A Highland Folly (2 page)

“Well, I'll be,” he muttered as his eyes narrowed. “You appear, on closer examination, although not too close you will take note, to be a woman.”

“And, I must say, that on closer examination, although not too close,” she answered in the same sarcastic tone he had used, “you are no gentleman.”

When he chuckled and leaned the butt of his gun against his boot that still held remnants of a recent polishing, she was not tempted to laugh along with him. His eyes remained cool, even though the corners of his lips tipped up. She had liked him better when he was furious at her instead of amused.

“Like you, my lady, I am far from the halls of the Polite World and here obey the rules of the hunt far more than the canons of propriety.” He reached to doff a hat as he bowed to her but smiled coldly when his finger found nothing. “It appears I have misplaced my chapeau, my lady.”

“As well as yourself.” She refused to relent, even though his nicely spoken words countermanded her assertion that he was no gentleman. He had the air of quality, along with the very turn of a phrase that Auntie Coira despaired of Parlan ever learning so he might spend a Season in London. And Pippy had stopped growling. Why? There was no reason to trust this man. She risked a glance at her dog.

Pippy was sitting, tail as still as the rocks behind him, but the silly grin was back on his face.

Traitor
! Anice wanted to shout.

“Is that so?” the man asked. “How am I misplaced?”

“These are my family's lands. My family's private lands, I should say. You should not be here.”

“I was on the far side of the hill, which is not part of the Kinloch lands, as you probably know.”

“Of course I do.”

He smiled again. This time his smile was laced with triumph. Let him delight in goading her into a defensive retort. He would not delight in that again, for she would keep her wits about her. “I came here only to find out why you are being so careless with that gun, my lady.”

“I did not shoot at you. You shot at me.”

He arched a single brow in a silent denial.

“Check the barrel, if you wish,” she asserted, holding up the gun. “You will find it as cool as when I took it out of the gun case at Ardkinloch.”

“It has been some time since you fired on me.”

“Not that long. No more than two or three minutes.” She pulled the gun back to her chest. “And I did not fire on you!”

“But you know how long since the shots—”

“Sir, I heard the shots fired higher up the brae while I was hiding here from the person who fired at me.”

His indulgent, irritating smile vanished. The intense frown returned to his face. “Fired at you?”

Anice leaned her gun against the cairn and walked to the tree where pale spots marked the wounds left by the balls shot at her. “You have eyes, sir. Use them.”

She stepped aside so he might examine the tree. When he reached under his coat, he drew out a short knife. She watched as he pried the ball out of the wood. He examined the flattened piece of lead, then tossed it to her.

“Oh!” she gasped as she foolishly caught the ball in her hurt hand.

“What's wrong?”

“The tree isn't the only thing that's going to be scarred after today.” She held up her bloody hand.

With a curse, he pulled a handkerchief from a hidden pocket. He wrapped it around her hand, his touch surprisingly gentle … and pleasurable. Amazed at how much care he used as he tied the corners of the handkerchief, she raised her eyes toward his. Something flickered in his, and they grew a bit warmer.

“You should,” he said in a near whisper, “include a lad's accoutrements when you dress the part. You never know when a handkerchief might be needed.”

“Thank you.”

“For the fashion advice?”

She laughed. “No, of course not. For bandaging my hand. I appreciate your kindness.”

“And I appreciate your kindness in not jumping to conclusions as I apparently did.” His sun-bronzed skin crinkled around his eyes as he smiled. “You could have accused me as well of shooting at you.”

“I was about to, but when you said that you had been shot at, I knew it was unlikely you had shot without checking to make sure no one was in range and then would accuse me of the very same unthinking deed.”

“You have kept your head quite well in this jumble, my lady. Most women I know would have swooned quite dead away at the very idea of someone aiming a gun at them.”

Not wanting to own how her knees continued to tremble, she said, “It was not something I had the luxury to consider when I was trying to keep my soul within my skin.”

“And such charming skin it is, if I may say so.”

