The Pretender (3 page)

“
Och,
but you English lassies do have a peculiar way of showing a fancy for the lads, you do.”

Manfred turned about—with Elizabeth still draped over his shoulders—to see a stranger who had come unnoticed upon the scene.

He was dressed in Highland fashion, in a belted plaid that left his legs exposed beneath a loose flowing cambric shirt that he hadn’t bothered to tie at the neck. His hair was as dark as soot and hung below his neck, tied in a queue beneath a Scottish blue bonnet decorated with a sprig of heather. He carried a broadsword at his side and
a peculiar studded shield strapped to his back. It made him look downright primordial. His cocksure grin, however, and his obvious amusement at their situation touched a raw nerve with Elizabeth.

“I suppose you have a better idea?” she said, mustering as much dignity as she could while trying not to think of how ridiculous she must look hanging as she was over Manfred’s backside.

“Aye, I do.” He glanced at Manfred then, ignoring her altogether. “Put the lass back in the coach, man. You can wash yourself off in yon burn.”

As Manfred helped Elizabeth back to the coach, the Scotsman kneeled, untying the leather laces on his peculiar-looking shoes. He removed them along with his tartan hose, then, without another word, proceeded to walk into the mire, sloshing and oozing his way to the coach in his bare feet. In one sudden motion, he swept Elizabeth from the step and into his arms, cradling her effortlessly before him. His eyes, a deep, dark blue, laughed at her above a cocked grin.

“In need of a lift, lass?”

Elizabeth frowned. “In England, sir, it is customary for a gentleman to ask a lady’s permission before laying hands upon her person.”

“
Och,
but you’re no’ in England any more, lassie. And I’m
sair
tainly no gentleman. This is the land o’ the Scotsman, and there isna a thing genteel about a Scot.”

“Truer words were never said,” she remarked to the mud creeping up his hairy legs.

The man continued to stare at her. It was disconcerting, those blue eyes looking at her as if he could see straight to the deepest reaches of her mind. His mouth
had settled into a straight line, but somehow she believed he was mocking her.

“I’ll no’ have it said a Scot, any Scot, ever took a lass who wasna willing.” He grinned again. “Even if it is out of a bog. You want me to put you down then?”

Elizabeth glanced down to the sludge that surrounded them, from which a sour smell had begun to rise in the summer heat. “No, please, do not.”

“I didna think so.”

The man turned and trudged through the bog to drier land, more dropping her than setting her down before him. He didn’t immediately move away, and stood so close she could see the flecks of gray that made his eyes so darkly blue. They were peculiar, those eyes, somehow making it impossible for her to tear her gaze away.

He said, “I’ll just fetch the other lassie now.”

Only when he turned to retrieve Isabella did Elizabeth realize her heart was pounding. Putting it off as the result of the mishap in the coach, she took a deep breath and focused on the arrangement of her skirts while he carried her sister from the coach, setting her right beside Elizabeth.

“Have you ever seen such a man?” Isabella whispered as the stranger set about helping Manfred and Titus to push the coach free of the bog. “He carried me as if I weighed no more than a feather.”

Elizabeth crossed her arms, rubbing them as if taken by a chill.
But was it a chill—or was it him?

“He is far too forward.”

“He was just trying to be helpful.”

“More likely he was just trying to sneak a hand
against your bodice, Bella. If Father were here, he would have—”

An idea struck Elizabeth—
boom!
—like a lightning bolt, an idea of such ingenuity, such cleverness, she could scarcely believe how brilliant she was.

Three quarters of an hour later, when the carriage was free and the wheel had been repaired, Elizabeth walked over to the stranger, a much different Elizabeth than the one she’d been before.

“I wish to thank you, sir, for your kind assistance.” She offered him her gloved hand. “I shudder to think what we might have done had you not happened by when you did.”

The Highlander looked at her curiously, as if seeing her for the first time.

“Pleased to have been of help, my lady.”

He didn’t move to take her hand. Instead he turned, taking up his shoes and hose as he readied to leave.

