Highland Scoundrel (Highland Brides)

by Greiman, Lois

“I didna mean to startle ye, lass,” he said.

  But he had. Even now her heart was beating overtime. Twas not like her to be so jumpy. But lack of sleep had never agreed with her.

  “Tis not your fault,” she said. “I didna see ye sitting there.”

  The old man chuckled and nodded as his gnarled fingers worked at something she could not immediately identify.

  She watched the rhythmic movement of his hands as they wove in and out, and gradually she felt herself relax.

  “Ye were deep in your thoughts,” he said.

  Pulling her gaze from his magical fingers, Shona sighed and circled the tower wall, watching the panoramic view change as she moved.

  “What would such a bonny lass as ye have to worry on so?”

  A lump on her head. Her inexplicable attraction to a man she detested. Her father’s wrath. A lifetime spent in an uninspired marriage.

  “Tis naught,” she said. “I couldna sleep.”

  “Tis the same with me.” The old man wore a faded brown hat that drooped over his ears like wilted husks. He tilted his head in an attempt to see past its sagging brim. “But tis pain that keeps me awake.”

  “If your arm pains ye, my aunt Fiona might help ye.”

  For a moment she thought she saw his eyes glitter beneath the floppy folds of his hat, but then he waved away her concern. “Tis just old age gnawing at my bones. But tis kind of ye to concern yourself with a worthless old man.” His hands never stopped while he talked.

  “Hardly worthless,” she said, letting her own worries drop away for a moment. “The children cherish ye, and the toys ye craft.”

  “Do they, now?” The old man chuckled and held up his latest creation. With nothing more than a twist of straw, he had crafted a tiny, marvelous bird. “Behold, a brown wren,” he said, lifting it high.

  “If ye try ye can imagine it flying, soaring over the treetops, just as your thoughts soar, aye, Shona of Dun Ard?”

  “Aye,” she said. It almost seemed as if the bird would fly, as if this old man had somehow imbued it with life.

  “And I have not yet even added the feathers,” he said, and opened a small pouch. But just then a gust of wind twirled about them.

  The tiny feathers lifted like dust in the wind. They swirled momentarily about his grappling fingers. But he was too slow, and before he could fetch them back, the capricious breeze whirled them over the wall.

  With a cry of dismay, Shona ran to the parapet to retrieve them. She grabbed at them, nearly reaching them. But suddenly a new gust lifted them farther out and they flitted away, dancing on the wind as if reveling in their newfound freedom and laughing at her earthbound ways.

  “They are gone,” Shona said, still leaning on the parapet to watch the feathers. “I am sorry.”

  “Not gone,” Magnus said philosophically. “Only displaced.”

  “Beyond our reach,” Shona said.

  “Nay,” Magnus crooned. “Not beyond your reach, surely. Nothing is impossible for Shona of Dun Ard, the daughter of the Flame and the Rogue.”

  Shona didn’t turn toward him, but continued to watch the feathers fall. They were mesmerizing somehow, entrancing. It was as if she watched her own future float before her, as if her own life were just as unfettered.

  She was the daughter of the unquenchable Flame, the first child borne of the notorious Rogue.

  Nothing could stop her. The thoughts were as soft as a whisper, slipping through her mind, dancing with the soaring feathers.

  Aye. She was her parents’ child. Surely she could soar—like the feathers, like the breeze. She filled her lungs with air and let her head fall back slightly. Wind rushed through her hair. It soared about her like cool, licking flames, making her feel as if she had wings. She was invincible, she was unconquerable. The world was hers, and if she wished to fly, surely she could. She stepped onto the parapet. Exhilaration swelled through her. Power filled her.

  But Kelvin’s image suddenly brought reality. She was no longer a child, able to risk her life and limb for no good reason. She had responsibilities now. What was wrong with her? Shona shook her head, trying to clear it, but the wind would not be quieted and whispered to her again.

  “Ye are the keeper of dreams and the thinker of thoughts, the planner of great plans.”

  She did have plans, great plans, though only a few knew of them. And none other must find out.

