It took more effort than it should to drag his attention up to consider his surroundings. And just in the nick of time, too.
Miss Macbain turned to check on his progress. "I’m sure ye are more than ready for a hot meal, Mr. Drummond."
The line of houses along the quay was neat and well kept. One large blackhouse seemed to be some sort of hostelry, if the old codgers sitting outside and clutching tankards of ale were any indication. All called out a greeting to his unconventional guide, who answered with an ease that hinted at untroubled relations between the laird and his tenants.
The boats moored in the harbor were in equally fine shape. The fields stretching over the hills were marked off with fences in good repair, and the sheep in their thick winter wool looked plump and healthy. There was a bit of debris from the storm, but Dougal could see any damage was superficial.
"Are ye hungry, Mr. Drummond?"
"Och, lassie, if ye’d care to pour some gravy on my boat, I’d eat it in one bite," he said with a smile as he caught up with her.
She laughed. "Ye were lucky to make it to shore."
"Aye," he said with feeling. He hid a shudder as he remembered struggling to keep the Kestrel afloat and on course against the raging waves and howling wind. The sharp crack as his mast shattered still echoed in his ears. "And lucky that the damage to my boat isn’t serious."
"Your business on Innish Beag must be desperate indeed to force ye out onto winter seas a few days before Christmas. The Western Isles are dangerous sailing when the December squalls hit."
In truth, he’d had time to regret his impetuous decision to set out from Bruard as soon as he’d decided that saving Fair Ellen was his destiny. When the hull of his boat was letting in enough water to drown an elephant and he lost all idea of where he headed, he’d wondered if perhaps Fair Ellen’s rescue might have waited until he had confirmed good weather.
His mother and father had both called him a rash young fool for going without preparation and for not taking someone with him. They’d called him worse for setting out in the small sailing boat instead of a more substantial vessel.
But he’d been confident of his ability to brave the seas. He’d spent his life on the water, sailing out of Achnasheen with his Mackinnon cousins. He was young and strong and brimming with righteous conviction. His quest was worthy, so God would see him safely to Innish Beag.
All of which had sounded fine with his feet planted on firm dry land. It had sounded very much more like reckless hubris when he was an inch away from sinking to the bottom of the sea.
But he’d made it to harbor, battered but alive. Even if he was a hundred miles from where he’d started and he needed to do substantial repairs before he resumed his voyage.
When he and Miss Macbain turned in through a pair of open wrought-iron gates and followed an elm-lined drive leading up to an elegant brick mansion, it was clear that the laird of this isolated isle lived in some style.
All on this estate seemed comme il faut.
All, that was, except the laird’s daughter in her male costume. At both Bruard and Achnasheen, the lassies tended to be independent. But Dougal couldn’t think of a one of them daring enough to prance around dressed as a boy.
Not that the revealing costume made Miss Macbain appear in any way masculine. If anything, Dougal was more conscious of the woman’s body beneath the male attire than he’d ever been with a girl in kirtle and blouse.
He couldn’t prevent his gaze from tracing the slender lines of her back and shoulders, outlined under the short jacket. The trim waist he could span with both hands. The shapely legs and the booted feet that trod the cobbled road with an arrogant ownership he’d never seen a woman display. With each step, the thick black plait bobbed between her shoulder blades with an impudent rhythm that made his heart skip a beat.
Everything about this girl shouted a challenge. His first impression of Miss Kirsty Macbain was of barely contained energy. Even after their short acquaintance, he marveled at how the air crackled around her. When her unusual gray eyes first focused on him, he’d blinked with astonished appreciation. And that was after a night that left him so weary that lifting his hand felt like shifting an anvil.
She was a striking lassie, even if a fellow disregarded her eccentric wardrobe. Small and compact and curvy. Her face was all intriguing angles. Straight, uncompromising black brows. A determined jaw, and a neat, rather haughty nose sprinkled with a disconcerting spray of freckles.
In his heart, he already knew what Fair Ellen looked like. The tales gave him hints enough. Pale and willowy and winsome, and eager to adore the man who saved her from her travails.
