Caribbean Scot

by Kimberly Killion

  CARIBBEAN SCOT

  by

  Award-Winning Author

  Kimberly Killion

  ********************

  FIRST EDITION

  May 2011

  Copyright © 2011 by Kimberly Killion

  CARIBBEAN SCOT copyright 2011 by Kimberly Killion. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of Kimberly Killion.

  Visit Kimberly Killion online at: www.kimberlykillion.com

  Cover and book design by www.hotdamndesigns.com

   ********************

  ALSO AVAILABLE FROM

  Kimberly Killion

  ~ Taming a Highland Devil

  ~ Educating Aphrodite

  ~ His Magick Touch

  ~ Highland Dragon

  ~ Her One Desire

   ********************

  Prologue

  ~ TAKEN ~

  Southwest of Glenstrae, Scotland, Summer—1603

  At ten and six, Reid MacGregor only had one person occupying his mind, and she stood at his boot tips preparing him for the dive into Loch Long.

  “Think ye a bit of treasure might be worth one kiss?” Reid snapped a wink at the lass tying the leather straps at his neck and ignored the gagging noises Eoin and Fergus made behind them.

  Torchlight filled the cavern with a yellow glow and showed the blush tinting her fair skin. She pulled the laces tight. A wee bit too tight. “’Tis just like a MacGregor to bargain without means of payment.”

  Mary-Robena Wallace had always been quick of wit, especially when it came to tossing barbs at Reid. She didn’t give him the answer he wanted, but neither did she tell him no.

  Anticipation and excitement tickled his stomach. He’d never actually kissed a lass, save for Nanna, and that wasn’t the kind of kiss he wanted to share with Robbie. Nay, he wanted the kind of kiss the kinswomen gave the warriors when they returned from battle. The kind of kiss that involved a wee bit of tongue.

  Reid squirmed inside his leather suit, swallowed, and slipped a gloved finger between the ties and his neck to make room for the knot in his throat. But Robbie slapped his hand away, flipped her red-blonde braid over her shoulder, and then picked up a pail of tar off the cavern floor. She smeared the thick black pitch around his wrists and then his ankles, sealing the leather suit to his iron boots so water wouldn’t seep in. The pungent smell of turpentine burned his nostrils as she circled the warm tar around his throat.

  Not once did Robbie attempt to hide her dimples as she glued his hair to his neck. He would have to soak in animal fat for a sennight to remove the sticky substance. But it would be worth it if he found evidence of the treasure Robbie’s grandda assured them was in the depths of Loch Long. Robbie had mapped out a grid based on her grandda’s theories, and they’d covered more than half the area where he believed a Spanish lieutenant might have hidden treasure he’d stolen from Cristóbal Colón’s new land. In the past three months, they’d found little, save for a boot and a piece of armor.

  Robbie’s brother, Fergus, checked the iron weights hanging from the base of the wooden bell-shaped diving barrel then released the crank and eased the wooden vessel into the water until it disappeared from view. “Why would ye be wantin’ kisses from my sister anyway? Robbie has yet to get her titties.”

  Emerald eyes flashed just as Robbie slopped a dollop of tar at her brother. “Ye should learn to hold your wheesht. Grandda will take a switch to your duff for saying such things.” The tips of her ears shone bright red when she looked into the gapping bodice of her wool kirtle and sighed.

  Reid wanted to console her, to tell her she would get her titties soon, but he wasn’t that dim of wit.

  Fergus wiped the tar from his round face and turned the crank that lowered the barrel into the water. “All I’m sayin’ is the Gregarach can have any maiden this side o’ the loch. Why would he choose the likes o’ ye?”

  Robbie stared at the cavern floor, no doubt hurt by Fergus’s words, but Reid saw something her brother didn’t. She was smart. She knew more about the diving barrel at ten and three than the boys combined. And Reid, Eoin, and Fergus were all three years her senior.

  The quartet had been friends for forever, but lately when Robbie had occupied his mind, he no longer saw her as just Fergus’s sister. He saw a blossoming beauty—a caterpillar before her change. He chuckled inside at the comparison, thinking himself besotted and not really caring that Fergus and Eoin thought it, too.

