The Highlander’s Lost Lady: The Lairds Most Likely Book 3 Read online

  Chapter 2

  Fiona Grant closed her eyes and rested her aching head against the laird’s broad shoulder. His solid strength made her feel protected, even though she’d heard all her life that anyone named Mactavish was lower than a mangy gutter cur.

  She sucked in a shuddering breath, wincing as her bruised ribs expanded. For a mangy gutter cur, Mr. Mactavish smelled delicious. Her clan’s enemy smelled of fresh air, horses, leather, and vigorous healthy male.

  Fiona had a thousand reasons to fear all men, not just those called Mactavish, but so far, this particular man had been kind to her. The care mightn’t last, but in spite of the despised blood in his veins, she was inclined to believe that he might turn out to be that rarest of beasts—a man of honor.

  Lying to him felt bad, when he took such trouble with her, even giving up his coat in this biting wind. She felt even worse to disclaim all knowledge of old Colin Smith, who had been a man of honor, too.

  Tears too dangerous to shed gathered behind her eyes, as she struggled to hide her sorrow over the fisherman’s death. How she hated that she couldn’t give him his name or his due. If his spirit hovered near, she prayed that he understood and forgave her. When they’d embarked on their reckless voyage down the coast, he certainly knew what was at stake.

  Now Colin was gone, she felt more alone than ever. That knowledge didn’t alter her purpose, just added another layer of risk to her dangerous quest.

  “Did ye hit your head when you fell out of the boat, lassie?” Mr. Mactavish asked.

  “I don’t know,” she mumbled. She was sore all over, as though she’d endured a brutal beating. Bitter experience made that comparison more than a matter of mere imagination.

  “So what do ye remember?”

  Was that a note of skepticism in his voice? “I remember you finding me on the beach.”

  They were amidst the dunes now. Beneath her, the beautiful white horse moved easily. The man’s arms were strong and sure, holding her close against his powerful chest.

  She’d never imagined she’d accept a man’s touch so easily, but instincts developed over the last ten years persuaded her that her rescuer meant her no harm. At least so far, when he didn’t know she was a Grant.

  Anyway, even if he did mean her harm, what in heaven’s name could she do about it? She was weak and exhausted and sick. If she tried to run, she wouldn’t make ten yards. Better to accept Mr. Mactavish’s help, whatever it cost, and regain her strength as best she could before she went on.

  She was freezing in her wet clothes, although the man’s thick coat kept out the worst of the wind. Mr Mactavish must be suffering from the cold, wearing only his shirtsleeves, but the body behind hers was as warm as a furnace. It was a silly fancy, but those powerful arms shielded her from the wind better than his thick coat did. A thick coat that smelled most pleasantly of him, so she felt cocooned in Mr. Mactavish as the mare picked her way across the sand.

  “I’ve heard of such things happening after a head injury,” he said thoughtfully.

  So had she, although only in books. But as long as she continued to deny any knowledge of her past or her identity, he could hardly call her a liar to her face.

  “I wish I could tell you who I am.”

  “Aye, so do I,” he said with a hint of grimness. They left the dunes and rode through a grove of Scots pines that provided some respite from the wind. “Perhaps once you’ve rested and recovered your strength, the details will come back to ye.”

  “Perhaps.”

  And perhaps not.

  The horse’s neat hooves thudded softly upon the carpet of pine needles, and the soughing of the branches above lulled her into a doze. The drowsiness wasn’t peaceful. The moment she closed her eyes, her sensitive stomach heaved as a chaos of disconnected images from the wreck invaded her mind.

  When Colin’s small boat struck rocks at the mouth of the bay, the impact had flung her into raging seas. She’d fought like a demon to stay afloat, but the ocean had been like a wild animal hungry to swallow her. When she went down the last time, it was with the heartbreakingly bitter knowledge that despite all her efforts, she’d failed Christina.

  Perhaps the sea heard a mother’s final, despairing plea as she sank beneath the waves. The next thing Fiona knew, she opened her eyes to a dark-haired man leaning over her with a concerned expression and speaking to her in a voice as rich as good whisky.

