The Scot Beds His Wife

by Kerrigan Byrne

  Samantha didn’t breathe the entire time.

  “Ye. Hired. Mackenzie men.” He gestured to the several or so riders inexpertly driving a handful of shaggy beasts toward the only pasture with part of a fence left. Another half-dozen Highlanders labored to rebuild the gate in order to keep them in place.

  Oh, whew. She puffed her cheeks out with a storm of relieved breath. This she could handle. “Actually, I didn’t hire them, Lady Ravencroft did. Though I bade her to.”

  Now it was Eammon’s turn to hold his breath beside her, as Gavin’s skin mottled a dangerous new shade.

  “Ye have seconds to explain yerself, lass, or I’ll—”

  “You’ll what?” she challenged.

  His jaw clamped back together with an audible crack. For a moment, she feared for his teeth.

  “You forget, husband, that up until two days ago, we were enemies,” she said with just a touch of pointed melodrama. “You were trying to bully me off my family land, and I was the unwilling victim of circumstance—”

  “That’s not what—”

  “The day I went to Ravencroft, Mena offered a few workers that the distillery wouldn’t need until the spring who were glad of the work. Though now that my money is gone, I suppose you’ll have to pay them.”

  “I’d rather roll in a mountain of cattle shite than accept anything from the Ravencroft house—”

  “Oh, do be smart instead of stubborn, Gavin.”

  Eammon gripped her elbow, and she yanked it out of his hold, meeting her husband’s enraged glare.

  “You’ve led these men—albeit under duress—as the Ravencroft Distillery foremen for years, haven’t you?” she continued when he seemed to have lost the ability to speak. “They’re used to working for you. I’ll bet they even like it. What if these Mackenzie decide that they prefer a rancher’s life to one of laboring in the Ravencroft fields or with machinery? There’s certainly money in it, we could even offer a profit share like they do back in America.”

  Some of the rage on his features was replaced by calculation, and Eammon let go of her arm.

  Encouraged, Samantha continued. “To turn a profit come the slaughter, it’s imperative that we track down a herd that’s been scattered for longer than ten years. That means we need men, doesn’t it? Dipping into your brother’s workforce is a fantastic thumb in the eye that will leave him shorthanded and scrambling. But he can’t blame you because his own wife offered them before you and I united. So, either way, we win.”

  “Hah!” Eammon cackled. “You married a wee mercenary, Thorne! Leave it to an American to bring economic warfare to the Highlands.”

  Her husband peered across at her as though he’d never seen her before, but that self-sure half-smile slowly dimpled his cheek, and his shoulders had somewhat relaxed.

  He looked almost as pleased with her as she was with herself.

  An unkempt Highlander with long, wild hair, wrapped in layers of wool, galloped up on a pony that was almost comically small for him.

  He spoke to Gavin in Scots Gaelic and, though Samantha could barely differentiate the vowels from the consonants, she gathered the news wasn’t good.

  Following the man’s gesture off to the west, she noticed one of the cattle on its side in the distance. A few men had gathered around it, and no matter what they tried, they couldn’t seem to get the beast on its feet.

  “Another pregnancy?” she queried hopefully.

  “I’m not sure,” he answered.

  “Take me over there.” She reached for him to pull her aboard Demetrius. “I might be able to help.”

  Both men eyed her suspiciously.

  “You forget what happened in the forest already?” she pushed, urging him to hurry. “I may not know how to be a wife or a countess and such, but I know cattle.”

  Gavin shook his head and regarded her with disbelief, though he did admit with a sly smile, “Ye ken more about being a wife than ye give yerself credit for, bonny.”

  “Don’t be disgusting,” Eammon groused, as her husband took her in a strong grip, lifting and settling her into the saddle in front of him.

  She welcomed his warmth and the strength of his arms around her as they gripped Demetrius’s reins. They moved together in the saddle just as well as they did in bed, she noted with delight as they made their way toward the distressed animal.

  Several Highlanders eyed her with different expressions of wariness and curiosity as Gavin dismounted, and reached up to lift her to the ground.