Leave? But he couldn’t leave. Just yet.

Elizabeth followed him. “I, uh, neglected to ask your name. I should like to know to whom we owe our debt of gratitude.”

The man looked at her but didn’t stop walking. “Douglas Dubh MacKinnon fro’ the Isle of Skye.”

Douglas Dubh?
What in the world sort of name was that?

He stopped for a moment at the burn to wash the bog mud from his feet and legs. As he bent to cup the water in his large hands, running his fingers down the length of his calves, Elizabeth found herself staring at the way the muscles in his legs pulled and flexed beneath the hem of his plaid. There was power in those legs.
Male
power.
The popinjays in London could pad their stockings with cork in earnest and never achieve legs that looked like
that
.

When she looked up again, Elizabeth realized the Highlander was staring at her—as she was staring at him.

Her cheeks went awash. My God, she thought, I am actually blushing.

“I am La—” she corrected herself, “I am Elizabeth Drayton. The other lady with me is my sister, Isabella Drayton. We are traveling to the home of our aunt in the north and were waylaid by that sheep over th—”

Elizabeth pointed to the road, but the damnable beast had vanished.

“In any case, we are indebted to you for your kindness, Mr. MacKinnon.”

Elizabeth held out her hand to him. The Highlander glanced at her a moment, then bowed, ignoring her outstretched hand once again. “A pleasure, my lady.”

He turned then and started to walk away. “Good day to you and your sister. Godspeed on your journey.”

He hadn’t made it more than a couple of yards before Elizabeth called to him. “Mr. MacKinnon, aren’t you going to put your hose and shoes back on?”

He didn’t stop. “Aye, after my feet have dried.”

“But, uh, may I ask where you are headed?”

“I’m to an inn not far from here called The Reiver’s Rest.”

She followed him. “The Reiver’s Rest, you say? Why, we are going to the very same inn.”

It was an excellent lie, clearly delivered and brilliant.
Although from the way he was looking at her, she wondered if somehow he knew that it was . . . a lie, that is.

“It looks as if it might rain,” she said quickly. “In fact, I’m quite certain I just felt a drop hit my nose.” She turned her face to the clouds, then nodded. “Yes, indeed, there is another. Please, sir, allow us to offer you a ride to the inn. It is the least we can do in exchange for your kindness.”

The Highlander eyed the clouds, hesitating as if considering her offer. “That really isna necessary, my lady.”

“But I must insist.” Elizabeth rewarded him with her sweetest smile, the one that never failed to get her what she wanted.

And it didn’t fail this time, either.

“If you’re certain . . .”

“Absolutely, and do sit inside with Isabella and me so we can chat along the way. This is my first time to Scotland, and I would love to hear simply everything about it.”

Elizabeth waited.

Finally the Highlander nodded once and turned for the coach.

As MacKinnon ducked his head and slid onto the opposite seat, Isabella grabbed the lace cuff of Elizabeth’s sleeve and gave it a warning tug. She whispered, “What in the name of all that is sacred are you doing?”

Elizabeth cast her sister a sidelong glance. “Nothing yet. But if I have my wish, this Highlander might just prove himself very useful in the next several hours.”

Douglas warily eyed the two beauties across from him inside the coach, wondering not for the first time what had possessed him to accept the invitation to join them.

Had he run completely daft? Little more than an hour before, he had been free and alone, quietly making his way home and thinking of little more than the haggis and warm bannocks Eithne was sure to have made ready for his return. He’d spotted the stranded carriage sitting atilt off the road. He’d stopped to offer his help. And now, somehow, suddenly, he found himself in a closed carriage with two unwedded young ladies, one with hair the color of midnight, who hadn’t spoken above two words since his arrival—and the other, the fire-headed one, who had yet to shut up.

Even a blind man could see the situation spelled trouble.

