Highland Hope by Julie Johnstone

Four

Royce’s shoulder ached from slinging his brother over it and carrying him down the long flight of seagate stairs to dump him in the freezing cold loch, but the ache was worth it. Brus went under water and came up scowling, and Royce’s desire to punch his brother in his unthinking head subsided. Behind him, Royce sensed the lass’s presence. He was surprised she’d followed them down the stairs. She was a jumpy, twitchy thing, which told him she either had a timid nature or someone, likely a man, had made her that way. The reason didn’t matter. She couldn’t stay.

For one thing, she was English, and everyone knew the English were coldhearted, frail creatures. He wanted his girls to be raised with a kind but firm hand, and even if the woman proved to have both, which he highly doubted, his girls would surely have this woman running from their antics within a sennight. And the lass was too bonny. Long-dormant desire had heated his blood the moment he’d seen her, and the last thing he needed or wanted was the complication of a woman he lusted for. He was no good at bedding and being cold about it. He’d tried it twice since Lara’s death, and though he’d been forthright and told both women that he wanted no entanglements, and they had agreed, they had still wanted emotion from him. He had none to give to a woman anymore. That part of him had died when Lara had betrayed him.

“Do you always throw people in the water when you’re angry with them?”

The tentativeness in the lass’s voice was plain. Damn, but he’d scared her. He turned toward the lass to try to ease her fear and was struck speechless. Her hair glowed in the moonlight like a halo of silky waves around her head. He blinked at the ridiculous thought and shoved a hand through his hair.

“Nay.” He winced. He was growling, and Brus had recently told him that the women of the castle were slightly wary of Royce now. They thought him harsh. He cleared his throat and tried for a gentler tone, but he was sorely out of practice. “A man needs peace, and I get constant, unnerving, unending chaos.”

“He dunked Father Murdoch a fortnight ago for coming to supper swigged on nigh a barrel of mead,” Brus said, his tone amused as he came to stand on the bank beside Royce. “And before that, he dumped Alarick, the head of our guards, in the loch for nae fighting him hard enough during training.”

“Well.” She crossed her arms over her stomach, and the way she clutched herself just under her breasts accentuated their plentiful outline. Royce went hard as stone and gritted his teeth reflexively.

“It seems to me that your temper is very strained because you need assistance with your daughters, and—”

“And he needs a wife,” Brus interjected.

Royce was going to throttle his brother for his loose, foolish tongue. “I do nae need, nor want, a wife.” God’s blood, he was growling again.

A feminine clearing of a throat pulled Royce’s attention back to the woman. There was just enough moonlight to see that her eyebrows were arched. “I do not wish for a husband so you’ve no fear from me, Laird MacLeod.”

“Were ye wed afore?” Where had that question come from? He didn’t ask personal questions of women—ever. Of course, he’d known all the women at Dunvegan Castle for as long as he could remember so he had no need to ask personal questions. From the corner of his eye, Royce glimpsed Brus’s amused gaze on him.

“Come, lass,” Brus said when silence stretched, “the question is nae hard.”

It was clearly a wee bit uncomfortable, though, because the lass shifted from foot to foot an impressive number of times before she finally answered in a slow voice, as if she were testing each word individually before she spit it out. “I was wed before, yes.”

Her voice held a note of sorrow that made Royce think her husband must have died. He didn’t hear guilt in her voice, but he’d never heard the guilt in Lara’s, either. He’d been deaf to it.

“Is he dead?” Brus asked.

Royce grimaced. His brother had never been one to mince words, but somehow the lasses all loved that. But to Royce’s surprise, this lass didn’t look overly bemused by Brus’s charms. She looked wary.

Brus waggled his eyebrows. “My announcement did say ye must nae have a family.”

Acute sadness swept across her face, making Royce feel odd, as if he wanted to put an arm around her slender shoulder. That was the last thing he wanted. He had to be tired. Travel worn. His mind was confused, befuddled, and in desperate need of sleep.

“You needn’t fear,” she finally answered Brus. “I’ve no one.”

