Some Like it Scot Page 7

  “Interesting,” he drawled, gesturing at the older man. “This is Peter. Uncle Peter, this is Elizabeth, and that is her half sister Cat.”

  Uncle Peter nodded, tugging on the front of his brimless wool tam. “Lasses.”

  “Peter, why dunnae ye look aboot here with Miss Elizabeth and let me know what else they might be needing?”

  “Aye, l—Bear. Nephew.”

  “We dunnae need anything from ye,” Catriona stated, putting her fists on her hips, “except for yer absence.”

  He faced her again. “And ye, wildcat, are going fer a stroll with me.”

  Uneasiness snapped her spine straight. “Nae. I willnae.”

  Bear took a slow step closer. “Aye. Ye will.”

  She had to lift her chin just to keep her gaze on his face. The threat was clear; she could go on her own two feet, or he would sling her over his shoulder again. The benefit to doing as he said, she supposed, would be putting distance between him and Elizabeth. At the same time, she hadn’t brought them all this way to leave her sister in the company of some grizzled Highlander—even one with an innocuous name like “Uncle Peter.”

  Seeming to sense the reason for her hesitation, Bear glanced at his uncle. “We’ll nae go far,” he said. “If someaught frightens ye, Peter, ye call oot, and we’ll be back in a heartbeat.” With that he gestured her toward the doorway.

  Damnation. Taking an exaggerated breath, she stomped out of the kitchen. At least she could make it look as if she had a choice, whether she actually did or not. “Damned bully,” she muttered.

  “Ye ken yer sister has the right of it,” he said coolly, staying on her heels. “I could have gone doon to the tavern at An Soadh and told every man I saw that two lovely lasses have settled into the ruins of Haldane Abbey all by themselves.”

  “Ye gave yer word that ye wouldnae. Though I dunnae ken ye take yer word very seriously.”

  “My point being,” he continued, “that I’ve known yer whereabouts fer a week.” He moved past her to hop up on the rough wall that ringed the front half of the house. “I have kept my word, though me nae being a complete idiot, I did tell someone I trust where I’d be. That way if ye shot me in the noggin I’d have someone to see me buried.”

  He offered her a hand, but she ignored it, jumping up on her own to sit beside him. Not too close beside him, though; the idea that she … owed him something for not wagging his tongue didn’t sit well with her at all. “Ye might try seeing things from where I stand, ye great brute. I’ll nae thank ye for simply doing the decent thing and not getting my sister and me murdered. I didnae ask ye for a damned thing, and ye still shoved yer way into my affairs. If ye’d done as I asked a week ago and stayed away, we’d both be happier.”

  “I didnae say I wasnae happy, lass.” His mouth curved in one of those maddening, astoundingly attractive smiles he seemed able to assume at will. “Ye have a way of bringing fire to a cold day. And whether ye want it to be so or nae, I did run across ye, and now I’m obligated to look after ye.”

  Catriona opened her mouth to tell him precisely how ridiculous he sounded, but then she closed it again. How many times had she heard something similar? She’d been born in the Highlands, after all. Of course the clan looked out for its members, protected them—or that was how the words went, anyway. In actual practice she’d found matters to be somewhat less … straightforward. And that one man’s idea of a lass’s best interest might not be her own. But Bear seemed utterly serious. “I’m nae yer clan, Munro. Ye’ve nae such obligation to me.”

  He tilted his head, a lock of his shaggy black hair falling across one green eye. “Ye’re a lass who’s hiding. That—”

  “How do ye know I’m hiding?” she broke in. “I’m showing my friend—my sister, I mean—the Highlands.”

  “And trying to keep the fact that ye’re related a secret,” he stated. “I knew ye were sisters; ye have the same nose.”

  “Please. We dunnae look a thing alike.”

  Where Elizabeth was all long, elegant lines, straight golden hair, and rich hazel eyes with those thick lashes, she was short and curvy with her mother’s red hair and her father’s brown eyes. It was possible, she supposed, that their noses were similar; she had never compared them that closely.

  “What clan are ye?” he asked.

  “What clan are ye?”

  “I told ye I was clan MacLawry. Ye’re in the middle of MacLawry land, ye ken.”

