A Yuletide Highlander

by Cameron, Collette

  Gregor remained silent as he maneuvered around the corner of the desk. In about thirty seconds, he’d toss the bloody bugger out the door. Mustering what scant patience he had left, he managed to keep his annoyance from showing. “What’s yer name, sailor, in case I needed to reach ye?”

  “Yeates.” After spearing him another hostile glare, he left, not bothering to shut the door behind him.

  “Bloody rotter.” Gregor closed the door, and though it was only just after two in the afternoon, turned the key in the lock and slid the bolt home, as well.

  Rustling alerted him to his fugitive’s intention.

  “Stay where ye are. He’s still watchin’ the buildin’. I’m nae sure he believed me when I said ye weren’t here, lass.”

  Her sharp intake of breath revealed she believed her appearance had fooled him into thinking she was a male. Hadn’t she glanced in a looking glass of late?

  He made a pretense of adjusting the three model ships displayed in the bay window then rearranged a telescope and a couple of maps before turning away.

  “Have you a back entrance?” Refinement, but not the haughty cold tone of privileged nobles, colored her voice.

  “Aye, but I think ye should stay here for an hour or two.”

  Or longer.

  Gregor placed a sextant atop one of the maps and then, for good measure, added an open compass, positioned just so. Standing back, hands on his hips, he admired his handiwork. No’ bad.

  “You don’t understand. My brother’s out there. Alone and scared.” On all fours, she peeked ’round the side of his desk, a few fair tendrils dangling on either side of her face.

  Cleaned up and with a bit of meat on her bones, she’d be a right bonnie lassie.

  He bent and flicked a couple of dead flies from the windowsill. Brushing his hands on his trousers, he casually turned halfway around. “Where is he?”

  “I left him hiding amongst some barrels outside the cooper’s.” She jerked her head in that direction. “I attracted those ruffians’ attention to lure them away.”

  One eye on the marina, Gregor ran a hand over his jaw. “I dinna believe ye stole anythin’, so why are they after ye?”

  At once, a shuttered expression masked her pale face. She pulled her soft mouth into a tight line and fixed her attention on the floor, her gold-tipped lashes fanning her hollow cheeks. Her short nails dug into the floor said what she feared to.

  She didn’t trust him.

  Gregor couldn’t blame her, and compassion welled behind his ribs. Survival on London’s unforgiving streets meant never trusting anyone.

  He eyed her covertly from beneath half-closed eyes. What dire circumstances had forced her and her brother to this life? He hadn’t a doubt she’d not been born into it. Everything about her so far suggested she came from a genteel background.

  There were few things he liked more than solving a challenging mystery, and this young woman was a puzzle, to be sure. Och…a good fight was always enjoyable, but on occasion, he preferred using his brains rather than brute strength. Only on occasion, mind you.

  On hands and knees, the lass edged to the room’s farthest corner before scrambling to her feet. Wise on her part. No one outside could see her in the lengthening shadows.

  Since becoming his cousin-in-law Yvette McTavish’s manager for her London warehouses, his life had been nothing short of mind-numbingly dull. He’d only accepted the position because he was ready—och, bloody damn desperate—to do something, anything, different than continuing at Craiglocky Keep, his cousin’s castle.

  Until just short of a year ago, Craiglocky was the only place Gregor had ever lived, and his sole purpose had been to serve his laird, Ewan McTavish. He’d loved both, still did, but discontentment ate away at him, growing and growing and growing…

  Except for him, everyone at the Keep had married. And truthfully, he left as much to escape his extended family’s matchmaking attempts as to try his hand at something new. At one time, he thought to become a doctor, and he still dabbled in the healing arts from time to time when called upon to do so. But there hadn’t been any real need for his services after Yvette commissioned the building of a local hospital.

  Gregor had also believed he’d marry Lily Ellsworth, but several years ago, she’d fallen in love with another. He hadn’t been altogether shocked to realize he wasn’t heartbroken. She’d been too young for him, in any event. Feeling much older than he was, he’d decided to leave the Highlands for a time.

