This Scot of Mine Page 2

  Clara smiled indulgently at the exaggeration and reached for a biscuit, her hand stalling midair. She shivered as a fresh draft blew through the public room. She leaned instinctively closer to the fire and canted her head to the side thoughtfully. “Did it just become colder in here?” She rubbed at her arms beneath her cloak and glanced about to see if a window had been opened to explain the draft.

  Marian shrugged, her concentration fastened on the tea and food before them. “Hmm. Not that I noticed.”

  The chill did not go away, however.

  Goose bumps broke out over her flesh, and she wondered if it was something other than the cold. She glanced around uneasily. She wasn’t inclined to superstition, but she remembered when she was little and her mother’s aunt had come to visit. She’d been widowed for the majority of her life and wore black bombazine like armor, garbed from head to toe in the stiff fabric. A rosary hung from Aunt Gustava’s waist. She constantly clutched and lifted the beads to her lips any time she felt espíritus pass.

  “What is an espíritu?” Clara had asked.

  Aunt Gustava had fluttered her old gnarled fingers in the air. “The ones that came before us. They’re dead now, but some wander. Lost. You can feel them when they’re near. The air grows cold and your flesh feels like ants swarming beneath the surface.”

  Clara knew it was fanciful, but she found herself wondering if there were espíritus lurking about right now. If that could explain her sudden cold . . . her shivering skin, her sense that something had changed.

  Her gaze darted about the room, searching for anything amiss.

  Everything seemed normal. Nothing had changed since she and Marian first walked in the room. The great fire still crackled feet away. The beleaguered serving girl circuited the room. The boisterous Scots still drank and talked and played cards.

  The door to the room swung open and a band of Scotsmen stepped inside, their boots thudding solemnly on the floor.

  A sudden hush fell over the room at the arrival of these newcomers, and she knew. Clarity swept over her.

  She knew that whatever she felt, whatever she sensed . . . had arrived.

  Chapter 2

  They were an intimidating lot. Big. Tall and broad-shouldered. Their unsmiling faces set into grim lines. The man at the front of the group stepped forward a pace. Her stomach dipped. Clara would have noticed him even if he stood to the back of the group. He was not to be hidden. He was the tallest, his shoulders the broadest, but he was also the youngest. Not a streak of gray in his gleaming brown hair. Even though several of the new arrivals boasted beards, he did not. She had a clear, unfettered view of his face.

  And it was a spectacular face.

  Marian noticed, too. “Oh, my . . .”

  Clara did not need to look at her friend to ask the meaning of that remark. It was perfectly understandable. Any female with eyes would react to the sight of this man. She certainly was because she was gawking at him. At his ridiculous square jaw. At the lovely lips, even if unsmiling. The deep-set eyes so icy a blue that she could even detect their stunning color across a dimly lit room.

  In the sudden hush, tension swelled on the air. She looked back and forth between the two groups of men, sensing the words, the challenge, even if unspoken, passing between them.

  Trepidation joined with the anxiety pumping through her blood.

  Self-preservation bade her to gather Marian and go. Leave at once as any proper, safety-minded ladies of good breeding would do.

  And yet she stayed put.

  The new arrivals were all attired in tartan like the others already here except they wore different colors. She knew that meant they were from a different clan. Rivals perhaps. She’d read that these Highland clans frequently harbored long-standing rivalries.

  “MacLarin!” one of the inebriated Scots shouted. “Fancy seeing ye ’ere!”

  The man with the spectacular face had a name. Of course he had a name. MacLarin. She whispered it in her mind, committing it to memory for those long spinster nights ahead.

  MacLarin. MacLarin. MacLarin.

  Too bad she didn’t know his Christian name. That would feel much more intimate for all future fantasizing.

  MacLarin stepped deeper into the room, which cast more light on him from the nearby fireplace and lanterns. “Is it?”

  Her breath strangled in her throat. Even his voice was mesmerizing.

  No doubt he could feel her stare. She couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t look away. Couldn’t force it into something casual instead of what it was—a manifestation of her most ardent admiration.

