Margo Maguire (4 page)

Flora pressed her mouth into a tight line of resignation.

Anna put her hand on the older woman’s arm. “Tell me what I can do to help you here.”

“Ach, well.” Flora sighed heavily and returned to her work. “The mistress has been clamoring fer the meal. So if ye’d carry this tray up to the hall, ’twould be a great help.”

Anna made a derisive sound. “MacMillan did not seem the type of man to demand any special treatment. He arrived unexpectedly early. Surely he does not expect a lavish meal.”

Flora’s eyes widened. “Ye met him?”

“Aye, at the pier, before he threw Birk into the sea,” Anna replied. “I’ll tell you later.”

“Ach, and what will that radgy wench upstairs say when she hears of it?”

“I hope that never happens,” Anna said. “And you ought not to use such raw words when you speak of— You know.” Anna leveled a pointed glance toward the youngest maid, Glenna, a wee lass of eight years who’d been orphaned and taken into service at the castle, much the same as Anna and Kyla, years ago.

“Ach,” Flora said, “that wench is what she is. And she’ll lay claim to the MacMillan lad faster than he can climb the stairs to his bedchamber.”

“Where will that leave Cullen Macauley?” Anna asked, for Catrìona had put her hooks into the man from Skye the minute he’d come to the isle more than a fortnight ago.

“Where does it leave Eòsaph Drummond?” Flora asked.

’Twas thought that Catrìona knew every secret trysting spot on the isle and had used them all, most recently with Eòsaph, who had a wife and children.

Anna shrugged. What Catrìona did was her own concern and had naught to do with her, though it pained her every time she saw Eòsaph’s wife in the village. She liked Ilisa Drummond very much, and her heart clenched in her chest every time she saw the poor woman with her eyes cast down, assuming everyone knew of her husband’s infidelity. Catrìona had been man-hungry ever since adolescence, though most of the island men had known well enough to stay clear of her. Anna suspected her stepsister had had her earliest assignation with a sailor who’d come on a trading ship from the Isle of Lewis, but that had been years ago.

“Eòsaph would do well to turn his attentions to his own family,” Flora fumed as she placed bowls and platters on a large wooden tray.

Anna nodded in agreement but went back to the original question. “Don’t worry about Catrìona hearing about what MacMillan did for Kyla and me, Flora. The talk will be all about Birk. Not us.”

Besides, Catrìona had little interest in what went on in the village. She only cared about making as favorable a first impression with Lachann MacMillan as she’d done when Macauley had arrived a few weeks earlier. Both men seemed to believe that marriage to Anna’s sister would be a conduit to the lairdship of Kilgorra.

The talk in the village indicated they were likely right. But only one of them could be laird.

Since Macauley’s arrival, Catrìona had been barely tolerable. Anna could not imagine how unbearable she was going to be now that there were two highborn men vying for her hand.

And then there was Eòsaph, and she hated to think who else might have fallen into her stepsister’s snares.

“Ye know she’ll play one against the other, aye?” Flora asked.

“You mean Macauley and MacMillan?” Anna nodded. “I suppose so. Everyone knows the agreement with the MacMillans was not sealed. Catrìona is still free to choose.”

Flora clucked her tongue. “Aye, and she’ll enjoy the game.”

Without even meeting him, Anna and the rest of the islanders believed Lachann MacMillan must be the better choice. So far, Macauley had not managed to endear himself to anyone on Kilgorra other than Catrìona and her father. He was imperious and demanding at the keep, and he’d taken charge of the Kilgorra distillery, giving orders and overriding Geordie Kincaid’s authority.

Had he done it to demonstrate his worth to the laird?

Anna wondered if her stepfather still had the capacity to take notice of such things. But the machinations of the high and mighty had naught to do with her, naught but Macauley’s unwelcome advances, which she took pains to avoid. Catrìona had treated her with full-blown animosity when she’d come to Kilgorra as a young child and her mother had married Catrìona’s father. Anna’s mother had taken all the laird’s attentions, leaving Catrìona to fend for herself. When Sigrid and her newborn son had died, naught had been the same for either daughter.

Anna had lost the only family she would ever have.

And Catrìona had lost any chance of gaining her father’s attention, for he’d started turning to the solace of drink more often than not. Catrìona had blamed Anna for all her woes back then.

She had seen to it that every memory of Sigrid was erased from Kilgorra Keep. And she’d relegated Anna to the servants’ quarters at the very bottom of the keep.

Naught had changed since then. These days, it seemed Anna’s stepfather hardly remembered who she was.

Anna started for the tray Flora had prepared, but Catrìona suddenly descended into the kitchen from the stairs that led up to the great hall. She caught sight of Anna and snapped at her. “I’ve been looking for you, you lazy wench!”

Chapter 4

C
atrìona wore a deep green gown that Anna had made just for this occasion, and she had tied her father’s tartan at her waist. Her fine shoes had come all the way from Inverness, while Anna’s and most of the other women’s feet at Kilgorra Castle were bare.

Catrìona grabbed Anna by the arm, pinching hard. Anna yelped in surprise.

“Where have you been?”

“On Spirit Isle,” Anna retorted.

