Highland Hellion (Highland Weddings #3)(7)

“Are we lifting cattle or no’?” Cedric asked at last.

Rolfe found himself hesitating to answer his man. He was torn now. Something was prodding him to go up to Castle MacPherson.

“Ye’re thinking of going after her.” It was Adwin who spoke. His captain knew him too well, it seemed.

Rolfe turned to lock gazes with the man. “Someone should take her in hand.”

“Aye, she was in luck that it was us who caught her,” Adwin agreed as he locked his hands around his wide belt and rocked back on his heels. It was his favorite position for thinking. “And still, someone has been teaching her, so they bloody well know what she does.”

“The MacPhersons must have a priest with a finer sense of humor than we have on McTavish land,” Cedric added.

“It just means she’s been playing at being a lad, and Marcus MacPherson has let the matter go. Priests do nae venture into the training yards often,” Rolfe said.

“Maybe Marcus did nae notice.”

“No’ a chance,” Rolfe answered. “Marcus is no fool.”

“Ye took him by surprise sure enough,” Adwin stated, to the delight of the men.

Rolfe was used to them recalling the tale. Today, he didn’t take as much heart in it. Yes, there had been a time years ago when he’d managed to sneak up on Marcus MacPherson while the man was distracted by his new wife.

“I’d be a fool to think I could do it a second time,” he announced. “And double so for thinking Marcus does no’ know that is a lass.”

“So it’s true, then,” Adwin announced. “Me cousin said the MacPhersons have an English hellion living among them. I thought it was just a good story.”

“English, ye say?” Rolfe asked.

“No’ a chance,” Cedric argued. “Now, a Highlander lass might”—he held up a thick finger—“just might have the strength to keep up with the lads. But English? Nay. Their blood is too thin.”

“Who else would be allowed to train like a lad?” Adwin insisted.

Rolfe didn’t listen too closely to his men as they began to debate the shortcomings of the English. His mind was full of the girl and the way she’d blinked when he touched her chin. Damned if there hadn’t been something strangely hypnotic about it. Like he’d touched a fae creature.

He chuckled at his own whimsy.

She was just a lass, and a foolish one at that. If anything, he should go home and pen a letter to Marcus MacPherson, because Rolfe wasn’t going to ride up to MacPherson Castle. Marcus would enjoy slapping him in shackles, no doubt. Rolfe had once held Helen Grant for ransom. It was all in good fun, in a Highland fashion. Helen had never been in any real danger. That was a point of honor.

Colum Gordon was a different matter. The man had lost touch with the world around him, cradling his vengeance for his dead son and blind to the fact that Bhaic had killed Lye Rob for a just reason.

Rolfe was torn. Somehow, he felt protective toward his nameless fae creature. She was playing a dangerous game, riding at night when clansmen were out raiding. More than one man would consider her a fine prize, and if she had no family to notice her missing, her fate might be a grim one.

“Let’s get the cattle,” he commanded in frustration. Marcus deserved the dig at his pride for allowing any female to train in his yard. Look what sort of recklessness it had bred in the lass! The bloody Gordons would not be so kind to her if they found her.

Hellion?

More like hell-bound. Her behavior was going to land her in her grave.

*

She’d ridden the horse too fast.

Katherine spent over an hour rubbing the poor creature down and praying that she would go undiscovered while she was tending to the chore. At least the work gave her something to do, because she was pulsing with nervousness and yet, at the same time, a strong sense of victory.

She couldn’t stop smiling, and she was muffling her giggles while working on the horse.

She’d really, really done it.

Escaped.

All of the reprimanding looks and lectures melted away as her accomplishment burned bright enough to overshadow them all. She’d been so frightened for a moment when the rope was biting into her and she was being pulled along like a cow on the way to be slaughtered.

And then she’d used her wits to cut through that panic, opening a doorway for her training to come through. Things Marcus had said during training classes suddenly made sense in a bold manner that filled her with a confidence she had never experienced before. It was heady and dark and seductive.

Just what she’d needed after weeks of toiling in the kitchens, where she was clumsy and ignorant and so much less skilled than the rest of the women. She held a new respect for the toil necessary to put a meal on the table, and that was a solid truth.

Yet, she didn’t belong there.

The men didn’t want her near either. It was a puzzle that seemed to have no solution. At least not one that pleased her. Katherine wound through the passageways toward her chamber, left with the sure knowledge that she was not frightened of the shadows or the night hours or even McTavish clansmen. She would not trade that for any amount of acceptance from the other women. She’d earned it with every blow and knock, all the times she’d fought back her tears and kept training. Her courage was hard-won and, it would seem, her sole possession. For her name was tarnished, and among the Scots, her blood was hated.