Hannah and the Highlander Page 5

  Niall thought to make a show of her father’s weakness in an attempt to force her hand? Making her people suffer to bring her to heel? Aside from the fact that she would die before submitting to such a man, Hannah hungered for the opportunity to thwart him.

  This land belonged to her, not the Marquess of bluidy Stafford or his son.

  And damn them to hell! How dare he try to kidnap her and force her into marriage? This act of outright villainy must not go unanswered.

  But what could they do? Theirs was a small holding amongst small holdings. Their overlord, the Duke of Caithness, didn’t give a fig about their well-being. They could send a plea to him or to the Prince Regent himself, but Hannah doubted either would bother to respond. The English thought the Scots all savages anyway.

  Standing alone against Stafford was no longer an option, either. This much was clear. Her father had many fine men beneath his banner, but not nearly enough to fight Stafford. Not even enough to scare him.

  It was up to Hannah to protect her people from further incursions. The only way to do that was to unite with a man who would give Stafford pause.

  And only one such man, amongst the legion of her suitors, came to mind.

  So he only wanted her for her land.

  So he was dour and rude.

  It no longer mattered.

  When she arrived at the castle, she leaped from the saddle and tossed the reins to Rory, then she stormed into her father’s office. He stared at her with his mouth agape; his gaze settled on her shredded neckline and then flicked to her tousled hair. “Hannah? What happened?”

  “Send a missive to Dunnet at once,” she commanded before her courage fled. “Tell him I have accepted his suit and intend to marry him with all haste.”

  She didn’t imagine her father’s lips quirked into a smile. Then again, he didn’t bother to hide it.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  So. Damn. Satisfying.

  Alexander brought his sword down on his opponent’s with a resounding clang that echoed through the meadow. The blades tangled and then the other man’s arm weakened; his stance collapsed. He whirled and came at Alexander from another angle, but he was ready for him and blocked the strike.

  And then Alexander advanced, battering the brigand with one hard whack after another, driving him back. The man stumbled over a hummock and fell on his arse, his weapon clattering to the ground. He stared up at Alexander with his eyes wide. Desperation flickered over his features. It was clear he was convinced the end was nigh. But Alexander didn’t intend to kill him—though he deserved it. He just wanted to teach the blighter a lesson.

  Alexander tossed his sword to the side and wrenched the man up by his collar.

  “Stop,” he said, handing a blow to the man’s midsection. “Stealing.” Another blow. “My cattle.” With a final punch, this time to a pointy chin, he let the man go. He tumbled into the dirt and lay there, moaning.

  “Well,” a too-chipper voice came from behind Alexander. “That was fun to watch.”

  Alexander whirled, his blood still high. He’d been furious to ride up on yet another raid in progress, determined to make a statement here and now.

  Dunnet lands and people would be protected with ferocity.

  He frowned at his brother. “You could have helped.”

  Andrew shrugged and set his hand on the hilt of his sword. His sheathed sword. His blue eyes twinkled; his dimples danced. “You were having too much fun. I dinna want to ruin it for you.” His grin was slightly crooked, and mischievous. It usually was.

  They were like two sides of a coin, the brothers, Alexander dark and silent and Andrew bright and lighthearted. His face was chiseled like a Greek sculpture, flawless in every respect, and his hair, a startling shock of white, caught every lady’s eye. Though they were both big men, well-muscled and strong, with the blood of ancient Norsemen coursing through their veins, Andrew had gotten all the good looks in the bargain.

  Alexander should resent him for the ease with which he breezed through life, but he couldn’t. The bastard was too damn charming for anyone to begrudge him his gifts. Also, he was the only family Alexander had in the world and he loved him so much it made his chest ache sometimes.

  Hiding his sudden swell of emotion, he bent and picked up his sword, wiping off the dirt. “Well, thank you for nothing,” he grumbled.