  Someday, he’d return. Scotland was as much a part of him as the blood tunneling through his veins at this very moment. He missed the fragrant heather, the craggy rocks, the hairy cattle, and the bright green meadows. He even preferred the Highland’s harsh, unforgiving weather to London’s perpetual stench and coal-laden skies.

  “Mr. McTavish, I must find my brother right away. He’ll be frightened.” A tinge of fear peppered her impatience.

  “Aye, lass, of course ye do. I’m just thinkin’.” Not about rescuing her brother, but what he’d chosen to leave behind. Those musings were a waste of time, and before him was an opportunity to relieve the tedium his life had become as well as to help someone in desperate need. “We canna be too careful with the likes of those blackguards.”

  She muttered something unintelligible but which sounded distinctly unflattering.

  One hand on his hip, he pulled his ear, trying to read her. He’d likely regret becoming involved, but if it brought a dose of excitement into his existence, well, damn it, it’d be worth it. “Ye can wait upstairs and have yerself somethin’ to eat while I fetch yer brother.”

  Arms folded, she eyed him warily. “Why should I trust you?”

  Gregor raised his eyebrows and shoulders at the same time.

  “Och, as I see it,” he perused the street again, “ye haven’t any choice. Ye either accept my aide or take yer chances out there.” He jabbed a thumb toward the window. “Need I remind, ye, lass, ye bolted in here on yer own accord?”

  Her high cheekbones standing out against her pale skin, she gave a terse nod. “I’d heard good things about Stapleton Shipping and Supplies. That they were honest and fair. I’d hoped someone here would help me.”

  “Aye, ye made a wise decision.” Yeates was right about one thing. She was too thin. “Now, tell me. What does yer brother look like? What’s he wearin’?”

  “Kipp has dark blond hair and hazel eyes. He has on clothing similar to mine.” Gregor would bet all the supplies in the warehouses and every drop of whisky in Scotland that wasn’t the boy’s real name.

  He slipped an arm into his caped greatcoat. He’d go out the front door and draw away anyone watching the building. He eyed the wet floor. It would have to wait until he returned.

  “I’ll try to find the lad and bring him back here.” He stuffed his other arm inside the cumbersome garment. He’d rather don his tartan, but while in Rome and all that…“What’s somethin’ only he would ken, so he believes ye sent me to fetch him?”

  Staying in the shadows, she scratched her temple and blew out a resigned sigh. “Kipp’s… He’s…” Her voice trailed off.

  Gregor glanced up from wrestling with his buttons. “He’s what?”

  “He’s…um…slow mentally and can become easily confused.” A challenge shone in her eyes. “He walks with a limp, and running is difficult for him.”

  “Aye. It’s good ye told me.” That was why she’d left her brother behind. He’d have been caught for sure. Gregor would need a wagon then. “What’s yer name, lass?”

  “I’m Sydney Blanes.”

  He stifled a snort. Not her real name, either. Who was she? What had her so terrified? Och, he’d learn the truth. All in good time.

  She pulled the atrocious hat from her head, and a cascade of blonde hair as light as his tumbled to beyond her shoulders.

  Momentarily speechless—not typical at all—he forced his attention away. Odin’s teeth. She was exquisite. He pointed to the door leading to the stairwe
ll. “As I said, help yerself to any food ye find upstairs. My cat’s name is Cat.”

  Snorting again, loud and mockingly, she shoved the hair off her face. “Thought long and hard about that clever moniker, I’ll vow, Highlander.”

  Was she teasing him?

  “I suppose ye’d have picked Fluffy, or Pumpkin, or Cinnamon, or some other undignified name?”

  “No.” She shook her head, that sunny cascade swinging about her shoulders. “He looks like a Marmalade.”

  Marmalade? Nae.

  Cat would be most offended.

  Marmalade was sweet, and Cat most certainly was no’.

  Fighting a grimace, he put on his beaver top hat. Blast, but he preferred a tam. That sensible covering at least kept his head warm.

  Laird, how he missed wearing a leather vest and woolen kilt or trews, not all this refined popinjay falderol. Still, he’d chosen to leave the Highlands and become a proper man of business. These foppish trappings were part of the sacrifices he’d opted to make.

