Highland Scoundrel (Highland Brides) Read online

  For a moment he stood as if frozen, with his mouth open wide and his hand outstretched in supplication to her charms. The first sneeze came like a cannon blast, the second like a volcanic explosion, until he was bent over double and stumbling backward to escape the horrible stuff.

  “Lady,” Hadwin said, rushing to her side with a lace handkerchief and an expression of deepest concern. “Let me assist ye.”

  “Nay!” croaked Stanford. He stumbled along the wall toward her like a drunken goat herder and nabbed her sleeve. But just then another sneeze gripped him. Straightening by jerky degrees, he arched backward and expelled his air in a great bellow of wind that fanned Shona’s face like a wicked northwesterly.

  “Please! Lord Stanford!” Hadwin said, drawing Shona back a pace. “Have ye no manners atall?”

  “This is….” Stanford drew back again then bellowed out another gargantuan sneeze. “This is your doing!”

  “My…” Hadwin began.

  But suddenly Stanford grasped the shorter man’s shirt front in a bony grip and leaned into his face like a snarling hound. “Ye are trying to ruin my chances with Lady Shona.”

  “I am doing no such thing.”

  “Ye lying cur. Ye—”

  “My lords.” Roderic’s voice was soothing as he stepped up to the snarling men, but when Shona turned desperate eyes to him, she saw that his gaze was sharp and none too happy when he glanced her way.

  “It wasn’t my fault,” she hissed.

  He lifted his brows dubiously then turned back toward the pair who were locked in immobility.

  “Gentle men, let us discuss this rationally. I’ve no wish for bad feelings between our guests at Dun Ard.”

  “I’ll not be made a fool of by this undersized barbarian,” Stanford snarled, tightening his grip.

  “Truly, Laird Stanford,” Roderic said, his tone less friendly. “I canna allow this kind of behavior. Ye are making my Lady Flanna quite upset. She may swoon…or something.”

  Panicked by her father’s words, Shona glanced toward the Flame and saw that the tender mother she knew was gone, replaced by the red-haired warrioress who stood at the helm of the clan MacGowan. Apparently she had seen no need to bow to propriety this noon, and had not changed from her riding clothing. Dressed in dark leather breeches, her legs looked long and powerful. But it was her hands that worried Shona, for one of them was wrapped hard and fast around the hilt of her dinner knife. Fire sparked in her eyes and trouble in her stance.

  Shona swallowed. She could generally handle her father, but her mother was quite another story, fiercely protective of her clan and home.

  “Truly, Laird Stanford,” Shona said. Her tone sounded a bit desperate, but she’d witnessed her mother’s temper before. It wasn’t something she wanted a possible husband to see. “I am certain Hadwin meant no harm.”

  “I do hate to disagree,” Stanford snarled. “But I saw him overturn the pepper cellar with my own eyes. And twas he who tripped me up this morn.”

  Turning from where he fairly hung in Stanford’s fist, Hadwin smiled at her. “Indeed, I fear our Lord Stanford is sadly deluded. I can hardly be to blame if he is a clumsy clod who canna—”

  “A clumsy…” Stanford sputtered, and drew his left fist back.

  But the blow was never delivered, for suddenly Dugald Kinnaird joined the menagerie, distracting them all as he positioned himself close behind Stanford. He raised his hand behind Stanford as if to pat his back.

  Stanford’s eyes widened, and then he became very still.

  Dugald turned his sardonic gaze to Shona. “Trouble, Damsel?” he asked.

  Her brows lowered and her temper rose. It wasn’t really what he’d said, but the way he’d said it that provoked her. As if this incident were hilariously funny and entirely her fault. His mouth quirked up in the oddest manner, and his lashes were ungodly thick.

  “No trouble atall,” she assured him.

  He smiled. “Isn’t there some rule against this sort of thing?”

  She had to force herself not to grit her teeth. Although he had removed his hand from behind Stanford, the gangly laird still hadn’t moved his arm, as if it were somehow locked in place since Dugald’s arrival.

  “What sort of thing?” she asked, jerking her gaze back to Dugald’s face.

  “Causing your swains to squabble over you like teased cockerels? Shouldn’t you put some sort of limitations on it?”

