The woman slid her shoulder beneath her father’s arm, mercifully taking some of the weight off Fergus. “Papa, are you all right?”
Gasping for breath, Fergus shifted to the other side to prop the Italian up. Even with two of them supporting him, the man’s weight was crushing.
“Porca miseria, my leg hurts.” Under thick gray hair, the man’s face was as white as new snow on the mountains. He, like the woman, was dressed in the height of fashion.
After much grunting and groaning, and some savage swearing from Papa that Fergus didn’t need translated, they managed to swing the older man onto the grass verge.
“Can you hold him up?” Fergus asked her.
“Papa, lean on me and balance on your good leg,” she said calmly. By God, Fergus had to give her credit, she was cool in a crisis.
He swept his greatcoat from his shoulders and laid it over the grass, then helped the woman lower her father onto the thick wool. That would at least keep the injured man from the worst of the damp.
The woman unfastened her red cloak and placed it over her father. Fergus bit back a protest that she exposed herself to the elements. There was no particular reason for her to heed him, apart from the fact that he was a man and in the right. But every atom of his masculine soul protested at leaving a lady to shiver on a hillside that belonged to him.
She sank down to cradle her father’s head on her lap. “How is that now, Papa?”
“Better.” The man’s lips twisted as he attempted to smile. “If I cut back on the spaghetti, it will be easier to haul me about like a bag of wheat.”
She managed a smile in return. Not a very convincing one. All three of them must be aware that leaving him on the wet, rough grass was a temporary solution.
Now that the immediate threat to life retreated, Fergus realized how cold he was. He wasn’t wearing a hat—he’d expected to be sitting beside his own fireside by nightfall, with a glass of the local spirit in his hand. His hair was sodden, and icy rain trickled down the back of his neck.
The woman must be freezing, too. Beneath the cloak, she wore a blue traveling dress that clung close enough to reveal a bonny, if not overly plump bosom, and a hint of curved hips and long legs. Her black hair was tied up in some folderol around her head. Or at least that must have been the plan. The persistent rain weighted her hair and sent tendrils snaking down around that fascinating face.
“You, coachman, get your bony arse over here and give your coat to the lady before I boot ye into the burn.”
Sullenly, the man approached and unbuttoned his coat. In the rain, Fergus couldn’t be sure, but the man didn’t smell of drink. Rank incompetence rather than drunkenness must be to blame for this accident.
With visible reluctance, the woman accepted the coat and fumbled until it covered her shoulders. “Thank you, Coker.”
“My pleasure, miss.” He couldn’t have sounded less sincere, and Fergus fought the urge to shove him into the water anyway.
The man trudged back to the horses. By now, the poor beasts were so cowed, they’d forsaken all urge to bolt. They didn’t raise their heads when Macushla and Brecon wove around their legs in a canine game.
“He’s my servant, not yours,” the woman said.
“He’s utterly useless is what he is,” Fergus muttered, straightening the coat to offer her better cover from the rain. “I fear his coat’s none too clean, and it might have fleas, but you’ll freeze wearing nothing but that becoming gown.”
“I’m glad you admire my style,” she said drily.
Fergus hunkered down and drew a folding knife from his pocket. With a couple of economical movements, he sliced away the older man’s trouser leg. More muttered Italian curses that lacked the earlier vitriol. Pain and exhaustion were taking their toll.
“Is it broken?” the woman asked, with more of that unfeminine composure. It struck Fergus as almost unnatural. These circumstances would leave the ladies of his acquaintance, including his mother and sisters, completely overcome. He wasn’t sure how to deal with a woman who took calamity in her stride the way a man would.
“Yes.” The man’s shin was misshapen and swollen, although thank God, the skin remained intact. “At least it seems a clean break.”
“That’s something.” The rough garment draped around her should lessen that air of cool control, but she still looked like a duchess.
