The Highlander's Lost Lady

by Anna Campbell

  “Good luck to him. He’ll need pliers to winkle so much as a penny out of Allan Grant. That man loves money almost as much as he loves the clan’s unquestioning obedience.”

  “I’m banking on that.” Diarmid paused. “Are you truly so stiff-necked with pride that ye willnae accept my help, even though when we married, I placed my entire fortune at your disposal?”

  Her grip on the glass tightened, and her tone turned bitter. “You’re always accusing me of pride, when you must know that the Grants humiliated me over and over.”

  The mocking fondness in his expression made her feel like he caught her heart in one powerful hand and squeezed it. “Darling lassie, without that pride, the Grants would have beaten every scrap of spirit out of ye. I’m devilish grateful for your pride. Without it, we’d never have met, because you’d never have found the nerve to defy Allan and run away.” He went on before she could remind him yet again of all the trouble she’d caused him. “But sometimes ye must set pride aside to achieve the larger goal. Getting Christina back is our purpose. Nothing can come between us and success.”

  She shifted uncomfortably on her stool. He made her feel petty and ungracious—and like a bad mother. “If you go to Bancavan with a thousand pounds in your pocket, we’ll see neither you nor the money again. Allan will shoot you, steal the gold, and bury you where nobody will ever find the body.”

  “I’m sure you’re right.” A ruthless light entered Diarmid’s eyes. “Which is why I propose to meet him on neutral ground.”

  “He’ll still try and bring you down.”

  “Has he committed murder before?”

  She tightened her grip on her glass. “I saw him kill a servant boy in a rage. Beyond that, I can’t say for sure, but I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  Fiona recalled a fractious nephew who was there one day, then never seen again. And a kitchen maid who fell pregnant to Thomas and made a great fuss about expecting him to marry her. She’d disappeared, too.

  “I wouldnae either.” Diarmid’s tone was grim. “We’ll do the exchange on my cousin Hamish’s land. Or near it, anyway. Glen Lyon isnae far from Oban. A good distance from both Invertavey and Bancavan.”

  “Allan will never agree.”

  “He will, if he wants his thousand pounds.”

  “He’ll try and squeeze more money out of you. He’s a repulsive human being, but he’s as wily as a weasel. He’ll scheme to get the money, keep Christina, and destroy you. He knows how much I want Christina. He knows as long as he has her, he’s got the winning card.”

  “That arrogance will bring him down, Fiona. He’s too used to getting his own way. We can beat him. He’ll make a false step.”

  “Not if he puts a bullet in you the second he sees you,” she retorted.

  For so long, Christina had been her only reason for living. Now she discovered that the thought of becoming a widow for the second time was utterly unacceptable. “I’ll take it very ill if you get yourself killed, Diarmid Mactavish.”

  He looked startled. “Would ye indeed?”

  “I would.”

  “I wouldnae like it much myself,” he said drily. “Trust me, I willnae face Allan alone.”

  “Will you take Fergus?”

  “No. He’s got his work cut out with the lawyers. My cousin Hamish looks like a marauding Viking. He’ll make even the doughtiest Grant tremble in his boots. He’s just the laddie to join our fight.”

  “You’re lucky to have people you trust to stand beside you.” She watched him steadily. “I never did.”

  That ruthless light hadn’t faded from his eyes. “That’s changed, Fiona. I told ye when you agreed to marry me that ye were no longer alone and defenseless. Allan Grant might bluster and bully his way around Bancavan. But you’re away from there and ye now have the Mactavishes, the Mackinnons, and the Douglases on your side. I’d dare the king’s entire army to try and best us. Will ye let me go ahead with this?”

  What choice did she have? She owed her daughter not just her love but her protection. So far, she’d been a miserable failure when it came to keeping Christina safe.

  She still wondered at the sick terror she felt at the idea of Diarmid coming to grief. He was brave and strong and palpably capable of looking after himself. But on the other hand, he didn’t know Allan like she did. Diarmid was a lion, and the Grants were a pack of hyenas.

  But a pack of hyenas could bring down a lion.

  “Do I have any say?”

  “Certainly ye do. We’re in this together.”

