Hannah and the Highlander Page 3

  And all for profit.

  Stafford was a grasping bastard, and the worst kind of grasping bastard. One with no conscience whatsoever.

  “What kind of proposal?” Alexander spat.

  Perhaps he shouldn’t have asked. It had the unfortunate effect of encouraging Olrig. His face lit with enthusiasm. “Come and hear him out. He’s waiting for you in his tent.”

  Alexander’s gut rippled. He had no intention of meeting with Stafford. He couldn’t imagine the man having anything of interest to say. With a snort he shook his head, then turned away.

  “Wait!” Olrig grabbed his arm; his hold was far too tight. Alexander glanced at Olrig’s hand and growled a little in his throat. Olrig blanched and released him. “Listen, Dunnet. These are changing times. You will want to be onboard for this.”

  Something in his tone made Alexander’s blood go cold. “What do you mean?” He ground out the words through clenched teeth.

  Olrig leaned closer. The stench of his sweat engulfed Alexander like a cloud. “As you know, Stafford is … close to the Prince Regent.”

  “Aye.”

  “The word is, the prince will soon give him the title of Duke of Sutherland.”

  Alexander frowned. He didn’t know why this would affect him. His lands were not in Sutherland County; his overlord was the Duke of Caithness.

  “Rumor has it, when Stafford receives the title, the prince will gift him Caithness’ lands as well.”

  It was hard not to gape. With both counties, Stafford would hold all of northern Scotland. Including Dunnet. Alexander set his teeth. “And what of the Duke of Caithness?”

  He didn’t like Olrig’s grin. “We doona need to worry about Lachlan Sinclair.”

  The little hairs on Alexander’s nape prickled. Lachlan Sinclair, the aforementioned duke, Alexander’s ancestral overload and Chief of the Clan, had been an absentee laird for decades, eschewing his homeland for the frolics of London. He had recently returned to Scotland, though he hadn’t bothered to attend this convocation of his lairds.

  A huge mistake.

  Still and all, he was the laird of all baronies in the county. And a duke. Alexander owed him his fealty. “So, what does Stafford want from me?”

  Olrig clapped him on the back. “See, I knew you would be interested.” He wasn’t, but it behooved him to know what machinations were happening around him. “Stafford knows, if he receives the blessings of the barons, the prince will be more inclined to gift him the land when Caithness dies. It makes sense, as Caithness has no heirs.”

  Alexander’s first reaction was revulsion at the thought of giving Stafford his blessing to claim Dunnet. No doubt he would raze the crofts and burn out the villages as he had on his own land.

  But a darker thought supplanted Alexander’s annoyance. When Caithness dies? Holy hell. Was this treason? It sounded like it. He crossed his arms and fixed Olrig with a narrow-eyed stare. “But Caithness is young.” Thirty, if that.

  Scrabster snorted. “All the Sinclair men die young. And from all accounts, the duke is ailing and weak. The Prince Regent knows this. Stafford knows this.”

  And, no doubt, Stafford would be willing to help the duke along on his journey, should the opportunity arise. No doubt Stafford wouldn’t quail at murdering a peer if it meant taking ownership of every scrap of land from Scourie to Wick.

  Alexander had never even met his overlord and all of the baronies had suffered as a result of their overlord’s negligence, but that fact didn’t dampen the loyalty he felt for Caithness’ office. As a Scotsman Alexander held a fierce devotion to the clan system—despite its recent decimation. He would remain loyal to Caithness regardless of his failings, and he would never budge on that.

  Not ever.

  This whole conversation sickened him.

  Without a word he turned his back on Olrig and resumed his hunt for Magnus.

  “Dunnet! Dunnet!” Olrig bellowed. “Stafford is waiting for you.”

  Alexander ignored him. Stafford could rot.

  And, for that matter, so could Olrig, Scrabster, and their ilk.

  Fury savaged Alexander as he made his way through the festival grounds. He was aware of the wide-eyed glances he received and the fact that men scuttled to remove themselves from his path, but he paid them no mind. While he didn’t like being feared, he allowed it. Because a man would think twice, or three times, or more before threatening that which Alexander held dear. And, at the moment, he was not in the mood to weave through the crowd.

