Laird of the Black Isle

by Paula Quinn

  How would her brother ever find her? No, he would. He had to.

  “Come,” he said, dismounting. “We’ll rest here until darkness falls, then we’ll continue on.”

  “Why?” she asked, dismounting after him and reaching down to pet Ettarre. Looking around at the golden bay and the boats anchored close to the shore, she already knew the answer. No one was around that she might call out to for help.

  “We’ll avoid the villagers.”

  She aimed her darkest frown at him. “To keep any of them from helpin’ me?” She hated herself for her quavering voice. She was made of tougher stuff than this, wasn’t she? She’d escape him on her own if she had to. Surely Ettarre could lead her home. Dear God, she wanted to go home.

  He blew out an irritated breath, ignoring whatever he heard in her voice. “None of them would help ye. ’Tis just best to keep my distance.”

  Keep his distance? She narrowed her eyes on him. “Why?”

  He scowled at her, and Mailie couldn’t help but notice that his eyes were as bleak as the charcoal sky. “Ye ask too many questions.”

  “And ye avoid them all,” she pointed out, straightening her shoulders and steadying her voice. “But since ye’ve chosen me to be with ye, ye’re goin’ to have to get used to me askin’ them. Why d’ye think the villagers willna help me? Are they afraid of ye?”

  His gaze fell to her chattering teeth. “I dinna see why they would be. I dinna treat them poorly.”

  “I’m sure they appreciate it”—she offered him a stiff smile and then shivered—“because ye certainly are a brute.”

  He didn’t appear to take any offense to her low opinion of him but reached for her arm and led her back to the horse. “’Tis dark enough, I think. The people of the village should be inside by now.”

  “Why d’ye want to keep yer distance? Are ye ashamed of yer scar?”

  His raven locks fell over his brow, adding shadows to his eyes. “Fer hell’s sake, woman, get on the damned horse.”

  She smacked his hands away when he offered her aid, her anger dominating her fear. “Mr. Dragon of the Black Isle, here’s what I know of ye. Ye kidnapped me right from under the noses of my kin. Ye threatened to shoot my dog—”

  “Incorrect.”

  She ignored his protest. “Ye dinna want the villagers to see ye. Ye are no’ the kind of man I want takin’ liberties—”

  He cupped her rump in both hands and hoisted her into the saddle. When he joined her a moment later, she turned, wanting to slap him in the face again. No man had ever been so bold as to touch her so intimately! She wanted to hit him so hard he’d fall off the horse so she could take off with Ettarre. But he’d only chase them on foot.

  “If there’s an uprising against ye while I’m here,” she promised him, staring him straight in the eye, “I willna be on yer side.”

  He looked as if he was trying to contain a smirk of some kind. He probably didn’t care who was or wasn’t on his side. Heartless, careless, dishonorable rogue that he was.

  They entered the village at twilight. Set against the backdrop of snow-dusted hills encircling Avoch on almost three sides, a small church and timber-roofed cottages lined the inner perimeter of the glistening bay. The twinkling light of candle flames and hearth fires lit most windows.

  He rode them to a small house, which Mailie assumed was his. They dismounted, and he tied the horse and then led her away.

  The humble cottage wasn’t his home.

  He pointed up. She squinted her eyes and saw the castle for the first time. It was small in comparison to Camlochlin Castle, but it was a fitting dwelling place for a dragon. Perched high on a hill overlooking the village, its jagged turrets and black stone walls repelled anything of light.

  “Laird MacKenzie?” a voice called out. It was the voice of a boy. “I’m glad to see ye returned safely.”

  So, Mailie thought, listening, her beast was laird here. Why would a laird involve himself in something as nefarious as kidnapping? Should she tell this child and beg him to run home and get help? Did she want to involve a child in this?

  “William, what are ye doing oot here alone? ’Tis getting dark, ye best be running along home now.” He shooed the lad away and tried to step around him. Will didn’t move. “Go on home now,” MacKenzie said with a bit more command.

