The Wrong Highlander Page 6

  “No’ to worry though,” the Maclean said now. “I’ve arranged to fix the problem.”

  Conran let his hand drop from his face and turned in question to the man. “How?”

  Fearghas opened his mouth, and then paused and smiled as a tap sounded at the door. “I’ll wager there’s the answer now.”

  Curious, Conran turned toward the door as it opened, his eyebrows rising when Evina entered with a tray in hand and Gavin on her heels.

  “Thank ye,” Evina murmured to Gavin as he opened the door and held it for her. She took several steps into the room and then slowed when she noted that Conran was still with her father. Usually he was out and below at table by now, leaving the way clear for her to take her noon meal with her father. It was what he’d done the last four days since their encounter in this room. She’d just assumed he’d continue the practice, and when she’d noticed he wasn’t at table yet as she’d carried the tray across the great hall, she had assumed he was simply in the garderobe or something. She’d been wrong.

  Raising her chin, Evina continued forward and forced a smile to her lips. Keeping her tone light, she said, “They’re serving the noon repast below, so I brought up lunch for Father.” Focusing her gaze on her father only, she added, “We can eat together while Lord Buchanan goes below to take a break and enjoy his meal. As usual.”

  Evina winced as the last words slipped out. Even to her they sounded a bit snippy, almost accusatory, as if she were commenting on the fact that he was still there and she didn’t like it.

  “That’s sweet, me dear, but there’s going to be a change in routine today,” Laird Maclean announced, sounding suspiciously cheerful, she thought, and wished she could see his expression. That was the one thing most annoying about his constantly lying on his stomach to avoid pressure on his bottom. She could never see his expressions when they talked, and they’d talked a lot the last few days. Mostly about the Buchanan. Her father was constantly asking her questions about the man, or telling her things about him. She had begun to suspect the man was up to something. She still did.

  “What change in routine are we having?” Evina asked warily, stopping next to the bed with the tray.

  “Our healer needs more weeds,” her father announced. “Ye need to show him where to get them.”

  “What?” she asked with alarm. “But he had a whole saddlebag full of weeds. He—”

  “I fear they were lost this morn when one of the lassies knocked it over while changing me bed linens,” her father said, raising himself up so he could turn to look at her. “Unfortunately, they got mixed in with the rushes and had to be disposed of.”

  “But . . .” Evina turned a blank expression to him. “I was here when they changed the linens. I do no’ recall—”

  “I only noticed after ye left the room,” he said easily. “I had the maid clean it up when she returned with me emptied and clean bedpan. Ye’d left by then,” he added with a shrug, letting his head drop again. “Regardless, he ca no’ heal without his medicinals, so ye’ll have to take him out and help him hunt up more.”

  Evina frowned, and shifted on her feet. Avoiding looking at the Buchanan, she finally said, “Fine. I’m sure Gavin can take him out to—”

  “Nonsense,” her father interrupted at once. “The lad does no’ ken the first thing about weeds and where to find them. Besides, I have another job for him.”

  “But . . .” She cast around desperately for an excuse, and then held up the tray. “What about the nooning meal? I was going to eat with ye and ye should no’ be left alone—”

  “Tildy can sit with me,” he interrupted again.

  “Tildy?” Evina said with amazement. Her father generally avoided any situation where he might have to be alone with the woman for more than a couple minutes. The maid had been mooning after him for years and her father acted like her affection might be infectious, avoiding her like she was a leper, and yet this was the second time he’d willingly arranged for her company.

  “Aye. Tildy,” the Maclean said firmly. “That way, ye can go without worrying.” Apparently, thinking the situation was decided then, he lifted his head and turned to look at her cousin. “Gavin, go down and ask Cook to pack a lunch for yer cousin and the Buchanan. They can take it with them and eat as they hunt for medicinals.”

  “Aye, Uncle.” Gavin headed out of the room at once, casting Evina an apologetic look as he went. He seemed to know she was not pleased with this turn of events.

