Some Like it Scot (Scandalous Highlanders Book 4) (11 page)

Silence. “Oh. All right, then. I suppose that'll do.”

“Thank ye, ye stubborn lass.” With that he marched back down the hallway and outside to where Peter Gilling sat eating an apple on the seat of a well-laden wagon. “Let's get to it, shall we?” Munro said crisply, and with a grunt heaved the heavy door onto his shoulder.

“Am I still yer uncle, m'l—”

“Aye,” Munro interrupted, before the footman could finish speaking. The lass had made her first concession, and he wasn't about to set her back up again by letting her overhear that not only was he not a gamekeeper, but he was the MacLawry's own brother.

“Then, nephew, have ye lost yer damned mind? Dunnae ye think someone at Glengask'll miss a door?”

“Nae,” he decided, stepping up into the house again. Glengask Castle had more than fifty rooms and probably better than a hundred doors. The unused linen closet at the back of an unused room in the corner of the east wing hadn't been opened for at least five years. Now it didn't need to be, because the door was about to be put to much better use elsewhere. Getting it out of Glengask without anyone seeing him had been a tale all by itself.

Cat stood in the kitchen doorway as he approached, her gaze traveling up and down the length of him in a way that made him feel distinctly warm. Aye, he was a strong, fit man to be carrying a door about on his shoulder, and it was about time she noticed that.

He set the door down and leaned it against the wall. “Yer door, Cat.”

“The opening's too big for it.”

“That's why I also brought wood and bricks and mortar. And unless ye ken how to hang a door, ye'd best stay well back.”

Her sister immediately returned to mending a shawl by the fireplace. Cat, though, stood her ground. “I reckon I can use a shovel or a hammer as well as any man.”

Peter walked up and handed her a satchel of tools. “That's bonny, because I dunnae ken how my nephew and I can do it alone.”

That wasn't at all helpful, but at the same time Munro had no objection to keeping her close by him all day. “Let's get the frame measured up, then,” he said, heading back outside for a stack of lumber.

“I thought ye were Glengask's gamekeeper.”

She'd followed him. “In the Highlands a man does what's needed,” he returned, ignoring the unexpected thrill that ran through him at her pursuit, instead pulling the boards out of the cart and then crouching to heave them up on his shoulder. “And what's yer complaint aboot me being a handy fellow, what with ye being a lass who wears trousers and shoots dead-on with a musket?”

“I've nae complaint.” She hesitated, then lifted a trio of bricks in her arms, cradling them against her chest as she fell in behind him. “I cannae help but wonder what ye expect in return for this door, Munro.”

He sent back a glance at her. “Just a wee bit of trust, lass. That's all I ask.” For the moment, anyway. Suggesting that he'd like to—that he intended to—bed her, would only get him a brick thrown at his skull now.

“Ye give me a door, first. Then I'll consider.”

Her gaze skimmed him again as she turned away. She at least seemed aware now that he was male—or more likely, she'd decided his muscles could be useful. He wondered again which clan she claimed, or if she even had one. Given the obvious culture of her sister, he guessed that she
did
have a clan, and that she was no fringe hanger-on. If that were so, however, what had happened to send the two lasses fleeing into the wilds? And why
was
there no mention of an ongoing search for a missing Society lady in the newspaper?

“Tell me someaught,” he said, pulling a hinged measuring stick from Peter's satchel and unfolding it. “Is this yer last resort?”

“What do ye mean, ‘last resort'?” she returned, from closer behind than he expected. “Having ye give me a door?”

“Nae. Being here at Haldane Abbey. Was coming to MacLawry territory yer first choice or yer last one?”

He heard her take a breath, but when she didn't immediately tell him to mind his own affairs he busied himself with measuring the uneven opening. If she'd decided to at least consider answering him, he could call that a victory.

“It wasnae my first choice,” she finally answered, her voice pitched low enough that her sister halfway across the room likely couldn't hear a word of it. “I originally thought somewhere less … isolated would do, but Elizabeth cannae even pretend to be a Scot.”

“Ye mean her pretty ways make ye too noticeable.” As opposed to Cat's wearing trousers—which any red-blooded man would have to be blind not to notice.

