My One True Highlander

by Suzanne Enoch

  Whatever Mrs. Giswell thought was proper, Marjorie didn’t want someone riding ahead to prepare the way, both because it seemed even more frivolous than her wardrobe, and because for once she meant to surprise her brother. That was the true reason for her hurry—because she wanted to arrive before the final preparations were made for his wedding. The rush and her decision to forgo outriders had nothing to do with this being her first and only excuse to flee the emptying streets of London before she was the only soul left in Mayfair. Nor was it because she’d felt like she’d been alone from the moment she’d taken up residence at Leeds House. Before that even, but she’d expected it, then.

  “Have you considered yet who you might have sponsor you in the spring so you may have your Season? That would see you introduced to the best families, and would diminish any reason they might have to slight you.” Mrs. Giswell cut her veal into delicate portions, every motion proper and feminine and precise. “I have several suggestions, though any of them will likely require a generous gift on your part.”

  Marjorie took a moment to properly dissect her meal, as well. “So I must purchase this female’s friendship.” Not for the first time, she wondered if fitting in with the aristocracy was worth the effort. As a girl she’d dreamed of being a great lady, of men who tipped their hats and bowed at the very sight of her. Abruptly she was that lady, only to discover now that the deference of others could evidently be purchased.

  “You purchase their cooperation and assistance,” Marjorie’s companion corrected. “In time you might find acceptance and even friendship, but only the first is necessary to your success.” She took another dainty bite, chewed, and swallowed. “As you already know, being an aristocrat is an expensive proposition. And not every title comes with as much wealth as your brother’s. The offer of a new carriage, say, to an appropriate, established household, should secure you a marchioness or a viscountess with good connections.”

  Bile rose in her throat, and she drank down half a cup of weak tea to drive it back down again. “Let us discuss something more pleasant, Mrs. Giswell. We can develop our strategy for acceptance when we return to London.”

  After that she had to listen to a twenty-minute discussion of the general unpleasantness of Scottish weather. Finally she couldn’t stand it any longer, and rose. “I’m going to stretch my legs before we return to the coach.”

  Mrs. Giswell started to her feet, as well. “Of course.”

  “You stay here. I’ll remain in the courtyard, well in sight of Stevens and Wolstanton,” she said, naming her coachman and driver.

  “My lady, that is not—”

  “Please, Mrs. Giswell. Give me a moment to breathe.”

  The older woman snapped her mouth closed and sat again. “Of course, my lady. I did not mean to offend.”

  “You didn’t off—Oh, for heaven’s sake. I’ll be back in ten minutes.” And she would apologize when she returned, because as frustrating as Mrs. Giswell was, Marjorie knew blasted well that she needed the woman.

  She would have preferred not to have to carry the image of her companion’s hurt expression with her as she traipsed through the mud. Every time Mrs. Giswell opened her mouth, her own circumstances seemed more … hopeless. Even if she succeeded in winning over the aristocracy, even if they all accepted her and invited her to every soiree and luncheon, she would know she’d only arrived there because of carefully placed gifts and a large quantity of money. The magic of the song vanished once she joined the chorus, apparently. But still, to hold grand parties and chat with well-spoken, well-educated folk about important topics … It could still happen. If she was patient, and generous to the correct people.

  The light drizzle, the cold pricks of water soaking through her shawl and onto her skin, actually felt refreshing. She nodded to her coachman and driver, seated on boxes beneath an overhang and eating something that steamed in the chilly air.

  Five or six more hours, tomorrow morning at the latest if they decided to stop for the night, and they would be at Lattimer. It wouldn’t be just her and the constantly Society-minded Mrs. Giswell. Perhaps her brother or his betrothed would even have an alternate plan to her purchasing a carriage for some woman who otherwise couldn’t be bothered to look in her direction.

  A face appeared around the corner of the building. The young boy with the pretty gray eyes smiled at her. Marjorie grinned back. “Good afternoon, sir.”

  His nose wrinkled. “I’m nae a sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m eight, I reckon.” He beckoned to her and backed around the corner again.

