The Highlander's Lost Lady

by Anna Campbell

  “Good evening, John.” He struggled to sound as if nothing important had happened. “Aye. It turned out she was on the run from her husband and bairn.”

  John’s response was thoughtful, rather than surprised. “So you know her name now.”

  “Fiona.” He made himself go on, although giving his mermaid her marital name tasted like vinegar on his tongue. “Fiona Grant. Her husband and his brother took her away.”

  Now John looked troubled. “And you let them?”

  “What the hell else could I do?” Diarmid made an angry gesture, although he couldn’t have said whether his resentment was directed toward the Grants, his deceitful former guest, or his friend. He had a sick feeling that most of all, he was angry with himself.

  How had he been so easy to dupe, when he had such good reason to mistrust beautiful women? How could he still be regretting that she’d gone?

  “There was nae question she was the lass they were looking for. They gave me a description when they turned up. Anyway, the moment she saw them, it was clear that she knew who they were.”

  John came further into the room. “So she went willingly?”

  His gut knotted with guilt he shouldn’t feel, as he recalled Mrs. Grant’s violent resistance to departing with her kin. “I wouldnae say that.”

  John didn’t remark on the girl’s eagerness to escape, but Diarmid could see his friend adding that fact to the picture he built in his cool, scientific mind. “So she regained her memory?”

  His lips twisting in bitter humor, Diarmid dropped into a chair. “I’d wager half of Invertavey that she never lost it.”

  “She put up such an elaborate masquerade. There must have been a good reason.”

  Diarmid paused to note that John didn’t argue about the false amnesia. “Aye, doubtless a lover somewhere. There usually is.”

  John’s expression didn’t ease, as he stepped toward the sideboard. “If you want a medical opinion, you look like you need a wee dram.”

  “No’ so wee,” Diarmid admitted with a heavy sigh.

  The silence that fell wasn’t entirely easy. John poured the whiskies and settled in the chair opposite.

  Not even the liquor’s warmth melted the cold, sick feeling in Diarmid’s belly. For God’s sake, what was his problem? He’d done exactly what the law demanded. The girl deserved neither his good opinion nor his help.

  “The lassie wasn’t wearing a wedding ring,” John said.

  “Wedding rings can be removed, or she might have lost it in the wreck.” Diarmid scowled at his friend. “I have nae doubt she’s who the Grants say she is.”

  “Oh, I’m sure she is. But we still don’t know why she ran away.”

  “Dinna look at me like that. We ken she’s a liar. Worse, she stole from me. I caught her with a bundle of money just before she went, and she certainly didnae have that on her when she arrived.”

  He still flinched to recall that appalling moment when the handkerchief full of money had tumbled from her pocket. The strangely pathetic bundle still sat disregarded on the corner of the desk. He hadn’t had the stomach to open it up and see just how much she’d taken.

  “She must have been desperate,” John said in what Diarmid recognized as a carefully neutral voice.

  “Desperate to escape her responsibilities.”

  To his relief, John didn’t remark on the similarity with his mother. John didn’t have to. It was brutally obvious.

  This silence was as uncomfortable as the last one.

  Eventually Diarmid broke it. “She was their kinswoman, the younger Grant’s wife. I had nae right to keep her here.”

  “Except the right of care.” John’s gray gaze was stark. “She was in trouble. Whatever else you think of her, you must see that much was true.”

  “Trouble of her own making,” Diarmid growled, even as renewed guilt added a sour flavor to the words.

  Although he doubted she’d spoken one true word since she’d arrived at Invertavey, he couldn’t forget the expression in her eyes when she’d thanked him for taking her in. The dread and despair—aye, and grim courage, much as right now he didn’t want to credit her with any finer qualities—in those azure depths still haunted him.

  “Did she offer any explanations for her behavior?”

  “No, although when she tried to run, that told me her feelings about going back to her family.”

  “And what breed of men were the Grants? Mags wasn’t too impressed.”

