Charlie sat on her windowsill and looked out at Duff and Patrick Campbell sparring in the front yard.
She was surprised that Duff had risen from his bed so early. She had put enough Valerian in his nightly cup of wine to keep three men of smaller size out cold for at least twelve hours. Duff was a big brute and she preferred being safe than sorry. She never wanted to take the chance of him following her out at night.
But there he was, engaged with Mr. Campbell for at least a quarter of an hour now, both men throwing jabs and different combinations of punches, as well blocking and avoiding many blows. They caused no real harm to each other, avoiding most of the blows. They used no weapon in their practice, other than fists, skill, and wit.
They appeared equally matched, but Charlie noted that her brother was slower and less fluid in his movements.
She also couldn’t help but notice how the sun shone off their guest’s crown of auburn hair and off the fiery hair dusting his arms. He moved like a flame, penetrating all Duff’s best defenses. The size of his arms drew her careful attention from time to time. They were well muscled and thick, built for brawling. If he ever fought with Hendry, her brother wouldn’t last ten breaths.
They stopped for a break and came together to discuss the match. Patrick Campbell smiled at something Duff said. He always smiled, Charlie thought. He always appeared calm and unruffled. Even when he’d stepped out of her home, bound at the wrists, and came face-to-face with the Dunbars, his supreme confidence hadn’t faltered. He had yet to offer her a scowl for knocking him out with her sling and setting him here.
“Are you going to stare at him all morn?” Elsie asked while she slipped into her petticoats and woolen stays, dyed the perfect shade of blue to match Elsie’s eyes.
“I’m not staring at him,” Charlie defended herself and left the sill. “I was watching them fight.”
She ignored her sister’s doubtful smirk and went directly to her wardrobe. But instead of choosing what to wear, her thoughts drifted back to him.
What was she to do about him? Last night he had the audacity to put his mouth on her without leave. Not that she would have given it. Although, dear saints in heaven, she nearly lost consciousness—or something just as vital—tossed into his arms like some carefree wench. If not for the strength in his arm she would have wilted right there at his feet. He kissed with exquisite care, molding her mouth and her body to his. Kendrick had kissed her, but they were young and his mouth had been awkward on hers, not hungry and not nearly as passionate.
The Highlander had also made her laugh, really laugh, and it had felt delightful. She didn’t do the like often.
There weren’t many reasons to. After her brothers had killed Kendrick, after the Fergussons had killed her mother, her life changed drastically. She saw the truth in men, what they were truly made of. Kendrick’s warnings were true. The first time her father tried to marry her off she was ten and five. Hendry began pushing her around more openly. Duff had retreated into a cave and tore at the throats of anyone who tried to go near—including her. She found ways to protect herself, and her sanity. Thankfully no one wanted Elsie with her breathing condition.
The only good thing left in her life after Kendrick and her mother left was their memory. She wouldn’t let them go. She couldn’t.
But Patrick Campbell was filling much of her thoughts. As much as his kiss and his laughter haunted her, so did the memory of him with the Wallace children, Robert, Nonie, Andrew, and Jamie. It made her think about him with his own bairns…and hers. She remembered him with Nonie, their faces aglow in the candlelight, eyes locked on each other. He’d calmed Nonie’s fears with cleverness, compassion, and authority.
Nonie had ruffled the Highlander’s feathers. She’d made him admit to things Charlie was certain he hated confessing. How much more was there to Patrick Campbell? She wanted to find a way around his well-aimed smiles and inviting green eyes, around his charming words and relaxed confidence.
No. She had absolutely no desire to lose the only freedom she had left to a man. Especially a self-proclaimed rake whose heart was loyal to no one. What about Bethany from the pub? Surely, he’d had no time to bed her before Hamish had shown up. But he would have. She’d seen the passion in his eyes. Was he going to return to the tavern wench? Or was she forgotten, just as Charlie would soon be? No, Charlie wouldn’t surrender all her hopes and dreams for her and Elsie to a man she hardly knew. A man who would likely be gone in another day. A man who was nothing like the man Kendrick would have been.
She’d wasted enough time thinking about him. She had sheep to tend and chickens to feed.
Thinking of her day, Charlie smiled and pulled a dress from its peg. It was one of her favorites. She’d made it herself from strips of billowing gauze, dyed piece by piece in an array of pale blue, lavender, and peach. The corset was made of soft, thin wool, also dyed in the palest purple, laced up the front, as were all the dresses she made. She didn’t like having to depend on anyone to tie her up the back. Long sleeves opened at her elbows and hung in fluid splendor to her fingers. She heard Elsie sigh behind her. Her sister didn’t understand why Charlie always insisted on wearing such scarce garments instead of the tight boned stays and thick stiff skirts that the other lasses wore. “What good was comfort,” Elsie had often asked, “when you are freezing?”
Elsie was always cold. Poor dear.
“What about your earasaid?”
“Oh, Elsie,” Charlie sang, spinning on her heel to face her, and enjoying the easy sway of her dress, “’Tis a beautiful day! What need is there of a heavy cloak?”
