Chapter Two
If anyone had asked Malcolm Stewart what he was, he wouldn’t have said an outlaw; he would have said a king.
A king of bandits, a little island, stolen sheep, smuggled goods, and a few motley cattle. But in Mal’s opinion, the size of one’s kingdom didn’t matter as much as the devotion behind it, and he had devotion, if any man ever did.
Some kings measured their worth in riches and land. Mal measured his worth in sheep stolen, in successful operations, in nights spent under the trees and the stars, in the number of Highlanders he’d paid with his ill-gotten earnings.
“Did you cheat?” he heard Lachlan ask Ewan.
“No.”
“But you never win!”
Ewan grunted as Lachlan elbowed him.
“Can we get back to the game?” Andrew looked on dispassionately, apparently bored with the other men’s antics.
They were playing cards, while Mal sat a little apart from the three of them. It was a clear, still night, and the fire crackled.
He studied his men for a moment. He’d found them all, or they’d come to him, like strays. And then, before Mal really knew how it happened, he wasn’t alone anymore. Instead of a solitary outlaw, he’d become the leader of outlaws, responsible for their safety, for their lives.
It wasn’t a responsibility he’d asked for, but it wasn’t one he took lightly, either.
Lachlan threw his cards down, ignoring Ewan and Andrew’s protests, and lowered himself down on the fallen log beside Mal. “Are you still thinking about the last raid?”
“Aye,” he said.
“It’s fine,” Lachlan said. “We’ll do better next time.”
But it didn’t really have anything to do with them. Rumors of their exploits had been spreading, and their targets were more alert. Warier. Every raid became more dangerous, no matter what precautions Mal and his men took.
He didn’t know how many next times there would be. For his men, at least. He didn’t care so much about his own fate—death had stopped scaring him a long time ago.
“Ewan tripped,” Lachlan pointed out.
And he’d nearly been caught, because the shepherd they’d targeted had had extra men with him.
“Ewan isn’t the problem.”
Lachlan was silent for a moment. “What are we going to do, then?”
“A bigger raid,” Mal said. “A final one, hopefully.”
If they could make enough, his men could take the money and settle down somewhere. They could have lives. Maybe even families.
They could have everything Mal didn’t.
Mal stared into the fire, into the writhing orange and yellow flame, thinking about what he’d do once his men were settled, when, on his other side, Laddie’s ears perked up and his tail thumped against the ground.
It was the only warning Mal had that someone was approaching. While Laddie was excellent at herding sheep, he liked people too much to be a good guard dog.
A few seconds after Laddie directed his attention past the fire, a woman materialized.
Materialized seemed an odd word to attribute to a flesh-and-blood person, but it was the best word Mal could think of. One moment he and his group were alone, and the next, she was there, as if she’d been drawn from the night itself, composed of shadow and peat smoke and the distant music of late-night revels.
She emerged from the darkness, silent as a ghost, solemn as the grave. She approached slowly, and then stopped and stood a few feet away, preternaturally still, lit by fire.
For a second, Mal blinked, thinking he might be hallucinating. But he blinked again, and she remained. He didn’t see a boat, but she must have come in one and hidden it under the brush somewhere.
She was below average in height, above average in curves, wearing a blue dress with a plaid shawl wrapped around her shoulders and pinned at her throat with a brooch. Messy, dark hair framed a lovely oval face. Even from a distance, he could see that pockmark scars dotted her cheeks, but that telltale sign of an illness didn’t make her seem fragile. Her eyes, pale and direct, were too fierce for that, her stance too unyielding.
She looked…she looked like a dream come to life. A dream he hadn’t even known he’d had.
“I’d like to join you.” She spoke with a lilting Scottish brogue, light and musical.
Ewan, who wasn’t aware they’d been approached, toppled clean off his rock perch, scattering cards and swearing like a sailor. Ewan, who was fairly oblivious to…basically everything, was the worst watchman of the group, but he was a kindhearted lad. Lachlan and Andrew stared at the woman, and then Andrew laughed—a loud, booming sound.
“Join us? A slip of a girl like you?” Andrew asked.
Mal leaned back, eyeing her. She wasn’t a slip of a girl at all, but she also didn’t look like the sort of girl who’d been raised for hard labor and keeping company with ruffians.
