Taken by the Highlander Read online

  He slid an engaging glance in her direction and spoke with a hint of flirtation. “You didn’t shoot me. That’s something.”

  Mairi ignored his attempt to beguile her. “Only because you’ve been reasonably well behaved so far.”

  “But only reasonably,” he said with a glimmer of playfulness in his eyes, which she also made a point to ignore.

  Realizing he was getting nowhere with her, he let out a frustrated breath. “I apologize for how I looked at you earlier. I was in a bit of a daze. I thought maybe I was dreaming, or that you were an angel sent here to escort me to the great beyond.”

  “I’m no angel,” she replied. “And you’re not dead. Nonetheless…don’t do it again or I might change my mind about shooting you.”

  She felt him scrutinize her as he nodded. “Understood.”

  At last, they reached the stable yard and Mairi considered what to do with the injured Highlander. If she brought him into the cottage, she would wake Hamish and her mother. And where would she put him? There were no extra beds, and it would hardly be wise for her to allow a stranger to sleep on the floor in the main room with nothing but a curtain as a barrier between them. Oh, why had she made that promise to her father?

  Pausing in the yard, she turned to him. “You’ll have to sleep in the stable. I have a young son. I don’t wish to wake him. Besides, I don’t know you from Adam.” She gestured toward the stable. “There’s a cot with a down-filled pillow in there. I’ll bring you a blanket and something to eat.”

  “That will be fine, Mairi,” he replied. “But if it’s all the same to you, I would prefer some whisky or wine. To numb the pain.”

  “Of course. Please, follow me.” She led him to the stable door, opened it, and showed him inside. Moonlight spilled across the dirt floor and the chickens flew into a frenzy at the disruption. She moved to light the lantern. “Your horse is there,” she said.

  The great beast nickered and tossed his head, as if to express his relief at seeing his master arrive safely.

  “You can sleep over there.” She pointed at the cot across from the stall where she kept the goats. “But before I leave you for the night, we must put a splint on your arm. I will see what I have in the house that can be of use.”

  “This is beyond generous,” Logan said. He stopped to look around while she hung the lantern on a peg on the center post. “I cannot thank you enough.”

  “No need. Please sit down before you fall over. I’ll be back soon.”

  He ambled past the stalls to the cot.

  A strange fluttering arose in her belly at the sight of his fortitude—not to mention how handsome he was. It was a novel feeling to be sure, as she rarely, if ever, felt an attraction to men, especially strangers. She generally regarded them with suspicion and contempt.

  As she walked out of the stable and returned to the house, she urged herself to remain cautious and not take any chances with her safety, or her son’s. She could not forget how he’d looked at her with unconstrained desire in those first few moments in the glen. She knew all too well where that could lead…and the price she would pay for it.

  With that in mind, she locked the door securely behind her before searching the cottage for something to use as a splint for the Highlander’s arm.

  Chapter Two

  Logan sat down on the cot and breathed deeply a few times to try and quell the thunderous, throbbing sensation in his arm. At least he’d be guzzling whisky soon. That should help. He hoped Mairi would return with a full bottle, because he would dearly love to drink himself into an absolute, dead-to-the-world stupor.

  But first he would need to endure the agony of putting his arm in a splint. He hoped the lass would have a gentle touch.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t hold much store in that.

  With a weary sigh of resignation, he thought about lying down, but that would mean he’d have to sit up again, and any such movements were sheer torture. Best to wait for the whisky.

  As a result, he had no choice but to sit in the dim lantern light, looking around at the goats in the stall across from his bed and the chickens that roamed about, clucking without a care in the world. There were a number of tools hung on the far wall—a turf spade with a wooden handle, a couple of mallets, an ax, and a harness to use with the wagon and plow he’d noticed outside. But there was no horse in the stable, other than his own.

  He wondered where the lassie’s father was, or her husband, as she’d mentioned she had a son. Clearly there was no man present in the cottage, else he would have been the one to approach Logan in the field with a loaded pistol.

