A Rogue's Heart

by Debra Browning

  Conall snorted.

  “Dinna be so quick to dismiss it, Conall laddie. The right woman can change a man.”

  “Aye, that’s what I fear.”

  Rob laughed and swatted him affectionately on the back. “I’m off to clear up the beach. Can ye manage here without me?”

  Mairi swam farther out into the loch, distracting him, and so he did not answer. Rob’s departing footfalls sounded on the pier, then faded.

  Conall watched Mairi, rapt, marveling at her fearlessness. She had a strength of character he’d ne’er known in a woman—at least not in any of the women he’d wooed—and an almost foolish independence, which both charmed and exasperated him.

  She needed no one, or so she thought.

  He knew better.

  Mairi Dunbar was in a precarious situation, all the way around, and needed a man’s protection whether she chose to admit it or not. Rob had been right about that.

  But Conall would be damned if Geoffrey Symon would be that man. A woman like Mairi needed a partner as strong-willed as she, but not one who’d subjugate her and tame her wild ways.

  ’Twas her wildness that stirred him most.

  He watched as she turned another somersault in the water. God’s blood, wasn’t she chilled to the bone out there? He waved Dougal and Harry on. They had the platform nearly in place.

  Conall was amazed by Mairi’s own perception of herself. She saw her actions of the past months as nothing out of the ordinary. He thought them extraordinary. Against all odds, she’d held what remained of her clan together after their laird’s death. She’d managed to hold Symon at arm’s length—at least he thought she had—and strike a bargain with another clan that would feed her people for, perhaps, a lifetime.

  She shamed him, truly. Had he ever done as much for family or clan? He reminded himself that they were different, he and she. Whereas he was a free spirit, a man of the world, Mairi had lived her whole life on Loch Drurie and was as fiercely connected to her clan as his own brothers were to theirs. No service was too daunting to perform, no sacrifice too great, when a kinsman’s livelihood was at stake.

  He turned toward the beach and let his gaze drift aimlessly over the clan folk assembled there. A Chat-tan warrior lifted a squalling babe out of its mother’s arms and comforted the wee thing. Judith, one of Mairi’s young kinswomen, stood transfixed, her attention riveted on Dougal, who maneuvered the floating platform into place.

  And then there was Kip.

  Conall smiled. God’s truth, if the boy didn’t remind him of himself when he was just that age. Jupiter rolled in the sand beside him, content, he thought, to remain in one place for a change. To have someone to share with. To know each night where he would sleep, and be greeted each day by the same bonny smile.

  Conall drew a breath and held the cool air in his lungs. Would that be so terrible a life? To belong somewhere, at long last? To care for someone, for a whole people, perhaps?

  He looked out onto the water as the sun dipped below its brilliant, dappled surface. Mairi swam toward him, smiling. Freedom? Nay, he wasn’t free at all. And as he met her gaze, he wondered whether he would ever be so again.

  “What’s happened?” Mairi pushed her way through the throng of Chattan warriors gathered in front of her father’s house. “Why’s the work stopped?”

  They’d set the first platform the evening before and had been well on their way to finishing the second pier this morning. Now the beach was deserted. ’Twas no doubt some harebrained scheme of Conall’s.

  Dora nearly collided with her at the door. “He’s hurt,” she said. “They’re waitin’ to find out how bad.”

  “Who’s hurt?” A cold fear gripped her. “Kip?” Jesu, she hadn’t seen him since sunup. She gripped Dora’s shoulders. “Where is he? What’s happened?”

  “Kip’s fine. Calm yourself, lass.”

  She closed her eyes and exhaled in relief.

  “’Tis Conall, and a nastier scrape I’ve no’ seen.”

  “What?” Her eyes popped open. “Where is he?”

  “In there.” Dora nodded behind her into the hall. “But he’s no’ going to be dyin’ today,” she called out to the men milling around them. “So get yourselves back to work. Dougal and Rob will be out directly.”

  Mairi pushed past her into the hall. The first thing she saw when her eyes adjusted to the dim light was the blood. Hers ran cold. She followed its sticky trail across the flagstone floor.

