Excerpt from The Laird's Willful Lass

 

Blurb:

 

An untamed man as immovable as a Highland mountain…

 

Fergus Mackinnon, autocratic Laird of Achnasheen, likes to be in charge. When he was little more than a lad, he became master of his Scottish estate, and he’s learned to rely on his unfailing judgment. So has everyone else in his corner of the world. He sees no reason for his bride—when he finds her—to be any different.

 

A headstrong woman from the warm and passionate south…

 

Marina Lucchetti knows all about fighting her way through a wall of masculine arrogance. In her native Florence, she’s become a successful artist, no easy feat for a woman. Now a commission to paint a series of Highland scenes promises to spread her fame far and wide. When a carriage accident strands her at Achnasheen for a few weeks, it’s a mixed blessing. The magnificent landscape offers everything her artistic soul could desire. If only she can resist the impulse to smash her easel across the laird’s obstinate head.

 

When two fiery souls come together, a conflagration flares.

 

Marina is Fergus’s worst nightmare—a woman who defies a man’s guidance. Fergus challenges everything Marina believes about a woman’s right to choose her path. No two people could be less suited. But when irresistible passion enters the equation, good sense soon jumps into the loch.

 

Will the desire between Fergus and Marina blaze hot, then fade to ashes? Or will the imperious laird and his willful lass discover that their differences aren’t insurmountable after all, but the spice that will flavor a lifetime of happiness?

 

Prologue

 

Western Highlands of Scotland, April 1802

 

“I think we’re lost,” Diarmid said, trudging along the narrow path a few feet behind Hamish.

Hamish could hear how hard his eleven-year-old cousin fought to stop his voice trembling with fear. He was frightened, too, and he was only ten, but as was his habit, he hid his disquiet beneath humor. “We can’t be lost. My mother will kill me if I’m not home for breakfast.”

The weak attempt at a joke didn’t do much to lighten Diarmid’s mood. “You said you could guide us by the stars.”

“I could until the moon came up,” Hamish retorted, wrapping his arms around his chest to contain a shiver. The day had been warm for April; the night turned bitterly cold.

“I can’t even see the moon anymore.”

No, damn it, he couldn’t either, and then the blasted mist had risen, as well. Although his mother wouldn’t like him swearing, even if only in his head.

On a bright, clear night, he and his cousin had set out to stargaze. They’d sneaked out of their tower bedroom in the rambling hunting lodge their parents had rented for a few weeks. The trip offered a chance for the two families to get together, for the Macgrath sisters to catch up on gossip, and for the children to play.

The moment he heard about the plan to stay in the hills outside Plockton, Hamish had been ecstatic. His cousin Diarmid, a whole year older, always struck him as the finest fellow in the world. And any masculine company made a nice change from a household shrill with three older sisters, and now the addition of a baby girl in arms.

When he’d climbed out of the high window and down the old oak tree, an excursion in the open air had seemed a great lark. Now thick mist rose about them, the temperature dropped toward freezing, and the slopes were so steep and rocky that if he or Diarmid stumbled on the path, a plunge to the death surely awaited.

“We should wait here,” Hamish said. “It’s too dangerous to go on. I brought a tinderbox to make a fire.”

“I doubt we’ll find any dry kindling,” Diarmid said. Hamish began to find his cousin’s habit of looking on the negative side rather grating.

“We’re still better off stopping.” Hamish turned back to Diarmid who formed an indistinct black shape against the looming rock. “It’s too dark to see our way, and the mist is getting worse.”

“If we stay in one place, we’ll freeze to death.” His cousin stood a few feet away, and Hamish felt him staring back through the murk.

“If we go on, we’ll fall off a cliff.”

“Is that any better?”

Diarmid had a point. But Hamish was tired of fumbling around in the dark, especially as he had a horrid suspicion that for at least the last hour, they’d gone around in circles.

A grim silence descended. Hamish shivered again and curled his toes against the soles of his boots to try to restore the circulation. When he left the hunting lodge, he’d been snug in his thick coat and woolen socks and stout boots. Now he was colder than he’d ever been in his life. His home on the coast at Glen Lyon was much gentler country than these wild northern climes.

“Hullooo!”

At first, the sound seemed a trick of the gusting wind.

“Hullooo, up the brae!”

“Is that…” Hamish asked, turning his head, though mist and darkness prevented him seeing anything.

Diarmid lifted his head and shouted. “We’re up here!”

“Are ye in trouble?” This time there was no mistaking that the sound was human, although it was difficult to tell from which direction it came.

“Yes. We’re lost.”

“Then don’t move.”

“Should we keep shouting so you can find us?” Hamish called out.

“Aye,” came the ghostly reply.

“What shall we shout?” Hamish asked.

