The Highland Renegade by Amy Jarecki (26)

Janet managed to arrive at Achnacarry without falling. Her spirits had sunk to the depths of despair while her arm ached terribly from hours upon hours of being jounced. They’d spent a miserable night camped in the snow, and the next day Father only stopped twice to rest the horses. By the time they rode into the courtyard the snow had ebbed, but the temperature was bitter. The moment she dismounted, her father ordered her to bed, and, despite the late hour, he called for the physician to examine and resplint her arm. Complaining of a megrim, she lay abed for two days, though it was nothing short of melancholy that sapped her spirits.

Midmorning of the third day, Lena, Janet’s maid, came in carrying a tankard. “This is a tea of willow bark and St. John’s wort prepared by your stepmother’s own hand. She vows there is nothing better to cure both megrim and low spirits.”

Janet draped an arm over her eyes. “Must I?”

“Och aye, and that is only half of it. Your father expects you in the library in an hour. He said, ‘’Tis time our wee Janet returns to her usual self.’” Lena lowered her voice, trying to sound old and manly, and her impression of Sir Ewen wasn’t far off the mark. In most circumstances Janet would laugh, but not today.

She sat up and wriggled her back against the down pillows, seeking exactly the right spot, while Lena handed her the tankard. “How is my stepmother?” Come to think of it, the woman had stopped in to check on her when she’d first arrived home, and Janet hadn’t seen her since. Hmm. She blew on the steamy tea and sipped.

“Not well. She has the morning sickness.”

Janet nearly spewed her mouthful across the coverlet. “You’re not serious.”

“’Tis the way of marriage.” Lena headed for the garderobe.

“Aye, but my father is five and sixty. It is disgusting to think of him acting like a young stag.”

“All men act like stags, no matter their age.” The lass came out with a woolen kirtle and arisaid. “Drink the lot of your tea. I say you’ll need it.”

Janet again sipped the awful brew. “What I need is a holiday.”

“Did you not just have one?”

She set the tankard on the bedside table. “Aye, what a holiday indeed. Complete with a broken arm and…”

“Oh heavens!” Lena clapped her hands to her cheeks. “Apologies, I didn’t mean to be unfeeling. I hope that vile Grant treated you respectfully.”

“He’s not vile.”

“I wouldn’t utter those words too loudly. When the missive first arrived, your da stormed about the castle, ranting about how he aimed to call out Grant and put his lands to fire and sword.”

“It’s fortunate Da came to his senses.” At least deciding not to attack. Men so often behave like complete mutton-heads.

Once she was dressed and had finished her tea, Janet made her way to the library and rapped on the door.

“Come.”

She popped her head inside. “You wanted to see me, Father?”

“Aye.” From his chair beside the hearth, Da beckoned her, looking both annoyed and impatient. “Sit.” He inclined his head toward the chair across from his—a place where Janet oft sat and read aloud, though not since his latest wedding.

Swallowing her misgivings, she did as told, folded her hands, and tried to look pleasant. “I hear I’m to have a new brother or sister soon.”

“Aye, God willing.”

“Felicitations to you and Stepmother.”

“Save your well wishes for when a healthy bairn is born. Too many things can go wrong at this stage, especially if one celebrates too soon.”

So much for pleasantries. Da appeared to be in one of his moods, which meant the less Janet said, the better.

He reached for a letter on his side table and unfolded it. “I trust you didn’t read the missive Robert Grant wrote to me.”

“No, I did not, though he explained its contents.”

“I gathered. The swine is as devious as a fox among sheep.” Handing her the letter, he gave a nod. “Read it.”

Tilting the missive toward the candlelight, she cleared her throat. “‘Dear Lochiel.’”

“No need to read it aloud.”

“Very well.” The letter began plainly enough. Robert first explained what had happened at the Samhain gathering and the events that had caused Janet to strike Winfred Cummins. Robert went on to say that as he was leaving Inverlochy, Janet’s scream made him turn his retinue around; his men cut the lieutenant off on the North Road, rescued her, and fled into the mountains in the midst of a blizzard. He described the conditions and Janet’s fall, then glossed over the time in the bothy and ended the paragraph with a report of the healer’s recommendations and adding the fact that his sister and the housekeeper were overseeing Janet’s convalescence.