  “Rory, lad, why do ye no’ go ask Donnan to speak to the stable master to arrange for yer and Evina’s horses to be saddled,” her father suggested now. “I’d have a word with me daughter.”

  “O’ course.” The Buchanan grabbed his empty saddlebag and turned to leave the room.

  Evina frowned after him. The man had been smiling. She hadn’t seen him smile in . . . well, she didn’t think she’d actually seen him smile once since encountering him in the clearing five days ago. At least, his expression whenever he’d seen her the last four days had been hard and closed . . . ever since that kiss here in this room when she’d acted such a tart, she thought on a sigh.

  “Evina.”

  Blinking her thoughts away, she glanced to her father uncertainly.

  “Come. Set the tray down on the bedside table,” he instructed solemnly.

  Mouth tightening, Evina did as he ordered. She eased the tray onto the table, carefully pushing the few items on it across its surface with the tray itself until they all fit on it.

  “Now, sit for a minute,” he said when she’d finished the task.

  Again, she did as he asked, but Evina eyed him warily. He was definitely up to something. She just had no idea what.

  “I want ye to be on yer best behavior this afternoon,” he said quietly.

  Evina stiffened. “What do ye mean? I’m always on me best behavior,” she muttered, wondering if he knew about the kiss.

  “Are ye wearing braies under yer gown?”

  That question caught her by surprise. “Aye. Why?”

  “Because ladies do no’ wear braies, ride astride or carry swords,” he said grimly. “Take them off.”

  “What?” she asked with amazement.

  “Ye heard me. Take them off. Right now,” her father said firmly, and when she just stared at him, he raised himself up slightly and turned to scowl at her. “I’m closing me eyes and counting. The braies had best be on me bed by the time I reach ten and open them again.” The Maclean then actually closed his eyes and began to count.

  Evina stared at him blankly until he reached three, but then jumped up and quickly yanked her skirts up to reach her braies and tug them down and off.

  “There,” she snapped, letting her skirts drop and tossing the braies across the bed as he reached eight.

  Her father opened his eyes and smiled when he shifted so that he could look around and see the braies on the end of the bed. “Good. Now the sword.”

  “The sword?” Evina asked, and started to shake her head. “I—”

  “Ladies do no’ carry swords around on their person,” he said firmly. “Remove it and set it on the braies. Ye can have it back when ye return.”

  “A fat lot of good ’twill do me then,” she snapped at once. “If ye’re going to make me ride outside the bailey with him, that’s when I’m most likely to need me sword. We could be attacked by bandits, or—”

  “I’m sure Rory can protect ye against anything that might crop up,” he said, unconcerned.

  “Rory is a healer, no’ a warrior,” she said with disdain.

  “And ye’re a lady, no’ a young lad,” he snapped back, and then said slowly and firmly, “Ladies do no’ carry swords. They are sweet, and gentle. They smile, and coo, plea prettily and compliment a man. They do no’ hit him in the head with the hilt of their sword and drag his naked arse back to my castle!”

  “He told ye,” Evina whispered with dismay.

  “Sword,” he growled, pointing toward the braies on the bed
.

  Biting her lip, Evina removed her sword and set it carefully on the bed.

  “He did no’ tell me,” her father said now. “I was awake and heard everything when ye arrived back and were arguing here in me chamber.”

  “Oh,” she breathed, and then sucked in a mouthful of air and said defensively, “Ye were very sick at the time. Deathly so. I was just trying to get him back here to save ye.”

  “For what?” the Maclean asked dryly. “So I’d be healthy when his brothers came to kill us all for kidnapping one of their own?”

