The Highlanders: A Smitten Historical Romance Collection Read online

  “Deven.” Jean’s voice cracked from the front room. “Is that ye, brother?”

  Caught. Fixing on what he hoped was a polite smile, Deven smoothed the front of his filthy kilt and stepped into the front room. Light streamed through the large windows onto the blue furniture with its spindly chairs.

  Jean perched on one of them. Across from her sat Helen Logan, the fiscal’s daughter. Her eyes widened at the sight of him, and a small gasp escaped her thin lips. Her thick figure threatened to split the seams of the girlish pink gown that was cut too low for appropriate daywear.

  “Deven, surely ye remember Helen?” Jean pinned him with a threatening stare of politeness. What did she think he was going to do? Snort and toss the baggage out? Unlikely. One erroneous move and that dress would spill secrets he’d rather not see.

  Deven gave a short bow. “Miss Logan. It’s been some time. How well ye look.”

  Helen tittered behind a pudgy hand. “Lord Glèidh. Always such a tease. Ye have not changed one bit except to say how well the mantle of laird suits ye. That is, God rest the soul of yer dear departed father.” Her eyelashes fluttered down in a show of sympathy.

  Deven gritted his teeth. “What might we owe the pleasure of yer visit?”

  Dropping the sympathy, excitement blazed across her face. “To extend an invitation of dinner on Thursday next for our honorable hero.”

  “Hero is hardly the title to associate me with.”

  “Oh, but it is. Ye answered the call to defend our glorious land against the English invaders. Fighting alongside our rightful sovereign, King James.”

  Never mind she woefully neglected the fact that it was the Scots who did the invading. While winning at first, the Jacobites had returned home in mournful defeat. There had been nothing glorious about killing men simply because they stood opposite the field of your sword.

  Deven clenched his hands behind his back. “The only heroes are the ones who fell in defense of their beliefs. ’Tis their memory and love for Scotland that I honor.”

  “Ever so modest.” Helen simpered to Jean. “How do ye manage such a dashing brother?”

  Jean stared at her brother with a deceptively smooth brow. “With great difficulty, I assure ye.”

  “Perhaps because a sister can only do so much when another woman’s hand could gain more ground.” Helen’s gaze fluttered at Deven. With the aim of an expert archer, invisible shackles shot across the space, seeking to capture him.

  The last thing Deven desired was a vacuous woman. He backed toward the door. “Extend my apologies to the fiscal, Miss Logan. I will be unable to attend next Thursday. Jean, of course, will more than make up for my boorish conversation with her lively chatter.”

  “Papa is most eager to speak with you.” Helen’s voice screeched with desperation. “So many thefts in the area. This Night Fox has us all in quite the tizzy.”

  The hairs sprang up on the back of Deven’s neck, halting him in retreat. “The Night Fox.”

  “Yes, Papa may have new information on the scoundrel.”

  “May?”

  Helen flushed. “I mean, he does. He wishes to discuss a plan with you.” Whipping a hankie from her exposed bosom, she threaded it between her fat fingers. Particularly around the fourth finger of her left hand. “Only last night Sir Leslie was robbed. Again. He found a bundle of foxtails resting on his pillow. Can ye imagine the indecency? We’re not safe in our own beds.”

  Deven clamped his arms across his chest to keep from reaching to his shoulder where the laird’s brooch should have been pinned. His stolen heirloom. After everything he’d gone through to get it back after his father’s foolishness only to find himself at the receiving end of another trickster’s hand was a wound of the deepest kind to his pride.

  The sooner the Night Fox was caught, the sooner integrity could be upheld.

  “I accept yer father’s invitation to discuss the matter.” Deven moved to the door. “I’m off to speak with Sir Leslie. Dinna hold supper for me, Jean.”

  An hour later, Deven sat in Sir Leslie’s study surrounded by suffocating luxury.

  “More tea?” Sir Leslie gestured to the teapot sitting on the low table between them.

  Deven glanced at the untouched brew filling the delicate cup next to him. Might as well drink loch water strained through bark. “Thank ye, nay.” Restless, he stood and walked to a large diamond pendant on display under glass. It was exquisitely cut with hundreds of facets shimmering over its pale surface. A small notch was cut at the top as if it once held a chain. An unusual treasure to find in the remote Highlands. “What was taken?”

