Part of her wasn’t sorry that she’d pricked his self-satisfaction. She had a suspicion the man received far too much wide-eyed admiration and unquestioning obedience.

“Don’t worry.” She took her father’s gloved hand. The ride was as smooth as human endeavor could make it, but she could tell that even gentle movement pained him. His brief burst of vitality faded fast. “The Mackinnon said it was only a mile. We’ll get you inside soon.”

She hoped this castle wasn’t a ruin, like so many she’d seen on her way north from the border. She hoped it had a fire and a hot meal and some dry clothes she could change into. All her beautiful dresses had gone into the river—the burn as Mackinnon called it—with the carriage. She was grateful she and her father were alive, and she’d retrieved the one really irreplaceable thing, but that didn’t reconcile her to the loss.

Blasted fool of a coachman.

“What I’d give for a plate of ossobuco and a good chianti,” her father said in a dreamy voice.

She smiled. “More like we’re getting half-raw mutton, and some of that unpronounceable spirit.” The cooking during their week in Scotland had failed to impress her.

“Right now, even that would be welcome.”

Inevitably, her eyes once more found the tall man on the gray horse. The Mackinnon. An unusual name for an unusual man. An annoying man. But without doubt, a capable one. And breathtakingly handsome.

Whatever she thought of his managing ways, no woman in creation would argue with the conclusion that he was very pleasant indeed to look at.

Chapter Three

For what felt like a long time, although Marina knew it couldn’t be, they plodded along in the dark. Papa became quieter with every yard, which was a troubling sign. He was usually the most voluble of men.

She stared out at the dark hills crowding close around the frail brightness of the lanterns. Then a massive shape took form against the starless sky. Towers and turrets, and a blessed light shining through the gates.

Dio, a castle indeed.

The cart rattled across cobblestones and under a raised portcullis. Her father groaned at the sudden bumping, and she tightened her grip on his hand. “Almost there, Papa.”

As they rolled into a courtyard lit with flaming torches, Marina had the bizarre sensation that she retreated several centuries to an earlier, less civilized time. A time when rough Highlanders seized the women they wanted and bundled them away to a mountain fastness to provide strong sons for the clan.

Something primitive and powerful stirred inside her. Something that felt almost like excitement. It was clear she’d been reading too much of Sir Walter Scott’s poetry on this journey into the north.

“I promised ye a castle,” a soft, faintly mocking voice said at her side. The Mackinnon now rode beside the cart. The sight of her home for the night had been so overwhelming, it had diverted her attention from her host.

“And you’re a man of your word,” she said, cursing the betraying rasp in her reply.

“I’ll show you over the place in the morning, if you like.”

“Thank you, but as soon as Papa is splinted up and able to travel, we’ll be on our way.”

He laughed, still with that mocking note. “Will ye indeed?”

“Although I appreciate you coming to our rescue and offering to put us up.” She paused and frowned. “That is, if you are.”

“No, lassie, I’ve brought ye here just so you can sit outside on the brae in the rain, shivering and wondering what’s going on inside beside the fire.”

She studied his face, through long habit breaking it up into patterns of planes and colors. His bone structure was extraordinarily pure. For a dazed interval, she became lost in that perfect symmetry. Then she blinked as what he’d said registered. “I beg your pardon?”

“If I’m feeling generous, I might send ye out a bowl of cold porridge. Then again, I might not.”

The remarkable face was expressionless. She blinked again. “You’re joking.”

His lips twitched. “Aye, I am at that. Let’s get your father inside and onto a bed. He must be ready to rest somewhere comfortable.”

“Si, si, pronto,” her father said weakly.

More impressive efficiency and people scurrying in every direction to do the Mackinnon’s bidding. Marina saw her father ensconced in a cozy chamber and watched as an elderly woman with greater skills than hers replaced the makeshift splint with a more substantial support. An ingenious wicker cage raised the blankets over the broken leg and kept the weight off the injured limb.

“Aye, it’s a bad break, but it could be worse,” the woman said in a singsong voice.” Aye, it could, it could. Rest and quiet will fix this.”

Tags: Anna Campbell The Lairds Most Likely Historical
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