Just in Time for a Highlander (3 page)

“But, Undine, from where did he
come
?”

Through the nauseating throb in his head, Duncan listened, eyes closed. He was lying on his side on cool stone. The mellifluous contralto belonged to the woman called Abby, and despite the pain, he smiled.

“’Tis not an easy question to answer,” Undine replied thoughtfully. “The spell is a strong one. We could ask him, I suppose.”

“I’m not sure the man could tell you the sum of ten plus two. And now I’ve had to tell Rosston he was a spy. What am I going to do when Sir Alan arrives?”

Rosston and Sir Alan. Duncan tried to pin those names into the memory banks in his tender head. Something wet and rough scratched his cheek.

“Grendel, leave him alone,” Abby commanded. “He’s our prisoner. We do not lick prisoners.”

Grendel, whatever he was, made a soft noise of disappointment and thumped down. Duncan felt the tickle of fur against his leg.

Undine sighed. “I’d say drop him in the firth and be done with him, but you’ve called him here, and now he is your responsibility.”

“
I
didn’t call him,” Abby said.

“The herbs left your hand. I’m afraid it amounts to the same thing.”

Herbs? Hand?
Duncan strained to comprehend through the throbbing in his head.

“And, in any case,” Undine went on, “are you certain you wish to be rid of him? There are one or two fine uses for calves as exceptional as those.”

Duncan’s eyes flew open.

“For heaven’s sake, Undine. I am not going to enlist him as a concubine.”

Undine made a regretful noise. “Pity.”

“You do realize I’m holding the clan together by a thread right now, with little support from the men. We’ve been bleeding money for years, and we’re on the verge of losing everything. If I can’t convince Sir Alan to invest in the canal, I’ll have to begin selling our land.”

Duncan added this to his rapidly expanding data bank.

“You’ll be able to convince Sir Alan,” Undine said. “You are poised and intelligent and—”

“A woman. Do you know how many loans the bank made to women last year? One. The widow of the Earl of Straithmore, and that was only because her finances are controlled by her cousin. Sir Alan has no patience with the endless fighting of the clans. He is a man of commerce. He sees us as unruly brutes, who blunder about in a world of foolish superstition and meaningless feuds, and who would kill each other as soon as tip our caps.”

“And how far from wrong is he?”

“This coming from a woman who says she is descended from the rape of a water nymph?”

Water
nymph?
The gears in Duncan’s data bank seized. What the hell had happened to him? He rubbed his head gingerly and the urge to vomit receded. A few scraps of memory were coming back: The reenactment in Pittsburgh. The shocking battle here. The running. The boy. Abby and her bow—that bloody wench! She’d hit him with it, hadn’t she?

Undine sniffed apologetically. “I didn’t mean to suggest Sir Alan was entirely right—only that he was not entirely wrong.”

“The clash today has marred our peace. Sir Alan wants his bank’s investments to be free of unnecessary risk. I don’t blame him. The last thing I need now is a man from God knows where calling us witches and telling Sir Alan he’s been brought here by magic herbs. Sir Alan will run screaming from the castle before we even say hello. Clan Kerr must look worthy of his investment. And that means I need to hide the truth from him for at least the next twenty-four hours.”

“I assume Rosston is still unaware of the shortfall?”

“Yes. And I should very much like to keep it that way.”

“He willna hear it from me,” Undine said. “Rosston does not care for me. He’s kept his distance ever since I told him I put an impotence spell on the chief of Clan Armstrong.”

“Did you?”

“Abby, the man’s three score and eight. A sharp look will do it.”

Abby laughed, and the lilting string of notes rose through Duncan’s head like bubbles in champagne.

“The question remains,” Abby said, “how do I send our unexpected visitor home?”

“The text is not quite clear on the point,” Undine said after a pause. “It only says that one called to serve must actually serve before the spell can be broken.”

“And ‘broken’ means he’ll go back?”

“That is the part that is unclear.”

