The Valiant Highlander (Highland Defender #2) (3 page)

Of course she knew the stories and respected the fact that she sat beside a war hero. And from the girth of his shoulders, it wasn’t difficult to understand why. Still, were people to be revered all their lives because they fought valiantly in one or two battles? Why did men receive all the notoriety? Mary would ride into battle if they would allow her to do so. She’d lead her clan, too. But that wasn’t the way of things. Until Da started planning this gathering of high-ranking Jacobites, Mary’s lot in life was to stay in the castle and manage Dunscaith’s affairs. No, they weren’t wealthy, but they had a healthy flock of sheep, which brought in revenues from wool—and the crofters paid rent—when they had the coin.

The problem was no one had any coin at the moment—and that’s exactly why her father volunteered to host the gathering this spring. Bring the Highlanders to Castleton so they can feast their eyes on my lovely daughters, he’d say.

The pipers filled their bladders with air, making a racket. Florence clapped her hands and squealed while the fiddlers tuned their instruments.

Sir Donald pushed back his chair and bowed deeply. “May I have this dance?”

Mary’s hand flew to her chest. “With me?” she asked with incredulity. After all, the man had just admitted to his indifference for dancing.

“I’d wager the men outnumber the women at this gathering by three-to-one and I certainly do not aim to give the Chieftain of Appin a turn.”

Shifting her gaze to Sir Robert, Mary agreed, “Thank you.”

He took her palm in his—goodness it was warm and so much larger and more callused than Mary had imagined. Her small hand practically disappeared beneath his fingers. Sir Donald’s tawny eyebrows drew together. “I thought you would rather enjoy a dance.”

She chanced a glimpse of his face from beneath her red lashes. “Aye, just a wee bit surprised, all things considered.”

Together they proceeded down the dais steps while the baronet sported a grin. “We are here for a gathering. Regardless if you’d rather be running around in your father’s trews, a young lass who acts as lady of the keep should be the first to grace the dance floor.”

Her cheeks grew warm for the umpteenth time. “Why is that, because you feel sorry for a spinster who cares for her father?”

“I hardly see you as a spinster—yet.” His jaw twitched. “’Tis the way of things. I’m surprised you do not ken it.”

Mary huffed. Decorum? How in heaven’s name was she supposed to learn decorum when she’d never been to court—never been anywhere important? And why were her insides twisting about? This was but a silly dance. An interchange that meant naught but to make merry.

Arriving at the lady’s line, Sir Donald released her hand, then stepped across and joined the men. Good heavens, he posed a picture. One tawny lock had slipped from his ponytail and curled down the side of his face. His cravat tied in a perfect knot with a lace collar peeking above his black-velvet doublet. Kilt, to hose, to square-toed ghillies tied with black ribbon, the Baronet of Sleat presented a picture of the ideal Highland chief. A descendant of the Lords of the Isles and heir to the most powerful clan in Scotland, with many septs and clans reporting to him, just as Mary’s clan did, he alone was the most influential man on the Isle of Skye.

The introduction of a reel began.

Sir Donald bowed, but he didn’t lower his head. Rather, he kept his gaze fixed on her—those dark eyes unwavering as if he were waiting for her to err, or challenging her to do so.

Mary curtseyed in kind. The man had already proved he enjoyed a good wager. Perhaps he aimed to best her with a high-stepping reel. Skipping toward him and locking arms, she couldn’t help her burst of laughter with the image of Sir Donald leaping and kicking his legs higher and faster than anyone in the hall.

“Do you find the music humorous?” he asked.

“Not at all.” Fortunately, the dance gave her an excuse to avoid an explanation when she locked elbows with the man to Donald’s right and skipped in a circle.

Twirling back toward the baronet, her skirts billowed and brushed along his muscular calf. Mary could have sworn she saw something flash in the deep recesses of his eyes, but he soon covered any reaction with a calm and commanding presence. The Baronet of Sleat proved quite adept on his toes as he performed the steps to the reel with expert precision—with no exaggerated moves whatsoever. When they moved together, their palms met, but not too intimately. Sir Donald applied just the right amount of pressure and nothing more.

Mary’s gaze meandered up to his face. His eyes focused on hers, his mouth forming a thin line. What on earth was the man thinking with a visage such as his?

