Margo Maguire (15 page)

Chapter 22

L
achann knew better.

But he could not help himself.

Anna looked at him dubiously. “Raise my . . . ?”

“You’ll need to strap the knife to your leg,” he said. “Up high or below the knee like mine—whichever works best for you.”

He reached into his pack for a knife sheath and a garter, then knelt before her. She was still hesitating. “You can’t wear it on your belt in full sight, now, can you?”

“N-no. You’re right. I’ll need to surprise him.”

She took hold of her skirt and lifted it to her knees. Lachann forced himself to ignore the shapely limb before him and wrapped the garter just below her knee.

He heard her breath catch and looked up at her.
Gesu,
but she was beautiful. And the way her teeth pulled at her lower lip was beyond alluring. Lachann slid his hand up past her knee and rose to his feet. He put one arm ’round her waist.

“Anna.” He pulled her against him and took her mouth in a searing kiss. Sliding his hand down to her hip, he pulled her against his arousal.

Raw sensation shot through him when her body melted against him. Her hands slid up his chest, then ’round to the nape of his neck, and Lachann deepened their kiss.

He parted her lips and slid his tongue inside, relishing the heat of her mouth. She made a low, breathless sound and tipped her head to give him greater access.

Lachann feasted on her as he cupped her breast in one hand. He knew that slight touch wasn’t enough when he felt her shudder against him. They both needed more.

Breaking their kiss, he pulled open the laces of her bodice and moved the cloth aside. “You are so very bonny, Anna MacIver . . .” She arched against him and Lachann lowered his head to take one hardened nipple into his mouth. He skimmed his hand up her leg, then placed her foot on the low mattress near the fireplace. He drew her skirt up behind her until he touched the bare skin of her bottom.

He slid his hand into the cleft. . . .

Anna moved against him, increasing the contact. She was hot and damp, and so very ready for him.

Lachann was as hard as his claymore and aching for her touch. “Anna . . .”

He took one of her hands and placed it on his burgeoning erection. Her touch was tentative, but as she ran her hand along his hard length she trembled even as she tightened her grasp.

“Aye, lass. That’s it.”

Lachann kissed her again, his tongue mating with hers as he laid her down on the bed and partially covered her with his body.

He slipped the hand under her skirt higher and touched the sensitive flesh between her legs.

She gasped and closed her legs against his hand.

“Anna, let me show you . . .” He used his thumb to trace a circle ’round the sensitive nub and slipped one finger inside her. Ach, she was so very tight, and Lachann was desperate to slide into her.

“Oh!” she cried. Her body jerked, the muscles of her legs tightening as she grabbed hold of his shoulders and pulled him down to her.

Her reaction to his touch was as explosive as the gunfire going on outside.

Lachann shoved his plaid aside, beyond ready to—

Gesu
.
Gunfire?

His arms shook. Desire, hot and pulsing, shot through his veins. He was on the verge of the most intense moment—

Another shot rang out, then shouts.

Lachann pushed up and off the bed. Somebody was shooting inside the castle walls!

His responsibility was clear, and yet . . .

“Lachann?”

Gesu,
but he wanted her. Her eyes were hazy with passion . . . as well as confusion as he pulled away, righting his clothes.

“Anna . . . I am sorry . . .”

He dashed from the cottage, heading for the courtyard, where the sound of the gunshots had come from.

For no one on the isle—
no one
—had been issued a firearm.

A
nna could not escape the cottage fast enough. She laced her bodice and grabbed a dirk, jamming it into the garter at her knee.

She did not want to see Lachann just now, did not want to run into him while he dealt with whoever was shooting in the courtyard. She took the overgrown path to the chapel and pried open the rusty gate in the castle wall behind it. Then she climbed down the rough rocks that formed the caves, as well as a natural staircase that led to the beach below.

Herregud!
Her thoughts were muddled, but she knew there was naught to compare with what had just happened to her. Lachann’s touch had taken away her will and her common sense, and replaced it with some kind of lunacy.

She thanked the heavens the seduction had gone no further.

Anna reached the sandy beach and dropped to her knees, holding her stomach as tears welled in her eyes. She could never allow anything like that to happen again.

As incredible as it had been.

She got to her feet and started running toward the village, feeling a little desperate, and more than a little bit foolish. Only a madwoman would dally with the man who would become her sister’s husband.

Only a fool would leave her heart unguarded with such a man.

She’d had her doubts before, but now ’twas certain she could not stay at Kilgorra Keep and continue to serve Catrìona and her new husband after they married. She couldn’t bear to attend him at meals or when he stopped for an informal breakfast in the kitchen; couldn’t pretend that naught had passed between them.

