Highlander of Mine (6 page)
A
s Rory trotted along the dirt road, he easily spotted huge Duncan in Mrs. Cameron’s back garden, while the lovely Lady Fleur was sitting in the front, the sun’s setting rays bouncing off her dark hair, making some of it appear scarlet. He smiled. Oh, the lady’s tresses were bonny. Making him appreciate the scene before him even more was the fact that Duncan was nowhere near her. Rory had heard the women of the MacKay territory chatter about the large man—the warrior returned; the good son who had given his mother so much money, she was almost as rich as his own brother, the laird. Duncan, the man who would make the chits swoon as he silently stalked by. Although Rory knew himself to be a very different man from Duncan, if anyone was his competition, it would be him.
He took a deep breath though, thinking what he could offer the lady. Conversation for one thing. It seemed that Duncan could only talk when giving orders. Aye, the lady wouldn’t want that. Rory could talk to her at length about a variety of subjects, unlike the immense soldier. He could also seduce her with wealth. All right, Duncan might have riches too, and—Wait, Rory told himself. He was already thinking of seducing the lady?
Rory knew better. He was a gentleman after all.
He chided himself for his rushing urges, which would never win the lady to him.
Duncan started to walk along his mother’s fence line. He gave a nod and a quick wave. It wasn’t truly a wave, but more of an acknowledgement. It irritated Rory more than it probably should have. He knew Duncan in the last four years had served as a bodyguard to the Swedish king, whatever his odd name was, and as such mayhap being around lairds and lairds’ brothers might not be all that exciting anymore. Nonetheless, he thought Duncan should have more respect for his rank and authority.
Duncan somehow found his way to the front garden as Rory did. Damnation. Rory dismounted from his new horse gained from a nearby neighbor of Mrs. Cameron’s, then tied the reins to the front fence, close to the steed Duncan had stolen from him. He nodded at Duncan as the too tall man held the gate open for him. Walking through, Rory finally caught exactly where the lady sat in Mrs. Cameron’s garden. Apparently Duncan did too, for the man gurgled a kind of gasp. They both gaped as she weeded through a row of carrots. Dirt smeared along her thin hands, she looked up at both men and smiled.
“I haven’t done this since I was a kid. It’s actually kind of fun once you get into a rhythm.”
Her hair appeared to be tied in a literal knot at the back of her head. A few black strands hung around her face and neck, somehow highlighting her appearance, making her seem so soft and feminine. Delicious.
Rory heard a squawk, then looked up to see Duncan’s mother hold her hands over her mouth in horror. Finally, she came rushing from the porch of her house to the stone path, close to Lady Fleur.
“My lady, you can’t—”
“I’m sorry,” Lady Fleur said, quickly standing and wiping dirt from her extra long legs. “I—I should have asked first, but I thought I could help. I’m sorry.”
Duncan’s mother stood transfixed a few feet from Lady Fleur looking at the pile of dead weeds then to the lady’s dirty hands. “I should have done it myself. I’m so embarrassed I had weeds for ye to find.” She looked over to Rory. “Oh, Honorable MacKay, ‘tis such a pleasure to have ye at my house. Dear me, but I had weeds for the lady.”
Surmising the situation quickly, Rory said, “Nay, weeds grow so fast. ‘Tis hard to keep up. I think the lady merely wanted to help.”
Lady Fleur smiled at him and nodded. “Please, don’t be embarrassed. As, er, Mr. MacKay said, weeds can grow overnight, sometimes within hours, right? It’s the gardener’s plight, weeds. I was only trying to help. I’m sorry.”
Mrs. Cameron smiled at the lady. “Would ye care to go inside and clean up a bit? Then the lads can talk for a spell, the way they always like to do.”
Lady Fleur nodded and waved at both Duncan and Rory. “Excuse me, but I’ll be right back.”
“All right,” Rory said, then noticed Duncan held his hand up in a proper wave to Fleur who smiled as she stepped away. Duncan even bore a small grin for the lady.
Once Lady Fleur disappeared into the giant stone house, Duncan and Rory turned toward each other, both their smiles gone.
“Duncan,” was the only blasted thing he could think to say.
