by Lily Maxton
Mal almost laughed. “All right, lass. Show me how well you can shoot.” He picked up a stale oatcake from a basket near the fire and tossed it up, up.
She didn’t even hesitate. She aimed and pulled the trigger; the flint sparked, a flash in the night, and, a second later, the oatcake exploded in the air, raining down in uneven clumps.
Malcolm whistled. “Impressive. Though you’ve left yourself unprotected with that display. It’s not the sort of oversight I want one of my own to make.”
She stared at him a moment, and then her lips curved. Something about that smirk, all sharp-angled self-assurance, shot heat straight through his veins. She plunged her hand into the bag. “Did I say pistol? I meant pistols, plural.” She calmly retrieved a second loaded pistol from the bag and arched one shapely eyebrow. “You were saying?”
For a moment, Mal simply stared.
And then he grinned—it felt like he hadn’t smiled quite so broadly in weeks.
“I was saying, welcome to our little isle.”
…
Georgina didn’t know how long she could stay with the outlaws. Even if Theo and Annabel believed the note she’d left, her plan would still fall apart if it dragged on for too many weeks. Theo’s suspicious nature would rear its head at some point…and once that happened, it wouldn’t take him long to put the pieces together—the burglary, the music box, Georgina’s hasty trip.
It had already taken more time than she was comfortable with. A week to locate the thieves after questioning some of the tenants at Llynmore, and assuring them she was only curious and didn’t want to set the authorities after them—most of them seemed to view the bandits with a hint of pride, sometimes even awe.
Then another few days had passed simply watching the thieves to determine they didn’t have the music box on the isle. They didn’t seem to have any kind of loot on the isle. Had they already sold what they’d stolen at Llynmore? Her heart pinched at the possibility. And if they hadn’t sold it, where was it?
One day she’d been sneaking around and a sleek, black collie with brown and white markings had greeted her, attempting to wash her face with happy licks. The distraction had nearly spelled disaster, and she’d only had a few seconds to hide before one of the men came along. When he’d nearly stumbled right across her hasty hiding place, she’d decided on a different tactic.
She was going to outwit the wolves by joining the pack. It had seemed a brilliant idea at the time.
What on earth had she been thinking?
It was a question Georgina had been asking herself for hours, a question she repeated vehemently when she woke up to the distant sound of a stream trickling and realized, as she rubbed her blurry eyes, that there was no stream.
One of the men stood about twenty feet away, his back to her, and he was whistling while he urinated on a bent sapling, like a dog might mark its territory. Then, still whistling and dousing the tree, he passed wind. Loudly.
Whoever said that men couldn’t do more than one thing at a time?
She sat up slowly, and he must have heard her rustling movements, because he jolted, glanced back, flushed to the roots of his hair, and then put himself to rights before turning around.
“I’m sorry!” he called. One hand fisted nervously in his kilt. They all wore them, like Highlanders of old—tartan wool in earthy tones with boots and stockings that didn’t quite reach their knees. Plain waistcoats and dark coats covered their upper halves, and basic leather sporrans were belted at their waists. She felt as if she’d stepped back in time. “I forgot you were here!”
Obviously. She lifted her hand in greeting. He bobbed a quick, awkward bow and then rushed off, stumbling in his haste to get away from her. She reached beneath her bundled-up cloak, checked that her pistol was still there, and then stood up, wincing. She’d slept on a cushion of blankets, but her neck was stiff, her back was stiff, and even her hips were a little stiff. She stretched slowly, trying to ease her tight muscles. In spite of what her family might call her adventurous ways, she was used to a little more luxury than sleeping on the ground.
Still, aside from urinating men, there was something peaceful about waking outdoors. The sky was blue, wispy white clouds painted across it, and the air was cool but calm, the grass dewy. They were on a small island dotted with pine trees in the middle of a loch, and she could smell the salt tang of the ocean borne on the breeze.