Over the last acrimonious hour, Diarmid’s hero status had lost some of its shine, but Hamish had never admired his cousin more than when he broke into a stirring tune.

“Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,

Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;

Welcome tae yer gory bed,

Or to victory.”

Hamish laughed with a shaming trace of relief and joined in the song. Now that rescue was on the way, their scrape turned back into a grand adventure.

They were into their second reprise before two figures emerged from the mist on the path ahead of him. One was a large, black dog of indeterminate breed. The other was…

“But you’re just a boy, too,” he said, his brief hope of safety vanishing and all his earlier fear rushing up in a choking wave.

“I’m all of fourteen,” the lad said huffily, lifting the lantern he carried to reveal Hamish and Diarmid shivering on the ledge. Under a long leather coat, their rescuer wore a rough linen shirt and a red and black kilt. A brace of dead hares dangled from his wide black leather belt. “I’ll have ye ken I’m up to bringing a pair of brainless Sassenach laddies down a brae. You’re lucky I was out chasing some game and heard your voices on the wind.”

“My cousin didn’t mean—” Diarmid said.

“I’m no Sassenach,” Hamish interjected. “I’m as Scots as you are. I’m going to be the Laird of Glen Lyon one day.”

“Och, is that so?” The newcomer sounded skeptical as he peered at Hamish through the flickering light and clearly found nothing noteworthy. “Yet here ye are, sounding like ye live in Mayfair and take tea with King George every afternoon.”

This time, Hamish was grateful for the unreliable light. It hid his blush. His father might be hereditary master of beautiful Glen Lyon, but he’d worked for years at the War Office in London, and Hamish had spent the last two years at Eton.

“I mightn’t sound Scottish, but it’s what’s in your heart that counts,” he muttered.

The tall, thin boy with dark red hair subjected him to a searching regard, then smiled with sudden, surprising charm. “Well said, laddie. I beg your pardon. I’m Fergus Mackinnon, and I am the laird of this glen. I’m guessing you’re staying in the hunting lodge beside the loch.”

“Aye,” Diarmid said, and Hamish noted his cousin made an effort to sound Scots, too, even though he went to Harrow and his school was as much a bastion of the English establishment as Eton was. “I’m Diarmid Mactavish, and this is my cousin Hamish Douglas. We’re devilish glad to see you, Master Mackinnon.”

Mackinnon arched an eyebrow and rested his free hand on the dog’s shaggy head as it sat at his side, observing the conversation with intelligent yellow eyes. The boy’s manner was altogether superior, and Hamish wasn’t sure he liked him, although he was deuced thankful someone had come along to lead them down the mountain. “I suppose you’re a wee laird as well?”

Diarmid pulled himself up to a full height that was impressive for an eleven-year-old, if not equal to Mackinnon’s. “Not yet, but I will be. My father is the Laird of Invertavey, down on the coast by Oban.”

“Then it’s a gey distinguished gathering we have indeed.” More irony. “What I want to ken is why two bairns are out so late, wandering the hillsides of Achnasheen on a dreich night that promised mist.”

Hamish bit back an objection to being called a child. He mightn’t approve of Mackinnon, but he wasn’t stupid enough to offend him. If their rescuer abandoned them, he and Diarmid would be stuck out here the rest of the night. However, he couldn’t help pointing out a salient fact. “You’re out wandering the hillsides, too.”

“Aye, well, it’s different for me. Even if I was a blind man, I’d find my way over every inch of this glen. A wee bit of Highland weather doesn’t change that.”

A pang of envy sharpened Hamish’s hostility. While he loved Glen Lyon, the family only spent a few weeks there a year. He was a stranger to his inheritance in a way that Fergus Mackinnon wasn’t.

“We came out to look at the stars,” Diarmid said.

“Aye?” Mackinnon’s single word communicated endless wonder at Sassenach stupidity, despite these particular Sassenachs claiming to be Scots. “I dinna see the stars for the mist, but then I am a dim-witted Highlander.”

Hamish would wager a year’s allowance that this boy wasn’t dim-witted at all. “They were bright as diamonds before the moon came up. I’ve never seen Arcturus so clear.”

“Hamish knows all the constellations,” Diarmid said eagerly. It was very like his cousin to try to smooth over any antagonism. “He’s going to be Astronomer Royal one day.”

“Is that so?” Mackinnon didn’t sound any more impressed, now that he’d heard Hamish’s credentials. “Yet the next Galileo wasnae clever enough to ken that once the full moon came up, the stars would fade to invisibility?”

“I did. But we were headed home before that happened, and I thought we could find our way using the moonlight. Then all the hills started to look alike, and the mist came down, and we got lost,” Hamish snapped, uncomfortably aware that tonight’s debacle was mostly—well, all—his fault. “So will you take us down the mountain?”

Mackinnon shook his head. “No, that I will not, my fine laddie.”

