The Highlander's Christmas Bride, Page 6

  “We’ll get it sorted. In the meantime, bolt your door.”

  She shot the bolt.

  “Good girl,” he said. “If anything happens before I’m back, start screaming and I’ll come running.”

  Donella devoutly hoped she would not be forced to resort to screaming—or fighting off more kidnappers.

  Racing to her bag, she quickly dressed, thanking the saints for front-lacing stays and a dress that buttoned up the front. She wound a bandeau around her hair, and then retrieved the fireplace poker and went to stand by the door.

  It seemed to take Kendrick forever to return. Donella quietly tapped her fingertips against the door, counting the long seconds as they passed. Had he been attacked and was lying unconscious? She felt woozy at the idea, so she rested her forehead against the door and said a few prayers to try to calm her unsettled nerves.

  Finally, she heard footsteps, and then a key was inserted into the lock.

  “It’s me, lass,” Kendrick said. “Open up.”

  Donella pulled back the bolt and opened the door. She blinked at the sight of him, clad in breeches and boots with only a leather vest over his naked chest. Since her eyes were but a few inches away from his torso, she was able to instantly deduce that his chest muscles were quite impressive.

  He grimaced. “Sorry. When I heard you yell, I just grabbed what was close at hand.”

  Donella got herself in hand. “It’s perfectly fine, sir.”

  Then she narrowed her gaze at Mrs. Murray behind him, dressed in a nightcap and wrapper and holding a lamp. “Ma’am, did your husband lock me in?”

  “He did, I’m sorry to say,” the innkeeper grimly replied.

  “And where is he now?”

  “Locked away in our bedroom. He’ll nae worry ye, miss. For the moment, anyway.”

  Donella threw a startled glance at Kendrick.

  “Aye, we’re in trouble.” He sounded more irritated than anything else.

  She sighed. “Of course we are.” She stepped aside to let them in.

  When Kendrick threw the door bolt again, her stomach sank. Not just trouble—danger.

  Mrs. Murray set the lamp down and cast Donella an unhappy look. “Mr. Kendrick told me of yer troubles, miss, and I was fair shocked. I’m right sorry to say that my fool of a husband was part of the plot to abduct ye.”

  Donella pressed a hand against her stomach. “That’s why he was so surprised when he saw me. He expected the kidnapping to be successful.”

  The landlady nodded. “I would have locked him in the cellar myself, if I’d had a clue what he was up to with those hulver-headed cousins of his.”

  “So, it was someone from the Murray Clan,” Donella said.

  Mrs. Murray gave a morose nod.

  “Do you know why?”

  “I asked Mr. Murray that very same question,” Kendrick said. “He refused to give me a straight answer but seemed to think you would know why.”

  Donella’s stomach, which had been attempting to sink to her feet, promptly jumped into her throat. “I . . . I have no idea why the Murrays would wish to abduct me.”

  Kendrick’s hard gaze flickered from her to Mrs. Murray, who pointedly looked at the ceiling.

  “Try again, Miss Haddon,” he said.

  Donella scrambled to come up with something that sounded halfway sensible. “Most likely it has something to do with an old dispute between my uncle and one of the smaller branches of the Murray clan. I’m not entirely sure which family, or what the original problem was.”

  Kendrick crossed his arms over his chest, which caused various parts of his anatomy to bulge with muscle. “You are stating the obvious. What I want to know is what part you play in this farce. Whichever group of idiots this is, they seem to be going through a lot of trouble to get at you.”

  She crossed her fingers behind her back. “I truly don’t know. You’ll have to ask my uncle when you see him.”

  “And you have nothing else to add, madam?” he asked Mrs. Murray in a lethal tone.

  The innkeeper was not to be intimidated, even by Logan Kendrick. “I’ll nae betray my husband or my clan, sir. Ye’ll have to speak to the laird to get yer answers.”

  Donella breathed a mental sigh of relief. “Of course you can’t betray your clan, Mrs. Murray. And I appreciate your help, even though I’m sure it’s put you in an awkward position.”

