Never Broken (17 page)

Lorna propped another pillow against the headboard. “And what will ye poor father think, his precious daughter dallying with a peasant lad?”

She shrugged. “What does he expect me to do, languish away in this prison of a house, with no parties to attend, no intrigues to keep me occupied?”

“I believe that was the point, m’lady.”

“Well, I’ll have none of it. Besides, with him in London how will he know what I do here?” She eyed Lorna. “Unless someone tells him.”

Lorna’s eyes widened with innocence. “He’ll not be findin’ out from me, m’lady.” She paused as Elspeth’s features relaxed. “The poor lad doesn’t stand a chance, does he?”

“No, he doesn’t.” Elspeth returned to her vanity, picked up her expensive mirror, and smiled at her reflection. “Then again, they never do.”

Glencalvie, Scottish Highlands

Iain Mackay dropped his hoe and
shoved his sleeves up to his elbows. Sweat poured down the sides of his face and neck as he picked up the tool and slammed it into the soft earth, loosening the stubborn weeds while skillfully leaving the potato plants undisturbed. For several minutes, he remained absorbed in his task until the sound of sheep bleating broke his concentration.

Thwack!

He dug the hoe deeper into the ground as he cursed the wooly animal, a four-legged reminder of why he was working a miniscule plot of land instead of an expansive farm.

Thwack!

With each stroke his anger grew, feeding his resentment against the injustice done to his family.

Thwack!

With a final effort, he pulled back. He’d missed embedding the metal blade into his foot by mere inches.

“Iain!”

He lifted his head in the direction of the tiny voice. His chest heaving from exertion, he leaned on the handle of the hoe and watched as his sister Blaire approached. As usual, her presence soothed his boiling emotions. By the time she reached him, his ire had somewhat faded.

“Well, you’re a sight for sore eyes, lassie.” He hunkered down in front of her small form.

“I’ve brought you a bit o’lunch,” she said, holding out the meager fare.

He accepted the small loaf of oat bread and the flask of water. The food and drink would barely satisfy his appetite or quench his thirst, but it was all she could carry and hang on to her ever-present rag doll at the same time.

Although she was six years old, she looked to be about four. Her birth had been difficult, and twice during her first year she had nearly died. Often Iain had wished he could give her some of the strength and size he possessed in such great abundance. He doted on her, and the thirteen-year age difference between them made him feel more like her father than her brother.

Lowering himself on the grass near the potato patch, he took a large bite out of the crusty bread. He patted the ground next to him. “Do ye have time to join me, wee lass, or do ye have some important business to attend to?”

Blaire thrust her chin in the air. “I canna stay. I must go back to Mamma and help her with the chores. She needs me, you know.”

“I know. We’d all be lost without you.” He drained the water in one swallow. “My thanks for the lunch.”

“You’re welcome. Mamma says the peat stack’s gettin’ low.”

“I’ll cut some when I’m finished here. Now get along afore you’re missed.” He stood and waved as she skipped away toward their one-room cottage, her doll securely held in the crook of her arm. Her waist length brown hair flew wildly behind her, the only part of her body that had grown at a normal pace.

The sun shone high in the cloud-streaked sky, a rare sunny day in the Highlands. Iain surveyed the patch—two more rows left to weed. Returning to his work, he thought of the jobs needing to be done before sundown, adding peat cutting to the list. Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t hear the horse approach until it was nearly on top of him.

“Good day. I wonder if you could help me, sir.”

Iain turned and looked up at the rider, shielding his eyes from the blinding sun. He tried to contain his surprise at seeing such a fine horse and the fine lady riding it, for they looked out of place on his land.

She sat high and straight in the sidesaddle. Instead of the rough brown clothes of a peasant crofter she wore a light green dress, the fabric trimmed with brightly colored ribbons. The glare of the sun shadowed her face from him, but even without a clear view of her features he could tell she was a stunning woman.

“Sir?”

Regaining his senses, he answered. “Aye. How can I be of help, m’lady?”

“I’m terribly lost. I wanted to do some exploring during my ride this morning, but I’m afraid I didn’t pay attention to where I was going. I’m not sure where I am or how to find my way home.”

She spoke Gaelic with an English accent, which made him curious. Why was she riding alone on the outskirts of Glencalvie? The small village was home to poor potato farmers, not high-born English ladies. “It might help if I knew where you were wantin’ to go.”

Her tiny laugh tickled his ears. “Why yes, I suppose it would. But first, might you happen to know where I could water my horse? We’ve been out for hours now, and she’s in need of a cool drink.”

Iain gestured to a low hill a few yards away. “Yonder is a small burn. You can water your mare there.”

“Would you mind showing me? As you can see, I have a wretched sense of direction.”

All right,” he said uneasily. Genteel ladies were a rare sight in these parts. Actually, they never visited the farmlands at all. He took the reins of her horse and led them both to the small creek that flowed nearby.

Tall, leafy trees grew near the banks. Iain welcomed their cooling shade after working in the hot sun for most of the day. Leading the horse to the edge of the water, he then released the reins.

“It’s lovely here,” the woman commented, looking around. “So very peaceful.”

Her gaze found his, and his pulse raced. She was positively beautiful, with hair the color of sunbeams and violet eyes that took his breath away. Her skin was flawless, pale, and without a single blemish. He’d never seen such a perfect woman in his entire life.

“Would you mind helping me down from my horse?” she asked, her lilting voice breaking the silence between them. “I think I’d like to stay here and rest for a few minutes before I return home.”

Swallowing, he moved slowly toward her, annoyed that his palms had grown damp. Never had anyone, any woman, made him feel like such a callow lad before.

“And where might home be?” He forced his voice to remain steady as he reached up and put his hands on either side of her small waist.