  “It wasn’t nothing. It was an enormous sacrifice.” Andrew blinked innocently. “Do you have any idea how much it cost me to exert such restraint? I would have loved to trounce that bastard.” Aye. Andrew did love swordplay. And trouncing people. It was something of a sport for him. “But I let you have the pleasure.”

  “Again, thank you?”

  “You needed the distraction.”

  Alexander set his teeth. “What do you mean?”

  “Seriously?” Andrew barked a laugh. “Ever since you returned from Barrogill you’ve been a bear.”

  He had been. Even more surly than usual. “I’ve been … preoccupied.” Since he’d sent his offer to Magnus, he’d had one thing and one thing only on his mind.

  Hannah.

  He’d been lashed with dueling bouts of excitement and dread. She’d refused every man who’d offered for her hand. It was quite possible she could refuse Alexander as well. Now that he’d made up his mind about marrying her and adding the Reay lands to his holdings, he couldn’t countenance the prospect that she might say no. Beyond that, he couldn’t evict the memory of her sweet lips and her sweeter form.

  And that kiss …

  God in heaven above. That kiss. Shivers skittered down his spine at the memory. Surely that boded well for his suit. It had nearly blinded him, the innocent passion in that simple buss. It bemused him still.

  It wrapped him in the coils of fantasy and hope, battered him with thoughts about the ebony silk of her hair and how it would feel twined in his fist; or her rosy lips, or her amber eyes. Or her body, lush and full and oh, so soft.

  She crept into his mind more often than he should allow.

  Especially at night, when all his work had been dispensed with, when he lay in the cold clutch of his enormous bed … alone. He thought of her. Dreamed of her. And at those times, the desire within him rose.

  And discipline evaded him.

  Even the fear that she could reject him didn’t dampen his obsession.

  She might say no, but she might say yes. The prospect thrilled him to the core.

  “Aye. You have been preoccupied,” Andrew said. His expression sobered. He looked away. “Hopefully you will hear back soon.”

  “I hope so.” The wait was untenable.

  The man on the ground stirred and then, with a leery glance at Alexander, scurried away. The two brothers watched as he ran.

  “Should we chase him down?” Andrew asked.

  Alexander responded with a shake of his head, “Nae. Let him run. Let him return to Olrig and explain why he has arrived empty-handed.” Let Olrig know the Laird of Dunnet would no longer tolerate these petty attempts to needle him.

  “Do you think Olrig is behind this?”

  “Aye.” Indeed, since their heated altercation in Barrogill conditions on the border had deteriorated. As though Olrig had given orders to pester him into submission.

  The bastard should know better.

  Alexander would not be pestered. Or cowed. Or bullied into joining Olrig’s coalition of lairds. He could not be compelled to commit what was, in his mind, treason against his overlord.

  “Shall we continue on?” Andrew asked.

  Alexander nodded and headed back to Wallace, who stood patiently on the rise nipping tufts of grass. He waved to the men in his company to collect the purloined cattle and return them to the farmer from whom they had been stolen, and he and his brother resumed their rounds.

  They stopped at several crofts, checking in on the crofters, and made a side trip to visit Agnes, an aged widow who lived on the border. Technically she was Olrig’s vassal, but Alexander always made it a p
oint to stop by when he was in the area and slip her a mutton chop or a chicken. The poor woman was nearly bedridden and but for her son, who stopped by to work her fields each day, she lived alone. It was likely only a matter of time before Olrig remembered her. And when he did, he would evict her. Alexander wanted her to know, when that happened, she would be welcome in Dunnet.

  With their rounds completed, the brothers headed back to the castle. As they clattered over the moat bridge and into the bailey, Fergus, Alexander’s factor, hailed him, scuttling over the cobbles. His brow rose. Fergus never scuttled.

  “My lord,” he huffed as he ran up.

  Alexander leaped from the saddle and fixed his attention on Fergus’ face, steeling himself not to wince. Though his factor’s visage was familiar and dear, it was difficult not to wince whenever he saw that scar. It brought back memories he longed to forget and incited far too much guilt. Determinedly he thrust all that from his mind. “Aye, Fergus?”