“Captain MacKay.” Duncan bowed his head a little.
Well, mayhap he’d overreacted earlier, Rory reconsidered, since Duncan had clearly opened with a respectable title.
“Did the troops find anything?”
Rory shook his head. “Nay. Not a thing. Not a trace of any mosstroopers either.”
Duncan grunted an acknowledgement then looked toward his mother’s house.
“I thought perhaps I should buy her new things.” Rory wanted to kick himself at the way his voice sounded a pinch intimidated—higher than usual and perhaps a tad whiny too. “Did ye ken what she lost, so I could replace whatever it was?”
Duncan looked at Rory again, his red brows arched slightly. “I can’t believe it, but I forgot to ask what she lost. Good thinking, Captain.”
The compliment mixed with the fact that clearly Duncan hadn’t thought of what Rory had shot a boost of confidence in him that he’d wished he’d had all day. Rory didn’t know what it was about Duncan, mayhap the slight age difference or the fact that the man had half a foot on him or he had much more battle experience, but he felt slightly off balance around him. Rory’s brother, John, had asked for Duncan to help train the troops, which Rory hadn’t felt he needed. But the truth was, he did. Duncan knew a hell of a lot more than he, and Rory was trying to glean as much as he could. Afterwards, he’d prefer to be rid of Duncan. Besides, wasn’t the man itching to go back to Sweden? It was obvious he hated being here by making ugly scowls every time someone said the word Durness.
But Rory thought this one of the most beautiful places in all of Scotland. He’d been to the Lowlands, he’d been to London, but for him nothing compared to MacKay country. Ach, the lochs that surrounded the land, the majestic green hills, everywhere was a treasure of colors and sights. Hell, he even loved learning about the agriculture. What kind of irrigation ditch could bring the most water to which kind of crop had been fascinating to study, and he was seriously considering offering some farmers a little money for trying their hand with a few potato crops. With all his thoughts regarding the land, Rory often wondered if he might appreciate it more than his older brother, always so busy with the politics of survival, thanks to conniving Cromwell.
Rory couldn’t help but smile up at Duncan after receiving the praise. “Thank ye. That’s kind of ye to say.”
Something about Duncan seemed to relax as he nodded. But he looked toward his mother’s house again, which annoyed Rory.
“We’ll ask about her things when she returns, hmm?”
Rory nodded and reminded himself to make sure and say something before Duncan. Even if it was petty, he wanted Lady Fleur to know he had thought about her things more than Duncan had.
“I should warn ye . . .” Duncan turned back to him, his shoulders flexing as if he were nervous. “My mother asked for the lady to stay with her. After, my ma thought it best for the lady to stay in Tongue, but the request was offered nonetheless.”
Rory looked to the house too. Muffled sounds of the two women laughing filtered through the manor, and he wished he could feel carefree like that. He wanted the lady close. He wanted her within an arm’s distance, and if she stayed here . . .
Well, he’d have to find a reason to stay in Durness too, wouldn’t he? His troops needed to rest before the journey back to Tongue anyway. Why not have them holed up in the local inn and taverns? He’d splurge on them. They deserved it. Although, he wished they were more physically fit like Duncan, but they would be in time.
He decided not to say anything to Duncan just yet. Best to see what the lady wanted to do. However, it would be considered rude for Lady Fleur not to stay with Mrs. Cameron once the invite was issued, although forgivable, he thought.
He nodded and stared at the front door, hearing the women talking animatedly. Finally, Mrs. Cameron emerged with her guest, both smiling and talking about French wine.
Mrs. Cameron beckoned with a wave of her hands. “Come in, lads. We’ve decided to sup and have wine.”
Duncan glanced over at Rory with a wary look. Rory wasn’t too sure if he gave the same stare back. Well, wasn’t this a wonderful turn of events, where he’d be stuck with the taciturn Duncan for much too long.
T
he supper turned out to be wine at Helen’s house then dinner at a nearby tavern. It was large enough to fit at least a hundred people, most of whom were Duncan’s men. The smells permeating through the tavern were wood, beer, and some kind of meaty stew that had actually tasted wonderful, although Fleur was a little scared of food poisoning, what with being in the seventeenth century and all. There was the scent of the ocean in the tavern too. The misted salt stung Fleur’s nose a tad. The tavern was warm, dark, and loud with a lute and fiddle player who argued as much as they played music.
