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

Despite his mother’s many sins, her death had devastated what remained of his father’s life. The previous laird never ceased to grieve for the woman who had brought him endless heartbreak and humiliation.

And Miss Nita—no, that wasn’t right. What did they say the girl’s name was? Fiona?—was just such another as his selfish, wanton mother? A woman prepared to abandon a child in her reckless pursuit of pleasure?

Anger knotted his gut, while a betrayal he had no real right to feel left a rotten taste in his mouth. The girl didn’t owe him her loyalty. As if such a woman knew the meaning of the word.

Still he felt duped and used. Despite his mistrust, over these last days, he’d developed a reluctant liking for her. He’d imagined he saw qualities that he admired, qualities like courage and consideration for others.

Dear heaven, he was as big a fool as his father. Instead of bringing her to his home, he should have tossed her back into the sea.

Shame turned rage to bitter aloes. To think, he’d wanted her, despite knowing all the time that she lied. After what his mother had done, he should be immune to a woman’s wiles. But it seemed wretched experience made him no more proof against beauty than any other man.

Even as fury darkened his vision and nausea churned in his gut, some element of rational thought stirred. He was reluctant to call it hope.

“Are ye sure this is the lassie you’re looking for?”

Although how many stray females wandered along the Scottish coast?

“We’ve been working our way south from Bancavan, asking after my wife,” the other man said.

The other man? Curse him, he was more than that. This unimpressive, hatchet-faced bastard was Fiona’s husband, if what they said was true.

“When we arrived at Invertavey and made inquiries, we heard of a shipwreck in the last few days,” Thomas continued. “A beautiful lady and a dead man washed up after a storm. It could only be my wife. The dead man is Colin Smith, a fisherman on the estate. We asked if anyone had seen the woman, and it turns out that she was in church only yesterday. The description made us even more certain. She’s tall and skinny. Pale blond with blue eyes.”

A prosaic accounting of the girl’s remarkable looks, but unmistakably accurate. Diarmid cursed himself for being a thick-headed fool, still hoping against hope that the Grants were mistaken.

“That sounds like her. I’m sorry that we werenae in touch with ye. The lassie who arrived in such poor shape has lost her memory, so we were unable to discover her identity and contact her kin.”

He could see that the memory loss struck these men as convenient, just as it had always struck him. “Perhaps seeing her husband again will restore her mind,” the older Grant—Allan—said flatly.

It struck Diarmid that these men might wonder if he was part of a conspiracy to keep the girl for himself. “I’d like to make it clear that the lady…” He used the term with emphasis. “…has been treated with the utmost care, respect and honor. After the shipwreck, she was dangerously weak, and she remains far from recovered. If ye have any doubts about her health, I advise you to talk to the village doctor, John Higgins.”

He saw that both men understood his meaning, although he was uncomfortably aware that his guest’s fragility hadn’t stopped him wanting to possess her.

“We appreciate your kindness to our wayward kinswoman, Mr. Mactavish,” Allan Grant said, with just enough irony to grate on Diarmid’s nerves. “We’re sure ye did everything in your power to aid her recovery.”

Perhaps it was the lingering ghost of the old feud, but a prickling at the back of his neck told him he neither liked nor trusted these two men. On the surface all was politeness, even smarminess, but he sensed rage from both, and an iron determination to have his will from the older Grant. The other man, Fiona’s husband, showed no pleasure in tracking down his errant wife. Diarmid struggled against imagining that dried up old husk using the girl’s slender body, but it was impossible not to.

Again he reminded himself that none of this was his concern. He was in no position to judge. Who knew what a dance the wee besom had led her family?

He opened the door, expecting to see Mags hovering outside, but she wasn’t there. Instead, Peter, a shy new footman, was polishing the windows in the hall.

“Peter, will you please go upstairs and ask Miss Nita…” Blast it, he wouldn’t call her Mrs. Grant until he was absolutely sure of her identity. He knew he clutched at straws, even as his mind told him he was a naïve idiot to give her the benefit of the doubt. “…if she’ll come downstairs to the library for a moment?”

“Aye, Mactavish,” the young man said.

Diarmid returned to the Grants. “If the lady is your missing kinswoman, I’m more than happy for her to stay until she regains her strength. I’d be pleased to offer ye both the hospitality of Invertavey House as well.”

“That’s grand of ye, Mr. Mactavish,” Allan Grant said, and Diarmid would wager his estate that the man meant precisely the opposite. “But we dinna want to put ye out. We’ll take my sister-in-law back to where she belongs, to her kin. She’s had her we

e adventure. It’s time for her to come home and resume her duties.”

Was Diarmid oversensitive to find it both odd and suspicious that neither man seemed noticeably relieved that the girl was safe? Again, none of his concern. But he had a grim feeling that her kin felt little affection for their lost lady.

“She shouldnae be long. While we’re waiting, may I offer ye a wee dram?”

“No, thank ye, Mr. Mactavish. We’ll just be collecting Fiona and taking our leave. She’s been gone from Bancavan long enough already.”

An awkward silence fell. The Grants wouldn’t sit down, which left them all standing about in an uncomfortable circle. With every moment, Diarmid found it more and more incongruous that the beautiful girl upstairs was married to the nonentity before him. The fellow must be more than thirty years older than she was. Perhaps her reasons for running away weren’t so hard to fathom after all.