Highland Scoundrel (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

  There was much to think about, much to dwell on. Shona had returned to Dun Ard less than three days before, but even here in her haven she could feel Scotland’s turmoil. The Highlands were not immune to the troubles that bedeviled the country. For with the last king’s death at Flodden Field some five years before, his son had been crowned, a boy far too young to take the government into his own hands. A French regent was elected, but the regent had returned to his homeland, leaving Scotland rudderless.

  It was that state of unrest that caused her father, called Roderic the Rogue by those who knew him, to plan a gathering of the Highland clans. At least, that was what he said, though Shona firmly believed it was just another attempt to find her a suitable husband. Lord William, duke of Atberry, had long been a strong contender for her hand, but no vows had yet been exchanged.

  Shona sighed and sat down, her legs curled under her on a rocky ledge. Bending forward, she let the brisk waves wash over her fingers. She was one of a lucky few, she knew, for she was nearly a score of years old and still she had not been promised away. Indeed, her parents would not give her to any man unless she herself approved the union, thus the delay. Whom could she approve when she had basked so long in the love of Roderic the Rogue?

  Removing her soft half boots, Shona swung her legs over the stone and dipped her toes into the waves. In all the world, this spot was her favorite. There was a tiny cove here where the warm water was trapped by a bar of sand. It felt like sunshine to her soul just to sit thus, away from the tension of court, the bother of prying eyes. Would she ever feel such freedom again if she married? And how could she decide on a spouse?

  Cousin Sara had thought herself well wed, and now she was. But her first husband had proved to be a cruel man.

  Perhaps she would not marry at all, Shona thought. Perhaps she would join a cloister. But that was laughable. Shona MacGowan, in a holy order! Twould be rather like housing a badger with goslings.

  Shifting her attention, Shona gazed into the new lacy foliage of the trees around her. Overhead, a tree pipit sang to her, and against her heart her amulet seemed to purr contentedly.

  She lifted it from beneath her tunic and examined it. Dragonheart, she called it. Twas in this very spot she had found it some months before, but even then it had not been new to her. No. Many years ago, Liam the Irishman had found it. This was the same amulet Rachel had stolen from him and that the three cousins had made a sacred vow on.

  Shona smiled at the memory. She had been young and carefree then and had almost believed in the incantation. Indeed, crafted of silver and set with a single ruby in the center of its chest, Dragonheart looked precious and magical. But she was far too old to believe such nonsense now.

  And yet it did seem miraculous that she would find it here, for it had been three years since Cousin Sara had held it. Three years since the wizard called Warwick had tried to take it from her and had subsequently been killed by Boden Blackblade. His back pierced by Boden’s sword, Warwick had fallen into the river and Dragonheart had fallen with him. Neither had been seen again.

  How odd that Shona would find the bonny amulet miles from that spot, lying clean and sparkling upon the sand.

  It would be nice to believe it had some magical mission.

  “Mayhap ye have come to find me my true love,” she murmured to it. It said nothing. She searched for other possibilities. “To bring peace to Scotland? To give me wisdom? To gain wealth for Dun Ard?” Still nothing. “To hang on your chain like a hunk of pretty metal and stone?”

  The dragon seemed to smile up at her. She scowled. What a fool she was to try to imbue this simple bauble with magical powers. The truth was, she had decisions to make and deeds to do, and regardless of Liam’s whispered warnings of the dragon’s mystical powers she was on her own. For rarely had the Irishman been caught telling the truth.

  Not a hand’s breadth from Shona’s toes, a fish splashed.

  Startled, she jerked her feet up in surprise then crouched on the edge of the rock to stare into the water. Caught in the tiny harbor were five fat salmon, enough for a large pot of soup and sorrel, Da’s favorite.

  Glad for this distraction from her thoughts, Shona rolled up her sleeves, lay on her abdomen, and reached into the river. But the first fish slipped through her fingers with ease. Wriggling forward, she tried again. Another glided quickly between her hands, then another and another.

