Highland Scoundrel (Highland Brides) Read online

  She had heard that sort of thing a number of times. It never failed to make her nervous. “Ye know James?” she asked.

  “Aye, I have met him,” William said. “And I heard ye are one of his favorites.”

  Shona forced a smile for the compliment and willed herself to be calm. “I spent a good deal of time with him at Stirling.”

  “I, too, have spent some time at court. When were ye there?”

  “Father sent me some months back. I believe he hoped to teach me some manners, but I fear his efforts failed.”

  “Nay. Never that,” William countered. “For ye are all fine elegance. All softness and light.” He reached for her hand, but suddenly noticed the scathed palms and scraped knuckles. “Lady, ye are wounded.”

  She laughed, grateful for the change of subject but nervous as she remembered the night just past. All elegance, indeed! “Tis naught but a scratch,” she said, and tried to pull her hand away.

  He bore it solicitously higher into better light.

  “But such a fair maid as you should never bear even so mild a wound,” he murmured. “How did it happen?”

  “When I was returning from the stables last night it began to rain. In my haste I tripped, and—”

  From the corner of her eye she saw a movement and turned distractedly toward it. Dugald Kinnaird stood not a score of feet away. He was dressed all in black. Her gaze skimmed his high leather boots, his clinging hose and his slashed doublet worn over a silken tunic. Twas simple enough garb, really, but there was something about the way he wore it that drew the eye. His gaze was as steady as a hawk’s and his lips were lifted in the vaguest semblance of a knowing grin.

  “Ye fell?” William asked, still holding her hand.

  “Aye!” Shona snapped her attention back to him. “Aye. I, uhh…fell.”

  “Poor, sweet little hand,” William crooned, bearing it to his lips. He was going to kiss it, to fawn over her, she knew, and though she didn’t harbor any particular attraction to this man, she could not help but feel some satisfaction that the irritating Kinnaird was watching.

  But suddenly a pain sparked her neck. She grimaced and drew her hand back to massage away the ache.

  “Is something amiss?” William asked, leaning closer in his concern.

  “Nay. Nay. I simply had a twinge of pain,” she said, and rubbed her neck beneath Dragonheart’s chain.

  “Let me relieve it,” William said, but when he leaned closer, the pain smote her again.

  She pulled away with a grimace then noticed a group of young boys running beside the gardens.

  Kelvin was amongst them. Her gut wrenched nervously at the sight of him, but surely twas better to ride out the storm than hide in the shadows.

  “Kelvin,” she called, marshalling her courage. “Come hither.” She glanced at William, but if he were irritated by the interruption it didn’t show on his face. “Kelvin spent a good deal of time with the king also,” she said.

  “Truly?” William studied the boy’s haphazard clothing and raised his brows as the lad drew nearer. “Is he a relation of yours?”

  “Nay, not by blood,” Shona said, as the boy came to a halt before them. “But mayhap by spirit.

  Tell Laird William what ye think of our king, Kelvin.”

  The mischief that seemed a perpetual gleam in the boy’s eyes sharpened a mite. “Shall I tell him the truth or what ye ordered me to say when questioned?” he asked.

  She gave him a grin for his irreverent attitude. Though she supposed she should reprimand him for both his words and demeanor, she couldn’t help but commune with the imp in him.

  “William is James’s cousin,” she said.

  “Ahhh, then I liked the king very well indeed,” Kelvin said solemnly.

  From her left, Shona heard someone laugh. The sound was deep and husky. Shona felt the hair prickle on the back of her neck, and though she didn’t turn toward the noise immediately, she knew in her gut it was Dugald Kinnaird.

  “You are a poor liar, lad,” he said, approaching.

  Able to ignore him no longer, Shona turned slowly. When she glanced up, she felt a glow of heat that seemed to begin at Dragonheart and diffuse through her body.

  “I dunna lie poorly,” Kelvin argued staunchly. “I lie quite well.”

  Dugald laughed again. “Then mayhap tis the subject matter that makes your statement unbelievable. For you see, I, too, have met the king.”

