Wishing For a Highlander (13 page)

A thick layer of dust on the floor suggested the room hadn’t been visited in years. The dry and earthy smell of disuse reminded her of the museum. A heavy melancholy stole over her as she pulled the door shut on the forgotten treasures of daily life. A life every bit as vibrant as the one she was trying to get back to.

Farther down the hall she found a small bedroom with a narrow, neatly-made bed and an open wardrobe with a length of forest-green wool trailing out onto the floor. Darcy’s formal kilt. Had she displaced him from the larger, nicer bedroom? Likely not. With its clean furniture and half-full oil lantern on the table, this room conveyed an air of regular use. He must sleep here every night. The master of Fraineach had never moved into the largest bedroom. A strange sympathy tugged at her until her bladder reminded her she’d been on a mission.

Continuing her search, she found what she was looking for, a small stone chamber with a raised privy shelf and a small window for light. No toilet paper. No toilet seat. But a welcome sight nonetheless.

With one bodily demand taken care of, she ventured downstairs in search of food to pacify her rumbling stomach. A faint fishy smell led her to a large kitchen with two stone ovens and a central workbench overhung with an assortment of cast-iron and copper cookware. At one end of the workbench rested a silver-rimmed china plate of radishes, crusty bread, a heaping pile of cold oatmeal, and a headless fish. She devoured everything except the fish, not sure how to get past the scales when the only utensil left for her use was a silver spoon engraved with a delicate floral pattern and the initials,
J.M.K
. at the base of the handle. Steafan had referred to Darcy’s mother as Janine. Could the spoon have been one of his mother’s most prized possessions?

Last night, he’d claimed he would be a good husband. She saw proof of his claim everywhere she looked.

She owed him a ginormous thank you. For his hospitality, for his genuine attempt to help her return home last night, and for his gentleness when she’d been simultaneously relieved and crushed as the box had refused to work.

Wondering where he might be, she shifted the curtains in the parlor to look out at a lush, green hillside sloping down from Fraineach to the village below. To her left, three squat windmills with fabric sails and exteriors of weathered wooden tile marched along the hill’s crest. The sails of two of the mills turned smartly in the wind rushing up and over the cliffs. The ocean, though invisible from the window, made itself known by a pleasant, briny scent in the air.

Movement at the base of one of the mills caught her eye. Darcy. Back in his plain brown kilt and battered leather ankle-boots, he passed from one mill to another, ducking his tall frame to go through the arched doorway. Had he managed to get any sleep before getting up to run his mills this morning, or had he spent the entire night taking care of her?

Guilt gnawed at her. When he’d headed out to battle the Gunn yesterday, he probably hadn’t planned on getting stuck with a temporally-challenged, knocked-up southern girl. He probably hadn’t expected to spend the night getting married and gallivanting all over the Highlands as his new wife enlisted him to help her run away. She wasn’t the only one who had been significantly put out by that blasted box. Darcy had sacrificed a lot for her yesterday. His time. His bachelorhood. His pride, perhaps, as his new wife broke down in heaving sobs at the prospect of having to stay with him.

Ugh. Poor Darcy. She owed him one heck of an apology. Add that to the thanks she owed him, and she might as well throw in a proper kiss, too. She winced at the memory of their fiasco of a wedding. That was not how she’d envisioned her first kiss as a married woman, and it probably wasn’t what Darcy had hoped for either.

Determined to start fresh with him, she strode to the door and flung it open to a crisp spring morning and a short, glowering Highlander.

“Hamish,” she blurted as her hand flew to her chest.

Steafan’s enforcer narrowed his eyes. “Good morn’, lass. ’Tis glad I am to see you.” He didn’t look glad. He looked dangerous. “Is Darcy about?”

Warning alarms went off in her head. She couldn’t imagine what Steafan’s enforcer was doing here, but he’d surely know by the turning of the sails that Darcy would be at the mills doing his work for the day.

Smiling brightly, she said, “Why, good morning. How lovely to see you. I trust your day is off to a shining start. I was just on my way to find my husband. Would you care to join me?”

