The Highlander Who Loved Me (MacCallan Clan, #2)

by Wilde, Tanya

  “Glasgow?” Drew darted a glance over his shoulder. “That is way off course.”

  “Aye, it is not ideal, but it ought to throw my brothers off my trail.”

  “What of the horses?” Drew asked. “Who will you entrust them to?”

  “I shall have the proprietor of our lodgings send them back at an appropriate time.”

  “What about your presence at the ball? They have not noticed your absence yet, but in a few hours, they might.”

  “I informed my maid I’m retiring for the evening and am not to be disturbed.”

  “Do you have an answer for everything?” Drew questioned, tightening the straps around his horse’s girth.

  “I have thought about my plan at great length.”

  “Is that right?” Drew asked. “Have you left a note, at the very least, for your sister so that she does not worry you have plummeted off the face of the earth?”

  A light gasp came from behind him. “Dear Lord, I did not think of that!”

  Drew turned to nod at a discarded satchel in the far corner of the stable. “There’s paper and writing utensils in there. Write your sister a note.”

  She hurried to the satchel. “I hope Mr. Ruthven rots in perdition for abandoning Honoria.”

  “He’ll be back, trust me.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  Drew felt the tremble of her voice right down to his bones. It poked between his ribs like tiny shards of wood. He darted a sidelong glance her way. Wished he hadn’t. Hurt impressed the soft lines of her porcelain skin. Her misery, a tangible thing, sizzled and crackled in the air between them, reaching across the space to wash over the nerve endings of his body.

  He looked away.

  “I just am.”

  She said nothing but quietly rummaged through the pack and pulled out paper, quill, and ink. Was she wounded over Patrick’s sudden departure? Drew should have taken a page from his own book and left her a note.

  Drew winced. He was such a bastard. About seven months ago, after he, disguised as Patrick Moray, had been hauled off to the nearest town in a vegetable cart, beaten to a pulp, Drew had resolved not to get involved in her life again. . . . He would remain near, always, but keep his distance. Which was why as Neill Ross, he settled for cold and aloof.

  Yet here he was, knee-deep in involvement. Again. In the dead of night. Alone. With her.

  So much for his resolve.

  He should never have returned in another disguise. He almost hadn’t. But he could not bear to be parted from her—not when she suffered so much pain. And with that, another realization dawned. Drew would always find a reason to return. She was too profoundly entrenched in his heart, and he . . . he too enslaved to ever keep a fair distance.

  A selfish bastard, he would always be.

  But selfish or not, he did not want her to love a version of him draped in lies. Which got him wondering that perhaps this night was a blessing in disguise. Perhaps the time had come to lay all his cards on the table.

  And risk losing her forever.

  He thought back to her dancing across the ballroom earlier that evening. Christ, how he had hated her partners. He wanted to be the only man who got to float across the dance floor in her arms. The only man who could whisk her off to an abandoned alcove and kiss her senseless. The only man that caught her eye.

  He glanced down at his drab, dusty clothes.

  But not like this.

  Thank Christ he had been keeping track of her, or he’d not have noticed her slip away from the party. And he would not have caught her sneaking off. He might have lost her then.

  Aye, hell had many faces.

  Being trapped in a turbulent cycle of self-loathing was one of them. Imprisoned by guilt, another. Tangled in a web of his own knavery, the worst.

  It pinched, there in his heart, that Isla MacCallan had so easily forgotten Drew Murray. That she did not recognize a single part of the boy and man with whom she’d grown up. But then, why would she? People rarely saw anything other than what the world presented to them.

  The prickle of irony chafed.

  THE BICKERING STARTED as soon as they cleared the property grounds. Bossy, arrogant, and provoking, Mr. Ross sat atop his horse like a lofty lord, back straight and shoulders squared, disagreeing with every little thing. From the way Isla rode astride her horse—too much like a man—right down to her choice of cloak—too conspicuous. His scrutiny left nothing untouched. Superiority clung to him like a bad odor.

