“Dunnae worry yerself about that. For the Bruce’s sake. Ye’re my piuthar; I will always come when ye need me.” She sighed, the soft sound making Munro’s cock jump. “Aside from that, Islay’s nae the same now. With our papa gone, I’ve nae real wish to return.”
“But you’re the oldest. Daughter or not, you were—”
“I’m nothing, Elizabeth. Uncle Robert is chieftain now. And he and I dunnae … see eye to eye.”
Daughter and now niece to the chieftain of Islay. That damned well made her part of clan MacDonald. Carefully avoiding the rubble and stacks of new masonry, Munro moved back up the hallway toward the front door. Christ in a kilt.
The MacDonalds—or the southernmost half of them, anyway—ruled the Isle of Islay. MacDonalds and MacLawrys didn’t mix. They weren’t at war, though at one time or another they had been. Over the years that warfare had more or less evolved into an agreement to avoid each other.
From what he could piece together from that snippet of conversation, their mutual father had been a clan MacDonald chieftain. He’d died, and now their uncle claimed the title. Aye, he’d also heard the bit about Elizabeth running away from some fat duke or other, but he set that aside. Sassannach affairs were none of his.
Catriona was a damned MacDonald, in the middle of MacLawry territory. With them tangled in some marriage scandal atop all that, he was doubly glad Ranulf didn’t know about them. The marquis had married an English lass, and now had English relations and English allies. If Ranulf thought sending Elizabeth back south would somehow benefit the clan, Munro wouldn’t put it past him.
His rifle in one hand and the sack of silly gifts in the other, he backtracked well out of sight of Haldane Abbey and then hiked back to where he’d left Saturn. The house would be turned out by now, with every available man hunting for him. And if Ranulf did get Peter Gilling to flap his gums about where they’d spent the last handful of days …
“Damnation,” he muttered, tying down the sack again and swinging up on the gray. MacDonalds. He’d been willing to risk discovery while they’d been a pair of lasses needing rescue, because he could protect two stray lasses even from his own. But Cat and Elizabeth weren’t just strays. They were daughters of a dead MacDonald chieftain.
And yet he still wanted to protect her. Them, rather, whether she would ever admit to needing his aid or not. In order to do that, though, he needed a plan. No doubt his brothers would expect something ham-fisted from him, like standing at the door of Haldane and swinging a sword at anyone who dared approach, but luckily for everyone concerned he did own an ounce of subtlety. No one but he believed that, but there it was. And for once he had a reason to use his skull for something other than butting heads with other people.
Once he reached the west shore of Loch Shinaig he turned Saturn north. At the old tumbled stones where he and Arran and Lachlan had once played at Highlanders versus lobsterbacks he swung down again and stuffed the sack into the hole where toy Sassannach redcoats had regularly met their doom. He damned well didn’t want to have to explain why he was toting hair clips about.
Only after he’d hidden his treasure did he join the trail that circled the loch. Slowing to a canter, he continued north toward Glengask castle in as obvious a fashion as he could. He was only angry after all, not hiding lasses from his own clan.
“Bear!”
He looked up to see Arran galloping toward him on his lean black Thoroughbred, Duffy, and stifled another curse. Arran was clever; he’d seen evidence of his brother’s keen wit and quick mind on more occasions than he could even recall. A servant would have asked fewer questions—which would have been handy considering he hadn’t yet decided what he was willing to do for a lass who’d shot at him three times.
Arran drew even with him and turned Duffy around to face north. “Ye headed home?”
Munro glanced sideways at his brother, this time thankful for the reputation he’d earned over the years, even if it frequently made him uncomfortable. People generally tried to avoid making him angry. “Aye.”
“Good. Do ye mind if I ride along with ye?”
“Nae.”
They rode on in silence. Perhaps he would be able to get by without making up a tale, after all. Because if there was one thing he hated more than being ordered about, it was lying to his own family. Lying about a lass who could possibly be an enemy didn’t sit well with him at all.
“I hear ye havenae had much luck at fishing, lately,” Arran finally offered.
