Chapter Six
As the rain turned to hail, pelting the sodden earth with minuscule white cannon balls, Mayra held her breath and squeezed the table’s rough edge until her knuckles turned white.
Every muscle taut, she awaited Coburn’s response.
What would he say?
Would distaste or annoyance darken his mossy eyes and turn his handsome mouth down?
Would he care at all?
Had she presumed his attraction to her more than it actually was?
Or—curses—did his roguish, or so charming, demeanor hide a knave’s heart and morals after all? In which case, she may have dived from a sizzling pan straight into the fire’s flames.
Nae. Nae.
He was good man. An honorable man.
She could see it in his candid gaze. More than that, she sensed it.
Mayra had seriously considered lying, but in the end, Coburn must be made aware of her betrothal. Most everyone in the village kent, and if he hadn’t heard already, he soon would.
He must also ken she was determined to end the inconvenience.
Silly though it might be, she couldn’t bear for him to think ill of her, to believe her dishonest or deceptive when Logan Rutherford’s regard meant less to her than that little brown spider tending its web in the window’s corner.
True, she scarcely kent Coburn, but something had transpired between them when he held her in his burly arms and deepened with each mesmerizing encounter since.
Something wonderful. And frightening. And unexplainable.
Yet, something that also made her want more from life and even more determined to escape the bondage she lived with almost since birth. To dare to pursue a different path, understanding fully the consequences of her bold choice.
Was she brave enough to take that course? Face the outcome, good or bad?
Pushing her shoulders back, she gave an inward nod.
Aye, mayhap not as much brave as desperate and resolute.
A puppet she’d be nae more.
If the king didna grant her request—if he even bothered to read her missive, since a Highland lass from an obscure clan was wholly insignificant to His Majesty—then Rutherford must be forced to cry off.
Almost seventeen, her eldest brother, Bhric, was the same age as Mayra had been when Da died and she took over as Dunrangour’s temporary laird.
Past time Bhric assumed his birthright, and with Mayra’s dowry, the growing Highland cattle herd, and the valuable land returned to Dunrangour’s estate, Mama and the lads should be fine.
Coburn’s large fingers, the nails clean and square, encircled his mug as he lifted it to his mouth. A shock of his mahogany hair fell across his forehead, and he swept it back into place with his other hand, revealing a faded, whitish scare along the outside of his palm.
A childhood wound perchance?
She still kent little about him, except that he had the most musical Scots brogue and eyes she became lost in each time she looked into their depths.
Nevertheless, the unidentifiable feeling that took root in her soul days ago, continued to blossom and grow. So startling and rapidly, it quite took her breath away. Either she was smitten or deranged for entertaining the thoughts and desires he—an enthralling and striking stranger—had aroused.
He wore Sassenach clothing again today. She quite liked his dark tobacco brown jacket. It emphasized his wide shoulders and brought out the brownish flecks in his eyes.
He’d never said what clan he called kin.
“Do you ken him? The man you’re supposed to wed?”
After tearing off a piece of bread, Coburn popped it into his mouth.
“By that if you mean, have I met him?” She gave a brief nod and shivered when the angry wind-born hail pummeled the window and a draft whisked over her, raising her flesh from neck to waist. “Aye, many years ago.”
Or did premonition make her fine nape hairs tingle?
“But… I’m doing my utmost to have the agreement nullified. I winna willingly marry a man I only remember meeting but once in almost nineteen years. A man whose only interest, as far as I can discern, is my dowry and land. He winna even answer my letters.”
Coburn swallowed and patted his mouth with his serviette, his manner hesitant. Or was that reservation?
“I’d like to call him a fool and condemn his thoughtlessness, but is it possible he didna receive them?”
At the intensity in his arresting eyes, she paused then frowned at the rumpled lace edging her bosom.
Could she possibly appear anymore disheveled and dowdy?
She straightened the scrap and inclined her head.
“I suppose so, but not likely. I’ve sent more than twenty over the course of three years. Da sent others. I have nae idea how many. And that still doesn’t excuse the younger Rutherford ignoring me. Da said Rutherford agreed to court me or ask to have the agreement voided. He’s done neither.”
“Ignoring you is unconscionable, I’ll admit. If he kent the beautiful, fascinating, intriguing woman sitting opposite me this instant, trust me, he’d count himself a thousand times a fool.”
Condemnation seeped into Coburn’s voice as he fingered his knife handle.
Mayra almost missed the last part of what he said, having grown deliciously hot to her toes, when he called her beautiful, fascinating, and intriguing.
Did he truly think so?
For he but echoed her thoughts about him.
Searching his handsome face, she examined each plane, every angle; the seductive dimple so quick to appear, his strong, chiseled jaw covered with that smattering of russet stubble she longed to brush her cheek against, his brow with its three narrow furrows, the crinkling at the corner of his eyes, and finally came to rest on his lips.
Coburn gently probed. “What will you do, Mayra, if he refuses to release you? He may have reason you ken not of to do so.”