  In an instant she had come up with an appropriately scathing rejoinder that all but quivered on her tongue. But her father was standing close by and there were still the aforementioned swains to impress with her genteel demeanor, so she conjured her most syrupy smile.

  “I fear ye misunderstand, Dugald the…” She paused.

  He remained silent for a moment, but mischief sparkled in his silvery eyes. “Dugald the Dragon,” he supplied.

  “This has nothing whatsoever to do with me, Dugald the Dragger.”

  The sparkle deepened. “Indeed?” His left eyebrow could move without influencing any other part of his face. It was very annoying.

  “Indeed,” she said.

  “Then mayhap they were simply arguing over the price of pepper?”

  “Maybe so.”

  “Is there a problem afoot?” Flanna asked, approaching from behind.

  Shona jumped as she rushed her gaze to her mother’s face. But the older woman’s expression was benign. It was really amazing how softly feminine the Flame could seem when she put her mind to it. Still, it was best not to play with fire, for the Flame guarded Dun Ard’s peace with notorious ferocity.

  Nervous, Shona exchanged a knowing glance with her father.

  “Nay. None atall,” Roderic said, then, reaching forward, yanked the clutch of Hadwin’s shirt from Stanford’s fist. “None atall. Ye can put down the knives, my love.”

  Heaven’s wrath! Shona hadn’t noticed that her mother had not only carried her knife, but had somehow acquired another along the way. True, they were only dinner knives, neither particularly sharp nor long. Still, Flanna MacGowan wasn’t called the Flame because she lit the sconces in the evening.

  Now she merely smiled sweetly, first at Stanford, then at Hadwin, but it was not difficult to notice that she kept her fingers wrapped about her impromptu weapons. “Dun Ard is my home, good sirs,” she said softly. “It may seem little more than a garrison to such esteemed lairds as yourselves, but indeed…” She motioned toward the castle at large. “I have birthed my bairns here. Tis where I was born and tis where I shall die. I have no wish to see discord within these walls,” she said, and with those words, stabbed her knife into the nearest table. Sinking deep into the wood, the handle reverberated like a leaf in the wind. “Do ye understand me?”

  Stanford paled. Hadwin blinked. Dugald’s left brow rose just a notch.

  “There is no trouble is there, my lads?” Roderic asked, his tone suggesting prudence.

  “Nay,” Stanford said. He still looked stiff, but he was wriggling his fingers now, as if mobility was just returning to them.

  Stanford glanced at Dugald and shook out his pale fingers. Kinnaird smiled in return.

  “Is there trouble, Laird Hadwin?” Flanna asked.

  “Nay,” Hadwin said. “No trouble atall, my lady. And might I say…” He cleared his throat and straightened to his meager height. “Never have I seen a woman look more becoming in a pair of breeches?”

  Flanna smiled. “Ye mean ye have never seen a woman in a pair of breeches,” she said, and to Shona’s relief, relinquished her knife to Roderic’s insistent tug.

  Father and daughter exchanged a relieved glance then Roderic motioned to the two trouble-makers. “Mayhap ye should take your seats, lads.”

  They remained motionless for a moment, still glaring at each other.

  “Before the Flame finds more cutlery,” he suggested.

  The two glanced toward the lady then sidled sheepishly away.

  “Well, my love,” Roderic said, the shadow
of humor just playing at the corners of his mouth as he looked at his wife. “Ye were as subtle as ever.”

  Flanna smiled. Her demeanor would have gained nothing if she had batted her lashes. “I can but try,” she said. Mayhem sparkled in her eyes as she turned them on her spouse. They shared a silent moment, then, “I dunna believe I’ve been properly introduced to our guest here.”

  Dugald bowed at the waist. The movement was ultimate elegance. Not a single dark hair dared stray from where it was bound at the back of his neck, and though she could feel a hundred gazes staring at them, Shona feared most of them were women looking at him.

  “I am called Dugald, of the Kinnairds,” he said.

  “I have heard of a man called Dugald the Dragon,” Flanna said. “Might ye be him?”

