The Taming of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  “Oh, anything, really. I’ve loved everything I’ve eaten here in the Highlands with the possible exception of—”

  “We dinnae make fine food.” He chopped the fish’s head off with a whack of his enormous knife. “Here in my kitchen, we make proper Scottish fare.”

  “Yes, I—”

  “’Tis what keeps ye warm in the long bluidy winters.” He slapped a second trout onto the worktable. “The long nights turn a man’s ballocks into frozen baubles fit for naught but clangin’ together like two wee pebbles in a saggin’ sporran.”

  She firmed her lips against a smile. “So, it gets cold here, you say?”

  He snorted. “Ye’ll see.” A third fish landed. Splat, slice, sweep, chop. “Ye’ll be thankin’ me.” He waved his knife in the direction of her waist. “Add a wee bit there. Aye, ye’ll be grateful.”

  Next, she met the housekeeper, a charming orange-haired Scotswoman with four daughters, two sons, and eighteen grandchildren. Mrs. Grant’s bulky height and broad shoulders might be intimidating if not for her kindly smile. As she led Kate upstairs, she explained, “The MacPhersons started buildin’ this house several years past when the distillery became the largest in the county. They employ most of the lads here in the glen. Angus and his sons finished the top floor whilst Broderick was … away last winter.”

  “Oh, are there more bedchambers upstairs?”

  “Aye, a few, along with sleepin’ quarters for the staff. And a nursery.” The housekeeper’s tone quieted. “I think ’twas Angus’s idea.”

  As she opened the door into a large chamber at the rear of the house, Kate wandered in, distracted by Mrs. Grant’s trove of information about the MacPherson men—one in particular. “So, Mr. MacPherson—Broderick, I mean—didn’t intend to have a large family?”

  “Och, no. When he hired me last year, he said his house must be fit for entertainin’ government men with hunts and such. His aim was to secure a distillery license, nae a wife.” Mrs. Grant folded her hands at her waist. Her smile softened into fondness. “Never kenned a lad so single-minded.”

  “Yes, I noticed a similar …” Just then, Kate caught a glimpse of the view from two large windows on the back wall. She drifted toward them, blinking. “Is that another loch?” Water glimmered silvery gray beyond the thick canopy of pine and birch.

  “More a wee tarn, but aye. ’Tis where McInnes finds his trout, most days.”

  It was splendid—a hidden gem nestled in a cradle of wooded hills. When she’d ridden up the long, winding lane earlier, she’d imagined her new home would be a small hunting lodge, rustic and rough. Not this magical place.

  She turned to ask Mrs. Grant another question but lost her breath when she spied the bed. Oh, dear. It must be eight feet square with a deep mattress as high as her waist. The smooth posts were pinewood, whorled and stained golden. The blankets were coppery MacPherson wool. Quickly, she scanned the rest of the room. A chest of drawers in the same pinewood. A washstand with a yellow glazed pitcher and basin. A fireplace of the same stone she’d seen inside the castle.

  This was not just any bedchamber. This was his. She imagined lying beside him in that enormous bed. When she’d stood outside with her hands upon his chest earlier, the thought hadn’t seemed quite so intimidating. Something about his warmth or scent, perhaps. He’d smelled heavenly.

  Mrs. Grant cleared her throat. “Shall I ask the lads to move yer trunks in here, m’lady?”

  Kate’s stomach swooped. Her skin flashed hot. “N-no, I think another chamber would be best.”

  “Very well.” Had the housekeeper’s tone gone colder? “There are two more on this floor. Four upstairs.”

  Gaze still riveted to the bed, Kate nodded. The scent in here was wonderful: wool and woodfire and hints of the cool, herbaceous aroma she now recognized as his. She spied one of his coats draped over the back of a large chair near the fireplace. Suddenly, it felt too intimate. Would he want her in here? Of course not. He didn’t want her in his life, let alone in his bedchamber. She sighed. How did she entangle herself in such messes?

  Mrs. Grant sniffed and gestured to the corridor. “This way, m’lady.”

