Susana and the Scot (8 page)

Nae. He'd been there in the woods, in
their spot
. With Kirstie Gunn in his arms.

Susana had been devastated.

She'd left the next day and she'd never returned.

She'd never expected to see him again.

She'd given him everything. He hadn't even given her his full name.

How could she ever have expected it was Andrew
Lochlannach
? That he was the brother of the man Susana had encouraged her sister to marry?

Ah, well, she thought as she headed up the stairs, exhausted after a long day of running from the past. It was all for the best. She'd learned to be cautious. She'd learned of the true nature of men. They were all faithless and selfish and led by their cocks.

There was great relief in having learned that lesson. Because she would never be fooled again.

She turned the corner and headed down the hall to her rooms; she'd known it would be a busy day and she'd known her father would invite
him
to dinner, so she'd given orders for her meal to be served in her suite. All she wanted to do was collapse in a chair and not think about anything. To curl up and close herself in. Perhaps shore up her defenses.

The echo of deep male voices stalled her steps. Holding her breath, she tiptoed over to the door to the library gallery.

The gallery formed the second floor of the grand library, ringing the room. As young girls she and Hannah had nested up here, spying on their father and his cronies. They'd learned a lot from this vantage point. Perhaps things young girls should not know.

One of the men down below laughed, and Susana's blood went cold. Of course Andrew Lochlannach would be having drinks with Papa. Men did such things. No doubt he was attempting to strengthen his position as the interloper.

It was bad form, at her age, to eavesdrop, but Susana couldn't help but creep closer.

Before she had the opportunity to settle in though, a flicker of movement to her left captured her attention. She narrowed her eyes and peered into the shadows. A small bundle with downy, white-blond hair was crouched at the balustrade, fisting the rails and peering down at the assemblage below with an expression of absorbed fascination.

Susana's stomach rippled. A hint of horror dribbled through her.

“
Isobel Mairi MacBean
,” she hissed.

When her daughter didn't respond, she scuttled closer, bending low so the men wouldn't notice her. She grabbed her daughter's arm.

“What are you doing here?”

Isobel flashed a smile, one that was far too charming, far too dimpled for comfort. Her bluer-than-blue eyes danced. “Listening.”

“It's rude to eavesdrop.”

Isobel tipped her head to the side. “Then why were you doing it?”

Susana ignored the heat crawling up her cheeks. “I most definitely wasna doing it. And I doona want to hear that you are. Now come along. It's time for dinner.”

Isobel sighed and stood, though Susana noticed she took the precaution of scooting back so she would remain out of view to the men below. They were sharing hunting stories at the moment, and, judging from the warbles of laughter, drinking as well. Tugging the imp through the door, she closed it with a decisive, though quiet, click.

She whirled on her daughter and took the precaution of propping her fists on her hips and frowning so Isobel would understand the fullness of her disappointment. Isobel often had difficulty understanding such things. She opened her mouth to begin a lecture on propriety and privacy and probably some other motherly things, but Isobel spoke first.

“Who were those men?”

Susana blanched. “Those men?” She put her hand on her daughter's shoulder and guided her down the hall, away from danger. Or temptation. “Visitors. Shall we have supper in my rooms? It will be like a picnic.” Isobel enjoyed picnics …

She wrinkled her nose. “Why will we no' have supper with Grandpapa?”

“He has guests. We doona want to … interrupt. What do you say? To a picnic?”

Isobel shrugged. “All right.”

Susana pushed into her room and tugged the bell pull. Isobel tossed herself into the chair by the fire. She propped her legs up on the arms in a terribly hoydenish pose. Susana frowned. Isobel sighed and settled herself into a more ladylike arrangement.

“Why were those men talking about Hannah?”

Susana's pulse thudded. She sat down in the companion chair. “I … ah. Were they?”

“Aye.”

“What … what did they say?”

Isobel fixed her with a reproving frown. “I thought we werena supposed to eavesdrop.”

