The Love of Her Life (Highlander Heroes Book 6) Read online

  “You twist,” she instructed, “and keep twisting until all the excess water is removed.”

  He nodded. “Aye, that’s a good system indeed for the bigger pieces.”

  He did as directed, taking so much less time than Henry normally did to turn the whole thing until the curls reached Katie’s end. Katie turned her end in the opposite direction and the water was quickly expelled. She couldn’t then argue with his assistance and had every intention of making good use of his strong hands, quickly shoving another gown at him when the first was done and laid out behind the house.

  In the midst of wringing out the second one, she said, “I’m thinking I should wash all the bed linens today and take better advantage of your help.”

  “No’ too late,” he said, by way of an offer of further aid. “I’ve naught to do but wait for Malcolm to get better.”

  Somehow this struck her as odd, this huge and fierce warrior, with the massive sword at his hip, proposing to help with her laundry. The offer was incompatible with so much of his previous snarly behavior, and certainly it disagreed with how he’d chastised her about the manner in which she was raising her son.

  This time, Alec walked over and laid out the gown to dry and Katie grabbed next one of her aprons. Boswell came loping through the woods, rather sedately until he saw the tug-of-war between Alec and Katie when they’d begun wringing the apron. He darted across the creek with some excitement and joined in, ignoring Katie’s cry of “Don’t you dare!”

  The hound clamped his teeth just in the middle and yanked so hard that she lost her grip.

  “Get away, you mangy brute!” She lunged for the apron but missed as he danced out of her reach, being invested in a serious fight for the apron with Alec. He moved in a circle as he tugged, turning the big man around as well, not in the least intimidated by Alec’s deeper voice.

  “Release!” This was followed by more commands, though he found it less humorous than Katie did.

  Katie huffed with exasperation, chasing round in circles the playful Boswell, acting nearly half his age. “You are the worst hound ever,” she said, allowing a rare laugh, imagining they looked like fools, Alec MacBriar spinning and yanking and Katie circling him, trying to catch the hound.

  Alec stopped so suddenly, giving a powerful and swift tug that the apron was finally freed but at the same time, his elbow connected with the side of Katie’s head, sending her reeling. She landed with a thud on her backside, and Boswell jumped, just as startled as Katie.

  “Aw, shite!”

  He was at her side immediately, on his haunches, his countenance severe with his concern. He touched her arm. “Lass, are you—sweet St. Andrew, I’m sorry.”

  Nodding, she held the side of her head. The instant dizziness had been brief and everything was promptly returned to clear focus. She decided fairly quickly then that much could be ascertained about a person in circumstances such as these. He felt awful, she could well see on his face, a grimace remaining, his brow crooked while he checked her out, even put his hand on her face, turning the walloped side of her head toward him while his other hand held her steady at her arm.

  It was so...gentle, something she would do without hesitation to Henry but that she wouldn’t have thought this man capable of, that Katie was made to feel extremely awkward with this close contact, his huge hands so tender on her. And since awkwardness and Katie never did sit well together, she said lightly, “If you did not after all want to help, a simple leave-taking would have sufficed.”

  He went completely still, his gaze found hers. She decided he was only judging her tone, the attitude behind the words.

  Katie shrugged with a nervous grin, which wrought some relief on his face. But this was still tremendously uncomfortable that Katie lifted her hands between them, latching softly onto his forearms, pushing him away.

  Chapter Four

  When all the laundry had been laid out to dry about the shrubs and bushes directly behind the house, Katie walked around to the front of the cottage, the empty basket propped against her hip, clamping her jaw to keep from calling out to her son to follow. She didn’t want him spending time with any of them, certainly not some horrible warrior woman who might only ever show him how to be unpleasant and condescending. But he’d been mightily intrigued by the woman, that Katie wasn’t entirely sure he would heed her call, if he were still close enough to hear her.

  A deafening noise of charging destriers reached her then. Confused she glanced behind her, toward the creek, knowing this camped army were within the woods. But charging?

