Her Highland Fling (6 page)

“Aye, he’s smart enough. But it isn’t going to help him on Saturday,” McRory said smugly. “We won’t be tossing books, you ken.” He placed his boot on the long length of larch tree lying at his feet, striking an assertive pose. “The caber weighs nigh on twelve stone. He canna throw it as far as me, I promise you that.”

“Well,” she said, smiling, “I look forward to seeing you both.”

Pen gingerly extracted herself from Mr. McRory, leaving him in the company of his large caber and even larger ego, and then made her way toward the scaffolding. MacKenzie seemed possessed in a frenzy of work, hammering nails, one after the other, as though his very life depended on it. She looked up, extending the shade of her bonnet with a flattened palm. The overhead sun was blinding, and she squinted, trying to make out the shape of him.

“Hullo!” she called up. “MacKenzie! Might I have a word with you?”

The hammering abruptly stopped, and shortly after came a muffled curse, followed by a large, dark shape hurtling toward the earth.

He hit the ground, flat on his back, with a thump that made her teeth rattle.

“MacKenzie!” she cried, tossing her notebook aside and dropping to her knees in the dust of the street. He was heaving, eyes scrunched tight, as though the impact had startled him as much as her. Intending to calm him, she placed her hands on his chest.

His very large, very bare chest.

The slick sweat off his skin soaked through her gloves, but far from being repelled by it, she leaned over him, searching for obvious injuries. There was no blood she could see, thank goodness. At least he was still breathing, the nearly panicked rise and fall of his ribs telling her he was working for a lungful of air. The fall must have been twenty feet or more, and it was a miracle he hadn’t landed on his Cambridge-educated head.

She looked up again to see a similarly bare-chested James MacKenzie shimmying down the side of the structure in a more graceful—and far safer—manner.

“Is he all right?” Pen asked, feeling a bit panicked.

Rather than showing the expected brotherly concern—though admittedly, Pen knew little about brothers—James nudged his brother with a boot, which prompted the prone giant to growl out a warning. James laughed. “Aye, I think so. He’s only been struck dumb in your presence again.”

“Struck d-dumb?” she echoed, confused. And what did he mean
again
?

“He’s probably b-broken a rib or two,” she said indignantly. “And he can’t breathe. I’d scarcely expect him to be able to speak.”

“
That
wee fall?” James scoffed. “God help a Highlander whose ribs aren’t made of sterner stuff than that. Why, I once chased down a man bent on murder with a split skull, a knife wound to the chest, and an injured knee to slow me down.”

“You dinna catch him though,” MacKenzie wheezed, climbing slowly to his feet.

“Should you be standing?” Pen asked weakly, all too aware of how he towered over her.

“I am fine,” he rasped and then offered a hand down to help her rise as well. She placed her hand in his, struck by the coiled strength she could feel radiating from his body as he pulled her to standing. Sterner stuff, indeed. “And Jamie-boy is only saying such things because his own ribs are made from butterfly wings.”

James picked up his shirt and pulled it over his head, grinning. “Butterfly wings, aye? Well then, I suppose I’ll just flutter on over to the Gander and get a cool drink.” Laughing green eyes shifted to hers. “But try not to befuddle him further, Miss Tolbertson. His ribs may be fine, but perchance the fall has knocked some of the sense out of him, aye?”

MacKenzie glared at his brother’s retreating back, muttering something about butterflies for brains as well. Pen looked down, hiding the smile that threatened to claim her. No, she didn’t know anything about brothers. But she sensed that beneath the bickering lay affection and even respect, and she was none too worried about MacKenzie’s head, after she’d felt the steady strength in his hand.

Seeing a remaining shirt lying in the shade of the scaffolding, Pen bent down and picked it up. But instead of proffering it like the peace offering she had intended, some perverse, devilish instinct made her hold it behind her back.

“What did your b-brother mean: not to
befuddle
you
further
?” she asked. She hoped it meant what she imagined. Because it was becoming more and more difficult not to stare at the flexing muscles in this man’s shoulders, and she had a mind to indulge in a bit more research before this little trip was over.

MacKenzie turned toward her and shook his head. “Dinna pay him any mind. He’s daft.”

“I thought he was a solicitor,” she teased.