  “I willna allow my husband to be part of foul deeds against the Flower of Clan Graham or the Laird of Riddick,” the woman stoutly said. “I may be a Murray by marriage, but my mam was a Graham on her da’s side. I owe it to her memory to keep ye as safe as I can.”

  “Bloody clan nonsense,” Kendrick muttered.

  Donella pointedly ignored him. “The question is, what’s to be done now?” she asked Mrs. Murray. “I assume your husband locked me in so another attempt could be made to abduct me.”

  “Aye, sometime before dawn.”

  “In the next two or three hours,” Kendrick said.

  “I’m thinkin’ we’ll be havin’ company sooner rather than later,” Mrs. Murray replied with a grimace.

  “All right. You help Miss Haddon get ready, and I’ll go to the stables and get my men to pole up the horses.” Kendrick started for the door.

  Donella held up a hand. “No, wait.”

  He paused in the doorway, impatient. “Yes?”

  “If we rush off, they’ll just come after us, like they did at the Perth Bridge. They know where we’re going, after all. They’re bound to catch up with us at some point.”

  He rubbed a hand over his head in clear frustration, pulling open the edges of his vest and exposing more muscle, liberally dusted with black hair. Donella had grown up in a family of brawny men, but Kendrick was even more formidably masculine than they were.

  “We don’t have all night, Miss Haddon,” he growled. “If you have another suggestion, let’s hear it.”

  She peeled her gaze from his chest. “We split up. Send Foster and Davey south to Dunblane, on the regular route to Blairgal. Our pursuers will follow the carriage. We take another route, away from Blairgal. There are less travelled ways to get to my uncle’s castle. Once we throw them off our scent, we can take one of those.”

  Donella already had a very good idea of which way to go, but she had no intention of sharing it with Mrs. Murray.

  Kendrick’s gaze flicked to the innkeeper for a moment. Then he crossed his arms over his chest, frowning at the floor as he thought it through.

  Donella quelled her impatience. He was a typically stubborn and overly protective Highland male. She could practically see him sifting through the objections in his mind, concerned not for himself but for those in his care.

  “What happens when the blackguards catch up with the carriage?” he said. “Your grandfather won’t be best pleased if they’re hurt.”

  Mrs. Murray shook her head. “They’ll no be hurtin’ them if the lass isn’t with them. I’m certain of it. She’s the one they want.”

  Kendrick’s suspicious gaze shifted between the two women. “Yes, and I wish like hell I knew why.”

  Blast. Why couldn’t he let it go?

  “As Mrs. Murray points out,” Donella said firmly, “Davey and Foster have a better chance of getting back to Blairgal unharmed without us. Once they do, Uncle Riddick can send help.”

  “This is ridiculous,” he exclaimed. “I’m tempted to stay here and confront the bastards myself. It’s the Nineteenth Century, for God’s sake. One simply cannot go around abducting women.”

  Argh.

  “Mr. Kendrick, there is very bad blood between some of the Murray clan and my family. Surely you haven’t forgotten how deeply resentment can run between clans, even nowadays.”

  “She’s right, sir,” Mrs. Murray said. “They won’t hurt yer servants, but they will hurt ye, if ye stand in their way.”

  He waved a dismissive hand at that notion.

  “I could get hurt if there’s a fight,” Donella pointed out. />
  His eyes narrowed to wintery-blue slits. “I don’t like being manipulated, lass.”

  When she simply gave him a smile in reply, he cracked a grudging laugh. “All right, we’ll try it your way.” He glanced at Mrs. Murray. “I’m assuming you can provide Miss Haddon and me with horses?”

  The woman shook her head. “I’ve just one, sir. The others are jobbed out.”

  “Is it a sturdy animal?” Donella asked. “Could it carry both of us?”

  “Aye, miss. It’s a draft horse, and strong enough to carry ye both. Ye can hire a second horse once ye reach another inn, I ken.”

  “Goddammit,” Kendrick muttered, as if he’d just remembered something.

  Donella frowned. “Sir, that language is—”

  “Do you know how bad this will look if we’re recognized?” he interrupted. “Before, we at least had Davey and Foster to lend us a measure of respectability. Now we’ll be travelling alone, on the same horse no less.”