“I say, that’s a bit rum,” Hamish began hotly. “Just because I don’t sound like I live on top of Ben Nevis and have haggis for breakfast every morning—”

The older boy broke into Hamish’s tirade. “The mist makes it too dangerous. I’ll not be risking my neck, let alone yours.”

“Then what are we to do?” Diarmid asked. “It’s getting colder.”

“There’s a cave nearby that will get us out of the wind, not to mention the sleet that’s on the way. We can wait there until the mist clears.”

“And when will that be?” Hamish asked irritably.

“Hamish,” Diarmid said in a reproving tone. “Master Mackinnon is kind enough to help us. He deserves our courtesy.”

While he laughed up his sleeve at both of them, Hamish wanted to say, but he didn’t. “I’m sorry, Master Mackinnon,” he said grudgingly, more for Diarmid’s sake than his own.

“Aye, well, follow me, and I’ll make sure ye get back to your parents in one piece.” Mackinnon clicked his fingers to the dog, who had been regarding Hamish and Diarmid with an expression only a little more disdainful than his master’s. “Come, Bailey.”

Mackinnon set out ahead, the dog trotting beside him, while Hamish and Diarmid did their best to keep up with his long-legged stride. Hamish had to admit that the young Laird of Achnasheen trod these mountains as if he owned them. His familiarity with this rugged landscape made Hamish feel depressingly feeble and…English.

* * *

Hamish mightn’t much like their brusque rescuer, but he liked what their rescuer accomplished. Within an hour, the three boys were hunkered down beside a roaring fire at the mouth of a cave that kept them from the howling wind. They’d all enjoyed an excellent supper of roast mountain hare. Mackinnon had even managed to conjure up some dry bracken for bedding. Prickly, but better than the bare rock.

Hamish struggled to stay awake with the older boys to prove he wasn’t a useless Sassenach, but warmth, hot food, and safety all conspired to put him to sleep.

He had no idea what time it was when he stirred. The fire had burned down low. He was deliciously cozy, and it took him a minute to realize that the scruffy black dog was curled up against his chest, breathing in soft snores.

The flickering light threw strange shadows across the faces of the two boys sitting up and talking in low voices. It highlighted Diarmid’s gypsy dark looks. The black eyes, long bony nose, and thin cheeks. Hamish and Diarmid might be cousins, but nobody would know to look at them. He was as fair as a Norseman, with a sheaf of wheat-blond hair and eyes the bright blue of his mother’s.

The flames turned Mackinnon into a young Scottish warrior. Hamish loathed admitting it, but their rescuer looked much more at home in this stark, magnificent setting than he or Diarmid did. The rich red hair, the cleanly cut features, and some indefinable air of authority marked him as prince of this domain.

Still half-asleep, Hamish lay concealed in the shadows back from the cave mouth. He curled his fingers in the dog’s soft coat, loving the pungent canine smell and the knowledge that a living thing rested up against him. He’d begged his parents for a dog of his own, but his silly sisters were afraid of them.

Cocooned in physical comfort, he didn’t immediately realize what the other lads were talking about. To his surprise, it wasn’t hunting or sport, but their ideas about the girls they might one day marry. This struck Hamish as ridiculously premature, but curiosity kept him quiet as the soft voices, one with a musical Highland lilt and the other clipped and precise and English, murmured across the dying fire.

“Och, aye, bonny. Who wants to look at a sour-faced besom over the supper table?” Mackinnon leaned forward to prod the fire with a stick, and the flare of light revealed the features of a boy not far from manhood. “It would put me off my taties.”

“All right, I suppose I’d like her to be pretty. But there’s more important things than how a girl looks.”

The comfortable note in Diarmid’s voice indicated he was enjoying the company. Hamish felt an unworthy prick of jealousy, only partly mollified by knowing that after tonight he’d never have to see that rude sod Fergus Mackinnon again.

“Aye, like being willing to recognize her lord and master and do what she’s told. If there’s one thing I cannae abide, it’s a pert lassie who doesnae ken her rightful place in the world.”

“I hope you’re so lucky.” This time Diarmid’s laugh held an edge. Hamish could imagine why. Both their mothers, the famously beautiful Macgrath sisters, gave as good as they got when it came to family decisions. “No, I was talking about qualities like honesty and loyalty, and maybe a bit of spirit to keep things interesting.”

“Och, aye, if ye must have those things. Remember, a lassie wants a man to protect her and smooth her path in life, while a man wants a woman who sees a hero when she looks at him. And by God, whatever you say, any wife of mine is going to be bonny.”

“It’s not always easy to be wed to a beautiful woman,” Diarmid said somberly, and something in his voice made him sound older than his eleven years.

Hamish frowned. He ignored family politics, as long as they left him free to pursue his astronomical interests. But over the last few weeks, even he had picked up the bristling tension between Diarmid’s parents.

