Devil's Highlander

“No.”

Slowly

she turned into him. She took in the set of his jaw. The morning sun hit the stubble on his face, lighting it to a glowing brown. “No?”

“No. I'll not put you down until I get you safe inside. Where I will make certain that you gather your things.

And then you will return home.”

She stopped breathing. She didn't care what his intentions were. He was carrying her to her room. Would he truly sweep her up the stairs like a knight? Whisk her into her room like a husband?

A muscle twitched in his clenched jaw. She stared, mesmerized, studying the strong planes of his face. Her eyes returned to the brown stubble shadowing his cheeks. It was thicker and darker at his chin and upper lip.

“Ree, lass, what were you doing climbing along the ledge like that?” The anger had leached from his voice, and Cormac simply sounded tired.

Ree. He'd called her by the old nickname. The sound of it eased her heart. Their eyes caught. His were a sad blue-gray. She wanted to make him smile.

The silence hung, and she inwardly shook herself. Cormac had asked her what she'd been about. Whatever could she tell him and still keep hold of her dignity? She decided simply to avoid the question. “Thank you for tending Una.”

“I care for the mounts every day. One more is no trouble.”

“I… I didn't see you this morning. I didn't know you were already out.” Marjorie cringed. Such nonsense spilled from her mouth, but this was her chance to speak with him. Cormac's long strides were quickly taking them back to her room, where he'd put her down and say good-bye.

His eyes narrowed. “I don't sleep near the others.”

“Where do you sleep?” She cringed again. A ridiculous and improper question, but she was desperate to know. She felt the blood flooding her cheeks and darted her eyes away, making as though to study the MacAlpins' main lodgings. They lived in what was the old palace, and though much of it was crumbling, the centermost building was sound and watertight.

“Just there.” He nodded to a low stone cottage, standing apart to their left. “Off the old smithy.” So he didn't stay in the main building after all. She longed to peek in and see how he lived. Would he have simply a cot and a washstand? Or would there be a desk? A book or two maybe? “Why don't you stay with the others?” Marjorie sensed his shoulders relaxing, and she risked another glimpse at his profile. She was startled to find him staring at her. His expression was unreadable, his eyes no longer quite so sad. She made the mistake of looking at the set of his mouth. His lips were slightly parted, and he seemed to be contemplating her in some profound way.

Her heart gave a sudden thud.

He looked away. “The others are close enough.”

He still held her close, unmoving. It struck Marjorie that he'd sensed she was outside the stables and had somehow known she was in danger. Cormac had come and whisked her from the ledge as handily as plucking a flower from a field.

He'd been enraged, but he was composed now. His features were smooth, tranquil even.

She'd been in jeopardy, and that is what had upset him.

He felt something for her.

Marjorie's arms tightened around him. She couldn't stop herself. She had to touch him, to ease the set of that jaw, to feel the scrape of that stubble. Slowly, she pulled her hand up and tenderly cupped his face.

Cormac put her down so swiftly, she almost tumbled to the dirt.

“I cannot help you.” He gave her a single horrified look and then walked away.

But it was fine with her. She bit her cheek not to smile.

Marjorie had spied some of the old Cormac lurking deep in his eyes, the boy who'd never liked to see her in danger.

And it gave her an idea.

Chapter 5

Marjorie managed to avoid Cormac the rest of the day. Granted, at one point, she'd heard him approaching and had to duck into what appeared to be an old root cellar — it'd taken her a good half hour to brush all the cobwebs from her clothes — but he'd been set on seeing her leave that day, and Marjorie simply refused. Cormac had the skills to find Davie, and she wasn't going back without him.

She had a plan, and it would unfold here at the dinner table.

She stabbed at her plate of finnan haddie, trying not to look at him seated at the end of the dining table. He'd shaved since the morning, and the fringe of his hair was still damp where he'd splashed water. He wore it long, but not so long that it grew past his shoulders. It became him.

She kicked herself under the table. She couldn't let her mind wander. She needed to stay focused on her goal: finding Davie.

“Do you not like the fish, then?” Bridget asked.

“Aye, I like it fine,” Marjorie said, mustering a smile. She wiped her mouth and reached for the loaf of bread.

“You prepared all this yourself?”

Gregor beat her to the bread, slicing off a thick hunk and handing it to her with a flourish. She nodded her thanks, and he winked in return.

Sighing, she glanced at Cormac. There'd been a day when all she would've needed to do was taunt him, saying Gregor would help her, and Cormac would've risen to the bait.