  Finally, frustrated but determined, Shona rose to her feet and glanced about at the pastoral setting. It was just as quiet as before. Never, after many years of coming here, had she ever seen another living soul in this place.

  The sun had sunk nearly to the horizon, casting a bright pink glow to the world. The water splashed by in silvery hues of blues and greens, and in that water were five fish destined to be her father’s dinner.

  Without another thought, Shona slipped out of her leather breeches. Hanging them over a branch, she stepped down from the ledge and into the water. It splashed in chilly waves above her knees and against her thighs, lapping at the fabric of her long, belted tunic. She shivered at the feeling but refused to stop. Those fish were teasing her. Anyone could see that.

  She knew people sometimes thought her a bit foolhardy, even reckless. True, she had, upon occasion, acted with less than absolute maturity. Such as the time Da had brought that shaggy black bull in from the meadow. She’d taken one look at the bovine and bet Lord Halwart’s son she could ride the beast longer than he could.

  It had turned out neither could ride the animal. She learned, with the help of a bruised rump and extensive cuts that black bulls did not care to be ridden. But how was she supposed to know that unless she tried?

  Besides, this was nothing like that. She was merely going to catch some supper, and since leather breeches were notably binding when wet, she had removed them.

  All logical, all sensible. Bending to peer into the water, she made a grab for the closest fish. It streaked through her fingers and away, circling its small area of confinement. Shona reconnoitered and tried again. This time the salmon shot between her legs, getting caught momentarily in her shirt and flopping frenetically against her inner thighs. She gasped at the tickling sensation and grabbed at the same time. The fish fought its way out of the saturated fabric and dashed for freedom.

  Shona splashed about in a wild circle and scowled into the depths again. She should have brought her bow. That would show these foolish fish who was smarter. After all, it would hardly be the first time she had shot her dinner. But she hadn’t brought her bow, and though she kept a knife strapped to her waist, it would do her little good here.

  Concentrating for a second, she made another wild grab. To her utter amazement, the fish came away in her hands. It was beautiful, streaked in a rainbow of colors that flashed with metallic brilliance in the sun. But it was one long, slick muscle. Loath to leave the water, it wriggled madly.

  Shona wrestled to hold it, but the fish was slippery and her footing unstable. The mud oozed between her toes, and the sand sifted from beneath her heels, conspiring against her. The salmon jerked, the footing gave way. Shona shrieked as she slapped the water with her backside and slid beneath the surface. Silty water filled her mouth and nose. She scrambled wildly and came up sputtering, breathless from the cold, her hair streaming across her face like scraggly tendrils of doused flame.

  It took her a moment to realize something was odd. It took her longer still to understand that a small bream had become trapped in her tunic.

  No bigger than her middle finger, the fish was caught between her midriff and shirt and slapped frantically to be free. Shona squawked at the sensations, danced around a circle in an effort to shake it loose then finally stuck her hand down her neckline to fish it out. But it wriggled along her back and out of her reach. Finally, wiggling herself from the creepy feelings, Shona ducked back into the water, loosed her belt, and flipped up her hem.

  A current washed past, pulling the bream away, and suddenly the fish was fr
ee and gone. Shona let out a heavy sigh of relief and took a weary step toward shore.

  “Might you be keeping any trout in there?”

  Shona jumped at the sound of the voice, splashed back a pace then peered at the rocky shore.

  Through the mud, seaweed, and hair, she could just barely make out the shape of a man on the craggy ledge.

  Her jaw dropped. Good Lord, how long had he been watching her? she wondered, but when her vision cleared she realized the intruder’s gaze was caught on her breasts.

  Snapping from her trance, Shona clapped her attention to the front of her shirt. Wet as a sponge, it clung to her like a peel on an apple. Her nipples stood out in sharp relief, even showing their darker hue through the fabric.

  “Heaven’s wrath!” she hissed, and slapped her arms across her torso.

  From the rocky shore the intruder grinned crookedly. Even through her mess of hair, she could see that his teeth were ungodly white against his dark skin. “You’d best come out and check for eel,”

  he said. He spoke the Gaelic, but a kind of lilting old world dialect. “They can be decidedly unappreciative of a thing of beauty, but have a taste for tender flesh.”

