Scot on Her Trail Read online

  Bean’s question was unexpected. The big man tended to only do what he was told to do, and not worry about the rest.

  “Because,” she said gently, “I am the last MacIan left at home besides Stewart. My brother is the laird, and he loves that shrew of a wife for some reason.” Likely because she was about to present him with the long-awaited MacIan heir. “My sisters have all married, and my brothers are gone as well.” Two had joined the church, and one had died in a stupid border skirmish. “ ’Tis up to me to ensure the MacIans have enough gold to last through next winter.”

  Especially now since Fiona had married and moved to Oliphant land.

  It had only been a sennight since Skye had returned from Oliphant Castle, her sister’s new home, and Blessed Virgin, but she missed Fiona! Her twin was so in love, it was sickening, but Skye had to smile at the thought of Fee’s stomach swelling with child.

  Any day now, judging how often I had to find someplace else to sleep while Finn snuck into our room.

  Her relationship with her brother-in-law might’ve started out rocky, but it had improved slightly when she’d learned Finn Oliphant wasn’t the philandering rake she’d assumed.

  Nay, that hadn’t been Finn she’d kissed in the stable; hadn’t been Finn who’d woken her from a sound sleep with his lips and hands—his rough, glorious hands!—on her body. And it hadn’t been Finn she’d punched.

  It hadn’t been Finn who’d woken such a yearning need inside her.

  Nay, it had been his identical twin brother, Duncan, each time.

  Duncan Oliphant. One of the laird’s six bastard sons. The one who wanted so little to do with her, he’d left his own home right after his twin’s wedding, rather than risk having to be polite to her.

  At the celebration, she’d brought him ale because he’d looked lonely…and he’d asked her if it was poisoned.

  With a slight snort, she remembered her response.

  If I wanted to kill ye, Dunc, I’d do it with a blade.

  She remembered the surprise—and dare she hope, respect, which had flashed in his eyes then.

  And she’d spent a fortnight trying to forget it.

  “Lassie…?”

  Fergus’s quiet prompt pulled her from her memories. She raised a brow in his direction, and he flushed again, but didn’t back down.

  “When will ye be finished?”

  “With thieving?”

  He nodded, then stopped his pacing to stand beside Bean. “When will enough be enough? I ken ye are careful to pick only those who can afford our taxes. And by yer orders, we dinnae prey on women or bairns. Yer honor is all that’s standing between us and an eternity in custarding Hell.”

  “Her rules are all that’s standing between us and riches,” Rabbie muttered.

  “Sweet berries!”

  Stifling her sigh, Skye planted her fists on her hips. “If ye provoke yer uncle again, laddie, ye’ll feel the back of my hand.” Although she was only two years Rabbie’s senior, she lifted her chin and held his gaze until he looked away.

  “I’m just short because Hoarse Harold has taken our best pickings,” he muttered.

  She narrowed her eyes at the lad’s weak apology.

  Unfortunately, it was true. They’d all been on edge since the beginning of the summer, when another band of footpads had moved into the area.

  Excuse me? We’re no’ footpads. We’re highwaymen. Women. Whatever.

  Skye might’ve had too much honor for a highwaywoman, but Hoarse Harold made up for that. He robbed from rich and poor alike, and she’d even heard rumors of murders. With him in the area—and far too close to MacIan land—Skye was becoming nervous about taking her men out at all.

  ‘Twas only a matter of time before the outrage at Hoarse Harold’s actions became so loud, the Crown was called in to help, and where would Skye and her band—and the MacIan clan—be then?

  Mayhap Fergus’s plan to quit is a smart one.

  Still, she couldn’t allow her men to see her hesitation. So, frowning, she turned back to Fergus.

  “And what does my honor have to do with quitting?”

  Fergus exchanged glances with Bean, and the bigger man dropped his hand to the hilt of his sword. Everyone there knew he would never draw it, but it made him happy to have the scabbard at his side.

  When Bean just shrugged, Fergus swallowed, then turned back to her. “Ye’re a lady, Skye.” Before she could scoff, he hurried on. “Dinnae deny it, lass. Ye’re a lady, with expectations.”

