Snowy Night with a Highlander (3 page)

“To
Blackwood
?” she echoed, her voice clearly conveying her displeasure. “Where’s that, then? No’ the Highlands, milady! Say it is
no’
the
Highlands
!”

“What could you possibly dislike about the Highlands?” Fiona demanded irritably. “You’ve never been north of Edinburra.”

“And with good reason! There be naugh’ but heathens up there—I’ve heard it said all me life.”

“Heathens!” Fiona scoffed. “That’s absurd!
I
hail from the Highlands, Sheridan—do you think me a heathen?”

“No, mu’um. But you’ve left those hills and the murderers and thieves who live in those nooks and crannies.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Sherri,” Fiona groaned. There was no point in arguing—she’d not convince Sherri, who was superstitious to the point of distraction, that there were good and decent people throughout the Highlands until she
saw it for herself. Murderers and thieves indeed! “Pack our things,” she said archly. “We’ve had word from the Buchanan throne that we will be departing Saturday morning.”

“The laird is to take us, then?” Sherri asked as she picked up a dressing gown.

“Ha!” Fiona scoffed. “
That
would require a jewel-studded litter and a host of escorts. No’ to mention a herald.”

“Pardon?” Sherri asked, confused.

Fiona waved her hand at Sherri. “Nothing so lofty as the laird, I’m afraid. I understand we are to travel with the supply coach, no’ in a laird’s conveyance.”

There was more grumbling from Sherri as she folded the gown. “Ye must know the laird, then,” she said. “What’s he like? An unkempt beard, I’d wager, and hands as big as chickens.”

Fiona snorted. “He’s clean-shaven as I recall, and I canna say the size of his hands. What I recall is that he is pompous and vulgar.”

She didn’t want to tell Sherri that Duncan Buchanan was the most sought-after bachelor in all the Highlands, or that he was wealthy and handsome and physically gifted in sport. Or that he had a reputation for hunting and bedding beautiful women, a skill that was rivaled only by Fiona’s dear brother, Jack, the bloody rogue. Duncan Buchanan lived recklessly, enjoying the life privilege and good looks had given him. He was vain and proud and arrogant . . . and
virile
. Completely and exceedingly virile.

On her life, she’d yet to meet a man as virile as he.

And just like every other female in Scotland who could draw a breath, Fiona had been very taken with him when she’d come of age. She’d been all of seventeen and violently infatuated with the dashing young laird. She’d even
suggested to Molly Elgin, whom she thought she could count among her friends, that she thought she believed she was a good match for him.

Molly had seemed surprised, but of
course
Fiona believed it was true, and why shouldn’t she? She was of age, she was generally agreeable, she was the daughter of an earl, and she was a Highlander, just like him. What more could a man possibly want in a marital match?

But on the night of Fiona’s coming-out, Molly Elgin—who, in hindsight, had perhaps the same lofty marriage goals as Fiona—intentionally suggested to Buchanan within earshot of her that Lady Fiona Haines might be the perfect match for him. She said it coyly, as if she meant to impart some astounding news that he would certainly find agreeable.

The moment Fiona realized what Molly was about, her heart had begun to pound so hard she could scarcely hear what he said—but she’d heard it. Every last cruel word.

“Fiona Haines?” he’d repeated, his brow wrinkling as he obviously tried to conjure her up from the scores of women in his memory. Fiona had felt her life ticking by in long, interminable seconds. She stole a glimpse of him just in time to see the light dawn in his green eyes (or were they brown? Memory had dulled his image), and for a single, glorious moment, a young and naïve Fiona had teetered on the brink of the utmost happiness.

She imagined him gazing at Molly with an expression of sheer gratitude for enlightening him on this most wonderful opportunity. An opportunity, no doubt, he had missed because Fiona had not yet come out . . . until that very night. And tonight, he would look past the other four debutantes and see her for the first time.
Really
see her.

“Lambourne’s younger sister?” he said, and Fiona knew instinctively by the incredulous tone of his voice that her hopes had been dashed. “Brown hair? About so tall? Slightly reminiscent of a woodchuck?”

His friends howled.

Fiona had died a thousand deaths.

“Thank you, Miss Elgin,” he said to a dumbstruck Molly, “but I’d sooner
marry
a woodchuck.” And with that, he turned away, accepting the congratulatory claps on his shoulders from his friends who apparently thought his ability to liken a girl to a woodchuck was brilliance in wit.