Ah damn. Royce rocked back on his heels. How in God’s name was he supposed to send her away if she had no one? He sighed inwardly. He couldn’t. He would simply have to ignore the lust she sparked in him. That should be easy enough. She’d be with his girls, not him, if she was caring for them. He frowned. When had he made the decision to offer her a position he’d not even known his brother had made a post for and that he would have forbid Brus make if Royce had known?

Now, he supposed. He’d made the decision just now.

Well, he’d partially made it. She did have to prove herself up to the task. The girls were the two most treasured things in his life.

“I’ll give ye a sennight to bring the wee lassies under control, and if at the end of that sennight I deem ye up to the task, ye can keep the position. And if ye’re nae up to it—”

“You’ll dump me in the loch?”

A bark of laughter escaped him at her unexpected quick wit. It had been a long time since a woman had surprised him.

“She’s to be our new healer, too,” Brus said. “I put that whomever answered the post must know the healing arts.” Brus threw his arm over Royce’s shoulder and tugged him close. “And ye said I dunnae aid with running the clan. See here, I’ve found a new healer to replace Moira and I’ve found ye a woman to care for the girls and—”

Royce shoved Brus’s arm off his shoulder. “Do nae say another word.”

“I was nae going to say a word more about ye needing a wife. It’s plain the lass does nae have an eye for ye, and ye’re blind as usual.”

That wasn’t exactly the truth for his part. He saw how bonny she was, and that was exactly why he’d avoid her. Royce cleared his throat. “If ye’ll follow my brother, he’ll take ye to Danaria, who’s head of the bedchamber servants. She’ll settle ye in and then bring ye to supper. Brus will instruct her.”

“Of course, Laird MacLeod.”

“Call me Royce.”

“Royce, is it?” Brus drawled. “I kinnae recall the last time ye told a lass to call ye Royce.”

But Royce could. It had been Lara. She’d always called him MacLeod as all the other children his age had—except his brother, sister, and his close cousins—in deference to the fact that he was the laird’s son, but as the daughter of a laird herself, Royce, being a pompous lad of ten summers, had told her that she could call him Royce. He wished Brus had not reminded him of that, and he wished he could rescind the offer of familiarity he’d unexplainably just given, but that would be rude, and the lass was new to Dunvegan, after all.

“Ye talk too much,” Royce snapped, to which Brus simply threw back his head and laughed. When his brother was finished, he looked at the lass and said, “Come along, then. What do I call ye?”

“Abigail.”

“Do ye have a surname?” Royce asked, frowning that he’d somehow let another personal question slip out, though this was a common one.

Her hands fluttered to her midsection, and she intertwined her long, finely boned fingers. “Abigail Bennett.”

“Well, Abigail,” Brus said, walking toward her, “come with me. I’ll ensure ye make it to yer bedchamber safely.”

“But ye will nae enter her bedchamber,” Royce added, eyeing his brother.

“Only if the lass asks me to,” Brus said. For the second time that day, Royce had the urge to hit a man.

“The lass,” Abigail Bennett said in a perfect, clipped English accent that made Royce’s lips pull into a smile, “will not be asking you to.”

“Nae yet,” Brus said. He walked up to the lass and slung his arm over her shoulder.

Abigail visibly stiffened, ducked under Brus’s arm, and moved two steps ahead of him, to which Royce didn’t bother to hide his smile. She was the first woman he’d ever seen not welcome his brother’s attentions. Royce didn’t know why it pleased him so much that she had not, but it did.

“Where’s Abigail?” Royce asked not long later when Brus strolled into the noisy great hall.

Brus mounted the dais and took the seat to the right of Royce. He pulled a trencher toward him, picked up a hunk of bread, and dunked it in the thick dark sauce before plopping it in his mouth. While chewing, he said, “The lass did nae have any clothing with her but what was on her back, and it was filthy. I asked Danaria to find a clean gown for Abigail to borrow.”

Royce frowned at that information. That made no sense for her to come all the way here to take a position she’d seen posted in Durham, and plan to live here, but bring nothing with her. “Did she say where she was from?”

