by Cathie Dunn
Highland Arms
Cathie Dunn
Copyright © 2016 by Cathie Dunn
Cover Art: Tina Adams / www.romancenovelcenter.com
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents are used fictitiously. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except for quotations in promotion or reviews.
Discover Cathie Dunn’s other titles at www.cathiedunn.com!
To Laurence. Always.
Praise for Highland Arms
“Cathie Dunn's HIGHLAND ARMS is a deliciously atmospheric Scottish love story, well- spun and charged with deeply-felt emotion. Cathie Dunn has a true gift for historical romance.”
~Jane Holland, author
“A compelling story teller... Maybe just maybe love will find you along the way and take you into a journey of romance with a smuggler ... I canna wait for more from Ms. Dunn.”
~Rose that Rules All, Romancing the Book
“This was a wonderful Scottish Historical Romance that I truly enjoyed and devoured
from the first to last page.”
~5 clovers, ck2s kwips and critiques
Acknowledgements:
Highland Arms was the first novel I completed, and I was fortunate enough to secure a publishing contract with a well-known US-based romance publisher within a year. Even though the rights reverted back to me in 2014, I will always be grateful to The Wild Rose Press for giving me that opportunity.
I must thank my lovely critique partners for their input, in particular Cait O’Sullivan and Denice Kelly. Your constructive comments and relentless nit-picking (well-meant, of course!) helped shape the original manuscript into something enjoyable.
Lastly, my thanks goes to my husband, Laurence. Being married to a writer who dreams of kilted Highlanders roaming the hills with brandished broadswords can’t be easy…
About the Author:
Cathie Dunn writes romantic adventure and suspense. She has two novels and a novella published.
Cathie loves historical research, often delving into the depths of the many history books on her bookshelves. She also enjoys the beauty of dramatic countrysides. She has travelled widely across Scotland, England, Wales, France and Germany.
Cathie lives in France with her husband and two cats. She is a member of the Romantic Novelists' Association and the Historical Novel Society.
Find her at www.cathiedunn.com.
Highland Arms
Chapter One
Scottish Highlands, Spring 1720
“Angus, do stop whining! It’s entirely your fault we’re here.” Catriona MacKenzie turned to glare at her brother riding a few yards behind her.
“Well, it is hellish,” he insisted, his expression sullen. “A huge inconvenience. The wind is chilling, and my clothes are soaked from constant drizzle. And never mind the midges. Wretched things,” he added, slapping his wrist to rid himself of a biting menace. His gaze met hers in a bone-chilling stare. “And before you forget, dear sister, if you hadn’t dallied with John that night, we wouldn’t be here.”
“You know I did not dally with John. He tried to—” Catriona turned away from him, fighting off the tears. It was pointless trying to reason with Angus. She let her gaze roam the mountainsides of Glencoe rising high on either side of her. The peaks were hidden from sight, shrouded in low cloud. A shiver of foreboding ran down her spine.
If only Angus had not told Father.
She stared ahead, at the broad back of Robbie MacKinnon, the gruff guide her father had hired to take her to her godmother, Lady Margaret Cameron Macdonald. He was clad in a thick plaid, a shabby kilt that had seen better days, and brogues with thick bag socks. Despite his advanced age—he must at least be as old as Father—he seemed completely unfazed by the icy gusts that tore at the shredded fabrics. A stench of stable wafted around him. Not surprising the midges avoided him.
The small group was on the move from daybreak to sunset, the pace relentless, ever since they left Edinburgh a week earlier. Grinding her teeth to stop them from chattering, Catriona pulled the fur-trimmed cloak tighter around her neck for a little extra warmth. She should be snug at home, not in this wilderness scratching her insect-ravaged skin.
The lack of hot water for a soothing bath grated on her, and she hated the plain travel dresses, in earthy brown tones, blending her into the countryside yet to awaken from its winter slumber.