  Evina’s eyes widened incredulously. “I’m sure he will no’ send for his brothers. He seems perfectly content helping ye. I have no’ had to hold me sword to his throat to get him to do it or anything as I feared on the ride back. He—”

  “O’ course he’s acting content,” her father snapped. “He is alone in a strange castle, surrounded by strangers, all of whom are armed while he is no’. Did ye expect him to refuse to tend me, or tell ye he would complain to his brothers about his treatment? Only a fool would do that. Ye might kill him and bury him here so no one ever kenned what happened to him.”

  “I ne’er would!” Evina gasped with amazement.

  “I ken that,” her father said wearily. “But he does no’. The Buchanan does no’ ken ye, lass. He kens none o’ us. What do ye think he’s been thinking while being kept here?”

  “I . . .” Evina shook her head helplessly. She hadn’t really thought much on how he might be feeling. They weren’t keeping him prisoner with guards on him or anything. She’d assumed he understood that he was a guest, not a prisoner. Not that he wouldn’t have been a prisoner had he refused to help her father. The truth was, she would have made him help her father at sword point had he refused at first. But he hadn’t; he’d set to work on the man the moment he saw how ill he was.

  “The Buchanans are becoming a very powerful family, lass,” her father said solemnly. “The boys have been marrying into, and becoming lairds over, keeps with their own armies. If ye go up against one, ye’ll find yerself dealing with all o’ them, and all o’ their soldiers. That would be the Buchanans, the Drummonds, the Carmichaels and the MacDonnells combined. And their friends the Sinclairs would no doubt join in any battle they took on as well. All those armies at once would crush Maclean . . . and Rory’s asked to send a message to his family,” her father told her unhappily before admitting, “I fear what he’s going to say, but can hardly refuse to let him send a message else he would be a prisoner.”

  Evina’s eyes had widened further and further with every word out of her father’s mouth, until she was now gaping at him with horror. She truly hadn’t considered the fact that the brothers had married into their own keeps complete with armies, or that they’d doubtless combine forces with the Buchanan army in any battle they took up.

  “Where is his sword?” her father asked now.

  “What?” She blinked at him in confusion, her mind still picturing a massive army under half a dozen flags, marching on Maclean.

  “I presume Buchanan had a sword with him when ye found him?” her father said grimly.

  “Oh, aye. I think so.” Evina added that last bit because she wasn’t at all sure. “If so, Donnan probably has it.”

  He nodded. “Then have Donnan fetch it and ye return it to the Buchanan ere ye leave the bailey.”

  Evina nodded, but then shifted restlessly and asked, “What if he rides off for home the minute he has his horse and sword back?”

  “He will no’,” her father said with certainty, which just rather confused her. He was suggesting the man thought himself a prisoner and would call up the Buchanans—all of the Buchanans under each family name—against them in retaliation. Why wouldn’t the man then flee at the first opportunity to do just that?

  “But if he thinks he’s a prisoner here—” she began to argue the point.

  “Ye’re going to assure him he’s no’ a prisoner,” her father interrupted firmly. “Say something soothing when ye give him the sword. Tell him that ye just forgot to give it to him ere this.”

  Evina smiled wryly at the suggestion. That was the truth after all.

  “And then thank him prettily for taking such good care o’ me. Tell him ye appreciate it dearly.”

  Also the truth, she thought.

  “And try to give him a compliment or two. And smile,” he added, looking her over with a testy frown. “And let yer hair down, lass. Go on, take it out o’ that bun thing ye’re always putting it up in.”

  “Why do I have to take it down?” Evina asked with bewilderment as she reached up to unpin her hair.

  “Because ye’re much prettier with it down. More womanly.”

  Evina paused with half the pins out to gape at him. “What does that matter?”

  “Ye catch more flies with honey than vinegar, lass. We want the lad to like ye.”

  “What? Why?” she asked with disbelief.