Another hesitation. “Aye. And that's all I'm saying about it.”

“Did I
ask
ye anything else?”

“Ye—”

“Excuse me, lass.” Peter edged by them to set another pile of bricks against the wall.

Both Munro and Cat jumped.
Damnation.
He, at least, knew better than to forget his surroundings. Out in the middle of nowhere could be the most dangerous place for a MacLawry sibling to be. “Do ye reckon we have enough mortar and plaster, uncle?” he asked, mostly to remind the footman yet again of their charade.

“Aye, unless ye decide to patch the corner of the ceiling,” Gilling returned, gesturing at the spot where sunlight glinted through the roof. “We dunnae have the tarp yet, though.”

Oh, they would be repairing the roof. Just not today. “Help me mark the lumber, will ye?”

The lads generally hired to make repairs and build cottages in An Soadh had been eager to sell him supplies, even after he'd awakened them at four o'clock in the morning by pounding on their door. Both men, though, had asked where he was headed and whether he needed more assistance, so he and Peter had actually left the village westbound before circling around to the south and east. Little as he knew about these sisters, he was quite aware that he'd been supremely serious when he'd said he would protect them—protect her—whether they wanted his assistance or not. And that meant even from the curious of his own clan.

“Tell
me
someaught,” Cat said after a moment, crouching to hold a plank steady as he marked it. “With all the time ye've spent here, hasnae his lordship noticed ye shirking yer duties? Are ye nae worried ye'll be sacked?”

“His lordship's table doesnae lack fer meat,” he returned truthfully. “I reckon as long as that's so, whatever else I choose to do with my time is my own affair.” He straightened. If they were circling back around to questions about the MacLawrys, he needed to change the subject. “In fact, I've some beef in the wagon fer ye. Uncle?”

Gilling sank down against the wall. “I reckon ye'll have to fetch it yerself, nephew,” he said, sending his employer an uncertain glance. “My back's near broken.”

Well, he'd made the footman his uncle, so he supposed he'd have to live with the consequences of that—until they returned to Glengask, anyway. And it would give him a moment to consider how much more lying he wanted to do. “Then take a rest, old man. I'll be back in a minute.”

From the look Bear sent her, he clearly expected Catriona to tag along after him. Instead, she plunked herself down next to his so-called uncle. The giant had proven himself adept at avoiding her questions, but Peter Gilling didn't seem nearly as glib—and she had some suspicions for which she needed some answers. The moment Munro turned down the hallway, she sighed.

“Bear's helping us isnae going to cause him trouble, is it?” she said with a frown. “I know Lord Glengask has two brothers and a sister, the lot of them all married over the past two years. That's a great many mouths, when ye add in the bairns and the servants.”

“Lord Arran has his own house at Fen Darach, and Lady Winnie lives with Lord Gray at the MacTier hoose,” the grizzled fellow returned. “It's only Glengask and his lady and their wee bairn William at the castle now, along with L—the youngest brother. He isnae wed yet.”

“And what's his name?”

Gilling's eyes widened, and then he abruptly began coughing. “Och,” he managed, between bouts of hacking, “a bit of … water … lass.”

Elizabeth hurried over with a handleless mug, and he gulped the contents down ferociously. Then he needed more water. By then Catriona was fairly certain of the reason behind his abrupt ailment.
Good heavens.
She'd wanted a place where she and Elizabeth could disappear, or at least remain anonymous. If her suspicions were true, Bear was the very last person with whom she wanted to be acquainted.

When he strolled back in, she rose to poke a finger into his hard chest. “So yer uncle seems to have forgotten the name of the youngest MacLawry lad. Since this laird lives with the marquis at Glengask Castle, I reckon ye ken who he is. Why dunnae ye tell me, then?”

Bear looked from her to the abruptly silent older man. “Didnae I tell ye to keep yer gobber shut, Peter?”

“Aye. She tricked me, though.”

And doing so had been much easier than she'd expected. But she wasn't about to give Bear time to think up some other lie or excuse or to drop dead of the plague or something. She poked him again. “What is his name?” she demanded, jabbing her finger in time with her words.

