Some Like it Scot (Scandalous Highlanders Book 4) (5 page)

Cat.
That was something, anyway. He'd heard of a cat-and-mouse game. This one would evidently be a game of cat and bear. Because whatever she thought she wanted, he wasn't about to leave her be.

 

Chapter Three

“Bear.”

Stifling a curse, Munro hefted the sack he carried from one hand to the other and paused on the main stairway landing to let Ranulf catch up to him. “Did ye see it's raining again?” he asked, before the marquis could begin a topic of conversation. “If this keeps up, I fear we're in for the devil of a winter. I'm off to see Lachlan and Winnie. Do ye reckon Lach still kens how to hunt after being domestified fer a year?”

Ranulf lifted an eyebrow. “Firstly, I dunnae think ‘domestified' is a word. Secondly, I reckon Lach'll manage. Ye've hunted with him before now. I doubt today will find him nae knowing which end of a gun is the dangerous one.”

“Aye. I reckon ye've the right of it. I'm off, then.”

“Ye ken we have a gamekeeper,
bràthair.
Ye dunnae need to keep the house in meat fer the winter all on yer own.”

Munro forced a laugh and continued his descent. “The house has more mouths than it used to, these days. I reckon Earcharn could use some help.” In the foyer he shrugged into his heavy sealskin coat and donned a wide-brimmed hat. “Aside from that, I'm nae a domestified—domesticated—lad. I cannae sit aboot the house smiling and cooing over my bride and my wee bairn, because I have nae such things keeping me here.” Cooper, Glengask's butler, pulled open the front door for him, and he stepped out into the wind-driven rain. “I'll spend my days out of doors while I can, before the snow comes to stay fer the winter, if ye dunnae mind.”

The footsteps trailing him stopped in the doorway. Inwardly wincing, Munro squared his shoulders and continued forward. No, he wasn't clever-tongued like Arran. In fact, he generally made a point of speaking his mind; it made for less confusion later. And no, he wasn't as half-witted as his family generally assumed, but the impression made things easier on all of them. Even so, if he'd insulted Ranulf this time, it hadn't been intentional.

“Bear.”

He paused, but didn't turn around. “Aye?”

“Take Fergus with ye.”

Relief curved his lips. “Thank ye,” he said, continuing up the slope toward the stable. He whistled, and a moment later the larger of Ranulf's two deerhounds padded up beside him. “I hope ye behave yerself today, lad. Nae frightening the Cat.” Though truthfully, she hadn't looked all that frightened.

The dog wumphed, hopefully in agreement. Running across Ranulf and concocting that damned story about hunting had changed his plans; now that he'd invented a hunting excursion with his brother-in-law, Lord Gray, he would have to follow through with it. Ranulf had an unnerving tendency to detect falsehoods and pursue them until he had the truth. He could stand a word or two with his closest friend, anyway. It had been a while since they'd discussed anything but how old a bairn had to be before he could learn to ride a horse.

While it likely didn't matter that a lass had taken up residence at Haldane, Munro knew Ranulf wouldn't like the idea of a stranger—especially one who could shoot the face off a shilling—squatting so close to the main house. And he had a fairly good idea what his brothers would have to say if they learned that he'd been driven off by a lass wielding a musket—twice now.

He tied the sack to his saddle, and then swung up on his waiting gray gelding, Saturn. Gray House wasn't precisely in the opposite direction of where he'd intended to go, but it was a good two miles out of his way. It meant a quick trip to Haldane, but that might well be for the best. The lass had warned him not to come by again, but she couldn't shoot him if she didn't see him. Hopefully.

After walking into the bowels of Gray House so many times over the years that he practically thought it an extension of his own territory, he was startled into a halt by the sight of Dodge the butler blocking the foyer. “Where's Lach?” Munro asked, rubbing his fingers against Fergus's stiff ears.

“In the library, m'laird,” the heavyset Highlander returned in a hushed voice.

“Is someaught amiss?”

“Nae, m'laird. It's just that … Well, young Laird Colin has been a wee bit fussy, and he's only just now quieted doon. Lady MacTier is asleep in the morning room, and—”

“I'll keep my voice doon,” Munro whispered, unwilling to listen to a recital of how many hours Lachlan and Rowena's bairn had kept the house awake. His sister Rowena had been a yowler as an infant, too—and to an eight-year-old lad the sound had been like a cat's screeching.

