Susana and the Scot (2 page)

“I havena—”

“Nonsense. If you've vowed to avoid women, you canna very well kiss them. And therefore, you have surrendered to my prowess.”

Andrew snorted.

“My point is, even though you've conceded the wager, I still expect you to pay up when I win.” His eyes danced.

Bluidy hell. He would have to pay. The thought annoyed him.

Perhaps he should have waited to make his vow. He was only one woman away, after all.

But no.

Andrew firmed his resolve. Wager or not, it was advisable for him to stop kissing women. It had not turned out well for him.

The memory of one girl—one with bright shining green eyes and hair like a waterfall of fire—danced through his mind, but he pressed it away. He thought of Mairi often, daily, hourly perhaps. And each time, he forced the yearning for her back down into the dark well of his soul.

She was lost to him forever and no matter how many women he kissed, it wouldn't bring her back to him.

He stared ahead at the long lonely road. Restlessness pricked him. There was a hill to their right, a verdant rise of green. Quicker than following the dusty track around its base. The urge to break free nudged him.

“I'll race you to the top of that hill,” he said. Without waiting for Hamish's response, he kicked Breacher's sides and his mount leaped forward. He tried to ignore the sneaking suspicion that he was really trying to run from his past.

Naturally, Hamish followed.

Naturally, Andrew reached the crest first. Breacher was unbeatable in any race. As he waited for Hamish to catch up, he gazed down at the parish of Reay, which would be his new home for the time being. He didn't know how long he would have to stay, but he already missed Lochlannach Castle, his brother, his bed.

Despite his disgruntlement, he had to allow that Reay was lovely from this vantage point. The crofts and the fields spread out in a patchwork of green. The sea sparkled, a deep sapphire, in the distance. The rose-colored turrets of Dounreay Castle were just visible beyond the woods. In the lea below, a farmer led a shaggy cow along the rutted track with a rope.

It was all very peaceful. Very bucolic.

Hard to believe the parish had been besieged by brigands.

Hamish rode up to his side and gusted a sigh. “Ach. Beaten again.”

Andrew cocked his head to the side. “You should be used to it by now,” he teased.

Hamish growled at him, but there was very little heat in it.

The two shared a chuckle as they surveyed the land they were sworn to protect.

Even as they watched, a cloaked figure astride an impressive stallion charged from the woods and closed in on the farmer. When the fellow leaped down from his mount, it became clear how small he was—probably a boy—so it was a surprise when he tossed back his cloak and pulled up a bow, pointing it at the farmer.

The two exchanged words and, while he was too far away to hear what was said, Andrew could read the belligerence in the boy's stance. The farmer backed away from the cow, and then, upon the other's command, lay down on the grass with his hands above his head.

Bluidy hell. Were they witnessing a theft? Here and now? Within moments of their arrival on Reay lands?

Excellent.

The ride from Dunnet had been long and uneventful. Andrew ached for some excitement. Exhilaration flooded him.

Ach, aye. How triumphant would it be to arrive at the castle, victorious, with a captured thief in tow? Trussed up like a pig and tossed over his saddle?

Andrew grinned to Hamish. “I'll take this one,” he said, and then he set heels to Breacher's sides and pounded down the hill toward the robbery in progress.

*   *   *

Turf flew beneath Breacher's hooves as Andrew pulled up to the scene. It pleased him to see the robber's nostrils flare in awe at his approach. The boy's mount was impressive, to be sure, but Breacher was far more so.

And he himself was impressive, he imagined. A large and looming warrior, bursting as he had onto the scene. No doubt the boy was quite intimidated.

Andrew flung himself from the saddle and unsheathed his sword; the scrape of metal rang through the field with an ominous shiver. He took a moment and added his trademark twirl, flipping his sword up and over his head before pointing it at the brigand.

It was clear the farmer was duly cowed. He
eep
ed and covered his head, peeping out between his fingers. The boy … not so much. He propped his fists on his hips and glared as Andrew finished his routine. And then he snapped, “What the hell are
you
doing here?”