  She frowned, unhappy at the idea of him risking his life in a direct confrontation with Allan, but feeling trapped into accepting. “You know I’ll agree.”

  “I hope ye will. This seems the simplest way to get Christina.”

  After a moment, she nodded. “Then all I can say once more is thank you.”

  His jaw set in a stubborn line. “I wish ye wouldnae.”

  She could see he was in no mood to hear an argument. Sighing, she slid to her knees and pushed up the sleeves of the extravagant robe Marina had given her. “Pass me the soap and lean forward.”

  He cooperated with her request. “So that’s a yes?”

  She stared at his long, powerful back. Yes, it was strong. But she feared the obligations she laid upon that impressive back might end up breaking him.

  “It is.” With another sigh, she began to wash the smooth white skin. “Although with misgivings.”

  “I’ll take it.” His voice was a rumble of pleasure.

  For a long while, the gentle splash of bathwater was the only sound in the room. Fiona’s disquiet eased as she started to enjoy having her husband at her mercy. By the time she rinsed the soap away, sensual anticipation weighted her stomach.

  When he spoke, he startled her. She’d fallen into something of a trance. “Ye ken, it’s no’ all bad news.”

  “It’s not?” She stood and reached for a dry towel.

  “We’ll have to stay in Inverness while we arrange for the money and wait for answers from Hamish and Fergus and Allan.”

  He rose from the water. The sight of over six feet of virile male, sleek and wet after his bath, filled Fiona’s vision. The languorous interest swirling in her blood sharpened to desire.

  “Do you think that will take long?” she made herself ask, when what she really wanted to do was run her hands over every inch of that powerful form.

  “Long enough for us to stay in one place and have a real honeymoon.”

  “Oh.”

  Diarmid’s smile made her heart jump like a bannock on a hot griddle. “Ye dinna like the idea?”

  “I…do,” she forced out.

  With a soft laugh, he plucked the towel from her hands. Seeing him in his potent glory had made her forget to pass it over. “I can see ye do.”

  She licked her lips, as she noticed he liked the idea, too. Potent glory indeed.

  “Let’s…let’s have dinner,” she said in a shaky voice.

  “Aye,” he said on a deep rumble that vibrated in her bones. “I’m suddenly verra hungry.”

  Chapter 32

  “Is he there?” Fiona asked, crouching down in the bracken beside Diarmid.

  “See for yourself.” Diarmid passed her the small spyglass.

  She lifted the elegant little telescope to her eye. Immediately Allan Grant came into focus in the field across the burn.

  She hadn’t seen Allan since he’d pursued them out of the Thistle at gunpoint. He looked older, and dressed in black as he was, he put her in mind of a funeral. Her empty stomach clenched in trepidation, and her gloved hands trembled. Even when he was a quarter of a mile away, she couldn’t shake the habit of fear.

  “I can’t see Christina,” she said, ashamed of her unsteady voice.

  “There’s a coach over under the trees. She’ll be in there, I suspect.”

  “If he’s brought her.” Fiona swung the telescope around, until she saw the shabby closed carriage in the shade of a grove of beeches.
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  “He wants his money.” He paused. “I’ll wager he’s brought his henchmen with him.”

  “You said to come alone.”

  “I did. But then I havenae come alone either.” At Diarmid’s shoulder was the reassuring bulk of his cousin Hamish, Laird of Glen Lyon, who owned an estate near this isolated brae. Last night, she and Diarmid had been Hamish’s guests in a lovely house she’d been too nervous to appreciate.

  The meeting with Allan followed a fortnight of frantic planning, with letters flying between Inverness, Invertavey, Bancavan, Edinburgh, and Glen Lyon.

  “Everything will be fine,” Hamish said in his subterranean rumble of a voice. He spoke with a crisp English accent, legacy of a London childhood.

  As far as she was capable of devoting an ounce of attention to anything but the plan to retrieve Christina, she approved of Hamish. He wore his heart on his sleeve more than her husband did, but she liked that she knew where she stood with him. She also liked that he’d placed himself and his considerable resources at their disposal the moment Diarmid asked for help. It was clear that a deep bond of affection and respect united the cousins.