  “You’ve lived in this glen long enough to ken nobody called Grant will ever be welcome among my clansmen.”

  “Aye.”

  John and his blasted silences. Eventually Diarmid answered, although by God, he didn’t want to. “They didnae strike me as…kind.”

  “Diarmid…”

  He stood and prowled across to slam his crystal glass down on the sideboard with a loud crack. “Hell, she’s gone. Let that be an end to it.”

  “It’s not, though, is it?” John said slowly from behind him. “You’re not happy you let her go.”

  “She belongs to them.”

  “I don’t believe in ownership of people, whether man or woman.” He paused. “And neither do you.”

  “What the devil can I do, plague take ye?” His hands fisted on the polished mahogany. “It’s over.”

  John shifted to stand beside him. “At this time of year, there’s plenty of light. And there’s only one road out of Invertavey and one inn where a traveler can pass the night if he’s headed north.”

  “Are ye suggesting I go in with all guns blazing and rip the woman away from her lawful husband? And what in heaven’s name do I do with the lassie then?” He squashed completely unacceptable fancies of luring her to his bed and burying himself and his turbulent reactions in her pale body.

  John shrugged, unimpressed by Diarmid’s heated tone. “What you do with her depends on what you find when you catch up with the Grants.”

  “I might find her relieved to be on her way home.”

  He didn’t believe that for a moment. The flare of primitive panic in her face when she saw her kin had been unmistakable.

  Diarmid hated a faithless woman more than he hated anything else on earth. He should be saying good riddance to the lying baggage. But that fear had been too stark to forget. Its memory had tortured him since she’d left.

  “She was a gallant creature.” It was as though John peered into Diarmid’s mind.

  “She was a liar and a thief.”

  “But brave for all that. She was in a dreadful state when you brought her in, yet I heard not one word of complaint from her.”

  That was true, damn it. Diarmid couldn’t help recalling how stoically she’d borne her pain that first night, when he’d been alone with her.

  “Aye, she was brave.” Despite everything, his voice softened.

  “If she was as scared of the Grants as you say, that indicates she had cause.”

  “She’s the man’s bloody wife,” Diarmid bit out, knowing he fought a losing battle, but not quite ready to admit it.

  “That doesn’t give her husband the right to mistreat her.”

  Diarmid at last turned to face his tormentor—and close friend. “It does under the law, ye know.”

  John’s lips tightened. “Then the law is an ass.”

  And so, Diarmid feared, was he. It was all very well for John to urge him to pursue Mrs. Grant, but he was dangerous to her, too. His honor offered frail defense against lust.

  He wondered what his friend would say, if Diarmid confessed his wicked yearning. John wouldn’t be so quick to advise him to ride after her like a knight on a quest, then, by Jove.

  But as he met that calm, understanding gaze, he had a nasty suspicion that his yen for the bonny deceiver was no secret. Shame spiced the uncomfortable mixture of emotions roiling in his gut.

  “Ye forget there’s a bairn.”

  “I knew she’d given birth.”

  “Ye never told me.”

  “She
was my patient. She has the right to her privacy. There was also a mark on her finger that hinted she once wore a wedding ring.”

  Diarmid scowled. “And ye never told me that either?”

  “There were bruises, too.”

  “Of course there were blasted bruises. She’d just been through a shipwreck.”

  John shook his head. “These were older, from what I could tell.”

  Queasiness set up home in his stomach. The thought of anyone lifting a hand to that graceful girl made him want to vomit. “Oh, hell.”

  “So you’re going after them?”

  Impatience tightened Diarmid’s lips. He was taking on a world of trouble, and God knew where it would all end up. In a mess the size of bloody Scotland, he could already predict with grim certainty.

  He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. Bleak resolution weighted his voice as he responded. “Aye, I’m going after them.”

  Chapter 9

  Diarmid crept along the shadowy upstairs corridor at the Thistle Inn. The hostelry was three hours north of Invertavey, and he’d spent the whole ride wondering if he was about to make a huge fool of himself.

