Highlander's Hope

by Cameron, Collette

  Yvette flashed a welcoming smile, which was immediately reciprocated with an impish grin. Moving toward her, the slight woman pulled the cap off her head. Waves of thick toffee-brown hair fell to her waist, though it was tied at the nape of her neck with a ribbon.

  “Evvy,” Ian looked past her to the doorway. “Vangie isn’t with you?”

  “No.” Yvette stepped farther into the room. “The babies were fussy and took longer to feed than she anticipated. She said she would be down shortly and sends her apologies once more.”

  Ewan extended his hand toward her. “Come. Meet my family.”

  Yvette stopped short of him, suddenly nervous and unsure. A knot formed, then coiled somewhere in the region of her stomach. How much had he told them? Would they think ill of her? Lawks, but this was awkward.

  Gazing at him, she was partially reassured when he drew her arm through his, and rested his large, warm hand atop hers as it lay on his arm. She peeped at him from the corner of her eye. Did he wink at her? He had a broad smile on his face. He doesn’t seem vexed.

  Guiding her toward a handsome middle-aged man Ewan said, “Evvy, I’d like to introduce you to my stepfather, Hugh Ferguson.”

  Yvette extended her hand. “Ewan’s spoken of you, Mr. Ferguson.”

  “Ach, call me Hugh.” He bent over her hand, then winked at Ewan. “She’s a very bonnie lassie, son.”

  “Aye, she is at that.”

  Something in the timbre of Ewan’s voice caused Yvette’s heart to catch and her skin to prickle deliciously. She trembled from top to toe, and it wasn’t from nerves. Ewan must have felt her tremor because he rumbled a low, sensual laugh.

  Beast.

  Heat crept from Yvette’s neck to the roots of her hair. Hoping to divert the attention from herself, she extended her hand to the beautiful young woman. “You must be Adaira.”

  Adaira grinned and nodded. “I was thrilled when Ewan sent for his kin and asked that I come too. I’ve looked forward to meeting you, Yvette.”

  Yvette cast a surprised glance at Ewan. Adaira knew of her? How? She smiled to hide her confusion. “Please call me Evvy.”

  “And you must call me Addy. Everyone does but Ewan.” She pulled a face at her older brother. “He’s so stuffy, insisting on addressing me by my given name.”

  “Indeed?” Yvette quirked a brow at him. “‘Tis a wonder he deems it fitting to address me by my pet name. He was most insistent about doing so. Why is that, Ewan?”

  Adaira laughed, a naughty gleam flashing in her brown eyes. Was Adaira happy to see someone challenge her brother?

  “Be good, minx,” Ewan admonished his sister with a warning glint in his eye. Switching his gaze to Yvette he gave her a speaking look. “You know full well why. We can discuss it later— alone—if you wish.” He finished smoothly, lips tilting into an enigmatic smile.

  Yvette gawked at him with her mouth parted. She tore her gaze off his unnerving eyes, then swallowed against a rush of sensation. Her pithy response flew from her brain.

  Lord above. Those eyes.

  Ewan introduced her to the two men who now stood on either side of his sister. “Evvy, these brutes are my cousins, Alasdair and Gregor McTavish.”

  All muscle and brawn, both men were as blonde as Yvette. She widened her eyes in not-so-polite surprise as she tilted her head to stare up at them. “Good God, they’re huge.”

  Oh sweet Jesus, she didn’t say that out loud did she? The chorus of masculine laughter answered her question. She resisted the urge to clap her hands over her cheeks to cover the color she was sure swept them again. Faith, don’t they grow normal-sized men in Scotland? She’d always believed Scots were rather on the short side.

  Grinning, Alasdair thumped his brother on the shoulder with a blow that would have staggered a smaller man. As if reading her mind he declared, “Aye, lassie, our father took a liking to a very tall, very bonnie Norse lass. Mother sends her regards to ye.” Humor shimmered in his gray-blue eyes.

  Gregor elbowed his gargantuan brother aside to take Yvette’s hand. As he stood to his full height he motioned toward another Scot. “That giant yonder is our father.”

  Her gaze swung to the dark-haired man. Ah, that explained their size.

  The giant bowed.