  Conall lay on a table surrounded by his kinsmen. All Mairi could see were his bare feet sticking out the end. She elbowed her way between Harry and Rob. “Good God, let me see him!” They stepped aside.

  “Hello, Mairi.” Conall smiled brightly up at her.

  She gasped. “Your leg, the blood. What on earth happened?”

  Then she took in the rest of him. He was soaked to the skin and dressed in naught but a thin shirt, its long tails tied between his legs in the fashion Kip had showed him that day at the cove.

  Judith and her younger sister, Elsbeth, hovered over him, giggling, sponging sand and blood from the long gash that ran from his thigh clear up over his hip. He winked at Elsbeth and the girl blushed crimson.

  Mairi saw red. She grabbed the damp rag from Elsbeth’s hand and shot both her and her sister a stony look. “Methinks Dora needs your help—outside.”

  “Oh, nay,” Dora’s voice sounded behind her. “I’m right here, and dinna need any help.”

  Conall grinned and shrugged. Mairi dipped the rag into the bowl of wine Judith held, and pressed it into his wound until the smile slid from his face.

  “Ow! Bloody hell, Mairi!”

  “Aye, ’tis a nasty wound,” she said. “’Twill need a deep cleansing.”

  Rob chuckled.

  “Come on, then,” Dougal said. He took the bowl from Judith and set it on the table.

  “You too, lass.” Harry placed persuasive hands on Elsbeth’s shoulders and guided her toward the door.

  “But—” the sisters protested in unison.

  “Methinks Mairi has this well in hand, ladies,” Rob called after them.

  “Hmph.” Mairi rinsed the rag in the bowl of wine and slapped it back on the wound.

  “Ow!”

  “Good. If ye can feel the pain, it means ye aren’t dyin’. Laying there half-naked, flirtin’ like a—”

  “You’re jealous.” Conall risked another grin and she ignored it.

  “What the devil happened?”

  “We was heavin’ a load o’ timbers from the wood to the beach,” Rob said.

  Dora moved to his side and absently placed a hand on his shoulder. “Aye, I saw it. Fools, all o’ ye, tryin’ to move so many at once. What were ye thinkin’?”

  Rob shrugged.

  “Conall tripped,” Dora said, “and they all of them went down. He was at the front, and caught the wicked end of a new-hewn log.”

  Rob shook his head as he inspected Conall’s wound. “Nasty, that.”

  Conall flinched again as Mairi dabbed at the sand that had worked its way into his flesh. “’Tis no’ deep,” she said. “’Twill scar, likely, but ye have enough o’ them so’s one more willna matter.” Her gaze drifted along his muscled thigh. She drew a breath when he flexed it.

  He tried to sit up, but she stopped him with a glance.

  “’Tis naught but a scratch,” he said. “I must get back to work.”

  “Ye’ll be doing no more work today.” She caught Rob’s eye. “Will he?”

  “She’s right, Conall laddie.”

  “Rest, now,” Dora said, and pulled Rob toward the door.

  “I’ll see the second pier finished,” Rob said. “Dougal’s taken to the building like a fish to water.”

  Conall grunted and again tried to rise. “I must—nay, Mairi, dinna—” She placed her hand squarely on his chest and pushed him back down. “Unh!” He scowled at her, then looked to Rob, resigned. “All right, then. But I’ll be out at dusk to check your progress.”
>
  Rob nodded, and Dora led him from the hall.

  Mairi turned her full attention to the wound.

  “You dinna have to do this.”

  “Lie still.” She dipped the rag again, folded it and placed it at the top of his thigh. “Here, make yourself useful. Hold this tight across the wound while I fetch some more rags.”

  Before she could move away, he covered her hand with his and pressed down. “Thank you for helping my men—and me.”

  Their gazes locked.

  She was conscious of her quickening heartbeat, and his, from the pulse point near to where her hand rested mere inches from his groin. He squeezed her fingers gently. Her mouth went dry. “I…’tis naught but what anyone would do.”

  “’Tis more than that.”

  She pulled away and made for the kitchen, taking deep breaths on the way. Jesu, what were these feelings? She must get a hold of herself.

  When she’d thought Kip was the injured one, an instinctive, maternal panic had gripped her. No matter that she was not the child’s birth mother. She’d cared for him for so long, ’twas as if he was her own son.

