Chapter 3
By the time Dougal had bathed and changed into clean clothes, most of them unfortunately too small for him, he was ravenous. So ravenous, he bit back his automatic protest when Miss Macbain appeared in his doorway to escort him downstairs.
This wasn’t his house. He had no right to insist on the girl showing a shred of care for her reputation – and he smarted from the set-down she’d already given him on the subject. But he was a man who made his mind up quickly about people, and within five minutes of meeting her, he’d decided he liked this unusual lassie. He hated to think of some pudding-brained brute mistaking her free manners for an invitation to take advantage of her.
In fact, it was surprising quite how much he hated it. He might like the lass, but they’d only just met. Once he repaired his boat and sailed away, he’d probably never see her again.
"Oh, dear," she said, inspecting him with bright gray eyes and a barely hidden smile.
She’d changed out of her jacket and breeches and now wore a devilish becoming dark blue woolen gown. He’d hoped once he saw her in female garb that he’d find his hostess less compelling. As his gaze took in how the dress clung to her lush bosom and slim waist, he realized that his hope had been for nothing. She still drew his eye like a fiery beacon on a hill, and seeing her in skirts did nothing to mute the snapping energy that sparked in the air around her.
A self-derisive smile curled his lips. "Och, I’m an awfu’ big beast. I’ve never been able to borrow anyone’s clothes. Will I do for breakfast? I’ve got shirts on the boat, but they’re wet as herrings."
"I told ye we dinnae…"
"Stand on ceremony. Aye, so I gather." He felt like he was wrapped up in swaddling. If he dared to flex his muscles in the tight white linen shirt, he was sure to tear it. Someone on the estate had big feet. The shoes were about the only things that fit him properly. "But I’m hardly decent to meet the laird."
"Papa won’t mind, and at least the kilt fits."
"Thank God." If it hadn’t gone round him, he’d be running around, bare-arsed as a newborn bairn.
"I’ll send a maid down to the boat to fetch your clothes, if ye like. We’ll have them washed and ready to go before ye know it. In this wind, linen dries in two shakes of a lamb’s tail."
The quiet after the storm had proven short-lived. Now a gale rattled the windows and whistled down the chimney. The sun still shone, but sailing conditions weren’t much better than they’d been during the night.
"I only plan to stay until I repair my boat," he said.
She frowned. "Would ye no’ rather reach your destination looking fit to be seen?"
Her tactless question held no spite and made him laugh. "Aye, I would."
"And this wind makes sailing dangerous."
"Aye, it does."
She looked at him curiously, and he waited for her to ask his purpose in wanting to travel. But for once, she followed the dictates of good manners and left it to him to choose whether he confided about his destination. He chose to remain silent on the subject.
"Ye must be dead tired after last night. Would it no’ be more sensible to rest and repair your boat and restore yourself before ye voyage on? Only a madman would risk his life setting sail today."
"The wind might drop."
"Trust me. The gale will blow at least until tomorrow night."
Dougal was used to Hebridean weather. He couldn’t argue with her conclusions, much as he wished he could.
Impatience gnawed at him. Ever since he’d heard of Fair Ellen’s troubles, he’d been in a lather to rescue her. It was as if fate itself whipped him on to find the girl and release her from captivity. He wasn’t by nature a superstitious man, but this last week, there had seemed a higher purpose at work in his life.
"I hate to inconvenience ye and your father."
By now, he should be used to the flashing charm in her smile, but the sight still sent a shock through him. "Mr. Drummond, my father will beg ye to stay past Twelfth Night. Mark my words."
And so it proved.
Augustus Macbain, Laird of Askaval, was big and bluff and fair as a Norseman. His glee at having someone new to talk to was undisguised. He didn’t look anything like his small, dark-haired daughter, although the affection between the two Macbains was easy to see.
The laird greeted Dougal like a long-lost son and while he demolished an enormous breakfast, he hung on every word of Dougal’s tale of his trials with the storm. Finally the laird scooped up one last forkful of eggs and sat back in his chair, patting his stomach. "Och, laddie, what adventures ye had on your way to us. Thanks be to the good Lord ye made it safely to Askaval Harbor."
