My One True Highlander Page 8
His sensuous lips curved just a little. “Nae.”
“No? Why not? You’ve already brought it here; you may as well give it to me.”
Gray eyes looked her up and down, making her feel hot—but on the inside, beneath her skin. “I reckon I’d like to hear ye ask me nicely,” he said after a moment, “being that we’re betrothed. And give me either a curtsy or a kiss. I’ll let ye choose which. This time.”
Oh, dear. More than likely he meant to embarrass her, to remind her just how little control she had over anything here. Still, she had to weigh the alternatives—a second evening of nothing but her own worried thoughts to keep her company, versus a show of respect, a curtsy, to a villain. Because she certainly wasn’t going to kiss him. Not for all the tea in China, or an original folio of Shakespeare’s.
Squaring her shoulders, Marjorie sank into a deep curtsy, her skirts flowing out around her. Heaven knew she’d had enough practice at it; the art of the curtsy had actually been a class at finishing school. Aside from that, previous to three months ago practically everyone she’d encountered in Mayfair as she ran errands for her employer had outranked her.
For a long moment after she lifted her head again, Maxton gazed at her. In all likelihood no one had ever curtsied to him before, so it was entirely possible that he was at a loss for words. She’d felt like that, the first time a man had bowed to her—and that had been all of seven weeks ago.
Visibly shaking himself, Maxton dug into the sack and produced a leather-bound tome, which he held out to her. “Very prettily done, lass,” he drawled. “I didnae think ye had it in ye.”
She took the book, being careful not to touch his fingers. “The entirety of what you know about me, sir, wouldn’t fill a teacup,” she returned, cradling the thing to her chest. “Now please leave. And knock before you come in, next time.”
“Aye, and I’ll dress in my finest and slick back my hair fer ye, too, shall I?” he retorted, amusement touching his voice again.
“Well, someone should do something with that lion’s mane of yours.”
He turned for the door, then stopped to swing around and look at her again, an unexpected grin touching his mouth. “A lion’s mane, is it?” he asked, dragging his fingers through the auburn mass. “I like the sound of that.”
Graeme pulled the door closed behind him, turning to lock it and then pocketing the key. Whatever he thought of her kind in general, Lady Marjorie had some spirit. Nor did she seem quite as empty-headed as he’d expected—after better than a day of captivity the duke’s sister should have been in hysterics, throwing things and demanding a maid to help her brush her hair.
And damn it all, she should have been grateful to have a viscount—any viscount—agree to marry her. He’d read stories where a kiss or an ill-timed laugh had ruined some English lady’s reputation. This one had gone missing for better than a day already. However lofty her friends, he doubted they’d overlook the damage. She could announce that she didn’t care, but he didn’t believe it. Not for a single bloody minute.
When Cowen appeared in front of him, he just barely kept from jumping. Damn it all. In a house stuffed with three unruly lads, he couldn’t afford to be lost in his own thoughts. “Send these to the cobbler,” he said, holding out the sack of shoes. “And a chicken fer payment; God knows he’ll nae be getting coin fer it.”
“Aye, m’laird. And ye wanted to know what yer bràthairs are up to. I couldnae say, but all three of the lads are in the billiards room.”
Nodding, Graeme turned back up the hallway. It had become apparent yesterday that he’d been far too lenient with his younger siblings, far too concerned with keeping a roof over their heads to notice the nonsense going on in their heads. And it was dangerous nonsense, as he’d witnessed yesterday.
He shoved open the closed billiards-room door. “So ye think ye get to play after ye tie up a lass, frighten her half to death, and then dump her in my lap?”
Three pairs of eyes, all various shades of gray, looked up at him. “We’re nae playing,” Brendan announced, returning to the papers they had scattered across the billiards table.
“Nae a newspaper says Lady Marjorie’s gone missing,” Connell announced, shredding a dandelion leaf and dropping the bits into his rounded coat pockets.
“Nae a newspaper ye’ve seen,” Graeme amended. “We’ll nae have a London paper to hand fer days.”
“Even so,” Brendan countered, “Sam Woring put in a notice aboot a missing pitchfork. A duke’s sister’s more important than a pitchfork, and there’s nae a mention of her.”