Ach, aye. A boy. A lad. His voice hadn't even dropped yet. Andrew decided to take it easy on him. “Never ye mind,” he said in a silky tone, before assuming his battle stance. It was a fearsome stance, indeed. “Drop yer weapon.”

The boy's eyes narrowed, spitting emerald fire. Slowly, he turned his bow from the farmer to Andrew. “Drop
your
weapon.”

Andrew blinked. He'd never been defied quite so blatantly. Certainly not by a boy half his size. Men trembled before the might of his sword. Women swooned. He was rather daunting, if he did say so himself.

And he did.

Maybe he wouldn't take it easy on the lad after all. Maybe this boy needed to be taught a lesson. He stepped closer, brandishing his sword. “I said, drop your weapon,” he boomed.

In response, the boy lifted his bow, pulled back on the string and let fly.

Andrew nearly flinched, but by the grace of God did not. The arrow whizzed by his head—far too close—and while it didn't nick him, it sliced off a lock of his hair. He watched it fall in a gentle drift, that silver swath, to land on the green grass of the lea.

Something rose within him, not fury so much as determination.

Well, perhaps a touch of fury. He rather preferred his hair attached to his head.

Even as the boy whipped another arrow from the quiver, Andrew charged, swinging his sword and cleaving the bow in two. It shattered in the boy's hands.

The lad snarled and reached for his dirk.

Andrew didn't give him time to find it. He encircled the boy with the strong bands of his arms. It occurred to him that in addition to being far too young for this kind of pursuit, the boy had no muscle whatsoever. In fact, he was almost soft.

Aye. The lad needed guidance. A firm hand.

A spanking, perhaps.

He was far too undisciplined.

Indeed, the lad went wild; he thrashed and fought against Andrew's hold, even though there was no possible way he could break free. His screeches of outrage were earsplitting and the invectives spilling forth far too foul, so Andrew clapped his hand over the boy's mouth.

“Go on,” he grunted at the farmer, nodding his head down the track.

The farmer scrambled to his feet and dashed off, so traumatized by this to-do, he forgot to take his cow.

“So you think to steal cattle from Reay?” Andrew hissed into the thief's ear.

The boy turned and stared at him over his shoulder. They were face-to-face. Close. Their gazes locked and something snaked through him. Andrew wasn't sure what it was, and there was no time to interpret it … because all of a sudden, pain sliced through him as the villain's sharp teeth bit into his palm. At the same time, the boy gored him with a pointy elbow. Andrew, perforce, released him.

The boy spun around and his hood fell. A shock of burnished red hair tumbled out in a shimmering fall.

Andrew froze as a chilling realization washed through him.

The thief wasn't a boy. It was a woman.

And holy hell … what a woman.

That red hair, flittering in the breeze? That soft body writhing against his? The burn of her glare? And aye. That feeling? The one that had flickered by too quickly for him to capture it?

Arousal.

It had been a long time since he'd felt it, far too long, but he should have known. He should have known she was a woman. The moment he spotted her. The second he touched her.

Certainly when she'd shorn off a lock of his hair.

A man would never have done something so vindictive. A man would have simply skewered him.

But vindictive or not, she was magnificent.

It occurred to him, it was a damn shame he'd just sworn off casual flirtations, because this armful of curves was—

She hauled off and smacked him.

It barely registered because she was such a tiny thing, and because he was so befuddled. But he noticed at least.

“You idiot!” she howled. “You buffoon. You brute! Look what you've done!” She stormed over to the shards of her bow and gathered them up.

There was no reason for him to grin, faced with her wrath as he was, but he did.

It irritated her more. She smacked him with the bow as well. Or what was left of it. “This was my favorite!”

“Your favorite bow?”

She gored him with a furious glare. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Isn't it obvious?”

She crossed her arms. “Not precisely.”

“Protecting Reay cattle from thieves.”

Her expression soured. “Really?”

“Aye.”

“You're not doing a very good job at it.”

“I caught you.”

She leaned in, her expression fierce. “What on earth made you think I was a cattle thief?”