“Nae. I havenae. And that’s a fine reason to order me locked away like a bairn or a lunatic.”
“I’ve a bairn who’s walking now, with a bit of help; lunatic isnae a poor description. But when her wee hand wraps aboot one of yer fingers so she can keep her balance, it’s … miraculous. Ye ken?”
So they were determined to make this fight about marriage and bairns. So be it, then. At least it kept them looking away from Haldane Abbey and its new residents. “Ranulf was supposed to marry a Stewart,” he said, slowing to a trot. “Or a MacDougall at the worst. He married a Sassannach. Winnie was supposed to marry a Buchanan, and she went and wed one of our own chieftains. Ye were practically engaged to Deirdre Stewart, and ye ran off with a Campbell, of all things. If Ran thinks he can make one of his alliances through me just because I’m the last MacLawry withoot leg shackles, he can go f—”
“I doubt he’d try to force ye into anything, Bear,” his brother interrupted. “He’s … concerned ye arenae happy. That ye feel left oot. Or left behind.”
He doubted Ranulf would have phrased it so diplomatically. “Ye only heard his side of the argument, then,” he commented. “Lach gave me the same speech. I think ye are the ones who dunnae know what to do with me. But that isnae my problem. It’s yers. And if ye dunnae leave me be—the lot of ye—ye’ll nae like what happens next.”
Arran scowled. “I’m nae threatening ye, Bear. So dunnae threaten me.”
Bah. This was why he preferred leaving diplomacy to his silver-tongued brothers. Whether it was because of his size or the ham-fisted demeanor he favored, nearly every statement he made ended up sounding threatening. “Dunnae be an idiot, Arran,” he said aloud. “I’d nae harm a one of ye, and ye know that.”
“Then what—”
“Just leave me be, will ye? I’m nae one of yer bairns; I can feed myself. If I want someaught, I can damned well get it fer myself.” He wasn’t surprised that his words prompted an image of Catriona. What did surprise him was that he continued to lie to his family over a lass. A lass who belonged to a rival clan, yet.
“I cannae speak fer Ranulf, but that all sounds fairly reasonable to me,” Arran said, clearly not hearing his brother’s thoughts, because Munro knew damned well that what he wanted wasn’t logical or reasonable at all.
He could pace about the house for a few days, then, and all of this finding-him-a-wife nonsense would hopefully go away. At the same time, the idea of not returning to Haldane Abbey tomorrow made him feel ill. And therefore he would find a way to see her tomorrow, because he simply couldn’t imagine a circumstance, a world, where he wouldn’t do so. What that meant to a man unaccustomed to wanting one particular lass, to looking forward to conversing with any lass, he had no idea. But evidently he meant to find out.
“What were ye aboot?” Arran pursued. “Riding in a circle until Saturn fell oot from beneath ye?”
“Aye. And then I’d carry him fer a bit,” Munro returned absently. He’d been playing this part for so long that it didn’t require conscious thought any longer. Before Catriona, it hadn’t bothered him as much. Now, though, he abruptly wondered whether Arran would fall out of the saddle if he began a conversation comparing his brother’s romance with Mary Campbell to that of Romeo and Juliet. He could carry it off, he presumed, even if he really didn’t see the need for it.
His family had enough clever thinkers. With things as they had been over the past few years, they needed his brawn. Up until now he’d wished they’d realized
he did know how to read, that he did read, and that he had actual thoughts and opinions from time to time. As he glanced sideways at Arran’s amused expression, though, he decided that being taken for a buffoon finally had its advantages. As long as Cat never saw him that way.
Chapter Seven
“Stop trying to shake it loose,” Elizabeth said, leaning as far away from the fire as she could while she tentatively stirred the pot of rabbit stew they were heating up for breakfast.
Catriona gave the new frame for the kitchen door a last shove. “I’m nae trying to shake it loose; I’m making certain it’ll stand.”
“Against what? An angry bull?”
“Nae. An angry bear.”
