Page 19 of The Highlander’s Hunted Wife (Legacy of Highland Lairds #2)

19

F ate must have been smiling on Katie, offering her some recompense for the crushing morning she’d had. Walking to the stables behind Hector, even he had raised surprised eyebrows, breaking his implacable mask for a moment, at the sight of the silver mare standing placidly in front of Lucifer’s stall, stealing mouthfuls from the stallion’s bale of hay.

As such, the ride to Inverness hadn’t been nearly as awkward as Katie had anticipated, nor as physically uncomfortable. And as Hector had been determined to ride ahead of her, she hadn’t had to think about making stiff, embittered conversation.

The same, however, couldn’t be said after they arrived at the clothier.

“This doesnae look right,” Katie said, eyeing the supposed MacKimmon tartan, noting a discrepancy in the repeating pattern of vivid red and earthy green. “The setts are too wide.”

Hector sat on a stool by the window, staring out at the street, as disinterested in the fabrics as he was in her.

“I assure ye, it’s correct,” the merchant insisted curtly, glaring down his nose at her.

“I dinnae think it is. They’re supposed to be closer together, the squares smaller.” She huffed out a frustrated breath. “And there should be a darker line here, like a bluish-black.”

The merchant scoffed. “I ken the MacKimmon tartan, Miss. This is it.”

“M’Laird?” Katie called out. For Isla’s sake, she had to get this right.

Hector glanced in her direction , staring right through her. “What?”

“Is there somethin’ wrong with this tartan, or is it just me eyes?” she asked coolly, half wondering if the man who had pleasured her last night was someone else entirely.

Perhaps they’d been switched while she slept. That might have made her hurt easier to bear.

“It’s wrong.” Hector didn’t look at her, turning a glower on the merchant. “And dinnae suggest otherwise—I’m the Laird of Clan MacKimmon. I think I ken me own tartan.”

The merchant straightened up, his expression transforming as the innkeeper’s had.

Clasping his hands together, he simpered an apology. “It must have been the weaver’s mistake. I didnae ken, M’Laird. Please, accept me humblest apologies.” He bowed his head. “Ye must allow me to send the correct tartan, for nay cost at all, to make amends. I’ll instruct the weaver to start immediately—ye’ll have it as soon as it is ready.”

Hector stood abruptly. “Aye, right, so this has been utterly useless.” He went to the door. “Send it and make certain it arrives quickly.”

Katie raised a hand to try and tell him that they weren’t done, that Isla had requested more than just the tartan, but he was already outside, heading to the horses.

“I’ll take what I’ve already chosen,” she muttered to the merchant, simmering with irritation. “And some of that dark red fabric, too—the finely woven wool. And… aye, let’s have some of that blue silk. The greenish brocade, too. Och, and why nae give me some of that ivory silk, too, for petticoats.”

Hector could be as dismissive as he liked, but it would cost him handsomely.

“The Laird will spare nay expense for his grandmaither,” Katie said with a sly smile, feeling a morsel of satisfaction.

The merchant grinned with greedy delight. “I’ll cut that for ye at once, Miss. Will the Laird be payin’ now?”

“On receipt of the tartan,” Katie replied, deciding to serve her revenge cold, hitting him with a costly surprise when he least expected it.

The merchant bowed his head, hiding a somewhat displeased grimace. “Very good, Miss. Anythin’ for the Laird. Once again, I apologize for the mistake.”

“It’s quite all right,” she replied, wandering off to admire the bolts and reams of beautiful fabrics as she waited for him to cut what she had requested.

If Hector wanted her to hurry, he would have to come back in and tell her himself.

Until then, she was determined to enjoy the moment and the pleasure of keeping him waiting. Fair recompense, she thought, for the unkind manner in which he’d dragged her out of the inn.

“Oh!” she said, remembering. “And might I have one of those little jeweled daggers ye have over there?”

The merchant smiled. “Of course, Miss.”

Bonnie would prefer that over a fleeting treat any day, and when in enemy territory, it served to be armed. Indeed, Katie wondered if she ought to get one for herself, too.

The lengthy ride back to Castle MacKimmon somewhat went like the first half of the ride to Inverness—drenched in stilted, sullen silence.

No one seemed to have told the weather that the mood was going to be grim, the sun shining merrily down on the moorlands and mountains and forests and fields, and the riders who journeyed through the landscape. One horse now laden with fine fabrics, the other wielding similarly precious cargo.

Hate me all ye like, but ye’ll see that it’s for the best.

Hector resisted every urge to break the interminable quiet, denying himself even the amusement of asking Katie just how much her grandmother’s selection was going to cost his coffers.

Me faither didnae believe in omens. Me sister used to warn me to look for ‘em and never ignore ‘em.

He could still remember the morning she had perfectly predicted their father’s demise, having seen a trio of rooks pecking at an adder in the gardens. Perhaps there were omens that Hector had missed in the days before her death.