  Just then, the stable door opened and Mairi swept in, carrying a basket full of items. Logan sat up slightly, energized by her return and the expectation that she had brought something potent in a bottle.

  She, on the other hand, did not seem happy to be in his presence again. She walked briskly past his horse, Tracker, and dropped the basket down on the cot beside him, then withdrew the bottle of whisky and a small goblet.

  “For the pain.” She removed the cork with her teeth and poured him a generous amount.

  “A lady after my own heart,” he replied jauntily as he accepted the drink.

  She gave him a dark look of warning.

  “I wasn’t flirting,” he explained. “Just expressing my gratitude.”

  “You’re welcome, then,” she coolly replied. “Now drink up so we can get this done.”

  “Happy to do so.” He tossed the whisky back in a single gulp and grimaced at the scalding sensation that opened fire down his gullet. “Aye, that’s good,” he ground out. Holding the cup out again, he waited for her to refill it. “To your health,” he said before gulping it down. “Ach, that’s really good stuff.”

  “It should be. It’s Moncrieffe Whisky. We’ve had it in the house for ages.”

  Logan’s head drew back slightly. “Now I feel beyond grateful, lass. Should you be wasting your best bottle on a stranger in your stable for only one night?”

  She shrugged indifferently. “I have no other use for it.”

  Her cool response aroused his curiosity as she rifled through the basket and withdrew two small wooden planks and strips of cloth. She measured the length of the planks against his forearm. “This will do. Roll up your sleeve.”

  Still waiting for the whisky to take effect, he began the assignment rather clumsily, as he was right-handed.

  “Let me do it,” Mairi said.

  She turned her body to face him, and while she rolled the fabric up to his elbow, he snuck the opportunity to admire her features more closely. He took in her soft, dewy complexion and her upturned nose. And those lips…still looking as delicious as they’d appeared in the glen. Her husband was one lucky man.

  “What happened to your leg?” she asked. “You’re bleeding a bit.”

  He glanced down at the top of his calf. “Ach, I hadn’t noticed.”

  He decided not to mention that on top of everything else, he was grazed by a musket ball.

  She reached for the splints. “Now, hold out your arm and I will tie these two pieces of wood together to prevent the bone from separating again. Then we’ll fashion a sling for you—to keep the limb from swinging about.”

  “It won’t be easy to ride,” Logan mentioned, fighting to resist the urge to lean a little closer and breathe in the clean, delectable scent of her hair. She must have bathed in rosewater that very night.

  “You can cross that bridge when you come to it,” she said, holding the planks out to determine which one to use on either side of his forearm. “And you never answered my question earlier. Why were you crossing my father’s land with nothing but the clothes on your back? You had no weapons or food, and your horse wasn’t even saddled.”

  Bracing himself for another onslaught of pain, Logan decided he might as well come clean, for he was no minstrel. He couldn’t possibly come up with an elaborate explanation for his plight.

  “If you really must know,” he replied
, “I didn’t exactly tell you the truth before.”

  Her eyes lifted and she reached for the strips of cloth which she’d set on her lap. “I cannot say I’m surprised.”

  At the meeting of their eyes, a pleasant wave of heat moved through him. Maybe it was the whisky. Maybe not. “I didn’t actually fall off my horse,” he said. “I’m a better rider than that.”

  “Go on.”

  One of the chickens strolled by, clucking softly, pecking at the dirt.

  Logan watched Mairi’s face as she further considered the best position for the splints. “I quarreled with my brother earlier,” he explained. “We were on a mission for our laird, but I wanted to disobey our orders and handle things my own way. We got into a fight over it and I drew my blade—a rash move, I realize now. He did what he had to do and tried to shoot me in the leg. Then he snapped my arm.”

  “Your own brother?”

  “Aye. It was…complicated.” He paused. “There was a woman involved.”

  “Ah.”

