by Paula Quinn
He wanted to believe her. Her wee pixie-like face and large green eyes made her look innocent. But she was fire, warm and curvy against him, captivating him like a sinuous flame, making him forget her claws.
“Do I have yer word?” he asked. He suspected honor meant something to her since she spent so much time talking about it.
She hesitated, and then nodded. “As if a given word meant anything to someone like ye. Aye, ye have it; now let go of me.”
He did as she requested, oddly aware of the emptiness around him when she stepped out of his arms. He leaned against the wall and watched her look down the halls.
“Odd,” she said, “it looks bigger from outside.”
“’Tis. The east wing is closed off.”
She stopped to look at him. “Why?”
“Because I have no use fer it.”
She picked up her steps again and moved toward the long, slightly curved staircase. “What’s up here?”
Annabel’s room. He hadn’t gone inside in two years. “Nothing.” He moved to take her hand and pull her back. “Dinna go up there.”
“Why no’?” she asked, turning to look over her shoulder at the long staircase while he dragged her away. “Is that where ye hoard all the dead bodies?”
“Aye. Do ye read?” he asked, bringing her into the study.
“Do ye?” She cast him an incredulous look.
When she saw the walls lined with hand-carved bookcases, filled with books and various weapons, she grew quiet and reached her fingers out to scan the titles. Prose by Richard Blackmore, the complete works of William Shakespeare, Perrault, Malory, and many more.
“Have ye read these?”
“Not all. Not yet. Why dinna ye sit and read something while I go chop some wood.”
When she nodded, looking a bit awestruck either by his books or that he’d read many of them, he sighed heavily with relief and left the study.
He breathed in the brisk morning air when he stepped outside.
She’d chosen Perrault’s Histoires ou contes du temps passé or Tales and Stories of the Past with Morals. It had been Annabel’s favorite book. He’d read it so many times to her that he almost knew every story from memory.
Was it a sign? And if so, of what?
Chapter Six
Charles Perrault. Mailie thought she knew the name, but none of his stories were familiar. She’d read every book in Camlochlin’s grand library. How had her grandmother not procured this book already?
She sat in the chair—the only one in the study—with the book in her lap and opened its pages. They weren’t dusty or crisp, and there were small strips of wool in between some of them. She opened to one, “The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood.”
She read the first words, Once upon a time, and soon, even the rhythmic crack of MacKenzie’s ax outside the window ceased to exist.
When she was finished, she closed the book with a deep sigh. Were all the tales like this one? Tales of magic and fairies and morals? It was delightful! She had to tell her grandmother about it!
Her captor’s ax came down again. How was she going to escape him? How much wood was he chopping? Did he never tire?
She rose from the comfort of the chair and went to the window. She looked slightly down at the rooftops of two smaller structures laid out below and the beast standing at a chopping block a few inches away. Her gaze grew transfixed on the play of muscles in his back and arms as he yanked his ax free.
How well would he be able to fight her kin if they found them? In truth, Mailie didn’t know for certain that her kin would find her. They had no reason to set their eyes toward Avoch, and if they found one, it wouldn’t be for quite a while.
Luke and her cousins had likely scoured the market and surrounding countryside of Inverness after her disappearance. When they hadn’t found her, they would have sent one of the men back to Camlochlin with Nichola and a call to gather. There could soon be up to two hundred scattered out looking for her, but how long would it take until they found her?
Poor, poor Luke. Their father trusted him and he’d lost her. She didn’t blame him. The beast had been clever to distract them. Still, she knew what it was doing to her brother right now. She knew how difficult it was going to be for him to tell their father when he arrived. And her father would come. She had no doubt of that. He would come as soon as he heard, and somehow he would find her.
Her heart broke for what her abductor was putting her kin through. She wouldn’t forget it.
She’d heard him leave the castle before the sun rose. She’d left her bed, ready to escape, only to discover herself and Ettarre locked in. She’d waited patiently for him to come to the room. Almost two damned hours! She was quick on her feet and quicker with her hands. She tried to outrun him. But he’d caught her and brought her straight back here. She’d wanted to kill him. She’d never wanted anything more. But he was pure muscle. Cradled against him, she couldn’t feel an inch of extra flesh on him. She could never fight him off. How many MacGregors could he take down?
