Claimed By The Highlander (The Highlands Warring Clan Mactaggarts Book 1)

by Anne Morrison

  "Well, now, you're up and already complaining about the bed? That's a Lowlander for you."

  The voice sent a strange thrill up her spine and made her skin break out in goose flesh. It was a male voice, and she should have been terrified. Instead, though a certain amount of fear still leaked into her, more of her was somehow curious about the speaker.

  "I... that is… I'm sorry. I am not complaining, I just don't know... where... I..."

  Elizabeth's voice trailed off as her memories returned, the ones that had occurred right before she had passed out.

  "You're the one who saved me!"

  "One and the same, I suppose. Now, perhaps you could stop looking as if I were some ogre who had come in the night for your pretty little eyes?"

  "I might if you gave me enough light to see you with!"

  Elizabeth's hands flew to cover her mouth in shock. She was a gently-raised girl whose mother had taught her that a quiet answer would always be preferable to shouting in the streets like a fishwife, but here she was.

  Instead of scolding her or shouting back in turn, the man only chuckled.

  "Quite a little tyrant, you are. Let's see if we can please you, then."

  The man used the spill to light a few more candles, and in a moment, the place had enough light for her to see.

  The man who had been speaking, the one who rescued her, was tall and lean, dressed in the plain clothes of so many of the soldiers she had seen at Blaken Keep. In the new light, he looked younger than she had thought he would be, clean shaven in the way of the men of the North and long and graceful of limb in a way that made her feel a little odd for noticing.

  Why, he has such green eyes. Like a cat.

  Then she realized that she had been staring and looked down, only to notice that while she was studying him, he had been studying her just as avidly.

  "So, the candles are lit now. What do you think now that you can see better?"

  Elizabeth's mother had spent so much time drilling her on what to say, when to say it, and when she should be still. She could greet lords and ladies from France and Germany as well as the ones from England, and she reckoned herself better than fair when it came to holding her own in company.

  At the moment, however, she was oddly tongue-tied in front of this man, and she might have stayed mute if she hadn't recognized the dash of blue over by the hearth as being...

  "That's my dress! What is my dress doing over there?"

  "Well, it looks like it's drying, my lady. Is it meant to be tidying the room or something while you sleep?"

  "Of course not! But... why is it drying? Did you take it off of me?"

  To her shock, she realized that she was only wearing a white shift. It covered her from her neck to her knees, but she still felt a flame of embarrassment come up to scorch her cheeks. She had never been so uncovered with anyone who wasn't a family member before, and she pulled the blanket up to her chin.

  "Well, it wasn't the fairies, was it?"

  "Er... was it?"

  "No. It was me. And if it soothes your mind at all, I thought nothing but pure thoughts while I was doing it, and I kept my eyes trained on the ceiling."

  "You did?"

  "No. But I'm a man of honor, and I didn't let my hands wander anywhere they weren't wanted, nor even my eyes. Does that serve?"

  "You could have just let me be."

  "In the cold and the rain where you fainted? Aye, I'll remember that for the next time."

  He sat back in the chair with a highly amused look in his cat-like green eyes.

  Despite her situation, Elizabeth felt herself growing testy.

  "You're making fun of me."

  "Perhaps a little."

  "I remember the... the men who attacked me. And you saved me. And then... everything went black after that."

  A clap of thunder made her jump.

  The man nodded as if the thunder was chiming in on his behalf.

  "And then the sky opened up as if it was intent on drowning the world, and instead of leaving you as salvage for the rats of Glasgow-town, I decided to bring you inside. That's my bed you're sleeping on, darling, and I stripped you because a bed of musty straw's not my idea of a good night."

  "Oh! I... that is, thank you. You had no reason to fight for me or to—"

  She felt another blush come over her cheeks when her stomach growled.

  Instead of laughing at her, however, the man nodded almost congenially.

  "If you wait just another moment, I think that you'll have more cause to thank me."

  "What does that mean?"

  Before the words were out of her mouth, however, there was a sharp rap at the door, and the man rose to answer it.

  In horror of getting caught in such a compromising position, Elizabeth froze for a moment, and then without any ability to get out of the way or to hide, she simply threw the blanket over her head, lying down as flat as a board on the poor straw mattress.

  Oh, what would Mama and Papa think now, if they saw me like this? But even the thought of her dead parents didn't have the sting it usually did, not when she was so hungry and so very afraid.

  She heard the man speak softly to whoever was at the door, and then he laughed softly. There was a soft rustle, the sound of the door closing, and then a thump. A moment later, there was a gentle touch to her shoulder.

  "Will you come up and eat, or shall I serve you dinner as well, my lady?"

  "Don't call me that," she said, aware even as she said it of a certain imperiousness in her tone.

  "Tell me then, what shall I call you if I want you to rise up and to have some of the dinner I ordered for us?"

  “El... that is. Lizzie.”

  He looked at her curiously. “No. I don't think so.”

  She stared.

  “Just... no?”

  “You don't look much like a Lizzie to me.”

  “Well, then, what about a Beth?”

