Some Like it Scot (Scandalous Highlanders Book 4) (8 page)

“And once again I have to put that back on ye, as I would have nae reason to curse if ye did as I asked.”

“Good God, woman, I'm trying to help ye. Do ye never relent?”

“Nae.” With that she whipped around, coiled her fist, and swung as hard as she could at his jaw.

At the last second he ducked backward, catching the punch on his shoulder. The momentum sent her forward, and before she could catch her balance he grabbed her around the waist and heaved her up into the air—over his shoulder. Like a sack of potatoes.

“Put me down, damn yer eyes,” she growled, punching at his back and kicking at his chest.

“I warned ye, wildcat. More times than I generally warn anyone.”

Her musket lay on the ground where he'd dropped it, but he squatted to retrieve the picnic basket and then straightened again. Her weight seemed no more significant to him than the porridge and roast chicken he claimed to be toting. And he didn't seem willing to put her down as he strode, with her arse first over his shoulder, toward the kitchen.

“Ye wouldnae have surrendered, I'll wager,” she said, trying to keep her breath.

She swore she could feel him chuckling beneath her. “That is the truth,” he admitted. “And if ye hadnae bunched yer arm up before ye turned around, ye might have landed a blow.”

So now he wanted to criticize her fighting technique. “If ye werenae eight feet tall, I would almost call the fight fair,” she retorted. “Now put me down.”

“That would make me a damned fool, wouldnae? I think I'll keep ye right where ye are.”

Instead of kicking at his chest, she bent her knee and aimed her boot heel at his skull. The blow didn't connect; his arms wrapped around her legs so tightly she could barely move.

“If ye're thinking of pulling my hair next,” he muttered, “think again. Ye're a lass, but that willnae stop me from giving yer arse a wallop. And this isnae encouraging me to put ye doon. Now give me yer word that ye'll behave yerself.”

She wanted to screech at him that no one—
no one
—spanked her, but that would likely only serve to encourage him to do just that. Surrender wasn't in her vocabulary, but as she squeezed in another breath Catriona decided that perhaps a truce would be acceptable. “Fine,” she snapped. “Ye have my word. I'll nae try to pummel ye for … the next five minutes. Put me down so I can keep us both from getting shot when ye turn the corner.”

That, at least, gave him pause, and after far too long a moment of him standing there holding on to her, he dipped a bit and set her feet on the ground. Before she could even regain her balance, though, much less aim a boot at his man parts, he wrapped iron fingers around her elbow. “Ye're doon. Now behave, wildcat.”

The exasperation in his tone actually made her feel just a little satisfied—she wasn't the only one out of sorts. “I only said I wouldnae try to pummel ye. And I dunnae recall asking for yer help, or for ye to bully me into doing as ye say. Whatever's driving ye, it has naught to do with me.”

“It has everything to do with ye, Cat.”

Those words from him ricocheted and rattled about in her mind, clanking and loud and shoving aside other thoughts that would have been much more practical and useful. Did this have to do with the kiss? Or did he know something else? And now she didn't know which path she preferred.

“Nae reply to that?” he said, amusement touching his voice. “Do ye become mute when ye cannae talk with yer musket or yer fists?”

“Ye have me outnumbered, ye brute,” she retorted. “And I'd be a fool nae to acknowledge that ye're stronger than I am. And meaner.”

“I dunnae ken which of us is meaner.”

Clearly it was him, but arguing over that wouldn't gain her anything but an aching head. “I suppose I've nae choice but to see what sort of trouble ye mean to make before I comment on anything else.”

She heard his intake of breath, and waited for him to protest—again—that he meant her no harm. As if she'd never been injured by someone with good intentions. And those people had supposedly been friends and allies, and hadn't slung her over their shoulders with no apparent effort. Bear had no reason to do anything but serve his own best interests, and that could be very bad for Elizabeth and her.

As she turned into the kitchen ahead of him, for a moment she thought Elizabeth had fled. It would mark the second time her sister had actually done something to save herself—though the thought of an English-raised debutante alone in the Highlands sent her heart pounding in alarm.

