Highlander Mine

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There was no one about. The servers must have been preparing the remainder of the meal in the kitchens.

My stomach rumbled at the sight of the abundant food. Tiny tufts of steam still rose from the fresh-baked bread rolls, and the heavenly scent was enough to break down my barriers of etiquette. Surely they wouldn’t mind if I took something to eat before the others arrived. I had been offered food by the laird himself, after all, and also invited by Christie. My last meal had been a hearty one—more than twelve hours ago. And the apple...well, Knox Mackenzie had eaten most of it in the end. I’d always had a healthy appetite, yet more often than not I was left unsatisfied. And the bounty before me was simply more than my limited powers of resistance could handle. I picked up a small, rounded loaf of bread, breaking it open. I placed a hunk of the ripe cheese between the still-warm halves, watching it melt. Then I took a blissful bite. Unthinkingly, I reached for more bread, for Hamish, stuffing it in the pocket of my gown. And another. He’d be hungry after his morning in the barracks.

At that moment, Laird Mackenzie walked into the hall, accompanied by not only Christie but also Katriona.

Oh, damnation.

How uncouth I must have appeared. It occurred to me that I could have been just a wee bit less eager about helping myself to this food on offer. I didn’t believe they would mind that I’d taken a small bite of bread before the dinner bell was rung, but the way I was stuffing not only my mouth but also my pockets might have looked less than genteel.

Ah, well. My intentions were as true as they’d ever been: to look after my nephew as best I could, by finding food for him along my travels. Partaking in sustenance for myself was hardly a crime worth punishing, I reasoned.

I swallowed, brushing the crumbs from my chin with my hand, for lack of anything more suitable. All three of them were staring at me, of course. As I might have expected, this transgression would only fuel Katriona’s scorn; she looked almost amused by my total lack of decorum, as though I had proven a point she’d been trying unsuccessfully to make all along. I thought of stuttering out some excuses, but that might make matters worse. Instead, I squared my shoulders and smiled gracefully.

Knox Mackenzie’s face was virtually unreadable. This irked me. If it was pity he felt for me, or disdain, I wanted to be able to tell, I realized. But he wouldn’t even give me that. He just leaned his shoulder against a wooden pillar to watch me, his thumb casually laced beneath the belt at his hips, as though to take his time and carefully assess whether I should be regarded as a thief, a beggar, a nuisance or something else altogether.

Christie stepped forward and laced her arm through mine. “I’m famished, too,” she said conspiratorially, and I was grateful. Her benevolence was the most pronounced aspect of her character. I wished I might someday have a chance to reciprocate her kindness. “We didn’t even break our fast this morning, did we, Amelia? You and your brother must be half-starved by now, after the journey you’ve had.”

Before I could respond to her, to thank her for tactfully smoothing the awkwardness caused by my misdemeanor, Knox Mackenzie said brusquely, “Shall we conduct our meeting now, Amelia? I can offer you more food in my den...if you’re still hungry.” As if to imply that I might have already eaten my fill.

I thought of telling him that I could have eaten all the food in the room if he’d just leave me to it. Instead, I smiled and said, “As you wish, Laird Mackenzie.”

Katriona’s flicker of amusement faded. In a complete reversal, her face took on a note of mild anxiety and she offered, “I could bring the food to your den if you’d like.”

Offhandedly, without giving her so much as a glance, Knox Mackenzie replied, “Call for one of the servants to bring it. Amelia, this way, if you will.”

Christie patted my arm and turned her attention to Katriona, placating an apparent uprising of distress in her that I appeared to have a knack for inspiring.

I followed Laird Mackenzie through a door and down a candlelit corridor.

We entered a large, low-ceilinged chamber that was opulently decorated with well-crafted yet comfortable-looking furniture, woven rugs and a large circular table. Several shuttered windows were open and looked out upon the orchards. A servant came immediately to the door, and Laird Mackenzie asked her to bring us some food and ale.