  As he straightened, she was drawn to his kind green eyes. He resembled Ewan, though he was taller.

  “Duncan McTavish, Miss Stapleton. ‘Tis a pleasure to be sure, lass.”

  “Bratling,” Ewan said, “stop ogling the maid and come meet your future sister.” He spoke to another tall Scot flirting with the maid.

  Sister?

  Yvette’s heart flip-flopped and skidded to a stop. She could not tear her gaze from the fragile lace on the hem of her gown. Her heart resumed beating, a hopscotching rhythm of confusion. Was her erratic pulse visible at her throat? She didn’t dare look at Ewan.

  God in heaven, what was he thinking? Why had he said that in front of everyone? Nothing was official. Were they all staring at her? Did they all know he’d found her in his bed? She took a furtive peek about the room. No one seemed the least surprised or disturbed by his announcement. Pleasant faces smiled back at her.

  The young downstairs maid giggled and left the room carrying the remnants of tea, but not before sending the other striking Scot a saucy smile, then swinging her curvy behind as she departed.

  Yvette watched the man approach. Good Lord, he was a living, breathing Adonis. No man on earth should be that beautiful. She was smitten with Ewan, yet the look in the Scot’s eye stole her breath. In spite of his all-too-manly appraisal, he wasn’t many years past boyhood. Straightaway she knew who he was. “‘Tis a pleasure to meet you, Dugall.”

  His sable brows shot upward, and his wide smile exposed perfect white teeth. Sea-green eyes, a shade lighter than his brother’s, danced with intelligence. “Me brother’s been speaking of me has he?”

  Yvette lifted her gaze to Ewan for a moment, then grinned unabashedly. “He has indeed.”

  Dugall lingered above her raised hand. She swore she felt his soft, well-shaped lips caress her knuckles. Twice.

  Did Ewan just growl? Of course not! What a bag of moonshine. Growl, what was she thinking?

  “The only reason father allowed you to come, whelp,” Adaira teased Dugall, “is because with Callum’s wife birthing their bairn, he needed someone to care for the horses.” She turned to Yvette. “Callum is our cousin. He and his sister, Aubry, were raised with us. Their parents were lost at sea.”

  Something about the way she said Aubry’s name caused Yvette to pause. She searched Adaira’s eyes. They gazed back at her with innocent humor. Perhaps she’d imagined it.

  Ewan smacked Dugall playfully on his dark head. “Away with you, scamp. I’m courting Yvette.” He pulled her to his side, wrapping the thick band of his arm about her waist, as if to say to all present, mine.

  She rather liked that.

  Dugall retorted, “Mayhap she be wanting a younger man instead of one in his dotage. What say ye, lass? Do ye want to toss him off for meself? I will be certain to please ye.” He puffed his chest and waggled his eyebrows.

  Yvette couldn’t help herself. She burst out laughing. He was a charming rogue. This was no callow youth though. She had no doubt he was more experienced in the ways of the world-and the goings on in the bedroom—than she.

  Eyeing Ewan, she pretended to contemplate Dugall’s offer. “I see your point, Dugall, indeed I do. But alas, I’ve given my word, and a lady must always keep her word, no matter how great or difficult the sacrifice. Tis a matter of integrity.”

  An unwelcome thought filtered into her mind. Was Ewan a man of integrity?

  Slogging through the muck, Ewan turned to scan those hunkered in their saddles behind him. They needed to find shelter, and soon. Ret
urning his focus to the trail ahead, he peered through the dense gloom. The narrow path through the woods had become a stream of oozing sludge, forcing the travelers to slow their pace.

  The breakneck speed they had traveled the past several hours was no longer necessary. They had distanced themselves from their pursuers thanks to the storm’s fury. Two hours ago their entourage had crossed the border into Scotland. Ewan shifted in his saddle again, then slowed Shaidae’s gait until the horse was even with the man riding behind him.

  Ewan shouted to be heard above the raging wind. “Munlocky’s ‘tis but a mile yonder. What say you, Duncan?”

