Page 6 of Devil’s Highlander (Clan MacAlpin #1)

Marjorie managed to avoid Cormac the rest of the day.

Granted, at one point, she’d heard him approaching and had to duck into what appeared to be an old root cellar—it’d taken her a good half hour to brush all the cobwebs from her clothes—but he’d been set on seeing her leave that day, and Marjorie simply refused.

Cormac had the skills to find Davie, and she wasn’t going back without him.

She had a plan, and it would unfold here at the dinner table.

She stabbed at her plate of finnan haddie, trying not to look at him seated at the end of the dining table. He’d shaved since the morning, and the fringe of his hair was still damp where he’d splashed water. He wore it long, but not so long that it grew past his shoulders. It became him.

She kicked herself under the table. She couldn’t let her mind wander. She needed to stay focused on her goal: finding Davie.

“Do you not like the fish, then?” Bridget asked.

“Aye, I like it fine,” Marjorie said, mustering a smile. She wiped her mouth and reached for the loaf of bread. “You prepared all this yourself?”

Gregor beat her to the bread, slicing off a thick hunk and handing it to her with a flourish. She nodded her thanks, and he winked in return.

Sighing, she glanced at Cormac. There’d been a day when all she would’ve needed to do was taunt him, saying Gregor would help her, and Cormac would’ve risen to the bait.

And Gregor might’ve helped her now. But in her short time at Dunnottar, she’d become convinced that she needed Cormac’s help.

At first she’d made excuses to herself. Cormac alone could help because he’d understand; he’d known the pain of losing Aidan.

Cormac alone had experience, on both water and land, suited to spying around the Aberdeen docks.

She studied him from beneath her lowered brows. He was intent on exacting the meat from a crab claw, pretending not to listen to their conversation. But Marjorie knew he’d be picking up every word. He was attentive, steady, and strong, and she was certain she needed Cormac— only Cormac.

“Well, our Cormac catches the fish, of course. Even though he usually never joins us at the supper table like this.” Bridget gave her brother a wicked smile, but he didn’t look up from his plate.

Something fluttered in Marjorie’s belly. Cormac had joined them at dinner, when normally he didn’t. With a clean shave, no less. It had to be significant. She reached for the butter, biting her lip not to grin. Her plan would definitely work.

“But, aye, I do the rest. And who else? Not this one, certainly,” Bridget added, swatting Declan’s hand. “Don’t you take that butter before Marjie has a go first.”

“Marjorie,” she muttered for the thousandth time since her arrival.

Declan passed the butter along with a rueful shrug, and his light brown hair flopped in his eyes.

“Thank you,” Marjorie told him, thinking how much he’d grown to favor the MacAlpins’ mother.

Unlike Gregor, Declan’s likeness to her went beyond the mere fact of his lighter coloring.

There was something of Mary MacAlpin there in the set of his full mouth and the faraway look in his eyes, as though one corner of his mind were always occupied elsewhere.

At twenty, he was young yet, and an unconventional sort of handsome; Marjorie imagined he’d grow into a striking man.

“And Declan, I’ve been meaning to ask you .

. .” Marjorie cut her eyes to Cormac. He appeared to be focused entirely on his supper, but she knew him better than that.

She spied a minute stiffening of his shoulders when she spoke.

The digging of his knife slowed ever so much.

He was listening. Time to fire off a broadside, as Uncle would say.

“We’re of a size. I’d like to borrow a pair of your trews, if I may. ”

Declan’s eyes widened, Bridget’s hands froze over her plate, and Gregor burst into loud laughter. Most of all, she was gratified to see that Cormac nearly choked on his crab.

“My . . . my trews?” Declan looked to their eldest brother for help. Gregor merely shrugged, leaning back in his chair as though to enjoy the show.

“Aye, your trews.” Marjorie carefully buttered her bread. She used her peripheral senses trying to gauge Cormac’s response. “I’d like to fashion myself a disguise.”