Brus took a long swallow of his wine and set the goblet down. “She said she’s a Summer Walker from the border region.”

“A Ceàrdannan? With her perfect English? She sounds more noble than common to me.”

Brus eyed Royce. “Ye were listening to her rather intently if ye observed that. Are ye certain ye do nae fancy her? I have to admit, she’s bonnier than I had hoped the lass who answered the post would be.”

“I do nae fancy her,” Royce said, but as the words left his mouth, her image came to him. She was bonny, it was true, and she had a fragile sort of demeanor that made him instinctively want to protect her, which was odd considering she was a stranger. Or maybe not so odd, given he was laird. It was his duty to protect all the people of his clan. He thought on it as he drank his wine and conversation buzzed on the dais and at the dozens of neat rows of long wooden tables where his clan ate, visited, and enjoyed their nightly meal together. That was it, he decided, setting the goblet down. He stared across the wide expanse of the rush-covered floor at the closed door to the great hall. It was merely his sense of clan duty, always with him, that was stirring when presented with this woman who seemed to have nothing and no one. He would feel the same about anyone who needed his protection.

“If ye are truly nae interested in the wench, then ye will nae mind if I pursue her.”

“She’s nae a wench,” Royce said, resisting the urge to growl at his brother. “She’s a lass, and ye may pursue her if ye wish, though I kinnae see that ye will succeed with her. I think she has more good sense than to fall for yer charms.”

Brus grinned at the insult. “We’ll see.”

“Must ye pursue every lass that wears a skirt?” Royce demanded, his neck going suddenly hot and his jaw clenching.

“Aye, that’s my role. Yer role is leader of the clan. Stoic brother. Wise brother. Brother whom everyone counts upon to look after the clan in all circumstances. Brother who always does the right thing. I am nae that brother. I’m the one who acts and then thinks. The selfish one.”

Royce took another swig of his wine, contemplating how to respond to his brother’s statement, which was true, but had not always been so before the woman Brus had loved had betrayed him. Before Royce found the right words to say, the great hall door opened and Danaria strolled in, swinging her long crop of red curls over her shoulder. She smiled at him, and he quickly averted his gaze, as had become his habit since they had ended their dalliance over a year ago. Danaria had been the second lass Royce had thought to satisfy his baser needs with, and she had reinforced that it could not be done without hurting a lass, even if she did claim that she too only wanted to bed for pleasure. Now he simply did not try. A great many swims in the cold loch helped that particular need go away.

Abigail entered not five steps behind Danaria, and Royce spit the wine out of his mouth at the sight of her. Actually, he spewed it all over the trencher before him.

“Royce!” Elena complained beside him, swatting him on the arm. “Whatever is the matter with ye?”

He couldn’t find his tongue. Danaria had loaned Abigail a nun’s habit to wear. Danaria’s aunt was the only nun he could think of that the lass knew.

“Why the devil is that woman wearing a habit?” Elena muttered, elbowing Royce in the side.

“I do nae know,” Brus responded while Royce tried to peel his gaze from Abigail but failed. She wore a dark cloak over the belted habit, but she did not don the wimple to cover her throat, nor the veil to cover her face.

The contrasting image of her entire body covered in such severe clothing while her thick, wavy moonbeam hair tumbled rather wildly about her face and shoulders sent a bolt of hot lust through Royce. He had a sudden image of him stripping that habit off her.

“God’s blood,” Brus said, “that is the most beddable picture of a would-be nun I’ve ever seen.”

“Brus!” Elena gasped.

Royce glared at his brother. “Keep yer thoughts, and yer hands, to yerself.”

“Now what fun would there be in that?” Brus demanded as Abigail and Danaria approached.

As the two ladies came to stand before them, it struck Royce how different their expressions were. Danaria gave him a look that was a plain invitation to rekindle what he had snuffed out, and Abigail glanced at him warily, as if she would prefer he did not talk to her. That should suit his intentions for how minimal their interactions should be, but to his annoyance, curiosity hammered in his head.