  Eoin skipped a rock across the water’s surface. “I can think of at least a dozen things I intend to purchase with the Spaniard’s gold. The first of which will be a pistol to protect the keep from those murderin’ Colquhouns.” His cousin drew up a wad of snot and spit it in the water Reid was about to enter.

  “Think ye can blow your hawkers onto the rock?” Of all the habits Eoin had, the way he constantly chucked his snot irritated Reid the most.

  Eoin responded by drawing up another lunger and launched it into Robbie’s pail of tar. The wretch had good aim, if nothing else.

  “Keep it up, and I’ll drag your arse down with me.”

  Eoin shrank back, and mayhap even turned a shade green. The sop still wasn’t overly fond of water.

  Robbie stepped closer and tied a rope around Reid’s waist. The bones in his legs liquefied. She smelled the same as the rest of them, like fish and tar, but when she exhaled, he caught a whiff of the rowan berries she’d eaten on the way to the cavern.

  He raised her chin with the tip of his gloved finger and dropped his gaze to her heart-shaped lips. “What say ye, Mary-Robena Wallace? If I surface with proof of the Spaniard’s gold, will ye grant me a taste of your sweet lips?” Da said similar words to a bar wench in a tippling house just before he set out to sea, still Reid felt ridiculous repeating such drivel.

  Robbie’s entire face flamed red. Her smile split, exposing teeth too big for her mouth. “Bring me the gold, MacGregor, and I’ll give ye your kiss.”

  Heat whipped through his insides just before she pushed him into the pool of frigid water. The slap of cold to his face was quickly forgotten when the weight of his iron boots pulled his legs taut. The rest of his body followed, dragging him downward into a black abyss. The darkness didn’t bother him overmuch, but he’d never been terribly fond of the drop.

  Eyes closed, cheeks puffed, he waited for his feet to touch the bottom. Robbie had measured the distance and cut the rope accordingly. The loch bed would come.

  Eventually.

  Several dives back when Eoin nigh drowned, Reid had learned not to panic, regardless of the pressure popping in his ears, regardless of the tightening in his chest, regardless of the rapid beat of—

  His feet connected to the silt floor. A rush of bubbles tickled his face.

  Moving his arms side to side, he searched for the diving barrel. Robbie’s calculations were never wrong. In six steps, he found the sides of the wooden drum.

  Lungs already burning, he swam between the weights hanging from the bottom of the diving barrel and slipped into the hollow. His movements echoed inside the drum. He sucked in cool air but knew better than to dally. Robbie had explained to him last summer how a person’s exhales would quickly turn the air to poison, so he stole a second breath and dove back into the water.

  Surrounded by total blackness, he searched the mud and ro
ck for jewels, trinkets, cups, coffers. Any evidence would satisfy Robbie and earn him his kiss.

  His pulse remained steady, beating a staccato in his ears. He moved further away from the safety of the barrel, determined to find proof to take back to the surface. Of course, anything valuable would be used to buy their way back into the king’s good graces. Three months had passed since King James issued the proscription against Reid’s clan.

  He returned to the diving barrel often, sneaking bits of air a breath at a time. Mayhap he was being selfish, but he cared little about what his uncle would do with the treasure. All he could think about was that damn kiss.

  He searched the loch bed a square patch at a time, then something caught his thumb.

  Something smooth. Something man-made.

  Mayhap the hilt of a sword or a tool. He inspected the area for more and felt the square edge of a large coffer. He wrapped his arms around it, but the strongbox was massive. The Spaniard’s gold was inside. He knew it. Twisting his body, he pulled his knee to his chest and then rammed his iron boot into the rotted wood.

  It gave way.

  In a mad rush, he stuffed his fingers between the splintered wood and felt something circular.

  A coin.

  Satan’s stones! Robbie’s grandda wasn’t adder-bitten.

  The excitement of his find invigorated him. He could practically hear the blood racing through his veins. Unfortunately, he could also feel the squeeze of his lungs.

  He needed air. Now!