“I’ll keep her in line.”

“You’re very confident.” It was spoken more as a question than a compliment.

Mackinnon shrugged. “I took charge here five years ago, after my father died. My mother was prostrate with grief, and my two sisters were only six and seven. They all appreciated a strong hand on the tiller.”

Part of Hamish’s mind marveled at—and unwillingly admired—Mackinnon if he had been master of his estate since he was a mere nine years old. Perhaps there was some justification behind that insufferable self-assurance.

“And you exerted this influence at nine?” Diarmid asked with a hint of disbelief.

“Aye, I did. I was old enough to know that a woman’s like a horse. A man needs to keep a firm grip on the reins and show her who’s in control, and she’s all the happier for it.”

“I want a good Scots lass who makes sure nobody ever calls my children Sassenachs,” Hamish said, before he thought to stop himself.

“And do ye think a good Scots lass will have ye, my wee laird in the making?” Mackinnon asked, looking in his direction, and Hamish went back to hating him. How could such a nasty brute have such a nice dog, when some very nice boys couldn’t have a dog at all?

“Why not? Glen Lyon is a fine estate, and I’ll treat her well.”

“When you’re not watching the skies,” Diarmid said.

Hamish sat up, disturbing Bailey. He was getting ready to punch his cousin for his lack of loyalty, when he looked out the cave mouth. “Does it seem lighter to you?”

The others turned toward the opening. “By God, I think the mist is clearing,” Diarmid said.

All three boys scrambled to their feet, and Mackinnon began kicking dirt over the fire. “At last. I’ll have ye both back at the hunting lodge before breakfast.”

“We can find our own way,” Hamish said ungraciously, wanting this stranger gone and Diarmid to himself again. The dog rose with a groan, had a good shake, and stretched.

“Maybe. But having saved your necks, I dinna want ye tumbling down the next brae, once I leave ye to your own devices.”

Diarmid ignored Hamish fuming beside him and extended a hand in Mackinnon’s direction. “Master Mackinnon, I’d like to thank you for saving our lives. I dread to think what would have happened if you hadn’t come along. We’d have frozen to death, if we hadn’t fallen down a cliff first. This adventure will always unite us.”

Devil take Diarmid, Hamish hoped not.

A hint of a smile hovered on Mackinnon’s face. “Given I’ve just saved your thin southern skins, ye should call me Fergus.”

“I think so, too. I’m Diarmid.”

As the young Scotsman shook his hand, Diarmid cast his younger cousin a disapproving glance. “Hamish?”

“Oh, aye,” he said in a sullen tone and stuck out one grubby paw. “Thank you for saving us.”

To his surprise, Mackinnon shook his hand and laughed—not nastily either. “Not as eloquent as your cousin, but, aye, I’ll take it.”

Hamish felt a pang as Bailey wagged his tail and trotted back to his master. “I like your dog.”

“Aye, Bailey’s a braw creature, if not the bonniest. He’s just fathered a litter of puppies, if you’d like one.”

“Would I?” Hamish responded with a rush of enthusiasm, then native caution revived. “Why on earth would you give me a dog?”

The boy’s expression turned mocking, as if he read the epic battle between pride and yearning in Hamish’s heart. “Every good Scotsman needs a good Scots hound by his side.”

Diarmid gave Hamish a surreptitious kick. “Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face, cuz,” he whispered.

Hamish looked at Bailey with a longing that was so sharp, he could taste it. “I’m not allowed to have a dog,” he mumbled. “My sisters don’t like them.”

Mackinnon clapped him on the shoulder and picked up the lantern. With the sun coming up, he didn’t relight it. “I imagine once I bring the two lost lambs back to the fold, a small request like a home for an unwanted puppy willnae be turned down.”

“Is he unwanted?” Hamish asked. He tried not to look down the mountainside. The brightening light made it clear that if he or Diarmid had fallen while they picked their way along the path, they would have broken their necks.

“Well, you want him,” Mackinnon said, striding away with the black dog trotting at his heels. “Come down the brae. I’m ready for something more than hare to eat, even if ye two laddies want to stay up here to enjoy the fresh air.”

The fresh air was icy. The sun hadn’t had a chance to warm things up yet. Hamish realized that he was hungry, too, and dead tired, despite his nap. When Diarmid set off after Fergus, he didn’t hesitate to follow.

The promise of a dog of his own was so exciting that he almost didn’t mind the admiration in Diarmid’s eyes when he looked at Fergus. The kind of admiration, Hamish couldn’t help noting with some mortification, that he was in the habit of directing at his older cousin.

The three boys and the dog left the cave and followed the path over the ridge.

