Page 17 of Highlander’s Mercenary Lass

Patiently, he waited as a herd of sheep filed past, pursued by a harassed-looking shepherd and his excitable dog. No sooner had they had gone than a cart trundled past, filled to the brim with legumes and other greenery.

Despairing, Andrew pushed past. He was never going to see her through this lot. As he reached the roadside, it afforded a glimpse of the golden hinterland beyond. The seasons were changing, and the lush green valleys gave way to a bronzed landscape.

There, a fall breeze raced around the valley, encircling the Ferguson Estate—the place he was headed and where he hoped to see Grace emerge from.

Except she was not there.

Time passed. Patiently, Andrew waited, with his horse, somewhat less patiently. Blackwell was not the kind of animal to appreciate stalling, and Andrew ended up having to walk him around the village green several times in order to placate him.

As he circled the inn, which formed the centerpiece of the little town, he muttered to himself. If he had known that she was not going to be here, he wouldn't have bothered getting Blackwell from the livery stables. But now that he had seen his master, Blackwell was in a hurry to be off.

As was Andrew. He needed to be making tracks. For not the first time, the urgency of his task bore down on him. He had been entrusted with the laird's dying wish, and he wanted to do it quickly, so this lassie—wherever she was—could claim her share of the laird's estates.

Andrew watched the procession of farmers trickle down to the town center and then, a couple of hours later, come back up again.

In that time, he must have walked around about forty-five times. He wanted to cover all the angles to make sure he had not missed her.

He had not.

As the sun reached the center of the sky, it was clear to Andrew that he had been tricked. With a heavy sigh, he mounted the perpetually furious Blackwell, this time to finally leave.

There was nothing else to say. She was not coming.

"Andrew!"

Grace raced along in front of him, waving her arms and calling at the top of her voice.

The sight of a beautiful young maiden, on top of a white horse, was enough to stop the entire market in its tracks.

Galloping in from the hills, Grace slowed to a trot. She had overslept to discover the day already well underway and only hoped she was not too late.

The place was buzzing with farmers as she pushed through the crowds and up to the inn. Then she saw him, on top of his big horse and wearing a frown.

"Andrew!" she called again, in case he had not seen her.

He had.

Reluctantly, Andrew slowed his horse and rode back up to the front of the Stag's Head.

"Ye’re late," he said, as she finally made it to the inn. "I thought ye weren't coming!"

"Nay," said Grace, out of breath. She had rushed about ever since waking and now was paying for it. "Dinnae fash, lad. Here I am. Now then, how can I help ye?" She smiled, hoping to thaw the conversation.

It worked. Andrew went from glacial to melting.

Grace could not help looking at him, as he basked in the golden sunshine. Even in this light, he was impossibly handsome, his vivid eyes burning across the landscape. There was something about this man's eyes that made it hard to stop staring. But if his eyes were beseeching, then his tone was anything but. Maybe in order to compensate for his longing looks, Andrew almost snapped at her.

"Ye could have helped by being on time. Dinnae fash, lass. Ye can lead the way...that's if ye think ye ken where the lass might be?"

Looking up at his soft face, Grace marveled.

"Follow me," she said, walking off with a smile.