  Kate followed, but something made her turn back, a squeeze of longing she couldn’t explain. With a last peek at the beauty beyond the windows, she reluctantly trailed after the housekeeper, who was already opening a door at the opposite end of the long corridor. Kate’s chest went tight.

  No. Too far away.

  Where had that thought come from? She didn’t know, but it was strong. Insistent. She should sleep here, the impulse demanded. Her skirts brushed the door of the chamber next to his. Her hand settled on the latch. She opened it, uncaring of what she’d find. It was smaller than the master bedchamber, of course, and less furnished. The bed was plainer and sized for a human rather than a giant. A writing desk sat beneath the long window. “Mrs. Grant!” she called.

  A moment later, the housekeeper hovered in the doorway.

  “This one, I think.”

  White-laced red brows arched. “As ye wish, m’lady.”

  “And I should prefer to be called Mrs. MacPherson.”

  The frost in Mrs. Grant’s expression eased. She nodded. “I’ll inform the household.”

  After exploring the third story, which remained empty but had the loveliest view of the small lake behind the house, Kate wandered back outside to see if Dougal had arrived yet. Instead, she found an old woman with wiry gray hair and one milky eye muttering to the row of saplings someone had planted in front of the house.

  Wondering if the woman was a MacPherson relation or perhaps part of the household staff, she approached with a cautious, “Good morning.”

  The old woman turned. “Och, lass. I’ve seen snails cross a pasture faster than ye arrive after ye’ve been summoned.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Aye, well ye should.”

  Kate glanced behind her. “Have we met?”

  “Nae time for that rubbish.” The old woman dug into a pouch fastened around her waist. She tossed a dried weed and a strip of leather on the ground. “Where did I put it?”

  “Er, have you seen Mr. MacPherson about, by chance? Broderick, I mean.” Kate debated whether retrieving Mrs. Grant was in order. This woman appeared a bit senile. “I seem to have lost him.”

  “Not yet, lass. And if I have aught to say about it, ye willnae. Now, where the devil did I—ah!” A gnarled hand held out a corked brown vial triumphantly. “Here.”

  Kate examined the vial. It had a small label marked with an M. The other letters were too smeared to read. “What is this?”

  “A tonic for the laddie’s stoat.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  The woman clicked her tongue and waggled the vial. “Put it in his tea. Then brace yerself, lass. That beastie willnae remain shy for long. I recommend a wee bit of salve. For the chafin’, ye ken.” She dug inside her pouch again and offered a small tin.

  Kate’s dear friend Francis was fond of elaborate jests, and if Francis were here, she’d suspect this was meant to make her laugh. But nobody was here, apart from this peculiar woman and her peculiar talk about weasels and chafing. Perhaps if they started again, the woman would realize she was speaking to a perfect stranger.

  “I think there’s been a small misunderstanding. I am Katherine MacPherson, Broderick MacPherson’s wife. And you are?”

  “Mary MacBean, maker of potions and cures for ailments of every sort. I ken who ye are, lass. ’Tis you that needs the introduction. What took ye so long?”

  “Long?”

  “Two years, I’ve been callin’ ye.”

  “Calling?”

  She grasped Kate’s hand and slapped the vial and tin into her palm. “Think ye every English lass has a yearnin’ for tartan and bagpipes?” She snorted. “Aye, who doesnae love music that sounds like two cats tuppin’ inside a rain barrel?”

  Kate
blinked. She didn’t know what to say, so she pocketed the items the old woman had given her and said the first thing that came to mind. “Sarcasm is the lowest form of humor.”

  “Hmmph. Ye havenae heard McInnes’s joke about the Irish priest, then.”

  Kate started to ask what the devil was going on when a cart driven by Dougal and his two cousins turned out of the woods and rounded toward the house. A curricle carrying Annie and Janet appeared behind them, followed by John on horseback.

  “Thank heaven,” Kate breathed. Sanity, at last.

  A few minutes later, as Kate greeted everyone, Broderick emerged onto the drive from the western wood with two young men. Immediately, they set to work helping Dougal unload the cart.

  All the men demonstrated impressive strength, but Kate’s attention focused upon Broderick. Heavens, for a man so badly injured, he was … she hadn’t the words. Astounding? No, breathtaking. Yes, that was it. Light rain had dampened his hair, turning it even darker. Beneath his breeches, muscles swelled and rippled as he heaved her heaviest trunk onto his shoulder and carried it by himself into the house.