  Being frightening did have its advantages on occasion.

  He found Magnus near the lists watching a mock battle that had all the earmarks of turning very real. It was never wise to give Scotsmen weapons and an opportunity to work out old grudges on a field of combat, even if it was supposed to be for fun. There was more than one nose streaming with blood.

  Magnus’ eyes lit up as he spotted him. He clapped Alexander on the shoulder and boomed, “Ah, Dunnet.”

  “Sir, I would like to speak with you if I may.”

  “Certainly.”

  “In … private.”

  Magnus studied him for a moment, his smile dimming. Then he nodded. “What do you say to a spot of whisky in my tent?”

  Alexander nodded, though it was not whisky he was after, and the two men turned and made their way through the milling throng. Though his resolve had not wavered, Alexander’s nerves roiled. He’d decided to make the biggest step of this life and take a bride. This was the most significant meeting of his life. He hoped to God his friend would look favorably on his offer. More than that, he hoped that Hannah would.

  Magnus held open the flap to his tent and Alexander bowed his head and stepped through. It was one of the larger tents here and was set up with a sitting area in front and sleeping quarters in back. He couldn’t stifle the riffle of awareness that this was where she slept. It took some effort, but he pushed the thought from his mind and concentrated on the matter at hand.

  Negotiations.

  As Magnus headed for the whisky set on the table in the sitting area, he sighed. “I canna tell you how relieved I am that you are here, Dunnet. A rational head amidst fools.” Aye, he and Magnus saw eye to eye on many issues, unlike some of the other barons. It was one of the reasons Alexander respected the man as much as he did. “You wouldna believe the conversation I had with Scrabster today.”

  Alexander took the proffered drink and sat in one of the chairs. “Did it involve Stafford?”

  Magnus snorted. “What on earth is he thinking?”

  “He’s thinking he will rule the entire northern coast.”

  “Bah. And he will too, if the rumors are true.” They shared a dark glance. Neither of them savored the thought of having Stafford as an overlord. “The problem is, we’re in the back of beyond. The prince doesna give a tinker’s damn about the Highlands and, unfortunately, neither does Caithness.”

  “He is still our laird.”

  “True. But you and I may be the only two who see it that way. Why, even Morac was blethering this nonsense.” Magnus took a generous sip of his drink. “Nae doubt they are all anxious to end up on the side of the victor.”

  “And you think that will be Stafford?”

  Magnus shrugged. “He is powerful. And present. Until recently, Caithness hasna set foot in Ackergill since he was a lad. How can a man demand fealty from barons he’s never even spoken to? If that boy had a brain in his head, he would hie to each holding and whip these barons into shape. They’ve been allowed to run amok for far too long.”

  It was true. And with the ill winds blowing across Scotland, misdeeds and mayhem were all too common.

  “Ah, but enough about politics. What did you want to discuss?” Magnus pinned him with a piercing gaze and all of a sudden Alexander’s throat locked.

  He swallowed heavily and stiffened his spine. “Sir, I—”

  When Magnus smacked him on the leg, it derailed his thoughts and he sputtered into silence. The old man waggled a
finger. “That’s the second time you’ve called me sir. This must be serious business indeed.”

  Aye. It was.

  Alexander sucked in a deep breath and began again. “Sir … I would like to talk to you about your … daughter.” The reluctance of the words to flow smoothly irritated him, but he forced them out.

  Magnus’ eyes widened and then he barked a laugh. “Ah. Clapped eyes on my Susana, did you? I should have known. She’s a right beauty. And every man has that reaction. But I warn you, she is a stubborn one.”

  Alexander stared at him. Susana? “Nae.”

  “Nae?”

  “Not Susana. Hannah.” Ah. It felt so right, speaking her name for the first time.

  He had no earthly idea why Magnus gaped at him. “Hannah?” He shook his head. “Are you sure you doona mean Susana? With the red hair?”

  “Nae.” Long, inky tresses. Wide brown eyes. Thick lashes. Lush lips. “Hannah.”

  “Oh.” Magnus studied him for a moment and then his face broke into a grin. “Oh.”

  “I…” Damn it. Why did this always happen when he needed to say something important? “I should like your permission to offer for her.”