  That same voice currently murmured in her ear, promising safety and comfort. She knew better than to trust it, but she also knew that for the present she had to bide her time before she attempted escape.

  “I willnae trouble ye with questions. I’m sure your head is aching. We’ll get you inside and into a hot bath to get your blood flowing again. If ye think your stomach will bear it, you can have something to eat. Right now, you’re safe and alive. That’s the main thing.”

  Dear Lord above, all that sounded wonderful, even if it came from an enemy’s hand.

  “What about…” She stirred enough to open her eyes. They rode beside a burn that leaped over rocks down to the sea, sparkling in the light of the sunbeams that pierced the treetops.

  “I’ll send some lads down to the beach, once we’ve got ye settled.”

  “Thank you.” She supposed this meant Colin would be buried here at—what did the man say this place was called? “Where are we? I know you told me, but…”

  “Invertavey. The Tavey River reaches the sea just around the headland from where I found ye. My name is Diarmid Mactavish. I dinna blame ye for nae taking in much at first.”

  No, she’d had other things to worry about. Most urgently, the prospect of losing the contents of her stomach in a humiliating display before a stranger. Mr. Mactavish had been kind about that, too.

  Her thoughts returned to the man who had risked everything to get her out of Bancavan. Poor Colin, a Grant clansmen condemned to rest on Mactavish land for eternity.

  As they approached the end of the wood, she swore that her faithful friend wouldn’t remain anonymous. Once she was safe, she’d contact Mr. Mactavish and ask him to put the old sailor’s name on the headstone. Pray God that she had a chance to do that and that a settled future awaited.

  “We’re nae far from Ullapool. I’ll let the authorities there ken that you’re here, and hopefully they can find out who ye are and where you belong. I‘m sure ye must be terrified to be lost in a strange place, but there are ways we can trace your kin.”

  Trace her kin? For pity’s sake, that was the last thing she wanted. She’d happily go the rest of her life, seeing neither hair nor hide of her clansmen.

  But she could already tell that Mr. Mactavish was determined to help her in any way he saw fit. Fear, colder than the waves that had washed her up on that lonely beach, made her stiffen in the man’s arms.

  “There’s no need to go to any trouble.” She struggled to sound calm and not panicked out of her mind. Her belly clenched painfully, as she imagined what would happen to her should her rescuer locate her family. “I’m sure that with rest and warmth, my memory will return.”

  “It’s nae trouble.” He guided the horse up a rise that brought them out onto an open hillside. Even as Fiona cursed him, that remarkable, musical voice lowered to a soothing rumble. “That’s all to worry about later. Right now, we need to get ye out of this weather.”

  She sucked in a relieved breath, although she knew her reprieve wouldn’t last. After her ordeal, she wasn’t up to playing mind games with anyone. She was terrified that in her weariness and distress, she might betray herself.

  “Your wife won’t expect you to bring a waif home from the sea.”

  Mr. Mactavish’s soft laugh was a bass rumble in her ear. “Nae need to worry about that. I’m no’ married.”

  More crippling fear flooded her. No wife? What on earth could she do? Once she was under his roof, she’d be at his mercy, with no woman to protect her.

  “Whisht, lassie.” He must have felt her body go rigid, beca
use his hold became even gentler, and that deep, steady voice turned into soft music. “There’s nae need to be frightened. You’ll be treated with every respect.”

  “That’s easy to say,” she retorted, before she could wonder if antagonizing him was the best way to proceed.

  “Never fear, ye willnae be the only woman in the house.” He laughed again. “I have a verra respectable housekeeper who rules the place with a rod of iron, and a gaggle of maids besides.”

  “Can I go somewhere else?”

  “Nowhere else that will suit so well, when you’re ill and hurt. The house is comfortable and large and fit for a lady. Invertavey is a wee village, and you’ll need care until ye regain your strength. I promise you can trust me, despite the impropriety of our situation.” He paused. “At least stay for the night, lassie. Eat. Sleep. Warm up. Tomorrow we’ll talk about what happens next.”

