Some Like it Scot

by Suzanne Enoch

  Munro frowned. Evidently he’d had a better day than his oldest brother. “I had Peter with me, as ye ordered. We went fishing.”

  “And where’s yer catch? There in the bath with ye?”

  “Even I dunnae always catch someaught. What’s got yer kilt in a twist?”

  “Ye went fishing yesterday, too. And the day before, if I recall. And ye’ve nae brought home a single trout or pike in all that time. So I ask ye again—where were ye today?”

  Munro pushed to his feet, water dripping down him back into the tub and on the floor around him. The air immediately began cooling his skin, but a damned Highlander didn’t mind a wee bit of cold. More important than that, he had no intention of being towered over by anyone. Even his oldest brother. “First ye tell me I cannae go aboot on my own, and now ye dunnae like the way I fish. I’m thinking ye’re the one with the problem, Glengask.”

  His brother picked up a towel and threw it at him. “Ye and I have some things to discuss. In my office. In ten minutes.” With that Ranulf left the bedchamber again, closing the door hard behind him.

  Well, that was dandy. A full day of toting rocks and doors and lumber, and now Ranulf wanted to yell—evidently because he wasn’t catching enough fish. True, he hadn’t been spending much time at Glengask, but he didn’t imagine he’d actually been named the gamekeeper in his absence. They had peace in the valley now, so he wasn’t needed to loom over enemies at the moment, either.

  Grumbling, he pulled on a clean shirt, stomped into his boots, and wrapped a freshly pleated kilt about his hips. These days both of his brothers and even his brother-in-law Lachlan generally wore trousers, but that Sassannach attire wasn’t for him. It never had been. Aside from kilts being one of the oldest of the Highlands traditions, he liked the idea that the moment anyone saw him coming, they knew he was a MacLawry. Arran said he lacked subtlety, but to him that sounded like a compliment. Subtlety was for diplomats, and he wasn’t a damned diplomat.

  Tempted as he was to linger in his private rooms simply because of the marquis’s order that he appear at once, he’d yet to shrink from, or make any effort to avoid, trouble. And so he grabbed a coat off the back of a chair and left his bedchamber, shrugging into the wool garment as he walked. Only one thing mattered: no one could know about the two lasses hiding out at Haldane. He’d given his word.

  When he walked into Ranulf’s spare office his brother already stood at the window, his back to the room and his arms crossed again over his chest. The two deerhounds were curled beneath the desk, either not sensing or not concerned with their master’s mood. Other than not catching any fish and being away from the castle for most of the past three days, Munro had no idea what he’d done to incur the MacLawry’s censure. Hell’s bells, he’d been spending most of his spare time away from Glengask for weeks, since well before he’d met the wildcat.

  “I sent Ian to look fer ye this morning,” Ranulf said, as he returned to the window. “Ye werenae to be found.”

  Munro shrugged, sitting. “I told ye I was with Gilling. As ye ordered. And I left early this morning to go fishing, because I’d nae been having any luck. Is there someaught else ye want to know?”

  “Ye were supposed to meet me at the Bonny Bruce fer luncheon today.”

  “Ye should’ve told me last night, then, because fer the last damned time, I wasnae here!”

  The marquis faced him. “And that’s my point. Ye’ve been spending too much time away from here. I rely on ye, Bear.”

  “I meet with every cotter and peat cutter who stumbles into the valleys, making certain none of ’em are here to make trouble. Ye’ve made peace with the Campbells, and so we’ve nae had so many refugees lately. And winter is coming, so those in search of a haven have likely already found a place to hunker doon until spring. Either way, it’s hardly a task that takes all my time.”

  “Ye being bored isnae an excuse fer ye to go missing. From now on, ye will tell me where ye’re off to, and when ye expect to return. I’m busy enough that I dunnae have the time to go searching fer ye every damned day.”

  So that was what this was coming to now? Him being just another task on his brother’s schedule? “Nae,” he said aloud.

  Ranulf’s jaw clenched. “It wasnae a request.”

  Both dogs’ heads lifted, and one by one they emerged from beneath the desk to stand on either side of Ranulf. Fergus had been part of the family for six years, and smaller Una for just over five. As little as Munro believed one of the hounds would take a bite out of him, they did make for something else he needed to keep an eye on.

