A Highlander's Reiver (Highland Temptations Book 3)

by Aileen Adams

  “Ye must be Clyde,” she said, for lack of anything else to say.

  “Aye. And ye are Anne.” He stretched his hands out toward the fire, then rubbed them together.

  “I am.” She bit her tongue against the impulse to ask just what he’d heard of her.

  “Where are the bairns?” He looked about with what she thought might be a hopeful expression, as though he had wished to see them.

  She offered a shy smile. “They are sleeping—still getting over their grippe, I suppose, a bit easier to tire than usual. Would ye like a cup of tea? Perhaps biscuits? I baked them myself.”

  He could not sit at one of the small chairs, that was clear. He would smash them to bits. Rather than take their tea at the table, then, they sat outside with steaming mugs and a plate of biscuits between them.

  “Verra good,” he managed to mumble around a mouthful.

  “They were my brother’s favorite,” she replied. “I would always bake them whenever he needed a bit of cheering. Or on special days.”

  He chewed thoughtfully, a man of few words. She assumed his size did much of the speaking for him. How strange, knowing she would have avoided this man had she crossed his path without knowing anything other than his intimidating appearance.

  “Is today a special day?” he asked finally, looking her way from the corner of his eye.

  Somehow, the question did not surprise her. In fact, it seemed the man understood a great deal without being told. “How did ye guess?”

  “The way ye sounded when ye spoke of him.”

  “Ye are quite right. It is my brother’s birthday. He was born eleven years ago.” And she could not even wish him a happy year. He would not receive biscuits and kisses from Malcolm or the rest. They would not mark the day for him or make wishes for his coming year.

  If anything, she supposed the lad would be fortunate if they ignored him. Better that than ridicule—or worse.

  “To your brother.” Clyde raised his mug, which looked more like a thimble in his hand, and she smiled as she raised her own. She hadn’t understood until just then how much she longed to tell someone, anyone, of what the day meant to her.

  “It must seem daft to ye,” she chuckled, catching a tear which threatened to overspill her eyelashes. “Thinking of one so far away, who I will not have the chance to see or speak to. I suppose it would be different if this were my birthday instead of his.”

  He frowned, his broad forehead creasing in numerous folds. “Not daft to remember.”

  The door swung open, and out tumbled Owen. “Clyde!” His shining eyes and beaming smile told Anne all she wished to know about whether or not they were friends.

  “Runnin’ about with no cloak and nothing on your feet, and just getting over the grippe,” she grumbled, removing her cloak and wrapping it around him. “Do ye wish to catch your death?”

  “I heard Clyde’s voice outside,” Owen grinned. “Come! Let me ride on your back!”

  “Och, Owen,” Anne tsked, shaking her head. “Clyde is not here for ye to ride as if he were a horse.”

  And yet this did not keep the man from swinging Owen over his shoulder, that the lad might wrap his arms about Clyde’s thick neck—so thick, in fact, that he could just clasp his hands together. “Go on!” Owen cried, then burst into helpless giggles as Clyde bounced up and down while performing an ungraceful, lumbering gallop.

  Anne giggled as well, try as she might to conceal it. She did not wish to appear rude or cruel, but it was an amusing sight. Never would she have guessed a man of Clyde’s size and imposing appearance could so thrill a child—nor would she have imagined he would enjoy it so, but there was no mistaking the joy on his scarred countenance as he and the wee lad galloped together.

  Moira emerged next and begged for a ride, but Anne put her foot down at this. “Inside the house, I believe. ‘Tis far too chill for ye to be running about, so soon after your illness.” She thrust a finger toward the door, and even Clyde seemed to drag his feet as he entered. It was all she could do to keep from bursting out in gales of laughter.

  They spent a lovely afternoon, much lovelier than she would have imagined, with Clyde keeping the bairns occupied all the while. Anne had little more to do than sit in a chair and watch, drinking cup after cup of fragrant tea while they played games the children had apparently made up on the spot.