Without waiting for his answer, she breezed around him and down off the porch.

A meaty hand landed on her shoulder and stopped her. “Where’s the box, lass?”

Fear coiled in her stomach. How did he know about her box? Had Darcy said something to him or Steafan?

No. He wouldn’t, not after he’d gone to such lengths to hide it from her so she wouldn’t accidentally mention it to anyone.

She thought better of admitting she knew anything about the box. She also knew she needed Darcy. “He’s at the mill, I’m sure,” she said, ignoring Hamish’s question. “I think I’ll just say good morning and then I’ll be happy to help you with whatever you need.”

He didn’t release her shoulder. He moved in close behind her and said in her ear, “What I need is that box.” When she turned to face him, she met a sharp, beetle-black gaze. “You ken the one I mean. Rosewood. With silvery touches. And a date of 1542 on the bottom.”

Her heart sank. Somehow, Steafan had found out about the box. Maybe Darcy had told him. She had tried to leave him last night, after all. What if he’d gone to Steafan in the night and confessed everything? What if this was how Highland husbands showed their appreciation for wives who tried to desert them?

No. She had meant it when she’d determined never to question his honor again. It couldn’t have been Darcy. But if Steafan knew about the box, what else might he know about? Did he know she’d tried to run away last night and that Darcy had tried to help her? Should she pretend not to know what Hamish was talking about, or should she own up to her involvement with the box?

“Where is it?” Hamish demanded.

“I don’t know.” That was the truth.

His eyes gleamed with satisfaction.

She’d inadvertently admitted to knowing about the box. Darn. “I mean, I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It came out as more of a question than a statement. Double darn. She needed Darcy’s cool head and careful speech. He’d know what to say to get the enforcer from hell to back off.

Hamish chuckled and it was not a happy sound. “Come wi’ me, lass. We’ll look for it together.”

With little choice but to go where he dictated by the unyielding clamp of his hand on her arm, she followed him through the house as he poked around looking for the box. She willed Darcy to come to the house, but from what she knew of the Highland work ethic, she doubted he’d make it back to Fraineach before dinnertime.

Hamish looked in cupboards and chests and eventually dragged her into what looked to be an office with a small desk scattered with papers and quills. He pulled drawers out haphazardly. One drawer fell to the floor and the bottom splintered.

“Hey!” she protested. “Take it easy.”

He did no such thing. Tugging on a large, lower drawer, he frowned when it wouldn’t open. Removing his dirk, he released her and jimmied the lock, damaging the drawer’s frame.

She ran for the door.

“Do ye ken what box I’m referring to now, lass?” His voice made her pause.

Looking back, she saw him lift the damning artifact from the drawer.

She said nothing, but her face likely proclaimed whatever guilt Hamish assumed was hers. She pushed through the door, shouting for Darcy. When she ran down the steps, a guard leaning on the porch railing out of view from the front door deftly caught her around the waist and swung her around.

“Watch yourself, Glen,” Hamish said from the doorway. “Bind her mouth so she canna hex you.”

She kicked and fought the two men, but she had no chance against Hamish’s cruel hands and the burly arms of the guard. They stuffed a rag in her mouth and kept it there with a kerchief knotted at the back of her head.

“Come,” Hamish ordered the other guard. “Steafan will want to question the witch.” After frowning at the date on the bottom of the box, he tucked it against his shirt in the wrap of his kilt. “And he’ll want to see her wicked box as well.”

He pulled her from the house and down the footpath, away from the windmills.

She looked back longingly at the three sturdy structures, willing Darcy or one of the other men whose voices and laughter occasionally caught the breeze just right for audibility to poke a head out and witness her–what was this, anyway, an arrest? Hamish had called her a witch. Did that mean she was on her way to a burning at the stake?