  Shona searched wildly for an appropriate response, then finally scraped the hair out of her eyes a scant inch and sputtered, “Who are ye?” The tone was much higher pitched than she would have liked, but the cold had settled into her bones. And if the truth be told, despite her…well, fairly extensive mishaps of the past, she wasn’t accustomed to being caught in the middle of a frigid burn dressed in nothing but a man’s saturated tunic and the meager shreds of her own tattered pride.

  “They call me Dugald.”

  Dark Stranger, she translated roughly then cleared a bit more hair from her eyes, hoping against hope that this Dugald was merely some traveler she would never have to face again.

  To judge by his clothing and his accent, he was not a Highlander, for he did not wear the traditional plaid. Instead he was dressed in snug black hose and a slashed and puffed doublet that was undoubtedly padded at the shoulders. The costume had a decidedly Italian appearance. A rich Italian appearance. And he wore it like a prince, with his hair perfectly groomed and arrogance seeping out of every pore. Still, that didn’t necessarily mean he was anyone important. Once she had met a man dressed like a jester. He’d turned out to be the duke of Argyll and hadn’t been amused by her assumption.

  “Just…Dugald?” she asked, hoping against hope that he was no one she would ever meet again.

  A bit more grin showed against his dark skin. “In truth, I have many names. Some call me Dugald the Deft,” he said. “Lady Fontagne called me Dugald the Dazzling, but most call me Dugald the Dragon.”

  “The Dragon?” Shona murmured. Against her chest, Dragonheart felt warm.

  “Aye. Did you not know that dragons are very clever and wise…and powerfully alluring.” He grinned. “In fact, twas the Queen of Calmar who first gave me the name after my short acquaintance with—”

  “The queen?” she whispered frantically.

  “Aye.” He peered at her from the ledge as if wondering whether she might be some lunatic newly escaped from an asylum. His eyes were a strange, icy blue that tilted up ever so slightly. “I heard there was a flame-haired vixen ripe for marriage at Dun Ard. I’ve come to win myself a wealthy bride. And who might you be, lass?”

  Dear God, he was a nobleman, an early guest bent on meeting her, and here she was up to her knees in mud. He would think her a wild-haired wanton for exchanging niceties as if she were decked out in her Michaelmas finery.

  Heaven’s wrath, her father was going to kill her. But…wait a moment, this Dugald had no way of knowing if she was a milk maid or a marquess, and if she had even the wits of a turnip, she would keep it that way.

  “Your name?” he asked again, as if she might have forgotten it.

  She paused for an instant, worrying about her speech, which was damnably refined after her months at court. But after a moment, she came up with a suitably rustic accent and said, ‘ ‘Me name be of little account to a man such as yer noble self.”

  “I’ve rarely been accused of being noble,” he said. “But why not come out anyway? I could assist you in ridding yourself of any more unwanted fishes.”

  “I assure ye, I dunna need your help.”

  “Forgive me for saying so, but I beg to differ. I’ve seen more efficient techniques for fishing.

  Although none more interesting.” His smile slashed across his face again, ungodly white and as roguish as a satyr’s. “Come out, damsel. I’ll help you warm up.”

  When fish flew, she thought, assessing her possible means of escape.

  “There is no need to be shy, I assure you. I’m quite harmless.”

  Shy. Now there was a characteristic she hadn’t been accused of. But neither was she naive, and if this fellow was harmless, she was a brown thrush, complete with beak and pinfeathers.

  Her hesitation seemed to amuse him. He chuckled softly. The sound was deep and rippled strangely through her innards. She must be hungry.

  “Come on up, lassie,” he said, his tone softer now as he looked down at her from his rocky ledge. “I’ll give you a ride home.”

  Turning her attention to her left, she eyed his horses with some misgivings. One carried a large pack, the other, his saddle. Neither would carry her, she vowed.