  He did not seem to mind, and was endlessly patient when they asked their many questions. It seemed their curiosity was never satisfied.

  It was enough to make her wonder whether he’d ever had a family of his own, for nothing they did seemed to surprise or vex him in the slightest. “Do ye have a wife and bairns, Clyde?” she asked as Moira taught Clyde to weave straw into a crown. His thick fingers fumbled hopelessly, but Moira was patient and assured him he was doing well.

  When he did not offer an answer straightaway, she knew she’d ventured where she ought not. It was too late to take it back. She told herself not to pursue the matter if he did not respond.

  Yet he did. “I once had a wife and bairns of my own,” he explained, gaze fixed on the mass of straw in his hands. “Two wee lassies.”

  She was not going to ask for anything more. He had already said quite enough—too much, really, and she wished she had not mentioned it.

  Moira, however, was unable to understand this. “Where are they?”

  Anne opened her mouth to shush the child, but Clyde was too quick. “They had to go away. Far away. As your mam and da did.”

  Her throat tightened. So that was the reason he seemed naturally comfortable with children. He’d had his own, and he had lost them. How? Certainly not the sort of thing she would dare ask. It would be better if she bit off her own tongue, and she would sooner do just that, but curiosity plagued her just the same. There was a sadness about him. She caught Moira’s eye and shook her head. Just once, but firmly enough that it was understood this was not something to continue speaking of unless he spoke first.

  Moira only patted his shoulder. “Ye are making a bonny crown,” she offered with a sunny smile.

  Anne’s heart all but shattered at the sweetness of the moment. Clyde’s eyes shone as he smiled in return, and they both laughed when he plopped the crown on her head. It was a bit of a mess, with bits sticking out in all directions, but Moira spun in circles and danced with arms spread wide, and Anne applauded and assured her she looked every bit a queen.

  To her surprise, when she glanced out the window, she found the light warm and low, as if it were nearly time for her to begin supper preparations. “I canna tell ye how much it means to have ye here today, but I’m certain ye must be busy elsewhere. Ye have spent most of the afternoon with us.”

  He lifted his thick shoulders—not a simple task, as Owen hung from them, swinging to and fro against Clyde’s back. “Ye needed a bit of rest, to sit and drink your tea. I am ever pleased to have a reason to visit.”

  “How did ye know I needed to rest?” And she had needed it, quite badly. Not until then did she realize just how much in need of a few hours’ rest she’d been.

  He became shy of a sudden, as if he’d spoken out of turn and did not wish to continue. She would not allow him to wriggle off her hook no matter how fond she’d become. Her gaze was unflinching, and he seemed to shrink a bit beneath it.

  “He asked me to pay ye a call,” he eventually admitted, brushing straw from his tunic. “I went to the village this morning in his stead, as he had things to attend to, and he performed my chores this afternoon while I came here to allow ye a rest. We arranged it between ourselves, but dinna tell him I told ye.”

  “Why not?”

  A crooked smile. “He told me not to and will have my hide."

  If she lived a hundred years, never would she be able to understand the man. He was nearly callously cruel at times, unthinking and clumsy, yet at other times he anticipated her needs and saw to their fulfillment.

  Such as that morning, when he had prepared porridge and poured her a cup
of tea. The memory of it, the sweet surprise that he’d imagined her in need of a few minutes of sleep while he did the work, sent a strange, fluttery sort of feeling through her middle.

  And even after he’d laughed himself half to death at the suggestion of marriage and wounded her pride in no small measure, he’d seen to her comfort by asking Clyde to occupy the bairns.

  “I will not give you away,” she winked. “It will be our secret.”

  23

  “How was it?” Drew asked upon spotting Clyde’s return. He need not have asked. In fact, the sight of the man rolling his shoulders in circles told him just how hard the twins had used him in their play.

  “The same as ever.” But Clyde was smiling wide, and Drew had the feeling the afternoon was as much for the bairns and for Anne as it was for him. He would never have his daughters back, poor man, but he might enjoy being in the presence of children even so.

