The Highlander (Victorian Rebels Book 3)

He’s a demon. He’ll destroy ye.

Mena dropped the edges of the library’s drapes and whirled around to face the enormous, vacant room.

Who had said that?

A pervasive stillness permeated the gloom as Mena frantically scanned the tapestries and ornate furniture of the library for the source of the unsettling voice.

“H-hello?” Her uncertain whisper echoed off the stones and the windows, though no answer followed. “Is anyone there?”

A chilling silence greeted her, and Mena could think of nothing worse at that moment than the feeling one was not alone in an empty room.

The marquess had taken his children to the village of Fearnloch for the afternoon, and Mena had intended to use her first day off to escape into a good book, and bask in the rare and lovely autumn sunlight in the conservatory. The library had the fewest windows in the castle, though it boasted an impressive fireplace and far too many candelabra. The marquess claimed to be an uneducated man, but he obviously understood that the sun would fade the tomes in his collection, and therefore kept out the light with drawn, heavy velvet drapes.

This part of the keep faced away from the sea and offered a view of Wester Ross and the Kinross Mountains. Mena had wandered to one of the covered windows and pushed aside the drapes. The glimmer of the afternoon rays off the golden waves of barley clinging to the verdant hillsides had diverted her immediately. Perhaps a touch of her distraction had been drawn by the strong backs of the clansmen toiling in said fields, some with nothing but a kilt wrapped around their hips while the light kissed their flesh with amber.

Unsettled, Mena scanned the gloom of the library again. A large, dark shadow caught her eye, but darted away as soon as she thought she’d found it.

“Please,” she called. “Show yourself. You’re frightening me.”

“If I showed myself ye’d be terrified.” The masculine voice could only be identified as serpentine. The ss drawn out in a bone-chilling hiss that seemed to come at her from everywhere and nowhere at once. “But I mean ye no harm, ’tis the laird ye should fear.”

“Why?” Mena asked the shade, inching along the wall toward the door that now seemed miles away rather than across the room. She wanted to call for help, but didn’t dare. What would she say once help arrived? That a disembodied voice had accosted her?

She’d be sent back to Belle Glen for certain.

Cold fingers caressed above the high collar of her gown, and Mena let out a strangled scream. Whirling around, she saw nothing but a dark blurred shadow, and the flash of white streaked with veins of startling red surrounding black, abysmal pupils.

Surging back with terror, she somehow forced her legs to move, and bolted from the library.

Mena didn’t stop in the hallway, nor did she seek refuge in the solarium, her room, or the conservatory. Running on pure, heart-pounding fear, she flew down the back stairs and burst from the keep into the embrace of the sun outside.

Racing through the back gardens, she didn’t stop until she’d plunged deep into the forest that grew wild on the south and west of Ravencroft lands. She quickly found a deer path that led through the foliage. Picking up her skirts, she allowed her fear to drive her deep into the trees. She’d always taken refuge in the forest back home in Hampshire, and while the sun broke through the dancing leaves, Mena could pretend she was at Birch Haven, and that demons didn’t chase her.

When her lungs felt as though they’d burst, Mena reached her arms out and braced them against the trunk of an ancient oak. Clinging to it, she focused on catching her breath, her thoughts racing as if chased by whatever malevolent presence she’d fled.

Had she truly just encountered a ghost? Or a demon?

She couldn’t believe it was so, and yet there was no denying the chill bumps that still lifted every fine hair on her body. If she closed her eyes, she could see nothing but those dreadful black pupils rimmed with white and streaked with alarming bolts of red. She’d never in her life encountered eyes like that before.

Because surely no living creature was bestowed of something so horrific.

As she began to catch her breath, another terrible fear pierced her like an icicle as a memory she fought to repress rose to the surface.

Are you hearing voices? Or perhaps seeing things that are not there?

Dr. Rosenblatt’s even timbre was as bloodcurdling as a banshee scream, and Mena fought the impulse to clap her hands over her ears.

Could it be? Was she going mad? Hallucinations were the hallmark of true insanity and Mena couldn’t decide which was worse. A demon in Ravencroft’s library, or one in her mind.