  Mailie bit her tongue. She couldn’t make out the boy’s face completely, for the sun had almost set, but she could see his narrow shoulders sag with disappointment as he turned to go.

  “Lad, wait,” the laird called out, stopping him. “How did ye know I had gone? Did ye see me before I left?”

  “I came up the hill today and knocked on yer door. Ruth told me ye’d gone.”

  MacKenzie took a step closer to him. “What did ye want that brought ye to my door?”

  The boy turned his head to look toward the village. “I thought”—he returned his attention to his laird—“mayhap ye might need my help around the grounds. I’d be happy to—”

  “William,” MacKenzie growled and hovered high over him. “Here is what I dinna need. I dinna need a child under my feet or snooping aroond my castle. I dinna need anything. If I do, I’ll let ye know. Until then, stay doun here.”

  He continued on up the hill without another word or a look back at the lad.

  “Ye were hard on the boy,” Mailie threw at his back. “He’s obviously fond of ye. Ye should keep any friends ye can manage to procure.”

  “If I let him come once, he’ll be here every day.”

  “So?” Was he honestly so mean tempered that he didn’t want children around? Och, even more reason to hate him.

  “So,” he said, pivoting to her. “’Tis my home, Miss MacGregor. I dinna want people wandering aboot.”

  Wasn’t he their laird? What kind of laird didn’t want to visit with his tenants? Her uncle Rob was laird of Camlochlin, and he was friends with every single person living in the vale.

  They climbed for another ten minutes, and Mailie thought he had to be truly mad not to have his own horse.

  When they finally reached the great wooden doors, she wondered what she was stepping into when she entered the dragon’s lair. The interior of the castle was as dark as the exterior, with the only light to pierce the gloom coming from a few candles and a hearth fire or two from deeper within. Who’d kept the candles lit? Where were his servants? A maid? William mentioned Ruth. Who was she? Did he live here alone? Och, her father and uncles, her brothers, and her cousins were all going to want his blood when they found out he’d compromised her by living alone with her.

  “Follow me and I’ll fix us something to eat.”

  She didn’t want to follow him. She wanted to run the other way. Where would she go? Were all the villagers fond of him? Why in damnation would they be? It was probably wiser if she waited until morning to flee; besides, she and Ettarre were starving. She followed him into a kitchen that was too big to feed just him alone. She assumed by his previous declarations about guests that he didn’t have many.

  She quirked her brow at him when she saw the pot filled with piping hot Scotch broth hanging over the trivet in the hearth. “Are ye wed?”

  “No.”

  “Any servants, hired help?”

  “No.”

  “Who cooked?” she asked, taking a seat at the wooden table he motioned to.

  “Ruth,” he told her, carrying her dish to the table. “She’s my…she was my nursemaid when I was a child. She lives in the village with her family. She visits often.” He shook his head. “Every day,” he corrected. “To…help with things.”

  “Like cookin’ fer ye.” Mailie was tempted to stare at his mouth and his almost endearing unease while he stammered, speaking about something other than mayhem.

  He nodded, tuning away, as if the sight of her made him just as uncomfortable. “She’s gone home fer the night, but the food is still hot.”

  “So only Ruth visits? Ye’re a recluse, then?” Mailie couldn’t believe her
misfortune. He lived completely alone. There was no one to go to. No one to help her, save for possibly his childhood nursemaid. Lovely.

  He served a bowl to Ettarre, who growled at him again, and then he joined Mailie at the table.

  The sight of him knotted up her insides and tempted her to push the bowl away. He’d taken her from her family. She looked around the unfamiliar kitchen, at the beast of a man sitting across the table. How had this happened? She had to do something, and she needed her strength to do it. She forced down a bite. “’Tis verra good,” she said, tasting it and then quirking her mouth at him. “Fertunate fer ye, since it could be yer last meal.”

  “I doubt it,” he muttered, letting his smile deepen.

  His confidence chilled her blood. He was so big, his presence so dominating, it made the kitchen feel small. How would she escape him? Why had he kidnapped her? To what lengths would he go to keep her from her family?

