Some Like it Scot (Scandalous Highlanders Book 4) (2 page)

As Munro reached the broken wall he stopped, crouching to gaze beyond the tumbled, moss-covered stones at the ruins beyond. Haldane Abbey had stood at the head of Gleann Tàirnich for nearly four hundred years, and it hadn't been occupied for the past hundred or so. It sat empty because a hard winter's snow had collapsed the entire back of the building, and the rest of it hadn't been worth the expense of renovating.

Regardless of that, it seemed that Haldane wasn't empty any longer. Leaking, dreary, dangerously unstable, and reputedly haunted by at least three former residents and a hound, Haldane remained free of the influx of refugees from the Campbells, the MacDonalds, and the Gerdens and Stuarts. In fact, none had even been tempted to settle within its sight.

The redhead could be one of the specters, he supposed, except that as far as he knew spirits didn't kill and butcher deer, nor did the female ghosties wear trousers. Haldane was a MacLawry house on MacLawry land, and if he wanted to he could simply march up and demand to know who was trespassing. That was how he normally would proceed; hell, his siblings didn't call him Bear just because of his broad shoulders. Unless he cared to spend the rest of his day staring at tumbled walls, though, he needed either to advance or retreat.

Metal clicked behind him. Halfway to his feet, Munro froze.
Damnation.

“This is my place.” A female brogue came low and steady from behind the weapon. “No one was here, and I claimed it. So ye go away, big man, and save yerself some trouble.”

And there he was, like a boy caught with his kilt up. His brothers would be laughing their arses off. “I'll agree ye're a fine shot, lass, but do ye ken ye can handle me all by yer lonesome? And I didnae see ye reload.”

“Then make yer move and we'll discover how observant ye are,” she returned. “I said I dunnae want trouble. I left ye near half the stag, so walk back doon the way ye came and go claim it before the rats and wildcats and foxes take it from ye.”

Shooting a charging man was nothing like taking down a buck unawares—and that was if she'd even managed to stuff a ball down the old muzzle-loader while she made her way up the valley. At the same time, it was a bit disconcerting that she'd known precisely where he was since she'd brought down the deer. He hadn't suspected that anyone was within a mile of him until she'd fired. Slowly he rose, straightening his knees and keeping the rifle in his right hand pointed toward the ground. Neither this moment nor a quarter of a deer was worth either of them dying over.

“I'll go,” he agreed, taking two long steps away from her. Then he stopped, took a breath, and turned around to face her.

He could count the number of men who'd bested him in hunting or battle on one finger—well, on no fingers, because no man had ever done so. As of this morning, he could no longer make that claim about females. His gaze was somewhat obscured by the musket aimed steadily at the center of his chest and by the ancient hat pulled low over her eyes, but he could see enough that he would know her again. Wet scarlet hair hung across her face and escaped from the long mare's tail draped over one shoulder. A straight nose, cheeks streaked with dirt and rainwater, lips that might have been full and sensuous if they weren't clenched together hard enough to blanch any color from them, she looked to be in her early twenties, if that.

“That's enough gawking fer ye,
àluinn.
Away with ye. Dunnae come back. I reckon there's enough ground in the Highlands that ye can avoid this wee bit of it.”

And she continued to dictate terms to him, even if she
had
called him handsome. Hm. “I reckon I could avoid ye,” he agreed, keeping a careful eye on her as he resumed his retreat. “Whether I will or nae, well, that's another question, isnae?”

“Aye. Come test me again, big man. I'll nae be so polite next time.”

If this was her being polite, seeing her rude would be quite the spectacle. He continued backing away, moving slowly enough that she would hopefully understand that he damned well wasn't frightened of her. This merely happened to be one of the few occasions where it seemed preferable to avoid bloodshed. He was out here on his own, after all.

Even so, he was tempted. How difficult would it be to circle around behind the estate and show the redhead just what it meant to turn a weapon on a MacLawry? She wouldn't boast about besting him after that, he reckoned. Munro paused at the bend of the rutted path, then took a breath and continued away from the pile. Aye, he could scare the wits out of her, make a few threats, but for once he decided on restraint. She'd truly surprised him, and if anything, that deserved more of a response than some fist shaking. It would never do if she ran off before he figured out who she was.

