The Wrong Highlander Read online

  Nay. She didn’t want to go anywhere near Rory Buchanan again. Unfortunately, her father had just ordered her to. She watched Donnan approach the man and knew that he was doing so only because the Buchanan was all alone. He was taking up her hostess duties in her absence, she acknowledged with shame, and started down the stairs.

  “How’s he doing?”

  Conran glanced to the large man who had just settled on the bench beside him.

  Donnan. The Maclean’s first. A huge bull of a man who he was coming to realize was as wise as he was big. A rare combination. Men of this soldier’s size generally didn’t have smarts to go along with their brawn. But this man had said and done a couple things while they’d worked at cooling down Fearghas last night that had made Conran think he might be an exception to that rule.

  “Better,” he said finally, realizing the soldier was still awaiting an answer. “He is no’ out o’ the woods yet, but his fever has gone down quite a bit.”

  “Good,” Donnan said, relaxing slightly and glancing around before gesturing at a passing servant. The woman smiled and nodded as she flew by and Donnan returned his gaze to Conran. “How’s yer head?”

  “Oh.” Conran raised a hand to feel the knot on the side of his forehead where Evina had slammed her sword hilt into him, and then to the one on the back of his head where he’d apparently hit it on falling off his horse. They both felt a little smaller than they’d been when he’d woken up here last evening. The aching, thankfully, had ended shortly after waking.

  “Fine,” Conran said finally. “I’m a fast healer.”

  Donnan nodded, and then suddenly said, “Lady Evina would no’ have hit ye but she was worried about ye drowning Gavin.”

  “He’s important to her, is he?” Conran asked, trying to sound uncaring, but aware that he was suffering a touch of a jealousy he really had no right to. He barely knew the woman.

  “Everyone here at Maclean is important to Lady Evina,” Donnan said solemnly.

  “O’ course,” Conran murmured, relaxing, until the man continued.

  “Although Gavin is mayhap a little more important than most. At least, she tends to favor him.”

  “Does she?” he asked grimly.

  “Aye. But then there’s good reason.”

  “I’m sure there is,” Conran said dryly.

  “He is her first cousin and she did raise him after his parents died,” Donnan added.

  Conran glanced at him with a start. “How could she have raised him? He’s older than her, is he no’? He looks older.”

  Donnan grinned and shook his head. “Gavin’s a big boy for his age, carries himself well, and his facial hair came in early, but the lad’s only sixteen.”

  “Good God!” Conran said with true amazement. He would have guessed the boy was at least twenty-five. “How old was he when his parents died?”

  “Two,” Donnan answered.

  “And Lady Evina was . . . ?”

  “Ten.”

  The answer came from over Conran’s left shoulder and in a woman’s voice. He turned his head slowly, unsurprised to find Evina standing behind him.

  Nodding a silent greeting, he let his gaze rove over her. There was still a hint of hectic color in her cheeks. From their tumble on the bed? He wanted to think so. Certainly, that was why her hair was mussed and her gown wrinkled. She looked like she’d just tumbled from bed, or been tumbled on one, Conran thought with an inner smile, and only wished they hadn’t been interrupted. Although he supposed he should be grateful they had. Evina was a lady, the daughter of the laird here. She wasn’t to be trifled with.

  “I was ten when Gavin came to us,” Evina added quietly now.

  Realizing he’d been sitting there ogling her, Conran forced a polite smile to his face and commented, “That’s young to take up mothering the lad.”

  Evina relaxed a little and shrugged. “Me own mother had died just weeks before. There was no one else to do it.”

  Conran felt his eyebrows raise at this news, but did the math. She was ten when Gavin came at the age of two. He was sixteen now, so Evina was twenty-four . . . and still unmarried. Why?

  “Ah, here we are.”

  Conran glanced around at Donnan’s words to see that the servant the man had gestured to earlier was pausing before them with a large platter in hand. It held pastries, cheese and fruit, he noted as a second woman appeared with two mugs and a pitcher of what appeared to be cider.

  “Thank ye, lassies, but ye’d best fetch another mug for Lady Evina,” Donnan said with a smile as the two women finished setting down their burdens and straightened.