Her sister laughed, but Catriona didn’t join in. She and Elizabeth might have an ally for the moment, but given those rather spectacular kisses of his, he was not helping them out of the goodness of his heart. He wanted something—wanted her—and the idea of being in the big man’s arms sent heat shooting from her chest down between her legs.
Damnation. She and Elizabeth might have escaped London and the MacDonalds, but that didn’t make them safe. Given the unexpected aid they’d received from Bear, a friendly face when she’d never expected to find one, trusting him felt easy. It even felt right, given the MacLawrys’ reputation for taking in refugees. If that had been the end of it, she likely would have been relieved to have a little help. But she felt things now. Soft, fluffy, warm things that a lass in her circumstance couldn’t afford to feel. And not just for her sake, but for his, as well.
As it was, she was fairly certain he’d been drawing out this door frame construction far longer than the task required. First they’d needed better lumber. Then more bricks. Then Peter had evidently added too much water to the mortar, so they’d had to pull out half the bricks and place them over again. And let the mortar set a second time. For five days in a row now he’d come by daily, and damn it all, she’d begun looking forward to seeing him.
If she’d genuinely been some cotter’s daughter and he a lord’s gamekeeper, then she would have been able to admit that she liked when he visited, and that she looked forward to the next time he would steal a kiss from her. She might even have kissed him—that … arousal was a fairly new experience for her, after all, and she liked the way it felt. Very much. But that wasn’t who they were, and she couldn’t afford to engage in daydreams. They both carried the weight of their clans on their shoulders, even if he didn’t yet know that about her.
She looked at Elizabeth again. Even though her sister was half Scottish, clan didn’t play much of a role at all in her life. Elizabeth was a younger daughter, for one thing, and for another she’d had such limited contact with the MacDonalds since she and her mother left Islay for London that mostly she’d been forgotten. That was why once their father died, her mother could put her into the hands of a four-times-married duke three times her age and no one bothered to protest.
For Elizabeth, even doing something as outlandish as putting on MacLawry plaid likely wouldn’t stir a single MacDonald eyebrow, and that was even with everyone knowing the MacLawrys had the largest standing army in the Highlands. She didn’t have the same luxury. Back in her clan, she was noticed, whether she wanted to be or not. Whether she’d tried to go unnoticed or not.
“What is it?” Elizabeth asked, frowning.
Catriona shook herself. Thinking in theory that the MacLawrys could protect Elizabeth even from the Duke of Visford was one thing. Actually navigating all the twists and turns required to see something so complicated through was another game entirely. And it would have to involve matching Elizabeth with Bear, which she didn’t at all like, anyway. He hadn’t kissed Elizabeth. He’d kissed her. It made sense as a plan, but sometimes she had as little use for logic as it seemed to have for her.
“Cat? You’re making me nervous.”
Blast. “It’s nothing. I was just wishing ye could see the Highlands from a more comfortable place, instead of scrambling for food and a warm blanket with winter creeping in.”
“Oh, pish.” Elizabeth flipped a hand at her. “I was eight when Mama decided she couldn’t survive another moment with those kilt-wearing heathens.” She grinned. “You see? I even remember her exact words. And I remember the smell of fresh heather, and the wind coming off the sea, and the sound of bagpipes at every birth and death and marriage. And I remember chasing you across the meadow and Mama yelling at us to behave like ladies. I wanted to wear trousers too, you know.”
“That was why yer mother decided to leave Islay with ye. She didnae want a daughter who acted like a son, and Father wanted another of those.” That was precisely what her father had wanted—or rather, he’d wanted a son and decided to make do with her. And Elizabeth would have been next, if not for Anne Derby-MacColl. “If it was my fault ye had to leave, I’m sorry, Elizabeth.”
Setting the spoon aside, Elizabeth walked over and wrapped her arms around Catriona in a hard hug. “Don’t you dare apologize, Cat. I had a great many friends in London, both men and women, but I only have one sister. Whatever idiocy happened in between, I’m glad we’re together again.”
Catriona hugged her sister back. “So am I, piuthar.” Even if Elizabeth kept imagining extravagant shopping expeditions where they both ended up swimming in gowns and frilly hats, she’d never called Catriona mad or mannish—which raised her well above the rest of the family and clan on Islay.
