My One True Highlander

by Suzanne Enoch

  A tear ran down her face as he took her left hand in his. Her long, graceful fingers shook a little. He noted everything; the fading sunlight out the window, the tear in the gown that revealed a scraped knee, the distant sound of a rooster crowing.

  “I’d stay with you even without this,” she finally whispered. “I’ve been alone for most of my life. Almost from the moment I arrived here with a sack over my head and foxes nibbling at my toes, I’ve felt like I’ve been part of something. Part of this warm, chaotic family. And I haven’t felt alone.” Another tear trailed after the first. “I love you, Graeme. Yes, I’ll marry you. Yes, yes, yes.”

  Abruptly his hands weren’t quite steady, either. He slipped the sapphire ring over her finger, then pulled her down across his knee to fold her into his arms and kiss her until they were both out of breath. “I love ye, mo boireann leòmhann,” he murmured against her mouth.

  “They’re kissing,” Connell yelled from the doorway, angling his voice down the hall.

  Then he strolled into the room. The lad had donned his Maxwell plaid; Graeme wondered briefly if this was the last time any of them would be doing so as part of the clan. “What do ye want, duckling?” he asked, helping Marjorie to her feet and then standing, himself.

  “Ye cannae be kissing when damned—I mean blasted—Dunncraigh could attack any minute. I need to know what ye plan to do.”

  “I doubt Dunncraigh will be that swift, Connell. I’ll put oot word fer a meeting here first thing in the morning and tell our tenants what’s afoot. I’ll give ’em the choice to pledge to Dunncraigh, or to stand with us.” He reached out and took Marjorie’s hand. “We may have to throw some blunt aboot to prove we have blunt to throw aboot.”

  She nodded. “I’ve never met this Dunncraigh, but I’m happy to do anything possible to annoy him.”

  “Oh, Graeme’s sterling at annoying the Maxwell,” Connell assured her.

  “Good. Let’s get started, then.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “You’re purchasing sheep?” Mrs. Giswell said, both eyebrows lifting.

  “I am,” Marjorie returned, as she helped Cowen and Ross clear the large table of plates and knives and the remains of what had been one very large roasted pig. Highlanders apparently liked to eat while deciding whether to betray their clan chief or their local, much-loved clan chieftain. And the consensus of deciding to wait and see who ended up alive was not very reassuring.

  “And where do you intend to graze them? In the Leeds House garden among the roses?”

  “Mrs. Giswell, are you being sarcastic?” Marjorie prodded. After the tension of the morning and the disappointment over how few of Graeme’s cotters had been willing to stand with him regardless of consequences, it was actually something of a relief to fall back on old familiar things like manners and etiquette.

  The lady’s companion took hold of Marjorie’s left hand, her gaze riveted on the lovely sapphires. “You mean to stay here, don’t you? After these barbarian boys kidnapped you and brought you here against your will? After he tried to force you to marry him? What about our plans to find you a place in Society?”

  “There is no place for me in Society.”

  “You can’t know th—”

  “I can,” she countered. “And you know it, as well. If I returned to London I would continue to be a resented pariah until I gave in to loneliness and married some fortune hunter, at which point I would be pitied and whispered about behind my back.” Taking Hortensia’s arm, she pulled the older woman to the tall ballroom windows. “Look out there. What do you see?”

  “I’ll tell you what I don’t see. Almack’s, Drury Lane Theater, stately houses, Hyde Park, or Bond Street.”

  Marjorie grinned. “Exactly. Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “And what about your years of studying at boarding school?”

  A warm hand slid around her waist. “She can try to tame the local heathens,” Graeme suggested, kissing her on the temple. “She’s already reduced the profanity in the hoose by a good sixty-four percent, I reckon.”

  “But he’s a fortune hunter,” Mrs. Giswell insisted. “He told you he was. And now, before you’re even wed, he has you purchasing sheep. How is that different than what you’d have in London, except for the superior shopping?”

  Graeme opened his mouth to retort, but subsided when Marjorie put a hand over his lips. “Because before the boys dragged me onto his doorstep, he wasn’t hunting a fortune. And because yesterday he tried to convince me to leave to keep me safe. And because I love him.”