  Why was she doing this? Why was she arguing with this man? She could only blame the hunger for this, the fact that it had been nearly two days since she had eaten, for the long walk from Blaken Keep that had tired her almost past the point of endurance.

  “No, I don't think you're a Beth either.”

  She glared at him.

  “Then if you are so very wise, oh nameless sir, why don't you tell me what my name is?”

  “I think it's Elizabeth. You're too serious to be a Lizzie, not dreamy enough to be a Beth, and if I call you Eliza... ah, yes, there it is. I can see you wrinkle your nose as if you have smelled something nasty.”

  She had, all unknowing. Eliza felt like a scratch collar of nettles set around her throat, and she didn't think she could stand it even if she needed to use it for a pseudonym.

  “So, it has to be Elizabeth?”

  “I could think of other things to call you, if you like...”

  “Like... like what?”

  “Sweetheart, darling, pretty cat...”

  “That's quite enough of that!” she exclaimed. She didn't think she could blush any more without her face actually catching on fire.

  “Ah, then I suppose it must be Elizabeth, then. Elizabeth, will you come to dinner?”

  Somehow, it had escaped her until that moment that there was a bowl on the small table between the two chairs. It was a single large bowl made of nothing more than earthenware, but the smell that came from it made her mouth water. Elizabeth had to quell her first instinct to lunge for the bowl.

  Instead, she nodded regally at her host. Chin held high enough to satisfy her mother's comportment lessons, she wrapped the thin blanket around her shoulders and walked to the table. Somewhat to her surprise, the man pulled the chair out for her as neatly as a London lord, and she looked up at him inquiringly.

  “I cannot eat with a man whose name I do not know.”

  “Then maybe you'll have to watch me eat all this stew on my own. A pity, it smells delicious, doesn't it?”

  He was teasing her again, and this ti
me, she smiled at him.

  “What are you smiling at, pretty Elizabeth?”

  “Don't call me that... and I don't think you would.”

  “Would…?”

  “Would eat while I was looking at you sadly. I don't think you have it in you to be that kind of man.”

  It should have been errant nonsense. She hadn't passed more than a day with him. She had no idea what kind of man he truly was, whether he was cruel or kind or brave or cowardly. Well... she had seen him charge into a fight that wasn't his own to save a woman whose name he didn't even know. So, he was brave. She knew that.

  He frowned at her, and she could tell that there was something lurking at the edge of the conversation they were having, something that was not speaking and would not make itself known.

  Secrets. I can feel secrets around the edges of all of this, and they're not all mine, though mine are certainly bad enough...

  “All right, then. You win. I stand Reade Fitzpatrick, at your service. Now, will that please you well, or will you let your belly growl at me like an angry bear again?”

  She laughed at that, but still waited until he was seated across from her to start to devour the food before them both. The bowl was large, and it was full of a dark stew that had likely been sitting in the large pot on the hearth all day. The mutton was bolstered with potatoes and carrots, the last the winter's stock and a little mealy, but it was so delicious and hot that she could have cried.

  They did not speak while they ate, and when the first edge had been taken off her hunger, Elizabeth slowed down enough to cast a curious eye over her companion.

  In the light and when her stomach wasn't driving her half mad, Elizabeth was surprised to find that he could not be that much older than she was, with a face that was a little too blunt for conventional good looks, and a mouth that was wide and inclined to smile.

  He's handsome. She wondered why it mattered at all.

  She still found herself watching in a kind of daze as he tore off a bit of bread from the loaf they were given and used it to sop up some of the stew. His fingers were long and lean, moving with a dexterity she might not have guessed at in a man so tall.

  “You're staring.”

  She jumped.

  “I am not!”

  “Lying's not a good look on you, Elizabeth. You're not really very good at it.”

  “Oh, are you going to tell me what I am good at next? Since you seem to love telling me so many things.”

  The stew mostly finished, he leaned back in his chair, watching her with a rather speculative look in his green eyes. When Reade wanted to, he could look almost distressingly predatory. Elizabeth felt as if she were a rabbit on the field, aware that danger was coming but not sure where it came from.

  “I think you're on the run,” he said at last. “I think you're a noble girl, fleeing some marriage or other nonsense, and you are hoping to get as far away from the scene of the disaster as you can. You don't know where you are going, and chances are good that you are going to get yourself killed before you get there, if tonight's events are any kind of indication.”

  Elizabeth froze, and Reade turned those calm green eyes to her.

  “There. How did I do?

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  chapter 3

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  Reade wasn't sure what he was expecting from his calm words, but he was not expecting laughter. Elizabeth—he was at least three-quarters sure that that was her real name—started out with a muffled giggle, and then in a matter of moments, she was rocked back in her chair and laughing as if she had heard the most magnificent joke in the world.

  Reade thought about interrupting her but given the fact that she had been fighting for her purse and her virtue, if not her life, earlier that day, he decided it was better to see her laughing than not. Instead, he crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow when she finally stilled long enough to control her laughing down to soft giggles.

  "Are you done?"

