Just in Time for a Highlander

by Gwyn Cready

  “Tired, are ye?” Nab asked.

  “And in mind of murder, aye.”

  “Oh?” Nab stopped scratching Grendel’s ears. “Is it the sort of thing that when ye do it once, ye want to do it agin and agin?”

  “It is,” Duncan said. “Though I dinna mean actual murder, ye wee wicked louse.”

  They trooped to his room, and Duncan shut the door, collapsing against it. “Ye have the worst timing of any man, woman, or beast I have ever kent. You are too young to know better, but Lady Kerr and I were about to…well, that is to say, it was possible that she might have—might have, ye hear—a gentleman never assumes, and in any case—”

  “Oh, I ken what you were about. That’s why I stopped ye. Rosston put a sentry on Lady Kerr. The man’s been crouching behind a door down the hall since dusk, peering through a crack, watching her comings and goings.”

  Duncan straightened. “You’re serious?”

  “Aye. And once I leave here, I intend to point Grendel directly at him. Knock the bastard on his fat arse.”

  The dog wagged his tail eagerly.

  “And you’re sure Rosston’s behind it?” Duncan skimmed off his soiled sark and wondered if perhaps his hiding place in the chapel had not been as hidden as he’d thought.

  “Well, the man is one of his. Brutish fool too. Solomon is his name—surely a sign of someone’s love of a jest. No man could be more thickheaded.”

  Duncan’s ego plumped a bit at the fact Rosston was worried about him. “Perhaps it will do the man good to know he has a rival?”

  “Rosston, do ye mean? Or you? I feel certain ’twill be no blessing for Lady Kerr.”

  Duncan’s sense of triumph disappeared. “You are quite correct.” He slipped his hands in the warm water Nab had delivered and doused his face and arms. “Today has not been the best of days. Leave the man, though. I should like Rosston to think his ruse has been undetected.” Duncan reached for a towel and gave himself a vigorous rub. He could feel Nab studying him.

  “I heard about Harry,” the boy said.

  Duncan had almost forgotten today’s failure. “How? I only just told Lady Kerr.”

  “He stole a horse in Thrum’s Ferry. The men were talking about it outside.”

  Abby was right to say he’d complicated things for her. “I am not much of a strong arm, it seems.” He grabbed another clean sark from Bran’s closet, conscious once again of his utter dependence on the generosity of Abby Kerr to survive in this world. “He isn’t heading back here, I hope.”

  Nab shrugged. “I doubt it. I’ve never seen an exiled man return. Well, except for Lady Kerr, of course. And she had to be brought back almost in chains.”

  Duncan slipped the linen over his head. He had forgotten her father had sent her away.

  Nab said, “But Rosston’s man is not the only thing I must tell you about—”

  A knock sounded and Grendel flew to the door.

  “Come,” Duncan said.

  A gap-toothed maid with steely eyes opened the door. “The chieftess requires your assistance.”

  “Oh?” He brought the plaid up over his shoulder again.

  “The smith is in need of ten feet of the thickest chain the castle has—as wide as your wrist, if ye please.”

  “Jesus. Is he penning an elephant?”

  “I didna ask, though it seems unlikely. There are nae eilifints in Scotland, sir.”

  “Can it wait till morning?” Even in full light, carrying ten feet of four-inch-thick iron chain was going to be a hell of a job.

  “Are ye ill? I can spare a girl if ye need help, though it’s Katie, and even in the best o’ times—”

  “No, no, no. I can do it myself. I just—Never mind. Where’s the chain?”

  “There’s a storage room at the base of the west tower stairs. I expect you’ll find what we have there.”

  “And the smith?”

  “East bailey, behind the old brewery.”

  Duncan groaned. Stairs, full darkness, three hundred pounds of chain, and an entire castle’s width to cross.

  The woman eyed him dubiously, as one might a one-legged man who’s been handed a ladder, but seemed to decide in the end whatever happened wouldn’t be her problem. He suspected he was never going to be asked to tote the best china though.