Once he'd put Haldane out of sight behind him, he turned his back on the place and retraced his steps to the stag. With the rain only a lone fox had found the carcass, and that wee beastie fled at the sight of him. It was about time something showed him the damned respect he was due.

After he finished the butchering work she'd begun, Munro slung the deer over his shoulder and made his way to Loch Shinaig and then north along its west bank until Glengask came into view beyond the meadow at the top of the rise. Trudging around the side of the sprawl to the kitchen entrance, he kicked at the door until Timothy, one of the footmen, pulled it open.

“I've brought supper,” Munro said, grunting as he shoved past the servant and stalked into the kitchen. The cook, Mrs. Forrest, hurriedly cleared off a table and he dropped the animal onto it.

“Where's the back half?”

The middle MacLawry brother, Arran, stepped down into the kitchen.
Wonderful
. If Arran was there, then his wife, Mary, and their bairn, Mòrag, would be, as well. Generally he was pleased to see the lot of them, but today he would have preferred a few damned minutes to himself. “I got hungry,” he returned.

“Ye must've, if ye're eating venison straight off the hoof.”

With a snort Munro moved around his brother to wash up in the large kitchen sink and then head for the main part of the house. He would damned well tie himself to a stake and set fire to it before he would admit that a lass had outshot him with a fifty-year-old musket and then ambushed him. He'd never hear the end of it. Ever.

Arran, who could scent trouble better than a hound, followed him. “Ye didnae go oot alone, did ye, Bear? Ye know ye shouldnae.”

“If I'd wanted company I would've taken one of the dogs. Owen, bath. Hot,” he said, as the head footman emerged from the morning room.

“Aye, Laird Bear. I'll see to yer rifle fer ye.”

Munro handed it over, keeping the muzzle pointed well down. “It's loaded,” he cautioned.

“So ye
clubbed
the deer to death before ye ate it?” Arran pursued.

“Ye keep telling me it's dangerous oot of doors, so I reloaded. And if ye must know, I crossed paths with an old lass and her three grandbabies. I gave them a good supper.” Munro halted to face his brother. “Is there anything else ye want to know aboot my morning?”

Arran lifted both palms in a gesture of surrender. “Nae. I dunnae want my head knocked off my shoulders. Come play billiards with me and Lachlan when ye've washed the blood off ye.”

“Lach's here, as well? And Winnie, I suppose. And wee Colin.”

“Aye. And my Mary and Mòrag. Is that a problem fer ye,
bràthair
?”

Munro shook himself. “Nae. If I'd known the MacLawry army was here, I would've killed a bigger buck.”

“Or nae have eaten half of it on the way home.” Arran chuckled, clapping him on the shoulder.

“Aye. Go away. I'll be down in a bit.”

He'd grown up in a large, loud household, and the only difference two wee lads and a lass, his nephews and niece, had made was that the MacLawrys—and in Lachlan and Winnie's case, the MacTiers—could now see a future that a few years ago they hadn't truly been able to imagine.

“Comb yer damned mane while ye're at it. Get yerself civilized so ye dunnae frighten the wee ones.”

And
that
was the rub. Today with the rain and blood soaking into his shirt, with a mysterious lass leveling a musket at him, returning to bairns and wives at Glengask all seemed so … domestic. Two years ago the MacLawrys had been the strongest, fiercest, most progress-minded clan in the Highlands. This morning, though, he could swear he'd heard Ranulf singing to his seven-month-old son and heir, William. Ranulf, whose glare had caused more than one man to piss himself.

At least Munro had been able to go out hunting, however poorly that had ended. The rest of them, though, were definitely not about to frighten any stray Gerdenses or Campbells into surrendering. Not any longer. Not with bairns tucked against their breasts, wives on their arms, and lullabies on their lips.

After he'd bathed and changed into a clean kilt and shirt and his old boots, he went and tracked down Ranulf. The head of clan MacLawry leaned against the door frame of the nursery, gazing at the loud, crawling chaos of babies and their mamas inside. And damn it all, he was smiling.

“Ran?”

The marquis straightened, turning to face him. “That was good of ye, to give over half the buck to the widow woman. They've more need of it than we do.”

