Some Like it Scot

by Suzanne Enoch

  “Smoked pork.” Enough to last them a fortnight, if they were careful with it. In this part of the Highlands, smoked pork that looked and smelled this fine was nearly worth its weight in gold. Yet he’d managed both it and the Shakespeare, and honey, within a day.

  “We seem to have acquired a benefactor,” her sister commented, showing Catriona a large sack of salt and a sealskin slicker. “You won’t get soaked to the skin if you have to go out in the rain.”

  As her sister shook open the slicker, a small, shiny object fell to the table with a sharp, hard clatter. Catriona’s heart stammered, then began pounding. A silver spoon.

  Damnation. Yes, she’d asked for just such a thing, but first of all she’d been jesting, and second of all, well, she’d never expected him to actually deliver one to her. She picked it up and turned it in the firelight. On the front of the handle a capital G in lovely cursive formed part of a rose. “Damnation,” she said aloud, dropping it again.

  “What’s amiss?”

  “That spoon belongs to the Marquis of Glengask. Or his household, at the least.”

  “Do you think this Bear person stole it?”

  “He either stole it, or he came by it legitimately,” she returned. “What I mean to say is, look at all this. No poacher or cotter could afford such fine bread, and that doesnae even take into account the honey or the pork, or the slicker. If he’s a thief, he may well lead Glengask’s men to come looking here. If he’s part of the household, he may tell Glengask aboot us, anyway. We need to go.”

  “But he said we were welcome to stay.”

  “And the Duke of Visford said ye were welcome to be his new bride. Do ye think that was oot of the kindness of his heart?”

  She immediately regretted the comparison as Elizabeth shuddered, clutching her blanket more tightly around her shoulders. Closing her mouth, she hugged her sister. Whatever she knew, whatever she might have said to someone older or less … delicate, she supposed it was, Elizabeth was who she was. And above everything else, Elizabeth needed to be both protected and looked after.

  “That was a poor comparison,” she said slowly. “This Bear hasnae done anything threatening. My only concern is that he knows where we’re laying our heads. Or where I am, anyway. I dunnae think he knows about ye. I would prefer that no one at all knew what we were about, or had any idea of where we might be found.”

  “If you assume everyone in the world means us harm, then does it even make a difference if you keep me away from London until I reach my majority?” her sister countered. “By your way of thinking, I’ll never be out of danger, and we should live like hermits for the remainder of our lives, huddled and frightened in some cave or something.”

  And she’d been about to suggest they spend the night in the cave where she’d hidden their supplies. Even so, she found it hard to believe that she was being too distrustful. “Perhaps he’s merely a kindhearted giant,” she said after a moment, “and perhaps he’s trying to keep us here while he inquires about whether any females have gone missing and if there might be a reward for their return. I dunnae ken which one it is, but I think it’d be foolish to completely ignore one possibility in favor of the other simply because it’s easier to do so.”

  Elizabeth picked up the discarded spoon. “And no doubt Mother has offered a reward for my return.” She sighed. “It’s only that this”—and she gestured at the peeling walls around them—“is the wildest place I’ve ever been. If you think it doesn’t keep us hidden enough, of course we should go. But when do we reach the point where we’re someplace so wretched that surrendering begins to sound like the better alternative?”

  Never. But that was her, accustomed to a rougher life, taught to shoot when she’d barely been big enough to hold a gun, shown how to live off the land because that was what her fierce, independent ancestors had done. And because she’d been raised by a father who had no use for frilly gowns and fine china. Or females in general, really. For a long moment she gazed at her sister’s profile. Far more than five years of age divided them.

  “We’ll stay here, then.” She interrupted her sister’s relieved exclamation with a fist against the tabletop. “For the time being. If the giant gives any sign of doing more than leaving us bread and honey, or if he brings anyone else along with him, we will be leaving. Agreed?”

  Elizabeth nodded. “Agreed.”

  As if to emphasize the wisdom of that decision thunder rumbled through the rooms, the boom rattling the walls and sending several stones tumbling out in the hallway. On the tail of that, rain began pouring down the chimney so hard it sent the fire hissing and sputtering.