  After three weeks of marriage, she commended anyone who valued her wonderful husband as he deserved.

  This approval didn’t stop her from wanting to slap Hamish for his easy assurance that right must prevail. Neither of the cousins knew what Allan was capable of. They underestimated their foe’s animal cunning and his obsession with winning.

  She’d tried to make Diarmid and Hamish understand that for Allan, the game had changed from merely keeping Christina and retrieving Fiona. It would now be a compulsion to best Diarmid Mactavish.

  More than best him. Destroy him utterly.

  Since they’d settled on final arrangements, she’d been sick with dread for the man she’d married. Barely able to sleep, picking at her food, finding surcease only in the passion that blazed like an inferno between her and Diarmid.

  “Courage, Fiona,” Diarmid murmured, putting his arm around her shoulders and kissing her cheek. He must guess that she was tense to the point of shattering and so afraid that she felt like vomiting.

  “I can’t bear to think, even now, that something might go wrong.” She returned the telescope to him. “Don’t trust Allan for a second. Even if it seems as if you’ve beaten him, he’s always got another plan.”

  “Aye, he’s dangerous, which is why I wish ye hadnae come,” Diarmid said.

  “Allan insisted.” This argument had raged since the last correspondence from Bancavan. “Anyway, Christina needs me. She doesn’t know you or Hamish, and she’s been frightened enough already. I have to be here.”

  All good reasons, but she didn’t speak the most powerful reason: that she intended to step in if Allan played some last trick. For her sake, Diarmid put his life at risk. She wouldn’t let him lose it, whatever it cost her.

  “I’d still feel better if ye were safe back at Glen Lyon.”

  “And I’d feel better if I’d never met Allan Grant, and my life was nothing but sugar plums and honey crumpets,” she said with asperity.

  “For heaven’s sake, we’ve got other fish to fry.” The laughter in Hamish’s voice made her blush with mortification. “You two need to stop squabbling like an old married couple.”

  “And only wed three weeks,” Diarmid said drily.

  Hamish rose to his full six foot five. “From what you say, an eventful three weeks.”

  Diarmid was right to describe his cousin as a Viking. He was large and vigorous and golden fair. It wasn’t difficult to imagine him leaping off a long ship in a berserker fury. Fiona still struggled to accept that this brawny Highlander was a highly respected astronomer.

  “We should go, Diarmid,” Hamish said. “No point extending everyone’s misery.”

  The morning was cold and rainy, typical of the end of a wet Highland summer. The woolen shawl covering Fiona’s head was uncomfortably clammy. Her husband had insisted that she hide her distinctive hair. Like her, he expected trickery.

  Diarmid rose, slipping slightly on the muddy grass. When she moved, he placed one hand on her shoulder.

  “No, Fiona, wait here. We agreed you’d let me make sure all is safe before ye get close to Allan.”

  “You told me. I didn’t agree,” she retorted as she subsided. Behind them, twenty armed men from Glen Lyon waited. Nobody knew what lay ahead of them today.

  “Let’s go, Hamish.” Diarmid strode forward from under the shelter of the trees. Hamish followed him down the slope to the small stone bridge where the exchange was to take place.

  “Dear God, keep him safe,” Fiona whispered, and was surprised that her prayer was first for Diarmid and not for Christina.

  She rose onto her knees to see better. Her heart fluttered in her throat, and coiling snakes of terror writhed in her belly. At her waist, her hands twisted together so tightly that they hurt. Had she and Diarmid come so far, only to fail now?

  ***

  Diarmid knew a crowd of people watched from the wood behind him, including Sir Quentin Avery, the Englishman who owned the land he currently walked across. He was the local magistrate, and Diarmid had invited him as a witness, in case there was any treachery.

  But as Diarmid walked away, he could only feel one set of eyes, Fiona’s. Her gaze burned into his back like a brand. Since the day he’d found her, every moment had led to this confrontation. Diarmid couldn’t let her down.

  To secure Christina’s future, she’d faced danger, she’d committed crimes, she’d traveled across half the Highlands, she’d submitted to an unwanted second marriage.

  Except in their time together at Inverness, she hadn’t seemed a reluctant bride. He’d started to feel a cautious optimism about his future with his lovely wife.