To himself Graeme could admit the omission was a bit … odd, but the silence didn’t mean his slender, blue-eyed problem had vanished. “Is that yer concern then, Brendan? That nae a soul knows what ye’ve done?”
“Isn’t it yers too, Graeme? That she doesnae bring us more trouble?”
Just gazing into her eyes was trouble. “That’s a concern,” he conceded. “My largest worry is over why ye and Dùghlas even thought of kidnapping a lass, and why neither of ye decided against it.” He stepped deeper into the room, closing the door behind him. “Dunnae ye understand? Ye put yer hands on a lass, dragged her away from her friends and family, and both scared her and made her—and her brother—into our enemies.”
Brendan pounded a fist against the table’s surface. “Aye, we’ve made a Sassenach an enemy, but that’s because ye and Papa made an enemy of our own clan chief. If ye do what we planned, ye’ll have Dunncraigh in yer pocket. And then with all of clan Maxwell behind us, nae English trespassing duke could stand against us.”
“Ye—”
“We were desperate to help ye, Graeme,” Dùghlas interrupted. “Ye kept saying ye’d manage the Maxwell, but then ye ignored him. And so when we saw the lady there at the inn, we couldnae pass by our chance.”
Graeme blew out his breath. Lucifer’s balls, they still didn’t understand. They saw Lady Marjorie as nothing more than leverage. And perhaps he was guilty of the same thing. Or perhaps he was making the best of a bad situation. “Well, now that ye’ve dragged her here and ruined her reputation, I reckon it’s up to me to decide what’s best fer the lot of us. I’ve sent a note to Father Michael inquiring aboot getting a special license so I can marry Lady Marjorie Forrester.”
All three boys looked at him blankly. “But—” Brendan finally stammered. “She’s to go to the Maxwell, so he can take back Lattimer. If ye—”
“If I what?” Graeme prompted. “If I marry her, we’ll have the blunt to stand against anyone. Hell, we might even gain Lattimer as an ally.”
“If he doesnae murder ye for marrying his sister,” Brendan retorted.
“Ye should only marry her if ye’re in love with her,” Connell said, with all the conviction his eight years gave him. “And ye’ve only known her a day. What if she doesnae like cats?”
“I’ll risk it,” he returned. “And love is nae a thing I’m looking fer. Her money’ll do just fine.”
“She willnae be able to bring charges against us, either,” Dùghlas noted. “If ye’re doing this fer us, Graeme, ye shouldnae—”
“Of course it’s fer ye, ye heathens,” Graeme cut in. “Ye did wrong. I’m making it right, in the way that works best fer all of us, the Sassenach lass included.”
“We could just ask her to be quiet aboot it,” Connell insisted.
“She doesnae owe us that. Or anything.” And that was the crux of the problem.
She owed him no kindness, no favors, and even if she swore not to mention the lads’ names, he had no reason to believe her. He would be better off bricking her into the room and never mentioning her again.
Just the idea of that, however, made his chest tighten. The day the Maxtons of clan Maxwell were desperate enough to commit murder—the day he became that desperate—he would walk away from the Highlands altogether. Even so, he wouldn’t be digging through old trunks to bring her any more pairs of shoes, even if he did find her absurd insistence on propriety amusing.
“We’ve got her here now,” Brendan took up, clearly not confused by the damned female’s presence at all. “And we cannae let her go. Ye may as well hand her to Dunncraigh and have some good come of this. Let her be his worry.”
“I’ll nae be taking advice from ye until ye’ve at least grown some scruff on yer cheeks,” Graeme retorted. “And nae until yer first solution to trouble isnae to kidnap a lass.”
Brendan’s cheeks darkened. “But ye’re willing to marry her. How are ye any better?”
Graeme scowled. “That’s cowardly to say, when ye ken damned well I willnae fight a bairn as wee as ye are, Brendan.”
“I’m nae wee! Or a bairn! I only lack four inches on ye, Graeme Maxton, and I’ll fight ye any damned day of the week.”
