My Rebel Highlander

by Vonda Sinclair

  "What's your name, lad?" Rebbie asked.

  "Nathan."

  "Nathan, take good care of Devil, here, or he will let his displeasure be known."

  Swallowing hard, the boy locked an awe-filled gaze on the horse. "Indeed, I will."

  "By the way, I own this property, not MacFadden."

  The boy's wide eyes switched to Rebbie, then he bowed. "As you say, m'laird."

  "Take care of the guards' horses, too."

  "I will. My brother will help."

  "I thank you." Rebbie handed him the reins and turned to his traveling companions. "Let's go inside and see if we can find our supper." He offered his arm to Calla and she took it. Wishing to keep her wee hand there, he placed his on top of it.

  MacFadden stood off to the side, a scowl on his red face.

  "Come, MacFadden. We shall eat."

  "I-I've already eaten."

  "Still." Rebbie nodded toward the entrance. "I wish you to join us." He trusted the whoreson not at all and wouldn't allow him to run off for reinforcements.

  MacFadden and the two guards MacGrath had allowed him to borrow followed him and Calla up the steps and into the keep.

  Rebbie was glad to see the great hall, though small, was well-cleaned and smelled of fresh rushes and herbs. A few people ate at the lower tables. Judging by their clothing, they were servants or guards. No one sat at the high table and only one trencher remained there.

  He cut a glance at MacFadden. He'd instated himself as laird, hadn't he? Rebbie couldn't believe the man's gall.

  "Och, m'laird!" a matronly gray-haired woman rushed toward Rebbie. "'Tis glad I am to see you! I feared you'd never return."

  Rebbie smiled. "Mistress Hillman." He bowed over the housekeeper's hand and kissed it. "You're as lovely as ever."

  "Oh, m'laird, you're naught but a charmer." She blushed and her face lit up with a bright smile. "And you've brought your lady with you. I didn't know you'd married!"

  Refusing to look at Calla, Rebbie smiled tightly, feeling conflicted of a sudden. Calla did seem like his lady, but any word relating to marriage made him feel as if he had a noose 'round his neck. "We're not married. I simply rescued her from a band of ruffians and brought her here for safe-keeping until I can stop the knaves. This is the Dowager Countess of Stanbury."

  "'Tis a pleasure, m'lady." Mistress Hillman curtsied.

  A blush brightening her face, Calla returned the curtsy. "Wonderful to meet you."

  Without doubt, she was just as disconcerted by Mistress Hillman's assumption that they were married as he had been.

  "How is your father, m'laird?" Mistress Hillman asked.

  "Still an ornery rascal." Rebbie grinned. "And how is Master Hillman?"

  "Well. He'll be glad to know you're back. Are you visiting or staying permanently?"

  "I've not yet decided." He glanced at MacFadden, not wanting him to know his plans.

  "Have a seat at the high table and I'll have the maids serve your food forthwith." Mistress Hillman hurried toward the stairwell that led down to the kitchens.

  Married? Ha! With a wry grin, Rebbie offered his arm to Calla. How would he feel if Calla were his wife? Saints! A sudden constriction locked around his chest. He didn't mind protecting her and he did enjoy her kisses immensely, but did that mean he wanted to marry her? A lifetime commitment was too much to think about right now.

  Her hand felt comforting, wrapped around his elbow as he escorted her to the high table. He pulled out a chair for her and took the one next to it.

  MacDade and MacKinney claimed seats at a low table near theirs.

  Rebbie would love to have a private conversation with Calla, but MacFadden had not moved from the spot he'd taken up just inside the door. And Rebbie needed to keep the man well within his sights.

  "It appears you did not finish your supper, MacFadden. Please join us." Rebbie motioned toward the half-eaten food on the trencher to his right.

  MacFadden eased forward, as if being dragged by invisible forces.

  Rebbie snorted softly and sent an amused glance to Calla. She gave a wee grin in return. Aye, he did love it when she smiled.

  Once seated beside Rebbie, MacFadden scooted himself and his trencher a foot further away.

  Rebbie grinned. "So, how long have you lived here in my home?"

