Highlander Mine (10 page)

I was glad to see that Hamish, with his newfound fortification, seemed wholly in control of himself. As though the small yet undeniably lethal weapon he clutched in his fists had given him a reinforced confidence. He seemed to have grown a little, and in that moment I could see glimpses of the man he would one day become. I wondered if I would live long enough or live free enough to see him grow into that man.

“Would you prefer an escort?” Knox said with forced patience. I had momentarily forgotten: he was waiting for me to leave so he could question Hamish. “I could call for one of my sisters.” From his tone, it was clear that he wanted to get on with this inquisition so he could return to all the importantly, lairdly tasks that were awaiting him.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to stay?” I asked him, knowing full well what his answer would be. “I haven’t been very helpful. I could try to elaborate more on what I remember.”

“Nay,” he said brusquely.

It was that note of abruptness that saw me, mostly unintentionally, inviting a challenge. I wanted to exasperate Laird Mackenzie, oddly, and I also wanted to hear Hamish’s version of the story. I needed him to get it right. I needed
us
to get it right so I could return to Edinburgh as soon as possible. Thoughts of my sister made me feel restless and disobedient. “Because now that I think of it, I actually do remember a few more details of—”

“Thank you,” Knox interrupted. “I will summon you at a later time if I feel the need for more information.”

And he was holding the door open for me, even taking it so far as to gesture with a little sideways movement of his head toward the exterior corridor as though encouraging me to exit posthaste.

Slightly incensed by the curt dismissal, I fastened my pin to hold my shawl more modestly in place and I brushed my fingertips against Hamish’s shoulder in a passing gesture of encouragement.
Stick to the story. Our lives—and hers—could very well depend on your persuasiveness. I love you. I’m sorry.

I wasn’t sure if the graze of my fingertips conveyed any or all of the sentiments I’d hoped, but I knew he understood.

And I made my leave. A very solid thud of the door closing behind me echoed through the stone hallway as I retreated to the out-of-doors.

CHAPTER FOUR

I
HAD
AN
IDEA
.
Curiosity had overcome me.

I couldn’t stop the conversation that was taking place behind the closed doors of Knox Mackenzie’s private den. But I might be able to
hear
it. The windows were open, after all, and I now knew which ones they were. They were at ground level, horizontally placed rectangles that looked out to the orchard, which I just so happened to now be walking through.

I experienced a moment of conflicting urges. I didn’t want to eavesdrop: it wasn’t really in my nature to spy. Only under extreme circumstances. And I knew what was at stake here. I crept closer to the window, approaching it from the side so I wouldn’t be seen.

Through the window, the deep tones of Laird Mackenzie’s voice drifted, and Hamish’s chipper reply. But I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying. With my back against the stone wall of the manor, I slid closer.

It was then I happened to notice a large man approaching. None other than the guard Lachlan. He was carrying a small child. A dark-haired girl, who was holding a red apple in her hands.

As soon as I saw him, I stepped away from the manor wall, strolling casually out into the orchard as though to pick a piece of fruit.

“Amelia,” he said, bowing his head slightly in a gentlemanly greeting. “What a surprise to find you here.” I couldn’t be sure of it, but I detected a hint of sardonic reproach in him. Had Knox Mackenzie suspected I might attempt to eavesdrop and specifically assigned his guard to watch me? Surely not. Was I such a spectacle of distrust? I found the thought didn’t vex me as much as maybe it should have. I was a complete stranger, after all. And the thought seeped through my mind, even though it was probably completely off the mark: I might have been being guarded for an altogether different reason. It wasn’t entirely out of the realm of possibility that Knox wanted to ensure that I was kept safe. I knew it unlikely, but still, I allowed myself a very brief respite from doubt and skepticism.

I liked Lachlan’s company. And the small girl he held in his arms was one of the most beautiful children I had ever seen.

“This is my wee Clara,” Lachlan said. “My wife is a weaver with a project to finish. So Clara and I are taking a stroll through the gardens to keep the little lass occupied while her mother finishes her work. Since there are no wars to wage this afternoon.”

I smiled at Clara, quite taken with her wide brown eyes, her tiny bow-shaped lips and petite, perfect features. “I’m glad to hear it.”

It caught me off guard somehow, this big, strapping warrior, armed with a holstered knife and sword, all fierce and manly in appearance yet holding this exquisite child with absolute gentleness. I might have expected these Highlands soldiers to be gruff and rough, barbaric and brutish. But the few that I’d so far met had been anything but barbaric. They’d been all about their beguiling contradictions and unexpected lightness. Instead of warriors obsessed with war or wrath, what I found was men who were not only intensely loyal to one another, but also radiated a distinct sense of harmony. As though the heat of battle, or the threat of it, had tempered their awareness, concentrating their perception to that which truly mattered: the peace, the beauty and the beloved.

It was such a refreshing outlook, compared to what I was used to.

This scene, with Lachlan and his young daughter, was unexpected to me and utterly enchanting. I knew it was a moment I would recall, when I needed to take refuge in memories, in frozen moments in time that had touched me in some way, and comforted me.