All of that—the sideways glances, the comments about a lass uncivilized even by Highlands standards, the men whom she might have liked but who made her feel awkward and far out of her depth when they weren’t making fun of her behind her back—came rushing back in on her like a cold, icy rain. Stepping out of her sister’s embrace, Catriona walked over to retrieve her oversized coat and musket.
“If ye can stir the stew once in a while for the next hour or so, I’m going to see if I can find some mushrooms for tonight’s fish.”
Elizabeth sighed. “Yes, I can do that.”
Aye, she should stay and do more hugging and chat about fashion and perhaps even finally tell her sister just why she’d been so eager to leave Islay for London and then on to a remote ruin as far away from clan MacDonald as she could get. Those were her troubles, though, and Elizabeth had enough of her own.
As soon as she had open sky above her, Catriona slowed and took a deep, cleansing breath. The scent of a coming rain touched her, crisp and chill. It wouldn’t be long before snow fell. That would complicate things, because while it would discourage potential visitors from wandering through the valley, it would also make her own tracks that much easier to follow.
Snow would also make simply moving about more of a challenge, but winter had never stopped her before. Of course previously she hadn’t been trying to hide from anything but the deer and rabbits and birds. Now she had two lasses to keep hidden away.
Of course she also had some unexpected and unasked-for help. Aye, Munro aggravated her with his assumptions that he could provide things for their stay that she couldn’t, but in truth the simple fact was that he could. He could bring them blankets and bread, make them more secure in a place where she hadn’t expected to be stopping—but was now rather … pleased that she had.
The south end of the valley where Haldane sat remained bathed in early morning sunlight, while the widening northern slopes were already obscured by lowering clouds. The breeze had dropped to almost nothing, leaving the autumn day oddly and heavily silent but for the few birds that hadn’t flown south. They were likely in for a long, deep soaking once the weather reached them. When she returned to Haldane she would have to move their supplies well away from the puddle in the back corner of the kitchen, and hope it didn’t swell into a lake.
Once she’d climbed to the top of one of the myriad rocky outcroppings she crouched down on her haunches and took a moment just to gaze at the view all around her. Leaves of deep yellow and orange shivered in the slow breeze, the colors softening to a dense green toward the valle
y floor. If she could paint she still didn’t think she could capture the wild beauty of this place. Yes, she’d wanted somewhere to hide, but she hadn’t expected to be enchanted by it. Or by her would-be rescuer.
Movement to one side of the old road caught her attention. Her heart rate accelerating, she scrambled down the rocks and edged closer so she could get a better look. A few weeks ago the idea of anyone approaching her refuge would have terrified and angered her. Today, as she made out the big gray gelding and a black, shaggy head of hair beside the horse, a smile touched her mouth before she could catch it back again.
Munro and Peter Gilling left their mounts half a mile from Haldane and well off the main trail. At least he knew how to hide his tracks, and he took care to do so. That caution had to be for her sake, she knew. With a deeper grin, telling herself that the satisfaction running beneath her skin came from the idea that she meant to surprise him rather than from something more intimate and primitive, Catriona slipped down the hillside. Using the rough terrain as cover, she moved in behind the two men, edging closer with each step they took and using their own conversation to hide her movements.
“Well, that’s fine fer ye,” Gilling was saying in a low voice. “Ye got to have a pleasant ride across the countryside. I spent nearly three hours hiding inside a wardrobe.”
Bear snorted. “I’ve apologized fer the past five days fer nae warning ye, Peter,” he returned in the deep rumble that seemed to resonate through her. “Even though the first time ye told yer story ye spent an hour inside a storage room. Fer the last time, I didnae know Glengask decided that was the day to announce I should be paired off with a damned Stewart. If he hadnae ambushed me, I would have sent ye off to An Soadh before the bellowing began.” He clapped the older man on one shoulder. “But thank ye fer hiding. Truly. We dunnae need Ranulf butting his head into my affairs. And the lass—lasses—dunnae need it, either.”
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