Wishing For a Highlander (6 page)

What if Steafan did wed them tonight? What if he kept the lass rather than help her return home? She was already with child. They could be a family and he would never have to trouble her with his bed.

Aodhan’s eyes scrunched with uncharacteristic warmth as the possibility unfurled in Darcy’s imagination, puffing his chest with pride and filling his belly with nervous flutters. But ’twas a dream and no more.

He shook his head. “I canna wed her, Aodhan. She is lost and wishes to return to her home, her people. I have vowed to help her do so and I willna go back on it.”

“So wed her and then send her home to her people. Ye can tell Steafan she glimpsed under your plaid and ran away.” Aodhan’s lips twitched, and Darcy felt his cheeks burn. “Steafan willna be able to null the marriage without your consent. Ye will be wed as he wishes. Ye will have fulfilled the letter of his law, so he willna be able to hound ye or force ye into another marriage.”

He stared in shock at the plotting war chieftain. He’d never before thought Aodhan less than utterly loyal to Steafan. Yet what he suggested was dishonest. He was ashamed to consider it.

Aodhan’s eyes sharpened to their characteristic ice. “Steafan is besotted with your size, lad,” he said, his voice low. “It keeps him from seeing Edmund would be the better leader if it comes to that. There are few Keith who can match you as a fighter, and ye’re a fine miller and businessman. Ackergill owes a grand share of her prosperity to ye. But ye dinna have the ruthless streak a man needs to keep a clan in line. I tell ye nothing ye dinna already ken.”

He nodded in agreement. He didn’t particularly want to lead, and he didn’t like the attention of being Steafan’s heir. Aodhan’s plan was tempting, but there was a flaw in it. “Steafan is no fool. He wants me wed, but only because he wants me to have bairns. If I wed the woman and she leaves, he’ll likely put me in the stocks if I dinna agree to a null.”

“I’ll talk to him,” Aodhan said. “I could even make excuses for ye. Wed the lass tonight and take her away. Escort her to her home. I’ll tell Steafan ye’ve gone searching for your run-away bride, and I’ll talk to him about Edmund. When ye return alone, Steafan will have to admit that ye’d make a terrible laird if you couldna even keep a wee wife in line. He’ll accept Edmund.” He scoffed, “It doesna matter anyway, since Ginnie is sure to have a bairn sooner or later. Steafan worries over naught.”

Aodhan made it all seem so easy. He could be wed tonight. To Malina. But then he’d have to help his wife leave him. ’Twas too terrible to consider. “I canna leave my mill,” he protested.

“Edmund can handle it for a time, and I’ll look in on him. The place willna fall apart without you.”

Darcy studied the war chieftain. He’d rarely conversed with the man outside of trading tawdry jests or discussing swordplay tactics on the practice field. “What are you up to, man?” he wondered out loud.

The ice melted from Aodhand’s eyes. “I dinna like to see ye suffer needlessly, lad,” he said and stalked away.

Chapter 4

Melanie’s feet were killing her. She was used to being on them since she often performed docent duties at the museum, but she wasn’t used to marching for upward of an hour over rock-strewn trails cut through darkened forests. On top of burning soles and aching muscles, it also felt like her stomach was trying to eat itself. According to her internal clock, dinner time had come and gone with nary a glimpse of anything edible. If she’d been back in Charleston, she’d have probably eaten two meals that would qualify as dinner by now.

Just when she thought about asking, “Are we there yet?” the forest gave way to an immense, wide open clearing that could have been anything from a swath of farmland to a peat field. Beyond the clearing was a gentle rise dotted with crofter cottages and capped by a utilitarian, three-story rectangle of a castle with glowing windows.

“Ackergill?” she asked, her spirit lifting with the prospect of food and rest. It was the first she’d spoken to Darcy since he’d promised to help her return home. Ever since the hushed talk in Gaelic he’d had with Aodhan, he’d seemed tense, and she hadn’t needed any more tension in her life just then, so she’d chosen to ignore him as they walked.

He nodded without meeting her eyes.

Scanning the village, her eyes were drawn far to the right of the castle where three tower-shaped silhouettes with four sails each stood against the night like pieces on a chessboard. “Ooh, are those windmills?” She’d had a thing for windmills ever since reading
Don Quixote
in her 4th-year Spanish class in high school.

