Some Like it Scot (Scandalous Highlanders Book 4) (6 page)

That done, they continued up the narrow, steep end of the gorge to where it opened on a green and purple meadow. Cattle grazed on the far side, but an old fence kept them from the gorge and the treacherous footing below. If they were indeed able to remain here for the winter, one of those cows might just find its way onto their table, though that would be even riskier than poaching deer from Laird Glengask.

They tromped through the wet, knee-high grass to the fence. A pair of scraggly raspberry bushes leaned there, just out of reach of hungry cow tongues. Most of the berries were well past being edible, but a handful toward the bottom of the bush looked at least passable.

Elizabeth straightened as she popped one into her mouth. “I don't know why Mother refused to return to the Highlands even for a visit,” she mused, gazing at the rugged, fog-draped mountains around them. “It's so lovely here. And the letters you used to write me, about the MacDonald clan gatherings and the fairs—I wish I'd been old enough to remember more of it.”

“Well, after ye've turned one-and-twenty ye can come up here whenever ye wish.” Catriona forced a chuckle, declining to mention that she wouldn't be anywhere close by there, herself. “Though after hiding up here all winter, ye may never wish to set eyes on Scotland again.”

“I will, because you'll be here.” Her sister bundled the berries into a handkerchief. “The only good thing about this nonsense is that we're together again. Out of everyone I know, everyone who used to invite me to soirees and country parties and say what dear friends we were, you're the one who came to aid me when I asked for help.”

Eventually, one day, Catriona would tell Elizabeth just how splendid the timing of her letter had been. For now, though, she nodded and helped herself to a berry. “Of course I came. We may have different mothers, but Randall MacColl was father to us both, and that makes us sisters.” She took a breath. “Now come along, before we both catch our death.”

They had enough venison left for another two days, and then she would have to go hunting again. With salt she could preserve the meat longer, or with a smokehouse she could see that they had enough to last them the winter. But she had neither of those things. Perhaps if the giant didn't return she could turn the small storage room at the very back of the east wing into a room where she could salt and cure meat. Not for the first time she wished she'd spent more time with the village butcher and learned how to do some of these things. She had an idea, of course—her father had made certain of that—but she doubted he'd ever had this particular scenario in mind for her future.

As they reached the low stone wall, she helped her sister over the tumble, then hopped the barrier herself. And then she stopped. To one side of the half caved-in entryway lay a heavy-looking sack. Her heart thumping, Catriona put out one hand to stop her sister from advancing. “Wait here,” she instructed, setting down the pot and unslinging her musket. The woods still dripped emptily around her, the only sound other than the wind in the treetops. Had it been there earlier? Blast it, she hadn't been looking for burlap sacks tucked into holes, so she had no idea. After a long moment spent searching for any sign of movement, she squatted down and opened the sack with her free hand.

Several parcels wrapped in heavy paper tumbled out. With a curse she shoved them back in and lifted the sack. “Can ye get the water?” she asked.

“Yes. Is that from your friendly giant?” Elizabeth returned, carefully hefting the pot and following her inside.

“He's nae my anything.” Catriona led the way into the kitchen, checking every shadow and alcove as she went. They hadn't been gone that long, but it would only take a moment for a man, however broad-shouldered, to find himself a hiding place in the ruins.
Her
giant. Ha. She handed her boot knife to her sister. “I'm going to check the rest of the abbey,” she said, heading up the hallway again. “Yell if ye hear someaught.”

She supposed the sack itself might have been the trap; if no one moved it, he could assume she'd left the area. Leaving it there for anyone to see, for anyone to become curious about Haldane Abbey, though, made her even more nervous than taking unasked-for gifts—if that was what it contained—from a man who owed her no loyalty and who couldn't possibly represent anything but more trouble.

No giants lurked amid the tumbled stones, though, and Catriona made her way back into the kitchen. The scent of fresh bread touched her, making her mouth water. Elizabeth sat at their worktable, the contents of the sack spread out before her. For a bare moment Catriona frowned, but she quickly willed away the expression. The sack wasn't anything she'd asked for, and she claimed no ownership of it. Just the opposite.