“Does the music meet with your approval?” she asked.

“Aye, quite invigorating.”

“And the hall?”

“Everything is very well appointed.”

“Are you looking forward to the games on the morrow?”

“It shall be good sport, indeed.” He took her hand and led her sashaying down the line so ably he could have passed for a statue in motion.

Mary mirrored his stately countenance, executing the steps as deftly as he. When at last her hand left his as she danced up the outside of the line, her fingers grew oddly cold and she balled her fist to ward off the uneasy sensation.

Stepping around the last woman, Mary again faced him. The music ended.

He offered a stately bow, and she a deep curtsey in return. “Thank you, sir. You are an accomplished dancer.”

“’Tis kind of you to say so, but—”

The doors to the great hall burst open and in sauntered Lieutenant Balfour MacLeod, dressed in his red uniform—red like innocent blood. He sported his usual scowl, his gaze darting directly to Mary. “Exactly what is going on here and why was I not informed?”

Every man upon the dais stood—aside from Da, of course.

Mary hastened toward the boor. “Pardon me, lieutenant. Since when did it become a law for us to inform you when we have guests?”

“It is my duty to be apprised of all events in my territory.”

“If you must ken, ’tis a clan gathering.” She crossed her fingers behind her back. “The MacDonald Clans and guests from throughout the Highlands have come for feast and games.”

Balfour squinted and swept his gaze to the high table. “MacDonalds,” he spewed as if the name were vile. “Come to plan a rebellion, is that it?”

“I beg your pardon?” The Baronet of Sleat strolled forward, his palm resting atop the pommel of his dirk. “I believe the lady said this is a gathering. No more. Unless King William has suddenly written into law that kin are no longer allowed to meet?”

The lieutenant faced Sir Donald, looking him from head to toe with a sneer. “And who in God’s name are you?”

Sliding one foot forward, Don performed an exaggerated bow to mock the beslubbering codfish who’d interrupted their merriment. “Sir Donald MacDonald, Baronet of Sleat, at your service, lieutenant. And in the future you may address me as
Sir Donald
.”

“Aye?” The lieutenant pursed his lips, looking like he’d swallowed a bitter tonic. “So Sir John of Castleton finally managed to ferret you away from your dung hill in Glasgow?”

Don eyed the dozen redcoats standing behind the disrespectful officer. The Highlanders could take them for certain, but then word of action against Government troops would spread across Britain like a brushfire. No matter how much he wanted to teach the cur a lesson in treating one’s betters, he folded his arms and meandered to within a hand’s breadth of the spineless weasel. “We’ve arrived for the MacDonald gathering as Miss Mary has already said.” He gestured toward the dance floor. “As you see, we are making merry. Have you an issue with that?”

The short and stocky officer craned his neck and met Don’s gaze with beady, grey eyes. “I see the whisky is flowing abundantly. I wonder how Sir John ventured to afford such lavishness.”

A crash erupted from the dais as their host banged the pommel of his dirk on the table. “By the saints, if I had use of my legs I’d come down and teach you a lesson. ’Tis no business of yours, you insolent pup.”

“But it is my business.” The lieutenant stepped around Don. “You’ve one too many eighteen-oar galleys moored in the bay. You’re breaking the law for certain.”

“Are you jesting?” Don asked, his blood beginning to thrum. He hated red-coated dragoons clear to the depths of his soul and this one epitomized the reason for his abhorrence.
Put a red coat on a man and give him some brass epaulets, and he thinks he’s God Almighty.

The lieutenant faced him with a thin-lipped grin. “Why jest when the law clearly states no more than two eighteen-oar galleys moored—’tis grounds for suspicion of a rising.”

Don threw up his hands. “God’s bones, we’ll be on our way two days hence.”

“You’d best be gone on the morrow.”

“Or what?” He stepped in, refusing to let the man bully him.

MacLeod smirked. “I’m sure the crown would make good use of a sleek, new seafaring vessel.”

“’Tis thievery.” Don gripped his fingers around the hilt of his dirk, narrowing his eyes. “You place a hand on one of our galleys and I shall take it up with Colonel Hill in Fort William forthwith.”