“Aye.” Darcy’s voice brightened with pride as he followed her gaze and said, “’Tis my mill and my da’s and grandsire’s before me. My home overlooks the sea. There.” He paused in pulling the wagon to point to the left of the windmills where a two-story house stood dark and alone at the crest of the rise. Now that he mentioned the sea, she detected a trace of salt in the air past the musk of two dozen male bodies in dire need of bathing.

She sighed with longing as the briny scent reminded her of childhood trips to the Georgia coast with her parents. She would see them again, she promised herself. Box or no box, she would find a way.

“It’s lovely,” she said, cheered with hope and determination.

Darcy fixed her with an intense gaze, picked up the handles and continued on.

“Do you have a large family?” she asked to cover how his gaze unsettled her. The history loving part of her also craved connection with this warrior from the past. She wanted to learn from him while she had the chance. Her grandmother had been from the northern Highlands. And now, here she was, face to face with the very land to which she attributed a quarter of her blood. What an amazing opportunity!

Darcy shook his head. “My mother died long ago, and my da died four years back. My brother has his own cottage in the village where he lives with his wife. Now ’tis only me at Fraineach.”

“I live alone, too,” she said without thinking. She regretted it immediately. Women didn’t live alone in this time. They lived with their families until they got married. They obeyed their fathers until it was time to obey their husbands. Women’s lib wasn’t even an embryonic thought.

“Are ye a doxie?” he asked quietly. “I wouldna hold it against you if so.”

She didn’t know whether to sock his arm in offense or to laugh. She settled for a wry smile. “No. I’m not a prostitute. But I do work for a living. Many women do where I come from.” How should she put what she did for a living? “I work in a museum, a place for taking care of historical artifacts and making them available to the masses.”

“Ye’re Catholic, then?” he asked, confusion plain in his voice.

Oh, masses.
“No, I’m not really anything religious. By masses, I meant the people, you know, the general population. I take care of old things and tell stories to the people so they can understand history.”

“Ah. Ye’re a teacher,” he concluded. “’Tis a fine occupation if a woman must work.”

She didn’t argue. Instead, she gazed up at Ackergill Castle as their party wended through what turned out to be an impressive agricultural valley. Up ahead, the keep glowed like a beacon above the cottages, some of which emitted their own welcoming lights.

A glance around at the men showed dirt-smudged faces lifting and brightening. Even the walking wounded kept up as the joy of homecoming quickened the party’s pace. To her astonishment, the man with the wounded thigh limped past in an awkward jog, having made it the whole five miles or so with nothing but the help of a crutch pulled from Archie’s wagon.

“I need to see the cart back to Archie’s,” Darcy said, “but my brother’s cottage is just here.” He paused near a path branching off from the dirt road and tipped up his chin to scan the returning men.

“Edmund!” he called.

A reddish-blond mane came into view as the party of warriors disbanded into the village. She hadn’t noticed him before, but now he stood out to her for his resemblance to Darcy. Around six-feet, Edmund was tall compared to everyone except Darcy and Aodhan, and every bit as muscled as his brother, though his lesser height made him appear bulky where Darcy looked as sleek as he did strong. The two men shared the same square chin, sharp cheekbones, and brown eyes, but Edmund’s nose was broader and crooked with a scab of blood over the bridge.

Darcy either didn’t notice the newly broken nose or deemed it unworthy of mention. Without preamble, he said, “Watch the woman, will you?”

Edmund turned wary eyes on her. “This the one the men are talkin’ about?”

“Aye. Found her at Berringer’s field. She isna clan, and she is my responsibility.”

Edmund raised his eyebrows at his brother, then looked long and hard at her.

She offered a tentative smile. “My name is Melanie,” she said, curbing the impulse to hold out her right hand for a modern shake. “I’m not an English spy,” she added for good measure.

Edmund gave her a wry half-smile. “Well, then, I suppose I can bring you into my home and not fear for the safety of my wife and bairn.” Turning to Darcy, he said, “Will ye be along for sup after tending to Richie?”

Richie. The man in the cart with the lung wound. The man whose rattling breaths had ceased about half an hour into the walk. She’d tried to not think about what the sudden silence meant. Tried and failed.