  Then the hail began, striking the floor above the kitchen like miniballs from a cannon. Well. That settled that. She refused to believe in divine intervention—the time when that might have been useful to either her or Elizabeth had passed several weeks ago—but she wouldn’t risk their lives to flee during a hailstorm.

  Whatever her apparently generous neighbor thought to accomplish by leaving treats on her doorstep, though, she had her own plans. And they did not involve remaining here at Haldane Abbey long enough for him to cause her more trouble. She had enough to worry over without adding Bear to the mix.

  * * *

  The cook scowled when Munro strolled into the kitchen. “Nae again, Laird Bear,” she said, clucking at him.

  “Nae what?” Munro returned, eyeing the large cooking spoon she waggled in his direction.

  “Ye cannae possibly be hungry. I swear ye ate half a cow fer breakfast.”

  “I’m still a growing lad, Mrs. Forrest,” he said, and scooped a full tray of fresh sugar biscuits into a cloth.

  The spoon rapped him across the knuckles. “Those are fer the bairns and their mamas!”

  Wincing, he flexed his fingers. “Get away, ye madwoman. I can see ye’ve another tray in the oven. The bairns willnae starve. They dunnae even have teeth, most of ’em.”

  “Their mamas do.”

  Ignoring the cook still batting at him and her helpers busily trying not to let her see them laughing, he opened a likely looking canister, only to step back at the abrupt, pungent odor. “What the blessed hell is that?”

  “Dried bay leaves. Leave them be!”

  He set the lid back on. “Seems to me ye should have a care where ye keep yer poisons, Mrs. Forrest.”

  “It’s nae a poison. Go away, ye big brute of a man, before ye curdle the milk!”

  “Fine. I’ll go, if ye make me up a hot porridge to take oot fishing. And a loaf of bread.” Munro sent another look about the large, warm kitchen. “And that roasted game hen.”

  “The whole hen?”

  “Aye. I cannae get enough of yer fine cooking, lass.”

  The rotund lass flushed. “That’s what ye said two days ago when ye emptied the larder. I was nae flattered then, and I’m nae flattered now.”

  This was going to be troublesome if it continued much longer. Even his legendary appetite could only explain so much. Stifling his annoyance at being delayed from doing something to which he’d already set his mind, Munro favored her with his most charming smile. “I cannae help myself,” he drawled. “Whenever I set eyes upon ye a mighty hunger comes over me.” Taking her ample waist in his hands, he drew her up against him. “I’ll either have ye, or I’ll have yer cooking.”

  The other kitchen maids were howling with laughter, and finally with a guffaw Mrs. Forrest shoved at his chest. “Och, ye naughty lad. Go and fetch a basket, Willa, so we can make up a proper picnic luncheon fer Laird Bear.”

  A basket. Definitely more presentable than a sack, but he would have to make up a tale later when he didn’t return with it. If this kept up much longer—and he hoped it would—he would have to begin purchasing food items from the village. Ranulf and the family would only believe so many stories about chance encounters with widow women and their hungry grandbabies, and why he was apparently now eating at least double what he generally consumed.

  Debny the head groom h
ad already tied a fishing pole to Saturn’s saddle, and Munro secured the large, cumbersome picnic basket himself. The big gray had been bred from generations of warhorses, animals who had both the stamina and strength to bear knights wearing full armor into battle. A fishing pole and luncheon basket were hardly a challenge, but from the way Saturn turned his head to eye his burdens, he thought them well beneath his dignity.

  “I put an apple in my pocket fer ye, so dunnae complain,” Munro said, swinging up into the saddle.

  The groom emerged from the stable. “M’laird, yer brother the marquis said I was to make certain ye didnae go off alone,” he called, hurrying forward to catch Saturn’s bridle.

  Munro blew out his breath. “Fetch Fergus or Una fer me then, will ye?”

  “The hounds went with Lord and Lady Glengask doon to An Soadh,” the head groom returned, naming the nearer of the two sizable villages on MacLawry land.

  “Well, then, I dunnae suppose the fish can do me much harm.” With a nudge of his boot Munro backed the horse a few steps, then headed them south toward Loch Shinaig.

  A moment later a horse pounded up behind him. “I reckon I’m nae a hound,” Peter Gilling said, the footman slowing to a trot as he drew even with Saturn, “but I do follow the MacLawry’s orders.”