She stifled a sob. Where she was going, nobody would glance twice at a girl looking disheveled and mud-stained. No person of worth ever ventured this far from the city.
Sent from her home in disgrace, through no fault of her own, she was now far away from the luxuries she was accustomed to. Far from the balls, the dancing, and the afternoon tea parties which were the latest pastime for those fortunate enough to afford the expensive new treat. Instead, she was heading to the Highlands—a remote, lawless country. A land of cattle thieves and smugglers, rebellions and murders. She shuddered as dread settled into her heart.
The wind pulled her shawl off her shoulders again. She wrapped it over her cloak and fastened it anew under her chin in a double knot. Tilting her face up, she looked straight ahead. Whatever awaited her at her godmother’s house could not be any worse than the recent weeks.
“Please don’t dawdle, Miss,” MacKinnon shouted. “We’ve yet a way to go till the Drovers Inn and night is closin’ in fast.” He jerked his head toward the dark clouds that drifted lower into the valley.
Catriona winced as she pushed her mare forward. Her legs burned, pain soaring through her limbs. This was torture.
Blast John Henderson! Everything was his fault. She scowled, biting back the tears that welled up and swallowing the bile that rose in her throat at the memory of that evening over a fortnight ago.
“Come on!” Angus pulled the reins from her hand and spurred his mount forward, jerking her mare into a canter. As any protest was futile, she remained silent and willed herself to ignore the pain.
A gust of sleet hit her frozen cheeks, the icy wetness mingling with her tears. She wiped them away with the back of her gloved hand but all it did was spread the dampness even further. A thin layer of white settled on her clothes and horse’s mane. As thick snowflakes began to swirl around them, Catriona pulled her hood further down to cover her face and lowered her head to focus on the path in front of her.
***
By the time they reached the Drovers Inn, the hour was late. MacKinnon threw the horses’ reins to a lad who appeared from within the stables at their approach. Catriona nearly slid off her mare with tiredness, her limbs numb and stiff from the long, cold ride. MacKinnon caught her deftly and carried her inside. She leaned against this strong, old man for a moment, careless of how it might look. He was kind, and it felt good to be looked after. He shouted something to a burly man sitting on a wooden chair near the fire who vacated it quickly, but with a scowl. Then he settled her gently into it.
“Thank you, Mr MacKinnon.” With shaky fingers she peeled off her gloves, ignoring the pain searing through her bones. Never had she ridden a horse for so long.
MacKinnon nodded and scanned the smoke-filled room. “I’ll find the landlord for some food and a room for you, Miss.” He strode past several tables to a door on the far side and went through.
Catriona leaned back, untied the shawl, and breathed in the pungent scent of peat, wood and smoke. Angus came to stand next to her, staring into the flames, not saying a word. As her limbs warmed, Catriona shed her cloak, uncomfortably aware of her plain travel dress. She tilted her head to gaze around.
The place was like most inns they had stayed en route, only larger. Rough wooden benches and tables filled the space
, the floor rushes filthy with the mud from the brogues or bare feet of the travelers. Smoke from the tallow candles in their sconces stained the walls and ceiling, their acrid smell mingling with the scent of burning peat. She shuddered. Hopefully this was the last time they had to make do in such surroundings before they reached her godmother’s house. Surely the manor was comfortable, cozy, and, most importantly, clean.
A group of drovers huddled together at a table by the door through which MacKinnon had disappeared. When several looked her way, she quickly turned her head back toward the fire. From the corner of her eye she saw a green onion bottle containing a dark liquid being handed round, as they refilled their cups. They were talking about her, she guessed, stealing curious—or worse, lustful—glances, but their language was foreign. Many times in the last few days she had heard the Gaelic being spoken. It was very much the language of this wild country. Her mother was a native speaker but her father forbade its use in his house.
