Some Like it Scot (Scandalous Highlanders Book 4) (7 page)

“I put an apple in my pocket fer ye, so dunnae complain,” Munro said, swinging up into the saddle.

The groom emerged from the stable. “M'laird, yer brother the marquis said I was to make certain ye didnae go off alone,” he called, hurrying forward to catch Saturn's bridle.

Munro blew out his breath. “Fetch Fergus or Una fer me then, will ye?”

“The hounds went with Lord and Lady Glengask doon to An Soadh,” the head groom returned, naming the nearer of the two sizable villages on MacLawry land.

“Well, then, I dunnae suppose the fish can do me much harm.” With a nudge of his boot Munro backed the horse a few steps, then headed them south toward Loch Shinaig.

A moment later a horse pounded up behind him. “I reckon I'm nae a hound,” Peter Gilling said, the footman slowing to a trot as he drew even with Saturn, “but I do follow the MacLawry's orders.”

“I dunnae require a nanny, Peter.” Munro favored the footman with a raised eyebrow. He felt more like growling, but Gilling would know that an offer—or order—of company on a fishing expedition should not cause him that much annoyance. The clouds and drizzle had finally fled late last night, though, and after two days of miserable weather and no excuse to go outside he found himself both restless and exceedingly curious to see if the Cat had fled Haldane.

Leaving the last sack of supplies on the doorstep had been a gamble, but after seeing the wild redhead and then a second lass head out to pick raspberries, he'd decided a face-to-face confrontation would rouse more hostility than it would gratitude. He could tell just from the inappropriately dainty gown the taller lass wore that she wasn't from anywhere nearby—or anywhere this far north.

The temptation to follow them had pulled at him, but the Cat had been carrying that damned ancient musket in her right hand, and he'd already bellowed that he was going hunting with Lach—as poorly as that had turned out. At least now he knew what she was protecting. Why or from what eluded him, but he would figure it out. Saint Bridget's tits, he couldn't seem to think about anything else, anyway. Even asleep, dreams of a lithe, red-haired lass with long, trouser-covered legs had him restless and frustrated.

“The loch would be in that direction, m'laird,” Peter Gilling said, pointing over to the left.

Munro drew up Saturn. “I need yer oath aboot someaught, Peter,” he stated, turning in the saddle to face the former soldier.

“I'll nae give it to ye blindly, Laird Bear,” the footman returned. “The last time I gave a blind oath, I ended up helping yer
bràthair
Arran kidnap a Campbell. And I had to wear a damned dress.”

“I saw that. Ye werenae a pretty lass.” Munro took a breath. “I found someaught, and I gave my word that no one else would hear of it. So I reckon ye can either take the same oath, or I'll tie ye to a tree to keep ye from following me.”

The stout man scowled. “I dunnae want to be tied to a tree.”

“And I dunnae want to have to tie ye to one. I reckon ye'd give me a fight, and ye might get hurt. I'm assuming, though, that ye willnae just turn around and go home.”

“I willnae. I'm protecting ye with my life.”

“Then it's yer oath, or the tree.”

Peter Gilling took a deep breath. “I give ye my oath. As long as whatever yer secret is, if it doesnae cause harm to ye or the rest of the MacLawrys, I'll keep my gobber shut aboot it.”

“And I'll hold ye to that.” Munro nudged Saturn in the ribs, and they started off again. “We're nae going fishing. And the luncheon basket isnae fer us. Ye're nae to converse with anyone, and ye'd best call me Bear.”

The servant narrowed his eyes. “This is sounding very familiar,” he grumbled. “Ye arenae hiding a Campbell or a MacDonald lass from her family, are ye? Because I dunnae relish the thought of fleeing to the Colonies with ye. I said I'd go with Laird Arran if it came to that, but it's nae a thing a man decides on a whim.”

“It isnae like that,” Munro returned, though he didn't precisely know who the Cat was or what she
was
hiding herself and the other lass from. But they
were
hiding; he knew that as well as he knew his own face.

“Well, that sounds like the right words, but I reckon I'll keep my two peepers open, anyway.”