“There’s a grove of rowans across the bridge. I’ll go and cut a stick to make a splint, then I’ll fetch help.” Fergus closed his knife and slipped it into his pocket again. He passed the lady his hip flask. “Ye might need to give him some of this while I’m gone.”
Those snapping black eyes settled on him with an unreadable expression. He was surprised when she said, “Thank you. You’ve been very kind.”
Something about that assessing gaze made him feel as awkward as a boy at his first ball. Ridiculous, really, when he was master of all he surveyed. Because he didn’t know what to say, he nodded, then stood and left in search of a suitable piece of wood.
Upon his return, he discovered the woman had ripped her petticoat into strips to hold the splint. He gave her credit for initiative, although some devil inside him regretted that he’d missed a glimpse of her ankles.
Achnasheen was well away from the fashionable world, and the advent of an attractive woman was a nice surprise. While she was a wee bit too willful for his taste, this lady was intriguing and easy to look at. He mightn’t want to deal with her long term, but short term he was man enough to enjoy the view.
Even in this deplorable situation.
“Give me the splint,” she said. “I can look after that while you get help. It’s too cold to keep Papa out here long. It’s better you go straightaway.”
Fergus struggled to ignore her managing tone. “Are ye no’ coming back to the castle with me?”
“Someone has to remain with Papa.”
Her father’s eyes were closed, and his lips were starting to turn blue. Fergus hoped to hell that the man was all right.
“There’s no need for you to stay. Let the coachman freeze out here.”
She shot a dismissive glance at the fellow who stood a few feet away, huddling miserably in his sodden shirtsleeves and holding the two coach horses. “I wouldn’t trust him with my worst enemy.”
Then why the devil did you hire him? Fergus bit back the question. Something in him hankered to put this outspoken female in her place, but not when the weather was closing in and they had an injured man to get to safety.
“I’ll no’ be leaving a lady out in the rain.”
Her lips tightened. In the circumstances, it was perverse to notice that they were the color of crushed cherries and just as luscious. “I’m not made of icing sugar. A little water won’t kill me.”
Fergus had already decided she was more spice than sugar. “Very well, then, if you insist.”
“Thank you.”
Fergus turned to the coachman. “Take the horses along this road to the gatehouse. I’ll be ahead of you, and I’ll give them instructions about what to do when you arrive.”
“Aye, my lord,” the man mumbled.
Fergus waited for the woman to complain about him appropriating her authority again, but she was busy wrapping her father more securely in her cape and helping him to sit up. The man gave a groggy moan, and his eyes no longer seemed to be focusing as his head lolled against her shoulder.
“I’ll be as quick as I can,” Fergus said. “Dinna be frightened.”
The minute he spoke, he wanted to wince. Frightened? This lassie didn’t look like she’d tremble at the crack of doom.
“I willnae be long.” He caught Banshee’s bridle. The mare whinnied and sidled away, but settled at a quiet word. Further along the road, the coachman led the horses toward Achnasheen.
“That’s good,” the woman said. “Here, Papa. You’ll need this before I’m done.”
The injured man curled his shaking hand around hers as she held the flask to h
is lips. He jerked away. “Basta! This is vile stuff.”
Despite their plight, Fergus hid a smile. “It’s Bruce Mackenzie’s finest.”
“Not brandy?”
“No. Uisge-beatha. We call it the water of life.” Not quite legal in the eyes of a Sassenach exciseman, but the best drop of whisky produced across ten glens.
“Dio, I’d rather be dead.”
The man had more courage than Fergus had credited. Perhaps he and his daughter were more alike than he’d thought. “Aye, you’ll do,” he murmured.
Fergus whistled up his dogs and mounted Banshee. He wheeled the mare in the direction of the castle and set off through the rain at a gallop.
* * *
Chapter Two
* * *
By the time the high-handed Scot with the long legs and impressive shoulders rode back into sight, Marina was soaked and close to frozen solid, despite her coachman’s thick and pungently scented coat. Her father had lapsed into a restless doze, fueled by whatever filthy spirit the silver flask contained. Darkness had descended, and the rain settled into a steady drizzle.