I stood by the window, feeling increasingly on edge about the inquiry that was about to begin. Perhaps sensing my unease, the laird invited me to sit in one of two stuffed leather chairs that had been situated to enjoy the view. I was glad he hadn’t asked me to take a seat at the meeting table. This cozy corner seemed more conducive to a casual, informal chat than a full-blown interrogation. The servant returned, placing a large plate of assorted meats, cheeses and breads and a pitcher of ale on a small table between us. Then she took her leave, closing the door with a heavy thud.

Laird Mackenzie poured ale into two goblets and handed one to me. I accepted the drink, even though I knew he was likely just trying to loosen my tongue, hoping to get me tipsy so I’d spill all my secrets. Wise to his ploys, I would humor him but I would not fall into his traps. I would drink. Very, very slowly.

But when I tasted the ale, it was so delicious, lightly bubbling with a hint of malty sweetness, and I was so thirsty that I ended up drinking half the goblet in one go. Even as I silently cursed myself for what would certainly be unwise, I couldn’t resist just one more sip. A large one. I had never tasted anything so refreshing in all my life.

Knox Mackenzie watched me and it was the very first time I saw a hint of humor in him; his mouth skewed just slightly to the side. Not a smile, as such. But a sign that he was at least human. “You were thirsty,” he commented.

I took one more sip, nodding.

He handed me a plate with some bread and slices of meat and cheese. “In case you didn’t get enough in the hall.” His gaze dropped to the rounded pockets of my dress, where I’d stashed the food for Hamish, then rose slowly upward until he was once again contemplating my face and my hair with lingering interest, a pastime that appeared to be one of his new favorites.

My stomach, in my mild anxiousness, suddenly didn’t feel particularly hungry, but when I took a small bite of the offering, the flavors of it were so tasty that I decided I was in fact still quite famished.

The laird allowed me to eat for several minutes. But he had questions on his mind that he was clearly eager to ask. “Amelia,” he began. Then he paused, looking measuredly into my eyes. “That is your real name, is it not?”

Already he was accusing me of lying and we hadn’t even begun. This riled me. He hadn’t even heard my story yet and already he was distrusting it. It occurred to me, aye, that my indignance was maybe, just barely, the tiniest bit absurd. After all, I was about to spin a partly fictional tale. But still.

“I heard your brother call you something else,” he said. This eased my irritation by a degree. So he hadn’t distrusted me—yet. He’d only heard Hamish’s nickname for me.

“He calls me Ami. It means—”

“Friend,” he finished for me. Something about the tone of his voice, so deep and impressive, touched me in a very strange place. A glowing burn settled below my rib cage, extending in seeping, brazen directions; this burn felt remarkably, and intensely, like longing. His eyes were fixed on mine, only compounding the effect. I was glad I was sitting down, and I took another cool sip of the ale.

“Aye,” I replied softly. “Friend.” Of course he spoke French, and probably twelve other languages besides. No doubt he’d traveled the world and read every book, too.

“You’ve come from Edinburgh. ’Tis a long journey.”

“Aye,” I agreed. “We traveled for six days.”

“Tell me about it.”

His soft command was patient and, even worse, kind. As though he was reading the difficulties of our journey and all that had come before it in the expression on my face. It was this note of compassion that found me uncharacteristically remorseful that I had need to lie to him. I knew with certainty that if he discovered the truth he would likely banish me from the grounds of his keep before I could even finish my drink. In a daft act of defiance, I took another sip of my ale, finishing it. And now I had two things to feel remorseful about. He’d tricked me! By serving me a drink so delicious there was no way I could resist it.