’Twas not possible to feign an indifference she did not feel.

Worst of all would be knowing Lachann and Catrìona shared the pleasures of his bed, and having to watch her stepsister grow large and round with his bairns.

Thinking of those bairns trapped the breath inside Anna’s lungs. She did not want to care, but ’twas all too clear that she did. Very much.

She arrived at the pier and saw that the
Saoibhreas
was anchored and its men were carrying crates of Kilgorra whiskey up the gangway. Well, at least something was going right. The whiskey trade kept Kilgorra a prosperous isle.

A young crewman who could not have been more than twelve or thirteen years of age started on his way up the path to the village. The mad idea she’d entertained in passing yesterday struck her once again, and Anna ran to catch up with him.

“Hello!” she called, and the lad stopped and turned to wait for her.

“Might I ask you a question?” she asked when she reached him.

“Aye?”

“Does your ship ever take on passengers?”

“Ach, nay,” the lad replied, apparently appalled by the question.

“What if she worked for her passage?”

“
She?
A woman?” His already pale face went white at the very idea. He shook his head vigorously. “Nay. The captain allows no women aboard the
Saoibhreas
.”

Anna glanced back at the hull of the ship. Mayhap she could sneak onboard and hide somewhere inside.

Aye.
She
might. But not with Kyla and Douglas.

And she did not know where the
Saoibhreas
was headed. “Ach, well,” she said to the lad. “I only thought I’d ask.”

He nodded absently, then started to cough, covering his mouth with his hand.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“Aye. ’Tis naught but a wee catarrh,” he replied, though he frowned when he swallowed thickly, wincing as he did so. It seemed to Anna he was sicker than he wanted to let on. Mayhap ’twas best that she did not get on that ship—especially with Kyla and Douglas—if there was sickness aboard.

“Well,” Anna said, “if you need a tonic for it, our healer is well known for her remedies. She is the best in the isles.”

He gave a nod, then continued on his way to the public house, where the rest of his shipmates might well have stopped before sailing out again.

Anna took the path to Kyla’s cottage, acutely conscious of the knife strapped to her leg. Could she use it on Birk? She was fairly certain he would stay away at least another day. After that, Kyla and her husband would reconcile.

’Twas something Anna had never understood before—the bond of belonging.

Aye,
she thought, coming to her senses
. And beatings from a man who was supposed to protect and care for her.

L
achann knew he should have been grateful for the interruption at the cottage, but his body screamed for release even as he ran in the direction of the gunfire. He had to put the interlude with Anna in perspective. It had been a mistake.

A liaison with a well-loved serving maid could do naught to enhance his credibility on Kilgorra. Which did not alter the fact that he wanted her with a passion that was unmatched in his memory.

As he approached the back of the blacksmith’s shop, it seemed every Kilgorran who’d come to the castle to train was heading in the same direction. He pushed his way through the group of men to where Cullen Macauley was standing with Catrìona, pistol in hand.

“What in hell is going on here?” Lachann demanded. “Is that one of my pistols?”

Grinning, Macauley shrugged.

Catrìona smiled sweetly at Lachann. “Cullen was just demonstrating his shooting skills, Lachann.”

Lachann took the pistol from the bastard’s hand and gave it to the closest Braemore man. “See that the weapons—all of them—are locked inside the barracks when we’re not using them for training, Malcolm.”

He faced Cullen and Catrìona, his anger at Macauley’s stupidity palpable. “You think ’tis acceptable to play at target practice when you know full well that anyone might walk into the line of fire? We had a near disaster yesterday from one man’s negligence.”

“Surely you do not mean—”

“Aye, I do,” Lachann snapped at Catrìona. “Davy MacDonall was nearly killed because Mungo Ramsay did not unload and put away a cart loaded with gunpowder and cannon balls. I’ll have no more accidents here.”

Catrìona looked as though she would shoot him a retort, but apparently she thought better of it and closed her mouth. Pointedly ignoring Lachann, she took Macauley’s arm and led him away from the crowd. “Come along, Cullen. I thought your shooting was quite impressive.”

The men returned to the practice area in the courtyard, and Lachann turned to Kieran. “How did Macauley get his hands on that gun?”

“He might have taken it while our men were unloading the supplies right after we arrived,” Kieran replied.

Lachann muttered a low curse. “From now on, I want the weapons locked in the barracks, and the gunpowder in one of the empty buildings nearby,” he said. “No one is to have access without our permission.”

“Aye. I’ll see to it.”