  “No mug,” Evina said, moving to settle on the bench next to Conran. “I’ll have mead instead, please, Sally.”

  “Aye, m’lady.” The woman who had brought the cider bobbed a curtsy and the two women rushed off.

  “Tell me, Lady Maclean, why are ye no’ married?” Conran asked once the servants had moved away.

  Evina had raised up off the bench to reach for a pastry on the tray when he’d asked that. She froze briefly at the question, he noted with interest, and then took a pastry and settled back in her seat before answering, “I have. I’m actually Lady MacPherson.”

  Conran blinked at the simple words, shock rolling through him. She was married. Dear God and he’d kissed her. She’d kissed him back too.

  “The Buchanan says yer father is improved,” Donnan commented into the silence that had fallen.

  “Aye. His fever is down,” Evina said easily as if she hadn’t just sent Conran’s world into chaos. Then she added, “And he’s awake. In fact, I was to ask if he could have something to eat?”

  Conran stared at her silently, his mind in an uproar. Not one of his thoughts was about her father though. His mind was full of her scent, and the feel and taste of her. Her excited gasps and mewls of sound were still ringing in his ears. He could still taste her on his tongue . . . and she was married.

  “Broth perhaps, m’lord?” she asked, curiosity on her face now as she watched him.

  Forcing his mind to her question, Conran sucked in a deep breath and turned toward the platter to grab a couple of pastries.

  “Broth would be fine,” he growled, standing up with the pastries he’d taken. “I’d appreciate yer asking yer cook to send it up. I need to go check on him now he’s awake.”

  Conran didn’t wait for a response, but headed for the stairs at a quick clip, his mind roaring. She is married!

  He shouldn’t care, Conran told himself firmly. He hardly knew her. She’d knocked him senseless, kidnapped him, dragged him here trussed up and naked . . . and she kissed like an angel. Or a whore, he supposed. There had been no holding back, no tentativeness to her. She’d opened for him like a flower, spreading her legs and writhing in his arms like a well-trained lightskirt . . . because she was well-skilled, he realized. She was married after all, and apparently free with her favors.

  Christ! Where was her husband? Was she as free and easy with every man who visited Maclean? Perhaps he shouldn’t complain. Perhaps he should just take her up on what she offered and bed the woman, scratch the itch that had been raised in him.

  It wasn’t the first time a married woman had offered herself to him. Conran had never accepted before. He believed in the sanctity of marriage. But he was tempted this time. Evina was a tasty little bundle and full of passion. He wanted to drink up that passion and bury himself in her eager body.

  Just thinking about it had him hard as he mounted the stairs to her father’s room. Conran wanted to strip her gown away and see those full soft breasts he’d touched through the cloth. He wanted to caress and suckle them, and he wanted to bury his face between her thighs and sip of her essence. He wanted her strong legs wrapped around his hips as he thrust into her, and then he wanted to flip her over and take her from behind, pulling her hair as he drove into her. Christ! He wanted her every way it was possible to take a woman.

  An image came to mind of her on her knees taking him
into her mouth, and Conran stopped at the top of the stairs, battling the urge to turn around, rush down, grab Evina by the hand and lead her someplace where they could do all those things. But then he gave his head a shake and forced himself to continue forward. She was a married woman, with a husband who wouldn’t take kindly to his wife indulging in such things with another man. At least Conran wouldn’t take kindly to her sleeping with someone else if she were his wife. Where the hell was her husband?

  Away performing his service for the king, he supposed. Or perhaps off with some lover somewhere. Maybe there was a reason Evina had been so free with him. Mayhap her marriage was miserable and her husband neglected her.

  Conran shook his head slightly. It didn’t matter. She was married. He would do better to stay away from her while here. His conscience couldn’t bear his trysting with a married woman when there were so many unmarried and available women out there willing to satisfy his needs. From now on, he would keep his distance from Lady Evina MacPherson, he told himself firmly . . . and just hoped that was something he could manage.

  Chapter 4

  “What’s going on between ye and me daughter?”