  All this from a stableman.

  It was most provoking.

  Even more enraging was how he picked apart her plan in such a manner that made her feel incompetent. She had forgotten to leave a note for Honoria—a tremendous oversight. Not, however, the end of the world; the mistake easily remedied.

  As vexing as the man was, and as loath as she was to travel with him, some fear had lifted after he’d agreed to accompany her. She could travel more confidently with the knowledge that her family would know she was safe and protected with Mr. Ross.

  He grumbled something about their lodging for the night, and Isla scowled at the back of his head. “Might I remind you, Mr. Ross, that you are accompanying me, not the other way around.”

  “I am not letting you within a hundred yards of that place,” he growled, shooting a dark look over his shoulder.

  “The Royal Hound is a respectable establishment.” So she’d heard.

  “How do you gather that?” Mr. Ross drawled, to her annoyance. “That place is nothing but a whore’s nest.”

  “A wh—”

  He cut her off. “And let me remind you that, as of now, I am your protector, and in such things, you will damn well listen to me.”

  Isla pulled a face. “Where, then, do you propose we stay for the night?”

  “I have a friend with a carriage in the village who owes me a favor.”

  “A carriage?” Isla frowned. “That requires a driver and changing of horses. Would it not be less trouble to secure two tickets on a mail coach?”

  “Not if I am required to fend off every man taking a fancy to you.”

  Isla blushed. “It will not be like that.”

  “It will be exactly like that.”

  “Och, well, even if it is, I can fend for myself,” Isla answered with a downward pull of her lip. Did he presume her an invalid?

  A derisive snort was her only rejoinder.

  “I suppose there is less chance of my brothers finding us in a carriage than a coach,” she conceded after a moment, and only because it sounded like a better plan.

  No response.

  It became clear Mr. Ross planned on fitting her journey according to his wants and needs. However, in addition to the appeal of privacy, it would be harder for her brothers to track her in a private carriage; and thus, she would not argue the point.

  “I suppose there is less chance of being recognized as well,” Isla ventured further. “It’s a long way to Glasgow, after all.”

  “We are not traveling to Glasgow. We’re heading straight for England.”

  Isla nearly launched from her saddle. “That is the cleverest part of my plan!”

  “And also meaningless now, as we are not traveling by way of mail coach. As you’ve said, your brothers will not be searching private carriages.”

  “Someone could still recognize me,” Isla argued. “We must stop at some point.”

  “We will be careful.” He glanced at her. “And we’ll have at least twelve hours’ head start on your brothers.”

  Twelve hours was not much—not when her brothers would gain faster ground on horseback. But Isla did not point out that little detail to the obnoxious groom. There was no arguing with Mr. Ross; the man favored a brick wall when it came to getting his way.

  Which begged the question, why was he helping her? He had nothing to gain and everything to lose. Loyalty, perhaps? She shook off that thought. Loyalty developed over time. He’d only been with them for three months.

  S
he considered his broad shoulders. Did he . . . fancy her? Was that why he put his future at risk rather than drag her back to the castle and her brother the Duke?

  Her ears burned.

  Nay, surely it could not be that!

  “I still think traveling to Glasgow is the better plan,” she pressed, disgruntled by her sudden strange woolgathering.

  “All the coaches from the village travel the same route to Edinburgh and, from there, on to Glasgow,” Mr. Ross said, a slight reprimand in his tone. “Did you even consult the schedules?”

  They did? She hadn’t bothered to consult them, assuming the coaches traveled different routes.

  “How do you know the schedules?” Isla asked, suspicion ripe in her voice.

  “I make a habit of knowing everything about my surroundings. That way surprises are less likely to sneak up on me.”

  “How thorough of you,” Isla retorted, pulling a face behind his back. What sort of groom made a point of knowing everything about his surroundings? A spy? What kind of spy studied the mail coach schedule? Why was she even entertaining such musings?

  Aye, you are getting ahead of yourself, Isla.

