The Highlander's Lost Lady Read online

  “We just need to make it down the stairs and into the stables.”

  “I’m ready.”

  They’d reached the end of the hall when he heard someone coming up the main staircase.

  “If we dinna stop on the way, we’ll be home tomorrow night,” Allan was saying.

  “Do ye think the besom will last another hard day’s travel?” Thomas asked.

  “She’ll have to. If she’s uncomfortable, it’s her own damned fault. Once we get her home, I’ll show her what uncomfortable is, the insolent witch.”

  Diarmid heard Mrs. Grant muffle a gasp as he hauled her into a dash for the backstairs. She managed a few steps before she stumbled.

  “Oh, hell,” he muttered.

  Knowing that he invited trouble but unable to do anything else, he swung her up in his arms and whipped around into the narrow stairwell. Adjusting his grip on her, he rushed down the steps, praying that the Grants wouldn’t hear the thud of his boots on the wooden treads. Or if they did, they’d just assume it was a servant on his way back to the kitchens.

  The girl curled up against him, as if making herself smaller would aid their escape. Her erratic breath was warm on the side of his neck.

  “Hold on,” he whispered, as he started down the last flight of stairs. When they rushed through the hot, crowded kitchen, he caught a host of curious glances, then he was crossing the yard at a run.

  Rose was already leading a saddled Sigurn out of the stables. “I’m gey sorry, Mactavish. I tried my best to keep them downstairs. But they’re awfu’ sparse conversationalists.”

  “Thanks, Rose.” He tossed Mrs. Grant into the saddle and mounted behind her. As his arms closed around the girl’s trembling body, he cursed the fact that more physical closeness was inevitable. “Ye did your best.”

  “I’ve told my people that if any of them says a word about what’s happened, they’re out of a job. I willnae have your name or the lady’s disparaged in my hearing. And I’ve packed some food in your saddlebags.”

  “You’re an angel.”

  She smiled at him. “Aye, that’s me.”

  Angry shouting rose from inside the inn. Diarmid had a suspicion that the staff were doing their best to impede the Grants’ pursuit. Rose wasn’t the only Mactavish working at the Thistle.

  He caught up the reins. “God bless ye, Rose.”

  “And God go with ye, Mactavish.”

  He clattered out of the yard while behind him, the Grants rushed into the open, yelling blue murder. When he heard the sharp crack of a gunshot behind him, his principal reaction was rage rather than fear.

  What the devil did those madmen think they were doing? To Hades with them.

  The stakes, already high, rocketed up into the sky, now that this rescue turned into a killing matter. With a muttered curse, Diarmid dug his heels into Sigurn’s sides and urged her away from the inn.

  Chapter 10

  After the terrifying gunshot, Fiona heard Allan shout after them to stop. She suppressed a whimper and shrank against Diarmid Mactavish. She didn’t like men touching her, but at this moment, that strong chest behind her seemed the closest thing to safety she’d known since her father died.

  Mr. Mactavish’s grip tightened, and he urged the horse to greater speed, as they raced along the pale ribbon of road toward the hills. “They willnae catch us. Dinna be afraid.”

  Stupid that those words of reassurance in his deep, musical voice should soothe her rising panic. But they did. He’d balanced her across his saddle bow, and one powerful arm lashed around her. She wasn’t afraid of falling. He wouldn’t let her go. “We’re still too close to the inn.”

  “They’ve got to saddle their horses before they come after us, and Rose will make sure that’s no’ easy. Even then, they dinna ken these hills like I do.”

  “But the road…” They were riding between two hills with a river running along beside them. When she looked back, she could no longer see the inn.

  “We’re no’ staying on the road. Trust me.”

  Despite everything she knew about the male sex, she’d almost started to trust Diarmid Mactavish. Until he handed her over to her tormenters, and she had to accept that despite Colin’s death and all her frantic efforts, she’d failed Christina.

  Fiona had spent the ride from Invertavey to the Thistle lost in a thick fog of despair. Even Allan’s spite hadn’t had the power to hurt her.