Dougal couldn’t imagine a female less like the Fair Ellen he’d constructed in his mind than this lively hoyden. This lively hoyden who was leading him around the side of the house to a stable block as well maintained as everything else on this island seemed to be.
"We don’t stand on ceremony here on Askaval," she said, taking her pony into a loosebox. The stables were half empty, but a couple of horses popped their heads over the stall gates to check what was happening.
"Do ye mind coming in through the kitchens? We rarely use the front door. I could knock and have one of the maids let us in, but it’s baking day and they’ll be busy."
Bruard was bigger and more formal than this place. But Dougal was used to a more free and easy welcome when he visited his cousin Callum’s castle at Achnasheen.
"I’m just grateful you’re taking me in." He stepped past her and started to unsaddle the horse. "There’s nae need to make a fuss."
"I think there will be a fuss. We dinnae get many visitors. The island is too far off the regular shipping lanes."
"It will be a five-minute wonder. I willnae be here long enough to disrupt your routine. I’ll be away soon enough, then ye can all return to your peace." He tilted his head toward the saddle in his arms. "Where does this go?"
Miss Macbain looked up from where she filled a manger with oats. "The tack room is down there." She paused to take off the bridle and pass it to him. "Thank ye for your help."
When Dougal returned, she was rubbing the horse down. He struggled to avoid watching the way her body bent and stretched in those revealing clothes as she completed the mundane task.
"Do ye no’ have a groom to do this for you?" he asked, battling to mask a hint of irritation. It wasn’t the lassie’s fault that he found her distracting.
Miss Macbain cast him a surprised glance. "They have better things to do than chase after my whims. I told ye – we don’t stand on ceremony here. It’s a small island with a small population. Most of us shift for ourselves when we can."
"Small but prosperous." Dougal leaned against the wall, watching her, although he didn’t want to. He’d never met a lassie who drew the eye the way she did, although she wasn’t exactly pretty, especially in the pale, pink-cheeked, Cupid’s-bow-lips style currently in fashion.
"Aye, my father is a good landlord, and we’re blessed with rich pastures. In spring, most of our ewes drop two lambs, sometimes even three. On the nearby isles, Askaval’s lamb has a special reputation."
"At Bruard, it’s wool. And cattle. In fact our cattle are too good. Once upon a time, the neighboring clan had a particular liking for Bruard beef, and found our herds too easy to steal."
She regarded him with interest. "A feud? How romantic."
"No’ really," he said with a shrug. "A lot of pointless skirmishes that gained little."
"Except the neighbors’ cattle."
Her quickness made him smile. "Except the neighbors’ cattle."
When he pressed against the side of the stall to let her pass him, he caught a drift of her scent. Horses, certainly, but beneath the equine aroma, something fresh and alluring like mown grass or new fallen snow.
He had to swallow to moisten a dry throat before he went on. "But all that has ended now, and the clans have been at peace since before I was born."
She shot him a sharp look.
"Ye sound sorry."
Her perception startled him. "Do I?"
"Aye."
Before he’d learned to mistrust the tales that painted his doughty ancestors as endlessly gallant and righteous, he’d hung entranced on his father’s knee. He’d drunk in every story of daring exploits and reckless danger. "Peace is better for everyone, Drummond and Mackinnon alike."
The smile that curved her lips expressed a surprising level of understanding. "But it doesnae offer much opportunity for adventure."
"I had an adventure last night," he said feelingly, as he followed her out of the stable.
By God, he should have gone ahead. Or he should, if only he knew where he was going. That gorgeous sway of the girl’s hips was impossible to ignore.
She turned back in his direction. "And ye loved every moment of it."
He frowned at her. "I was wet and cold and lost and afraid."
"And happy?"
A reluctant smile tugged at his lips. "Aye, happy. Which given how close my boat came to foundering makes me a madman in most people’s eyes."
She was still smiling. "Och, a madman here and there makes life interesting."