  Sweet Mother of God! Lifting the hem of her skirt, she dashed around to the front of the cottage just as Farquhar, captain of the Dalserf, rode up to her front door—the front door that had been left wide open. Her mind spun quickly, anxiously, and she purposefully slowed her steps, raising her hand in a bare wave as she assumed a position in front of the door.

  Farquhar was the bane of her existence, the sole reason she so often wondered how she might ever escape Dalserf and live without fear, also one of the reasons she’d even considered Gordon Killen’s suit. He’d brought a dozen men with him, seemed to rarely travel without a retinue. Katie gulped, not wishing a war right here at her doorstep, if the soldiers all around were discovered.

  He wasted no words, obviously having spied the huge form lying atop her table. He dismounted quickly and strode past her without a word.

  Katie followed him inside.

  “What is this? Who is this?” He spun on Katie.

  She pressed her hand to her heart, taken aback by his harshness, unusual for him, in that he preferred oilier methods.

  “Sir, what is amiss?” She asked, stalling with this ridiculous question, pretending a fright for his manner.

  He frowned darkly at her. “This is amiss!” He shouted, throwing a hand out to indicate Malcolm’s inert form.

  “’Tis but my brother,” she said, as innocently as she could manage, tilting her head with some befuddlement.

  His black eyes narrowed. “You said your brother was dead. Felled at Glen Trool.”

  “As I’d been told. You were the one who delivered the report, sir,” she reminded him. “Alas, it wasn’t true. And praise the Lord.” She set down the basket and stood at Malcolm’s side, brushing the orange hair away from his forehead, a great loving gesture. “I cannot even imagine how he’d found his way here. Day by day, mile by mile, is all I can guess. But thankfully, he found me and now you, sir, can finally meet him, as you have ever been plagued by my constant gushing about him.”

  The actual truth of the matter was this: Katie had no family, none that lived yet, and had never had a brother. When her husband had died almost eight years ago, they had only just established themselves at Dalserf. Farquhar had only come on the scene in the past year or so and when he first began pushing his intentions upon her, she’d invented a brother, one she’d been happy to report might arrive any day, one she called William. She talked about him endlessly to Farquhar, imagined tales of his bravery, and his travels, hoping that the very idea that her sibling might one day arrive at Dalserf would hold Farquhar at bay, keep him from pursuing her. So imagine her surprise when Farquhar rode up upon her one day and informed her the castle had received a roll call, listing the names of all those dead in the last month. He’d previously asked her from whence she hailed, who her father might be, and thus was able to give her fictional brother a surname, saying to her that William Merton was listed as killed in action with the Scottish rebels. At the time, she’d imagined it dumb luck, that a man of the same name had existed. She’d soon begun to believe that Farquhar had lied to her, same as she had to him, either to test her lies or to have her understand there was none to protect her.

  “When did he arrive?”

  “Only yesterday.” As much of the truth as possible when inventing tales was a good practice.

  “Arrived on foot? No mount? No weapon?”

  Katie nodded and gave her attention to Malcolm, feigni
ng more sisterly affection. She was more likely to have convinced Farquhar that the warrior woman was her sister than to expect him to believe Malcolm could possibly be her brother. He was huge and she was not. He wore a shock of orange hair and she possessed not one freckle. His face was wide and bitten by the pocked scars of youthful skin disease while her cheeks were unblemished. Likely he was a good ten years her senior, as Katie had just passed her twenty-sixth year.

  “Dear William,” she cooed. Thankfully, Malcolm remained near comatose once again that he could not rise and refute any of her lies.

  Farquhar, likewise sensing the man yet posed no threat, sidled near Katie. She stiffened, being drawn away from Malcolm by the heavy hand on her arm.

  His voice lowered, was meant to be seductive she thought, but it only made her want to gag. “I’d told ye, when last we met,” he said against her hair, “that you would be mine. My patience wears thin.”

  She remembered well his last threats and his assault, had thought that only the army taking leave of the castle for so many weeks had kept him away.

  “And I’ve told you,” she said, yanking to have her arm released, to no avail, “that I have no aim to become some man’s plaything.” She turned her face and met his gaze, let all her bitterness show. “And I won’t be forced.”