  “Humph. What am I to do, then? Return to London alone, I suppose. I’ll never work again, though, once any potential employer hears first about Princess Sophia and then about how my latest charge, an heiress, married a destitute viscount in the middle of Scotland.”

  Guilt touched Marjorie. Poor Hortensia certainly couldn’t be blamed for any of this. And the lady’s companion had had such abysmal luck with employers. “I can certainly continue to employ you, Mrs. Giswell.”

  “There are lasses here who could benefit from yer expertise,” Graeme added.

  “Oh, pish. None of them could afford my expertise.”

  Marjorie smiled. “Isn’t there space for a small schoolhouse in Sheiling?”

  His fingers momentarily squeezed against her waist. “Aye. Doon beside the blacksmith’s. If Ree agrees, we could build ye a ballroom fer yer dance lessons, a dining room fer cutlery practice, and a—”

  “An academy,” Mrs. Giswell interrupted, her color high and her eyes shining. “I’ve always dreamed, but with my reputation…”

  “We’re heathens here, Mrs. Giswell. We dunnae care aboot yer reputation.”

  “Oh, goodn—”

  A rifle shot rang out, echoing across the valley.

  Graeme’s hand left her waist. “Visitors,” he said, his expression going deadly serious. “They moved faster than I expected. Ye lasses and Connell head upstairs, lock the door behind ye, and stay away from the windows.” He met her gaze, his eyes narrowing. “At least dunnae be seen looking oot,” he amended, apparently reading her mind. He pulled a pistol from his pocket. “Be careful. It’s loaded and primed.”

  He started for the hallway, but she grabbed his lapel and tugged. She might as well have tried to stop a volcano erupting, but he turned to face her again. “You be careful,” she whispered, and lifted on her toes to kiss him.

  “I will,” he said with a swift grin. “I’ve a lioness to come home to.”

  “Good heavens, everyone’s becoming a heathen,” Hortensia noted faintly, but she patted Graeme’s sleeve as he swiftly passed her. “Come along, Lady Marjorie. Let’s get you upstairs.”

  Hefting the heavy pistol awkwardly, because no boarding school instructor anywhere had ever including shooting lessons as part of the curriculum, Marjorie left the modest ballroom and headed for the stairs, Hortensia on her heels. They met the boys in the hallway, Brendan and Dùghlas both carrying rifles and looking as grim as she’d ever seen them. The older boys nodded at her, and Brendan nudged Connell at her as they continued toward the front door.

  She would much rather have kept all three of them locked away with her, but she also knew by now that the older two boys had been hunting for years and were far better with a weapon than she was. She also knew they would be hurt and insulted if she even suggested they remain inside.

  “Come along, Connell,” she said instead, taking his hand and ascending the staircase beside him.

  “I’d go with the lads,” the eight-year-old said tightly, “but Graeme ordered me to look after ye. And he said ye dunnae ken how to reload a pistol, and I do.”

  “Excellent. You shall be my strong right hand.”

  “I cannae always remember my right and my left, but I’ll do what I can,” he returned.

  She could swear Mrs. Giswell muttered something about heathens behind them, but she ignored it as they reached Connell’s room at the front of the house. From here they would have the best vie
w of the road and the drive, from where she assumed any trouble would be coming. “Close your curtains but for two inches,” she instructed, shutting the door and locking it. “We’ll be able to peek out without having to move them.”

  “That’s brilliant,” Connell said, doing as she suggested. “I dunnae see anything yet, but I’ll keep watch.”

  “Let me know the moment you spy anything.” Marjorie sat on the edge of a chair, while Mrs. Giswell made clucking sounds and began straightening the boy’s unkempt bed.

  “Aye. I see Graeme and the lads rolling the wagon in front of the door and pushing it on its side so they can stand behind it, and the Fox lads on the stable roof and moving into the trees, but naught else.”

  She nodded, even though he wouldn’t be able to see the gesture. Cowen, Ross, and Taog the underfootman, along with sturdy Mrs. Woring the cook, would be lurking behind the front-facing windows downstairs, all of them armed, while Johnny waited in the stable with a very large blunderbuss.