Dougal laid down his cutlery and smiled at his host. He’d done a fair job of matching Augustus’s appetite and felt better for it. "I was lucky. This is a small island, and if I’d missed landfall here, there’s a devil of a lot of sea to drown in. By then, I wasnae doing much navigating. With the mast and the rudder gone, the best I could do was stay afloat."
"It was still a remarkable example of seamanship," Miss Macbain said from where she sat drinking coffee across the table from him.
"Och, I’ve spent my life around boats."
"Is Bruard on the coast?"
"No. Well inland, but I grew up playing with my Mackinnon cousins. They live across the channel from the Isle of Skye, so we were always in the water. Sometimes literally!"
When she smiled, his heart performed its accustomed flip. He almost became inured to it. She looked older in her girl’s clothes than she had dressed as a boy. Older and strangely mysterious. She’d arranged her pretty dark air in a knot away from her face, and the sophisticated style added elegance to her features.
She must be close to twenty. He wondered why she wasn’t yet married. She was undoubtedly on the headstrong side, but not every laddie wanted a doormat for a helpmeet. His mother may have promised to obey his father when she married him, but from day to day, he saw little evidence of that. His cousin Mhairi was more than capable of standing up to her doughty husband Callum, the Laird of Achnasheen.
"And the waters around the Hebrides are cold."
He gave a theatrical shudder. "Aye, mistress. A few times last night, I was on the verge of turning into a wee icicle."
"Not a wee icicle!"
"A large icicle, then!" He smiled back, appreciating her teasing. "Thank ye for taking me in. I already feel halfway back to being human."
"I hope you’ll stay for Christmas," Augustus said. "It’s only a few days away, and we have a big party here at the house. A few Highland reels will warm up the blood nicely, laddie, and banish the memories of fighting the wind and the waves."
Dougal had more difficulty than he’d expected shifting his attention from Kirsty Macbain’s shining gray eyes so he could answer the laird. "That’s very kind of ye, Mr. Macbain."
Augustus chuckled. "There’s nae need for such formality, my boy. Call me Gus. We dinnae stand on ceremony here at Askaval."
Out of the corner of his eye, Dougal caught Miss Macbain hiding a smile as she raised her napkin to her lips.
"That’s what I’ve been told, sir." So often, he began to suspect it was the Macbain family motto.
"So will ye stay? The weather is likely to continue changeable, and we always welcome a fresh face at our revels."
Dougal already shook his head. "I must away, sir."
"Gus."
"Gus," he said.
"At this time of year, a man must be desperate indeed to trust himself to the sea. Ye were lucky to make it here last time. At least wait until this current batch of squalls has moved on."
"You’re very generous," Dougal said. "But if you’ll be kind enough to lend me tools and materials to mend my boat, I’ll be off as soon as my craft is seaworthy."
"Your family wouldn’t want ye putting yourself in danger just to get back to them for Christmas, surely," Miss Macbain said.
"Aye, lad, there will be other Christmases. Best to stay
alive to enjoy them, eh?"
Dougal set down his coffee cup. "I’m no’ going back to Bruard."
"Och, it’s a lassie, then. I understand a young man’s urgency to be with his sweetheart, none better. But she’d want ye alive, too. No girl wants to be crying her eyes out for Hogmanay because her suitor is drowned at Christmas."
"She willnae be crying," he said, before he reminded himself he hadn’t intended to share his destination with anyone. His family had subjected him to merciless mockery for being a romantic fool, setting out so precipitously to rescue a girl he’d never laid eyes on. If people who loved him didn’t understand his purpose, how could he expect strangers to?
"She doesnae love ye? I find that hard to believe. Ye strike me as a braw young gentleman."
"No, that’s no’ it." The heat rose in his cheeks again. His attention might be centered on the laird, but he could feel Miss Macbain’s eyes on him. "But thank ye."
"If the young lady willnae favor ye, there’s even less reason to venture out into the cold of a December storm. Stay here with us, and let the ungrateful besom stew."
Dougal sighed and ran his hand through his hair, which he’d washed and tied back in a queue. Better he told the truth about his quest than let Gus’s imagination run wild, he supposed. "She’s no’ an ungrateful besom. She doesnae even ken I exist."
