“Do you want me to?”
He shook his head. “Nae. I like ye being here. I didnae know that lasses dunnae like profanity, until ye told me.” Sending her a sly look, he returned to his search. “And I think Graeme likes ye. I went to see him one morning a bit ago, and he had some of yer hair clips in his bed.”
Her cheeks warmed. That would have been the morning Graeme had pushed her off the bed to hide her from Connell. “I wondered where my hair clips had gone,” she said aloud.
“And he makes Mrs. Woring buy lemons, and he sent to Edinburgh for a lemon tree to put in the sunroom. I think he traded his pocket watch fer it.”
She hadn’t known that. No one but her brother had ever sacrificed of himself for her. It made her want to cry and to spin in a circle with her arms out all at the same time. “Perhaps we should purchase him a new pocket watch,” she suggested.
“There’s a shop in Sheiling. They can order anything fer ye, as long as they have the catalog.”
“Excellent. Let’s go tomorrow, shall we?”
“Aye. I think I can manage that.”
Marjorie grinned. Whether she’d ever wished to be a governess or not, Connell Maxton was a bright, curious, warmhearted joy. “Good. I’ll…”
The sound of horses caught her attention, and she looked across the corner of the meadow slightly above where she stood. A dozen men in Maxwell plaid trotted in her direction. That didn’t seem anything too extraordinary, until she recognized the gray-haired man in the lead. Sir Hamish Paulk.
Turning her back to them, she looked down at Connell still searching for river rocks. “Connell, get behind the boulders,” she said, just loudly enough for him to hear over the sound of the river. “You stay there either until I tell you it’s safe, or you don’t hear anything. And then you get back to the house. Do you understand?”
His light gray eyes wide, he nodded and ducked behind the trio of cow-sized boulders at the edge of the water. Once he was out of sight she wandered a few feet to her right before she turned around again. The horses stopped in a half circle around her, cutting her off from every direction but the river. She swallowed, clasping her hands behind her back.
“Gentlemen,” she said, inclining her head. “You’re looking for Lord Maxton, I presume? Shall we go up to the house?”
“Nae, we arenae here fer Maxton.” Sir Hamish looked her up and down, making her very conscious of the fact that she wore a slightly small brown muslin and an old overcoat—not a great deal of protection against twelve very solemn-faced men.
“Then how may I help you?”
“What are ye doing oot here all by yerself?” This time it was Graeme’s Uncle Raibeart who spoke.
“The foxes decided to battle the cats up and down the stairs, and I opted for a bit of fresh air while the house settles. What brings you here, if it’s not to see the viscount?”
“Why, we’re here ferye,” Paulk took up again. “I ken ye think we’re nae but empty-headed barbarians, but we’re nae so easy to fool, lass. Or Lady Marjorie Forrester, rather.”
Damnation. She had a choice now—she could lie even though they clearly knew the truth, or she could try to use the truth, or part of the truth, to her advantage. Marjorie took a deep breath. “Well, that’s a surprise,” she said, pleased at how calm she sounded. “I do hope we can come to an understanding. If Lord Maxton discovers who I am, he’s not likely to be very amused.”
“Graeme doesnae know who ye are?” his uncle asked sharply, his expression hopeful.
“Of course not. My coach broke down near here, and I needed a safe place to stay for a few days. If he’d discovered I was the Duke of Lattimer’s sister,” she returned, using her brother’s title deliberately, “I would not have been welcome. This is not friendly territory for me, as you know.”
“Ye’re a fair liar, my lady.” Hamish continued to gaze at her levelly. “I half believed ye fer at least a moment, and I even saw Maxton deliver yer letter to that Stewart lad and pay him to carry it north to Lattimer.” He gestured, and half the men dismounted. “Let’s get this over with before someone from the hoose comes looking fer her.”
Over with?Did they mean to murder her? She would have attempted an escape into the icy river, except for the fact that that would have exposed Connell. “I’ve said my brother is the Duke of Lattimer. Crossing him is not a good idea. Consider carefully, gentlemen.”
“Fer God’s sake. Get her.”
As the first man reached her she swung out with her fist, smashing it into the side of his head. Then she turned and fled upstream. Hands grabbed at her, caught her gown, and she went down hard enough to knock the air from her lungs.
She gasped, and more hands pushed her down, binding her legs together and her hands behind her back. At least this didn’t seem to be a murder, she told herself, working to calm down so she could use her head. When a cloth went over her mouth she wasn’t surprised, but she was furious. A woman should never be kidnapped once—much less twice.
Wherever they thought to take her—and she could guess it would be to the Duke of Dunncraigh—she had no intention of making it easy. And as soon as Graeme heard what had happened, these cowards would truly have something to fear.
Chapter Seventeen
“Are ye certain it’s Isobel who’s caught yer eye, Brendan?” Graeme teased, sending the innkeeper a wave as they left the building for the stableyard. “Kitty had her gaze on ye the whole time, and she’s a lass who willnae blow over in a strong wind.”
“Ye have it wrong,bràthair. She couldnae look away fromye.”