Her thoughts brought her back to when he had captured her in his arms to stop her from attacking him. Pressed close to him, she couldn’t budge. She’d felt his heart thumping against his chest, though he used little effort to contain her. He could have broken her in two, but he hadn’t even appeared angry. In fact, he seemed mildly tempered despite her efforts to anger him.
The Dragon of the Black Isle. What was his tale? Why did he choose to live alone? What had Sinclair offered him to kidnap the daughter of a MacGregor? When was he going to bring her to Sinclair?
He certainly did brood a lot, lost somewhere in a dark place, if his constant scowl meant anything. How had he received his scar? Why didn’t he like children or want anyone around?
“He seems rather sad, dinna ye think, Ettarre?”
Ettarre whined and put her head beneath Mailie’s hand.
“Then again, what would an ogre have to be happy aboot?”
This time Ettarre growled and turned her body around, putting herself in front of Mailie.
“Nae!” a woman shouted, spinning Mailie on her feet to face her. “He didna do it!”
Och, Mailie thought, but he did. This must be Ruth. She was slightly built, surely not heavy enough to withstand a strong wind. Silver strands of hair had escaped her woolen arisaid and fell over wide brown eyes.
“Are ye a MacGregor lass?”
When Mailie nodded, Ruth dropped the satchel she carried and hurried back out.
Mailie stared at the fruit spilling from the bag. Figs. He liked figs.
“Lachlan!” Ruth shouted once outside.
So, Mailie thought, Lachlan had discussed kidnapping her with this woman. His childhood nursemaid. Mailie followed her around the western wall to the yard where he was working. The two cottage-sized open structures behind him were a blacksmith’s forge, with various hammers and chisels hanging on the wall, anvils and other things that looked rather ominous, and a carpentry shed with a workbench and dozens of chisels and saws and other various tools and planes.
“What have ye done?” Ruth admonished him, bracing the wind to reach him. “Ye said ye weren’t goin’ to. Ye’ll have all of the MacGregors upon us. They’ll kill us all!”
“Nae, they will no’!” Mailie told her, stepping forward. “They will only kill him.”
Ruth looked about to faint. The Dragon left his ax in the chopping block and reached for her. “No one is going to die, Ruth,” he assured her in a soothing voice Mailie hadn’t heard from him before. “They willna come here looking fer her. They didna see me. Now go inside before ye become unwell.”
Ruth nodded reluctantly, then reached her fingers up to his strong square jaw. “Ye are Earl of Cromartie, Lachlan. What ye did is beneath ye.”
Aye, Mailie nodded. Beneath him. And to think he was an earl! It was hard to believe.
“Nothing is beneath me,” he said in a low voice Mailie strained to hear. “Ye know that.”
What di
d Ruth know? Mailie had the urge to find out.
Ruth nodded and stepped out from beneath his arm. “There was an incident last eve that needs yer prompt attention.”
He nodded. “I’ll be done here quickly and then ye’ll tell me.”
The older woman still didn’t smile when she turned to Mailie. “This isna him.”
“Ruth.” MacKenzie stopped her from saying anything more in his defense. “Please,” he said, softening his tone, “that’s all fer now.”
Mailie watched Ruth make her way back to the castle and then turned to him. “So who are ye, then?”
He shook his head. “No one.” He returned to the woodpile and took up another log.
“Earl of Cromartie and laird of the Black Isle make ye someone,” she corrected. “Why would a man of yer station do something so vile?”
He didn’t answer.
She strolled past him and glanced around at the two structures. “Ye do everything aroond here yerself?”
“Aye.” He drove the ax into the block, then bent to gather the chopped wood.
Mailie had some idea of what that meant. There were countless things that needed attention: fire, water, food, tools, furnishings, and more. If it needed doing, he had to do it, all with little help.
“Dinna ye get lonely?”