  “I dunnae require a nanny, Peter.” Munro favored the footman with a raised eyebrow. He felt more like growling, but Gilling would know that an offer—or order—of company on a fishing expedition should not cause him that much annoyance. The clouds and drizzle had finally fled late last night, though, and after two days of miserable weather and no excuse to go outside he found himself both restless and exceedingly curious to see if the Cat had fled Haldane.

  Leaving the last sack of supplies on the doorstep had been a gamble, but after seeing the wild redhead and then a second lass head out to pick raspberries, he’d decided a face-to-face confrontation would rouse more hostility than it would gratitude. He could tell just from the inappropriately dainty gown the taller lass wore that she wasn’t from anywhere nearby—or anywhere this far north.

  The temptation to follow them had pulled at him, but the Cat had been carrying that damned ancient musket in her right hand, and he’d already bellowed that he was going hunting with Lach—as poorly as that had turned out. At least now he knew what she was protecting. Why or from what eluded him, but he would figure it out. Saint Bridget’s tits, he couldn’t seem to think about anything else, anyway. Even asleep, dreams of a lithe, red-haired lass with long, trouser-covered legs had him restless and frustrated.

  “The loch would be in that direction, m’laird,” Peter Gilling said, pointing over to the left.

  Munro drew up Saturn. “I need yer oath aboot someaught, Peter,” he stated, turning in the saddle to face the former soldier.

  “I’ll nae give it to ye blindly, Laird Bear,” the footman returned. “The last time I gave a blind oath, I ended up helping yer bràthair Arran kidnap a Campbell. And I had to wear a damned dress.”

  “I saw that. Ye werenae a pretty lass.” Munro took a breath. “I found someaught, and I gave my word that no one else would hear of it. So I reckon ye can either take the same oath, or I’ll tie ye to a tree to keep ye from following me.”

  The stout man scowled. “I dunnae want to be tied to a tree.”

  “And I dunnae want to have to tie ye to one. I reckon ye’d give me a fight, and ye might get hurt. I’m assuming, though, that ye willnae just turn around and go home.”

  “I willnae. I’m protecting ye with my life.”

  “Then it’s yer oath, or the tree.”

  Peter Gilling took a deep breath. “I give ye my oath. As long as whatever yer secret is, if it doesnae cause harm to ye or the rest of the MacLawrys, I’ll keep my gobber shut aboot it.”

  “And I’ll hold ye to that.” Munro nudged Saturn in the ribs, and they started off again. “We’re nae going fishing. And the luncheon basket isnae fer us. Ye’re nae to converse with anyone, and ye’d best call me Bear.”

  The servant narrowed his eyes. “This is sounding very familiar,” he grumbled. “Ye arenae hiding a Campbell or a MacDonald lass from her family, are ye? Because I dunnae relish the thought of fleeing to the Colonies with ye. I said I’d go with Laird Arran if it came to that, but it’s nae a thing a man decides on a whim.”

  “It isnae like that,” Munro returned, though he didn’t precisely know who the Cat was or what she was hiding herself and the other lass from. But they were hiding; he knew that as well as he knew his own face.

  “Well, that sounds like the right words, but I reckon I’ll keep my two peepers open, anyway.”

  He wouldn’t get a better answer than that. The idea of bringing another soul with him to Haldane Abbey still didn’t sit well, but if Ranulf suspected he was up to something, slipping away anywhere on his own would become next to impossible. Peter Gilling was the least of several complications he could imagine.

  They rode up the long, shallow valley, its deep greens turning to gold and orange with the crisp autumn weather. A large herd of red deer pounded across a rain-swollen stream to his right and vanished into the thick stand of trees beyond. He made no effort to be stealthy; the Cat would likely hear or see them approaching, anyway, and trying to remain unseen would get him or Peter Gilling shot.

  “Haldane Abbey’s ahead,” the footman commented, and spat over his left shoulder.

  “Aye. Keep yer opinion aboot it to yerself.”

  “It’s nae an opinion, m’lai—Bear. That place is haunted.”

  “Then stay here. Just remember ye swore an oath.”

  “I knew this was a poor idea. Why do I nae listen to myself?”