  Now she took her first full breath since Mr. Mactavish had appeared in her room at the inn. The Grants’ arrival at Invertavey had crushed all hope. It revived now, frail and uncertain. But definitely there.

  “Hold on.” He angled the horse down the steep riverbank, and the sudden lurching had her clutching at his waist.

  “They’ll find a way to follow us,” she said, partly to hear him deny the fact.

  As they splashed across a ford, he cooperated, bless him. Every time he spoke, she felt stronger, as if she might have a chance of winning after all. “We’re well ahead of them.”

  She wanted to argue that it wasn’t enough, but what was the point? For the moment, she was free. When Allan Grant tied her to that hard little bed at the Thistle, she’d feared she’d never be free again.

  The horse labored up the opposite bank. The hem of Fiona’s dress was heavy with water. The eerie half-light of a summer night in the northern Highlands revealed more hills and a narrow track winding ahead. Mr. Mactavish ignored the track and guided the horse along the lush, green bank. Brambles caught at her wet skirts as they progressed.

  She lifted her head until she could see his expression. He looked stern and distant, even as his arm clasped her close. “Why did you come for me?”

  “Whisht, lassie. No’ now. We’ll talk when we stop for the night. Right now, I need to concentrate on getting us to safety.”

  Safety. What a glorious word.

  Although when they stopped, he’d expect her to tell him everything, and she was so used to keeping secrets. But the jut of that impressive jaw hinted that she’d wheedle nothing more out of him until he was ready. So she rested her head on his chest and let weariness wash over her.

  After following the bank for about half a mile, they turned off onto a trail so faint Fiona wouldn’t have known it was there. A sheep track, she supposed. Since leaving the inn, they hadn’t met any people or passed any houses. This was like fleeing into an endless wilderness.

  As the ground firmed, Sigurn settled into a smooth canter. Fiona soon lost any idea of which direction they went. The trail twisted and turned, but as they wended through the treeless hills, Mr. Mactavish seemed to know his way with unerring exactitude. From the first, she’d noted and admired his air of easy competence. She started to believe him when he said they’d evade pursuit. At least for tonight.

  They were pressed so close together that his rich scent invaded her nostrils. Strangely pleasant. She was used to the musty smell of old men. Sitting much as she did now, she’d ridden north on Thomas Grant’s horse, trapped in the miasma of his dry, unpleasant stench. She’d come close to gagging, dreading the fact that soon he’d be even closer, if he got his way.

  But Diarmid Mactavish didn’t smell anything like Thomas Grant. He smelled of open air and health. She sucked in a great gulp of air, relishing that fresh scent. The shirt beneath her cheek was clean, with a hint of lavender and fresh sweat. The combination was surprisingly heady. As they rode into the night, she drifted into a pleasant doze, where the scent of Diarmid Mactavish’s skin became the scent of paradise.

  When the horse stopped, she stirred. “What is it?”

  Groggy, Fiona struggled to sit up straight. She cuddled up to Mr. Mactavish, as though they were eloping lovers instead of reluctant allies. If they were even that.

  His grip tightened. “Dinna be afraid.”

  She bit back a snort of disbelieving laughter. Of course she was afraid. She was always afraid. Fear was the air she’d breathed for ten lonely years. As if the Grants might rise out of the ground
like the dead at the Last Judgment, she cast a wary glance around the small glen with its stand of spindly scotch pines and narrow burn.

  All was calm and peaceful. The sky was lighter, as the early summer dawn approached. Birds chirped from the trees, and she saw a fox slink up the brae on his way home from a night’s hunting.

  Fiona felt a pang of compassion for his prey. She knew what it was like to be hunted.

  “Are they coming for us?”

  “I’m sure they’ll try, but they’ll never follow us this far into the hills.”

  “Then why have we stopped?” She realized her arms were still looped around Mr. Mactavish’s waist. With a blush, she pulled free.

  “Sigurn needs a spell. I thought ye might, too.”

  He dismounted and reached for Fiona. He’d been holding her close for hours so she shouldn’t tremble when he touched her. But she was shaking as he set her on the ground.

  “Are ye cold?” He helped her across to the hillock. Sitting on the horse for so long left her stiff and clumsy.

