The Lady and the Laird Read online

  So it had been through all the centuries that men of his blood had been lords of the land. So it was that the Wyndhams had survived when so many other of the clans had been destroyed or dispersed. So it would always be, if Angus Wyndham had anything to say about it.

  Always, except for Innishffarin. His mouth tightened as he thought of the stone fortress atop the high hill, and of the land surrounding it. Wyndham land and a Wyndham keep, but taken by the Sinclairs more than a century before in payment for some largely imagined transgression against the English crown. God curse them for it.

  Innishffarin was his, and Isaiah Sinclair, at least, had come close to admitting it. All this foolish business about his granddaughter living there—the chit was London bred, reared for the drawing room and the salon. It was a wonder she'd made it through a single night in that dank pile of dust and memories.

  If she had made it. Curiosity teased at Angus. He slowed the gray and glanced in the direction of Innishffarin, just visible to him above the line of yews that lay along the hillside. Just how well had she managed? He glanced again at the sky to judge the time.

  Duties crowded in at him, but it was early yet; he could spare a few minutes to judge the situation for himself. He urged the gray to a bobbing canter that brought him before very long within sight of the castle gates.

  ***

  "What do you mean," Katlin asked, "the horses got out?"

  "I'm sorry, miss," John said. "I thought I had them properly secured yesterday when I stabled them but I didn't count on the latch being rotted through. They must have wandered out. They have to be somewhere nearby," he added. "It's just a matter of finding them."

  "That could take days," Katlin said. She wasn't angry, merely bewildered. Such things had never happened to her before. The implications were just beginning to sink in. "Meanwhile, we have no way of getting to the village except on foot."

  John hung his head. "I can go there first, if you like, miss, and try to get help. It's up to you."

  It was, wasn't it? She had brought John and Sarah here, and it was up to her to see that their needs were met. A wave of doubt washed over her; perhaps she had made a terrible mistake.

  For all its wild beauty, Innishffarin was a harsh place where survival could hang by a narrow thread. They had very little food, less fuel, water from a well only, and even the supply of candles was meager. It was hardly the homecoming she had imagined.

  But if she gave up now, she would never get a second chance. Innishffarin would be lost to her forever. "I'll walk into the village," she said and raised a hand to forestall John's immediate objections. "I shall be fine. You set about rounding up the horses."

  "At least take Sarah with you, miss. It isn't proper for you to be wandering about alone."

  "Sarah has her hands full trying to make us a decent stew out of what's left in the pantry. Unless you'd rather not eat tonight, I'm the one to go."

  Reluctantly, John agreed. He set off after the errant horses while Katlin went inside to get her hat and pelisse. A short time later, she started down the road toward the village.

  By her estimate, it was about four miles distant. She had never walked that far before but that didn't discourage her. After all, it was just a matter of putting one foot in front of the other. It was a beautiful day, the sky was a spectacular shade of azure and a fresh breeze blew off the sea.

  Really, she should be glad to have an excuse to be out and about. This was so much more exhilarating than the tame strolls in Hyde Park to which she was accustomed. She was really quite happy strolling along the road, her reticule twirling from her fingers and a smile on her lips.

  Or at least she was for the first half mile or so. Then her boots began to pinch and she became aware that her stays, which had never troubled her before, were tighter than she had realized.

  Nevertheless, she persevered. Perhaps she'd been wrong about the four miles. The village was probably closer than that. If she just kept going, she would reach it in no time.

  But time passed and the village seemed to come no closer. The breeze died away and the sun rose higher. It was warmer than she had expected. Even undoing several of the buttons on her pelisse did nothing to make her more comfortable.

  Finally, she was forced to stop. Her feet felt rubbed raw, her throat was parched and her head pounded beneath her pretty bonnet. Reluctantly, she perched on the side of a low stone wall near the road and tried to decide what to do.

  Obviously, she had to go on, but how? When she so much as tried to ease one of her boots off, she cried out with pain. A small stream running nearby caught her eye. She hobbled over to it and bent, heedless of decorum, to drink.

