The Highlander's Claim (Highland Romance)

by Jessica Knight

  “Disgusting old mug aside, the wine is very good,” she gives me a grin. “Thank you.”

  “Hey now, these were my mother’s mugs,” I reply with faux offense, earning a soft laugh from her. “So, do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not really.”

  “No? I’m told I’m a very good listener.”

  She finally turns to me, a genuine smile on her face. “And who told you that?”

  “I’m sure somebody said it at some point.”

  She laughs out loud, her voice high and light, and it’s the finest music I’ve heard in a long while. Her laughter fades, and we stand in the ensuing quiet, each of us taking a drink of our wine. The sun is starting to slide toward the horizon, the oranges and reds above us making it look like the sky has been set on fire. Catherine looks at me for a long moment, her green eyes sparkling like emeralds in dying light of the day, her thoughts opaque. But she gives herself a small nod, as if she’s come to a decision in her own mind.

  “It’s no secret that there is little love lost between my uncle and I,” she starts. “He and I cannot seem to agree on anything. Not the least of which is how he treats your people.”

  “Well on that, you and I can agree. He treats my people worse than dogs,” I tell her, cringing at the tone of bitterness in my voice. “I think if he had his way, he would kill every last one of us.”

  She purses her lips and looks away, which tells me my measure of the man and his view of my people is spot on − or very close to it. That she has a poor relationship with him is news to me though. I sit down on the wall, and Catherine follows suit. I’m glad to see she’s starting to relax. At least a little bit.

  “Is that why you think he wouldn’t come looking for you?” I ask. “Because you two don’t get on well?”

  She takes another drink, as if to fortify herself for the conversation. In her eyes, I can see the strength and steely resolve that drew me to her in the first place. She has grown from the tough girl I once knew to an even tougher woman. But I can also see she is struggling with the idea of loyalty to her family. Going against her uncle might mean going against her father too. And I don’t get the sense she bears any sort of animosity for her father or her House.

  “I think it runs deeper than just us not getting on well together,” she finally says. “I honestly believe he thinks my family would be better off without me. I have influence with my father, and because of that, he has to restrain himself. And I know he resents me for that.”

  My mind flashes back to the clearing where my family is buried and wonder what it would look like if he didn’t keep himself in check. I wonder if she knows what he did − lured my father and the others there with promises of talks of peace only to slaughter them. I wonder if she knows that is not an uncommon happening − or if she thinks his savagery only extends to talk. I wonder how much Catherine knows about what her uncle gets up to here in the Highlands.

  As much as I want to educate her about her uncle’s murderous ways, I want her to feel safe talking to me. And I have no desire to heap guilt upon her shoulders she has no business carrying.

  “I am no fool and have been around Court politics long enough to know that my uncle would benefit from my death at the hands of the Scottish,” she says softly. “He would finally be able to turn my father’s sentiment against your people, and together, they would unleash hell against you.”

  It seems a grim assessment, but I hear the ring of truth in it. It could also be the reason her uncle has not lifted a finger to find her − he’s waiting for word from her father. Surely she’s been missed, and a story spun about her absence by now. And yet, he and his troops remain in their castle. At least for the moment. But the picture she is painting is one that is dire and means I may have less time to act than I would’ve hoped for.

  “I’d imagine that you returning home would put a knot in your uncle’s plans then, eh?” I ask.

  Her smile is weak, watery. “Perhaps,” she replies. “But I have a feeling he would come up with some other pretext to wage a war on the Scottish.”

  The mood between is growing ever grimmer, and all I want to do is take her mind off things. I don’t think there’s anything she can tell me about her uncle right now that I don’t already know and continuing to press her will only sour the mood further. So now it’s just a matter of figuring out what I’m going to do about this. And that is going to take some thinking and planning.

  Until then, what I want is to lighten the mood and get Catherine laughing like she did that day in the market. What I want is to recreate the feelings that I’ve been carrying around with me for the last decade. Feelings I know on some level she shares.

  And feelings neither one of us ever got a chance to explore.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Catherine

  It is interesting to see what the years have done to Malcolm. He is still very much the brash, bold boy I knew. But time, experience, and very clearly a formal education, have given him more interesting facets to his personality. In some ways, he’s the same boy I knew, but the man he’s become is vastly different.

  As we sit there on the wall, sipping wine together in such a beautiful natural setting, it almost feels normal. Idyllic in a way. If not for everything swirling around in my mind, I can almost pretend this is just two old friends having a drink together.

  The trouble is, I can’t stop thinking about what’s swirling around in my mind. It is pressing down so hard; it’s nearly suffocating me. But how can I not? I feel my being here is endangering the lives of these people I’ve come to know and love. My uncle will use my disappearance as the catalyst he’s been looking for to launch an all-out war against them. If my father believes me dead and gives my uncle free rein to subdue the Scots, believing he is somehow avenging my death, the Highlands will run red with blood.

  “I think you should take me back to Caldryn House,” I tell him. “I do not want to be responsible for −”

  “When I first saw you that day in the market, you were telling stories to Scottish kids. And when I found you the other day, you were in a Scottish village,” he interrupts me. “Near as I can tell, the only thing you’re responsible for is caring a bit too much for my people. And that care’s got you in a bind now.”