  “It’s certainly not pregnancy this time.” She gestured to the bull’s anatomy as Gavin assisted her approach.

  “Certainly not,” he agreed. “What say ye, lass?”

  A few of the men addressed Gavin, their words harsh and their tone mocking.

  He had a few words for them, as well, and they shut their mouths in a hurry, though none too happily.

  “What did they say?” she asked.

  “Best ye didna know.”

  She sent them a withering look of her own, wondering if Gavin was right and she should just send them all packing. Pushing her ire aside for a moment, she knelt by the bull, his troubled, heaving breaths tugging at her heart.

  Putting her ear to his distended belly, she diagnosed him instantly. “Hand me your knife.” She held her hand behind her to her husband. When one didn’t appear in her palm, she glanced back to see what the problem was.

  A congregation of narrow-eyed Highlanders crossed their arms above her in a choreographed show of resistance.

  “What?” Was it something she said?

  “It’s called a dirk, lass,” Gavin stated seriously. “And a man doesna just hand it over.”

  “Lest he find it in his back,” another muttered.

  Oh, so some of them could speak English, they just chose not to in front of the outsider. Lord, spare her from obstinate Highlanders.

  Gavin put a hand on her shoulder. “If the beast’s throat needs cut, let me—”

  “Christ, you’ve been reading too much Macbeth,” she huffed. “Just let me use your dirk, and I swear you’ll have it back before you can say ‘How’d eyre washed’ or however that goes.”

  She got the sense that she’d amused her husband, but not many others.

  The moment he handed it to her, she took it and quickly thrust it in the cow’s belly, instantly removing it.

  Gavin pulled her back to her feet with a foreign curse as a small spout of blood gave way to a rather comical flatulent noise as the bull’s middle significantly deflated.

  They all watched the beast in openmouthed wonder as Samantha stooped to clean Gavin’s dirk on the grass and handed it back to him.

  “Cows have four stomachs,” she explained. “Sometimes if one of the middle ones becomes bloated, they can’t do anything about it and it distresses their lungs.”

  The man who’d retrieved Gavin said something unintelligible to his comrades, and they all burst out laughing.

  Scowling at them, she asked. “Is he laughing at me?”

  “Nay, bonny.” Gavin chuckled.

  “Then what did he say?”

  “Only that he wonders if that would work on his mother-in-law.”

  “Oh.” She giggled, pleased to see the bull struggling to his feet. “Tell him that he’ll never know until he tries.”

  A melody of masculine amusement was a welcome tune to her ears, as most of the men gave Gavin a few parting words before kicking their horses to return to their work.

  “What did they say?” She was going to get tired of asking that before long.

  Returning his dirk to its scabbard, he took her in his arms and regarded her with a soft, knee-weakening emotion. “They’re saying, lass, that I picked a good wife.”

  Inordinately pleased with herself, she performed a triumphant little wriggle in his arms.

  “I have to admit, bonny, they’re not wrong.” He took her mouth in a possessive kiss, and the rowdy whoops and hollers of the Highlanders barely registered above the rus
h of her own happiness.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  “All this chaos in one fucking railcar,” Gavin raged. “I vow I’m going to just hang everyone involved and be done with it.”

  A sheaf of papers landed on the table in front of Samantha, effectively paralyzing any life-sustaining functions of the organs protected by her rib cage. Her grip tightened on the handle of her pistol, though it was useless as a weapon with the parts all spread out before her for cleaning and oiling.

  “H-hang who? Why?” She couldn’t bring herself to look. Was she only going to be allowed two weeks to enjoy this marital arrangement? Because, dammit, she did enjoy it. Despite herself. Despite everything.

  Even with her bad luck, it seemed excessively cruel of the fates to take this away from her so soon.

  To take him away. Just when she was starting to …

  “I’d give up my earldom if it meant I didna have to be magistrate anymore.” Gavin cast himself into the chair beside her with a weary oath, then scooted the mahogany monstrosity closer to the one she occupied. “I’ve cut my time at the bench back one day a week, and I hate even taking that much time away from ye … I mean, from Erradale.”

