Robert and his men crawled on their bellies until they peered over the crag and across to the caves of Creag Ard. The sun had disappeared on the western horizon, and what little remained of the daylight was dim at best. But he saw clearly enough.
“That lot is nothing but a mob of ragged tinkers.” He raised a spyglass to his eye. “Six of them.”
“Their fire’s burning like a beacon,” said Jimmy. “And I can smell the beef from here.”
Robert scanned the lands below and saw not a single beast. “Bloody hell, Lewis, who told you these scoundrels stole my yearlings?”
“Met an old crofter in the alehouse down by Laggan. Said he’d run them off his land with a pack of dogs and a musket.”
“They’re thieving. I’ve no doubt.” Robert closed his spyglass. “But I do not think they’re the maggots who made off with our yearlings. They’re too sloppy.”
Jimmy stared along the sights of his musket, though his finger wasn’t on the trigger. “Mayhap they ken who did.”
Pushing back to his knees, Robert started back down the hill. “That’s why I aim to pay them a visit.”
“Now?” asked Lewis.
“At dawn.”
* * *
Janet put a candle on the table beside the settee and sat. Though it was nearly midnight, she couldn’t sleep. So many things weighed on her mind. A new shift, a set of stays, and three day gowns had arrived from the seamstress—they were practical woolen kirtles much like Emma’s, and Janet had accepted them with a mixture of gratitude and trepidation. On the one hand, she needed clothes. On the other, three gowns signified the expected length of her stay. With Robert away, the servants had acted more reserved and less friendly toward Janet, though Emma maintained her good-natured demeanor. Still, things were not as comfortable without the laird’s presence.
Janet prayed for Robert and his men to find the reivers and return safely. She also prayed the thieves confessed. If the mystery of the missing yearlings was resolved, it might help end the feud between Clan Grant and her kin. Eons had passed since the Grants accused the old Cameron laird of debauchery, after which they’d burned her ancestor’s house and stolen his cattle. That alone should have been the end of it. But no, both sides carried on like a mob of warring enemies from the Dark Ages, with nary a one having spine enough to attempt to make amends.
What if her father did make amends with Robert? What then? Would the braw Highlander ask permission to court her? Twice now they’d shared kisses sizzling with a passion she’d never dreamed could be so moving. But was she the only one so moved? Janet was inexperienced with these things, and His Lairdship’s reputation alone told her he was not.
Whom am I fooling?
Though Robert kissed like a man enraptured, his behavior otherwise was unpredictable. Throughout the pony cart ride their thighs and shoulders had touched. And then when he lifted her down, there’d been a heated moment between them. But that was the end of it. In the bower he sat across the brazier as if he had an oak board up his backside.
Was it Emma?
No, silly. ’Tis the same reason I cannot think of him as anything more than an acquaintance. Goodness, I’m daft.
Robert Grant could no more look fondly on her than she could upon him. That was the unpleasant reality of their predicament, and she’d best hold firm to her conviction, lest a scandal erupt. Yes, the laird had extended the undisputed hand of Highland hospitality, welcoming her as his guest under the watchful eye of Mrs. Tweedie and his sister, but if Da suspected foul play, there’d be no stopping the Camerons from staging an all-out war against the Grants.
A chill snaked up Janet’s spine. What if Da misunderstood Robert’s good intentions? What if Da declared her ruined? Would he force Robert to marry her? Worse?
Good glory, all this worry made her nervous. Her father wasn’t an unreasonable man. Robert had saved her from a grisly death at the bottom of the ravine. He’d acted heroically, and Da had no choice but to own to it. Janet needed something to while away the time while she healed and stop her confounded worrying. If only she could start knitting again, making mittens and scarves would busy her—calm her nerves as well. She wiggled her left fingers to mild pain. Perhaps crocheting might be a better option.
I wonder if Emma knits…Hmm.
Not a bit tired, she reached for one of the books she’d taken from the library and opened it. Shockingly, two dice and a cup fell onto her lap. On closer inspection, she saw that a square had been cut out of the inside pages. She gave the book a shake and two gold guineas dropped out as well. Hmm. The coins made more sense than a pair of dice. She pushed the pages aside to the title page. “Property of John Grant, remove at your peril” was written in a bold hand just below the title, The Faithful Lovers. Evidently Robert’s father did not appreciate romantic novels.