The things he’d said about the laird …

A sound permeated the roar of her own blood in her ears. A high-pitched yip and a howl followed by a succession of barks. Lifting her head and peering around the tree, Mena identified the unmistakable roll and crest of the sea.

The canine sounds intensified in strength and pitch until Mena was certain they were distressed. Drifting carefully forward, she climbed over a fallen tree limb and followed the sounds through the thick foliage until the tree line suddenly gave way to a thin, steep grassy knoll. She found that she was at the peak of this hill, though taller, imposing black cliffs rose to to the north, and to the south. A steep path led down some amber-tinged autumn grasses to a hidden cove of golden sand.

Below her, a tall sheepdog and her tiny replica frantically paced at the surf, barking and howling loudly. Occasionally the mother would dive in and attempt to break the pull of the waves to reach an outcropping of rocks, upon which one little black and brown puppy yipped and cried for help.

Demons all but forgotten, Mena checked her surroundings before tucking her skirts into her wide belt and descending the steep and rocky trail to the cove as hastily as she could while still keeping her balance. She guessed the dogs had been playing on a sandbar and frolicking around the rocks when the tide had come in. The mother must have only been able to rescue one pup before the water became too deep and powerful for her to reach the other.

Since the coast of Wester Ross was buffeted by the Hebrides and the Isle of Skye, the surf was not as wild as the open ocean, and Mena felt confident that she could reach the little creature in time.

Abandoning her shoes and stockings the moment she reached the sand, she pulled her skirts even higher as the mother and her puppy raced toward her. They danced at her feet, barking pleas for help, rushing back to the water’s edge, and then returning to nudge her legs.

A pang of fear slid between her ribs as she realized how cold and alarming the water would surely be, but it only took one look at the whimpering, stranded puppy for Mena to find her courage.

“I’m here,” she told the frantic mother, who wouldn’t stand still long enough to be touched. “I’ll get your little one.”

The icy shock of the autumn ocean drew a gasp from Mena as she plunged into the gentle surf. But as frigid as it was, it had nothing on the asylum’s dreaded ice baths. Mena knew exactly how long she could function in water this cold.

Her skirts became heavy as the water engulfed her knees, then her thighs. But she quickly found the sandbar that the dogs must have crossed, and was able to navigate quite a ways to the outcropping of wet rock without the water reaching past her hips.

Once she neared the terrified pup, she reached out just in time as the little creature leaped into her arms. “Come here, my darling,” she soothed as the tiny warm body squirmed and whined and burrowed its little face into her neck. “I’ve got you. You’re safe now. Your poor mum is awfully worried.” The chill of the water now stung her legs, and the depth began to creep upward toward her waist. Mena cuddled the wet pup to her breast and turned toward the beach.

Then froze.

The mother and pup were no longer alone. A man had joined them, and was even now kicking off his boots and wading into the water toward her.

Suddenly her trembling had little to do with the cold.

He waved a hand as he plunged into the tide, his strong legs displacing water much more efficiently than hers. “Whit like, lass?” he called in a friendly voice.

Mena knew she had very few options at this juncture. She couldn’t very well go farther out to sea, she’d drown or freeze before she swam to the island. And now that her skirts were heavy with water, there was no hope of outrunning the man.

Lord, but they did breed a very different kind of male out here in the Highlands, didn’t they?

His kilt of Mackenzie plaid tufted out about him in the water, and then sank as his large body shuddered with cold. He was tall and broad, and built like the strong men working in the barley fields. All slopes and swells of muscle and not an inch of fat to be found, this becoming more apparent as the moisture seeped into his shirt, causing it to cling to his well-sculpted chest.

“I’m quite all right,” she replied as he waded closer.

He ignored her flinch as he swept a brawny arm beneath her elbow and secured another about her waist as he helped her press toward the beach while simultaneously allowing her the hold on the puppy she clung to.

“I’ve got ye,” he rumbled.

Mena was going to remark on the fact that she hadn’t needed to be gotten. Though she had to admit that with the brawny man’s help, she didn’t have to rely so much on the failing strength of her legs straining against the icy pull of the Atlantic.

Once they began to splash into knee-deep water, they were accosted by the distraught mother, and the creature in her arms yipped and wriggled to be let down.

