Highland Hero (11 page)

“If ye hadnae bewitched the poor lad, he wouldnae be such a trouble to ye.”

“Mither,” whispered Anne, shock and a tentative condemnation in her voice.

Rose glanced at Anne, who stood just behind her mother. She was a little embarrassed to realize she had not even noticed the young woman, then told herself she had nothing to feel guilty about. Anne had developed a true skill at hiding whenever her mother was near. The fact that Anne could do so when only a few paces away from the woman was astonishing. It was also, Rose decided, a little sad.

“Geordie is nay bewitched,” Rose said, surprised at how calm and reasonable she sounded, for she was furious. “He is a rutting swine who sees a lass alone as easy game. I would think he deserves far more watching than I do.”

“Oh, aye, ye would like it if I ceased to watch you,” snapped Mistress Kerr. “That would leave ye free to ensnare the laird.”

“The mon has survived ten years of fighting in France. I dinnae think he can be brought to his knees by a wee, red-haired lass.”

“Heed me, Rose Keith: I mean for my Anne to become the laird’s wife.”

“I dinnae want to be,” protested Anne, even as she retreated a few steps from her mother.

“Hush, ye stupid lass,” snapped Mistress Kerr. “Ye will do as ye are told. And ye can begin by ceasing to fawn o’er that fool Lame Jamie.”

“The laird doesnae want to wed me, either.”

Mistress Kerr ignored her daughter and returned her glare to Rose. “I mean what I say, Rose Keith. I have plans for the laird and I will be verra angry if ye interfere with them.”

Rose watched Mistress Kerr stride away, Anne a few steps behind her. Since Mistress Kerr was always angry with her, Rose idly wondered how much would change if she did interfere. Then she sighed and started to walk home from the village. Even if she fled to a nunnery on the morrow, if Mistress Kerr did not get her daughter wed to the laird, Rose knew the woman would still blame her. She also knew she should take the woman’s threats very seriously, but it was a warm, sunny day and she would not spoil it with dark, chilling thoughts of what might happen.

Instead, she fixed her thoughts on what Mistress Kerr had let slip about Anne. Anne wanted Lame Jamie, Meg’s father. Rose grimaced, not fond of the name Meg’s father had been stuck with. The man had only a slight hesitation to his walk due to a broken leg that had not healed exactly right. Unfortunately, there were half a dozen men named Jamie around Duncairn, and people felt compelled to mark each one with some extra, identifying name, and Meg’s father did not seem to mind.

She frowned as she wondered exactly what Mistress Kerr’s objections were to Lame Jamie. The man was barely thirty, was a widower, had a fine cottage and only one child. He was not rich, but he was far from poor. And, unlike Mistress Kerr’s thin claim of kinship to the old laird, Lame Jamie was second cousin to Sir Adair. Of course he was not the laird, she thought, and felt sorry for poor Anne. Even though Anne was two years older than she, free to choose her own husband, Rose knew the woman lacked the courage to break free of her mother’s tight grip.

“Wheesht, if I was a witch, I would brew up a potion to give poor Anne some backbone,” she muttered as she started up the path to her cottage.

Suddenly Rose stopped and carefully put down her basket. It took her a moment to understand what had so firmly caught her attention. Her front door was slightly open. That was not an immediate cause for concern, for Sweetling was capable of opening the door. He only did so, however, when something outside strongly caught his attention. She told herself that there was still no need for alarm—a cat’s interest could be firmly caught by a falling leaf—but she still looked around very carefully. Geordie was still after her, always lurking in wait.

Her heart skipped with fear when she saw that the gate to her garden was open. Sweetling could not do that. Only human hands could manage to open the heavy, iron-banded gate. Picking up one of the stout cudgels she kept in several strategic places, Rose crept into her garden. It was not until she reached her apple orchard that she saw the intruder.

The laird was strolling through her garden. In some ways, he had the right, as she was on Duncairn land despite the hereditary rights granted the Keith women. Nevertheless, she was irritated that he had not waited for a personal invitation. It was that irritation that subdued the urge to laugh at the way her cats trailed behind him, stopping when he stopped and even studying what he studied. It was impossible to completely restrain a brief grin, however, when he crouched to pick up a handful of dirt and her cats joined him in poking and sniffing at the ground.