“No.” He tossed her a reproachful look. “I like the quiet.”
She met his gaze with a pitying one of her own. “Shame. Ye’re going to miss it with me here.”
“I already do,” he countered, stacking the wood in front of the shed.
Och, but he riled her nerves and made her want to beat him with his ax. Knowing that would be impossible, she did little to conceal the smirk curling her lips. She was going to enjoy tearing his quiet apart at the seams.
“I imagine ’tis easy fer ye to remain alone,” she said, doing her best to ignore the heat coming from his body when he straightened from stacking the wood directly in front of her.
“Aye,” he murmured, and looked away, turning the left side of his face away from her.
She regretted her words and then cursed herself for doing so. She hadn’t been speaking of his scar but of his menacing demeanor. It was clear that he thought himself physically hideous and that was why he kept to himself. He wasn’t. In fact, his appearance was quite striking. She didn’t tell him though.
“Ye dinna seem like a man who needs much.” She continued talking. She wanted answers and she wanted to irritate him as well. “Why would the Earl of Cromartie help Ranald Sinclair?” When he didn’t answer, she balled her hands into fists. He was infuriating.
“Ye know that if Sinclair doesna tell my kin aboot yer involvement, I will. They will come here fer ye.”
“Then their blood will be on yer hands.”
He might be the strongest, most resilient man Mailie knew, but the right mixture of herbs could take him down in ten heartbeats.
“Yer confidence is both irritatin’ and foolish, MacKenzie. I’ll enjoy watchin’ ye fall.” She swept up her skirts and stormed away.
For a moment or two, she’d seen him as something other than a beast. Someone broken and empty, someone who had a library and read tales about fairies.
But the moment he opened his mouth and spoke against her kin, she remembered who he truly was. A beast void of any integrity or honor. He was…She looked down. Her faithful hound wasn’t there.
“Ettarre?” she called out, looking down the hill. She saw the head of Ruth’s horse peeking out of a small stable. When she saw no sign of her dog, she turned to look behind her.
There, at the feet of her captor, was Ettarre.
Mailie whistled for her. Thankfully, Ettarre came running.
“We shall talk aboot this later,” Mailie warned her, and went searching the castle for Ruth.
She found the nursemaid in the kitchen, emptying her satchel of figs onto the small cutting table. Would Ruth help her? He’d kidnapped a MacGregor and put Avoch in danger after all. Certainly Mailie could use that to her advantage to get the hell out of here. Mayhap also find out what she could about the Dragon Laird. Just how wretched was he to say that nothing was beneath him? She was afraid of him, but was it enough? Would he hurt her?
“Ye care fer him,” Mailie said, and moved closer toward the cutting table.
“He is like a son to me.”
“Ye must be terribly disappointed that he’s done such a dangerous thing.”
Ruth said nothing but began cutting some of the figs into quarters.
“My faither will find me, and when he does—”
Ruth stopped and looked at her, her eyes wide and afraid. “Ye said yer kin wouldna hurt us.”
“They willna,” Mailie was quick to reassure her. “But they will hurt Laird MacKenzie. He likes to think he can fight them all, but he canna, I assure ye.”
Ruth’s faced drained of color. Mailie felt terrible for putting her through this, but none of it was untrue. If Ruth loved MacKenzie like a son, she would keep him alive by helping Mailie escape.
“But what can I do? He willna listen to me,” Ruth lamented.
“That’s certain,” Mailie huffed. He hadn’t listened to her either. Stubborn ogre. “Ye dinna need to tell him anything. Just lend me yer horse.”
“My—” She shook her head and tucked a tendril of gray hair behind her ear. “Nae, gel. He’s a skilled hunter and an expert tracker. He’d find ye, and if no’ him, then someone else even more dangerous might.”
Ruth’s utter certainty that MacKenzie would find her chilled Mailie’s blood, but at least he wasn’t the worst monster there was. At least, not in his maid’s opinion. But he’d said nothing was beneath him. He’d do whatever he needed to do—
“Besides,” Ruth continued, breaking through Mailie’s thoughts, “he’d never forgive me if he’d gone to these lengths and I foiled his plans.”
