Some Like it Scot (Scandalous Highlanders Book 4) (14 page)

Perhaps that was the lure. She didn't give a damn that he was a brother to the MacLawry, and conversely he wanted to know precisely who she was and from where she'd come. The more she refused to tell him, the more he wanted to know. Now that he considered it, he might have decided he enjoyed puzzles after all, if they were all curvy females wrapped in men's clothing and topped with a mane of deep red hair that he wanted to tangle his fingers through.

He knew himself to be a man who liked women and drink and the hard Highlands life. The wildcat spun him about, when he had a reputation for punching or avoiding things and people who didn't fit with the life he'd made for himself. With her, however, kissing and a long, heated string of thoughts about her naked and moaning beneath him beat down every other thought in his head.

Shaking himself, he rode Saturn out of the stable, then circled around to the back of the building. There he kicked a barrel aside and leaned down to grab the cloth sack hidden beneath it. It would never do to have a maid discover him hoarding hair clips and spyglasses in his bedchamber.

Forty minutes later he tethered Saturn behind a deadfall with both grass and water within easy reach, then hiked the last quarter mile to the abbey. If he'd taken the direct route he might have been there in half the time, but defying Glengask had consequences. And that meant taking precautions—especially with his promise to a certain lass at stake.

He reached the broken front door without anyone trying to put a ball through his chest. For a moment he debated whether to call out, but he wanted to see her without her knowing he was there. Without the walls and pits she spread around herself to keep everyone else at bay. To himself he could admit that he wanted to see her smile, even if it wasn't at him.

Walking as softly as he could in his heavy boots, he edged along the hallway toward the half-finished kitchen door. Female muttering caught his attention, and he stopped to listen. He'd already told Cat he wasn't a gentleman, and so he refused to feel a damned ounce of guilt for sneaking about. Sneaking was practically a way of life in the Highlands, anyway.

“… think he would turn us out?” Elizabeth said in her cultured English tones. “He's been nothing but kind from the moment we met.”

“Kindness isnae the problem,” Cat returned, her brogue pretty as sunlight. “If anyone finds us here, they'll send ye packing back to London, likely with an armed escort. Ye said yerself that the Duke of Visford's nae a man to trifle with. And if Bear discovers ye're the fat old bastard's betrothed, well, Highlanders dunnae care to stir up the wrath of the Sassannach.”

That was a cartload of shite. He couldn't think of one true Highlander who wouldn't relish the chance to spite the English. Actually doing so, though, took more than courage. It took the backing of a clan that had power and strength enough to make even the Sassannach pause. Ranulf had made most of his reputation by generally ignoring English law and doing what best benefited clan MacLawry. That made him the exception to the rule. Catriona had to know that. Why, then, was she lying to her sister about the help they could receive? What did she have to gain by staying on in the wilds?

“I love that you called His Grace a fat old bastard,” Elizabeth returned with a giggle. Munro could almost see her blushing. “If I'd been able to say that to his face, perhaps he would have refused me outright, or Mama would have changed her mind about pushing for a wedding. We could be in London right now, sipping tea and shopping. Oh, I would purchase you so many pretty gowns, Cat. You would be swimming in silk, and all the young men would bring you posies.”

“The last time I wore a gown I tripped over the hem,” Catriona commented, her tone rueful—and unless Munro was mistaken, a little wistful. “I'm nae suited for such things.”

“Nonsense. With that hair of yours, I'll wager you're the loveliest lass on Islay.” She paused. “But now you can't go home, can you? Because you came to help me.”

“Dunnae worry yerself about that. For the Bruce's sake. Ye're my
piuthar;
I will always come when ye need me.” She sighed, the soft sound making Munro's cock jump. “Aside from that, Islay's nae the same now. With our papa gone, I've nae real wish to return.”

“But you're the oldest. Daughter or not, you were—”

“I'm nothing, Elizabeth. Uncle Robert is chieftain now. And he and I dunnae … see eye to eye.”

Daughter and now niece to the chieftain of Islay.
That damned well made her part of clan MacDonald. Carefully avoiding the rubble and stacks of new masonry, Munro moved back up the hallway toward the front door. Christ in a kilt.