He wouldn't get a better answer than that. The idea of bringing another soul with him to Haldane Abbey still didn't sit well, but if Ranulf suspected he was up to something, slipping away anywhere on his own would become next to impossible. Peter Gilling was the least of several complications he could imagine.

They rode up the long, shallow valley, its deep greens turning to gold and orange with the crisp autumn weather. A large herd of red deer pounded across a rain-swollen stream to his right and vanished into the thick stand of trees beyond. He made no effort to be stealthy; the Cat would likely hear or see them approaching, anyway, and trying to remain unseen would get him or Peter Gilling shot.

“Haldane Abbey's ahead,” the footman commented, and spat over his left shoulder.

“Aye. Keep yer opinion aboot it to yerself.”

“It's nae an opinion, m'lai—Bear. That place is haunted.”

“Then stay here. Just remember ye swore an oath.”

“I knew this was a poor idea. Why do I nae listen to myself?”

“Because ye have more adventures if ye dunnae.” Munro took a breath as the old ruin came into sight. “Hello the house!” he called.

The two women could be gone, of course. That would return everything to normal—to preparations for winter, to the daily routine of siblings and bairns and with him feeling the deepening need both to protect them all and to flee to where things could be as they were again—the MacLawrys and the Campells one murder away from open war, he and his two older brothers standing shoulder to shoulder to shoulder, feared and respected and damned ferocious Highlanders.

But that was the past. He couldn't begrudge Ranulf the happiness and peace the marquis and chief of their clan had found in his wife and son, even if Charlotte was a delicate Sassenach. Damned Arran had started out well, kidnapping Mary Campbell out from under half of clan Campbell and defying the Duke of Alkirk—the Campbell, himself. That had turned domestic, as well; Mary was a MacLawry now, and only a few weeks away from giving Arran his second bairn. His sister, Ro—

A musket ball shredded a branch two feet from his head, the loud report sounding a heartbeat later.

Well, she was still in residence. Peter Gilling threw himself out of the saddle, using the horse for cover and freeing his formidable blunderbuss in the same moment. Munro, though, raised both of his hands in surrender and nudged Saturn with his knees into a slow walk.

“Stop!” the sharp female voice he already recognized commanded.

“Dunnae shoot, Peter,” Munro muttered, then sat straighter in the saddle. “I'm surrendering to ye, lass!” She likely had no idea that he'd never uttered those words before, but the fact that she didn't know that about him was … thrilling, almost.

“It's nae surrendering if ye dunnae do as I tell ye,” she returned. “I dunnae want to shoot ye, Bear, but dunnae mistake reluctance for lack of conviction.”

“And dunnae mistake my good humor fer stupidity,” he countered, even as it occurred to him that wild, uncivilized lasses didn't use words like “reluctance” or “conviction.” Perhaps the dainty lass had taught them to her, though. “I gave ye my word that no harm would come to ye here.”

“Ye also swore that ye'd nae tell another soul about me. Unless that's a spirit behind ye, I'd say yer word isnae worth shite.”

Civilized lasses didn't say “shite.” This Cat had interested him from the moment he'd set eyes on her. Given his general dislike of puzzles he'd put his intrigue to lust, but the more contradictions to her, the better he liked it. He didn't even mind that she had a musket pointed at him. None of this made any damned sense at all. And even if the rampaging, larger-than-life Bear was mostly for show, he did like for things to make sense.

“M'lai—Bear, I'm thinking ye should reverse yer course, there.” Gilling's unamused voice came from behind him.

“This is Peter,” Munro said, knowing he had no intention of retreating. “We … hunt together from time to time, and I didnae want him coming across ye by accident.”

“So ye brought him by on purpose? Would ye like me to set out some tea and biscuits, then?” came her sarcastic reply. “I can dig two holes in the ground as easy as one large enough to fit ye. Now fer the last damned time, go away.”

“I dunnae think I will. In fact, I intend to untie this basket and walk it through the front door. So if ye think I mean harm to ye, ye'd best put a ball through me.” With that he swung down from Saturn.

Peter made a wheezing sound. “Bear, please dunnae do this. If ye get yerself killed, yer brother'll see my bones scattered across the Highlands fer the crows to dine on.”