“Oh, honey,” her sister exclaimed, waving a small jar at her. She set it aside as Catriona approached, and pulled a larger bundle out of the wet burlap. “This feels like—oh, it is! A book!” Swiftly she pulled the paper off the tome.
“The Complete Shakespeare,”
she read. “We can read the plays to each other!”

Hm. What cotter or poacher owned Shakespeare? Unless he'd stolen it. In that case, its owners might well blame her for the theft, if they caught her with it. He was certainly not doing them any favors, damn it all. And she wasn't at all touched by the happy note in her younger sister's voice. Blowing out her breath, she picked up the largest and heaviest of the packages, untied the twine, and opened it. Her mouth twitched.

“What is it?” Elizabeth asked, as she dove back into the sack for yet another package and produced a whetting stone, as well.

“Smoked pork.” Enough to last them a fortnight, if they were careful with it. In this part of the Highlands, smoked pork that looked and smelled this fine was nearly worth its weight in gold. Yet he'd managed both it and the Shakespeare,
and
honey, within a day.

“We seem to have acquired a benefactor,” her sister commented, showing Catriona a large sack of salt and a sealskin slicker. “You won't get soaked to the skin if you have to go out in the rain.”

As her sister shook open the slicker, a small, shiny object fell to the table with a sharp, hard clatter. Catriona's heart stammered, then began pounding. A silver spoon.

Damnation.
Yes, she'd asked for just such a thing, but first of all she'd been jesting, and second of all, well, she'd never expected him to actually deliver one to her. She picked it up and turned it in the firelight. On the front of the handle a capital
G
in lovely cursive formed part of a rose. “Damnation,” she said aloud, dropping it again.

“What's amiss?”

“That spoon belongs to the Marquis of Glengask. Or his household, at the least.”

“Do you think this Bear person stole it?”

“He either stole it, or he came by it legitimately,” she returned. “What I mean to say is, look at all this. No poacher or cotter could afford such fine bread, and that doesnae even take into account the honey or the pork, or the slicker. If he's a thief, he may well lead Glengask's men to come looking here. If he's part of the household, he may tell Glengask aboot us, anyway. We need to go.”

“But he said we were welcome to stay.”

“And the Duke of Visford said ye were welcome to be his new bride. Do ye think that was oot of the kindness of his heart?”

She immediately regretted the comparison as Elizabeth shuddered, clutching her blanket more tightly around her shoulders. Closing her mouth, she hugged her sister. Whatever she knew, whatever she might have said to someone older or less … delicate, she supposed it was, Elizabeth was who she was. And above everything else, Elizabeth needed to be both protected and looked after.

“That was a poor comparison,” she said slowly. “This Bear hasnae done anything threatening. My only concern is that he knows where we're laying our heads. Or where
I
am, anyway. I dunnae think he knows about ye. I would prefer that no one at all knew what we were about, or had any idea of where we might be found.”

“If you assume everyone in the world means us harm, then does it even make a difference if you keep me away from London until I reach my majority?” her sister countered. “By your way of thinking, I'll never be out of danger, and we should live like hermits for the remainder of our lives, huddled and frightened in some cave or something.”

And she'd been about to suggest they spend the night in the cave where she'd hidden their supplies. Even so, she found it hard to believe that she was being too distrustful. “Perhaps he's merely a kindhearted giant,” she said after a moment, “and perhaps he's trying to keep us here while he inquires about whether any females have gone missing and if there might be a reward for their return. I dunnae ken which one it is, but I think it'd be foolish to completely ignore one possibility in favor of the other simply because it's easier to do so.”

Elizabeth picked up the discarded spoon. “And no doubt Mother
has
offered a reward for my return.” She sighed. “It's only that this”—and she gestured at the peeling walls around them—“is the wildest place I've ever been. If you think it doesn't keep us hidden enough, of course we should go. But when do we reach the point where we're someplace so wretched that surrendering begins to sound like the better alternative?”

