Highlanders

by Tarah Scott

  Reward? Bounty is what it was.

  The advertisement gave the appearance that Price was living up to his obligations as President of Landen Shipping. But she knew he intended she reach Boston dead—and reach Boston she would, for without her body, he would have to wait five years before taking control of her fifty-one percent of Landen Shipping. She intended to slip the noose over his head first.

  Elise caught sight of her trembling fingers, and her stomach heaved with the memory of Amelia's body sliding noiselessly from the ship into the ocean. She choked back despair. If she had suspected that Robert had been poisoning her daughter even a few months earlier—

  "Flowers!"

  Elise jerked at Bonnie's squeal. The girl stood with a handful of flowers extended toward her. Elise brushed her fingers across the white petals of the stitchwort and the lavender butterwort. She was a fool to involve herself with the people here, but when Shamus was murdered she been unable to remain withdrawn.

  "Riders," Tavis said.

  Elise tensed. "Where?"

  "There." Tavis pointed into the trees.

  She leaned forward and traced the line of his arm with her gaze. A horse's rump slipped out of sight into the denser forest. Goose bumps raced across her arms.

  Elise straightened and yanked Bonnie into her arms "It will be dark soon—" Tavis faced her and she stopped short when his gaze focused on something behind her.

  Elise looked over her shoulder. Half a dozen riders emerged from the forest across the meadow. She started. Good Lord, what had possessed her to leave Brahan Seer without a pistol? She was as big a fool as Tavis and without the excuse of youth. She slid Bonnie to the ground as the warriors approached. They halted fifteen feet away. Elise edged Bonnie behind her when one of the men urged his horse closer. Her pulse jumped. Was it possible to become accustomed to the size of these Highland men?

  She flushed at the spectacle of his open shirt but couldn't stop her gaze from sliding along the velvety dark hair that trailed downward and tapered off behind a white lawn shirt negligently tucked into his kilt. The large sword strapped to his hip broke the fascination.

  How many had perished at the point of that weapon?

  The hard muscles of his chest and arms gave evidence—many.

  The man directed a clipped sentence in Gaelic to Tavis. The boy started past her, but she caught his arm. The men wore the red and green plaide of her benefactors the MacGregors, but were strangers.

  "What do you want?" She cursed the curt demand that had bypassed good sense in favor of a willing tongue.

  Except for a flicker of surprise across the man's face, he sat unmoving.

  Elise winced inwardly, remembering her American accent, but said in a clear voice, "I asked what you want."

  Leather groaned when he leaned forward on his saddle. He shifted the reins to the hand resting in casual indolence on his leg and replied in English, "I asked the boy why he is unarmed outside the castle with two females."

  Caught off guard by the deep vibrancy of his soft burr, her heart skipped a beat. "We don't need weapons on MacGregor land." She kept her tone unhurried.

  "The MacGregor's reach extends as far as the solitude of this glen?" he asked.

  "We are only fifteen minutes from the village," she said. "But his reach is well beyond this place."

  "He is great, indeed," the warrior said.

  "You know him?"

  "I do."

  She lifted Bonnie. "Then you know he would wreak vengeance on any who dared harm his own."

  "Aye," the man answered. "The MacGregor would hunt them down like dogs. Only," he paused, "how would he know who to hunt?"

  She gave him a disgusted look. "I tracked these children. You think he cannot track you?"

  "A fine point," he agreed.

  "Good." She took a step forward. "Now, we will be getting home."

  "Aye, you should be getting home." He urged his horse to intercept. Elise set Bonnie down, shoving her in Tavis's direction. "And," the man went on, "we will take you." The warriors closed in around them. "The lad will ride with Erin. Give the little one to Kyle, and you," his eyes came back hard on Elise, "will ride with me."

  The heat in his gaze sent a flush through her, but her ire piqued. "We do not accept favors from strangers."

  His gaze unexpectedly deepened.

  She stilled. What the devil? Was that amusement on his face?

  "We are not strangers," he said. There was no mistaking the laughter in his eyes now. "Are we, Tavis?" His gaze shifted to the boy.

