The Highlander (12 page)

Then froze.

The mother and pup were no longer alone. A man had joined them, and was even now kicking off his boots and wading into the water toward her.

Suddenly her trembling had little to do with the cold.

He waved a hand as he plunged into the tide, his strong legs displacing water much more efficiently than hers. “Whit like, lass?” he called in a friendly voice.

Mena knew she had very few options at this juncture. She couldn't very well go farther out to sea, she'd drown or freeze before she swam to the island. And now that her skirts were heavy with water, there was no hope of outrunning the man.

Lord, but they did breed a very different kind of male out here in the Highlands, didn't they?

His kilt of Mackenzie plaid tufted out about him in the water, and then sank as his large body shuddered with cold. He was tall and broad, and built like the strong men working in the barley fields. All slopes and swells of muscle and not an inch of fat to be found, this becoming more apparent as the moisture seeped into his shirt, causing it to cling to his well-sculpted chest.

“I'm quite all right,” she replied as he waded closer.

He ignored her flinch as he swept a brawny arm beneath her elbow and secured another about her waist as he helped her press toward the beach while simultaneously allowing her the hold on the puppy she clung to.

“I've got ye,” he rumbled.

Mena was going to remark on the fact that she hadn't needed to be gotten. Though she had to admit that with the brawny man's help, she didn't have to rely so much on the failing strength of her legs straining against the icy pull of the Atlantic.

Once they began to splash into knee-deep water, they were accosted by the distraught mother, and the creature in her arms yipped and wriggled to be let down.

Mena took a few more steps, grateful the man released her to do so, and waited for a light wave to recede before placing the little thing back into its mother's care. The dogs whined and yelped and tumbled over each other in exuberant reunion, the mother obsessively licking over both her children who romped toward the tall grasses that eventually led to the forest.

“There's gratitude for ye.” The Highlander chuckled from behind her. Mena turned to stare into the most extraordinary green eyes she'd ever seen. Much darker than her own jade irises, his gaze reminded her of the shady canopy of trees that she'd traversed this very afternoon.

Mena's thoughts stalled for a moment at the brilliance of his smile and how it illuminated the rest of his handsome face. A face that seemed familiar, somehow, though she was certain she'd never before been introduced to him. Something about the raw shape of the jaw, or the proud, broad planes of his forehead. He had the look and build of a Mackenzie, she realized, though his coloring was more falcon than raven. Hair the shade of the wet sand beneath them glinted with strands of copper and gold when illuminated by the afternoon sun. He wore it short in the London style, though his garb was that of a Highlander.

“Allow me to thank ye on behalf of my ill-mannered mongrels,” he said with a disarming smile. “Trixie is good with the sheep, but has always been a little daft if ye ask me, and shite with swimming.”

“Think nothing of it.” Mena backed toward the grassy knoll, painfully aware of the peril of her situation. “I really must be going, good afternoon, sir.” She wrestled with her water-logged skirts and the give of sand beneath her feet as both impeded a hasty escape.

“Ye're English,” he observed affably.

“Quite,” she clipped, bending to retrieve her shoes and stockings, grateful that the water had pulled her skirts from where she'd tucked them up before. Mena found herself wondering if the Highlander had spied her when she'd lifted her skirts well above her bare knees earlier.

“I'm Gavin St. James of the clan Mackenzie…” He stopped and offered a hand, which Mena pretended not to see as she climbed the knoll toward the forest. She didn't have to look behind her to know he followed her. “And ye are?” he prompted, his voice betraying only amusement rather than ire at her discourtesy.

“I am very tardy,” she said over her shoulder. “They were expecting me back at Ravencroft Keep some time ago, and will likely already be looking for me as the hour is late.” She crested the hill quickly and, though she was a bit winded, she hurried toward the deer trail, hoping he took the not-so-subtle hint that she didn't welcome company.

No such luck. “Would it make ye feel more at ease if I told ye that I'm foreman at the distillery and I ken who ye are, as I was there that day the linchpin gave on the axle.”