Sisters, he recalled the one saying, yet with just his first look at them, he could see they were as different as
was the night from the day. The dark one was timid, properly reserved, unwilling even to meet his eye as she glanced quickly out the window when the carriage started forward with a lurch. The other one, however, neither shrank nor flinched from his look, nor did she so much as take a breath while talking. As she babbled on and on, she looked at him boldly through eyes that were hazel in color, touched curiously with gray. She snooped, she pried, asking inquisitive questions, all while taking in every inch of him just as keenly as he was taking in every inch of her.

And then, perhaps in an afterthought of maidenly modesty, she finally glanced away, making at arranging her already tidy skirts more neatly about her. Douglas took the opportunity to study her more closely.

She was a beauty, no question about that. In fact the first thing he noticed—the first thing anyone would notice about her—was the stunning red-gold of her hair. It fairly gleamed and she wore it dressed simply, pulled back from her face to fall freely down her back, tucked beneath the brim of her straw hat. Douglas found himself wondering how it would shine in the sunlight, that hair, if it would feel like burnished silk against his touch. Thankfully she hadn’t powdered it as was the current fashion in the south. That, Douglas thought, would have been a crime.

Given the fineness of her gown, a dark wine-red silk, she no doubt came from a background of affluence. The dress itself was cut low and fitted tightly to her narrow waist over full skirts and striped quilted petticoats. She wore a sheer white fichu tucked about her neck and
shoulders, but it did little to hide the fullness of the breasts underneath, breasts that were very nice, indeed.

She was merely a lass, he told himself, a lovely one, aye, and he’d not seen one like her in too long a time. Perhaps never. Still, she was trouble. She was English and she was refined. And she was an innocent, of that he was certain, for she could have no earthly idea of the thoughts she was tempting with just the tilt of her head. That only meant Douglas needed to get as far from her as he possibly could. And he would, as soon as they stopped at the inn. Once he was away from the carriage, he reasoned, away from her, he’d not give her a second thought.

Then she moved, just slightly, leaning toward him, and her scent, mysterious and herbal, nearly sent him to his knees. In that moment, Douglas knew this was no
mere
lass at all.

“So, Mr. MacKinnon,” she said with a flash of white smile. “What can you tell us about yourself?”

Douglas shrugged. “Naught to tell,” he replied, focusing on the passing landscape out the window, determined to be as tight-lipped as possible. “I’m but a simple Scotsman on his way home.”

“On Skye, I believe you said earlier.”

“Aye, my lady.”

He didn’t say more.

“What is it that brings you here, so far from home, then, sir?” Her eyes sparked. “Some sort of clandestine intrigue, perhaps?”

Douglas looked at her, his eyes searching hers across the shadows of the coach. For a single moment he wondered if their meeting on that lone country road could
have been more than pure coincidence. No, that wasn’t possible. He’d only just left London a week before and had told no one else his route. He was simply letting his uneasiness get to him. This slip of a lass could have no idea of what he’d been about in London.

“Och, no, milady,” he said, thickening his brogue. “Just a simple drover, I am. Gone to have a look at the cattle market in the south.”

Douglas would have thought his response would put her off. What possible interest could a lady of fashion and refinement like her have in a common Scottish cattle drover? Curiously, however, she pressed on.

“A drover, you say? Like the outlaw Rob Roy? How fascinating. You must have some exciting tales to tell . . .”

She really was quite good, he had to admit. She kept up the conversation for the better part of the next hour, making it seem as if cattle drover was no less remarkable an occupation than circumnavigator. By the time they pulled into the courtyard of The Reiver’s Rest, night had fallen and she had practiced nearly every feminine wile Douglas had ever heard of, and even some he hadn’t. Despite his best efforts to both bore and ignore her, she’d worked, and then worked more in attempt to charm him.

Which left him with one very disquieting thought:

Why?

Why would this well-to-do, not to mention lovely English lass work so very hard and so very long simply to catch the eye of a poor Scottish farmer? She certainly must have her pick of any number of fine English lads more suitable to her background. Why then did she seem so interested in him?