  A frown marred the boy’s gamin face, but in a fraction of an instant it was gone, replaced by a devilish smile. “And ye didna find him all brilliance and goodness?” he asked.

  “Rather I found him vain and aloof,” Dugald said.

  “Tis our king ye speak of!” William said, affronted.

  “Indeed,” Dugald agreed, turning his attention to the older man. “Our king, who will be lucky to live to see his tenth birthday.”

  “Ye speak treason,” William said, showing the first spark of emotion Shona had ever seen in him.

  “Treason? Hardly that. I speak only the truth. I thought surely all of Scotland had heard of the attempts on the lad’s life.”

  “Nay. Not everyone,” William said, rising to his feet, “mayhap only those who had a hand in those attempts.”

  “Are you suggesting I might be plotting some heinous crime, Lord William?” Dugald almost smiled, but he had no wish to goad this man too far. Indeed, he didn’t plan to fight him, only to bait him a little. For there was nothing like a bit of badgering to bring out a fellow’s most elemental characteristics. And in this game of cat-and-mouse, knowing a man’s true nature might mean the difference between life and death. “If you’re accusing me of something more dastardly than stealing a lady’s virtue, I fear you’re sadly mistaken, for I am far too busy trying to win a wealthy bride to bother with politics.”

  “Ye are a—” William began, but Kelvin interrupted after one glance at Shona’s shocked expression.

  “I know the king quite well,” he said. “In fact, it may be that I cherish him as much as any. Still, I must confess that at times he can indeed act vain. But mayhap the king of the Scots has a right to be.”

  Dugald turned to the lad, intrigued not only by his point of view, but by the unexpected maturity found in one so young and ragged. “Aye, mayhap if we were all abandoned by our mothers and raised by a passel of old men with wrinkled hands and shriveled hearts, we would be the same,” Dugald suggested. In fact, he himself had been called vain by more than a few.

  “His sire died when he was but a babe,” Kelvin said.

  Dugald watched him for a moment. He would be a fool to be drawn into this lad’s life, for the boy had close ties to the lady Shona, ties Dugald could ill afford to become tangled in. There were excellent reasons why one might remain aloof. But sometimes he found that attribute disintegrating, crumbling beneath the weight of too close a contact. Better to stay back, stay apart, and do his job at the first possible opportunity. He knew that from long experience. Though sometimes it was more difficult than others. He had a tattered eared horse with a bad attitude to prove it. “And where is your sire, lad?” he asked quietly.

  Kelvin raised his chin slightly. “He had more important things to tend to.”

  So they had more in common than their opinion of the king. “Come. Let us discuss the hardships of abandonment,” he said, keeping his tone light and bending to add, “And mayhap you can expound on the difficulties of being fostered by a woman who makes the king’s vanity pale in comparison.”

  “What say ye?” Shona asked.

  Dugald turned to her, careful to hone an expression of overt innocence. “I but said, ‘I’m certain his difficulties pale, now that he is fostered by a woman who is the king’s companion.’ “

  Not for a moment did she look like she believed him. “Mayhap I should come with ye,” she said, her brow slightly wrinkled.

  Dugald bowed to her. “I am flattered by your offer, Damsel. But you’d best finish your meal, for surely such a delicate
maid as yourself might easily swoon dead away if you miss your breakfast.”

  “Truly,” Kelvin said, the gleam back in his eye, “she is not as fragile as she appears. Indeed, I asked to ride with her on the upcoming hunt, for she is the best archer in all of Dun Ard.”

  “Indeed?” Dugald asked, and placing an arm over the boy’s shoulder, turned him away. “You pique my interest.” That much, at least, was the truth. In fact, this Shona MacGowan became more intriguing with each passing moment. Too intriguing. For although Lord Tremayne might be a high-handed, arrogant bastard, his sources were impeccable and his loyalty to Scotland beyond question. If he said Shona MacGowan posed a threat to the crown, it was so.

  Still, her murder would not rest well on Dugald’s soul.

  Chapter 5

  For the tenth time, Shona glanced across the long trestle tables toward the pair near the door.

  She was just checking on Kelvin, she assured herself, but when his red head leaned toward Dugald’s, she felt the breath lock in her throat.