All right, so he’d won that hand. But I had no intention of giving away any secrets, ale or no ale. I knew I could handle my drink better than most. Ale and whiskey were plentiful at my family’s gaming club, and although I rarely imbibed, I had once taken a game, and lost, against a regular client named Burns, a devilish brute who seduced rich women for a living and would frequent our club when he was between heiresses. He’d placed a handful of shillings on my table for a single roll of the dice, mine against his. It was enough money to keep our creditors at bay for at least a week, so I’d taken him on. He’d bet me I couldn’t match him drink for drink and continue to resist his charms. I wasn’t an heiress, I’d argued. For me, he’d said, he would let that small detail slide, just this once. His roll—two sixes—had been unbeatable. I’d taken the drinks, poured by Nora, one of the club’s hostesses. It had helped that Burns had already been well into his cups when the challenge began. I’d taken four shots of whiskey before he’d passed out cold. Well played, lassie, Nora had laughed. You’ve a hollow leg. At the time I’d taken the praise to heart: it took a lot to impress Nora.

To my dismay, I realized that while Burns had merely become blurrier, Knox Mackenzie now had only become more...beautiful with the light effects of the ale. He was too masculine to be called beautiful, but it was a word that came to mind. His black hair framed his face, all thick and glinting. I’d never seen hair that richly black. The gold of the chain at his neck and the thick cuff bracelet he wore only added to his aura of nobility and sovereignty. Damn him. Now he’s trying to undermine my control with his regal allure.

“Why are you traveling north and where were you headed when you were intercepted by my sisters?” he asked.

And so I began, offering as little information as possible, resolved to embellish and rearrange when the story required. I kept Hamish in mind, too, making sure to keep true to our plan as we’d made it, in the woods behind the tavern. “Our parents have passed,” I said, with genuine feeling. This was, after all, true; at least in my case, it was a certainty. I didn’t allow myself, in that moment, to even think about Hamish’s parents. I tried to keep my voice steady as I continued. It was all becoming a bit more difficult than I’d imagined, this ruse, but I had no choice now but to follow through with it. “We were told by our father, in his final hour, that we have relatives in the Highlands, but we know none of the details of their identity or their whereabouts. So we set out to search for them.”

“Until you were attacked,” he continued, not sounding as concerned by the detail as he perhaps should have, “by masked bandits dressed in black and wielding silver-hilted swords.”

I felt my eyes narrow just slightly. “It sounds like you already know all the finer details of the story, Laird Mackenzie,” I said, vexed not only by the light dismissal in his tone but also by this ridiculous situation I’d landed myself in. How on earth had I managed to find myself on the run and at the mercy of this admittedly dashing laird in his admittedly idyllic empire, attempting to convince him that I’d been robbed by a gang of fictional thieves? “There’s not much point in me repeating it to you if you’ve already been told, in intricate, itemized flourish, of our plight.”

He ignored this completely. “Tell me more about these bandits. From which direction did they ride? Describe to me their features, their clothing, their weapons, their horses. All of it. What exactly did they say to you?”

Smug brute. He was domineering to a fault, I thought. The little devil in me wanted to somehow challenge his blatant attempt to intimidate me, and practically bully me into telling him what he wanted to know.

This was where he would discover the extent of our deceit: it was all in the details. And I had a feeling Hamish would be explicitly imaginative when it came to the embellishments. So I kept it simple. The ale was, if anything, encouraging my dramatic flair. I willed myself to channel the fear I’d felt, when we’d fled Edinburgh, when I’d—only just—managed to slip through the hands of the man who hunted me. I believe I might have been somewhat convincing; the memory, to be sure, was still fresh and the terror was easy enough to summon. “I was so overcome that I can’t remember all of it. I feared for our lives. I thought they would kill us, and—” I thought they might hurt me. Violate me and break me in the most profound manner imaginable. And when I struggled and attempted to refuse, I thought they might kill Hamish. I faltered, falling silent as I remembered.

He was coming for me. For us.

“You must take my son, and yourself, away from here.” My sister grabbed my arm, pushing me away even as she pulled me closer. Her dark eyes shone bright with fear. “Take Hamish, Amelia. You must get him out of Edinburgh. Take him far away from here, where they won’t find him. And don’t come back.”

