The Wrong Highlander Read online

  “Where am I?” The question popped out as he scowled over the group standing around him—a poor copy of his dream woman, an old female servant and two soldiers, he noted—but paid them little attention, instead scanning the room quickly. It was a bedchamber, but not one he recognized.

  “Maclean,” the younger woman said. “Ye’re a guest of the Macleans.”

  “Guest?” His voice was dubious. The last thing Conran remembered was a naked man attacking him while he was bathing. Well, no, he realized, his eyes narrowing on the redheaded woman again. He also recalled her, riding up on a horse while he grappled with his attacker in the river. She’d slammed a damned sword hilt into his head, he remembered, his eyes narrowing on her. “Ye knocked me senseless.”

  “Ye were drowning our Gavin,” she responded abruptly, but didn’t even bother to look at him as she said it. Instead, the lass turned to peer worriedly toward the bed.

  Conran followed her gaze, but all he saw was a mountain of furs piled on it. Mouth tightening with irritation at her lack of attention, he growled, “If yer Gavin is the fellow who molested me while I was bathing, he deserved it.”

  She finally deigned to give him her attention then, but Conran barely noticed. A muttered curse had made his head swivel toward the two soldiers in the room. His eyes narrowed on the smaller one this time. He looked somewhat familiar, but with his hair dry and clothes on, it took Conran a minute to recognize him as his attacker. Once he did though, he growled, “You.”

  The man shifted uncomfortably. “I was asked to fetch ye out o’ the water. Me apologies, m’lord, if ye mistook me intentions and thought ye were under attack.”

  “I was bathing, alone, naked and without me weapon when another naked man suddenly appeared and grabbed me,” he pointed out with disgust. “O’ course I thought meself under attack. Any man would.”

  “Really?” the girl asked, and Conran watched the larger soldier glance her way and nod. He didn’t bother to look, but heard the frown in her voice as she asked, “Well, why did ye no’ tell me that?”

  “The situation was somewhat urgent,” the larger man reminded her in a deep rumble of a voice. “We needed to hurry and could no’ wait for him to finish his ablutions.”

  “Right. Urgent,” the girl muttered, and turned to peer at the bed once more.

  Conran followed her gaze, wondering what she found so fascinating about the damned furs.

  “Also,” the man continued, “I was rather hoping Gavin would talk fast enough to reassure him all was well ere the Buchanan resorted to violence.”

  “No one talks that fast,” Conran assured him dryly. “And I would no’ have heard him anyway over the rush of the waterfall.” When the man tipped his head in acknowledgment, Conran glanced back to the girl and asked shortly, “So? Why have I been kidnapped?”

  “Ye’ve no’ been kidnapped,” she said quickly, turning back with something like alarm. Managing a somewhat strained smile, she added, “Truly, m’lord, we mean ye no harm at all. We are no’ enemies. In fact, we are admirers of yer skills in the healing arts.”

  Conran snorted, and then growled, “I was knocked senseless, trussed up, tossed over a horse and unwillingly transported away from Buchanan to Maclean. Lass, that is kidnapping.”

  “She is a lady no’ a lass,” the large man said sharply. “Ye’ll afford our lady the proper respect she is due and address her as Lady Evina.”

  Conran raised a doubtful eyebrow at the words. The lass looked far and away from a lady at the moment. More like a dirty street urchin in that filthy blue dress. He narrowed his eyes as he recalled the blue draped over the leg he’d bitten. Then what she’d said moments ago finally sank through his head.

  “Healing arts?” he asked sharply.

  “Aye, the tales of yer skill have spread far and wide, Lord Buchanan, and we are in desperate need of those skills. Me father, Fearghas Maclean, is very ill. Please, just come take a look.”

  Conran shook his head, realizing it was Rory they wanted. Obviously, they’d grabbed the wrong brother, he thought, but hesitated to say as much for fear it would see his brother treated as roughly as he had been.

  While he stood, uncertain of what he should do or say in this situation, the lass grabbed his hand and drew him toward the bed. Her voice was desperate as she begged, “Please, just look at him. There must be something ye can do.”

  “Nay.” Conran tugged his hand from hers. He was not the healer.