  He still wasn’t convinced he should be here, but once John told him—too blasted late—about Mrs. Grant being beaten, all choice was gone. The idea of someone striking that girl made him blind with rage. And he was accounted the most even-tempered of men. If he’d known about the violence before the Grants turned up on his doorstep, they’d have received a very different reception.

  So far, his luck had held. The evening had stayed bonny, and Sigurn had made braw speed along the narrow road. Rose Hulme, the landlord’s wife, had been born a Mactavish, so she’d asked no awkward questions when he expressed an interest in a party of two older gentlemen and a younger lady stopping overnight on their way north.

  His luck had held there, too. The Grants were famously parsimonious with their blunt, but on this occasion they’d decided to pay for a room. Even if only one for all three of them.

  Diarmid had arrived at the Thistle about an hour after his quarry did. Why should they rush? They had no reason to fear pursuit, or to imagine that the man who had so easily handed the lassie over now intended to take her back.

  Back to where, God alone knew.

  He’d waited in the kitchens, praying that the Grants would be hungry enough to pay for a meal and that they’d leave Mrs. Grant upstairs alone. He relied on them wanting to deprive her of any opportunity to appeal for help in the taproom. It was a frail enough hope, and not the end of the world if it didn’t come to pass. If he didn’t catch the girl alone here, he’d track her further north. Somewhere on the road, he’d see his chance to steal her away. When Rose told him the two Grant brothers had come downstairs to eat, Diarmid had asked her to delay them as long as possible.

  The Grants’ room was at the end of the building, only a few steps from the servants’ stairs. When he tried the door, it was locked. Fortunately Rose had given him a key.

  He hoped to hell Mrs. Grant didn’t scream when he barged in on her.

  He hoped to hell she was alone.

  He hoped to hell she hadn’t changed her mind about wanting to break away from her family.

  When he opened the door, the room was shadowy with late summer light. This far north at this time of year, it never got completely dark.

  At first, Diarmid wondered if the room was empty. Then he heard a muffled whimper from the corner.

  When he located the girl tethered to the bed like an animal, the anger that had sustained him this far spiked. The Grants were lucky they were downstairs, because at that instant, he was ready to do murder.

  Hands shaking with rage, he strode forward and ripped the gag away from her mouth. “Mrs. Grant, are ye all right?”

  Blue eyes huge with astonishment stared up at him. “Mr. Mactavish, what on earth are you doing here?”

  Her voice was dry and scratchy, he imagined from having her mouth covered with what he now saw was a rough linen neck cloth.

  “I’m taking ye away.” He started to tug at the knots on the ropes lashing her to the bed.

  “But you gave me up to them.”

  “Bugger.” He gave up on knots that would do justice to a sailor and slid his dagger from his belt. “I shouldnae have.”

  “But you must hate me. I lied to you. I stole from you.”

  “Aye, ye did,” he said grimly. “That’s something we’re going to talk about. But no’ here and no’ now.” With a couple of ruthless movements, he cut the bonds attaching her hands to the posts on the headboard.

  “They’ll kill me if I run away again.” Her flat tone robbed the statement of all melodrama.

  Diarmid set his jaw against a resurgence of killing rage and slid the hem of her plain gray gown up just far enough to allow him to cut the ropes around her feet.

  “Ye dinnae want to come with me?”

  When she tried to sit up, he realized she must have been tied up for a couple of hours. The awkward position had left her stiff and clumsy. Despite Diarmid’s urgency, his touch was gentle as he helped her onto the edge of the bed.

  “Don’t be a fool.” Her familiar wry smile contrasted with the dried tearstains on her wan cheeks. “Of course I do.”

  Despite all the evil he knew of her, he couldn’t help smiling back. John was right. She was brave. Her courage touched his heart in a way he knew was dangerous.

  Any delay was risky, but he filled a glass with some water and passed it to her.

  “Thank you,” she murmured in a croaky voice.

  As she drank, he inspected her for signs of injury. “Have they harmed ye?”