  "Nay," he replied with a shy smile. "No' strangers at all, laird."

  "You know this man?" Elise asked.

  "He is the laird's son."

  "Marcus!" Bonnie cried, peeking from behind Elise's skirts.

  Elise looked at him. Marcus? This was the son Cameron had spoken of with such affection these past months? It suddenly seemed comical that she had doubted Cameron's stories of his son's exploits on the battlefield. She had believed the aging chief's stories were exaggerations, but the giant of a man before her was clearly capable of every feat with which his father had credited him.

  Prodded by the revelation, she discerned the resemblance between father and son. Though grey sprinkled Cameron's hair, the two shared the same unruly, dark hair, the same build… and… "You have his eyes," she said.

  He chuckled.

  Heat flooded her cheeks. She pulled Bonnie into her arms. "You might have said who you were." She gave him an assessing look. "Only that wouldn't have been half as much fun. Who will take the child?"

  His gaze fixed on the hand she had wrapped around Bonnie and the small burn scar that remained as a testament of her folly. His attention broke when a voice from behind her said in a thick brogue, "'Tis me ye be looking for, lass." She turned to a weathered warrior who urged his mount forward.

  Elise handed Bonnie up to him. Stepping back, she bumped into the large body of a horse. Before she could move, an arm encircled her from behind, pulling her upward across hard thighs. A tremor shot through her. She hadn't been this close to a man's body since—since those first months of her seven-year marriage.

  Panic seized her in a quick, hard rush. The trees blurred as her mind plunged backward in time to the touch of the man who had promised till death do them part. Her husband's gentle hand on their wedding night splintered into his violent grip the night he'd tried to murder her—the movement of thighs beneath her buttocks broke the trance as Marcus MacGregor spurred his horse into motion. His arms tightened around her and she held her breath, praying he couldn't hear her thudding heart.

  The ambling movement of the bulky horse lifted her from Marcus's lap. She clutched at his shirt. Her knuckles brushed his bare chest and she jerked back as if singed by hot coals. Her body lifted again with the horse's next step and she instinctively threw her arms around Marcus's forearm. His hold tightened as rich laughter rumbled through his chest.

  "Do not worry, lass. Upon pain of death, I swear, you will not slip from my arms until your feet touch down at Brahan Seer."

  Elise grimaced, then straightened in an effort to shift from the sword hilt digging into her back.

  "What's wrong?" He leaned her back in his arms and gazed down at her.

  She stared. Robert had never looked so—she sat upright. "I've simply never ridden a horse in this manner."

  "There are many ways to ride a horse, lass," he said softly.

  Elise snapped her gaze to his face, then jerked back when her lips nearly brushed his. She felt herself slip and clutched at his free arm even as the arm around her crushed her closer. Her breasts pressed against his chest where his shirt lay open. Heat penetrated her bodice, hardening her nipples. A surprising warmth sparked between her legs. She caught sight of his smile an instant before she dropped her gaze.

  * * * *

  Their ascent steepened. Marcus closed the circle of his arms around the woman's waist. She leaned into him. It was a shame she wore a cloak. Without it, her ba
re arms would lay against his chest. He hardened. Bloody hell. Shift even a hair's breadth and the challenge he'd seen in her gaze an hour ago would resurface, accompanied by a slap across his face.

  She had betrayed no fear when he came upon her—other than her open assessment of his weapon. Odd his sword should be what frightened her. She must have known if he meant mischief, he needed no weapon save his body. An erotic picture arose of her straddling him, breasts arched so he could suckle each until she begged him to lift her onto his erection.

  He forced back the vision and focused on her determination to defend the children with her life… or perhaps, her body. He smiled, then gritted his teeth when he further hardened at the memory of her leaning over Tavis's shoulders as she scanned the forest for the riders he'd sent. Hands braced on her knees, her posture revealed the curve of a firm derriere.

  When she turned at their approach, the wind had blown her brown hair about her shoulders, bringing his attention to the sensual curve of modest breasts visible just above the edge of her bodice. He envisioned hips tapering into long legs and wondered what those legs would feel like wrapped tightly around his waist while he thrust deep inside her.