  The factor’s lips curled into something that might have been a smile. With the puckered skin tugging at his features, it could be difficult to distinguish a smile from a frown. “It has come, my lord.”

  He stilled. His muscles clenched, nerves hummed. “What has come?”

  “The letter, my lord. The letter from Dounreay. It has come.”

  * * *

  Holy God.

  As Alexander stared at the letter lying on his gleaming desk he idly scratched Brùid behind the ears. The beast, his fierce protector and ever-loyal friend, nipped him when he stopped. Alexander chuckled and riffled Brùid’s fur again.

  There was something soothing about petting a dog when one’s mind was in a welter. He was torn between the desire to rip the missive open and devour its contents … and the fear to do so. Why his pulse skittered so he didn’t know.

  Or maybe he did.

  As he contemplated the scrap of parchment, his fate, he washed down an oatcake with a liberal gulp of coffee. He tossed a bite of it to Brùid, who caught it mid-air … and then spat it out.

  Alexander could sympathize. He didn’t care much for oatcakes, either, but Morag took such pride in her recipe—handed doun from cook tae cook through time immemorial—he felt, as laird of the manor, he was obligated to eat at least one each morning. He would much rather be tucking away kippers or a great slab of salt pork or a pudding of some sort, but such were the sacrifices of a laird. It was a damn shame his dog refused to help him out.

  With a harsh movement he shoved Dounreay’s letter back and focused on the rest of his mail. Surely that wasn’t a cowardly thing to do. He had many responsibilities, many matters weighing on his shoulders. Still, it took all his concentration to focus.

  He worked his way through the tasks with diligence. At long last, he reached the letter on the bottom of the pile. It was a report from his factor in Lyth detailing a conflict that would require the Justice of the Peace.

  Alexander sighed. As he was the laird, resolving such conflicts was his responsibility. This meant he would need to carve out time in his schedule for a trip to the village to hear the complaints. He could send Andrew, but Alexander preferred to be a visible presence with his people, so they knew they had his support and, more important, so he knew he had their loyalty. Loyalty was all that held them together anymore, and even that was a tenuous thread.

  The last such trip had taken a week, but it had been well worth the time. Judging from the facts laid out by his bonnet laird, this was a simple issue of land rights tangled by interwoven marriages and ancient feuds. Passions were riding high, so Alexander would need to attend to this immediately.

  With his docket thusly cleared, he had but one letter left.

  The letter from Dounreay.

  With trembling fingers, he picked it up. While he dreaded what the letter could hold, he knew it was best with such things to make it a quick death. If things didn’t go his way, it might not be entirely painless, but at least it wouldn’t linger.

  God, he hoped things went his way.

  He ripped open the seal and scanned his friend’s familiar script.

  Alexander’s heart stalled. His breath caught.

  All dread, all worry, all fear, flew. An indescribable waft of joy, like the first green breath of spring, blew through his soul. Little ripples danced over his skin as his nerves shivered, a maniacal dance.

  He set the letter down and rubbed his eyes. Then he picked it up and read it anew. Just to be sure. Just to be sure it said what he’d thought. What he’d hoped. What he’d dreamed.

  She has accepted your suit.

  He read each word. One at a time. Then blew out a breath. A laugh. A whoop.

  She has accepted your suit.

  Excitement flooded him, sang in his veins.

  She would be his. And she was coming soon.

  He grimaced as he realized how little time there was to prepare. And on top of that, he had this trip to Lyth to contend with. There was no time to waste and there was much to do. Hurriedly he pulled out a pile of parchment and began scratching out orders to his staff. First and foremost, the baroness’ chambers, which connected to his, would need to be completely redone. He barely knew his bride, but he was fairly certain the jonquil color scheme would not do.

  Hannah didn’t seem like a yellow sort of woman.

  He briefly considered moving into his late uncle’s much grander suite of rooms, but it was a brief flicker of a thought. He had no desire to sleep in Dermid’s bed. Though the man was long dead, Alexander still carried the weight of his detestable memory. Aside from that, Alexander preferred the view from the west wing and he felt certain Hannah would as well.

