My One True Highlander

by Suzanne Enoch

  Artur Maxwell squared his shoulders. “That’s fairly bold talk, Maxton. I dare ye to repeat it in there.” Shifting out of the way, he indicated the depths of the morning room.

  Keeping his own expression neutral and his work gloves clenched in his left hand, Graeme walked into the room. “Yer Grace,” he said, inclining his head.

  As the Duke of Dunncraigh turned from gazing out the front window, Graeme took a swift measure of everyone else in the room. His younger brother Dùghlas sent him a relieved look, which told him the fourteen-year-old at least had the sense to know that the Maxwell’s visit here rarely boded anything but trouble.

  He knew all but one of the other men crowded into the small room. Five of the Maxwell’s bruisers, all related to the duke in one way or another and ready to bloody, shoot, or set fire to anything their master looked at sideways. The other one had the same look about him, and Graeme shifted his attention back to the duke and the stiff-spined other man who stood close by the Maxwell—no doubt ready to wipe Dunncraigh’s arse if asked to do so.

  “Ye took yer time getting here,” the duke stated, his green eyes flat and emotionless beneath a shock of white hair.

  “I was moving a plow and the handle cracked,” Graeme returned, stepping over to tousle his younger brother’s brown mop of hair and shove the lad toward the door. “Ye owe me some arithmetic, as I recall,” he said for good measure. Once his brothers were out of immediate danger, he would deal with what seemed to be a hostile visit—another hostile visit—from his clan chief.

  “Ye’re plowing yer own fields now, are ye, Maxton?” the Maxwell’s arse-wiper drawled. “Do ye milk the cows and cut the peat yerself, as well?”

  Graeme kept his gaze on the steely-eyed duke. “I reckon ye brought Sir Hamish with ye as yer jester, but as we both ken we arenae friends, I’d prefer if ye’d forgo the theatrics and tell me what’s brought ye oot here.”

  Sir Hamish Paulk’s heavy face folded into a scowl. “That’s bold talk fer a chieftain who cannae pay his own tithing, ye damned—”

  “Considering ye just lost the tithes and loyalty of all the tenants of the Duke of Lattimer’s ten thousand acres, I suggest ye nae go aboot insulting yer remaining clansmen, Yer Grace,” Graeme cut in. “Or allowing yer other chieftains to do so.”

  “Sir Hamish doesnae have my patience,” Dunncraigh returned. “I find myself more curious over what else ye think ye ken aboot the goings-on at Lattimer. I’d have thought ye had enough of yer own worries, what with three younger brothers and a large patch of poorly protected land of yer own.” The Maxwell moved closer. “I reckon it’s helpful that ye do know an English duke has taken our ancestral land and turned a good handful of our own against us.”

  That wasn’t all Graeme had heard, but repeating rumors about the Maxwell failing to purchase Lattimer and then resorting to sabotage and threats in an attempt to turn the tenants against their lord—which efforts hadn’t turned out at all well for Dunncraigh—seemed a very poor idea at the moment. “And why is that?” he settled for asking.

  “Because I’m feeling a particular dislike for Gabriel Forrester, the damned Duke of Lattimer, and I’m inclined to feel a particular generosity toward any of my clan who might … discover anything useful against him. Or who might cause Lattimer a measure of consternation. Do ye ken what I’m saying, Graeme?”

  “Aye. And I’ve nae liking fer any Sassenach. But I reckon I’m content to keep to my own affairs.”

  The duke nodded. “Yer land borders his, so I ken ye wish to be neighborly. All I’m saying is that if ye should happen to have or overhear any dealings with Lattimer that someone might be able to turn against him, and if ye tell me of them, ye might find yer herds have increased and that any tithes ye might owe have been forgotten. If someaught unfortunate befell the duke himself, well, I’d nae mourn his loss.”

  He clapped Graeme on the shoulder. Making a supreme effort not to level his clan chief with a punch to the jaw, Graeme took a moment to wonder if anyone serving clan Maxwell under Dunncraigh’s leadership actually liked the man. For him, even beneath the dizzying barrage of faux fatherly advice and barely veiled threats, the duke was to be tolerated, placated when possible, and obeyed when necessary—and otherwise ignored.

