Highlander of Mine (3 page)
But her pleading eyes gave him the wherewithal to give fabricating a try.
He nodded reluctantly. She shocked him with a wide smile aimed right at him. Nay, he wasn’t surprised by her grin. It was the way her smile made him feel, as though completely dazed. Wonderfully bemused in an off-kilter kind of way. Lord.
R
ory MacKay couldn’t believe his eyes. His men, little more than bairns, were slower than ol’ man Duncan. Although Duncan was only seven years his senior, the man had a quiet way of introspection that reminded him of grandfathers. Rory hated to admit it, but he admired Duncan for his wise ways.
Riding one of his latest imports from Spain, a legendary golden steed, along the worn Lairg road, Rory occasionally called out to his recruits, encouraging them to catch up with Duncan. The massive man was only a few hundred yards off now. That’s when he saw Duncan’s large, powerful body shielding something, something he held onto. A woman.
Pushing his heels into his horse’s side, Rory’s steed began to trot, helping him gain a better view of the young miss. At first, all he could make out was black. Then he realized it was dark hair waving from the sea wind, blowing outside Duncan’s wet frame. The huge man’s usually bright red hair was darkened and dripping. Why was the man soaking wet? It didn’t matter, for the woman’s tresses distracted Rory. Hair such a deep shade that for a moment it seemed to reflect all colors, especially red. Finally, Rory could see beyond the burly Duncan to what he held. The woman was exquisite. At least a foot shorter than Duncan, she looked up at him with huge dark eyes, almost appearing to plead for something. Knowing he felt intimidated by the mercenary, Rory wondered if the poor lady was begging for her life.
“Duncan!” he yelled with all the authority he could muster. He detested how his voice wasn’t as deep as he wanted it to be. In fact, it cracked a tad when addressing the man. Lord, but Duncan was daunting. And he hated to admit that too.
Duncan didn’t turn immediately. Slowly, however, he did, ensuring the woman stayed behind his too-large form.
He bowed his head. “Nice to see ye caught up, Captain.”
Rory felt his eye twitch at the comment, but held his temper in check. “What have ye there?”
Duncan took a mighty breath, then stood to the side. “May I present Lady Fleur Anpao. She is visiting from the...American colonies. She is...here at my mother’s request. As an...ambassador, of sorts, to confirm my brothers’ whereabouts.”
That was the most Rory had heard Duncan speak. Ever. And the manner in which he’d spoken made Rory wonder if Duncan believed any of what he’d just said.
Granted, Rory hearkened back to Duncan’s brothers, shipped off to the colonies, but had never heard the man himself retell the events. Everyone well knew of the Highlander soldiers sold to the rich American farmers, due to Cromwell’s unholy reign. It was damned good to finally have an ambassador here to confirm where some of the men had landed in the colonies. Interesting that she was a—well, she was a she, and might she be an Indian? Dealing with the English, albeit the American English, was a trial. Hence, it was better if she were an Indian. Besides, he’d heard tales of many of the indentured Highlanders running away to the tribes.
Rory jumped from his ride in a polished fashion and walked with the horse toward the dark beauty who seemed to shuffle closer to Duncan, her eyes wide, fearful. He didn’t recognize her surname, but her first was obviously French.
He bowed low before her.
“C'est un plaisir de vous rencontrer, ma dame. Comment puis-je vous aider?”
She blinked rapidly for a moment and performed a small curtsy while extending her hand. “I’m sorry. My French is rusty. Nonexistent actually.”
Well, he didn’t like speaking French anyway. He kept holding her hand while he said, “It is an honor to meet you, my lady. How may I be of service to you?” Then he kissed one of her delicate knuckles and thought he heard Duncan give a small growl of disapproval. Good, let the brute get jealous.
Tugging, she pulled her hand away and swallowed. However, her gaze was glued to him. He smiled, hoping to God she liked what she saw. Lord, but her garb was odd though. From her shiny black trews to her outlandish—what were they called?—moccasins. Stripes of bright greens and blues leather swirled and were tied with white ribbons over her dainty feet. But his gaze ran back to her black trousers, since they fitted such long, long legs. Her roomy black coat-like garment, though, stopped his inspection of her derrière and hips. Too bad. Although, they looked promising as well. She was a bit on the thin side, a bit muscular—pedestrian, but on her it was lovely somehow.
