Highland Song (6 page)

“
A girl!” the midwife shouted from the tower window. “A wee baby girl!” And then she disappeared again.

So Gavin waited, and much to his good fortune, the MacKinnon had nary a single reservation about his request. He sent Gavin away with his blessings and an imprint of his massive hand upon the small of Gavin’s back.

Gavin had to wonder how any man would dare defy that man for any reason. Like the Mackinnon’s father before him, he was a mighty force to be reckoned with.

 

As soon as the search party left the woods, Catrìona returned to the little house, hoping to hide within, thinking that even if the owner returned, he had been kind enough to offer her something to wear. Mayhap he would offer her a safe haven as well?

In return, she had been willing to help him complete his roof—something every woman in her clan knew how to do as no one was treated any differently simply because one had an appendage dangling between one’s legs. She had been raised to earn her keep, and this was no different.

She hoped that because the Scot lived alone—or at least she supposed he did—he might not realize they were searching for her. Those devils had bound her and stripped her but she had managed to escape. Och but she’d rather die than become a pawn to subdue the last of her people! She had so little faith in these leaders of Scotia. But she couldn’t return home either—not yet.

It had worked out better than she anticipated. The owner of the house had yet to return, but when he did there would be no need to ask him if he wanted her help—no need to weather his dubious expressions, for she was nearly finished now, and he would surely not refuse her a place to sleep once he saw all the work she had done for him.

The thatch was good and tight—as she had been taught to weave it—so that it would not leak even with the halest of storms.

He was quite sweet—the Scot. And handsome besides—just the sort of man she might have wanted to wed some day. His blond hair was thick and clean. His jaw was well defined, with just the tiniest hint of a cleft. His green eyes were as deep and dark as moss—but most of all they were kind.

However, he had obviously forgotten how to dress like a man. The gown he had given her was lovely, but she wasn’t accustomed to seeing men in embroidered dresses.

Then again, neither was she accustomed to running about naked as the day she was born either, but she wasn’t ashamed of the body she had been given—fie on them! As though that should stop her from trying to escape their greasy clutches!

As for her Scot… he had barely been able to take his eyes off her breasts, and the memory made her smile. Truly, she would never have even painted herself, save that it was an act of defiance. It was her way of showing them that she would never bend to the will of these arrogant curs—and neither would her kinsmen. They had survived wave after wave of pillages from the north, and the endless politicking of the Highland tribes after the son’s of Aed and Constantine had returned from Ireland two centuries past. Nay, but her people were survivors, and they would never abandon the old ways. She would keep her faith until the last frail breath left her lungs for she was a child of old Albion, a sister to the wind and a daughter of the forest.

Humming while she worked, she inspected the dagger the Scot had left. It was a fine dagger, much like the one her brother had given her when she was ten. The bastards had taken that from her too. She wanted it back.

She sighed and tossed the dagger down. It landed precisely where she intended it to land, in the heart of the log where the Scot had been sitting when she found him, drinking from his flagon.

Diabhul
, he was a beautiful man!

A man who wore dresses, but beautiful nevertheless.

She grinned at that, and returned to work, smoothing down the thatch she had stolen from a nearby farm.

 

It was growing dark by the time Gavin made his way off the blufftop, so he made his way home instead of dallying through the woods at night.

His grandminny had often told stories about a man who had been consigned to walk the earth for all eternity as a punishment for his crimes. That man had been allowed one grace, she’d said—a burning shard of pit coal to warm him and light his way. He used it instead to lead travelers onto treacherous paths. That man she also claimed was responsible for the will-o'-the-wisp. On the other hand, his Da had sworn bog gas was responsible for the mysterious lights, not spirits or fair folk.

Whatever the truth of that matter, any man in his right mind knew to stay out of the forests at night in these parts—especially alone in these days of unrest.

The house could wait another day.

That night, he slept like a bairn, pleased that all had gone so well, and in the morning, once he verified that his brothers were not yet ready to renew efforts on the storehouse, he made a quick stop at the potstill to check on Seana’s
whiskie
, despite that he had no clue what he was supposed to do if anything went awry—except to hie back and tell Seana. Her potstill was a complete mystery to him. Built by her late father, the only person who knew how to work the blamed thing was Seana herself.

Luckily, everything seemed to be brewing as usual. The potstill was making all the familiar noises, chugging and spitting like an old man with phlegm in his throat, and fuming like his grandminny’s pipe. Gavin winced over the smell and waved a hand before his nose.

Not surprising, this morning, there seemed a plethora of cats lolling about the still—black cats, white cats and more tabbies than he could shake a stick at. God’s teeth, but he had never seen so many bluidy felines. If he didn’t know better, he’d think they were all having a party with Seana’s
whiskie
. With every day that passed, more and more congregated around the still. It didn’t bode well for Brownie. His poor dog would surely lose his head around here. Resigned to the fact that his dog was like to be chasing cats for the rest of his days, he continued on to the edge of the woods, singing a tune his grandminny had taught him when he was a boy.

O western wind when wilt thou blow

That the small rain down can rain?