  But what color should he select? With much thought, he decided on an amber brown. Something warm and welcoming, like the color of her eyes. That decided, he moved on to the details of the wedding. Hannah would probably want to have a say in the arrangements, but Alexander had no intention of giving her an opportunity to change her mind or delay the ceremony. He intended to have everything in place the instant she walked through the door.

  He quickly wrote out a note to the parish priest and added it to the pile. It would be helpful to have a clergyman on hand. With any luck, Father Pieter would eschew the whisky and attend sober.

  The letter to Hannah took more time. How did one greet a bride? Alexander had little experience with this. He knew it was, of all of them, the most important message, for it would set the tone for his and Hannah’s dealings.

  While the written word rarely failed him, with this he did struggle. He tried one letter filled with flowery prose and then, upon reading it back, balled it up and tossed it in the wastebin. The second attempt read like a business agreement and met the same fate.

  After five more attempts, he settled on something brief and curt.

  I am pleased to welcome you to Dunnet. Our wedding shall take place forthwith.

  Not overly flowery, but not unnecessarily indifferent. And it got right to the point.

  Alexander liked things that got to the point.

  With great satisfaction, he scrawled his name and affixed his seal, setting the letter on the pile with the others. That done, he wrote out another missive for her, to be delivered when she arrived, welcoming her once more and advising her to ask Fergus to see to her needs. As Alexander didn’t know how long his business in Lyth would take, it seemed prudent. He wouldn’t want her to arrive in his home with no welcome from her groom.

  It was essential that they started out on the right foot.

  He was just scratching her name on the front and affixing his seal when Brùid growled. It was a lazy growl, the grumble of an interrupted drowse more than a warning.

  Alexander’s hand stilled as he sensed a presence at his side. Slowly, he turned.

  Large, dark eyes, set in a small, solemn face, peered up at him.

  Alexander’s heart swelled. Fiona McGill was a wee thing, one of the orphans who had come to Dunnet for shelter last winter, having been tossed out of their homes in
to the snow by a cold-blooded laird to the west. Her poor mam had been wracked with fever and died at the gates.

  Very few people ventured up the three hundred steps to his sanctuary in the turret tower, and Alexander liked it that way—he preferred quiet when he worked—but he was always happy to see Fiona. He had an affinity for the girl, and not only because they shared the same affliction. Her presence was calming to him, a balm. A reminder that he could, in fact, protect someone.

  Her lips worked, and his gut clenched. He knew the feeling of dread, the ache of attempting to force out words that would not come. He waited, patiently, as she struggled.

  “What-what are ye d-doing?” she managed at length.

  “Working.”

  Her small smile faltered. Shite. He had not meant his tone to be so clipped. Not with her. He winked at her in recompense and reached down to lift her onto his lap, issuing a great groan, as though she weighed as much as a boulder, though, in truth, she was like a feather.

  She giggled and nestled against him.

  Something squeezed his chest. How he ached for a child of his own. Until today it had been a hazy dream, but now he would be married and all that would change.

  Soon he could have sons.

  Fiona picked up his quill and made marks on the parchment. She shot a proud look up at him. There was a hint of uncertainty in that glance, so Alexander patted her on the shoulder. “Fine. That’s fine work.”

  “You-you-you write a lot.”

  “Aye. ‘Tis easier than speaking.” Truer words he’d never uttered.

  Her chin firmed. “I … sh-should … like to l-learn to write.”

  “So you shall. When … you’re older.” He pressed a quick buss to her dark curls and lifted her down. While he enjoyed her presence, he had much left to do today. “Here.” He handed her his quill. She stared at the feather as though he’d handed her the royal jewels. “Practice.”

  She nibbled at her lip and, though she tried to hide it, a radiant grin broke free. She nodded once and, clutching her treasure, scampered from his office.

  Alexander stared after her, unable to hold back his smile.