  Her accent had caught him off guard. What was an American woman doing on MacGregor land, and how had she come to know Tavis and Bonnie well enough to track them through the woods? Hot fury shot through him. The little fool. Had the wrong man come upon her, she might well have ended up like Katie.

  The majestic heights of Brahan Seer's west tower abruptly loomed in the distance. Marcus's steed unexpectedly faltered, then steadied. The woman tensed and Marcus's body pulsed. He closed his eyes, breathed deep of her hair, then looked again at the tower. For the first time in his life, he regretted the sight. His ride with her cradled in his arms would soon end.

  Higher they climbed, until Brahan Seer's walls became visible. The gates were open. At their approach, his captain Daniel hailed from the battlements. Marcus nodded as they rode through the entry. Inside the courtyard, he halted and Daniel appeared at his side.

  "Elise," he addressed the woman, surprise apparent on his features. He glanced at the children, his gaze lingering on Bonnie. His mouth tightened. "Mayhap Marcus can take a hand with you, Tavis. Get along, and take your sister. Your mother will be worried."

  Marcus handed Elise down to him. Before Marcus's feet touched the ground, she had started toward the castle. He dismounted and clasped Daniel's hand while watching from the corner of his eye the sway of her cloak about her hips as she answered a welcoming smile from two of his men headed toward the stables.

  "What were they doing out alone?" Marcus demanded of Daniel.

  "I've ordered the boy not to go wandering the woods," he replied.

  "And Bonnie?"

  "This is the first. I imagine she chased after her brother."

  Elise turned the corner around the castle and Marcus cut his gaze onto her the instant before she disappeared. Lust shot to the surface and tightened his shaft, but he turned back to Daniel. "Why is Shamus letting his children run wild—never mind. I'll speak to him. You look well."

  Daniel hesitated, then said, "Chloe is with child."

  Marcus smiled in genuine pleasure. "Congratulations, man."

  Daniel smiled, then took the reins as Marcus turned toward the castle.

  Through the busy courtyard, he answered greetings, but his thoughts remained on the image of Elise as she vanished from sight. She had a forthright, strong quality. Yet—he bent his head to breathe her lingering scent from his clothes—the lavender bouquet in her hair was decidedly feminine. It would be some time before he forgot the feel of her buttocks across his thighs. But then, perhaps he wouldn't have to. Marcus entered the great hall to find his father sitting alone in his chair at the head of the table.

  Cameron brightened. "So, ye decided to come home?"

  Relaxing warmth rippled through Marcus.

  "Tired of wandering the land?" Cameron made a wide sweeping gesture.

  "You knew I was on my way, but, aye." He stopped at the chair to his father's right and lowered himself onto the seat. "I am pleased to be home."

  "How is my grandson? I see you did not bring him with you."

  Marcus sighed. "Nay, Father. You knew I wouldn't."

  Cameron snorted. "We would not want to offend the mighty Sassenach."

  "Father," Marcus said in a low tone.

  Cameron shook his head. "The clan never asked you to concede to the English, you know. I never asked for it. Did you ever wonder if the sacrifice is worth your son?"

  "Aye," Marcus murmured. He'd wondered. Politics had ruled the MacGregor clan for centuries and that wasn't easily changed. He paused. "Have I been gone too long, or is something different about the great hall?"

  "You have the right of it, lad." Eyes that mirrored his own looked back at him. "More than you can imagine."

  Marcus looked about the room. "I can't quite place it. What's happened?"

  Cameron took a long, exaggerated draught of ale.

  "Cameron."

  "Enough of your looks, lad. They do not work with me." He chuckled. "I taught them to you. Remember? It is no mystery, really. Look around. When did you last see the tapestries so bright, the floors so clean?" He motioned toward the wall that ran the length of the room, framed by stairs on either end. "When have you seen the weapons so polished?"

  Marcus scanned the nearly two hundred gleaming weapons mounted across the wall. He rose and walked the wall's length, perusing the weapons. Each one glistened, some nearly as bright as newly forged steel. He glanced at the floor. The stone looked as if it had just been laid.

  He looked at his father. "What happened?"