  But that had nothing to do with this moment, the breeze whispered. A fresh gust of wind caught her hair, twisting it into a cat o’ nine tails, but she barely noticed, so exhilarating were her thoughts. She could fly, she could soar.

  “Ye are the companion of kings,” the wind murmured. “The keeper of the Dragon.”

  Time halted. The feathers soared. Her thoughts flew with them. The world seemed to stand still, to watch her every move.

  “Fly, lass,” something whispered.

  She pushed off.

  “Shona!”

  She gasped at the sound of her name and jerked away from the edge.

  “Shona!”

  She turned like one in a dream.

  Dugald rushed forward and grabbed her arms. “What the devil are ye doing?” he rasped.

  “Lass!” scolded old Magnus, sounding breathless. “I feared ye would fall. Ye must not stand so close to the edge.”

  “What kind of foolishness is this?” Dugald scolded.

  Shona scowled at him. “Ye act as if ye thought 1 was about to throw myself from the tower.”

  “Weren’t you?”

  “I was but trying to fetch Magnus’s feathers.”

  “They are of little import,” said the old man, his hands shaking. “And surely not worth endangering the life of one such as yourself.”

  “I was not about to endanger my life,” Shona insisted. But it was strange. The wind had whispered secret things, and it did not usually speak to her.

  “I will fetch my frills,” Magnus said, and shuffled from the rooftop.

  The world went silent.

  “You are certain you are safe?” Dugald asked. He loosened his grip on her arms.

  She tried to speak, to laugh at his concern. But instead, her gaze met his and she was frozen for a moment, lost in his thoughts. “Of course I am safe. Why would I not be?”

  Quiet again. Twas not like her to be at a loss for words, but somehow now she could find neither the words, nor the ability to say them. For suddenly every instinct in her insisted that she kiss him.

  “Shona,” he murmured. His tone was taut and his expression absolutely sober. He leaned slightly closer. She knew his longing as well as her own and could feel his very pulse racing in her veins. Why didn’t he kiss her? she wondered. But just when he leaned closer still, he stopped. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

  “Last night…”

  Aye. They had kissed. She had liked it. Let’s get on with it, her mind said.

  “I would ask you some questions.”

  “Questions?” she whispered, and leaned toward him.

  His breathing was harsh, his body tense, as if he were trying his best to restrain himself. “Aye.

  You said you saw someone. I need to know…” He paused and scowled. “I need to know who—” he tried again, but his words disintegrated, and suddenly he was kissing her with all the passion that soared between them.

  “God’s wrath!” someone growled.

  “Da!” Shona gasped the word and tried to jump from Dugald’s grip, but he held her arms in his protective grasp. “I can explain.”

  “Can ye now?” Roderic’s voice was uncharacteristically low as he stepped onto the tower “Aye. Tis not what it seems.”

  “Truly? It seemed as if ye were kissing him.”

  She winced. “Very well, then. It is what it seemed. But I have a likely explanation.”

  Roderic raised his brows. “His lips were on fire? Ye were but attempting to put out the blaze?”

  Shona laughed a bit too loudly. “Nay. Of course not.” She cleared her thro
at. “I, uhh…” She finally managed to snatch her arms out of Dugald’s grasp. What the hell was wrong with her? What had she been thinking? “Dugald saved my life. I was but giving him a chaste kiss to express my thanks.”

  She was amazed to see how her father’s eyebrows could shoot into his hairline, and when she glanced at Dugald, she was surprised to see that his brows, too, could rise to an astounding height.

  “Saved ye?” Roderic asked. “Do ye mean to say that ye would have perished had ye not been kissed at that precise moment?”

  She laughed again. Still too loud, she reprimanded herself. “Nay, Father, ye tease me,” she said, but for the life of her she could not think of another single thing to say.

  “Then might I ask, Daughter, what horrible evil threatened ye here on Dun Ard’s tower roof?”

  “I… nearly fell while I was leaning over the parapet.”

  “Fell?”