“He’s a
daft
solicitor,” MacKenzie amended. He looked at her, almost sheepishly. “You . . . ah . . . said you wished to have a word with me?”

Pen searched for an opening—any opening—that might further the conversation, now that she had pulled him from his work. “I understand you’re to enter the caber competition?” He nodded warily. “Mr. McRory implied he is going to throw it farther than you.” She paused, searching his broad face for a reaction. “Do you have anything to say in response?”

He treated her to a slow, spreading kind of grin that made him look suddenly boyish. “Aye. McRory might believe he can toss it farther.” He leaned in, and she could smell the sharp, healthy tang of hard-earned sweat from his body. “But ’tis not the length of a man’s stick that matters, you ken. It’s his aim.”

Pen gasped, her thoughts immediately flying to things that had nothing to do with cabers and everything to do with warm, sweaty, shirtless bodies.

Had he meant to be so suggestive?

But no . . . the tips of his ears were reddening, as if he had only now realized how his words might be interpreted. “I mean, the caber is not only judged on the length of the throw, but how straight. It must go end over and fall in a straight line to acquire the maximum points. I’ve been watching McRory from atop the scaffolding, and he’s none too straight with his aim, aye?”

She nodded, though a dangerous part of her wanted to discuss the length and relative aim of MacKenzie’s stick. She cleared her throat, not wanting the conversation to end just yet. “I’ve another question for you, if you d-don’t mind. I’ve a wish to see inside Kilmartie Castle. I understand you’re the man to help me with that.”

He tensed. “Did McRory say something he oughtn’t have?”

“That you are the heir to the Earl of Kilmartie?” Pen raised a brow. “He might have mentioned something of that n-nature.”

“The butcher’s as daft as my brother.” Brown eyes narrowed down on her. “The town loves a bit of gossip, as I am sure you are discovering. But it’s harmless, really. Part of Moraig’s charm. You shouldn’t pay it any mind.”

“Like the crodh mara?”

“Aye. Very much like that.”

“Well, I rather enjoyed meeting your water cattle.” Pen smiled sweetly, though what she felt was a bit more complicated. “So it stands to reason I might enjoy the c-castle as well.” She leaned in, his shirt still clasped tightly behind her back. “And you
did
assure me you would show me anything I wished,” she added.

He stared at her a moment, as though surprised she would be so frank. He seemed to be sidestepping any mention of that memorable night, but the same devil that had caused her to hide his shirt made her want to remind him of their kiss at every opportunity.

Finally, he scrubbed a hand across his brow. “Aye. I did. So come to the castle around seven o’clock tonight then. Bring your sister and Cameron, as well. I’ll invite James and his wife, and we can make a dinner of it.”

Pen nodded. She was pleased he had agreed so easily, though she was disappointed to hear they would have an audience. She’d hoped to have his undivided attention.

Something made her want to dig deeper here. It wasn’t only the story. It was the man himself. She felt as though she were uncovering him, one secret at a time. “McRory also said you graduated from Cambridge.” At his frown, she plunged on. “It seems like you might be trying to hide some facts from me, MacKenzie. But as I said, I am an excellent journalist. I’ll sort out the t-truth eventually, with or without you.”

“I have no doubts about your capabilities as a journalist, but I am not hiding, Miss Tolbertson.” What might have been a glower darkened his face. “It’s only that the focus of your story ought to be the town.
They
are the ones in need. I prefer to stay in the background and help where I can, and my own situation has nothing to do with it.”

“Organizing the entire event is scarcely j-just helping where you can,” she pointed out, though she couldn’t help but feel a swell of respect for a man so determined to put the town first. With her free hand, she gestured to the wood structure that had so recently handed him his downfall. “
Look
at you. You’re risking life and limb to b-build this for Moraig.” She paused, blinking up at the massive set of wood. “Although, what
is
this, if I might ask?”

“ ’Tis a music stage,” he said, a bit less gruffly. “We’ve pipers and musicians planned. Music is as much a part of our tradition here as the games.” He hesitated. “Mayhap you’ll consent to share a dance with me, Miss Tolbertson?”

“Perhaps.” She tried to ignore the sudden leap of her heart, which was all too willing to agree with anything that might send her into this man’s strong arms again. Her fingers curled around the bit of cotton she still held behind her back. “
If
you’ll put on a shirt.”