His plans, to which she was a means to an end. He was going to deliver her to the mad Earl of Caithness in exchange for something. What was it?
Mailie picked up a quartered fig and brought it to her mouth. “What are his plans?”
“He’s lookin’ fer someone.”
Someone. A woman? Whoever she was, she was likely better off without him.
They both heard the front doors creak open as he entered the castle. “That’s all I can say.”
What? Mailie chewed her fig and swallowed it. “Why?” she pressed.
“Never mind any of it,” Ruth said in a hushed tone, and then busied herself with cutting more figs when the laird appeared in the doorway, carrying on his shoulders some of the wood he’d chopped. How strong was he? How dangerous? Was Ruth terrified of him, or fiercely loyal?
He swept his hooded gaze to her, and Mailie felt as if she were being studied like prey. She lifted her hand to her throat and then looked away. He muttered something unintelligible but dangerous sounding nonetheless and brought the wood to the hearth.
“Ruth!” he barked, startling the poor woman. Mailie glared at him. “Are ye going to continue to cut figs or tell me of the incident last eve?”
“So sorry, dear.” Ruth sniffed and pulled a small piece of cloth from her pocket to pat her eyes. “It’s had me shaken all morn.”
“What has?” he asked, stopping his work and straightening to his full height.
“Alice Monroe died last eve. No one knows what happened. One moment she was well and the next she’d fallen over in her chair. The doctor stayed with her all day, but her soul finally crossed. Her family will need tendin’ to.”
How awful that one of his tenants perished while he was off kidnapping her, Mailie thought. He’d likely refuse Ruth’s request.
“Of course,” he agreed without haste. “Whatever they need, they shall have. Let me know as soon as you can.”
Mailie smiled, relieved, then scowled at him again when she caught him studying her. There was nothing about him she liked. He was void of honor, cold and detached, infuriating, and as bold as a rogue.
But there were moments when he didn’t seem so terrible at all.
Chapter Seven
Mailie hadn’t known that Ruth was suffering a loss while she was hounding her a few moments ago with questions and subtle threats. She felt worse than before.
“Was Alice a dear friend?” she asked Ruth gently.
“She’s been a good neighbor since she moved here a few years ago.” Ruth wiped her tears. “She thought well of Lachlan and always had kind things to say aboot him.”
Mailie flicked her gaze to him. What sorts of kind things could one find to say about him, save that he was striking to behold? He shifted in his spot, uncomfortable again at Ruth’s praise. His dark wreath of lashes cast shadows over his eyes, as they seemed to be searching his memory. He clearly didn’t know who Alice Monroe was.
Mailie cast him a look of disgust, to which he replied with an even darker look before he stormed out of the kitchen and slammed the castle doors shut when he left it.
“Ye must see things in him that I dinna see,” Mailie said quietly while Ettarre hurried out of the kitchen after him.
“He is usually less angry,” Ruth supplied, dabbing her nose. “He doesna seem to like ye. Talkin’ too much, I suspect.”
Mailie bristled. He didn’t seem to like her? What a pity that was! She didn’t turn her frustration on Ruth though, not when she’d just lost a friend.
“I didna say anything at all,” she defended herself gently, though she wanted to carry a bowl outside and crack him over the head with it. He liked the quiet, did he? “But I’m goin’ to.” She lifted her skirts over her ankles and took a determined step toward the kitchen door.
“Ye’ll only make him more angry, Miss MacGregor,” Ruth said, trying to stop her.
“So?” She softened her gaze on the nurse. “Why are ye so afraid of him? I know he’s unrefined and ill-mannered—and he did kidnap me—but just how terrible is he?”
“I’m no’ at all afraid of him,” the maid assured her, sounding almost insulted. “Och, he grumbles and shouts from time to time, but he isna himself anymore.” She set her still-misty gaze on the door, as if she could see him through it to where he was. “He hasna been fer a long time. The devil has him in his clutches and he canna seem to break free.”