  She might have to kill him before her brother found her.

  Chapter Five

  Lachlan usually got along well with dogs. The gangly mongrel fastened to her mistress’s side was an altogether different story. Ettarre, he thought, a lovely name for such a devilish-looking hound. She was some kind of mix of wolfhounds—or something. Whatever it was, she didn’t like him. She watched him without distraction, every moment he was near, for however long he remained, her dark eyes warning of the beast beneath the steadfast surface. Lachlan wasn’t afraid of her glossy white fangs. She proved herself worthy of his admiration and respect when she’d tracked Mailie through the firth and found them on the other side.

  Her devotion to her woman vouched for Miss MacGregor’s character. But it had nothing to do with why he locked them both inside his bedroom after they ate. He did it because Mailie would run.

  She was a feisty, fiery lass who was slowly driving him mad. It wasn’t her silky, russet waves spilling over her ivory cheeks, or the beauty of her profile against the sunset that made him wish he’d never met her.

  It was her tongue. Her endless questions and tireless reminders of his disreputable character that made him uncertain of whether he could complete this quest.

  He wasn’t used to having people around, or the constant clatter of a voice in his ear. Ruth knew his preference and didn’t try to converse with him unless she felt the need. He’d grown used to the silence, though there had been days after he’d lost his family when he thought the absence of Hannah’s voice—the haunting memories of kissing her, loving her—or Annabel’s laughter ringing through the halls would kill him. After two years, he’d grown to love the silence.

  What would he do if Annabel was alive? The thought of it forced a rush of blood to his heart and made him close his eyes to keep his balance. A wee lass talked more than an older one, didn’t she? He might have to get used to noise.

  Entering his study, he smiled for the first time that day, recalling a few of Miss MacGregor’s feisty tongue-lashings.

  He sat in his cushioned chair before the fire with a cup of whisky and thought about the day, his life, the lass in his bed. Though sleep often eluded him, tonight he found his thoughts too occupied on her rather than the usual things that haunted him, so he picked up a book he’d started two nights ago.

  He awoke several hours later and stretched out the kinks from sleeping in a chair. The sun wasn’t up yet. Without waiting for it, he gathered his coat and cloak, his bow and quiver and left the castle. He headed toward a small forest west of the hill. It felt good to run and release his pent-up anger. Anger at the world for producing men like the ones who took his wife and daughter. Men who would withhold help in possibly finding his daughter for payment of a kidnapped lass. Men who would give up their souls in exchange for their hearts. Men like him.

  He kept his thoughts clear while he brought down two hares and a mallard. Miss MacGregor and her dog would be hungry when they woke up.

  He trekked back to the castle as the sun rose with the MacGregors’ daughter on his mind. What was he going to do with her until he heard from Sinclair? Hell, Lachlan had to send word to Graham, and then the emissary had to contact Sinclair. It could take a month before she was gone! His head began to pound. He hadn’t thought this through. He needed to do that.

  First, he’d prepare breakfast, and then he’d prepare himself to wake her.

  Two hours later, he stood before his bedroom door, holding his key. Breakfast was ready and he was clean. Even his unruly waves were behaving, staying swept over his brow and widow’s peak instead of falling into his eyes.

  He knocked first and then slipped the key into the lock. One turn and twist of the handle and the door came open. He stepped inside his bedroom and then fell to his knees from the force of a blow to his groin he never saw coming. While he was down, she snatched one of the wooden boxes from his chest of drawers and smashed it over his head, then dashed away, her hound at her heels.

  Lachlan pushed himself to his knees. Damn it, his head was going to hurt later. The rest of him hurt now. He had to move. He had to retrieve her. It wouldn’t be difficult. He just had to get up from the floor. When he did, he ran after her, shaking off the effects of her attack. It didn’t take him long to track and find her running down the rocky hill. It did, however, cost him more work than he’d expected to catch her. She was quick on her feet, darting like a hare over rocks and patches of snow.