“I’ve written His Majesty as well, and I’ve decided upon a rather reckless course, if I’m forced to go that far. I ken verra little of my affianced, other than the lasses sigh over him, and I’ve heard, he’s rather a stickler for propriety. Any whisper of unseemliness or scandal, and he sniffs disdainfully, points his pompous nose in the air and marches away, stiff-arsed.”
Coburn choked and slapped his serviette over his face, coughing into it. Eyes watering, he managed to sputter, “Stiff-arsed?”
Mayra grinned and leaned low over the table once more.
“Ach, aye. Like a poker’s been rammed up his—Erm. Well, you take my meaning. Rutherford’s verra pretentious. Plucks his brows, paints his face—pox scars, you ken.” She nodded knowingly. “He sniffs snuff. His wigs are said to harbor vermin—the tiny, creepy crawly kind, and he wears gallons and gallons of scent, ’cause he doesn’t bathe except twice a year.”
She shuddered delicately and pinched her nose in mock horror.
Coburn shout of laughter drew the other common room occupants’ attention, and they smiled when he continued to laugh into his hand. Shoulders shaking, he shook his head and swiped the corner of his eyes.
“Good God. Nae wonder you didna want to marry the sot. He sounds repulsive. If you’ve never been outside Glenliesh, how do you ken so much about him?”
Eyes twinkling, she leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms.
“I made all that up. Except the part about scandals. That much is true. The other is how I imagine him. Probably screams and jumps on a table when he sees a mouse or a toad too.”
“Undoubtedly.”
Coburn pushed his food aside, and leaned back in his chair, hooking an ankle over his knee.
She offered Maggi a bright smile as she bustled to their table, and whispered out the side of her mouth to Coburn, “I’d rather nae speak of him with Maggi here.”
“Wise, I think.”
Wouldn’t do to have the curious servant be privy to their intimate conversation. And Maggi would never broach Mayra’s betrothal, fully aware the subject distressed her.
Maggi set tea and a fresh Scotch pie, the pastry flaky and scrumptious smelling, in front of Mayra then placed another cup before the empty chair beside her. The chair scraped as Maggi pulled it from the table, and once she’d plopped onto the seat and scooted it forward, she heaved a great sigh.
“I can only spare ye a few minutes. Since my Caronwyn married, I’ve been running my tail feathers off, I have. She was a huge help with the cooking and cleaning. ’Specially the dishes.”
She jumped when thunder boomed loudly overhead, shaking the inn’s rafters.
Hail littered the mucky lane, and the afternoon sky, heavy with churning clouds occasionally lit with streaks of jagged lightening, sent long shadows into the inn. Two shingles blew off the blacksmith’s roof a block down the street as the wind whistled and pounded against the common room’s window panes.
Mayra took a sip of bracing tea, welcoming the warmth spreading from her stomach, soothing her frayed nerves. Her first time to town on her own and the worst spring storm in years descends.
Only an idiot would attempt to cross the street, let alone try to reach Dunrangour Tower in this.
All was not dismal, however.
Now, she had a legitimate excuse to linger with Coburn.
From the looks of the tempest, she might truly be forced to accept the MacPhersons’ hospitality for the night. She hadn’t funds with her to pay them, but she could send payment later. She’d not impose upon their generosity.
Pretending to adjust her serviette upon her lap, she observed Coburn chatting with Maggi.
He caught Mayra’s subtle perusal and an enigmatic smile arced his lips.
Hours and hours of Coburn’s pleasant company.
She couldn’t imagine anything she’d prefer more.
“Please congratulate Carowyn for me. I have a small gift from Mama and me.” Mayra bent and collected a brown paper wrapped package. “It’s not much, just embroidered handkerchiefs, and a crocheted doily.”
“Ye and Lady Findlay needn’t have done that, Miss Mayra.”
Maggi accepted the gift with a grateful smile.
Plunking four lumps of brown sugar into her cup, she gave Coburn the gimlet eye. As she stirred her tea, she angled her head and continued to study him. “Mr. Wallace, ye remind me of someone. I cannae put my finger on who, but there’s something about yer eyes.”
Coburn winked and dipped his spoon into his stew. “It’s admiration for you and your fine cooking, Mrs. MacPherson.” He tasted the soup and sighed dramatically. “Why if you weren’t already married, I’d go down on one knee this verra moment.”
Color blossomed on Maggi’s cheeks, and she fluttered her work-reddened fingers at him. “Oh, pish posh. Yer a born charmer, ye rogue.”
“What’s this? Wallace be ye flirtin’ with my darlin’ Mags?” Searc approached, wiping his hand on a towel. He gave his wife’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “My dear, I’m afeared the bread’s burnin’.”
“Och. I plum forgot. My mind’s gone to pudding, it has.” Maggi, as slender as her husband was round, sprang from her chair so quickly it would’ve toppled if he hadn’t grabbed the back.