He took an audible breath. “Munro,” he said slowly. “Though he goes by Bear, mostly.”

Catriona had expected to hear exactly that, but it still stunned her for a moment. For God's sake, she'd … Thank goodness she hadn't begun to like him, because that would have hurt. “Ye bloody liar,” she snapped, refusing to acknowledge anything more than her anger.

“Of course I lied,” he retorted, his green eyes narrowed. “Nearly the first thing oot of yer mouth when we met was that ye expected Lord Glengask to ride in and burn ye oot. I wanted to help ye. I still want to help ye. What the devil does it matter who my brother is?”

She wanted to pummel him, but he probably wouldn't even feel it. “It matters! Ye should have told me!”

“Nae. I should've done exactly what I did, so that now ye can bellow at me but nae fear I'll harm ye.”

Catriona realized she had both hands clenched into fists. He made a good point, and she took a hard breath as she glared at him. Of course he might be attempting to avoid her wrath by making his deception her fault, but then perhaps it was. Partly, anyway. “Ye cannae blame me for being wary.”

“I dunnae blame ye. But then ye cannae blame me fer being cautious.” He took a long step closer to her. “And ye'd best keep in mind that ye still have a secret or two yerself before ye decide how much growling ye want to do now, ye mysterious lass.”

That stopped her retort. Aye, he'd lied to her. But he was correct; she'd lied—or at least omitted the truth—to him, as well. Of course she had a better reason for her caution, because she wasn't about to feel guilty for keeping Elizabeth and herself as safe as possible. “So ye're a good man despite yer blue blood, are ye?”

He shook his shaggy head at her. “Nae. I'm a man. And that's the sum of it. Where I lay my damned head has naught to do with my character.”

“Ye say that now because I caught ye in a lie.”

His brows lowered, jamming together. “I said it before. I'm only reminding ye it's still true.”

Damn it all, she'd suspected almost from the beginning that he wasn't a gamekeeper, though never in a hundred years would she have guessed he was the youngest brother of the MacLawry. One thing she
did
know, however, was that when—if—she told him the tale she carried, he would throw whatever response she made now right back at her. And the oddest part of it all was that she had the feeling that she
would
be telling him. As if over the past days their lives had become intertwined despite her best efforts to remain unentangled.

“Ye still should have told me,” she said finally, wondering why she wasn't as angry as she likely should have been, and deciding to leave answering that question for later. “Yer being here will attract attention. I dunnae want attention.”

“I gave ye my word, lass,” he said after a moment, before he picked up a saw and returned to his work. “I mean to keep ye—and yer sister—safe.”

From the last glance he sent her, Munro had also expected her to kick up more of a fuss. Blast it, she wanted to. And she could tell herself that her calm had nothing to do with how very fine he looked in his coarse cotton shirt and black and white and red kilt and those scuffed leather work boots, and everything to do with what would happen if he learned anything else about her.

Squaring her shoulders, she turned her back on the two men and strode into the depths of the kitchen. She had a rabbit to spit and put over the fire. And she wanted a closer look at the newspaper he'd brought. The news was nearly a week old now, but it seemed like there should have been … something. Some sign that the Duke of Visford was displeased to find his betrothed gone, that her stepmother Anne Derby-MacColl had offered a reward for her only child's safe return.

“He's the Marquis of Glengask's brother?” her sister whispered, leaning over the table beside her as she finally gave up on scouring the newspaper. “He doesn't look like a lord.”

That made her smile. Half Scottish or not, her sister was so very English. “What does he look like to ye, then?”

“I don't know. One of those men who teaches aristocrats how to box, or perhaps a stable boy or something. I mean, he's very fit.”

That, he was. “At least we know the truth of it, now.”

“Yes.” Elizabeth clutched her sister's hand. “I was glad when he and his uncle found us. I mean, I love you, but they were someone to talk to. Now, though—what if they know Visford? What if the marquis has already told him that I'm here?”

Catriona squeezed Elizabeth's fingers as they began to shake. “Hush. He doesnae know who ye are. If he did, we'd have seen Lord Glengask already. And I promised ye that I'd keep ye safe,
piuthar
. No matter what.”