Fiona had fled into the crowd before Molly could gauge her reaction. She had pretended not to have heard it, and for weeks after, as his remark about her made its way through the glen, Fiona laughed and pretended that it didn’t bother her in the least.

Yet privately, his remark had been devastating, and when Jack left for London the following year, Fiona was close behind.

She had not returned to Scotland until now. And while she’d not had much luck on the marriage mart in the intervening years—Lady Gilbert said her fortune wasn’t great enough and really, she was a
Scot
—no one in London had ever likened her to a woodchuck.

At least not to her knowledge.

Therefore, she would simply call at Blackwood, ask to see her brother, deliver the urgent message, then ask—no,
demand
—that Jack take her from Blackwood straightaway.

It was all really rather simple.

“Donna forget to pack the fur-lined cloaks and muffs, Sherri,” Fiona said. “It can be quite cold in the Highlands.”

“Lovely,” Sherri muttered irritably on her way to the dressing room.

*   *   *

The Seaver townhouse was on Charlotte Square, a famously fashionable block that sat in the shadow of Edinburgh Castle. Their neighbors included some of the most prominent Scottish citizens.

That was precisely the reason Duncan preferred The Gables, which was located on the edge of the city. There were no prying eyes, no children staring, and no one to recognize him from an earlier time. Nevertheless, he arrived promptly at eleven o’clock Saturday morning as promised. He was on horseback, accompanied by Ridley, a longtime servant who drove a team of four and pulled a wagon. A wire frame, over which a tarpaulin had been erected for the ladies’ convenience, created a cave over the bed of the wagon with an opening at the rear. Duncan had seen to it that a bench of sorts had been installed within the cave’s walls on which the ladies would sit, but most of the space in the wagon was taken up with supplies.

The original plan had been for two Buchanan men to drive the wagon to Blackwood while Duncan led a pair of stallions he’d bought from a horse trader in Stirling. The unusual request from the Seavers, however, had prompted Duncan to make a small change—he would be accompanying the wagon now, and had sent one of the men on with the horses.

The day was bracingly cold but bright. Duncan wore his greatcoat, hat, and gloves, and in addition, he’d wrapped two scarves around his neck and face so that only his eyes—and his eye patch—were visible.

He sent Ridley, the driver, to the door to fetch the ladies.
His staff was used to his idiosyncratic behavior regarding his burns—Ridley, in particular.

When summoned, the Seavers and their ward spilled out onto the walk, halting uncertainly at the sight of the wagon. Not one of them spared Duncan a glance, and Fiona Haines, in particular, looked at the wagon, then at her uncle, and then looked at Ridley with a gaze that would melt snowcaps. “I beg your pardon, sir, but you canna mean that we are to travel in
that
.”

Ridley, a small, nervous man, looked anxiously at the wagon. “There’s a bench within, mu’um,” he said. “Put in special, for you and the lass,” he said, nodding toward a petite woman standing a bit behind the family.

“A
bench
,” she repeated, and marched to the end of the wagon, her fur-lined wool cloak flapping around her ankles. She leaned forward, squinting to look into the interior.

“And a brazier, mu’um,” Ridley quickly added. “To keep your feet warm.”

Her uncle hurried as fast as his stout legs would carry him to Fiona’s side and he, too, leaned forward to peer inside. “Well then!” he said, puffing out his cheeks. “It’s right cozy! Look here, then, Fiona—they’ve put in a bench!”

On the walk, the young woman tossed her head back and groaned audibly.

“
Lord,
” Fiona said, and straightened up, clapped her gloved hands together as if she’d built the bench and was knocking the sawdust from her palms. She pressed a pair of remarkably full lips together and gave Ridley a curt nod. “It will have to do.”

“Are you certain, dear?” Mrs. Seaver asked, peering into the wagon. “I donna understand why you canna wait for Jack to come back to Edinburra.”

“The journey is no more than two days, Aunt Lucy. I
must
go. I should no’ have waited as long as I have.”

“I canna imagine what message is as urgent as that. If you’d but tell us, dear, we might be able to help you,” her aunt pleaded.