  “No.” With a sigh of relief, she sat. Her legs felt like rubber.

  The laird slid off his coat and dropped it around her shoulders. “Wait there, and I’ll get us something to eat.”

  She wrapped the coat around her. More of that delicious smell. She’d never imagined she’d enjoy a man’s scent, but Diarmid Mactavish’s was a tonic. So was the fresh summer air. The light wasn’t bright as day, but she could see well enough. “Where are we going?”

  He crossed to where Sigurn nosed at the grass and untied a saddlebag. Sweat streaked the horse’s glossy sides, proof of the long ride with a double burden.

  With an easy kindness that made Fiona want to weep, he patted the horse’s neck. “Good girl, Sigurn. You’re a bonny wee lassie.”

  Until she’d met the Grants, kindness had seemed such a humble virtue. After ten years of brutality, she’d come to view kindness as the greatest gift one human could give another.

  She’d found kindness at Invertavey House, and repaid it with lies and theft. Shame coiled in her empty belly. When she and Mr. Mactavish finally talked, it promised to be a humiliating experience.

  “There’s an abandoned crofter’s cottage a few glens away.” The laird left his horse and walked toward Fiona. “Hopefully we’ll reach it before the rain starts.”

  Surprised she looked around, noting the cloudless sky and Venus winking at her over the horizon. “Rain?”

  “Aye. Only a couple of hours away, I’d say. That’s to our advantage. It will give the Grants even more trouble tracking us.”

  It also meant she’d be stuck inside a small cottage, alone with Mr. Mactavish. Would he demand the obvious reward for helping her? Nobody did anything for another person without recompense, and she knew he wanted her. Perhaps that was why he’d saved her, to turn her into his whore.

  The thought wasn’t as bitter as it might have been. She’d already decided that in return for his aid, she’d do whatever he wanted. Pride and morality might object, but she’d long moved past the point where either of those things mattered. If Mr. Mactavish wanted to use her body, she could endure it. After all, it would only be another loveless coupling, and she was used to that.

  He dug in the bag and passed her a crusty roll full of pink ham and hard yellow cheese. “Are ye hungry?”

  When her stomach gave an audible growl, he laughed. Despite everything, so did she. “I haven’t eaten since I left Invertavey.”

  His smile died. “Those bastards didnae feed ye?”

  Fiona took a bite of the roll. The delicious taste of the simple fare almost made her weep. She only just resisted the urge to devour the whole roll in a couple of bites.

  “It was part of my punishment for running away,” she said through a mouthful. “I’m used to going hungry.”

  He sat beside her, keeping a decorous distance. Wearing only his shirtsleeves, he looked magnificent. Broad-shouldered and strong.

  As the slight breeze ruffled his thick dark hair, a muscle jerked in his cheek. “Dinna start telling me everything now. We’ll talk when we get to the bothy. I have a feeling ye have a lot to say, and I want to make sure the weather willnae interrupt us.”

  To her surprise, she realized she’d wolfed down the whole roll, while he hadn’t touched his. “I’m sorry I stole from you,” she mumbled.

  Mr. Mactavish turned to face her. “Ye must have had good reason.”

  His black eyes glittered, and that muscle still danced in his lean cheek. He was furiously angry, but not with her. Relief tinged the breath she drew. “I did.”

  He took a bite of his roll before he set it on the grass. “Later.”

  Another rummage in the bag, and he passed her a second roll and a flask. “It’s ale. Or I can fetch ye some water from the burn, if you prefer.”

  “Ale is fine, thank you.” She took a long drink before she returned the flask.

  His strong throat worked as he swallowed. Watching him drink from the same vessel felt like an act of breathtaking intimacy.

  Realizing that she was staring, she looked away. Heat prickled her cheeks, as a wicked thought rose in her mind. Perhaps if she gave herself to Diarmid Mactavish, it might end up being more than mere self-sacrifice. The act itself might disgust her, but the prospect of that vigorous body joining with hers made her shiver. And not with revulsion. The messy, uncomfortable invasion might be worth it, in return for those brawny arms holding her close.