  Yvette had been most adamant he couldn’t parade about Stapleton Shipping and Supplies—or London, for that matter—bare-arsed, wearing a kilt, with a sword strapped to his hip and a dirk shoved in his boots, more was the pity. Nothing short of the archangel Gabriel appearing and demanding he do so would induce Gregor to forgo his dirk, however.

  Withdrawing a key from his pocket, he wielded the iron toward the back entrance.

  “That door’s bolted from within, and I’ll lock this one. Ye’ll be safe as long as ye stay out of sight.” Fastening the last button of his greatcoat, he canted his head. “Lass, I’ll have yer word ye’ll be here when I return. Dinna do somethin’ foolish and go off on yer own. Santano has an ugly reputation.”

  Indecision warred in her eyes. Her situation was precarious either way. Forced to trust a complete stranger or risk being seen and apprehended by Santano’s thugs when she tried to find her brother.

  “What if someone comes in?” she asked, surprisingly pragmatic.

  “Unlikely, but as I said, my cousin-in-law owns this establishment.” He flicked a finger toward the window. “And several ships in yonder harbor, as well. Anyone who has a key can be trusted. Now, what can I say to yer brother that he’ll ken ye sent me?”

  “Tell Kipp…, tell him Satan found us.”

  Gregor paused in pulling on his gloves, one eyebrow arched to his hairline. She wasn’t dafty, was she? “Satan?”

  For the first time, her mouth curled into some semblance of a smile, and he found himself staring once more. A man could fall in love with that smile. That face.

  “Yes, Mr. McTavish. Satan. That’s what we call Santano—the man who commandeered our father’s ship, the Mary Elizabeth and is responsible for our parents’ deaths.”

  Sarah Paine hesitated at the top of the stairs, still wondering if she’d made the right decision in trusting Gregor McTavish. For certain, she wasn’t ready to reveal her real name to him as yet. Drawing a fortifying breath, she pushed the handle opening the door to his apartment.

  Cat—absurd name for a pet—brushed past her before disappearing through one of the four doorways leading off the common room. The entire floor must be McTavish’s private living quarters. Clearly, a man’s abode, for no signs of a feminine touch met her scrutiny, she stepped into a large, open-beamed room lined by windows on the far wall.

  She hadn’t even thought to ask if he was married. Relief swept her that no angry or confused wife met her on the stoop, demanding to know who she was and what she thought she was doing.

  Two russet-toned wingback chairs and a braided rag rug sat before a cozy, blue-and-white tiled unlit fireplace. On the wall opposite the windows, a sofa, along with two side tables, formed a neat row. A painting of what must be the Scottish Highlands hung above the tobacco-brown brocade sofa.

  At first glance, she’d assumed the Scot a Dane or Norseman—possibly a fierce Viking descendent. Actually, she’d thought him conceivably the most powerfully-built man she’d ever seen. Mayhap one of the most attractive, too.

  No mayhap about it.

  Ludicrous.

  Sarah gave herself a severe mental shake. She’d no business noticing such things when she literally feared for her life. Head angled, she studied the fairly-decent painting, the only decoration of any kind displayed in the room. Did the great blond Highlander pine for his homeland?

  That she well understood, for not a day passed that she wasn’t homesick for the tropical island where she and Christopher, her brother’s real name, had been born. Truth to tell, she missed the vibrant turquoise ocean, the heavily-scented blossoms, and the bright green yellow-billed parrots, but little else.

  Most especially not the snakes, spiders, crocodiles, and insufferable humidity.

  Head still tilted, she studied the rugged emerald landscape so very different than Jamaica. Each held an entirely different type of beauty, neither more nor less appealing than the other.

  Melancholy engulfed her.

  Would she ever see her homeland again?

  Yes. She must. There was unfinished business there.

  Chilled, she folded her arms and circled the room, impressed by its neatness.

  Why she’d expected otherwise, she wasn’t sure. Perchance because Papa and Chris weren’t particularly tidy.

  The office below had been organized, and except for two stacks of paper on a narrow table behind McTavish’s desk, nothing lay strewn or stacked about. Stapleton Shipping and Supplies had an estimable reputation, and that—along with a great deal of desperation—had prompted her to bolt inside as she fled Santano’s henchmen.