  I chew on my bottom lip and look down into my mug of wine. “I don’t know that there is anything for it now.”

  “Of course there is,” he replies brightly, his thick Scottish brogue rolling over me like warm waves. “You’re in this bind because of your care for my people, and I plan on getting you out of it.”

  “And how are you going to do that?”

  He takes a long swallow of his wine, then gives me a wide smile. “I’m still working on that bit.”

  “Uh huh,” I reply but laugh softly.

  I don’t know what it is exactly, but there is something about Malcolm that inspires a sense of calm in me. Somehow, all of my fears about him have melted away, and any concern that he’d do something to harm me has evaporated. And the way he looks at me sets a slow burn spreading through my body.

  I try to push it away. It’s inappropriate for a thousand different reasons, not the least of which is the fact that although he has treated me well and refuses to call it what it is, I am his prisoner. I am not free to come and go as I please. And with the situation unfolding as it is between my uncle and the Scottish, even if I were inclined to feel anything for this man, the timing could not possibly be worse.

  No, despite a gaze that smolders and ignites a fire in places not accustomed to the faintest breath of warmth, I cannot give in. I must keep my focus where it belongs − on getting myself back to Caldryn House and preventing a slaughter.

  “Are you hungry?” he asks.

  The change in topic is sudden, but it seems to wake my stomach up as it rumbles embarrassingly loud. Malcolm looks at me in stunned silence for a moment and then bursts into laughter. I cover my face with my hands as I burn with a mortified heat.


  “I beg pardon,” I say from behind my hands.

  He takes hold of my wrists and pulls my hands from my face, my skin feeling aflame where he touches me. His hands are enormous and rough, they are the hands of a man used to physical labor, but his touch is as delicate as a hummingbird’s wings.

  “There’s nothing to pardon,” he replies. “God makes us what we are − noises and all, lass.”

  Malcolm tries to keep a straight face for my sake but cannot hold it and erupts into laughter once more. Still holding onto my hands, he gets to his feet and pulls me up along with him.

  “Come,” he says. “Let’s do something about that beast in your belly.”

  I follow him, laughing softly despite myself. He still holds one of my hands gently, and I let him. Somehow it just feels − right. My heart is pounding, and my throat suddenly feels cracked and dry as we walk back into the house. As the inky hues of dusk settle down over the world outside, I take a seat at the table as he stokes the fire in the hearth.

  “Another mug of wine, your Grace?” he asks.

  “You are as cheeky today as you were ten years ago,” I laugh.

  “And you are every bit as proper as you were,” he grins.

  He pours us both another mug of wine, the smile on his face making my stomach churn in ways it never has before. And somehow, he has managed to drive away all of the darkness that had clung to me like cobwebs when we stood alone outside.

  “I’m not always so proper, you know,” I tell him.

  “No? And when exactly are you not a proper lady?”

  “When I choose not to be,” I laugh.

  I laugh, knowing what a ridiculous answer that is. All I know is that I do not always enjoy being the stiff and proper lady of the castle all of the time. It is the image I must project given my family and my station, of course, but I would be lying if I said it did not get tiresome. Always worrying about how my actions impact my family, never being able to do what I want − there are days I curse the family I was born into. For plenty of reasons.

  As I sip my wine, Malcolm gets to his feet, chuckling to himself. I watch as he takes a couple of packages of meat out of the larder along with eggs and some vegetables. As he cooks, he hums a melody to himself I recognize but cannot place right away. It’s beautiful though, and I enjoy listening to him.

  A short time later, he puts a plate down in front of me that smells absolutely delicious. I look at him, trying to figure him out. He lays out silverware and napkins, then refills our wine glasses. There are so many different facets to him − things I never would have suspected him capable of all those years ago.

  “It smells wonderful,” I say.

  “No need to stand on ceremony here, lass,” he says. “Dig in.”

  My stomach grumbles as I begin to eat, and I moan with pleasure when the first morsels hit my tongue. I eat about half the plate without speaking. It is just too good to stop for something like conversation.

  “I guess you were right,” he says with a chuckle. “The way you’re eating isn’t ladylike at all. I’ve seen goats with better table manners.”

  I burst into laughter and wipe my mouth with the napkin. I sip my wine and take a moment to settle myself down. Malcolm sits across from me, grinning like a fool.

  “You are awful,” I say. “A terrible beast.”

  “Aye. That I am,” he replies with a grin. “But I think you kinda like it.”

  I laugh out loud again, my face burning hotter than the fire in the hearth. I take a drink of wine, using the clay mug to cover the embarrassment that must be written plainly upon my face. A companionable silence falls between us. I pick up my fork and feeling entirely self-conscious do my best to eat in a more ladylike fashion.

  When we finish, he takes the plate and stacks them in a bucket on the table beside the larder then returns to his seat. We sip our wine, and the air between us grows thicker with a sense of expectation − expectation of what, I do not know. But I can feel it in the air all the same.