Mena took a few more steps, grateful the man released her to do so, and waited for a light wave to recede before placing the little thing back into its mother’s care. The dogs whined and yelped and tumbled over each other in exuberant reunion, the mother obsessively licking over both her children who romped toward the tall grasses that eventually led to the forest.

“There’s gratitude for ye.” The Highlander chuckled from behind her. Mena turned to stare into the most extraordinary green eyes she’d ever seen. Much darker than her own jade irises, his gaze reminded her of the shady canopy of trees that she’d traversed this very afternoon.

Mena’s thoughts stalled for a moment at the brilliance of his smile and how it illuminated the rest of his handsome face. A face that seemed familiar, somehow, though she was certain she’d never before been introduced to him. Something about the raw shape of the jaw, or the proud, broad planes of his forehead. He had the look and build of a Mackenzie, she realized, though his coloring was more falcon than raven. Hair the shade of the wet sand beneath them glinted with strands of copper and gold when illuminated by the afternoon sun. He wore it short in the London style, though his garb was that of a Highlander.

“Allow me to thank ye on behalf of my ill-mannered mongrels,” he said with a disarming smile. “Trixie is good with the sheep, but has always been a little daft if ye ask me, and shite with swimming.”

“Think nothing of it.” Mena backed toward the grassy knoll, painfully aware of the peril of her situation. “I really must be going, good afternoon, sir.” She wrestled with her water-logged skirts and the give of sand beneath her feet as both impeded a hasty escape.

“Ye’re English,” he observed affably.

“Quite,” she clipped, bending to retrieve her shoes and stockings, grateful that the water had pulled her skirts from where she’d tucked them up before. Mena found herself wondering if the Highlander had spied her when she’d lifted her skirts well above her bare knees earlier.

“I’m Gavin St. James of the clan Mackenzie…” He stopped and offered a hand, which Mena pretended not to see as she climbed the knoll toward the forest. She didn’t have to look behind her to know he followed her. “And ye are?” he prompted, his voice betraying only amusement rather than ire at her discourtesy.

“I am very tardy,” she said over her shoulder. “They were expecting me back at Ravencroft Keep some time ago, and will likely already be looking for me as the hour is late.” She crested the hill quickly and, though she was a bit winded, she hurried toward the deer trail, hoping he took the not-so-subtle hint that she didn’t welcome company.

No such luck. “Would it make ye feel more at ease if I told ye that I’m foreman at the distillery and I ken who ye are, as I was there that day the linchpin gave on the axle.”

Mena paused at the tree line and turned to face him, studying his chiseled features more carefully. “You were?” she queried. “I don’t remember you.” Though she had been focused on none else but the imposing laird.

“I was mostly behind the carriage,” he said sheepishly. “Also, I was wearing a rather dashing hat.”

Searching her memory of that day, Mena found him. “The red hat with the dark coat?”

“That would be I,” he announced. “And it might further please ye to know that it was yer ward Rhianna who named Trixie when she was a wee lass.”

“Oh.” Mena tucked a stray tendril back into her knot as the wind caught it. Somehow she found that it did, indeed, make her feel a bit less anxious about finding herself alone with him. “Forgive me if I was rude, I am not accustomed to walking in the forest with strange men.”

“Think nothing of it.” He repeated her words back to her with the most charming twinkle in his eyes. “Now that we are no longer strangers, would ye allow me to escort ye back to the keep, English? No offense to yer capabilities, but how could I face me own mother knowing I abandoned a half-drowned lass in the woods?”

His eyes were so soulful, his demeanor so earnest, Mena found that she couldn’t at all refuse him. And besides, she was in no hurry to return to the keep.

And to the demons she might find there.

“Am I correct in assuming you live around here?” she queried, stooping to pick at a heather bloom at the edge of the forest.

“Aye.” he motioned to the north and west as he fell into easy step beside her. “I hie from over to Inverthorne Keep north by Gairloch, though I’m here with the men for the distilling of the summer harvest, and then the sowing of the winter crops.”

“Oh? I was unaware another keep resided so close to Ravencroft.”