Duncan opened his eyes. Grendel, it seemed, was a handsome wolfhound of gray and white with a long, slim nose and watchful eyes. Abby—at least what Duncan could see of her at this angle, which was one muddied boot tapping absently on an ancient rug about ten feet from him—seemed to be wrestling with a decision. Duncan wondered briefly why, if there was a rug available, he was lying on bare stone.

After a moment, Abby let out a resigned sigh. “Fine. He can stay. God help me. A clodhead with a wooden sword to keep fed and clothed. Well, if nothing else, I suppose he could help the swineherds.”

Help
the
swineherds?
A man who managed a platoon of bond traders, advised the CFOs of Fortune 500 companies, and lived in a doorman building in Manhattan’s Financial District dragging pigs through the mud? Not. Bloody. Likely.

Abby added, “But I’ll be depending on you to keep him out of sight.”

Duncan opened his mouth, but his protest was drowned out by Abby’s cry as she lowered herself into the gilded chair and jumped up again.

“What is it?” Undine said.

“Chastity threw me today on the field. I feel like someone has turned me over his knee and walloped me bare-assed. Can you look at it?”

Duncan froze. The top of a gilt-legged table blocked his view of Abby’s unfortunate condition. He struggled to an elbow to see if that would correct the situation, and Grendel let out a low growl. Seeing his view had not improved, Duncan reached for the table leg. Grendel unleashed a string of barks so fierce Duncan felt like M-80s were going off behind his eyes.

“Grendel!” Abby shouted.

Grendel froze and so did Duncan, and it was only when Duncan returned his arm to his side that the dog stretched out again and relaxed.

“Thanks,” Duncan mouthed to the dog. The dog made a whimper of regret and licked Duncan’s nose. Duncan heard the rustle of fabric being raised.

“It’s bad,” Undine said. “One cheek is fine and pink, but the other will be as purple as bilberry jam by nightfall. I’ll make you a poultice. That will help with the swelling. But for now, how about a goblet of wine?”

Abby sighed. “That would be lovely.”

Duncan couldn’t help but imagine that fine pink cheek, sitting like a perfect teardrop over a slim and willing thigh…

A knock brought Grendel to his feet again, this time barking happily.

“There’s my good dog,” said a third woman, leaning down to pat him.

She was slim and pretty, though not as pretty as Abby, with hair as bright red as Duncan’s.

The woman said to Grendel, “We got to be great friends while we were waiting for your mama to return, didn’t we?”

“Oh, dear,” Abby said. “I’m so sorry, Miss—Oh, forgive me. Now I have forgotten your name. I know you told me outside.”

“Miss Fallon. Serafina Fallon. Pray don’t let it trouble you. We barely spoke before you were called off.”

Abby’s shoulders sagged. “Between the English and, well, other matters, today has not been the best of days. Did my servants take care of you while you were waiting?”

“Aye, they were quite attentive. I’m glad you are well. I understand the confrontation with the English was brief, thank God. If you’d like, I can return another time.”

“No, no,” Abby said, “we are most pleased to have you. And once things settle down, I am certain Undine shall be glad to help you in any way she can.”

“I thank you,” Miss Fallon said. “Oh! Who is this?”

The attention of the room turned to Duncan.

“Him?” Abby said disinterestedly. “He’s my swinehe—”

“
Prisoner
,” Duncan said, though the explosion of sound in his head when he spoke made him wince.

Abby marched over and crouched beside him, waiting until she saw his eyes focus on her. “You are not my prisoner,” she said sharply. “If you were, I would hardly leave my door unbolted so that you could
go
.” She stuck her finger pointedly in the direction of the room’s looming entrance, violet-blue eyes ablaze.

Duncan looked beyond the doors, down the long gallery filled with centuries-old furniture and sconces filled with real candles. He shook his head. The floor might be cold, but the outside world—with shots flying, a sea of faces he didn’t recognize, and no way to return to the world he knew—seemed even less inviting.

Abby made a grunt of satisfaction. “Then perhaps you’ll want to tell Miss Fallon who you are.”