The men were discussing her openly, no doubt, knowing full well she’d not understand a word. She watched them through her lashes, not wanting to be too conspicuous. They were dressed in filthy plaids and shirts, several with dirty bare feet she spotted under the benches, unwashed for God only knew how long. Most likely even He with all His knowledge had no idea when they last cleaned themselves. Their smell, close up, must be revolting. She wriggled her nose.
Her gaze scanned the rabble, until it fell on one man who lounged on a chair at the side of the table. Her eyes widened. Completely at ease, tanned calves stretched out from underneath his kilt, he exuded raw masculinity. His leather brogues were muddy but he appeared otherwise cleaner than his companions, and more, dare she think it, sophisticated? She drew in a quick breath.
Intrigued, any thought of detection forgotten, Catriona let her gaze drift over him, taking in his worn kilt and plaid. The light-brown linen shirt gaped open at the neck, revealing a soft sprinkling of hair on bronzed skin; his sleeves rolled up over strong, muscled arms. His bearings put him above the other men in status but his body proved him to be a man of the out-of-doors. To her surprise, his chin was not covered with an unkempt beard—like his companions’ shaggy faces—but only bore a hint of stubble. Here was a man who shaved regularly.
Catriona’s mind whirled as she let her gaze wander further across his ruggedly handsome features. His open face with strong cheekbones and wide-set eyes spoke of power, a forceful character. Dark blond hair, glowing in the light of the tallow candles, was tied back at the nape of his neck. Most certainly he was not a drover. But why was he sharing their whisky? He piqued her curiosity and, in the absence of any other form of entertainment in this bare inn, she found herself fascinated.
When he glanced up from his cup, their eyes met. They held for a moment that stretched like eternity. His, a vibrant green that sparkled across the smoky room, mocked her apparent interest. Caught in the act, she blushed and quickly busied herself adjusting the folds of her dress before extending her hands to the fire, thereby turning her back to the room. How obvious her scrutiny had been! Her cheeks flamed, and not just from the heat of the fire.
She had never stared at a man that way, not even the most handsome of gentlemen who had danced and flirted with her during her first Season. It must be her tiredness. Her blush deepened when loud laughter followed a string of words she was sure that man muttered in a soft low lilt. Oh no, now they were laughing at her.
Angus turned from the fire and glowered at the crowd. He must be aware something untoward happened. Red blotches covered his cheeks. She knew the signs. Her brother had a temper. It tended to flare up quickly.
“Mind your own business,” Angus growled at the men. He looked around. “Where’s that rotten guide?” MacKinnon still had not returned. Shifting from one leg to another, Angus stared again at the men, now talking more loudly. Her brother didn’t need to understand their language—the tone was clear.
Catriona pulled her gaze away from him when one burly drover approached, cup in hand, his features hidden behind a bushy black beard and straggly long hair. The voices subsided, as silence settled across the room. Catriona held her breath. The man said something to her brother in the Gaelic and held his cup out to him. Angus bristled, pushing his shoulders back. It was obvious he was out of his depth in this place.
“Leave us be,” he ordered, his gaze darting to the door through which their guide disappeared. The drover took another step forward and pushed his cup under Angus’ nose. Catriona watched her brother flinch and turn away in disgust. The man glowered and threw his cup with its amber contents into a corner beside the fire before he straightened to full height. She stood and reached for her brother’s arm to placate him.
A deep male voice cut through the silence. “Seamus!” The blond man she had stared at so inappropriately pushed his way past the drovers who all rose, ready to support their insulted companion.
Her eyes widened as the men cleared a path without hesitation.
So the tall Highlander was their leader.
Awe mingled with trepidation. Her breath quickened. He walked to the drover facing Angus and dropped his hand on the man’s shoulder, whispering a few words in their strange tongue. The drover glared at Angus, then nodded and returned to his seat without another word. He picked up the onion bottle and took a large draft before setting it back onto the table with a thud. His companions joined him, their voices muffled. The stranger had averted a fight.
“Apologies for the misunderstanding,” he said in a soft, low Highland drawl, his gaze shifting speculatively between Angus and Catriona. “My friend Seamus here only bid you welcome.”
