The Scottish Rogue

by Heather McCollum

  Grey stood in his doorway, his linen shirt unbuttoned at the neck, his kilt loose, and his legs bare. He leaned his one arm casually overhead, catching himself on the doorframe as he looked down at her. “I did not steal your door,” he said and leaned closer so that they stared at each other face-to-face. “I stole your room.”

  Evelyn ignored the biceps that strained against his shirt sleeve. She watched, instead, the loose button at the top of his collar sway on a thin thread. “You use my words, but I see no door.” She thrust her hand down the corridor.

  “I just moved it in here,” he said, stepping aside for her.

  Heat and fury raged within Evelyn as she leaned into Grey’s room, a room that had grown spacious in one day. Shock drew her inside, and she stared at the place where the wall separating their two rooms used to be.

  “You stole my room,” she said, her words numb.

  “I moved it one space down. And there is your door,” he said, pointing to the oak door that now sat inset in the wall that led to the room that had been to the right of hers.

  “Why…what…?” She stammered. “You knocked down a wall and made a doorway into another room. And my hearth? You plastered over it.”

  “I need only one hearth,” he said.

  “And the door?”

  He shrugged, his large shoulders rising with carefree strength. “It’s a perfectly good door, so I wanted to put it somewhere. Eventually, I’d like to make your new room into a closet and washing room, but for now I am willing to let ye sleep there. There is still the room’s original door letting onto the corridor.”

  Evelyn clutched her linen sheet around her robe as if it were her armor. Yet, Grey’s words penetrated anyway. The pressure of tears built behind her eyes. Exhaustion and cruel despair beat upon her, threatening to shred her resolve where she stood. She looked to the ceiling, like she often did when facing her father’s diatribes. She’d never disgrace herself by crying before a man. Not her father, who had yelled at her, or even slapped her, and not Grey Campbell, who flaunted his cleverness at her expense.

  “And so there is no confusion on whose room this is in the future,” he said, pointing to the damp plaster covering the place in the outside wall where her hearth had sat. “My name is now inscribed here.” Lined in a slashing script was Grey Campbell, fifth chief of the Campbells of Breadalbane. As if to add a period on the end of his statement, the thread on his shirt gave way, sending his button to bounce across the floorboards, the loud plinking the only sound in the stillness as he waited for her response.

  Evelyn pressed her tongue so hard against the top of her mouth that it ached. She blinked without looking at him, else she’d be lost in her hurt. No matter how kind he’d seemed sitting with her through the storm at Isabel’s cottage, he still viewed her as the enemy. He couldn’t throw her out of his home, but he could humiliate her. Evelyn turned on her heel and walked toward his door to the corridor, brandishing her candle. There was plenty of room now for his dresser, trunk, wash stand, whisky decanter, and scoundrel’s bed.

  “Ye are welcome to walk through your door here,” he said, following behind her, but she continued out into the corridor. “Evelyn,” he said, but she wouldn’t turn nor stop.

  The cool iron doorknob felt good in her hot palm, the heat from her face having torched her entire body with a flush. She pushed into her new room, where a nearly dead fire glowed in the hearth. A quick glance showed all her things in place, exactly how they’d been before. The door to Grey’s room sat to the right.

  “Evelyn,” Grey said again, his tone softer.

  She shouldn’t have looked at him, but she needed to shut the door, so she turned. He stood holding a key. “To the door, so ye…feel…secure,” he said. She stared at his handsome features, watching his brows knit tightly across his forehead. “Evelyn?” It was a question without further words.

  She took the key from his fingers and backed up to shut the door on his frown. Only then did she realize that one damn tear had escaped while facing him, leaving a crooked path of dampness down her cheek. Well, hell. She wiped it away with a vicious slice and threw herself onto her bed.

  …

  Ballocks. He was a sarding arse with the callousness of a true scoundrel. Grey stood in the darkness of the corridor, staring at Evelyn’s closed door. He’d made the woman cry. He ran his hands down his face as if he could scrub it free of shame. His plan to increase the size of his designated bedchamber had seemed the perfect solution, and not telling Evelyn about it first, or asking her, had felt like the perfect revenge to his bruised pride.

