The Valiant Highlander (Highland Defender #2) (2 page)

Mary shook right down to the tips of her toes. Mercy, his body was warmer than a brazier and his arm clamped around her torso like iron. Lips parting, she chanced a glance over her shoulder. “Yes, s-sir.”

I must not allow him to flummox my sensibilities.

Who was this man? And how dare he manhandle her, even if he thought her a lad?

With a rueful chuckle, he released his grip. “I suggest you wait until your beard comes in afore you join the wrestling competition.”

“She’s not going to wrestle.” Throwing back his shoulders, Rabbie dashed forward and kicked the man in the shin. “Remove your hands from my sister!”

“Ow.” The man’s jaw dropped. “Sister?” His gaze snapped to Mary’s face. “Bloody, miserable, bleating hell. You’d best don a proper gown afore you trick anyone else out of a crown.”

Crossing her arms, Mary scooted away. “As I recall, you were the one who placed the wager.”

“Aye,” said Rabbie. “And I haven’t seen your coin, mister.”

The man looked at Rabbie as if he could shoot daggers through his eyes. With a growl, he dug in his sporran. “Do not tell me your father is John of Castleton?”

Mary’s stomach turned over. Da wouldn’t be happy if he found out she was wearing his trews, let alone placing wagers. But she raised her chin and held out her palm. “What if he is?”

“Good God.” The man slapped the coin in her hand. “I would have thought more from his offspring.”

Please, this cannot be someone important
. “Pray tell, what is your name, Mr.…?”

“MacDonald.” He turned on his square-toed shoe and headed toward the keep.

She smoothed her fingers over the coin while studying his retreating form. Holy Moses, he posed a sight—tall, well-muscled, well-dressed. She bit her bottom lip. Aye, Mr. MacDonald had to be someone important for certain.
He called Da by the familiar
.

With luck, he’d soon forget this morning’s events. Looking to the wispy clouds sailing above, Mary clapped her hands together and prayed it would be so.

Da had never allowed her to attend the games before—and growing up in Castleton on the Isle of Skye didn’t give her much of an opportunity to meet anyone interesting. And goodness, nearly everyone in these parts was named MacDonald. Several of the clans who’d be here for the games were MacDonalds as well…and Camerons, and Grants, and MacDougalls. Her mind boggled. She’d best hurry. Dunscaith Castle kitchens would need oversight for certain—and she didn’t want to be caught by any of the great men due to arrive this afternoon.

***

Marching toward the keep, Sir Donald MacDonald, the Baronet of Sleat, clutched his musket under his arm. Bloody oath, the castle looked as if it were crumbling. And he’d just been bested by John of Castleton’s
daughter
? Covered with freckles, a Highlander’s bonnet pulled low over her forehead with her hair hidden, the lass looked more masculine than her little brother—aside from those heart-shaped buttocks. Damnation, he kent something was amiss when he wrestled her into his grip. Not only did she smell like a garden of lilacs, she weighed no more than seven stone. ’Tis why he asked his—rather—
her
age.

Don shook his head. He would have bested the wench if he hadn’t been navigating a birlinn through the rough swells of the North Sea since dawn yesterday. He needed a good meal and a healthy tot of whisky to regain his land legs.

Bloody hell, he’d been looking forward to this jaunt to the Highlands. He didn’t need a parcel of children in his way. He had serious matters to discuss with the Highland Defenders—the Jacobite chieftains who had pledged their fealty to
the cause
. Aye, one day they’d see King James returned to the throne and oust the usurper, William of Orange. To add insult, the false king’s wife, posing as Queen Mary II, was James’ very daughter. No greater backstabber hath ever worn a crown.

Throughout the afternoon, galleys arrived with their chieftains, though there were only three impressive eighteen-oar galleys owned by the Baronet of Sleat, Cameron of Locheil and Stewart of Appin. Some came by land, like Sir Coll of Keppoch and his regiment of wily upstarts. Of all the Highland chieftains, Don felt Coll wielded the most powerful sword. But the young laird’s strength would soon be tested. Och aye, this evening an impressive crowd of brawn amassed in Dunscaith Castle’s great hall.