  He was like something in an oil painting. She could imagine him depicted on canvas—a wild Viking launching himself from a boat, sword in hand, ready to raid. Or perhaps a magnificent steely-eyed god, casting thunderbolts down from the sky upon hapless mortals.

  “I believe you’re in the wrong place,” MacLarin charged, his brogue velvet deep.

  He was not yelling and yet the weight of his words dropped with no less force. She wondered what that was like, to have that kind of power, to possess such ability to influence with mere voice.

  All her life people had made a point to make her feel less, believing they had the right because she was undeserving, the daughter of an upstart who did not deserve to be the Duchess of Autenberry.

  When Rolland proposed, Clara had thought things would be different.

  She had thought she had finally arrived.

  She had thought she was finally accepted among the ton.

  The reminder of her naivete stung, and she told herself not to be dazzled by this man’s handsomeness. He was merely a man at the end of the day. Two legs and eyes like all the rest of them. Rolland had dazzled her and look how toxic he had turned out to be.

  “Nay. I’m no’ in the wrong place.” The man seated at the table adopted a thoughtful expression and leaned back in his chair idly. The legs creaked under the pressure. “I felt like celebrating and preferred tae do it ’ere. So close to yer home.”

  One of the men beside MacLarin lunged forward, his face red and blustering, “Ye bastard!”

  MacLarin caught him, a strong, well-shaped arm stretching out to stop him. “Easy there now, Graham.”

  Clara’s gaze traveled the length of MacLarin’s arm. His forearm was covered in some manner of leather bracer. The kind of thing a warrior would wear into battle. She sat a little higher and craned her neck, attempting to better see what she could of him within his cloak—and yes. There, at his side, a sword was strapped. He was a flesh-and-blood warrior directly from the pages of a story book.

  “What is happening?” Marian hissed across the table.

  “Shh.” Clara waved her silent, watching avidly, not risking looking away for fear that she might miss something in this encounter.

  It was simply too diverting. Better than a novel because this was real.

  Graham spat on the ground and growled in a brogue so thick she could scarcely understand him. “Ye would no’ be celebrating because ye came in possession of a fine bull, would ye?”

  “A bull?” The man at the table blinked and looked with mock innocence at each of his companions. “Och, ye lost yer prize bull, did ye? I think I ’eard tale of that.” He tsked and shook his head. “Terrible news that! Fine beast ye ’ad there. Ye canna trust anyone these days.”

  “My bull is no’ lost,” MacLarin inserted calmly, resolutely.

  “Nay?” The man seated was clearly enjoying himself. “Is it no’ lost tae ye then, MacLarin? Certain of that, eh?”

  “You took my bull and you damn well ken it, Bannessy.” Again, he spoke with quiet menace, and the gooseflesh on her arms prickled anew. “I’ll be having it back.”

  Then he smiled—MacLarin—and she realized with some awe that he was enjoying himself, too. They all were. The air was thick with tension and these men were reveling in it.

  “Och, MacLarin. Ye think I took yer beast?” Bannessy pressed a hand over his chest, dropping back down on all f
our legs of his chair. “That’s a ’arsh allegation.” His mirth faded as he stared at MacLarin standing across from him. “Prove it.”

  Long moments stretched whilst neither spoke. A bit of wood cracked and crumbled in the hearth, sparks popping in the silence. She dared not blink for fear of missing something. She adjusted in her seat, her hand gripping the back of her chair.

  It was quite the most extraordinary scene. Something one might see enacted on a stage, although of course it wouldn’t be nearly so realistic as this.

  “Clara,” Marian whispered loudly, “we should leave.”

  MacLarin heard her. He looked in their direction.

  Clara’s grip on the back of her chair tightened and she straightened her spine, her unblinking eyes watching him.

  His gaze touched on her first and then Marian before looking away, dismissing them.

  Clearly they were of no interest. Clara released a huffy breath, unaccountably offended.

  Then, unexpectedly, his stare flew back to her. As though she had called him to look again at her. His glittering gaze settled on her. She couldn’t breathe. He stared at her. Her.