  Reid wrapped his hand around what he hoped was gold, then pushed water behind him to return to the vessel. He stood inside the drum and filled his lungs with air. One breath, two, then three. He was greedy with the remaining air. Part of him already celebrated his victorious quest.

  The MacGregors would no longer be forced to take false names, and the border raids could cease altogether. Da could return to his rightful place as chieftain at Kilchurn Castle, and Reid wouldn’t have to stomach another day watching Eoin flaunt his status with the warriors on the training field. Being the appointed chieftain’s son had swollen Eoin’s head to annoying proportions.

  Reid’s mind raced full circle, leading him back to the one thing he’d been dreaming about since the day Mary-Robena Wallace batted her cinnamon lashes at him—that kiss.

  With the hand not fisted around his small treasure, Reid located the horn Robbie had fastened to the top of the drum. He inhaled and blew three times, anxious to rise to the surface.

  Would she kiss him, or would he have to kiss her? And how did one go about starting a kiss? Was he supposed to smash both his lips to hers? Was he supposed to suck her top lip and she his bottom? Or was it the other way around? And when exactly was he supposed to use his tongue? He struggled with all the options while he held tight to a crossbar over his head and waited.

  Nothing happened.

  “Raise the barrel,” he yelled and emptied his lungs into the horn again.

  But no one turned the crank. No one gave the rope around his waist a swift tug as was their signal. Nothing happened.

  Unable to prevent his panic, Reid inhaled through his nose in short, quick draws. How long did he have before the air turned to poison?

  He blew on the horn again and counted to sixty.

  Still, nothing.

  He put the coin in his mouth, slipped out from beneath the rim, and reached for the rope attached to the top of the barrel. Hand over hand, Reid pulled himself toward the surface. His iron boots felt like boulders beneath him. Even if he thought he could get them off, the water would leak into his leather suit, and Nanna would make him drink that wretched tonic to prevent him from passing a fever onto his half brother and sister.

  His head grew light, his body weak, but anger kept his arms pulling him upward. He would put the itching weed in their plaides and toads in Robbie’s bed. Nay. Spiders. Robbie hated the wee creatures.

  Light rippled above him, still meters away. He felt the tearing in his chest. His body demanded he breathe, but he bit on the coin and pulled himself toward the surface.

  Seconds later, he burst out of the water and gasped for fresh air, nearly choking on the coin lodged between his back teeth. He spit the gold piece into his hand. “God’s legions! I’ll tar and feather each one o’ ye cockgnats.”

  Before he could push the hair from his eyes, two massive hands clutched the shoulders of his leather suit and yanked him out of the water. “’Tis good to see ye’ve not lost your spirit, son.”

  “Da?” Reid was only slightly surprised by Da’s appearance. While the clan thought Calum MacGregor a coward for not fighting the Colquhouns, Reid always knew Da would return from sea and to his rightful place as chieftain.

  Eoin would be furious.

  “Did ye come back to lead the clan?” Reid asked hopeful.

  “I came back for ye and none too soon.”

  Reid followed Da’s gaze to a man slumped over against the rock wall. Reid recognized the Colquhouns’ blue and green plaide. At his feet lie Fergus, sprawled out on the cavern floor with a wound opening him from gullet to navel.

  Fergus! His thick fingers clutched the butt of a club and blood soaked the green and red crossbarred garment he wore so proudly. His round face was gray, save for the bright red blood pooled in his mouth. He was dead.

  Tears blurred Reid’s vision as salty bile crawled up his throat. Why? Why Fergus? He pinched his eyes tight, bent over his knees, and vomited onto the cavern floor.

  A high-pitched scream knifed through his ears.

  Robbie.

  Reid’s heart pounded against his ribs. Wiping his mouth, he scanned the cavern, but the hollows were empty. “Where are the others? Eoin and Robbie?”

  “They ran. Come, we must make haste.” With one hand fisted around his bloody basket sword and the other clamped around Reid’s wrist, Da pulled him out of the cavern and into the dying light of dusk. A massive black mare stood at the mouth of the cavern, saddled and waiting.