Sitting at the high table, Don reached for the ewer and poured himself a tankard of ale. “I haven’t seen the Duke of Gordon or the Earl of Seaforth.”

“Sent their apologies,” said John of Castleton, their host. “That makes you our most esteemed guest, sir.”

Don watched the froth of his ale bubble. “Aye? We need numbers—and a voice amongst the peers on the Privy Council.”

“Agreed,” said Hugh MacIain of Glencoe. The man had endured the worst of King William’s ire against the Jacobites when his clan was decimated by that miserable Campbell lout of Glenlyon. “We’ll never organize a rising with apathetic nobles who send their regrets.”

“The time for battle will come.” Ewen Cameron, the eldest chieftain in attendance, cracked his thumb knuckles. “Until then we must use other means to undermine the bastards.”

“Aye, when English wares bear no taxes? I cannot sell a pound of packing salt anywhere throughout Europe.” Donald took a healthy swallow of ale. ’Twas the main reason why he hadn’t sent his regrets for this gathering. He’d traveled to Skye for two reasons. First, to partake in the games and secondly, to visit his salt pans. He had a meeting with a buyer from the Americas in a fortnight. All must be in order, for if that business transaction did not take place, the Baronetcy of Sleat could very well be forced into bankruptcy.
Then what will happen to my lands, my kin?

“The bastards are trying to starve us out of existence,” said Robert Stewart of Appin.

“But we will not let them.” Ewen rapped his knuckles on the table. “Sir Donald, we must insure your meeting with the buyer from the Americas is successful.”

“Bloody oath, I agree.” Don tipped up his tankard and drank heartily. “And every last one of us must do our best to purchase Scottish wares—nothing from England. They want to destroy us? Well, two can play at that game.”

“Slàinte,” the cheers rose around the table. Every man there was in the same predicament. In fact, if Don’s hunch was right, he was better off than most.

When three lasses stepped from the stairwell, the noise in the hall ebbed to a murmur.

Sir John pushed back his wheeled chair, his single, withered leg flopping sideways. “Mary, come,” he hollered.

Don had to look twice before he recognized the lass from the shooting match. But still, he wasn’t certain. Was it she, or did she have a bonny twin? Dear God, the woman’s ginger tresses hung past her slender waist, gracefully swinging to and fro. The woman who moved toward the dais did so with such poise and grace, Don convinced himself she must be some other of John’s offspring.

Miss Mary’s smile radiated throughout the entire chamber and she walked like an angel floating over the floorboards. Petite, her figure reminded Don of an hourglass—incredibly feminine and delicate. As she climbed the steps to the dais, her freckles became more apparent, but the adorable splay across her nose only served to add to
this
woman’s beauty. More freckles blended with the soft blush of her cheeks, with some hidden by the wisps of ginger ringlets surrounding her face.

It cannot be the same guttersnipe who pulled off her powder cork with her teeth
.

Sir John gestured with a sweeping hand. “Please allow me to introduce my eldest, Miss Mary of Castleton.”

Don stood. Hitting the table with his hips, his ale teetered and crashed sideways. His hands grappled blindly as the frothy liquid spilled. “P-pleased to meet you, miss.”

As servants rushed to contain the mess, Sir Ewen stood and bowed, brushing Don’s ale from his doublet with a kerchief. “Don’t mind the clumsy Baronet of Sleat here. He’s only come to douse us poor sops in ale.”

Hands clapped and laughter rolled around the high table.

Miss Mary’s red eyebrows arched while she drew a hand over her mouth. Her gaze trailed down to the mess, her cheeks turning from a lovely rose to ruby red. “Oh my. I do hope your doublet isn’t ruined, Sir Cameron.”

“Not at all.” Ewen bowed his head.

“My daughters are looking forward to this night’s dancing with fervent anticipation.” Sir John beckoned Miss Mary to his side. “Though I hate to lose this bonny lass, I must make an alliance with her hand.” The man gave Don a pointed look.

