Some Like it Scot

by Suzanne Enoch

  “So ye clubbed the deer to death before ye ate it?” Arran pursued.

  “Ye keep telling me it’s dangerous oot of doors, so I reloaded. And if ye must know, I crossed paths with an old lass and her three grandbabies. I gave them a good supper.” Munro halted to face his brother. “Is there anything else ye want to know aboot my morning?”

  Arran lifted both palms in a gesture of surrender. “Nae. I dunnae want my head knocked off my shoulders. Come play billiards with me and Lachlan when ye’ve washed the blood off ye.”

  “Lach’s here, as well? And Winnie, I suppose. And wee Colin.”

  “Aye. And my Mary and Mòrag. Is that a problem fer ye, bràthair?”

  Munro shook himself. “Nae. If I’d known the MacLawry army was here, I would’ve killed a bigger buck.”

  “Or nae have eaten half of it on the way home.” Arran chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder.

  “Aye. Go away. I’ll be down in a bit.”

  He’d grown up in a large, loud household, and the only difference two wee lads and a lass, his nephews and niece, had made was that the MacLawrys—and in Lachlan and Winnie’s case, the MacTiers—could now see a future that a few years ago they hadn’t truly been able to imagine.

  “Comb yer damned mane while ye’re at it. Get yerself civilized so ye dunnae frighten the wee ones.”

  And that was the rub. Today with the rain and blood soaking into his shirt, with a mysterious lass leveling a musket at him, returning to bairns and wives at Glengask all seemed so … domestic. Two years ago the MacLawrys had been the strongest, fiercest, most progress-minded clan in the Highlands. This morning, though, he could swear he’d heard Ranulf singing to his seven-month-old son and heir, William. Ranulf, whose glare had caused more than one man to piss himself.

  At least Munro had been able to go out hunting, however poorly that had ended. The rest of them, though, were definitely not about to frighten any stray Gerdenses or Campbells into surrendering. Not any longer. Not with bairns tucked against their breasts, wives on their arms, and lullabies on their lips.

  After he’d bathed and changed into a clean kilt and shirt and his old boots, he went and tracked down Ranulf. The head of clan MacLawry leaned against the door frame of the nursery, gazing at the loud, crawling chaos of babies and their mamas inside. And damn it all, he was smiling.

  “Ran?”

  The marquis straightened, turning to face him. “That was good of ye, to give over half the buck to the widow woman. They’ve more need of it than we do.”

  Of course Ranulf would have heard the tale already. There wasn’t much that happened in the Highlands without his knowledge. “I—”

  “And the next time ye go off by yerself to hunt, I’ll set my hounds after ye.” He indicated the two large deerhounds lying close to the wall in the hallway and likely attempting to escape the notice of the babies. “Peace with the Campbells or nae, ye’d still be a prize kill fer some.”

  Munro nodded. He could argue the point, but he would lose. It was easier to simply agree and then ignore the warning. “I went by Haldane Abbey,” he said, instead of conceding. “The whole south wing’s gone now.”

  “I havenae even thought aboot the abbey fer years.” The marquis tilted his head. “What sent ye that far south on foot?”

  “Ye didnae give it over to anyone, did ye? Some cotter and his kin? I thought I saw footprints aboot it. Old ones, but it made me curious.”

  “Nae. I’d nae risk anyone there, even fer a single night.” Ranulf gazed at him. “Do ye ken it means trouble?”

  Bloody wonderful. The last thing he wanted was to send lads out there to hear from the trouser lass that she’d already leveled a gun on him. “I think it’s more likely some of the village lads looking fer spirits over the summer. We used to do it.” He shrugged. “The next time I head oot that way I’ll take a closer look to be certain.”

  “The next time ye head oot that way with Debny or some of the other lads to keep ye company,” Ranulf amended, squatting to pick up a black-haired bairn crawling for the dogs. “Dunnae take unnecessary risks, bràthair. I’m nae jesting with ye.”

  For a moment Munro divided his attention between the Marquis of Glengask and his seven-month-old son. The next marquis, the next head of clan MacLawry, presently trying to eat his father’s fine white shirt. “It seems to me, bràthair,” he returned, reaching out to run a forefinger carefully along the wee bairn’s ear, “that I’m the only MacLawry who can take risks, these days. And ye need a man who can.”