Many of Duncan’s troops greeted him with something close to awe and stared at Fleur like the alien she was in this environment. They openly rubbernecked, gawked, and whispered while she ate. Probably because she was still in her black running suit and Adidas and not a long dress as every woman wore. Feeling a bit apprehensive about her garb, she wondered how to talk to Helen about needing a change of clothes, but never got around to it. After the stew was cleared from the table and Duncan somehow vanished too, she decided to chase him down and have a talk with him about his young troops. She found him at a corner table, alone.
Once sitting next to him, she asked, “Is it possible to tell your men not to . . .?”
“Stare at ye?” His voice was quiet but rumbled through her chest when he leaned into her ear to talk over the din of the music and hum of the folks’ continual chatter.
She nodded, looking up into his multicolored hazel eyes. She really liked the orange starbursts around his pupils, which had gotten rather large. Dilated pupils were a sign of sexual attraction—that had been an article Ian had tried to make her read while on the airplane to Scotland. Ian had gushed that it was a wonderful indicator and could reveal more information than invasive genital measurements in sexual studies. God, why had she just thought of that? Suddenly finding the air a bit hard to breathe, she wondered if her pupils were as large as Duncan’s. Well, the tavern was incredibly dark, that’s probably why he looked at her the way he did. She kept repeating that to herself as she couldn’t help but stare into his eyes.
He cracked a small lopsided smile. “I can try to talk to the lads, but I doubt they’d stop.”
Sense finally came back to her. Actually, it was anger. She huffed and crossed her arms under her breasts. From her periphery, she realized Duncan had noticed her movement. Something a lot like desire tripped her heart then sped through her body, then lulled around her breasts and at the apex of her legs. Okay, it was desire, but there was no point to it, now was there? She would leave soon.
“I’d think ye’d be used to it.”
Fleur turned to Duncan with an arched brow clearly aimed at him, but he didn’t further clarify what he’d meant. “Used to what?” she finally asked.
He leaned close, close enough his nose nuzzled into her hair, a lip just touched her ear. A zip of dark and beautiful energy nudged between her legs. She hardly heard him speak what with her body beginning to buzz for him.
“Used to being stared at.”
She spun to face him, finding his lips mere inches from hers. She liked the way the candlelight blazed against the red stubble of his cheeks and chin. She liked seeing his eyes turn a dark green. She liked watching his nostrils flare slightly. Still, something about his comment bothered her, and what amazed her was before she could stop herself, she let him know it. “Why? Because I’m Indian? I should get used to being stared at because I’m a little different? Is that what you think?”
He straightened in his chair and gained a few inches distance from her, making her wish so badly she hadn’t said anything. What was wrong with her anyway? She never was this...argumentative. Sure, she hadn’t been completely quarrelsome with him, but she found herself pointing any and all discomfort right at Duncan. The one person she liked the most since arriving in this odd time.
Wait—had she really just thought that?
His jaw line kicked, but he said, “Aye, they’ve never seen a woman like ye, but ’tis because ye’re the most bonny—beautiful lass they’ve ever seen. They ever
will
see, for that matter. That’s why they stare. That’s why I thought ye’d be used to it.” He leaned farther away, staring at the fiddle player who finally found a boisterous tune.
The flattery augmented the already sparkling energy zipping through her body, and she crossed her legs, something again she observed Duncan took note of too. God, she liked the way he’d reticently take peeks at her.
But why? Why like something that wouldn’t last? And why hadn’t she said thank you to the compliment? She knew she should have. Should have acknowledged it. If anything, she didn’t want Duncan to think she was a brat who expected such accolades or was used to being stared at for such a reason.
However, she sat mute, looking at the fiddle player who had started to hum with his melody. The lute musician drank a beer with his eyes closed and bobbed his head to the beat.
She wanted Duncan to kiss her. The thought interrupted her mind and instantly her body stopped, then jerked into a too vibrant and delirious state. It became so clear in her mind—he’d plant those perfect dusty pink lips of his on hers, and she’d lick at the seam of his mouth until he opened for her, then she’d plunge...Dammit, what was wrong with her?