Either way, he wasn’t going to take any chances with Katie’s safety. That nightmare hadn’t been a delirium caused by fever; it had been a clear warning of where things would lead if he got too close to the lass again.

Finally…

His heart lightened a little as Castle MacKimmon came into view, standing proudly atop a hill, three-quarters surrounded by a dense forest.

Giving a sharp whistle, he urged Lucifer into a gallop and glanced back once to make sure that the silver mare was following. It seemed the sweet girl had something of a fancy for the fierce stallion. An equine infatuation that had brought the mare safely to the inn of her own accord, clearly scenting out the stallion, coming to him in the night when, by rights, she should have been lost to Hector’s stables.

When I retire him, I’ll put ye out in the paddock together so ye can enjoy yer old age together, he silently promised.

He immediately scolded himself for being so ridiculously sentimental. That wasn’t like him at all.

A short while later, the two horses trotted through the gates of Castle MacKimmon, triggering a flurry of activity.

Residents stopped what they were doing to watch and whisper their relief, the soldiers on the walls seemed to release the breaths they’d been holding, while more flocked around the two riders.

“What happened to ye, M’Laird?”

“We were so worried!”

“When that storm hit, we feared the worst!”

“Some of us men were talkin’ about sendin’ a search party, M’Laird.”

Hector raised a hand for silence. “I’m well. As ye can see, nay harm came to anyone. Ye neednae worry.” He gestured widely. “Please, return to yer work.”

The group closest to the horses dispersed, while the guards turned their attention back to the horizon and women quietened their gossip as they went back to what they’d been doing. A few men proudly announced that they’d known their Laird was fine, and their wives and friends snorted and suggested otherwise.

By the time they’d all gone back to their duties, only one man remained in front of the horses.

“Better late than never, eh?” Flynn said, bowing to Katie. “I’m relieved to see ye in one piece, Miss Blake. Quite a time for ye to venture out to Inverness when the daft, old coot in the tower had been crowin’ about a storm for days. He’s never been wrong.”

The man in question was something of a clairvoyant, as ancient as the hills—so old that he’d been a wizened thing in Hector’s father’s day—but the only thing he could foretell was the weather. It had its uses, but Hector occasionally wished that the old man could foretell other things.

“I… didnae expect it,” Katie admitted quietly. “I doubt me bones will ever be truly warm again.”

Flynn waved a dismissive hand. “Och, a long bath and an hour in front of a good fire will fix that, Miss Blake. Would ye like me to arrange it for ye?”

I beg yer pardon?

Hector narrowed his eyes at his would-be man-at-arms, but Flynn didn’t notice.

When had Flynn Guthrie ever offered to have a bath drawn for someone? When had he ever cared about someone else’s welfare? At war, he’d been the jester, making light of everything to improve morale. He’d never been one to show concern, in case it put the soldiers back into a dismal mood.

“That would be… lovely, thank ye,” Katie replied, her pale cheeks pinkening.

Watching the interaction, Hector prickled with annoyance. Would he not receive gratitude for all the effort he’d put in, keeping her warm and dry and alive? If she’d had her way, they’d have ridden back to Castle MacKimmon in the very worst of the storm, with all likelihood of getting lost or worse on the rain-veiled roads.

Ye couldnae hope to save her from brigands like I did.

Flynn was a tactician, a gifted horseman, a stealthy spy, and an archer of terrifyingly flawless precision. He wasn’t a suitable guardian for Katie’s safety; he’d have struggled to even pick up Hector’s claymore.

And ye dinnae have it in ye to please her, either.

If anyone were to accuse him of jealousy, he’d have told them outright that they were being ridiculous. This wasn’t jealousy, but a lack of suitability on Flynn’s part.

“I’ll see to it at once, Miss Blake.” Flynn grinned. “I’ll inform yer siblings once ye’re done. They’ll be glad to see ye back safely. Her Ladyship, too. I dinnae think the grand auld matron slept a wink last night, worryin’ about ye.”

“Are ye done playin’ maid?” Hector snapped, his temper fraying. “We have a problem to discuss, and as ye’re the closest thing I have to a wretched man-at-arms, let’s see what ye’re made of.”

Katie scowled at him. “Mr. Guthrie was only bein’ nice.” She slid down from the saddle, muttering just loud enough, “I understand that that’s a foreign concept to ye.”

He was about to tell her to watch her tongue, ignoring Flynn’s stifled snort, when something caught his eye, rendering him silent.

A horse was being shoed on the far side of the courtyard, beneath the rickety shelter of the farrier’s forge, bearing the barding of another clan entirely—faded yellow and stone gray, with lines of blood red and black. Colors he knew from the battlefield. Colors that still made his blood boil and run cold all at once, out of habit.

“Why is that horse in me courtyard?” Hector snarled, glaring at Flynn.

“I was about to tell ye, M’Laird,” Flynn replied, pulling an apologetic face. “We have visitors.”