  Conran was reaching out to retrieve more bandages from the trunk he’d pulled over beside the bed when the Maclean asked that. The question startled him sufficiently that he dropped the wrappings on the floor. Cursing, he bent to pick them up and eyed the bits of dirt and pieces of rushes clinging to the formerly clean cloth. Conran tossed the soiled material aside with disgust and grabbed a clean one.

  “Well?” Fearghas Maclean asked, sounding testy.

  “What do ye mean?” Conran asked carefully. Nothing was going on between him and Evina. At least, nothing had gone on between them in the four days since he’d learned she was married. He’d been avoiding her like the plague since then. Fortunately, she appeared to be doing the same, making it easier for him to steer clear of the temptation she offered with her very presence.

  “I ne’er see the two o’ ye together,” the Maclean growled, sounding annoyed. “She sits with me while ye eat, and leaves the minute ye return. ’Tis like ye’re avoiding each other. Are ye still mad at her for kidnapping ye and dragging ye here?”

  Conran sat back to peer toward the man’s face, but since Fearghas was lying on his stomach in the bed with his head down, he couldn’t see his expression. Narrowing his eyes, Conran asked, “Ye ken about that?”

  “I was awake when they first brought ye up here,” he admitted. “I heard everything. Well,” he added, his voice wry, “most o’ it anyway. I was a bit out o’ me head at the time. The fever was doing me in. But I got enough to understand ye did no’ come here willingly.”

  Conran remained silent for a moment and concentrated on packing the wound, but finally said, “I am no’ angry about that. I do no’ believe she intended to kidnap me.” Well, certainly she hadn’t intended to kidnap him, he thought. He wasn’t Rory. But he didn’t even think she’d planned to kidnap Rory. “’Twas just an unfortunate turn o’ events that ended with me being knocked out, and carted here without their gaining my agreement first.”

  “Hmm,” Fearghas muttered, and then asked, “So why are the two o’ ye avoiding each other?”

  “Where is her husband?” Conran asked instead of answering the question.

  “Her what?” The Maclean reared up on the bed, pushing his chest up with his arms and turning to gape over his shoulder at him with amazement.

  “Her husband,” Conran said, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “I asked why she was no’ married and she said she was.”

  “Oh. Aye.”

  Conran caught the grief that flashed across the laird’s face, but then the Maclean allowed himself to drop back to lay flat again with a sigh. A moment passed before he answered his question though.

  “Her husband’s dead.”

  The words were blunt and spoken in an empty voice that told Conran how much the loss had affected Fearghas Maclean. Conran stared at the back of the man’s head, his thoughts in a mass of confusion. Part of him wanted to shout, “Yes!” at the news that Evina was widowed and so had not been messing about behind some poor husband’s back when they’d kissed on this bed. The other part though was noting that Evina’s husband had obviously been well-loved by his father-in-law, and he suspected that meant probably by Evina too. Was she still in mourning? How long ago had the husband died?

  “He drowned some years back,” Fearghas added sadly as if he’d asked the question aloud. “Long enough ago I forget some days that she was ever married. And then other days I can think of little else but what happened that day. ’Twas a terrible tragedy.”

  Conran returned to packing the man’s wound, but his mind was filled with Evina. She wasn’t married. She was widowed. Dear God, this changed everything. Being widowed was much better than just being unwed. It meant she was no innocent. She was a woman experienced in the bedchamber, and free to indulge in affairs if she wished. So long as they didn’t flaunt the affair too much, no one would think twice about their having one. He could stop avoiding her and start wooing her instead.

  A heavy sigh drew his attention back to his patient and Conran considered him briefly. The Maclean had obviously been brought low by thinking about Evina’s husband’s death. Which made him feel like a bit of an ass for being so grateful that she was widowed. Hoping to distract him, he asked, “Are ye going to tell me how ye came by yer wound?”

  “What wound?” The Maclean glanced over his shoulder with befuddlement.

  “The one I am presently tending to, m’laird. On yer left arse cheek,” he said dryly as he packed the last bit of bandage into the large hole in the man’s derriere.