  “Aye. I was hanging over the edge watching some feathers fall. Twas as if I was entranced, as if the wind was insisting that I leap from the parapet, for suddenly it felt as if I could fly, as if Dragonheart gave me his power. And I was not thinking. I could feel myself soar like a bird on the wing. Already I was falling,” she rambled wildly. “But suddenly, like an earthbound angel, Dugald caught my hand and snatched me from the slavering jaws of death.” Dear God, this was the weakest statement she had ever heard. What a pity it had come from her own lips.

  “Let me get this straight in my mind, Daughter. Are ye saying that though ye have climbed down this tower since your infancy, ye can no longer be trusted to stand near the edge?”

  “Ye knew I climbed down—” she began, but she stopped her words abruptly and bit her lip.

  “Considering the circumstances, I think ye should be thanking Dugald instead of…” She paused.

  “Instead of considering what you’re considering.”

  “And what am I considering, Daughter?”

  “I shudder to think,” she murmured.

  “Surely there is no need to shudder,” Roderic said. “So long as Dugald the Dapper agrees with your tale, he will indeed have my thanks and none of the horrid possibilities that worry ye.”

  The world was quiet. Shona turned her gaze on Dugald, imploring him to corroborate her story.

  “Did ye save my daughter’s life this morn, lad?” Roderic asked.

  “In truth, my lord,” Dugald said, “I cannot think of a maid I would sooner save. But I fear I am no hero.”

  Shona winced. “He must have forgotten,” she said weakly.

  “Mayhap your kiss has addled his senses, Daughter. Why don’t ye go see your mother while I discuss that problem with him?”

  “Nay, I—”

  Roderic turned his gaze on her. His eyes, blue as river water and sharp as glass, cut clean through to her soul. “Mayhap I misspoke, lass. I didna mean to ask for your agreement.”

  She swallowed. Rarely did her father get truly angered, but when he did, she would rather not be in the vicinity. Still, she was not a child, to be sent flying hither and yon at the first sign of trouble.

  “I hardly think he should be reprimanded for saving my life when—”

  Roderic lifted his hand. “The lad’s chances of surviving this gathering already look grim.

  Methinks ye should leave before ye dash what wee bit of hope he has left.”

  She swallowed once, cleared her throat, and fled.

  Dugald stood with his back to the parapets. His conscience beat relentlessly on in his brain.

  What the hell was wrong with him? He knew better than to get involved with this woman. She was a traitor. A vixen Tremayne had called her. She was planning the king’s death. Tremayne was certain of it, but he was not so foolish as to call for a public execution and risk the wrath of her family. No. She must die of a seeming accident, quietly, painlessly, as only Dugald could do it. And Dugald had agreed, for if he were loyal to anything it was to Scotland and its boy king. So why now did he feel this overwhelming desire to hold the very woman he had been sent to kill?

  “Would ye care to tell me your version of the story?” Roderic asked.

  Dugald drew himself back to the matter at hand. “I doubt I could improve on your daughter’s tale, my lord. She’s quite innovative.”

  “Try.” Roderic’s tone brooked no argument.

  “From down below I saw her leaning over the parapet. I but came up to make certain she was safe.”

  The world went silent.

  “You’re right. Ye would not do well as a storyteller.”

  Dugald watched the man the world knew as the Rogue. Under different circumstances, he might like this man—might even admire him. But it was always best not to become overly fond of someone you may have to kill before lunch.

  “I have done some checking into your history, lad,” Roderic said.

  A spark of fear speared through Dugald, but he doused it quickly, for he could not afford that luxury. “May I ask why?” he said evenly.

  Roderic remained quiet for a moment as he paced the perimeter of the tower. “Despite my daughter’s…” He scowled as he searched for the proper words. “High-spirited nature, she is a good lass, and I am rather fond of her.”

  Dugald watched him as he would watch any adversary, from behind hooded eyes that spoke of a spirit jaded by debauchery.

  “It seems ye are, too,” he finished.

  “Fond of her?” Dugald asked, genuinely surprised. He didn’t like to be surprised. It was poor planning. And that he couldn’t afford either.

  “Mayhap fond is not the proper word,” Roderic said.

  “Perhaps ‘attracted’ would be more apt in your case.”