Then she caught sight of an edging of blue material behind the overturned cabinet they'd shoved against one wall. Elizabeth would have heard the shouting and shooting, and for once she'd kept her wits about her. “As ye can see,” she said, turning around to face Bear and doing her best to block his view of the cabinet, “I'm the only lass here. I'll be gone from here by sunset, and ye can go find some other lass to rescue or bother or whatever it is ye spend yer days doing.”

“Mm-hm. So the lass behind the cabinet there is imaginary, I presume.” He nudged her sideways. “Ye've nae need to fear me, lass. I'd guess by yer skirts that ye're English,” he continued, setting the basket on the hearth. “As I told Cat, here, I only mean to see that the two of ye are safe and well.”

Slowly, her hands visibly shaking, Elizabeth straightened and stepped over the corner of the cabinet. “You have blood on your cheek, sir,” she observed, with that one sentence confirming that she was both English raised and a lady.

Catriona stifled a sigh. “He's bleeding because he stepped where he wasnae wanted.”

“You shouldn't be so prickly, Cat,” her sister returned. “He brought us bread, after all.” She offered her hand to the big man. “I'm Elizabeth. Thank you for your kindness.”

Bear wiped his hand on his kilt, then took Elizabeth's fingers like he worried he might break them. “Bear. I'm glad to see at least one of ye doesnae see a wolf behind every tree.”

“Wolf? I hope you're being allegorical, sir.” She shivered again, moving closer to her sister. “There aren't wolves here, are there, Cat? You go out alone all the time.”

“There arenae wolves in the Highlands. Nae for years and years. There arenae bears, either, except for this stupid one.” Wonderful. More things for Elizabeth to worry over. Catriona favored Bear with a glare, to find him gazing at her.

Men didn't look at her. Not with that expression in their eyes. Not with lovely, refined Elizabeth standing there. And he'd kissed her, though she'd thought that had been more to shock her into surrendering than anything else. But what if it hadn't been?

“Aye,” he said after a moment, blinking eyes which she for some reason decided were the color of spring leaves before he turned to face Elizabeth again. “It's only an expression. Ye'll nae find any fierce beasties aboot bigger than wildcats or foxes.”

“Well, thank goodness. With a name like Bear, I thought you might have been named after one. I would faint if an actual bear strolled into the kitchen here.”

Their unwanted guest grinned, the expression very attractive and exceedingly disarming. “Bear's only a nickname my
athair
—my father—gave me when I was a bairn. He reckoned I'd grow up to be the size of one. My given name's Munro.”

Well, wasn't this friendly?
Elizabeth hadn't seen him hauling her sister about like a bale of hay, however. “So now ye've met us, Munro. Just two lasses making our own way in the world. We've nae riches for ye to take, and all we ask is to be left alone.”

Instead of replying, he turned back to the hearth and opened the picnic basket. Without ceremony he unwrapped a beautifully roasted game hen set on a platter. Squatting beside it, he pulled the thin knife from his boot and flipped it in his hand, no doubt to demonstrate that he knew precisely how to use it. With another glance in her direction he deftly sliced off a drumstick.

“I didnae bring plates or forks,” he said, and handed the delicious-smelling piece up to Elizabeth.

Her sister dragged over the chair and sat. “I'll manage,” she said with a smile. Apparently anyone who claimed to offer help was a knight in shining armor as far as Elizabeth was concerned. “It's lovely to have something other than rabbit and venison to eat. And to have someone else with whom to converse.”

Was Elizabeth flirting?
Good heavens.
That was damned well enough of that. After all they—she—had been through over the past weeks, Catriona did not intend to allow them to be caught because of a chicken leg and an admittedly handsome face. “Munro, why did ye bother to promise ye'd nae tell a soul about us if ye had nae intention of keeping yer word?”

He handed her the second drumstick. If it had been larger she would have brained him with it, but he likely wouldn't even feel the blow. And it did smell very good.

“We make do with what's handed us,” he said after a moment. “I couldnae shake Peter this morning. All he knows is that a lass shot at me thrice, and that he's nae to speak a word of it.”

“And ye trust him, do ye? He's obligated to do as ye say?”