“Cecelia, I’m not leaving without you.”

“You must! For Hamish. He’s not safe here, and neither are you.”

“Nor you, sister. Fawkes will take out my desertion on you if I leave. Either I give him what he wants or we flee together.”

My sister was as horrified as I was by the thought of Fawkes possessing me merely to exercise his power over our family. Perhaps even more so. She remembered more vividly the lifestyle we had once led, of dignity and civility; she valued and coveted this ideal more than any other, as our mother once had. “You are not for sale, Amelia. ’Tis not an option.”

“Neither is leaving you behind! You must come with us.” Sebastian Fawkes was one of the most powerful ganglords in Edinburgh. A man who hungered for power and would go to any lengths to gain it. A man who enjoyed the chase, the game, the fear in the eyes of those he sought to better. Myself included. I had intrigued him from the start. My looks and my insolence had fueled his conquest. My family’s predicament had given him the perfect avenue to gain the upper hand when I’d refused to engage him. He could have forced me, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted to own me in every possible way. By whatever means necessary. “I’ll not leave you here alone to fend for yourself.”

“I’m not alone, Amelia. James has taken a shipment south, but he will return for me. If I leave, we’ll lose what little we have left. My place is here. I have to see this through.”

“Your place is with us!” I insisted. Not as bait, to lure me back. None of this mattered: this club, the shreds of our livelihood, this city, with its confining, unending hardships. My sister was much more involved in the underworld, mostly by default, than I was. Her husband, James, over time, had fallen further and further into the abyss of debt. He had become a pawn and a runner in a dangerous game. Despite it all, Cecelia was loyal to him, for all that he had tried to do. My mother’s ingrained sense of duty to home and husband, to keeping up appearances at all costs and to stubborn perseverance had manifested themselves strongly in her eldest daughter. Cecelia held doggedly on to some tattered hope that all was not lost.

And she would not listen.

“Please, Cecelia,” I begged her. “Please come with us. I’ll not go without you.”

The banging at the door down below was growing louder, the commotion gaining momentum.

“You can, and you will,” she insisted. “You are the strongest person I know, Amelia. You’ll rise to the top no matter what you do, or where you go. Take Hamish, I beg you, and don’t look back. They’re coming. Hurry!”

The pounding at the door gave way to a smash and a flurry of voices. Fawkes was earlier than his promises had indicated. Much earlier.

The noise was getting louder. And closer.

“Take him!” she cried, urgent. “I know what Fawkes threatened you with, and what he’s capable of. He’s taken my husband to keep me here, to keep me quiet. I have to wait for James. You must go. Go and don’t look back. Keep him safe, Amelia. Please. I beg you. Do whatever it takes to keep him safe.”

Cecelia gave me a brief hug. And then she ran in the opposite direction.

There was no more time to argue with her. If I waited any longer, my opportunity for escape would be lost. It might already be lost.

I woke Hamish. Quickly and quietly, I led him to the library down the hall. Closing and locking the door, I pulled him toward the bookcase. I knew where the latch was. Behind a black leather-bound book about, of all things, the deciduous trees of the British Isles. I’d read it only once, in my quest to learn every shred of knowledge I could get my hands on. But it was hardly riveting material. Which was precisely why I had put it in this space, hiding the latch that would release the bookcase from its frame. I had discovered the secret portal many years ago, when I’d been searching for something to read. At that time, a small red book had sat there, almost conspicuously, bringing attention to itself. Its pages were blank except for these words: Be free. The small red book became one of my most treasured possessions. I used it as a journal, to record my innermost thoughts and restless dreams, of a life far from Edinburgh’s backstreets, away from the lowlife and the immorality, to a place more serene and forgiving. This small library had set me free many times over in my imagination, through books, fantasies and aspirations. Now it would, I could only hope, deliver a more literal sense of the word. I pulled the bulky shelf forward, exposing a hidden passageway. Loud banging on the door nearly undid me. I could hear Fawkes’s voice. Calling for me. Threatening me with his vengeance and his obsession. My heart was in my throat. The lock was rusted with age; it wouldn’t hold for long.