  Standing in his stirrups, the Scot turned to look over his shoulder. Facing Ewan again, he shrugged. “Och now, Munlocky’s isn’t me first choice, but the wee one is done in. She be very cold. We are well-armed. Shouldn’t be any trouble if we keep our swords and dirks nearby and are canny.”

  With a sharp nod, Ewan ordered, “Pass the word.”

  Kneeing his roan, he took his place at the front once more. He was intent on finding the inconspicuous, nearly hidden pathway leading to the hostelry. Few reputable men knew of its existence, and those frequenting the secluded cottage preferred it that way.

  Duncan swung his enormous Clydesdale around, shouting to each rider in turn. “Munlocky’s tonight, lads.”

  Riding abreast of the last rider Duncan encouraged Yvette. “The inn is nigh close. Ye can get out of the cold, though Munlocky’s is a rough place. Keep to yerself, don’t speak, and stay close to the laird. Ye ken, lassie?”

  Yvette only nodded her head. She had been clenching her chattering teeth for so long, she wasn’t sure she would be able to utter a word had she the strength.

  She sneezed. Blast it. There went her cap for the hundredth time. She yanked it into place, her patience at an end. The oversized cap her hair was stuffed into kept slipping down her rain-slickened forehead blocking her already limited view of the trail.

  Sliding forward in the saddle, she tried to relieve the painful chaffing along her inner thighs. Lord Almighty, she was miserable. Having never ridden astride before, her legs ached, not only due to the unaccustomed hours straddling the horse, but because of the boy’s breeches she had donned. Though constructed of soft wool, the seams rubbed incessantly, leaving a ridge of irritation on the tender skin of her inner thighs.

  A steady trickle of rain water ran down her nose, plunking onto her borrowed fly plaid. Little good the woolen covering did, since beneath it, Yvette’s jacket was drenched. She was soaked to the skin. She sniffed at the persistent tickle in her nose and sneezed again. Swallowing the burning ache at the back of her throat, she tried to restrain another sneeze, to no avail.

  She flinched again, adjusting her rump in the saddle. It was futile. The painful pressure in her buttocks and legs persisted. God in heaven, she’d never complain about a bumpy carriage ride again.

  Yvette winced when her hatbox, now wrapped in oilcloth, thumped against her thigh where it was tied to the saddle. She refused to leave it behind. What if she had need of the contents? Better to be prepared. The box banged against her leg again. Lawks, but she was going to have a nasty bruise there.

  There was no help for it though. Those watching the mansion had been diligent. Yvette wiped a drop of rain from her chin. It was as if they had waited for an escape attempt. She suspected Ewan knew it would be folly to leave Somersfield without a well thought-out plan. The more she contemplated the flight and pursuit, the more convinced she became, such was the case.

  Why else had Ewan’s enormous male relatives arrived armed to the hilt? Why else had he insisted Adaira journey to Somersfield attired as a boy? And the cave conveniently supplied with the essentials that first night? No, it didn’t take a whole lot of cunning to put the pieces together.

  Her upper story wasn’t empty. He had planned it all.

  It made sense now. The notes and the continuum of taunting intruders. Whoever was intent on intimidating her wanted to force her hand, wanted her to take flight, and Ewan realized it.

  As the horses plodded onward, Yvette pondered her circumstances. She was running away yet again. Boston, London, Somersfield. She was weary of the calamitous events dominating her once tranquil life. Lifting her damp face, she scrutinized the dismal sky. Only the silhouettes of the contorting trees were visible, and those only when lightening ripped a jagged path across the tenebrous firmament. The dreary sky mirrored the bleakness in her soul.

  Wrapped in unparalleled weariness, a mile never seemed so far. Shivering, she sneezed twice, more miserable than at any other time in her life. Lud, how she yearned for a hot bath and soft bed. She’d barely the energy to stay in the saddle, and a headache nagged perpetually at the front of her skull. The incessant throbbing kept time with the sturdy clomping steps of her mount.

  “I won’t complain,” she vowed under her breath.

  Scrunching her eyes against the stinging pellets, Yvette strained to see past the tartan-draped, broad shouldered men in front of her. She glimpsed the outline of Ewan, strong and upright, in his saddle despite the wretched weather. He was a source of strength to her. The sight of him renewed her even as she puzzled over his feelings for her.