  Her thirst eased, she felt better and berated herself silently for being a ninny. Gritting her teeth, she pulled off first one boot then the other. By the time she was done, her eyes shone with tears. Her thin muslin stockings were splattered with blood at the heels.

  Quickly she removed the stockings and plunged her feet into the cool water of the spring. The pain eased and she was able to breath a sigh of relief.

  Determined to be sensible, she removed her pelisse and folded it neatly beside the boots. Under it she wore a simple day dress of light pink wool embroidered with white roses.

  The dress was closely fitted in the waist and bodice with a narrow underskirt of deep rose wool the color of the center of the embroidered white roses. The effect was quite pretty, and ordinarily it was one of Katlin's favorite dresses, but just then it didn't feel very comfortable.

  On an impulse, she pulled the ribbons of her bonnet loose and removed the beflowered confection. Beneath it, her honey-blond hair was caught up in a chignon with wisps of short curls at the front.

  She had resisted the rage for a head of close-cropped curls and was generally glad that she had, but there was no denying that she was more conscious of the weight of her hair than ever before. The pins that held the chignon seemed to dig into her scalp. With a sigh, she removed them and let the shining mass fall around her shoulders.

  What the good villagers would make of such dishabille, she couldn't say, but if she were going to make it that far, she had to be practical.

  Slowly, she pushed herself upright and took a few trial steps. Shorn of boots, her feet still hurt, but at least she could walk on them. She placed the bonnet on her head but did not tie the ribbons. Leaving the boots and pelisse near the spring with the intention of collecting them later, she set off again.

  Only to discover that what had seemed to be a smooth dirt road was in fact studded with half-buried stones whose sharp edges tore at the soft undersides of her feet. With a moan of frustration, she returned to the spring and sat down again to think.

  If she had had a knife, she might have been able to cut out the back of her boots to make them wearable. But being a proper young lady, she lacked any such implement. If she had led an entirely different sort of life, her feet would have been toughened enough to take her anywhere she might want to go. But there was no point wishing for that.

  Never in her life had she felt more useless or ill-equipped. There she was stuck out in the middle of nowhere, unable to go forward or backward, with her loyal servants dependent on her and she no closer to solving their problems than she had been when she set out.

  It would have been enough to make her cry had Katlin Sinclair not been discovering that she was made of sterner stuff. Obviously, she had to go on. The only question was how.

  Her eye fell on the soft green moss that grew along the edges of the spring. She ran a finger over it gently, then smiled. Quickly, she gathered a quantity of the moss and pressed it into the heel of her boots. With great care, she slid the boots back onto her feet. They still hurt but she could, just, manage to walk.

  Pleased to have found such a sensible solution, she set off again. The moss worked for a time but before very long she was limping. Her pace slowed but she kept on. The little curls peeking beneath her bonnet wilted and fell in forlorn wisps across her brow. Her bre
ath was labored.

  Briefly, she considered finding a private place in which she could remove her stays, but the land on either side of the road was clear. She had no choice but to keep going.

  The sun was past its zenith when she decided that she had to stop again, if only for a few minutes. An inviting patch of heather beckoned. Seated in it, she had just begun to pluck a few strands of the flowers when hoofbeats sounded down the road.

  A lone horseman came into view. With some difficulty, Katlin got to her feet and started forward, only to stop abruptly when she caught sight of the rider. He was a very large man, intimidatingly so, with unruly black hair, gleaming blue eyes, unshaven and dressed without thought to fashion or propriety. There was an air of the brigand about him that froze Katlin in place.

  Had there been anywhere to conceal herself, she might have done so, so affected was she by the man's sudden presence. But there was nowhere to hide and nothing to be done except to hold her ground with as much dignity as she could muster.

  "Good day, sir," she said as he drew rein before her. The gray's prancing hooves might have unnerved a lesser female but Katlin was not about to show fear. Generations of Sinclair breeding forbade it.