  “I’m a MacLawry as well, now,” she commented. It made for a fairly bold lie, but clan MacLawry was huge and growing every day as Lord Glengask welcomed refugees from other clans. So the stories went, anyway. She could be one of the newcomers. Bear wouldn’t know the difference.

  “Are ye, then?” he asked, lifting a curved eyebrow.

  “Aye. The MacLawry himself gave us use of Haldane Abbey. He said we could stay as long as we liked, and that we would be left alone here.”

  “Ah. A generous man, is the MacLawry.”

  “Very generous.”

  “He might have found ye a place where the roof isnae caved in, though.”

  Bear gazed at the large manor sprawled before them, and she took it in all over again, herself. When she’d first come upon it she’d nearly passed it by—the top floor was little more than outer walls holed by broken windows open to the sky, while the collapsed roof had broken through half of the second level. Vines and weeds slowly pried the cracks farther apart, while tree roots broke through the drive and abandoned pathways.

  Belatedly it had occurred to her that a place so clearly ruined and abandoned might be perfect. Once she’d made her way inside to find the nearly intact kitchen, she’d felt … relieved, and hopeful, for the first time in weeks. And then, not ten days later, Bear had stumbled across them.

  “I imagine as long as I’m pleased with the lodgings, then that’s all that matters,” she returned finally, deciding she needed to say something.

  Munro pulled an apple from his pocket and offered it to her. Aye, he’d promised it to Saturn, but for Saint Bridget’s sake this lass was more skittish than any wild pony. In fact, he half expected to get his hand bitten for his trouble, or at the least an apple thrown at his head. Instead, though, and after another suspicious glare from her, she lifted it out of his palm, polished it against her coat sleeve, and took a big, crunching bite.

  Munro had a knack with animals—because he was barely more than one himself, according to his siblings—and for some other mysterious reason, a marked popularity with females. He happened to be made up of the various parts a lass favored, what with his height and large … muscles, a face they told him was handsome, and a plump purse. He could have his pick. And he did, frequently.

  But this wild redhead didn’t want anything to do with him. The sister seemed pleasant enough, if a tad too delicate and refined, and he had noted that she possessed a fine figure and a pretty face. Somewhat to his own surprise he had no interest in Miss Elizabeth, though. No, he wanted the lass with the fiery hair and the curves that those shirts and trousers she wore only accentuated. He wanted the wildcat.

  “So if I were to go away, that would prove ye could trust me, aye?” he said, yanking a long stalk of grass from the base of the wall and sticking it between his teeth.

  “Aye. It would.”

  “Except ye’d keep looking fer me to come back with a crowd of drunken lads or someaught. Which to me says ye’d nae trust my absence, either.”

  “I’d manage.”

  He chuckled, blowing out his breath. “Ye’re a hard-hearted lass, Cat.” How the devil was he supposed to convince her to trust him? With a horse, he gave it an apple and then he rode it. A lass might require flowers or a pretty bauble, but the principle was generally the same.

  “I’m nae hard-hearted,” she said unexpectedly. “I dunnae want ye about because I have a plan. Ye’re nae a part of that plan. In fact, ye’re making things worse.”

  “I’m making things worse fer ye?” Munro furrowed his
brow. “Mayhap ye didnae plan fer a handsome, manly lad such as myself to cross yer path, but if ye say that me bringing ye food and blankets is hurting ye, I’ll call ye a liar to yer face.” Especially after the damned effort he’d gone through to get her those things.

  She made a growling sound. For a heartbeat he thought he might take an apple to the ear after all, but instead she heaved it over his head and into the underbrush beyond. “Why do ye insist on coming about here where ye’re nae wanted? Why?”

  “I’m stubborn,” he answered promptly, somewhat mollified that he wasn’t the only one frustrated by this game of chess, or whatever it was. “And I’m accustomed to getting my way. A fellow—or lass—generally doesnae risk standing toe-to-toe with me.” Except for her, in fact.

  “Then I’m a good lesson in disappointment for ye.”

  “Or I’m a good lesson fer ye.” He wanted to edge closer to her, take her hand, ensure that he had her attention, but that would likely see her fleeing or fighting again. She’d kept from trying to hit him for better than five minutes now, and he didn’t want to end that streak of good fortune. “I’m nae going away, Cat. So I suggest ye make use of me.”