  Och, well, they would sort out everything else, once Allan was no longer a threat and Christina was back in her mother’s care.

  Allan strode forward to meet him. With no particular surprise, Diarmid saw Thomas sidle around from behind the coach.

  “Mactavish,” Allan said flatly, stopping at the end of the short bridge.

  “Grant,” Diarmid responded, waiting at the other side. “This is my cousin Hamish Douglas, Laird of Glen Lyon. He’s here to see our transaction takes place as agreed.”

  “Aye,” Allan said sourly. “I brought my brother, too, as ye see. I ken no’ to trust a Mactavish. Have ye got my money?”

  “Aye. Have ye got the girl?”

  “She’s in the coach.”

  “Let me see her.”

  “Show me the payment first.”

  Diarmid reached into his coat pocket and produced the pile of notes. At the sight, Allan’s eyes brightened, and he rushed forward, reaching out a greedy hand.

  Diarmid retreated. “Show me Christina. We want her whole and unharmed, along with a signed paper relinquishing any claim to her or my wife.”

  “Aye, I hear ye married the slut.”

  “I’m no’ above punching ye in the face, you bastard,” Diarmid said sharply. “Fiona’s told me how you treated her. It was enough to turn my stomach.”

  “She was always a foul wee liar, Mactavish. You’re welcome to the besom.”

  Neither of them believed Allan meant that.

  “I wouldnae be too quick to accuse someone else of lying, Grant. You told me Fiona and Thomas were married.”

  “Laddie, ye must ken that in the Highlands, a vow made before witnesses is as binding as a vow before a minister,” Allan said with insufferable condescension.

  “Aye, maybe so, but both parties need to agree to the match. What ye intended for Fiona was little better than rape.”

  “An ugly word from the devil who kidnapped the lassie away from her family.”

  “I wouldnae leave a mongrel dog in your custody, ye swine.”

  “Gentlemen, this achieves nothing,” Hamish said from Diarmid’s side.

  Diarmid was surprised to recognize that for once, his volatile cousin was the vo
ice of reason, while he had difficulty controlling his temper. The sight of this man who had made Fiona’s life so wretched stirred a rage to kill that had grown since Diarmid first heard her history. “Hand over the bairn, sign the paper, we’ll pay the agreed amount, and our dealings are at an end.”

  Allan’s already narrow lips turned so thin, they almost disappeared, but he nodded at Thomas who crossed to open the door of the coach. For a long moment, nothing happened.

  Diarmid’s gut clenched with dismay. If Allan hadn’t brought Christina to this meeting, the whole scheme would fall to ruin.

  He only took a breath when the carriage shifted and a skinny child stepped down onto the muddy ground. She wore plain but good quality clothes, and a plaid shawl was wrapped around her head, obscuring her face.

  “Take off the shawl, Christina,” he called.

  At the sound of his voice, the girl stopped and turned in Allan’s direction. Allan gestured to her. “Obey the man.”

  Visibly trembling, the girl unwound the length of wool. Pale blond hair appeared. Hair the color of warm moonlight.

  Relief flooded Diarmid, and he took an instinctive step forward. “Christina.”

  The girl’s large eyes fixed on him, and she retreated. Her face was as white as marble. “Aye, sir.”

  “I’m here to take ye to your mother.”

  The girl didn’t show any immediate pleasure at the announcement.

  “Ye see she’s here,” Allan snarled. “Give me my money, and let’s finish this. There’s a stench in the air that is making me ill.”

  Now Christina was finally within reach—the lassie was the image of her mother, so there was no doubting her identity—Diarmid could ignore the puerile insult. He stepped forward, the wad of notes extended. “Here. My cousin will stay to see ye sign the paper, while I take the bairn back to Fiona.”

  Allan snatched at the money and counted it quickly. “Aye, all seems above board.”

  Diarmid’s lips tightened. He wanted this over. “I’m a man of my word. That’s the full amount I promised for the girl. Now ye just have to fulfill your half of the bargain, and we’re square.”

  A lie, when Fergus already made progress on the legal issues of Fiona’s dowry, but true enough at the moment.