  So what had he done? He’d come back at her swinging, lying in wait until he heard her muffled curse in the corridor. His mother would be ashamed of him. “Gòrach pìos de cac,” he swore softly, feeling like the piece of shite he called himself. He slowly walked back to his comfortable room. At least he’d lit a fire for her in her hearth. He sat on the edge of his grand bed but felt very much like he didn’t deserve it.

  He’d made Evelyn weep, the strongest woman he’d met since his mother. Not even threatening her with a sword, or the censure of the villagers, or even fending off the bastard Burdock had brought a tear. Through it all, Evelyn had remained determined and, when she wasn’t yelling at him, quite cheerful.

  Grey huffed out his exhale and stood. Nay, he wasn’t going to sleep now. He grabbed his sword and strode down the corridor past Evelyn’s room, listening, but there was no sound. He continued down the steps, yanked on his boots in the silent entryway, and strode out into the bailey. The moon lay hidden by clouds, the crunch of his boots on the gravel the only sound. He leaned on the wooden leg of the new guard tower that would hold his iron portcullis. If this had been in place before, maybe Finlarig wouldn’t have burned. He exhaled his breath into the breeze. If Cross hadn’t been able to lay siege to Finlarig, he’d likely have burned Killin to the ground.

  Grey pushed off, his feet falling before him as he jogged along the path to…he hadn’t a clue. But he knew that he needed to burn off some of his anger. Anger at himself, anger over the loss of Finlarig, anger at a sire who was foolish enough to risk everything to attend a meeting of Covenanters who were likely plotting against the English king. Bloody, sarding, hell.

  “Lo there, Grey,” Kirstin called from her doorway. She dashed out. “What is amiss?”

  Grey slowed. “Nothing. Ye can find your bed.” He ran a hand up and raked his scalp.

  Kirstin stepped forward and reached up to finger his shirt collar. “I can sew a new button on. Leave your shirt here.”

  He looked down into her bonny face. Kirstin had always been considered a lovely lass, and even when her parents had taken ill and died several years ago, she’d stayed loyal to the town and remained. She lived alone now, spinning, weaving, and sewing to keep food in her cupboard.

  “I will pay ye,” he said, unbuttoning the remaining fasteners. The lass needed the work.

  She nodded, her eyes lowering to take in his chest as he shrugged out of the shirt. “Would ye…I mean, ’tis cold. Ye could come inside, and I’ll sew it now.”

  Grey looked at Kirstin, her impish smile and pretty eyes. Aye, she was buxom and agreeable, and he could tell by her tone and the way she tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear that she wanted more than company at her table. He would have considered it, but as he looked at her expectant face, his gut reminded him that he didn’t want to make more tangles in his already messy life. Surely that was why the thought of bedding the lass didn’t stir his blood.

  He rested his hands on her shoulders and met her gaze, trying to find a smile. “Thank ye, but I was going to see how Aiden fares.” He didn’t even know if Rebecca was still awake, but he needed an excuse. “Thank ye for the shirt.”

  She returned his smile. “Very well then. Send Aiden and Rebecca my best.”

  Grey returned to his stride through the dark town. Doors and windows were shut up tightly, and the breeze blew the smell of banked fires from the cot
tages. The bite of the cold felt good against his skin and helped to clear his head. He passed Hamish’s house where the muted sound of snoring could be heard outside the window. He jogged past the smithy and Izzy’s empty cottage, into the woods, and finally stopped outside Rebecca’s door. Damn. He couldn’t wake them, but he wasn’t ready to return to Finlarig. He leaned against a soaring pine for long minutes, spying up through the break of the trees to where the stars should be except for the cloud cover.

  The door creaked, and he heard a gasp. “Good God,” Rebecca said as she stood in the doorway holding a bucket. “Grey Campbell, what are ye doing out here in the middle of the night? Ye nearly scared the piss out of me.”

  Grey pushed off the tree. “I came to see how Aiden fares but didn’t want to wake ye.”

  “Well, I am still up, washing the rags to keep his back from festering,” she said, going to the dug-out cistern she used to collect clean rainwater. He followed her, filling the bucket and carrying it back to the door. “Cat checked in on him a bit ago, so he’s awake,” she said. “Come in. What happened to your shirt?”