  “I’m not following you, sir,” she called, pulling her shawl closer around her shoulders. “It’s raining.” If not for the prospect of six more hours in Mrs. Giswell’s company she would have returned to the inn already. Perhaps she should, anyway; the last thing she wanted was to be bedridden at Lattimer once she finally arrived there.

  The boy appeared again, a very young black and white kitten cradled in his hands. “I only wanted to show ye the kittens in the haystack,” he said, his Highlands brogue rendered even more charming by his youth. “I reckon I’ll keep this one, name him Bruce.”

  “Oh, he’s too young to leave his mama, don’t you think?” she returned, walking up to gently scratch the adorable little thing between the ears.

  “If I wait, someone else’ll take him. Or the foxes will. And they’ll get the other wee ones, too.”

  “Perhaps you could find a box and take all of them and the mother home with you.”

  He wrinkled his nose again, clearly considering. “I reckon I can do that, if ye’ll help me collect ’em. I counted seven bairns, plus the mama.”

  She hesitated, perfectly aware that duke’s sisters did not climb into haystacks after cats. Especially not when they wore gowns that cost more than six months of her old salary.

  The boy tilted his head, red hair falling across one eye. “Are ye scared of me, miss? Everyone says the English are cowards, but I didnae ken ye were afraid of kittens. Of course I’ve only met one English before, but he wasnae a lass. He’s a peddler who comes by to sell pots and pans and he’s English, but he says he’s nae been to London so I dunnae know if I believe him.”

  Stifling a grin, Marjorie sighed. “No, I’m not scared of you, sir. My name is Marjorie. What’s yours?”

  “Connell.”

  “Let’s go rescue your kittens, shall we, Connell?”

  He smiled widely. “Aye.”

  Hiking her skirts, she stepped into the unkempt grass behind the stable. A half-collapsed pile of wet hay leaned against the back of the building, kept mostly out of the rain by the deep eaves. In the eyes of a female cat it was probably the perfect place to have a litter.

  “I’ll get the mama and three kittens,” she said, crouching where he indicated and leaning down to spy an unhappy-looking tabby. “Can you carry four kit—”

  Something pulled fast and hard over her head from behind. She lost her balance, flailing backward. Hands far stronger than the boy’s would have been grabbed onto her wrists and bound them together in front of her. Shaking herself out of her shock, Marjorie took a deep breath to scream.

  “Make a sound, and it’ll be the last one ye make,” another voice growled. “Ye ken, Sassenach?”

  Since he’d just ordered her not to talk, she settled for nodding beneath the heavy material covering her head and shoulders. Fear stiffened her muscles, making her feel heavy and uncoordinated as she worked to sit upright.

  “Good. On yer feet, then. Try to make a run fer it, and I’ll shoot ye in the leg and ye’ll still be coming with us.”

  “If ye make the lass faint we’ll have to carry her, so shut up,” another voice muttered.

  Including the devious little boy there were at least three of them, then. Hands grabbed her beneath the arms and yanked her to her feet. The tall, wet grass tangled around her feet and the hem of her gown, but they continued hurrying her along. The already faint sounds of the cou
rtyard faded, but she had no sense of which direction they were heading.

  Her heart pounded so loudly she thought it might burst from her chest. If she could manage to pull the covering off her head she might at least have a chance to escape, but to where? For all she knew, everyone at the Cracked Hearth worked together to kidnap travelers. For ransom, she supposed—and hoped. If this was for money, then she had a chance to survive it.

  She swallowed, her throat so tight she almost choked. If this wasn’t about money, if she’d been grabbed because she was English, or because they regularly grabbed and murdered strangers … Oh, good heavens. Marjorie stumbled.

  “Keep her on her feet,” the voice on the left ordered, pulling her upright again. “We’re nearly to the wagon.”

  “I’m trying,” the voice on her right returned. “Ye’d best be certain she is who ye think she is, or we’re all in fer it.”

  “I heard it plain. She’s the Duke of Lattimer’s sister.”

  They sounded young, or younger than she was, anyway. The two who held on to her were at least her height, though, and she doubted she could wrestle free of one, much less two or more.

