to brotherly toward her. But he didn’t. Her scent tormented him, and he wanted to kiss her neck. He wanted to lay her down and mayhap roll on her and . . .

  Jesus, he needed to feel something more amiable concerning her. Something friendly, but not too close. After all, she was a gift from the fae, and going to leave at any moment. It would be futile to spend his time and energy on a woman he couldn’t have.

  That little pearl of insight bit him right on the arse. Not that long ago, it wouldn’t have bothered him to expend a little time on a woman he’d never see again. In fact, he’d preferred it that way.

  Duncan scanned Fleur’s sweet face, unable to help himself as his stare focused a wee bit more on her lips. Aye, Fleur had positively left her mark on him if he already worried about her leaving, worried that it would hurt when she did.

  Chapter 11

  Fleur and Duncan were right where Mrs. Cameron had guessed they might be, a few rods from her house yet protected from view by a small hill covered with heather. Rory spied them sitting as if the sun was out just for them, smiling at each other. Duncan sat with his legs bent before him, but the lady rested with her legs angled to the side, letting her black skirt hide her long limbs, except for a peep of her colorful moccasins.

  They were talking. Talking! Damnation. The huge mercenary wasn’t supposed to open his mouth with words. He was supposed to be a brute who would mumble and grunt and disgrace himself to the lady.

  The wind carried much of their conversation to him.

  “Truly?” Duncan said while smiling down at Lady Fleur. “How’d ye take the dirk from the lad?”

  She shrugged. “I didn’t really think he’d use it, but it pissed me off, er, I got mad that he’d even try. I reacted before I thought through what I was doing, and” —she snapped her fingers— “like that I had his little knife.”

  Duncan grimaced and leaned away from the lady. “Beggin’ ye pardon, but ye never call a man’s, even if he is still a lad, sgian dubh little.”

  “The knife is a skain doo?”

  “Aye.”

  “And I can’t call
it little?”

  Duncan shook his head reproachfully as the lady silently chuckled. The huge man broke out in a smile of his own and leaned closer to her once more.

  “But”—her smile turned wicked— “what if it is...small?”

  Duncan slapped a hand over his heart and fell over backwards, making the lady giggle loudly.

  Lord, the double entendre was killing Rory. He felt it stab through his innards, his head ached. Especially so as the lady leaned over Duncan, a few of her long black strands seeming to reach down for the mercenary when she asked, “Did I kill you?”

  “Just ‘bout.”

  She laughed again. Eventually, Duncan righted himself and they moved on to the subject of places they’d visited.

  Rory was here to ask the lady for her company to watch the men drill today, but now he wasn’t sure if he could go back to train his young troops, even with the latest intelligence that a small band of Cromwell’s army was approaching in a fortnight or less. He wasn’t sure if he could do much of anything. It hurt that the lady was paying so much attention to the big man who Rory secretly resented yet admired. He didn’t know if it was his pride that stung more or...nay, he couldn’t have fallen for the lady so soon. Ah, but she was bonny. Clever too. He’d fancied himself with her, leaning on her for support. Mayhap they would be friends at first, then eventually she would be more to him, much more.

  Last night he’d spent hours envisioning her legs around him. Jesus, but those legs of hers were spectacular. And her lips were divine. He’d dreamed of kissing her senseless. Bah, what good were dreams? He’d always had a dream of being the laird, but his brother obviously would have that title, what with being the first-born son, while Rory was the second. Although he was fifteen years his senior, John seemed strong and capable of ruling for an eon. Besides, Rory really wanted to be a clan leader like the days of yore—less politics and more about commanding the troops and raising good crops. He knew he didn’t have the political acumen his brother had, especially in light of Cromwell. The clan needed someone with a mind that could outwit the scheming parliamentary ruler.

  John was best as laird. Rory knew that. But he had begun to hope the lady would...what did it matter? Obviously, she seemed to fancy the mercenary. During these insane times, largely thanks to Cromwell and other absurd thinkers, ladies could be with whom they wanted, not caring for titles any more, it seemed. It made Rory unsure about his place, but then again, no one seemed to know their place any more. Mayhap especially the mercenary down below.

  “No, no, when you were little,” Rory heard Fleur say. “What did you want to do back then?”

  Duncan shrugged. “’Tis silly.”

  “I like silly.”

  The huge man captured a wave of her black hair and gently caressed it behind her ear. The rest of her raven’s tresses were seized in a wild knot with braids seeming to bind it together. It looked messy and so lovely. To Rory, it reminded him of tales of the women who had lived before time was time. He thought of the fae and of otherworldly creatures.

  He thought of his heart and how he had already begun to long for Lady Fleur. No other woman had captured his attention like her. Well, for the last six years he’d been dealing with aristocratic brats. Spoiled women, who knew how to give orders to their maids, but had never worked a day in their lives. It was disgusting to watch and to associate with. He’d gotten to bed many of them, but he could have cared less if they’d opened their mouths to speak. Nay, that wasn’t quite true, for he’d yearned to have one of them talk of anything other than gossip. But he hadn’t found a one.

  That was why he realized how rare a gift Lady Fleur was.

  “I—I thought up stories when I was a lad,” Duncan confessed to the lady. “Like the ones ye heard last night. I used to think up stories all the time.”