  “I dunnae care what it was,” he said anyway. “I’m nae some bairn ye can push aboot. I’m seven-and-twenty now. Ye cannae ootfight me, and I’m nae scared of ye, either. I’ve nae intention of telling ye where I am every damned second, any more than I tell ye when I take a shite or when I put some lass on her back.”

  For a long moment the marquis gazed at him, his expression flat and unreadable and his blue eyes icy. After all, no one defied the MacLawry’s commands. Except for him, apparently, and all because of a few kisses shared with a redheaded spitfire lass so desperate to escape something that she couldn’t trust anyone.

  “Do ye want to remain beneath this roof, Munro?” Ranulf finally asked, his voice clipped. Fergus began a low growl, only quieting when the marquis put a hand on his head.

  So they’d reached threats already. “I stay here to watch over ye and Charlotte and wee William through the night,” he returned, trying hard to keep a rein on his own temper. “Ye’ve men aplenty to protect ye during the day. And I dunnae care to be surrounded by cooing lasses and wailing bairns. Ye be as civilized as ye like, Glengask. But dunnae try to put a leash on me to ease yer own mind.”

  “If I meant to ease my own mind, bràthair,” Ranulf retorted, his voice rising, “I’d send fer Lady Eithne Boyd and see ye wed. That would give me an alliance with the Stewarts, and fer once ye’d be useful.”

  “‘Fer once,’ is it?” Munro snapped, shoving to his feet again. “If that’s yer only use fer me, then ye can find a way to mend old Ailpen Mackle’s roof fer him withoot denting his pride. And ye can see to the squatters at the south end of Glen Carrog withoot letting ’em know that we know they’re spying fer the MacDougalls. And dunnae ferget to call on Miss Malvina Sorlie and make certain she’s nae convinced herself again that ye’ve lobsterbacks hidden in the attic here and they need to be burned oot. Ye—”

  “That’s enough, Munro.”

  Both dogs were growling now. Ranulf had raised them to be absolute protectors of the family, but the fact remained that he had raised them. “Nae, it isnae. Ye bring Lady Eithne here, and I’ll pound her skinny brother into paste. Then see if ye can make yer alliance.”

  Very seldom did anyone—much less one of his own siblings—push Ranulf as far as Munro just had. The marquis’s face paled, his jaw clenched so tightly Munro was fairly certain he could hear his brother’s teeth grinding. “Have ye had yer say then, little brother? Have ye explained to me how very hard ye work to do yer duty? Then ye’ll stay in the damned hoose until I decide what to do with ye. And that’s the beginning, middle, and end of it.”

  Staying in the house meant breaking his word to Catriona. And leaving would now mean breaking the MacLawry’s law. All because he didn’t care to become the civilized, bowing, cooing fellow Ranulf decided he should be. “I dunnae give a damn what ye decide,” he rumbled. “If ye think ye can make me do what ye want fer no damned good reason but yer own pride, ye’re welcome to try.”

  With that he turned around and yanked open the door so hard it slammed into the wall. A vase in the hallway crashed to the stone floor and shattered. Munro stepped over it and kept walking. Keep him in the house like some disobedient hound. Ha. It would take Ranulf, Arran, Lach, and half the household lads to even slow him down.

  And that was Ranulf’s solution to him wandering about like the free man he was? To marry him off to some wall-eyed Stewart lass? Even if h
e wasn’t intent on stalking a very different prey at the moment, he would throw himself off the top of Ben Nevis before he’d lay his mouth or any other body part on Eithne Boyd.

  Not quite certain what he meant to do beyond leaving the damned house, he retrieved his rifle, stuffed his antler-hilted sgian-dubh into his right boot, and pounded down the stairs again. He more than half expected Ranulf or his deerhounds to come charging after him, but other than the usual bustle at Glengask and his own racketing about, he couldn’t hear anything.

  Then Charlotte stepped into the hallway in front of him. With a curse he stopped before he could crash into his sister-in-law and knock her to the floor. “Charlotte. I’ve nae time fer chatting.”

  “Follow me, Bear,” she said, in her usual calm, practical tone, and vanished back into the downstairs sitting room.