“Why are we running, Ami?” Hamish had whispered. “Where is my mother?” I pushed Hamish into the narrow passageway, barely fitting through it myself, pulling it closed behind us until I heard the click of the lock. We were in the dark staircase now. “These men have less than honorable intentions,” I had replied to him, once I was sure we were well out of range of being heard. “For me. Your father is exporting a shipment to England and your mother waits for him. We will meet up with them again when it is safe to do so. Until then, we must find a safe place, far from here.”

Feeling our way down, drawing our fingers against the rough-hewn wooden walls, we reached the bottom of the staircase. Cautiously, I turned the key, opening the door to a dark underground tunnel, which led us to a hidden doorway, far down the back alley and away from the building itself. There were shouts from around corners. Unseen commotion called for us, seeking us out. We ran through the backstreets, toward the northern edge of town, putting as much distance between us and them as we could. After a time, we’d stopped for a moment, out of breath. It was then that we saw a farmer’s wagon, pulling away from a small stables, half filled with hay. We climbed on as it began to roll. And we had done it. I had escaped him. For now.

“I was so afraid,” I whispered. And I was no longer lying. I had been afraid. More afraid than I’d ever been in my life. The tears in my eyes were not an act and they pooled before I even realized what was happening. I had not cried since we’d fled, not a single tear for the displaced disaster my life had become, or for my sister, whose fate I could not know.

I didn’t know why I was crying now. I did feel overcome with emotion, aye, but I also wondered if I was reacting to Knox Mackenzie’s authority by playing on his manly concern. This was the sort of reaction I might have staged in the past, although this time my feelings felt unnervingly authentic. Annoyed with myself for showing such overt vulnerability, I wiped the tears away, wanting to temper my weakness with a show of resilience. I had a job to do, I remembered: deception in the name of survival. I imagined telling him the truth, and his reaction.

I’m a card dealer, Laird Mackenzie, and a gifted one at that. I’ve resided in one of the less prosperous gaming clubs in old Edinburgh for the past ten years, using my blossoming feminine wiles to deceive the less-skilled, downtrodden gamblers, conning them out of money to keep my family off the streets. I can count cards, curse in French and drink a half-inebriated man under the table. Are you charmed yet? Offer me a job, Laird, and look after my nephew for me while I travel unchaperoned back to Edinburgh to see if my sister is being held against her will by an evil ganglord.

Nay, the truth would be best kept quiet. “We hid, and we escaped,” was all I said on that topic.

Knox Mackenzie was watching me intently. Little rays of kindness seemed to be shining through the veneer of his staunch authority, as though he wanted to contain them but couldn’t. “You’re safe now,” he said. “There’s nothing to be afraid of here inside the walls of Kinloch.”

Here he was, this prodigious, controlling laird and warrior, offering not only protection, but solace. Safety. It was such an unfamiliar mood for me: that of feeling buffered from all danger and difficulty. There was no way Sebastian Fawkes could gain entry to this place, not with an entire army protecting its walls and its citizens. I had food on my plate and, aye, stuffed into my pockets. I was warm and sheltered and my nephew was more well cared for and happily engaged at this moment than he might ever have been in his life.

It might have been the ale. In an unintentional gesture of gratitude, I placed my hand on Knox Mackenzie’s.

The touch of that warm, comforting, calloused hand was unexpected and fed a fiery warmth into my body as though he was ablaze with currents of energy. The rush of my response was unnerving, and he, too, seemed struck. He exhaled lightly. And as he slid his hand from mine, I found myself simultaneously pulling back from his touch. I was afraid of my response to him: afraid of what I might do. I was wary of the volatility of my body’s urges. Bizarrely, I felt the effects of Knox Mackenzie’s touch as a squirmy, primal quiver in a most secret, womanly place. That lightly pulsing ache was wildly distracting.