  “My serving spoons. Gifted to my grandfather upon his knighthood by the Lord High Chancellor himself.” Sir Leslie smoothed his satin cuff.

  “Did he leave any clues?”

  “I should say not. The Chancellor has been dead close to twenty years.”

  “The Night Fox.”

  “Oh, yes. A bundle of those prickly weeds, but I tossed it in the fire. A ghastly reminder of such impertinence.”

  And quite possibly their only evidence. “May I look around?”

  “Of course.” Sir Leslie guided him to a formal chamber on the second floor that boasted more lavish taste than the rooms below.

  Deven strolled around, examining each wealthy item on display, the precise folding of the blanket across the bed, the silver candlesticks with beeswax candles—no cheap tallow here—and engraved plates of honor from the court of King George. No denying where the man’s loyalties lie. Nor that a quarter of the wealth could feed the man’s hungry tenants for a year. Deven had passed more than one gaunt face on his ride across Sir Leslie’s land.

  “Why were the serving spoons kept here and not in the kitchen?”

  Sir Leslie scoffed. “A precious token should never be used in service by common hands. I keep them safe unless I am entertaining a distinguished guest who deserves the best I can offer.”

  Deven recalled no silver serving upon his arrival. Then again, if he had to wear a powdery wig and swear loyalty to a throne usurper to claim such an honor, then he preferred to eat with a wooden spoon. Crossing to the window, he threw up the sash and stuck his head out. No nearby trees. Most likely the Fox used a rope from the roof as he had done with Deven’s chamber.

  “Where did ye keep the spoons?”

  “In a chest in my second wardrobe.” Sir Leslie pointed to the upright armoire. “Difficult to display.”

  “Despite being yer prized possession.”

  Sir Leslie straightened. His angular shoulders creaked under the tight satin jacket. “No, that honor belongs to the diamond pendant that once belonged to Queen Elizabeth. You seemed quite intrigued with it in my study.”

  “Yer family receives impressive gifts.”

  “Rewards for generations of loyal service.”

  Scanning the room, an intangible itch crawled up Deven’s neck. Each item sat in a place of prominence within easy reach. Anyone entering would immediately see the objects, their worth evident even to the untrained eye. Why go through the trouble of unlocking a wardrobe to steal a set of spoons when the grandest prize of all sat untouched downstairs?

  A servant girl appeared at the door. “Excuse me, sir. There’s a lady at the door.”

  Sir Leslie waved a distracted hand. “Instruct her to come back.”

  “Nay, sir. ’Tisn’t—it be Miss Corsen.”

  Sir Leslie’s eyebrows jutted up. “Show her to the sitting room. Bring a fresh pot of tea.” Anticipation glittered in his eyes. “Is there anything else I can show you, Lord Glèidh? I hate to keep you from other appointments.”

  Deven’s stomach twisted unexpectedly. What business was it of his if Rooney Corsen came to call on this milksop? Their estates had been adjacent for years though Sir Leslie owned them both now. No other reason to prolong his visit, Deven shook his head. “The Night Fox is canny. Leaving no clues save foxtails, and those can be traced to any field in Scotland. He’ll make a mistake soon e
nough. All criminals do.”

  “A downfall to a swift hanging, I hope.” Sir Leslie ushered him downstairs. “I wish you the best of luck in catching the scoundrel. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business to—ah! Miss Corsen. A pleasure as always, my dear.”

  My dear. Sourness curled in Deven’s stomach.

  The lady herself stepped into the hall, a flame of light striking against the dark paneled walls. Her eyes widened at Deven. “My lord. Ye certainly are making swift rounds after yer arrival home.”

  Deven bowed slightly. “I was just leaving.”

  “Yes, he was.” Sir Leslie sidestepped him and placed a hand under Rooney’s elbow in an effort to guide her back to the sitting room. “I shall alert you if anything else has been taken.”

  “Aye, and in the meantime, ye might wish to lock away yer valuables. Though that doesna seem to deter our fox.”

  Rooney pulled out of Sir Leslie’s grasp and clutched her basket close. “The Night Fox has been here?”