  MacFadden glared at him. "'Tis not your home. You've only been here twice."

  "Three times," Rebbie corrected, then released a tired breath, unwilling to beat a dead horse. "How long have you lived here in Tummel Castle?" he asked again, this time in a harder tone. He was tired of the man claiming Rebbie didn't own this estate simply because he didn't visit often.

  "Six months."

  "I can see you've taken good care of the place. I appreciate that," Rebbie said, hoping to end up on better terms with him. He didn't want an enemy, but neither would he allow the man to claim ownership.

  MacFadden gave him an uncertain glance.

  "How did MacGill die?"

  "Wolves attacked him when he was out hunting one day. The fever from the bites killed him."

  "Saints!" A dark feeling roiled through Rebbie when he remembered how close he and Calla had come to having bites themselves. "A pack of them tried to attack us on the way here. They must be overpopulating again. What a horrible way to die."

  "Aye. In the spring, they took several lambs and calves as well. We've hunted for them but cannot find them."

  "Humph. I might have to send Devil after them."

  MacFadden eyed him in abject shock.

  "My horse, Devil. He tramples the hell out of them."

  "Ah." He looked so relieved Rebbie wanted to laugh. Had the man believed him a sorcerer?

  Maybe he should've let him believe the worst. That would've been one way to keep him in line. As it was, he was going to have to assign one of the guards to watch him. No telling what kind of scheming plans he had.

  ***

  After supper, Mistress Hillman led Calla upstairs, where a bedchamber had been prepared for her.

  "I'm so glad the laird is back," the housekeeper said in an excited tone as she climbed the turnpike stair. "He is a handsome devil, is he not?" She turned and smiled at Calla, assessing her expression with keen, observant eyes.

  "Aye." Of course he was, but Calla didn't want the housekeeper to know exactly how attractive she found him.

  "Just like his father."

  "Indeed." The two did favor each other a great deal. Their dark hair and dark brown eyes were evidently strong traits.

  A few candles and the wee fire burning in the hearth lit the small bedchamber with a cozy glow. The covers on the carved four-poster bed had been turned down, revealing white linen sheets. A bathtub filled with heavenly steaming water sat before the fireplace.

  "All this is for me?" Calla asked.

  "Of course, m'lady," Mistress Hillman said as if she were ridiculous to ask.

  But what Calla refused to tell her was that she'd not had a private room of her own in months. Not since she'd taken on the position as Elena's companion. Of course, she took baths—mostly sponge baths—but nothing so luxurious as being able to soak in a tub before the fire for as long as she wanted.

  "I thank you, Mistress Hillman."

  "My pleasure. 'Tis so nice to have a lady in residence." She beamed and blinked rapidly as if on the verge of tears.

  What on earth was the woman thinking? That she and Rebbie…. Her heart leapt into her throat. Nay. It could never be. She forced her gaze away from the housekeeper's hopeful one.

  "Well, I will send one of the young maids to help you undress." She bustled out the door.

  An hour later, after a nice soak in the hot water, Calla had dried off and put on a clean shift and dressing gown the maid had brought, and her hair was almost dry. 'Twas growing late, but she was not sleepy. Too many thoughts whirled around in her head… thoughts of a certain wicked laird with dark eyes and sinful kisses.

  A soft knock sounded at the door. Cou
ld it be him, or the maid? Her pulse thumping in her throat, she rose from her seat beside the fire and opened the door.

  Indeed, 'twas the roguish man himself, waiting in the corridor. Rebbie's gaze traveled down the length of her and leisurely back up as if she wore naught. She held her breath. When his eyes met hers again, a dark fire burned there.

  An answering excitement lit within her, sending heat searing over her.

  "Am I disturbing you?" he murmured.

  Aye, he was incredibly disturbing to her, but she shook her head. "Nay." Should she invite him in? 'Twas his castle after all, but she would be daft to allow him entrance to this bedchamber.

  Chapter Nine

  Calla couldn't believe Rebbie had come to her bedchamber. What was going through that mischievous mind of his? His obsidian eyes were near impossible to read, though she clearly saw desire there.

  "Does the chamber suit you?" he asked.