Shockingly, what I wanted to do was to pull his hands closer, to feel the strength of them. Gripping me, overpowering me, holding me down as he lavished his magnificence all over me, in whatever way he chose to do.

Instead, I folded my hands demurely in my lap. I really might have been suffering some unexpected side effects to the stress of recent days that I made a point to discourage. I took a moment to focus on the light wring of my own fists as I squirmed lightly in my seat. I waited for the sweet, swelling anticipation to fade away. But the urges were so unexpected and so strong that I had to force myself to remain still. I was not well practiced in the art of restraint. I took a deep breath, summoning all my powers of control, composing myself as best I could.

After a minute or more, I looked up at him. The thick strands of his black-on-black hair framed his face in artful disarray, contrasting somehow with the unyielding seriousness of his expression.

He was waiting for me to continue, I realized.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “’Tis difficult to speak of. All of it. We’ve had a number of trials to test our courage of late, and it all occasionally gets the better of me. I do want to give you the information you seek.” It felt strange to apologize—something I rarely had need to do.

He might have been grateful for my apparent compliance. My tears, it seemed, had tempered the totality of his bravado and the forcefulness of his approach. I couldn’t help noticing that the sudden gentleness in his manner, shining out from beneath his staunch exterior, only succeeded in magnifying his beauty tenfold, if such a thing were possible. He literally took my breath away with his stately radiance.

“’Tis I who should be apologizing,” he said. “You’ve not yet recovered from an unspeakable ordeal and already I’m forcing you to relive it. I’m sure you understand that my motives are purely in the interest of the safety of my clan and all those who reside within the walls of Kinloch, you and your brother included. If there are threats to our peace, I need to know about them.”

“Aye,” I said, fairly overcome with the magnitude not only of all he had to offer but of all he was. Pure, somehow. Surly, aye, and stern, yet beautifully devoid of malice and spite.

Could it be true that he believed me? The possibility unfurled something in me. I wanted him to believe me, I found. Desperately. I wanted to give him the truth and only the truth. I wanted to forge a bond and earn his trust.

But I could not.

My secrets were too deep. My truth was too sordid. I twirled a long coil of my hair around a finger.

“I’m going to ask you one question,” he said, “and I want an honest answer. I won’t prod you further on this one point, nor will I ask you for any further explanation. But I ask for your honesty to spare my men unnecessary danger and my clan unnecessary work and worry.” He paused. His silver eyes speared me with sincerity and also challenge. Causing unnecessary danger to his men and frivolous, possibly harmful distractions to his clan would not be taken at all lightly; this was clearly written across his swarthy nobleman’s face. “I understand there are layers to your situation that may extend in directions you are not, as yet, ready to share. We all have details of our stories that are less desirable—or less easy, many of which are entirely beyond our control—than others.”

Again he paused and I found myself disconcertingly drawn to him, for his patient diplomacy, his princely beauty, his sharp perceptiveness. If I hadn’t had cause to reasonably avoid all involvement with him for both our sakes, I might have described this surge of emotion in stronger terms. I might have admitted that I was in fact besotted with Knox Mackenzie already. Or at least the idea of him. Of this heady combination of his glaring beauty, his righteous protection and the true north of his moral compass.

“One honest word is all I ask,” he continued. “Can you give me that much?” His voice was ridiculously soothing, penetrative somehow, as though he had the power to peel back my defenses with just the velvety tones of a well-placed request.

“Aye,” I said. I could give him that much. I could at least try to give him that much.

His steely voice matched his eyes. “Do these bandits truly exist? Were you truthfully attacked by masked murderers less than a day’s ride from my clan and family’s keep?”