 

Chapter One

 

Achnasheen, Western Highlands of Scotland, September 1817

 

The smart yellow carriage careered wildly along the steep, rutted track that snaked down into the glen. Fergus hauled Banshee to a stop on the bend of the road. Horror churned in his gut, as he watched the vehicle speeding toward the burn, swollen to river size after the rainy summer.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, digging his heels into Banshee’s sides. The mare set off through the twilight at a gallop, while his dogs Macushla and Brecon ran barking at her heels.

 The coach horses were running in a blind panic, out of control. As the carriage veered closer, he saw that the coachman had lost his grip on the reins. There was no way that the driver would negotiate the sharp corner at the base of the mountainside to keep the vehicle on the bridge and clear of the water.

Fergus had reached the stone bridge when the inevitable happened. The horses swerved at the sudden appearance of the burn in front of them. There was a crack as an axle broke, then another louder crack followed by the tinkle of shattered glass as the carriage rammed into the sturdy pillar supporting the end of the bridge.

The coachman screamed as he hurtled through the air to land on the grassy verge of the road. For a sickening moment, Fergus was sure not only that the driver was dead, but that the carriage must overturn into the burn. His heart lodged in his throat, as the vehicle teetered on the crumbling bank above the rushing brown water.

Fergus flung himself from the saddle and rushed over to the prostrate man. Banshee shifted uneasily, agitated by the other horses’ terrified whinnying, but bless her, she stayed put. As if things weren’t bad enough already, it started to rain.

“Are ye all right, laddie?”

Praise heaven, the man already started to stir. By the time Fergus got to him, he was sitting up and groggily rubbing his skull. His high-crowned hat lay upside down on the wet grass beside him. “Ma heed, ma heed.”

Even through the shrill neighs of the carriage horses and the thunder of the rushing burn, Fergus noted the Glasgow accent. “Can you move?”

The man’s resentful look told Fergus that any injuries he’d sustained weren’t too serious. What a miracle. “Aye, if I must.”

“Then do something about the horses.” They’d both broken free and shied all over the bridge, trailing tack on the ground and showing the whites of their eyes. “Before they kill themselves or someone else.”

Fergus helped the man up, made sure he was in fact unhurt, then turned his attention to the wrecked carriage. With each second, it appeared more unstable, Fergus guessed because the passengers moved around inside it.

“For God’s sake, stay still,” he called out, as he dashed toward the vehicle. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the coachman stagger across to the jittery horses.

When Fergus reached to tug the door, a woman in a rich crimson cape poked her head out of the shattered window. “Good. You can help.”

Could he indeed? He bristled at her imperious tone, while common sense insisted that he had no time for pique, if he meant to save these travelers from a dousing. “Are you hurt?”

She raised one slender, gloved hand and pushed back the hood on her stylish cape. He found himself under the regard of calm, dark eyes in a face that was striking for its hauteur.

Not at all his sort of woman, he could already tell. Too high-handed by far. Nonetheless, despite the urgent circumstances, he couldn’t help taking a split second to admire her. While the lassie mightn’t be to his taste, she was a prime article.

And by heaven, she was brave. Most women he knew would be in hysterics after that crash.

“No. Just a little shaken,” she said steadily. “But I fear Papa has broken his leg.”

To confirm this, a groan and a stream of curses in Italian emanated from the coach’s shadowy interior.

“He’ll end up in the drink if we don’t get him out. So will you. Is there anyone else in the carriage?”

“No, only the two of us.”

For a brief moment, Fergus wondered why she wasn’t traveling with a maid. The carriage was expensive, and so was that cape. Discreet jewels sparkled at her ears and throat. Whoever the lady was, someone had spent money on her appearance and comfort.

After months of rain, the bank was all mud and not the most reliable foundation. To anchor the carriage, he stood on the step. “Can you get out alone, or should I lift you?”

When she shoved uselessly at the door handle, the coach gave an ominous creak and tipped closer to the rushing brown water. “I think—”

“For pity’s sake.” Fergus wrenched open the jammed door with a grunt of effort, and hoisted her free.

He had a brief impression of lily fragrance and a tall, nicely curved body, before he set her on her feet on the road. She clutched a worn leather satchel that seemed too big for a lady.

“Well, that was decisive.” In the rain, she looked as ruffled as a wet hen, but he didn’t have time for politeness.

“Stay there and don’t move.”

He turned to shout at the coachman who was hauling the horses up the bank, away from the bridge. “Are the horses hurt?”

“No, my lord, only frighted.” The man edged away from Macushla and Brecon who approached him, more out of canine curiosity than aggression, Fergus knew.

“Then get down here and help me,” he said, blinking the rain away from his eyes.

“But the horses, my lord—”

“They willnae wander far, if they wander at all.”

