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

Poor bloody Fiona. Despite everything, Diarmid couldn’t quash a pang of sympathy for his duplicitous guest. Her kin would blame her for the trouble she’d caused, he could see, including making her husband and brother-in-law chase halfway down the coast.

“You must see she’s been ill. Surely you’re able to stay a night or two until she’s well enough to travel,” he said, before he reminded himself the besom had broken every rule of hospitality. Not to mention that the virulent dislike he rapidly developed for her clansmen made the idea of extended contact unappealing.

“Thank ye, Mactavish but we’ll be on our way,” Allan said. “She’ll manage the trip, and she’s better with her own flesh and blood than among strangers.”

The discovery of the stolen money had whipped the fight out of the girl. Or perhaps two attempts at escape had sapped what small strength she had.

She looked ready to crumple to the floor. How the devil was she going to cross the mountains and glens between Invertavey and her home?

Diarmid reminded himself that, too, was none of his business. She’d get there one way or another. She might be a liar and a thief, but her courage had been real. “Verra well. I’ll have my housekeeper pack her a bag.”

“Did ye manage to salvage her belongings from the wreck?” Allan asked sharply. “The villagers gave me to understand nothing survived the sinking.”

“Nothing did, except the lady,” Diarmid replied in a dry tone. “But we’ve lent her clothing and…”

“Dinna fash yourself, Mactavish. A Grant doesnae need your charity,” Thomas said. “The lassie will get along fine as she is until she’s home.”

Diarmid wanted to protest at sending the girl off without so much as a hairbrush or a change of linen, but she wasn’t his responsibility. His bow was chilly. “As ye wish.”

Thomas’s rough jerk had Fiona stumbling after him as he headed for the door.

“Thank ye for housing our kinswoman and restoring her to her family, Mactavish,” Allan said. “The lassie caused ye a gey lot of trouble, and we commend your generosity.”

That must have nearly choked him, Diarmid thought. “It was the least we could do.”

“We’ll be saying our goodbyes, then.”

Both men were at the door, the girl between them, hedged in like a horse in harness. It was clear they’d allow her no more chances to run.

Diarmid had take

n a step to drag her away from them, before he remembered she wasn’t his to defend. Even if he wanted to help her, given what he now knew about her.

He wanted, devil take her. That was beauty’s power over a frail male will.

Hadn’t he seen that destructive influence working on his father, when he accepted his wife back time and time again, no matter what she’d done? Until the last time when she and her lover came to grief. Then absence proved even more excruciating than awkward forgiveness.

So Diarmid made himself remain where he was. Neither Grant had offered him a hand in farewell. Even with everything that had happened, he couldn’t let her go like this.

He swallowed the acrid denial in his mouth and spoke as if nothing of significance had occurred. “Goodbye, Mrs. Grant. I wish ye well.”

She somehow found the strength to resist the arms pushing her out the door and turned back long enough for him to catch fear and desolation in her lovely eyes. “You’re too good, Mr. Mactavish. I wish things had been different.”

“Come, Fiona, enough of that,” Allan chided her. “It’s time to go.”

Her shoulders slumped in visible defeat, and she trudged out of the room without looking behind her. When the door closed on a thud, Diarmid realized with a sense of unreality that his dealings with his mystery woman were at an end.

He shifted to the window and watched as Thomas lifted her onto a large roan, then climbed into the saddle behind her. Husband or not, it was clear that his touch was unwelcome. She strained away, as he slid an arm around her waist and turned his horse for the gate. Allan followed on a powerful bay.

Diarmid stood at the window until the riders were out of sight. And well after that.

While all the time, a voice in his head screamed that, whatever the law might say, he’d just made the greatest mistake of his life.

Chapter 8

“I called in to see my patient, but Mags tells me the lassie has gone.”

At the sound of John’s voice, Diarmid turned his head from where he stood, staring sightlessly over the empty drive. The clock on the mantel chimed the quarter hour, and he realized with a shock he’d been brooding out the window for nearly two hours.