The Taming of a Scottish Princess

  “High-spirited,” Michael repeated. “Jane, did you hear—”

  “I heard,” she snapped. She snatched up her glass of Scotch and took a hefty drink, scowling all the while.

  Eyeing Jane uneasily, Mrs. Farquhar continued, “When the laird’s wife died of the ague, Lady Jennet was no’ but twelve and ’twas just her and the laird from then on. The laird loved his daughter more than life itself and he dinna have the firm hand as his wife had.”

  “Ah, so Lady Jennet was spoiled, was she?”

  Jane, in the middle of taking a sip of whiskey, choked.

  Michael said in a solicitous voice, “Careful, Miss Smythe-Haughton. Scottish whiskey is stronger than our usual fare.” He turned back to the landlady and raised his brows.

  She obligingly plunged back into her story. “Aye, once’t her mither died, Lady Jennet ran wild, she did, fer her da could no’ find it in his heart to say to her nay. Still, they loved one another verrah much and they were happy as clams there upon Barra ’til the day the laird’s horse was startled by a rabbit. The horse bucked and the laird fell and struck his head upon a rock. He died instantly.”

  Michael slid a glance at Jane, but she’d turned her face away from him and was holding her glass of whiskey as if her life depended upon it, her fingers white where she gripped the glass. Perhaps that explained her extreme independence. First she was indulged by a father who was missing his beloved wife, and then she was left to roam an island kingdom on her own, when her father was ripped from her life as well.

  Some people would use such a tragedy as an excuse to become weaker, but not a woman like Jane. No, she’d see the hardship as a challenge tossed in her teeth by life itself. She’d rise to the challenge, too, and she’d beat it.

  Mrs. Farquhar sighed. “We were shocked at his death, fer the laird was a master horseman and a brawny man, too. The lass was left alone, the sole inheritor of the castle, the isle, and all the gold in the treasury.”

  “She was wealthy, then?”

  “’Twas rumored tha’ she was worth her own weight in gold.”

  “Just rumored,” Jane said.

  “There had to be gold in the castle’s treasury,” Mrs. Farquhar said in a pragmatic voice. “Why else would ye have a treasury?”

  “I daresay there were many large wardrobes in that castle, too,” Jane returned sharply, “but that doesn’t mean they were full of silks and satins. More than likely, they held moth-eaten blankets and burlap sacks for covering the windows in the cold.”

  Mrs. Farquhar sniffed. “If the lass was no’ wealthy, then why did all of those suitors come?”

  “Suitors?” Michael asked, startled by this new twist.

  “Aye! Before the laird’s body was cold, hordes of suitors descended upon the isle like starving locusts. The lass was followed and harassed and couldna even mourn in peace.”

  “A bunch of mustering maggots is what they were,” Jane said, frowning.

  “So they were.” Mrs. Farquhar tilted her head to one side. “Lass, how do ye know o’ this?”

  “Yes,” Michael said. “How do you know?”

  Jane sniffed and turned away.

  Mrs. Farquhar sent her a curious glance, but continued. “We all feared one o’ the suitors might steal the puir, unprotected lass away, but then ’twas revealed that the laird had left his daughter in the care o’ a guardian, his cousin, David MacNeil, a man the lass thought of as her own uncle.

  “I’ll ne’er understand wha’ the laird was thinkin’ to leave Lord David in charge o’ the precious bairn.” Mrs. Farquhar’s brows knit in disapproval. “The man is a mean one, he is. He arrived wi’ his son, a lad aboot the same age of Lady Jennet. The lad was no stranger, as the old laird had had a kindness fer his nephew, and so little Jaimie had stayed at Kisimul almost every summer fer years.”

  “At least Lady Jennet had a friend.”

  “So ye’d think. But the lad was under his father’s thumb and had no backbone at all.” Mrs. Farquhar shook her head sadly. “It was a confusin’ time fer us all, especially the lass. Lord David sent the suitors packing. We were relieved at first, fer the lass was no longer importuned day and night.”

  “But then?” Michael asked.

  “But then we discovered why Lord David had saved the lassie; he wished t’ marry his own son t’ Lady Jennet.”

  “Out of the frying pan and into the fire.”