  “No child or hound to save ye this time, Katie Oliver,” he taunted.

  “Would you commit rape, then, while my brother lies just here?”

  He seethed at her, “I dinna want to force you...”

  Oh, but he did. That was much of the appeal, she believed.

  Malcolm moaned beside them.

  Panicked, Katie wrenched her arm free and attended him, grateful for his timely waking, but fretful that he might inadvertently give up her lies. Malcolm did not open his eyes, but groaned more, that Katie said to Farquhar, “I must see to him,” hoping this might see his departure.

  It did. Farquhar sent a scathing glance over Malcolm and one shorter, angry gaze to Katie, which she ignored, and pretended she was about some industry, fussing with the nearby linen strips and her small knife, hacking them into even smaller strips over the chest of her supposed brother.

  When he left and was gone from the view of the open door, Katie pushed out her held breath and whimpered a cry. She dropped her head and closed her eyes, hating her weakness, her very helplessness. When she opened her eyes and drew a deep breath, she found that Malcolm was staring at her, his eyes clear and wakeful.

  She returned his regard, not sure what to make of his stoniness just now. Her lips trembled, as fear had not abandoned her quickly, but she could do nothing about it.

  “He’s gone now, lass,” Malcom said quietly, attempting to calm her.

  She nodded and turned away, took the hacked up linen and her knife. She retreated to her work counter and stared out the window. She’d been a fool to refuse Gordon Killen, thinking she didn’t want to be bound for the rest of her life to Dalserf, knowing she could never be happy here. It wasn’t about happiness. It was about survival. She needed to find Gordon, needed to tell him she would wed him after all, if he would still have her. True, he was neither young nor strong enough to protect her, but he was the steward of a great castle, likely had the gratitude of the laird. No one would dare harm the steward’s wife, or her son.

  Would they?

  “Brother, eh?”

  Closing her eyes, she dropped her head to her chest. When she opened her eyes and turned, she found Malcolm sitting up, his feet upon the floor, seeming none the worse for wear for this action. She set her hands on the edge of the counter behind her and met his measuring gaze.

  “It’s a long story,” she said weakly.

  “Aye, I got the spirit of it.”

  Katie said nothing.

  Malcolm wondered, “And what happens when your brother leaves, lass? And he’s still here?”

  Farquhar and the contingent of Dalserf soldiers had barely gained the trees at the far side of the meadow before Alec and that woman, Eleanor, came rushing into the cottage.

  “Who was that?” Alec wanted to know, his tone severe. “What the hell happened?” His stormy gaze swung back and forth between Katie and Malcolm.

  “Farquhar,” Katie answered reflexively, “the captain of the Dalserf guard.”

  “Sealed her fate, is what just happened,” Malcolm said evenly, holding Katie’s gaze.

  Pointedly, Katie said to Malcolm, “My fate is my own.” Feeling all the harsh regard aimed her way, she pushed away from the counter and left the cottage.

  ALEC WAS CONFUSED, by the look exchanged between Malcolm and Katie Oliver, by Malcolm’s strange statement, and now by Katie Oliver’s abrupt departure.

  “I dinna ken that lass, save for what she’s done for me,” Malcolm said. “Likely, that was done at your bidding, promising brutality to her if she refused.”

  Alec gave a spare nod, allowing this was true.

  “But she canna stay here. Whoever he is, he’s coming back for her. I get the sense she’s the prize and he dinna take losing too kindly.”

  “That’s no’ our concern,” Eleanor said, with her habitual surliness. To Alec, she said, “He’s well now. Let’s go, let’s get out of here. We’ll get the cart tonight.”

  “Quit with your posturing, Elle!” Malcolm barked. “She done us a favor, willing or no’. We canna leave her.” To Alec again, “She’s got no man?”

  Alec shook his head. “Plenty beating a path to her door, it seems.” He almost grinned. “One a day, by my reckoning.” But Elle was right. Malcolm was ready, and Katie Oliver wasn’t his problem.

  “Swordmair could use her,” Malcolm persisted.