Gus frowned. "I’m sure that’s no’ true, laddie. It’s natural to feel downhearted when a wooing doesnae prosper."
Dougal gave a grunt of dismissive laughter. "No, I mean that literally. She has never met me, never heard of me."
"Yet you’ve set sail to meet her in the worst months of the year?"
Miss Macbain’s question made him look at her. She didn’t sound disapproving, but puzzled. He sighed again. "I know I’m speaking in riddles, when really it’s simple enough. I’m bound to rescue Fair Ellen of the Isles from her father’s vile captivity."
Large gray eyes rounded with amazement. "But she doesnae really exist. She’s a legend. Like a banshee or Morgan le Fay."
"At any rate if she does exist, she’s no’ on Innish Beag," Gus said. "I heard she’s on Pabbay. Or was it Canna? Or might it have been Scalpay?"
"At least you’ve heard of her," Dougal said stubbornly.
"Aye, I have," Gus said with audible doubt. "The bonniest girl in Scotland locked up in a tower on a crag, a prisoner of her tyrannical father who wants to keep the hordes of suitors at bay. It’s a fairy tale, Mr. Drummond."
"It’s no’, although I agree it sounds like one. I have it on good authority that she is real and suffering in her captivity."
"On Innish or Scalpay or Canna." Miss Macbain’s cynical tone cut him to the quick.
"I’ll find her if I have to sail to every island between here and Boston," he said sharply. "She’s the victim of heinous injustice. Any man with a trace of chivalry in his soul must rally to her cause."
Miss Macbain continued to study him as if he was a strange new species. "I suspect your soul is overburdened with chivalry, Mr. Drummond."
And not too much in the way of brains, he could guess she refrained from adding. His cheeks burned with embarrassment. "It’s a quest worth pursuing."
"If Fair Ellen is real and isnae just a figment of some Highland bard’s imagination," she said dryly. "Ye must have great faith in the person who told you the story."
"It was one of my cousins."
She looked surprised. "He’s seen Fair Ellen?"
Dougal shifted uncomfortably in his seat. In his mind, his duty to the captive maiden was so clear, but whenever he voiced his intentions, his grand purpose sounded flimsy and ill-advised. "He met one of the men who built her prison."
"So he said."
"My cousin is nae liar, mistress."
His brief flare of irritation did nothing to banish the skepticism from Miss Macbain’s clever eyes. "I’m sure he’s no’. But can ye speak for the man who told your cousin this tale?"
If Dougal’s boat had been seaworthy, he’d have risen at that minute and said his farewells and sailed away. When he’d left home, he’d been so convinced of the rightness of his cause, despite his family’s opposition. Miss Macbain wasn’t saying anything his mother and father and brothers hadn’t. But somehow the doubt cut deeper when it came from a bonny lassie.
"The story of Fair Ellen is all over the Highlands. It’s even reached Askaval – and as ye say, you rarely have visitors. There must be some truth in the rumors."
Augustus watched the interplay between his guest and his daughter with an arrested expression. "Nae doubt, laddie. But how much truth? Is the lassie fair at all? She might be a wizened old besom with a temper like a rabid dog."
"Even if she is, she still needs rescuing," Dougal said stubbornly, although he’d never pictured himself saving an old lady but a young, pretty one.
"Very commendable." Miss Macbain’s expression indicated she guessed his thoughts, and they didn’t impress her. "I suspect the legend has spread so far so fast because the lady is Fair Ellen, not fat, middle-aged Ellen."
"And ye ken how Scotsmen like to embroider a good story," Gus pointed out.
Unfortunately Dougal did. "I’m determined to find her, whoever she is."
"But will ye no’ pause to spend Christmas with us first, laddie? We’d love to have you." Gus’s sounded wistful. "It’s only a few days’ delay. Even if all is as ye expect, with the girl on Innish, and a beauty, and ripe for falling in love with you, she’s already been there so long, another week will make little difference."
Dougal squirmed as his cheeks heated once more. It was the curse of the fair-skinned. "I never said anything about love."