  The skin around Sir Leslie’s thin mouth pinched white. “He has, but Lord Glèidh is close on his tracks. Don’t let us keep you from your task, my lord. Miss Corsen and I have much to discuss.”

  Rooney ignored him as fascination danced in her unusually-colored eyes. “If ye’re as close as ye claim, ye must have an idea of who he is.”

  “I have more understanding of who he is not, and that can prove a great deal more useful,” Deven said.

  “Can it?” Smiling, Rooney took a small bag from her basket and thrust it at Sir Leslie. “I believe ye’ll find everything in order as agreed upon for the month.”

  Sir Leslie weighed the bag in his palm. “Surely you wish to come into the sitting room where we may discuss it. I ordered us tea and biscuits. Straight from London.”

  “I’m afraid I dinna have time for frivolities today. Ruby and Rose expect me back soon.” Tucking her basket against her hip, Rooney let herself out the front door. “Good day, gentlemen.”

  “That girl …” Sir Leslie’s knuckles whitened around the bag. Glancing at Deven, he eased a smile across his mouth. “You may join me for biscuits if you care.”

  “Thank ye, nay.” Deven stepped outside of the grand manor and gathered the reins of his horse from the stable boy. He swung into the saddle and looked down at Sir Leslie standing shadowed in his doorway. “Send for me at once if the Fox returns.”

  Deven spurred his mount to a trot. The descending sun rested above the treetops, burnishing their leaves to gold and orange and sprawling shadows across the road. He breathed in the clean air. A stark contrast to the stuffy powder of Sir Leslie’s. A rich man, could he not afford windows that opened to allow in a fresh breeze?

  Rounding a bend, a flash of color brightened the dirt road. Rooney. Or more accurately, Rooney’s red hair. She smiled at his approach. “Did ye not care to stay for tea and biscuits?”

  Deven dismounted. “I dinna mix business with pleasure. Sir Leslie—”

  “Is hardly pleasurable. Ye needn’t tell me.” A thin line puckered between her eyebrows for a brief moment. Shaking herself, she continued walking. “What did ye discover about the Night Fox? Or should I ask what did ye not discover as ye claim that provides more insight?”

  Deven fell into step beside her as he led his horse along. “That he has excellent taste if not a wee bit unorthodox.”

  “Perhaps he’s selective.”

  “Or he’s sending a message.”

  “That sounds rather attentive for a common thief. One would think him to take the most valuable objects he can find.”

  “Only if value is all he cares about. A message is personal. A statement made to the victim not necessarily about the object.”

  Rooney stumbled. Deven caught her arm. Her thick braid swung across his fingers, igniting a sudden desire to run his hand up her arm, over her shoulder, and into the thick curls of copper and russet. She was a temptation he did not need.

  Releasing her, Deven took tight hold of the horse reins once more. “The Fox’s reasons mean naught to me, only that he’s breaking the law.”

  “He steals only from the rich. Surely there’s a compelling reason for that.”

  “There’s no reason to steal from the poor. They haven’t anything to tempt him.”

  “Or because the rich are less likely to starve with a few coins gone.”

  “Why do ye defend him so?”

  She toyed with the basket’s handle. “Before committing this Fox to the pillory for his offenses—I agree that what he’s doing is wrong—I think it important to look beyond the crimes before naming him a dredge beyond redemption.”

  Redemption. A much sought-after concept with so few achieving it. Deven had learned firsthand that criminals never changed. Certainly, they may put on the appearance of contrition as that con man had done when Deven finally tracked him down after ten years. The laird’s brooch had been retrieved, but the criminal walked free that day.

  Their ilk was too slippery for justice.

  Lacking all honor, they slinked back to the depraved hole from which they’d crawled to await their next victim. Victims like his father who had always been too trusting, too eager to see the goodness in people at the expense of their blatant faults. Deven had spent half his life trying to right the mistakes.

  “Will ye come to the field with me?”

  Deven jerked out of his thoughts as amber eyes stared at him. “I beg yer pardon?”

  “To pick heather. More pleasant to have company out on the moor.”