It was true the lad had come within two inches of six feet, but Brendan remained skinny, and nearly as gangly as Connell. In another three or four years, aye, he might put on the muscle to make a fight interesting. Today, though, a brawl would only serve to embarrass the boy, get his back up. That would only ensure that not a one of them learned the lesson he badly needed to teach them.
“Well, it willnae be today, because Sean Moss’s son Will has a fever, and ye’ll be helping to sack the grain at the mill. Ye and Dùghlas, both.”
Brendan slammed his fist against the paper-covered surface of the billiards table. “Send us to shovel shite if ye want, Graeme, but ye’re still a stubborn fool.”
“I dunnae want to shovel shite,” Dùghlas countered.
“Shut yer gobber, Dùghlas,” his older sibling grunted. “I’m making a bloody point.” The three lads started for the door.
“So am I,” the second-youngest returned. “Aboot shite, and how I dunnae want to shovel it.”
“Dùghlas, ye’re a—”
“Connell,” Graeme broke in, reaching out to catch the eight-year-old by the collar. “Ye stay here.”
The boy frowned. “The lads watch after me.”
“Aye. And the last time they did, ye lured a lass into a kidnapping. Stay aboot the hoose.”
“Fine,” Connell grumbled. “But I dunnae like it.”
“Good. Ye’re nae meant to.”
When the older boys had gone, Connell faced him again. “Would the Maxwell hurt Lady Marjorie?” he asked, dipping both hands into his pockets to absently pet the rabbit kits Graeme wasn’t supposed to know about. “Is that why ye want her to stay here?”
“I dunnae ken if he would or nae,” he returned, putting a hand on his youngest brother’s shoulder and guiding him back into the hallway. “If I gave her over, and if he did hurt her, it would be on my head, though. And I’ve enough to worry over withoot adding that.”
Connell nodded. “Mayhap we should let her go, then, while the lads are at the mill. Ye could tell ’em she escaped.”
“I would, if I could trust her nae to accuse ye three muttonheads of dragging her off.” And if he could be sure that whatever tale she told wouldn’t reach Dunncraigh and cause even more trouble between him and his clan chief—if he didn’t end up in prison, which seemed the most likely scenario. “Between ye and me, duckling, marrying her is the best plan I have.”
“Well, I hope she likes us, if she’s to be part of the family.”
Hm. She would be a part of the family, which meant she would be about sensitive, impressionable Connell. “If she doesnae like us, she’s mad. But dunnae worry yerself aboot it, duckling. I’ll sort it oot.”
The eight-year-old chuckled as he headed up the stairs toward his animal-filled bedchamber. “Aye. The way ye sorted oot Fionan Polk?” He mimed swinging a punch. “The blood went everywhere! I even got some on my shoe.”
Graeme grinned. “She’s a lass, so I reckon I’ll try to be more delicate.”
This time Connell laughed. “Ye’re nae delicate, Graeme.”
His brother had a point. Four lads in the house, three of them his responsibility since his twentieth year, meant that more often than not he solved problems with a loud voice and a short, hard punishment, a smack across the arse, or a toss into the river Douchary. Ham-fisted, but effective.
Until now, anyway. Completely aside from the way she’d arrived, having a female beneath his roof changed everything. The last woman in residence had been their mother, and while Graeme remembered her well enough, mostly he recalled how petite she’d been, how delicate-seeming, and yet how utterly ferocious. This lass seemed more sharp and more helpless, but he had no inclination to compare the two females, anyway. Marjorie Forrester was very much not his mother.
Was she a wife, though? And why had it begun to matter to him that she liked them? Liked him? She was a damned prisoner, and should be grateful for any solution he offered.
“M’laird,” Cowen said from the foyer before Graeme could even reach the landing, “Father Michael’s here. He said ye’re to go over the schedule for the Samhain fair.”
And that would take the remainder of his day. For a moment Graeme contemplated giving the scheduling duties over to Cowen, but the task traditionally belonged to the clan chieftain, and that was him. Aside from that, he’d requested a marriage license this morning. Graeme had asked for discretion, but neither would he be surprised if half the valley knew he’d decided to wed.
“Did ye put him in the morning room?”
“Aye. With some of that black tea he favors.”