  He smiled. But it was not that irritating smile Shona hated. It was a gentle, almost self-deprecating grin that probably made girls from Holland to Africa swoon. Personally, it made Shona want to smack him. True, he was a full hand taller than she and outweighed her by a good five stone, but his ridiculously elevated opinion of himself was bound to be his downfall. In hand-to-hand combat, he would probably be too worried about his hair to land a decent punch. And surely he would not want to dirty the pretty jeweled knife that always hung at his side.

  “I believe the person who first called me a dragon was being facetious,” he said.

  “Look, Roderic, modesty,” Flanna said, turning toward her spouse.

  Shona couldn’t stop the snort that escaped her. She tried, but it was hopeless.

  Dugald turned slowly toward her, his quicksilver eyes steady, his expression just hinting at the humor that boiled below the surface.

  “Your pardon, Damsel. Did you say something?” he asked.

  For a fraction of an instant, she was tempted almost beyond control to speak her mind, but in the end, she offered her best honeyed smile.

  “The pepper,” she said, dabbing daintily at her nose with the handkerchief Hadwin had given her, “I fear tis irritating me.”

  He tsked his sympathy and canted his head at her.

  “With such a delicate thing as yourself, I am hardly surprised.”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but when she shifted her glance momentarily to her parents, she saw they were watching her as hawks might eye a fat hare.

  “I suppose I canna expect to be so hardy as Dugald the Dreadful.”

  “Dragon,” he corrected.

  “My mistake,” she murmured.

  “Daughter!” Roderic said, and though his tone was fairly even, there was a definite edge to it.

  Somehow, just the sound of it conjured up images of pasty-faced lords with multiple chins and fat fingers, each of them reaching for her. “Mayhap ye could sing a bit of a ditty to settle the crowd.” He leaned somewhat closer. “If ye are quite finished with your theatricals.”

  She opened her mouth to argue with him. After all, none of this was her fault. It reminded her of the time she’d been blamed for setting the draperies on fire. How was she to know that pork fat would burn? she thought. But one glance at Roderic’s face convinced her not to bring up that particular incident. She conjured a suitable smile. “What would ye like to hear, Father dearest?’

  His brows rose a shadow of an inch. “Something sweet,” he suggested.

  In truth, subtlety did not run in her family. She didn’t know where she had acquired the trait. “As ye wish,” she said demurely.

  Roderic nodded.

  Dugald smiled.

  For a moment she was painfully tempted to give him just one small kick to his shins, but never had it been said that Shona MacGowan lacked control. Well, rarely had it been said. Well, it hadn’t been said today—at least, not to her face.

  Turning, she saw that Kelvin was seated beside her younger brother Torquil. As a companion, Torquil was only marginally more suitable than this irritating Dugald fellow. She’d have to look into that relationship before someone found a mouse in her pallet or a frog in his soup. After all, Torquil had not yet gained her outstanding maturity.

  Faces turned toward her as she picked up the psaltery. Twas a pretty instrument, crafted from etched rosewood and oiled sinew, and it would look so fine with Dugald’s head sticking out of the middle, with splinters bursting away from his ears and strings twanged cozily around his neck. She nearly sighed at the images. But suddenly her father cleared his throat.

  No subtlety whatsoever.

  She hummed a few notes, plucked a string or two, and began to sing.

  The hall fell silent. The ballad rolled away from her in undulating hills and valleys of sound. In truth, her voice was nothing special, but she had a gift for emotion, and she used it now, hoping her father would forget about wayward breeches and billowing clouds of pepper. The notes rose higher, brimming with feeling, the strength of hope, the desperation of love, the…

  But suddenly the whisper of a noise rattled Shona’s concentration. She stopped, letting the climactic finish hold on her breath, then, “Rachel!” she whispered, and abandoning her instrument, flew across the hall and through the arched doors. She paused on the stone steps and stared toward the drawbridge. Hoofbeats echoed for a moment then a horse emerged past the entrance.

  “Rachel,” she said again, and ran across the courtyard.

  The person who appeared was not her ebon-haired cousin, but a large dark man accompanied by a petite flame-haired lady. Not for a moment did Shona delay. Instead, she hiked up her skirts and sped toward them all the faster. By the time she reached the first horse, Rachel had emerged.