  “You may let her ladyship know I’ll take care of it.”

  “Lady Kerr presumes her requests will be fulfilled, Mr. MacHarg. ’Twould only be worth notice if you refused. And in that case I should call the castle guard.” With a sniff, she turned on her heel and disappeared into the hall.

  “Well.” Duncan could think of no more to say that should be said in front of an impressionable young man. “Ten feet of four-inch chain. What in God’s name is it for, do ye think?” he wondered, adding with a grin, “Maybe her ladyship’s planning to lock Rosston out of the castle on his return, aye?”

  “That’s what I need to tell ye. Rosston’s back. He’s here—in the castle. I don’t know what he’d been planning to do, mind, but after he left the chapel, he stopped at a crofter’s cottage just north of here and came out with a small chest, which he brought back here and has been hovering over ever since. That is what the chain is for. To lock it up.”

  “Why would he need a three-hundred-pound chain for a chest?” The words had barely left his mouth when it hit him. “Gold.”

  Nab nodded. “He’s let it be known this is his wedding portion to Lady Kerr. The date has been set. And the date has been moved. They are to be married in three days’ time.”

  Twenty-four

  Duncan simmered as he descended the darkened stairway to the main hall. Hospital orderly, unpaid muscle, and now pack mule for her husband-to-be. There seemed to be no end to the roles he could perform for her. His cheeks warmed thinking of the role she’d enjoyed most of all.

  The castle was quiet, not surprising at this late hour, though he could hear the convivial noise the clansmen gathered outside in the bailey were making. After a few wrong turns and locked doors, he found the stairway to the base of the west tower. This was the tower he’d glimpsed to the left of Lachlan’s tower when he’d stood in the town’s market square. The only light came from a narrow window through which the northern sky’s glittering sea of stars flickered and flashed. He thought of his grand-da, who loved the night sky. Was he too looking at the Northern Lights? He closed his eyes and said a prayer.

  Hang on, Grand-da. I’ll get there.

  But if he wanted to go, he’d best fulfill the requirements of the spell. He hadn’t realized “strong arm” would be taken so literally.

  By now, his eyes had grown used to the dark, and he could make out the different doors well enough. The first room held rugs, rolled and standing on their sides; the second casks, the peaty smell of whiskey in the air. He found the chains in the third, as well as pulleys, ropes, and stacks of scrap metal.

  The chain sat in a rusty heap.

  So you’re to be wrapped like a miser’s arms around Rosston’s fortunes, are you?

  He decided with some satisfaction that any man who needed a chest of gold to get into a woman’s bed probably had a very small cock.

  He lifted the first length of chain over his shoulders, and it was immediately clear he wouldn’t be able to carry the weight of it all, which had to be close to three hundred pounds. He could bench-press two fifty, but this weight wasn’t neatly attached to each end of a bar, and he’d be climbing stairs with it.

  He needed wheels.

  With a booming crash, he dropped the chain and headed back to the casks. Casks needed wheelbarrows. This room was deeper than the others, and darker. He was working mostly by hand and gut, feeling the ancient wood staves and rough iron bands, hearing the echo of his breath. The shelves ended a few feet before the adjoining wall, leaving an empty space. He stretched his hands forwar
d, wondering if he’d found another hallway, but found only wall. The echo from his breathing changed tone, and he paused instinctively to consider the reason.

  He reached for the wall again, and nearly fell when it swung away from him.

  A bright light blinded him and resolved into a vision of Abby standing before a narrow stairway, one hand holding the now-open door and the other a flickering lantern.

  “I was wondering how long it might take you to find this.”

  Twenty-five

  The look of shock on Duncan MacHarg’s face nearly made her laugh, but the way he looked at her when the shock dissipated took her breath away. She realized with a start she was on the verge of becoming foolish about him, and not just foolish like this morning. Foolish in a far more dangerous way.

  She turned away, flustered. “I hope you don’t mind, but I thought this was the best way.”