  But when she realized Conall was the one who’d been hurt, another kind of fear had seized her, one she’d never before felt. ’Twas as if she were about to lose everything—all that she knew and cherished, unspoken dreams, hope for the future.

  She’d never felt vulnerable until that moment, had never allowed herself the luxury, not since her mother’s death and her father’s decline. Mairi had always been the strong one. Stalwart. Invincible. She’d had to be—for herself and for her clan. All the same, the moment Conall’s name had rolled off Dora’s lips, all Mairi had felt was fear.

  Her fingers closed over the pile of rags on the kitchen table. What if it had been something serious? What if she’d lost him?

  “Jesu.” Mairi closed her eyes and inhaled.

  She refused to contemplate what her feelings meant. ’Twas impossible, absurd. She needed no one. Shaking off the momentary lapse into insanity, she began to tear the rags into strips.

  What if she did care for him? Of what consequence was it?

  He was an adventurer and a rogue, not suited for family or clan. But if he were, what then? A man like Conall Mackintosh would ne’er rest in a place as small and cheerless as Loch Drurie. He was born in a fine castle amidst wealth and prosperity, not in the ramshackle village of a clan who could barely feed itself.

  If she did wed him—and that was as bloody likely as her wedding the King of England—he’d only take her away. Away from Loch Drurie, away from her clan. Nay, that she could never bear.

  She ripped at the rags, and her nose wrinkled involuntarily. Aye, even Geoffrey would insist she live on his estate, in the dreary halls of Falmar, should she e’er agree to wed him. She would not. She’d not wed at all. Ever.

  Her clan needed her now. In time, they’d be strong again. Kip and the other lads would be grown in but a handful of years. He’d make the Dunbars a fine laird. Until then, she must hold them together as best she could. Dora would help her. Dora and Rob.

  Perhaps ’twas a good idea, after all, that some of the Chattan remain. Dora was right. They would need help. ’Twas clear she and Rob were a match. And Dougal and Judith, as well. She must convince them to remain at Loch Drurie. Aye, now there was a plan. She gathered up the rags and marched back into the hall, her mind made up.

  “What took you so long?” Conall gazed up at her from the table. “You could have shorn the sheep and spun the wool for the rags in that amount of time.”

  “Be still.” She avoided his inquisitive eyes and finished wrapping the wound. “There. ’Twill heal in no time. Until then, I suggest ye stay out o’ the water.”

  “That could be a bit difficult, seeing as my job is to build docks and piers.”

  “I can do what needs be done in the water with the help of your men. Like last eve.”

  “Aye, and you looked wicked fair doing it, too.”

  She froze in place, her hands poised over his bandaged leg, and looked him in the eyes. Green eyes, with flecks of gold and burnished copper. They reminded her of the change of season. Aye, and this was an autumn like no other.

  “Mairi,” he whispered. “There’s something I need you to know.”

  He guided her hands to his bandaged hip. ’Twas hot, though she could tell by looking at him that he had no fever. Her breathing grew shallow, her pulse rapid.

  “W-what?”

  “My bandages,” he said, and pulled her closer. “The rags.”

  “A-aye, what about them?” She was riveted to his gaze, drawn in by those smoldering eyes.

  “Closer,” he breathed.

  Oh, God, he was going to kiss her again. She trembled at the thought. Instinctively she wet her lips and waited.

  “They’re the same ones old Walter uses to swab out the pig trough.”

  It took a moment for his words to sink in. “What?” She jumped back and yanked her hands away.

  Conall laughed, and she was tempted to slap him. He rose up on the table, spreading his hands in front of him in a defensive gesture. “Och, now, you wouldna hit an injured man, would you?”

  Bloody trickster! Of all the—

  She turned on her heel and headed for the door. Halfway there, she stopped and whirled on him. “I’ll send Dora back to change the rags, though if they’re good enough for the pigs, they ought to suit ye just fine.”

  “Aye,” he said, still laughing. “Wicked fair.”

  Chapter Eight

  They’d finished, and with nearly a fortnight to spare.

  Conall strolled the length of the third and final pier, determined not to favor his right leg. The wound had closed nicely over the past week, but his bruised flesh still ached.