Does Robert know this book was his da’s hiding place?
She chuckled, remembering their game of hazard in the bothy. At the time she’d thought the kiss she’d received from Malcolm MacGowan had been something special. Well, now she knew differently.
Janet ran her fingers over her lips, unable to quell the sensation of Robert’s mouth on hers. When she closed her eyes she was there again, in the library, on the writing table, in his arms. If only she could be there now. If only he were a man with whom she could fall in love.
But he is not.
Why had he done this to her? In all her days, she would never believe any other man could kiss her so thoroughly, so possessively. No other man would make her feel so unbridled, so daring.
What if Da arranged her marriage with a man whose kisses were no more impassioned than Malcolm MacGowan’s? What if her heart didn’t thunder every time their gazes met? What if she felt nothing?
Am I doomed to a marriage of mediocrity?
Her head swimming with more questions than answers, Janet replaced the items in the treasure book and blew out the candle.
Perhaps I’ll not marry at all.
* * *
Five Grant clansmen stood behind Robert with their muskets at the ready while he crouched and angled his dirk against the neck of the guard sleeping at the cave entrance. “If I were a sheep-swiving tinker, I’d not slumber so soundly.”
The man’s eyes flew open as he startled. “Friggin’ hell!” He reached for his dirk, but Robert pressed his knife against the throbbing vein on the bastard’s throat.
“If you want to live, you’d best not move. One twitch and you’ll bleed out faster than ye can draw your blade.” Robert raised his voice and projected it toward the cave. “Up, up, the lot of you. We have you outnumbered.”
“Throw down or we’ll shoot,” brayed an ugly voice from inside the blackness.
“With what?” Robert ventured. “You’re nothing but a mob of beggared tinkers, and I’ll wager you’ve not got an ounce of dry powder between you. Come out now, and I’ll spare ye. Fight, and every last one of you will be roasting in the fires of hell afore the sun peeks over Creag Ard.”
“Ye swear you’ll nay harm us?” said the voice, not so deep this time.
“I’m Robert Grant of Glenmoriston, and when I give my word, it is sincere.” Robert beckoned them. “You’re fortunate it is I who found ye and not the queen’s dragoons, else you’d be hanging from Fort William’s gallows on the morrow.”
After a pause, footsteps crunched from inside the cave, and in no time four grimy faces appeared from the dim shadows. Robert recognized one of them—Leith Whyte, their leader for certain.
Jimmy shifted his musket. “There were six of them.”
“Call out the last,” Robert demanded, holding his dirk steady. “I’ll tolerate no skulduggery.”
“Come, Mor,” Leith hollered over his shoulder. “Let us hear what Laird Grant has to say.” The man turned back and gave Robert a sideways leer. “And it had best be good.”
“I wouldn’t be so cocksure.” Releasing his grip on the guard, Robert inclined his head to the firepit where he’d first seen the tinkers. “We’ll talk there.” Three and twenty more Grant clansmen surrounded them, just to keep things amiable.
“We’ve committed no crime,” Leith said.
“I doubt that.” Robert sauntered to the fire, his dirk secured in his fist. “Starting with the steer you ate last eve.”
The shift of Leith’s eyes proved his guilt.
“I do not give a rat’s arse from where you stole the beast, but I am very interested in what happened to my steers—six and sixty of them went missing during the grazing season.”
“What makes you think the lot of us thieved over sixty head of cattle? We’ve no horses for driving. No dogs, either.”
“That’s why we’re talking at the moment and you’re not dead.” Robert eyed the man, planning his interrogation. “How long have you been up in these hills?”
“A time now. Though ’tis dangerous to stay in one place overlong.”
“A man like you who moves around ought to have heard rumblings about poachers and thieves.”
Leith scratched his wiry beard. “Can’t say that I have.”
Lies. “Where do they sell them?”
“I haven’t a clue.”
“Hmm. ’Tis a shame.” Robert signaled his men with a nod. “You might have walked free if you’d spoken true.” With his nod, the Grant men seized the backbiters and bound their wrists. “A fortnight or two in the Glenmoriston gaol ought to help your memories.”