Without a word, the man collected it and passed it to her. The brawniest of the brawny Highlanders also brought over the lovely red cape she’d bought in Venice. When she’d put it over her father, she hadn’t given it a thought, but now she felt a pang of regret that it would probably never recover from its rough treatment.
Her eyes followed the Scotsman as he crossed to the big gray horse that stood in place, awaiting her master. Marina was sure he appreciated the beast’s perfect obedience.
At a careful speed, the cart began to trundle along the road. Even with all the padding under her, Marina felt the ruts in the road. She hoped her father wasn’t in too much discomfort. Before they lifted him, they’d given him more of the spirit with the outlandish name. To her surprise, he hadn’t protested at all.
At least it had stopped raining. She glanced away from the dark landscape to find her father had regained consciousness. He watched her from where he lay stretched out upon a pile of pillows and rugs. Already Papa looked more comfortable, and in the lantern light, she saw that the pinched look faded from his lips.
“Papa, how are you feeling?” she asked in English.
“I’d rather be at home, taking the air in the Piazza della Signoria,” he answered in the same language. When in private, they tended to speak in an idiosyncratic mixture of the two tongues.
She smiled, relieved to hear him sounding more like himself. “I’m sure. Is the pain still bad?”
&
nbsp; “I’ll be glad when we get to wherever we’re going.”
So would she. She was cold, despite the dry cloak, and every bump reminded her that she’d rattled around inside the runaway carriage like a dice in a cup. For a few minutes, they traveled in silence, then her father spoke in a musing tone. “He’s a handsome devil.”
“Who is?” Marina asked, although she knew exactly who her father was talking about.
“Our rescuer. The gallant Scotsman with the woeful taste in liquor and the brisk way with an emergency.”
“Is he? I hadn’t noticed.” Through the wagon’s open sides, she regarded the man who rode at the head of their cavalcade.
“Then you should have.”
She directed a cranky glare at her father. “I would have thought you had other things on your mind.”
Papa’s lips twisted in something approximating a smile. He really must be feeling better. “Some things are impossible to ignore.”
She supposed she should be glad he had the energy to tease her. When she’d waited with him on the roadside, she’d been sick with worry about the way he wandered in and out of coherence. “You know I don’t like pushy men, and he acts like he’s master of the world.”
The man walking beside the wagon, a thickset Highlander with a magnificent black beard chuckled. “Aye, he does at that. But then in this corner of the Highlands, the Mackinnon is master of the world, lassie.”
“I didn’t mean—” She blushed at her lack of discretion. She should have stuck to Italian.
However autocratic the red-haired man might be, she owed him a debt of gratitude. It hadn’t missed her notice that apart from him and the people he’d summoned, not a soul had come along the lonely track. Without his help, she and her father would be in serious trouble.
The man marching beside the cart laughed again, a bass rumble, while his big hairy legs under his kilt ate up the ground beneath him. “Och, aye, ye did. The laird’s inclined to give orders and expect them to be followed. We’re used to his ways.”
In which case, his retainers should be downtrodden shadows. She saw no sign of that in the impressive crowd of men escorting them back to the castle.
“You’ll get used to it.” The man went on in the same lilting local accent that lay so attractively on their rescuer’s deep voice. “It helps that he’s always right.”
Marina bristled under the comment. “I doubt I’ll be here long enough to need to get used to it, Mister…”
“Och, everyone calls me Jock. Ye can, too.”
“In that case, I’d like to thank you and your friends for your help, Jock.”
The man’s smile lacked a couple of front teeth. The Mackinnon—an odd title, she couldn’t help thinking—had excellent teeth. Strong and straight and white. She wondered what he looked like when he smiled. While she had a discomfiting feeling that he found her amusing, he hadn’t smiled properly once.
Stop it, Marina.
Jock had called him the laird. She wasn’t familiar with the word, but it must mean something like lord. And he owned a castle.
Madonna mia, he must be a great power in this wilderness. Perhaps his arrogance wasn’t without basis. No wonder he hadn’t liked her addressing him as an underling when he’d arrived to help them. She supposed she should have been a little more polite. But years of travel had taught her that a commanding attitude was the best way to produce the results she wanted.