  “Oh, dear,” she weakly said.

  He was right. That would be extremely bad for both of them. Her reputation, already hanging by a thread, would be in tatters.

  “Perhaps ye could pretend to be husband and wife,” Mrs. Murray suggested.

  Kendrick looked appalled. Donella certainly understood his reaction, although she couldn’t help feeling a tiny bit insulted.

  “That is not an option, Mrs. Murray,” she said.

  “Indeed it is not,” he said.

  “Feel free to make a constructive suggestion. For once,” Donella couldn’t help saying in a snippy tone.

  Kendrick ignored her jibe, regarding her with a thoughtful expression.

  Donella waved her arms. “What?”

  “Miss Haddon’s hair is very short,” he said to Mrs. Murray. “And she’s quite tall for a woman.”

  The innkeeper looked blank for a moment, then snapped her fingers. “Aye, that she is, sir.”

  “What are you talking about?” Donella asked.

  “You have what she’ll need?” Kendrick asked.

  “Our stable boy’s things should do the trick,” Mrs. Murray replied.

  “Perfect. Then get Miss Haddon ready. I’ve got to give Foster and Davey instructions and get this blasted plan in motion.”

  The wretched man thought she could pose as a boy? How charming. Donella gritted her teeth as Kendrick opened the door and disappeared without a backward glance.

  The innkeeper turned to her with a smile. “Now, miss. Let’s get ye out of those clothes.”

  Chapter Seven

  A pat to the knee dragged Donella out of an uneasy doze.

  “We’re here,” Kendrick said. “Let’s get you into a proper bed, so you can have a proper sleep.”

  An unlikely image flashed through her sleep-deprived brain—Kendrick’s arms wrapped securely around her as they snuggled under a quilt. It made her jerk away from him, hard enough that she nearly tumbled off the rear of the horse.

  Kendrick grabbed her wrist and pulled her forward. Without thinking, Donella wrapped an arm around his waist and flattened herself to his back to keep from falling.

  Her breasts were unsecured by stays and covered only by a thin shirt and a sturdy woolen jerkin. It made her aware of her body in a way she’d never noticed before—especially when pressed against him. She felt curiously unfettered, as if some part of her had been let free after a long and dreary confinement.

  Still, her boy’s attire was scandalous, and the sooner she donned proper clothing—and put some distance between herself and Logan Kendrick—the better.

  She braced her other hand on his broad back. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle the horse.”

  The poor animal, a large, sturdy fellow, had been forced to carry them for several hours, much to her backside’s discomfort. Kendrick had done his best for her, draping a thick woolen blanket behind his saddle, but no amount of padding could eliminate the misery of bouncing around on a horse’s rump.

  “Och, you’ve done well under less than optimal circumstances. Hang on for a moment longer and I’ll get you down from there.”

  Donella peered around the cobblestoned yard of the coaching inn, boxed in on three sides by a two-storied building and lit by a single lantern set by the front door. A small chaise and an old-fashioned travelling coach were tucked into one corner of the yard. The hushed atmosphere suggested a small inn that did not see much traffic from the main road.

  “Where are we?” she asked.

  “About a mile off the highway. I thought it best to avoid the larger inns.”

  Given the hastily assembled nature of her disguise, that made sense. It was doubtful that Donella’s new identity would stand up to much scrutiny.

  Kendrick impatiently looked about. “Where’s the bloody . . . ah, finally.”

  A door swung open, spilling light in an angled ray across the stones of the courtyard. A stoop-shouldered man with a lantern hurried out to greet them. “Sorry, sir. I was in the back of the house when ye rode in.”

  “You have rooms available?” Kendrick asked.

  The fellow eyed them with curiosity. “Aye. Will ye be needin’ one or two?”

  “My brother and I will share one.”

  The porter hooked his lantern over a post and went to the horse’s head. Kendrick swung his leg over for a sliding dismount, then turned to reach for Donella.

  “Come along, laddie. I’ll help you.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, affecting the gruffest tone she could manage.

  His massive hands encircled her waist.