“Thank ye, m'laird. We all appreciate yer understanding.”

And his unwillingness to hear more baby squawking. For Saint Andrew's sake, he heard it almost every day with Ranulf and Charlotte's son, William. With a nod he headed up the stairs and down the western hallway. The library door stood half open, and he slipped inside to close it behind him—then froze.

The trap sprang closed before he'd realized he'd been caught. Lachlan MacTier, Viscount Gray, stood before one of the room's tall, narrow windows and rocked backward and forward on his toes and heels like an escaped Bedlamite. In his arms he held a tumble of blankets, from which one tiny, clenched fist emerged to stretch skyward.

Generally cynical green eyes widened as the viscount spied Munro. “Dunnae ye dare speak in more than a whisper,” he whispered, turning half away as if to shield his seven-month-old son from the blast of sound his uncle was poised to emit. “Or ye either, Fergus.”

The hound promptly lay down as close to the door as he could get. “Yer damned butler already muzzled me,” Munro muttered back, diving into a chair by the fireplace. The liquor tantalus stood by the back wall, living up to its namesake, but in the presence of a bairn and at scarcely nine o'clock in the morning, he couldn't quite justify a glass of whisky.

“Good.” Lachlan, still bouncing on his toes, walked gingerly closer. “What are ye doing here?”

“I came to take ye hunting. I hadnae realized ye've turned into a lass.” The insult lost a bit of its sharpness with both of them whispering at each other, but from the way Lach narrowed his eyes, he'd heard it well enough.

“My bride's getting her first hour of sleep in nearly twenty,” the viscount murmured, “as is my lad. If ye're thinking that being married makes ye soft, then ye keep yer damned temper fer an entire day while everyone aboot ye is wailing.”

“I—”

“Colin fell asleep in my arms, and I reckon I'll keep rocking him until either my arms fall off or he wakes with a smile. Do ye have any difficulty with that?”

Munro shook his head. “I'll admit ye dunnae sound like a lass,” he returned, “but ye're still rocking a bairn in yer arms when ye could be oot huntin'. Or riding. Or playing cards or billiards.”

The wee fingers of the wee fist stretched out, then curled again. “Go away, Bear,” Lachlan whispered. “I cannae explain what it is to have a lass and a son ye'd die fer. Nae while I'm trying to keep them both asleep.”

So no one wanted him about today. And how odd was it, that after knowing Lachlan his entire life, at this moment he felt like he had more in common with the wildcat hiding in Haldane Abbey? “Of course ye cannae have me aboot where quiet and subtlety is required,” he retorted, mostly remembering to keep his voice down. “I'm nae but the loud brute of a man ye send in to scare people.” Munro stalked to the door as Fergus rose again.

“Bear, I ken ye dunnae like the idea of being domesticated, but—”

“I dunnae like the idea of being taken fer granted. I dunnae like the idea that ye find me in the wrong because I dunnae want what ye have. So go rock yer bairn and sing yer lullabies. I'll go find someaught large to shove at.”

As much as he wanted to slam the door behind him, that would only prove that he was the ham-fisted, small-brained oaf his family seemed to think him. So instead he left it open, padded down the stairs, and settled for a nod to the butler as Dodge handed him his raincoat and hat and pulled open the front door.

Damnation. With two brothers, Lachlan, and a younger sister, he'd grown up accustomed to having someone with whom to chat or compete or drink. And now they'd all gone and found other people—and left him feeling more … set into his role than ever. The only difference was that he now had more people to protect, had to be bigger and still louder to keep the attention of any envious eyes trained squarely on him. He didn't mind it. He approved of it, actually. It was only that both he and his family had come to believe that the loud, brawl-happy Highlander wasn't just who he was, but all he was.

In fact, the only person in the Highlands who only knew of him what he chose to show her was the redheaded wildcat. He wondered if she'd found the gift he'd left on her doorstep, and whether it was too soon to go ask her in person.

*   *   *

“I don't have scissors,” Elizabeth muttered, scowling. “Might I use your knife?”