Another of his easy smiles endeared him to her even more. “’Tis another Mackenzie stronghold, lorded over by the Earl of Thorne.”

“I’ve never met the Earl of Thorne.”

“And ye shouldna like to, either.” he warned sagely. “Ravencroft’s half brother. An incessant hedonist and notorious libertine, that one. Pretty lass like ye would do best to avoid his ilk, lest ye find yerself in trouble.”

Mena’s eyebrows flew toward her hairline. “I wasn’t aware Ravencroft had any more brothers.”

The Highlander slid a bemused glance her way. “What do ye mean, more brothers?”

Oh, blast, why had she allowed this slip of the tongue? Of course no one else knew about Dorian Blackwell. That he’d once been Dougan Mackenzie. She’d never forgive herself if she revealed a secret that was not hers to tell.

Especially when she trusted the Blackwells to keep her own secrets.

“Not very many outsiders know about Hamish,” he said easily, sensing her distress. “I’m surprised ye were told, is all, English.”

“I thought Hamish was the name of Ravencroft’s father.”

“So it was.” Gavin nodded, studying her intently. “But it was also the name of Liam’s elder brother.”

“Good Lord. How many errant Mackenzie brothers are there?”

“Too many.” Gavin peered into the woods toward Ravencroft, though they were still too far away to see it through the copse of dense trees.

Mena barely had time to wonder at the shadows that settled over the genial Highlander’s features before they were gone.

“The lairdship of Hamish the elder was a dark time for the Mackenzies of Wester Ross,” he explained. “Young Hamish was the firstborn of the laird, but he wasna legitimate. Liam followed soon thereafter, and then the marchioness died under what some believe to be suspicious circumstances. There was a rumored bastard or two after that, no one knows who or how many. The laird wasna a kind man, ye ken, he didna always give his mistresses the choice…”

Mena nodded, her heart pinching for the poor women left in the late Laird Mackenzie’s wake. “I heard as much. So this Earl of Thorne, he’s one of these—illegitimate children?”

“Nay, he’s the firstborn of the late Laird Mackenzie’s second wife, ’tis why he was bequeathed the lesser title and a drafty keep.”

“And … what happened to young Hamish?” If it was anything as terrible as Dorian Blackwell’s fate, she’d almost rather not know.

“He was raised with Liam, mostly. They were close after a fashion, went off to war together, only…”

“Only what?”

“Only Liam returned. Hamish died at sea.”

“Oh, dear, how very sad.” They walked on in silence for a while. Mena gathered a few more late sprigs of heather, some wild lavender, and a small white flower that had fluffy, fernlike leaves. It occurred to her that her bouquet was rather like something someone would place at a grave. “This family has certainly seen its fair share of tragedy. Hamish the elder and younger, the laird’s mother, and then his wife, all gone.”

“Aye, well … Colleen, Liam’s wife, was different,” Gavin murmured, his eyes still far away.

Mena’s eyes drew together at the liberty the Highlander took with the laird’s first name. “How so?” she queried.

He took a long time to answer, so long Mena thought he must be lost in a faraway memory. “She just was.”

Feeling as though she trod on a clan secret, a sense of unease around the death of two young Mackenzie marchionesses brought another dark fear to mind. “Mr. St. James,” Mena began.

“Call me Gavin, please, there’s no need to stand on ceremony out here, English.” And just like that, his amiable mood and mischievous smirk had returned.

It struck Mena again how handsome he was, so incredibly virile, and she had to fix her gaze firmly on the forest in front of her.

“I wondered if you might tell me, that is, if you’ve ever heard of … or are familiar with…” Mena squeezed her eyes shut, feeling utterly foolish. “With the brollachan.”

Gavin tossed his head back and laughed so heartily, Mena couldn’t help but notice how the sinew of his masculine throat and collarbones were exposed to the dancing shade of the late afternoon. “Been listening to clan gossip about the laird, have ye?”

Mena glanced back down with a sheepish smile. “It’s not just clan gossip; he’s known as the Demon Highlander even in London. I was just … wondering if you, if the locals, gave the myth any credence.”

