Master of the Highlands

Ewen studied her. He had never before seen a woman in breeches. Robert rode up alongside, blatantly studying the mysterious woman’s figure, so clearly outlined in her tight garb. “What peculiar garments. ” Robert leaned in to eye her legs more closely and continued, “These fabrics represent a type certainly not to be procured in these Highlands. Though the idiosyncratic cut certainly does highlight her…feminine aspects … eh, rather, the more …feminine manifestations of her person …” Ewen shot him a stern look, and Robert hastily finished, “I would not have reckoned on a lass in breeches, but she looks right bonny. ” Ewen looked down and couldn’t help noticing for himself. The lass did indeed have a fine shape to her legs. But it wasn ’t her legs that drew his attention.



She had the most exquisite face he had ever laid eyes on. It wasn ’t that she was the comeliest lass he had ever seen, for she wasn’t. Her complexion was flushed and spoke of time spent under the sun. The wind had made a spectacular tangle of her hair making her appear like some demon baobhan sith lass caught unawares. Her features weren’t what one would deem fine. The mouth was full, with a slightly crooked front tooth that made the bottom lip appear uneven. Ewen imagined it only appeared thus because she was so still; he mused that this was the type of lass whose face wasn’t often such a mask of serenity, for the set of those same features in the moments before she fainted was all raw defiance. Defiance and a hint of humor that Ewen, incredulous, thought he ’d spied playing at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes had challenged the clansmen, stance claiming that she would not go down without a fight. Not what the laird typically encountered from the females who ingratiated themselves into his circle. And yet, those same features held him spellboun d. Ewen wanted to run his fingers through that wind -whipped mane and pull her to him, claiming that indelicate mouth with his own. His head was suddenly mad with images of those full lips and that crooked tooth sucking and biting with a passion that would surely rival his own. He would run his hands over the coarse fabric of her breeches and wrap her legs about his body. Seize those breasts, straining so against the buttons of her shirt, in his hands, his mouth. And perhaps finally find in this braw and peculiar lass his match.



“Lochiel! ”



“Aye, ” Ewen’s voice came out a low growl, “hold your tongue. You ’ve no need to shout, you coarse lout. ”



“That he does when you’re off daydreaming. The lad near bust a gut trying to get your attention. ”



“That so, uncle? Well then, Robbie, you’ll forgive me, I was putting my mind to other matters. ”



“Och, Ewen, your mind …your mind was on that lassie you ’ve perched on your lap. ” Donald’s eyes twinkled scandalously. “And that ’s assuming you’ve blood left in that head of yours, and it’s not all traveled south of your sporran. ”



“Enough, old man. ” Ewen’s voice held an uncharacteristic threat that silenced the younger man but only seemed to further amuse his uncle. “If you ’ve the breath to chatter on like a fishwife, then you’re not riding hard enough.”



The laird pulled Lily closer and kicked Ares into a canter, forcing the party to ride back to the keep in silence.



Lily’s eyes fluttered open. Her mind struggled to make sense of where she was and what had happened. The feve r had abated, disappearing as quickly as it had hit. It had barreled violently through her, leaving only a hot, parched throat in its wake. Try as she might, she couldn’t hold on to one thought for long. It was as if her head was filled with static. She deliberately blinked her eyes tightly shut then open again, attempting to focus.



She tried to remember what happened. She must have fallen. Then, were there really horses? Lily carefully began to make small movements. Her ribs were sore but she could breathe without discomfort. And, despite a pounding headache, she could move her head without trouble. A dull throb radiated out from her shoulder. Someone had clearly set it for her; the ache was nothing compared to the screeching pain that had been there when it was out of its socket. Otherwise, nothing seemed to be broken, and she just had to be thankful that help had stumbled upon her when it had. Thankful and wary too, about the situation in which she now found herself. The riders who had come upon her hadn’t looked like your average Highland villagers.



She looked around. She appeared to be in the home of some local family. And it was more than a farmer ’s family at that, judging from the size of her room. The walls were composed of large, rough- hewn gray stones. The room itself was kept surprisingly warm by a small but steadily burning fire in an otherwise sizable hearth along the far wall. She craned her neck to take in a large tapestry hanging over the bed. Fine needlework outlined what looked like the depiction of a hunting party. Women in long dresses and small pillbox caps sitting sidesaddle, bows and arrows cocked. Men in tights with swords drawn. Hounds dotted across the countryside. Lily found it to be a charmingly odd image and one she imagined was hundreds of years old. A large, antique tapestry in mint condition—no farmer’s family indeed.