Lachann glanced at the path to the cottage and wondered if Anna was still there. He’d left her abruptly, even rudely.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Gesu
. The lass did not deserve the kind of treatment he’d given her.

“Lachann,” Duncan said, tipping his head in the direction of Catrìona and Macauley. “This does not bode well.”

Lachann did not know how to answer. No, it did not bode well, but neither did a marriage between himself and Catrìona. He did not want a woman who stood on the wrong side of everything that made any sense.

Lachann rubbed the back of his head. “Do you know Catrìona did not bother to go down to the MacDonalls’ cottage yesterday to see how Davy fared?”

“She didn’t?”

Lachann walked with Duncan toward the courtyard, ignoring the powerful draw to return to the old cottage. He knew how unlikely ’twas that Anna would be there waiting for him.

Still, the allure of finding her, wherever she might be—of seeing her
now
and finishing what he’d begun—was strong.

“Lachann . . .” Duncan glanced toward Catrìona’s direction. “You know your wealth alone will not be enough to secure the lairdship.”

“Do not worry, Duncan.” Lachann tightened his belt ’round his waist. “When it comes down to it, ’tis up to her father.”

“Aye, but—”

“He must know he needs our protection.”

“One would think so.”

“The old man gave me leave to make what changes I deem necessary on the isle,” Lachann said. “I take that as a positive sign.”

“Aye, but he’s likely still thinking of you as his daughter’s betrothed.”

“Mayhap,” Lachann said. “So I’m going to make myself indispensable in every way.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to the distillery to see what other mischief Macauley is up to.” Lachann told himself ’twould be highly impractical to go searching for Anna in the keep. She had her chores to perform, and he had duties as well.

Besides, Anna MacIver was a complication he could not afford.

Chapter 23

L
achann rode down to the pier, then turned up the village lane and made his way to the distillery, where he dismounted and tied his horse.

A well-dressed older gentleman came out of the building and greeted Lachann. He spoke loudly, to be heard over the sound of the waterfall. “I’m Geordie Kincaid. I’ve been hoping ye’d soon visit us here.”

Lachann remembered hearing the name of the chief distiller, who, by all accounts, had run the place successfully for years. Lachann walked alongside him, breathing in the scent of the peat fires that dried the fermenting barley. He took note of the river that flowed past the distillery and on into the sea.

“The isle has more than one freshwater spring,” Lachann said, nodding toward the steep mountain behind the village. He’d seen the spring on one of his earlier rides, so he knew where the source of the river was. And he’d seen yet another spring in the hills on the southern rim of the island.

“Aye. Sweetest water in th’ western isles,” Kincaid said, though he seemed distracted as he led Lachann into the huge building.

They made no whiskey at Braemore, so Lachann’s knowledge of the distilling process was limited. But he knew the freshwater as well as the waterfall had to be an advantage. As they walked past two men who were at work shoveling a large stack of peat into what appeared to be an oven, Lachann took in the vast space on the ground floor, which was filled with barrels stacked as high as they could go.

“Is that the kiln?” he asked Kincaid.

“Aye. We’ve just laid out our last batch of mashed barley until the new harvest. We’ll dry it with the peat fires for a day or so, then clear the floor for the new crop.”

Lachann heard footsteps on the wooden floor above. “You’ve got men up there in all that smoke?”

Kincaid nodded. “Aye, but only fer a few minutes. We’ll let the fires die while they turn the barley as it dries.”

They came to a large, old, well-used table, with sheaves of paper stacked neatly upon it, along with an ink bottle and quill. A small, unlit lamp stood on its corner.

“What’s this?”

“My office,” Kincaid said with a frown.

Lachann glanced to the right, where a stout door stood closed. “What’s in there?”

“Ah.
That
was my office for the past twenty years,” he said. “I am now forbidden access to it.”

“By whom?” Lachann asked, though he had a feeling he already knew the answer.

“Cullen Macauley,” Kincaid replied, his temper simmering just below his surface. “He has installed himself as the manager of the distillery.”

Lachann tried the door and found it locked. “Macauley has the only key?”

A satisfied look came over Kincaid’s face when he drew a set of keys from a fold of his plaid. “Ach, no. He does’na know it, but I enter as often as I must.”

“Open it, Kincaid.”

The man did so, and they went into the small office. Lachann found it sparsely furnished with a desk and two chairs. Papers were scattered about the desk, and Kincaid clucked his tongue as he looked at the jumble of ledgers and correspondence.

“Ye can’na run the business this way,” he said. “Look a’ this mess.”