  Stifling an annoyed sigh, he trod after her. “I’m in a hurry, piuthar. What is it ye want?”

  The nanny, Rose or Daisy or some other flower, sat on the deep couch with seven-month-old William on her lap. With a murmured word Charlotte lifted her son into her arms, and the nanny glided out of the room and closed the door behind her. “Sit,” the marchioness instructed, sinking down on the couch.

  If this had been Glengask issuing commands, Munro would have known precisely how to respond. A lass, though, wife to his brother and a sister now to him—that was much more complicated. With a hard breath, trying to ease his temper before he let loose and snapped at her, too, he sat beside her. “I’m sitting. Now what?”

  She shifted William onto his lap, and the bairn immediately reached for the rifle he’d propped against the couch. Alarm stinging through him, Munro lifted the weapon and dropped it behind the couch with far less care than he generally took. Christ. He’d learned to shoot at five or six, but the boy was only seven months old, and Ranulf’s son. His own nephew. No harm was allowed to come to William, his mother, or her husband. No matter how angry he was, that fact never changed.

  But he wasn’t about to change, either. “Ye can hand me all the bairns ye like, Charlotte. They dunnae make me a civilized man. They dunnae make me yearn fer a wife and little ones of my own.” He gave over his fingers to the lad, who decided they were handholds to get him up the back of the couch.

  “Ranulf only wants what’s best for you.”

  “Ranulf wants what’s best fer the clan.”

  “Why can’t that be the same thing?” she pursued. “Surely you have no objection to meeting the right lass and being happy.”

  Arguing with a female was much trickier than straight-out fighting a man. Particularly when the lass was gentle and kind and thoughtful and a civilized Sassannach, and he was none of those things. “I’m happy now,” he said, realizing at the same moment that “happy” wasn’t the correct word. That, however, was his own business to decipher. “And have ye ever set yer peepers on Lady Eithne Boyd?”

  “No, we’ve never met, but—”

  “Her eyes look in two different directions, neither of them being directly at ye. She’s skinny as a pole, and a breeze would likely break her in two—if it didn’t lift her up and carry her away to Skye.”

  Charlotte’s abrupt cough sounded closer to a laugh. “Very well. Perhaps Lady Eithne is not the woman for you. But she’s not the only female in the Highlands.”

  Unbidden, his mind went to the wild redhead hidden in a valley two miles away. She was becoming an obsession, but she was his obsession. One he was not willing to share. “Ye’re assuming I’d rather be shackled to one lass than have any of them I wish, whenever I choose. That’s done me well, as I recall.”

  “But what about children?”

  He untangled William from the cushions and handed the black-haired bairn back to his mother. “I like yers well enough. And Arran’s and Winnie’s. I’d die fer ’em. But dunnae take that to mean that I yearn fer my own. Or fer any one woman. Or fer anyone who thinks they have the right to tell me what to do.” With that he stood, retrieved his rifle, and headed back to the hallway. “And ye can tell Glengask I meant what I said. I’ll nae be kept a prisoner here, and I’ll start a war with the Stewarts before I marry a one of ’em.”

  As he strode outside and across the clearing to the stable he could practically hear the ruckus he’d likely begun inside the house. “Debny,” he barked as he stepped through the stable’s open double doors, and the head groom appeared from one of the rooms at the back of the building.

  “Aye, m’laird?”

  “I’m taking Saturn oot again.”

  The servant nodded, stepping over to fetch a saddle and tack. “I’ll have ye and Gilling ready to go in a snap.”

  “Just Saturn.” He caught the groom’s involuntary glance toward the house proper. “Now, if ye please.”

  With a grimace, Debny resumed saddling the big gray gelding. He would likely report to the house the second Munro rode out of sight, but that didn’t trouble him a whit. He had no intention of being caged, or of giving the impression that he could be—even for a moment.

  The only thing that troubled him was Peter Gilling. Aye, the servant had given his word to keep the lass’s location and existence secret, but Munro had seen grown men piss themselves when confronted with Glengask’s full wrath. Hopefully once the footman sensed trouble, he would make himself scarce to avoid betraying anyone.

  And domesticated as they were, his brothers were welcome to try to track him down. They didn’t spend nearly as much time out of doors hunting and fishing and patrolling their land as they once had. As he still did.