  “Bear, ye—”

  “Ye ken that’s true, Ran. Ye may be civilized now, but the Highlands arenae. I dunnae mean to fling myself off a cliff, but I’m nae domesticated. And if I choose to go oot hunting from time to time, I’m seven-and-twenty. I reckon that’s old enough to be able to decide fer myself what I’m willing to risk.”

  The marquis eyed him. “Then perhaps it’s time I find ye a wife to settle ye doon.”

  “Hm.” Tired with being threatened today, Munro turned on his heel. “I suggest ye dunnae, if ye ever want to see me again. If I want a wife, I’ll find one fer myself.”

  “Havenae ye already bedded every unmarried lass in the Highlands?” his brother asked. “Nae a one’s caught yer attention?”

  “I’ve bedded barely three quarters of ’em.” And that wasn’t even counting the redhead in the trousers. “A night’s fun, aye, but a lifetime? Ye’re giving me the shivers.”

  “Times are changing, Bear. Ye need to change, as well, or ye’ll find yerself left behind.”

  Given the alternative, being left behind didn’t sound so terrible. At any rate, not having a wife and bairns left him free to scout Haldane Abbey again. The trouser lass had called it her place, which said to him that she’d settled in there. He therefore had a fair suspicion he’d be seeing her again, and that the next time he did so, he wouldn’t be the one caught unawares.

  Chapter Two

  “Elizabeth, it’s me,” Catriona MacColl announced in a low voice, making her way over a fallen doorway archway in the long hallway, down an uneven trio of stairs, and into the one solid room remaining in the old fortress.

  Or relatively solid, rather. She could see the sky in one corner, and rain trickled down the wall to gather in a growing pool creeping outward with spidery tentacles. Mostly because of the existence of several old worktables and a dented teapot she’d decided this room had once been the kitchen.

  At any rate, the old ruin had never had a proper stove that she could tell. Its last occupancy had been too long ago for such an innovation. Instead, a chest-high fireplace fitted with iron shelves and a turning rack squatted against the middle of the longest wall. The room was large and windowless, and in the days when it had been fashionable for nobles to eat food cooked on a hearth, the rack would have been turned by a servant boy or even a dog in a wheel.

  Since she had neither of those, she nudged the pile of blankets beside the hearth with the toe of her boot. “Elizabeth. Did ye put the water on to boil?” she asked, even though she could clearly see that no pot hung over the fire.

  The blankets stirred. “The water had a cricket in it.” Hazel eyes with long, straight lashes blinked beneath a neat coif of dark blond hair.

  “So ye scooped it out and put on the water, aye?” Catriona dragged a heavy, three-legged table nearer the light of the fire and set down the venison to slice it into strips and then cubes with her boot knife. She needed to sharpen the damned thing; it was nearly like sawing with a spoon.

  “I hope we haven’t yet sunk to something that barbaric,” Elizabeth MacColl returned in her proper London tones. “I dumped it out in our pond, there.”

  Catriona stifled a sigh and sawed harder. “Then ye went out and fetched another pot of water, I assume.”

  The blankets stood. “You told me not to go outside. And I’m certainly not going to use the stuff running down the walls.”

  “Boiling it would’ve killed the cricket, ye know.”

&
nbsp; “But not my memory of it being there, paddling across the surface.” Elizabeth shuddered. “Honestly, Cat, why couldn’t we stay at an inn? You said this was MacLawry land. They take in refugees. And an inn would have been warmer and drier than this. And you wouldn’t have to hunt our dinner. Or cook it.”

  “I reckon this is safer,” Catriona returned. “And it’s nothing I’m nae accustomed to. Now. Will ye cut up the wild onions while I fetch more water?”

  “Yes, of course.” Elizabeth shrugged out of the blankets. She wore a pretty yellow muslin beneath a wool mauve-colored spencer jacket, fit for the fanciest drawing rooms in London. “I am trying to be helpful, you know. If you need anything sewn or embroidered, you’ll be happy I’m here.”

  “I’m happy now, ye goose.” Catriona straightened to hug her younger sister with the arm that wasn’t streaked with deer blood.