Bear's jaw clenched. “Aye. He is.”

That was certainly interesting. “So ye have someone ye can order about? Are ye the lord and master of the valley, then, here to decide our fate?” The idea that he'd merely been playing, toying with her—them—made her angry, but she did already have a suspicion or two about him. Especially after hearing his given name. As she waited for him to answer, she glanced again at her knife on the hearth, newly sharpened thanks to his gift of that whetting stone. With the right distraction this could be her chance—though his speed had already surprised her twice today.

“He's my uncle,” the giant finally bit out. “Uncle Peter. I told him I was going fishing, and he begged to come along. It's rare to find him this far from the loch. I might've stayed away from ye, I suppose, but I thought it a shame to allow this fine game hen and porridge to go to waste.”

“Oh, porridge?” Elizabeth broke in.

“Aye. And fer that I brought bowls and spoons.”

“More silver spoons, I assume?” Her sister might be ready to trust someone simply because he brought a tasty dish or two, but Catriona was not.

Bear handed the cloth-wrapped canister to Elizabeth before he rose again. For heaven's sake he was tall. He seemed to fill the entire room, and his muscular frame and broad shoulders made him both unmissable and formidable—and that wasn't even taking into account his stealth or speed.

He stalked to the door, pausing only to glance back at her over his shoulder. And then he was gone. Catriona stared at the doorway, which abruptly seemed smaller without him occupying it.
What the devil?

“Why were you so mean to him?” Elizabeth demanded. “He's the first friendly face we've seen since we left the mail coach!”

“He brought us food,” she snapped back. “That doesnae make him friendly. It only means he hasnae yet gotten what he wants from us in return for his gifts. And given that we have naught to hand, I can only imagine what his price might be. He already threatened to spank me. Do ye ken, Elizabeth?”

Her sister's eyes widened. “He did what?”

“Ye heard me.” It was all his fault, but her cheeks warmed, anyway.

“I think you must have misunderstood him. You are far too cynical, Catriona.”

“And ye're too trusting.” She took the porridge from her sister's hands, but couldn't quite bring herself to dump it on the fire. “How well has that served ye so far?”

“That isn't fair.”

“Mayhap it isnae,
piuthar,
but if people were as trustworthy as we hoped, neither of us would be in the kitchen of a broken-down, haunted old house in the middle of the Highlands. And if we cannae trust our own family, what in the world makes ye think we can trust a complete stranger?”

“Because he's a stranger,” Elizabeth answered, lifting her chin. “What could he possibly want from us that he couldn't already have gotten by force?”

“Ye—I…” Catriona trailed off. Scowling, she marched to the doorway and back again.

A month and a half ago, the morning after she'd received Elizabeth's letter, she had purchased passage on a boat leaving her home on the Isle of Islay and sailing over to Ayr on the main coast of Scotland. From there it had been hay carts, mail coaches, whatever she could find that would get her to London with the fewest delays. While she hadn't seen any pursuers coming or going, she
knew
they were about, searching at the least for word of Elizabeth's whereabouts. They were undoubtedly looking for her, as well, but it was … easier to tell herself that this was for her sister's sake.

“All he needs to do is tell the wrong person about us, and ye'll be back on yer way to London, thrown into a white gown, and shoved down the aisle with the Duke of Visford. Wife number five, ye told me in that letter. And ye forty-two years his junior.”

Elizabeth shuddered. “You don't have to remind me, for heaven's sake. But that doesn't have anything to do with Bear. Munro. Whatever he chooses to call himself. He gave his word that he wouldn't tell anyone else about us. And he's brought us blankets, and you a warm coat, and food.” She poked Catriona in the shoulder. “And considering how large and full of muscles he is, it might be wiser for us to be friendly than for you to bark at him until he
does
tire of us and do something we'll regret.”

“Ye should listen to yer friend there, wildcat,” his low brogue came, from only a foot or two behind her. She whipped around to see him gazing down at her, arms folded over his broad chest, and the other man, his supposed uncle, standing behind him and carrying her musket. The two of them looked nothing alike.
Wonderful.