Her eyes burned into him, the threat of expulsion clear, but he’d be damned if he’d say he was a swineherd. He pressed his mouth tight.

Abby growled and stood. “He’s my swineher—”

“
Adviser
,” Duncan said more loudly.

Miss Fallon looked at Abby. Abby looked at Undine, who shrugged.

“He’s my swineherd adviser,” Abby said with tight lips. “He advises me about swine.”

“
Oh
.”

It was clear Miss Fallon had not heard of swineherd advisers.

Abby put a hand on her forehead and exhaled slowly. “Oh, for God’s sake, it’s too ridiculous for even me to believe. He’s neither my swineherd nor adviser. But he has come quite recently into my charge,
much
to my regret, and I fear he will throw a turnscrew into my plans, something I cannot afford. We have a very important visitor coming.”

Duncan pulled himself unsteadily to sitting. He felt like a sailor after three days of drunken shore leave. The three women—one dark, one fiery haired, and one blond—watched him as if they were watching the raising of a particularly ugly shipwreck. Grendel paced over and looked him in the eyes. He had a penetrating gaze for a dog.

Miss Fallon stepped closer and looked Duncan over carefully. Grendel wagged his tail. After a moment, the woman made a small sound of disappointment, and Grendel stopped.

“He’s very handsome,” Miss Fallon said, “but I’m afraid he won’t answer my needs. The coloring is a problem, you see, as is his height. The man I seek must be shorter. Those additional inches will do me no good.”

“Most women prefer tall men,” he said, a little put out.

“Miss Fallon is looking for a husband,” Undine explained, an amused smile on her face. “But only for a night. ’Tis rather a shame, when you think about it. As a turnscrew, it seems you would be perfectly suited.”

Heat flew up Duncan’s cheeks. He was hardly a prude, but, for God’s sake, what sort of Amazonian love prison had he fallen into?

“Am I interrupting?”

A princely man with dark hair and arms the size of coffee cans stood in the entryway. It was the same man who had found Abby in the woods and witnessed her assault on Duncan. Duncan didn’t like the way the women’s heads turned, though he noted with some satisfaction that Grendel stayed with him.

“No,” Abby said. “Do you have word of William?”

“The wound is clean and bound. The surgeon says he will be well again in time. I gave the man three shillings.”

“Thank you,” Abby said stiffly. “I would have paid him myself had I known.”

“’Twas no hardship, milady. By the way, your servant mentioned something about Sir Alan Raeburn’s imminent arrival. I was not aware he was coming.”

“I do not clear my visitors with you or anyone, Rosston.”

“No, of course not, milady.” He took a step toward Abby in the silence that followed, but evidently changed his mind and stopped. “Is the man a spy?”

“Sir Alan? Don’t be absurd.”

“I don’t mean Sir Alan,” Rosston said with forced patience. “I am quite familiar with his position at the Bank of Scotland. I meant him.” He ducked his head toward Duncan.

“What? No.” Abby shook her head, distracted. “I was mistaken. The sum of what the man knows wouldn’t get you a ha’penny in the deepest bowels of Whitehall.”

Rosston waited. “Then he is…?”

“Him?” Abby said, apparently realizing an answer must be given. “That man there?” Panic rose in her eyes.

“Aye,” Rosston said. “If he’s not a spy, what was the idiot doing in the middle of Kerr land?”

Rosston had said “Kerr land” as if the “Kerr” involved had been him, and Duncan could see Abby had noticed it too. Duncan hadn’t liked the man from the first, and his dislike was only growing. With a bit of unsteady maneuvering, he got his feet beneath him. Let the man call him “idiot” to his face.

“Abby?” Rosston said.

Abby jabbed her thumb toward Miss Fallon. “Why, he’s her…her…”

“Her what?”

“Swineherd.”

“Cousin.”

“Husband.”

“
Adviser
.”

Rosston gazed narrowly at the four suddenly impenetrable faces. “I beg your pardon?”