  “Aye, but she would ha’ none o’ him.”

  “Somehow, that doesn’t surprise me.”

  “’Twas a fiery courtship, and och, the yellin’ and screamin’ tha’ went on—” Mrs. Farquhar shuddered at the memory.

  “Again, I’m not surprised.”

  Jane sent him a withering glare, which he met with a wink and a grin. Her lips reluctantly quirked into a smile before she turned away again and hunched her shoulders in his direction.

  He was glad to see that her sense of humor was returning. To see her so pale and upset had shaken him deeply—far more than he cared to admit.

  He turned his gaze back to the landlady. “So the Scottish princess refused to wed, did she?”

  “Aye, though no one blamed the lass for refusin’ Jaimie MacNeil, who is a lack-witted muttonhead. Unfortunately, her outspoken ways maddened her uncle, who thought her too wild. They had horrible rows, yellin’ at one another. Finally, he would take no more and locked her away in her bedchamber, sayin’ she’d stay there until she agreed to wed her cousin.”

  Michael stroked his chin, watching Jane from the corner of his eye. “It’s a pity this uncle wasn’t fond of Egyptian dancing.”

  Mrs. Farquhar blinked.

  Michael added in a polite tone, “Had Lady Jennet’s uncle been a fan of Egyptian dancing, I’m almost certain she could have escaped.”

  Jane sent him a withering glare. “You’re incorrigible.”

  Mrs. Farquhar looked from one to the other and scratched her head. “Wha’ has dancin’ to do wi’ escaping?”

  “Exactly,” Michael said in a soothing tone. “I was merely making an obscure reference to an imaginary incident that Miss Smythe-Haughton is fond of recalling. What happened after Lady Jennet was locked away?”

  “Och, the puir lass! She was left in her room, but she was spirited, she was, and she refused to bend. And so her uncle—och, I canna say it wi’out gettin’ angry, but he said he’d enou’ and ordered the lass locked in the dungeon.”

  Michael’s humor disappeared. Until now, he’d been willing to tease Jane about it. But this—to lock a young girl, and Jane, at that—in a dungeon? His jaw tightened until he could barely speak. “That blackguard!”

  “Aye, and the puir, puir, puir lassie was no’ given food nor water.”

  Jane gave a superior sniff. “I daresay a ‘puir lassie’ who’d been raised in such a castle as Kisimul might know a way out of a dungeon that she had played in from the time she was a wee bairn.”

  Michael found himself grinning from ear to ear. I should have known she wouldn’t stay locked away. “So Lady Jennet was very resourceful.”

  “Very,” Jane said. “She might also have been aware that it wasn’t in her best interest to let her uncle realize that she had access to such an escape.”

  “So she was canny, too.”

  Jane took a sip of Scotch. “I would also conjecture that she wasn’t starving, either. She had friends among the people of Barra, who are renowned for their generosity.”

  Michael had to resist the urge to crow. What a magnificent woman, even at sixteen. Has nothing ever cowed her?

  Mrs. Farquhar brightened. “I ne’er thought o’ that, miss, but ye might be right. I’m sure the people of Barra did what they could. She was much loved.” Her face fell. “But there was no one assistin’ her when the castle burned. Her bones were found among the ashes and she was buried on the isle. What a sad ending fer such an angel. Puir little thing.”

  “Little, was she?” Michael held up his hand until it was a few inches taller than Jane. “
About this tall?”

  “Och, no! Far smaller than that.”

  He lowered his hand until it was even with the top of Jane’s head. “Maybe this tall, then?”

  “Aye. Somewhere aboot there.”

  “And slender, I’d assume.”

  “Aye.”

  “And her coloring?” He looked inquiringly at Mrs. Farquhar.

  “I dinna know aboot her eyes, though her hair was the color of peat.”

  “Brown, eh? Then I’d assume that her eyes were brown, too.”

  “Mayhap. She had a piquant face, quite like a pixie. And the voice o’ an angel. Well, before she was a screamin’ ghostie, tha’ is.”

  “I vow, but your description is so vivid that I can almost see her . . .” Michael let his voice drift off.

  Jane cast her brown eyes heavenward, as if praying for patience.