“Are ye all right?” the man asked from the saddle. That voice retained its quality of command, even when he expressed concern. “How is your father?”
“He’s drifted off.” She was relieved to see the Scotsman again, although she’d known he’d come back for them. Men with chiseled jaws like his tended to be true to their word.
Behind the gray horse looming out of the murk, she saw lanterns bobbing along the road. Their rescuer, whoever he was, had summoned an army to their aid. She felt so shaky and upset, the sight of the approaching lights made her feel ridiculously emotional.
The two big black dogs trotted up and sat on either side of her like sentinels. Holding her breath against the odor of wet dog, she reached out and patted both of them.
The man dismounted. Her eyes had adjusted to the darkness well enough to appreciate the powerful, liquid grace of the movement, despite her current predicament. Her rescuer was annoying, but handsome and strong. His strength, if not his good looks, was welcome. However much she might bristle under his autocratic manner, she appreciated his efficiency. And his speed. He’d only been away about half an hour.
“I’ve got a wagon coming. We can lie him flat, and it will be easier for him than a carriage. It will be a bumpy trip home, I’m afraid.”
She stumbled upright on legs that felt as if they were made of wet string. Cold, wet string. “Then it’s a good thing he’s near unconscious,” she said, struggling to keep her voice steady.
She knew she hadn’t succeeded, because the Scot cast her a worried glance, visible even through the gloom. The lanterns came closer, and when she wiped the rain from her eyes, she saw a flat-bedded cart with a canvas roof, drawn by two draft horses. Beside it strode half a dozen brawny Highlanders who should have no trouble lifting her father.
The man tugged something from the saddle and passed it to her. “This might suit your dignity better than the coat ye have on. And it’s dry.”
She had to admit he was thoughtful. Her independent air discouraged most men from trying to look after her, which was the way she liked it. She told herself that she was capable of standing on her own two feet, however wobbly, but when she discarded the coachman’s coat and wrapped the soft woolen cloak around her, she almost wept in gratitude. “It’s very kind of your wife to lend me her clothes.”
The man’s grunt of amusement was brief. “It would be, if I had a wife, but the cape belongs to my sister Clarissa. She left it at the castle last time she went back to Edinburgh.”
He wasn’t married. Not that that should be of any consequence. Then she realized what he’d said. “Castle?”
“Aye. I told ye that’s where I was going.”
She supposed he had. Through her fear for her father and her need to hide how much she didn’t want to stay behind on the bare hillside, she hadn’t paid close attention.
Any chance for private conversation came to an end. Everything turned to action under the authority of the tall man with hair like flame and eyes like gray ice. She mightn’t appreciate him giving her orders, but right now, she appreciated the way he gave orders to other people. Orders that resulted in her father gently lifted and placed on a wagon bed lined with furs and blankets.
Marina sagged with relief now she transferred her father’s care into capable hands. Her overwhelming concern for Papa had kept her panic and pain at bay. She hadn’t been hurt in the accident, but she’d been bruised and tossed around. Her legs turned to jelly, and she fought against collapsing in a heap and bursting into tears.
Then she caught her rescuer’s eye. Although she had no clue why she couldn’t bear to betray any weakness, she straightened her spine and raised her chin.
“Would ye like to come up with me on Banshee, or travel in the wagon with your father?” he asked as the procession was set to go.
Some reckless part of her, the part that she’d spent most of her life struggling to suppress, wanted to ride like a rescued princess behind this handsome man on that high-spirited horse. But she was old enough to know that in the end, the one person capable of rescuing her was herself. And her father needed her. “Thank you for the offer, but I should go with Papa.”
“Ye willnae be very comfortable, lassie, and it’s unsuitable transport for a lady.”
“I’m sure it will be fine.” It wasn’t the first time he’d tried to treat her as if she was too delicate for this mundane world. He seemed to labor under the misconception that females were made of gossamer and butterfly wings.