Never.
But that was her, accustomed to a rougher life, taught to shoot when she'd barely been big enough to hold a gun, shown how to live off the land because that was what her fierce, independent ancestors had done. And because she'd been raised by a father who had no use for frilly gowns and fine china. Or females in general, really. For a long moment she gazed at her sister's profile. Far more than five years of age divided them.

“We'll stay here, then.” She interrupted her sister's relieved exclamation with a fist against the tabletop. “For the time being. If the giant gives any sign of doing more than leaving us bread and honey, or if he brings anyone else along with him, we
will
be leaving. Agreed?”

Elizabeth nodded. “Agreed.”

As if to emphasize the wisdom of that decision thunder rumbled through the rooms, the boom rattling the walls and sending several stones tumbling out in the hallway. On the tail of that, rain began pouring down the chimney so hard it sent the fire hissing and sputtering.

Then the hail began, striking the floor above the kitchen like miniballs from a cannon. Well. That settled that. She refused to believe in divine intervention—the time when that might have been useful to either her or Elizabeth had passed several weeks ago—but she wouldn't risk their lives to flee during a hailstorm.

Whatever her apparently generous neighbor thought to accomplish by leaving treats on her doorstep, though, she had her own plans. And they did not involve remaining here at Haldane Abbey long enough for him to cause her more trouble. She had enough to worry over without adding Bear to the mix.

*   *   *

The cook scowled when Munro strolled into the kitchen. “Nae again, Laird Bear,” she said, clucking at him.

“Nae what?” Munro returned, eyeing the large cooking spoon she waggled in his direction.

“Ye cannae possibly be hungry. I swear ye ate half a cow fer breakfast.”

“I'm still a growing lad, Mrs. Forrest,” he said, and scooped a full tray of fresh sugar biscuits into a cloth.

The spoon rapped him across the knuckles. “Those are fer the bairns and their mamas!”

Wincing, he flexed his fingers. “Get away, ye madwoman. I can see ye've another tray in the oven. The bairns willnae starve. They dunnae even have teeth, most of 'em.”

“Their mamas do.”

Ignoring the cook still batting at him and her helpers busily trying not to let her see them laughing, he opened a likely looking canister, only to step back at the abrupt, pungent odor. “What the blessed hell is that?”

“Dried bay leaves. Leave them be!”

He set the lid back on. “Seems to me ye should have a care where ye keep yer poisons, Mrs. Forrest.”

“It's nae a poison. Go away, ye big brute of a man, before ye curdle the milk!”

“Fine. I'll go, if ye make me up a hot porridge to take oot fishing. And a loaf of bread.” Munro sent another look about the large, warm kitchen. “And that roasted game hen.”

“The whole hen?”

“Aye. I cannae get enough of yer fine cooking, lass.”

The rotund lass flushed. “That's what ye said two days ago when ye emptied the larder. I was nae flattered then, and I'm nae flattered now.”

This was going to be troublesome if it continued much longer. Even his legendary appetite could only explain so much. Stifling his annoyance at being delayed from doing something to which he'd already set his mind, Munro favored her with his most charming smile. “I cannae help myself,” he drawled. “Whenever I set eyes upon ye a mighty hunger comes over me.” Taking her ample waist in his hands, he drew her up against him. “I'll either have ye, or I'll have yer cooking.”

The other kitchen maids were howling with laughter, and finally with a guffaw Mrs. Forrest shoved at his chest. “Och, ye naughty lad. Go and fetch a basket, Willa, so we can make up a proper picnic luncheon fer Laird Bear.”

A basket. Definitely more presentable than a sack, but he would have to make up a tale later when he didn't return with it. If this kept up much longer—and he hoped it would—he would have to begin purchasing food items from the village. Ranulf and the family would only believe so many stories about chance encounters with widow women and their hungry grandbabies, and why he was apparently now eating at least double what he generally consumed.

Debny the head groom had already tied a fishing pole to Saturn's saddle, and Munro secured the large, cumbersome picnic basket himself. The big gray had been bred from generations of warhorses, animals who had both the stamina and strength to bear knights wearing full armor into battle. A fishing pole and luncheon basket were hardly a challenge, but from the way Saturn turned his head to eye his burdens, he thought them well beneath his dignity.