“Laird.” Danaria dropped into a low curtsy before him, one he suspected might have been strategically planned to give him an ample view of her breasts. But his desire did not stir.

Beside him, Elena snorted. “Danaria, up with ye. There’s nae a man on this dais interested in what ye should be covering but are nae.”

“I could be interested,” Magnus said from his seat to the right of Elena.

Elena snorted again. “Och, ye’re interested in everything that wears a skirt, just like Brus. Pair of clot-heids ye are.”

Royce saw the unasked question in Abigail’s eyes. “Fools,” he said, answering what she’d not even voiced. “Elena means she thinks them fools who do nae think with the head upon their shoulder, but the one—”

“I understand what you mean,” Abigail rushed out, a lovely flush pinkening her face and neck.

“Ye English have such fragile constitutions,” Elena said, “to blush at words.”

“Do you dislike anyone who’s English, Lady Elena?” Abigail inquired in a quiet voice. Yet Royce heard the thread of steel that underlay the woman’s words.

“All Highlanders dislike the English,” Danaria said. “Ye’re a lying, cheating—”

“Danaria,” Royce bit out. “I think it’s time ye find yer supper table. And tomorrow, mind ye, secure something for Abigail to wear beside yer aunt’s old habit.”

“’Tis all I could find!” Danaria protested. But Royce recognized the flash of jealousy and the look of satisfaction when she flicked her gaze to Abigail. He’d have to speak to Danaria privately and remind her they held no claim to each other.

“Och, ye lie,” Elena said, waving a dismissive hand at Danaria. “Off with ye. We do nae want to sit and listen to ye lie.”

When Danaria had departed, Elena addressed Abigail. “Do nae mind her. She dunnae take to any woman she feels is bonnier than she is. ’Tis why we do nae get along,” Elena said, flashing a shockingly friendly smile at Abigail. Elena was usually not so inviting to strangers, having gained a suspicious nature through the years since Rolland’s disappearance. “Tomorrow, I’ll give ye some of my gowns to wear until ye can sew yer own. We look to be about the same size.”

“I thank you.”

“Come,” Elena said, surprising Royce when she rose and poked Magnus in the shoulder as if to get him to scoot down the table. “Ye can take my seat.”

“Nay,” Royce said. It came out sharper than he’d intended, but the thought of sitting directly next to the appealing lass didn’t just stir his lust, it sent up in flames. Abigail didn’t look hurt as he worried she might, though. She appeared relieved, which he had to admit did chip at his manly pride. But it was for the best that she was not attracted to him. “I’d like ye to attend to the girls right away by eating supper with them if ye do nae mind. Best to see if ye can handle them or if we will just settle ye as the healer.”

“Of course, Laird M—”

“Royce,” he corrected. She smiled, and it lit her eyes to the color of the clearest blue sky on the brightest Highland day. It made his chest expand, and he didn’t like that one bit. “The children,” he said, finding them and wincing when he saw that they were hanging backward from their seats at the supper table, “are over there.” She followed his gaze and nodded. “After ye all eat, ye can see them to bed, and—”

“God’s blood, Brother,” Brus interrupted. “Give the lass one night to settle in. If ye act so unbending, she may nae stay.”

“I’ll stay,” she quickly replied, her gaze darting from Brus to Royce, that same lovely rosy color from before flushing her cheeks. Her cheekbones were high, her lips full, and he frowned at himself for noticing such a thing. From this moment forward, he would look at her as he looked at the old cook, Martha: a woman under his care who worked in the castle. Nothing more.

“I agree with Brus,” Elena said. Royce jerked his head to his sister, who never agreed with their brother on anything, and he found her studying him with a smirk on her lips. What was she smirking about? “Let the lass settle in. I’ll take the girls to bed after Abigail sees to their supper manners.”

“Ye’ll take them to bed?” Royce knew he sounded shocked, and that was because he was.

“Did I nae just say that?” Elena demanded.

Devil take Elena. She’d intentionally left him in a position to either agree or look like an arse. “Verra well,” he finally said, and though his sister smiled at him, her gaze moved past him to Brus.

