The Highlander (Victorian Rebels Book 3)

Mena had been dressing for bed, and therefore was completely nude when her door exploded open with such force that it rattled the stones of the keep.

She was too startled to even scream.

Incomprehension stole the ability of movement from her limbs as she recognized the swarthy figure filling her door frame. He was the size of a small mountain. Dark as the night that surrounded them, and every bit as tempestuous.

Their gazes clashed and held as he stood equally as solid at her threshold. Hers wide and horrified, his narrowed and furious.

He was so savagely masculine. Relentless. Unstoppable. For a moment, as Mena stood lit by the lone lantern on the writing desk, she couldn’t bring herself to move. It was the naked hunger etched into his chiseled features that arrested her for a breath longer than it should have. She’d never in her life had someone look at her like that. Like his yearning caused him physical pain. His skin drew tighter against the sharp bones, lending the intensity of his stare a stark, ruthless cast.

His hard mouth went slack at the sight of her, and his chest rattled as though he struggled to fill it with breath. He looked every inch the barbaric Highlander from the painting on the stairs. Hair wild down to his shoulders, eyes flashing with the ferocity of an apex predator, and muscles cording with incomparable strength. Nothing moved but the flare of his nostrils as he stared at her.

His eyes touched every part of her. Even parts that may never have been touched before. They flashed with lightning, singing along her nerves with electric currents of heat. A sultry, answering thunder whipped through her, calling forth a storm so unexpected, she almost felt betrayed by her own body.

Her nipples, already tight from the chill, budded painfully. The sensation drew a shocked gasp from her as it tingled and flushed from her breasts all the way down her belly to settle in a wet rush between her thighs.

Jesus, God, what was she doing? What must he think?

Scrambling for the bed, she stood behind it, yanking her counterpane up to her neck and struggling to wrap it around her exposed body.

Perhaps she misinterpreted his stare. It was anger, not hunger, surely. Now that he’d seen her without her corset, he’d have marked the softness of her belly, the round flares of her thighs, and the grotesque way everything jiggled as she ran for the cover.

“What—what the devil are you doing here?” she gasped around a lump of mortification in her throat. His boot made a foreboding heavy sound as, instead of apologizing or explaining, he breached the threshold of her room.

Her mind instantly went from blank with shock to racing with terror. Had he found out who she was, somehow? Was he here to demand answers? To force her back to London and once again into bondage? Dear God, what?

“Where is he?” the marquess boomed in a voice loud enough to shake the windows in their frames. She could make out the question, though the edges of the words ran together, as though he had a hard time enunciating them.

“Who on earth do you mean?” she asked, as his eyes tore away from her and searched her room with frenetic observation.

“Ye ken full well who I mean.” He stalked toward her turret, searched in the tub, and opened the doors to her wardrobe.

“I have—I have no idea who you’re talking about,” she breathed around the disbelief trying to paralyze her tongue.

“Doona play coy with me,” he threatened, batting his way through the silk, crinoline, and cotton he found, parting the folds of her clothing as he would dense foliage. “The two of ye have been thick as thieves. I doona know why I failed to see it before now.”

Distraught, Mena tried to make sense of his slurred accusations whilst also yanking the blanket from where it was tucked beneath the mattress so she could wrap herself in it more completely. Had Gavin—Lord Thorne—told him lies about what had or, more appropriately, hadn’t occurred between them? Closing her eyes against a wave of panic, she prayed such was not the case.

“You won’t find him here,” she said, hating the desperation in her voice. “I’m quite alone.”

He slammed the door to her wardrobe, and it bespoke the craftsmanship that the furniture remained intact. “I know ye’re hiding something from me,” he thundered, his long stride eating up the distance between them until he towered over her.

Mena shrank back from him, tears of terror pricking behind her eyes.

He sank to his knees and flipped the bed skirt up to check beneath it.

“I promise, there’s no one in this room but you and me. Please,” she pleaded. “Please leave.”

“I know what ye’ve done.” In a swift and graceful move, he rose and seized her, his hand clamping around her upper arm. Not hard enough to hurt, but Mena knew she had no chance to escape. “Confess, and I will be lenient, but lie to me…” He let the threat trail away, though his eyes vowed retribution.

Mena’s limbs went numb with fear and all the moisture deserted her mouth. She’d been threatened before. Struck. Shoved. Even choked once. She remembered the sickening sounds of fists connecting with her flesh. The strange way it took the pain a delayed moment to register. The sight of her own blood. The taste of it in her mouth. How the pain used to confuse and astound her. She’d been treated so gently as a child, and she’d always wanted to do well. To please those she loved and lived with.