  Not beautiful Marian.

  Not the Duke of Autenberry’s ruined sister.

  Not the Earl of Rolland’s rejected betrothed.

  He was seeing her. Clara. Her heart squeezed.

  Squaring her shoulders, she stared back, suffering the arctic bite of his eyes.

  She knew she looked out of place in this setting. She and Marian were the only pops of color in the room—she in her rose-colored dress and Marian in sunny yellow. In fact, aside of the serving girl, they were the only apparent females in this establishment. He was probably wondering how two seemingly proper ladies ended up here.

  Their stare-down couldn’t have lasted very long, but his gaze left its mark, inscrutable as it was. It singed her skin. She would think about it long past when she left this place. Which was the height of wrongness. She knew better. She had learned not to let one’s pretty wrapping addle her head.

  Wrong choices were a thing of the past. She had vowed that there would only be solid, sensible decisions in the future. She would be making no more life-altering mistakes. No more poor judgment. She’d learned her lesson.

  “Clara, he’s staring at you,” Marian hissed.

  One of MacLarin’s friends nudged his arm and whispered something, clearly prompting the man to end his rude staring.

  With a decisive nod, MacLarin strode forward to the table. She jerked in her seat when he grabbed Bannessy and hauled him to his feet, dragging him over the table in one ruthless move.

  Mayhem erupted.

  It was as though a torch had been lit. MacLarin’s men dove for the other men. The Scotsmen met and clashed, knocking over tables and chairs and crockery.

  Marian screamed and jumped to her feet. Clara followed suit—minus the scream. She gaped in silence, her gaze following MacLarin as he rushed through the fray.

  She’d never witnessed a fight. She did not realize it could happen with such . . . ease—or such ferocity.

  MacLarin was beating the feathers out of his opponent.

  She knew she shouldn’t find it diverting. Or stimulating. This was a taproom brawl. Hardly dignified. It was boorish behavior. Savage.

  Yet she was enthralled . . . and standing much too close to it all.

  “Clara! Back!” Marian tugged determinedly on her arm, trying to pull her to the wall where she pressed herself.

  Clara couldn’t oblige. This was as close as she ever got to real life. Unfettered. Honest. In Town everyone wore masks. They presented one face and then stuck the dagger in your back when you turned. This was real. This was true.

  The din was blaring, but that didn’t stop the innkeeper’s voice from carrying over the melee. “Stop this! MacLarin! Bannessy! Yer ruining m’place!”

  MacLarin dealt a swift blow to Bannessy’s chin, lifting him off his feet and propelling him backward—laughing all the while.

  Laughing. The man actually laughed with all the irreverent joy of a boy at play.

  The proprietor wagged a finger in his direction. “I ’spect payment fer the damages, MacLarin!”

  Bannessy stumbled back to his feet, tossed his long hair from his face and charged MacLarin, catching him in the middle and launching them both onto a table alarmingly close to where she stood.

  MacLarin managed to twist himself atop Bannessy, delivering several grinding punches to his opponent’s ribs.

  Clara winced. She had never seen such violence . . . and yet the men appeared to be enjoying the brawl—delighting in it even. It was as though they found life in the act of destruction.

  It was insanity and yet she could not look away from the primal scene. He was primal. Laughing, growling, fist-swinging . . . she did not know men like him existed.

  “Clara! Wake up, would you? Cease your ogling.” Marian seized her arm and started pulling her through the fracas. “Let’s go.”

  It was no easy task. They dodged bodies and fists and flying objects.

  A whisky bottle spun through the air and Clara jumped back a step, narrowly avoiding being struck in the head. She didn’t escape the spray of alcohol, however. The front of her dress was soaked with the pungent drink.

  “Clara!” Marian called from several feet away. Her companion stood free of the rabble, closer to the door. The space between them quickly filled up with tussling bodies. Clara stood on her tiptoes, trying to keep sight of her friend. Marian hopped, her head appearing and disappearing amid bodies.