“You dare to directly disobey the edicts of our good king?” The nitwit’s gaze drifted to Don’s weapon—still sheathed but at the ready. “I’m sure the colonel would be interested to hear that Donald MacDonald of Sleat is a
Jacobite
.”

“Watch your tongue,” Don seethed.

“Oh really?” The man swept his gaze across the crowd with an arrogant flare to his nostrils. “You’d best not think of placing one of your neatly manicured hands on a Government officer.”

With one more step, Don growled, “Och, I wouldn’t need to use my hands.”

The Highland chieftains gathered behind him—no weapons drawn, but that could be remedied easily enough.

MacLeod took a wee step back—a sign of a coward. “What have you been doing since you lost the Battle of Dunkeld? Planning another revolution so we can boot your arse out of Scotland? You’d fare well heading to the Americas on a ship full of swine.” The dragoons behind Balfour sniggered.

Gritting his teeth, Don thrust his finger toward the door. “My ship will sail after the games two days hence. Now I suggest you go find your flock. I can hear them bleating your name.”

The lieutenant smirked and averted his attention to Mary. “How can you entertain guests who are so discourteous?” He tsked his tongue. “And you didn’t think to invite me? I held you in higher esteem, Miss Mary.”

“Forgive me if I’ve appraised poorly in your eyes,” she said with a mocking edge in her voice.

“Did you not hear the lass when you first arrived?” asked Hugh MacIain. “This is a
Clan Donald
gathering. I believe I heard the lass refer to you as MacLeod—’tis no sept of ours.”

“Too right,” said Don before the piss-swilling cur had a chance to spurt a rebuke—or figure out that there were Stewarts, Camerons, MacDougalls and more in attendance. “Now we’d like to carry on with our celebrations.”

The lieutenant inclined his head toward his men. “You haven’t heard the last of this, mark me.” Throwing back his shoulders, he stepped up to Miss Mary, took her hand and planted a vulgar kiss upon the back. It wasn’t a proper light peck of a gentleman. The man hovered as if smelling a vat of mulled wine and then he took his bloody time pressing his lips to her flesh.

Don rubbed his palm around his dirk’s pommel. If only he could challenge the lecherous cur here and now.

The lieutenant chuckled as he straightened. “As always, it has been a pleasure to see you again, Miss Mary.”

The poor lass turned redder than beetroot. She snapped her hand away from the braggart and clasped it under her chin. “A sentiment which I do not return.”

MacLeod snorted as he turned away. “You’d best watch your manners, else your guests will think ill of you.”

Mary balled her fists like she was ready to take a swing at his head.

“I’ll see you out.” Don stepped between them. “I wish I could say it has been a pleasure.” After he opened the big door, he leaned toward Balfour’s ear so only the milk-livered swine could hear. “Keep your hands off the lass, else you’ll answer to me.”

“Are you threatening an officer of His Majesty’s Army?”

“You’d best believe it.” Before the lieutenant could come back with a sharp retort, Don slammed the door in his face. Then he spun on his heel. “Who the hell does that fat-kidneyed nitwit think he is?”

Mary gave her foot a good stamp. “He’s reckons he owns the entire Isle of Skye.”

“Aye,” said Rabbie, moving in beside her. “And I do not like the way he ogles my sister.”

Don didn’t care for it, either. As a matter of fact, it had taken all of his self-control not to ask the officer to step outside. But an err like that could put his American contract in jeopardy—even if he wasn’t thrown into the stocks. Damnation, Don would not allow William of Orange and the Government troops to stand in his way. He, his clan and the entire Jacobite cause depended on opening new lines of trade lest they be starved out of existence.

He grasped Mary by the shoulders. “Stay away from that despicable dragoon. A man like that would like nothing better than to pounce on a chance to break us.”

Twisting away, she drew a hand to her chest. “Of course I would never do anything to put our cause in peril.”

“Not knowingly.”

Her brow furrowed. “Pardon me?”

Choosing not to pursue the conversation further, Don clapped his hands at the minstrels. “Why are you standing with your mouths agape? Our host has brought our clans together to make merry and that is what we shall do.”

He looped his arm through Mary’s elbow. “Dance with me.”

“Very well,” she said as if it were her bounden duty to do so. “As lady of the keep, I must see to the enjoyment of my father’s guests.”

