Chapter Two
For a long moment Evelyn stared at him, her mind trying to grasp the terrible mix of a burned castle and an angry greeting. Was she in the wrong place? But the sign… This was Finlarig Castle. “Excuse me?”
“Ye heard me.” He didn’t yell, but his voice filled the space like the thunder around them. “No Sassenachs allowed at Finlarig Castle.” He threw his torch into an iron holder bolted to the stone wall flanking the doorway and pulled a thick sword from a scabbard strapped to his kilted side.
“Ridiculous,” Evelyn shouted over the rain, which began to dump from the sky as if God meant to wash them away. Tension in her throbbing head made her eyes ache. She inhaled, drawing strength from anger to keep the weakness inside. Just like talking to Father.
Scarlet cursed from behind Evelyn and retreated to the carriage, dragging Molly with her. But Evelyn remained rooted to the step, letting the fresh torrent flood her face and weigh down the curls she’d fashioned around her shoulders. Repressing the shiver from the cool rain, she matched the man’s frown with her own. Her anger grew swiftly as the rain slapped her face, while the damn man stood dry under a rocky archway, his torch sputtering in the holder from the splattering drops.
“It is pouring!” she yelled above the lashing wind. “Let us enter, and we will figure this out.”
“Nay.” His word was a curse, and he held his sword higher. Would he dare run a woman through? A drenched, cold, unarmed woman?
Evelyn stepped to the side to go around the sword, but he moved the tip so that it centered on her throat. “Do not tempt me, Sassenach,” he said. “I have a thirst for English blood.”
“Good God,” she said, her eyes wide. “You are a savage.”
Behind the man, a shadow moved down a step. Yap. Grrrr…
The man huffed, rattling off a string of what sounded like curses in his rolling language. He sheathed his sword and squatted to scoop up the shadow, tucking it under his arm. It was a small dog.
He ignored the puppy, who wiggled, straining to lick the side of his face, as if the man’s jaw was coated in honey. “Be gone, Sassenach,” he repeated, but it wasn’t nearly as intimidating with a puppy lapping at him with zealous affection.
Thomas and James ran from the stables, James holding his matchlock muskets that Evelyn knew were probably useless in the rain. Perhaps the Scotsman knew that, too, for he paid them no heed.
Boom. Thunder made the very air around them tremble. Evelyn willed herself not to run for the shelter of the carriage. I’d rather be struck dead than give up my castle. She wiped a wet hand over her dripping face, shoving her hair back to see. The pup whimpered, and the man tucked him inside the drape of his tartan, which lay across his bare chest.
“I’m not going anywhere,” Evelyn said with snapping determination. “I’m exhausted, drenched, and freezing. Now step aside so I can enter my castle.” This was horrible. All her plans were crumbling before her.
“You heard the lady,” James yelled, but the man ignored him.
The Highlander’s eyes narrowed further, and she had the feeling that if he could skewer her on his sharp-looking sword without repercussions, he would. But Evelyn had grown up under her father’s glares and…by God, the man was comforting a puppy. So she stood firm and delivered her own lethal stare.
“It will be well, James,” Evelyn said without averting her eyes. The slowing rain tapped upon her lips. She rubbed them together. Lord, she was thirsty and exhausted. They needed to get inside. Yanking the bill of sale out of her leather receptacle, Evelyn flashed it up at the Highlander before hiding it in her cape to keep the ink from running in the rain. “Proof that the Worthington family of Lincolnshire owns Finlarig Castle and the fifty acres surrounding it. Now kindly step aside,” she said, though she doubted the huge man was given to any type of kindly action, unless one was a pup.
In the quickest of movements, the Highlander turned to shove the puppy back in through the door, shutting it. He grabbed up the torch. “Show me this proof,” he said and stepped to the side to give her room to join him under the narrow eaves.
Finally. First obstacle met and nearly conquered. Evelyn’s knees felt weak with relief. She climbed the steps, her sodden slippers squishing in obvious ruination. Bumps rose along her arms, and she shook from the cold. Coming level with him, she realized that the top of her head barely reached his chin, which was covered with the short growth of a beard. A slight steam came off the hot, bare skin of his shoulders where the dampness hit.