“Lady Anpao.” Duncan interrupted Rory’s thoughts. “I’d like ye to meet my captain, Rory MacKay. Brother to the MacKay, Laird Reay.”
The pretty wee lady blinked rapidly. She didn’t look impressed, and Lord, how that excited Rory. Granted, he liked admiration as much as the next man, but to be given esteem as a mere extension of his older brother rather than what he had done to earn it, well, Rory wasn’t fond of that idea.
“Nice to meet you.”
She didn’t gush or pump him full of compliments. And it was beyond refreshing. It was a challenge. Rory longed to earn the lady’s admiration. He smiled again, which brought another quiet growl from Duncan. Rory wanted to laugh at that.
“How may I assist you, my lady?” Rory asked again.
Fleur then broke his heart by looking to Duncan. Her dark eyes sparkled with something. Trepidation? Intimidation? What was that?
Duncan sighed again, but then smiled quickly down at the lady. A smile? Rory was sure that was the first he’d ever seen Duncan perform the feat.
“Begging yer pardon, my lady. But excuse my captain and me for a moment, please.”
Hesitatingly, she nodded. “I’ll go stand by the—what’s this called again?” She waved a hand out to the bay.
“Geodha Smoo,” Duncan said quietly, almost reverently. And before Rory could.
The lady repeated what she’d heard as she headed toward the geodha, but mangled the word horribly. She tried again, which sounded fairly descent, and Rory smiled once more.
He looked up, suddenly aware that Duncan was very close. The hulk lowered his head and voice. “I’m afraid she’s been the victim of a robbery. She doesn’ remember much, but her things were taken. Must have been a mosstroooper.”
Rory’s gaze flashed back to the dark lady, standing close to the lapping bay. His heart reached out to her. “Her things have been stolen, ye say?”
“I believe so, aye.”
“Is she hurt? I can’t believe she’s traveled this far and had such a horrible thing happen to her. But look how strong she is.”
Duncan didn’t acknowledge most of what Rory had said but narrowed his eyes as he looked away. “I think she’s been hit on the head.”
“Poor little creature.”
Duncan nodded. “My mother lives close. I’ll have her see to the lady, have her stay with my ma for a night or two, until we can find Lady Anpoa’s things.”
Rory took a step back, incensed. “I assume she’s some sort of an Indian princess from the Americas, and you want her to stay with your
mother
?” Rory shook his head. “Nay, I can’t have that. She’ll stay with my brother and his family and me at Tongue, at Caisteal Bharraich, where an ambassador should stay.”
Duncan moved his jaw around as if he’d bitten his tongue. For a long time, he didn’t say anything. Finally, he nodded. “But I’ll have my mother look at her. She’s nearby.”
Knowing Duncan’s mother to be a healer, Rory nodded. But he loathed having the huge man tell him how things were to happen. He was the damned captain of this army, was he not? Duncan was just a lieutenant of sorts, although he clearly knew a hell of a lot more about the army than Rory, which, yet again, Rory had a hard time admitting.
Duncan pointed, tilting his head east. Some of the fastest of the troops were finally catching up. “Have the men rest for a few minutes, but we need to spread out and search for the mosstroopers. They might be close by. And we need to catch them while we can. Have Ronald in charge of twenty men and head them west. Ewan in charge of another twenty and head east. Then Michael’s to have the rest of the men to the south. Hopefully we’ll find the thieves.”
Rory huffed, but the advice was sage. He nodded.
“I’ll take the lady to my mother.” It wasn’t a request and was spoken with far too much authority.
Rory frowned but nodded.
“May I have yer horse, so the lady might ride upon it?” It was a question, but sounded like another command.
Rory had had enough of being ordered about. “Why don’t ye take my family jewels too?” He cupped his bullocks through his dark plaid. But then he realized the lady could catch sight of him and immediately let go, glancing at the dark woman as she flung a small flat rock out into the bay. The stone skipped several times before sinking into the greenish gray water.
Sighing in relief that she hadn’t seen his vulgar act, he looked up at Duncan who hadn’t responded, but there was a purple vein standing out on his forehead.
“Fine. Take my horse.” He slapped the reins into Duncan’s outstretched hand.
“Ye ken where my mother lives?”