Annoyance at herself and her damned endocrine system flooded her thoughts. She’d never wanted a man she’d known less than a day to kiss her before. She didn’t do those sorts of things. Dating had been somewhat interesting thus far. She’d find a man who had similar likes, dislikes, same political party affiliations, comparable education, then have the requisite coffee. Then a lunch. If she liked the guy, then dinner. A kiss. It was a linear path to finding success in a relationship. After the kiss, if she still liked him, there would be more dinners. Maybe sex. All right, she’d had sex only twice, thinking it the logical end to the successful dating system. But it had felt horribly wrong. However, that hadn’t made any sense then and sure didn’t now. The dates had been productive—the two men she’d had sex with had been worthy guys, both quite compatible with her, she’d thought.
Rachel had asked the question,
But what about your heart, Fleur?
Wasn’t compatibility good for her heart? A good match of minds would shield her from the agony of...losing someone. Although, Fleur knew it wouldn’t actually prevent loss. She knew it logically. But still, wasn’t there something to help that anguish?
So she kept persisting at the dating trajectory. It had to be the right path. She just hadn’t found a like-minded enough man yet. But once she did, then the success would be equated in terms of...she’d actually never thought of marriage in the conventional sense. Maybe living together. Adopting a child eventually. Things that seemed reasonable and rational.
But kissing a stranger? In a tavern, no less? When she couldn’t wrap her head around where the hell she was? This was insane.
She suddenly turned to Duncan, angry. “You can’t just call me ‘the most beautiful woman’ and get away with it, you know?”
“Oh?” He kept staring ahead at the fiddle player, but his lips quirked up at the corners.
“No way, buddy.”
“Buddy?” He still didn’t look at her, but drank some of his beer. The bob of his Adam’s apple with that light dusting of red whiskers rocked straight into her groin.
“That’s right.” Her voice cracked. “There are serious consequences to what you just did.”
“Aye?”
“That’s right.”
He suddenly leaned very close, staring down at her as his face finally halted a few inches from hers. His eyes seemed to drink her in more than he’d drunk his beer. His gaze sought hers, but then flickered down to her lips. “What are these consequences, hmm?”
She was going to do it. She was going to kiss him. Just lean forward—her heart thudded so loud she was sure everyone in the room heard it, her whole body tightened in excitement—and kiss him.
“Lady Fleur, there ye be.”
Fleur glanced up at Rory, holding a few wooden tankards full of more beer with Helen standing beside him, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. Helen sat close to Fleur, leaning into her ear while Rory took the only available seat then divvied the beers on the table, continually smiling slightly, maybe a tad forcibly.
“I can take Mr. Rory MacKay back where we came, if ye need time alone with my son?” Helen whispered.
Duncan had distanced himself from Fleur, even crossing his massive arms across his chest and spreading his legs a little wider apart, as if bracing for her to attack him. Some naughty part of her thought about bending over to see up his kilt. Would the carpet match the curtains? She almost giggled at her erotic thoughts, but then glanced at Duncan’s mother, which, of course, was more than an icy splash of water on her fantasies.
Fleur shook her head and tried to keep her distance from Duncan too. He was just so...so...damned intriguing. Sexy. Sensual. Dripping with animal charisma and—God, she had to stop thinking about the man that way while his mother was so close.
The fiddle player stopped and everyone clapped, except for the lute musician who frowned. Someone cried, “Story time,” and then another repeated the words, until the whole tavern bustled even louder. There was much talk between two men Fleur thought to be the owners of the tavern, then they pointed to a white-haired, thin man at a table with three large, much younger women.
“Tell us a story, Mr. Brown,” someone said. Soon enough the tavern’s cacophony increased, ordering the elderly Mr. Brown to grace the crowd with a yarn.
Slowly standing on wobbly legs, he held a hand in the air, which immediately hushed the crowd. He coughed a few times, then cleared his throat. Smiling at the room, he began. “’Twas a beautiful day, much like today, when the fae pulled a trick on a bonny lass.”
The crowd booed, but Fleur knew they were showing their anger at the fairies.