“This seems a good night for dancing, do ye nae think so, Brus?”

“Oh aye,” Brus agreed. “I was thinking just that.”

“I’ll go tend to the girls now, if that’s all?” Abigail said.

Royce nodded and forced his gaze from her as she walked away, but not before he noted the gentle sway of her hips as she walked. He clenched his teeth. All women’s hips swayed. What was the matter with him today? Why was this lass stoking such lust in him? Because it had been a good while since he’d been with a woman. That was why. It had to be.

“Ye’re staring at the lass.”

Elena’s statement snapped Royce out of his musings. He blinked, realizing his sister was correct. His focus had gone back to Abigail all on its own. He pulled it away once more and turned his attention to his left to discover Brus smirking at him. He looked to the right to find Elena doing the same.

“Ye need a woman,” Brus said, to which Elena nodded.

“Ye’re lonely,” Elena said.

“He’s nae lonely. He’s lustful.”

“I am sitting between the two of ye,” Royce said, picking up his goblet and swigging back the remainder of his wine in the hopes that it would cool the heat building within him.

“We see ye, ye big clot-heid,” Elena said.

“Then cease speaking about me as if I’m nae here. I’m nae lonely. I’m too busy to be lonely.” It was the truth. He wasn’t lonely. He missed things, though, about having a woman. Not Lara specifically. Not anymore. The things that had been specific to her had long since faded. He missed a warm, silken leg pressed against the length of his thigh at night when he lay in a heavy state of drowsiness before he relented to the tug of sleep. He missed waking in the early soft shades of dawn to feel those same silken legs tangled with his. He missed a hand on his chest or sliding through his hair. Husky laughter just for him. He—

God’s teeth, maybe he was lonely. But it didn’t matter. He could not relent to such a weakness. He’d never admit it.

“I’m nae lonely,” he growled. “Mayhap lustful,” he admitted because denying it after he’d been caught gaping at Abigail like a speared fish was useless. His brother and sister would refute his claim. He may be laird, and he did run the clan with iron control as his father had taught him to do year after painstaking year, but that didn’t mean his brother and sister had any fear to state their opinions to him. Their mother, Marion, had taught them that while Royce may be laird, no man was so wise that he did not need counsel—or as she liked to put it, a gentle word to guide a lost soul back to his right path. And no amount of his growling, glaring, or yelling at his brother and sister had curbed neither their enthusiasm nor their gleeful amusement at giving him their unwanted thoughts.

In matters of the clan, he could command them and they obeyed without question. Matters of family were an entirely different situation. And his cousins were much the same when they were around.

“Are ye going to slake yer lust with Abigail or nae?” Brus demanded.

“Nay,” Royce said. “I do nae wish for complications.”

Brus snorted. “Who said anything about complications? I’m talking of two people on a bed, and—”

“Nae everyone thinks that when two people come together in the bed, Brus, that there are nae any emotions involved,” Elena said. “Royce is more sensitive than ye.”

Royce frowned. “I’m nae sensitive. I have control and Brus does nae, ’tis all.”

“Ye can keep yer control,” Brus retorted, “and I’ll keep the lasses. If ye’re nae going to pursue her, then I for certain will.”

“So ye’ve now said. Twice.” Royce looked out over the sea of his clanspeople and easily spotted Abigail sitting under the colorful MacLeod banners on the wall at the long oak table to his far left. She had lighter hair than anyone in the clan. She was sitting between the girls, and he could see, even from here, that they were being disorderly. Bits of food kept flying at Abigail, and suddenly, she picked up a chunk of her own food and launched it at Lenora, then more at Lillith. His jaw slid open at the sight of the woman grabbing handfuls of food and tossing it in an astonishingly efficient fashion at his children. When Abigail’s trencher was empty, she leaned over and grabbed food off theirs until all their food was gone, as well.