  "Madam," the horseman replied. His gaze scanned her briefly before settling once again on her face. He appeared perplexed. "Who are you?"

  Really, thought Katlin, his manners left a great deal to be desired. 'Stiffly, she said, "My name is Katlin Sinclair. I am from Innishffarin. And you are... ?"

  Had she suddenly sprouted a second head, the man could not have looked at her more oddly. Odder still was the abrupt laugh he gave.

  "I might have known," he said. "You look like something washed up from the wreckage of a London ballroom."

  A shock of anger went through Katlin. Insufferable man! "Don't be absurd. London ballrooms do not become wrecked and no one gets washed up from them. Besides, how I look is entirely my affair."

  Deliberately, she turned her back on him and began to walk away only to be stopped by the sudden touch of a riding crop pressing gently but indisputably atop her shoulder.

  "Stay."

  Katlin kept going, but she did spare him a glance over her shoulder. "This is the nineteenth century, not the thirteenth, and I am not a serf to be ordered about. Good day, sir."

  He laughed again, teeth showing white against his burnished skin, and lowered the riding crop. "Indeed, you are, Miss Sinclair, but you are a trespasser on my land, and that being the case, the least you can do is pass a few civil words with me."

  A lump rose in Katlin's throat. She had been afraid of this from the moment she glimpsed him astride the magnificent stallion, looking so solitary and proud as though he feared nothing and bowed to no one.

  "You are Angus Wyndham?" she asked on the faint chance that she might be mistaken.

  Her hope was dashed when he inclined his head in acknowledgment. "That's right. Laird of Wyndham Manor, which happens to surround you. How do you come to be here, Miss Sinclair, and in your—" his gaze moved over her assessingly "—in your present state?"

  Try though she did to prevent it, Katlin blushed. She was vividly aware of the spectacle she must make wandering about in only a thin day dress with her bonnet undone and her hair tumbling down her back. If Charles could see her, he would be most astonished.

  Thinking of Charles was a mistake. It brought home to her how very different Laird Angus Wyndham was from every man she had known before. There was nothing the least gentlemanly about him. On the contrary, he seemed almost like a figure from another age.

  Katlin took a deep breath—or as deep as she could manage with the stays—and fought to control her nerves. She absolutely must not let her imagination run away with her.

  "I am going into the village," she said, "to find out what happened to my servants and to hire more if need be. Also, to arrange for the delivery of supplies to Innishffarin. Now if your curiosity is satisfied, my lord, I will be on my way."

  Without waiting his leave, she turned again and resumed walking. She got five yards, perhaps slightly more, and was just beginning to think that she had succeeded in making her escape when the gray was suddenly beside her.

  Without a hint of warning, Laird Angus Wyndham bent down slightly, wrapped a steely arm around her waist and lifted her effortlessly into the saddle.

  "What are you doing?" Katlin demanded. She attempted to twist away but found that she could not. His hold on her was unrelenting. Not even when she struck a fist at his chest did he react, except to smile and shake his head in amusement.

  "Stop that," Angus said. "You'll hurt yourself almost as much as you would if you tried to keep on walking. What happened to your feet?"

  Katlin stared at him dumbfounded. He spoke perfectly pleasantly, as though what was happening between them was the most natural thing in the world. But not for her. She absolutely would not engage in polite conversation with this... this pirate.

  "I asked," he repeated helpfully, "what happened to your feet?"

  "Nothing," Katlin snapped. This was too ridiculous. She was neither deaf nor of below normal intelligence. "Put me down at once."

  Angus ignored her. He turned the gray and headed in the direction from which she had come.

  "Where are we going?" Katlin demanded. Her voice was choked. She was all too aware of the steely chest pressed close to her, the powerful arms holding her in place and the creeping sense of helplessness spreading through her.

  "Back to Innishffarin," Angus said. "I stopped there a short time ago. That's how I found out where you'd gone. What were you thinking to set off for the village alone?"

  "Why shouldn't I?" Katlin demanded. Never mind her manners, the man was infuriating. "As I said, this isn't the thirteenth century. A young woman should be perfectly free to walk along a country road without expecting assault."