  She frowned at the odd rush of feelings then told herself that she was merely concerned for Kelvin’s welfare. After all, she had hardly seen him all day. Although the weather had been idyllic and William properly fawning, Shona hadn’t enjoyed herself, for her mind constantly returned to the dark stranger.

  What were Dugald and Kelvin talking about? Now and then when the crowd hushed she could hear snippets of their conversation, but it was like trying to lick Berthia’s mixing bowl when the batter had already been scraped out—very unsatisfying. She had thought it terrible when Kinnaird had stared at her as if he knew every asinine prank she had ever pulled. But now he was ignoring her completely—even after she’d offered to spend some time with him. True, she had done so only because she was afraid of what Kelvin would tell him and vice versa, but still, he could at least have had the good manners to be thrilled by her offer.

  God’s wrath, she’d charmed everyone from peasants to kings. Who was he to act as if he were suddenly disinterested? And how dared he do so after yowling at her window like a prowling cat the previous night? What kind of game was he playing?

  The question stuck in her mind. Abruptly it took on a new and sinister meaning. Why would a man like him, a man who admitted he wanted nothing more than to find himself a rich bride, be content to spend the day with a young beggared waif? Who was this man? She knew next to nothing about him. Surely she could not trust him, especially where Kelvin was concerned. He’d as much as said that his own father did not want him. Was he a bastard, then? And what did he have against the king that would make him risk saying things that could brand him a traitor?

  The thought struck her like a blow, taking away her breath. William had been angry, thus prompting his accusations of treason, but mayhap his words were true. Mayhap Dugald of Kinnaird was somehow involved in the schemes to assassinate the king.

  She would insist that Kelvin spend no more time with the man, she decided, but just then she heard the lad laugh. It was a musical sound—lovely and too scarcely heard. Glancing their way, she saw that the boy’s eyes were round with wonder as he stared at Dugald’s palm. In its center lay a simple hazel nut. Shona scowled. Twas nothing spectacular there, she thought, but at the boy’s pleading, Dugald closed up his palm, then opened it a moment later. The nut was gone.

  Kelvin promptly searched the stranger’s sleeves only to come up with a puzzled frown. Even from across the room, she could hear Dugald laugh. Huh, twas just like his sort to make fun of a child’s perplexity, she thought, but in an instant Dugald leaned sideways to speak to the boy.

  She watched Kelvin’s face light up and knew Kinnaird had promised to teach him the trick.

  Shona stared, eager to see how the deed had been done, but just then Dugald shifted his gaze to hers.

  A glimmer of amusement shone in his eyes.

  Shona snapped her gaze away. Damn him, damn him, damn him! What did she care if he taught Kelvin silly parlor tricks? The man had probably never done a worthwhile thing in his life, having plenty of time to play ridiculous games. Most likely they were harmless, but one thing was certain, she could not risk the boy. And thence… she almost smiled… she would have to learn more about this man. For instance, what were the strange implements she’d seen in his saddle bags? Some kind of tools for seduction? His features had a slightly foreign cast to them, and cousin Mavis, who gloried in shocking Shona whenever possible, said such men did ungodly things to their women—things that made them beg for more. Shona never did ask Mavis where she got this information, but knowing Mavis, that question was best left in silence. Mother’s French relations were a scandalous lot. When Mavis arrived she would probably be drooling all over Dugald, begging him to do ungodly things to her.

  The idea was disgusting. But what kind of ungodly things could make a woman beg for more— and more of what?

  Shona scowled. For someone who had spied on nearly every person at Dun Ard, she knew pathetically little of what went on between men and women. Once, however, when she was no more than thirteen, she had heard an odd noise coming from the stable loft. She had climbed the ladder and found the miller’s son lying between the milk maid’s spread legs. They were both gasping, and his buttocks were bare and pumping up and down.

  After some deliberation Shona had decided that that must be fornication, but she sincerely doubted that any woman would want more of that. Still, the couple had been wed soon after, so apparently the milk maid had had no objections.

  She’d watched animals mate, of course. Even though it wasn’t proper, it was very interesting.