  It seemed the arrival of the twins had affected more than just himself.

  “I owe ye for taking the time.”

  “Och, it is good to visit with them.”

  Drew made a point of keeping his gaze averted when he asked, “What did ye think of her?”

  “Anne?”

  He rolled his eyes, his face turned away. “Aye, of course. Who else?”

  “Bonny. The bairns have taken to her.”

  Was that all? Drew dared glance Clyde’s way, but the giant showed no deeper understanding of the questions posed him. “Aye, the twins are comfortable with her and trust her, which in my eyes goes a long way.”

  “Bairns know better than we do at times,” Clyde reasoned. “They see what we canna.”

  “That is so.” He had the suspicion there was something unspoken between them to which Clyde did not wish to give voice. “What are ye not tellin’ me? Has she said or done something?”

  Clyde’s expression seemed to darken. He was troubled, no question about it. “I didna wish to speak of it, ye ken. But it seems as though someone ought to.”

  He could just imagine what he would hear. Had she slipped in some way? Had she confessed something? Though he knew not what she could possibly have said or done, he could all but feel the troubled nature of Clyde’s thoughts. It had to be something terrible.

  Clyde looked about, assuring himself they were alone in the barn. “While in the village today, there was a great deal of excitement. A thief had been caught, ye ken, and taken to the magistrate. Word has it that he was part of a band of reivers and cutpurses.”

  Drew willed himself to remain silent, to maintain as blank an expression as possible, even as his insides roiled.

  Clyde winced. “I doubt that would have caused much of a commotion were the thief not a mere lad.”

  It might as well have been a red-hot branding iron touching his skin. He would have vowed to any and all who heard that he felt actual, physical pain upon hearing it. There was only one lad it could be, he knew, even when there could have been dozens or even hundreds of lads just like Liam wandering the Highlands at that very moment.

  “How was he caught?” Drew choked out.

  “While attempting to steal a calf from the Kendricks,” Clyde frowned. “He made a terrible noise and woke the entire household, then caught the leg of his trousers in a bush as he tried to escape. They say the lad appears younger than his age, but he told the magistrate it was his eleventh birthday.”

  “Eleven,” Drew mused.

  “And…” Clyde sighed. “While Anne had excused herself outside, Owen told me of the grand adventure they’d had. How Anne taught them to…”

  “Steal bread,” Drew finished.

  “And Moira spoke of seeing a lad near the hearth one night, along with Anne. She does not know they spoke of it,” he added hastily.

  Drew closed his eyes as the world crashed in on him.

  “When Anne told me today was her brother’s eleventh birthday… and I knew ye were watching for reivers near the time Anne came to live here…”

  “Och, enough.” Drew rubbed his aching temples, where there had been no ache before Clyde came to speak with him. “Ye know the truth of it now. Aye, she was here to take a pair of steers, and her brother followed without her knowing. I never imagined they would force him to do the work in her stead. What was I thinking, sending him back? I was all wrong from the start.”

  Clyde gave him a moment for this to sink in before speaking again. “They are thieves, Drew. Thieves deserve their punishment.”

  “Not when there is another forcing them to do so,” Drew snarled. “They did not steal of their own will. Anne has not stolen from me—even the bread was merely a way to feed the bairns when no one knew I was keeping her at the house and the larder was low. Had others known of her presence, she would not have stolen. She is not a wicked person at heart, and neither is the lad.”

  He took a few paces in one direction, then back again, grinding his fist into his palm all the while. That devil, whoever he was. He’d forced Liam into something he was in no way fit to manage. “I must go to Avoch in the morning and see for myself. I dinna wish to bring this to Rufus or Anne until I know for certain.”

  “Aye. Would ye wish for me to go along?”

  “I can make the drive on my own, but please,” he added. “I beg ye, dinna mention this to anyone. Let us leave it between us for now. If it is the lad in question, I will confess all to Rufus and accept anything he wishes.”

  Clyde nodded. “Ye know ye can rely on me.”