  Michael flashed her a satisfied smile before he turned back to the landlady. “I daresay your ghostie is far more active in the mornings when she’s trying to interrupt an honest man’s sleep—or so my experience with Scottish harridans has been.”

  Jane gave an exasperated sigh.

  “Och, no,” Mrs. Farquhar said, “ye only hear her when storms are nigh.”

  “Oddly enough, I can almost hear her now. Mrs. Farquhar, that’s a fascinating story. Thank you for taking the time to tell it.” He took the innkeeper’s rough hand between his own and bowed over it. “I hope we didn’t keep you from anything too important.”

  Mrs. Farquhar turned three shades of red. “Och, now, I canna say— I mean, I’ve never meant to be so—Of course, ’twas a pleasure to tell ye—”

  Jane thunked her glass upon the table, a fixed smile on her face. “Mrs. Farquhar, would you mind packing a bit of food for us to take to the isle in case we can’t find lodging at the inn right away?” Jane dug into her pocket and pulled out several coins. “I’ll pay for it now, if you can promise that it’ll be ready soon.”

  The landlady brightened and quickly pocketed the coins. “Of course! I’ll see to it now. I’ll take these empty dishes, too.” She gathered the dishes, bustling happily. She was almost humming when she finally left.

  The second she was out of earshot, Michael turned to Jane and crossed his arms over his chest. “So, Jennet MacNeil, what do you have to say for yourself?”

  “My name is not Jennet.”

  “It is, too.”

  Her brown eyes locked with his. “It was. Now my name is Jane.”

  “Jennet, don’t be ridiculous. I’ll—”

  She spun on her heel and swept to the pegs by the door, where she removed her pelisse and bonnet. She slapped the bonnet upon her head, the ribbons dangling untied, and yanked on the pelisse, leaving it unbuttoned. “I will never answer to that name.”

  “But it’s your real—”

  “Hurst, do you or do you not wish me to go with you to Barra? For if you don’t, then call me by that name just one more time.” Her voice was crystal cold and crackled at the edges as if covered in ice.

  By Ra, she’s serious. Michael reflected that if there was one thing having three sisters had taught him, it was to know when he’d gone too far. “Fine. Have it your way. But don’t think we’re done speaking about this.”

  “I don’t think anything.” She buttoned her pelisse, her movements jerky. “I know we’re done speaking about this.”

  “Jane, you can’t ignore—”

  “Yes, I can. And if you know what’s good for you, you will, too. My history is my business and no one else’s.” She turned toward the doorway.

  “Where are you going?”

  “To check on the arrangements for our passage to Barra,” she said as she marched to the door. “Be at the docks within the hour.”

  “Jane, wait. You can’t stay outside in that weather for an entire hour.”

  “Ha!” Jane whipped out the door, her booted heels rapping smartly on the hallway floor. A second later, the front door slammed.

  Michael was instantly aware that the room felt suddenly colder and far more empty without Jane. “Touchy, are we?” he said to the silent air.

  Sighing, he picked up his glass of Scotch and ambled to the front window, where he watched Jane march across the cobblestones to the street beyond, her head bent against the wind, one hand slapped upon her head to hold her bonnet in place, the untied ribbons dancing behind her. “Amazing how things can change with just a few short sentences.”

  He’d never in a million years expected to discover that the prim and ever proper Miss Jane Smythe-Haughton was anything other than what she appeared. And now look at her, he told himself. She’s a bloody Scottish princess. A dead one, true, but still a princess.

  He leaned against the window frame as she turned down the cobblestone street toward the pier. Jane didn’t move with the graceful sweep his sisters employed, especially Caitlyn, who seemed to float when she walked. Jane’s walk was firm, quick, and efficient. Yet the purposeful tread didn’t stop the very feminine sway of her hips.

  He’d always thought that voluptuous women were the most delectable, and none of the women whose favors he’d enjoyed in the past had been smallish in frame. But seeing Jane marching off, her trim behind outlined as the wind tugged her billowing skirts this way and that, he realized he was beginning to develop an appreciation for small, delicate women.

  He finished his Scotch and set the glass down, still watching Jane’s retreating figure. What other secrets are you hiding, my little wren?