Undine put down her wine. “He’s her swineherd cousin’s husband’s adviser. Upon my word, Rosston. Pay attention. Miss Fallon brought him here to Langholm, and I think we would do ourselves and Miss Fallon a great service if we endeavored to keep that in mind.”

Rosston scanned the room slowly, stopping for a long moment on Duncan’s graceless ascent to his knees before returning to Abby. He made a courtly bow to Miss Fallon. “My apologies. I assume, then, Miss Fallon and her, er, associate will be joining us for supper?”

“I do not have time to trifle with a meal this evening,” Abby said. “If you’re hungry, please ask Mrs. Michaels to fix something for you. I’m sure there’s more than enough left over from the festivities. I intend to review the paperwork for Sir Alan and go to bed.”

“I pray you do not have much to review, milady. Sir Alan was spotted in town less than a quarter hour ago. He will be at Castle Kerr quite soon.”

Duncan stood and the world began to spin. He grabbed the chair back, but it wasn’t enough. He collapsed, crashing into the gilt-legged table as he fell.

Abby made a long, slow sigh. “We are ruined.”

Abby watched the man weave his way past the top of the grand staircase and down the hall in front of her. In what part of Scotland did they wear such odd skirt-like plaids? The ones her men wore stretched from their shoulders to their knees. Had he come from another country? More important, what was she going to do with him? Or with Sir Alan for that matter? She hadn’t even had a chance to wash her hands since she’d been thrown. Undine and her bloody herbs!

“Stop there,” she commanded. “That will be your room.”

The man turned, confused, spotted the open door, and grabbed the frame for support. He managed something bow-like to encourage her to enter first. She felt a faint crackle as she passed, like the air after a summer storm. He was taller than she remembered, taller even than Rosston, and the bedchamber seemed suddenly quite small.

“You can stay here until we figure out what to do with you.”

He made his way to the cheval mirror, stripped off his sark, and gazed over his shoulder at the reflection of his arm. The cut from her arrow must have reopened because a ribbon of red was visible in the tracks of the darker, clotted blood on his arm. His eyes were a rich sea blue, and she couldn’t help but admire the wide, carved chest, dusted with bronze and gold, and the tautness of his belly. He lifted the red-blond locks at his nape and hissed when his fingers found the egg-sized knob.

“You’re quite the bowwoman,” he said, meeting her gaze in the mirror.

“My father wouldna teach me to use a sword. He said women have no use for them.”

A ruddy brow rose. Had he heard something in her reply? Long ago, she’d learned to remove all emotion when she spoke of her father. She would have to take extra care around this man.

He crossed his arms. “Would you care to tell me why I’m here?”

She shifted. Anything she told him might be repeated to Sir Alan. He looked as if he’d managed to get himself under control, but who could judge such a thing? He didn’t seem like the men she knew in the borderlands. He didn’t seem like the men she knew anywhere.

“My life’s been taken from me,” he said. “I think I deserve an answer.”

“You have been called here by magic, and I—”

“Whose? Yours?”

“No. I had nothing to do with it.”

He eyed her skeptically.

“Undine is half naiad—water fairy,” she added, seeing his confusion. “Or so she says. Without a doubt, though, she is a fortune-teller and potion-maker. ’Twas her magic that brought you here. Not mine.” Abby thought of the long columns of household expenses and the dwindling gold in the Kerr accounts. “Were I possessed of magic, I would not have wasted it on you.”

“And how will I—?”

“I cannot think about that now,” she said. “I am about to receive a guest whose needs take precedence. For the present, you will have to wait here. Perhaps you can practice swinging your wee sword.”

He gave her a cool look. “I know how to use a sword.”

“A wooden one.”

“I know how to use a steel one too.”

“I am most glad to hear it. I’ll have someone bring you something to eat.”

“Rosston is expecting me at supper. Willna my absence appear strange?”

He was right, dammit. “I’ll tell him you’re unwell.”

The man rocked on his heels for a moment, then threw his balled-up shirt on the bed. “No. I don’t think so. I want to come.”

She drew herself up to full height. “Perhaps you’d prefer to be locked into your room?”