  Three times he’d come to her aid—four if she counted the runaway carriage. He had seen to her protection, at some peril to himself no less. That meant he felt something for her. Didn’t it? She sneezed, then wiped her nose on her sleeve.

  No mere sense of duty or honor would compel him to escort her, would it? Unless he had ulterior motives, and what could those be? Were his emotions at all engaged as she suspecting hers were becoming? The notion weighed on her.

  Wiping her face with the plaid, she crinkled her nose at the smelly, wet wool. Ugh. She suspected the garment was in need of laundering as well.

  Her mount slipped in the muck, the movement jarring Yvette’s already tender derriere. Tears pricked her eyes. Blister it. Would this wretched ride never end? How much further was . . . ? What was the name of the blasted inn? Murdock’s? Mulligan’s?

  A weary sigh escaped her. Even if she was wholly, desperately in love with Ewan, she would not wed him without a meaningful declaration of affection from him. She was determined to marry a man who loved her for herself, not for what she could bring to the marriage. Specifically, her colossal wealth. But how did one know whether it was genuine love or not?

  Yvette bit her lower lip. She ought to have talked with Vangie, told her of her growing doubts. But Vangie had said to trust Ewan. Bother it all. She blew out a breath. She was so confused.

  Ewan shrugged tension stiff shoulders. He was uneasy. The need to get Yvette out of the elements forced him to find shelter. When Duncan fell in behind him, he told him her teeth were chattering, and she was wracked with shivers.

  Dammit.

  If it were only he and the other Scots, he’d not worry about boarding at Munlocky’s. He had done so many times before.

  The inn was an unsavory establishment frequented by those whose respectability was unquestionably lacking. Scoundrels who made their living just this side of the law, and some boasting otherwise, were always in attendance. Munlocky’s was refuge to all sorts of rabble, brigands, and the like.

  Several light-skirts, who sold their favors to anyone with enough coin, called the inn their home too. No, Ewan didn’t like taking Yvette into their midst at all. Yet, what choice had he? The gale showed no signs of abating, and she’d been suffering in silence for some time.

  Though she had courage, she wasn’t accustomed to this type of hardship. His lips turned up. She hadn’t complained, not once.

  He glanced skyward. His lips thinned. He could not subject her to this weather any longer. Curse this storm. It complicated his plans and slowed their progress—that could prove dangerous.

  For days he’d plotted to remove Yvette f
rom Somersfield. But under circumstances he could control and that gave him a strategic advantage, hence the arrival of his kin. He set a brisk pace, keeping them ahead of their pursuers, but intentionally leaving signs and allowing those who followed them to find their trail.

  He was leading them straight to Craiglocky where his ability to protect and defend Yvette was indisputable. He’d been in a high dungeon, rage burning within him for weeks. He would use all of his skills to snare and destroy those daring to threaten what he had claimed as his.

  Chapter 20

  Yvette heard Munlocky’s several minutes before the inn rose into view. Rowdy drunken laughter and raucous lewd singing mingled with a plethora of foul oaths. The shrill tittering of a woman echoed dimly among the dripping trees. A ribald comment sent a wave of warmth skimming over her face.

  Lud, where was Ewan taking her? Good Lord, Munlocky’s wasn’t a brothel, was it? He wouldn’t dare.

  Smoke rose in steamy tendrils from the partial chimneys balanced atop the building’s thatched, poorly patched roof. Every shuttered window on the ground floor, and a few on the second, blazed with light. Most of the ground-level casings, several hanging crookedly from rusted nails, were thrown wide open, thus explaining the boisterous sounds carrying far into the saturated forest.

  She tensed as the seven riders approached the cottage. This place was dangerous. The Scots grasped their weapons. She lifted her hatbox onto her lap. Better to be prepared.

  Two armed men, lounging with their booted feet resting on battered whiskey barrels, stood at their approach. Their hands edged to the powerful swords at their waists. “Who goes there?” a surly voice demanded.

  Duncan spoke. “‘Tis Laird Ewan McTavish, of Craiglocky, and his kinsmen. We be wanting a bed for the night if it pleases ye. This confounded weather has waylaid our journey home a wee bit.”