Catrìona drew away from her with distaste. She was as superstitious as the rest of the Kilgorrans, and the very mention of the island filled her with dread.

Anna was careful never to tell anyone about the true nature of the isle, about the deep blue loch or the wild roots and berries that grew in the island’s verdant, green interior. Some brave Kilgorran might decide to risk injury from the
sluagh dubh
and explore it.

’Twas the last thing Anna and Kyla wanted. The isle was their haven. If anyone on Kilgorra had ever known of the beautiful dell that lay within the ring of mountains all ’round its coast, no one seemed to remember it now. And if they did—well, there were the tales of the
sluagh dubh
to keep them away.

Gudrun had never believed in such things, and after the death of Anna’s mother, the woman had explored the isle’s rocky terrain, taking Anna and Kyla with her. Anna was the one who had discovered the long, low tunnel on the northeastern side of the isle. She’d followed the passage all the way to the interior and found a beautiful green dell within, and the loch with its healing springs.

Anna treasured her time on Spirit Isle, and she was fortunate to have a bit more freedom than some of the other servants at the castle. Years ago, Gudrun had humored her and Kyla when they’d turned one of the caves into a cozy home for them while they were away from Kilgorra and Anna’s vile stepsister. Spirit Isle had become a tiny paradise unto itself for them, with nothing—not even a boggle—to spoil it.

“Bring the meal up to the hall,” Catrìona hissed. “Now!”

“Let Nighean carry some of it, Anna,” Flora said. “ ’Tis too much for one—”

“Shut your insolent mouth, old woman,” Catrìona barked. “You know our guest has arrived, and there is not a speck of refreshment ready for him.”

Catrìona gave Anna a stern glance, then quickly bustled up the stairs, muttering angrily under her breath. Anna knew better than to defy her stepsister, especially if she wanted to get away from the castle to hide Kyla later. She picked up the tray laden with the dishes Flora had prepared and carefully followed Catrìona up to the great hall.

At the top of the stairs, Catrìona took hold of Anna’s sleeve. “Put it on the table, you fool slecher.
And be quick about it!
”

Anna felt herself teetering on the top step, and the tray started to slip. She feared Flora had been right. She should have ignored Catrìona and waited for Nighean to help her with the heavy tray. She struggled to gain her balance, afraid she was going to drop everything, and then there would be hell to pay. Her stepsister would make sure she could not get back to the village, would prevent her from getting Kyla and her bairn a place to hide away for the night.

The weight on her shoulder fell away unexpectedly, and Anna felt a moment’s confusion and panic, afraid the tray was about to clatter to the floor.

Chapter 5

A
nna squeezed her eyes shut and waited.

But there was no crash, no disaster. She opened her eyes, only to see Lachann MacMillan stepping away with the tray in his hands. He carried it to the table with ease, then set it down with barely a glance back.

The room grew silent, and Anna felt her face heat with embarrassment and worry. Catrìona would not take kindly to Anna being rescued by their guest, a man her stepsister might well choose to marry if Macauley had not yet fully won her. Catrìona sidled up beside Anna and gave her another painful pinch on the back of her arm to demonstrate her ire.

Anna held back a squeal of pain, jerking away from Catrìona to follow MacMillan to the table, where he left her to her work. She kept her head down, making an effort to draw no further attention to herself as she took the platters and bowls from the tray and arranged them on the laird’s banquet table.

She dearly hoped her stepsister would not hear about Lachann’s rescue of Kyla on the pier, but she feared ’twas impossible to keep such gossip from her. Catrìona would hear what he had done to Birk—and why.

But mayhap Anna’s name would not be mentioned. She could only pray that would be so.

She finished her task as quickly as possible, then hurried back to the stairs. She would have flown down to the kitchen had it not been for her braw rescuer standing in her path. She looked up at him, unsure what to do, what to say, if anything. She knew that if the man seemed to take any notice of her, Catrìona would be livid.

“Th-thank you for your assistance, sir,” Anna said, meaning more than his help with the tray. She hoped he understood she could say no more, for she needed to make her speech quick and seemingly inconsequential. Which it was. She could have no further business with the man.

She made a slight bow, wishing she could tell herself she wanted naught more than to escape the room and his scrutiny.

But she would have been lying.

His eyes were so very intense, and when they rested upon her throat and he gave a questioning glance—

Anna wasted not another second but skirted ’round the highlander and went down the stairs to the scullery as quickly as her legs would carry her.

T
he maid, Anna, served as a momentary and welcome distraction against Lachann’s nerves, which buzzed like a hive about to explode.

He had never expected to encounter Cullen Macauley again, much less here on Laird MacDuffie’s isle. He was still reeling with the news Macauley had given him of Fiona MacDonald’s death, and when the fair lass from the pier had come into the hall struggling under the weight of a ridiculously overladen tray, Lachann had nearly snapped at Laird MacDuffie for misusing his servants.

What a mistake that would have been. Lachann had come to court the man and his daughter. Not to alienate him.

And ’twould not go over well if he were to cleave Macauley in two right there in MacDuffie’s hall.

Gesu
. Fiona was dead? She’d once been everything to him—until Cullen Macauley had come along.