Mr. Brown nodded then continued. “Ah, she was a sweet thing. So lovely too, for many a man had never seen anything like her before. She came from the time before time, ye ken? She came from when the people drew their art in caves and dragons roamed the earth. But the poor lass was troubled with an evil curse, she was. The curse made it so she could never talk. Never. Not even if she feared for her life, she couldn’ scream out. Not even when she was angry, could she yell. She couldn’ even ask for more salt, if she had a hankerin’. But the fae have special sight about such things and threw her to the Highlands.”
Someone yelled their approval, then the whole tavern roared at the mentioning of the Highlands. Fleur smiled and looked around the table, her heart thundering. Helen squeezed her hand, and Rory gave her back a warm grin. Duncan looked down to his beer, as if the thick foamy white head of it was thoroughly intriguing. All indications he was indifferent to the story being told, except his red brows began to furrow.
She wondered if he was thinking of her predicament. Did he believe her? If she were him, she probably wouldn’t. It didn’t make any sense. It wasn’t logical. Actually, it was preposterous!
Mr. Brown started and the crowd hushed. “Ye see, in the Highlands God gave to the men here more strength,” more yelling ensued, but Mr. Brown continued in time. “And the fae knew this, for they wished a Highland man to break the spell for the woman. One after another the men approached the woman to break her curse. The Laird of Sutherland tried,” someone booed, “but he failed. The Laird of MacDonald tried,” no real yelling at that, “but he failed. So many lairds tried to break the woman free from her spell, but they could no’. Nay. About to give up, all the lairds had a council, and that was when a lone stable boy approached the woman. He wasn’ born of nobility, but was virtuous and kind. He didn’ have many riches, other than his beautiful singing voice, for all the land loved it when he sang. When he saw the woman, so sad in her spell, he began to sing for her, he did. Then he fell in love with her, and while he sang he wished to give her his voice. The fae granted his wish, and the spell was broken. The woman loved the stable boy so much she gave him half her voice, so he could speak and sing too. And they lived happily until their end.”
The crowd erupted with loud clapping and cheers. It was so much like the times she’d spent at the community center at Porcupine. Well, the alcohol wasn’t served. Intentionally. But the story telling, the familiar and friendly feeling of the tavern, even the music was so similar to when she had been a little girl growing up on the Pine Ridge reservation.
Fleur flashed to images of her all-boy cousins, wrestling in the dirt with them and laughing uncontrollably. Then she thought of the stories that everyone told. Everyone. It was a tradition that even the children had the opportunity to tell a fable. Suddenly her mouth watered, recalling the thick, buttery taste of fried bread with cinnamon sugar. Which always made her remember her grandma. Na had taken in a few of her cousins from time to time. Yet Fleur and Na were always together.
Until Fleur was fourteen, that was, and Na let the teacher take her away to the Texas high school. The memory flavored Fleur’s mouth with the dead taste of ashes. She reminded herself over and over again that Na had done what she’d thought was best, she really had done what she had thought was best, was best.
But it still hurt thinking of being so young and having everything she’d known ripped from her simply because she was told she was smart. Super smart, the teacher, Mrs. Barter had said. Her face had been flummoxed when she’d seen Fleur’s math scores. Fleur wanted to laugh at the woman, not sure if she was so confused because Fleur was, indeed, smart, or if she’d never thought a Sioux could be that intelligent. There had been days of tests, then Mrs. Barter, ironic name, had come to talk to Na, tell her what other opportunities existed for such a smart girl like Fleur. She talked of scholarships already in place, living with a nice family in Texas. Mrs. Barter showed pictures of the school campus, then the huge house that Fleur was supposed to call her next home. Na had slept on the decision, had talked to the elders, had prayed and prayed for help with the choice, the smell of sweet grass smoke heavy everywhere in their home, but Na had never asked Fleur if she’d wanted a future in Texas. Later, when Na was dying from diabetes, her feet already taken by the disease, she’d admitted she couldn’t ask Fleur, because she was too afraid that Fleur would sway her mind. It had been the one conversation Fleur was sorry to have brought up. The discussion had tortured her Na. Even a dozen years after the decision, Na was still unsure of what she had done, regretted so much.