“Ye and yer bones stay here, Peter.” Munro untied the heavy basket and slung it over his left forearm. “I've been shot before, and I'm still standing.”

“But—”

“Aside from that, I think the lass likes me. She'll nae shoot.” Intentionally leaving his rifle behind with the fishing pole, he started forward. Tree branches obscured the upper level of the structure, but she seemed to have found a good vantage point. Dangerous as the footing was up there, that was where he would be. Especially if he had someone else to protect.

Setting the basket on the low wall, he clambered over. A musket ball slammed into the stone just where his hand had been a heartbeat earlier. Mortar and stone chips blasted outward, biting into his cheek. Damn, she was a fine shot—unless she'd meant to hit him just then. Without bothering to brush the dust and rocks off him, he picked up the basket and continued forward, to the front door. At the same time, he counted off in his head—a seasoned soldier could reload and fire a musket in fifteen seconds.

Fifteen plus two seconds later, the door frame directly by his head disintegrated. And he decided he'd damned well been patient enough.

Dropping the basket, he charged for the half-collapsed stairs and scrambled up them. She'd have to reload again, and this time he wasn't being some lunk with a target painted on his skull. She would have to be in the northeast corner and leaning halfway out the window to get off that last shot, and he leaped over a tumble of wall and furniture that blocked his path. Whether she would actually shoot him the next time or not, he didn't mean to stand there and make it easy for her. He might be attempting some patience, but he wasn't weak-hearted.

An unhinged door looked like it had been wedged closed. Munro put his foot to it and shoved. The old oak slammed onto the floor, dust and plaster filling the air like snow. And there she was, dropping the ramrod and lifting the muzzle in his direction.

Dark brown eyes widened, a curse crossing her lips. He saw it all with startling clarity even as he roared and threw himself forward. Munro grabbed the weapon away from her with one hand and caught up the material at her throat with the other, dragging her up against him before she could flee or, more likely, punch or kick him.

“That is enough shooting,” he growled.

“Let go!” she yelled back at him, leveling a kick at his man parts.

Munro lifted her off her feet before the blow could connect. “How many bloody times do I have to swear I dunnae mean ye harm, ye wildcat?” he returned, his gaze lowering to her cursing mouth.

Not certain whether he was about to make things better or worse, only knowing that simply grabbing her by the shirt wasn't enough to satisfy him, he bent his head and took her mouth with his. It wasn't gentle, or subtle, but her lips were warm and softer than he expected, and she immediately stopped trying to thrash him.

“Ye damned heathen,” she spat, wiping at her mouth.

“Aye, and dunnae ye ferget that, next time.”

He set her down and took a step backward before he turned on his heel. “Now,” he said, hefting her musket in his left hand, “let's go meet the other lass and ye can tell me yer troubles over some porridge and roast game hen.”

 

Chapter Four

He knew about Elizabeth.

For a moment that thought kept Catriona frozen where he'd set her feet back on the uneven floor. She'd been—or thought she'd been—so cautious. Elizabeth had only been out of doors once in the past week. It must have been when he left that last sack of food. Had he watched them the entire time?

At the landing he stopped and turned around to face her. “I dunnae think ye want me barging in on the lass withoot ye giving her warning,” he said, motioning her to precede him.

“I dunnae want ye barging in on her at all,” Catriona returned, scowling. Short of trying to knock him down the stairs, though, she had no idea how she would prevent it.

And it was her own damned fault. She could have shot him thrice, and each time she hadn't been able to make herself do it. He had another man with him now, and she could tell herself that it would have been too difficult to do away with both the giant and the stout fellow with the blunderbuss, but attempting to fool herself seemed both useless and dangerous. Something had made her hesitate, and she needed to discover what. And why.

He grabbed her forearm as they reached the main floor, and towed her along while he retrieved his pretty picnic basket. “So ye think this is an outing, do ye?” she snapped, wrenching her arm free and striding down the uneven hallway ahead of him. “Is that why ye kissed me? Because now ye've brought a basket and I'm to fall for yer gentlemanly ways?”

“I'm nae a gentleman,” he returned from close behind her. “I
am
tired of being shot at, and I reckoned kissing ye might stopper the unladylike curses ye were spewing at me.”