  “Her name’s Marjorie. That’s what she told me,” the boy Connell said from a few steps behind her.

  “And ye told her yer name, duckling.”

  “She asked me,” he protested. “Ye didnae say I should lie, Brendan.”

  “Saint Andrew’s arse. Stop talking, bairn.”

  “Dunnae yell at me. I did what ye said.”

  “I’m … I’m nae yelling. Go hold the horses while we load her in.”

  She bumped into something wooden at the level of her thighs and nearly fell over again. It felt safer to simply do as they said, but Mrs. Giswell and Stevens and Wolstanton were somewhere behind her. The wagon would not be taking her anywhere she wanted to go. Oh, the lectures she would be getting from Mrs. Giswell after this. And she would deserve them.

  That thought actually steadied her a little. Squaring her shoulders, she dug the toes of her walking shoes into the soft ground and locked her knees. “It’s time for you to let me go,” she said in her calmest voice. “We’ll call this a jest, and I’ll be on my way with no one the wiser.”

  “Ye’re nae to talk,” the left voice, Brendan, countered. “Step up.”

  “No. You’ll have to shoot me. Which will make a great deal of noise, I’d like to point out.”

  What sounded like Gaelic profanity followed. Then came another few words she didn’t understand, and one of them seized her shoulders. The other one lifted the sack half off her head and then pulled a strip of cloth tight around her mouth and knotted it.

  Marjorie kicked out, but someone grabbed her foot. Pulled off balance, she half fell onto what she assumed was the back of the wagon. Fear stabbed through her again. She squirmed, punching out with her joined hands and connecting with something solid.

  “Hold ’er still, fer Lucifer’s sake,” Brendan hissed, falling across both her legs.

  “She hit me in the damned eye,” the other one grunted.

  “We’ll tie her arms doon, then. After I get her legs. I told ye we’d need all this rope.”

  No class in boarding school or finishing school had ever dealt with how to avoid or fight against a kidnapping. And wrestling and fighting were so completely unacceptable they weren’t even mentioned. Several headmistresses would be receiving a sternly worded letter if she survived this. When she survived this, she hurriedly corrected. Yes, she seemed to be thinking very frivolous thoughts, but school, the order and … safety of it, felt very comforting right now. And anything that helped keep her calm could be useful.

  “There,” the one named Brendan said, his weight finally leaving her legs. “Ye’d best settle yerself, Lady Marjorie Forrester, because ye’ve got a bit of traveling to do. Ye can blame yer Sassenach bastard of a brother fer it, but ye’re going to help make things right. Fer all of us.”

  Chapter Two

  “With the wagon?” Graeme Maxton asked, handing his wet coat over to the butler and shaking rainwater out of his too long hair. With the money troubles he had, a visit to the barber seemed like a luxury, but if he didn’t hack some of the mess off soon, he wouldn’t be able to see.

  “Aye,” Cowen returned. “Aboot an hour ago Connell and Dùghlas came galloping up, fetched Brendan, and the three of ’em headed oot in the wagon together.”

  “Well, it’s the wrong time of year fer kits and goslings or whatever other baby animal Connell likes to rescue, so hopefully Dùghlas shot a buck and we’ll have venison fer dinner.”

  “It makes my mouth water just thinking aboot it. How did ye find Hugh Howard, then?”

  “His spine’s still a bit stiff, but his boy Gordon and I mended the roof. I doubt Hugh’ll wish to be climbing ladders fer a time even after he’s able again.” He headed down the hallway to his small, cluttered office. “Let me know when the lads return. I reckon we’ll have snow on the ground by nightfall, and I dunnae want Connell catching a raw throat again.”

  “If I dunnae see ’em within the hour, I’ll send Johnny oot to fetch ’em back,” Cowen returned, naming the head groom. “And I put yer correspondence on yer desk, as ye asked.”

  Graeme nodded. More mail meant more bills, but neither of them cared to say that word aloud. If debt was something he could stab or bludgeon or pound senseless, they would all be in a much sounder state. Debt, though, had as much strength as he did, and a much larger share of patience.