  “Cousin!” They were in each other’s arms in an instant.

  Dugald reached the doorway of the great hall just in time to see Lady Sara join the pair. They stood huddled together in bright shades of beauty, their arms wrapped about each other with sweet intimacy.

  But Shona was not sweet, Dugald reminded himself. She was manipulative. She was cunning.

  And she had access to the king. He must delay no longer. And yet…

  Her laughter lifted on a soft breeze and found his ears with unerring accuracy. Emotion speared through him, but he steeled himself to it. Shona MacGowan was not a victim of any sort, and neither her guileless laughter nor her soft beauty would convince him otherwise. She was no oversized lop-eared horse he could save from an infuriated master who had felt the sting of the beast’s teeth too often. In fact, she needed his protection no more than a wolf needed a dagger and sheath. So she held no allure for him.

  Still, if the truth be told, he had never seen such beauty gathered in one spot. Three lassies as lovely as spring with hair of seemingly every hue, red as flame, black as ebon and gold as sunshine.

  But he was no fool for a bonny face. He would do what he must. He just needed a bit more time to figure things out…learn more about her. Tremayne had said she was vain and self-centered, and that it was far more than coincidental that she had been present during the first attempt on the young king’s life.

  But if she was a cold hearted murderess as Tremayne said, why would she go thrashing about in icy water just to catch fish for her father’s supper? And what about Kelvin? Why would she foster such a ragamuffin boy, who obviously had no earthly possessions and reminded him disturbingly of himself?

  Twas questions such as those that plagued him. Twas questions such as those that he would learn the answers to, but just now he had better concentrate on the matter at hand.

  With some regret, Dugald turned his gaze from the trio of women to the man who had arrived first. Leith, the Forbes of the Forbes. His reputation proceeded him. But why was he here now?

  “Brother.” Roderic moved past Dugald and trotted down the steps to the courtyard, his boots ringing on the stones. “So ye have decided to grace us with your company?”

  For a moment the courtyard remained silent. The Forbes dismounted. Though the movement was a bit stiff, there was great power in his large frame as he turned toward Roderic.

  “I debated long and hard
before setting out,” he said, his expression somber. “After all, ye have long coveted my boots.”

  Roderic threw back his fair head and laughed, then, opening his arms, he slapped Leith into his embrace. “So ye still fear ye canna keep your footwear safe from me, Brother.”

  “Long ago I learned that nothing is safe from ye. Twas my idea to stay home and warm my brittle old bones by the fire. But my wife wished to come,” he said, glancing at the woman on the dappled palfrey.

  Roderic turned and drew his arms away from his brother. There was a smile on his lips.

  “Lady Fiona.” He said the name reverently. “Ye could have left your husband at home. In truth, he is wont to whine over a pair of boots long rotted away, and does little to brighten the mood of this gathering. But ye…” He lifted his hands to help her dismount. “Your beauty brightens the darkest of days.”

  Fiona laughed. By all accounts she was nearing fifty years of age, but neither her face, nor the melodious tone of her voice, showed it. “Still the Rogue, I see,” she said.

  “Until I die.” Roderic chuckled and reached for her hand, but before she could dismount, Leith had pushed him aside.

  “Do I disremember, or dunna ye have a wife of your own to pester?” he asked, swinging Fiona to her feet.

  Her skirts swooped around her ankles, and when she landed, she looked as fragile and supple as a willow in the wind.

  “Ye two stop, now,” she chastised. “Or do ye want the Flame to hear ye argue?”

  “Nay.”

  “Nay.”

  “Too late,” said Flanna, stepping silently between the two. “So ye were arguing with your brother?” she asked her spouse.

  “Not atall.”

  “Am I going to have to fetch my dinner knife?” she asked.

  Roderic chuckled, and leaning close, whispered something in her ear.

  It almost seemed like the Flame blushed. But Dugald was certain he was mistaken, for the stories that surrounded her exploits were brash enough to set one’s hair on end. Indeed, it was said that some twenty years past she had abducted Roderic of the great Forbes clan and held him for ransom under threat of death. And yet as Dugald watched the foursome, he could not help thinking they looked like nothing more than two content, well-matched couples.