  An opening appeared through a crack in bodies and she darted for it. She was almost there, almost to Marian when a person collided into her. She cried out as she flew into one of the only tables still standing.

  The air left her in a rush as they crashed to the floor, the table broken to jagged bits beneath them.

  She wasn’t alone on the floor.

  A man was wrapped around her. His body bigger, harder. Solid. He draped over her like a heavy blanket, his breath warm on her cheek.

  His chest mashed to her chest, his heartbeat a strong thud against her breasts.

  Hard arms came around to circle her—almost as though he was attempting to save her from being crushed. Except she didn’t feel very saved. She felt well and thoroughly caught. Pinned.

  “Oww,” she moaned, coming awake to the discomfort of a man who outweighed her by roughly four stones suffocating her. “Can’t. Breathe.”

  Or move.

  Or see much of anything save the spots and stars flashing in her vision.

  She managed to punch weakly at his shoulder. “Get off me, you great lummox!”

  “Are you daft, lass?” The MacLarin brute lifted up off her and she expelled a great gust of air.

  “Me?” she managed to get out, still recovering her breath. She scrambled up into a sitting position, pressing a hand to her bodice and wincing at the soaked fabric beneath her fingers. “I’m not the one engaging in fisticuffs and injuring innocent bystanders . . . you, you . . . Highland savage!”

  His eyes widened and she realized a bit belatedly that she should not have perhaps insulted the man.

  “Beggin’ your pardon,” he sneered. “It’s a rare thing for innocent bystanders tae cast themselves in the midst of matters that dinna concern them.” He spit out innocent like it was something he doubted existed. Something he doubted she was.

  “Oh!” She gathered up her considerable skirts—slapping his hand away when he extended it to assist her. He was clearly not a gentleman. He did not need to pretend otherwise.

  Standing, she looked down her nose in the precise manner she had seen her haughty half sister do many times. Enid had perfected the art of disdain. “Perhaps you and the rest of these gentlemen should take a reprieve from pummeling each other to death over a . . . bull, was it?” She squeaked and jumped closer to him as a chair flew through the air and crashed into the wall above her head.

  His nostrils flared but he didn’t so muc
h as flinch. No, he did not even cast the remnants of the chair a glance. He stared. Unflinching. At her. Acting as though chairs were thrown near his head all the time. Perhaps they were. This man reeked of danger. He probably was accustomed to a life riddled with chaos and disputes.

  “It’s a prize bull. No’ so easily replaced.”

  She snorted. “He’s a . . . cow.”

  “A bull is no’ a cow,” he said with disgust.

  She rolled her eyes and waved a hand around them. “You’re squabbling like children and should be ashamed of yourselves.”

  He made a show of sniffing in her direction. “You should mind your drink, lass. It might save you from being so clumsy and verra nearly getting yourself maimed.”

  “I haven’t been drinking! One of you splashed whisky all over me and now I smell like a distillery!”

  His gaze crawled over her, stalling on her already hot face . . . and she felt her face grow only hotter under his scrutiny. Even the murkiness of the room couldn’t hide how red her face must be.

  Her once elegant coiffure felt lopsided. A lock of ink-dark hair fell in her face. She blew at it and when that didn’t work she tried to shake it back off her face in an attempt to appear dignified. The attempt fell woefully short.

  He watched her keenly, one corner of his mouth lifting up in a mocking smile. Oh, the beast. He was laughing at her.

  Suddenly his hand came up and he touched that lock of hair, seizing it between two fingers and tucking it back into her messy coiffure.

  Everything around her blurred and faded to the background. The brawl still raged around them, but she couldn’t focus on anything but the man in front of her—his face, his brilliant gaze, the lips that were so close, moving now as he spoke in that low, guttural brogue, “Aye, lass. This be no place for the likes of you.”

  “This is a public establishment.” She pushed at his chest and tried not to notice the breadth and firmness under her fingers. He was like stone. He failed to budge. “I have every right to be here.” Blast. Why did her voice sound so small and trembling? Her eyes betrayed her, drifting to his much-too-near lips in consideration. They looked . . . soft. He was all hardness except there.