Page 5 of Taken By the Highland Villain

Moira huffed in exasperation and bustled away to the door, opening it just in time for the tall, muscular frame of his best friend and man-at-arms to come through it.

Craig watched her stalk away, radiating indignation, then turned to him with a raised eyebrow. “Did ye irritate Moira again?”

Jude grunted in answer.

Craig sighed and shook his head, his expression a curious combination of mournful and teasing. “Ye’d be better off, MyLaird, nae upsetting the only maid who’s been willing to stay since yer mood turned so sour.”

Jude shrugged his shoulders, in no mood for Craig’s attempts at soothing his temper or making him feel less melancholy. “It’s nae as if I need maids. I can manage my castle well enough.”

“Aye, if we want burnt bannocks, seared meat, and mead or whiskey for all of our meals, and if ye dinnae mind the dust turnin’ into a carpet around us and the cobwebs makin’ new drapes all on their own.” Craig raised an eyebrow. “And what would we do with the laundry? We cannae throw our shirts and trousers in a heap and leave them to moulder forever, nay matter how much ye snarl at the maids.”

Jude scowled at his long-time friend, stung as much by the truth in his words as he was by the jibe itself. “Och, shut yer mouth. Wouldnae be that different than it is now.”

Craig shrugged, his entire manner one of exaggerated patience. “Well, I’ll nae argue with yer foolishness if ye wish to think that. Though I’d pay good money to see ye attempt the washin’, and I cannae help but wonder how ye’d fare on a stool, dustin’ cobwebs off the wall sconces.”

Jude snorted, then growled as Craig plucked his cup neatly from his desk and sniffed it delicately.

His man-at-arms made a face. “Well, there’s the source of yer odd ideas, My Laird. Is it nae a bit early in the morn for whiskey?”

Jude shrugged his shoulders again as he rose from his seat and stretched limbs that were stiff from hours of sitting. And brooding, though he’d not admit that to Craig. “It helps with the pain.”

“Och, My Laird…” Craig trailed off, a solemn and somewhat sorrowful expression on his usually cheerful face.

They never spoke of it—the twin pains that had been born of that bleak day a year ago. Jude might have referred to the pain in his leg, which had never healed completely or well from the injury he’d sustained. Or he might have referred to the pain of losing Kendra.

Some days, even he wasn’t sure which pain pulsed the hardest. He only knew that they blended together, and that sometimes whiskey could numb them.

Not always, but sometimes, and that was enough to keep the whiskey in his cup when the hurt resonated too strongly within him and made his thoughts as dark as his halls.

A knock interrupted his morose thoughts, then Moira pushed her way into his study, an odd look on her face. “My Laird, ye have a visitor.”

Jude scowled. “A visitor? I dinnae ken anyone who is meant to come here.”

Moira gave him an odd, indecipherable look. “It is a lass, My Laird. A young lass who says…”

“My name is Valerie Blackwood, My Laird.” A young woman stepped around Moira and entered his study without so much as a knock.

Jude scowled at her bold behavior, watching as she moved to stand in front of his desk.

She was of average height, some inches shorter than him. She had generous curves that somehow served to accentuate her otherwise strong, slim frame. Her skin was deeply tanned, some stray locks of hair the color of a raven’s wing framed an oval face and the most intense green eyes he had ever seen.

She was dressed in practical but comfortable-looking travel garments, with her hair tied back from her face. Her gaze was forthright, steady, and she scrutinized him without a trace of fear or trepidation.

Blackwood…

Jude knew the name, but for the life of him, he could not recall where he’d heard it—not at the moment. Not when those green eyes pierced right through him.

After a second, he dismissed the thought and stepped around his desk to confront her.

“Valerie Blackwood, is it? And what are ye doin’ in my home, lass?”

She met his gaze without hesitation, and he felt a reluctant admiration for her.

She was the first woman in a long time who had met his eyes so fearlessly, aside from Moira. Most women, and even a good many men, cowered away from his gruff demeanor.

Pretty and bold—she was an intriguing combination, even though her brisk manner and lack of courtesy irritated him. Her answer to his question, however, left him completely baffled.

“Laird MacFinn, I’ve come here to serve as a seamstress.”