“I’m staying with the shepherd, Edward Dryden. I’m here on holiday.”

She placed her hands on his shoulders, and he thought he detected her fingers squeezing him slightly as he shifted her off the horse. Setting her down in front of him, he reluctantly relinquished his hold.

“You’re in luck, m’lady, for Dryden’s estate is not far from here. Once you’ve rested, I can show you the way there.”

“You are too kind, sir,” she said, her smile as flawless as the rest of her.

“My name’s Iain.” It was strange and unnerving to be called “sir” by this lovely lady. “Iain Mackay.”

“Pleasure to meet you.” She held out her hand as if expecting him to kiss the back of it. “I’m Elspeth Ross.”

His body jerked as if he’d been yanked from a dream and thrust back into bleak reality. “Ross?” he repeated, his voice becoming tight and strained.

“Yes.” She withdrew her hand, her expression puzzled. “My father is John Ross—”

“Laird of Clan Ross.”

“That’s right. Have you heard of him?”

He stepped back as if her presence burned him. He’d heard of Ross, his name uttered in the same fearful breath as MacLeod and Sutherland—landowners and Scottish clan leaders who had evicted their clansmen from their farms and sold the land to shepherds, who in turn filled the vacant fields with sheep. The lairds were greedy men, considering the life of an animal more valuable than the people they had promised to protect. Although he’d never met the man, Iain had vowed to hate John Ross and all the lairds like him. They were no longer to be respected and honored. They were the enemy.

And because she was Ross’s daughter, Elspeth was Iain’s enemy, too.

Elspeth struggled to hide
her heightened anxiety. For some reason, Iain was slipping through her slender fingers. Yet she had hope. He did want her. She’d seen it in his eyes, sensed it from his body. Extraordinarily adept at reading men, she’d had no doubt moments before that Iain Mackay had been primed and was ready for the taking.

Then she had mentioned her father, and it was as if her prey had turned to stone.

Whereas before his rugged, handsome face had expressed interest, and his words were polite and kind, now his countenance was grim and his tone chilly. Inwardly she uttered a dozen oaths, some directed at her father, others at herself for making such a costly mistake. She should have been more careful.

Four days had passed since Iain visited Dryden, and during that time Elspeth had put Lorna to work. The information her maid had ferreted out about him had been valuable, and Elspeth knew how to use it to her advantage. She’d been told about his family’s eviction from their home in Strathnaver and how his father had died a broken man, leaving young Iain to care for his mother and infant sister. She learned he paid the rents to Dryden in person and had struck up a friendly relationship with the older shepherd. He was considered polite, respectful, and possessing at least a little intelligence, as much as an impoverished potato farmer could.

From this knowledge, she was able to tailor her clothes, her behavior, and her attitudes into a package that would be impossible for him to resist. The most difficult part had been brushing up on the Gaelic language, which she hadn’t spoken since she was a small child. But Lorna had given her lessons on the basics, and that morning Elspeth had set out on her mare, prepared to put her plan into action.

But all was now in jeopardy, and it would take some quick thinking and a clever tongue to fix it.

Pretending not to notice his icy demeanor, she moved away from him to the edge of the stream. She crouched low and let her fingers trail languid paths through the cool water. “I was born here, in Easter Ross,” she began, sensing his gaze still on her. She relaxed slightly, pleased she still had his attention. “We moved to London when my mother died.” She rose, shaking tiny droplets of water from her fingertips before turning to him. “I hate the city. I used to beg my father to allow me to return here. If not for good, then at least for a visit. But he never would.”

“Sounds like a dreadful life indeed.” His eyes mocked her. “Forced to live in a mansion in London, with servants at the ready to do your biddin’. ‘Tis a miracle you survived it.”

Elspeth bit down on the inside of her bottom lip to keep from smiling. She appreciated a caustic wit and was pleased to see Iain possessed one. It made him all the more appealing.

“Aye, it was. For a Highland lass I was born and a Highland lass I would be!” She paused, proud that she was able to feign passion for a land she cared nothing about. She breathed in deeply, closing her eyes for effect, all the while knowing the low cut of her dress was capturing his attention. “Even the air of this land excites me and makes me feel free.” She opened her eyes and smiled demurely. “Can’t you smell the fresh air?”

“All I smell are sheep.”

Though his words struck her as humorous, his stilted expression did not. Speaking with a sincerity she didn’t feel, she said, “It’s a travesty what my father and others have done here. How they’ve ruined the Highlands in order to profit from the sheep.”

Suddenly his huge hands clamped down on her shoulders, catching her off guard. He leaned down, the rage in his eyes shocking—and more than a little frightening.

“How dare you say you know what goes on here? You, tucked away in London, attendin’ your balls and parties, enjoyin’ yourself while the land, the only thing a clansman can call his own, is stripped from him. We’ve been raped and plundered by the lairds, whose ancestors for generations swore to protect us.” His face clouded with fury. “You stand there, next to your grand horse, wearin’ a dress whose cost could feed a cotter’s family for a year, and claim to know how we feel?”

She lifted her chin and forced herself to look at him straight on, ignoring her growing fear as he towered over her. At that moment, she wondered if it was worth pursuing Iain Mackay. She hadn’t expected the anger that came off him in waves. For a fearful second, she thought he might take his frustration out on her.

Then she played the only card she thought might affect him—helpless ingénue. Her eyes filled with tears as her bottom lip trembled. “Does it make you feel better to attack the innocent? For that is what I am. I couldn’t have stopped my father even if I tried. I’m but a woman. What power could I possibly wield? Yet you would fault me for a man’s decisions.”

Iain didn’t respond, but neither did he release her shoulders. Seconds later his grip softened along with his rancor. “Aye,” he said quietly, his eyes locking on to hers. “’Tis true. You canna be blamed for the sins of your father.”