  “Not yet.” Her lips turned down with more of that grim humor, as she returned the empty glass. “They’re storing up my punishment until we’re back at Bancavan and there’s no chance of interference.”

  Fury prevented him from speaking. He set the glass on the chest of drawers with a crack.

  How could anyone hit this beautiful woman? The idea made him nauseous.

  With difficulty, he swallowed the knot of outrage blocking his throat and held out his hand. “Can ye walk?”

  “Believe me, if it means getting away from the Grants, I can fly.”

  More courage. It made her so blasted irresistible. Her courage, and her spellbinding beauty. He’d wondered if knowing of her faithlessness might weaken her power over his senses. It turned out there was no chance of that.

  She accepted his hand and lurched to her feet with reckless speed. He barely had time to register the tingling warmth of her touch, before she stumbled.

  Without thinking, Diarmid caught her up against him. In a flash, he was back in the Chinese Room at Invertavey with a sweetly scented woman clasped in his arms.

  A storm of impressions flooded his mind. She still smelled like the soap she used at Invertavey—and horses and a trace of sweat. Those Grant bastards hadn’t even given her a chance to wash before they tied her up. Even more than that, she smelled like Miss Nita.

  That alluring scent had woven itself through his dreams ever since he’d met her. Dreams where honor held no sway, and she arched up in welcome as he thrust hard inside her. Dreams where that pale blond hair floated around him like a veil of silk and he knew nothing except how much he wanted her.

  She gasped and stiffened in his hold, although God forgive him, he took a few seconds to register her resistance. Azure eyes shadowed with exhaustion darted up to his face.

  He saw more than weariness. He saw alarm.

  What a savage he was. Self-disgust loosened his grip on her.

  “Nae need to be frightened, Mrs. Grant.” He shifted away and spoke in the soothing tone he’d use to a nervous horse. “I’m only here to help ye.”

  He hoped to Hades it wasn’t a lie.

  For days, he’d battled his craving for this woman. After today, she was even more out of bounds. Now he knew she was another man’s wife, and she’d given him even fewer reasons to trust her than he’d had befor
e the Grants took her away.

  But every time he was with her, he learned the bitter lesson that principles and propriety offered no defense against desire.

  “I still don’t know why you should,” she said, and he cursed the husky edge to her voice. It put him in mind of her murmuring seductive promises in bed.

  “Save your questions for when we’re safe.” With her so unsteady on her feet, he kept hold of her slender waist. “I’ve got the landlord’s wife doing her best to keep your kin downstairs, but I fear they’re no’ men to linger over their dinner and leave their captive unsupervised.”

  Her lips tightened. “No.”

  “Are ye able to stand without help?”

  He hoped to blazes she was. Touching her like this tested every ounce of his willpower.

  “Aye.”

  He let her go.

  She staggered.

  He caught her arm. “Damn it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Nae need. You’re still no’ recovered from the wreck.”

  “I can make it. I can make it to wherever you take me. Please…” The delicate throat moved as she swallowed. Desperation glittered in her eyes. “Please don’t leave me here.”

  Despite everything, a smile tugged at his lips. “Whisht, ye daft lassie. I’ve gone to all this trouble to find you. I’m nae going to abandon ye because you’re a wee bit rocky on your feet.”

  “You’re a fine man, Diarmid Mactavish.” Her expression remained grave. “Better than I deserve.”

  Shame twisted in his gut. If she guessed how she made him hunger, and her another man’s wife, she wouldn’t say that, by God.

  “Save your breath to cool your porridge.” He glanced around the room. “Do ye need anything?”

  “Only my freedom,” she said. “Let’s go.”

  He took her hand before he carefully opened the door. To his relief, the corridor remained empty. Rose had told him the inn was full, but at this hour, most of the guests would be downstairs at dinner.

  He drew Mrs. Grant—how he loathed calling her by that name—outside. Her grip on his hand tightened, silent confirmation of her trepidation. After shutting the door, he turned back to her. She looked pale but determined.