  “Excellent.” Magnus clapped his hands together and leaped to his feet. “Excellent choice. I think this calls for a drink.” He hummed to himself as he filled two more glasses. He appeared to be surprised when he returned and saw Alexander already had one and it was untouched. With a shrug, Magnus set the new drinks next to the one he was working on.

  “Magnus … Do you think Hannah would be … amenable to an offer?”

  Magnus tapped his lip. “Hard to say. Hannah is my eldest and nearly as stubborn as Susana. But then, all my girls are stubborn in their own way, truth be told. Comes from not having a mother, I’d wager. Wouldn’t you?” Alexander didn’t respond. He had no idea why women were stubborn. “But she’s a good girl, an exceptional catch, make no mistake about it. Strong and willful. Sturdy.”

  Sturdy?

  Not the word he would use to describe her. Ravishing came more to mind.

  “She has her share of suitors, mind you, given her properties.” Magnus waggled his brows. “She’s rebuffed them all. I do admit I’ve been despairing the girl will ever choose a husband.” He sighed and fixed his gaze on Alexander; his smile tweaked again. “But I do believe the two of you would suit and, frankly, I would be delighted to have a man like you in the family. Tell you what. You send an offer and, in the meantime, I will work on her.” He winked. “With any luck, she will see sense. But I warn you, she is stubborn.”

  “Aye. You did … mention that.”

  “But she has to marry sometime, does she no’? And frankly, I canna think of a better man.” He pressed his hands together and glanced toward the heavens. “Pray God she sees it that way.”

  It warmed his heart that Magnus held him in such high esteem, and as Alexander left his tent he couldn’t stop the trickle of anticipation sifting through his bowels.

  She might be a stubborn woman, but he could be stubborn too. Once he set his mind on something, he did not change it.

  And he’d set his mind on Hannah. And her land.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Hannah settled herself on her favorite bench in the garden and opened the long-awaited book with a sigh. It had been impossible to read on the bumpy ride back from Barrogill. Aside from which, her mind had whirled with thoughts of that man. Her ire had only grown.

  She’d tried to discover his identity, but it was difficult to do so without exposing her interest to her father. Such a revelation—that she had an interest in any man—would lead to disaster. Though surely it wasn’t interest. She merely wanted to know who he was. So she could avoid him in the future.

  That she’d dreamed about him did not signify.

  With great resolve she thrust all thoughts of him from her mind and attempted to focus on a fascinating treatise on crop rotation. Her concentration was shattered when an arrow whizzed past her head.

  It wasn’t often an arrow whizzed past one’s head when one was reading a tome on agronomy in the garden, but when it did it behooved one to investigate. She closed the book on her finger and stood.

  A mistake.

  The next arrow was far closer. She felt the kiss of air on her cheek as it flew by.

  She spotted her nemesis. Indeed, the archer was difficult to miss. The startling white-blond hair was like a beacon.

  “Isobel Mairi MacBean. Please do stop shooting at me!” This she called loudly, as her niece had a vexing tendency to ignore things she didn’t want to hear.

  Isobel nocked another arrow in her tiny bow. A tiny bow for a tiny body, but the arrows were still sharp. Hannah thought it prudent to duck. Once the arrow had been loosed, thankfully at a long-suffering tree, Hannah charged through the flowers to her niece’s side. Where she was less likely to offer an easy target.

  “What are you doing, darling?” she asked, forcing a light tone but taking the precaution of snatching the remaining arrows from the quiver.

  Isobel blinked at her in surprise, as though Hannah had appeared from thin air. “Oh, hullo, Aunt Hannah. I’m practicing. Mama said I should practice.”

  Honestly. What was Susana thinking, giving her five-year-old daughter a bow and setting her loose on the denizens of Reay? The parish would never be the same.

  “But not in the garden, dearest.” When people were reading.

  Enormous blue eyes widened. Long lacy lashes fluttered. “Would the library be a better place?”

  “Good God, no.” She could only imagine it. All of her favorite books, bristling with arrows like so many hedgehogs. Hannah tried to scowl, but she really wasn’t very good at scowling and Isobel’s glee was infectious. “You very nearly skewered me.”