God help her, just being close to the half-naked, brawny man made her stomach flip. The girls back at court would surely swoon from such raw male power, although Evelyn was quite above such ridiculous attraction. It was a man’s mind and convictions that interested her.
As she drew out the document that had been signed by the solicitor, the king’s representative, and Nathaniel, she stepped closer into the light of the man’s torch. Evelyn opened her mouth to breathe, expecting the man to stink of sweat or some off-putting odor, like everyone else they’d encountered on their journey. But as she came into his circle of light, she realized that his hair was damp, and the skin of his face and neck were clean. The faint smell of pine and rosemary came from him. He’d obviously just bathed. With soap.
She swallowed. Just because a man bathed and was gentle with a puppy did not make him safe or honorable. She looked down into the pool of madly flickering torchlight and unfolded the document, the royal seal still attached to one edge. “Once we settle all this, you can explain to me what happened to my castle.” She barely kept the chill-induced chatter from her words, and her heart thumped hard in her chest.
A low sound, almost like a growl, issued from deep within the man, but he didn’t say anything, just held out his large hand for the paper.
Evelyn held it up so he could see it. “I will read it to you.” She touched it with her fingertip. “Right there. Finlarig Castle and—”
The man snatched the paper out of her fingers and, without a glance at it, lifted the brittle paper to the torch flame. Evelyn’s lips fell open in numbed shock as the parchment caught fire. The Scotsman stretched his arm high above his head, holding it out of her reach as the fire ate up the paper, blackening it.
Evelyn stared, her entire being, body and spirit, trapped in motionlessness. Was this really happening? Had she packed books and teaching utensils, planned for a new life, traveled in dangerous territory for weeks, argued in the freezing rain, only to have her future turn to ash before her eyes? She couldn’t even draw in breath as the horror washed through her.
The man kept the paper aloft and glanced down to capture her gaze. His voice was deep, stern, and powerful. “Finlarig Castle has always, and will always, belong to the Campbells of Breadalbane.”
…
Greyson Campbell, chief of the Campbells of Breadalbane and Finlarig Castle, pivoted on his heel and stalked back through the doors into his gutted keep. Abovestairs, a mournful howl set the muscles in his back rigid. Where the bloody hell had the wee dog gotten?
“You…you scoundrel!”
Of course, the lass had followed him inside. He should have lowered the bar across the door to keep her out. Though she’d probably have pounded on it, keeping him awake all night.
“I said…” The Sassenach huffed furiously. “You are a scoundrel, sir.”
Surrounded by the memory of flames licking the walls of his home, his mouth twisted in anger. “Satan would be a more accurate name,” he said without looking back at her. He lit two wall sconces and threw the torch into the hearth where the flames caught on the dry kindling he’d set before bathing.
“Devil then.” She threw the words at him, and he noticed a slight chatter to her teeth. “Barbarian.”
“Robert, where are ye?” His sister’s voice called from the curving stairwell. “Ye are needed back in bed.” Bloody hell. Grey didn’t need Alana tangled in this. If he was going to be hauled away and executed, it should be him alone.
“Go back to bed,” he called in Gaelic. “I’ll bring the dog up with me.” Yet the glow of her oil lamp cast the stone wall in yellow. Blast. Alana never listened to him. It didn’t matter that he was her older brother or that he was the chief of the clan. His stomach tightened. A chief who was losing the family castle to the damn English. Shame prickled through his blood, making him itch to yank out his sword. But who would he war with tonight? The glaring Englishwoman with sagging curls and pert nose, the old man with the muskets, or the wide-eyed lad with the bayonet?
The furious beauty stood with fists pressed against her sopping gown, the lace along her collarbone flattened with rainwater against flawless skin. Her full inhales strained the ribbon of her bodice, and she shook slightly from cold or rage or both. Dark hair lay flattened against her forehead in crushed curls. Looking very much like a half-drowned, spitting kitten, he had the strange urge to wrap her in a blanket warmed by the fire. But even as a glorious bundle, she was still English, still the enemy.
The woman glanced toward the stairway, her eyes narrowed. “You and your woman have until morning to vacate my castle, or I will ride to the English garrison and have them remove you.”