Her sister gave her a frustrated sigh. “You’re always taking care of me, Charlie. Why don’t you ever let me take care of you?”
She loved that Elsie wanted to help her, but she didn’t need Elsie to do things for her.
“I’ll wear a snood in my hair.” Charlie smiled reaching for a thin woolen ribbon of ordinary white. “Will that please you?”
Elsie threw up her hands, conceding. “All that hair of yours will only come loose and hang down over your forehead like that of a wild mare. Why bother?”
Charlie laughed and tied the snood around her head. She pulled her thick locks out of the bottom, and left the room without her slippers.
She was thankful when she didn’t see Hendry or her father breaking fast in the hall. They were likely still asleep, thanks to the Valerian.
With Elsie at her side, she grabbed a pair of apples and handed one off to her sister on the way out of the house.
“You go tend the sheep in the meadow, El. You always have more trouble breathing around all the feathers. Stay where Duff can see you.”
“But what about you?” Elsie protested, not wanting to leave her. “You’ll be alone in the henhouse should the Dunbars return.”
“The Dunbars will not return,” Charlie reassured gently. “They cannot be that foolish. Why, I’d wager that Duff and Mr. Campbell could fight a dozen Dunbars and win. Do not worry. Duff is just around the bend.”
With Patrick. She’d thought about going to watch them spar. She’d decided against it. She certainly didn’t want the rascal Highlander to think she liked looking at him, being around him. She wasn’t like his past admirers. His carnal appearance meant little to her. She knew what men were like on the inside. She’d grown up fatefully wounded by their pride and hatred. They were savage in their thinking. None of them were any different, not the Cunninghams, the Fergussons, or the Dunbars. They were foolishly stubborn like Robbie Wallace, arrogant and cruel like her father and brothers, lustful leeches that were often too drunk to fight her back. Was Patrick Campbell any different?
He had been different last night.
“’Twould only take Duff a moment to reach us.”
“And half that time,” Elsie said, her voice sounding lighter as she turned toward the pasture, “for Mr. Campbell to save you again.”
Aye, Charlie thought watching her go. The Highlander had saved her once. She would make certain not to let it happen again. The only reason she’d found herself needing rescuing when Archie Dunbar thought to take her was because Elsie had been there. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have hesitated to fight back. Usually, a hard blow somewhere in the groin was enough to bring a man to his knees.
She bit into her apple and coaxed by the sun, set her path for the wheat house where she would gather the chicken feed. A warm breeze wafted over her, lifting the delicate layers of her gown and spreading through her hair.
Setting her hand over her eyes for shade, she turned one last time to watch her sister reach the sun-drenched meadow. No one else was about. Her eyes turned toward the village beyond the low hills.
How are Mary and Robbie this morn? Had Patrick vanquished wee Nonie’s frightening dreams?
Charlie smiled remembering his soft, compassionate voice. She would never have believed him so considerate of a child’s fears, but he’d gone to Nonie’s bedside as if her peace of mind were his responsibility. She hummed as she walked, swinging her arms wide and squinting at the sun. It seemed he was more than a pretty face.
Her thoughts returned, as they had numerous times since last night, to his deep, sensual kiss, the feel of his hard angles pressed against her soft ones. She cursed herself for thinking it, but she wished for another opportunity for him to do it again. No man had ever taken such liberties with her before. She likely would have killed one if he had, but instead of taking her dagger to Mr. Campbell, she’d merely slapped him. And she was fortunate to have been able to do that! What she had truly wanted to do was pull him in for more.
If she was truthful, and Charlie considered herself to be so, she must admit that the very thought of him warmed the blood in her veins.
She reached the wheat house and wiped her brow from the effects that the Highlander and the sun had on her. She fanned her face as a gentle breeze lifted a few curls off her neck.
Honestly, how did Elsie wear so many layers?
She pulled open the wide door and stepped inside. Light splashed from behind her across sacks overflowing with wheat and other grains. She plucked two buckets off hooks that were secured into the split pine wall to her right and headed for the sacks.
Tonight she would return to Blind Jack’s Tavern in Pinmore. According to Mr. Will Stewart—a patron she’d met there during her last visit—a physician by the name of Malcolm Lindsay would be traveling through the town tonight. She’d learned the best way to gain information was from loose, drunken lips. Indeed, many of the same tongues that had, last winter, helped her discover the truth about Kendrick’s disappearance five years ago.
It was risky to spike her family’s drinks three nights in a row, but she would be there to meet Dr. Lindsay and speak to him about helping Elsie.
Set to her cause, she shoved her first bucket into the grain and listened to the spray of seed overflowing to the floor. She set the full container down then filled the next.
Unbidden thoughts returned to her of the Highlander’s sure, strong voice while comforting a little girl. And then to his embrace and passionate kiss beneath the moon. Slapping him had been difficult because the last thing she’d wanted him to do was stop, and satisfying because she wasn’t a wench to be manhandled and because he made a living from fighting. His cheek could take it. She imagined many women had slapped it.