Whatever her reasons, they couldn’t be good. So when they finally stopped before the door of the inn, Douglas couldn’t get out of the carriage fast enough.

He bowed his head to the two ladies after helping them down from the carriage. “My ladies, it has been a pleasure.”

He turned then, ready to depart, but that voice, that same sweet voice that had just filled the past hour called, “Mr. MacKinnon, I—
we
would be most remiss if we didn’t at least offer you a meal for your trouble.”

“Oh, that isna necessary, my lady,” he said. “I will—”

“Nonsense. You must be starving.” She linked an arm through his before he could open his mouth to refuse. “Surely a strong, healthy man like yourself must have quite an appetite, especially after working so hard to help us with our carriage. You simply must allow us to get you some supper.” She smiled up at him and blinked beneath the brim of her hat. “I insist upon it.”

Douglas decided that the lass must be quite used to insisting upon any number of things. More out of curiosity than anything else, he allowed himself to be led toward the front door of the thatched-roof inn.

Inside, the beamed ceiling was low, so low that it nearly grazed Douglas’s head as he ducked through the doorway. A lazy veil of smoke from both the stone hearth in the corner and the clay pipes of the patrons huddled about the tables hovered just above their heads. Every pair of eyes in the place turned upon them when they came in, no doubt wondering what a shabby character like himself could be doing in the company of two finely dressed young ladies. But after a moment or two, the others returned their attentions to their tankards and
pipes, and Douglas found an empty table in the far corner.

He seated the ladies, then made for the taproom, where he sought out the proprietor of the place, a man named Turnbull whom Douglas knew well.

“What’re you aboot, MacKinnon?” said the older man. He rubbed his beard-grizzled chin slowly as he narrowed his eyes on the two ladies across the room. “Two lasses you ’ave, and my guess is they’re Sassenach lasses, too. I’ll no’ be having any skullduggery ’neath my roof. This is no’ a house of ill repute.”

Douglas scowled. “Dinna be jumpin’ to conclusions, Turnbull. They were stranded. Their carriage had broken a wheel and I helped to set it to rights is all. Now they’re just wanting to buy my supper for it. So be a good man and fetch us a few bowls of your wife’s mutton stew. I’ll eat it quickly and be off to my bed afore you know it.”

The innkeeper eyed Douglas skeptically. “Jus’ you make certain when you’re aff to tha’ bed, you’re alone in it, MacKinnon. There’s Sassenach patrols all aboot these parts since the Jacobites were routed up at Culloden just lookin’ for a reason to take another Scot’s life. Ye’re a good mon, MacKinnon. I’d hate to see you be a
dead
good mon.”

Across the room, Isabella eyed the other patrons of the inn with dismay. She’d never seen such a motley assortment of humanity in her life, and she sat at the edge of her chair, feet planted tightly together beneath her, refusing even to remove her cloak.

Elizabeth, however, quickly made herself comfortable, removing her hat, peeling off her gloves, and
shrugging away her woolen cloak as she took in everything around them like a child on a first visit to the fair.

“Bess, if Father even suspected we were in a place like this, alone with a man we’ve scarcely met, he would—he would run positively mad!”

Elizabeth arched a brow. “Oh, and how is it any different than his having sent me into Scotland with a mind to marry me off to a man I’ve scarcely met? ’Tis a simple matter of which stranger appeals more, Bella, and for the moment, I’m choosing the Highlander.”

Isabella could not honestly disagree. Still she sat forward, taking her sister’s hand. “I know you’re angry, and it is deplorable what Father did. I know in his heart he had his own good intentions, and I know though he might threaten it, he would not ever make you do something you truly didn’t wish to do. But really, Bess,”—she glanced about at the dimly lit taproom, at the shadowy figures hunched over their respective tankards of ale—“do you honestly think this is wise?”