  "Oh, aye. 'Tis a lovely chamber. Warm and cozy with a view of the gardens out back." Nothing like the huge, cold chambers at the Stanbury Estate.

  He glanced over her shoulder, his gaze darting about the room. "It is, indeed."

  "You've never set foot in this chamber before, have you?"

  He shrugged. "Nay."

  Did he realize how fortunate he was to own castles with rooms he'd never even seen? She shook her head.

  "Would you like to give me a tour? I have wine." He brought the bottle and two goblets from behind his back. "I thought it might help you relax. You seemed tense during supper."

  He'd brought wine to her bedchamber? Heavens! Renewed heat flushed over her.

  "I ken what you're thinking," he said, lifting a brow and giving her a roguish look. "And, nay, I didn't come to seduce you."

  Good Lord, how could he say such a thing? She wanted to fan her burning face, but somehow refrained. She stepped back, allowing him entrance.

  "Although I would like to," he continued. "But I've decided to be a gentleman."

  He would like to seduce her? What on earth could she say to that? She never knew when he was serious and when he was teasing, anyway. But, based on the lustful onceover he'd given her a few moments ago, there might be some truth to it. Because she had not experienced any passion or seduction since that night she'd shared with him years ago, she was feeling excessively deprived and awkward, more like a virgin than a widow.

  "At supper, you hardly said a word." He closed the door. "I could tell you were uncomfortable."

  "Well, I was unsure what to say with MacFadden there."

  "Mad Fadden is a better name for him," Rebbie said in a dry tone.

  Holding back a snicker, Calla grinned.

  "I've assigned MacDade to watch him. And I had to move him out of the laird's chamber. I cannot believe the audacity of the man, setting himself up as laird here." He placed the two goblets on a table just inside the door and removed the bottle's cork.

  "Do you think he will give you trouble?"

  "I know not. I plan to find out more about him." Rebbie poured the red wine and handed her a goblet.

  "I thank you."

  "I've assigned the castle guards to keep watch for Claybourne or anyone approaching. They'll take shifts so someone is on the lookout at all times."

  Calla frowned. "Can you trust them, or are they loyal to MacFadden?"

  "I questioned them and I believe they'll do their jobs, otherwise they ken they'll be out of work. They're not MacFaddens, so they have no clan or family loyalty to him."

  She nodded. "I thank you for going to all the trouble."

  "'Tis no trouble. I wondered if you would tell me more about your situation, and Claybourne."

  Calla tensed. If he wanted her to relax, this was certainly not the way to achieve it. "What do you want to know?"

  "Can we sit?" He motioned toward the chairs before the hearth.

  "Of course." But 'twould not calm her nerves.

  Once they were seated, he asked, "Why were you at the livery stable in the village, and how did Claybourne know you would be there?"

  'Twas easy enough to answer. Her worry diminished marginally. "Claybourne and I had worked out an arrangement so that I would pay him what I could each week. I sent the payment by a man named Hobbs, a former servant at the Stanbury Estate. I trusted him more than most anyone else, and I knew he needed to earn a bit of money himself. But… Claybourne must have forced him to reveal where we would meet."

  "Bastard," Rebbie muttered, frowning darkly. "I can't wait to get my hands around his throat."

  Calla took a sip of the sweet red wine and swallowed, surveying Rebbie's militant expression. He was indeed every inch the Highland warrior—ready to charge into battle—that she and Elena had seen that first day in the village. If she had a choice, he was exactly the sort of man she would want defending her.

  "What was Claybourne's history with Stanbury?" Rebbie asked.

  She shrugged. "They'd known each other for years."

  "Were they friends?"

  She shook her head. "More like friendly rivals."

  "And they were not of the same age, aye?"

  "Nay, there was a difference in their ages of about fifteen or twenty years."

  "Did Claybourne show an unhealthy interest in you from the moment you married Stanbury?"

  "Well… when I was sixteen, I was too naïve to fully understand that sort of thing, but after a while I did start to notice the leering looks Claybourne sent my way when Stanbury wasn't paying attention. I didn't see him often, though. Most of the time Stanbury met him elsewhere. Wherever they gambled."