  But he caught her. She’d turned and saw him coming. She’d given it one last burst of strength and determination, but she finally slowed. He swept her feet off the ground and turned to stare down Ettarre as she moved to bite him. The hound halted and ducked her head in submission.

  Thankfully, Miss MacGregor was so strapped for breath she didn’t fight him while he carried her back up the hill and into the castle. She seemed a bit defeated, cradled in his arms. He felt sorry for her and quickly pushed those feelings away. He wasn’t about to go soft now when there was a chance his daughter was alive and needed him. He deposited his captive into one of two chairs in front of the kitchen table and walked around her to sit on the other side.

  She tucked her auburn tresses behind her ears, swiped something at her cheek, and looked down at her plate of rabbit and duck cooked with figs and doused in cold wild berry sauce. “I’m no’ hungry.”

  “Eat,” he grumbled at her. She had her breath back.

  “Are ye deaf as well as heartless? I would call ye an animal, but ye’re worse than any untamed thing. Ye dinna even like children!”

  He looked up from his plate. “I never said I didna like them. I just…I dinna want all that…I dinna need com—”

  “Ye dinna want them aroond,” she finished for him, and looked at him as if he were too dimwitted to speak for himself.

  How was he supposed to agree with that without sounding like what she had called him? He looked out the window instead.

  “I dinna want anyone aroond.”

  “Why?” she asked. He closed his eyes and prayed for patience.

  “Eat,” he tried again. “Even Ettarre gives up her post fer food.”

  Mailie shook her head but then looked down at her dog licking the plate Lachlan had set out for her.

  She looked at her plate again and then drew in a sigh of resignation and dipped her spoon to her breakfast.

  Thankfully, she was quiet while she ate, which took a little time since she ate everything he’d given her.

  “So when will ye tell me yer plan?” she asked right after she tapped her mouth with her napkin.

  He was still working on it, but there were things he needed to find out first.

  “Do ye love Ranald Sinclair?”

  She sat back in her chair and ran her hand over Ettarre’s shaggy head. “He’s a madman. I take no shame in sayin’ he frightens me. I was first introduced to him a couple of years ago in Portree. He was charmin’ and well-mannered, but there was something about him that made my skin crawl a little. I wasna interested. He hovered aboot me, making subtle innuendos that he would have
me. He put my nerves on edge. He began sending my faither missives. He even invited my brother Luke and my cousin Adam to Caithness.”

  Lachlan could understand why Sinclair would see her and want her. Her bonny ginger tresses fell loose down her back like a fiery mantle. She possessed proud, braw airs, and a slight, feminine frame. But he hated Sinclair even more for frightening her.

  “They went,” she continued. “They discovered that Sinclair loved whisky and women, striking his servants, and cheating at cards. He boasted, while deep in his cups, of exactin’ revenge on his enemies no matter how long it took, and made a promise to kill his own cousin for tarnishin’ his name. His proposal of marriage was refused but he continued to offer it. And now, he’s had me kidnapped. Ye ask me if I love him. Do ye think I’d love a man like that?”

  No, he didn’t. He shook his head.

  “Does it make any difference?” she asked.

  He didn’t want to say it, but it was better that she knew the truth. “No, it makes no difference.”

  She bounded from her chair and glared at him. “Fer all yer bulk, there is nothin’ to ye!” She spun on her heel and stormed off.

  Lachlan thought she was trying to escape again and took off after her. He caught her by the arm but she swung the other one at him. To stop her from gouging out his eyes, he pulled her hard against him and closed his arms around hers, pinning them to her sides.

  He knew it was a terrible mistake almost instantly, for her body fit too well pressed to his. It had been a long time since he’d held a woman in his arms. Never had one struggled against him. He didn’t know how to handle her or how to stop her. Her struggles served only to accentuate her slight form in his arms and his ability to overpower her.

  “Am I no’ allowed to walk aboot freely?” she had the boldness to ask after just having tried to escape.

  “Not if ye’re going to run.”

  She stopped struggling and looked up into his eyes. “I willna run.”