Rory nodded. It was one of the grandest houses in all of the MacKay lands. Everyone knew her house. “Aye,” Rory said, hating to admit as much, again, but he’d be an idiot if he didn’t. “After I spread the troops to the winds for the thieves, I’ll find both of ye and take the princess back to Tongue. She is a princess, isn’t she?” He realized he sounded a wee bit too enthusiastic and cleared his throat.
Duncan looked back at the lady. His eyes were still narrowed, but he watched her find another small flat stone and threw it sideways so it skipped at least twenty times before it sank. She looked over her shoulder at that, smiling. Duncan’s face cracked. His smile was fast and wide. That grated on Rory. Seeing the gigantic man have any kind of response to the lady annoyed him. For Rory knew he was fond of the lady already. Quite fond. Lord, those legs of hers were enough to make him stutter.
Slowly, Duncan nodded. “Aye, she’s a princess all right.”
Rory gritted his teeth as he watched Duncan’s gaze drink in the lady. Damnation.
Well, this was to be his challenge, wasn’t it? As much as Rory needed Duncan to train the lads into some semblance of an army, he also needed to wrest the authority from him. Granted, Rory fancied Lady Fleur, and what better way to prove himself than by taking the bonny lady for his own?
F
leur turned from the gray-green geodha into a horse’s face. It was a palomino, blond much like his owner, also very beautiful. But unlike the gelding, she doubted anything about Rory was not sexual. Wow, that Rory was handsome. Should have been in the pictures, Na would have said.
But it was Duncan who utterly distracted her. As he’d emerged from the cold bay, his huge arms bent so he could smooth his unruly red hair away from his face, his white shirt had been completely translucent, clinging to every ridge and band of his torso. He was the epitome of masculinity, stunning, and chiseled. Before he’d stalked into the water, something had crossed his eyes. Pain. Raw, overwhelming, and making the sculpture of Duncan into a beautiful human she wanted to draw into her arms and comfort. Which, being the guarded woman she was, made no sense.
She had to shake herself, pay attention to the horse sizing her up. Slowly, she lifted her hand to his velvet-soft nose, letting him take in her scent.
“Wíyuškiŋyaŋ waŋčhíí yaŋke he,”
she whispered
The sun was stolen from the sky suddenly, and she looked up at Duncan, creating instant shade as he towered over her.
“What’d ye say?”
Feeling heat rise to her cheeks, she sheepishly looked to the steed. “That I was pleased to meet him, pleased to meet the horse. It’s customary to make introductions, you know.” She patted the yellow mount and nervously smiled up at Duncan, hoping he’d take the comment as a joke, although she did believe in giving a horse some time to get to know her.
Already, the horse radiated a sense of calm and reassurance to her presence, his ears pricking toward her. She’d been riding before she could walk, so being around the horse provided her with a sense of peace she didn’t feel. She’d thought about freaking out when Duncan had told her the date, screaming, crying, maybe both? But...what good would that do?
When she’d first seen Duncan, she’d thought him some local guy—although, he’d been wearing a kilt, and she’d hardly seen a man before him don one while here in Scotland, which utterly disappointed both she and her best friend, Rachel. After that nightmare of a nap to wake up to the sight of him had been dreamy and wonderful. But then she’d seen the small houses dotting the horizon, the road had changed from paved to dirt, and he’d told her the date. The freaking date! No, she couldn’t be in seventeenth-century Scotland. But some part of her knew she was. After all, in that, ah, hallucination, or whatever it was, she’d been promised to go back a long time ago, to get a
glimpse
,
and here she was.
Duncan was silent for a moment, his explosive-with-many-colors hazel eyes turning a shade darker. He nodded, and before she could let out a peep, he wrapped his hands around her waist and hefted her onto the horse’s saddle as if she didn’t weigh more than a child, a small child. Lifting a leg, she sat astride the gelding, never too sure how women rode sidesaddle in the first place. She gripped the horse’s mane over his withers. Duncan hadn’t jumped behind her as she’d expected but was still on the ground, holding the reins. Seeming to make sure she was settled first, he started walking forward.
“I’m takin’ ye to my mother’s,” Duncan said almost softly. “She’s a nurse, a healer. Can help ye.”
Fleur panicked, wondering if he’d kept his promise. Leaning beside the horse’s neck, she whispered into Duncan’s ear, “What are you going to tell her? What did you say to that Rory guy?”