“Stroll with us,” Lachlan said, putting Clara down, holding her small hand in his large one. Not an order, as such. A request.

“I’d love to,” I said, watching as Clara reached up to touch a long strand of my hair that hung to my waist. She was a beautiful little creature, tiny, with lightly curled dark locks and the pink flush of health on her skin. Her clothes had been carefully handmade and were woven from fine wool.

She twirled her finger through the coiled curl and said softly, “You’re the prettiest lady I’ve ever seen.”

My heart melted. “And you,” I said, “are the prettiest lady
I’ve
ever seen.”

Clara’s wide eyes grew even wider. She looked up at her father. “Can we take her home, Da?”

Lachlan chuckled, picking her up once again, as though he couldn’t resist her. “Aye. If that’s what you want. We’ll take her to meet your mother.”

I was very pleased at the thought and I felt touched that they would invite me in this way. I knew Lachlan suspected that the story Hamish and I had told him was not entirely truthful. I could detect, though, that he also suspected we had good reasons for fabricating our lies and was giving us the benefit of any doubts. He held the proof of his understanding in his arms. If he was suspicious about me, he at least did not consider me a threat. I sensed that he viewed my possible discretions not as devious but as protective; just as he would go to any length to protect Clara, so would I to protect Hamish. The reasons behind my white lies were not devious, nor frivolous, and I could sense that Lachlan had understood this from our very first encounter.

We walked through the orchards, past the barracks, where soldiers milled about, sharpening weapons or sparring in a large, dusty ring. Several of them eyed me curiously as we passed. We walked farther, down a lane flanked on either side by dotted stone dwellings. These, it seemed, were the homes of the soldiers with families. Feminine touches were noticeable, from the neat, flowering gardens to the patterned drapes lining the interiors of the windows.

Lachlan led us into one of the nearer houses. As soon as we entered the gate, Lachlan put Clara down. She grasped my hand and skipped alongside me. “This is where we live,” she said, smiling up at me. Her voice had the bell-toned clarity of a morning bird. She reached to pick a purple flower and held it up to me. Lachlan opened the door of the house and we followed him inside.

The house was larger than it looked from the outside, quaint, homely, lovingly decorated—and full of activity. Five women were seated around a loom that took up a large square side enclave of the house. A sixth woman was stirring in a pot on the hearth. A seventh elderly woman sat in a rocking chair in one corner, holding a sleeping baby. They all looked up as we entered and Clara ran to the woman seated at the far end of the loom, the one that was holding the wool-wrapped skittle: clearly Clara’s mother. Clara climbed onto her mother’s lap and the young woman kissed her and settled her into position so Clara could help send the skittle through the stretched wool strands that had been wound through the loom.

Clara’s mother was a gorgeous woman, with long dark hair and wide brown eyes like those of her daughter. She looked up at Lachlan as he nodded a brief greeting to her, conscious of the careful attention everyone paid to their connection. Lachlan did not approach his wife, since he would have had to displace several of the weavers to do so, but his eyes and his smile conveyed a smoldering pleasure at the sight of her. His wife. And it was clear he was most satisfied by that fact. It seemed an entire conversation passed between them without a word spoken, and I was fascinated by their silent bond.

What would such a thing feel like? Not only to be connected by marriage, to share a house and raise children together, but to also
revel
in that closeness. To count the minutes until you could drink in the sight of your loved one, to be alone together, face-to-face, skin-to-skin, heart-to-heart.

Because it was fairly obvious to all that
that
was on Lachlan’s mind, in the way he was riveted by her, momentarily lost in the sight of her, as though no one else was present.

This was such a different dynamic to the marriages I had witnessed. My sister’s marriage, to be sure, offered her little joy. Cecelia rarely sought James out other than to relay messages from creditors, or to alert him to the arrival of a ganglord’s demand, or a drunken brawl, or a cheating patron. I’d rarely seen anything resembling love pass between them; her loyalty to him was an instilled remnant of her upbringing, but her affection was reserved for her son, and for me. My parents had married for love, in part, although the considerations of class and occupation had surely been the more pressing considerations. They had run their marriage with rigid, proper civility and with a mutual respect that dwindled over time as the money began to run out.

This
was something different. The emotion that passed between Lachlan and his wife like a sultry, fervent channel was complex. Understanding. Concern. Devotion. Attraction. These were the sentiments that seemed to pass between them as their eyes met and held.

It wasn’t surprising that everyone else in the room was watching the exchange, as I was.

Several of the women sniggered at Lachlan’s reaction to his wife. “Lord above, he’s at it again,” one of them said.

“You’ve been married for five years, Lachlan,” another chimed in. “Aren’t you ever going to grow weary of the sight of our lovely Marin?”

A third continued. “We’re just finishing up, so you’ll have her all to yourself soon enough.”

Lachlan smiled at their gentle teasing, which seemed to break his trance. “Marin, ladies, let me introduce Miss Amelia Taylor. She’s a guest to Kinloch for the time being. Amelia, my wife, Marin. And this is—”

“Good Lord, don’t hold the lass to remembering all our names,” one of the women seated at the loom interrupted. “She’s barely just arrived.”