Although of course, in his fantasies, Fair Ellen took one look at her gallant knight and tumbled helplessly in love. He’d sweep her up onto his white charger – in this case a fine wee boat built by Achnasheen’s best shipwright – and carry her away to be his bride.
Perhaps Mr. Macbain wasn’t too far wrong when he accused Dougal of believing in fairy tales.
No, he refused to let anyone sway him from his aims. Fair Ellen was real, and she suffered a great wrong. He meant to save her, whatever else happened. If all worked out as he imagined, well and good, but none of that could mar the worthiness of his purpose.
"But that’s what ye expect to find," Gus said in a rueful tone.
"Thank ye for your kindness, Mr. Macbain. And for your invitation." He needed to change the subject before he made an even bigger fool of himself. "But once my boat is repaired, I’ll be on my way."
Gus shook his head, as if in despair at the impetuosity of youth. "I can see you’re determined."
"I am."
Dougal avoided Miss Macbain’s eyes. She, too, must think he was a fool to pass up a few days of celebration and comfort in favor of a rough ocean voyage with an uncertain outcome.
"In that case, you’re welcome to use anything on the estate to help ye fix your boat. And we’ll enjoy your company for as long as ye care to share it."
Dougal’s mother would call him an unmannerly lout, taking advantage of the Macbains’ bounty, then leaving at the first opportunity. "I am most grateful, Gus."
"Och, save your breath to cool your porridge, laddie. I was young once. I ken how a notion can set up a fever in a man’s brain – especially when the notion involves a pretty girl."
Dougal wanted to protest. Gus’s description of his journey made it sound trivial and whimsical, whereas it was a grand quest worthy of a knight of old. But he possessed just enough self-awareness to know he’d sound hopelessly callow if he did. He’d embarrassed himself quite enough already in front of his new friends.
"I’ll help ye with the boat," Miss Macbain said unexpectedly.
"Thank ye, but there’s nae need, Miss Macbain."
He caught the twitch of her lips as her father spoke. "She’s a marvel with woodwork, my girl."
Of course she was. Dougal had a sudden and unwelcome memory of how she’d looked in boy’s clothes.
She’d almost reeked of competence, not to mention offering a man the sweetest little armful he was likely to meet south of Cape Wrath.
He suspected Miss Macbain could do most things as well as a man. She’d never need rescuing, by God. If her father was lunatic enough to stick her in a tower, she’d dismantle the building stone by stone to get out.
"I’m impressed," he said neutrally. And he was.
Miss Macbain was altogether an impressive creature. She’d never cling to a man and rely on his strength to protect her from a dangerous world.
"My Kirsty will take ye around and help you find what you need."
"I couldnae trouble her more than I have already."
Dougal didn’t want to spend the day with Miss Macbain. In fact, some powerful instinct told him that the less time he passed in her company, the better.
Since he’d decided to rescue Fair Ellen, his mind had been fixed and pure. Now he only had to glance across the table to meet Kirsty Macbain’s bright eyes and that glorious purpose shivered and threatened to crack in two, just like his mast last night.
No, the sooner he abandoned the charms of Askaval, the better. If he could swim to bloody Innish from here, by the devil, he would. Perhaps a couple of hours up to his neck in cold water would do him good.
"It’s nae trouble," she said, as he’d known she would.
"And perhaps in return, you’ll stay long enough to help us decorate the house for the Christmas party," Gus said. "It’s the tradition here for everyone to come together for a ceilidh on Christmas night to celebrate the Savior’s birth. It’s a sad thought that you’ll miss it."
And just out of blind obstinacy, too. His host didn’t need to speak the words aloud.
Dougal knew when he was beaten. He’d already taken such advantage of Askaval’s hospitality, not even a man embarked on a sacred quest could refuse to offer his aid when his host specifically asked for it.
"Aye, I’d be glad to." He didn’t mean a word of it.
"And you’ll stay with us tonight? It’s too dangerous to set out with the seas as high as they are."
"Aye, I’ll stay tonight." He winced when he heard how grudging he sounded. He mustered a smile. "Helping with your Christmas preparations is the least I can do to repay your generosity. But if I can fix the damage to the boat today, I must be away tomorrow."
The Highlander’s Christmas Quest: The Lairds Most Likely Book 5 Page 3