  Dugald offered a wry grin. “I think that if you had these conversations with every man that was ‘attracted’ to your daughter, you would have little time for anything else.”

  For a moment, he thought he saw the flicker of a smile on the Rogue’s face. But it was quickly put away.

  “I dunna worry until she is attracted back,” Roderic said.

  “In which case you march the swain up here to reprimand him?” Despite his dry tone, Dugald could not help feeling a spark of joy to know that Shona’s obvious attraction to him was not a common day occurrence.

  “Only if the match is unacceptable.”

  Anger followed quickly on the heels of joy. For more than a score of years he had been unacceptable, first in Japan, then in France. In truth, Scotland was the homeland of his heart, for in the wild hills of his island haven he had found a fragile peace of sorts.

  “You needn’t worry,” Dugald said. “Your daughter is…well, there seems little point in denying her allure, and I do not doubt her good breeding, but if the truth be told, I am looking for something different in a bride.”

  “Such as?”

  “Someone who can give me limitless funds without causing me undue trouble.” He flicked an invisible mote of dust from his sleeve. “The tailor does not work for free, and I am a peace-loving man. I much prefer a good bottle of wine to a battle.”

  The anger was perfectly obvious on Roderic’s face. “Then I suggest ye look elsewhere for a bride,” he said. “For if ye touch my daughter again, the tailor will be spending his time taking in the inner seems of your breeches.” He stepped closer until his face was only inches from Dugald’s. “Do ye understand me, lad?”

  Dugald shoved down the anger, tamping it carefully away, but he could not quite keep the sharp edge of it from his voice. “Aye,” he said evenly. “I understand you very well.”

  Chapter 11

  Dugald did not compete in the games again that morning. On the previous day, he had taken advantage of the nearly empty castle and searched several rooms for some sort of clue. But clues were difficult to find when he didn’t know what he was looking for. All he had learned was Shona was hard on her clothes, Hadwin kept a pair of bone handled knives hidden under his mattress, and William and the earl of Angus both slept surrounded by a bevy of their own gua
rds.

  Today, Dugald watched Shona. He knew he shouldn’t. He knew he should do the job he’d been sent to do—trained to do, since birth. Dugald the Dragon had been hired, for there was none who could match him in the art of killing—even when he was retired, settled onto his own estate on the windswept Isle of Fois.

  He had refused the mission, but Lord Tremayne knew which strings to pull to make his marionette dance. When the promise of wealth hadn’t changed Dugald’s mind, there was the boy king to consider. Young James, orphaned by his father, all but abandoned by his mother, and sure to die before ever reaching manhood if the evil plots against him were not foiled.

  And Shona MacGowan was at the center of those plots, Tremayne had said, a cold and calculating wench with designs against the crown. Dugald narrowed his eyes as he watched her laugh with her cousins. Mayhap she did have designs against the throne, but as for cold and calculating…

  A dozen images of her flashed through his mind—Shona with a man’s wet tunic clinging to her breasts as she fished hopelessly for trout that were destined to elude her. Shona laughing with Kelvin.

  Shona warm and potent as hot rum when she kissed him.

  None of these images corresponded with the picture Tremayne had painted of her. True, she was spoiled and conceited, seeming to think herself capable of anything. But why would she wish to kill the king? Tremayne’s belief that she planned to marry above herself and see her husband on the throne seemed ridiculous now that Dugald had met her; especially in the light of King James’s marriage proposal to her. Strange that Tremayne hadn’t told Dugald about that. Stranger still, to hear it from Kelvin, who had relayed the tale with sober sincerity.

  If Shona MacGowan was the grasping wench Tremayne made her out to be, why hadn’t she snatched at James’s proposal? True, she was at least a decade older than the king, but such marriages had taken place before. Indeed, Eleanor of Aquitaine had made such marriages fashionable four hundred years before. Or if she had no wish to marry the lad, why not at least hold that proposal as a threat over the king’s advisors in order to gain what she could? Hardly would Tremayne allow a wild Highlander access to the throne, especially one with the power of the MacGowans and the Forbeses behind her.