  Stallions’ members were very large; dogs, strangely enough, locked together; and chickens made a great deal of noise. None of it looked particularly appealing. Still, what would it be like if this Dugald fellow— “Lady Shona?”

  “What?” She jumped at the sound of her name.

  “Ye agreed to sing a ballad with me,” said Stanford.

  “Oh, aye. Aye.” Her cheeks felt hot, and though she knew she was a fool, she rushed one quick glance toward Dugald just to make sure he couldn’t read her thoughts. He was looking directly at her.

  She stumbled nervously to her feet, tripped on her hem, and tipped over her wine goblet.

  “Lady Shona, are ye quite all right?” Stanford asked, grabbing her arm to steady her.

  “Aye, aye,” she said, feeling like a jester gone mad. “I am so clumsy at times. Tis a good thing ye were here to save me.”

  Stanford’s moony eyes widened and his face turned pink, starting at his ears and spreading up to his receding blond hairline. “Twas my pleasure, Lady.”

  “Thank ye,” she said and was quite sincere, for just now her self-confidence was flagging. But he was still holding her arm, and a sharp pain was bedeviling her neck, so she pulled gently from his grasp. Before she could massage the ache, however, the pain was gone.

  Stanford stared at her then drew himself together with a start. “I…I am told ye are adept at the psaltery,” he said, tentatively raising the stringed instrument toward her.

  “Adept? Nay.” She would not look at that damned Dugald again. She would not. “I fear Cousin Sara is the musician. Truly, she has the voice of an angel.”

  “It could be no more melodious than yours,” he murmured fervently.

  Flattery. How nice, and much needed since Kinnaird’s arrival. If that black-haired devil was thinking of marrying her, he could think again.

  “Lady Shona?” Stanford called her back to the matter at hand.

  “What?”

  “I said, your voice is sweeter than the sweetest honey.”

  “Oh.” Kinnaird was laughing again. She knew without looking up and ground her teeth to keep her eyes averted. “Ye are too kind, good Sir.”

  “Not atall. I would be honored if ye would sing with me.”

  She smiled at his earnestness and accompanied him to the corner where a gittern rested against the wall.

  Once there, she resolutely determi
ned to ignore Kinnaird. They tuned their instruments and sang a ballad about the bold lads of Glen Garney, then one regarding the horrible battle of Flodden Field.

  The last haunting notes dwindled in the hall. The hushed assemblage came to life slowly, returning to their talk and food as if they’d been temporarily transported somewhere else.

  Shona smiled at Stanford. “Thank ye. Ye have great talent as a minstrel,” she said, and prepared to return to her table.

  “I have written a song.”

  She turned back toward him. “Your pardon?”

  “I have written a song…about ye.”

  “About me?” He was such a cute thing, all deer hound eyes and blushing sincerity. If that blasted Kinnaird would only leave her and hers alone, she could do some serious flirting. Maybe she’d even marry…someone.

  He cleared his throat. “I call it ‘The Fairest Flower of Scotland.’ “

  She dimpled. “Me? The fairest flower?”

  He nodded solemnly.

  Maybe she should marry Stanford. “Please. By all means, sing on.”

  He drew his gaze from her with an effort then strummed a few times on his gittern. Finally he began to sing. In truth, he had a fine voice. And Shona could hardly complain about the words. In fact, had she been a more modest maid she might have been embarrassed by his gushing praise. As it was, she merely sat with her hands clasped together in glee.

  The notes rose a bit higher as Stanford began comparing her skin to that of a unicorn’s hide. Her grace was like that of a gliding swan. Her…

  But suddenly there was a great crash as a spice cellar careened from a table, bounced off the nearby wall, and landed spinning on the floor. Shona leapt to her feet, but Stanford, determined to finish his testimonial to her beauty, continued on.

  Pepper billowed into the air like a burgeoning storm cloud, stinging her nose and tearing her eyes.

  Stanford, however, was as tenacious as a dog with a bone and pitched his volume up a notch to reach the high notes. But as he tried to draw in enough air to finish his song with a flourish, his nostrils filled with the potent powder.