  “So he does no’ call up the Buchanans and the Carmichaels, and the Drummonds and—”

  “Yes, yes,” she interrupted impatiently, going back to removing pins. If Rory was going to complain about being brought here and demand his family seek vengeance, her wearing her hair down rather than up wouldn’t make a lick of difference, Evina was sure. But she also didn’t think it was good to upset her father just now. He was still recovering from being deathly ill, and she was actually beginning to worry about his faculties. Rory had said did they not get the fever down his brains would boil . . . or had he said something about them turning to pudding? She wasn’t sure; she’d heard it secondhand from Gavin after they came below that first night and she had been exhausted at the time. Perhaps he’d said both, but, whatever the case, she was beginning to think some damage had been done by the high fevers.

  Evina’s father never troubled himself with the goings-on at Maclean. He generally left that to her while he rode off to hunt or fish or visit with friends. But now he was involving himself. It was something she had been hoping for, for some time now. Unfortunately, he wasn’t making any sense. He said Rory felt like a prisoner and might seek vengeance, but didn’t worry about his leaving once he had his horse and sword. And he seemed to think that if she was just a little friendlier to the man, Rory would give up any idea of seeking vengeance on them. But her father knew she was no good at toadying to others. Just telling her to be nice to him guaranteed she’d inadvertently insult him the next time they met.

  Truly, she was growing very concerned about her father.

  “Much better.”

  Evina grimaced at that compliment as she finished loosening her hair and quickly finger-brushed it away from her face.

  “Ye’re as lovely as yer mother was when I met her.”

  Evina frowned at the sadness in his voice, and then glanced toward the door as a knock sounded. As before, the person didn’t wait for a welcome, but opened the door and they both watched Gavin enter, a sack in one hand and a rolled-up fur in the other.

  “Cook put together a nice repast, and I grabbed a fur from by the fire below for them to eat their meal on,” the lad announced, moving toward the bed.

  “Good thinking, lad. Give them to Evina so she can go. The horses are probably saddled by now, and the Buchanan waiting.”

  Evina accepted the sack and rolled-up fur, and then frowned and glanced to her father.

  “Go on,” he said encouragingly, and when she turned to leave the room, he added, “And remember what I said, make him like ye.”

  “Make him like me,” Evina muttered as she closed the door.

  “Make who like ye, m’lady?”

  Evina glanced around sharply at the question, and grimaced when she saw Tildy approaching up the hall.

  “The Buchanan,” she said wearily, heading for the stairs. “Father’s sending me out to look for medicinals with Rory and wants me to be nice and make him like me so he will no’ call up his brothers’ armies to punish us for bringing him here.”

  “Oh, he wo
uld no’ do that, I’m sure,” Tildy said at once, falling into step beside her. “As fer making him like ye, that should no’ be hard. I think he likes ye well enough already.”

  “The Buchanan?” she asked with amazement, and when Tildy nodded, Evina shook her head. “He’s always cold and stern around me.”

  “Well, that’s a man for ye, hiding their feelings and such. But he’s always looking at ye when he thinks ye are no’ looking back,” she informed her lightly. “And that’s a sure sign o’ liking.”

  “Really?” Evina asked with interest as they reached the bottom of the stairs and headed for the great hall doors.

  “Aye, but then ye do the same when ye think he is no’ looking too,” Tildy announced.

  Evina flushed with embarrassment, but didn’t comment. What could she say? She did look at the Buchanan when he was looking elsewhere. She couldn’t help it. He was very handsome, and she kept remembering his kissing and touching her and . . . well, then she’d peer at him. Probably with a stupid longing-type look as she wished he’d kiss her again. There was no way she could explain that. It was beyond Evina how she could lust after a man she didn’t even know, let alone like.

  “If ye’re going to be out hunting up weeds with the Buchanan, who’s sitting with yer da?”

  “Ye are,” Evina said wryly.

  “Really?” Tildy practically squealed, and Evina smiled with amusement. The woman was obviously pleased at the thought that he’d actually requested her presence again. Although Evina suspected her father hadn’t really intended for the woman to sit with him. She didn’t think he would have sent for Tildy once she was gone. But now he didn’t have to. She’d done it for him.