“Perhaps you’d prefer to have me tell Rosston your clan is on the verge of losing everything.”

He’d overheard what she’d said to Undine! What else had he heard? She considered calling for her guards. She also considered punching him in the nose. Neither, however, seemed calculated to reduce Sir Alan’s anxiety about investing.

A dangerous incaution simmered in the man’s eyes, and she could almost hear him shouting, “She’s lying, Sir Alan! ’Tis the canal or the poorhouse for the Kerrs!” as her guards dragged him away. What choice did she have, short of having guards posted at his door? Even then she’d still have to worry about what he’d say to them.

“As you wish,” she said. “But only under these conditions: You are to limit your conversation partners to me and Undine. Under no circumstances are you to speak to Rosston or Sir Alan. And you are not to mention the circumstances of your unfortunate arrival to anyone. We will see to your problems tomorrow, but for now I expect you to do as I say, when I say it. Do you understand?”

A drop of blood fell from his elbow to the rug.

She let out an aggrieved exhalation. “I’ll have some towels and bandages brought to you. Until then, if you could manage to keep your blood off my rugs, I’d appreciate it. Do you understand?”

“Is Rosston your husband?”

The question startled her. “No.”

“Does he want to be?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps.”

The man kept his unblinking gaze on her.

“Aye,” she admitted, annoyed. “If you must know. Though it hardly matters.”

“To you? Or to him?” He picked up his shirt. “Or to me?”

“To any of us,” she said, refusing to consider what he might have meant by the last. “I have no time to tend to you like a bairn in clouts. There are clothes that should fit you in the wardrobe here. Can you get yourself clean, dressed, and to the dining hall by seven?”

“I am not here of my own free will. If you could spare me a modicum of hospitality, I’d appreciate it.”

“Hospitality!” she cried. “Do ye not realize you’re
alive
, under the protection of
my
clan, eating
my
food, and sleeping in
my
bed?” Her cheeks warmed as she realized how that last phrase sounded. “On top of that, you’ve just blackmailed me. What additional hospitality should I be offering?”

Those eyes turned gray, and she saw the tiniest flash of hurt. “Well, you could start by asking my name.”

Oh.

She could hear her mother’s voice.
Abigail
Ailich
Kerr, I raised you better than that.

“I—I beg your pardon.” Abby made an unsteady curtsy. “Today has been a mess”—she forbore naming the reasons why, since they prominently included him—“and dinner promises to offer more of the same. I am Abby Kerr of Clan Kerr.”

“And I’m Duncan MacHarg.” He offered his hand.

She hesitated. She had little desire to deepen their friendship. But a handshake was a greeting from a man to a man. She liked that. She took his hand. It was warm and firm—and large enough to make hers look like a small bird nesting in it.

“Abby Kerr,” he said, the incaution in those eyes replaced by something kinder and a wee bit spellbinding. “I’ll do nothing to harm your relationship with Sir Alan. I know what it is to have a lot riding on a meeting. I may be the last person you wanted to attend tonight, but I promise you may depend on me.”

Nora, one of the younger kitchen maids, appeared in the doorway, and Abby pulled her hand free. The girl stared at Duncan with wide eyes.

“What is it?” Abby demanded, inexplicably flustered.

“Mrs. Michaels needs to know what dishes ye want to serve.”

Abby exhaled. “Whatever can be salvaged from this afternoon. Tell her to use her best judgment.”

Nora scampered away.

“I beg your pardon, MacHarg,” Abby said. “I am needed elsewhere—everywhere, it seems.”

He followed her to the hall, and they nearly bumped when she stopped to give him a second curtsy. This one was made even more self-conscious by the sight of Rosston peering at them from the doorway to his room.

“I’ll see you at seven,” Duncan said. “And I shall speak only to you.”

“No, that’s not what I—” She stopped. She could tell by the gleam in his eyes there was nothing to be gained by trying to correct him. She slipped her still-tingling hand in her pocket and hurried to the staircase.