Page 19 of Warrior of the Highlands (Highlands #3)
“Are you trying to kill me?” Haley pulled the blanket over her face, turning her back to MacColla’s sister. A drumbeat pounded in her head, and daylight brought it to a crescendo that she thought would cleave her skull.
Her eyeballs hurt, her throat was dry, her brain was scrambled, and, whatever that home-distilled whisky was, it had given her a hangover so painful she imagined surely that, if Jean only listened hard enough, she’d be able to discern the thumping in Haley’s head with her ears alone.
And then there was the whole issue of safety.
She tried not to consider the various technologies employed by modern distillers that made liquor fit for consumption.
The concept of pasteurization had occurred to her more than once, each time bringing with it a fresh throbbing that reverberated all the way down her spine.
Jean made a small, exasperated sound, and Haley peeked tentatively out from beneath the blanket. The girl was still there, standing stricken, bearing the cup she’d brought. The white viscous liquid wavered in her trembling hand, and Haley added nausea to her list of ailments.
“Really, Jean,” she croaked, “I’m grateful, but . . .”
“It always helps my brothers, aye?” She took a step closer to Haley’s bed. “They call it their Morning Glory. Though I dare say, you missed the morning by a fair piece.”
She ignored the sharp pang at the memory of her own brothers, shining bright in her mind’s eye. How long had she been away? Would they know by now she was gone?
Oh guys . . . forgive me. Then quick on the heels of that came a bright light, an idea like a cartoon bulb flashing over her head.
Brothers. Haley hadn’t considered it before, but the best source of information could be standing right in front of her.
Of course MacColla would’ve had brothers.
She’d known of his father, knew vaguely of an older brother, but that was the extent of her knowledge.
If she ingratiated herself with his sister, she might be able to learn more about the man.
And in so doing, perhaps gain some insight into the fate of James Graham.
Haley grudgingly took the glass, and the smile that bloomed onto the girl’s face was startling. She was downright pretty when she wasn’t pulling her meek act, and the realization made it almost worthwhile.
Until she smelled the stuff in the glass.
Shuddering, she quickly foisted it back in Jean’s direction. The girl merely smiled and shook her head.
“Okay,” Haley conceded, “but can I at least hear what’s in it?”
“Drink it first. Once you see it down, then I’ll tell.”
Haley scowled. Was that a smile on Jean’s face? She sniffed the liquid again. A little foul and a little sweet. The worst combination.
Haley held it up to the light. Opaque, grayish white. She shrugged. What could it hurt? Her current hangover had to be about as low as a human could go.
“Bottoms up,” she said, and tossed the glass back.
Her stomach clenched in revolt. The shivers she’d experienced drinking MacColla’s whisky were nothing compared to the revulsion that crawled up her body now, convulsing her muscles and turning her stomach.
“Oh God.” Haley wiped the tears from her eyes. “What . . . ?”
“Eggs. Sugar. Cream. And a dram of whisky.”
“Oh God, you are trying to kill me.”
“That’s what my brothers say.”
Unreasonable hatred swelled in Haley. “You’re enjoying this.” She mustered every evil look she could and shot them all in Jean’s direction.
“Aye, and they say that too.” His sister smiled again, and Haley didn’t know what to make of this new side of her. Jean took the glass back and wiped Haley’s mouth with a rag. And Haley was so stunned, she allowed it. Jean added saucily, “And they always manage to survive.”
Haley had to chuckle then, at the unexpected verve. She hadn’t known MacColla’s sister had it in her.
“I suppose you make them drink it too?”
“Oh, aye, they’d not tell me no.”
“I . . .”
“You don’t believe me.” It was a statement, and Haley realized it was true. She’d discounted Jean, and the girl had known it. She tucked the rag at her waist and added, “Well, not all can act as you do. Just because I don’t swagger around—”
“I don’t swagger—” Haley protested.
“Because I don’t swagger about like a man, doesn’t mean I can’t get a man to listen to me. I dare say, my brothers mind me more than they do each other.”
“Why aren’t you married?” The question struck Haley suddenly. Surely Jean was old by seventeenth-century standards.
“I was.” Though her tone brooked no questions, the pain that flickered momentarily across Jean’s features was impossible to miss. “He died. I’m a widow.”
“I . . . Oh. I see.” And, for the first time, Haley really did see.
Jean stood before her, long black hair, delicate features.
So pretty, so young. And yet, by seventeenth-century standards, her life might as well be over.
She’d go from brother’s house to brother’s house, hoping for the best. And the best would likely be finding some old widower to remarry. Haley felt like a heel. “I’m sorry.”
Jean looked at her for a long time, then finally spoke.
“Aye. I see that you are. I don’t ken where you come from, lass.
Or who your family is to have given you such an impression of yourself.
” She sat on the edge of the bed, her proximity softening her words.
“But you’d do well to remember, lucky you are to walk about as you do.
Fighting, talking, drinking like a lad. Other lasses would, could they. ”
Her message was clear. Jean was speaking about herself. She’d walk about just as independently, if she could. She would speak her mind as freely.
“Yes.” Haley sat up, and in the back of her mind registered that the deafening throb had abated to something approximating simply a really bad headache.
“You’re right, of course. I’m far from home now, though.
” She leaned back against the headboard.
She needed an ally, and a possible good source of information to boot.
“I suppose I would do well to remember that,” Haley conceded.
“Will you help me, then? Help me remember where I am now?”
Jean looked taken aback. Then pleased. “Oh aye.” She smiled, hesitated, then reached over to finger the black fabric of the dress that Haley still wore.
Though she’d bathed, she had no other choice but to put the thing back on, despite the fact that it could just about get up and walk away of its own volition. “Can I dress you first, though?”
A small smile was Haley’s answer.
Daylight was a flare burning through his consciousness. He’d drank too much. He’d lost control and drank too much.
MacColla rolled over in bed. Tried to push the strange woman out of his mind. Tried and failed.
Who was she? Haley Fitzpatrick, she’d said, of Donegal. The muscle in his thigh twitched with the memory of the gunshot that had almost killed him so many years ago, battling in that very county. He needed to uncover how it was this Fitzpatrick lass found herself so far from her homeland.
How she’d ended up in Campbell’s castle, of all places. Was she Campbell’s partner, or his prey? His thinking tended toward the latter, but how could he be certain?
Haley Fitzpatrick . With an accent and bearing like none he’d ever seen in Ireland.
If only he could be in a room with her without getting so distracted.
He scowled, rubbing his brow.
She’d such startling depths in those gray eyes.
Physical strength and prowess like no other woman he’d ever met had.
And such strange impulses. Like drinking him nigh under the table.
He’d have thought her little drinking game overly masculine had she not so charmed him—and nearly unwittingly seduced him.
He curled up tight, cursing the hardness that seized him at the simple thought of it. He who normally contained his urges as good as any friar, and there he’d been, rubbing her back and even her breast with his hand, God help him.
MacColla tossed onto his back and examined the timber planks of the ceiling overhead.
It had been her questions of James Graham that had thrown him most of all. What game was she playing at? Getting him drunk, then pressing him once again on Graham’s fate.
Could she be in league with the Campbell? The thought had occurred to him before, and he’d discounted it.
He’d do well not to discount anything about this one in the future.