Thoroughly surprising her, Duncan let out a chuckle. But recovered quickly. He slightly turned his head, where hers was only inches from his. “Ye might fall off, lass. Please be careful.”
She rolled her eyes. It had only taken a couple seconds to register the horse’s center of gravity, the way his energy bounced out and into her, and the fact that he was an obedient mount, seeming to calm himself with every step. She would not fall off.
Fleur caught Duncan grinning yet again after her theatrical eye roll. But he attempted to stop. Fleur thought he was trying to look nonchalant, distant.
“I—I,” he paused and pursed his lips as if frustrated, but then continued, “I asked
that Rory guy
,” he’d said those words with particular sarcastic joy, “to spread the men out and find what was taken from ye. Ye did lose something, eh? At least, that’s what ye said at the cave.” He spoke carefully, enunciating every consonant. That had not been the case for most of the Scottish people she’d met so far. Although she liked the accent, it was hard to understand without some serious concentration. However, she thought Duncan was purposely trying to help her understand. It was sweet, and she was grateful.
She straightened then, thinking back to the dream or hallucination or whatever. Coyote, the trickster, had paid her a visit. Fleur could almost hear Na tsk with apprehension at that, although her grandmother had been dead for a couple years now. Yes, seeing Coyote was never good.
She’d thought it had merely been a delusion from over exercising. However, as soon as she had realized her CamelBak was gone and her wristwatch that also registered her heartbeat, she knew she was screwed. Seriously, screwed over. She remembered Coyote saying something about this
glimpse
being good for her. But if that were the truth, why wouldn’t she be here at 947 ADE, when the Viking, whose remains she was drilling DNA for, would have died? Then she wouldn’t need to do so much work, but merely come back to her own time, and say...Just tell everyone she’d gone back in time and saw his dead body for herself.
Right. That would have worked out brilliantly. And probably have granted her a visit to a psychiatric hospital.
Man, she was screwed.
Surprising her even further, she wasn’t as panicked as she thought she should be. That had to be shock, right?
Hypovolemic
shock. But she wasn’t bleeding. She checked her body, reassessing that, yes, she wasn’t bleeding. However, she was suffering from similar symptoms. She was anxious, agitated, and extraordinarily confused. She was in a different time. Was there a swear word strong enough to mimic her feelings? Back to the assessment: she had cool, clammy skin, but was sweating. Her breath was a bit too quick, especially when she looked at Duncan. So check on the altered breathing. And, again, when she glanced at Duncan she generally felt weak, as if she would melt into him. What the hell was that?
Shock, just shock. That had to be what was going on.
Once more, she peeked at Duncan who kept walking forward, but now glanced up at her, concern written through his furrowed red brows, his multicolored eyes fascinating her, like looking through a kaleidoscope. Instantly, she felt both panicked and calm, somehow wanting to get closer to him and maybe take the horse and gallop as far from these feelings as possible.
“Yer things, Lady Anpao, ye lost yer things, eh?”
She nodded, trying to shake herself into the current conversation. Again. But he was such an odd mix—impeccably symmetrical squared jaw with chiseled cheekbones, making him almost a pretty man. But his nose had been broken and set slightly off. A scar ran through one eyebrow and over one of those high cheekbones. Plus he was huge, at least six and a half feet of him, and all muscle across his powerful chest and arms, especially through his wide back that narrowed to a slim waist and hips and yummy bum. Even through the kilt, she knew she could bounce quarters off his backside. Jeez, she was objectifying him. She had to stop.
“Do ye remember anything before losin’ yer things?” he asked.
Okay, conversation was difficult to hold when she looked at him. Her stomach and heart fluttered, and she tried her best to tell herself that she was merely in shock.
She nodded again, but didn’t know whether she could utter anything about Coyote or the weird twin-like red heads. Instead, she thought of what Duncan had told Rory. “Why did you tell that Rory guy I was a lady? And I’m now an ambassador to the American colonies?”
He shrugged and looked away. “I’m not good at duplicity. I’ve never been good at lyin’. That’s the best I could think up, since ye made me promise not to tell that ye don’t know where ye are.”
She smiled down at him, liking that he wasn’t a good liar.
His shoulders stooped. “I—I kept makin’ the lie worse too, for now ye are an Indian princess to boot. Ye wouldn’t happen to be a princess, would ye?”