“They can try,” he said, anger licking through him until he almost believed he could stand successfully against one hundred English dogs who were armed with muskets.
Having reached the bottom of the steps, Alana gasped, her hands clutching the folds of her sleeping smock. “Are the English back?” she asked.
“Yes,” the woman nearly yelled. “I am English, and I am here to claim my brother’s castle.”
“She’s alone,” Grey called before his sister started screaming. He strode to Alana and led her to a seat by the fire. Despite trying to brush off his hold, she shook, which made his anger flame higher inside him. He’d sworn to protect his clan, and he couldn’t even protect his only sister from the damned scourge of English invading their land. They’d murdered his parents and frightened his grandmother so that she refused to live in the castle of her birth.
“For tonight,” the Englishwoman said, some of the venom in her voice faded as she watched. She walked closer to the hearth. “For your wife’s sake, I will attempt to be patient, but you cannot just burn an official document and make it go away. If you’d let me read it to you, you would have seen that it was an official bill of sale. Nathaniel Worthington of Hollings Estate in Lincolnshire, England, has purchased this castle and the surrounding grounds. It will become a sheep farm while I transform this place into a school for ladies.” Her gaze slid up the scorched walls. “As soon as we can make repairs for whatever happened here.”
“Happened here?” Alana asked, her voice rising with uncontained ire. “Thalla’s cagainn bruis!”
“I do not understand the Gaelic language, but your inflection is obvious,” the woman replied, and rubbed her arms as if she were freezing. She walked toward the growing flames in the hearth. “Foul language only makes one appear weak and uneducated.”
Bloody hell, his gentle sister was going to spill the woman’s entrails. Grey’s hand tightened on his sister’s shoulder to keep her in the seat even though she continued to swear under her breath. “Do ye know who I am?” Grey asked.
The Sassenach turned to him, crossing her arms before her chest. “You did not introduce yourself while you were burning my receipt, but, since you are needed back in bed, I assume you are Robert.”
Grey stepped closer to her, letting his full height, a gift from his warring father and strong mother, tower over her. She tipped her gaze up to meet his. “I am Greyson Campbell, chief of the Campbells of Breadalbane. My grandfather, Duncan Campbell, built this castle, and this land has belonged to the Campbells for over two hundred years. I did not sell this property, nor my home. It is the seat of our clan and will never peacefully be given to anyone with English blood in their veins. The English have tried to steal it from me and my clan by force, and now they send a lass with a receipt.” He stepped closer, bending so that he was mere inches from her perfectly formed nose. “Finlarig will not become a sheep farm for English lasses.”
Her full lips pinched tight. If they weren’t attached to a Sassenach, he’d consider them soft, warm, and very kissable. “A sheep farm and a school for all women, not just English women. Boys, too, if they’d like. A parish school as required by law but which I am funding.”
Behind her, the door creaked open, and one of the women, who’d retreated to the carriage, poked her head inside. “Evie?”
“Come in, Scarlet, and meet our new groundskeeper and his wife.”
Groundskeeper? Grey kept her stare without blinking. “I would rather die,” he said.
“Then be so kind as to recommend someone and leave the property,” she replied without missing a beat. “I have no time to bury you.”
“I am not his wife,” Alana said, her voice pinched. She stood up, her back straight, as the pup jumped around her, begging to be held. “I’m Alana Campbell, his sister. And who the hell are you besides a haughty Sassenach who thinks this is her castle?”
Even soaked through and cold, the Englishwoman squared her shoulders and held her head high as if she were standing in attendance at a royal court. “I am Lady Evelyn Worthington from Hollings Estate in Lincolnshire, England, and this is my sister, Lady Scarlet Worthington.”
Abovestairs, a howl erupted, and the maid behind the woman’s sister leaned forward, her eyes round. “There be ghosts within the walls?” she asked.
The side of Grey’s mouth tipped upward in a half smile. “Aye, ’tis haunted by the English who’ve been slaughtered trying to take my castle.” Again, the mournful cry echoed in the stairwell.
Alana scooped up Robert, who immediately tried to lick her face and then chewed on her plaited hair. “Stad, ye wee beasty,” she whispered.