  The answers lay on the Isle of Barra. Once there, he would pursue the truth with the same determination he’d used to unlock the many secrets of the pharaohs. You, Miss Jennet MacNeil, have no hope of keeping your secrets. By the time we leave your precious isle, I’ll possess two things—the Hurst Amulet, and the truth about you.

  CHAPTER 7

  A letter from Michael Hurst written to his sister Mary from an inn in Oban while waiting to set sail for Barra:

  If you’re in the process of writing one of your overly thorough letters to our cantankerous grandmother, pray tell her that I’ve just been given a glimpse of a Highlander’s pride and that it has astonished me in both its depth and its stubbornness. Furthermore, I am maddened at their refusal to bend knee to anything resembling common sense.

  That will make her very happy.

  I now have a new appreciation for her spouse, our long-dead grandfather. Any man who would knowingly court a Scotswoman has given up on all reason, and has decided that prickles would make a more interesting bed than down. Such foolishness deserves every cut he gets.

  The sea winds were brutal. Jane tugged her voluminous cape closer and held it tightly about her neck, but no amount of wool could keep out the vicious breath of the Hebrides. A bonnet would have blown off in this weather, so her hair flew wildly, the pins long gone as the silky strands tangled about her cheeks, then were tossed away, only to return, clinging to her cold skin.

  Though it was bone-bitingly cold, she refused to go below deck, and stayed where the fresh scent of the wild sea could wash over her.

  I’m going home. She’d thought the words over and yet they wouldn’t sink in. She simply couldn’t believe she was upon a ship cutting swiftly through the rowdy Sea of the Hebrides, the dark green ridge that was the Isle of Barra growing on the gloomy horizon.

  She shivered as a particularly strong gust swept over the deck, whipping the bottom of her cape and skirts. She hoped Michael was prepared for the icy weather that awaited them, for it would be a shock.

  She frowned. The last thing I should worry about is whether Hurst is cold. He’s been positively insufferable. I can only be thankful that he’s had the good sense not to call me by that name again, for I might have been moved to violence.

  It was a small thing to be thankful for, but for the last two days, that was all she’d had. Though they’d planned on sailing straight to Barra from Oban, the weather had stopped them at the mouth of the Sound of Mull, and they’d been forced to seek po
rt for a day in the small town of Tobermory. The stop had not been a welcome one; the crew was unhappy, for they made no money as they waited. Plus, she’d been tense since her argument with Michael at the inn, which had been made worse by the realization that he was now watching her with eyes bright with curiosity.

  She’d sighed with relief when the skies had proven less threatening this morning and they could set sail once again.

  Of course, “less threatening” did not mean the passage was smooth, for the Sea of the Hebrides was never peaceful. As she looked out at the whitecapped sea, the ship hit a wave and rocked high upon its crest. Jane grabbed the wooden railing, icy air frothing her skirt and chilling her wool-clad legs.

  And with the wind came her fears. Surely no one from Barra will recognize me. That would undo all that I tried to accomplish . . . if it hasn’t already been ruined. “Jaimie, you fool,” she muttered. “What did your father talk you into this time? You promised to hold firm. You promised.”

  She scowled at the green sliver of land growing before her. Perhaps it’s a good thing I’ve come home, at least for a few days. It will give me a chance to measure how things stand. Given enough time, perhaps I can even right what’s been wronged.

  Her inclination to institute order was soothed by this thought, and she watched as they closed the gap between the sea and the mouth of Castle Bay, swinging starboard as they approached. Her hand tightened about the railing and she took a deep breath to slow the hammering of her heart. Perhaps it’s fortunate that everyone believes I’m dead, for they won’t be searching for any similarities between the long-dead Jennet MacNeil and the English assistant to a famed explorer searching for an ancient relic.

  She’d changed a lot over the years, too, which would help. She was no longer a gangly youth, and her hair was lighter because of her exposure to the sun, the dark brown shot through with gold. Her skin was darker, too, from being in hotter climes. I should be safe enough, providing I don’t let that Scottish burr slip into my words. It’s difficult, though, when I hear others speak with it. Somehow, it curls upon my tongue like a cube of sugar and melts into my words—