  “Stitching and tapestries—”

  “Marriage and alliances,” the older man gently corrected.

  Desperate to hide the way her mind had immediately jumped back to the memory of Duncan Oliphant’s lips on hers, Skye’s scowl darkened.

  That didn’t deter her old friend though.

  “Even if ye never marry, Skye, the fate of the MacIan clan is no’ on yer shoulders. If that berries-and-cream brother of yers would just stand up to his wife, and tell the woman to quit bleeding us dry, mayhap—”

  With a sigh, she interrupted him. “Stewart doesnae ken—or doesnae want to see—what Allison is doing to us.”

  “Then make him.” Fergus stepped forward, his hands stretched out toward her. “Make him understand, so he can put a stop to this, and so ye can quit putting yer life in danger just for some coin.”

  “She could always marry some rich laird,” Rabbie pointed out unhelpfully, “and get the coin that way.”

  Fergus reacted before she could, stepping toward his disrespectful nephew with a raised hand.

  She might’ve stopped him, although the Blessed Virgin knew the lad needed a good slap, had the sound of hooves not interrupted them before she could.

  “Pierre!” Rabbie cried, sounding relieved.

  The Frenchman was the last member of their band, and it had been his turn on watch duty. The boring job consisted of hiding in the cover of the woods along the road, about a mile north. When a likely mark passed, he would run for his horse and take a short-cut back to where the rest of them waited.

  Skye’s attention immediately went to their fifth member as he galloped into their little clearing. Pierre had been a good judge of prey since he’d come into their band, and although the communication was difficult, she trusted him.

  And she trusted that pleased grin on his face.

  A new mark.

  She sent an excited smile to Fergus. “Looks like today willnae be the day to quit, auld man.”

  And he was grinning too. “What did ye see, Pierre?”

  Hurriedly, the Frenchman—who was a few years older than Skye, with a thick mustache—slid from his horse and gestured excitedly toward the main road. “J'adore le pamplemousse!”

  Fergus, Skye, and Rabbie all turned to Bean. He might be a slow thinker, but he was the only one of them who spoke French.

  “What’d he say?” Rabbie asked, already fingering his sword hilt.

  “Pierre says there’s a man coming, wearing a sword.”

  “Sword means he kens how to use it,” Fergus muttered.

  “Sword means he has something to protect,” Rabbie countered.

  Skye had to admit the lad was right. “He’s all alone, Pierre? Ye think he’s carrying something worthwhile?”

  “Où est la bibliothèque?”

  Without being asked, Bean translated. “He looks worthy.”

  Looking from Pierre to Rabbie’s excited expressions, Skye made up her mind. Fergus might be ready for her to quit, but she had a duty to her clan.

  This traveler was an easy mark and might have enough coin to enable them all to head home.

  Her mind made up, Skye reached for her braid and began untying it. “We’ll use the usual distraction, lads.” Fingers flying, she met each of her men’s eyes, certain they knew their roles. “Let us make some coin!”

  “Mon aéroglisseur est plein d'anguilles!”

  “Aye!” Rabbie cried, as Bean grunted.

  But Fergus just shook his head. “
Fig tart!”

  Chapter 2

  Duncan had to admit, it was a beautiful day, and a man couldn’t be on his guard all the time, no matter what he held in his purse.

  And home was only a few hours away.

  A sennight ago, he wouldn’t have been so anxious to return home—in fact, he’d lingered in Eriboll much longer than necessary to ensure the MacIan contingent had enough time to leave Oliphant lands before he returned. Of course, with Fiona there, he’d be struck by memories of Skye every time he looked at her identical—

  Shut up.

  Aye, it was a lovely day, and there was no need for mucking it up by thinking about his shame.

  Tilting his head back to the sun, Duncan forced his mind on something else.

  Anything else.

  A bawdy song, mayhap?

  “‘Twas springtime when I met her, in the merry month of May.

  I was camping by the roadside, to escape the heat of the day.

  She was passing by my campfire, and she sent me an admiring look.

  She seemed a lass who’d like a pass, one I could stand to fook.”