  Isobel leaned in and whispered, “I missed you on purpose.” She grinned then, an irresistible mix of mischief and mayhem. And dimples. Hannah had no clue where Isobel had gotten her dimples. They were probably on loan from the devil himself. “May I have my arrows back?”

  “You absolutely may not.” She was lucky Hannah didn’t snap them in half. “‘Tis time for breakfast. I’m sure your mother is wondering where you’ve gone off to.”

  Isobel readjusted her empty quiver and snorted. Oddly, much like her mother might snort. “She’s still sleeping.”

  “Nae doubt you exhaust her.” Hannah tried to take the bow, as well as the arrows, but Isobel tightened her grip. Ah well. Maybe next time. If she was diligent. The bow definitely needed to disappear. Maybe they could blame it on the Grey Lady.

  Castle ghosts were convenient for things like this.

  “Come along,” Hannah said, wrapping her arm around her niece’s slender shoulders and leading her back inside. As always, when Hannah’s gaze hit the rose stones of the ancient battlements of her home her heart hitched. Particularly now, in the early-morning light, kissed by the tender lips of dawn, it was stunning.

  Merciful heavens, she loved it here. She loved everything about it, from the village of Ciaran Reay to the outlying crofts. She loved the tacksmen, the shopkeepers, and the fishermen. She loved the scent of the sea in her nostrils and the smell of newly mown hay in the harvest. She loved the taste of crisp Reay apples and the sweet bite of heather honey. She loved managing the land and overseeing the work of her people.

  And she loved her family. Her life was here.

  She didn’t want to leave.

  If she married, she would have to. Brides did cleave to their husbands. Or at least that was what she’d been told.

  Papa was already seated in the morning room when they entered; he was surrounded by piles of letters. He paused in his work to tug Isobel into an enormous hug. She wriggled away and scampered to the sideboard to peruse the buffet, where she proceeded to touch everything. Hannah ripped her attention from the disturbing sight of Isobel licking a scone and then setting it back on the plate when Susana burst into the room like a summer shower. Susana always burst into rooms. She was
a force of nature. She hung her bow on the back of her chair, and ignoring their father’s scowl—as he didn’t approve of weapons at the table—she sauntered to the sideboard and selected her breakfast.

  “Good morning, all,” she breezed as she sat next to her daughter, dropping a kiss on Isobel’s soft white curls. Isobel, glutting herself with cakes, ignored her. Susana didn’t seem to notice. “What a lovely day!” she gusted.

  Hannah fixed a stern expression on her face. “Isobel was shooting in the garden again.” It was probably bad form to tattle and indeed Isobel glowered at her, but something had to be said. Someone could be skewered.

  Susana beamed at her daughter. “Excellent. Did you hit anything?” she asked.

  “She almost hit me,” Hannah grumbled, but they both pretended not to hear.

  “I almost hit a rabbit.”

  “Ach, my wee warrior. You’ll get it next time.”

  Isobel grinned. The devil’s dimples rippled. She probably would get it next time.

  Poor rabbit.

  “I wouldna mind some rabbit stew,” Papa murmured, and Hannah frowned at him. One should not be inciting a child to mayhem.

  Then again, Isobel required little encouragement.

  Hannah considered renewing her objections to being barraged with arrows before breakfast but decided it was pointless. Also, it reminded her she’d not yet had breakfast. Her stomach growled at the thought. She made her way to the sideboard, attempting to find some sustenance that had not yet been licked. She settled on eggs and a nice slice of beef.

  As she was finishing up, Lana drifted into the room. She paused in a shaft of sunlight and her body, willowy and lithe, was imbued with an angelic glow. The rays danced off her golden curls.

  It was probably beneath Hannah to entertain that lance of envy; she tried to ignore it, but it was a trial to do so. Between the two of them, her sisters often made Hannah feel … inadequate.

  But then Lana smiled at her and her discontent dissolved. Lana had a magical smile, a calming, soothing spirit that made every person in her presence feel embraced. Lana was a special soul, with a special gift, and although Hannah couldn’t claim to understand it, she did her best to support her sister’s … eccentricities. “Good morning,” she said softly as she made her way to the buffet and piled her plate high with bacon.