He looked down, clearly startled by the reminder. “Ach, my brother,” he muttered, looking around on the ground. “He’s taken my shirt, it seems. Daft, I tell you. Meddlesome, too.”

Pen laughed. Time for the game she had started to end.

Or perhaps, it was time for it to begin?

She’d kissed him, of course, and he’d kissed her back, but she hadn’t precisely made her hopes clear. She brought his shirt out slowly from behind her back, dangling it from one gloved finger. He looked at her in what might have been panic.

Or perhaps befuddlement.

“You were hiding my clothes?” His brows pulled down in confusion as he accepted the shirt from her. His fingers crumpled in the fabric, but he looked at a loss to know what to do with it.

Ah, there was the return of the bumbling giant.

She was discovering she enjoyed being able to pull it from his university-educated skull.

“I was merely enjoying
all
the views Moraig has to offer, MacKenzie,” she answered, though her unaccustomed boldness meant her cheeks felt as though someone had held them too close to a candle. “Perhaps you might show me more later?”

“The castle. As we agreed.” His ears reddened even more. “And I . . . ah . . . thought we agreed you might call me ‘William.’ ”

She bent and scooped up her notebook, dusting it off. “I don’t think of you as a William.”

Couldn’t, in fact. In her mind, he was simply
MacKenzie
.

She straightened and met his gaze, willing her words to behave properly for once. She concentrated on every syllable, determined to get it right. “But please, do call me ‘Pen.’ ” A smile that was anything but serene claimed her lips. “A man who’s kissed me in the moonlight might have earned the p-privilege, hmm?”

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

“S
he thinks I’m an idiot.” William frowned at James and David Cameron, who were standing in the library, glasses of port in hand.

The interminable dinner might be finished, but he was unfortunately still dressed in the sort of formal attire that made his feet itch and his neck feel as though hands were closing in, choking the life out of him. Christ, even the plaid was better than this.

But guests for dinner at Kilmartie Castle meant manners, and manners meant neckties.

“No,
I’m
the one who thinks you are an idiot,” David Cameron chuckled, swirling the port in his glass. “Caroline and her sister think your idea for the Highland Games is a brilliant opportunity for the town.”

William should have felt like smiling. It was good to hear of Caroline’s approval. She was a fine woman, one who spoke her mind and managed her own opinions. She had turned David Cameron around for the better, when it had once seemed he’d been bound for little beyond a life of dissolution. But unfortunately, William felt less concerned with Caroline’s approval than her sister’s. Pen didn’t
act
as though she thought the games were a good idea.

For some reason, it mattered, and not only because of her role in his plans for Moraig.

“I was given the impression during dinner she was still forming an opinion,” he muttered, staring down into his drink. In point of fact, she had asked everyone at the table their views, scribbling each response down in her notebook, but she had not publicly divulged her own thoughts on the matter.

“You refer to Penelope?” Cameron asked.

William looked up. “You don’t call her ‘Pen’?”

A fair brow shot up. “Do
you
call her ‘Pen’?”

William’s collar suddenly felt even tighter, though it was already cinched as tight as a miser’s purse. “I . . . ah . . . that is . . . She’s invited me to use her given name,” he admitted.

“And yet, her given name is
Penelope
,” Cameron mused. Blue eyes narrowed in William’s direction. “Only Caroline calls her ‘Pen.’ ”

James burst out laughing and slapped William on the back, which had the misfortune of rattling the ribs still sore from his earlier fall. “Perhaps she was more impressed by your cattle than you thought,” James chuckled. “Though I might have chosen something different as tonight’s main course. She looked a wee bit upset when Father proudly told her it was kyloe beef.”

“I only showed her the breeding stock,” William protested. The cows he’d shown Pen were far too valuable to grace a dinner plate. But there was still no doubt he’d felt like a bloody bounder when her eyes had widened and she’d set her fork down firmly.

“Well, have a care. I’ll not have it said you were taking advantage of Caroline’s sister.” Cameron’s initial scowl shifted to a grin. “Although, did you really pretend your cattle were
fairies
? Good God, man. I nearly burst a gut when she told us about that. Have you lost your bollocks completely?”