  Dunncraigh and his sycophants stomped back out to their coaches and mounts, and he followed them outside to make certain no one lingered. One of the luckier things about owning a rundown manor and a property of a mere thousand acres was that the likes of a duke, especially one who happened to be the head of clan Maxwell, had no wish to remain under his roof for long.

  “Ye’d best do as he asks, Maxton,” Sir Hamish said, watching as the duke settled into the lead coach.

  “So ye’re giving me helpful advice now, are ye, Paulk? I reckon I’ll give that all the consideration it deserves.”

  “If ye sell off any more land ye’ll barely qualify as gentry, Maxton. So take the advice given ye and smile while ye hear it. With but two hundred cotters ye’re already underqualified to be a clan chieftain. Make yerself useful, earn yerself some blunt and some gratitude, or he may decide ye’re of nae use at all.”

  “Do ye recommend I follow yer strategy? Stay so close to Dunncraigh’s arse that he thinks ye a pimple?”

  “Go to the devil, ye useless sack of shite. Ye’re the same as yer father and yer grandfather, stubborn fools. There are consequences fer failing yer betters. With yer brothers to look after, ye’d best remember th—”

  “Hamish,” the duke called. “I’ve nae wish to remain here till Christmas.”

  The other Maxwell chieftain present held Graeme’s gaze, clearly meaning to intimidate. Not bloody likely. Graeme tilted his head, then took a quick half step forward. When Paulk flinched back, he curved his mouth in a smile he didn’t feel. “It’ll take more than yer beady eyes glaring at me to give me a fright,” he murmured. “Now run off, dog. Yer master’s calling ye.”

  “He’s yer master, too. Ye’d best realize that before he decides the wee bit ye contribute isnae worth the aggravation ye cause.” With that, Sir Hamish turned on his heel and stepped up into the coach.

  Graeme stood on his drive of crushed oyster shells and gravel to watch the coaches and riders rumble down the hill and vanish into the scattering of trees and boulders beyond. Once he was certain they were well away, he turned back to the house—to find Dùghlas and Brendan standing in the open doorway, both of them holding rifles. Cowen stood just inside the foyer, armed with an old claymore the butler had likely pulled off the wall in the drawing room.

  “Do ye mean to murder yer own clan chief then, lads?” he asked, proud that they’d had the presence of mind to arm themselves, and alarmed at what would have happened if a battle had erupted in his morning room.

  “They threatened ye, Graeme,” Dùghlas said, blowing out his breath as he lowered the weapon to point at the floor. “I nearly pissed myself when Cowen showed ’em into the hoose.”

  “Why would the Maxwell think ye’d want anything at all to do with the Sassenach Lattimer?” Brendan took up. “Mayhap we should go shoot the grand Gabriel Forrester so Dunncraigh will leave us be.” He hefted his rifle.

  Eyeing the sixteen-year-old, Graeme frowned. “I’ll agree we could use both the money and gratitude that being Dunncraigh’s lapdog would give us, but the Duke of Lattimer’s nae done a damned thing to me. So ye mark me well, Brendan; nae a soul here is to harm Lattimer or those under his protection. Do both of ye brutes ken what I’m telling ye?”

  “Aye.”

  “Aye, Graeme.”

  “Good. Dùghlas, go fetch Connell. He’s doon by the ditch with Dunham past the south field.”

  Handing his rifle over to Cowen, Dùghlas trotted across the drive toward the near field. Brendan, though, stepped forward and spat onto the gravel. “After losing a thousand Maxwells to that Sassenach, Dunncraigh should be more grateful to ye and yers. Ye should have told him that, Graeme.”

  “I’ll agree that a Maxton h
as been a clan Maxwell chieftain fer better than two hundred years, if ye’ll agree that our da and I’ve nae spent much of that time bowing to Dunncraigh. I reckon we’d fare better if I bowed more, but I’m nae murdering anyone in exchange fer a pat on the head.”

  The brother nearest him in age continued to look angry and defiant, as offended and righteous as any well-protected and stubborn sixteen-year-old could be. Graeme put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. The lads had been much easier to manage when they were bairns, and the eleven years that separated him from Brendan had seemed much wider. Just a few years ago he could tell them the way things were and they didn’t question a damned word of it.