If a woman could die of blushing, it would be John of Castleton’s daughter. Don had never seen anyone sustain such high color before—and he was the person who’d spilled the ale. But her father’s inappropriate and untimely innuendo needed his attention more. Don frowned at the verbose chieftain. “I wish you well on your quest, sir.”

“She runs this keep with the efficiency of a field marshal,” Sir John blurted as if he had a prized heifer on the auction block.

“Och, you exaggerate, Da.” Miss Mary kept her eyes downcast, refusing to meet Don’s gaze—or regard anyone at the table for that matter.

Don shifted in his seat. The last thing he’d attended this gathering for was to discuss the future of any of Sir John of Castleton’s daughters.

The old chieftain patted Miss Mary’s hand. “Go join your wee brother and sisters. And I expect you to be on hand for the dancing—with so many lads about, they’ll need partners for certain. And with a bit o’ luck, I’ll find husbands for the lot of you within a sennight.”

Now the poor lass turned a shade of chartreuse. In fact, Don took pity upon the maid. Good God, her father not only embarrassed his daughter, but he also embarrassed himself carrying on so—and right in front of some of the most influential men in the Highlands. The man might be bound to his cripple chair, but he had three days to pull potential suitors aside and speak to them about possible matches with his daughters.

Mary maintained her downcast gaze and curtseyed. “Welcome guests. Please enjoy the fare.”

“Och, Miss Mary,” said Ewen Cameron. “Thanks to the baronet, I must change out of this ale-soaked kilt. Why not take my place at the high table? Surely, you’re accustomed to sitting here with your father.”

Her gaze shot to Don. Panic flashed across her azure eyes. Mercy, those blues captured the Highland sky on a summer’s day.

Sir Ewen bowed. “Unless you object, sir?”

“Uh...” Don blinked dumbly. “Ah, of course, unless our conversation is a bit dry for a woman?” He addressed that to her father with a furrow to his brow. Don’s sister, Barbara, would sooner keel over dead than join in a conversation about politics.

“Bah.” Sir John swatted a hand through the air and pulled his rolling chair back to the table. “Miss Mary is as sharp as any man. Sit, dear. ’Tisn’t often we have such company in our midst.”

Don caught her subtle groan as she took the seat to his right.

He leaned toward her—searching for words to ease her embarrassment. “I daresay you are a mite more charming than that tomboy sister of yours.”

“Oh?” Her back snapped straight as a board as she met his gaze.

“Aye.” He smiled warmly. “Had I not poured ale all over Sir Ewen, we may not have had an opportunity to chat this eve.” Craning his neck, Don looked to the table just below the dais where Sir John’s children sat. “Where, pray tell, is your wayward sister?”

“Ahem, Miss Lilas and Miss Florence are seated with Rabbie…” Her eyes trailing aside, Miss Mary’s face flushed scarlet, yet again. “Oh dear, you are referring to the sharpshooter, are you not?”

“Sharpshooter?” her father said with a belch. “Why, my Mary can hit a bullseye from two hundred paces.”

Don reached for the ale, his gut clamping into a ball. Dear God, was he to put his foot in his mouth with his every word? This gathering couldn’t end soon enough. “Is that so?” He poured for her, leaning close so only she could hear. “’Tis not a skill men find appealing in a maid, nor is placing wagers.”

***

If Mary could have crawled under the table and slipped through a knot in the wooden floor, she would have turned herself into a mouse just to do so. Hells bells, she’d bested the Baronet of Sleat? Goodness, the man couldn’t be more than five and twenty. Weren’t baronets old? Curses, how daft could she be? And what could she say to exonerate herself? Or did she want to? The man appeared to be as arrogant as William of Orange himself.

She groaned under her breath. Blast it all, her father’s hopes would be dashed if she didn’t try to be nice—didn’t show herself to be marriageable. Without instruction or a mother to guide her, she was failing miserably on that count. Why did she need a husband anyway? Da needed her to run the keep just as she’d done since the age of twelve.

