As High as the Heavens (11 page)

She paused in the doorway to his bedchamber and
looked in. "I'll give ye that much," she said. "It's indeed
a spacious room."

"Aye, that it is," Duncan agreed with a sly grin. "But
only because it once served as the stable for our goats
and milch cow."

"Indeed?" Her nose wrinkled in distaste, but she was
mannerly enough not to belabor her already low opinion
of residing in his house.

"That was fifteen years ago, lass."

Though he was tempted to let her believe the transformation from stable to bedchamber had occurred only
recently, Duncan didn't want her to think them crude
and uncivilized. But only for his parents' sake, he told
himself. What Heather Gordon thought of him didn't
matter, but he'd not permit her to continue to harbor
such low opinions of his mother and father.

"Once the cattle byre was built, we moved all the farm
beasts from the house."

"Not all of them."

She walked to the far end of the room, where a large,
rough-hewn worktable stood, and picked up the halfcarved form of a wooden horse. Its proud, finely wrought
head was flung back, with one front leg emerging in what
was obviously the beginnings of a rearing stance. Her
golden head cocked in sudden interest, Heather turned
and held up the horse.

"Who worked this?"

Though Duncan dearly loved wood carving, he was
also very sensitive about his artistic endeavors, well
aware many thought them a frivolous and self-indulgent
waste of time. "I did."

He strode over. Taking the horse from Heather's hand,
he laid it back on the table and covered it quickly with
an oil-soaked rag.

"I'll clean up this clutter just as soon as I can. There
wasn't time-"

"It doesn't matter." She placed her hand atop his over the
rag. "As difficult as it maybe to believe, I wasn't complaining. I found the work verra beautiful and was but curious
who the artist was." A wry smile touched her lips. "Mayhap
it's a sad commentary on my narrow-mindedness, but I
never thought ye capable of such talent."

Somehow, Duncan liked it better when he and she
were at odds, rather than now, when she stooped briefly
to treat him as an equal. Indeed, for someone of her
standing to pretend admiration for his meager talent was
to reach far beneath her. It was ... Duncan struggled for the correct words for his sudden surge of confusing
emotions ... it was condescending, even belittling.

He pulled his hand from beneath hers and took several
steps back. "Ye can't help how ye were raised, even as I
can't help my upbringing. Ye needn't pretend to admire
aught of mine, though. I like ye far better when ye're
sincere in your contempt. Leastwise then I know what
manner of woman I'm dealing wi'."

Heather jerked her hand from the table. "What manner
of woman! How dare ye accuse me of insincerity!" Fire
flashed in her eyes. "Do ye know what ye are, Duncan
Mackenzie? Do ye?"

"Aye, I do," he growled, refusing to back down as she
approached him with hands fisted at her sides. "Yer
opinion of me, though, is much more entertaining, not
to mention amusing."

"And since when does a man find utter scorn and
loathing amusing?" She halted only inches from him
and glared up. "Tell me that, if ye will?"

She smelled like full-blooming heather in spring, like
the fresh-washed grass after a hard summer's rain. For
an instant, Duncan wished mightily to pull her to him
and bury his face in the shimmering, silky mass of her
golden hair. He wanted to kiss away the hard, angry
tightness to her mouth until it softened with longing,
curved with laughter. By all that was holy, but she was
as proud and wild as some graceful doe or free-ranging
Highland pony. And Duncan wanted very, very much to
tame her, gentle her to his needs.

Just exactly what those needs were, Duncan didn't
know or care even to consider. At least not just now, with Heather Gordon glaring up at him, looking all but
ready to strike him, and big Tavish Gordon, his arms
once again loaded with bundles, staring him down from
the doorway.

He had pushed her as far as he dared this day. The wisest course was to back off a bit. They had three months
together. Time enough to prick at Heather until he discerned the true woman beneath the beauteous if volatile
surface. Meanwhile, it was best to turn the tables on her
as fast as he dared.

Duncan sighed, forcing an apologetic grin. "No man
of sound mind would wish to anger or disgust ye, lass.
If I've done so, I beg yer forgiveness."

"If ye've done so?" She stared up at him in outraged
disbelief. "Truly, are ye so thick-witted ye haven't any
inkling how churlish ye can be?"

He shrugged. "When it comes to the likes of ye, lass,
mayhap I am." He cocked his head. "Do ye think there's
hope for me? Tell me true while ye still may. For if there
isn't, if ye're well convinced I'm a hopeless, dunderheaded
fool, then there's still time to leave wi' yer father."

What was his game? Heather wondered, eyeing Duncan Mackenzie narrowly. No matter how hard he tried
to play the role at times, some instinct warned he was
hardly a dunderheaded fool. Yet that consideration was
far more acceptable than the growing suspicion that he
toyed with her for his own pleasure, or for some other
equally despicable, if yet mysterious, reason.

"Nay," she replied softly, determined not to be bested no matter his game, "I don't think ye're suddenly gone
soft in the head, and especially not just because of me. I
think, instead, for some perverted reason all yer own, ye
enjoy tormenting me. I think ye resent a woman being
set over ye, even if only for a few months, and to teach ye
what ye don't know. And I think," Heather added, "that
ye'd resent it no matter who she was, for ye don't like
the thought of any woman stepping out of her proper
place."

"And that proper place would be?" Duncan prodded,
his eyes gone dark, his mouth grim.

Good, Heather thought in satisfaction. She had finally managed to pierce his arrogant facade, if only a
wee bit.