Elizabeth was oblivious to her sister’s question. The dirt, the stench, the underlying threat of danger fascinated her in a way she couldn’t even begin to describe. All her life she had been waiting for something like this to happen—some dark, precarious adventure that would take her places she’d never before seen. And now that it had, her heart drummed excitedly in her chest, and her spirits took wing. It was as if she’d been living her life until then inside one of her mother’s glass-panelled display cases, where she kept the porcelain figurines she was so fond of collecting. Only this particular little figurine had just escaped.

“Bess, are you listening to me?”

But Elizabeth scarcely heard her sister. She was far too mesmerized by the vast amount of bosom being displayed by the serving girl who had just come to greet them. It was a remarkable bosom, really. She simply couldn’t grasp how a girl could be trussed up in such a fashion while serving numerous tankards of ale and not fall out of her gown.

“What’ll ye like?” the girl asked, tucking her tray against her hip and pushing a straggling wisp of brown hair from her eyes, eyes that drank in every detail of the two ladies’ fine gowns.

Elizabeth rubbed her arms. “Have you anything that will warm us? The weather has taken a chill turn tonight. I swear I can feel it all the way to my bones.”

The girl smiled, displaying her lack of one front tooth. Rather than make her look unattractive, it gave her an appealingly mischievous quality. “
Och,
but a wee dram o’ the
uisge-beatha
will chase away yer chill, my lady.”

“Oosh-ke vah?”
Elizabeth attempted to repeat.

“Aye, ’tis the ‘water of life,’ it is. Will warm yer belly up right quick.”

It certainly wasn’t something the ladies in her mother’s parlor had ever sampled. “That sounds perfect, I—”

“Effie, I think tea would be more suitable for the lady,” MacKinnon interrupted.

“Tea? Why can I not have this
uisge-beatha
?”

He looked at her. “ ’Tis potent, is all. A man’s brew.”

A man’s brew?
Elizabeth turned to the bosomy serving girl. “Miss Effie, have you yourself ever partaken of this
uisge-beatha?
”

“Oh, indeed, my lady. All m’ life. In fact my da used
to rub it on my gums when I were a wee bairn cutting teeth. And my grannam is nearly ninety and swears by it to cure her cough. ’Tis nothing like it to chase away whatever it is that ails you.”

Elizabeth glanced across the table at Douglas as if to say,
So much for your man’s brew . . .

He simply shrugged. “So then ’tis simply a drink more suited to a Scot than a Sassenach.”

That
had done it. There was no earthly way she was
not
going to drink the stuff now.

“A dram of this
uisge-beatha
, if you please, Effie.” She glanced at the mule-headed MacKinnon and smiled. “In fact, why don’t you make that two drams?”

“Oh, no, thank you, Bess,” Isabella cut in, “I think I shall prefer the tea instead.”

Elizabeth looked at her sister. “I wasn’t ordering for you, Bella.”

“Oh.” And then she repeated a moment later on a nod of realization, “Oooh . . .”

The trio sat in silence around the small table and waited for Effie to return. When she did, it was with three wooden bowls of steaming stew, a pot of tea for Isabella, and two of the tiniest glasses Elizabeth had ever before seen. Effie uncorked a bottle and set it on the table between Douglas and Elizabeth, giving them each a glass.

“Goodness, this will hardly hold more than a splash,” Elizabeth said as she watched MacKinnon carefully pour them each their allotted thimbleful of the brownish-looking water. Elizabeth took up her glass and gave it a quick sniff, saying, “You needn’t put down that bottle
yet, MacKinnon. This will need refilling in but a moment.”

And with that, she took up the glass, tipped it to her lips, and swallowed down the whole of it.

A moment later, she thought sure she had just swallowed a poison worthy of Lucretia Borgia or something the head housekeeper at Drayton Hall, Mrs. Burnaby, would only use to clean the worst of the chamber pots. Her eyes watered, her throat burned, and her stomach felt as if it had been shot through with a flaming arrow. And one look across the table at the Scotsman told Elizabeth he knew exactly what she was experiencing. In fact, from that crooked smirk and those laughing blue eyes, she could see he was fully enjoying her efforts to suppress the almost overpowering urge to cough.