  “I lost a button.”

  “And ye stripped out of the shirt?” Rebecca shook her head.

  Aiden perched on the edge of the bed. He wore a loose tunic that probably hid a poultice across his burned back. “Ye’re up late,” Aiden said, a grimace pinching his face as he shifted, gripping the mattress.

  “Ye should lie down,” Grey said, bringing a chair close. His best friend was a mighty warrior, very talented with the sword, and usually stoic when it came to pain. The burn must be hell.

  “Nay, I need to sit up some. This healing nonsense requires too much lying around.” Aiden studied Grey. “Ye look pained, too.”

  Grey’s mouth raised at the corner. “I’m just an arse is all.”

  “Aye,” Aiden agreed quickly, giving his own smile. “What exactly arse-like have ye done now?”

  Grey sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. He heard Rebecca quietly moving behind them, no doubt listening. “I broke down a wall in my bedroom to increase its size, since Evelyn moved my room without consulting me. When she came up to find her bed, she couldn’t find her room, which I’d moved one door down without telling her.”

  Aiden laughed lightly. “She must have shrieked.”

  “She cursed,” Grey said and exhaled long.

  “Really?” Aiden said, surprise lighting his face.

  “Aye, she was so mad that…I made her cry.”

  Aiden waited, but Grey didn’t continue. “And that’s why ye’re the arse?”

  “Aye.” Grey nodded.

  “She’s likely an easy crier,” Rebecca called. “Some lasses shed a tear to get what they want.” She tsked, already making up her mind that Evelyn fell into that category.

  “Evelyn has never cried before,” Grey said. “Not when she stood in the pouring rain with me pointing a sword at her or when I lit her letter on fire or even when that bastard Burdock grabbed her or Cross threatened her. She didn’t shed a tear when she realized the castle she’d bought was burned and inhabited. Yet I made her cry.”

  For a long moment, Aiden stared at him, then slowly shook his head. “Ye didn’t harm her, just moved her room, showed her ye are as smart as she. Ye hurt her pride is all. That doesn’t make ye an arse. Maybe the Sassenach cries instead of yelling when she’s angry.”

  “My cousin Elizabeth does just that,” Rebecca said.

  “Nay,” Grey said. “Evelyn has no problem yelling at me. I upset her.” Grey propped his hands on his knees, the image of that tear weaving a path down her flawless skin etched into his mind.

  “So be it,” Aiden said. “Let her weep. If she’s sad, she will more readily leave, and our plan will have worked.”

  Grey nodded silently, but the guilt in his chest wouldn’t release.

  Aiden leaned forward, his fingers curling into the mattress to keep him steady. “Grey,” he said, his voice soft, and Grey lifted his gaze to him. “Ye aren’t…” Aiden’s brows cinched closer together. “Ye aren’t feeling sweet on the Sassenach, are ye? Kerrick says she’s bonny, with soft curves and smooth skin, but Grey, she’s English.”

  Kerrick was admiring Evelyn’s curves? Grey’s gut tightened, pushing down the guilt. “She’s beautiful, clever, and determined.” He thought of her sitting all night with Izzy. “And she has a kindness in her.”

  “She’s English,” Aiden repeated. “Englishwomen are not resilient enough to live in the Highlands. They lie, cause trouble, and leave.”

  Grey studied his friend’s hard face. “Ye have a bit of English blood in ye too,” he said, speaking of Aiden and Rebecca’s heritage.

  Aiden’s face pinched tighter. “She’s English, like the ones who set Finlarig on fire. The ones who barred us inside.”

  Grey shook his head. “Evelyn is not like Cross.”

  Aiden grabbed Grey’s arm, squeezing it. “She can’t be trusted, and she wants your home. I am your cousin, your second-in-command, and your friend, Grey. And I’m telling ye that ye can’t trust her. Let the Sassenach fail and leave. Anything that makes her upset will only push her out faster.” He nodded to emphasize his point and lowered onto his side as if his advice had taken his remaining strength.

  Grey stood, helping him lower without bumping his back more than necessary, and covered his legs with the blanket. He didn’t like the heat he felt along his friend’s skin. Was he growing a fever? “Ye rest, Aiden. I’ll worry about the plan.”