  His brother Kiergan, in particular, liked to tease him about his singing, but Duncan didn’t mind. He knew his mind worked differently than others, and he could easily see art and beauty where his brothers didn’t.

  ‘Twas what made his jewelry designs so sought-after, now that Master Claire was older.

  His lips curled up as he reached the chorus.

  “So, buck-a-diddle-diddle, buck-a-dilly-ay, buck-a-diddle-diddle, I kenned I had to lie!

  Help, oh help, oh help me lass, I’m in need of yer gentle touch,

  I’ve injured myself, I need yer love, ‘twillnae take too much!

  ‘Tis my cock, ye see, tis grown so big, I cannae even piss,

  Only one thing to do to help me through is give it a little kiss!”

  Halfway through that verse, he thought he’d heard hoofbeats, but pausing, decided he was wrong. The road was hilly here, and ‘twas possible for another rider to be coming toward him without him seeing. So Duncan shrugged, settled himself easier in the saddle, and continued south.

  Toward home.

  “Oh, buck-a-diddle-diddle, buck-a-dilly-ay—”

  When he spied the flash of crimson in the hedge by the side of the road, he slowed his horse. Frowning, he glanced about.

  The road was bordered by a copse of fir trees on one side, and brambles on the other. No reason for there to be anything crimson out here.

  Not seeing any danger, he cautiously edged his horse closer.

  There, in the ditch beside the road…

  Why was there silk piled there?

  And…was that a hand? A woman’s hand?

  Before his mind could really process what he was seeing, Duncan was out of his saddle, sprinting for the flash of red silk.

  Aye, ‘twas a woman!

  Dropping to his knees beside her, Duncan realized his hands were curled into fists. St. Simon’s hairy bollocks, but he felt useless! He forced himself to breathe as he studied her.

  She was lying on her side, curled up as if in pain. Her brown hair—such luscious curls—fell freely around her face and shoulders, before being ground into the dirt beneath her.

  What had happened?

  He forced his hands to open, to reach gently for her. His fingertips skimmed her arm, her shoulder, as gently as he handled his gold and silver. She made no sound or movement, and he couldn’t tell if anything was broken.

  There was no blood though, which he decided was a good sign.

  Where in damnation was her horse?

  Duncan dragged his gaze away from her to scan the road and the trees once more. Naught. And she was still just as unmoving.

  He needed to turn her over to check for injuries he couldn’t see.

  Bending, he slid his left arm under her shoulder, tilting her head so her hair fell away from her jaw, which was clenched, as if she were conscious and in pain, but her eyes were shut.

  “Shh, lass,” he whispered gently, not sure if she could hear him. “ ’Twill be aright. I’ve got ye.”

  Gently, he straightened and sat on his heels, pulling her with him. She turned in his arms, her left arm still hidden under her body, and slowly opened her eyes.

  He almost dropped her.

  ‘Twas Skye MacIan; the woman who had been haunting his dreams for weeks.

  “Where—where am I?” she murmured, lifting her right hand to her head, while her left swept around toward his side. Duncan felt something sharp poking him under his ribs, and just as soon as he could make his brain work, he’d figure out what that was.

  But for now, Skye MacIan was in his arms, in the middle of the road, miles from her home.

  “Lass?” he prompted her.

  “I had the strangest—” She got a good look at him, and suddenly her eyes opened wide.

  Trying to be helpful, he supplied, “Dream? Accident? Spiritual encounter with a saintly apparition? Gastrointestinal difficulties?”

  Her eyes widened further. “Shite.”

  Ah, so it was the gastrointestinal one. “Shite?”

  She shook her head, and the sudden sharp prick in his side made him frown.

  “Shiteshiteshitefook.”

  Duncan’s brows went up at her vocabulary. “ ’Tis good to see ye too,” he said drily.

  “Put me down, ye great oaf.”

  Oaf?

  He shook his head, realizing he was quite enjoying having her there in his arms. “Nay, no’ until I ken ye’re no’ hurt.”

  “I’m no’ hurt, but ye will be, if ye dinnae release me.”

  The way her gaze darted over his shoulder, then down to his side, had Duncan glancing down as well.