“We are not.” She stiffened her spine. “But since you've already done so, you could at least tell me what they said.” Surely that was not bad parenting?

“Well, Grandpapa asked if she was happy and the knight said aye, she was—”

Relief scudded through her, but it was quickly replaced by irritation. “The knight?”

“The tall one.”

“They're both tall.”

“The one with the long hair.” Isobel flicked her curls. “Like mine.”

Susana tangled her fingers in her lap. “That man is no knight.”

“He seems like one. He seems verra valiant.”

“He's not valiant in the slightest.” He was cocky and arrogant and far too aggravating for words. “He's a buffoon.”

“He had a sword.”

Susana blinked. “In the library?” How rude.

“This afternoon. I saw him in the yard. He had a sword.” Isobel shot her a challenging glance. One far too like her father's for comfort. Susana suppressed a shudder.

“Stay away from that man. And you know how I feel about swords.”

“I like his sword. It is verra shiny. Do you think he would teach me how to use a sword?”

“Darling. You must stay away from that man. From all those men. They are warriors and they doona want to be bothered by little girls.”

Isobel tapped a plump lip. “The one with the red hair is verra handsome, do you no' think?” When Susana didn't respond, she continued. “He would probably make a good husband for you.”

Why that made a curl of displeasure ripple through her, she didn't know. “Why do you say that, darling?”

“You have red hair, too.”

“That is hardly a reason to marry.”

Isobel nodded. “He also has a sword.” This she said in a hopeful tone, as though the fact that he had a sword was, indeed, an excellent recommendation.

“I'm not looking for a husband,” Susana felt compelled to mention.

As usual, Isobel ignored her. “Did Hannah send them?”

She stared at her daughter. “I … what?”

“That's why she went away, isn't it? To find men to protect us.”

“Wherever did you get that idea?”

Isobel fluttered her lashes. “You doona want to know.”

“I most certainly do.”

“You told me you dinna want to hear that I'd been listening in…”

Oh, dear lord. “Were you? Listening in?”

She nodded. Her curls tumbled. “When you and Hannah and Grandpapa were talking about Hannah going away. You said we needed more protection.”

Oh, lord. She had said that.

“And Hannah said Dunnet could provide more men. And make the bad people stop burning down crofts and stealing things.”

Susana's heart sank. She hadn't realized her daughter had heard all that. A child should never be burdened with adult worries.

“Aye, darling. They are the men Hannah sent.” Susana's chest ached. God, she didn't want Andrew here. She desperately did not. But Hannah had sacrificed everything for this. So Isobel and Papa and, aye, even she could be safe. It was childish and selfish and foolish of her to reject that gift.

Isobel gusted a sigh and plucked at a seam. “I miss Hannah.”

“As do I, darling.”

“And Lana. It's not the same here without them.”

No. It was not.

“Do you think they will visit soon?”

“I hope so, darling. I miss them verra much as well.”

Isobel put out a lip. “If these men are Hannah's friends, they must be nice.”

Not necessarily. “They're here to do a job, dearest. We shouldna get in their way. Promise me you will stay away from them.”

Isobel's response wasn't gratifying. She nibbled on her lip for far too long.

“Isobel? Promise me?”

“All right. But I willna promise to stay away from the kennels. I like the kennels.”

Susana's stomach heaved. “I…”

“Why did you put them in the kennels, Mama?”

She sprang to her feet and paced the room. “How … Where did you hear that?”

“The knight mentioned it.” Susana forbore correcting her again. “Then Grandpapa laughed and asked what he did to make you mad.”
Oh, dear lord.
Isobel fixed her with a disturbingly curious look. “What did he do to make you mad?”

“Nothing, darling. He did nothing to make me mad.” She would go to hell, no doubt, for lying to her daughter. “It's just that there are so many of them. There wasn't time to arrange rooms for them all.”

Her daughter's expression made it clear she wasn't buying this explanation, and even to Susana's ears it sounded thin. Isobel's tiny nose wrinkled. “The kennels smell.”