  Her heart stalled a bit. She hadn’t considered Mr. Ross a stranger when her thoughtless invitation snuck out of her mouth. But what did she know of him? What did he know of her?

  “Where did you work before you came to MacCallan Castle, Mr. Ross?”

  “Why do you ask?” He turned to her. Moonlight cast a shadow over the rugged planes of his face. Unkempt. Handsome.

  “Och, I’m just curious,” she murmured, suddenly flustered. A wild, untamed and, for a moment, familiar aura cloaked him. “You know plenty about me, while I know little of you.”

  “You know I’m a groom.”

  “Thoroughly insightful,” Isla noted dryly. “Were you perhaps cast off by your previous employer for being impetuous?”

  “Am I impetuous?” Humor lightened his voice. “I never knew.”

  Isla clucked her tongue, urging Handsome to trot up beside Mr. Ross. “Then allow me to unburden you of your deliberate ignorance. You are insolent, bossy, and rude as well.”

  “Were you always this bold?” Mr. Ross asked, casting her a sidelong glance. “I can’t recall.”

  “I . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  Have you always been this bold? A boy’s laughter accompanied the memory, and Isla shut her eyes tight at the echo of recollection. The Murrays were a painful topic. Mostly one Murray in particular—the only Murray who, when called to mind, brought a bittersweet ache to her heart. The dawn of her first love. The twilight of it too. The last memory she had of him was of a face covered in blood, eyes swollen and bloodshot, on the day all their lives had changed. Drew had vanished from her life after that.

  In a sense, he too had abandoned her.

  A gust of cold wind swept through her hair, and Isla glanced up toward the canopy of stars.

  “The weather is changing,” she remarked, touching a finger to her cheek and inhaled deeply. “It smells like snow.”

  “Snow doesn’t have a scent.”

  “Precisely. I do not detect any scent in the air, which indicates the possibility of snowfall.”

  “Snow is uncommon this time of year,” Mr. Ross argued, as usual.

  “My nose is prickling; do you not feel the prickle?”

  “Nay, I feel nothing.”

  “My senses are usually never wrong when it comes to the weather,” Isla said, suddenly worried. Traveling these roads in bad weather was dangerous enough on horseback, let alone in a carriage. “We should hurry.”

  “I pray that you are wrong, lass.”

  “Aye, I pray I am wrong too.”

  They urged the horses faster.

  Chapter 3

  It was snowing. Against all odds, floating white flakes danced under the command of whipping, capricious winds. A strange occurrence indeed. For once, Isla had hoped against all hope that her senses would be wrong. But one moment the air had been clear and crisp, and the next a blast of cold had accompanied wintry flecks.

  Isla nestled deeper into her cloak.

  The carriage Mr. Ross had secured, though shelter from the ripping winds, had not been adequately prepared for travel in such cold weather. No hot bricks warmed their feet. Not even a blanket had been stored for chilly weather. Still, it was better than being exposed to the harsh climate on the back of a horse.

  “You are shivering.”

  Her gaze lifted to lock with his startling blue one. Aye, freezing it may be, but Mr. Ross, if nothing else, provided warmth to the eye. Remarkably, even though he took up most of the space, he didn’t seem as wild and dangerous as before. He appeared almost at ease, reclined against the faded pillows that might have been considered lavish a decade ago.

  It must be because he got his way, she thought broodingly. She just answered, “I’m fine.”

  Isla refused to complain and risk sounding waspish. After all, she was grateful. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Ross’s friend, they’d be freezing on horseback or stuck in the village.

  “You are cold.”

  “Och, well, to be fair, it is cold.”

  His brows snapped together. “Then do not tell me you are fine when you’re not.”

  “Regardless of the chill, I am—”

  Isla was cut off as he unfolded his tall frame and switched to her side of the carriage, reaching out to drag her into the crook of his arm.

  “What do you think you are doing?” she demanded, attempting to push away from him.

  “Warming you,” he said, yanking her back against him. “Unless you want to freeze to death?”