For a moment, Fiona looked as if she wanted to do just that. She looked longingly at her aunt and the Charlotte Square townhouse. But then she bit her bottom lip and shook her head. “I dare no’,” she said, and looked directly at Ridley, giving him a bright smile. “We’ve a few bags, Mr. . . . ?”

“Ridley, mu’um. Ridley.”

“Mr. Ridley. As I was saying, a few bags,” she said, and pointed to the footman who had emerged, laden with bags.

“Aye, mu’um,” Ridley said.

Duncan dismounted and moved to the walk to help with what seemed like far too many bags for a quick trip to the Highlands, passing close to Fiona on his way. She glanced at him, but he saw no hint of recognition, nothing but a pretty frown furrowing her brow as she studied the wagon.

She’d been gone from Scotland too long, then, if she feared a ride in a wagon. But he supposed that being conveyed to Scotland in the king’s chaise might color one’s perspective on such things.

With the bags loaded, the women safely tucked inside, Ridley bid Mr. and Mrs. Seaver a good day. Not one of them had glanced at Duncan, apparently believing he was a servant. That suited Duncan—he really had no need to speak to them. In a matter of two days, he likely would never see any of them again. So when Ridley looked at him, he gave him a nod, and Ridley sent the team trotting forward through the streets of Edinburgh.

*   *   *

They’d been underway a little more than an hour, but Fiona feared she would strangle Sherri if she could but feel her fingers. Sherri complained incessantly—it was as cold as a Norseman’s breath, her bones ached from all the pitching about, and in spite of the grill that covered the brazier, she did not feel like stomping out every bit of ash that was sent flying for Fiona’s apparently baseless fear that it might set one of the thick woolen lap rugs afire.

It wasn’t that Sherri wasn’t perfectly justified with her complaints—it was terribly cold, and the little brazier scarcely warmed their feet. And without benefit of the sort of springs that equipped a proper carriage, each dip in the road was, admittedly, bone-jarring. Nevertheless, there was naught they could do about their less-than-comfortable accommodations now, and Fiona could not endure endless hours of carping. Her usually cheerful mien had been terribly compromised. “By all that is holy, Sherri, please cease complaining!” Fiona begged the maid. “I canna bear another moment of it!”

“And I canna bear another moment in this blasted wagon!” Sherri shot back.

Fiona looked at her with surprise, but Sherri returned her gaze defiantly. “We were in a king’s chaise no’ a fortnight past, but look at us now, will you, in the back of a wagon like a pair of swine.”

Fiona gasped.

“I didna want to leave London,” Sherri angrily continued. “And I donna want to go up into the Highlands where thieves and murderers lie in wait to cut our throats!”

“Oh, dear
God,
” Fiona said irritably. “Your imagination has taken hold of your common sense!”

“I should no’ have come,” Sherri said, ignoring her, folding her arms tightly across her body.

“And where might you have gone, then?” Fiona demanded.

“You’re no’ the only lady in Edinburra, mu’um,” Sherri sniffed. “No’ at all. Or in London, for that matter. Lady Gilbert said to me more than once that if I was ever in need of a position, I should come to her.”

“
What?
” Fiona cried. “Lady Gilbert
said
that?”

Sherri shrugged and looked straight ahead, to the patch of road they could see out the back of the wagon.

Before Fiona could speak, the wagon shuddered to a rude halt.

Both women leaned forward, trying to see out the back opening. They could see nothing but the torsos of many horses that appeared to be tethered. A moment later, Ridley’s head popped up in the small opening. “Beg your pardon, mu’um,” he said. “We’re on the outer reaches of Edinburra. We’ll take on some grain before we start up. There’s a public house if you’re of a need.”

He disappeared again.

“Beg your pardon,” Sherri said, and moved off the bench.

Fiona watched her go, picking her way through the supplies, and then sliding off the end of the wagon. “I’m quite all right!” she snapped after Sherri. “No need for your assistance!”

But Sherri had already disappeared from sight, and with a sigh of exasperation, Fiona pushed aside the lap rugs.

Her legs were stiff, making it hard to step around the supplies. When she reached the end of the wagon, she lifted the hem of her cloak and attempted to disembark
gracefully. Unfortunately, she half leaped, half fell out the back opening with a cry of surprise, and was caught—quite literally—in the strong hands of the man who rode with them. He gripped her arm tightly and put a steadying hand to her waist, righting her.