Of course Ranulf would have heard the tale already. There wasn't much that happened in the Highlands without his knowledge. “I—”

“And the next time ye go off by yerself to hunt, I'll set my hounds after ye.” He indicated the two large deerhounds lying close to the wall in the hallway and likely attempting to escape the notice of the babies. “Peace with the Campbells or nae, ye'd still be a prize kill fer some.”

Munro nodded. He could argue the point, but he would lose. It was easier to simply agree and then ignore the warning. “I went by Haldane Abbey,” he said, instead of conceding. “The whole south wing's gone now.”

“I havenae even thought aboot the abbey fer years.” The marquis tilted his head. “What sent ye that far south on foot?”

“Ye didnae give it over to anyone, did ye? Some cotter and his kin? I thought I saw footprints aboot it. Old ones, but it made me curious.”

“Nae. I'd nae risk anyone there, even fer a single night.” Ranulf gazed at him. “Do ye ken it means trouble?”

Bloody wonderful
. The last thing he wanted was to send lads out there to hear from the trouser lass that she'd already leveled a gun on him. “I think it's more likely some of the village lads looking fer spirits over the summer. We used to do it.” He shrugged. “The next time I head oot that way I'll take a closer look to be certain.”

“The next time ye head oot that way with Debny or some of the other lads to keep ye company,” Ranulf amended, squatting to pick up a black-haired bairn crawling for the dogs. “Dunnae take unnecessary risks,
bràthair.
I'm nae jesting with ye.”

For a moment Munro divided his attention between the Marquis of Glengask and his seven-month-old son. The next marquis, the next head of clan MacLawry, presently trying to eat his father's fine white shirt. “It seems to me,
bràthair,
” he returned, reaching out to run a forefinger carefully along the wee bairn's ear, “that I'm the only MacLawry who
can
take risks, these days. And ye need a man who can.”

“Bear, ye—”

“Ye ken that's true, Ran. Ye may be civilized now, but the Highlands arenae. I dunnae mean to fling myself off a cliff, but I'm nae domesticated. And if I choose to go oot hunting from time to time, I'm seven-and-twenty. I reckon that's old enough to be able to decide fer myself what I'm willing to risk.”

The marquis eyed him. “Then perhaps it's time I find ye a wife to settle ye doon.”

“Hm.” Tired with being threatened today, Munro turned on his heel. “I suggest ye dunnae, if ye ever want to see me again. If I want a wife, I'll find one fer myself.”

“Havenae ye already bedded every unmarried lass in the Highlands?” his brother asked. “Nae a one's caught yer attention?”

“I've bedded barely three quarters of 'em.” And that wasn't even counting the redhead in the trousers. “A night's fun, aye, but a lifetime? Ye're giving me the shivers.”

“Times are changing, Bear. Ye need to change, as well, or ye'll find yerself left behind.”

Given the alternative, being left behind didn't sound so terrible. At any rate, not having a wife and bairns left him free to scout Haldane Abbey again. The trouser lass had called it
her
place, which said to him that she'd settled in there. He therefore had a fair suspicion he'd be seeing her again, and that the next time he did so, he wouldn't be the one caught unawares.

 

Chapter Two

“Elizabeth, it's me,” Catriona MacColl announced in a low voice, making her way over a fallen doorway archway in the long hallway, down an uneven trio of stairs, and into the one solid room remaining in the old fortress.

Or relatively solid, rather. She could see the sky in one corner, and rain trickled down the wall to gather in a growing pool creeping outward with spidery tentacles. Mostly because of the existence of several old worktables and a dented teapot she'd decided this room had once been the kitchen.

At any rate, the old ruin had never had a proper stove that she could tell. Its last occupancy had been too long ago for such an innovation. Instead, a chest-high fireplace fitted with iron shelves and a turning rack squatted against the middle of the longest wall. The room was large and windowless, and in the days when it had been fashionable for nobles to eat food cooked on a hearth, the rack would have been turned by a servant boy or even a dog in a wheel.

Since she had neither of those, she nudged the pile of blankets beside the hearth with the toe of her boot. “Elizabeth. Did ye put the water on to boil?” she asked, even though she could clearly see that no pot hung over the fire.