She’d read the literature about Indian princesses. She knew the bigotry, but that was a couple hundred years from now, more in the nineteenth century. What would a guy from his time think of Native American’s that lacked the hierarchy for such titles? However, as he looked over his shoulder, his brows furrowing just so, she found herself saying, “Not even close.”
“I doubt that.”
At first, Fleur didn’t know what to think of the comment. Then Duncan actually cracked a lopsided grin at her, and she felt the power of his smile zip straight through her skin and into her stomach where it ignited, radiating electricity in every cell of her body. Down to her mitochondria, she felt that smile.
They stared at each other for a long moment. Just as Fleur wondered how he kept walking forward while he looked at her, he tripped a tad. He straightened with lightning reflexes, no longer looking at her, but straight forward.
“Do you want to ride up here with me?”
“’Tisn’t far now.” His voice cracked.
She noticed how he hadn’t really answered her question. But she gave him a break and changed the subject. “Why am I an ambassador? And why at your mother’s request?”
He was silent for a beat, but then said in a deep voice, “Ye are Indian, eh?
Coilltich
, right?”
“
Coilltich
, that means forest people, doesn’t it?”
Ian and his incessant smartphone had been the one who had informed her of that word, of what the Highlanders had thought of Native Americans when they first encountered them. Although Britain had colonized America around fifty years ago, in 1608, all of Europe, even the Scottish Highlands, were abuzz about the land and the people therein. Ian had talked about a colleague who researched Native Americans and Highlanders—their differences and similarities. But before Fleur had learned much, they’d been interrupted by one of Rachel’s interns.
“Well, it means more than that,” Duncan said. “At least now it means much more. But, aye, I suppose that’s a definition.”
“What’s another definition? Savage?” Her anger had gotten the better of her, and she couldn’t believe she’d said as much, spoken in a harsh tone. She’d gotten teased and bullied and called much worse than a forest person, and she’d never uttered a word in her defense back then. She’d swallowed the pain instead and tried to forget it. So why did she have so much moxie now? With him?
He stopped the horse, turning to look up at her. “I don’t ken what clan yer from, but my brothers are somewhere in the Virginia colony, and their saviors are people like ye. I ken it’s rude to associate ye with all Indian tribes, as it would be to associate me, a MacKay and proud of it, with a Sutherland, my sworn enemy.”
Hmm, he was a MacKay like that Rory guy, like the laird of the land. Interesting.
But then again, Ian had informed her, smartphone in hand, that there were hundreds of MacKays in Tongue. Maybe it was the same in Durness during the seventeenth century too.
“I—I just don’t ken fast enough to lie, I suppose,” Duncan continued. “And all I thought about was my own circumstances—my brothers in Virginia, and my ma seeking more letters from them, more information. She keeps askin’ me what’s Virginia like, as if I would ken. I have no answers. And so, out popped the bald lie.
“And lastly, no, I think ye no savage. Er, actually, I’m a Highlander, my lady. I’m called a savage all the time. Besides, just lookin’ at the two of us, and anyone would point to me as the brute. What with yer delicate...lovely—shite.” He winced, perhaps from complimenting her, or maybe from swearing. Fleur thought it was the latter.
He was adorable when he was flustered like that.
“There are many tribes from Virginia, but my people are not from there,” she said calmly. “I’m from the plains of America. However, I’ve been to Virginia. It’s a very beautiful state, er, colony. I wouldn’t mind telling your mother that, for my role as an ambassador and all.”
A lopsided grin sneaked on his face again. He took a sip of a breath. “Is it? Do ye ken my brothers are safe?”
Although not at all an historian herself, she vaguely knew many of the tribe’s history of the South, mainly for her own continuing DNA research of original American people. She knew that from the instant the Europeans, especially indentured servants, met Native Americans, many tribes had taken them in as their own. Granted, several settlers would tell horror stories of tribes terrorizing the colonizers, but the truth was never as clear as fiction, was it? Then she remembered Ian telling her something about some of the Southern tribes having a special fondness for Highlanders. The two peoples assimilated, but neither one giving up their culture. They learned to speak Scottish Gaelic and Algonquin, wore plaids and doe-skinned leggings, embracing the long sword in battle as well as the traditional flint arrows.
She nodded. “I do. I think your brothers are safe.”
His broad shoulders released a few inches down, as if she had unburdened him from an immense load.