But there was no place in her future for a charming rogue. Too many people needed her. And how could she betray Kendrick’s memory by letting herself be seduced by a man like Patrick? It was best if she forgot him now.
Bending to the first bucket handle, she hauled up both and turned to leave. As she went, she thought she might have to spike Mr. Campbell’s drink tonight to keep him from following her.
She stepped outside and set down the buckets so she could shut the door. When she saw the Highlander leaning his back against the outer wall, hands crossed over his chest, his face tilted toward the sun, she drew in a tight gasp.
The sound drew his attention and he turned his head to set his eyes on her. “I can think of nothin’ but our kiss last eve. How aboot ye?”
Her knees went a bit weak—before she pulled herself together again. He was a bold rascal who was well practiced in the art of seduction. The slant of his scandalous lips proved it. He expected her to swoon. Instead, she straightened her shoulders.
“You call that a kiss?” She tried to maintain a serious composure while he laughed. “What is it truly that possesses you to follow me around the vale, uninvited?”
He unclasped his arms and stretched them outward. “I’ve been askin’ m’self that verra question.”
“And?” She turned away and pulled on the door.
“And,” he replied, pushing off the wall and bending to her buckets, “the answer still eludes me.”
What was he trying to say? What was so difficult about deciding why he followed her? She glowered at him and snatched one of the handles. He let her take it.
“I thought at first,” he continued, picking up his pace to walk beside her along the path back to the henhouse, “’twas the way the sun spills over ye like ye were created to dance in the light.”
Oh, but he had a masterful tongue. It worked like soothing ointment to a wound that had been opened too long. Her lips ached to form a smile. Her heart raced, wanting to let go and fly. She loved to fly.
“I considered if ’twas the challenge of winnin’ a mare as wild as the wind in winter, or a naggin’ affliction to want to know who ye are, that possesses me to follow ye.”
Affliction?
“But I’m still undecided.”
So, getting to know her was an affliction. She flicked her eyes to him. As for his confession of being undecided, could he possibly be as guileless as his current smile implied? Oh, but he had other smiles, ones that were tainted with trouble.
It frightened her. Allowing him, or any man for that matter, to distract her from saving Elsie. She couldn’t lose sight of her task. Not even for a man whose kiss curled her toes and scorched her blood.
She had to keep her head clear and her heart well guarded. This Highlander, with his dancing eyes and full, decadent mouth was temptation incarnate. But she didn’t want to be tempted. She didn’t want to note the height or breadth of him so close, or how his easy smiles put her at ease. Or how he’d snatched the power from Nonie’s monsters and given it back to her. But he didn’t want a wife. Hadn’t he told her? He was a rake of the worst sort. She’d seen him with Bethany. He considered integrity and honor dusty ideals.
“Did you ever consider,” she put to him, “that the reason you want to win my favor has nothing to do with me, but with you?”
He quirked his brow at her, his dimple flashing.
“Your victory,” she explained, “would be another notch for your belt.”
He paused and looked down at his belt. She kept walking until she reached the henhouse and entered it. When he caught up, she should have insisted he leave, for the small shack was dimly lit and being alone in it with Patrick Campbell wasn’t wise. But when she heard him enter a moment later, she inhaled a satisfied breath.
“Ye think ye know me.”
His voice was like feathers falling over her skin when he spoke behind her. The hairs rose off her nape while the feathers continued down to her belly. She took a step away and turned to face him.
“I do know you, Mr. Campbell, and many men like you. I know your ultimate goal is to have your way. You think to flatter me into submission, but you will not succeed.”
He grinned, addling her senses. What in blazes was wrong with her? He was a man, just like any other man—only he wasn’t.
“I disagree.”
Perhaps she was wrong. She wanted to slap him again. “You think me weak?”
“No’ at all,” he said lifting his fingers to her face. “In fact, I think ye’re quite extraordinary.”
He mesmerized her. That was the only logical explanation she could come up with to explain why she remained in her spot, why she closed her eyes at the touch of his large callused palm against her face. He must have spoken these words to a dozen other women. He’d probably spoken them to Bethany. She wanted to laugh at him and his well-practiced words and tell him she wasn’t fool enough to believe them but the thought of him and Bethany made her grind her teeth. What did she care? He was a rogue and this is what rogues did. In her rational mind, Charlie knew what she should do. Stay clear of him until he left.
But there was nothing rational about the heart, and she feared she could lose hers to him. To a careless knave.
“You flatter me, Mr. Campbell,” she said, gathering her strength around her and returning her attentions to the hens. “You don’t have to. I will not be won.”
“By anyone?” he asked, sounding amused beside her.
She slanted her gaze to him. He didn’t bother concealing his dark, dubious smirk.
“No’ ever?” he asked.
She didn’t know. She hadn’t thought about ever before. “Perhaps in time, after I’ve lived life with Elsie the way I’ve dreamed of for many years. Why?” she asked with the arch of an eyebrow and a smirk of her own. “Would you wait?”
“Would ye consider me if I did?” he countered with a grin.
“If you waited for me that long,” she told him letting out a soft laugh, “I’d consider you a fool.”