  Despite his earlier concerns Connell now seemed to regard this all as a great adventure. For his sake she kept a calm face, as well. Inside, though, she couldn’t stop the tumbling of her mind—the thoughts that said because she’d found someone she now had someone to lose, the worry that she’d somehow caused all this despite Graeme’s assurances that the trouble had been simmering for years.

  “I see horses,” Connell said into the silence, making her jump.

  “Whose horses? Can you tell?” Was it Paulk, or the Duke of Dunncraigh himself? Her heart caught in her throat, threatening to suffocate her.

  “Nae … Wait. Maxwell plaid, coats … I cannae tell. But the horse in front is a big bay charger … Och, he’s grand! And the rider … It’s nae Sir Hamish, because he cannae ride like that.”

  “The Duke of Dunncraigh?” she suggested, setting the pistol on the side table and then picking it up again. She hated a man she’d never met. Judging by the actions of his men, he wasn’t anyone she ever wanted to meet. And at the same time, she very much wanted to punch him in the face.

  “Nae,” Connell answered after a too long moment. “The Maxwell has gray hair. This one’s got black hair. And he’s nae wearing a tartan.”

  At the same time Marjorie heard a piercing whistle. A whistle she recognized. Good heavens.

  “They’ve stopped,” the duckling reported, even as Marjorie shot to her feet.

  Rushing forward, hardly daring to breathe, she pulled aside the curtains. What looked like better than thirty men on horseback stood at the foot of the wide drive. At their head a bay warhorse stood still as a statue. And on his back, a tall man with orderly black hair, sharp gray eyes, and a long scar running down his left cheek. For a long moment she simply stared, not believing her own eyes.

  “Hey,” Connell protested, “ye arenae supposed to move the curtains!”

  “My lady?” came Mrs. Giswell’s anxious voice. “Do you know him?”

  “I do,” Marjorie said, scrambling to unlock the door. Graeme had no idea he was facing quite possibly the most dangerous man in Britain—Gabriel Forrester. The Duke of Lattimer. Her brother.

  * * *

  “Ye’re close enough, I reckon,” Graeme called, resting the barrel of his rifle across the top plank of the wagon. It wasn’t a direct threat, but he’d made it clear he was armed and ready to defend the house and the lass inside it. “Whose dog are ye?”

  The sharp-eyed man in front cocked his head, clearly taking in the Lion’s Den’s fairly meager defenses. Meager until the shooting started, anyway. “I’m here for Marjorie Forrester,” he said, his accent unmistakably English. “Give her to me, and then we can discuss who the dogs here are.”

  Had Dunncraigh hired mercenaries, then? It was possible; even likely. Some former English soldier, from the looks of him, paid to burn out cotters and kill disobliging Highlanders. “I dunnae think I’ll be giving ye anything but a lead ball between the eyes, if ye dunnae turn around now and ride back where ye came from.”

  The Sassenach didn’t blink. “The only reason you’re not dead already is because I am under the impression that you’re not friends with Hamish Paulk. Give me my sister, Maxton, or I will revise my opinion.”

  Sister. Before Graeme had time to grasp anything beyond the fact that the Duke of Lattimer sat on horseback just beyond the point of his rifle, the door behind him slammed open. With Cowen trying to grab hold of her, Marjorie picked up her skirts and ran forward.

  “Put your weapons down!” she yelled, charging the drive. “Gabriel! Don’t shoot anyone!”

  Lattimer swung out of the saddle, but his gaze remained on Graeme as he put his left arm around his sister, moving her to one side. The Beast of Bussaco, they’d called him when he’d served as a major in the army, and that had only been four months ago. The man was a fighter, and he had Marjorie. If one man in the would could remove Marjorie from him it was Gabriel Forrester, and Graeme wasn’t going to allow that.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked her brother. “And how did you even find me? I told you I was well and would write you within the week.”

  “No. First you explain why you’re residing beneath the roof of a Maxwell chieftain. Then we can have a reunion.”