  He preferred the moor for its quiet solitude. He preferred even less leaving Rooney on her own with the Night Fox prowling. The wealthy set may have been his primary target, but there was no guarantee against a bonny lass ripe for the picking in a lone field. “Lead the way.”

  Rooney stepped off the road and disappeared into the woods, and he followed. The heavy scent of pine and wet earth lightened as the trees thinned and gave way to a moor that spread up to a crest of rolling green braes in the far distance.

  A generous smile curved Rooney’s full lips. “Bonny, is it not?”

  “Aye.” White and purple heather swayed over the ground in thick tufts of vibrant color with splotches of green grass weaving between. The sun’s golden rays skipped off the tops as it sank closer and closer to the hills. “Strathmoore lies beyond the braes there, but never have I been here.”

  “My sisters and I call it the Bodach Glen. The myth of the scary auld man helps to keep unwanted guests out.” Rooney dropped her voice. “In particular, Sir Leslie.”

  “I canna imagine Sir Leslie has much preoccupation for anything outdoors.”

  “Ye’re right about that. ’Tis a shame for he owns a wee slice of heaven here. Though he’ll not be happy until he has everything under his thumb.”

  “Why do ye say that?”

  Her face clouded briefly. “’Tis true. Have ye a knife on ye?”

  On alert, Deven’s left hand dropped to his sword as he scanned the area for threat.

  Laughing, Rooney laid a small hand on his. “Calm yerself, soldier. It’s to help me cut heather, but it’ll do us no good if ye undertake the plants all as foes. Perhaps ye can hold my basket instead.”

  Obliging, he took her basket as she knelt and pulled a wee sgian dubh from her boot. She sliced through the slim stalks with precision and tucked them in the basket.

  “Do ye oft have business with Sir Leslie?”

  The lines around her mouth tightened. “Once a month for rent and payment.”

  “Yer father was a laird. How came ye to be Sir Leslie’s tenants?”

  “My father gambled away our estate. Sir Leslie owns it now but offered us a small cottage to live in at the edge of his property for rent. I’m saving every coin I can to repay our debts at which time Sir Leslie will allow us to return to our family home. To rent, of course.”

  “How generous of him.”

  “My sisters canna live in a mud cottage with mice skittering about for the rest of their
lives and naught but a peat fire to keep their bones from quaking in the winter.”

  Her desperation touched his mercy, but it was her determination that earned his respect. “Then I pray yer debts are quickly paid.”

  “Thank ye.” Her knife jerked through a thick stalk of heather, scattering tiny white petals across her skirt. “Thank goodness I dinna listen to my mam when she told me learning to make rope was an unladylike pursuit.”

  “Uncommon to find a lady with knowledge of such a thing.”

  “We’re never too grand to learn new things. Our old parish priest came from a farming village in the Hebrides. He taught me the best fishing spots, how to tie a knot, and where to climb the highest tree to see the sun setting over Loch Garry.”

  “D’ye mean Father Lewis?”

  “Aye.”

  “I didna realize he hailed from the Hebrides.”

  “Did ye ever ask him?”

  “Well, nay.”

  “Mayhap next time ye should. Might be surprised what ye find.” Tucking her wee blade in her boot, Rooney stood and dusted leaves from her hands. “There. That should be enough to keep me busy tonight.”

  “Why take only the white heather?”

  “It brings good fortune as the fallen tears of a woman who lost her lover in battle. Though it brought her sorrow, she prayed it would bring goodness to others.”

  Deven shrugged. “Seems as good a reason as any.”

  “Och, nay. Instead of sinking into her grief, she used it as a blessing. There is nothing more beautiful than that.”

  “I agree ’tis a braw story.”

  “But ye dinna believe it.”

  Enchanting as she was telling her tale, Deven had no place for such lore to take root. “Anything to be gained in this world is done through honest, hard work. A discipline that must be fought for, not plucked on the wild moor.”

  “If ye do nothing but fight for discipline, ye’ll miss the beauty of spontaneity.” Reaching into her basket, she took out a single stalk of heather. The white flowers dangled like tiny bells from the end. She tucked it between the buttons of his waistcoat.

  He touched the delicate blossoms as her spell threatened to weave over him. “Spontaneity does not agree with me.”