“I’ve heard about you—rumor is, someone’s been stealing sheep all across the Highlands.”
“And you think that’s us?” Malcolm finally spoke.
“Aye.”
“Why do you think so?”
“I just do.”
Mal nearly smiled. Not a girl to give away her secrets easily, then.
“Why do you want to join us?”
“I could use the money.”
“There are easier ways for a woman to make money,” Lachlan said, leering at her while he made a lewd gesture with his hand.
Mal silently leaned forward, took a stick from the fire, and pressed the still-glowing end into the back of Lachlan’s hand.
For an instant, the only sound was the hiss of burning flesh and then Lachlan’s screech split the air. He scuttled backward, clutching at his hand.
“You need to learn a little respect, Lachlan,” Mal said idly. “That’s no way to speak to a woman.”
While Mal suspected there was more to Lachlan than his brash facade, he could be volatile and a little too loudmouthed. Mal had quickly learned that the only thing that really kept Lachlan polite was the threat of pain.
Mal looked back at the girl, who, in her widened eyes, finally showed a trace of fear.
It was probably for the best, but Mal felt a twinge of something—disappointment, regret?
Before he could cipher it out, she’d straightened, chin tilted defiantly.
“I can shoot,” she said, no trace of shakiness in her voice. “I brought my own pistol. I can play the cittern, too, if you like music.”
He’d noticed the leather instrument case slung over her shoulder. Mal did like music, though he liked the fiddle best of all.
Against his better judgment, he was intrigued by this woman who played the cittern and could shoot a pistol and walked into a camp of thieves as though it was no great concern. She had a quality about her—audacity, that was it. Mal admired audacity, and this woman knew how it was done.
Of course there was a very, very fine line between being brazen and being reckless. Lachlan was reckless, and they certainly didn’t need another Lachlan.
But, provided she was an asset and not a vulnerability, adding one more to their number wasn’t a bad idea if they were planning a larger raid.
He pushed himself up. “We are thieves, ye ken? What’s to stop me from simply taking your pistol and your cittern and selling them for a nice little profit?”
He watched her closely, carefully. He looked for fear, and she showed none. If she was afraid of him, she hid it well. And that was when she moved the bag aside to reveal that she already held a pistol in her hand. The hammer was cocked, and it had been aimed at him the entire time they’d been talking.
Lachlan hissed. He heard Ewan gasp.
Mal almost laughed. “All right, lass. Show me how well you can shoot.” He picked up a stale oatcake from a basket near the fire and tossed it up, up.
She didn’t even hesitate. She aimed and pulled the trigger; the flint sparked, a flash in the night, and, a second later, the oatcake exploded in the air, raining down in uneven clumps.
Malcolm whistled. “Impressive. Though you’ve left yourself unprotected with that display. It’s not the sort of oversight I want one of my own to make.”
She stared at him a moment, and then her lips curved. Something about that smirk, all sharp-angled self-assurance, shot heat straight through his veins. She plunged her hand into the bag. “Did I say pistol? I meant pistols, plural.” She calmly retrieved a second loaded pistol from the bag and arched one shapely eyebrow. “You were saying?”
For a moment, Mal simply stared.
And then he grinned—it felt like he hadn’t smiled quite so broadly in weeks.
“I was saying, welcome to our little isle.”
…
Georgina didn’t know how long she could stay with the outlaws. Even if Theo and Annabel believed the note she’d left, her plan would still fall apart if it dragged on for too many weeks. Theo’s suspicious nature would rear its head at some point…and once that happened, it wouldn’t take him long to put the pieces together—the burglary, the music box, Georgina’s hasty trip.
It had already taken more time than she was comfortable with. A week to locate the thieves after questioning some of the tenants at Llynmore, and assuring them she was only curious and didn’t want to set the authorities after them—most of them seemed to view the bandits with a hint of pride, sometimes even awe.
Then another few days had passed simply watching the thieves to determine they didn’t have the music box on the isle. They didn’t seem to have any kind of loot on the isle. Had they already sold what they’d stolen at Llynmore? Her heart pinched at the possibility. And if they hadn’t sold it, where was it?