  “Your muscles must be cramped. Don’t want you falling on your arse, now do we, lad?” he teased.

  Donella swallowed an ill-considered retort and leaned into him, letting his strong arms guide her to the ground. She stumbled when her boots hit the cobblestones, but Kendrick held her steady and much too close. Her short wool coat had flared open, and her body pressed directly against him. If she’d thought his back was muscled, his front was more so. In fact . . .

  Her mind skittered away from the thought as he spun her around and started her toward the inn. He held on to her arm, which was probably a good thing, since her legs were indeed tight and sore from the ride.

  Her knees were a bit wobbly too, although she suspected another reason for that.

  “You’ll see to my horse?” Kendrick asked the porter.

  “I’ll wake a stable hand. If ye’ll wait by the desk in the hall, I’ll be with ye in a trice.”

  Kendrick steered Donella toward the open door, keeping a firm grip when she stumbled again. “Careful, lass,” he murmured. “We don’t need you cracking your skull.”

  “It’s the boots. They’re too big.”

  Since her convent shoes had not been suitable for riding, Mrs. Murray had unearthed a pair of old boots owned by a former groom. They’d been forced to stuff socks in the toes to make them wearable.

  “I’m sorry about this.” Kendrick ushered her into a small but tidy entrance hall. “I know it’s all incredibly uncomfortable for you.”

  Donella sank into a chair at an old writing desk with numerous cubbyholes stuffed with papers. The chair was cane-backed and hard, yet it felt like heaven after the horse’s bouncing rump.

  She pulled off her knit gloves and wriggled the warmth back into her fingers. “Hah. Uncomfortable is kneeling for two hours on the stone floor of an unheated chapel.”

  Kendrick went to build up the small peat fire in the hearth. “And did that happen often?”

  When she started to tug the itchy woolen cap from her head, he gave her a warning shake.

  Sighing, she pulled the cap back down over her rumpled hair. “Sister Bernard thought it an appropriate punishment for my numerous transgressions.”

  He tossed her a sympathetic glance. “Were they really that numerous?”

  “I’m here, aren’t I?” she replied, trying to make a joke out of it.

  Pity from him was the last thing she wanted. True, she’d been rej
ected once again, but she’d find another way to get where she needed to go, even if she wasn’t yet sure of the destination.

  Kendrick propped a shoulder against the stone mantelpiece. For a man who’d fought off a band of attackers, organized an escape, and ridden halfway through the night, he looked remarkably fresh. His boots had nary a scuffmark, and his doeskin breeches clung to his long legs with perfect tailoring.

  He looked exactly what he was, a wealthy member of the landed gentry—not a respectable farmer of modest means, travelling with his little brother. While she might fit the part in her cobbled-together outfit, his appearance did not match their cover story.

  Kendrick flashed her a roguish smile. “Do tell me more, Miss Haddon. And don’t leave out the good bits.”

  Refusing to be charmed, Donella ignored his teasing. “I don’t know if we’re going to pull off this little charade. You look nothing like a Country Harry, although I expect I could pass for your scruffy little brother.”

  He waggled a hand. “I think you’re more the problem than I am.”

  “Really? This outfit is shapeless, and I look perfectly grubby.”

  “Not entirely shapeless. And then there’s your face.”

  “Which is no doubt as grubby as the rest of me.” She wrinkled her nose. “And this outfit does smell like it belonged to a stable boy.”

  “True, but you are the Flower of Clan Graham. A little dirt can’t conceal your charms.”

  Donella repressed a stab of irritation. “It’s a foolish name that I was glad to leave behind. I would be grateful if you didn’t refer to it again.”

  His smile turned rueful. “I was only teasing, lass.”

  “I’m not one for teasing, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

  “I have noticed. It’s commendably nunlike of you.”

  She tried not to clench her teeth. “I’m no longer a nun, in case you failed to notice that, too.”

  Something considerably warmer than amusement gleamed in his eyes. “Oh, I’ve noticed.”

  After three years in the convent, Donella had forgotten how irritating men could be, and how easily they could wind her up.

  She scowled at the floor, trying to keep her temper under control. “Where is that blasted porter?”