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

“What was that?”

“Just cursing the weather. It's a Highlands tradition.”

Elizabeth chuckled. “I think I remember that.”

Perhaps she'd dealt the big man a blow to his pride, but he was the one who'd followed her and refused to lose her trail. And she'd only told him to leave her be, for heaven's sake. Men never listened to reason when their manliness was called into question, but what choice had she had? She couldn't very well hide in the shadows while he discovered Elizabeth or looted their things for what little they possessed. Or worse, allow him to assault one of them simply because they happened to be females on their own.

It would likely make more sense to sleep in the cave along with their things, but that would be the point where she began to wonder if she was actually helping Elizabeth out of her troubles or creating a whole new set of them. “I'm going to shift some of our things, just in case,” she said, rising and slinging a satchel over her shoulder. “I'll be back within the hour. I'm leaving ye the musket, but dunnae try to use it unless ye have no other choice.”

“It's getting dark.”

“I ken where I'm going. Dunnae worry. With this rain no one'll be out and about.”

“Except you.”

“Well, I'm a bit of a madwoman, if I recall yer mother's greeting correctly.” And that of countless other people she'd met over the years. Flashing a grin at her forlorn-looking sister, she dug into one pack and pulled out the single book she'd kept with her. “Occupy yerself with this.”

“Oh, Byron's poetry! You never said!”

“I was saving it for a rainy day.” She grinned again. “Which is today, I reckon.”

By the time she returned, Elizabeth was asleep in her pile of blankets, the fire was down to glowing embers, and the rain had begun to taper off. Catriona threw another branch onto the fire, stripped off her clothes to lay them on the hearth, and carefully slipped her book from beneath her sister's fingers. Settling in with her own blanket, she tried to read. In the quiet, though, her mind kept drifting to a very annoying giant with very fit-looking thigh muscles beneath that kilt and a head of shaggy black hair almost down to his shoulders.

Grumbling, she shifted again, sitting as close to the fire as she could, the heat making her skin feel dry and tight. She read until her eyes refused to stay open. If the big man reappeared, this would likely be the last dry, warm sleep either of them could expect for the next few days, until she found them another place to hide. And thoughts of the giant were not going to keep her from it.

“Hello the house!”

Ice slammed down Catriona's spine. Sitting straight upright from the thin blanket before the hearth, she dove for the musket beside her even as she noted the wan sunlight drifting in through the hole in the corner of the ceiling. “Stay here,” she hissed as her sister struggled upright, grabbing for her clothes, throwing them on, and then bolting from the kitchen. She knew that voice already. She'd let him go once when he'd blundered after her; this time he was a threat, and she wouldn't be so charitable.

“Red! I know ye're in there! The chimney's smoking.”

Next would come the torches and the flames—the usual way Scottish lairds rid themselves of villagers they no longer wanted about. How many were with him? Was Glengask himself outside with a dozen rifles aimed at the old pile? Catriona scrambled up the half-collapsed wood and stone stairs to peer out one of the many cracks in the upstairs walls. Only silent, damp forest appeared to her view. She'd overslept, blast it all; rays of sunlight broke through the heavy clouds low in the eastern sky. With a muttered curse she hurried to the next opening, a misshapen, glassless window. Still nothing.

Had he called out and then ducked into hiding again? Was he trying to lure her into the open?
Damnation.
She shifted to the next window—and then spotted the giant. He had a huge gray deerhound at his side, its head level with his waist, but she couldn't see anyone else. Surely he wasn't daft enough to appear with only a dog to support him.

“I told ye to stay away,” she called out, ducking into the shadows before she spoke. “I'll nae warn ye again.”

When she next peeked out, he was scanning his gaze across the second-floor windows, clearly looking for her. He was younger than she'd realized yesterday, the scruff of his beard in the scattered sunlight making his face look lean and dashed handsome. “It's nae safe up there, ye ken. That whole floor could give way in a stiff breeze.”

“It's nae safe oot there for ye, giant,” she returned, shifting her position yet again. “I'll give ye to the count of five to clear away from here. If I still see yer arse after that, I'll put a ball in it.”