“Look at that hair, would you?” the one at the stove said, walking over to me, circling me and taking a coil of my hair between two fingers. Her interest set off an enthusiastic exposition on the topic of my appearance.

“The color is outstanding,” said another of the ladies. “Like gold mixed with a light, burnished copper.”

“Aye, and touched by the sun,” added the old woman.

“So wavy, too. Look how it curls into ringlets at the ends, hanging just past her waist.”

“I’d wear it long, too, if I had hair like that.”

“And look at her
figure,
” one of the ladies exclaimed. “God’s teeth, woman, your dress is barely holding up.”

“Yet she looks to be very young,” commented another. “She has a fresh face. How old are ye, lassie?”

“Twenty-one,” I said, feeling unusually shy under all the outspoken scrutiny.

“’Tis a good thing your husband is so smitten, Marin,” the woman who still held a lock of my hair teased, “or you might have a bit o’ competition on yer hands.”

To this, Lachlan replied good-naturedly, “If my wife had anything to worry about in that regard, Fionne, you know it would be
you
I’d be running after.”

The woman named Fionne cackled, thoroughly delighted by his flattery. “Oh, he’s a charmer, Marin. God smiled down on you the day this man strutted into your life and swept you off your nimble feet.”

The baby being held by the older woman began to fuss, and Fionne went to her, gathering the infant and taking it to Marin. Clara was transferred to another’s weaver’s lap.

Marin had not yet spoken, but she appeared amused by the banter. Her smile at Fionne’s comment suggested that she agreed wholeheartedly. “Aye, He surely did. Welcome to our keep and our house, Amelia.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Yours is a beautiful home.”

She murmured a gentle thanks, somewhat distracted by the assistance of several of the women who were helping her attach the baby to her now-exposed breast. With some adjustments, the baby mewed and settled, latching on.

“Will you be having some stew, then?” asked Fionne, turning her attention to us now that the baby was content.

Lachlan, who appeared somewhat dazed at the sight of his wife’s abundant, creamy breast, focused—at Fionne’s insistence. “Lachlan?”

“Oh,” he replied. “Nay. Clara and I were entertaining Amelia before the noon meal is served in the hall, as Laird Mackenzie had other business to attend to. He has asked that I escort her and return her to his care.” So Knox Mackenzie
had
asked that I be ‘entertained,’ as he suspected that I might...well, do exactly as I had done.

This inspired another raft of lively discussion. “Oh, he
did,
did he?” Fionne smiled knowingly.

“So it’s the laird himself who’s taken an interest in the lovely Amelia, is it?” said the woman holding Clara.

“Not surprising, I suppose,” added another. “Given her generous...endowments.”

“Aye, perhaps you’re just what he needs to pull him out of his ongoing melancholy,” continued Fionne. “God knows that bony Katriona could hardly offer much comfort to a man like Laird Mackenzie.”

“Fionne,” chided Marin quietly. “You shouldn’t disparage her. She, too, is grieving.”

“Oh, I don’t blame her for trying,” Fionne countered. “I just don’t think it’s a good match. He needs a woman who can pull him out of his mood, not mire him deeper into it.”

“Aye,” agreed the old woman. “And he’d have acted on his urges by now if he was interested in Katriona, to be sure.”

“Well, maybe Amelia can bring him up to scratch,” another of the women said.

I was following their conversation but not entirely understanding the depths of their meaning, and I wanted to assure them that the situation was not at all as they speculated. “I’m not... I don’t—”

But they were neither easily deterred nor willing to give me time to sputter out my futile protests. “Anyway,” Fionne said, with authority, “Laird Mackenzie will decide who, when, where and all the rest of it. He is, after all, the
laird
. And if he’s asking for your company, lass, you’d be a fool not to partake, maiden or not.”

The mention of my maidenhood and the way the topic was being bandied around was enough to shake me out of my inarticulate muddle.

Several details of this exchange were beginning to rile me. First, the mention of Katriona and Laird Mackenzie. That Katriona had intentions for him did not surprise me; it explained her apparent animosity toward me, as an intruder who might vie for his attentions. But I didn’t give their connection or lack thereof excessive consideration now. I was even more irked by Fionne’s suggestion that I should willingly jump into Knox Mackenzie’s arms, and bed, just because—and
only
because—he was the all-powerful laird of Kinloch. Perhaps it was true. Maybe I should be grateful for any attention I could get from a man like that. I could admit that I’d been attracted to the almighty Knox Mackenzie. But I had bigger concerns than my own misguided urges. I had to think of Hamish, and Cecelia, and the task at hand: to house Hamish here behind Kinloch’s walls, secure some funds for my return to Edinburgh and take my leave. And Fionne’s comment only served to rouse my ever-present defiance in the face of authority. If Laird Mackenzie
was
asking for my company, and for
that
reason, the last thing I wanted to do was make it as easy for him. “I’m sure Laird Mackenzie has no designs on me,” I said evenly. “He’s merely interested in my history as it relates to the safety of Kinloch. Lachlan will no doubt agree.”