  Mr. Mactavish was a mature man, nearing thirty, she guessed. A grown man like him usually had a wife. Then sour humor had her hiding a bleak smile. What a blithering fool she was. It didn’t matter if he was married or not. A nice wee wife was no guarantee of her safety.

  Hadn’t women been everywhere at Bancavan? Yet not a one of them had raised a finger to help her, even when she’d arrived as a grief-stricken and terrified wean of fifteen. She’d caught plenty of sideways glances, full of silent sympathy. But when it came to action, everyone in the Grant keep was too cowed to stand up for themselves, let alone another person.

  The only soul in ten long years who had offered her a hand out of her misery lay dead on the beach behind her. And she was too entangled in schemes and secrets to speak his name to ensure that he received a proper Christian burial.

  Tears she fought against shedding thickened her voice. “You’re very good to me.”

  The man made a dismissive sound. “It’s nothing. I just hope after you’ve seen the way of things at Invertavey that you’ll know that you’re safe and you’ll feel able to trust us.” He paused. “You’re in nae fit state to go anywhere else anyway.”

  To her regret, he was right. Even this short ride and the effort of keeping up their conversation tested her failing strength.

  He didn’t wait for her reply. “Rest back against me and stop fretting. All that matters right now is restoring your strength and finding out where ye belong.”

  She hid another bleak smile. If he could discover that, he was a miracle worker.

  But she was in no condition to argue metaphysics. Her head pounded with pain, her mouth tasted sour, her stomach churned with nausea, and whatever the risk of accepting his touch, she couldn’t hold herself upright anymore. With a broken sigh, she slumped back and drifted into a daze closer to unconsciousness than genuine sleep.

  Her last thought before she sank into oblivion was that at least she hadn’t given up her fight. While she had breath in her body, she couldn’t. But just now, her strength betrayed her. Whatever awaited in this stranger’s custody, she had no way to defend herself against it.

  Not today anyway.

  Even as she surrendered to weakness, something in her recognized that the arms enfolding her were strong and sure. Mr. Mactavish’s hands on her and on the horse were kind.

  Long ago, she’d learned to recognize a bully. This man claimed she could trust him. Could she? Was he an exception to the rest of his sex?

  God help her if he wasn’t, because she was helpless in his power.

  ***

  The sudden clatter of hooves on cobbles made Fiona stir. She released a muffled sound of distress and opened bleary eyes. It took her a few seconds to realize that she’d survived the wild storm and that she rested in a man’s arms.

  Her belly clenched on painful emptiness. She couldn’t help reliving that horrifying moment when the boat crashed into the rocks with an ear-splitting crack, pitching her screaming into rough, ice-cold water.

  “Whisht, lassie, you’re safe,” the man behind her murmured.

  The man. Diarmid Mactavish.

  Member of a despised clan. The laird of this place. The sole arbiter of her future, at least until she could manage more than a few steps without aid.

  Fiona lacked the energy to sit up, as she struggled to make sense of where she was. A large and pleasant house rose before her, built in the fashionable gothic style. “Is this your home?”

  “Aye, this is Invertavey House. I bid ye welcome, and I promise nae harm will come to you here. Ye have my word on it.”

  If only she could believe him. Nonetheless she dredged up a polite response. “Thank you.”

  He rode around the back to a neat stable block, built from the same stark gray granite as the main house. “Tam, Rabbie, are ye there?”

  Two men, one young, one older, emerged from the stable’s double doors, and she read astonishment on their faces.

  “Och, Mactavish, what the de’il hae ye been up to? Hae ye caught yourself a wee mermaid on this morning’s tide?” the older man said in a thick Highland accent. Mr. Mactavish’s voice held a soft Scottish inflection, closer to the Edinburgh accents of her childhood.

  “Aye, I have at that.” The laird’s chuckle was warm, as he brought the pretty white horse to a stop. “The lady was washed up on Canmara Beach, after a shipwreck during last night’s storm.”

  “Och, the puir wee soul,” the younger man said, his face creasing in immediate concern. “Is the lassie hurt?”

  “I dinnae think so, but I’ll get Dr. Higgins up to see to her, as soon as she’s dry and warm and settled.”