All seems as Robert explained thus far.

But then she read on:

By the time Janet finished reading, she was hunched over and shaking her head. How could Robert be so arrogant? So self-righteous? Did he think by calling her kin underhanded he would gain her father’s accord and end the feud between their clans? He never listened to a word I said about the Cameron losses or the fact that my father would never steal Robert’s useless beasts.

She lowered the parchment and met her father’s gaze, unable to speak.

“Now I need the truth, Daughter, for I do not trust that miscreant Robert Grant to tell me the time of day without lying through his ill-bred teeth. Has. Your. Virtue been compromised?”

Heat rushed to Janet’s face as if it were a burning brazier. The parchment trembled between her fingers, and she released it as if it were afire. The first, most embarrassing, and worst possible things flashing through her mind were the image of Robert’s member in her hand, and then that of her mouth on him while he took his pleasure.

By the saints, what have I done?

Had His Lairdship known all along her father would come? Had he planned her ruination? Before the rescue, before the duel, Janet had always kept her distance from Mr. Grant. Everyone knew his reputation was that of a rogue. She’d put out of her mind seeing him with a serving wench at the alehouse, but now the sickening image was as clear as her face in a looking glass.

She gulped. Still, he did not take my maidenhead. Though he’d sworn he wouldn’t, he had taken her innocence. Never again would she wonder what it was like to be with a man. She might still be a virgin, but now she had a very clear idea of the wiles of the boudoir. Worse, she doubted she would ever again be with a lad as virile and potent as Robert Grant.

Did he seduce me? Were his words but empty promises?

“Janet, your silence makes me suspect—”

“Nay,” she spat. “He treated me as a gentleman ought. His sister, Emma, was particularly friendly and hospitable.”

“Surprising.” Da drummed his fingers on his thigh.

Janet swallowed down her revulsion. “I ken you must think the worst, but Mr. Grant’s healer was most concerned about me traveling home with a broken arm.”

Da’s nostrils flared. “Did Grant give you the option of going to Moriston Hall or Achnacarry? He could have easily brought you home from the moors of Ben Nevis.”

“He did not.” Janet chewed the inside of her cheek. Aye, she’d been upset when she realized where Robert had brought her. “When he said he would take me home, I believed he meant my home until we arrived at Moriston Hall.”

Her father crossed his arms. “And yet you think he acted honorably.”

Again she gulped. If she mentioned anything about their liaisons, she would be ruined and Da most definitely would ship her to France to join a convent. “Toward me he did. Clearly he is obsessed with the loss of his yearlings. Even when you arrived, he was trying to seek out the culprits—I-I think that may have been why he was so anxious to talk to you. A-and he’d learned a great deal more about the mystery after he dispatched his missive to Achnacarry.”

“Well, this whole debacle has me flummoxed.” Da crossed his knees. “What am I to do with you?”

“As soon as my arm heals, I’ll be able to resume my duties and continue knitting and raising funds for the foundlings and unfortunate—no need to concern yourself.”

“Och, do not skirt the issues, dear gel. According to your stepmother, ’tis past time for you to marry.”

Janet looked to the ceiling. “That may be so, but I am not ready. Please do not act hastily and arrange my marriage to a stranger. It would be diabolical.”

“I am well aware of your wishes, but the time to act is anon. I’ve sent word to your mother’s brother, Sir Broden MacLean. Kennan has returned to Glasgow to captain his new three-masted barque, and I’m sure you’re aware he lets a room in your aunt and uncle’s town house when he’s ashore.”

“Aye.”

“After I receive word that Sir Broden is amenable to the terms I’ve suggested, I will send you to them. Uncle Broden and your brother can escort you to the balls and all manner of theater—and I have no doubt your Auntie Dallis will be over the moon to introduce you to Glasgow society. If all proceeds as planned, I’ll expect to receive a letter from you every fortnight describing whom you have met. Once you find an eligible bachelor who strikes your fancy, I will commence the appropriate negotiations. You have a healthy dowry. You’re as bonny as a rose. It shouldn’t take long, given the right introductions.”

The walls began to crumble around her as Janet stared at her hands. “When do you expect I’ll sail?”