“Yes, that famous Highland welcome.” Angus snorted. “He threatened me. You make sure he doesn’t come anywhere near me again, or I’ll demand satisfaction.”
A smirk played around the Highlander’s mouth, hidden in an instant. Catriona saw it and stifled a sudden desire to giggle. As if Angus was any match for this man. She gave in to the urge to let her gaze travel the length and breadth of his body. Again. He towered above them by more than a head. She was a tall girl, yet her eyes were only level with his chest where the linen shirt stretched over fine muscles. Her fingers itched to touch the silky hairs that covered the exposed V below his collarbone, to feel the strength of the muscles underneath. She shivered, and firmly linked her hands together, lest they develop a will of their own.
Pull yourself together, lass!
Angus was out of his mind to threaten a man like that. Her gaze finally met the stranger’s, and he bowed to her with a wink, silently acknowledging her scrutiny for a second time.
“Rory Cameron, at your service, Mademoiselle. I hope you can forgive our blunt intrusion.” To her horror, his gaze returned the favor, raking over her body hidden underneath the dowdy, mud-stained gown. Her cheeks burned in embarrassment at her plain and dirty attire. She wished she looked her best for this man. In desperation, her hand flew to her hair, and she tried in vain to push some escaped strands back into the knot at her neck.
His eyes lit up.
Angus grabbed Rory Cameron’s arm. “Don’t accost my sister! She’s a lady, way above you in station.”
Catriona’s eyes widened. Fits of laughter welled up inside her. Suddenly, she was a lady, no longer the harlot who brought shame on the family; the fallen girl banished from home? It was too ridiculous. She burst into laughter.
“Forgive me, Angus.” She covered her mouth with her hand. Her brother’s face contorted with anger, his cheeks and forehead a bright red, a deep furrow between his brows. Now she had enflamed his anger.
“Leave us alone!” Angus demanded of the Highlander.
Rory Cameron grinned, his eyes glinting with wicked humor. Although he could not possibly know the reason for her untimely outburst, he must have guessed all was not as it seemed. He shook off Angus’ arm with ease and, after a final glance at him with a raised brow, returned to his seat where he picked up his cup and toasted her.
“Failte gu’n Gaeltachd, mo chridhe. Welcome to the Highlands, my...lady.” The drovers laughed raucously, raising their cups in mock salute.
Catriona blushed, an entirely new sensation coursing through her body, making her limbs tingle in the most pleasing way. She turned and sat, her hands once again reaching out to the fire. But all she saw in the flames was the emerald sparkle of Rory Cameron’s eyes, an unholy promise mirrored in them. Nonsense, she admonished herself and shook her head. It was all in her imagination.
When a door creaked open, she turned to see their guide stroll over as if he had timed his arrival. Angus took a couple of steps toward him. “Have you found us rooms, MacKinnon?”
MacKinnon nodded. “Aye, sir. Miss Catriona will have her own chamber upstairs but I regret to tell you that you’ll be sharin’ the main sleepin’ chamber with other guests.” His gaze darted to the drovers. Was that a glint she spotted in his eye? Catriona was sure he exchanged a glance with Rory Cameron. How wicked!
Angus simply stared at him. “Are you out of your mind? I demand my own chamber.”
“All full, sir. Even I’ll have to sleep in the stables.” The guide shrugged his shoulders. Catriona watched him closely. He appeared to enjoy this. How much of the fracas had he witnessed?
“I don’t care if you sleep in the pigsty. I want my own chamber.” Angus crossed the room in angry strides and grabbed the guide’s shoulders. All eyes in the room were on him again. To Catriona, it seemed like a well-enacted play. They, including MacKinnon, were winding him up. The thought cheered her immensely. Angus never expected to accompany her all the way to Loch Linnhe. This fate was of his own making. She hid a smile behind her hand, knowing if he spotted it, his temper would soar again.