  “After that,” Logan continued, “I was boiling mad—as you can well imagine—and I rode out of the camp. I didn’t even take the time to saddle my horse…not that I could have, at any rate. Not with a broken arm. So that’s what happened. I must have passed out from the pain when I fell off my horse in your field.”

  Mairi regarded him shrewdly. “So that explains the fat lip and the scrapes and bruises on your knuckles. What was the mission?”

  Logan’s heart began to pound because he had never told anyone the truth about who they were and how they’d ended up masquerading as members of the MacDonald clan, much less what Logan had wanted to do during their mission over the past few days—to waltz into the Campbell stronghold with the chief’s daughter, explain to the chief exactly who they were so he could contemplate his sins on his way to hell, then march into the powder magazine and blow the whole place into the clouds. Redcoats and all.

  “I cannot say.”

  For a long moment she stared at him in the golden lamplight, and he found himself forgetting about vengeance and murder…wishing only that he was not so incapacitated and in need of a nursemaid. He hated to appear weak in front of anyone—especially a beautiful woman.

  Mairi narrowed her eyes. “So you were just accidentally passing through…”

  “That’s right.”

  She returned her attention to the task of wrapping his arm. “I’ll need you to hold this one in place. Just like that. If you could hold this one as well and cup them together with your good hand… Right, like that.” She picked up the strips of cloth. “I’ll tie them in place now. Hold steady.”

  She wrapped the long length of linen around the splints, secured them tightly, and tied the ends. “There.” She sat back and examined her work. “How does that feel?”

  He couldn’t speak for a moment, for it had taken every ounce of self-control he possessed not to utter a few indecent oaths during the unavoidable twisting and turning of his arm.

  “Fine,” he managed to grind out as he clenched his teeth together.

  Mairi reached for the whisky bottle and poured him another glass. “Take this.”

  He grabbed for it with his good hand and quickly tossed it back. “Another?” he asked.

  “I hope we didn’t aggravate the break,” she said as she poured. “If we did, we’ll need to reset it.”

  “It’s still in place,” he replied. “It’s just sore, that’s all. I’ll survive.” He took the cup of whisky, but held it on his lap for a moment while he collected himself.

  Finally, warmth from the whisky flooded his senses and the pain lost some of its intensity. He tipped his head back, closed his eyes, and exhaled with relief.

  “I’m afraid we’re not quite done yet,” Mairi said. “I need to fashion a sling for you. You might want to sleep with it tonight, just to keep from tossing your arm about.” She reached into the basket and withdrew a larger section of cloth, then stood up to wrap it under his arm and over his shoulder where she tied a knot.

  “You’ll feel better tomorrow,” Mairi said, setting the basket on the floor. “Then you can be on your way and find your brother. Try to get some sleep.”

  “Thank you, Mairi,” Logan said, lifting his gaze to look up at her. “I appreciate what you’ve done for me.”

  “You’re welcome.” She turned to leave. “Good night.”

  “Good night,” Logan replied, watching her walk out of the stable and close the door behind her. When he looked down, he noticed that she’d left the bottle of whisky for him, still in the basket. He was thankful for that.

  Her husband was a fortunate man indeed.

  * * *

  Mairi walked quickly back to the house, shut the door behind her, and locked it securely. She wasn’t sure why her heart was racing in her chest or why her belly was pitching and rolling with nervous knots. Was it fear of a strange man in the stable, or something else?

  With more than a little unease, she suspected it was the latter, for she hadn’t felt anything quite like this in a very long time. More than five years to be exact. Never did she imagine she’d know that feeling again, but how could she help it? He was so wickedly, unbelievably handsome.

  Good Lord. What was this?

  She must be exceedingly careful.

  Swallowing hard, she darted her gaze to the table under the window. Before she knew what she was about, she was dragging the table across the floor and shoving it up against the door, just in case the lock wasn’t strong enough to keep Logan out. When she had the table in place and stepped back to examine her handiwork, she raked her fingers through her hair.