  She was holding a dagger. A dagger which was currently pressed against his ribs, aimed for his heart.

  “What are ye doing?” he asked mildly.

  “I was robbing ye.”

  “What…alone?”

  “Nay, laddie, no’ alone,” came the deep rumble from behind him.

  Instinctively, he tried to shield the lass in his arms from whatever threat behind him might be, but when she jabbed him with that damn dagger again, he jerked back and loosened his hold on her.

  When she kicked at him, Duncan fell back on his arse as she tried to scramble away from him. “By St. Simon’s gilded piss, what in damnation are ye doing, lass?”

  Even her frown was adorable. “Getting stuck in this bloody ridiculous gown, is what I’m doing,” she muttered, her dagger not leaving her hand.

  He was reaching for her, the primal need to help her overriding whatever threat she might claim to pose, when a shadow fell over them both.

  “Here,” the shadow grunted, manifesting a huge hand and reaching down to offer help to Skye.

  She took the shadow’s help, damn him, and stood with only a few curses.

  And to Duncan’s surprise, he found the idea of Skye MacIan—a proper lady—cursing, to be strangely arousing.

  The sound of steel being drawn from leather dragged his attention away from Skye, who was trying to brush the dirt from her skirts. That silk molded to her in the most interesting ways, but the scowling older man with the sword made it difficult to focus on her.

  “Ye’re no’ supposed to cuddle with her, ye crumpety clot-heid!”

  Crumpety?

  “I was no’ cuddling with Skye,” Duncan said, with an affronted air as he pushed himself to his feet. “I needed to make sure she wasnae hurt.”

  The older man jabbed forward with his sword, enough to make Duncan step back, but not close enough to hurt him. “Ye’re no’ supposed to ken her name either.” He scowled at the mustached man by his side. “Pierre dinnae say aught of kenning ye.”

  At the accusation in his tone, the other man shrugged. “Regardez combien son sac est lourd!”

  Duncan knew some French, thanks to his years studying with Master Claire. His right hand twitched toward his purse, while the other rested on t
he hilt of his sword.

  “Ye really are bandits?”

  The youngest member of their group shook his head. “We’re highwaymen.”

  “Oh, well, my apologies then.” Duncan cut a glance at Skye, while also attempting to keep the other men in his sights. “Ye’re a part of this?”

  With a sigh, she jammed her dagger back in its sheath and planted her fists on her hips. “I’m their leader, ye bumbled-headed clackdish. And ‘twas rotten luck Pierre chose ye as our next mark.”

  The MacIan Laird’s sister was a highwayman?

  Nay. Look at her in that gown. She’s verra much a highwaywoman.

  One he wouldn’t mind cuddling with again.

  Remember what happened last time ye tried?

  Trying to convince himself his jaw didn’t still ache from her blow, he inched closer to her, trying to keep from turning his back on the other men. “Skye…”

  “Custard! Ye call her Lady MacIan!” the older man barked.

  Duncan froze. “Aright,” he agreed, with a deferential nod, not wanting to anger the madman who yelled about desserts. “Lady MacIan, might I have a word with ye?”

  She hesitated a moment too long, before finally blowing out a breath. “Drop yer sword first. Fergus is verra protective of me.”

  Fergus was the sweets-lover?

  With a blade pointed at him, Duncan realized he had little choice. Praying they weren’t really after his purse, he unlaced his scabbard from his belt, then bent to place it on the ground.

  His stepfather had made that sword for him, and if aught happened to it, there would be hell to pay.

  When he straightened, glaring at Skye, she nodded firmly, then stepped away from her huge shadow. Duncan eyed the man—who hadn’t said a word so far, but stood with his arms crossed and an affable expression on his face as he watched the clouds overhead—as he stepped around him.

  Finally, he stood in front of Skye again. Lowering his voice—and his chin—he met her eyes. “Lady MacIan, what in the name of St. Simon’s hairline is going on here? Ye’re really the leader of this merry band of misfits?”

  Something flashed in her eyes—he almost thought it was the look of shame, but he couldn’t see Skye feeling shameful over anything—before she met his gaze angrily. “Aye, and what of it? We’re highwaymen, right enough.”