  Relief washed her cold terror away in a sluice of warmth, and drew the most genuine smile to her lips she could remember.

  She’d missed him today, too.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “The Campbells of Kinross and the McCoys of Witherdale have been at each other’s throats for … Och, I doona ken, probably five hundred years or so. One of the McCoy spinsters, fifty if she’s a day, shared a railcar with the entire Campbell clan returning from—I forget where—but it all started when Kevin Campbell said…” He paused, his brow furrowing as her hands resumed brushing out the pistol’s cylinder. “Are ye … cleaning yer pistols on the dining room table?”

  “Complaining about your day and nagging me about cleaning my gun where I ought not to…” She leaned in her chair toward him, thinking that no one in the world had such a handsome husband. “When did you become the wife?”

  “I suppose we’ve done even more profane deeds upon this table.” His chuckle did dark things to her insides as their mouths met briefly.

  To hide her blush at the salacious memory of her bent over this very table, she returned to her scrubbing with renewed vigor.

  Even after such a brief kiss, her lips now tasted of the toffee he kept in strange little caches around the keep. Aside from the crystal dish on his study desk and another in the entry, she’d found a small bundle of them in his saddlebags, one in his closet by where he kept his cuff links, by the bedstand, in the library, and even the armory.

  How his perfect teeth hadn’t rotted from his head was a sin against the laws of God and nature.

  It surprised her not at all that Gavin St. James was afflicted with a sweet tooth. The men in her previous life were known to tuck tobacco between their lips and gums. She’d always hated the smell and taste of it, let alone the mess.

  Yet, every time she found another sack half full of toffee shards, it brought a smile to her mouth, and her heart.

  She’d taken to pilfering a bite for herself just to see if he’d notice. They were sharp, jagged, hard, and surprisingly sweet.

  Just like the man she’d married.

  “I put an oilcloth down.” She motioned to the cloth beneath the discarded components of her weapon. “The family dining table shall live to see another day.”

  “Ye might not if Mrs. McCabe finds out,” he teased, capturing a tendril at her temple and running it through his fingers in an affectionate gesture. “I can save ye from many things, bonny, but not my housekeeper’s wrath.”

  “You should sack that harpy,” she groused, pretending that his tiny physical intimacies didn’t threaten to melt her into puddles of sentimentality. “I think she’s trying to put some kind of Gaelic curse on me.”

  “I would if I wasna so afraid of her.” Leaning back, he loosened his cravat and let it hang limply from around his neck with a relaxed sigh. “But do inform me if ye break into boils or yer hair starts to fall out … so I can make certain to do what I can to remain on her good side.”

  Samantha swatted at him, but he caught her hand and brought it to his lips.

  Trying to ignore the flutter in her chest, she snatched it back. “I can’t believe you have a McCoy feud over here, too,” she exclaimed. “Seems to me that family is trouble just everywhere. We’ve an epic one in America.”

  “That, there, is the record of it.” He made a profane gesture at the sizable file of documents. “Seems to come down to the fact that Eloise McCoy was once jilted by Thomas Campbell, the cooper, and couldna stand to share a railcar with him, his wife, and their many wild and braw sons.”

  “Was blood spilt?” she asked, gorging on a bit of drama.

  “Not this time, more’s the pity.” The appearance of his wicked grin threatened her breath again, but she didn’t at all mind.

  She loved this place, where clan arguments lasted longer than her entire country had been ratified. Samantha suddenly wanted a mirror, to see if she reflected the same inner luminescence she’d noted highlighting Mena Mackenzie’s lovely countenance.

  Because if one could feel luminescence rather than see it, Samantha did in this moment.

  How was it a marriage of two weeks, one built on a bevy of dangerous falsehoods, could feel more real than the one she’d spent four unhappy years in?

  “If I remember correctly, ye have two pistols in that set,” Gavin noted.

  “I lost one the night I was shot,” she lamented. “I’ve looked for it everywhere.”

  “We’ll do what we can to find it. I’m sorry for yer loss.” When she put the lonely pistol down, he placed a hand over hers, as though unable to help himself.