  “So, where did you go, Malcolm?” I ask, finally breaking the silence. “After that day in the market, you disappeared for so long − I thought something happened to you.”

  A gentle smile touches his lips. “For that story, we’re going to need another drink.”

  He picks up the bottle of wine to give me a refill, but I look into the bottom of my mug, feeling a surge of giddy boldness I have rarely experienced before.

  “Do you have anything stronger?” I ask.

  He arches an eyebrow at me, a small grin on his lips. “Looking to drink like a proper Scot now, are ya?”

  I give him a small shrug. “As they say, when in Rome…”

  He laughs uproariously and slaps the table so hard, the bottle of wine almost topples over. He gets to his feet and goes to the larder then returns with a glass bottle and two small beaten metal cups, setting them down on the table as he retakes his seat. Still chuckling to himself, Malcolm pulls the cork out of the bottle and pours out a drink for each of us then sets the bottle down with a hearty thump.

  Never taking his eyes off me, he picks up his small cup, amusement making his eyes sparkle mischievously. The amber liquid inside the bottle gleams in the firelight from the hearth and makes my stomach lurch. Truthfully, I have never had anything stronger than wine before, and the Scots have quite a reputation for strong drink. But I am feeling bold and adventurous − and am looking to take my mind off all my troubles.

  I just hope I don’t live to regret this.

  “Are you sure you want to do this, lass?” he grins. “No shame in sticking with wine. It’s what a proper lady would do after all.”

  I arch my eyebrow at him. “A proper lady? Not one for subtlety, are you?”

  “Subtlety is overrated.”

  His tone is teasing, and despite my intention to remain distanced from him, his smile charms me all over again. Picking up my cup, I salute him with it before downing the liquid like I see men do − and immediately want to scream. A trail of liquid fire slides down my throat, and when it hits my stomach, the flash of pain is exquisite. My eyes water, and my entire body feels like it is aflame. I try to hold it back, not wanting to appear weak, but I am racked by a coughing fit so intense my entire throat feels raw in the aftermath.

  I take several deep, raspy breaths, cringing at the wheezing, gasping sound coming out of me. I wipe away the tears that spilled down my cheeks and try to gather myself. Sitting up straighter, I lift my chin defiantly, doing my best to appear calm and regal.

  “It is not bad,” I croak, my voice hoarse and strained. “Not bad at all.”

  “Oh, you think so?”

  My throat is burning so bad I want to cry, but Malcolm is looking at me with an amused smirk on his face, so I hold it in. I won’t show him just how bad I am hurting at the moment. Once I have calmed down again, Malcolm raises his cup and quaffs the deadly amber liquid − and just to rub it in, he doesn’t even flinch.

  “Aye, you’re right. Not bad at all,” he says.

  The bastard.

  “What in the world was that?”

  “Aye, that’s a good and proper Scottish whiskey, lass,” he replies. “And don’t worry, the second one’ll go down a lot smoother.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Proven fact, love,” he laughs.

  My stomach still churns wildly, and the warmth continues to spread through my body, making me feel as if I’m glowing with some inner light. I smile at Malcolm, and my head begins to buzz softly, giving me a swimming feeling − surprisingly, it is not an unpleasant feeling.

  I push my empty cup toward him and smile. “Well, let us test your theory then.”

  “Careful now, too many of these, and I’ll be peelin’ you off the floor later.”

  “I shall take my chances,” I say. “I like this feeling.”

  Malcolm nods. “It’ll wipe away your problems, if only for a little while,” he replies. “Careful you don’t like it too much.”

  He p
ours me another cup − although I notice it is a smaller amount. I tap my cup against his and swallow it down, wincing as it burns its way down to my stomach. As the warmth continues to spread through my body, I close my eyes and revel in it, enjoying the lightheaded feeling that grips me.

  Returning my gaze to Malcolm, I smile softly. “So, now that we have drinks, you have a story to tell me.”

  Malcolm’s is distant, and he nods slowly. “Aye. I suppose I do.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Malcolm

  I take a sip of my whiskey, doing my best to keep from laughing as Catherine struggles to remain composed. She’s obviously not used to anything stronger than wine. Her eyes dazzle in the firelight, and the whiskey is making her glow. She looks at me expectantly, waiting for me to tell her my tale. I drain the last of my cup and set it back down in front of me.

  “When it looked like war with your uncle was inevitable, my father sent me to live with an aunt in France,” I begin. “It was a promise he made to my mother.”

  “To keep you safe,” she replies.

  I nod. “Aye. To keep me safe,” I reply. “My mother had grand plans for me.”

  “That is not a bad thing,” she says.

  I fill my cup again and take a sip. “I suppose not. I received a proper education − with both the books and a sword,” I reply. “Had some of the best teachers in all of France and tutors and learned a great many things.”

  “Like how to cook a fine meal?”

  I laugh softly. “Aye. I spent a fair amount of time in the kitchens.”

  “A well-rounded education is a good thing to have,” she says.

  Over a couple more cups of whiskey, I tell her more about my time abroad and some of the experiences I’ve had. She listens intently, but as my story goes on, I can see her eyes growing glassier and her face turning redder, and I laugh.