  "The women came one day—or rather, one month—and swept out the cobwebs, cleaned the floors, the tapestries, weapons."

  Marcus rose and crossed the room to the kitchen door where the women worked. The housekeeper sat at the kitchen table. Ancient blue eyes, still shining with the bloom of youth, smiled back at him. Winnie had been present at his birth. Marcus knew she loved him like the son she'd never had. He, in turn, regarded her with as much affection as he had his own mother.

  She turned her attention to the raw chicken she carved. "So, you've returned at last."

  "Aye, milady."

  A corner of her mouth twitched with amusement.

  "I am looking forward to the company of some fine lasses tonight," he said. "'Tis a long and lonely trip I've had. Perhaps next time I shall take you with me." He gave her a roguish wink before striding back to his seat in the hall.

  Marcus lowered himself into the chair he had occupied earlier. "Must have taken an army just to shine the weapons alone. Not to mention the walls and floors."

  "It did. You will see the same throughout the castle. Not a room went untouched."

  "Whatever possessed them to do it?"

  "It was the hand of a sweet lass," Cameron replied.

  "Which one? Not Winnie—"

  "Nay. The lass Shannon and Josh found washed ashore on the coast. They brought her when they returned from the south."

  "Washed ashore?"

  "An American woman. Her ship perished in a fire."

  "American?"

  Cameron scowled. "Are you deaf? Shannon is the one who discovered her at Solway Firth."

  "What in God's name was she doing there?"

  Cameron gave his chin a speculative scratch. "Damned if I know. They were headed for London."

  "London? Sailing through Solway Firth requires sailing around the north of Ireland. That would add a week or more to the journey."

  His father's mouth twisted into a wry grin. "You know the English, probably got lost."

  "I thought you said she was American."

  "English, American, 'tis all the same." Cameron's expression sobered. "But dinna' mistake me, she is a fine lass. She came to us just after you left for Ashlund four months ago. You should have seen her when they brought her here. Proud little thing."

  "Pro
ud, indeed," Marcus repeated.

  "'Tis what I said." Cameron eyed him. "Are you sure something isn't ailing you?"

  Marcus shook his head.

  "At first, she didn't say much," Cameron went on. "But I could see a storm brewed in her head. Then one day, she informed me Brahan Seer was in dire need of something." He sighed deeply. "She was more right than she knew."

  Marcus understood his father's meaning. His mother's death five years ago had affected Cameron dramatically. Only last year had his father finally sought female comfort. The gaping hole created by her absence left them both thirsting for a firm, feminine hand.

  "It's a miracle she survived the fire," Cameron said. "'Course, if you knew her, you would not be surprised."

  "I believe I do," Marcus remarked.

  "What? You only just arrived."

  "I picked up passengers on the way home—Tavis, little Bonnie, and an American woman." Marcus related the tale. "I recognized her accent," he ended. "Got accustomed to it while on campaign in America."

  Cameron smiled. "Elise is forever chasing after those children."

  "Why?"

  His father's expression darkened. "Shamus was murdered."

  Marcus straightened. "Murdered?"

  "Aye."

  "By God, how—Lauren, what of her?"

  Sadness softened the hard lines around his father's mouth. "She is fine, in body, but… her mind has no' been the same since Shamus died. We tried consoling her, but she will have none of it."

  A tingling sensation crept up Marcus's back. "What happened?"

  "We found him just over the border in Montal Cove with his skull bashed in."

  "Any idea who did it?"

  "Aye," Cameron said. "Campbells."

  Marcus surged to his feet. He strode to the wall, where hung the claymore belonging to his ancestor Ryan MacGregor, the man who saved their clan from annihilation. Marcus ran a finger along the blade, the cold, hard steel heating his blood as nothing else could. Except… Campbells.

  Had two centuries of bloodshed not been enough?

  Fifty years ago, King George finally proclaimed the MacGregors no longer outlaws and restored their Highland name. General John Murray, Marcus's great uncle, was named clan chief. Only recently, the MacGregors were given a place of honor in the escort, which carried the "Honors of Scotland" before the sovereign. Marcus had been there, marching alongside his clansmen.