  “That’s mighty kind, but it’s not like the thing was a person to me.”

  His manner became sly as he rested his chin in his hand and propped his elbow on the table. “I’d wager my fortune ye named that gun.”

  So as not to watch the flex of his muscled forearm beneath the rolled cuffs of his sleeve, she scowled down at her remaining pistol.

  Probably an unbearable weight, propping up that big head of his.

  “Come, bonny … we both ken that I’m right.”

  Pouting, she muttered, “Caesar and Antony.”

  “As in Julius Caesar and Mark Antony?”

  “Yep.”

  He frowned. “Great men, surely, but werena they both defeated and slain?”

  “Well, they wouldn’t have been if they’d had a set of these.”

  Gavin barked out a sound so full of mirth it startled her. “Ah, bonny, ye never cease to surprise and delight me.” Eyes sparkling like emeralds in the candelabra she’d lit to see to her work, he wrapped a hand around the arm of her chair and pulled it close enough to touch his.

  Something about a show of strength, even one so benign as pulling an occupied chair with one arm, brought to life every part that made her a woman.

  “Tell me about these troublesome McCoys in America,” he requested, threading his fingers with hers on the table while scrubbing his free hand over his face, as though to wipe away exhaustion.

  “It’s kind of a long story,” she warned.

  “Just the interesting parts, then.” His jaw cracked on a yawn. “The ones with the most blood and tears and such.”

  A gentleman barbarian, her Highlander husband.

  “Well, the papers say the carnage began over a land dispute a century ago, but really heated up during the Civil War. You see, the McCoys fought for the Union, and the Hatfields for the Confederacy. The pater, a man they called ‘Devil Anse’ Hatfield, supposedly ordered the death of the head of the McCoy family, Asa Harmon, but as it was wartime, no charges were filed. After that Floyd, Devil’s cousin, took a hog from Randolph McCoy. But ‘Preacher Anse’ Hatfield—a cousin, I think—was the justice of the peace, and ruled in favor of Floyd. A couple people were m
urdered in the dead of night over that one pig.”

  “I’m beginning to regret asking ye to tell the story.” He sighed.

  “Oh, hold on. It’s just about to get good,” she promised, talking as fast as she could so as not to lose her audience for the tale that had kept her glued to the newspapers, gorging on the violence. “Last year, Devil’s son Jonce took up with Roseanna McCoy and she lived with the Hatfields in sin for months. So, when the McCoys arrested Jonce for bootlegging, Roseanna rode all night to beg Devil to save him, and how do you think he thanked her?”

  “I couldna begin to guess.”

  “He left her pregnant ass for her cousin Nancy, the slag.”

  His shoulders shook with a lazy chortle. “That’s her title, Nancy the slag?”

  “No, that’s just what I call her. I learned that word yesterday from Douglass Mackenzie. Now don’t interrupt me.”

  “My apologies.”

  “So, Roseanna’s brothers, Tolbert, Pharmer, and Bud—”

  “Now ye’re just making up names.”

  “Hand to God.” She lifted her free hand like a woman about to give testimony in court. Though her other hand wasn’t on the Bible, but grasped in the warmth of his. A warmth she was beginning to consider sacred. “What did I say about interrupting me?”

  “Do go on.” He traced the small curved web between her thumb and fingers in a soft, rhythmic stroke.

  Doing her best to ignore the disquieting glow gaining radiance in her chest she continued. “Roseanna’s brothers allegedly murdered Devil’s brother Ellison by stabbing him twenty-six times!”

  “Allegedly?” His thumb massaged the inside of her palm in slow, delicious circles.

  “It’s a word Americans use when litigation is pending, which it will be in perpetuity, because Devil rounded up a mob and stole the McCoy brothers from custody, tied them to pawpaw bushes, where a bunch of Hatfields emptied a total of fifty bullets into their bodies.”

  “Are ye certain Hatfield isna yer real surname, bonny?” His lazy fingers drifted to her knuckles and her wrist, and tickled the very sensitive skin on the inside of her arm. “That sounds like a very you number of bullets.” For the first time ever, he enunciated the word “you.”