  He didn’t glance at her as he passed, but she inhaled deeply, hoping for more of that faint, cooling scent.

  “… think Janet should remain here.”

  Perhaps it was his soap or something he ate. Perhaps the scent was simply part of his skin.

  “She doesnae mind, and I suspect Broderick will give ye nae trouble over the expense.”

  Kate wondered if she should follow him inside to ensure all the trunks were placed properly. Yes, she probably should. Then, she could ask him if he thought their marriage would be more believable if they shared a bedchamber. What if he said yes? Or, rather, “aye” in that deep, graveled brogue that made her nape tingle.

  “… best solution, in the end. Dinnae ye agree, English?”

  “No,” said John. “But, then, my opinion hasn’t mattered very much thus far, has it?”

  “Dinnae be cross. She’s his wife. She belongs here.”

  “Right. I’ll let you explain that to Mama. I’m certain she’ll be mollified by assurances that her youngest daughter, who wed an oversized Scot with a potential murder charge hanging over his head, will now be living as far from her maternal embrace as it is possible to go whilst remaining in Britain.”

  “Nah, she could go farther. Orkney. Now, there’s a place ye dinnae visit intentionally. Ye’re either born there, searchin’ for herring, or ye’re lost. Mayhap all three.”

  Kate wrapped a curl around her finger and considered the question of how much wifeliness Broderick might tolerate. Would he be willing to let her manage the household? Should she want to? She did have a few ideas about draperies and a carpet for the dining room. Would he like that? Or would he resent her even more?

  “Katie-lass, I thought I saw Mrs. MacBean when we arrived. She’s been away this past month visitin’ her sister in Nairn, and Angus is out of liniment. I cannae bear his crabbit complaints any longer. Do ye ken where she’s gone?”

  Broderick emerged through the door, instructing one of his men and pointing to the cart. His gaze flickered to Kate briefly before he continued past her.

  Would Munro believe Kate had lain with a man like Broderick if she hadn’t? She considered the question while taking the full measure of his shoulders, tapered hips, and thick arms. Extremely doubtful, she concluded. A woman could not lie with a man like Broderick MacPherson and remain unchanged.

  “Kate!”

  Her head snapped up at John’s glowering snap. “Yes?”

  “What is wrong with you?”

  Her cheeks tingled. “Nothing whatever.”

  He glared between her and Broderick. Without a word, he started toward Broderick with purposeful strides.

  “Oh, no. John—”

  Annie looped her arm through Kate’s and nudged her toward the house. “Let’s see about settlin’ ye into yer new home.”

  Kate twisted to watch as her brother entered a tense conversation with Kate’s somewhat-husband. “I should really—”

  “Nah, ye should come inside and let yer brother have his say.” Annie gave her another tug. “’Tis a miracle he’s restrained himself this long.”

  Frowning at her sister-in-law, Kate released an irritated breath. “None of this has anything to do with John.”

  Annie raised a brow. “No? He’s responsible for ye, lass. Yer parents entrusted ye to his care. Now, look what’s happened.”

  “I’m fine.” She pulled away, her temper flashing.

  “Are ye?”

  “Yes.” Before she could think better of it, she spoke the truth she hadn’t told anyone: “I am glad for what happened.”

  Annie glanced over her shoulder toward the cart then back to Kate. Her brow crinkled. Slowly, her eyes took on a hint of pity. “Ah, lass. Dinnae say it. Already?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Stop looking at me like that.”

  “Ye’re not the first, ye ken. He’s had to discourage so many, I’m surprised he doesnae have a herd of heartsick lasses trailin’ him about the countryside with buckets of rose petals.”

  “If you’re implying I’m in love with him, you could not be more wrong.” Kate lowered her head to confess, “That is why he suits me so well.”

  “Hmm.”

  That skeptical frown called for Shakespeare. “‘Love goes by haps. Some Cupid kills with arrows, some with traps.’ But I choose neither. Cupid must find his target elsewhere.”