  “Aye.”

  Conran scowled. “Ye kidnapped me. Why would I help ye in return for such rough treatment?”

  Several expressions flitted across her face—dismay, anger, desperation—and then Lady Evina took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Raising her shoulders, she said quietly, “Please, m’lord. I apologize if Gavin’s approaching ye in the waterfall frightened ye. That was no’ our intention.”

  Conran scowled at the comment, disliking the suggestion that he’d been afraid.

  “In fact, we ne’er intended for any o’ the unfortunate events that followed to occur,” she continued. “The truth is that we rode to Buchanan to approach ye to beg yer assistance in saving the life o’ me dear father. However, it all went terribly wrong when ye attacked Gavin.”

  Great, now he was the bad guy, attacking a man who just wished to gain his attention, Conran thought, and almost shook his head in wonder at how skillfully she’d turned the tables.

  “And once ye were unconscious, we could hardly leave ye there, naked and vulnerable. Anything might have happened to ye should the wrong sort have found ye like that.”

  That was clever, Conran acknowledged. Not only was he now the bad guy, but she had also been saving him by kidnapping him.

  “But I felt I could no’ leave me father alone fer too long fer fear he would die before I could return,” she continued. “It meant we could no’ stay to guard ye until ye woke. So, instead, we brought ye back with us to keep ye safe . . . hoping that once ye woke and we could speak with ye that ye’d agree to help.” Bowing her head, she added, “I would be pleased to offer ye anything ye desire that ’tis within me power to give ye, if ye would only try to help me father. He means everything to me. I cannot lose him.”

  Well, hell, Conran thought with irritation. She was a clever wench. Not only had she swallowed her pride and made a pretty plea, she’d managed to twist everything so that her kidnapping him seemed almost a kindness. More than that though, she’d revealed her very real caring and concern for her father. If he refused to at least look at the man now, he’d feel a complete ass.

  Sighing, Conran ran a hand through his long hair, and then frowned as he felt something. Plucking it free, he lowered his hand and peered at the small prickly branch he’d pulled from his hair.

  “Please?”

  Conran shifted his gaze to Lady Evina. Her eyes were shiny now, though whether with tears or anger, he couldn’t tell. He was leaning toward tears though, and supposed the least he could do was look at the man. He could decide what to do from there.

  “Fine,” he muttered now. “Take me to him.”

  “Perhaps ye could dress first,” the old woman suggested in arid tones.

  Eyebrows rising, Conran followed her glance down to see that his plaid and a fur were lying on the floor on top of and in front of his feet, but otherwise he was completely naked.

  “They fell off when ye woke and leapt up,” Evina said, her gaze never dropping below his face. The way she said it suggested that he’d been wearing the plaid at least, but he recalled being naked on the horse. The damn thing must have been draped over him and slid off when he stood.

  Shaking his head, Conran bent to snatch up the plaid and moved to the other side of the bed where there was room to kneel and pleat the item of clothing on the floor. His movements were economical, but not rushed. Conran was not embarrassed by nudity, his or anyone else’s. He’d skinny-dipped with his brothers two or three times a week for the first twenty-odd years of his life and still did on occ
asion. Between that and helping Rory with his work with the ill and injured, which necessitated dealing with people in all states of dress and undress, he saw no shame in the human body.

  Conran did find it interesting that Lady Evina hadn’t seemed embarrassed by his nudity either though. Most ladies would have blushed and stammered and probably even turned their back while they spoke to him, if not leave the room altogether until he’d clothed himself. But she’d stood there, just inches away, as if he were fully garbed. Her gaze had never dropped below his face though, Conran thought, running the past few minutes through his mind as he worked. Interesting. Maybe. He wasn’t sure. He couldn’t figure the woman out. Just when he thought he knew what to expect, she surprised him . . . which fascinated him.

  Conran was just finishing the last pleat when a white shirt appeared before his face. Pausing, he sat back on his heels and glanced to the man holding it out to him. It was the one who had attacked him under the falls, the smaller of the two soldiers. Although that description was misleading. The man wasn’t small by any means. In fact, he was about his size, but next to the mountain of a man that was the other soldier, this one looked wee.