  Snorting, the Maclean turned his head away. “’Twas no wound. The only thing on me arse was a boil that’s come and gone as it pleased for years.”

  “For years?” Conran asked with disbelief. “Why did ye ne’er tend to it?”

  “Well, I could no’ even see it being on me arse as it was, could I? How could I tend it?”

  “Ye could have had Tildy lance it or—”

  “Oh, hell, no!” Fearghas Maclean roared, interrupting him. “That lass has been trying to get a look at me arse for better than a decade. Since before me dear wife passed even. The hell if I was giving her an excuse to see and fondle me jiggly parts,” he said with affront, and then added, “Besides, ’twas a bit o’ bother when ’twas tender, but otherwise no’ a problem.”

  “No’ a problem,” Conran muttered to himself with disgust, and then snapped, “It damned near killed ye, m’laird.”

  “What?” The Maclean glanced around with amazement and then shook his head. “Leave off. The fevers are what near killed me, no’ a bloody boil.”

  “The boil was the reason fer the fevers,” Conran growled impatiently. “Yer left butt cheek was so full o’ infection and rot when I got here I had to cut half of it away. That infection is what caused the fevers. Ye’re lucky it did no’ kill ye.”

  “Ye jest!” he said, raising himself up to peer around with dismay. “All o’ this from a blasted boil?”

  “Aye,” Conran said shortly.

  “Well, hell,” Fearghas Maclean muttered, and flopped back on the bed again. Heaving a sigh, he said, “’Tis good ye cut it out, then.”

  Shaking his head with exasperation, Conran continued his work, but then said, “I’m thinking I should send a message to Buchanan to let them ken where I am and that I’m well. They’ll be worrying about me.”

  “Aye.” A frown sounded in the Maclean’s voice. “Well, we can no’ have yer family fretting. Ye write a message and I’ll have one o’ the men carry it to Buchanan fer ye right quick.”

  Conran relaxed a little. He hadn’t been treated like a prisoner, but the way he’d arrived had made him wonder if they would refuse to allow him to send a message to Buchanan. He hadn’t really thought they would, but there had always been the chance. However, the Maclean was willing to send a messenger for him, so all was well. r />
  He really should have thought to do so sooner than this though, Conran acknowledged. His brothers must be worried sick about him, he thought with a frown, and wondered if now was not the time that he should admit to the Maclean that he was actually Conran Buchanan, the fourth son, and not the sixth son and healer, Rory.

  Considering how to broach the subject, he finished with the wound and then stood and moved to his saddlebag on the bedside table. Conran had intended to make another tonic for the man. One he’d made several times under Rory’s instruction. His brother said it was to build a patient’s blood and help them sleep, both of which could only aid in Maclean’s healing, he assured himself. It wasn’t that he’d planned to have the man sleep the afternoon away so that he’d be free to seduce his daughter. Truly. However, when Conran got to the table and picked up the saddlebag, it was empty.

  “What the hell,” he muttered, opening the bag and peering into its yawning depths.

  “Oh, aye, I forgot to tell ye,” Fearghas said behind him. “Tildy sent maids up to change me bed linens while ye were breaking yer fast this morn, and one o’ them knocked yer bag over. Yer weeds all got mixed together and in the rushes, so she swept them up and put them in the fire so the dogs would no’ eat anything that might make them sick.”

  “What dogs?” Conran asked with surprise. He hadn’t seen one since arriving.

  “My dogs,” the Maclean said as if that should be obvious.

  “I’ve seen no dogs since I got here,” Conran explained his ignorance.

  “They’ve been kept out in the bailey since I fell ill. But they usually sleep in here.” Frowning slightly, he added, “They’re probably following Evina around while I’m unavailable. Well, when she does no’ come up here,” he added.

  Conran nodded and set the empty bag on the table, then began to rub the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger as he pondered what to do about having lost all of Rory’s weeds. Obviously, he needed to replace them, and quickly. The Maclean was on the mend and would survive without them, but Rory would need them. His brother was probably fretting up a storm over his disappearing without delivering them to Buchanan as he promised he would. That would have been the first telltale sign that all was not well and he had not left willingly.