Graeme closed his eyes for a moment, warmed and troubled all at the same time. “I can tell ye what I want, lass, but I cannae tell ye whatyewant. I do reckon that fer all our sakes, ye need to figure it oot soon.”
She nodded against his shoulder. “I know. I will.” Clearing her throat, she straightened. “Goodness. I don’t think I’ve cried that much, ever.”
“Aye, ye nearly drowned both of us.”
With a damp smile she wiped at her face. “Mrs. Giswell would be very disappointed. A lady doesn’t weep in front of a man unless she wishes to be thought a weak-willed watering pot.”
“Who the devil are these ladies who dunnae do anything? They dunnae cry, they dunnae laugh, or get angry, or sleepy—what do they actually do, then?”
She looked him directly in the eye, her brow furrowing. “You know, I have no idea.” Abruptly she gasped and pushed away from him to climb to her feet. “Samuel Cooper! I need to get him my letter.”
“Write yer brother’s name on it; I’ll get it to Cooper.” He stood beside her. “Ye sit fer a few minutes and get yer thoughts back together—unless ye care to explain to the duckling why ye’ve been crying.”
“No, I do not.” Leaning over the table, she wrote the Lattimer name and address on the outside of the folded note. She handed it to him, then rose up on her toes and placed a feather-soft kiss on his mouth.
That might well be his favorite kiss ever. He hadn’t instigated it or even expected it. She’d kissed him simply because she’d wanted to—and he would never forget that moment. “I’ll nae be sleeping alone tonight, lass,” he murmured, smiling down at her.
With that he tucked her letter into his coat and returned to the meadow to find Marjorie’s messenger. Aye, he didn’t mind Lattimer knowing she was safe. Knowing where she was or coming to fetch her, though—that would mean a fight. He wasn’t giving her up, even if it did mean a war.
***
“What the devil are they doing?” Sir Hamish Paulk reined in his horse, guiding the nervous beast in a tight circle amid the trees where they stood across the river Douchary from the Lion’s Den.
Raibeart Maxton looked from his guest to his nephews spread across the meadow. “Young Connell likes to look fer treasures after a gathering.”
“The castoffs of cotters and shepherds? In front of the men taking doon tents? Yer nephew doesnae know how to run a household, much less clan Maxwell.”
After over a week of nearly continuous insults aimed at Graeme, Raibeart had become so accustomed to them he barely bothered to listen. Insulting the young lad, though, seemed both mean-spirited and pointless. “The bairn’s but eight years old, Hamish. I’ve yet to meet any young lad who doesnae dream of finding treasure.”
“The…” The Maxwell chieftain trailed off. “Did ye see that? Miss Giswell tossed a coin into the grass fer the boy to find.”
“Nae, I didnae. That was kind of her.”
“Aye. But where did Maxton find a well-educated English lass to tutor his brothers? And how did he afford to bring her up here? And how is he paying her enough that she can toss coins into the grass? Ye mark my words, Raibeart. Someaught’s afoot here.”
“If ye care to hear my opinion, Hamish, Graeme’s done as well as anyone could here. The Maxtons have always had more spleen than money, and he works with his own hands to support his cotters.”
“They’re nae his cotters. They’re Dunncraigh’s. That’s what ye Maxtons keep fergetting.”
“Ye need a new song to sing, my friend. This is a small corner of clan Maxwell, and one that the lot of ye, except fer Graeme, mostly ignore. Let it be. Let him be.”
Hamish edged his mount forward a little. “What’s this? The Sassenach looks like she’s aboot to kiss that old lad.” He chuckled. “If she’s after a proper Highlander mayhap I should ride doon there and give her one.”
“Dunnae be crude. If she can tame those lads some, she has my respect. And my gratitude. Now let’s get back. I told ye the river here’s too swift fer fishing.”
“In a damned minute.” He leaned forward in the saddle. “So she goes back to the hoose, then Maxton does. Do ye reckon he’s plowing her? I would be.”
“Ye’ve made that clear enough. What do ye think, he’s going to walk oot of the hoose carrying enemy Campbell colors or someaught? Let’s go.”
Instead of leaving, Hamish swung out of the saddle. “I reckon I’ll go after a trout or two here, anyway. Just because ye say there’s naught here, ye dunnae expect me to take yer word fer it.”
“T’would be nice if ye did, aye,” Raibeart grunted, dismounting to unlash his pole from the back of the saddle. “Ye might just admit ye’re spying on a man fer nae good reason.”
Hamish jabbed a finger at him. “Dunnae ye try to tellmewhat’s nae good reason,” he growled. “I had my own niece at Lattimer, and trusted her to keep an eye on that Sassenach. We lost over a thousand of our clan because I trusted that damned female. And now she’s marrying him. I’ll be keeping an eye on everything myself from now on, thank ye very much.”
Raibeart blew out his breath. “I willnae comment, then, that what truly irks ye is that Fiona’s aboot to be a duchess,SirHamish.”
“Aye, ye’d best nae say such a damned idiotic thing. And…”