He didn't move. “Be reasonable, Red. I only brought ye some bread and a blanket. I reckon old Haldane Abbey was drafty even before it collapsed.”

She edged sideways, gazing at him through the broken casement. “Ye expect me to believe that, ye big lunk?”

His rather fine brow furrowed. “I go by Bear. I prefer that to ‘giant' or ‘lunk,' if ye dunnae mind.”

“So ye think we're neighbors now, do ye? Leave the satchel and go. And dunnae come back.”

This time she could swear a smile touched his mouth. “Nae. I reckon I'll bring it inside,” he countered. “The dog is Fergus. He'll nae harm ye, if ye behave yerself. And neither will I.”

Ha. She would never give him the opportunity to do such a thing. On the other hand, unless she
did
mean to shoot him, she was going to have to permit him into the building. He wasn't a coward, and that was damned certain, but that information didn't precisely do her any good. She was a Highlands lass and could pass for one, but one word spoken by Elizabeth and he would know she was English—or at least that she'd been raised that way. She couldn't risk that.

Before she could consider her strategy he started around to the front of the house.
Damn it all.
She picked her way back down the fallen staircase as swiftly as she could, taking only a second to be thankful once again that she wore trousers. This crumbled house was no place for a woman in skirts to be crawling about. Or a man in a kilt, likely. Or she could hope so, at least.

And he wore a kilt again today, along with heavy boots, a plain white shirt, and a black wool coat. Why that mattered she had no idea, but she'd noticed his appearance with a clarity that surprised her a little. Perhaps she'd finally taken to heart the proverb about knowing thy enemy. It was too late to learn the lesson, really—or maybe it wasn't, since she and Elizabeth were still free.

Catriona made her way through the tumbled ruins to the doorless front entry and leveled her musket at the opening as the so-called Bear hopped over a pile of stones and strolled inside. “I dunnae recall inviting ye in,” she snapped.

“I dunnae recall asking fer an invitation,” he returned, giving a short whistle. The hound leaped through the opening to stand again at his side.

Now that they were on the same footing both man and beast seemed even more massive, and she couldn't decide which was the more dangerous. And then the hound took a step forward, its hackles lifting, and bared its teeth in a growl that sent the hairs on the back of her own neck pricking.

“Fergus is advising ye to lower the musket,” the big man commented easily, shifting the satchel he carried slung over one shoulder. “I suggest ye pay attention.”

“Neither of ye frightens me. If ye feel the need to give me charity, leave the blanket and bread and go. Otherwise someone's likely to get shot.”

The hound crouched, edging another step forward. Uneasiness clenched into Catriona's spine. Scottish hounds had been bred to take down deer; she would hardly be a challenge. This was a chess match, though. The musket was her weapon, and the dog, his. Who would fire first? Or who would blink?

Light green eyes gazed at her for a long moment, more subtle and contemplative than she expected. Then with a visible sigh he snapped his fingers. “Fergus, off. Down.”

With what sounded like a disgusted humph the dog sat, then lay down with his large gray head on his paws.

“That's good, then,” she said, pushing her sudden relief aside. She was nowhere near being safe, yet. “Now ye, big man. Off.”

“Bear, I told ye.”

“Bear, then. Put down the satchel and be off with ye.”

Moving slowly, keeping his gaze on her, he complied. “Ye dunnae need to fear me, lass. And ye're welcome to stay on here. Glengask welcomes all Highlanders, as long as they dunnae make trouble.”

She snorted. “So ye speak fer the mighty Lord Glengask, do ye? Forgive me fer nae giving ye a curtsy.”

“In those trousers? I'd like to see that.”

For a moment she felt self-conscious, but that wasn't disdain with which he was eyeing her. The realization made her feel … prickly on the inside. It was a sensation she wasn't certain she liked. “Not if ye were the Bruce himself,” she shot back.

Not just her words remained defiant. The musket didn't waver, either, and Munro didn't bother to hide his scowl. For Saint Andrew's sake, he'd called off the dog
and
brought her gifts it looked like she could definitely use. And his presence still offended her. Him, the man who'd been voted the May King by the village lasses for four years running. The man who'd bedded both Bethia and Flora Peterkin in the same night without either of them being the wiser—or any less satisfied with his efforts.