The corner of his sensual mouth tilted roguishly. “The Brollachan was around before the Christians brought the fear of demons to this land, but the idea is the same, I suppose. It is said he’s a wicked cast of Fae that has no shape but for fearsome red eyes. If ye look for him on a deserted road and ye make him a deal, he’ll possess ye for a time, gift ye the speed and strength of the Fae. But then he’ll drag ye down to perdition when he’s finished with ye.”

A shadow with red eyes?

“Is he dangerous to … to anyone else?” Mena stuttered.

“Only if ye meet him on the road, but not if he’s inside a dwelling. A Brollachan is said to be good luck if they haunt yer home … or yer keep. Grateful spirits, they, and not fond of the chill.”

Though Mena felt ridiculous, the information allowed her to peel her tense shoulders away from her ears. “Oh, well, that’s good news, I suppose.”

“Ye’re most likely to see them around this time of year.” He studied her again for a moment with that strange, intent expression, before bending down to pluck her another sprig of lavender and add it to her arrangement as they meandered through the forest thick with songbirds and equally boisterous creatures. “Do ye believe in demons, English?”

Mena couldn’t stop picturing the horrible red-eyed shadow she’d seen earlier today. She’d like to believe it had been a dream, but would much rather it be real than a hallucination.

“I—I think I’m beginning to,” she confessed with a diffident grimace.

“Was it the Mackenzie?” he queried, his tone hardening. “Does he frighten ye, lass?”

“Not at all.” He terrified her.

Hiding her features in her bouquet of blooms, she glanced up at her companion. Large and strong as he was, he didn’t carry the daunting menace Ravencroft did. His demeanor tended more toward charisma than hostility. In fact, she felt a sense of ease next to him, as though he posed her no threat, whereas the laird was nothing if not intimidating.

“I must admit the Marquess Ravencroft isn’t what I anticipated when I accepted the position. He tends to be a bit…” Mena stalled, searching her extensive vocabulary for the right word.

Gavin ticked off on his fingers. “Formidable, grim, disagreeable, imperious, overbearing, high-handed, authoritarian…”

As the red stones of Ravencroft came into view, Mena found herself laughing, enjoying the answering chuckle of amusement that produced a charming dimple, a surprising and attractive change in the Highlander’s chiseled face.

“He’s not as bad as all that.” She surprised herself by defending the laird.

“Aye. He is.”

Mena’s eyebrows lifted, as the sudden and serious vehemence in his voice caught her unawares. It was as though Gavin St. James were attempting to warn her, somehow, against her enigmatic employer.

Curious, Mena asked, “How well do you know Laird Ravencroft?”

The question produced another lift of his muscular shoulder. “It’s been decades since he’s settled here for more than a few weeks at a time. I doona think anyone truly knows him, as he’s not an easy man to be acquainted with. And it’s hard to trust a man who was raised by the hand of Hamish Mackenzie. Who looks so much like him, and shares his apparent gift for … brutality.”

It was that penchant for violence that caused Mena the most concern in regard to her life here at Ravencroft.

She’d seen enough of it to fill her lifetime. Though, she supposed, thinking of Dorian Blackwell and his cohorts, of Ravencroft himself, and the many men sent off to war … She’d been exposed to less than others.

Mena spent a great deal of time not thinking about what kind of brutality might be visited upon her should her deception be exposed.

“Even still…” she murmured, more to herself than the man next to her. “He tries very hard to be a good father.”

“Aye,” Gavin agreed with a noncommittal shrug. “He does love those bairns.” With a wave of his hand, the Highlander dispelled the sense of sobriety that threatened their conversation. “It seems to me that people either adore or despise the laird, though all his clan must agree that he’s brought fairness and prosperity back to Wester Ross in the short time he’s been home.”

Adore him or despise him? “Am I to assume you are in the latter camp?”

They broke the tree line and the Highlander expelled a sigh. “I doona despise the laird. Though our interactions have been … complicated,” he said cryptically.

“Yes, well, he’s a complicated man.” Mena contemplated the keep and its mysterious laird for a moment until she found her hand captured in a warm grip. The heat of Gavin’s skin reminded her of how wet her skirts were, and how chillier every moment became.

“Thank you for the escort.” She curtsied to him, her features relaxing into a genuine smile. “I should proceed from here alone.”