  “Yer shirt,” the soldier said quietly. “I tucked it in me saddlebag and brought it back fer ye.”

  “Thank ye,” Conran said grudgingly as he took the shirt. He tugged it on quickly, and then donned the plaid, and turned to the people waiting patiently on the other side of the bed. Raising his eyebrows, he said, “So . . . if ye’ll take me to yer father, I’ll see if there is aught I can do.”

  He expected Evina to lead him out of the room. Instead, she walked to the bed, and peered down at the top of the pile of furs stacked there. “Da? Rory Buchanan is here. If anyone can save ye, ’tis him. Are ye awake, Da?”

  Conran moved closer to the bed, his eyes widening when he spotted the shriveled old face just visible above the mountain of furs. Taking in the flushed cheeks and glazed eyes when the man opened them, he began to frown and leaned down to press the back of his hand to Fearghas Maclean’s forehead.

  “Dear God, he’s burning up,” he said with dismay, and tugged his hand away. The man was hot enough to cook a meal on without need of a fire.

  Frowning, Conran straightened, thinking the fellow did need his brother’s skills, and immediately. But if he was now at Maclean, it would take at least two days, more likely three, to ride to Buchanan and bring him back. If his brother would even come, Conran thought. Rory was very worried about the innkeeper’s daughter. The lass was a wee thing, and her husband was a big bull of a man. Rory was afraid the birth of their bairn could kill the lass. He wasn’t likely to be willing to leave her until the birth was done and over. That left taking the Maclean to him, but the state he was in, Fearghas wasn’t likely to survive the journey.

  Conran frowned over the predicament and then uttered a soft but fervent curse. He’d have to do what he could for the Maclean himself, and try to get his fever down. If they managed that, they might be able to transport him to Buchanan for Rory to tend him. Fortunately for them, after helping Rory out so many times, he did know how to bring down a fever. He promptly began to tear away the furs on the bed and toss them to the floor.

  “What are ye doing?” Evina asked with alarm, trying to stop him.

  “He has a fever,” Conran pointed out, ignoring her attempts and continuing to remove the furs. Dear God, where the hell had they got all of them?

  “Yes, but he was complaining that he was cold,” she protested, grabbing up the furs he’d just removed.

  “Because he has a fever,” he muttered. But when she started to return the furs even as he removed them, Conran paused and straightened to glare at her, his mouth opening and then closing again as he really looked at her. The woman was pale as death, with great smudges under her eyes that could only be exhaustion. She needed sleep and wasn’t likely to seek it until she was sure her father was all right . . . unless she was made to.

  “Do ye want me help or no’?” he said finally.

  Her eyes widened incredulously. “Aye, o’ course, but—”

  “Then get out,” Conran interrupted grimly.

  “What?” she gasped with amazement.

  “I want that damned fire put out, the window shutters opened, a cold bath brought up and ye gone,” he added firmly before continuing. “And do no’ return. If ye do, I will leave.”

  “But . . .” The lost look on her face as she peered down at her father was almost his undoing and Conran nearly rescinded the words, but then he noted the way her hands were trembling, and he held firm. The lass was beyond exhausted. She’d probably been doing without sleep to tend her father before riding out for Buchanan, but he was quite sure she hadn’t slept at all over the last two or three days as she’d traveled to fetch him back. If the woman didn’t soon rest, she’d collapse and fall ill herself.

  “Yer filthy, ye reek and ye’re swaying on yer feet,” Conran snapped harshly, suspecting gentle wouldn’t work with this woman. “Ye’re no’ fit to be in a sickroom. Take yerself out o’ it, find a bath and then yer bed, and do no’ return until I say so.”

  “You—I—” she stammered, shock and anger coloring her cheeks, and Conran began to suspect he may have overdone it a bit.

  Mouth tightening, he used the only weapon he had—her concern for her father. Lifting his chin, he growled, “Well? Are ye leaving, or am I?”

  “Evina,” the older woman said gently, touching her arm.

  Mouth tightening bitterly, Lady Evina gave a stiff nod and turned to stride from the room, slamming the door behind her.

  “See that she has something to eat and then sleeps,” Conran ordered the old woman. “And tell her I’ll leave if she does no’ do both. I’ve no desire to be tending her as well as her father.”