She carefully shifted onto her side, turning her back to the enormous slab of dark oak that constituted the bedroom door. Facing the light full on was a shock at first, but as her eyes adjusted she could see that the entire wall was made up of a series of large windows, each pointed at the top and comprised of hundreds of tiny panes of glass. The center window featured a prominent stained glass rosette that depicted what looked like a family’s coat of arms.



Lily shut her eyes and let the weak sunlight play on her face. If she concentrated, she could almost imagine the feeling of warmth on her skin. She began to feel drowsy again. Her breathing took on the languorous rhythm of near sleep. She inhaled deeply; the smells around her had an almost hypnotic effect. There was a strong note of lavender fighting to overcome an inescapable mustiness that pervaded the room. Something about it relaxed Lily, reminding her of the cloying old-woman scents that had always enveloped and reassured her when visiting her grandmother’s house. She found herself humming a quiet tune: “Upon Letterfinlay soil he did land, Claiming he came from a future grand. A MacMartin lad who knew no fear, Clan Cameron took and held him dear …” She smiled drowsily. Of course, Gram’s song had sprung into her head unbidden. She was in her Gram’s domain now.



She really should get up and thank whomever it was who’d helped her and get on her way, but Lily couldn’t fight the exhaustion that weighed her down, making her mind fuzzy and her body once again nearly incapable of movement. She pulled the covers up over her shoulders and shuddered as she realized in her half sleep that the blanket was no blanket at all but a large fur of some kind.



Lily thought she heard a door creak open somewhere on the edge of her hearing—the sound seemed far in the distance, as if at the end of a tunnel, though she knew it must be her own door opening. Fighting now to keep her eyes open, she used her remaining energy to turn and see who was there. All she glimpsed was a blur of red and green tartan and long black hair as a man who filled the doorway turned to go. Just like the song, she mused. Hazy impressions fought to resolve themselves into thoughts. “In red and green plaid, And charming to behold…” She couldn’t figure out if she was comforted or unnerved by the connections that were being made somewhere in the back of her muzzy brain. Stretching out her legs, her last thought before slipping off to sleep was, why couldn ’t such a well-to-do family afford a less scratchy, lumpy bed?



Ewen was not please d with the arrival of the mysterious woman. Two winters past, Gormshuil had warned that another stranger would come. At the time, he did not believe the old witch. And yet, seeing this woman stumbling, lost on Lochaber soil, Gormshuil’s words resonated in his memory.



Nobody knew the old woman ’s true name or origins, so they called her simply Gormshuil, after her blue eyes that were as faint as the winter sky. She had some peculiar habits and frightened some of the younger serving women, but Ewen welcomed her to his hearth to respect the memory of his grandfather who had treasured her as an advisor.



“Another comes, ” she had said.



Just as Robert had come so many years ago. A pretty lad he had been, with fine, fair features unlike the typical Highland scamps his age, when he appeared on the hills of Letterfinlay as if from a fairy tale. The MacMartin clan originally took him in, but too many questions were whispered about his origins so, as a favor to the MacMartin laird, Ewen ’s grandfather took Robert in as a foster son. Nobody thought to question a Cameron chief, and the inexplicable means of the lad ’s arrival soon became a forbidden topic.



And now another unexplained arrival.



Despite Gormshuil’s warning that another would come, Ewen had certainly not expected a woman. He had no desire to devise more lies in order to cover up for another lost soul—meeting one in a single lifetime was more than enough for the laird, particularly if this one posed as many trials as Robert. He loved his foster brother and God bless him, but some days Ewen thought the lad would drive him to the grave with his ill-timed quotes, self-proclaimed scientific inquiries, and general pedantry. Ewen regarded himself as a man of letters and admired scholarly pursuits, but sometimes Robbie drove him mad with his impractical and bookish nature.



Besides, the strange appearance of a lad was easily accounted for. Boys are fostered at allied clans all the time. But an unexplained lass. The village would buzz for years with gossip and conjecture about her arrival.



The strange woman unsettled him. Something about her was more foreign than Robert had been. Her clothing was so peculiar. He had never seen a woman in breeches nor, for that matter, had he ever seen such sturdy attire. Though it didn ’t appear to be as waterproof as tartan, her breeches were made of the most rugged material he had ever seen. The clasp, too, was remarkable. Wanting to avoid unwelcome curiosity, he ’d had Robert dispose of her belongings.



Then there was the matter of her shoulder. He had only ever seen a grown man withstand that type of injury; he knew it to be one of the most painful, save for being wounded by gunshot or sword. He was impressed that she could withstand such pain.

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