Anice realized, belatedly, that he continued to cradle her hand in his broader one. Drawing back, she wondered if her wits had fled when her legs could not. “I would just as soon that you did not, sir. I do not know you.”

“I am Lucais MacFarlane.” He bowed his head toward her again. “Now,” he said with a broadening smile, “we have been properly introduced, so you do not have to flush so prettily.”

Dash it! Her blasted red hair and the pale skin that went with it had attracted too much attention everywhere she had traveled with Mother. Mother, who had had black hair and skin that could tan as darkly as Mr. MacFarlane's if she did not take care, had attempted not to let her child become an object of curiosity in the East, but every effort had been futile. Mother had had handsome offers to sell her child, and those offers had become more common as Anice grew out of her childhood. Anice had never had any interest in becoming a pampered curio in a maharajah's palace or a special pet in a sheikh's harem or the mistress of a wealthy landowner in a vast South American hacienda, and she did not want Mr. MacFarlane teasing her about what she could not alter.

Struggling to curb her temper, which, unfortunately, matched her red hair, she said, “If you will be kind enough to give me your address, Mr. MacFarlane, I shall have your handkerchief returned to you after it has been laundered.”

“Very kind of you, my lady.” His fingers tightened on the barrel of his gun, and she wondered what she had said that caused such tension in his face. She understood when he continued. “You may have it delivered to me at the road camp.”

“The road camp?” She glanced over her shoulder and down at the valley where the river twisted through wherever its swift current chose, changing every spring. Even more often than she had heard her name repeated in requests for decisions within the Kinloch clan, she had heard curses aimed at the English workmen who had invaded the valley with their intentions of building a road and bridging the Abhainn an Uruisg.

No one in Killiebige and no one in Ardkinloch wanted the road or the bridge. There had been no need for one during all the centuries the Kinlochs had overseen this side of the valley and the small village. If there had been a need, the folks here would have built it. No English government should be forcing the road and bridge on Killiebige.

“I am the chief engineer on this project, my lady.” His mouth quirked. “I had hoped to call upon you when I arrived, but I found no welcome at your door.”

“Or any other, I would suspect.”

“Exactly. Now you can understand why I was justifiably outraged to be shot at.”

Anice laughed tersely. “One need not be an English road engineer, Mr. MacFarlane, to be disturbed at the prospect of a gun aimed at one's heart.”

“My lady, I—” He paused as Pippy whined. “What is wrong with your dog? Was it hit?”

“No, he's fine.” She gasped and grabbed Mr. MacFarlane's arm as the glitter of sunlight off steel caught her eye. “Look out!”

“For what?” A gun fired, and the ball hit the tree again. “Get down, my lady. Behind the rocks.”

“Pippy—”

He seized her and shoved her to the ground. Pain hit her again, this time in the skull. A ball? She could not answer before all thought vanished into endless shadow.

Two

Lucais MacFarlane hated days like this. The problem was that he had had too many of them of late. Not that every day had included someone shooting at him, but the complications of building a bridge across the river Abhainn an Uruisg here in Killiebige often made him believe he would be better off if someone did shoot him. He wondered if Thomas Telford's previous engineers had endured all this abuse and resistance as the English government constructed roads through the Highlands.

When another ball whizzed overhead like a maddened bumblebee and struck the tree, he whispered through his clenched teeth, “Stay down.”

No need, for Lady Kinloch was showing good judgment in not moving. Apparently even a Kinloch did not always want for sense. A third shot was fired, and he pressed his face against the earth. When a beguiling fragrance flavored each staccato breath, he wanted to curse. How could he be thinking of how lovely the lady's perfume was, when they could be killed at any moment?

To own the truth, the invisible shooter must not want to kill them, just frighten them. In that, the shooter had succeeded. Beside them, the dog was whining again with fear. It seemed to showcase its mistress's emotions, scared now, angry when Lucais had confronted them with his accusations.