Aye, the desk was untidy, and so was the top of an ancient, locked chest that stood against the opposite wall. There were several empty whiskey bottles lying upon it, exactly like the ones Lachann had seen at the castle, full of the laird’s thirty-year malt.

“Does Macauley actually handle any business?”

Kincaid gave a nod. “Tradin’ ships have come in, and they’ve dealt with
him
.”

“You were cut out of the transaction?”

“Aye. I have no idea whether he’s gettin’ a fair price or if he’s givin’ it away. I’ve seen naught written in these ledgers.”

Lachann knew the whiskey trade was rarely a simple business with cash in and whiskey out. The whole system was far too complex for an outsider—an inexperienced outsider—to come in and take over.

“I hope ye can do somethin’ about that bastard—beggin’ yer pardon, sir,” Kincaid said. “He’s takin’ all our best whiskey an’ wastin’ it on Laird MacDuffie, who would’na know a thirty-year malt from a three-year barrel. He can’na read a ledger to save his soul, and”—Kincaid unlocked the safe behind the desk—“he’s kept naught to pay the farmers.”

Lachann picked up a few of the empty bottles. “Why are these here?”

“Exactly the point!” Kincaid said in a tight, angry voice. The color rose to his cheeks as he spoke. “I do’na keep bottles in my office . . . and aye, this is
my
office, not his!”

“I understand your predicament, Kincaid,” Lachann said, “and I will do what I can. For now, though—”

“Catrìona can’na marry that rogue,” Kincaid cut in. “He’s a bloody weasel, and full of secrets. He is up to no good, I can tell ye.”

Lachann already knew that. “What do you think he’s—”

“I do’na know, MacMillan!” Kincaid shoved his fingers through his graying hair. “But, I tell ye ’tis most irksome to know there’s a plan afoot with
my
distillery, and yet not know what it is.”

Kincaid’s hands were balled into tight fists. “We all see his plan is to win Laird MacDuffie’s favor by fillin’ him with our best whiskey. He keeps the old man fully jaked and barely sensible, and one o’ these fine days, the bloody dobber will wrest the laird’s consent to marry his daughter. Unless you can do somethin’, ’twill be only a matter of time before there’s a Macauley laird in MacDuffie’s place.”

Aye, Lachann suspected the same. He needed to get rid of Macauley as soon as possible.

“The ship in the harbor,” Lachann said. “Is its business with the distillery concluded?”

Kincaid shook his head. “No money has exchanged hands yet, if that’s what yer askin’.”

“Good. I’ll go talk to her captain,” Lachann said. “And I’ll put a stop to Macauley’s access here.”

“I thank ye, MacMillan. Fer all ye can do.”

Lachann left the distillery, leading his horse toward the pier. He had a plan for keeping Macauley out of the distillery, but he’d yet to come up with a way to eject him from Kilgorra without causing offence to the laird and his daughter.

But he would think of something.

A
nna felt more than a little shaken by what had happened in Gudrun’s cottage. She needed Ky now.

She took the path up to her friend’s cottage. She guessed Birk was still lying about in one of the caves on the beach, imbibing excessively, as was his wont these days.

“What’s wrong?” Kyla asked as Anna came into the cottage and took Douglas from her friend’s arms.

“Naught.”

“Anna . . .”

“Have you seen Birk?” Anna could not speak of what had just happened in the cottage. Not even to Kyla.

Kyla crossed her arms over her chest, and her questioning gaze made Anna turn ’round and bounce Douglas in her arms.

“I’ve not seen him yet today.”

Anna’s feelings were so very raw that she did not know what to say. That her heart was in jeopardy? That Catrìona did not deserve a man like Lachann MacMillan? That she would consider breaking her vow of perpetual maidenhood for him . . . ?

If ’twas not already broken by their actions in the cottage.

“I got you a weapon,” Anna said. She sat down and reached under her skirt for the dirk strapped at her knee. “Hide it in this garter, and when Birk tries—”

“Anna, no.”

“Aye. You must protect yourself.”

Kyla sat down across from Anna. The bruise ’round her eye was mostly green now. Fading.

“Next time he goes for you, knock him hard between the legs. Use your knee, or your fist if you must.”

“I-I do not think I can.”

“Aye. You can and you must,” Anna said, deadly serious. “If he grabs you so you cannot damage his privates, then go for his nose. Use the heel of your hand, or your knuckles.”

Kyla looked askance at Anna. “How do you know all this?”

Anna shrugged. “I asked someone.”

“Who?”

“It does not matter who,” she said. “He gave me good advice, and now I’m passing it on to you.”

“He? Lachann MacMillan, aye?”

“What if it was?”