  He ignored it and fixed his mind on Dougal’s workmanship. The scout had done a fine job. Conall stooped and ran a hand along the timber ends, then checked the tightness of the ropes that lashed them together.

  “What think ye?” a voice called from shore.

  He looked up and saw Harry and Dougal hefting a barrel across the beach. “’Twill do fine,” he shouted back at them. He must remember to thank Iain for sending the lads with him.

  Both scouts grinned.

  “What’s that you’re carrying?” Whatever was inside the barrel, ’twas heavy. Dougal stumbled, and they nearly dropped it.

  “Ale,” Harry called back. “For the feast.”

  What feast? Ah, he’d forgotten. The lads had in mind a small revelry, to celebrate the completion of the new docks. Why not? They’d earned it. Besides, a little merrymaking could do none of them harm.

  Tomorrow was the feast of Saint Catherine’s. He grinned, recalling the terms he’d set with Mairi, and how she’d turned the tables on him. ’Twas all for naught. They’d finished in plenty of time to receive the first trade boats.

  All they need do now was wait.

  He rose and continued along the pier to the floating dock at the end. The day was clear and the sun brilliant, though a chill breeze nipped at his bare legs. He’d taken to going barefoot of late, as did the Dunbars.

  God knows what they did in winter to keep warm. Whatever it was, he wouldn’t be here to see it. He’d stay through the first shipment of goods, then leave.

  Dougal and Harry lowered the ale cask onto the beach and collapsed on the sand. Conall decided to do the same, and dropped, cross-legged, onto the dock. ’Twas beautiful here, really, much more so than first he’d thought nigh on a month ago.

  The water danced in the afternoon light. Rooks and crossbills winged their way overhead, entertaining him with acrobatics and bits of song. He breathed in the crisp air. Mmm…’twas never this bracing at Findhorn, nor at Braedûn.

  He’d miss it, and other things, as well, he supposed.

  Kip tore across the sand like a banshee, Jupiter nipping at his heels.

  Conall smiled.

  Indeed, the lad was a hellion. “Like his mother,” he whisper
ed.

  “Conall!” Kip charged onto the pier at a full run. The timbers rolled a slow wave under his lightning feet. Jupiter lumbered after him, spit flying from his enormous jowls.

  “Slow down, lad! You’ll sink all our fine work.”

  Kip ignored him and flew onto the dock, gasping, then collapsed beside him in a heap.

  “What’s the hurry?” He laughed and rumpled the boy’s hair. His own father had done that to him often when he was just a sprite, half Kip’s age at most. The memory struck a bittersweet nerve inside, and he pushed it from his mind.

  “Dora says if we’re good, we may get a special treat for Christmas.” Kip tugged at his plaid. “The boats will have arrived, full of things to eat.”

  “Aye, they will have.” Conall shook his head at the boy’s perpetually dirty face and ragged garments. He imagined Mairi to have looked much the same as a child, though the two didn’t share similar features. Kip had not a freckle on him, while Mairi was covered in them. Well, what he’d seen of her had been freckled, at any rate.

  “I’ll share mine with ye, if ye like.”

  “Share what?” Kip had been rambling on about the new year, and Conall had not been listening.

  “My Christmas treat. Whatever it is that I get, I’ll give ye half.” Kip stared up at him, expectantly, waiting for his response.

  In truth, he didn’t know how to respond. Kip had grown overfond of him these past weeks. Conall had enjoyed their friendship, but it must end. “I willna be here at Christmas, Kip. I must move on.”

  “On where?” The boy frowned, then just as quickly his face brightened. “Can I go with ye?”

  “Nay, lad.”

  Kip’s face fell. He pulled his small dirk from its scabbard and started to hack at the timbers on which they sat. Conall ignored the remorse ripping his gut. He grabbed Kip’s wrist before the boy could land another blow, and stuffed the dirk under his own belt.

  “My work here is finished,” he said evenly.

  Kip wouldn’t look at him.

  “I must leave. My brothers expect me home.” ’Twas the truth, though he didn’t expect to tarry long at Findhorn, either. An infusion of travel and excitement would do him good. Aye, ’twas exactly what he needed.