  “Because ye have more adventures if ye dunnae.” Munro took a breath as the old ruin came into sight. “Hello the house!” he called.

  The two women could be gone, of course. That would return everything to normal—to preparations for winter, to the daily routine of siblings and bairns and with him feeling the deepening need both to protect them all and to flee to where things could be as they were again—the MacLawrys and the Campells one murder away from open war, he and his two older brothers standing shoulder to shoulder to shoulder, feared and respected and damned ferocious Highlanders.

  But that was the past. He couldn’t begrudge Ranulf the happiness and peace the marquis and chief of their clan had found in his wife and son, even if Charlotte was a delicate Sassenach. Damned Arran had started out well, kidnapping Mary Campbell out from under half of clan Campbell and defying the Duke of Alkirk—the Campbell, himself. That had turned domestic, as well; Mary was a MacLawry now, and only a few weeks away from giving Arran his second bairn. His sister, Ro—

  A musket ball shredded a branch two feet from his head, the loud report sounding a heartbeat later.

  Well, she was still in residence. Peter Gilling threw himself out of the saddle, using the horse for cover and freeing his formidable blunderbuss in the same moment. Munro, though, raised both of his hands in surrender and nudged Saturn with his knees into a slow walk.

  “Stop!” the sharp female voice he already recognized commanded.

  “Dunnae shoot, Peter,” Munro muttered, then sat straighter in the saddle. “I’m surrendering to ye, lass!” She likely had no idea that he’d never uttered those words before, but the fact that she didn’t know that about him was … thrilling, almost.

  “It’s nae surrendering if ye dunnae do as I tell ye,” she returned. “I dunnae want to shoot ye, Bear, but dunnae mistake reluctance for lack of conviction.”

  “And dunnae mistake my good humor fer stupidity,” he countered, even as it occurred to him that wild, uncivilized lasses didn’t use words like “reluctance” or “conviction.” Perhaps the dainty lass had taught them to her, though. “I gave ye my word that no harm would come to ye here.”

  “Ye also swore that ye’d nae tell another soul about me. Unless that’s a spirit behind ye, I’d say yer word isnae worth shite.”

  Civil
ized lasses didn’t say “shite.” This Cat had interested him from the moment he’d set eyes on her. Given his general dislike of puzzles he’d put his intrigue to lust, but the more contradictions to her, the better he liked it. He didn’t even mind that she had a musket pointed at him. None of this made any damned sense at all. And even if the rampaging, larger-than-life Bear was mostly for show, he did like for things to make sense.

  “M’lai—Bear, I’m thinking ye should reverse yer course, there.” Gilling’s unamused voice came from behind him.

  “This is Peter,” Munro said, knowing he had no intention of retreating. “We … hunt together from time to time, and I didnae want him coming across ye by accident.”

  “So ye brought him by on purpose? Would ye like me to set out some tea and biscuits, then?” came her sarcastic reply. “I can dig two holes in the ground as easy as one large enough to fit ye. Now fer the last damned time, go away.”

  “I dunnae think I will. In fact, I intend to untie this basket and walk it through the front door. So if ye think I mean harm to ye, ye’d best put a ball through me.” With that he swung down from Saturn.

  Peter made a wheezing sound. “Bear, please dunnae do this. If ye get yerself killed, yer brother’ll see my bones scattered across the Highlands fer the crows to dine on.”

  “Ye and yer bones stay here, Peter.” Munro untied the heavy basket and slung it over his left forearm. “I’ve been shot before, and I’m still standing.”

  “But—”

  “Aside from that, I think the lass likes me. She’ll nae shoot.” Intentionally leaving his rifle behind with the fishing pole, he started forward. Tree branches obscured the upper level of the structure, but she seemed to have found a good vantage point. Dangerous as the footing was up there, that was where he would be. Especially if he had someone else to protect.

  Setting the basket on the low wall, he clambered over. A musket ball slammed into the stone just where his hand had been a heartbeat earlier. Mortar and stone chips blasted outward, biting into his cheek. Damn, she was a fine shot—unless she’d meant to hit him just then. Without bothering to brush the dust and rocks off him, he picked up the basket and continued forward, to the front door. At the same time, he counted off in his head—a seasoned soldier could reload and fire a musket in fifteen seconds.