  “I don’t know why.” Taking the knife gingerly, Elizabeth began tentatively smashing the onions to bits. “I didn’t mean for my first letter to you in five years to be a request for aid. I meant to stay in touch with you, as I promised.”

  “I could’ve sent ye a missive or two, myself. We were both too busy, I suppose.” Cutting ties had also made for less conflict within the two households, but they both knew that.

  Elizabeth sniffed, though Catriona wasn’t certain whether it was from the onions or her sentiments. “When I saw you on my doorstep, Cat, I…” She grimaced. “I should have scooped out the cricket.”

  Catriona kissed the top of her sister’s—half sister’s—hair. “I’m wet through, anyway. Another stroll through the rain’ll be refreshing.”

  As if to counter her optimism, thunder rumbled in the distance. But today the weather concerned her less than did one of the Highlands’s other hazards. She’d hardly expected a six-and-a-half-foot man to come creeping through the trees like a great, silent, black-haired lion. He’d likely tracked the buck for some time, given the sad state of his clothes, but she’d been crouched there for three damned hours, waiting for a deer to stroll by and not daring to stray farther away from where she’d placed her sister.

  Aye, she likely should have let him have the kill, but he hadn’t looked nearly as hungry as she felt. When he’d let her take her share of the meat and go, she’d thought herself safe—a fellow poacher wasn’t likely to cause a stir over something as plentiful here as red deer. Aside from that, she was no unsuspecting buck out for a stroll, and he was as big as a wall. But for Saint Bridget’s sake, he was quiet. Thank goodness she’d kept to her habit of looking back after she’d jumped the wall, or he might have remained undiscovered on her trail until he’d suddenly appeared in the kitchen. She stifled a shiver, not wanting to have to relate this latest bit of trouble to Elizabeth.

  Retrieving the pot they’d acquired, she slipped back up the hallway to stop just inside what remained of the front doors. The wind had picked up, but she couldn’t detect anything out of place—and no sign of the giant. It wouldn’t remain that way, though. As happy as she’d been to find this place in the middle of the wilds, they couldn’t stay now. The big man would return with his laird, no doubt, and drive the MacColl sisters out. Or worse.

  Yes, she was fairly certain they’d found themselves on MacLawry land, but the MacLawrys were a fairy tale, as far as she was concerned. Lord Glengask, the stories said, welcomed both his own people and those fleeing from other clans as their lairds turned their farms and cottages and shacks into grazing land for damned Cheviot sheep.

  She scowled. Glengask would have no reason or cause to welcome either her or Elizabeth, regardless, and several fine reasons to turn them away. If she’d been alone, she would have finished packing her things and disappeared deeper into the wilderness by now. But she wasn’t alone, and she didn’t know how much more wild living Elizabeth had left in her.

  As cold and full of leaks and holes as this old fortress was, it remained a definite improvement over most of the other places they’d lately found themselves. In London, people—or those marginal citizens whose paths she’d crossed in the late hours—noticed her attire. Out here, however, no one looked askance at her. Well, no one but Elizabeth, of course.

  She squatted by the small stream running behind the ruins and filled the pot with fresh, cold water. Taking the moment to wash her hands and wipe her palms on her trousers, she smiled at how uncivilized and unfashionable she must have looked to Anne Derby-MacColl when she’d arrived in London—what had it been?—five weeks ago, now. The combination of loathing and I-told-you-so satisfaction on her stepmother’s face had nearly made her laugh. Well, Mrs. Derby-MacColl wasn’t laughing now, she’d wager. In fact, Catriona was surprised they couldn’t hear her throwing one of her tantrums all the way up into the Highlands.

  No, the trousers she wore both fit her and kept her warm, but she’d learned a long time ago that they definitely made her more noticeable. And today she had been noticed. She needed to solve this new problem, not dwell on old ones.

  Very well, then. She would pack up their belongings, such as they were, and shift them into the shallow cave she’d discovered halfway up the valley. She and Elizabeth would stay in the ruins, because, well, the nineteen-year-old couldn’t even put up her own hair. The mere idea of sleeping in a cave would send her into a faint.

  That way she and Elizabeth would only need to get themselves somewhere safe if the big man reappeared. If Catriona saw no sign of him over the next few days, she would bring their things back into the ruin again. As wrecked as the old building was, it felt safer than moving about in another clan’s territory. And with winter edging ever closer, she needed somewhere with at least a partial roof over them.