The MacDonalds—or the southernmost half of them, anyway—ruled the Isle of Islay. MacDonalds and MacLawrys didn't mix. They weren't at war, though at one time or another they had been. Over the years that warfare had more or less evolved into an agreement to avoid each other.

From what he could piece together from that snippet of conversation, their mutual father had been a clan MacDonald chieftain. He'd died, and now their uncle claimed the title. Aye, he'd also heard the bit about Elizabeth running away from some fat duke or other, but he set that aside. Sassannach affairs were none of his.

Catriona was a damned MacDonald, in the middle of MacLawry territory. With them tangled in some marriage scandal atop all that, he was doubly glad Ranulf didn't know about them. The marquis had married an English lass, and now had English relations and English allies. If Ranulf thought sending Elizabeth back south would somehow benefit the clan, Munro wouldn't put it past him.

His rifle in one hand and the sack of silly gifts in the other, he backtracked well out of sight of Haldane Abbey and then hiked back to where he'd left Saturn. The house would be turned out by now, with every available man hunting for him. And if Ranulf did get Peter Gilling to flap his gums about where they'd spent the last handful of days …

“Damnation,” he muttered, tying down the sack again and swinging up on the gray. MacDonalds. He'd been willing to risk discovery while they'd been a pair of lasses needing rescue, because he could protect two stray lasses even from his own. But Cat and Elizabeth weren't just strays. They were daughters of a dead MacDonald chieftain.

And yet he still wanted to protect her. Them, rather, whether she would ever admit to needing his aid or not. In order to do that, though, he needed a plan. No doubt his brothers would expect something ham-fisted from him, like standing at the door of Haldane and swinging a sword at anyone who dared approach, but luckily for everyone concerned he did own an ounce of subtlety. No one but he believed that, but there it was. And for once he had a reason to use his skull for something other than butting heads with other people.

Once he reached the west shore of Loch Shinaig he turned Saturn north. At the old tumbled stones where he and Arran and Lachlan had once played at Highlanders versus lobsterbacks he swung down again and stuffed the sack into the hole where toy Sassannach redcoats had regularly met their doom. He damned well didn't want to have to explain why he was toting hair clips about.

Only after he'd hidden his treasure did he join the trail that circled the loch. Slowing to a canter, he continued north toward Glengask castle in as obvious a fashion as he could. He was only angry after all, not hiding lasses from his own clan.

“Bear!”

He looked up to see Arran galloping toward him on his lean black Thoroughbred, Duffy, and stifled another curse. Arran was clever; he'd seen evidence of his brother's keen wit and quick mind on more occasions than he could even recall. A servant would have asked fewer questions—which would have been handy considering he hadn't yet decided what he was willing to do for a lass who'd shot at him three times.

Arran drew even with him and turned Duffy around to face north. “Ye headed home?”

Munro glanced sideways at his brother, this time thankful for the reputation he'd earned over the years, even if it frequently made him uncomfortable. People generally tried to avoid making him angry. “Aye.”

“Good. Do ye mind if I ride along with ye?”

“Nae.”

They rode on in silence. Perhaps he would be able to get by without making up a tale, after all. Because if there was one thing he hated more than being ordered about, it was lying to his own family. Lying about a lass who could possibly be an enemy didn't sit well with him at all.

“I hear ye havenae had much luck at fishing, lately,” Arran finally offered.

“Nae. I havenae. And that's a fine reason to order me locked away like a bairn or a lunatic.”

“I've a bairn who's walking now, with a bit of help; lunatic isnae a poor description. But when her wee hand wraps aboot one of yer fingers so she can keep her balance, it's … miraculous. Ye ken?”

So they were determined to make this fight about marriage and bairns. So be it, then. At least it kept them looking away from Haldane Abbey and its new residents. “Ranulf was supposed to marry a Stewart,” he said, slowing to a trot. “Or a MacDougall at the worst. He married a Sassannach. Winnie was supposed to marry a Buchanan, and she went and wed one of our own chieftains.
Ye
were practically engaged to Deirdre Stewart, and ye ran off with a Campbell, of all things. If Ran thinks he can make one of his alliances through me just because I'm the last MacLawry withoot leg shackles, he can go f—”

“I doubt he'd try to force ye into anything, Bear,” his brother interrupted. “He's … concerned ye arenae happy. That ye feel left oot. Or left behind.”