One day she’d been sneaking around and a sleek, black collie with brown and white markings had greeted her, attempting to wash her face with happy licks. The distraction had nearly spelled disaster, and she’d only had a few seconds to hide before one of the men came along. When he’d nearly stumbled right across her hasty hiding place, she’d decided on a different tactic.
She was going to outwit the wolves by joining the pack. It had seemed a brilliant idea at the time.
What on earth had she been thinking?
It was a question Georgina had been asking herself for hours, a question she repeated vehemently when she woke up to the distant sound of a stream trickling and realized, as she rubbed her blurry eyes, that there was no stream.
One of the men stood about twenty feet away, his back to her, and he was whistling while he urinated on a bent sapling, like a dog might mark its territory. Then, still whistling and dousing the tree, he passed wind. Loudly.
Whoever said that men couldn’t do more than one thing at a time?
She sat up slowly, and he must have heard her rustling movements, because he jolted, glanced back, flushed to the roots of his hair, and then put himself to rights before turning around.
“I’m sorry!” he called. One hand fisted nervously in his kilt. They all wore them, like Highlanders of old—tartan wool in earthy tones with boots and stockings that didn’t quite reach their knees. Plain waistcoats and dark coats covered their upper halves, and basic leather sporrans were belted at their waists. She felt as if she’d stepped back in time. “I forgot you were here!”
Obviously. She lifted her hand in greeting. He bobbed a quick, awkward bow and then rushed off, stumbling in his haste to get away from her. She reached beneath her bundled-up cloak, checked that her pistol was still there, and then stood up, wincing. She’d slept on a cushion of blankets, but her neck was stiff, her back was stiff, and even her hips were a little stiff. She stretched slowly, trying to ease her tight muscles. In spite of what her family might call her adventurous ways, she was used to a little more luxury than sleeping on the ground.
Still, aside from urinating men, there was something peaceful about waking outdoors. The sky was blue, wispy white clouds painted across it, and the air was cool but calm, the grass dewy. They were on a small island dotted with pine trees in the middle of a loch, and she could smell the salt tang of the ocean borne on the breeze.
She pushed herself to her feet and took her bag with her to find a more densely wooded part of the island to relieve herself, and then walked back to the clearing where she’d found the outlaws the night before.
The leader was there, cooking fish over a small fire. The smoky scent mixed with the smell of bitter coffee, and her stomach growled. Fish and coffee weren’t normally things she would find appealing together, but she hadn’t eaten a full meal since her flight into the Highlands. She wondered how Theo had reacted to her note. Poorly, she imagined.
And if he ever found out about this, he’d probably lock her in her bedchamber.
She didn’t even know if she would blame him.
She wrapped her shawl more tightly around herself, though the air was comfortable enough.
“Do you drink coffee, fair lass?” the leader said without looking up.
“Aye.”
He pointed toward a pot and a few mangy-looking cups set on a flat rock. She peered into the pot and saw that the coffee was settled and ready to pour.
“There’s no sugar or milk to mask the bitterness. Beware, this stuff isn’t for the faint of heart.”
Georgina lifted her eyebrow. “Then it’s a good thing I’m not fainthearted,” she said. She poured some coffee and sipped it—it was rather awful—as she watched him.
He wasn’t quite what she’d expected. She probably shouldn’t have expected anything, but when one heard rumors of sheep thieves, one might be inclined to think their leader was a ruffian. Possibly quick-tempered. Possibly not very smart, if he’d turned to thievery instead of a respectable occupation.
But this man didn’t appear to be a ruffian, quick-tempered, or stupid.
Last night, his gaze had been calm and focused. A little ruthless. She remembered the way he’d burned the back of the other Highlander’s hand—stone-faced and cold. He’d burned him as casually as if he was flicking an ember from a cheroot.
A shiver ran down her spine. It wasn’t like the other man hadn’t deserved it, but still, it had been a shock to see such levelheaded, unflinching cruelty. His actions had not been the actions of a reckless, brutish man—they’d been sharp and pointed and planned.
This wasn’t someone she would want to underestimate. He wasn’t a man to cross lightly.
Which made her repeat the question—What on earth was I thinking?
Her family had always accused her of being impulsive, but this was probably the most impulsive thing she’d ever done.
But when she told herself to turn around, to do the sensible thing, to go back without the music box, she couldn’t. It was the last piece she had of her mother. She couldn’t simply let it go.