Catriona wiped the blade on her sleeve and then handed it over. Her sister cut the thread and then straightened to examine her handiwork. The knee of the trousers definitely looked patched; neither of them could have disguised that even if they'd cared to do so. But the rectangle of cotton was neat and tightly stitched, likely with more skill than the rest of the garment. “That's nicely done,” she commented.

Her sister dimpled. “Thank you. The next time we should remember to bring scissors, though. One good pair would make things so much easier.”

Aye, the next time they felt the need to flee hearth and home for the wilds of the Highlands, she would try to be more prepared. And more … ruthless. No being amused, even briefly, by giants carting fresh bread about.

She picked up a piece of the bread Bear had brought her—them—yesterday. He'd provided a small cup of butter, as well, and both she and Elizabeth had made good use of it. Even in this chill weather neither treat would last them long, anyway. Until recently she'd thought bread was bread, and one loaf would do as well as any other. Traveling by mail coach and hay cart and purchasing food at whatever inn happened to be the most out of the way, though, had given her a slightly broader frame of reference. And the bread she held now happened to be exceptional. No grit from the millstones for her to pick from between her teeth, no burned crust or underbaked middle.

Rich man's bread. Or at least well-off-man's bread. And that made her exceedingly curious about where and how Bear had come by it. He dressed like a cotter or a poacher and moved with the stealth and grace of a hunter, despite his height and broad shoulders. Had he stolen it? Had he obtained it from his master's kitchen? She supposed he might well be the gamekeeper for Glengask, though that put him far too near noblemen's ears for her comfort.

Something deep inside the building groaned creakily, and she caught sight of Elizabeth wrapping her new blanket more closely around her slender shoulders. The place had a name now, which she appreciated, but then he'd gone and said that Haldane Abbey was haunted—and Elizabeth had heard him say it. Any ghosties had best stay clear of both of them, as far as she was concerned. She had enough earthbound troubles to keep her quite occupied.

“Did you hear that?” her sister whispered.

“Aye. The loose boards up by the stairs, I reckon,” she decided. “If they fall, it'll save me the trouble of pulling 'em out to repair the roof.”

Blast the giant for saying such a thing, anyway, especially in the same sentence where he'd said she was welcome to stay there. Had he hoped she would faint or throw herself into his manly arms? Ha. A few spirits wouldn't make her run to or from any damned thing. She practically slept with one eye open, anyway, and if she shivered from a little more than a chill breeze, she would never admit it aloud.

Donning her damp, patched trousers again, she stomped into her boots. There. Trousers and boots felt more capable, she supposed it was. “I'm off to get more water,” she said, tucking in her shirt and pulling the rattiest of the blankets over her shoulders. “And I'm fairly sure I spotted some late raspberries up at the edge of the meadow.”

“Can't I go with you?”

“Elizabeth.”

“I know, I know, I need to stay hidden. But I'm not a child, Cat. I'm nineteen, and all this … danger you've put yourself in is because of me. Aside from that, it's raining, and that giant man hasn't come back. And I'm going mad in here, even with Byron for company.”

The giant hadn't come back since yesterday morning, anyway. “I'm nae certain Byron's good company for a lass going mad,” she admitted, hiding her frown. “Very well. Just stay close, and do precisely as I say.”

“I will.” Elizabeth wrapped her blanket around her shoulders and then slipped it up around her face. It wouldn't do much to keep her dry or warm, but the stream and the meadow were only a few minutes away.

Catriona took up her musket and led the way outside Haldane Abbey. Elizabeth carrying the pot did make the task a bit easier, but it also made her twice as wary about venturing into the open. She knew about risks, and her father had taught her how to take care of herself. Since she'd left her home on the Isle of Islay she'd felt far older than twenty-four, and a far greater age difference than the five years that actually separated her from Elizabeth. And the one thing she'd realized immediately was that she needed to take care of her sister, protect her, watch out for her. Kittens in the Highlands rarely lasted long on their own.

The stream was hardly more than a moss-edged trickle where it emerged from the rocks a few hundred feet from the old building, but the water was fresh and cold and clean. The access to nearby water had made this location even more appealing than it had been merely by virtue of its isolation. “Set the pot here and let it fill,” she said softly, unwilling to disturb the soft rustle of wet leaves with conversation.