  “Tempers are boiling now,” he continued, “what with Lattimer getting his gamekeeper to swear that he was taking blunt from Dunncraigh in exchange fer causing trouble. The Maxwell’s embarrassed, I reckon. And he wants blood. But winter’s nearly here, and everything’ll quiet doon. By spring we’ll be talking aboot calves and lambs and all this will be forgotten. So be patient. Dunncraigh willnae be sending us posies, but he’ll likely go back to ignoring us again—which is damned fine enough fer me.”

  Finally Brendan nodded, his fingers easing their grip on the old rifle. “I ken, Graeme. Ye want us to stay quiet, like wee church mice, even though we havenae done a damned thing wrong.”

  Graeme knew some who could debate the last part of that statement, but now wasn’t the time for that discussion. “Aye. And now ye can come help me fix that plow and drag it back to Widow Peele’s before the snow and wet rot the rest of it.”

  “Dunnae we have men to do that?” Brendan returned, abruptly sounding like a young lad again.

  “Aye, we do. And today their names are Graeme and Brendan.”

  When Connell trotted back up with Dùghlas, the eight-year-old needed more reassurance that they weren’t about to be murdered. The animosity between the Maxtons and Dunncraigh had begun well before he’d inherited his father’s role as chieftain, but he could take steps to mend the break if he felt so inclined. His brothers shouldn’t have to be frightened of their own kin and clan. Causing trouble for a neighbor, though, English or not, didn’t sit well. Lattimer had brought some changes to the Highlands, but none of them had harmed him or his. If not for Dunncraigh’s public condemnation of the man, Graeme would have been tempted to go make his acquaintance. They were neighbors, after all, even if their homes lay six hours’ distant from each other.

  Once he’d sent the younger lads back into the house and Brendan on his way to the field, Graeme gestured at Cowen. “Send fer Boisil Fox and his brothers,” he muttered, moving closer to the butler. “I want an extra watch on the hoose tonight.”

  The butler nodded, his gaze moving toward the treeline. “Ye reckon we’re in fer it, Laird Maxton?”

  “Nae. I dunnae want Brendan sneaking off to go shoot the Duke of Lattimer.”

  The older man’s expression eased. “Yer bràthair’s a good lad, if a mite hotheaded.”

  “He’s a mite hotheaded the way the Highlands are a bit nippy in January. We’ll be back by sunset.”

  “I’ll keep an eye oot until then, m’laird.”

  Hopefully keeping his brothers close by until their tempers cooled would see them past the worst of this. The Maxwell’s rare visits had never yet boded well for the Maxtons, and this time was no damned exception. As Graeme made his way back through a deepening drizzle to the widow’s old plow, he spared a moment to wish that he could stop being civil to a man he disliked on principle, and stop worrying over three younger brothers, a half-dozen servants, and roughly two hundred cotters currently residing on his land.

  With that kind of freedom, the only question would be who he went after first—Lattimer, for simply being there and being English; or Dunncraigh for fifty years of bitter vitriole. But that was also a question for a man who lived a different life—and one with far less responsibility than he had.

  * * *

  Lady Marjorie Forrester took the coachman’s outstretched hand as she stepped down to the muddy ground. She’d worn her most practical walking shoes, but they immediately disappeared beneath thick, sticky brown halfway up her toes.

  “For heaven’s sake,” Mrs. Giswell exclaimed from the coach doorway, “someone—you, sir!—move those planks over here before we drown in the mud!”

  “I’m nearly to the inn, now,” Marjorie returned, nevertheless favoring the large bearded man with a smile as he slogged over with an armful of planks and began laying them between the vehicle and the coaching inn. “Thank you for your assistance, sir.”

  “With that woman screeching at me, I was scared she’d put a curse on me if I didnae do as she said,” he returned in a thick, drawling brogue, grinning back at her.

  Once the planks covered the mud, Mrs. Giswell stepped down gingerly to follow Marjorie. “A lady does not screech, sir,” she stated in her coolest tones. “A lady merely speaks up when an expected and needed chivalry is not offered.”

  “Och, a chivalry,” the large man took up, tugging on his thick brown beard. “Ye hear that, lads? I’m a bloody knight!”

  The half-dozen men scattered about the small courtyard laughed. “Aye! Sir Robert the Blacksmith, ye are,” one of them called out.

  “Aye, and the lot of ye bow when ye see me from now on.”