Sir Adair’s years as a warrior were revealed by how quickly he heard her approach, and the speed with which his body tensed and his hand went to his sword. He stood up, brushed the dirt from his hands, and bowed slightly in greeting. When he glanced down at her hand and faintly smiled, she blushed, realizing she still carried the cudgel.

“A stout weapon,” he murmured. “Ye hold it as if ye ken how to use it.”

“I do.” She leaned the cudgel up against the trunk of an apple tree, idly stroking the trunk as she often did, for it was the tree her mother had planted when she was born.

“Did ye have one near at hand when Geordie attacked ye?”

“Aye, but my cats got to him first.”

He looked down at the cats flanking him. “I didnae let them out.”

“I ken it. Sweetling can open the door.” She smiled faintly. “He does so when something catches his interest. I kenned he couldnae open the garden gate, however.”

“Ah. I came hoping ye could show me the garden so many talk about, but when ye didnae appear after near half an hour, I decided to meander through it on my own. ’Tis weel laid out, and the wall that encircles it is a fine tall and stout one.”

She nodded and started to follow him as he resumed walking. “It took many years. Some was done by the Keith women, some by their husbands, and some in return for food when harvests were poor or destroyed.”

“And your harvests have ne’er been poor or your crop destroyed?” He paused by some blackberries growing near the wall and plucked a few ripe ones.

“My harvests have been hurt at times, but my garden is weel planned, the wall shields it from damaging winds as weel as from intruders, and I have plenty of water close at hand. We dinnae have large fields to protect, and o’er the years we have done all we can to protect what grows here. Some of the people have accepted our ways, if their own gardens are small or in one small area of the larger fields they plow and plant. At times, the fact that our garden still grows whilst others falter and fail has caused us trouble. ’Tis mostly good planning, its size, and ample water within these walls that makes it flourish.”

“And what makes it so, weel, comforting?” Adair moved so that Rose was standing between him and the trunk of an apple tree. “I should like to scorn its effect upon people, but I cannae. Nor can any others. ’Tis the one thing they all agree upon.”

That was a question Rose heartily wished he had not asked. She knew the food from her gardens did something other food did not, most people calling it a comforting, a soothing, even saying it gave them a sense of peace. Her mother had never truly explained that. Flora Keith had spoken of a blessing by the fairies and that, some day soon, she would tell Rose the whole tale. Sadly, death had stolen her mother’s chance to speak. Sir Adair was not a man who would accept talk of fairies, however.

“ ’Tis just good food, the fruit plump and sweet, the vegetables and grains hearty and strong. Nay more,” she said.

“I think ye believe there is more than that. I think ye believe there is magic in this garden, just as so many others do.”

“Ye think a great deal,” she muttered. “Mayhap ye need more work to do.”

Adair popped a blackberry into his mouth to halt the smile forming on his lips. He savored the softening that happened within, that continued blunting of the sharp edges of his dark memories. It was impossible to deny what food from Rose’s garden made him feel, but he did not want to attribute it to magic. Something in the water or even in the soil was causing it. That was his preferred explanation. Adair knew he would not cease to eat anything she allowed him to, for he ached for the calm the food gifted him with, the growing ability to look at the past with more understanding and acceptance.

“For now, my work is to discover why the food from this garden affects what people feel,” he said, stepping a little closer and placing his hands on the trunk of the tree to either side of her head.

“Why is that so important? It is what it is. It does what it does. It harms no one.”

“It harms you.”

“Nay, it—”

“It harms you. It causes talk, dangerous talk. Dark whispers of magic and witchcraft.”

“Not everyone thinks such things.”

“Not now, but we both ken that, at times, such whispers have gained strength, roused the people, and put the Keith women in danger. I want the whispers stopped. I dislike the thought that I might be dragged from my bed some night because some fools have gotten themselves all asweat with fear and are determined to root out the evil at Rose Cottage. I mostly dislike the thought that the chances of getting here too late are verra good.”