But she learned soon enough. To expect the pain, to anticipate it. To see it coming and mitigate the damage.

Such skills would be useless against the brutal-featured giant gripping her arm. He could kill her with a single blow; snap her bones with a flick of his wrist.

“T-tell me what you think is going on here,” she cried. “I swear to you, my laird, I’ve never had anyone in here with me.”

Even in his inebriated state, he seemed to register the terror in her voice, because he instantly released her. “Then where is my son?” he demanded. “Where is Andrew?”

She blinked. Opened her mouth, closed it. Then blinked again.

“Andrew?” she echoed, quite mystified. Had he misspoken? Didn’t he refer to his brother, Gavin St. James?

Whirling away from her, Liam skirted her bed and stalked back to the door. “He’s not in his room, or the ground floor. I was told he was ill. I need to find my son.”

A new fear dawned on Mena as the unsteady Scot disappeared into the hall. Andrew was likely still outside with Rune, and if Liam was on alert—

“Just what the bloody hell is this?” the marquess roared.

Oh, no. Dropping the counterpane, Mena dashed across the room to the stand where her robe hung, and she snatched, donned, and belted it in one frenzied move.

“Doona be angry, Father,” Andrew was saying, as Mena nearly stumbled over her feet in her haste to reach the door. She turned the corner to see Andrew facing her, clutching a squirming puppy in the crook of his chest and crossing his other arm over his body as though to shield Rune from his father’s infamous wrath.

“Angry doesna begin to describe it,” Ravencroft bit out. “How long have ye been keeping the beast from me?”

Both father and son’s blue-black hair gleamed beneath the gas lamps in the hall, and Mena saw a temper that could mature to rival that of his father’s flashing in Andrew’s paler eyes. “She’s been in the keep for two weeks now,” the boy stated. “And ye havena even noticed. What harm is there in keeping her?”

“Two. Weeks?” The words were growled from deep below the marquess’s ribs. A preternatural stillness settled upon Ravencroft’s enormous shoulders like the shroud of death as Mena hurried to place herself between the boy and his fuming father.

Once Mena faced off with the Demon Highlander, she came to understand that the more still he became, the wider his lids peeled away from his deep-set eyes, the more true danger they faced.

Lord, but he was the most fearsome man. Had Andrew not been behind her, she would have stepped back. But she drew what strength she must to protect the boy from his anger.

This was the worst thing that could possibly have happened. The absolute worst way he could have discovered them. Now, all she could think to do was to delay this terrible discussion until the light of day.

“Perhaps, my laird, we should leave this conversation for the morning,” she suggested evenly.

Ravencroft assessed her with eyes almost shrewd enough to be sober. “Ye knew.” It was a statement, not a question, though he posed it to her breasts rather than her eyes.

Mena glanced down, and noted that her nipples still pebbled through the thin silk of her peach robe. She crossed her arms over them and scowled at the man. How he could notice such a thing at a time like this was inconceivable.

“I found out recently,” she admitted. “I wanted Andrew to tell you, instead of tattling on him. And he was planning to talk to you about it, tomorrow, in fact.”

“Tomorrow. How convenient.” Ravencroft’s scowl deepened. “This is inexcusable, Andrew. The rule has been, and forever will be, no beasts in the house. No pets. Especially dogs. Now get rid of it.”

Mena’s own brows drew together as she felt the desperation of the boy behind her, could sense the gathering storm. “Let’s not be hasty,” she cajoled. “Andrew’s taken good care of the little thing, and shown great responsibility.”

“Responsibility? He lied!”

“And—and that should be addressed,” she conceded around the heart beating in her throat. “But you said yourself he should learn to care for something other than his own desires, and he’s worked very hard to—”

“Uncle Thorne said I could keep her.” Andrew found his courage, hurling the argument from behind her shoulder.

Mena squeezed her eyes shut. It was the worst excuse he could have made. She knew what she would find when she again opened them and faced the rage that had ignited behind the laird’s eyes, watching his fists curl into white knuckles with trepidation.

“I doona give a bloody shite what Gavin told ye,” he roared, gesturing wildly. “I’m yer father, and I already told ye, nay.” He thumped his chest for emphasis.

“Some father,” Andrew muttered.

Every muscle in Mena’s body tensed.

“What did ye say?” Liam took a dangerous step forward, all his fire turning to ice as he regarded his son as though he were a stranger. An intruder.

“With a father like ye, I’d rather be an orphan,” Andrew spat, and must have clenched his grip in his anger, because the puppy let out a whimper.

“Andrew,” she gasped, though her eyes flew to the laird’s face to gauge his reaction. The rage hadn’t deserted him, but something tormented and bleak had dampened the fire there.