And Gregor might've helped her now. But in her short time at Dunnottar, she'd become convinced that she needed Cormac's help. At first she'd made excuses to herself. Cormac alone could help because he'd understand; he'd known the pain of losing Aidan. Cormac alone had experience, on both water and land, suited to spying around the Aberdeen docks.

She studied him from beneath her lowered brows. He was intent on exacting the meat from a crab claw, pretending not to listen to their conversation. But Marjorie knew he'd be picking up every word. He was attentive, steady, and strong, and she was certain she needed Cormac — only Cormac.

“Well, our Cormac catches the fish, of course. Even though he usually never joins us at the supper table like this.” Bridget gave her brother a wicked smile, but he didn't look up from his plate.

Something fluttered in Marjorie's belly. Cormac had joined them at dinner, when normally he didn't. With a clean shave, no less. It had to be significant. She reached for the butter, biting her lip not to grin. Her plan would definitely work.

“But, aye, I do the rest. And who else? Not this one, certainly,” Bridget added, swatting Declan's hand. “Don't you take that butter before Marjie has a go first.”

“Marjorie,” she muttered for the thousandth time since her arrival.

Declan passed the butter along with a rueful shrug, and his light brown hair flopped in his eyes.

“Thank you,” Marjorie told him, thinking how much he'd grown to favor the MacAlpins' mother. Unlike Gregor, Declan's likeness to her went beyond the mere fact of his lighter coloring. There was something of Mary MacAlpin there in the set of his full mouth and the faraway look in his eyes, as though one corner of his mind were always occupied elsewhere. At twenty, he was young yet, and an unconventional sort of handsome; Marjorie imagined he'd grow into a striking man.

“And Declan, I've been meaning to ask you… “ Marjorie cut her eyes to Cormac. He appeared to be focused entirely on his supper, but she knew him better than that. She spied a minute stiffening of his shoulders when she spoke.

The digging of his knife slowed ever so much. He was listening. Time to fire off a broadside, as Uncle would say.

“We're of a size. I'd like to borrow a pair of your trews, if I may.” Declan's eyes widened, Bridget's hands froze over her plate, and Gregor burst into loud laughter. Most of all, she was gratified to see that Cormac nearly choked on his crab.

“My… my trews?” Declan looked to their eldest brother for help. Gregor merely shrugged, leaning back in his chair as though to enjoy the show.

“Aye, your trews.” Marjorie carefully buttered her bread. She used her peripheral senses trying to gauge Cormac's response. “I'd like to fashion myself a disguise.”

Gregor grew instantly serious. “Does this have to do with your Aberdeen boy? Bridget was telling me—”

“I ken what you're about.” Bridget put her cutlery down with a clatter. “A disguise? I suppose you'll be wanting to find this Davie yourself? Well, we'll be allowing no such thing. I'll borrow some trews as well, and go down to the docks with you.”

Gregor sat up, his face stern. “Bridget Mary MacAlpin, the only folk who'll be gadding about Aberdeen wearing trews are me and your brothers.”

Marjorie ignored him. “Really, Bridget, you don't need to come. I'll be perfectly safe.” She waited a beat for Cormac to protest, but none came. “I'll go during daylight hours,” she continued. “I'm thinking perhaps I'll overhear something down by the docks.”

Still not sensing any movement from Cormac, Marjorie risked a glance his way. He was chewing slowly. Silently.

“The docks?” Bridget's voice came out as a shrill yelp. “Cormac, tell her how we'll be allowing no such thing.” There was a moment of quiet, then he simply said, “The boy is gone.” He chewed and swallowed another bite. “I'd be of no help. I'm needed here.” He finally looked up. “To feed the lot of you.”

“Cormac.” Everyone stilled at Gregor's dangerously low tone. The eldest MacAlpin wasn't much for conflict, but when he pushed up his sleeves and got in the fray, unpleasantness generally followed. “I'm expected elsewhere, or I'd help her. And Declan is too young.”

“Elsewhere?” Bridget exclaimed.

“Young?” Declan slammed his fist down on the table. “I'm a man grown!”

“Where is this elsewhere you're suddenly needed?”

The table had erupted, and Marjorie was mortified. She hadn't expected his family would need to beg Cormac to help her. The blood pounded in her cheeks.

“Declan's place is here,” Gregor continued firmly. “And so it falls to you, Cormac. In any case, you, more than any of us, are suited to this. The famed scout and spy? Who better to trawl Justice Port for rumors of a shipload of indentured laborers.” ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">