  "Almost, I think. Were you serious, though? is that what you truly think?"

  Reade shrugged, still watching her closely, and for some reason, that only served to send her off into fresh peals of laughter.

  "You did! You did think that, and now you are acting as if you didn't to soothe your... your male pride!"

  "I suppose I rather do have a lot of male pride. So, I take it I'm not close?"

  "No, and I think you stole that story from that ballad that's going around. You know, the awful one where the girl ends up drowned in the river and her body drifts past the house where her true love is waiting for her?"

  Reade thought for a moment, and then he cursed, shaking his head.

  "I've heard that one before," he admitted. "Just a few nights ago."

  "And you thought that I was a fine lady escaping an arranged marriage? I should be so lucky."

  "All right then. What are you?"

  When Reade saw her laugh, he had to admit how ridiculous his entire guess had sounded. Before, when she was cold and miserable and looked as if she might be scared stiff of him if he had said the wrong word, yes, it had been an easy jump to think that she was one of those prim Lowland noble girls, just a breath or two away from being English themselves, all prim and shut up from the world and its real troubles.

  When she laughed, however, it brought color to her cheeks and put a sparkle in her eyes that could charm the devil himself, and Reade shook his head at his own foolishness.

  She caught her breath a little before she spoke, and that small voice at the back of Reade's head, the one that warned him when a bar fight was going to go from a casual mess to a deadly serious matter, woke up a little.

  Whatever she says next, it's going to be a lie. At least, it will not be entirely true.

  Reade felt a rush of anger at that, that she would lie to him, and then he had to laugh at himself as well. It wasn't like he had even told her his real name.

  "My name is Elizabeth Jacobson, and I am... or rather I was in service in a household in Ayr. I'd been there since I was ten, and I thought I should be there the rest of my life, but then the master of the house started getting... well. Let's say rather too friendly and leave it at that."

  Reade swallowed some of the fury growing in his heart. It was a story he had heard too many times to count even in his short travels through the Lowlands. It had shocked him the first time, and if he was honest, to some extent, it still did.

  The clans were no more free of abuse than any other place in the world, but at least there was recourse and the possibility of justice. In England and in the Scottish lands that English controlled, it was another story.

  "So, you left?"

  She looked down at his words, and Reade’s heart ached for her. Her laughter from before had dwindled, and he could well imagine that she would rather be a proud noble's daughter who never had to worry about wandering hands while she was polishing the silver.

  "I left in a hurry," she said, her voice low. "Quickly, and with just the things I had with me. Just the one dress, just the wages that I had been given. No reference, no nothing. I knew that I couldn't stay in Ayr, not after... well. Not after everything."

  Reade nodded, and he wondered what darkness lay between the lines of her leaving. Elizabeth, for all that she was a pale slip of a thing, had a spine. She would never have stood up to the two men in the alley if she didn't have one.

  Had she attacked the man? Was it possible she had even killed him?

  "So, you came to Glasgow?"

  She nodded unhappily.

  "I had thought there would be work here, but there isn't. Not for a girl with no references and no family. But... it finally struck me that I did have some family, though they have long fallen out with my parents."

  As she spoke, Reade could feel something vital come back to her. The transformation was fascinating. When she looked all downcast, there was something heartbreaking about her. She looked like a poor ur
chin spat up on the worst parts of the alley.

  When Elizabeth Jacobson looked up with hope in her eyes, she looked like a gleaming angel, something a man would follow into battle.

  Reade told himself he was being foolish, but he couldn't shake the image of Elizabeth as an angel.

  Foolish, indeed.

  "I have a cousin. His name is Dev, and he lives to the North in a small town called Dun Warring. We were close when we were younger and... and I thought perhaps he would take me in, give me work."

  Reade looked at her skeptically. Something wasn't right in her story, for all that he had heard similar tales throughout his travels. There were plenty of girls who had been done out of positions by lecherous masters, plenty of girls who had to fall back on their families when the law would give them no justice. Still, something didn’t quite add up in Elizabeth's tale.

  "Have you any letter from him, any token that he remembers you or that he will do right by you?"

  Here was where he was going to find the lie. She would pull out some kind of fraud, or she would bluster and stammer something about how family would always be there for each other.

  Instead, she offered him a smile, such a mixture of sadness and hope that it felt as if she had seized him by the heart again.

  "No. I don't."

  "And... you are just going to go marching merrily north to look for him?"

  She tilted her head, looking at him with some curiosity.

  "You sound nervous. Are you afraid of the Scottish clans?"

  "Aren't you?"

  She gave him a game grin, and for just that instant, he thought that there was very little he might not do for her.

  "They've not offered me any hurt yet. My master and the good people of Ayr, well, that's another story, and they're the ones who were meant to be so good and kind. I might as well take my chances, don't you think?"

  "Aye. I suppose you might as well."

  "And I don't know if Dev will do any better by me than my master and his family did. I hope he will. I remember him as a fair-minded boy, and hopefully, he grew into a fair-minded man. And if I cannot keep house for him, I hope he may find me a household where I could belong."