  Nodding, the maid rushed to the door to chase after her lady.

  “And do no’ forget to order a cold bath fer yer laird,” Conran barked as the old woman slid into the hall.

  The moment the door closed behind her, he turned to the two soldiers still in the room and repeated, “Open the window shutters and put out that damned fire. We have to get him cooled down or his brains will boil.”

  The two men moved at once to obey, and Conran went back to removing the furs, his mind already on what he’d seen Rory do when he had a patient with a fever that he needed to bring down.

  “The arrogant ass,” Evina growled, stomping down the stairs, aware that Tildy was on her heels. She’d glanced over her shoulder when she’d heard the bedroom door open and close behind her and had spotted the woman rushing after her. “Ordering me from the room. He is me father. I should be there.”

  “Aye, lass, but mayhap this is for the best,” Tildy said a touch breathlessly as she followed her down to the busy great hall.

  “How is it for the best that me father is being deprived o’ his daughter’s presence? He is ailing and needs me,” she said plaintively.

  “He needs the Buchanan more just now,” Tildy said solemnly.

  Evina grunted in response as they started across the great hall. The tables were still full of people enjoying their repast.

  “And ye could do with food and a rest,” Tildy continued as they started walking along the trestle tables. “Why do ye no’ sit down? I’ll order the bath and ask Cook to prepare ye a meal. Ye can eat and then retire and rest a bit.”

  “I’m no’ hungry. Or tired fer that matter,” Evina growled, which wasn’t completely true. While she wasn’t hungry, she was a touch tired. Much less tired than she’d been when they’d finally arrived here, but her blood was up and a lot of her exhaustion had been chased away by her anger.

  “Well, the Buchanan said ye were to do both or he’d leave,” Tildy reminded her firmly.

  Evina turned on her with dismay. “Surely he did no’ mean that?”

  The maid nodded solemnly. “I think he did. He said he has no desire to look after ye as well as yer father do ye make yerself ill, and I was to see
ye ate and rested or he would leave.”

  “He acts as if he thinks he can order me about!” Evina snapped furiously.

  “He can,” Tildy said firmly. “Unless ye’re willing to risk his leaving and no’ tending yer father?”

  Hands clenching at her sides, Evina growled under her breath, and turned to walk to the high table.

  “That’s me good lass,” Tildy said with obvious relief. “Ye just relax a bit. I’ll go order the bath fer yer father, and have food sent out to ye.”

  Evina dropped onto the bench at the high table with a disgusted mutter. She disliked being told what to do at the best of times, but being ordered about by the Buchanan just rubbed her nerves raw. No one had mentioned in the many tales about him that he was a dictatorial bastard. It was always about how wondrously skilled Rory Buchanan was, and how he was a miracle worker, snatching the ill and ailing back from the jaws of death, and returning them to health. He’d practically been painted a saint by those she’d spoken to, but Rory Buchanan was no damned saint. He was rude, mean, uncaring and thought so highly of himself he believed he had the right to order her around. To blackmail her into doing as he said.

  “M’lady.”

  Evina glanced up to blink in surprise at the maid waiting for her to sit up so she could set down food and drink. It was only then that Evina realized she’d rested her elbows on the table to prop up her chin with her hands. Sighing, she sat back and smiled wearily as the woman set a trencher of beef and roasted vegetables, as well as a cider, before her.

  “Do no’ fret, m’lady,” the maid said encouragingly. “The laird’ll get well now the Buchanan is here. He’ll be up and about in no time. Ye’ll see.”

  “Aye,” Evina said, forcing a smile. “I’m sure he will.”

  Beaming, the maid nodded and hurried away, leaving her to her meal.

  Evina watched her go, and then glanced around the tables, noting the way the people of Maclean were casting glances both her way and toward the stairs leading up to the bedrooms where their laird lay in his sickbed. No one approached her though, and she was grateful for it. She wouldn’t be good company just now anyway, Evina thought, her nose twitching as the scent of the food that had been set before her reached it. The beef smelled good. Delicious. Especially after more than two days with naught but oatcakes and apples eaten on horseback.