  Mairi, you’re mad! He’s not going to burst into the cottage like a brute. He’s a wounded, weary man with a broken arm.

  Nevertheless, she knew without a doubt that she was going to have a devil of a time getting any rest.

  Picking up the candlestick, she tiptoed into her mother’s room and pulled the curtain aside to check on her and Hamish. At first they appeared to be asleep, but then her mother sat up and squinted at Mairi, who held the candle aloft.

  “What’s going on?” Mother whispered. “I heard you coming and going. Dragging furniture across the room.”

  “Do not be concerned,” Mairi replied, “but there’s a man in the stable. He’s a Scot. A MacDonald from Kinloch Castle.”

  Her mother sat up with obvious apprehension.

  “He’s wounded,” Mairi explained. “He broke his arm and needed help. I put a splint on it and gave him some whisky to numb the pain.”

  Hamish stirred and sat up.

  Mairi held her finger to her lips. “Shhh, my sweet boy. Go back to sleep.”

  He snuggled down next to his grandmother and fell into a deep slumber almost immediately.

  “Is he alone?” her mother asked in a whisper.

  “Aye, and he’s no threat tonight. He’s in a great deal of pain.”

  “Good,” she replied, then shook her head at herself. “Heavens above, that’s not what I meant.”

  “I knew what you meant,” Mairi said. “Go back to sleep now. We’ll send him on his way tomorrow.”

  Her mother nodded and lay back down.

  Mairi let the curtain fall closed, turned to cross the kitchen toward her own bed on the opposite side of the cottage, and began to unlace her bodice.

  Chapter Three

  Logan’s eyes fluttered open at the sound of a rooster crowing somewhere outside in the yard. Soft, early morning light poured in through the small window over his cot. Only then did he become aware of the dull ache in his arm. Thoughts and regrets about what had occurred between him and Darach the night before flooded his brain.

  “What’s your name?” a tiny voice asked.

  Sucking in a quick breath, Logan leaned up on his good arm to discover a small, red-haired boy with green eyes standing over him. He looked to be about five.

  “It’s Logan,” he replied, squinting into the daylight while his head pounded from the aftere
ffects of the whisky. “What’s yours?”

  “Hamish.” The boy pointed a finger. “Why do you have wood tied to your arm?”

  Logan held it up. “It’s called a splint. I broke a bone last night. Right about here.” He pointed. “This will help it heal.”

  Hamish’s eyebrows pulled together as he considered that. “Does my ma know you’re in here?”

  “Aye,” Logan replied. “She’s the one who tied the splint on my arm. I needed help and she was very kind.”

  Just then, Mairi ran into the stable.

  “Hamish! Come away from there!” She collected the boy and drew him back from the cot where Logan was fighting to sit up. “This man is a stranger,” she said in her son’s ear. “You remember what I said about strangers. We don’t know them. We must always be cautious.”

  Logan swung his feet to the floor and hugged his sore arm to his ribs. “Your mother’s right,” he said, wondering why the lass was so exceedingly wary of strangers. “You must be careful around people and things you don’t know anything about. But I give you my word I won’t harm you.” He pointed to his arm. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t draw a sword or break out a cannon.”

  Hamish covered his mouth with a hand and giggled. “Where is your sword?” he asked.

  Logan gave an exaggerated huff of frustration. “I’m afraid I left it behind. I suspect my brother has it, though.”

  “You have a brother?”

  “Aye.”

  “Older or younger?” Hamish asked.

  “Older. Do you have a brother?”

  Hamish shook his bushy head of hair. “Nay, but I want one. Then we could fight with each other!”

  “Hamish!” Mairi scolded. “That’s not what brothers are for. And it’s time for breakfast.” She led the boy to the stable door. “Go and ask Grammy if the porridge is ready.”

  Hamish ran back to the cottage. Mairi returned to the stall where Logan was rubbing at his temple. She bent to pick up the whisky bottle and shook what was left in the bottom. “I’m surprised. I thought you might have finished it.”