  The monster of a man used to tell tales to himself? That was almost laughable, Rory thought. Not that Rory would laugh at him, but more, he’d thought that Duncan was all soldier, too tough to do anything other than think with his sword.

  Fleur swatted Duncan’s giant shoulder playfully. “Then you, sir, I’m going to have to call a liar.”

  Duncan narrowed his eyes.

  “Last night you told me you didn’t have any tales to tell. And you said it rather rudely too.”

  Duncan nodded. “Sorry. I was bein’ an arse.”

  “Yes, you were.”

  The large man smiled at that, then reluctantly shrugged. “Aye, well, I don’t any more. Have tales to tell. I stopped thinkin’ ‘em a long time ago.”

  Then Rory’s gut wrenched as Fleur found a lock of Duncan’s too long, harsh red hair and tucked it behind his ear, as he’d done earlier to her. She smiled widely. “I guess we have to change that, huh?”

  “I don’ see what good that would do.”

  She sighed. “Because you can’t give up on your dreams, Duncan.”

  As much as it ached to hear Lady Fleur use the mercenary’s Christian name, it made Rory stop and think. You can’t give up on your dreams, floated through his head. He liked the sentiment. It felt good and resonated in his bones. Mayhap the lady might fancy the large Duncan a little, but last night it had seemed she’d fancied him too. The lady perhaps struggled with her affections. Well, Rory would be all too happy to help her set them straight.

  Duncan was a vagabond. A rich one, but still he was a wanderer. Rory could offer the lady stability. But more than that, Rory knew he could offer the lady a life where she would be respected and respectable. What could Duncan offer her? He chose to be a nobody.

  Aye, the lady was right in her advice to Duncan. It was guidance Rory would take to heart. He would make the lady his, prove himself to her. For with her, he could think about the future of the MacKay lands, how to make it grow and prosper. With her he knew he could dream.

  Chapter 12

  Fleur ventured outside in the dead of the night, feeling restless. Already three days here, and...and...it felt like home. That just couldn’t be. Maybe it was because Helen had been so accommodating and funny—telling hilarious stories of when Duncan was a wee bairn. It made Fleur’s day watching him blush from some of the accounts. Maybe it was because there was an established a daily routine already. Fleur knew the studies, how primates acclimated to different environments due to routines. In the morning and early afternoon she and Helen watched Duncan and Rory train the recruits; the late afternoons were with Jamie and his harmless gang, stealing apples from orchards and laughing so hard she would sometimes cry; and then she’d have nightly suppers with Duncan, Rory, and Helen. Rory would eventually take his leave. Helen would shuffle to her room to slumber. And tonight, Fleur couldn’t sleep to save her life.

  Finding a small fire pit just outside the back garden, she began to construct kindling atop each other. Fire building had been a trick she’d easily recalled from her childhood. It was something Na and her uncles had taught her. Finding a flint rock and long knife close by, she took a huge breath then struck the knife against the rock. It took several efforts, since she’d never used nor ever been shown how to use a flint rock, but finally she created a whirlwind of sparks, somehow landing in the tinder and catching fire.

  “Ye did good.”

  Fleur squeaked, jumping with the knife outstretched, but Duncan caught her hand and softly pushed the threat aside with a giant smile, as the brown plaid she’d worn to shield her from the chilly night fluttered to the ground.

  “Fast little Valkyrie, aren’t ye?”

  “You scared the crap out of me.”

  His red brows drew up, and he looked like he was trying to stifle a laugh.

  “Seriously, you scared me. Feel my heart. It’s beating like...I don’t even know what.”

  The smile on his face vanished when he gazed at her chest. She wasn’t exactly descent, at least by this century’s standards. But how could a woman wear a corset or that awful kirtle all day and not tear her hair out? So she was in a white shift. Not one of the more trans
lucent ones she now had thanks to Helen. This chemise was petal soft with silver-white embroidered roses all around the hemlines.

  Duncan swallowed. Hard.

  Oh, she liked that.

  Throwing the knife down, blade thunking into the ground, she found his hand, placing it over her heart even as she knew she was stretching boundaries. But she just couldn’t seem to help herself.

  “See? Feel my heart?”

  He nodded.

  His hand was a lot bigger than she’d thought and swallowed almost half her chest. His pinky finger was dangerously close to her nipple, and she knew he felt the swell of her breast. His face tensed, his eyes growing even darker than forest green.

  She needed to stop torturing the man, but it was so much fun. However, it was turning a bit punishing for her too, what with her sexual desire augmenting and nothing to do about it.

  “And that’s why you can’t scare me. My heart does that.”

  He opened his mouth, looking like he was going to say something—maybe something a little naughty. But he took a sip of a breath and lowered to his haunches helping her fire grow.

  They pieced together the sticks and logs over the flames. He’d peek at her, shyly smiling. God, she really liked how sweet he was. Gentle. Something about him made her feel as if she was...home. Only, like nothing she knew before. But she wanted to.

  “I was about three or four, and I remember my Uncle Steve telling me how to look for wood that would mesh well together for a fire,” she said, amazed she was telling him personal information. Usually guarded and uncomfortable, she’d never talk about herself. But Duncan was unlike any man she’d ever known before. He felt damned good to be around, and she had often found herself craving his company in these last three days.