“You came barreling out of the woods, alone, brandishing a weapon on an unarmed farmer—”

“He wasna unarmed. And he wasna a farmer. That man has been stealing our cattle for weeks—”

Andrew gulped and set his teeth. “It was only natural to assume
you
were stealing the cow.”

“How can I steal my own cow?”

“
Your
cow?”

“Of course it's my cow, you dolt.”

“The cow belongs to Magnus Dounreay.”

She growled at him.
Growled.
“I am his daughter.”

Andrew froze.
Fook.
This was Hannah's sister? But then, now that she mentioned it, there was a haunting familiarity about her. Hannah had the same frown. He was certain of it. He'd seen it often enough.

“We've been tracking the thief for days.” She glanced over at the spot where the farmer had been. “And look what you've done. After all that work finding the blighter, you let him go.”

“He left the cow,” Andrew offered.

It didn't help.

She poked him with a sharp finger. He felt it, even through his leather breastplate. “You, sir, are a nuisance. Keep away from me.”

Keep away from her? Not a chance. In fact, all of a sudden his assignment in Reay looked all the more intriguing. Andrew tipped his head to the side and grinned at her. “I canna do that,” he said.

“And why not?”

He waved at the troop of men just joining Hamish on the crest of the hill. “Because we've been sent here by the Laird of Dunnet to oversee the defenses of Reay.” His grin broadened as her dismay blossomed. “In fact, I'll be here for quite some time.”

*   *   *

Susana Dounreay's heart lurched.

It had been bad enough to see
him
pounding down the hill like an avenging angel, racing toward her—all her bad dreams and nightmares combined. The one man she never wanted to see again.

It had been bad enough that he'd smashed her favorite bow.

Bad enough that he'd
touched
her, wrapping her in his arms and pressing her against his hard hot body, releasing memories and regrets and hungers so long caged.

On top of all that, he didn't remember her.

After everything, after all they'd shared, after all he'd done to her … he didn't remember her.

She should be happy. She should be delighted. Thrilled beyond words. She had no idea why the thought nearly crushed her.

But even that wasn't the worst of it. Because then Andrew—the man she never wanted to see again—had blithely announced that he was here to stay.

Acid churned in her belly as the prospects and probabilities flickered through her mind. Panic seared her.

He couldn't stay. She couldn't allow it. She couldn't bear to see him, talk to him, suffer his presence every day.

She crossed her arms and studied him, searching for a weakness perhaps. To her annoyance, she did not find one.

He was much taller than he had been when they'd last met. And broader. And his muscles were … Her gaze strayed to the flex of his chest. Och, aye. He'd not had such spectacular definition as a boy.

He'd always had the most beautiful hair. White-blond and flowing and long. All the girls in the parish in Perth had swooned over it. Susana suppressed the urge to grab her dirk and slice it all off. His eyes were still as blue, though they seemed shadowed. His face was sculpted perfection, from the long blade of his nose to his broad forehead … to those damn dancing dimples she wanted to slap.

Rage swept through her. Rage and frustration and … something else she would not name.

How on earth was he even more handsome?

Clearly the years had been friendly to him—which for some reason infuriated her more.

Ach, she didn't want him here.

“You might as well turn around and go back home.” She thought she'd invested the suggestion with the appropriate tone of authority, but apparently she had not. He grinned at her. Those dimples, the ones she remembered so well, rippled. Her gut rippled along with them.

“I willna. My brother is counting on me to secure these lands—”

A cold hand clutched at her chest. “Your brother?” A horrifying suspicion arose.

“Dunnet. Alexander Lochlannach is my brother.”

Ah. Bluidy hell. He was a Lochlannach.

Her brother-in-law.

No matter what she said or did, no matter if he left or stayed, they were tied together, forever, by the bonds their siblings had forged. It was a pity that, with all the heartache he'd given her six years ago, he hadn't bothered to mention his family name. Had she known, she would never have encouraged Hannah to marry into the family. In fact, she would have advised her to run.