Duchess of Mine (34 page)

Whose allegiance would the troops bow to when
the time came?

Rory took in a deep breath, realizing
worrying about his troops’ loyalty was for naught. In time the
remaining men would bow to him, and if at first they didn’t, he’d
have enough English soldiers at his command to force them.

Aye, the deed was already done. Well,
almost.

Setting up the alliance with the captain of
the English army had been easier than Rory had thought. Probably
made that much easier since he’d sold several of the troops as
indentured servants to them. What a lofty amount he’d made too.
Then Rory had somehow talked his brother into leaving for France to
visit their mother, ensuring when Rory leveraged his way to the
lairdship hardly a soul would be in the way.

Of course, he’d have to worry about Duncan.
He would have some sense of loyalty to John, the laird. Or would
he?

Rory considered for a moment about having
Duncan ally with him. He was a good soldier, already had years of
experience, and if the huge mercenary guarded
him
as laird,
and Rory was sure the coup would work, well then, he’d feel safe
from his brother’s sure retaliation. Further, Rory wasn’t too
certain if Duncan was loyal to much, which meant Rory could buy
him. He’d been a mercenary for so long, surely that was how the man
operated now—who paid the most.

However, watching Fleur with Duncan as he sat
on a rock a little outside Mrs. Cameron’s back garden, made Rory
quake with jealousy. Rory had been there for the burial. He hadn’t
thought anything untoward regarding Fleur and Duncan, but she was
awfully attentive. She stood beside the big man, talking to him,
although he stared at a piece of dirt. He didn’t nod, didn’t even
seem to acknowledge her presence.

Arse.

If his mother died, Rory thought, he would
never ignore the beautiful wee princess. Her dark hair swayed from
whispers of a warm breeze. She wore it up, but those black tresses
of hers always managed to free themselves, just a few, and framed
her face, her neck, and her thin shoulders, making it difficult to
stare at anything but her.

“Captain MacKay, sir.” A lad stood beside
Rory, making him jump slightly from the invasion. The young soldier
of his didn’t seem to notice and continued. “Sir, I—er, sir, I was
just wonderin’ when we should get back into trainin’?”

This young man might be exactly what Rory had
hoped for. Enthusiastic. Always good to have a few troops eager for
more.

He shrugged, affecting an air of concern. “I
appreciate yer eagerness, I do. But I think we should wait for
Lieutenant MacKay to grieve a bit more.”

The lad nodded and glanced around Rory at
Duncan. “’Tis sad, it is, his ma dyin’ and all. If my ma died,
I’d...I can’ even think ‘bout it, sir.”

The young man, probably no more than seven
and ten, more than likely had stopped living under his father’s
roof when he enlisted to be a soldier for Rory. Just a lad really.
But, Rory considered, the lot of them should toughen up, stop
crying for their mamas, as Duncan did. It truly disgusted Rory that
the big man was such a bairn about his mother.

Rory nodded though and forced a smile into
place.

Thinking of the multitude of excuses to take
his leave, Rory felt a small tug on his shirt’s sleeve.

And there she was. In all her dark glory.
Fleur. Bonny Fleur. She smiled sadly up at him, and instantly he
had his arms around her faster than he thought possible, faster
than he thought of the consequences.

“I’m glad you’re here,” she whispered, then
released him too soon.

Rory tried to stop touching her, but the skin
of her wrists was so soft, like silk, the caress from her errant
tresses beckoned to him. His cock tightened thinking of how good
she felt, how good it would feel to have her whenever he wanted. To
have her as his, once and for all.

She turned slightly, and Rory saw past her to
Duncan approaching. His red brows furrowed slightly, but when their
gazes met the man nodded slightly, politely.

Rory extended his hand to him. “Duncan, I’m
so sorry for yer loss.”

Duncan caught his hand and squeezed the
dickens out of it for a spell, but then released it with a nod.
“That’s kind of ye, sir.”

“I’m so sorry ‘bout yer ma too, Lieutenant,”
the lad beside him said timidly.

Duncan shook his hand too. The young trooper
pulled away from the shake, slightly wincing, flexing his fist as
if to have the blood flow back into his fingers. So, Rory thought,
he wouldn’t take it too personally that Duncan was a bit rough
today.