Truth be told, Mary wanted a husband as much as she wanted a bad rash, but Da said it was her duty to help the clan. Things had grown troublesome since her father’s paralyzing injury and the loss of his leg at the Battle of Dunkeld. To keep himself from financial ruination, Da needed to make an alliance with her hand—and fast.

Mary only hoped he wouldn’t be so hasty with her younger sisters.

Unfortunately, she’d now ruined her chances with the Baronet of Sleat, not that such a man would ever look twice at a freckle-faced tomboy such as her. She surveyed the faces at the table. Sir Robert Stewart sitting across was still a candidate, as was Sir Ewen’s son, Sir Kennan, though younger. And Sir Coll of Keppoch was impressive and he had red hair just like hers. Mary’s stomach turned over as if she were about to squelch. The idea of making an alliance with her marriage bed made her want to don Da’s trews and join the army. The only problem? Today’s Government troops happened to be the enemy. If only the other eligible chieftains were half as alluring as the brawny man perched beside her.

Forget about him.

Sitting erect in his starched shirt, Mary didn’t need a pompous baronet making her life miserable.

Taking a deep breath, she gave Sir Donald a weak smile. “Shooting is only a frivolous hobby, sir. Since my father is no longer able to address the target, someone must teach Rabbie to handle a musket.”

He peered down his nose at her—it was a nice nose—masculine, but not too large for his face. “Perhaps the lad needs to be fostered.”

She arched her eyebrows. “Are you volunteering?”

“Unfortunately, no. I’ve business in Glasgow that prevents me from such enjoyable exploits.”

“You would exploit a lad of nine?”

He reached for the ewer and poured for her, then himself. “Of course not. You misunderstood my use of the word.”

“Did I?” She sipped her ale and grinned behind her tankard. Why God had granted her with such a wicked tongue, she had no idea. But ribbing a nobleman was awfully fun—even more fun than vexing her father.

Sir Donald took a slice of bread and buttered it. “Why do I sense you are ribbing me?”

“Me?” She patted her chest giving him her most innocent wide-eyed stare—one that always worked with her father. “Why, I’ve no idea to what you are referring, sir.”

Fyfe, one of the guards who posed as a servant this eve stepped between them. “Rack of lamb, sir?”

The baronet gestured toward Mary. “Please, serve the lady first.”

“Thank you.” She selected a tender looking morsel. She would expect a man like the Baronet of Sleat to have impeccable manners. He might even have some redeeming qualities aside from his good looks. “And how long do you intend to stay at Dunscaith, sir?”

“I’m heading north to my lands in Trotternish as soon as the games are over. I’ve a great many things to oversee afore I return to Glasgow.”

“Aye,” said Sir Robert. “If only your mine yielded gold rather than salt.”

“Salt is white gold, Stewart. As long as there are no embargoes.” Sir Donald cut his meat precisely, swirled it in gravy and slipped a bite into his mouth. “Mm. This is delicious. My compliments, Miss Mary.”

“I shall inform the cook. He will be pleased you are agreeable.”

The nice thing about food was it kept people’s mouths busy so they didn’t have to say much, which suited Mary just fine. In truth, she would have preferred to sit below with her siblings. Lilas cast frequent looks of longing toward Mary while at twelve, Florence waved and giggled. As usual, Rabbie paid more attention to pinching food from Florence’s plate while his sister wasn’t looking.

After dessert was served, the clansmen and women moved the tables to make room for the musicians and dancing. Mary clapped. “Do you enjoy a reel, Sir Donald?”

“I don’t think it’s a matter of enjoyment so much as a social obligation.” He raised his tankard and sipped.

“Truly?” She chuckled and lowered her voice. “’Tis not quite like feeling the wind in your hair with the slow burn of a matchlock warming your cheek, is it?”

He snorted so loudly, ale could have frothed through his nose.

“You ken Sir Donald was decorated for his heroism in the Battle of Killiecrankie—called Sir Donald of the Wars—rode against the Government troops at the age of nineteen,” said Mary’s da.