Gregor grew instantly serious. “Does this have to do with your Aberdeen boy? Bridget was telling me—”

“I ken what you’re about.” Bridget put her cutlery down with a clatter. “A disguise? I suppose you’ll be wanting to find this Davie yourself? Well, we’ll be allowing no such thing. I’ll borrow some trews as well, and go down to the docks with you.”

Gregor sat up, his face stern. “Bridget Mary MacAlpin, the only folk who’ll be gadding about Aberdeen wearing trews are me and your brothers.”

Marjorie ignored him. “Really, Bridget, you don’t need to come. I’ll be perfectly safe.” She waited a beat for Cormac to protest, but none came. “I’ll go during daylight hours,” she continued. “I’m thinking perhaps I’ll overhear something down by the docks.”

Still not sensing any movement from Cormac, Marjorie risked a glance his way. He was chewing slowly. Silently.

“The docks ?” Bridget’s voice came out as a shrill yelp. “Cormac, tell her how we’ll be allowing no such thing.”

There was a moment of quiet, then he simply said, “The boy is gone.” He chewed and swallowed another bite. “I’d be of no help. I’m needed here.” He finally looked up. “To feed the lot of you.”

“Cormac.” Everyone stilled at Gregor’s dangerously low tone. The eldest MacAlpin wasn’t much for conflict, but when he pushed up his sleeves and got in the fray, unpleasantness generally followed. “I’m expected elsewhere, or I’d help her. And Declan is too young.”

“Elsewhere?” Bridget exclaimed.

“Young?” Declan slammed his fist down on the table. “I’m a man grown!”

“Where is this elsewhere you’re suddenly needed?”

The table had erupted, and Marjorie was mortified. She hadn’t expected his family would need to beg Cormac to help her. The blood pounded in her cheeks.

“Declan’s place is here,” Gregor continued firmly. “And so it falls to you, Cormac. In any case, you, more than any of us, are suited to this. The famed scout and spy? Who better to trawl Justice Port for rumors of a shipload of indentured laborers.”

Marjorie studied Cormac’s face. The candlelight caught the scar at his temple. It winked in the light, before falling back into shadow.

Cormac curled his lip. Slowly, he shook his head.

“Marjorie’s mother was our mother’s dearest friend. You will do this for her.” Gregor leaned forward, his usually jovial manner forgotten. “Mother would have wished it.”

This was going too far. Marjorie had simply wanted to make Cormac think she’d put herself in danger. Spur him to action.

Cormac tensed. “Think twice before you invoke our mother.” He blinked for a long moment. “You know as well as I that the boy is gone.”

Such dark words, so casually spoken. It shot a fresh spear of dread through her belly.

“He might not be gone.” Bridget reached over to pat Marjorie’s hand.

“No,” Cormac said evenly. “The boy is gone. The world is cruel. It’s time for Marjorie to accept it once and for all.”

He only spoke about Marjorie, not to her. Why wouldn’t he address her? Did he blame her that much, hold her that accountable for the loss of Aidan? The loss of his mother?

“You will take a few days,” Gregor ordered. “Go with her to Aberdeen, have a look around the docks.”

Marjorie sat frozen. She couldn’t endure the fact that he wouldn’t voluntarily help her. “No, truly,” she stammered. She’d wanted his help, but not like this. “I’m able to do this myself.”

Gregor stared at his brother. “He’ll come to his senses, won’t you, Cormac?”

Cormac gave her a cold look. If he hadn’t hated her before, he’d surely hate her now, for putting him in this position. He was a proud man, and she’d set him up to take orders from his older brother.

Whatever it was she’d started, she needed to follow through now or seem a fool. But first she needed to get out of there. Cormac’s glare told her there was no changing his mind. It seemed she really was going to the Aberdeen docks. By herself.

She dabbed her mouth then meticulously folded her napkin. “I’m afraid I shall have to excuse myself.”