“I was just sayin’ to the captain that if it
were my ma that died—if—I—er...oh.” The boy shut up, looking down
at his feet, his cheeks about the same color as Duncan’s unruly
hair. “I’m sorry.”

Duncan clapped him gently on the shoulder.
“Thanks for the sentiment, Charles.”

The lad nodded, cheeks still aflame, gaze
still affixed on the ground. “I...I think I’ll have more
whisky.”

“Oh, I have to get more,” Fleur said as if
she were a common serving wench.

Rory stared at Duncan. The man didn’t do a
damned thing. Fleur could not retrieve the beverage. Duncan had to
stop her. But he merely stood there like a troll.

“I’ll get it from the cellar,” she sang as
she walked away, smiling, as if she were fit for such a thing,
fetching the whisky. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, this was
spectacularly wrong.

Now he was fairly certain he’d throw Duncan
to the English dogs for that. Fleur was made for council, for her
intelligence, and for that beautiful body to be worshipped on
bended knee. She was not made for serving whisky.

“What?” Duncan finally asked. “Where’s she
goin’?”

“To get more whisky,” Rory almost roared, but
held in his disdain. Barely.

“I’ll do that. Jesus, what am I doin’?”

Duncan took a couple giant strides when the
young man, Charles apparently, said timidly, “I ken. I—I lost my da
when I was younger. And my ma was the same way. It’s hard to hear
when ye’re grievin’, eh?”

Duncan had twisted to look at the lad and
slowly a smile grew on his somber face. “Aye. That’s right.”

Charles looked up, his own foolish grin
spread wide. “I ken it. We all understand, Lieutenant MacKay. Yer
Lady Fleur is takin’ real good care of ye. She kens what ye need
and the like, right? She kens it even though ye sometimes can’t
hear, sometimes can’t talk. I was like that for my ma after my da
died.”

Duncan blinked and swallowed.

Hell, damnation, and eternal unrest! Did the
snot of a soldier just try to insinuate that Duncan had some sort
of ownership of Fleur? Some sort of possessiveness?
Yer Lady
Fleur. Yer?
What else was Rory to think?

He watched Duncan while he held his breath,
wondering if he would murder the man right then and there.

“Lady Fleur...she’s not...I...Lord, I need a
drink.”

The oaf then twirled away in his dark green
plaid, stomping the same direction as Fleur. Well, what Duncan had
said was vague, which made Rory worry, but then calm settled in.
Duncan—hell, any man—would be proud to have Fleur as his. Except
Duncan, it seemed, had tried to correct Charles for the
assumption.

Then a thought roiled through Rory’s stomach,
one over-looked consideration: The idiotic English thought Indians
were sub-human. They thought the majority of Highlanders were too,
the self-righteous arses. But they were willing to deal with Rory,
since Rory was selling them Highlander lads with the promise of no
further rebellions. It was a steep price, peace, but Rory thought
it worth the cost, especially considering the English were
supporting him to become laird, and soon he’d sell enough of his
troops to rebuild Tongue, mayhap begin building a home as lovely as
Mrs. Cameron’s. Wait, with Duncan soon gone, he could have Mrs.
Cameron’s home himself. That would be good payment for dealing with
the bloody English.

Rory knew that to continue the concord, he’d
have to placate to the English’s backwards ways. So he’d have to
keep Fleur, his love, a secret. Mayhap Cromwell’s cronies would
eventually want him to marry some twit of an English lass, further
ensuring peace. Well, he’d then be able to marry her. All the while
Fleur would have his heart. And his cock. The English might have
his brain and his allegiance, but Fleur would be all his.

“Oh, sir, I—everyone is leaving,” Charles
said, interrupting his thoughts.

Rory nodded, noticing that the town’s people
were in fact slowly departing. It made sense, since Duncan suddenly
vanished and hadn’t been much of a host in the first place.

With the promise that he’d return soon to
exact his plans, Rory began to unhurriedly step in place with the
crowd of well wishers. He felt like chattel, but soon enough he’d
be their laird. He’d never walk with the people like this ever
again. They’d follow him.