Rose took a deep breath to steady herself only to feel her breasts brush against Adair’s broad chest. She knew he had drawn close to her, but not that close. That nearness made it difficult for her to think clearly. She was far too aware of his strength, his size, and her own deep attraction to the man. Rose knew she should move, that he probably would not try to restrain her, but she lacked the will.

“If they come hunting me, I will do my best to nay let it wake you,” she said.

“This isnae a game, Rose.”

“Do ye think I dinnae ken that? Mayhap better than ye do?” She thought it odd that she could be both tense with unease and tremble with pleasure when he stroked her cheek. “I cannae stop the whispers. I cannae hold back fear and superstition. I am but a wee lass who tries to make a living with what she grows in her garden and, occasionally, with what she can cook. I harm no one and, in truth, have helped many. There is nay more I can do.”

“Ah, lass, that isnae good enough and weel ye ken it. Ye must openly deny there is magic here. Ye must show people there are reasons why your food tastes better, why your garden stays healthy nay matter what afflicts the others.”

Adair closely watched her face. It was evident she was trying to neither deny nor admit that there was any magic at Rose Cottage. He wanted denial, but he began to suspect he would not get it. That troubled him, for he also wanted Rose.

He fixed his gaze upon her mouth. For now he would help himself to a little of what he wanted. All the other complications could be dealt with later. Adair almost smiled when her eyes slowly widened as he lowered his mouth to hers. Since she made no attempt to move, push him away, or speak a denial, he deemed that a silent acquiescence and kissed her.

Rose felt his warm, surprisingly soft lips touch hers and felt trapped by her own desire. Heat flowed through her body, softening her, rousing a heady welcome. A tiny part of her was shocked when she wrapped her arms around his neck, but it died when she parted her lips and he began to stroke the inside of her mouth with his tongue. Her whole body shivered with the strength of the delight she felt. This was what she wanted, needed, despite every instinct that warned her against reaching so high. Or for a man who was determined to make her deny the magic that was her heritage.

That thought gave her the strength to pull away when he began to kiss her neck. She met his gaze, saw how passion had darkened and warmed his eyes, and nearly threw herself back into his arms. Taking a deep breath in a vain attempt to calm herself, she stiffened her spine and faced him squarely. Despite her own confusion about magic, whether it even existed and, if it did, where it came from, it was all tangled up with her heritage, with who she was. She had to be wary of a man who scorned it, disliked it, and wished her to do the same.

“That was unwise,” she said, silently cursing the huskiness of her voice.

“Aye?” He stroked her cheek and felt her tremble slightly even as she pressed herself back against the tree, away from him. “Ye didnae cry me nay.”

“I should have—verra loudly.”

“Ah, lass, ’twas but a kiss. The sweetest I have e’er had, and I ken I shall be longing for another taste, but, when all is said and done, ’twas just a kiss. ’Twas no great stain upon your honor.”

“I ken it, yet I am a lass who lives alone. I must guard my honor with greater vigilance than some other maid. Since I have no guardian here, if anyone learned ye had kissed me, many would quickly assume there was far more between us. I cannae afford that sort of talk.”

He reluctantly let her move away. “ ’Tis strange that ye so firmly guard your reputation for virtue yet allow the far more dangerous talk of magic to continue.”

“Do ye expect me to stand in the middle of the village and vow I have none of this magic, ne’er deal in it, and dinnae believe in it? And why would anyone heed me? They will believe what they wish.”

“But ye feed these beliefs. All the Keith women have. Ye dinnae seem as bad as the others were—”

Rose put her hands on her hips and glared at him. “There have been Keith women here since the first Dundas laird claimed these lands. Did ye ne’er think that alone is enough to stir tales? Few women hold land, and we nay only hold some but have done so for more years than most can count.”

“Your mother did naught to still the whispers. In truth, she often spoke or acted as if it was all true.”

“Aye, she did, and I willnae dishonor her memory by spitting on all she believed just to make my life easier.” She started toward the cottage. “And I am nay sure I dinnae believe it, too. Some days I do; some days I dinnae.” She reached her door and turned to glare at him again. “Ye are my laird, but ye dinnae have the right to tell me what I can and cannae think, feel, or believe. Good day,” she said as she stepped inside and firmly shut the door behind her.