The pain of losing her had faded some, but not the hatred he felt for the man who’d taken her away from him. The man who’d gone to Skye knowing full well that Lachann was to marry Fiona.

“So, ye know each other, then?”

“Aye,” Macauley replied with a cockiness that made Lachann want to shove his fist down the bastard’s throat. “Though ’tis been some years.”

Lachann could barely stand to lay eyes upon Macauley. If Fiona was dead, the damned blighter could not have protected her well enough. Could not have cared for her as Lachann had done. As he
would
have done.

Now the bastard was here. And to what purpose? Macauley had a proprietary air about him, touching Catrìona’s elbow and her lower back as a husband would do. He spoke to Laird MacDuffie as would a favored nephew. Or son.

Damn all
. ’Twas clear Macauley had come for the exact same purpose as Lachann. To make Catrìona his wife and eventually become laird in her father’s place. Why else would he have come to Kilgorra?

Had he learned of Lachann’s intention to marry Catrìona MacDuffie and come to thwart him once again?
Gesu
. It could so easily be true.

MacDuffie had written naught of Macauley during negotiations with Lachann and his brothers. The MacMillans understood that a betrothal between Lachann and Kilgorra’s daughter was a mere formality to be ratified on Lachann’s arrival. And that once they wed and Lachann developed a defensive force for Kilgorra, he would become laird of the isle.

Lachann gathered his composure about him like a cloak. He had not planned on having any competition here. So far, Catrìona MacDuffie had naught to recommend her beyond being the daughter of the laird. She was as plain as reputed, and seemed equally drab in personality.

Which was just as Lachann would have it. He needed no wife to drive him to distraction, as his bonny Fiona had done. This MacDuffie woman would suit him well.

As Macauley’s presence did not.

Lachann tamped down his temper and considered what mischief was afoot. Had Macauley begun to train an army of his own? Had he made an offer to MacDuffie already?

Aye, of course he had.
He’d had no lands of his own at the time of his marriage to Fiona. ’Twas no secret he’d intended to become laird of all the MacDonald territory, and he’d used Fiona to advance his goal. It seemed clear her death had thwarted his designs.

Lachann would have to get rid of him, though he did not know how he would accomplish it, for old MacDuffie was quite clearly pleased with Macauley and acted on the most familiar terms with him. ’Twas almost as though Macauley had lived all his life at Kilgorra Castle.

This was a complication Lachann did not need. He wondered if the bastard had already seduced Catrìona.

“The news of your wife’s passing grieves me sorely, Macauley,” he growled, having some difficulty getting the words out.

“Aye,” Macauley replied as though he knew naught of what Fiona and Lachann had meant to each other, “ ’twas a sad day for all on Skye.”

Lachann wanted to know how Fiona had died; he wanted the details. And yet he did not. He could not bear to think of Fiona dying horribly in a raid. Or worse, from bearing Macauley’s child. The mere thought of it turned his stomach.

He looked to Laird MacDuffie, unable and unwilling to continue speaking to Macauley a moment longer than necessary. He needed a moment to regroup. “Laird, we were told that rooms would be prepared—”

“Aye, uh . . .” MacDuffie looked to his daughter as though he could not quite recall the arrangements. “Call for Anna to come up and take the MacMillans’ bags up to their rooms.”

Anna? The serving maid who’d already been taxed beyond reason today? Just as Catrìona started for the stairs where the maid had descended, Lachann objected. “Laird, there are too many, and they are too heavy for a lass. Have you no menservants?”

“Certainly we do,” the laird replied in a wee huff, and Lachann realized Duncan was going to blister his ears later for his injudicious remark.

Good God, what a mess. Could MacDuffie truly be such a dolt that he knew naught of the Macauleys? That he would actually consider tying himself to this infamous clan?

What was wrong with him?

MacDuffie assumed the air of command and spoke again to his daughter. “Catrìona, send someone for Graeme and Alex. They can do the carrying. After all,” he said with a sly look, “the MacMillans have come to stay.”

Lachann caught Duncan’s sidelong glance, a subtle chiding for being too blunt. Lachann knew he should have
suggested
that a manservant would be better suited to carrying the luggage, rather than accuse the laird of misjudging the task. Or of misusing the serving lass.

Well, he’d never been the most diplomatic of men, although he pledged to do better, at least with MacDuffie and his daughter. He
did
want the woman to accept him as her husband.

He needed to keep his goal in mind. He and his brother Dugan had engaged in numerous heated discussions about this plan during the weeks leading up to Lachann’s departure. The argument had not been about the wisdom of allying with Kilgorra, for no one had disputed the desirability—no, the
necessity
—of such a pact. It had been about Lachann’s intention to wed MacDuffie’s daughter.

Dugan had become a firm believer in love after meeting Maura, the woman who’d become his wife. And now he did not want Lachann to fall into a marriage for strategic purposes, no matter how important they were. He wanted Lachann to experience the same kind of madness Dugan felt for his own wife.

Lachann had come to believe ’twas far better to wed for a logical and advantageous purpose than because of some useless emotion that would only tear his heart to shreds.

Ach, aye—he believed in love. In its vast destructive powers.