  The conversation amused her, and Marjorie smiled, starting a little when Mrs. Giswell put a hand on her arm. “A lady is not amused by brutes and their foul language,” she said. “Now let’s get you inside before you catch your death, my lady.”

  The wind did have a definite bite, but she wasn’t yet chilled enough to feel more than a sense of exhilaration. The accents in the Lowlands had been charming as the coach drove north, but now just from the thick brogues surrounding her she knew they’d reached the Highlands. For heaven’s sake, they might even be on Gabriel’s land; Lattimer Castle’s property consisted of ten thousand acres—or so her brother’s solicitors had informed her.

  Taking a breath, she pushed open the inn’s faded green door and stepped inside. According to the sign hanging outside this was the Cracked Hearth, but at first glance the old stone fireplace seemed to be perfectly intact. The place had a low ceiling braced with massive wood beams, leaving Marjorie with the sensation that she was too tall for the room—despite the fact that she was far shorter than some of the very large men inside.

  And it wasn’t just men having luncheon or escaping the rain at the Cracked Hearth; a dozen women and a handful of children sat at the tables or played in the corner, as well. The sight of families left her feeling easier about being in the cavernlike setting, but it also made her very conscious of how … out of place she looked there.

  She’d chosen her London-made green and cream walking gown because the color of it had enchanted her, and the heavy Parisian shawl of green braided wool because it was warm and French-made when such things were almost impossible to get. Six months ago she wouldn’t have been able to afford either of them, or her walking shoes, and perhaps they weren’t exactly plain even by London standards. The novelty of being able to purchase whatever she wanted still hadn’t quite faded. Now, though, picking her way through the luncheon crowd to find an empty table at the Cracked Hearth, she wished she’d been a bit more discerning.

  “You should be accustomed to being noticed,” Mrs. Giswell whispered from behind her. “A lady doesn’t acknowledge stares.”

  “I’m frequently noticed,” she returned in the same tone. “In London it’s followed by people turning their backs on me. Here they keep looking.”

  “And they will continue to do so, no doubt. They don’t seem to be any better mannered than those men outside who laughed while we waded through the mud.”

  That seemed severe. Dwelling on ignorance versus rudeness, though, would keep her from listening to the very boisterous banter going on all about the large, low room. Doing her best not to return their attention or smile at the young boy with the red hair and pretty gray eyes sitting
with a group of boys three tables away, she sat and stretched her fingers out to the candle there to warm them. “I’ll be perfectly satisfied with hot tea and a warm meal,” she returned.

  Mrs. Giswell gathered her dark brown skirt and took a seat on the opposite bench. “You might have taken a private room, my lady. A duke’s sister should not be dining with commoners.” She leaned closer. “And while I commend you for traveling with your own driver and coachman, I still believe you should also have employed at least two outriders and someone to travel a day ahead of us to arrange for proper accommodations and announce your coming.”

  “That’s a bit grandiose, don’t you think?” Marjorie returned. After five days of being confined in a coach with her paid companion, the endless litany of what a lady should and shouldn’t do had lost much of the limited appeal it had once had. That didn’t make it less necessary, but it had definitely become less interesting. “I did attend finishing school, you know. I have some expertise in etiquette and propriety.”

  “Yes, but that was when you were preparing for employment as a governess or a companion. Not the sister of a duke. You hired me to assist you with settling into the aristocracy. If I may be so bold, I daresay I’ve spend more time amid the beau monde than you have, Lady Marjorie. And wherever you travel, you must always keep in mind that you are the Duke of Lattimer’s sister.”

  “I do thank you for your boundless wisdom, Mrs. Giswell.” Boundless and endless, but she had hired the woman for precisely that reason.

  And Mrs. Giswell made a very good point. Because while she had excelled at both boarding school and finishing school, she’d had a very keen insight about the restrictions her birth and income placed on her future. If not for the death of a great-great-uncle to whom she hadn’t even known she was related, the education she’d received would have been completely adequate.

  When a soft-faced young man approached the table, Mrs. Giswell placed a request for tea and two servings of roasted veal—evidently the proper meal for a midday rest and a change of horses—so that she wouldn’t have to converse with any commoners, herself. Marjorie settled for giving him a smile, which for once earned her a friendly nod.