He couldn’t look away from her. Mistress Kirsty Macbain mightn’t be strawberries-and-cream pretty, but when she smiled into a man’s eyes, she was something better. Flashing silver eyes drew the gaze and held it. Angular, interesting features turned as vivid and lovely as a sunrise.
Dougal gulped and reminded himself he was here only until he’d repaired his boat, then he was away across the sea. And all set to rescue the woman to whom he’d dedicated himself.
Fair Ellen of the Isles.
Although some sinful, earthier part of him couldn’t help thinking that when she smiled, Kirsty Macbain would rival any woman’s attractions. Even the legendary lady trapped in her tower.
This girl from Askaval disturbed him, muddied the bright blade of his purpose. And he’d only spent half an hour in her company. He needed to fix his boat and get on his way. Be damned to rough seas or blustery winds.
"Come and meet Papa," she said. "He’ll be delighted to have company."
Troubled, bemused, unwillingly intrigued, Dougal followed her into a bustling kitchen. The serving women raised their heads from preparing breakfast to give him curious looks.
If Askaval was anything like every other place in Scotland, gossip about his arrival would already be spreading far and wide. He doubted a mouse farted at Bruard without word of the event reaching the most isolated crofter on the estate.
The smell of baking bread and frying bacon made his empty belly rumble with hunger. It had been a long, busy night, and he was a healthy young man. He’d eaten at Achnasheen before he set out on his well-provisioned boat, but a freak wave had swamped his basket of food and turned it into saltwater-soaked ruin.
"There’s an extra mouth for breakfast, Ruth," Miss Macbain called out as they passed.
An older woman, plump and gray-haired, stopped kneading her dough and fixed her eyes on Dougal. He guessed she must be the cook or the housekeeper. "By the size of yon laddie, it’s more like two extra mouths, lassie."
Miss Macbain laughed and cast Dougal an amused glance as if they were in a conspiracy of two. He gave himself a sharp reminder of his purpose, even as that mocking smile drew him like a moth to a flame.
"Given Mr. Drummond has been battling the storm all night, I’d say closer to three."
"Ye came through that horror?" He heard admiration in Ruth’s voice. "You must be one bonny sailor."
"I was lucky," he said. "There were a few moments when I feared my body would feed the fishes."
"Och, and now the fishes are going to feed ye. We’ll get a big platter of local salmon set out for you, never ye fear."
"And, Ruth, have a bedchamber prepared for Mr. Drummond, too, please."
"Dinnae go to any trouble, mistress. I’ll be off as soon as I’ve seen to my boat."
Dougal suffered a pang of regret at the prospect of leaving this comfortable house. After a night of freezing waves and wind, the thought of settling into a few days of warm rooms and good food was treacherously appealing, by God. Not to mention seeing Miss Kirsty Macbain smiling at him as he plowed his way through what promised to be a plate or two of good food.
"The sea will stay rough after the storm," Miss Macbain said. "You’ve been battling the elements all night. I’m sure your friends will wait an extra day while ye recover from your ordeal. A bath and some sleep will set ye up to go on."
A bed… The idea of sinking into a soft, warm bed, after relaxing in a tub of hot water, tempted him more than the hope of salvation.
"My business is urgent, mistress." He cursed how his voice wavered.
"It must be."
He’d expected his quest to try him to his limits. It was one of the reasons he’d chosen it, after all. Miss Macbain was right to say that some lunatic corner of his character had relished the wild night and the looming risk of death he’d just passed through. Courage and stalwart determination would make him worthy of his lady.
Yet here he was only a day into his voyage, and the everyday luxuries of a well-run household weakened his purpose.
"I’ll gladly accept a bath anyway," he said with a self-derisive smile. "I’m hardly fit to be seen at a gentleman’s table."
The glance that the girl bestowed upon him brimmed with approval. "At least ye will stay to breakfast."
"Och, I wouldnae miss it for the world." He paused. "Although I might need to borrow a clean shirt."
His spare clothing had suffered the same watery fate as his provisions, although at least a good laundress should be able to bring his limited wardrobe back to usability. If only he could say the same for the bread and cheese and sausage he’d foraged from his cousin’s stores.