Kyla observed Anna’s face, which she struggled to keep composed. She reached across the table and took Anna’s hand. “He cannot marry Catrìona.”

“Aye? Well, he must,” Anna retorted, feeling perilously close to tears. “Kilgorra does not deserve a laird like the one we have. Or Cullen Macauley in his place.”

Kyla did not disagree, and Anna’s sense that her friend was quietly assessing her was confirmed by her next question. “What happened when you asked MacMillan for the dirk?”

“He gave me a lesson on how to defend myself.”

“Is that all?”

Anna felt her face flush to the roots of her hair. “Of course.”

“Mayhap you can lie to yourself, Anna MacIver,” Kyla said. “But I know you too well.”

Anna blinked back the moisture gathering in her eyes. “Naught can happen between Lachann and me, Kyla. Absolutely naught.”

T
he look of pure disgust Catrìona had seen in Lachann MacMillan’s eyes worried her. Aye, she supposed it had been foolish for Cullen to shoot off his pistol so close to the courtyard where someone might walk by. But MacMillan took too much authority upon himself. Chastising Mungo after that stupid boy had been hurt, berating Cullen . . .

Catrìona had not yet consented to wed him, and he was not yet laird.

He might never be. A controlling husband was not what Catrìona wanted, though his wealth was said to be immense. Far more substantial even than that of the Duke of Argyll.

She thought about what she might do with such riches. She could have a house on the mainland, at Inverness, perhaps. Or Fort William, where hundreds of men were garrisoned. She could socialize with others of her status. The wee wren could choose far more sophisticated lovers than the ones available to her on Kilgorra.

With MacMillan’s money, Catrìona’s wardrobe would be the finest anyone could order from France, not these homely gowns Anna sewed for her.
Ha!
Which would require a trip to Paris, she thought with glee, something Catrìona had never before thought possible.

Cullen was not a poor man, and he was far less controlling, far more amenable than Lachann MacMillan. Catrìona did not think he would mind if she went off to Inverness for a few months. Or spent time socializing in Paris with exciting, fashionable friends. As long as he had lairdship of the isle, he would be content.

She watched him sleep on the narrow bed in the chapel room and decided he was far easier to manage than MacMillan would ever be. But did he have the funds she wanted for this new life she envisioned?

If she wed Lachann MacMillan, would he ever agree that she could live the life she wanted while he stayed behind and built Kilgorra into the military bastion he wanted?

’Twas something she needed to find out before she made her decision.

L
achann settled the issues of payment with the captain of the
Saoibhreas,
then returned to the castle to handle the problem of Macauley and the distillery. He strode into the courtyard and signaled for Kieran to join him. “Come with me to the blacksmith’s shop.”

“You have business with that simpleton, Lachann?”

Lachann nodded. “I just discovered to what extent Macauley has been interfering at the distillery. I’m going to lock him out of the place as soon as the blacksmith can make a new lock.”

“Aye? You think Ramsay has the skill to do it?”

“I’m going to assume so. I want you to stay with him while he fashions it and installs it. Make sure there are only two keys. One is to go to Geordie Kincaid. You keep the other.”

“I foresee Catrìona objecting to this, Lachann.”

“Aye, she might,” Lachann said simply. But he did not care. “After I talk to Ramsay, I want you to stay on him until he completes the task.”

They continued in silence to the blacksmith’s shop, where they found Ramsay, digging for something on one of the deep shelves in his workshop.

“Ramsay.”

He turned and made a deep growl, glaring at Lachann as though he had some grievance.

“I want you to put a new lock on the door at the distillery,” Lachann said.

“Ach, aye? And why should I do that?” The man crossed his beefy arms over his chest.

Lachann walked up to the man and stood directly in front of him. Ramsay was a few years older than Lachann, but they were both of a size, though Lachann would bet every barrel of whiskey stored at the distillery that the blacksmith could not best him in agility. Ramsay hadn’t gained his brawn by moving swiftly in battle, as Lachann had.

“I thought I made myself clear yesterday.” Lachann spoke quietly and evenly.

Ramsay leaned slightly forward at the waist so that his face came close to Lachann’s. Clearly, the man was accustomed to using intimidation to accomplish his ends.

The man narrowed his eyes. “And if I’m too busy to get to it?”

“My cousin Kieran will help you make sure the new locks are a priority.”

Kieran leaned back casually against the doorjamb, as though the blacksmith’s decision to cooperate was of no concern. But Lachann was sure Ramsay had seen him in the courtyard, practicing with sword and pistol, as well as hand to hand. Ramsay would be a fool to tangle with him.