  Rebbie took a sip of wine and stared into the fire as if in deep thought. His square jaw sported dark beard stubble, which gave him the look of a wild and unruly pirate. His long black hair, brushing his shoulders, and his belted plaid completed his rebellious image. Her own father certainly would've never allowed him to court her, even if he was as rich as Midas.

  "What was Stanbury like?" Rebbie asked, switching his penetrating gaze to her.

  A sense of suffocation came over her for a moment. She drew in a deep breath to dispel it. "He was… not easy to be married to. He was a malicious, calculating man more than twice my age. Our marriage was a business arrangement, of course. I would've never chosen him as a husband. He was a longtime friend of my father's."

  A scowl on his face, Rebbie nodded.

  "My father's health deteriorated when I was around fifteen summers and he betrothed me to Stanbury. Father told me his friend would take care of me. Apparently, he trusted him, but they were alike in many ways. My father was also a cold, heartless man."

  "'Slud," Rebbie hissed, giving her a sympathetic look. "Did they mistreat you?"

  "They never struck me, but they were never kind either." Calla's eyes stung as she remembered how, as a young lass, she'd always tried to please her father with her singing or her needlework, but he'd never smiled at her. Never said a kind word. He'd tolerated her. When she was older, she realized he was most likely grief-stricken and cynical because both her brothers had died when they were children and he had no male heir.

  Stanbury had pretended kindness the first few months of their marriage, then he'd grown bitter, his words becoming more vicious as the months passed, because she hadn't conceived right away. And then finally, the death threat, which she couldn't tell Rebbie about.

  "What of your mother?" he asked.

  Calla shook her head. "She died when I was two. I don't even remember her."

  "Aye." Rebbie stared into the goblet for a long moment. "I don't remember my mother either. But my father is very different from yours."

  "Aye, 'tis clear he cares a great deal about you," she said. Did Rebbie have any idea how fortunate he was in that? She would've given near anything if her own father had embraced her, or simply looked at her with kindness occasionally.

  "Where is the Stanbury Estate?" Rebbie asked, and she wasn't sure she liked the change in subject.

  "In Kinross."

 
"Why were you in Stirling that night?" Though his tone was calm, his words ignited an explosion inside her, blowing all her emotions toward the surface. Especially shame. She dropped her gaze. She didn't have to ask him which night he meant; 'twas clear he was talking about the first night they'd spent together.

  Leaning forward, he took the wine goblet from her suddenly shaky hand and set it aside along with his. Then, he held her hands within his… so warm and strong.

  "Calla," he said softly. "Don't fash yourself. I just… want to know more about you."

  She nodded, but still couldn't meet his eyes. He had a right to his curiosity. He must've wondered all these years why on earth she would approach him in an inn. "We'd traveled to Stirling for a grand feast held by Stanbury's friend."

  "Aye." Rebbie gently squeezed her hands as if inviting her to continue. But she could not tell him all he wished to know.

  "I had grown lonely and isolated. He held no affection for me, and once I bore his heir, he never touched me again." 'Twas true. She might not tell Rebbie everything, but she didn't wish to lie to him either.

  "That was a blessing, at least, aye?"

  She nodded. "When he went out to gamble with his friends that night, I slipped out, for I knew he would be occupied until the morn. I was so tired of it all. My life held no joy. I just wanted… I don't know. Perhaps, to pretend I was someone else for a short while. To experience something I never had… and never would again."

  "You don't ken that," he murmured.

  "What?" Finally, she lifted her gaze.

  A depth of compassion lurked in his midnight eyes, along with a hint of hidden interest. "You don't ken you won't experience a night like we shared again."

  Her throat closed and tears filled her eyes. She swallowed hard against the constriction, trying to regain control of her emotions, but the tears slipped out.

  "Come." Rebbie drew her abruptly onto his lap, leaned back, and pressed her head against his shoulder.

  His kindness only served to compound her emotions. Her throat ached and tears streamed from her eyes. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

  "Nay. 'Tis all right." One arm around her back, he held her close, and with his other hand, he stroked her hair as if she were a small child.