  The birch trees had begun to lose their leaves, leaving a crunching, colorful rug strewn across the road and the fields to both sides. There was not a cloud in the sky, and while a crisp breeze blew in from the north, the sun’s warmth dispelled any true chill. A perfect day.

  Drew took no notice as he rode astride his chestnut gelding, the horse following a route it knew well. Good thing, because he was far too lost in thought to guide the beast.

  Liam. Poor, wee lad. He hadn’t a chance.

  “No one has come to speak on the lad’s behalf.” The magistrate had sneered at this, either out of spite for the lad or for whoever ought to have come to his aid.

  “Perhaps he has no one,” Drew had suggested. “Perhaps he—”

  “A starving orphan does not take to reiving. He steals a loaf of bread, an apple, even an onion. What was he going to do with that calf other than take it somewhere to sell?”

  He’d held onto this question, for the man had made a fair point. “What of it, then? What if someone gave orders to him? A father, uncle, some grown man without the courage to do his own thieving. What if they beat him or starved him that he might obey their orders?”

  The stout, old man had shrugged. “Can ye prove it? Can anyone? I canna take the lad’s word for it if it is not willin’ to give me names. People I can send my men to fetch.”

  “He will not give up his clan?”

  “He will not say a word! I merely know that we passed his eleventh birthday and that what we give him to eat, he all but chokes down without chewing.”

  That did sound like Liam.

  “He has not so much as breathed another word.” Drew had heard the man’s frustration and understood it well. When the only thing a body wished to do was come to the aid of another, there was nothing more infuriating than being refused.

  He had grown desperate then, convinced there had to be a way to set things right. He hoped there would be. First, it was a matter of speaking to Rufus.

  Rufus was unaware, working at a ledger in his study when Drew entered. “Aye, I had wished to speak with ye on this.” Rufus tapped the column of figures before him. “Ye know I always wish to have another set of eyes review my work.”

  Drew chuckled, though he was hardly in a light mood. “I am hopeless with figures, man, and ye know it. Davina is much more clever. I came to speak to ye on a serious matter.”

  The figures were forgotten. Rufus turned his full attention on his cousin. “Out with it. What is on yer mind?”

 
Within minutes, Drew had little choice but to duck as a flagon—empty, thankfully—sailed past his head and crashed into the wall behind him. Soon after that came a mug, then another, both of which he successfully avoided as his cousin screamed near enough to shake the house down.

  Rufus brandished his dirk. “I shall not miss with this, lad.”

  “Wait, I beg ye.” It was his nature to fight back, was it not? It was instinct. The man before him, cousin or no, wished his grievous harm and with good reason. He had just learned that a thief was living on his land without his knowledge and wished to kill the man who’d withheld the truth.

  Yet he could not fight him. Not Rufus. Not now. This was not some brawl in a tavern. This was kin. Blood. This was everything.

  Rufus’s chest heaved with each heavy, rasping breath. “Why? Is there yet more treachery ye wish to admit? Perhaps ye wish to clear your conscience before I send ye to your maker?”

  Drew held up his hands, palms out, a gesture of surrender. “Ye have every right to be furious—even more than furious. I have little excuse except for this, I believed then, and I believe now, that neither brother nor sister stole of their own will. They did it for another.”

  “Why did ye send the lad home, then?”

  “Because I knew ye would threaten to throw a dirk at my head if I told the truth!” Drew bellowed, gesturing to the weapon in question which still sat in his cousin’s palm.

  “I have no intention of throwin’ this,” Rufus assured him. “I intend to slit your throat from ear to ear.”

  “Forgive me if that does not provide comfort,” Drew spat. “Ye see what I mean. Had I told ye I caught a pair of reivers, ye would have demanded they go straight to the village for punishment.”

  “Ye have no greater faith in me, then?” Rufus asked, and for a moment he appeared genuinely disappointed. “I did believe we knew each other better than that, Drew.”

  “Look how enraged ye are now.”