Mena paused at the tree line and turned to face him, studying his chiseled features more carefully. “You were?” she queried. “I don't remember you.” Though she had been focused on none else but the imposing laird.

“I was mostly behind the carriage,” he said sheepishly. “Also, I was wearing a rather dashing hat.”

Searching her memory of that day, Mena found him. “The red hat with the dark coat?”

“That would be I,” he announced. “And it might further please ye to know that it was yer ward Rhianna who named Trixie when she was a wee lass.”

“Oh.” Mena tucked a stray tendril back into her knot as the wind caught it. Somehow she found that it did, indeed, make her feel a bit less anxious about finding herself alone with him. “Forgive me if I was rude, I am not accustomed to walking in the forest with strange men.”

“Think nothing of it.” He repeated her words back to her with the most charming twinkle in his eyes. “Now that we are no longer strangers, would ye allow me to escort ye back to the keep, English? No offense to yer capabilities, but how could I face me own mother knowing I abandoned a half-drowned lass in the woods?”

His eyes were so soulful, his demeanor so earnest, Mena found that she couldn't at all refuse him. And besides, she was in no hurry to return to the keep.

And to the demons she might find there.

“Am I correct in assuming you live around here?” she queried, stooping to pick at a heather bloom at the edge of the forest.

“Aye.” he motioned to the north and west as he fell into easy step beside her. “I hie from over to Inverthorne Keep north by Gairloch, though I'm here with the men for the distilling of the summer harvest, and then the sowing of the winter crops.”

“Oh? I was unaware another keep resided so close to Ravencroft.”

Another of his easy smiles endeared him to her even more. “'Tis another Mackenzie stronghold, lorded over by the Earl of Thorne.”

“I've never met the Earl of Thorne.”

“And ye shouldna like to, either.” he warned sagely. “Ravencroft's half brother. An incessant hedonist and notorious libertine, that one. Pretty lass like ye would do best to avoid his ilk, lest ye find yerself in trouble.”

Mena's eyebrows flew toward her hairline. “I wasn't aware Ravencroft had any
more
brothers.”

The Highlander slid a bemused glance her way. “What do ye mean,
more
brothers?”

Oh, blast, why had she allowed this slip of the tongue? Of course no one else knew about Dorian Blackwell. That he'd once been Dougan Mackenzie. She'd never forgive herself if she revealed a secret that was not hers to tell.

Especially when she trusted the Blackwells to keep her own secrets.

“Not very many outsiders know about Hamish,” he said easily, sensing her distress. “I'm surprised ye were told, is all, English.”

“I thought Hamish was the name of Ravencroft's father.”

“So it was.” Gavin nodded, studying her intently. “But it was also the name of Liam's elder brother.”

“Good Lord. How many errant Mackenzie brothers are there?”

“Too many.” Gavin peered into the woods toward Ravencroft, though they were still too far away to see it through the copse of dense trees.

Mena barely had time to wonder at the shadows that settled over the genial Highlander's features before they were gone.

“The lairdship of Hamish the elder was a dark time for the Mackenzies of Wester Ross,” he explained. “Young Hamish was the firstborn of the laird, but he wasna legitimate. Liam followed soon thereafter, and then the marchioness died under what some believe to be suspicious circumstances. There was a rumored bastard or two after that, no one knows who or how many. The laird wasna a kind man, ye ken, he didna always give his mistresses the choice…”

Mena nodded, her heart pinching for the poor women left in the late Laird Mackenzie's wake. “I heard as much. So this Earl of Thorne, he's one of these—illegitimate children?”

“Nay, he's the firstborn of the late Laird Mackenzie's second wife, 'tis why he was bequeathed the lesser title and a drafty keep.”

“And … what happened to young Hamish?” If it was anything as terrible as Dorian Blackwell's fate, she'd almost rather not know.

“He was raised with Liam, mostly. They were close after a fashion, went off to war together, only…”

“Only what?”

“Only Liam returned. Hamish died at sea.”