  Elle threw up her hands. “Swordmair has a healer, more advanced than her!”

  Malcolm harrumphed. “Morven’s got a foot in the grave, getting dotty now.”

  Alec could not argue this.

  “She could have given me up, which might’ve seen me impaled to the table permanently, but she dinna,” Malcolm argued.

  “For her own good,” Elle scoffed.

  Malcolm sneered at Eleanor but addressed his next words to Alec. “You owe me still.”

  Alec sent a dark look to Malcolm. “You calling that in for her?”

  “What else am I gonna use it on?”

  “You’re a bloody fool,” Elle seethed at Malcolm. “You canna pass off a life-debt to someone else.”

  As if there were actual rules.

  Malcolm ignored her now and addressed Alec. “I saved your arse at Methven. You’d be strung up next to Niall Bruce, with your innards on the ground beneath ye, and you bluidy ken it! Aye, I’m claiming the debt now.”

  Alec shrugged. “You can claim all you want. Lass’ll never go with us.”

  Bushy orange brows rose into his thick forehead. “Guess you’ll have to talk her into it.”

  Alec considered his longtime friend. Malcolm was many things—loyal beyond description, ferocious in battle, a surprisingly smooth diplomat on occasion, and the funniest drunk you’d ever meet—but he was, with annoying regularity, entirely too soft when it came to those less fortunate.

  “We canna fix everyone,” Alec reminded him, not for the first time.

  Malcolm stared at Alec. “You owe me, mate.” And then he showed a smug, gap-toothed grin. “Off she goes,” he said, pointing through the open door. “Better catch her.”

  Alec whirled, and saw the healer stomping across the meadow, her son in tow, walking so fast the lad had to skip to keep up with her.

  “Bluidy hell!” Alec cursed and left the cottage, jogging after her, Malcom’s hearty laughter chasing him away. He called out to her but of course she didn’t stop. Henry turned at the sound of Alec’s voice, his face not showing fear for whatever upset his mother knew, but some confusion for their mad dash across the field. “Whoa! Whoa!” Alec said, grabbing at her free arm.

  She jerked so suddenly, so violently, she won the freedom of her arm. “What?” She hollered at him. “What do
you want?”

  Trying to keep himself calm, he asked levelly, “Where you off to?”

  “Up to the castle,” she said, her tone still angry. “I have business with the steward that is not any of yours. I didn’t give up your presence here, when I very well might have, so you can have no fear that I aim to do so now.”

  “Business with the steward?” He asked, lifting a brow. “That wasn’t addressed yesterday when he called?”

  She was surprised that he knew that Gordon Killen was the castle steward. Certainly that’s what her frown suggested. She shook this off. “My business and not yours,” she reiterated. “Your man is well, sitting up even. Be gone, already.” She turned again, began marching away. Henry sent Alec another confused look.

  “He won’t be able to protect you,” Alec called out to her. It was clear now, the whole of it. She continued walking. “Old man like that is no match for the likes of Farquhar.”

  Likely she wouldn’t have stopped, might have kept right on marching to Dalserf. But Henry cried out, having lost his shoe with all the scurrying to keep up with his mother. Katie let go of his hand and turned around while he dashed back for it. To her chagrin and Alec’s amusement, Henry did not merely fetch the shoe and rejoin his mother. He sat on the ground, only his head and shoulders visible in the tall grass, and took his time tying the laces.

  Alec walked forward. And while he wondered what his next words might be—more assurance that wedding the steward would not gain her the security she imagined, or forging ahead with an invitation to Swordmair—she said first, “Why do you care?”

  He didn’t. Or he didn’t think he did.

  But she was rather pathetic, her stance and her constant anger, and not least of all her circumstance, that her options presently made even Alec’s stomach turn.

  “You saved Malcolm, and for that I owe you.”

  “You said there’d be coin. I cannot buy necessities with your dubious concern.”

  He grimaced at this, for how tart she was, for what truth he must give her now. “Aye, about that. See, lass, we’ve been on the road now more than a year. Might be, the coin is gone.”