Fergus returned to the step and stuck his head into the carriage. The lady’s father turned out to be a portly gentleman huddled in the far corner, just where he was most likely to tip the vehicle. The light inside was dim, but not too dim to hide the unnatural angle of the man’s left leg as it dangled in the well between the seats.

“Maledizione. I told Marina this viaggio was cursed, but does she ever listen to her papa?” the man said in a thick Italian accent. “No, not that one. She always knows best.”

“Papa, stop complaining and come forward so we can pull you free,” the woman—she was no ingénue, but at least in her middle twenties—said from beside Fergus’s shoulder.

He stifled a growl of annoyance. No wonder she hadn’t objected to his orders. She’d decided to ignore them instead. At least when she added her weight to his on the step, it helped counterbalance the tilting carriage. Even if things were a wee bit cozy for strangers, with the two of them sharing the narrow metal platform.

“My leg, she hurts,” her father groaned, shifting further away.

Fergus bit back a curse. If the coach slipped now, all three of them would end up in the burn.

“The rest of you will hurt if you fall into the river,” the woman said, edging closer to Fergus. The scent of lilies mixed with the fresh smell of the rain. When she reached inside for her father, the carriage gave another alarming creak.

“Get out of the way, lassie. This is no place for a woman,” Fergus snapped, catching her by the waist again. He’d already rescued her once. He shouldn’t have to do it twice. “And mind the broken glass.” Jagged shards littered the seats and floor.

“Oofff,” she gasped as, with little ceremony, he hauled her off the step.

“And stay there, ye wee besom,” he said, plopping her back on the road with no great expectation she’d heed him. She hadn’t yet.

If he had time, he might call her unwomanly. If he had time, his appreciation for those fine eyes might convince him she was very much a woman after all. “You’re getting in the way.”

“My father isn’t a small man,” the woman said breathlessly, as she staggered to keep her feet. He noted that, unlike her father, she spoke English with the clipped accents of the upper classes. Perhaps once they were out of this blasted mess, he’d find out why. “You’ll need help.”

“I’m sure I can manage, madam.” He didn’t delay to make sure she was all right. Using his sleeve to brush the glass shards from the seat, he leaned in to assess what he needed to do. “Can you slide across to the door, signore? It will be easier on your leg that way.”

“I can’t move,” the man moaned, pressing against the far door. When the shift in weight set the carriage rocking, Fergus’s stomach twisted in dread.

“Si, you can,” the lady said. She was back peering over Fergus’s shoulder. Just his luck to be stuck with a woman unable to recognize the voice of authority, not to mention good sense. “I know it hurts, Papa, but if you use your good leg, you can do it.”

The man’s terrified eyes sought out his daughter, and Fergus recognized paralyzing fear. So far, the older man showed considerably less fortitude than his daughter. “You’re una ragazza crudele, and the angels despair of you.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Fergus said between his teeth.

“Papa, if you don’t come out, I’m coming in to get you. Then it will be your fault if we both drown.”

“Per pietà, this won’t work.”

“Try, Papa. Per favore. You don’t want to be buried in Scotland.”

“Certo, I do not! Even for a dead man, this country is too cold.”

“In that case, you have to move.”

Fergus was about to tell the woman to be a bit gentler with her father’s fears, when to his surprise, he saw determination seep into the plump features. “For you, then, figlia mia.”

“Take my hand,” Fergus said on a surge of hope, reaching in, while still trying to use his weight to keep the carriage level.

“You, Coker, come and hold the broken shaft to keep the coach steady,” the woman said sharply behind Fergus. Coker must be the blockhead of a coachman.

Grunting in pain, the Italian began to shift gingerly in Fergus’s direction. Halfway along the leather seat, he stretched out a shaking hand. Fergus lurched forward to grab the man’s wrist as he felt the carriage settle further into the mud. Coker must have at last decided to lend his aid.

The next few seconds became an agonizing nightmare of suspense. It seemed to take the older man an hour to get into position. Beside him, Fergus heard the woman’s unsteady breathing and what he thought was a whispered prayer or two.

He realized she wasn’t quite as unemotional about her parent’s plight as she pretended. He liked her better for the hint of vulnerability, and for her courage in keeping it to herself.

This time, he didn’t waste his time telling her to stand back, although if the coach went into the burn, it would take half the bank. The mudslide would carry her away with it.

“That’s it, Papa. Bravo.”

“Give me room, madam,” Fergus said curtly.

“Of course.” Before he had an instant to remark on her sudden cooperation, she went on. “I’ll hold you steady while you bring him out.”

Fergus didn’t have the breath to consign her to Hades, although he wanted to. When she stepped down, the coach gave another alarming wobble. As Coker struggled to keep a grip on the shaft, he swore in some incomprehensible Glaswegian patois.

“Coraggio, Papa.” Fergus heard how she strove to keep her tone bright. “You won’t be in there much longer.”