  Silence and an arched brow.

  “Stop saying that.”

  “I didnae say anythin’.”

  Kate blew out a breath. “Let’s go inside.”

  “Aye. Mayhap we’ll find Mrs. MacBean. And mayhap she’ll make a wee bit more sense than you do at the moment.”

  As a general rule, Broderick liked John Huxley. The Englishman’s nature was good-humored, steady, and honorable. He’d made Annie happier than she’d ever been. He’d saved Broderick’s life and aided the MacPhersons in numerous ways.

  Presently, however, Broderick fought the urge to shove his brother-in-law hard enough to put his arse in the mud.

  “If she hadnae blackmailed me, she’d be back in England where she belongs.” He stacked two small trunks together and handed them to one of his men, who grunted at the weight. “Mayhap ye should be havin’ this discussion with her instead.”

  “Kate’s led a sheltered life. Her innocence is part of her charm, but it makes her vulnerable.” Huxley propped his elbows on the side of the cart and gave Broderick a hard stare. “You must protect her, not least from herself.”

  Exasperated, Broderick scoffed. “What would ye have me do? Lock her in her bedchamber?”

  “Don’t bother. Before you’ve pocketed the key, she’ll have convinced you to give it to her for safekeeping.”

  Broderick almost laughed. An accurate assessment. And wasn’t that the problem?

  Huxley’s eyes turned thoughtful. Concerned. “I don’t know where this infernal determination to remain in Scotland is coming from.” He seemed to struggle for words before continuing, “You must understand, Kate is … a pure delight. Fanciful, yes. A bit obsessive. She overestimates her talents, particularly singing. But she’s clever and loyal and, above all, kind. Blackmailing you? Refusing to listen to reason? Marrying without so much as a word to our parents? No. This is quite unlike her.”

  Broderick frowned. He’d assumed she was a bored, frivolous young woman with poor impulse control. He hadn’t considered that she was acting out of character. “Is there somethin’ she’s avoiding in England? Somethin’ she doesnae wish to return to?”

  “Not that I’m aware of.” Huxley sighed. “Her letters over the past year have been a bit desperate, but my mother said her most recent season was a great success. Numerous suitors. She could have married ten different times, by all accounts. Kate wraps men round her finge
r as easily as a lock of her hair. Remarkable, given that it’s unintentional.”

  Gut burning, Broderick shoved away from the cart. “That’s the last of it,” he barked at his men, who were chatting nearby. “Back to the fences.”

  Huxley followed him as he started toward the house. God, he wished John would stop blethering about Kate and how many damned suitors she’d wrapped around her finger. For some reason, it raked his temper over hot coals. “What do ye want from me, Huxley?”

  “Your word,” he said quietly. “That you will protect her.”

  “I’ve other priorities. Ye ken that very well.”

  “She must take precedence.”

  “I cannae promise such a thing.” Lockhart came first. Finding Lockhart. Killing Lockhart. “She’ll nae be safe until he’s dead. None of us will.”

  “I do understand. And I will help in whatever way you require.” Huxley stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “But she belongs to you now.”

  The statement hit him like a boot to the belly. “Nah,” he breathed.

  “Yes.” Huxley’s eyes were hard. Direct. “It’s not fair. You deserved to choose your own wife. Bloody hell, that’s the least of what you deserved. But that is not what’s happened.” His hand tightened over Broderick’s shoulder blade until the force was bruising. “My baby sister might be vexing. She might make your head spin with her nonsense. But she is yours, and you will take care of her. Do we understand one another?”

  Broderick’s jaw hardened, along with his gut. He grasped Huxley’s wrist and forced it away. “Fine,” he growled. “Ye want me to say it? She’s mine.” An odd sensation rippled over his skin. Hot. Pleasurable. He ignored it. “Now, kindly take yer men and yer wife and leave me alone with my bride.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Kate dusted her nine-volume collection of Shakespeare’s dramatic works and listened to Janet’s soliloquy about Stuart’s fine head of hair. Annie and John had departed hours ago, and Kate had spent the afternoon unpacking with Janet and Mrs. Grant. Presently, they were in the library adding her books to the bare shelves.