The Curse of Clan Ross (93 page)

Viv gave a pretty snort. “Don’t be silly, Mallory. You can’t keep a Highlander. It must be something you can retrieve, for a memento of your final act of defiance. What will you do, lock him up in the dungeon? Put a collar on him like a puppy?”

Mallory raised her brows and smirked.

“Mallory!”

Finally her cousin dropped her smile and pouted. “Fine. I’ll steal a sporran.”

“A sporran. Sounds even more scandalous.” Bridget looked to Viv. “What do you want?”

“Something…romantic.”

“Obviously, Vivianne. That’s the point, isn’t it?” Mallory rolled her eyes.

“I can’t think so quickly.” Her friend frowned at the ground as she slowly circled the others twice, kicking her skirts in leisurely steps. She came back and shrugged. “I’d like a broach, then. A Scotsman’s broach.”

“They call them brooches. It sounds as if we can all get what we want from a single man.” Bridget suddenly didn’t like the idea, but she couldn’t say why. It wasn’t as if she was after a man’s heart, after all.

Mallory shook her head. “Come now, we must have some rules. No more than one item from any man.”

“I agree.” Bridget felt better. “That way one poor fellow won’t awaken to find himself without clothing, purse, or jewelry.”

They all giggled, but stopped short when they noticed Grandmother Kennison’s form looming on the balcony. In unison, they stepped even further into the darkness.

Due to the dark shade of her purple gown, Viv became a disembodied head of blond curls. “Do you suppose,” she whispered, “there are any romantic Highlanders to be found?”

Mallory nodded. “Bridget’s Grandmother Kennison thought so. She said the Scot who kidnapped her was a poet. And he never returned to the Highlands. He waited, just across the border, in case she ever changed her mind.”

They all sighed in unison, staring at the balcony.

It was all decided but the details, but the three of them would go.

To Scotland.

For a scavenger hunt.

They’d be safe enough; Bridget had a secret weapon, of sorts. If they found themselves in any trouble, they merely needed to call upon the Scot who owed the Kennison family a substantial favor—the Scot who’d kidnapped her grandmother over four decades earlier—a man named Laird Alistair Graham.

CHAPTER ONE

Alistair Graham was dead.

Alistair Rory Macpherson had arrived in time to give his grandsire a good shock, a good laugh, and a good burial. The shock had come when the old man laid eyes on his favorite red-haired grandson from the Highlands. The laugh had come after Rory had confided his purpose for his visit. The burial may or may not have come days later had Old Alistair not laughed quite so hard nor so long.

His young widow was but content the man died with a smile on his face.

After surveying the crowd come to mourn his grandfather, Rory began to understand why the man had laughed so. There was nary a wed-able, bed-able, or even palatable lass to be found among the clan. The only suckling bairn appeared to be Old Alistair’s new son, or else such lasses of a breeding age were well hidden from the likes of Rory. He began to wonder if they’d caught wind of his arrival and hidden the womenfolk, but if that were true, his grandsire would not have been so surprised when he’d walked into the old man’s hall.

Besides the loss of his favorite relative, Rory was disappointed on two counts; first, he would have to look elsewhere for a wife; and second, his grandsire’s clan looked to be dying out. Living among the border reivers, they’d most likely had their fertile women carried off along with the occasional herd of cattle. If these Grahams didn’t do a bit of reiving of their own, they were doomed.

As doomed as Rory felt.

Perhaps somewhere between the border and his Highland home he could find a lass who’d never heard of him, and carry her off before his tragedy reached her ears. If he could please her enough, she either wouldn’t believe the lies, or wouldn’t care.

No lass from his own clan would have him now, and he’d have no Englishwoman, but he wasn’t quite prepared to leave his beloved island to find a suitable mother to bear his children. Not yet, anyway.

Standing on the curtain wall surrounding the Graham keep, Rory was relieved the mourning days were coming to an end. With his grandfather’s home open to mourners, all kith and kin had been needed upon the battlements. No Elliot, or other border clansman could be trusted to keep their thumbs in their belts when paying their respects.

“Laird Macpherson!” A Graham spotted him from the ground and scrambled up to the narrow wall steps. “Laird—”

“I’m no laird, mon.”

“Yes, sir. Forgive me, sir. But I thought you would wish to ken some Anglishmen are coming, all lather and leather.”

Rory’s gut clenched. He should have never ventured so far South.

“How many?” He forced himself to sound the confident Highlander he appeared to be.

“Three, Laird.” The man cleared his throat. “I thought that since ye’re grandson to auld Alistair...”

“Nay. Ye’ll need to settle on a new laird from among yer own. I’ll be leaving on the morrow.” Rory nodded once for good measure.

The man’s shoulders slumped.

“You should choose a mon who will go after things that have been taken from ye, ye ken?” He put a hand on the other’s shoulder. “If the Grahams are to survive, you’ll need someone with fire in his belly, and a head on his shoulders. Someone young.”

“Someone like ye, then, laird?” The man grinned. “Are you sure ye cannot be swayed into settlin’ here?”

“I’ve little taste for English air, Mister Graham.”  Rory looked South and tried not to shudder. “And I’d not be much use as a laird if I sickened every time the South Wind blew.” He dropped his hand back to his side. “Tell the captain of the guard to make ready for the invaders. We’ll let the bastards come mourn, and then heaven help them if they’re not back across the border when the black cloths come down in the morning.”

“Aye, laird.”

“Only for the day, Mister Graham. Dinna forget that. My friends and I will leave when my grandsire’s tucked in the soil.”

So Rory would play the part of laird until the Englishmen fled. It would not do to have their enemy see how poorly led the Grahams had become, especially if measuring the new Graham laird was the purpose in their coming.

Within the hour, Rory was wondering if he’d made a considerable mistake by sitting at the head of Alistair’s table with his two companions, Ian and Connor, at his sides. The Grahams had lined up for his attention to discuss matters that had been neglected since Alistair Graham had become ill and it would take days to sort through all the grievances, let alone hear witnesses. And Rory’d be damned if he’d judge a man unfairly, as he himself had been judged.

“Until the English are gone,” he announced, “and you can choose a new laird, I will only hear concerns that cannot wait a day or two. I promised only to stay until the mourning cloths come down.”

The queue dwindled as one by one folks nodded and walked away. One lad stood his ground.

Rory called him forward and the lad shuffled close. He smelled of dust and pine. He looked as if he’d slept with the pigs.

“Yer lairdship.”

“I’m no laird, cousin Jamie.”

The boy’s face lit for a moment, then he took a deep breath and began.

“Since the men have been called to the wall, laird—I mean, Rory—I mean, cousin—” Jamie blushed.

“Go on, cousin.”

Seated to his right and left, his companions, Ian and Connor, hid their smiles behind their mugs.

“Aye.” The boy frowned, then must have remembered what he was going to say. “Since you’ve needed the men on the walls, the lads and I have been riding patrol...and I have a message for you from the three Englishmen, only they’re not Englishmen at all—”

“Take a breath, Jamie. Fill yer sails and take yer time, aye?” Rory took a deep breath too, relieved their visitors weren’t English after all. “I’ll have the message first.”

The food ushered into the hall was of much less interest than the tale the lad quietly told, and Rory and his friends gave the boy their complete attention until the report was finished.

It was all Rory could do to remain seated instead of flying out the gates to see for himself!

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About the Author

L.L. Muir lives in the shadows of the Rocky Mountains with a charming husband who makes her laugh, but does
not
make her do pans. Like most authors, she is constantly searching for, or borrowing pens. The best ideas always begin on a napkin.
 

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