“Try and maneuver yourself out. If I pull you, I might damage your leg.” If only he’d had the luxury of splinting the break before bringing the man out, but the carriage was too close to going over.

“Don’t let me go, per favore,” the man said shakily, struggling to stand on one foot. The movement set the coach shuddering again.

“Coker, hold on!” the woman shouted.

Fergus reached in, trying not to upset the vehicle, then felt surprisingly strong hands grab his waist and ground him from behind. The Italian fellow gave a broken cry of agony as he made a clumsy hop toward Fergus. There was no time for niceties. With every second, the carriage tilted at a steeper angle.

“I won’t let you fall, sir,” Fergus said.

“Papa, listen to the man,” the woman said.

“Let me go, lassie. I need to step back if he’s to get out.”

“Very well,” the woman said. Despite the fraught circumstances, he noted that for the first time, she did what she was told.

Praying the carriage wouldn’t tip over without his weight to hold it steady, Fergus retreated backward onto the muddy road, pulling the Italian as he went. Inch by inch, the older man came forward, then with an awkward movement, more stumble than step, he toppled through the door.

Fergus lurched forward to catch him before he put any weight on his broken leg. As the man popped free of the cabin, the yellow traveling coach pitched to the side, then slid into the flood, taking a great slice of the bank with it.

“Oof,” Fergus grunted as he took the injured man’s weight in his arms.

“Hell’s bells,” Coker gasped, jumping back. He only just avoided the shaft knocking him into the water, too.

The carriage bobbed like a cork on top of the rushing water, then with a loud creak, it sank up to its shattered windows, and the current swept it away. Macushla and Brecon barked and dashed down the bank in pursuit, finding all of this a grand adventure.

Bracing his booted feet against the slippery ground, Fergus shifted his grip on the groaning Italian. The injured man was as tall as he was and twice as wide. His bulk made it no easy task to keep him upright. Straining to balance under his burden, Fergus hardly looked up as with a bang, the wrecked carriage jammed on a rocky islet about five hundred yards downstream.

The woman slid her shoulder beneath her father’s arm, mercifully taking some of the weight off Fergus. “Papa, are you all right?”

Gasping for breath, Fergus shifted to the other side to prop the Italian up. Even with two of them supporting him, the man’s weight was crushing.

“Porca miseria, my leg hurts.” Under thick gray hair, the man’s face was as white as new snow on the mountains. He, like the woman, was dressed in the height of fashion.

After much grunting and groaning, and some savage swearing from Papa that Fergus didn’t need translated, they managed to swing the older man onto the grass verge.

“Can you hold him up?” Fergus asked her.

“Papa, lean on me and balance on your good leg,” she said calmly. By God, Fergus had to give her credit, she was cool in a crisis.

He swept his greatcoat from his shoulders and laid it over the grass, then helped the woman lower her father onto the thick wool. That would at least keep the injured man from the worst of the damp.

The woman unfastened her red cloak and placed it over her father. Fergus bit back a protest that she exposed herself to the elements. There was no particular reason for her to heed him, apart from the fact that he was a man and in the right. But every atom of his masculine soul protested at leaving a lady to shiver on a hillside that belonged to him.

She sank down to cradle her father’s head on her lap. “How is that now, Papa?”

“Better.” The man’s lips twisted as he attempted to smile. “If I cut back on the spaghetti, it will be easier to haul me about like a bag of wheat.”

She managed a smile in return. Not a very convincing one. All three of them must be aware that leaving him on the wet, rough grass was a temporary solution.

Now that the immediate threat to life retreated, Fergus realized how cold he was. He wasn’t wearing a hat—he’d expected to be sitting beside his own fireside by nightfall, with a glass of the local spirit in his hand. His hair was sodden, and icy rain trickled down the back of his neck.

The woman must be freezing, too. Beneath the cloak, she wore a blue traveling dress that clung close enough to reveal a bonny, if not overly plump bosom, and a hint of curved hips and long legs. Her black hair was tied up in some folderol around her head. Or at least that must have been the plan. The persistent rain weighted her hair and sent tendrils snaking down around that fascinating face.

“You, coachman, get your bony arse over here and give your coat to the lady before I boot ye into the burn.”

Sullenly, the man approached and unbuttoned his coat. In the rain, Fergus couldn’t be sure, but the man didn’t smell of drink. Rank incompetence rather than drunkenness must be to blame for this accident.

With visible reluctance, the woman accepted the coat and fumbled until it covered her shoulders. “Thank you, Coker.”

“My pleasure, miss.” He couldn’t have sounded less sincere, and Fergus fought the urge to shove him into the water anyway.

The man trudged back to the horses. By now, the poor beasts were so cowed, they’d forsaken all urge to bolt. They didn’t raise their heads when Macushla and Brecon wove around their legs in a canine game.