  “To what, hold the walls up with yer great muscles?”

  She had a sense of humor, anyway. “I know this land, fer instance,” he offered. “If ye mean to stay on here, I can see to it ye’ve nae unwanted visitors, and that ye have enough food and warm clothes and blankets.” It didn’t seem like much when he said it aloud, but he had a good idea if he offered to shower her with gifts and assistance the wildcat would turn him down flat.

  “And how do ye mean to afford this, Munro?” she countered. “Even if I had nae objection to a man, a stranger, keeping us in food and clothes, surely ye’ve a better use for yer blunt. Yer own family, for example. Ye’ve an uncle; is there anyone else?”

  Lying to her about his relationship to Peter had kept him from having to admit that he went about with servants and bodyguards. And hell, Peter was practically his uncle. But the more lies he told, the more he’d have to remember later, and the more he’d have to make amends for later. Because this wasn’t just a bump in his road. This was a new road, altogether. The certainty with which he knew that startled him a little.

  “I’m nae married, if that’s what ye’re asking,” he said aloud.

  Her cheeks darkened. “That is nae what I’m asking. Why should I care, except that ye mauled my face?”

  Well, that wasn’t at all flattering. “I didnae maul ye. That was a damned fine kiss. It’s nae my fault if ye dunnae ken a good kiss when ye get one.”

  She made a scoffing sound. “Ha. I imagine I can outthink ye, outshoot ye, and outkiss ye, Bear.”

  Not only did that sound like a fine wager despite the blatant insult, but it could also give him cause to stay about. “Let’s set us some targets, then,” he drawled, hopping down from the wall and intentionally leaving her to make her own way to the ground. She wasn’t one for being coddled, and that was damned certain.

  “I dunnae—”

  “If I win,” he interrupted, “I’ll do fer ye as I see fit, and ye’ll nae protest aboot it. If ye win, I’ll do fer ye as ye see fit—as long as it doesnae include me leaving ye here on yer own. Because that I willnae do.”

  Cat slid to the ground, pausing to dust off her curvy backside before she looked up at him. “All of that seems tilted in yer favor.”

  “Only if ye ken I’ve nae better to do than tote dead, roasted birds fer ye and yer piuthar.”

  “For all I ken, ye dunnae. I’ve nae idea who ye are or what ye do. Other than come by far too often and step into my affairs, that is.”

  With her chin up, her dark brown eyes meeting his with a fearlessness that was both rare and intriguing, he very nearly caught her up in his arms and kissed her again. But they’d managed a semicivil conversation, and he didn’t care to retreat to the trying-to-shoot-him part of their relationship. “Ye tell me someaught, and I’ll tell ye someaught.”

  “I could tell ye anything then, Bear.”

  “Aye, ye could. And so could I, I reckon. Do as ye will.”

  As he spoke, it occurred to him that he was going to a great deal of effort for no discernible reward. With most lasses, he didn’t even have to bother with bringing posies. They were Highlands lasses, born and bred to live in this rough, wild land. Some of them used their beauty or their skills at seduction. Some were clever or cunning, and others relied on their wealth or breeding. They were all part of a clan, close and interdependent and, despite being scattered into small towns and villages and grand houses, never quite alone.

  This—she—was different. Self-sufficient, alone but for a delicate younger sister, and apparently quite content to be so. Determined to be so, even. Whatever her reasons, he found her … fascinating. He wanted to know about her. And considering that she didn’t seem a lass he could bed for one or a handful of nights and then walk away, he might well have lost his bloody mind.

  “Ye’ve a very serious frown on ye,” she noted. “I hope it’s because ye’re regretting threatening to spank me.”

  Munro started. How long had he been standing there, staring at her? “Nae. I had to do someaught to get ye to stop thrashing aboot. It’s only that thinking too hard’s likely to catch my hair on fire. Or so I’ve been told.” By his brother, Arran, and on numerous occasions, actually.

  She snorted. “Since ye clearly willnae go away, put up the damned targets.” Cat jabbed a finger into his chest. “But I warn ye, ye’ll nae like what I have in mind for ye when I win.”