  Angus grinned down at her. "Is that what you think this is? My dear Miss Sinclair, I assure you, if you were being assaulted, you would know it."

  Ratlin's blush deepened. She looked away hastily. Against her cheek, she felt his deep, rumbling chuckle.

  "Your servants are returning on their own," Angus said. He was enjoying himself. "I'll send men to help John round up your horses and secure the stables. They'll bring you some supplies, too, at least enough to get you through the next few days, which is all I expect you'll be staying."

  "Oh, really? Just what makes you think that?"

  "Because, Miss Sinclair," he said succinctly, "you are a hothouse flower of a kind the Scottish spring is famous for blasting. The sooner you go back to London, the better off you will be.''

  "And leave you to inherit Innishffarin?" Katlin demanded. Her temper flared, a most remarkable occurrence considering that until very recently she hadn't known she possessed such a thing. "Oh, yes, I know about that. If I can't survive here for six months, you get it all. But that isn't going to happen, Laird Wyndham. Innishffarin belongs to the Sinclairs, and so will it always!"

  For a moment, she regretted her words, so dark did his expression become. His eyes were steel piercing her. She bit back a gasp and forced herself not to look away.

  At length, Angus said softly, "Truly, you are a Sinclair."

  "Thank you," Katlin murmured.

  His laugh was harsh. "I dinna mean it as a compliment. You're a maddening lot, all of you, claiming what you've no right to and then holding on to it so tenaciously that nothing can dislodge you. But this time you've bitten off a bit too much, Miss Katlin Sinclair. Your grandfather left the will he did to ease his conscience. He didn't want to cut you off but neither did he intend for you to win in the end. Innishffarin is mine and I mean to have it."

  Katlin lifted her head and glared at him. "Not," she said clearly, "while there is breath in my body."

  His eyes narrowed. Slowly, he scanned the fragile woman before him. What he saw seemed to amuse him, for he was smiling as he said, "Be careful what you wish for, Miss Sinclair. You may get it."

  Chapter
Three

  "There now, miss," Sarah said. "Put your feet up on this pillow, that's it. Now you just lie back and rest. I'll have everything right as rain in no time."

  She gave Katlin a somber look, reflective of the seriousness of the situation, and began bustling around the room picking up clothes and generally tidying.

  "Terrible, miss," she said as she worked, "your poor feet. How could you let that happen? I told John, I did, when I heard where you'd gone, 'That's the last thing she should have done.' That's what I said, ask him if I didn't. The idea, going off by yourself, when you've hardly done a lick of anything in your life and quite rightly so, you being a lady and all."

  Katlin shut her eyes and laid her head back against the pillow. Sarah's words washed over her. She would have liked to shut them out but couldn't manage it, principally because she knew the maid had a point.

  In essence that point was this. Katlin Sinclair was totally useless and inept—but that was all right because that was exactly what she was supposed to be. There was no harm in it so long as she didn't forget herself and start acting like a capable person. When she did that, she got herself into trouble, but thankfully, Laird Angus Wyndham had been there to rescue her, bless his heart.

  "And isn't he a fine figure of a man, miss?" Sarah rattled on. "So big and strong like with those eyes that go right through you. I declare, the first moment I saw him, my heart absolutely stopped, it did."

  Katlin sighed and squeezed her eyes more tightly shut. Eventually, Sarah would take the hint and go away. But not quite yet.

  "So kind of him to bring you back here, just like a knight of old, that's what it is. And to think, he might be pardoned for not extending himself, if you know what I mean, miss, him being next in line and all."

  Ratlin's eyes popped open. "You know about that?" she asked.

  Sarah nodded. "Oh, yes, miss. That Maggie Fergus told me. She's back, by the way. Came up about an hour before his lordship brought you home. Said something about being down in the village visiting her niece, but if you ask me, she took a great deal on herself going off the way she did. Still and all, she seems a decent sort. They all do."