“He’s my servant, not yours,” the woman said.

“He’s utterly useless is what he is,” Fergus muttered, straightening the coat to offer her better cover from the rain. “I fear his coat’s none too clean, and it might have fleas, but you’ll freeze wearing nothing but that becoming gown.”

“I’m glad you admire my style,” she said drily.

Fergus hunkered down and drew a folding knife from his pocket. With a couple of economical movements, he sliced away the older man’s trouser leg. More muttered Italian curses that lacked the earlier vitriol. Pain and exhaustion were taking their toll.

“Is it broken?” the woman asked, with more of that unfeminine composure. It struck Fergus as almost unnatural. These circumstances would leave the ladies of his acquaintance, including his mother and sisters, completely overcome. He wasn’t sure how to deal with a woman who took calamity in her stride the way a man would.

“Yes.” The man’s shin was misshapen and swollen, although thank God, the skin remained intact. “At least it seems a clean break.”

“That’s something.” The rough garment draped around her should lessen that air of cool control, but she still looked like a duchess.

“There’s a grove of rowans across the bridge. I’ll go and cut a stick to make a splint, then I’ll fetch help.” Fergus closed his knife and slipped it into his pocket again. He passed the lady his hip flask. “Ye might need to give him some of this while I’m gone.”

Those snapping black eyes settled on him with an unreadable expression. He was surprised when she said, “Thank you. You’ve been very kind.”

Something about that assessing gaze made him feel as awkward as a boy at his first ball. Ridiculous, really, when he was master of all he surveyed. Because he didn’t know what to say, he nodded, then stood and left in search of a suitable piece of wood.

Upon his return, he discovered the woman had ripped her petticoat into strips to hold the splint. He gave her credit for initiative, although some devil inside him regretted that he’d missed a glimpse of her ankles.

Achnasheen was well away from the fashionable world, and the advent of an attractive woman was a nice surprise. While she was a wee bit too willful for his taste, this lady was intriguing and easy to look at. He mightn’t want to deal with her long term, but short term he was man enough to enjoy the view.

Even in this deplorable situation.

“Give me the splint,” she said. “I can look after that while you get help. It’s too cold to keep Papa out here long. It’s better you go straightaway.”

Fergus struggled to ignore her managing tone. “Are ye no’ coming back to the castle with me?”

“Someone has to remain with Papa.”

Her father’s eyes were closed, and his lips were starting to turn blue. Fergus hoped to hell that the man was all right.

“There’s no need for you to stay. Let the coachman freeze out here.”

She shot a dismissive glance at the fellow who stood a few feet away, huddling miserably in his sodden shirtsleeves and holding the two coach horses. “I wouldn’t trust him with my worst enemy.”

Then why the devil did you hire him? Fergus bit back the question. Something in him hankered to put this outspoken female in her place, but not when the weather was closing in and they had an injured man to get to safety.

“I’ll no’ be leaving a lady out in the rain.”

Her lips tightened. In the circumstances, it was perverse to notice that they were the color of crushed cherries and just as luscious. “I’m not made of icing sugar. A little water won’t kill me.”

Fergus had already decided she was more spice than sugar. “Very well, then, if you insist.”

“Thank you.”

Fergus turned to the coachman. “Take the horses along this road to the gatehouse. I’ll be ahead of you, and I’ll give them instructions about what to do when you arrive.”

“Aye, my lord,” the man mumbled.

Fergus waited for the woman to complain about him appropriating her authority again, but she was busy wrapping her father more securely in her cape and helping him to sit up. The man gave a groggy moan, and his eyes no longer seemed to be focusing as his head lolled against her shoulder.

“I’ll be as quick as I can,” Fergus said. “Dinna be frightened.”

The minute he spoke, he wanted to wince. Frightened? This lassie didn’t look like she’d tremble at the crack of doom.

“I willnae be long.” He caught Banshee’s bridle. The mare whinnied and sidled away, but settled at a quiet word. Further along the road, the coachman led the horses toward Achnasheen.

“That’s good,” the woman said. “Here, Papa. You’ll need this before I’m done.”

The injured man curled his shaking hand around hers as she held the flask to his lips. He jerked away. “Basta! This is vile stuff.”

Despite their plight, Fergus hid a smile. “It’s Bruce Mackenzie’s finest.”

“Not brandy?”

“No. Uisge-beatha. We call it the water of life.” Not quite legal in the eyes of a Sassenach exciseman, but the best drop of whisky produced across ten glens.

“Dio, I’d rather be dead.”

The man had more courage than Fergus had credited. Perhaps he and his daughter were more alike than he’d thought. “Aye, you’ll do,” he murmured.

Fergus whistled up his dogs and mounted Banshee. He wheeled the mare in the direction of the castle and set off through the rain at a gallop.

 

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