“Oh, dear, how very sad.” They walked on in silence for a while. Mena gathered a few more late sprigs of heather, some wild lavender, and a small white flower that had fluffy, fernlike leaves. It occurred to her that her bouquet was rather like something someone would place at a grave. “This family has certainly seen its fair share of tragedy. Hamish the elder and younger, the laird's mother, and then his wife, all gone.”

“Aye, well … Colleen, Liam's wife, was different,” Gavin murmured, his eyes still far away.

Mena's eyes drew together at the liberty the Highlander took with the laird's first name. “How so?” she queried.

He took a long time to answer, so long Mena thought he must be lost in a faraway memory. “She just was.”

Feeling as though she trod on a clan secret, a sense of unease around the death of two young Mackenzie marchionesses brought another dark fear to mind. “Mr. St. James,” Mena began.

“Call me Gavin, please, there's no need to stand on ceremony out here, English.” And just like that, his amiable mood and mischievous smirk had returned.

It struck Mena again how handsome he was, so incredibly virile, and she had to fix her gaze firmly on the forest in front of her.

“I wondered if you might tell me, that is, if you've ever heard of … or are familiar with…” Mena squeezed her eyes shut, feeling utterly foolish. “With the
brollachan
.”

Gavin tossed his head back and laughed so heartily, Mena couldn't help but notice how the sinew of his masculine throat and collarbones were exposed to the dancing shade of the late afternoon. “Been listening to clan gossip about the laird, have ye?”

Mena glanced back down with a sheepish smile. “It's not just clan gossip; he's known as the Demon Highlander even in London. I was just … wondering if you, if the locals, gave the myth any credence.”

The corner of his sensual mouth tilted roguishly. “The
Brollachan
was around before the Christians brought the fear of demons to this land, but the idea is the same, I suppose. It is said he's a wicked cast of Fae that has no shape but for fearsome red eyes. If ye look for him on a deserted road and ye make him a deal, he'll possess ye for a time, gift ye the speed and strength of the Fae. But then he'll drag ye down to perdition when he's finished with ye.”

A shadow with red eyes?

“Is he dangerous to … to anyone else?” Mena stuttered.

“Only if ye meet him on the road, but not if he's inside a dwelling. A
Brollachan
is said to be good luck if they haunt yer home … or yer keep. Grateful spirits, they, and not fond of the chill.”

Though Mena felt ridiculous, the information allowed her to peel her tense shoulders away from her ears. “Oh, well, that's good news, I suppose.”

“Ye're most likely to see them around this time of year.” He studied her again for a moment with that strange, intent expression, before bending down to pluck her another sprig of lavender and add it to her arrangement as they meandered through the forest thick with songbirds and equally boisterous creatures. “Do ye believe in demons, English?”

Mena couldn't stop picturing the horrible red-eyed shadow she'd seen earlier today. She'd like to believe it had been a dream, but would much rather it be real than a hallucination.

“I—I think I'm beginning to,” she confessed with a diffident grimace.

“Was it the Mackenzie?” he queried, his tone hardening. “Does he frighten ye, lass?”

“Not at all.” He terrified her.

Hiding her features in her bouquet of blooms, she glanced up at her companion. Large and strong as he was, he didn't carry the daunting menace Ravencroft did. His demeanor tended more toward charisma than hostility. In fact, she felt a sense of ease next to him, as though he posed her no threat, whereas the laird was nothing if not intimidating.

“I must admit the Marquess Ravencroft isn't what I anticipated when I accepted the position. He tends to be a bit…” Mena stalled, searching her extensive vocabulary for the right word.

Gavin ticked off on his fingers. “Formidable, grim, disagreeable, imperious, overbearing, high-handed, authoritarian…”

As the red stones of Ravencroft came into view, Mena found herself laughing, enjoying the answering chuckle of amusement that produced a charming dimple, a surprising and attractive change in the Highlander's chiseled face.

“He's not as bad as
all
that.” She surprised herself by defending the laird.

“Aye. He is.”

Mena's eyebrows lifted, as the sudden and serious vehemence in his voice caught her unawares. It was as though Gavin St. James were attempting to warn her, somehow, against her enigmatic employer.