The Highlander's Lost Lady (The Lairds Most Likely 3)

She shook her head. “I can walk.”

Tam let her go, and she took a step toward the laird. She came to a stop, wavering where she stood. Her surroundings started to recede in a most alarming fashion. Pride dissolved to nothing, as she fought against crumpling onto the cobblestones beneath her feet. She felt like her very bones turned to ice, and the weight of Mr. Mactavish’s coat threatened to crush her.

Blindly she reached for something solid to hold onto. Her stomach cramped, and rancid bile flooded her throat.

“I dinna think so,” Mr. Mactavish said grimly.

When he swept her up into his arms, a whimper of relief escaped her. She’d learned to fear male strength, but right now that was all that saved her from falling flat on her face.

“You’re a stubborn wee thing, for a lassie I could knock over with a feather,” Mr. Mactavish said.

Fiona was too weak to respond, but she leaned her head on his hard chest and didn’t object when he carried her across to the house. As they entered the kitchens, she was too exhausted to keep her eyes open. She heard a flurry of female voices expressing concern and curiosity, and Mr. Mactavish reeled out a list of orders for her comfort and care.

He swept along in long, powerful strides, carrying her as if she weighed nothing at all. Up several flights of steps. She opened her eyes to find herself in a long corridor. When she looked back over his shoulder, maids trailed after them like ducklings chasing their mother.

“I seem to be causing you a lot of bother,” she said faintly, as he pushed open a door and entered a large, bright chamber overlooking a broad river and the sea.

“Och, it stops

them all getting lazy, with only me to look after, lassie. Dinna fash yourself.”

An older woman with gray hair glanced up at that and sent the master a narrow-eyed look that did nothing to hide the affection in her expression. “But you’re a gey lot of trouble, Mactavish. Ye keep us all hopping.”

“And rightly so,” he said with a laugh. “Otherwise you’d be out terrorizing the parish with your wild ways, Mags.”

“Aye, wild and dangerous, that’s the women of Invertavey.” The half dozen girls who had come in busied themselves around the room, lighting the fire and turning down the bed and setting out towels and soaps.

“I wish Mags was joking,” Mr. Mactavish said, carefully setting Fiona on her feet.

She sucked in her first full breath in what felt like forever. She sensed no threat in this room. Perhaps she was safe. If just for the moment.

As long as nobody found out she was a Grant. As long as her family didn’t track her down. As long as she started working on an escape plan to put into effect the second she could set one foot in front of the other without falling over.

That wouldn’t be today, God help her. The legs that barely held her up felt like they were made of wet wool.

“What’s the lassie’s name, Mactavish?” Mags asked, as two strapping young men shouldered through the doorway, carrying a large tin bath. The prospect of soaking the salt from her skin and hair in gallons of hot water sent such a wave of longing through Fiona that she staggered.

“Careful,” Mr. Mactavish said, taking her arm.

Since he found her on that windswept beach, he’d touched her a lot. Usually she hated to have masculine hands on her. But then, masculine hands in her experience bruised and hurt. There was no doubting her rescuer’s strength—he hadn’t even caught his breath carrying her up the stairs—but so far his hands had offered nothing but kindness and support.

“The lady cannae recall anything that happened before the shipwreck,” he said to Mags.

The hubbub in the room stilled, and Fiona shifted in guilty discomfort as all eyes focused on her in avid curiosity.

“Nothing?” one of the girls said in amazement. “No’ even your name?”

“Katy, mind your manners,” Mags said sharply.

“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Curran.” Katy dipped into a curtsy and went back to feeding the fire.

“That’s better.” The older woman cast a gimlet eye around the room, until everyone stopped staring at Fiona and returned to work. Mags must be the housekeeper Mr. Mactavish had mentioned on the ride up from the beach.

“Dinnae ye worry, lassie.” She bustled up to Fiona and placed an arm around her waist. “After what you’ve been through, it’s nae wonder your head is jangling. We’ll soon get ye back as right as rain.”

Mr. Mactavish stepped away, and ridiculously Fiona missed his nearness. “I’ll leave the lady in your care, Mags.”

“Aye, she needs a hot bath and dry clothes and something to eat and some sleep. Then she’ll ken what’s what.”