She pushed herself to her feet and took her bag with her to find a more densely wooded part of the island to relieve herself, and then walked back to the clearing where she’d found the outlaws the night before.
The leader was there, cooking fish over a small fire. The smoky scent mixed with the smell of bitter coffee, and her stomach growled. Fish and coffee weren’t normally things she would find appealing together, but she hadn’t eaten a full meal since her flight into the Highlands. She wondered how Theo had reacted to her note. Poorly, she imagined.
And if he ever found out about this, he’d probably lock her in her bedchamber.
She didn’t even know if she would blame him.
She wrapped her shawl more tightly around herself, though the air was comfortable enough.
“Do you drink coffee, fair lass?” the leader said without looking up.
“Aye.”
He pointed toward a pot and a few mangy-looking cups set on a flat rock. She peered into the pot and saw that the coffee was settled and ready to pour.
“There’s no sugar or milk to mask the bitterness. Beware, this stuff isn’t for the faint of heart.”
Georgina lifted her eyebrow. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not fainthearted,” she said. She poured some coffee and sipped it—it was rather awful—as she watched him.
He wasn’t quite what she’d expected. She probably shouldn’t have expected anything, but when one heard rumors of sheep thieves, one might be inclined to think their leader was a ruffian. Possibly quick-tempered. Possibly not very smart, if he’d turned to thievery instead of a respectable occupation.
But this man didn’t appear to be a ruffian, quick-tempered, or stupid.
Last night, his gaze had been calm and focused. A little ruthless. She remembered the way he’d burned the back of the other Highlander’s hand—stone-faced and cold. He’d burned him as casually as if he was flicking an ember from a cheroot.
A shiver ran down her spine. It wasn’t like the other man hadn’t deserved it, but still, it had been a shock to see such levelheaded, unflinching cruelty. His actions had not been the actions of a reckless, brutish man—they’d been sharp and pointed and planned.
This wasn’t someone she would want to underestimate. He wasn’t a man to cross lightly.
Which made her repeat the question—What on earth was I thinking?
Her family had always accused her of being impulsive, but this was probably the most impulsive thing she’d ever done.
But when she told herself to turn around, to do the sensible thing, to go back without the music box, she couldn’t. It was the last piece she had of her mother. She couldn’t simply let it go.
And if that made her a fool, then she was a fool.
“We didn’t get around to introductions last night,” he said.
With a start, she realized he was watching her. In the soft morning light, his eyes looked green, but when his head tilted, and the sun’s rays glanced across them, she saw flecks of gold. In the soft morning light, she could admit to herself that he was a well-built man—compact and lean. Not much above average height, she would guess, but powerful. Stubble dusted a hard jaw, a few shades darker than the sandy brown of his hair.
His face was somewhat plain—his nose was a little too narrow, his eyes a little too close set. But there was something in his hazel gaze that was so charismatic, so commanding, it was difficult to look away from him.
“I’m Malcolm Stewart, he of two last names, descended from both kings and rogues. You may call me Mal.”
Good Lord—was he always so…hyp
erbolic?
And she would certainly not be calling him Mal if she could help it. First names bred familiarity, and she didn’t want to be too familiar with him. “Catriona MacPherson,” she said, combining the first name of one of Llynmore Castle’s maids with the last name of their cook. “You may call me Miss MacPherson. In a pinch, MacPherson will do.”
Malcolm’s hand paused, hovering over the fish. Then he smiled, and something in Georgina flinched. He’d smiled at her like that last night, too, as though she was the answer to a question left unasked. No one else had ever looked at her quite like that before, and she wasn’t certain she liked it.
“Are you sure? Mal and Cat sound like proper bandit names—there could be ballads written about Mal and Cat. Miss MacPherson, not as much.”
If Catriona was too familiar, she certainly wasn’t going to let him shorten it to a pet name.
“If you call me Cat, I may end up using you as target practice.”