And if that made her a fool, then she was a fool.
“We didn’t get around to introductions last night,” he said.
With a start, she realized he was watching her. In the soft morning light, his eyes looked green, but when his head tilted, and the sun’s rays glanced across them, she saw flecks of gold. In the soft morning light, she could admit to herself that he was a well-built man—compact and lean. Not much above average height, she would guess, but powerful. Stubble dusted a hard jaw, a few shades darker than the sandy brown of his hair.
His face was somewhat plain—his nose was a little too narrow, his eyes a little too close set. But there was something in his hazel gaze that was so charismatic, so commanding, it was difficult to look away from him.
“I’m Malcolm Stewart, he of two last names, descended from both kings and rogues. You may call me Mal.”
Good Lord—was he always so…hyperbolic?
And she would certainly not be calling him Mal if she could help it. First names bred familiarity, and she didn’t want to be too familiar with him. “Catriona MacPherson,” she said, combining the first name of one of Llynmore Castle’s maids with the last name of their cook. “You may call me Miss MacPherson. In a pinch, MacPherson will do.”
Malcolm’s hand paused, hovering over the fish. Then he smiled, and something in Georgina flinched. He’d smiled at her like that last night, too, as though she was the answer to a question left unasked. No one else had ever looked at her quite like that before, and she wasn’t certain she liked it.
“Are you sure? Mal and Cat sound like proper bandit names—there could be ballads written about Mal and Cat. Miss MacPherson, not as much.”
If Catriona was too familiar, she certainly wasn’t going to let him shorten it to a pet name.
“If you call me Cat, I may end up using you as target practice.”
His mouth twitched. “You don’t need any practice. You already have better aim than most of the men here.” He plopped a whole fish down on a plate and handed it to her. Its glassy eye stared up at her reproachfully, but her empty stomach didn’t care. Malcolm didn’t hand her a fork, so she picked at it with her fingers, carefully tearing off flaky chunks of meat and avoiding the bone.
“Most?” she asked.
“I could match you, I think. Though I don’t know if I could outmatch you.”
She almost smiled. He certainly knew how to be charming. But his gaze was always sharp, always watchful. It wasn’t idle charm.
She had a feeling he wanted her to let her guard down around him. But she wasn’t about to oblige him.
“But we were still on introductions. This is Laddie,” he said, nodding at the dog who sat on its haunches a few feet away, staring at her plate of food with a tilted head and imploring eyes. “Don’t let that sad look fool you. He already ate.”
“Laddie?”
“Aye.”
“Laddie isn’t a name. It’s a description.”
“Who said a description can’t be a name? And a fine one at that. I had a dog named Laddie when I was a wee lad, myself.”
It was worse than she’d thought—this dog wasn’t even the original; he was Laddie Two. But getting into an argument about the matter didn’t seem to be the best use of her time. It wasn’t as if she’d be here very long, anyway.
“Ewan is the one who’s scared of his own shadow, but he’s kind enough,” Mal continued. “Andrew is the flame-haired one, the silent and broody type. Lachlan…Lachlan has a lean and hungry look.” Mal winked at her. “I heard that somewhere and thought it was poetic.”
Charmed against her will, she had to bite her lip to keep from smiling. That small pause was telling, though, even if he hadn’t intended it to be. “You trust him?”
“Aye. He’s really not a bad sort. He’s loyal. He just pushes too far sometimes. He overestimates himself.”
Mal took a swig of coffee, and Georgina winced at the ease with which he gulped down the bitter brew. She was still sipping tentatively at hers, even though it was no longer hot.
“When will we go thieving?” she asked.
He laughed. “We’ll lie low for a few days. The next raid will be a bigger one, so it’s best not to rush into it too soon.”
Lie low? How would she find her music box if they stayed on the isle? All she needed to know was where they kept the stolen goods, and then she’d never cross paths with them again.
The longer she stayed with them, the greater the odds they’d uncover her identity, or that her brother would grow suspicious and uncover her.
The first scenario put her in danger, and the second put them in danger. She might not agree with their lifestyle, but she also didn’t want to see them caught and tried because she’d led one of the landlords they’d stolen from straight to them.