  “I . . .”

  “Why not accept my generosity? That way you won’t waste your breath.”

  Och! There he went again, saying impudent things to irk her. And generosity? Isla eyed her companion for a full weighty minute. He was unbelievable. Unbelievably arrogant. She almost found it impossible to grasp why her brothers had employed such an impertinent devil.

  But she was cold, drat him. Already the warmth of his body cocooned her in toasty snugness. They were helping each other by sharing warmth to keep from freezing. Surely there was no harm in that?

  “How inconvenient that the weather should cast us in such a predicament,” she muttered, despite snuggling more firmly into his warmth.

  “It’s not inconvenient at all,” he drawled. “You should rest.”

  Her head whipped up to peer at his face, but his lashes were lowered. “How can you sleep at a time like this?”

  He smiled—bedevilment playing on those lips. “What else is there to do?”

  An instant flush spread across her cheeks at the picture his words provoked in her mind. “I—” The carriage hit a deep rut, tossing her more intimately against him. “Ye gods, the driver seems determined to keep a breakneck pace.”

  “Or to bring us closer.”

  “I beg your pardon?” She followed his gaze to where her hand rested on his upper thigh. Och! She snatched it back as if she’d just placed her palm on a hot furnace. How humiliating.

  “I had to brace myself,” she muttered, ears burning.

  He chuckled and said, “I believe he wants to outrun the storm.”

  “It’s too late for that,” Isla pointed out. “We might have fared better staying at a lodge for the night.”

  “This snow will delay all travel by morning. In my estimation, we set off just in time.”

  The carriage rocked over a rut again, and Isla grabbed the door strap to keep from brushing up against Mr. Ross. “That is all well, but we might not survive the driver’s daring speed.”

  He parted the curtains to glance outside. “The storm is getting worse; if we have any hope of reaching the next town, we must try to outrun it.”

  “What happens if we fail?”

  His gaze flicked to her. “Let us hope we reach lodgings before that happens.”

  “But if it does?” Isla insisted. “Will we freeze to d
eath?”

  “I would never allow that, but if we do get caught in the snow, we will be stuck in the carriage until the storm passes and aid arrives.”

  “Why wait for aid?” Isla asked, not liking the sound of that. In her mind, aid consisted of eight towering brothers bearing down on them, swords drawn.

  Mr. Ross shrugged. “The carriage will be covered in snow and the horses in no shape to travel further.”

  That must be avoided at all costs. Isla could almost feel the saw of her brothers’ breath down the nape of her neck. Then there was the peculiar matter of being huddled up against Mr. Ross with the driver watching—should all that come to pass.

  Nay, that wouldn’t do at all. Not the huddling and certainly not the driver bearing witness. Mr. Ross filling the entire space with his long legs and broad shoulders was bad enough. What’s more, he did not appear to notice how his leg brushed up against hers each time the carriage rocked. Isla, on the other hand, noticed every nuance of that touch.

  She inhaled a deep, fortifying breath. “We must outrun this storm.”

  “You don’t find this turn of events thrilling?” Amusement colored his question. “Being a MacCallan and all.”

  “Why would I find this thrilling?” Isla asked. “I find the prospect of reaching London thrilling, Mr. Ross. Do not mistake me for my sister. Honoria is the one who thrives on living on the edge.”

  “What do you thrive on?” he questioned.

  “What is it to you?” She glanced at him with slit eyes. “If your questioning is an attempt to draw my mind from the driver’s reckless momentum, I must warn you, it will not work.”

  “You are too clever to fall for my tricks, it seems.”

  Even in the gloom, she could make out the flash of his teeth as he smiled. “Much too clever,” Isla agreed.

  “But I’m also curious,” he said. “What does a woman like you thrive on?”

  Her brows drew together. Now, why did that send a little thrill of excitement down her spine? She supposed it was only natural for him to be as curious about her as she was of him. And she had no problem answering his question. But . . . what did she thrive on? She knew what she liked and disliked. But thrived?