His mouth twitched. “You don’t need any practice. You already have better aim than most of the men here.” He plopped a whole fish down on a plate and handed it to her. Its glassy eye stared up at her reproachfully, but her empty stomach didn’t care. Malcolm didn’t hand her a fork, so she picked at it with her fingers, carefully tearing off flaky chunks of meat and avoiding the bone.
“Most?” she asked.
“I could match you, I think. Though I don’t know if I could outmatch you.”
She almost smiled. He certainly knew how to be charming. But his gaze was always sharp, always watchful. It wasn’t idle charm.
She had a feeling he wanted her to let her guard down around him. But she wasn’t about to oblige him.
“But we were still on introductions. This is Laddie,” he said, nodding at the dog who sat on its haunches a few feet away, staring at her plate of food with a tilted head and imploring eyes. “Don’t let that sad look fool you. He already ate.”
“Laddie?”
“Aye.”
“Laddie isn’t a name. It’s a description.”
“Who said a description can’t be a name? And a fine one at that. I had a dog named Laddie when I was a wee lad, myself.”
It was worse than she’d thought—this dog wasn’t even the original; he was Laddie Two. But getting into an argument about the matter didn’t seem to be the best use of her time. It wasn’t as if she’d be here very long, anyway.
“Ewan is the one who’s scared of his own shadow, but he’s kind enough,” Mal continued. “Andrew is the flame-haired one, the silent and broody type. Lachlan…Lachlan has a lean and hungry look.” Mal winked at her. “I heard that somewhere and thought it was poetic.”
Charmed against her will, she had to bite her lip to keep from smiling. That small pause was telling, though, even if he hadn’t intended it to be. “You trust him?”
“Aye. He’s really not a bad sort. He’s loyal. He just pushes too far sometimes. He overestimates himself.”
Mal took a swig of coffee, and Georgina winced at the ease with which he gulped down the bitter brew. She was still sipping tentatively at hers, even though it was no longer hot.
“When will we go thieving?” she asked.
He laughed. “We’ll lie low for a few days. The next raid will be a bigger one, so it’s best not to rush into it too soon.”
Lie low? How would she find her music box if they stayed on the isle? All she needed to know was where they kept the stolen goods, and then she’d never cross paths with them again.
The longer she stayed with them, the greater the odds they’d uncover her identity, or that her brother would grow suspicious and uncover her.
The first scenario put her in danger, and the second put them in danger. She might not agree with their lifestyle, but she also didn’t want to see them caught and tried because she’d led one of the landlords they’d stolen from straight to them.
“Don’t look so disappointed, lass. We’re good company. We’ve got whisky and a fire and all the fresh air you could want.”
She was annoyed that he’d been able to read her thoughts so easily. She’d have to be more guarded than she’d thought.
Andrew, the brooding, red-haired one, stopped by their makeshift breakfast table, drained a coffee cup in almost one swallow, and then grabbed a cooked fish with his bare hand. He nodded at Malcolm, grunted at her, and stalked off.
“He doesna like me,” Georgina said.
“You’re in good company then. I don’t know if Andrew likes anyone.”
“Not even you?”
Malcolm shrugged his shoulders. “He would die for me, I think. It’s not quite the same as liking me.”
His men would die for him? It was a rather lofty claim, and she wondered if it was true. She wondered about the bonds that tied them, but she didn’t ask.
Georgina set down her finished plate of fish and focused on sipping at her coffee. “So, if you’re not thieving, what do you do all day?”
“There are plenty of chores. You could help Ewan chop wood. Or help Andrew wash clothes. I’m in charge of the meals. Lachlan patches the clothes when needed—though I have to warn you that he sulks the whole time.”
“Do you always stay on the isle?”
“You’re the restless kind, aren’t ye?”
Her grip tightened on her cup. “What do you mean?”
“You like to stay occupied. Do you get anxious when you have to sit still?”
He made her sound like a child. She did prefer to be doing something, rather than being idle, but it wasn’t as though she had to be occupied. She did have some amount of discipline.