The fragrance washed over him again. If these had to be his last sensations, he could not complain. He could take with him into death Lady Anice Kinloch's sweet perfume, the brush of her auburn hair against his cheek, and her intriguing curves through the outrageous clothes she wore. He doubted she was as appreciative of him close to her. No wonder she had turned her face away from him and did not so much as glance at him. Since early morning, he had been walking across the hills, making sure he stayed off Kinloch private lands, as he surveyed the route the road would take and viewed the river. He had carried his gun as a ruse, so no one would suspect what he was doing and be furious.

The blasted gun was not even loaded. If it had been, he might have been tempted to fire a round into the air back toward whoever was shooting at them. He glanced at the gun by Lady Kinloch's outstretched fingers. The lady was more intelligent than he was. Keeping low and not retaliating should prove to be the wisest course. There was enough anger in this valley without exacerbating it by teaching a witless chucklehead a lesson.

Lucais forced his rapid breathing to slow. Beside him, Lady Kinloch's breathing was steady. Wasn't she scared? She must have courage as sturdy as the rocks that would make up the bridge over the river.

Slowly he raised his head. The birds were settling again in the trees. Whoever had been tramping in the bushes must be gone. Rat it! Even though he knew protecting Lady Kinloch had been his first priority, he would have enjoyed trailing the fool. Once he got his hands on the pluffer, he would have taught him a lesson about scaring folks.

The dog whined again.

Lucais held out his hand to the dog cautiously. The red dog sniffed it, looked up at him with wide brown eyes, and whined.

“Don't be scared now, pup,” he said with a smile.

The dog lay down beside Lady Kinloch again, propping its snout on its paws and watching her forlornly. He patted its head. A feeble wag of its tail was the only sign the dog had noticed him. It whined, hushed, and from high in its throat came a keening sound that was almost as unsettling as the whiz of balls fired at them.

Lucais frowned. The dog was a puzzle, but he did not have the interest in solving it now. He needed to get off this steep hillside. Work waited back at the camp. After his walk, he had many ideas he wanted to discuss with Tilden Potter, his assistant on this project.

“Lady Kinloch?” He could not take his leave when she was still lying on the ground, for he owed her an apology.

She did not answer.

He shook her shoulder gently, and her head tilted toward him, revealing a red spot on her temple. Sitting back on his heels, he cursed once, then louder. How much more complicated could this day get? He had intended to save the lady from being hurt but had ended up hurting her himself. Had he learned nothing during his time in London about how fragile a lady could be? He had vowed to gain a fine polish in Town and set aside his rough-diamond Highland ways. It seemed he had not succeeded.

Smoothing her hair back from the bruise and the small cut that was oozing blood, he sighed. Mayhap his father was right. No matter how Lucais tried to forget his past, it remained a part of him. He might have learned to speak without a Scottish burr staining every word, and he might have obtained a fine education at Oxford, but the heritage of the Highlands added fire to his blood. His thoughtless actions here had wounded Lady Kinloch.

Now there would be perdition to pay with the Kinlochs, who were, he already had been warned, vehemently against the road project. They did not want their precious solitude disturbed, longing to live in a Scotland of centuries past instead of joining the future. War chiefs and ferocious clans and raids on the Borders—that was over and fortunately buried with those who had believed the law was something to obey only when it suited them.

Taking Lady Kinloch's gun, he fired it into a tree a few feet along the hill. He set it on top of his gun.

“Are you out of your mind?” gasped Lady Anice.

He looked down to see her trying to push herself up to sit. Her eyes had a glaze that warned him that she was not seeing clearly. It was time he did so.

Squatting beside her, he put his hand on her shoulder. “Do not strain yourself, my lady.”

“Did a boulder fall on me?”

“I believe you struck a boulder when we were trying to avoid the balls fired at us.”

Her eyes widened, and he realized they were a color he could describe only as violet. “I shall not stay here and be shot at, Mr. Mac—” She frowned. “What did you say your name was?”

“Lucais MacFarlane, but I daresay you should call me Lucais. I don't think you can handle much more.”