“That’s right.” Andrew’s voice gathered strength and volume, yet shook with anger and probably more than a little fear. “I wish all the time that ye’d never come home. Or that ye’d died at war so that all the years we spent missing ye, hating ye for leaving us, would have meant something.”

That was it. She’d had about enough of hotheaded Highlanders. It was time for cooler British sensibility to make order of this mess.

Mena whirled on Andrew, drawing herself up to her full height, which at this point was still barely taller than him. “Don’t you ever talk to your father in such a manner. How dare you?”

His mouth fell open in the exact gesticulation of shock his father had demonstrated only moments ago.

Mena wagged her finger, much as her beloved father had done the rare times he’d had to scold her. “He lives to protect your legacy. To protect you and keep you safe and happy and you simply refuse. He is a soldier—no—is a hero, and though you’ve made sacrifices as his son, he deserves your respect if not your ardent admiration.” Grief over the loss of her own father seized her so acutely, she wanted to collapse beneath the weight of it. She was able to fight the tears that threatened by seizing hold of her righteous indignation. “One day, you’ll have outlived him and, God willing, you’ll have children of your own. You’ll see what is out there in that dark, cruel world. You’ll know the horrors that people can inflict upon each other, and what dastardly things he protected you from. There will be so many words you’ll want to say. So much gratitude to express and so many questions to ask, and an understanding that you’ll want to share with him and … he won’t be there anymore. So you will take Rune and march yourself to bed, and when you wake up in the morning, you will draft the most heartfelt apology you’ve ever given in your life, do you understand me, Andrew Mackenzie?”

Silence jangled about in the hall until she planted her fists on her hips.

“Well?”

After a moment, the boy nodded mutely.

“And you.” She directed her wrath back at the Mackenzie laird, who regarded her as though she’d become an oddity he’d never before seen. Astonishment smothered his anger, before his eyes dipped to her breasts once again.

Crossing her arms, she scowled at him. “Don’t you understand that there is nothing better for a lonely child than a loving pet? Perhaps if you’d had the company and unconditional regard of such a sweet dog you wouldn’t be such an incurable ogre all the time.” His lashes flicked down, shadowing his glare with the same boyish petulance his son had conveyed.

“Now.” She stood between the two males staring at identical points on the carpet. “You are drunk.” She gestured to Ravencroft. “And you are tired.” She pointed to Andrew. “And we all need to deal with this after a good night’s sleep. So off to bed with both of you, or so help me…” She let her own threat trail off, mostly because she hadn’t the first idea what recourse she would take should one of them disagree with her.

Liam lifted his dark eyes to pin her with the most peculiar stare for a breathless moment before he about-faced with the precision of a brigadier general, and marched away.

Mena turned back to Andrew, who now regarded her with eyes as round as tea saucers.

Wordlessly, she pointed to his room, and followed him inside when he dragged the toes of his shoes with the air of a man being led to the gallows.

“I didna mean it,” he said after a long while as Mena bustled in and smoothed his rumpled bedclothes before yanking them aside, needing an active vocation as an outlet.

“I know you didn’t,” she said crisply, though her ire was beginning to cool. A part of her was astonished at her own actions. What a mouse she’d been her entire life. And here she’d stood up to not one, but two people. Men, even.

One of them who famously was wont to kill people who angered him, so she was going to count that as double.

“Do ye think he knows?” Andrew set the subdued puppy on the floor and she plunked her little bottom on the rug with a whine. “That I truly doona wish him dead.”

“I think so,” she finally soothed, fluffing the pillow on his bed. “Your words were cruel, and I think they wounded your father. But he of all people understands that we all say things we don’t mean when we’re angry.”

“Ye were brave.” The veneration in his voice brought a caustic sound to her throat.

“I was reckless.” She sighed, turning to him. “I’m sorry I spoke so harshly.”

He shrugged his forgiveness. “He was really angry.”

“Yes, he was.” There was no use denying it.

“What do ye think he’ll do?”

Mena stared at the adorable little creature biting at some itch on her rump and falling over in her exuberance. Her heart squeezed with dread and not a little bit of hope. “He might feel differently about Rune in the light of day. He’s quick-tempered, to be sure, but he’s a reasonable man. There is hope…”

“Nay.” Andrew hurried forward. “I mean, do ye think he’ll send ye away?”

“Oh.” Mena wondered that herself. Perhaps she’d gone too far. Perhaps she’d wake to Jani at her door offering to pack her things and go.

She should have been more careful. Just what had gotten into her? Why had she found her voice, her courage, and the strength to stand up for herself at perhaps the worst moment ever?