  Uneasiness shivered down her spine. The Highlands loved winter; deep and brutal and long, the two seemed reluctant to part company for the other three seasons. And the chill had her giving the one heavy blanket they had over to Elizabeth already. In a few weeks a drafty old ruin like that could become nearly as deadly as being caught out of doors. Frowning, Catriona returned as swiftly as she could to the house.

  Elizabeth had moved on to finish cubing the venison, and with a short smile Catriona hung the pot over the fire. Her sister might have no idea how to live in the Highlands, but she was making an attempt, anyway. That left it to her to make the experience as safe and livable as possible. She sent an assessing look around the room. The old kitchen remained fairly intact, except for that west corner of the roof, and the wall below it that had partly collapsed into the neighboring room. If they meant to winter here, she had some repairs to make. Old Tom and his simple son Connor would have had it seen to in a week, but Old Tom was better than a hundred miles away, and she wouldn’t send for him even if she could. No, this was her task, and she needed to figure out how to make their temporary home secure against intruders and the weather.

  If that mountainous lad hunted here, perhaps a village lay closer than she’d realized. Hm. It would be risky, but she needed a hammer and a saw, and a selection of other items while she was at it. Of course none of her potential thievery would matter if the giant came calling again, but it seemed well past time they found some luck.

  Once the water boiled, the smoke from the fireplace hopefully blending into the rain and clouds, she dumped in the onions and venison, and a sprinkling of the salt she’d taken from the last inn they’d passed through. As far as cooking went it was beyond simple, but at least the contents were plentiful.

  “Your clothes are steaming, you know,” Elizabeth pointed out. “If you catch pneumonia I’d … Well, I don’t know what I would do. And that’s the trouble, isn’t it?”

  “This isnae my first rainstorm, Elizabeth,” Catriona countered, but she went over to their bags and found a fresh shirt and trousers, anyway. Half the lads between London and the Highlands were missing clothes after she passed through, but she’d left a bit of coin where she could. That would have to do. “Better?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  Catriona used the mom
ent to stuff hairbrushes and a shawl and other incidentals back into their sacks and satchels, trying her best to make it look as if she’d merely felt the need to tidy up. With any luck, Elizabeth wouldn’t even realize anything had changed.

  “What are you doing?” her sister asked on the tail of that thought.

  “I … may have caught sight of someone,” Catriona admitted, keeping her voice cool and level. “If we need to move, I dunnae want us delayed.”

  Elizabeth knelt beside her. “Cat, all of this trouble is my fault. You don’t need to hide things from me. Especially danger.”

  “It isnae yer fault. It’s yer mother’s fault, and all ye did was have the courage to say nae to it. As for the rest, I’d appreciate if ye’d allow me to be the older sister and do the worrying for the both of us.”

  “You are worried, then.”

  “I’m cautious,” Catriona amended, and handed over a deck of playing cards from her pack. “A game of piquet while we wait for stew?”

  Her sister grinned. “Yes, please.”

  Two hours later Catriona sat cross-legged on the floor to eat, while Elizabeth took the house’s single chair. Trousers, hunting, and eating with her fingers—she imagined her own mother would faint from embarrassment at the mere thought of it, though from her father’s stories, Caitir MacColl had been eminently practical. Perhaps she would have approved, after all—if not of the circumstances, then of her only child’s consequent actions. As for her father, well, if Randall MacColl hadn’t gone and caught the fever, then none of this would be happening. If he’d been alive, a great many things would be different right now. Of that she was certain.

  “I wish we had more books,” Elizabeth said into the silence, startling her a little. “We could read to each other in the evenings, instead of imagining what must be going on in London. Or thinking about what we’ll do once winter settles in.”

  Whether Catriona had ever spared a thought for the goings-on in London or not, she needed to remind herself that as young and sheltered as Elizabeth was, her sister wasn’t an idiot. “I think with a few minor repairs this place would do us quite well for the winter. As for London, ye’ll see it again. And ye’ll have a few fine stories to tell aboot yer time away.” She patted her sister’s foot. “I‘m sorry ye had to leave yer books behind. They were too heavy to carry. But I’ll find ye a tome or two.”