  Her stomach growled and cramped, reminding her she and Chris hadn’t eaten since fleeing their lodgings down the back stairwell yesterday morning. Barely escaping at that.

  Poor, sweet Chris.

  He’d been asking for something to eat all morning.

  How had Santano found them after all this time? Had she grown careless? Pressing two fingertips between her eyebrows, she closed her eyes and reflected back over the past few weeks.

  No. She hadn’t.

  More likely, her landlord couldn’t resist a bribe. Knowing Santano’s thugs as she did, the hardly-more-than-a-closet-room she and Chris had called home for the past few months had undoubtedly been ransacked.

  There’d be no returning. Not even to collect their meager belongings.

  Three years ago, when calamity befell her parents, with nowhere else to go, and scared witless, they’d arrived in England. At once, although she’d never met them, Sarah sought her maternal grandparents, the Viscount and Viscountess Rolandson, at their London house.

  The self-important butler had coolly taken their measure from gaunt faces to soiled and wrinkled clothing. With a sneer curling his thin lips and elevating his hooked nose, he’d looked down upon them as if they smelled of pond scum or horse excrement and flatly refused them admittance. After announcing with a peculiar, haughty glee that Lord Rolandson had been dead a decade.

  They had smelled, and Sarah flushed in renewed humiliation.

  When she’d attempted to press her point, and insisted she be allowed to speak to her grandmother, she’d been informed in no uncertain terms that she and Chris were to remove themselves at once. The dowager viscountess had no wish to see them, and if they dared to show their unwelcome persons again, the authorities would be called.

  It seemed Grandmother Rolandson hadn’t forgiven her gentle-bred daughter for refusing to marry the stuffy English lord her parents had selected for her. That explained the unopened letters returned to Mama over the years.

  One of the few times Mama had spoken of her childhood, she’d mentioned the grand house she’d been raised in and which was unentailed. The mansion was settled upon the viscountess by her father when she wed. For whatever reason, Mama said, her mother preferred the house over the viscounty property in Mayfair.

  Her mother rarely spoke of her elopement with Papa or her privileged upbringing. She’d never once
complained about the long months Papa spent away sailing or about the hardships of living in the tropics.

  In fact, Sarah had only discovered her grandmother’s address when she opened the satchel Mama had stuffed into her hands as she ordered her and Chris to run and not turn back. Several letters, along with jewels, money, and a few other essential documents, lay inside the bag. She hadn’t even been confident the dowager viscountess would be in residence.

  Sarah gripped the hidden pocket she’d sewn into her trousers. Eyes closed, she rubbed her cheek against the sturdy wool collar of her coat. Papa’s coat. His scent had long since disappeared, but the durable outerwear withstood England’s harsh rain, wind, and cold.

  The pocket she clutched held what few jewels and coins remained, and a couple of documents wrapped in leather, one of which was the deed of purchase for the Mary Elizabeth. The pouch contained a key as well, and she’d long suspected that was what Santano sought.

  Even with her eyes tightly closed, Sarah couldn’t block the memory of that awful day when her life crumbled apart.

  “Find Captain Pritchard,” Mama had ordered. “Tell him your father was right, and Santano’s have commandeered the Mary Elizabeth. The captain will see you and Chris safely to England. The arrangements have all been made, my darling.”

  Her parents must’ve suspected Santano would betray Papa.

  “No, Mama,” Sarah had wept. “I cannot leave you.”

  Weak as she had been, Mama had taken Sarah by the shoulders and kissed her forehead.

  “You must, my darling girl. I don’t believe Santano is above killing you and your brother. I shall only slow you down, and we both know my health is too fragile to travel. Now go, and always remember how much your father and I love you. Take care of Chris. He’ll need you more than ever now.”

  A lone tear dribbled slowly over Sarah’s cheek, and she hastily swiped it away.

  For over three years she and Chris had hidden in the seedier parts of London, moving frequently, and using false names. She’d avoided the docks and other areas where sailors were wont to roam, except for a weekly visit to a street urchin to learn if the Mary Elizabeth had laid anchor.