Of course he spoke for Glengask, but he had the feeling that admitting to being the marquis's brother wouldn't gain him any favors. It might earn him a ball in the chest, in fact.

This redheaded lass was quite the puzzle, really. In addition to her general hostility and skill with firearms, she didn't seem to be the least bit charmed by him. And he'd never until now encountered a lass who didn't find him charming—or at the least, desirable. Of course she didn't know who he was, but he'd always thought that being a MacLawry was merely the second—or third—most interesting thing about him. For a man of nearly seven inches above six feet and all of it lean, fit Highlander sinew and muscle, well, he showed fairly well if he said so himself.

The damnedest thing of it was that while he didn't seem to be making an impression with her, she'd obviously done so with him. Otherwise he wouldn't be standing there with a gun pointed at his heart. He didn't know quite what to do with that fact. Arran had always teased that if he couldn't eat something, bed it, or punch it, he had no use for it. Well, he wanted to bed her, so he supposed this all made some sense, at least.

“I'll go, then,” he finally said, taking a half step backward when he would much rather have been moving forward. “I'm nae afraid of ye, Red, but I'll respect yer wishes. And ye need nae fear me, either. I've nae told a soul that ye're here.”

She tilted her head, dark brown eyes regarding him. “I dunnae fear a thing in this world, Bear,” she retorted. “If I did, telling me there's nae a soul but ye to put me in danger might cause me to pull the trigger and end the annoyance ye've caused me.”

Very well, he could concede that admitting he'd kept her presence secret likely wasn't the most brilliant thing he'd ever done. That would teach him to try comforting a female who didn't need or want comforting. “That would be unneighborly of ye,” he said aloud.

For a heartbeat he could have sworn the corners of her mouth lifted, but he wasn't about to wager his life on that. Nor could he afford to take the time to note that her lips looked soft and supremely kissable, or that the brown of her eyes was so deep a man could find himself lost inside them. That was not the sort of thing a man contemplated while a woman was threatening to kill him.

“Ye said ye were going,” she reminded him after a moment. “So go.”

Munro didn't feel ready for the meeting to end, but pushing her further this morning would be risky at best. And taking the gun out of her hands, while it would end the danger to him and likely surprise the devil out of her, wouldn't make them friends. “Aye,” he agreed, and slowly turned for the gaping hole where the front door had once stood. “Just keep in mind that I'm a neighborly lad, and there's no reason fer ye to flee on my account.” After this, he didn't want to come by again and find nothing but cold ashes in the hearth. “Or to shoot me.”

“I suppose that's my concern, and none of yers,” she said coolly, the musket turning to match his retreat.

“And ye're welcome fer the bread and blanket, Red,” he commented over his shoulder. “I'd say a prayer fer yer safety in church if I knew yer name. Or I could just ask Saint Andrew to look after the mad, redheaded lass with a musket and no manners presently resting her head at old, haunted Haldane Abbey. That'd suffice, I suppose. There are those who've told me I have something of a booming voice, but I'll try a manly whisper.”

He could almost feel the heat of her annoyance and frustration against his spine. The odds were fairly even that the next sound he heard would be a ball carving through his backside, after all. Eventually perhaps he'd come up against a challenge he didn't care to meet, but today wasn't that day. Then he heard her slow breath, in and out. “Cat,” she said, so quietly he almost didn't catch the word.

“Beg pardon?”

“Ye heard me, ye big lunk. Ye may say a prayer fer Cat, if ye've a mind to. But dunnae come back here to tell me aboot it.”

“Cat it is, then. Is there anything else ye might have need of while ye're staying here, Cat?”

She snorted. “Aye. Some Shakespeare and smoked pork would be dandy. A whetting stone and a silver spoon fer my porridge. But ye're nae to return, so I reckon I'll do without.”

He made a mental note of her requests. Clearly she thought him a poor cotter, more than likely a poacher, and for both their sakes it might be wise not to correct her misapprehension. Not yet, anyway.