“So,” she said, drawing out the word lazily. “I’m the restless one, Andrew is the brooding one, Ewan is the awkward one, Lachlan is lean and hungry. You’ve come up with plenty of words to describe everyone else. How would you describe yourself?”
“The handsome one,” he said, and she had to suppress a smile. Malcolm Stewart might be many things, but handsome wasn’t one of them. “How would you describe me?”
She tilted her head, studying him. She didn’t know very much about him—he was a leader of outlaws and a thief, descended from kings and rogues. He liked hyperbole. He’d put a stop to it in no uncertain terms when Lachlan had disrespected her. He had somehow managed to get three very different men to look to him as a leader and had set them to work on chores they didn’t seem to want to do.
“You like discipline,” she said slowly.
He blinked, looking a little startled.
“You’re an outlaw, so it contradicts itself, but I think you value order. Efficiency. You seem to be good at living a makeshift life. You can light a fire with the first strike of a flint and you know how to cook over it, too. I think you were in a far different position once. A soldier, perhaps?”
His expression turned wary.
She bit back a smirk. All of those things were true, but she didn’t mention she’d also seen a tartan in rich dark blue and green peeking out from beneath a pile of clothes during one of her earlier expeditions to the isle. It was standard issue for the most well-known of the Highland regiments.
Her brother Robert had once called her uncanny, but really, she was only observant. It was amazing, all of the things that people missed simply because they didn’t bother to look for them.
“Am I correct?”
“Aye,” he said, staring at the dying fire. “I was a soldier. The Black Watch.” He laughed softly. “It was formed after the 1715 rebellion, ye ken—the clans who were loyal to the king were tasked with keeping order in the Highlands. A century later and I joined a regiment my ancestors hated. Times change, I suppose. And we do what we must.”
There was a wistfulness to his voice, a note that made her lean forward a little, as if she might better understand him if she were closer to him. But she wasn’t sure why she would wish to understand him in the first place. And almost as quickly as the moment came, it was gone.
He laughed, whatever he’d remembered, wh
atever he’d felt, hidden behind a careless smile. “My fair, restless Miss Macpherson. Smart, too. Smart and restless. I’m not certain if they’re safe traits to combine. You might be as much trouble as Lachlan.”
She finished her coffee with a gulp and a grimace and set the empty cup down on the rock. “Don’t compare me to Lachlan.”
“Do you want to help me wash up?” he asked.
No, she didn’t want to spend any more time alone with Malcolm Stewart than she must. Already, she was too aware of those steady, searching hazel eyes. Already, she was too curious about him—how long had he been a soldier? How had he become a thief? What in the world might have happened between one thing and the next?
She pushed to her feet. “I think I shall find Ewan,” she called over her shoulder, some distance away.
Some questions were better left unasked. And unanswered.
Chapter Three
A shadow fell over Mal as he knelt by the creek and rinsed off dirty plates with the cool, clear water. He was intimately acquainted with this particular shadow—it had a looming, persistent quality about it.
“Lachlan,” he greeted amiably. “What can I do for ye?”
“You can’t seriously be thinking about letting her stay.”
Mal sighed, stacked the plates, and stood to face the other man. “I’m not thinking about it. I already decided.”
“You don’t know anything about her.”
He dried his wet hands on his kilt. “I know she can shoot. And she can play. It would be nice to have someone else to play with. Music gets lonely by itself.”
Lachlan gaped at him like he was an idiot. “I can learn to play something, if that’s all you want.”
Mal laughed. “You dislike her that much?”
“I don’t dislike her. I don’t trust her, and neither should you.”
“You aren’t the most trusting sort,” he pointed out. And Mal himself hadn’t decided if he trusted Catriona or not. He liked her, he knew. It wasn’t the same thing.
“So what if she can shoot? Can she keep up with us on a raid? Can she fight, if she needs to? She’s a bit”—he shot Mal a wary glance—“round about the edges.”