The people around them had all stopped talking and eating, and were all staring at Abigail. She crooked her fingers at the girls, and both leaned toward her, their expressions nothing short of mutinous. He had no idea what Abigail said, but Lenora’s eyes went wide, followed by Lillith’s. Then to his amazement, both girls gave reluctant nods, stood, and fell into step behind Abigail as she made her way slowly down the center of the aisle and to the dais. The collective breath of the curious clan mingled with the footsteps of Abigail and the girls to fill the silence. He watched the English lass as she approached, head held high, shoulders back. She looked utterly at ease and in control, except for her hands clutched together at her stomach. That small show of vulnerability pleased him, though. She was unsure possibly how to proceed with the girls, but she was determined. He admired determination in the face of challenges.

“Royce,” she said, her voice a gentle roll of perfect English, “the children are finished with supper, and they are ready for bed.”

“Step forth, girls.” Lenora and Lillith both came forward. He had to clench his jaw to stop the smile that wanted to come at the sight of the food in their hair. “What have ye to say for yer actions tonight at supper?”

Both girls slanted their gazes at Abigail, who gave a quick, encouraging nod. “We’re sorry,” they said in unison.

It took a great deal of restraint not to ask Abigail right then how she had brought the girls under control, but he simply nodded, knowing to ask might undo what she had accomplished. He rose, came around the dais, and kneeled, motioning both the girls toward him. They ran to him and enveloped him in hugs.

“Papa, can ye come tell us stories for bed?”

“I kinnae tonight, Lenora.” He stood and mussed her already messy hair. “’Tis my first full night returned I need to tend to clan needs.” He hated to see her tiny shoulders droop and know he’d disappointed her, so he said, “Tomorrow night.”

“If ye say so, Papa,” Lillith muttered and took Lenora’s hand in hers. “Will the English wench be leading us to bed?”

Royce sighed. He supposed it was too much to hope for the girls to behave totally differently after one supper with Abigail. “She is nae a wench,” he chided. “Ye’d do well to mind yer tongue or else I’ll put the loose tongue liquid on it.”

Lenora’s and Lillith’s eyes grew even wider than they had before.

“I’ll mind mine,” Lillith said quickly, but when Lenora, who was the more stubborn of the two, did not answer, Lillith poked her sister in the side. “Lenora will mind hers, too, will ye nae?”

Lenora’s lips pursed, but she finally reluctantly nodded as Elena descended the dais to lead the girls to bed. “Come along,” she said, gesturing to them, and Lillith complied immediately.

Lenora turned as if to comply, but then she stilled and faced Abigail. “My mother was the most beautiful creature ever to live,” Lenora said, surprising Royce. Lara had been beautiful, but only on the outside. “Ye,” Lenora went on, “are rather plain with yer faded hair and faded eyes, and yer skin is too white. Ye look like ye’ve raised yer body from the grave.”

“Well, I suppose all of us cannot be beautiful,” Abigail said, her expression soft and her voice softer. He liked that she was taking this approach as opposed to reprimanding Lenora. “You must surely look like your mother, then, Lenora, as you are quite beautiful.”

Lenora frowned. “I do. So ye just remember that ye do nae compare to my mother.” She shot her angry gaze from Abigail to Royce.

Why the devil was his daughter scowling at him? He opened his mouth to ask, but Abigail caught his eye, and at the slight shake of her head, he shut his mouth. But the minute Lenora was far enough away, he locked gazes with Abigail.

She tilted her head and studied him for a moment before answering. “I do believe, Laird—”

“Royce,” he corrected once more.

She bit her lip on a half-smile that made his chest tighten. “I do believe that your daughters have been acting so wildly and willfully for two reasons.”

“And what might those reasons be?”

“First, they fear you’ll replace their mother so they are trying to ensure you do not have the chance.”

“They’ve nae any fear I’ll replace their mother,” he said, his mind touching briefly on how he’d rather pour the healing potion known as liquid fire on an open wound than let a woman close again. He caught the sympathetic look Abigail gave him. She thought he’d loved his wife greatly, as did everyone in his clan except his brother, sister, and Magnus. And he had loved her until she’d betrayed him.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, Royce.”

Rather than be dishonest, he avoided responding to her sympathy. “What’s the other reason?” he asked.

“You. You are the other reason.”