  “Why would I mind?” He brushed the cobwebs off his shoulders and peered up the stairs. “It’s only time away from dragging a quarter ton’s worth of chain through the castle like Marley’s ghost.”

  “Marley?” She closed the door behind them and threw the latch.

  “An acquaintance of mine. Dead.” He looked around the small space. “More Kerr secrets, is it?”

  “I don’t know about more. It is certainly secret—at least until now.”

  “And what does a chieftess like you have to hide?”

  There was an air of danger about him that made her senses come alive.

  “Whiskey, weapons, and wealth,” she said, “the three W’s every clan chief hoards.”

  He looked into the ascending darkness. “Given the steepness of these stairs and lack of shelves or storage, my guess would be that it is a different W the Kerr chiefs have wanted to hide, something a little, shall we say, more warm-blooded.”

  “Women. Aye, I suppose that’s true as well.”

  “Barring yourself, of course, milady, whose desires would never run in the direction of such carnality.”

  She swallowed. This was a different Duncan MacHarg than the one she had known for the last day and a half. She found herself uncertain and a little scared.

  “Indeed, my predecessors were known to bring the occasional woman here. Barring, of course, Cailean Kerr, the fourth chief, a buggerer of some renown whose only son was sired by the town’s rather dim-witted but strong-as-an-ox stonemason, breathing new life into the Kerr blood and happily infusing generations to come with an irrepressible need to extend the castle’s perimeter.”

  “Buggery is probably the least of the sins that have taken place here. I assume I should follow you.”

  “I…well, yes.” His presence overwhelmed the small space. It was more than the size of him, though that seemed to have doubled since she saw him last. It was his tang of sweat and labor, the way his whiskey burr reverberated within these walls, and the inexplicable sense of him as a devil-in-a-box, ready to leap at her at any instant.

  She hurried up the steps, already regretting her carefully plotted plan. A small fire, a comfortable seat, and a chance to share the story of elevation to the Kerr chiefship with him was all she’d wanted. Their easy rapport had stirred something in her she thought she’d locked away forever, and the chance to unburden herself away from the gossiping tongues of the castle had seemed an elixir more powerful than wine. Now, as she hurried to keep herself beyond the reach of the storm-like current that seemed to pop from him, she wished she’d drunk the claret she’d set out before sending the maid to him.

  At the third turn, the small square door stood open, revealing the silk, linen, and velvet that hung in the wardrobe that shielded the stairs from sight.

  He disappeared into it before she had a chance to give a single word of explanation. She blew out the lantern’s flame and crawled in behind him.

  Her head had no more than emerged through the fabric when he caught her by the waist, lifted her to her feet, and enveloped her in his arms.

  “Your bed,” he whispered.

  She didn’t know if this was a question or statement about the room in which they now stood. In an instant it didn’t matter. His bruising kiss seared her mouth, and his arms expertly maneuvered her against the wardrobe through which they’d climbed.

  “What am I here for, chieftess?”

  Abby’s legs tingled and she struggled to catch her breath. Another kiss cut off any response but a hungry return of his attentions.

  He lifted her like a sack of beets and turned. A crash of metal filled the room.

  “Bloody goddamned quiver.” He kicked the arrows aside and laid her on the bed. “If ye want me,” he said, pulling off his sark, “ye will have to tell me exactly what you want me to do.”

  His chest, dusted generously with auburn curls, gleamed in the candlelight.

  “Do ye understand?” he said. “Every step. Ye command me, aye? So give me your command.”

  He stretched himself over her and looked into her eyes, the iron of his arms as striking as the forged steel between his legs.

  “I only wanted to talk.”

  He laughed. “Did you?”

  His kisses trailed down her neck to the valley between her breasts. His hair tickled her sensitive flesh, and blood rushed to her nipples.

  “Then talk,” he said.

  “Not here.”