"Where else?" she countered with an offhand shrug.
"In yer bed or fat with child, squatting at yer hearth,
cooking up yer next meal."

His mouth dropped for the briefest instant. Then he
threw back his head and laughed.

It was a rich, blood-stirring sound and evoked an automatic if unwilling response. Heather chuckled. As much
as she hated to admit it, Duncan Mackenzie could be the
most infuriating yet endearing of men, and all within
minutes of the other.

That realization caught her up short. Infuriating she
could deal with. Endearing, though-especially in this
wild Highlander-was quite another story.

"Ye know it's true," she hissed, suddenly and unaccountably so angry it was all she could do not to slap that
smug look off his face. "Be man enough to admit it!"

"Och, I'll admit it," he agreed good-naturedly between rumbles of laughter. "But, though I'm likely man enough
to bed and get many a lass wi' child, I don't wish to do
so wi' most of them. Ye, on the other hand, are far more
to my taste."

Duncan paused to eye her closely and, as he did,
Heather felt as if he saw clear through to her very soul.
For the first time since she had met him, terror flooded
her. Curse the man, she thought in an agony of conflicted
emotions. He all but bespelled her when he looked at
her like that. Yet the worst part of all was she didn't
know how to fight back, how to temper such raw, animal
magnetism.

It was best-and certainly wisest-simply to ignore
him. "Well, I can't say I care one way or another what
yer tastes in women run to." She dragged her glance
from his and scanned the room instead.

"Then what of my tastes, when it comes to bedchambers? Is aught of it to yer liking?"

Caught off guard, Heather looked back to him. "Wh-
what did ye say?"

A devilish gleam in his eyes, Duncan gestured to the
room. "Is this to yer liking? Will it suit for the next few
months?"

"Far more than ye'll ever suit," she ground out beneath
her breath.

He feigned puzzlement, yet somehow Heather knew
he had heard every word.

"What was that, lass? I didn't quite catch what ye
said."

"Naught." She gave a sharp shake of her head. "It
doesn't matter."

He shrugged. "Suit yerself."

Heather turned and motioned her maid over. "Come,
Beth. Let us set this room aright while the men continue
unloading our belongings." She shot Duncan a challenging look. "If that meets with yer approval, of course."

His sweeping appraisal of her was answer enough,
even before he spoke the words. "Aye, yer plan meets
wi' my approval," he replied, his voice gone low and
husky. "That, and so much more. So verra, verra much
more.

Duncan had no sooner left his bedchamber than Robert Gordon rose from the table and approached. "Come,
lad," the older man said, a conspiratorial smile on his
lips. "I've a wish to speak with ye in private."

The scent of the heather ale was heavy on his breath.
Too heavy for the one cup Duncan had poured the nobleman and his laird before escorting Heather to her room.
Then he noted the once full pitcher was empty.

Disgust filled him. The man was a drunkard. If his
control over the spirits was so weak, he wasn't fit to
lead such a dangerous, complex mission, much less be
Heather's father.

At that realization, the last thing Duncan wished to do
was to go off and speak with the man in private. Lord
Gordon had yet to utter anything of consequence, much
less anything worthy of respect. He was Angus Mackenzie's brother-in-law, however, and for that, if for nothing
else, Duncan had no choice but to bear with him.

He glanced about the room. Angus was still at table, deep in conversation with Duncan's father. His mother
dozed in her chair, her legs propped on the stool, a light
woolen throw covering her. None would most likely notice or even question his departure with Lord Gordon.

"As ye wish, my lord." He rendered Robert a perfunctory nod, then indicated the front door. "If yer words are
few, the best place to speak privately is outdoors."

Robert pulled his heavy cloak more tightly to him.
"It'll do, lad. This shouldn't take long."

Duncan arched a brow, opened his mouth for a retort
about how he wasn't anyone's "lad," then thought better
of it. Loosening his plaid, he flung it about his shoulders
and led the way outside.

What was the man about? he wondered. Had he perhaps grown weary of the friction between Duncan and
his daughter? Or, worse still, had he finally become angered with Duncan's overt interest in Heather? If so, it
was long overdue, and Duncan knew it.

As soon as they were outdoors and well past earshot
of the cottage, Duncan halted. "Well, what is it ye wish
of me, my lord? If it's yer daughter, I know I've-"

"Aye, it's partly about Heather."

A frigid wind blew down at that moment, setting the
skeletal tree branches to clacking and a powdering of
snow to whirl up into the air. The rich, acrid scent of
burning peat wafted by on the bitterly cold breeze. Duncan inhaled deeply, savoring the familiar smell. Robert
Gordon's nostrils twitched with distaste.

He should try and hide his disdain a wee bit better,
Duncan thought wryly. Even when sober, the man was far too transparent in his dislike for things beneath him.
And most especially for all things of the Highlands.

"If it's concern for yer daughter's welfare, I can assure ye-

"Dinna fash yerself." Robert held up a silencing if unsteady hand. "All I wished to say on that matter was to
implore ye to give all yer attention, and yer best efforts,
to Heather. Time is short. There's much for ye to learn if
ye're to fool the Lady Margaret Douglas. She's a canny
one, the old shrew is, and dotes on young Colin Stewart.
She's the one ye must deceive, or all is lost."

"I'll do my best, my lord." Duncan paused, awaiting
further comment. When none was forthcoming, he indicated the door. "If there's naught more, shall we return
to the cottage and a warm fire?"