  As he swung into the saddle it occurred to him that he’d decided where he was headed even without thinking about it. Catriona would likely try to shoot him again for appearing twice in one day, but for his part, he looked forward to seeing her once more. He’d enjoyed just being Bear, without the weight of MacLawry dragging behind him. And other than a few biting comments about his lying tongue, Cat hadn’t treated him any differently once she’d learned the truth. No lifting her skirts—or taking down her trousers, in her case—in hopes that bedding him would cause him to fall hopelessly in love with her, making her part of the most powerful family in the Highlands. No altering her responses to avoid annoying him. Hell, knowing the truth merely annoyed her more.

  Perhaps that was the lure. She didn’t give a damn that he was a brother to the MacLawry, and conversely he wanted to know precisely who she was and from where she’d come. The more she refused to tell him, the more he wanted to know. Now that he considered it, he might have decided he enjoyed puzzles after all, if they were all curvy females wrapped in men’s clothing and topped with a mane of deep red hair that he wanted to tangle his fingers through.

  He knew himself to be a man who liked women and drink and the hard Highlands life. The wildcat spun him about, when he had a reputation for punching or avoiding things and people who didn’t fit with the life he’d made for himself. With her, however, kissing and a long, heated string of thoughts about her naked and moaning beneath him beat down every other thought in his head.

  Shaking himself, he rode Saturn out of the stable, then circled around to the back of the building. There he kicked a barrel aside and leaned down to grab the cloth sack hidden beneath it. It would never do to have a maid discover him hoarding hair clips and spyglasses in his bedchamber.

  Forty minutes later he tethered Saturn behind a deadfall with both grass and water within easy reach, then hiked the last quarter mile to the abbey. If he’d taken the direct route he might have been there in half the time, but defying Glengask had consequences. And that meant taking precautions—especially with his promise to a certain lass at stake.

  He reached the broken front door without anyone trying to put a ball through his chest. For a moment he debated whether to call out, but he wanted to see her without her knowing he was there. Without the walls and pits she spread around herself to keep everyone else at bay. To himself he could admit that he wanted to see her smile, even if it wasn’t at him.


  Walking as softly as he could in his heavy boots, he edged along the hallway toward the half-finished kitchen door. Female muttering caught his attention, and he stopped to listen. He’d already told Cat he wasn’t a gentleman, and so he refused to feel a damned ounce of guilt for sneaking about. Sneaking was practically a way of life in the Highlands, anyway.

  “… think he would turn us out?” Elizabeth said in her cultured English tones. “He’s been nothing but kind from the moment we met.”

  “Kindness isnae the problem,” Cat returned, her brogue pretty as sunlight. “If anyone finds us here, they’ll send ye packing back to London, likely with an armed escort. Ye said yerself that the Duke of Visford’s nae a man to trifle with. And if Bear discovers ye’re the fat old bastard’s betrothed, well, Highlanders dunnae care to stir up the wrath of the Sassannach.”

  That was a cartload of shite. He couldn’t think of one true Highlander who wouldn’t relish the chance to spite the English. Actually doing so, though, took more than courage. It took the backing of a clan that had power and strength enough to make even the Sassannach pause. Ranulf had made most of his reputation by generally ignoring English law and doing what best benefited clan MacLawry. That made him the exception to the rule. Catriona had to know that. Why, then, was she lying to her sister about the help they could receive? What did she have to gain by staying on in the wilds?

  “I love that you called His Grace a fat old bastard,” Elizabeth returned with a giggle. Munro could almost see her blushing. “If I’d been able to say that to his face, perhaps he would have refused me outright, or Mama would have changed her mind about pushing for a wedding. We could be in London right now, sipping tea and shopping. Oh, I would purchase you so many pretty gowns, Cat. You would be swimming in silk, and all the young men would bring you posies.”

  “The last time I wore a gown I tripped over the hem,” Catriona commented, her tone rueful—and unless Munro was mistaken, a little wistful. “I’m nae suited for such things.”

  “Nonsense. With that hair of yours, I’ll wager you’re the loveliest lass on Islay.” She paused. “But now you can’t go home, can you? Because you came to help me.”