“Aye,” he agreed, his emerald eyes becoming heady and dark. “Ye’re shivering, lass, and yer lips are a wee bit blue. May I give ye a kiss to keep ye warm and turn them rosy?”

Flustered, Mena squirmed away, pulling her hand from his. “Certainly not.” She’d meant to sound stern, but her smile ruined the effect. “What kind of woman do you take me for?”

He twinkled eyes full of insinuation at her, and Mena did, in fact, feel a little warmth creep from beneath the collar of her dress. “Other than an intelligent lass and a selfless savior of wee beasties, I doona ken what kind of woman ye are, only what kind of woman I was hoping ye’d be.”

His smile was devilish and handsome.

“Well.” Mena laughed a little breathlessly. “I do hate to dash your hopes, but I am a respectable lady, and do not grant my favors lightly, if at all. Now I must bid you a good afternoon and return to the keep.”

He bowed over her hand and pressed a lingering kiss there, the loose collar of his shirt exposing the impressive swells of his chest. “Good evening, then, lass.” He gestured to where the sun began to dip below the trees.

Mena turned away and wandered into the gardens, though she smiled when he called after her. “I’ll be seeing ye again, English, of that ye can be certain.”

Shaking her head at his behavior, she found it impossible to repress a smile. She pressed her nose to her bouquet again and inhaled the loamy scent of the heather, mixed with the pleasant, camphorlike smell of the lavender blossoms.

The probability of another such encounter with Gavin was not just unlikely, it was imprudent. Not only was she still a married woman hiding from the high court of the queen, she was not at all looking to become embroiled with another charming, if devastatingly handsome, man.

She’d learned her lesson the first time.

Though, she had to admit, it had been rather nice to enjoy the attentions of a handsome Highlander. During the years she’d spent as a married woman, her sense of self-worth had been stripped away by means of underhanded jibes and blatant humiliation. Sometimes, the wounds produced thusly were slower to heal than bruised flesh.

It seemed to Mena that the standard of beauty up here in the verdant north was a great deal different than in London. Petite, thin, and delicate ladies had always been the draper’s favorite. And though men had tended to pay Mena their more vulgar attentions, they’d always remarked unfavorably on her uncommon height … or her weight.

Gordon had been lusty and voracious at first. But that hadn’t at all been pleasant. Quite the opposite, in fact. Then, as his mother and sister had done their best to craft her into the woman they wanted her to be, he’d turned into a cold and cruel beast.

Other men had approached her. Desired her. Her father-in-law for one, then Dr. Rosenblatt, and the late Mr. Burns. But she’d been nothing but an object to them. A pair of uncommonly large breasts with a few warm orifices attached, to use for their pleasure.

But these Highlanders … they roamed their untamed land like giants, and among them she felt like … well … like more of a woman than an object. A feminine creature.

She’d be lying to herself if she couldn’t admit that she liked it. The afternoon’s flirtation with Gavin St. James somehow felt as rare and warm as the disappearing rays of the sun. Full of impossibility, but lovely nonetheless.

Reaching the edge of the garden, she circumnavigated a thorny everblooming rosebush, and a few fading pink and burgundy blooms caught her eye. The frost was coming and these were, no doubt, the last roses she’d see this season, as Ravencroft had no hothouse.

Reaching in, she carefully plucked the roses and added them to her bundle.

She closed her eyes and enjoyed their sweet, almost ostentatious fragrance as she turned toward the keep. Perhaps once she’d changed for dinner she’d beg Mrs. Grady, the housekeeper, for a vase. Or maybe make a satchel of lavender for her pillow or to soak in the bath—

Large hands clamped around her upper arms like manacles, barely stopping her from plowing into a barrel-chest.

“Forgive me, I wasn’t looking where I—”

The hands around her arms twitched with anger, or the effort it took for him to not snap her bones in two, she couldn’t tell. Dark eyes flashed with wrath in the quickly fading afternoon light, and Mena blinked against the savage majesty of the Laird of Ravencroft as he glowered down at her with barely leashed hostility.

“Explain to me, Miss Lockhart, just what the fuck ye were doing alone in the woods with that man?”