Hooooowwwlll.
Grey studied Evelyn Worthington as she stared at the steps, her hands clasped. The strength in her stance surprised him. Despite being half drowned with rainwater and no doubt cold, she didn’t curl forward or cling to her sister. No simpering aristocrat, Evelyn Worthington wasn’t afraid to muddy her slippers to get what she wanted. Unfortunately, she wanted something she would never have. His home.
Howling echoed between the narrow rock walls of the curling steps. “There is no such thing as spirits,” Evelyn said.
“Maybe not in England, but in Scotland, the land is ripe with wandering ghosts and pixies,” Grey said. “This one protects Finlarig against English.”
“I hear a pixie will cut one’s tongue out to keep its secrets,” the maid said so softly, the wind beyond the door nearly blew over her words.
At the steps, the large shape of his sister’s wolfhound, Ceò, emerged from the shadows. Her three other pups followed, trying to nose underneath to nurse. Ceò raised her long, light-gray snout to howl again, but Alana rushed over. “Here is your wee Robert, Ceò. No need to wake the dead.” The large dog nudged her pup, sniffing and licking him until Robert fell over, presenting his stomach.
Evelyn looked at Grey. “Robert is the dog, I assume.”
Grey relaxed his stance, though kept his arms across his chest. “Named after the French explorer, Robert de La Salle. And your assumptions, so far, have been completely wrong.”
Her lush lips opened and closed several times until she spoke, her voice icy. “Shall we reconvene in the morning with less yelling?” As if the wet, cold night were suddenly too much, her shoulders bent forward. So, there was a real woman beneath the withering looks and razor-sharp words.
“I suppose ye are wanting to sleep here?” Grey asked.
She fanned her dripping skirt out before the fire. “Preferably in a bed free of vermin and rainwater.”
“Molly will need a bed, too,” the sister said, glancing toward the maid, who watched the steps, a curious grin on her face as if she wished for a real ghost to present itself. “James and Thomas will likely bed down with the horses.”
Another wave of annoyance tightened Grey’s middle, and he narrowed his eyes at the bossy woman. “Your protection is lacking, by the way. An old man and a boy.” He shook his head. “This is wild country. ’Tis amazing ye made it this far.”
“James has two muskets, and we traveled with English regiments most of the journey,” Evelyn said.
“Yet ye arrive in the dark, alone.”
She looked away. Had she finally realized her jeopardy in angering a Highlander without an army behind her? Evelyn Worthington was rash, stubborn, and without the instincts that would serve to keep her alive in the Highlands.
“I am going to bed,” Alana said, picking up a pup. She made a clicking noise with her mouth at another female pup. Ceò lifted Robert by the nape of his neck, carrying him toward the stairs, his little tail tucked between his legs. Grey threw one of the torches into the fire grate and scooped up the fourth puppy to head for the stairwell with the last torch without slowing his stride. “Come along then.”
On the second level, he stopped and heard the woman’s footfalls squish with rainwater on the wooden floorboards of the hall. “The chief’s room is on this level, along with rooms for the family and guests,” he said. “But parts are charred like below. Ye can find a bed on the fourth floor where the servants slept.”
“The chief’s room is the largest in the castle, apart from the great hall,” Evelyn said, looking at him. “It is three doors down.”
“Aye, and ’tis mine,” Grey answered, hoisting the wiggling dog against his shoulder.
“Is your name inscribed upon it?” she asked, tilting her head. Drips from her sopping gown dotted the dusty floorboards under her.
He worked his jaw, loosening the tightness there. “It has always been the bedchamber of Chief Campbell of Breadalbane.”
The woman tipped her chin higher, sniffing lightly. “It is a waste of space when one just dresses and sleeps in it,” Evelyn said and yanked out a handkerchief from her pocket. She frowned at the white linen, which was just as soaked as her gown, and sniffed, pushing it back into her pocket. “It will become a great library and studying room for the students.” She wrinkled her nose as if it itched, the movement making her look softer somehow.
“The lasses may not like it,” Grey said.
She tipped her head slightly. “And why is that?”
Grey held out his torch for her to take, and let his dark grin grow. “Because I sleep naked.”