  “Let me help ye with her.” The older man came up and lifted Fiona down from the horse. His touch was kind, too, but he didn’t smell nearly as good as Mr. Mactavish did. “Careful, lassie. You’re no’ looking too steady on your feet.”

  As Fiona found her shaky balance, she watched Mr. Mactavish dismount and take the younger man aside. He kept his voice low, but she still heard him. “There’s a body on the beach, Rab. Can ye get a few of the lads down there and bring him up to the house? And send Billy into the village to fetch the doctor.”

  “Aye, straightaway, Mactavish.”

  The laird turned to where Fiona stood beside Tam, supported by one brawny hand on her arm. The ease between the master and his retainers did more to reassure her than all his promises. This clearly wasn’t a man who used fear to rule. “I’ll carry ye inside, lassie.”

  She shook her head. “I can walk.”

  Tam let her go, and she took a step toward the laird. She came to a stop, wavering where she stood. Her surroundings started to recede in a most alarming fashion. Pride dissolved to nothing, as she fought against crumpling onto the cobblestones beneath her feet. She felt like her very bones turned to ice, and the weight of Mr. Mactavish’s coat threatened to crush her.

  Blindly she reached for something solid to hold onto. Her stomach cramped, and rancid bile flooded her throat.

  “I dinna think so,” Mr. Mactavish said grimly.

  When he swept her up into his arms, a whimper of relief escaped her. She’d learned to fear male strength, but right now that was all that saved her from falling flat on her face.

  “You’re a stubborn wee thing, for a lassie I could knock over with a feather,” Mr. Mactavish said.

  Fiona was too weak to respond, but she leaned her head on his hard chest and didn’t object when he carried her across to the house. As they entered the kitchens, she was too exhausted to keep her eyes open. She heard a flurry of female voices expressing concern and curiosity, and Mr. Mactavish reeled out a list of orders for her comfort and care.

  He swept along in long, powerful strides, carrying her as if she weighed nothing at all. Up several flights of steps. She opened her eyes to find herself in a long corridor. When she looked back over his shoulder, maids trailed after them like ducklings chasing their mother.

  “I seem to be causing you a lot of bother,” she said faintly, as he pushed open a door and entered a large, bright chamber overlooking a broad river and the sea.

&nb
sp; “Och, it stops them all getting lazy, with only me to look after, lassie. Dinna fash yourself.”

  An older woman with gray hair glanced up at that and sent the master a narrow-eyed look that did nothing to hide the affection in her expression. “But you’re a gey lot of trouble, Mactavish. Ye keep us all hopping.”

  “And rightly so,” he said with a laugh. “Otherwise you’d be out terrorizing the parish with your wild ways, Mags.”

  “Aye, wild and dangerous, that’s the women of Invertavey.” The half dozen girls who had come in busied themselves around the room, lighting the fire and turning down the bed and setting out towels and soaps.

  “I wish Mags was joking,” Mr. Mactavish said, carefully setting Fiona on her feet.

  She sucked in her first full breath in what felt like forever. She sensed no threat in this room. Perhaps she was safe. If just for the moment.

  As long as nobody found out she was a Grant. As long as her family didn’t track her down. As long as she started working on an escape plan to put into effect the second she could set one foot in front of the other without falling over.

  That wouldn’t be today, God help her. The legs that barely held her up felt like they were made of wet wool.

  “What’s the lassie’s name, Mactavish?” Mags asked, as two strapping young men shouldered through the doorway, carrying a large tin bath. The prospect of soaking the salt from her skin and hair in gallons of hot water sent such a wave of longing through Fiona that she staggered.

  “Careful,” Mr. Mactavish said, taking her arm.

  Since he found her on that windswept beach, he’d touched her a lot. Usually she hated to have masculine hands on her. But then, masculine hands in her experience bruised and hurt. There was no doubting her rescuer’s strength—he hadn’t even caught his breath carrying her up the stairs—but so far his hands had offered nothing but kindness and support.

  “The lady cannae recall anything that happened before the shipwreck,” he said to Mags.