  Aiden’s eyes shut. “Good, and do not lash yourself for wringing a tear from the woman. She will fail, and ye will win.”

  Grey headed out into the night, his friend’s words twisting like an eel inside him.

  …

  Moved my room, all of my furniture. Stole my door. Knocked down my blasted wall.

  Evelyn slammed her pointed knuckles into the soft, warm dough spread before her on the wooden workbench. Using the heels of her hands, she dug into the mass, pushing and rolling it away from her to fold the fragrant dough in upon itself. Turning it, she kneaded it again and again. Stupid, weak tear. She ground her teeth together.

  “What is she making?” Scarlet asked Molly as the two stood in the doorway of the kitchen. Evelyn ignored them as she funneled her fury against the yeast-filled bread dough.

  “Murder bread,” Molly said.

  “Murder bread?” Scarlet asked with an elevated voice.

  “Aye, she’s been beating dough all morning in here. My guess is that it’s keeping her from murdering someone.” Molly tipped her head toward the line of bread that she’d taken from the wood-fire oven. “She’s made all of those, starting at dawn. It’s a wonder her arms haven’t given out, and the whole time she mutters and glares at it.”

  “Murder bread it is then,” Scarlet said.

  Evelyn snorted. She ripped off pieces of dough, slapping each one down to form rolls.

  “So…you are bloodthirsty.”

  Evelyn continued to slap the rolls down on the dusted wooden surface.

  Scarlet leaned her back against the table edge so she could study Evelyn. Evelyn huffed at her perceptive sister. They were only a year apart in age, and having been raised together, they acted often like twins, knowing each other’s minds. “Would this have to do with the fact that I had a difficult time finding your room this morning?” Scarlet asked.

  Evelyn slapped another palm of dough down. She leaned toward the table, bracing her dusted hands there to hang her head. “He knocked down the wall between our rooms yesterday while we worked below. He moved my room to the one next door.”

  “Yes,” Scarlet said. “I saw that. So, the door inside your new room leads into his larger room?”

  “He wants to eventually make my new room into a closet and place to use the privy and wash.” Evelyn looked up at her sister. Scarlet didn’t look as outraged as she should. In fact, Scarlet looked a bit amused. “This is in no way humorous.”

  “Of course
not,” Scarlet said, throwing her arms out as she talked. “The man can’t just knock down walls, move your bedroom, and plan for private privies.”

  Evelyn pinched her lips tight. “And he wrote his name in the wet plaster that covers my old hearth so that it would officially be his bedroom.”

  Scarlet’s hand stifled a laugh. Evelyn made a growling noise like they used to do when they were little girls throwing fits. She turned back to her dough and ripped off another chunk, slapping it down.

  Scarlet continued to study her. “You moved his room, so he moved your room. Nothing has been truly harmed, and yet you’re still so angry that we will soon run out of milled flour.” She tipped her head and dipped down to catch Evelyn’s gaze. “There is more to your anger than the wall and his name in plaster.”

  Blast but her sister was a mind-reading witch. Evelyn glanced behind her to see Molly just outside the kitchen door inspecting an herb garden where Evelyn had attacked a small rosemary bush to use in the rolls. She dropped her gaze to the smooth dough before her. “He saw me weep.”

  “Weep?” Scarlet pushed off the table. “You cried before him?”

  Reluctantly, Evelyn nodded, lifting her gaze. “A tear, just one, but he saw it before I could snatch the door key from him.”

  “Did he apologize?” Scarlet crossed her arms.

  “That doesn’t matter,” Evelyn yelled, then lowered her voice. “I am not a weeping woman, using her tears to sway men. I am not Mother.”

  “Of course you aren’t Mother,” Scarlet said. “’Twas why Father respected you.”

  Evelyn stared at her, her lips parted. “Respected me?”

  Scarlet nodded. “Even if he yelled, he listened to you, spoke to you. Unlike me. In fact, I don’t think he ever conversed with me directly. He talked about me only to others, like I was a horse of good breeding.” She frowned but then flipped her hand as if shooing away the memory. “You, Evie, are nothing like Mother. She wept all the time, for every reason, not like you at all.”