  Clenching his jaw, Graeme handed his rifle to Brendan and started around the wagon. “Why are ye giving me yer weapon?” his brother whispered.

  “So I dunnae shoot my almost brother-in-law,” he grunted back. He still had a knife in his boot and the one at his back, but if Lattimer thought he could talk to Marjorie like that, Graeme preferred to use his fists.

  Marjorie saw him coming, and her eyes widened in response. “Graeme, he came all this way to make certain I’m well. I do owe him an explanation.”

  “From the sound of his barking, he came all this way to accuse one of us of someaught. And I want to know why.”

  The duke gave him an assessing look. “One Samuel Cooper delivered a letter to me yesterday. He told me that just before he took the mail stage north to Lattimer, a man who called himself Sir Hamish Paulk ran him down, read the letter, and then told him to make certain I received it. I then persuaded Mr. Cooper to tell me where he’d gotten the letter in the first place. And that led me here. To you. Your turn, Ree.”

  So Lattimer liked things straightforward. Good. It made for less confusion later. And Graeme wasn’t in the mood to be polite, anyway. “First, ye might have thought to inform Ree that ye put yerself into the middle of a clan war with the Maxwell. If she’d known, I doubt she would have risked coming up here with only a lady’s companion and two coachmen.”

  Finally the duke looked at his sister. “I didn’t ask you to come up here.”

  “It was supposed to be a surprise. We’ve missed sharing every important moment in our lives. I wanted to meet Fiona.”

  “You came to surprise me. That still doesn’t explain why you’re here.”

  “Because my brothers kidnapped her. Because the Duke of Dunncraigh put oot word that any harm done to ye would be a favor to him. I’m nae on good terms with the Maxwell, and the lads decided bringing her to him would improve the situation. I objected. Yer turn.”

  A muscle in Lattimer’s jaw twitched. “Why is she still here, then?”

  “Two reasons. Hamish Paulk’s been staying two miles from here with my uncle, and he stumbled across Marjorie. We—”

  “I pretended to be Connell’s tutor,” she broke in. “He’s Graeme’s youngest brother. Graeme didn’t want word about who I was getting back to Dunncraigh, and once I found out about your trouble with the Maxwell, I didn’t want to risk traveling up to Lattimer Castle. Not while Paulk was about, anyway.”

  The duke nodded. “That makes a degree of sense.” He looked back at Graeme. “What’s the second reason?”

  “Yer sister is a fearsome lass, and I didnae want her to leave.” Reaching out, he took her left hand in his, and lifted it. “She wears my grandmother’s ring. She’s mine. I’m marrying her.”

  That
made Lattimer blink. “Three months ago you announced how happy you were to be living in the middle of Mayfair. This is not the middle of Mayfair.”

  Marjorie looked around at the very attentive men surrounding them now on every side. “Perhaps we could go inside and chat,” she suggested. Aside from the fact that a lady didn’t want her troubles out on the wash line for everyone to see, Graeme looked very close to punching Gabriel. If that happened, she’d rather it be in front of fewer witnesses armed with fewer weapons.

  “Your brothers aren’t going to attempt to kidnap me, I trust?” Gabriel said dryly, glancing from the lads behind the wagon to where Graeme still stood holding her hand.

  “Nae. There’s nae chance of me making amends with Dunncraigh now.”

  “Is that the reason your trees are bristling with rifles?” her brother asked.

  “Aye. More conversation fer inside.”

  “My men’ve been riding all night. They could use some breakfast.”

  Graeme nodded. “Kitchen’s around the left side of the hoose, behind the garden.”

  Gabriel released his grip on Marjorie’s shoulder and turned around. “Get yourself something to eat, lads. Those two,” and he gestured at Brendan and Dùghlas, “will show you the way. We’re all friends for the moment.”

  “Fer the moment,” Graeme repeated. “I reckon the morning room’ll do.”

  They trooped inside with Marjorie putting herself between the two tall men. Normally she would have been thrilled to see Gabriel; she saw him so infrequently that any time it happened was a treat. But nothing was normal today. And her brother’s brusque manner pitted against Graeme’s need to protect everyone around him—and her in particular—could be volatile.