Christ that my love were in my arms

And I in my bed again!

He didn’t know any other verses, but he didn’t much care. Soon his house would be completed and he couldn’t wait to share the news. Three grown men under a single roof was simply too much to contend with.

Still singing, he broke through the tree line, into the clearing, and for a moment, the sight before him didn’t quite register. And then it did, and he stumbled in his step, blinking.

The house was already finished.

The roof had been raised.

His painted lady sat upon the rooftop, smoothing down the last of the thatch. “Good morn to you!” she bade him, waving as soon as she spied him.

Gavin couldn’t find his voice to speak.

For a moment, he wondered if the fumes from Seana’s potstill could have had the same affect as her
whiskie
because he was nearly certain he was hallucinating.

He moved forward cautiously, mouth agape.

It was a damned good roof—as good as any he had ever constructed—nay, better! But it wasn’t even remotely possible. Even if she weren’t a woman, a roof that size should have taken nearly a week to raise.

Nay, it wasn’t possible.

“
What is this?” he asked, peering up at her, waving a hand at the roof.

Undaunted, she glanced down at him, grinning, her cheeks revealing the tiniest dimples. “Well, I believe they call it a roof,” she said smartly. “Do you like it?”

Did he like it?

Of course he liked it, though it was physically impossible for her to have completed it in the time since he’d been gone. He stood staring at her, looking like a daft mon, he knew.

“
Aye, but where the bluidy hell did it come from?”

She winked at him. “Faerie magik,” she quipped and laughed, the sound as musical as a song. Then, more soberly she added, “’Tis my way of thanking you for this lovely dress.”

“
It’s a tunic,” he explained irascibly. “No’ a bluidy dress!”

She scooted to the edge of the roof, dangling her legs over the side and there she sat, beaming down at him, looking entirely too lovely, and swinging those bare legs—legs that were perfectly fit and lean.

Gavin averted his eyes, not daring to look up beyond her knees. Still, despite his resolve to be a gentleman, his cock stirred beneath his breacan. “Christ!” he said. “Come down from there! Come down right now!”

The paint upon her legs was gone, as though she’d laved somewhere. Gavin tried not to think of her standing bare as the day she was born, washing in the loch, her little hands caressing those perky breasts. His body tensed, and his blood began to sing in his veins.

“
Nay,” she refused. “Not ’til you say
go raibh maith agat
,” she admonished, though still she smiled, and Gavin shook his head—not to refuse her request for a thank you but because he still could not believe his eyes.

“
Di’ ye do this all by yourself?” he asked, nonplussed, unable to move beyond the sudden appearance of a roof.

Her pale brows drew together. “Och, well, who else di’ ye think would help?” She waved a hand. “All these bluidy cats?”

“
Nay, but this is just not possible!” he persisted, peering up to see that she was climbing down now, giving him a fine view of the moon of her arse as she made her way off the rooftop.

“
By the good saints, lass, didn’t your minny ever warn ye to keep your bits to yourself? It’s bad manners!”

She stopped halfway down, legs dangling, holding herself up by those arms—firm arms that, like her legs, seemed accustomed to work. He could easily reach up and smooth his hand over her little rear to see if it felt as firm and smooth as it appeared. “My bits?”

Gavin waved her down, desperate to remove himself from temptation. “Never mind. Get down!” he demanded. “Get down!”

She dropped to the ground in front him, facing him squarely, looking quite disgruntled with him suddenly. “If you ask me. Bad manners is a mon who canna say thank you for a simple gift!”

The startling green of her eyes could make a man daft, Gavin reasoned. He shook his gaze free of it. “Thank you,” he said belatedly.

But he still couldn’t believe his eyes. He peered up at the roof again, and then ventured inside the hut, inspecting the meticulous roofwork from beneath.

She followed, watching. “Do you like it?” she asked, sounding hopeful.

It was truly incredible, though equally impossible.

Gavin turned to face her, scratching his head in utter confusion. “
You
did this?” he asked again, stressing the word “you,” so there could be no mistake exactly what he was asking.

She nodded, grinning.

“
It’s incredible!” he admitted. “This would have taken me a good week to finish on my own!”

She shrugged.

“
But you did this all by yourself, without any help at all!”

Her brows furrowed and she shrugged, as though she didn’t comprehend why he should be the least bit bemused by the feat and she was beginning to be annoyed by his persistent interrogation.

In fact, much of her paint was gone, he realized—only a little blue discoloration remained about her face and arms, a bit on her long, graceful neck—though her skin was just as perfect as he recalled.

And damned if his tunic didn’t look so much finer on her than it ever had on him. On her, it was snug, but not too snug, showing off her delicate curves. It fell just above her knees, floating above willowy limbs.

“
I dinna believe this,” he said, turning to inspect the interior of the little hut. Overnight, it had become a home. Soft muted light poured in through the two little windows he had constructed. Now all it needed were shutters and a door... and a bed—he turned to look at her, envisioning her in the bed he planned to bring from the manor. It wasn’t quite the size of Colin’s massive bed, but big enough for two—and quite enough room for romping if it pleased them.