Graeme nodded, heading back down the stairs. “Come find me in an hour with some disaster or other, or I’ll sack ye.” He paused. “And nae a word aboot our guest.”
“I wouldnae,” Cowen returned. “I can only imagine how many hours he’d preach aboot that.”
Suppressing a shudder, Graeme walked into the morning room. The priest sat by the fire, tea at his elbow and his Bible and well-worn, much-marked plan for the fair in his lap. “Father Michael,” he said, offering his hand as the priest rose.
“Graeme. I apologize fer being late. Morag Moss finally lost her cat Tabby, and asked me to pray over him, and then she insisted on baking some shortbread fer me.”
“That was kind of ye,” Graeme noted, taking the seat opposite. Privately he thought Morag Moss had simply wanted to keep the white-haired, distinguished-looking priest about—especially since today was wash day and half the village would note who’d called at her cottage.
“She’s a very pious lass. And all alone, with her husband and now her Tabby gone.”
“Aye.”
The priest sipped his tea, eyeing Graeme over the rim of the old cup. “Well, lad? Are ye going to tell me who’s finally caught yer heart?”
Graeme snorted. “Nae a lass has caught my heart, Father. But I have decided it’s time to marry.”
“But lad, ye—”
“I’ve nae agreed with ye yet on the topic of love, so dunnae expect me to do it today.” If that was harsh, the priest should expect it by now. For eight years they’d been having the same conversation.
Father Michael cleared his throat. “Ye’re wrong, but I’ll respect yer opinion. Who is she, then? And does she ken she doesnae have yer heart?”
“I’ve nae a particular lass in mind yet,” he said slowly, wondering if there was a worse sin than lying to a man of God. “But I mean to marry soon, and I want nae delays when it’s decided. Did ye send the request?” If he hadn’t been a viscount he wouldn’t have bothered with a license; handfasting was more respected than a piece of paper in the Highlands, anyway. But with a title involved, the Crown had to make certain things were official.
“Aye. With the mail coach. It’ll be a few days before we hear back from Canterbury, but with ye being a viscount I dunnae see any difficulties. When ye do find a lass, though, Graeme, I hope ye can—”
“Nae more aboot marriage,” Graeme interrupted. “Ye’re here to speak against dancing at Samhain, I reckon.”
Father Michael sighed. “Have it yer way, lad. Ye’re more stubborn than a mountain. Aye. I object to the dancing, though I dunnae expect to sway ye this year any more than I did last year.” The father dropped another lump of sugar into his tea. “By the way, ye ken I dunnae hold with gossip, but as the Maxwell chieftain hereaboots ye are aware of the English who took rooms at the Cracked Hearth, aye?”
Graeme kept his expression neutral despite his internal leap to attention. “Nae,” he drawled, drawing out the word. “Should I be? They do travel across my land, from time to time.”
“Of course they do. But these three, two men in livery and an older woman, claim the woman’s niece has gone missing. I thought someone might’ve informed ye, so ye could have the folk hereaboots keep an eye oot fer the lass.”
Someone damned well should have informed him. News about Lady Marjorie was to be kept secret from everyone outside the household. Not from him. Bloody hell. If Taog had returned from the inn and declined to tell him what was afoot there, the lad would be polishing bannisters for a fortnight. “I’ll ride doon in the morning and talk to this woman myself,” he said aloud. “I’ve nae fondness fer any Sassenach, but if we can help find this lass, we’ll do it, of course.”
Father Michael nodded. “That’s good of ye. Aside from the blessings due any Samaritan, having the news get oot that an English lass has gone missing in the area willnae serve anyone.” With a brief smile he returned the teacup to its saucer. “Now. I ken all the lads favor a drinking contest at the fair, but dunnae ye think it a trifle … sinful? Perhaps we could substitute a good pie-eating competition in its stead.”
He didn’t want to talk about beer drinking or pie eating, or the brawl that would likely ensue if he canceled one in favor of the other. He wanted to gallop down to the end of the wide, curved valley, across the river Douchary, and see for himself who was looking for Lady Marjorie and why they were describing her as “an English lass” instead of the sister of the Duke of Lattimer.