She had to get someone’s attention. When a cart laden with wheat rattled by, heading for the mills, she gave up trying to keep her footing and let herself go limp. Hamish had to slow and take her weight. Giving the enforcer no help whatsoever, she turned imploring eyes to the driver of the cart. It was no use. The gray haired man looked resolutely ahead, ignoring the spectacle.

Hamish bruised her arms and tore her dress at the sleeve as he yanked her to her feet. One of her breasts spilled free of the dress’s neckline. Oblivious to or uncaring of this humiliating exposure, he plowed ahead, propelling her toward the castle. Within ten minutes, she was back in Steafan’s office.

The laird of Ackergill stood before her with an icy expression void of the warmth he’d shown when he’d embraced her last night.

Fear iced her skin and made her shake.

Hamish forced her to her knees. They cracked on the floor so hard she had to blink back tears. The guard pressed her shoulders to hold her down as Hamish handed Steafan the box. The laird inspected it for a long minute during which her heart drummed with terror. He gave special attention to the inscription on the bottom.

“Curious,” he muttered to himself. “How does it open?”

She shook her head, trying to convey that she didn’t know.

Steafan put the box on his desk and took two brisk strides to bring himself so close his kilt brushed her nose. Tears filled her eyes as he pulled his
sgian dubh
from its sheath.

So this was it. She was about to die at the hands of a paranoid Highland laird. Her parents would never know what happened to her. She would never meet her precious baby. Darcy would hate himself for failing to protect her. She didn’t blame him for this, but she knew him well enough by now to figure he’d blame himself.

Steafan put the tip of the blade against her cheek. “Are ye a witch or no?” he asked bluntly.

She tried to say no past the handkerchief. Tears freely flowed down her cheeks. Craning her neck to look up the laird’s imposing body, she searched for a flicker of reason in his eyes, finding only cold calculation.

Without warning, the dirk moved. She cringed, waiting for the sting of a cut. But no sting came. Instead, the gag fell away. She spat out the soaked wad of fabric in her mouth, licked her lips and said, “I’m not. I swear to you I’m not a witch.”

“Explain the box, then.”

She paused, undecided as to whether to tell the truth or try to make something up, aware her life meant little to the man frowning down at her. “A forgery,” she said.

“Lie,” he said. “Hamish.”

The enforcer stepped up and slapped her solidly across the cheek. The blow whipped her head around and left the side of her face numb.

Stunned by the quick violence, she stared into Hamish’s black eyes.

“Explain the box,” Steafan repeated, but she hardly heard him.

“Why did you hit me?” she asked, in a daze of shock. She had never been hit by a man before, had never been hit by anyone before. It rocked the foundation of her confidence. She felt shattered. She felt alone.

Some fundamental part of her cried out for Darcy. She desperately wanted to rebuild herself in the comforting circle of his arms. “I want my husband,” she whispered.

“You’ll nay be married much longer,” Steafan said, nodding to Aodhan as he entered the room.

Aodhan’s blue eyes found her kneeling on the floor and widened with concern before settling into guarded indifference.

“Her silence is as good as a confession,” Steafan said. “I willna suffer a Keith to remain married to a witch. Bring the contract that it might burn along with her.

“A few more questions, lass, and I’ll have Hamish see ye to the dungeon, where ye can pray for your soul ’til nightfall.”

* * * *

Darcy pulled the door on the grain chute to send the coarse kernels hissing onto the grinding stage. Sweat dripped from his brow to sting his eyes as he worked with more haste than usual, eager to return to Fraineach and discuss with Malina how they might return her home. But the mill was no place for distracting thoughts. He’d already nearly caught his plaid in the winch when he’d hoisted the day’s second bag of raw bere to the grinding floor. The last thing he needed was to injure himself and thus fail the woman relying on him. So focused was he on his task he hardly heard Edmund’s call above the music of the cogs.

“Darcy! Tallock’s backing his wagon in! Send down the hooks!”

He did as his brother asked, then climbed down the ladder to greet Tallock and help the Wick farmer unload his supply. He’d hardly set foot on the dirt floor when Fran came whipping in like a stiff wind, and threw herself into his arms.