  As he topped the stairs a small gray cat jumped up to perch on the bannister and gaze at him with yellow eyes. Absently he reached over to scratch it beneath the chin, and its purr rumbled against his fingers. He needed to curb Connell’s penchant for rescuing wee animals soon, but he kept putting it off. Breaking his youngest brother’s heart could damned well wait if it gave the eight-year-old time to outgrow his obsession.

  He walked into the office, stepping over yet another cat, this one an orange tabby, as he did so. Between the five cats of which he knew, the two pet foxes, and the gander that lived in the stable, the humans who lived in his house were outnumbered as it was. And that didn’t count the trio of orphaned rabbits he knew Connell currently had hidden in his bedchamber.

  When he looked up again he’d managed to find the funds to pay the drovers who’d taken the sheep to market, and the thirteen pounds he needed in order to purchase a new plow horse. The outcome surprised him; perhaps luck had finally begun to swing back in their favor.

  “Graeme,” Brendan exclaimed, out of breath as he skidded into the room.

  Alarm rumbled through him. “What happened?” he asked, shoving to his feet. “Where are yer brothers?”

  The sixteen-year-old frowned. “Naught’s happened. Ye always think I’ve caused ye trouble. Well, this time I havenae. I’ve found a way to save the lot of us.” His dark gray eyes narrowed. “I’m nae a wee bairn any longer, Graeme. I’m a man grown, and I can help ye.” He backed up and gestured out the door. “I have helped ye. Come and see. But promise me ye’ll nae say a word until ye’ve heard me oot.”

  That all sounded dubious, but if it meant Brendan had finally begun to shoulder some responsibility instead of going about starting fights, Graeme remained willing to give him a chance. And if he could close both eyes tonight for the first time in a week without worrying about the Duke of Lattimer’s continued health, so much the better.

  “Lead the way, then,” he said, and followed his brother up the long ground-floor hallway to the small sitting room at the back of the house where Connell’s young foxes spent most of their time.

  Dùghlas and Connell waited in the hallway, and the unsettled sensation in his gut deepened. “What happened to yer eye?” he asked his second-youngest brother.

  With a glance at Brendan, Dùghlas jerked his thumb toward the door.

  “There’d best nae be a deer or a wildcat in there.” Graeme reached for the door handle.

  Before he could push it open, Brendan step
ped in front of him. “Ye said ye’d listen, first. Ye gave yer word.”

  “Then get on with it. I’ve little enough patience to begin with.”

  Brendan nodded. He took a deep breath, the motion reminding Graeme that the lad only lacked four or five inches on him. If the sixteen-year-old couldn’t manage to put reins on his temper fairly soon, they’d all be in for it.

  “Dùghlas and I both heard what the Maxwell said to ye last week,” his brother began, putting up a hand when Graeme would have interrupted to remind him that this was none of their damned business. “I ken ye think it’s nae fer us to trouble aboot, but if the Maxwell decides ye shouldnae be here, that damned well affects us, too. And ye also said I wasnae to murder the Duke of Lattimer, so I havenae.”

  “Well, thank Christ fer that.”

  “Graeme, ye’re to let me finish.”

  “He practiced,” Connell put in. “We had to listen to him muttering all the way home.”

  “Shut yer gobber, duckling, before I ferget what I’m saying.” Brendan took another breath. “Whatever pride ye have, we need to earn Dunncraigh’s gratitude. That would mean safety and blunt fer all of us. And I—we—found a way to earn it.”

  “Which way?” Graeme asked slowly, a heartbeat away from shoving through the door, his brother’s pride be damned.

  Brendan beat him to it and opened the door a crack. Graeme leaned in to look—and his heart stopped altogether.

  They’d dragged a chair into the middle of the room. On it, sat a lass. Or he assumed the figure to be a lass, anyway; a heavy sack covered her head down to the shoulders, and a wet and muddy gown of some shade of green clung to a slender figure bound around the ankles, knees, waist, wrists, and forearms. Very quietly he pulled the door shut again.

  “Who—who the devil is that?” he growled, grabbing Brendan by the collar and pushing him back against the opposite wall.