"I think we’ll manage that."
"Only if we’ve got another giant on the premises." Ruth dusted the flour from her hands and started to untie her apron. "I’ll get these lassies to work on a bath. The yellow chamber is ready for guests, Kirsty. If ye take the laddie upstairs, I’ll fix things down here."
"Is Papa awake yet?"
"Lass, ye ken that on a cold winter’s morning, your da willnae stir from his slumber until the coffee is hot and set up on the dining table."
"Then we’ve got time to make ye respectable," the girl said to Dougal.
Her voice held no trace of disdain, but Dougal had enough pride to cringe at the sight he must present in his stained clothes, with salt-crusted skin and bruises from his battle with the waves. He did no credit to the noble name of Drummond.
It was only as he trailed behind Miss Macbain up an elegant oak staircase lined with a series of daunting family portraits that he thought of something that wasn’t respectable at all. "Mistress, it’s no’ done for unmarried daughters of the house to accompany young gentlemen to their sleeping chamber."
She glanced back from two steps above him. He’d been manfully struggling to avoid staring at how the snug breeches strained over the delectable curve of her arse as she mounted each tread. He wished to Hades she’d put on a skirt. "The maids are busy preparing your bath and breakfast."
When he met that bright, guileless stare, he felt even more like a wicked satyr. He couldn’t even pretend that she was trying to attract his interest. To the innocent, all things were innocent. It was already clear that she led a sheltered and blameless life here, however idiosyncratic her costume.
"Perhaps ye could wake your mother, and she could take charge of me."
A flash of sadness darkened those remarkable eyes. "My mother died when I was a wean, Mr. Drummond." She sounded more subdued than he’d ever heard her. "I am the mistress of Tigh na Mara."
House by the Sea. What a lovely and appropriate name. Not that he imagined anything on this small island was far from the sea.
"Even so." A particularly stern matron glared down from the frame looming above him. "It’s no’ done."
The girl shrugged. "I told
ye we dinnae stand on ceremony here. Even if we did, who’s to know? You’re safe from my wiles."
To his mortification, heat flooded his face. "But ye dinnae ken if you’re safe from my wiles, mistress. I’m a stranger, and ye shouldnae be too trusting. It’s a matter of honor."
He couldn’t altogether interpret the look she cast him. "Are ye saying I cannae rely on yours, Mr. Drummond?"
Damn, why was he still blushing? "Of course ye can, mistress."
She turned and continued up the steps. He thought he heard her mutter something under her breath that sounded like "pity." But surely his ears must deceive him.
"It’s the appearance of the matter," he said uncomfortably. "It’s no’ done for young unmarried ladies to pop in and out of young unmarried gentlemen’s bedrooms. Askaval might be isolated, but it’s no’ that isolated."
She headed down a corridor and stopped to open a door. "Your chamber, sir. To preserve your modesty, I will remain safely on the threshold. Your virtue is safe."
Plague take her, how had she managed to make him seem like a pettifogging old turkey? He was in the right, and she was in the wrong. Her dismissal of his perfectly reasonable – and gallant, even if he did say so himself – attempts to protect her good name marred his picture of himself as a valiant and virtuous knight.
"A lassie should be careful." He stepped into a pleasant room with a view south over islands scattered across the silver sea. "Especially when she’s as bonny as ye are."
When he turned, he caught astonishment on her face. "Bonny?"
She looked like it had never before occurred to her that she possessed an inch of attraction. Maybe he was wrong, and Askaval was as isolated as that.
His annoyance with being made to feel pompous and old before his time faded. Perhaps it was a lucky thing, though, that Ruth and a brace of maids bustled in at that moment, pushing past Miss Macbain with a word of excuse. He’d been about to launch into a list of the many things he found charming about his hostess.
Complimenting another woman when he’d dedicated himself body and soul to Fair Ellen smacked of disloyalty.
The Highlander’s Christmas Quest: The Lairds Most Likely Book 5 Page 2