“Your arm first needs time to heal. And there’s no use sending you in winter.” Da stood. “But mind you, if you haven’t found someone you fancy by the end of August, your stepmother will be all too happy to play matchmaker.”

“No, please.”

“I ken this is not what you want, but I am at my wits’ end. You went to Inverlochy with Kennan to look for a husband, and you found a bloody scoundrel.”

“I told you I was off to Inverlochy to do some shopping, which I did. I imagine Mrs. MacNash is still holding my parcels for me.”

“I ken why you went, and I thought it was wise until I received Grant’s missive.”

“You didn’t know I was rescued by Rob—ah, Mr. Grant until you received his letter?”

“I did not. And I was worried half out of my mind. I had no idea what happened to you or your brother. Kennan lost his memory for an entire sennight—and he still doesn’t remember anything from the night of Samhain. Good Lord, he was convalescing in a crofter’s cottage whilst I was visiting the colonel at Fort William and scouring the countryside looking for you both—mind you, in the worst blizzard we’ve had since the winter of 1687.”

“I kent you would have been worried, but what of Lieutenant Cummins? He followed us into the mountains—at least at first. Did you see him at Fort William?”

“I did not at the time, though later word came that he and his men were trapped at Càrn Dearg. Cummins suffered frostbite, and his leg has been amputated from the knee down.”

“Oh-oh, how awful.” Even if Janet didn’t like the man, she hated to see anyone fall prey to the surgeon’s saw. The idea was gut-wrenching.

“The woeful part is the lieutenant’s men reported that he was in his cups and acting with behavior unfitting a gentleman. I received an apology from the colonel telling me Cummins had no cause to chase after you in the first instance.”

“My word.” She shook her head, the melancholy stretching her chest until she could hardly bear it. “My broken arm, fleeing through the Highlands, my stay at Moriston Hall were all for naught?”

“Aye. That seems the way of it.”

Robert sat in the dark, sipping whisky in the library. He’d played Janet’s retreat over and over in his head, doubting his every word, his every action, hating himself for not fighting, but knowing full well that if he’d drawn his sword against Lochiel, he only would have made things worse.

Most likely the cur has already turned her against me.

God save him, he’d behaved like a fool the entire time Miss Janet had been in Glenmoriston. For a moment he’d almost lost his heart to the lass.

Robert drank again, though the whisky wasn’t the only thing burning as it slid down his gullet. He’d lived seven and twenty years, and the only time he’d ever fallen for a woman, it had to be a Cameron lass—a woman he could never marry. He rubbed the scar on his cheek. Jesus, the wound alone should be a testament to the dishonor of Janet’s kin. What if he had asked for her hand? What if Lochiel had accepted? Then I’d have those miserable blackguards for in-laws.

The door opened and Emma stepped inside. “Robert?”

“By the hearth.” At least his sister couldn’t see he was brooding, drinking alone without a lamp or candle lit.

She moved toward him, her fingers brushing the furniture to guide her progress. “You’ve been awfully quiet the past few days.”

“Aye.”

“I miss her as well.”

“I do not ken what you are on about,” he said, taking a gulp of whisky.

“Do not tell me you’ve taken to telling tall tales.”

He shook his head. “I never should have brought her here.”

“I disagree.” Emma slid into the chair across from him. “I enjoyed Miss Janet immensely. And now I have no one with whom to knit. Knitting is very industrious, and I was just starting to become proficient.”

“You can knit with Mrs. Tweedie.”

“Goodness, Robert, Mrs. Tweedie is not half as interesting as Miss Janet.”

God’s bones, he’d heard enough. Launching himself to his feet, he shook his finger. “There’s no use brooding. The lass is gone, and that’s the end of it. If you want to continue with your knitting lessons, Mrs. Tweedie is your best option.”

Clenching his fists, he stormed out of the parlor and marched for the gaol. Damn it all, he never had spoken harshly to Emma, and he’d just bellowed at the poor gel. This whole mess had him wound so tight, he wanted to hit something—hit a great many things. His woes had begun with the theft of his cattle. Well, the best way to solve a mystery was to attack it relentlessly until he revealed the truth.

He shoved through the gaol door and glared at the men wrapped in bloody blankets behind the bars. His gaze settled on Leith’s pair of predatory eyes. “Do you want out of this shite hole?”