“Aye, well, if ye insist.” He didn’t seem too disappointed with her refusal, blast him. “It’s only a wee way, a mile or so.”
First she had to climb into the cart. Her traveling gown with its stylish military frogging was à la mode, but its narrow skirt wasn’t designed for getting in and out of farm vehicles. Dismayed, she surveyed the gap between road and wagon bed. Then hard hands closed around her waist, she rose into the air, and she was sitting on the back of the wagon with her booted feet dangling in space.
Her heart set off on a wild swoop. Partly from shock. Partly from foolish feminine pleasure at a strong male hoisting her about, as though she weighed no more than a feather.
This quivery feeling was utter nonsense, but something about knowing her autocratic rescuer could pick her up without effort made her pulses race. He had a penchant for grabbing her and putting her where he wanted. She needed to stop acting like a silly goose and tell him she was capable of moving under her own volition.
“I need my portfolio,” she said, sounding disgracefully breathless as she pointed to the leather satchel lying on the edge of the road.
Without a word, the man collected it and passed it to her. The brawniest of the brawny Highlanders also brought over the lovely red cape she’d bought in Venice. When she’d put it over her father, she hadn’t given it a thought, but now she felt a pang of regret that it would probably never recover from its rough treatment.
Her eyes followed the Scotsman as he crossed to the big gray horse that stood in place, awaiting her master. Marina was sure he appreciated the beast’s perfect obedience.
At a careful speed, the cart began to trundle along the road. Even with all the padding under her, Marina felt the ruts in the road. She hoped her father wasn’t in too much discomfort. Before they lifted him, they’d given him more of the spirit with the outlandish name. To her surprise, he hadn’t protested at all.
At least it had stopped raining. She glanced away from the dark landscape to find her father had regained consciousness. He watched her from where he lay stretched out upon a pile of pillows and rugs. Already Papa looked more comfortable, and in the lantern light, she saw that the pinched look faded from his lips.
“Papa, how are you feeling?” she asked in English.
“I’d rather be at home, taking the air in the Piazza della Signoria,” he answered in the same language. When in private
, they tended to speak in an idiosyncratic mixture of the two tongues.
She smiled, relieved to hear him sounding more like himself. “I’m sure. Is the pain still bad?”
“I’ll be glad when we get to wherever we’re going.”
So would she. She was cold, despite the dry cloak, and every bump reminded her that she’d rattled around inside the runaway carriage like a dice in a cup. For a few minutes, they traveled in silence, then her father spoke in a musing tone. “He’s a handsome devil.”
“Who is?” Marina asked, although she knew exactly who her father was talking about.
“Our rescuer. The gallant Scotsman with the woeful taste in liquor and the brisk way with an emergency.”
“Is he? I hadn’t noticed.” Through the wagon’s open sides, she regarded the man who rode at the head of their cavalcade.
“Then you should have.”
She directed a cranky glare at her father. “I would have thought you had other things on your mind.”
Papa’s lips twisted in something approximating a smile. He really must be feeling better. “Some things are impossible to ignore.”
She supposed she should be glad he had the energy to tease her. When she’d waited with him on the roadside, she’d been sick with worry about the way he wandered in and out of coherence. “You know I don’t like pushy men, and he acts like he’s master of the world.”
The man walking beside the wagon, a thickset Highlander with a magnificent black beard chuckled. “Aye, he does at that. But then in this corner of the Highlands, the Mackinnon is master of the world, lassie.”
“I didn’t mean—” She blushed at her lack of discretion. She should have stuck to Italian.
However autocratic the red-haired man might be, she owed him a debt of gratitude. It hadn’t missed her notice that apart from him and the people he’d summoned, not a soul had come along the lonely track. Without his help, she and her father would be in serious trouble.
The Laird's Willful Lass (The Likely Lairds Book 1) Page 3