  A strangely peaceful silence fell, as she ate her second roll more delicately than the first. Sigurn’s bit clinked as she grazed closer to the burn.

  “Mrs. Grant?”

  She looked up to realize he held the flask out to her. “Thank you.”

  His fingers brushed hers and despite everything, a tingle of warmth rippled up her arm. As she drank, forcing the liquid down a tight throat, he produced some dried apple from the bag.

  She accepted a few pieces of fruit. As the intense sweetness hit her tongue, she closed her eyes. It took her back to childhood, to the days before she’d learned to fear the world.

  “Would you like some more ale?” she asked through a foolish urge to cry. What she’d give to be that innocent girl again.

  Then she realized that if she were that innocent girl, she wouldn’t have Christina. Nothing was worth missing out on that.

  “You’re tired.” Mr. Mactavish took the flask and stoppered it. “I’m sorry.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “You’re no’ fine. But can ye go a wee bit further?”

  He was a considerate man. She’d been in his house long enough to recognize that his people served him because they loved him, not because he bullied them into obedience. He’d always been considerate of her, too, even when he’d handed her back to the Grants.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Then we should go. I dinna fancy being trapped out on the braes, when the storm comes through.” He rose and extended a hand. “Mrs. Grant?”

  She didn’t immediately take his hand. “Please don’t call me that.”

  He frowned. “That isnae your name?”

  To her everlasting regret, it was. “It is. But it reminds me…”

  She didn’t know what Mr. Mactavish saw in her face, but compassion softened the dark eyes. “Would ye prefer Miss Nita?”

  “No.” Reaching for his hand, she stood.

  She felt better after the meal. A couple of hours away from the Grants made her feel even better.

  “We dinna have far to go.”

  She withdrew her hand. “If it means escaping Allan and Thomas, I can ride forever.”

  “Hell, I cannae believe I handed ye over to those bastards.” Mr. Mactavish looked sick, and his hands fisted at his sides. “I should never have…”

  For so many years, nobody but Christina had been angry on her behalf. How gratifying to know that at last she had someone on her side. She managed a smile.

  “You came to get me. There’s no need for remorse
.” Especially when she’d dealt him such poor gratitude in return. “You may call me Fiona, if you like.”

  She watched him struggle to overcome his disgust with himself for letting the Grants take her away. “It’s a bonny name.”

  “Thank you.” He crossed to catch Sigurn, and buckled on the saddlebag. With obvious affection, the horse butted her master. Aye, he was a kind man. Sigurn knew that, and so did Fiona.

  He brought the horse back to where Fiona waited. “Ye should call me Diarmid. Mr. Mactavish is too much of a mouthful, when we’re going to be alone together for the next wee while.”

  If anyone but Diarmid Mactavish had said that, she’d be terrified. But somewhere between the two rescues, she’d accepted him into the very exclusive category of people she trusted. As far as she trusted anyone. Of course, he was yet to hear her confession, but something told her that he’d listen with his usual intelligent tolerance.

  “Then Diarmid it shall be.” She found herself smiling with genuine pleasure.

  “Excellent.”

  He came close and for a mad moment, she wondered if he meant to kiss her. Even madder, she wondered if she might kiss him back. But he merely caught her waist in his strong hands and tossed her into the saddle. Sigurn whickered and sidled under Fiona’s weight, but stilled at a soft word from Mr. Mactavish.

  Diarmid.

  He mounted behind her and when he settled her against him, she had to fight more foolish tears. Already his embrace seemed safe and familiar. It was so long since she’d felt safe.

  “Let’s go.” He clicked his tongue to Sigurn, and they set off at a smart canter.

  Chapter 11

  As the short summer night brightened toward dawn, they rode up to a turf-roofed cottage. Fiona felt close to exhaustion, and Sigurn wasn’t in much better state. Even the indomitable Diarmid showed signs of tiredness.

  When he lifted Fiona from the saddle and set her down on the grass, her legs folded under her. Only his swift action saved her from hitting the ground. She was sick to the devil of not being able to stand on her own two feet, but there was little she could do about it. It was only a few days since she’d nearly drowned in the shipwreck that had killed Colin.