“Marjie, wait,” Bridget said.

Marjorie got up quickly, meeting nobody’s eye. She managed a shaky laugh. “Thank you for your hospitality. I’ll be returning to Aberdeen . . .”

When?

An image of Davie came to her. Two missing teeth and perpetually soiled cheeks. His eyes were bright, always with a smile for “Marjrey.”

She needed Cormac’s help, no matter the cost.

She braved a glance his way. He fisted his dinner knife as though ready to run someone through.

She had no choice but to force his hand.

“I’ll leave tomorrow. If you’d be so kind as to lend me those trews?” She flicked a glance at Declan, catching his wide green eyes, and then fled the room.

Cormac stalked to the kitchens to forage for food. His appetite had fled the table with Marjorie, and now his empty belly was paying the price.

But he’d been furious. Furious his world had been so upended. That his entire family appeared set on forcing him to do their will. Furious at Marjorie’s daft plan. And furious at himself for not being the man worthy of her.

Because he would make all her pain go away if he could. He’d take her and help her, and make it all better. But he was unable. He was his own mass of pain, a great black nexus of despair. Were he to go with her to Aberdeen, he’d be the one forced to show her how this Davie was gone forever.

And were he to go so far as to claim her as his own? To take her and claim her as he’d wished for his entire life? His own darkness would eventually destroy her.

He was about to step through the door when he heard hushed voices.

“Truly, I will,” Marjorie said.

The sound of her stilled him, as it always did. Like a damned buck catching a scent, Cormac froze.

“Are you certain you won’t let me help?” his sister asked her. “I’ll be simply devastated if something untoward comes to pass.” There was a rustling. “I am so sorry about Cormac. He really hasn’t been himself since coming back from the wars.”

He fisted his hands, lips curling into a scowl. He’s not acting him self? What do they call a lass in trews? Marjorie was acting rash, foolhardy, and it made him angry.

He knew she acted thus to spur him to action, but he wouldn’t be swayed.

He had a quiet life, alone. He had returned from the wars a changed man.

Bearing the scars of what he’d seen, what he’d done.

He’d come back and worked hard to carve out a piece of solitude in a world that made no sense.

Though his seclusion hadn’t healed his wounds, it had numbed them.

And here was Marjorie, dredging up old feelings, conjuring the old impotence of that day, the unendurable pain of it.

And this other boy who’d been taken? Cormac was unwilling even to let the child pierce his consciousness. Pain would only beget more pain.

“Don’t worry for me,” he heard Marjorie say. The words echoed down the empty stone hallway.

“But you can’t go alone.”

Cormac began to walk away. He refused to be pulled into her crisis, refused to be a party to it.

“Don’t fash yourself on my account. I confess”—Marjorie laughed nervously—“I’m a bit frightened to go it alone. But I’ve thought of someone who can help. There is a man.”

Cormac stopped dead. What man?

“A physician surgeon from Marischal College.” Marjorie’s voice was tentative. Cormac leaned a hand against the cold stone of the corridor, listening. “He comes to help at Saint Machar. That’s where we met. He’s offered his . . . support in the past.”

Cormac’s body went rigid. What kind of bloody support ?

“I think Archie . . . that’s his name . . .”

Archie. He balled his hands into fists. So they were on intimate terms. How intimate? Rage coursed through him at the prospect. He’d find and kill the man who’d touched her.

“I don’t think he’ll let me go to the docks alone,” Marjorie continued. “He’ll come with—”

Cormac burst through the door, slamming it open hard. Marjorie and Bridget sat on stools by the cook fire, their hands earnestly clasped.

Marjorie stared at him, the words frozen on her lips. Her large blue eyes were all the more vivid for being so bloodshot. She’d been crying.

The sight of one plump tear rolling down her cheek cracked his resolve.

Damn the woman. And damn his pathetic weakness for her.

Cormac took a step toward her. “I’ll take you to Aberdeen.”