  Another scream ripped down the knoll.

  Reid’s heavy feet froze in place. “Robbie,” he whispered and looked up the hillock where the mist spread over the ancient standing stones. Wind slowly pushed the haze aside and exposed two Colquhoun warriors garbed in blue and green plaides. One of them held a torch while the other scabbit pinned Robbie to the ground with a foot on her back.

  “No!” Reid yelled and broke free of Da. He ran toward the enemy, forcing the muscles in his legs to bear the heavy weight of his boots.

  The Colquhoun pulled an iron rod from the torch; its tip glowed like a tiny sun.

  “Let her alone!” Reid clawed up the base of the hillock not caring that they saw him. Terror gripped his insides. He shook. He cried.

  Robbie stared at him, her mouth stretched wide, but her scream was silent when they laid the rod across her cheek.

  “No!” he roared, just as the Colquhoun stepping on her back started toward him, sword drawn. Reid would kill him; he didn’t care that the man was twice his size. He would rip the flesh from his bones and burn it. “Ye bastaird! I’ll—”

  The remainder of his curse was forced from his lungs when two hands yanked him off the ground and laid him belly down over the neck of a monstrous steed.

  “I’m taking ye to a better place, son. A land that knows less hatred.”

  “But what of the clan? Of Nanna?” What of Robbie?

  “I cannot save those who dinnae want to be saved.”

  “Ye can save Robbie!” Reid kicked his heavy legs and flailed his arms, but he remained trapped in Da’s grip. “I cannae leave her behind.” Reid sobbed as Robbie’s cries lessened behind them, drowned out by the thunderous hoof beats pursuing them.

  1

  ~ REUNION ~

  Early Fall—Eleven years later

  Robbie gasped for air. Not because the devilishly braw man squatting over her stole her breath, but because her lungs were on fire from the dive.

  She held tight to the rock ledge and wiped her eyes en
ough to study him. Clean black hair, long lashes, thick brows—one of which was currently raised—strong jaw and lips far too sensual for a man.

  “Holy Loki!” Recognition nigh stopped her heart in her chest. She would know those silver eyes on a troll. The last person she expected to await her when she rose from the dive was…“Reid MacGregor.” Alive and in the flesh—sun-baked flesh.

  She’d prayed for his soul when she hadn’t been cursing him to Hell and back. She’d thought him dead all these years. It was easier to accept than the fact that he and his da had abandoned the clan.

  Wherever he’d been, it hadn’t been on a battlefield. Not one scar marked his clean-shaven face, and his nose was arrow straight. She didn’t know any man who hadn’t had his nose broken at least twice.

  Starting at his pinkie, he rolled a coin from knuckle to knuckle, then caught the piece of gold between his thumb and index finger. “I’ve come to collect my kiss.”

  She gawked at him, recollecting their bargain, but she needed no time to form her opinion. “Ye pompous, craven-born scut. I would sooner kiss a bluidy sow than the likes o’ ye.” She might have tossed another barb or two—or three—at him, but he hauled her out of the water and onto the cavern floor with a thunk of her iron boots.

  The man might be as strong as an ox, but she took great satisfaction in knowing she nearly met his height.

  “God’s legions, Robbie. You’re all legs,” he jested with a twinkle in his eyes and pushed the hair from her face. A darkness stole his merriment in an instant when his gaze settled on the scar—the brand that marked her as a MacGregor.

  The same brand she’d lived with since the day he left. She cupped her cold cheek and turned away. She hadn’t hidden her scar in years and damned him for making her do so now. “Leave.”

  “Robbie, I’m—”

  She waited, thinking he might beg her forgiveness, but no words followed. “Leave. Go back where ye came from.” With trembling fingers, she bent and released the latches on the boots then poked her frigid feet into the same pair of brogues she’d worn since she was ten and six. She refused to think about what could have been and peeled the laces out of the tar at her neck. She stripped out of the leather suit which left her standing in her thread-bare kirtle. Blood stained the skirt where she’d cleaned a rabbit a sennight ago and tar clung to the bodice, making her look like a filthy beggar.