  “Oh, not here.” He swung her from the bed as he stood. “Where then? Here?” With an easy movement, he brought her thighs to each side of his hips and backed her into the tapestry-covered wall. He was ready. Through the silk of her gown she could feel it, and her own desire burned as he moved her slowly up and down.

  “No,” she whispered.

  “Over here perhaps, then?”

  His footsteps echoed on the worn wood, and he swung them both into the deep sill of her window. His hands slid up her gown and, finding her hips, arranged her over the peaked wool of his plaid.

  Wildly unsteady, she anchored herself in the only way she could, with palms against the glass panes. He took the nipple that jutted before his mouth and tugged.

  The hunger in her moan surprised her.

  “Do ye want me to undress you?” he asked.

  She closed her eyes and nodded.

  “Say it, chieftess.”

  “Undress me.”

  He freed his hands from her skirts and unbuttoned the bodice. Then he lifted the silk over her head and tossed it to the floor.

  In an instant, the straps of her chemise were around her elbows, and her breasts, freed from their bindings, swayed gently with her heart, which now beat even harder.

  His eyes widened, not, as she had wanted, in desire, but in shock.

  “Tell me what you see,” she said.

  “Milady…”

  “You said I am to command you. I command you. Describe it.”

  He brought a hand to her shoulder and gently traced the scar’s ragged outline. “A wound,” he said, the hardness gone from his eyes, replaced with penetrating sorrow. “Healed, aye, but terrible nonetheless. I saw the other side of it, I guess, when I saw you diving. But that mark was no more than a line. What happened?”

  “I was shot. ’Tis part of the story of my ascension to the chiefship—and an important part of my life—but I dinna wish to talk about it now. Not right now,” she added, bringing a hand to the rough, tawny stubble of his cheeks. “I find I dinna want to talk at all, at least not with words. I want…what we have started.”

  His eyes, full blue, gazed at her through long, black lashes, and he pulled her into an embrace so gentle, she smiled.

  “I willna break,” she said. “I promise ye.”

  “No, it’s not you.”

  Her face was buried in the lustrous waves of his hair, and her breasts pressed against the warm expanse of his chest. Yet even through the tenderness she could feel the he
sitation.

  “I dinna think…” He stood, taking her with him, then placed her on the floor and turned away. “I dinna think I can do what you want.”

  Abby flushed. She suddenly felt very exposed—and very foolish. “Why?”

  “The truth?”

  “Aye. Always.” She returned her chemise straps to her shoulders though it hardly mattered. He gazed into the fire.

  With evident effort, he relaxed his hands, which had balled into fists, and turned back to her. “I’ve never been so addled by a woman before. On the one hand, I should like to throw you in the bed, grab that bonny bottom, and bend ye to my pleasure. There’s nae place on ye I shouldna like to bury my tongue, roll under my palm, or feel pressed against the head of my cock. If we dinna finish what we’ve started here, only an eager hand and the most wicked imagining will free me from the thought of you tonight—and for many nights to come, I should think.”

  The fire deep in Abby’s belly flared. “But?”

  “But ye use me. And ye lie—or withhold the truth. I dinna want to be the man who comes to ye when you’ve sent your husband from your bed—or your husband-to-be.”

  “It’s not what you think.”

  He held up a hand. “The worst part is, I dinna want to be that man, but I know I will. That’s the part I hate.” His breath was ragged now. “But ye make it even worse for me.”

  “How?” Her throat was so tight, the word caught.

  “Because I want you. You face such challenges. And you do it with such fierceness and determination. I want to be the man that you take to your bed—even if I’m not the only one.”

  Someone knocked, and Abby groaned. MacHarg was already reaching for his sark.

  “The door’s locked,” she said under her breath.

  “Abby?”

  The voice belonged to Rosston. MacHarg met her eyes.

  She said, “I should talk to him.”

  “Of course.” He slipped the sark over his head stiffly.

  She grabbed a blanket from the bed, threw it around her shoulders, and scurried to the door. MacHarg had retreated from sight.