“Aye,” Darcy answered with a grim nod. Without another word, he hauled the cart away, leaving her with Edmund.

“This way,” Edmund said as he led her to a stone cottage with shutters thrown open to the crisp night air. Golden lantern light flooded out, along with the cries of a young infant. Gesturing for her to enter before him, he said, “So if ye’re no’ a Sassenach spy, are ye any other kind of spy, or did ye mean ye’re no spy at all?”

“I’m not a spy for England or any other country,” she said, taking in the warm and tidy main room with its peat fire and sturdy table set for a cottar’s dinner. The fragrance of cooked meat and onions instantly made her mouth water. The infant cries, coming from a room with an open door at the back of the cottage, quieted, and the gentle cooing of a nursing mother drifted out to cinch the cozy atmosphere.

“Well, that’s a relief,” Edmund replied. “The laird would likely skin my arse for offering ye hospitality if ye turned out to be any kind of spy.”

The comment was good-natured enough, but she caught an undercurrent of something darker. A sentiment for the laird, perhaps, that dipped past healthy respect and into fear? She recalled from what little she knew about feudal Scotland that clan justice ran the gamut from fair to brutally oppressive, depending on the temperament of the laird.

“What kind of man is your laird?” she asked, suddenly nervous about meeting this man who insisted on interviewing strangers before they could be offered hospitality.

Edmund ran a hand over the back of his neck as he made his way to a basin of water set on the floor by the fire. Shucking his cork-soled shoes and knee-high hose, he stepped into the basin otherwise fully clothed, and unabashedly splashed water up between his legs. Though his kilt hid his hands, she could tell he was washing himself, and she blushed at the realization that there were no Calvin Klein boxer briefs under the brown wool. Edmund wore a blocky linen shirt under his kilt, rather than go bare-chested like Darcy. As he answered her, he let down the wool wrapped over his shoulder and pulled his dirty shirt over his head to throw it on a stool by the hearth.

Yup, every bit as muscled as his brother. She averted her eyes from the attractive and very married Highland warrior, looking instead toward the door across the room where the cooing had changed to a soft Gaelic lullaby.

The tinkling sounds of hurried bathing accompanied Edmund’s voice. “Steafan is a fair but suspicious man. He isna apt to be as welcoming to strangers as his sire was before him, especially since the ambush at Creag Kirk four years ago. And he doesna need to be, so far north.”

The rush of agitated water meant Edmund was stepping out of the basin. The faint rustling of fabric told her he was pulling his shirt back on. She faced him again.

“Ackergill is about as likely to see travelers passing through as the Orkneys. ’Tis not like Inverness, where there are inns and taverns. In the rare event Ackergill sees a traveler come through, he’ll be more likely to find himself in the keep dungeon than be offered a room for the night. That way Steafan can ensure the trespasser will do no treachery to the clan.”

A chill snaked up her spine at the warning in Edmund’s tone. “Is that what I am? A trespasser?”

“Mayhap ’tis how Steafan would view you had Darcy not claimed responsibility for ye. And bonny as ye are, if he hadna done it, another surely would have. No. Ye’ll nay be treated as a trespasser. But if ye do harm to the clan, ’twill be Darcy who pays for it, and Steafan willna hold back simply because he’s our uncle.”

Her mouth went dry at the thought of Darcy meeting with any kind of medieval punishment. “Well then, it’s a good thing I don’t mean your clan any harm. What happened at Creag Kirk to make your laird so suspicious?”

Edmund eyed her for a long second and then nodded. “Ackergill lost twenty able-bodied men to the Gunn and the MacBane,” he answered as he stalked to the room where his wife and baby were. “All because a Sassenach spy pitted the northern clans against each other to keep us from joining the fighting at Flodden.” He went into the room and shut the door.

She gasped. Flodden. Four years ago would be 1513. The famous Battle at Flodden Field. The country had lost 5,000 men, referred to as the Flower of Scotland, to the English, along with one of the Jameses–was it James the III or the IV?–she couldn’t remember. But she did recall that nearly every clan in the country lost men in that battle. It made sense that England would send spies to try and distract some clans from James’s call to fight down at the border.