Touched by the worry glimmering in Andrew’s eyes, Mena reached for him, squeezing his shoulder. “I really don’t know, darling. I hope not.”

The boy’s features hardened. “I’ll never forgive him if he does.” He visibly fought angry tears so hard he shook with them. “I swear it. I’ll hate him until the day he dies, no matter what ye said, if he sends ye away.”

Aching, Mena pulled him to her, resting his head on her shoulder, her own eyes brimming with tears. “That would be a tragedy, Andrew,” she said, wondering why she still had an instinct to defend his father. “Trust was broken by me. He’d be well within his rights to send me packing. This is why lying is so dreadful. Do you understand now?” Wonderful, now she was not only a liar, but a hypocrite. Lord, what a mess she’d made.

“Aye.” Andrew nodded against her shoulder.

“Crawl into bed,” she soothed, drawing back. She scooped Rune up from the floor and set the little creature into his arms where the pup promptly went to work licking his neck. “Everything will look better in the morning. We’ll sort it out. Don’t worry.”

Tears still leaked into Andrew’s hair as he put his head on the pillow and allowed her to tuck him in. She stroked his silky hair. “No matter what, know that I’m on your side, all right, darling? And that, in the end, your father is, too. We both want what’s best for you.”

Andrew’s jaw was still set in a stubborn line, but he nodded.

She turned down the lantern before sweeping to the threshold.

“Good night, Miss Lockhart.”

“Good night, Andrew.” She stopped herself from saying she loved him, though she felt as though she really did. What a dear boy Ravencroft had made.

Closing the door softly behind her, Mena released a bone-weary sigh as she peered through the flickering light down the hallway. Finding it empty of both demons and marquesses, she padded toward her room.

Andrew wasn’t the only one anxious regarding her fate on the morrow. The evening’s wait would be torture. She already knew sleep would elude her like a wary thief. Perhaps she should steal to the library and find some book or other to distract her.

Mena decided against that course immediately, as she knew that no book would keep her attention. Besides, the room still unsettled her, after her … encounter? Hallucination? Waking dream?

She didn’t have to turn her knob, as the door to her room stood slightly ajar, the latch splintered from the wood.

She pushed it closed behind her, and did what she could to secure it, trying to forget the suspicious accusations Ravencroft had hurled at her earlier. She’d been such a fool to allow Andrew to talk her into this folly. Blinded by the kinship blossoming between her and the boy, she’d lied to her employer. Again. It seemed that once she’d agreed to live this ruse of a life, it was easier to compound it with more secrets, more fraud. She was most frightened of losing her integrity altogether.

In truth, she couldn’t blame the marquess one bit for his displeasure. For being suspicious of her and the Earl of Thorne. Unlike her, he was no fool, and he knew that she’d been keeping something from him.

Lord save her if Ravencroft ever truly found out the depths of her deception.

The candle had gone out, somehow. Only silvery moonlight streamed into her bedroom from the large window, painting a crooked cross from the windowpane on the carpets.

Mena drifted over to gaze up at the glowing orb that hung low in the sky, mesmerized by the iridescent gray clouds as they allowed the autumn wind to toss them in front of the waxing moon. The wisps fragmented its glow to illuminate the lush landscape of Wester Ross and the sea beyond.

Wrapping her arms around herself, Mena pondered her situation with a melancholy desperation.

What a mire she’d become trapped in. She’d thought, initially, that her lies were victimless, that they served no purpose but to keep her safe. That she would hide here in this gothic Highland stronghold until the danger had somehow passed. When she’d been lost in the fear and pain of the aftermath of Belle Glen, the future had been this miasma of gloom and uncertainty. She’d run as fast as she could, headlong toward whatever sanctuary had been offered her.

Never would she have expected to become so attached to this wild, wonderful place. And—she could only admit this to herself here in the dark—to its wild, willful laird. To his children, his staff, and even the cold stones of this castle. Now, perhaps, she’d be forced to leave because of her idiocy.

Maybe she’d won a personal victory tonight, standing up to the marquess’s unreasonable temper; but the cost of such a victory might well be regrettably high.

“Ye were wrong.” The pain and shame in the deep voice ripped through the stillness of the night with enough force to leave a wound.

Both hands flew to her mouth to contain a scream as Mena whirled around.

Moonlight rimmed the dark silhouette of the marquess in silver. His visage remained masked by the night, though his body dwarfed the chair in which he reclined, obscured by the shadows that seemed to embrace him as one of their own.

The Demon Highlander was not one to wait until the light of day when cooler heads prevailed. He’d never leave a challenge unanswered.

Mena swallowed around a throat closing with fear. No, he’d deal her fate to her here in the dark.