“They're men, darling. Warriors. They doona care about comfort.”

“They doona?”

“Nae. Men are very different from women.”

Isobel sighed. “I suppose you are right. Grandpapa seemed verra happy to have manly company.”

“Did he?”

“Aye. He even said as much.”

“Hmm.” Though it sent a lick of resentment through her, she could hardly blame her father for cleaving to his own kind. No doubt it had been a trial for him being surrounded by strong-willed women for the past twenty-odd years. It was probably a treat for him to have other men around who were not his vassals.

Though she shouldn't ask, her curiosity prickled. “What else did they talk about?”

Isobel tipped her head to the side. “Boring stuff mostly. Though Grandpapa seemed very interested in Perth.”

Her heart stopped. Froze right there in her chest. “P-Perth?”

“Aye. He wanted to know why the knight went there and when and how long he was there.” She shrugged. “That kind of thing. It was much more interesting when they were talking about hunting.”

“Oh, yes, of course. What did they say about hunting?”

Isobel babbled on, sharing the details of the time when Papa had tracked and bagged a five-point red stag, but Susana really wasn't listening. For one thing, she'd heard the story countless times before. For another, her mind spun.

Papa had been asking about Perth.

That meant only one thing.

He had definitely figured it out.

She could only hope to God he would keep his mouth shut.

 

CHAPTER FIVE

Andrew woke with a weight on his chest. He hadn't slept well—Hamish had snored all night long and the dogs had been restless and, frankly, the smell in the kennel was drilling a hole in his nasal cavity—so he was groggy. He didn't even want to think about the dreams that still teased his consciousness. Dreams of torrid kisses.

Without a doubt, he'd had far too much whisky.

It took some effort to rise from that miasma to full consciousness and realize … there was definitely a weight on his chest.

He cracked open an eye and found himself staring into a crystal-clear blue orb. It blinked. It took a moment for him to realize the eye belonged to an impish face, which in turn belonged to a young girl, which in turn belonged to the elbow pressing down on his chest. It was very sharp, that elbow.

“What are you doing here?” he sputtered. Probably not the most cogent question, but it was the first that came to mind when one woke to find a strange child on one's chest.

The girl leaned closer and set her forehead on his, to better survey him, he supposed. Her eyes crossed as she studied him up close. “I wanted to see what one looked like,” she said. Her voice was chirpy and blasé and for some reason he found it disturbing.

Andrew set his teeth and put his hands on her tiny shoulders to gently edge her back. Something about her delicate features set his nerves on edge. The cut of her chin, the slant of her eyes, the quirk of her lips. The dimples that rippled when she tried to hold back her grin. “One what?”

“A buffoon.” He found her smile bothersome, too. It was far too dismissive for his liking.

“A buffoon?” What the—”

“Mama said you were one and I've never seen one before.”

Andrew narrowed his eyes. “Mama?”

The girl didn't clarify, but then she didn't need to. Of a sudden, Andrew realized why her tiny face made something unsettling curl in his belly. But for her hair, which was a silver blond, she was the spitting image of Susana.

He pushed her farther away. “You shouldna be here,” he croaked. His men were used to living in billets with other men and hunkering down on the hard ground for a night's sleep. They were rarely politic in their behavior … and most of them slept in the nude.

The thought of this young girl—what was she, five?—getting an eyeful and running back to tell tales to her mama was horrifying.

Indeed, just then Hamish sat up and stretched. His blankets slipped down to pool in his lap. When he finished his yawn, and realized he was being studied by this imp from hell with eyes that were far too sharp, he
eep
ed and clutched his covers to his chest like a virgin.

It was a little amusing, but only a little.

“You really should go,” Andrew whispered. “The men are … waking up.”

“Are they all buffoons, too?” This, she asked with her curious gaze fixed on Hamish, who, for some reason, flushed.

“None of us are buffoons. We have come here to help your mama.”