He chuckled—aye, a lass who dressed in trews to teach her wee brother to shoot wouldn’t let a visit from a red-coated buffoon spoil her evening. “You do have spirit, Miss Mary, I’ll grant you that.”

She stepped into the ladies line on the floor. “I would have thought there would be no doubt of my spirit after our wee shooting competition this morn.”

A tic twitched at the corner of his eye. And she was growing more audacious by the minute. “Aye, but you caught me with my sea legs.”

“Perhaps another match?” Her eyes twinkled with blue and mischief. “My coffers could use some fattening.”

Och, I reckon I’ve allowed her to take her chiding a bit too far
. No, he couldn’t allow himself to play along with the vixen this time. God’s teeth, a lass like Mary of Castleton could bring a man undone and that was the last thing Don could allow, given the circumstances. A dance or two he could manage, and that was all. He frowned. “As I said afore, ’tis not ladylike to place wagers with gentlemen.”

“Och aye?” She rolled her eyes to the grand ceiling. “’Tis unfortunate my mother passed away afore she could teach me the finer qualities of being a lady. Not to mention my father succumbing to his wounds at Dunkeld.” She skipped toward him and looped her arm through his elbow with a fair bit of force for such a small wisp. “I’ll tell you, sir. A lass growing up on lands as remote as Castleton has no choice but to gird her loins and take every challenge as it comes.”

Don pursed his lips together, forcing himself not to laugh.
Gird her loins? Good Lord, give the lass a wee compliment and she becomes insufferable.
“With such passionate fortitude, your father is fortunate to have you.”
Because, with that fiery disposition, she’ll likely remain a spinster for the rest of her days.

Mary met him in the center of the line and pressed her palms against his. “Unfortunately, Da intends to sell me to the highest bidder.”

His mouth twisted. “I thought all young maids looked forward to their betrothal.”

“Not me.” She twirled away.

A spinster—just as I thought
. “Why ever not you?”

“As you see, I am needed here. Who will look after my father? Not to mention I have two sisters and a brother who rely on me.”

Don glanced down the line at Mary’s younger sister. “Perhaps ’tis time Miss Lilas took on responsibility for the keep?”

Her lips blew a raspberry. “You cannot be serious. I dearly love my sister, but she’s as flighty as a finch. I daresay she’d run for her chamber the first time the cook disagreed with her menu choice.”

“Aye? But isn’t that how she’ll learn? What will happen when she marries and must run a keep of her own?”

Mary rolled her eyes. “Heaven help her future husband.”

Chuckling to himself, Don watched Mary out of the corner of his eye. Perhaps he’d judged her too harshly, but he rather doubted it. Indeed, with her mother gone and her father crippled, she’d been forced to step in and take charge. She was peculiarly attractive. Wholesomeness came to mind, though lacking in the finer skills of a cultured Glasgow woman. But where would a Highland lass like Mary find an opportunity to learn refinement? Lady MacLeod of Dunvegan to the north was out of the question. Aside from being a fire-breathing dragon, at every opportunity the woman’s husband made it eminently clear he and the MacLeod Clan sided with the Williamite Government.

The music ended. After Mary curtseyed, she planted her fists on her hips. “Are you unwell, Sir Donald? You look dazed.”

He blinked. “Forgive me. My mind is elsewhere.”

“Blast the lieutenant,” Mary said, evidently assuming Don was still thinking about the unpleasant visit from the dragoons. “How dare he come here and spoil everyone’s merriment?”

Don offered his elbow and started toward the dais. “Och, our clans are of sturdy Highland ilk. We’ll not allow such a miscreant to foul our good spirits.”

“Miss Mary, may I have this dance?” interrupted Sir Robert.

Don glared at the Appin Chieftain.

“Of course, thank you.” Mary curtseyed.

With no other recourse, Don relented and bowed. “Miss Mary.” He turned on his heel. Why on earth it bothered him that young Stewart asked Mary for a turn on the floor, he had no idea. Sir Robert would be an ideal match for the lass. Damn it all, her father had been clear he intended to find a husband. No one needed to tell Don he was the last person in the hall to fulfill such a role. Let the maid spin her wiles around someone else’s sensibilities for a while.

Uncouth, ginger-haired and freckled?
He would be laughed out of every parlor in Glasgow with Miss Mary of Castleton on his arm.