Chapter 30

T
o retrieve more whisky, Fleur took
each stair of the earthen cellar slowly, holding the lantern above
her head, but still she could hardly see a thing. The underground
storage was built a few steps from Helen’s kitchen, yet seemed to
be a world away with its dark and musty scent and the dirt floor
and walls. Suddenly, Fleur stumbled. She caught herself soon enough
but had scraped the back of her ankle on a stair in the process.
Balancing against the moist wall, she felt the welting skin. It
hurt, but it didn’t compare to every time she thought of Helen—her
heart twisted in shards of itself.

Granted, something in her had thought Helen’s
passing would be an eventuality, but she hadn’t expected it while
she stayed here in the Highlands. She hadn’t expected any of
this.

As she found the last step into the cellar,
the lantern’s light bounced off the walls and seemed to intensify.
Gathering her courage, she ventured into the dirt storage space,
only to stop when she saw a spinning whisky bottle on the ground.
Her heart thudded in her ears loudly as the lantern’s light
brightened all the more, revealing a man with long black hair
sitting cross-legged in front of the wheeling flagon. The bottle
stopped, pointing at her.

Coyote laughed. “Ah, too bad. I don’t kiss
taken women.”

With all the sadness and mourning, seeing the
trickster god was like seeing the sun after a hailstorm. She
lowered the lantern to the ground and sat across him, the whisky
between them. “That’s good. I don’t kiss old men.”

He shot a hand over his heart, feigning
wounded pride, but silently laughed.

“You do remind me of my grandpa.”

At that he grunted from his
wound
and
fell over backwards. “You injure me so. Old man...grandpa . . .” He
sat up suddenly. “I don’t look it, do I? I mean, if you weren’t
taken with that giant red head, you’d think I was still hot,
right?”

She smiled at him then slowly shook her
head.

He winced, yet through it all grinned.

“You seriously do remind me of my grandpa. He
died when I was little, but I remember him some. He had gray in his
hair, even though you don’t, but he looked a lot like you. I think
you’re more my grandma’s type.”

Coyote’s smile grew a tad more serious. “Now,
there was a woman. Not that you aren’t, but your Na was...she was
one of my favorites.”

Fleur’s heart pinched, she looked down at the
cold, damp earth. Picking up some in her hands, she played with it.
“I can understand that. She was my favorite too.”

“Until the red head.”

Fleur caught his gaze for a second, but then
resumed fingering the earth. “I can’t list my favorites in
hierarchical terms. They’re just my favorites.”

Coyote was silent for a long while, making
Fleur finally look up at his speculating face. “I like you like
this, you know?” He pulled some of his hair over one of his mighty
shoulders. “I like how strong you are now. I like your sass. Oh,
and I’ve stopped time for a bit. So we can talk. Talk as long as we
want.”

Fleur’s jaw dropped. “How—how—how can you do
that?”

He shrugged.

Fleur couldn’t help but gawk then smile. He
had complete control over the physics of the universe, and he just
shrugged it off, as though it was as possible to do as breathing.
Further, it wasn’t until then that she had questioned the
time-leaping thing. How the hell did it work? Event Horizon here on
earth? Photon Sphere? She’d taken a few physics courses—for the
math, because who didn’t enjoy a good Kerr metric
puzzle
?—but she’d never quite comprehended the
theory behind the calculations.

“So, little sister, what do you think of your
glimpse
now?” Coyote asked, interrupting her thoughts.

Fleur pondered if she should shrug too, but
she didn’t. She was much more honest. “It’s tough. I didn’t expect
Helen...sweet Helen to . . .”

Coyote nodded. “I thought she would pull
through too. I’m sorry. I know you two were getting close.”

Fleur rubbed over her heart while she nodded.
“I loved her.”

“It’s an easy thing to do, love people.”

Fleur shook her head. “No, it’s not. Not for
me. I don’t let myself feel like that.” She had far too much
rawness in her voice. She was angry and missed Helen so much, also
every second of the day she feared being taken away from
Duncan.

Coyote’s face fell into complete stillness.
Then he nodded. “At the risk of sounding like a head shrinker, how
do you feel about that? How do you feel about letting yourself
feel
?”

“Letting myself feel for another human and
then having her ripped away from me? How does that make me feel?”
She was almost yelling.

Coyote nodded solemnly.

“Like shit, you—you ass. How do you think it
makes me feel?”