He doubted Ranulf would have phrased it so diplomatically. “Ye only heard his side of the argument, then,” he commented. “Lach gave me the same speech. I think
ye
are the ones who dunnae know what to do with
me.
But that isnae
my
problem. It's yers. And if ye dunnae leave me be—the lot of ye—ye'll nae like what happens next.”

Arran scowled. “I'm nae threatening ye, Bear. So dunnae threaten me.”

Bah.
This was why he preferred leaving diplomacy to his silver-tongued brothers. Whether it was because of his size or the ham-fisted demeanor he favored, nearly every statement he made ended up sounding threatening. “Dunnae be an idiot, Arran,” he said aloud. “I'd nae harm a one of ye, and ye know that.”

“Then what—”

“Just leave me be, will ye? I'm nae one of yer bairns; I can feed myself. If I want someaught, I can damned well get it fer myself.” He wasn't surprised that his words prompted an image of Catriona. What
did
surprise him was that he continued to lie to his family over a lass. A lass who belonged to a rival clan, yet.

“I cannae speak fer Ranulf, but that all sounds fairly reasonable to me,” Arran said, clearly not hearing his brother's thoughts, because Munro knew damned well that what he wanted wasn't logical or reasonable at all.

He could pace about the house for a few days, then, and all of this finding-him-a-wife nonsense would hopefully go away. At the same time, the idea of not returning to Haldane Abbey tomorrow made him feel ill. And therefore he would find a way to see her tomorrow, because he simply couldn't imagine a circumstance, a world, where he wouldn't do so. What that meant to a man unaccustomed to wanting one particular lass, to looking forward to conversing with any lass, he had no idea. But evidently he meant to find out.

“What were ye aboot?” Arran pursued. “Riding in a circle until Saturn fell oot from beneath ye?”

“Aye. And then I'd carry him fer a bit,” Munro returned absently. He'd been playing this part for so long that it didn't require conscious thought any longer. Before Catriona, it hadn't bothered him as much. Now, though, he abruptly wondered whether Arran would fall out of the saddle if he began a conversation comparing his brother's romance with Mary Campbell to that of Romeo and Juliet. He could carry it off, he presumed, even if he really didn't see the need for it.

His family had enough clever thinkers. With things as they had been over the past few years, they needed his brawn. Up until now he'd wished they'd realized he did know how to read, that he did read, and that he had actual thoughts and opinions from time to time. As he glanced sideways at Arran's amused expression, though, he decided that being taken for a buffoon finally had its advantages. As long as Cat never saw him that way.

 

Chapter Seven

“Stop trying to shake it loose,” Elizabeth said, leaning as far away from the fire as she could while she tentatively stirred the pot of rabbit stew they were heating up for breakfast.

Catriona gave the new frame for the kitchen door a last shove. “I'm nae trying to shake it loose; I'm making certain it'll stand.”

“Against what? An angry bull?”

“Nae. An angry bear.”

Her sister laughed, but Catriona didn't join in. She and Elizabeth might have an ally for the moment, but given those rather spectacular kisses of his, he was not helping them out of the goodness of his heart. He wanted something—wanted
her
—and the idea of being in the big man's arms sent heat shooting from her chest down between her legs.

Damnation.
She and Elizabeth might have escaped London and the MacDonalds, but that didn't make them safe. Given the unexpected aid they'd received from Bear, a friendly face when she'd never expected to find one, trusting him felt easy. It even felt right, given the MacLawrys' reputation for taking in refugees. If that had been the end of it, she likely would have been relieved to have a little help. But she felt things now. Soft, fluffy, warm things that a lass in her circumstance couldn't afford to feel. And not just for her sake, but for his, as well.

As it was, she was fairly certain he'd been drawing out this door frame construction far longer than the task required. First they'd needed better lumber. Then more bricks. Then Peter had evidently added too much water to the mortar, so they'd had to pull out half the bricks and place them over again. And let the mortar set a second time. For five days in a row now he'd come by daily, and damn it all, she'd begun looking forward to seeing him.