  “I’ll risk it.” Because whether she’d realized it or not, the moment she’d agreed to participate in the contest he’d already won. She’d given her permission for him to continue to come calling whenever he chose. Their tales were intertwined, now. Just the way he wanted it. Not as clever as his brothers, ha.

  He led the way back inside the ruins to find Peter standing over Elizabeth’s shoulder while the lass wrote out a short list of items. Several times Rowena and Arran and even some of the other servants had attempted to teach Gilling to read and write, but the footman seemed to view his illiteracy as a badge of honor—or at least of stubbornness.

  “Ye’ve made some progress, then?” he asked, noting that the musket stood against the rickety old table. Well, he’d have to trust Cat not to shoot him, eventually. Now seemed as good a time as any. He shifted sideways, intentionally leaving the path open between the lass and her weapon.

  “Aye,” Peter returned. “Nae lass should have to go withoot a proper teapot.”

  “Well, we dunnae have tea, so it’s nae so difficult,” Cat put in, as Munro tried to decide whether Gilling was being sarcastic or not. The footman grumbled so regularly that it was sometimes difficult to tell.

  “Uncle, go set up a few shooting targets, will ye? The lass and I have a wager to settle.”

  The footman lifted a thick eyebrow. “Ye’re shooting against a lass? Ye?”

  “Aye. Me. Go see to it,” Munro countered, before Peter could mention the clan gatherings and country fairs where Laird Bear MacLawry had defeated all comers and had the wee ribbons to prove it. If the wildcat decided the wager wasn’t fair, they would all have to go back to the beginning again.

  With a quick nod Peter left the kitchen, and Munro perused the list Elizabeth handed up to him. She actually had written “teapot” in neatly scripted pencil, along with a pair of cups and saucers to go with it, tea leaves, some hair ribbons, and an oil lamp, with the word “tarp” at the bottom as if it had been an afterthought. Or more likely, a suggestion from the eminently practical Gilling.

  The list told him a couple of things. Elizabeth had never lived in anything but comfort previous to this. She had no idea how to live … here. And while she was likely the reason for this flight into the Highlands, she was not the captain of the expedition. That title went to the mad redhead currently digging through the picnic basket and making involuntary happy sounds as she discovered th
e bowl of sugar and the small sack of salt he’d managed to liberate from under Mrs. Forrest’s disapproving nose.

  “May I, lass?” he asked, gesturing for the stub of a pencil.

  Elizabeth put it into his hand, this time the brush of her fingers against his unmistakably intentional. “Your uncle scoffed at being able to read my ‘frilly scribbles,’ as he called it,” she said, with a breathy chuckle. “I’m glad to see you don’t share his disdain for reading and writing.”

  Saint Bridget, the delicate flower was flirting with him. Aye, she stood a handful of inches taller than her sister, but with her dainty speech and impractical clothes she seemed far more breakable than the wildcat. “As long as I’m nae expected to produce poetry, I reckon I can manage,” he said aloud, not certain he liked the way he so easily fell into his old thickheaded persona. Perhaps he’d been wearing it for so long that he had become that half-wit. “That Shakespeare book yer sister asked for. That was fer ye, I assume?”

  “Both of us, really. We practically have Cat’s book of Byron’s poetry memorized, and I never liked Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage much to begin with.”

  Well, that was interesting. Clearly he needed to do some more chatting with young Elizabeth if he wanted answers about who these lasses belonged to and what they were doing in the middle of clan MacLawry territory. He caught sight of the salt sack vanishing into a leather satchel. Why did questioning Elizabeth feel like cheating? If one lass would talk and the other wouldn’t, logic said he should get some answers from the chatty one. Even if he’d rather pry them out of the other one.

  Munro glanced over at Cat as she straightened from the satchel and took a moment to tuck a straying strand of hair behind one ear. As far as he was concerned, she was the lass to pursue. Her sister seemed barely more than a child, and a man didn’t want a child in his bed. A man wanted—he wanted—a lass with steel in her spine. At least this time he did. He didnae bed children, but he’d had his share of flirty, flighty lasses. More than his share. Or that was how it abruptly felt, anyway.