“Do either of ye need anything else?” MacPherson cast a worried eye to the nearly deserted street as the last of the patrons dared the hostile elements.
Only a young couple with a small child and two middling-aged gentleman—one who looked to be a cleric—remained. Likely overnight guests or travelers unwilling to brave the storm’s wrath.
“I’m perfectly content for now, but thank you.” Mayra took a dainty bite of her Scotch pie. “As always, the best I’ve ever eaten. Someday, I’ll have Maggi’s recipe from her.”
Coburn hadn’t missed the innkeeper’s pensive glance at his nearly empty establishment. Times were hard for many. “I’m fine, as well.”
“I want to make sure my lads have the stock and stable secure. This looks to be a fierce storm.” MacPherson threw the towel over his beefy shoulder, frowning as a gust slammed into the inn, rattling the windows and sending the walls to trembling. “Miss Findlay, ye cannae return home in this. It’s near dark as dusk already, and ye have the forest to travel through.”
Despite the uncertainty marring her forehead, Mayra gave him a reassuring smile. “I ken. Maggi graciously said I might stay until it passes. I’ll have to send payment for the room later. I hope you dinna mind. I dinna have more than a few shillings with me. I do hope Mama doesn’t fret too much, but I ken she’d prefer I remain here where it’s safe than try to reach home in this squall.”
“Ye needn’t worry about payment lass, and yer mother would want ye to stay.” With a slight nod, MacPherson scuttled to the kitchen.
Lower lip clamped between her teeth and brows knitted, Mayra peered outside. “Do you think I might try to make it home? Mama will fuss something awful if I dinna, and she mightn’t let me ever come to town again on my own.”
Assuredly she wouldn’t, and besides, Mayra loathed spending money on a chamber when a perfectly comfortable bed awaited her at Dunrangour.
Lifting her head, her gaze landed on the two armchairs before the hearth.
She needn’t accept a room from the MacPherson’s at all. She could wait out the storm before the fire.
Coburn laid his palm atop Mayra’s, yanking her attention to him—to his big tan hand covering hers. “I think she’d want you to be safe most of all. But if you’re really worried, I shall take you.”
The shrieking gale attacked the shutters, hammering them violently against the inn, and a wooden bucket hurtled down the street, bouncing end over end.
“Nae. Searc’s right. Trees could crash down. I think it wisest to stay here.”
Her gaze sank again to his hand still resting upon hers. Fine bronze hairs covered the knuckles and back.
“Coburn, I think I may have conceived a way to rid myself of Rutherford.”
Did she dare tell him her reckless plan?
She barely kent him—really kent him—so why did she trust him so completely? Feel like she could share anything and he’d understand?
Well, almost anything. Certainly nae her blush-worthy musings regarding him.
Coburn spread her fingers, lacing his with hers, and tipped his mouth upward, the seductive curve lighting his handsome face and turning her joints to jelly.
Mayra ought to pull her hand way, but all thought of doing so vanished when he started rubbing his rough thumb slowly over the back of her hand. She couldn’t tear her eyes from the simple yet intimate, hypnotic movement.
The rest of the room, the other occupants, faded into a distant haze, until it was just she and Coburn.
“I ken you feel this between us, Mayra. It’s too powerful to ignore. I think we’ve stumbled onto something rare. So beautiful and precious, we mustn’t ignore it.”
Aye, impossible to ignore.
The desire and warmth in his rich, deep voice paled to the heat sparking in his hooded eyes.
Her nipples puckered in answer to the longing shimmering in his molten gaze.
Coburn raised her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles in a swift, hot kiss, and an electric jolt raced up her arm.
Breathless, caught up in the moment, she didna care if anyone noticed.
“Aye, it defies understanding because this gift came upon us so swiftly, but it’s real. Tell me you dinna feel it too, my bonnie Mayra.”
“Aye, but I dinna understand it,” she shyly confessed. “We’ve only met these few times. I ken nothing about you.”
Still she didna withdraw her hand. Instead, Mayra turned hers over so that their palms met, and her fingers—the strumpets—curled into his in the most natural clasp.
The knowledge he felt the same irresistible, irrational draw enveloped her in comfort and confidence. And hope. Real, genuine, viable hope.
For the first time, she dared contemplate loving someone.
Coburn’s forefinger strayed to her wrist and traced a narrow path, and she bit her lip when little sparks zipped along her nerves. How she wanted him to move higher, to trail his fingers up her arms, over the span of her neck…
Perhaps—heavens, her thoughts ran along a naughty path—brush the swell above her bodice.
“I have a solution too.” He firmed his grasp on her hand, his eyes now a deep, mesmerizing forest green.
Did desire turn them that color?
Desire for her?
“Solution?”
To what?
Och, aye, Logan Rutherford.
“You could marry me, Mayra. As soon as the storm passes, we could find a rector. In fact, I think that mon yonder,” he jutted his head toward the quiet mon, “might be a cleric.”