“Don’t look so disappointed, lass. We’re good company. We’ve got whisky and a fire and all the fresh air you could want.”
She was annoyed that he’d been able to read her thoughts so easily. She’d have to be more guarded than she’d thought.
Andrew, the brooding, red-haired one, stopped by their makeshift breakfast table, drained a coffee cup in almost one swallow, and then grabbed a cooked fish with his bare hand. He nodded at Malcolm, grunted at her, and stalked off.
“He doesna like me,” Georgina said.
“You’re in good company then. I don’t know if Andrew likes anyone.”
“Not even you?”
Malcolm shrugged his shoulders. “He would die for me, I think. It’s not quite the same as liking me.”
His men would die for him? It was a rather lofty claim, and she wondered if it was true. She wondered about the bonds that tied them, but she didn’t ask.
Georgina set down her finished plate of fish and focused on sipping at her coffee. “So, if you’re not thieving, what do you do all day?”
“There are plenty of chores. You could help Ewan chop wood. Or help Andrew wash clothes. I’m in charge of the meals. Lachlan patches the clothes when needed—though I have to warn you that he sulks the whole time.”
“Do you always stay on the isle?”
“You’re the restless kind, aren’t ye?”
Her grip tightened on her cup. “What do you mean?”
“You like to stay occupied. Do you get anxious when you have to sit still?”
He made her sound like a child. She did prefer to be doing something, rather than being idle, but it wasn’t as though she had to be occupied. She did have some amount of discipline.
“So,” she said, drawing out the word lazily. “I’m the restless one, Andrew is the brooding one, Ewan is the awkward one, Lachlan is lean and hungry. You’ve come up with plenty of words to describe everyone else. How would you describe yourself?”
“The handsome one,” he said, and she had to suppress a smile. Malcolm Stewart might be many things, but handsome wasn’t one of them. “How would you describe me?”
She tilted her head, studying him. She didn’t know very much about him—he was a leader of outlaws and a thief, descended from kings and rogues. He liked hyperbole. He’d put a stop to it in no uncertain terms when Lachlan had disrespected her. He had somehow managed to get three very different men to look to him as a leader and had set them to work on chores they didn’t seem to want to do.
“You like discipline,” she said slowly.
He blinked, looking a little startled.
“You’re an outlaw, so it contradicts itself, but I think you value order. Efficiency. You seem to be good at living a makeshift life. You can light a fire with the first strike of a flint and you know how to cook over it, too. I think you were in a far different position once. A soldier, perhaps?”
His expression turned wary.
She bit back a smirk. All of those things were true, but she didn’t mention she’d also seen a tartan in rich dark blue and green peeking out from beneath a pile of clothes during one of her earlier expeditions to the isle. It was standard issue for the most well-known of the Highland regiments.
Her brother Robert had once called her uncanny, but really, she was only observant. It was amazing, all of the things that people missed simply because they didn’t bother to look for them.
“Am I correct?”
“Aye,” he said, staring at the dying fire. “I was a soldier. The Black Watch.” He laughed softly. “It was formed after the 1715 rebellion, ye ken—the clans who were loyal to the king were tasked with keeping order in the Highlands. A century later and I joined a regiment my ancestors hated. Times change, I suppose. And we do what we must.”
There was a wistfulness to his voice, a note that made her lean forward a little, as if she might better understand him if she were closer to him. But she wasn’t sure why she would wish to understand him in the first place. And almost as quickly as the moment came, it was gone.
He laughed, whatever he’d remembered, whatever he’d felt, hidden behind a careless smile. “My fair, restless Miss Macpherson. Smart, too. Smart and restless. I’m not certain if they’re safe traits to combine. You might be as much trouble as Lachlan.”
She finished her coffee with a gulp and a grimace and set the empty cup down on the rock. “Don’t compare me to Lachlan.”
“Do you want to help me wash up?” he asked.
No, she didn’t want to spend any more time alone with Malcolm Stewart than she must. Already, she was too aware of those steady, searching hazel eyes. Already, she was too curious about him—how long had he been a soldier? How had he become a thief? What in the world might have happened between one thing and the next?
She pushed to her feet. “I think I shall find Ewan,” she called over her shoulder, some distance away.
Some questions were better left unasked. And unanswered.