  “There’s no need to fret,” he said, reaching out his hand. “I assure you, Eagle has no more wish to harm you than I do.”

  Eagle. Twas a strangely grandiose name for his stallion, Shona thought. For though the steed stood seventeen hands at the withers and had canon bones the size of cabers, he was, without a doubt, the ugliest animal she had ever seen. Half his right ear was missing. He was the color of trampled dust, and his nose, large as a battering ram, bowed dramatically forward in the center. He seemed, in fact, strangely incongruous with his master’s careful refinement.

  She brought herself back to the conversation with a start. “I know naught of horses, but he looks quite frightening,” she said, realizing she’d been quiet too long.

  “You’ve no need to worry. Eagle has a weakness for damsels in distress. Come on, then. He’ll not even notice your delicate weight on his back.”

  “Oh, nay, I couldna. I’ll find me own way home.”

  “You live close by, then?”

  She didn’t answer and hoped her reticence made it seem as if she were too overwhelmed by his manly and noble presence to respond.

  “Mayhap you are a serving maid at yonder castle?”

  She shook her head rapidly, letting her hair fall back over her eyes.

  “Where, then?”

  “I mustna tell,” she murmured, trying to sound feeble. “Me da wouldna like it.”

  “You’re not wed?”

  She shook her head and remained silent. Her voice was rather deep for a woman’s and quite distinctive; she had no wish to help him identify her later, should they meet again.

  “I’m certain your father would be more displeased if you were to catch your death before returning home. Come hither.”

  She didn’t.

  “I’ve a blanket in my saddle pack. I could wrap you in it.” That smile again, disarming, yet decadent, somehow, as if he’d made a thousand such offers in similar circumstances. “Twould be no hardship to keep you warm until you reached your father’s hearth.”

  And give him an opportunity to see her face—and much more. Not likely. “Please, good sir,”

  she said, with all due meekness. “Could ye na simply leave me in peace. I have no wish to shame myself further.”

  It took him a moment to answer, then, “I’ve seen nothing as of yet for which you should be ashamed, lass,” he said. She noticed his voice sounded somewhat husky now. “Come out. I’ll not hurt you. You have my word on that.”

  The word of a scoundrel. If he were any kind of a gentleman, he would go away and leave her alone. Or better yet, he would have pretended
he had never seen her splashing about in the burn like a banshee gone mad.

  It was bad enough that she’d taken a dousing. She would not return to Dun Ard perched in front of this scoundrel with her tunic stuck to her chest like fresh butter on a scone and her legs bare as a bairn’s bottom. If her father heard of it, he was likely to marry her off to the first hairy lout who could master the pronunciation of his own name.

  She glanced rapidly about. Where the devil had Teine wandered off to? The mare would come if she whistled. But it hardly mattered, she realized, for she couldn’t allow this man to know she had come here on her own horse. That would certainly give him a clue to her identity.

  Neither could she stand here like a dunce, waiting for wrinkles to form in her knees. She cleared her throat and said a quick prayer to Dympna, the patron saint of raving lunatics.

  “If I was to come out…would ya promise na to…” She hunched her shoulders, hoping she looked small and uncertain. “Ta take advantage of me person?”

  He tried to look wounded. He managed, rather, to look a bit like the devil on a binge. “Do I seem that sort to you?”

  Absolutely, she thought, but didn’t say as much.

  He laughed nevertheless, as though he could read her mind. “You’re a clever lass,” he said.

  “But you have my word. I’ll do nothing that you don’t beg for with your own lips.”

  Heaven’s wrath, this man was nothing but a running string of indecent innuendos, every one of which suggested a ridiculously elevated opinion of himself. Nevertheless, it would do her little good to set him in his place just now. Instead, she bit her lower lip and blinked innocently.

  “Very well, then,” she said, and splashed through the water, still hugging her breasts, painfully aware of every bit of thigh that showed as she drew closer to the stony ledge beneath his feet.

  Finally they were only a few inches apart, though he stood a good foot and a half taller. He squatted, offering his hand and a clearer view of his face.