The Taming of a Scottish Princess

  “It’s too cold to be on deck.” Michael’s voice cut through the wind. “Come down below before you catch an inflammation of the lungs.”

  She turned as he walked toward her, his cape swirling about his black boots, his dark hair tossed by the wind. His blue eyes seemed bluer today, probably because they were the only touch of color on him.

  She clutched the railing tighter, her fingers growing numb inside her gloves. “I’m not coming in. I get sick in the hold, as you well know.”

  “Seasickness won’t kill you; an inflammation might.”

  “Cold weather never affects me. I grew up here . . . remember?”

  “Oh, I remember. I’m still astonished by that fact.” A hint of admonition deepened his voice.

  “Hurst, we’ve traveled together for four years now. It’s your own fault for not asking me where I came from.”

  “What would you have said if I had asked?”

  “I might have told you.”

  “Balderdash. You would have prevaricated, and you know it.”

  She shrugged.

  “Ho, don’t even pretend. You’ve done nothing but hide yourself since the day we met. You’re worse than the damned Sphinx.”

  “I’ve been in plain sight. You just never bothered to look.” She had him there; she could tell by the way his jaw tightened.

  He came to stand beside her, walking effortlessly on the pitching deck. “And to think that all of this time, I’ve been traveling with a dead Scottish princess.”

  “Jennet MacNeil was no princess.”

  “Our landlady in Oban seemed to think you were. Are. Hm. You’re a conundrum of tenses.”

  “I’m in the present and I intend on staying here. You’d be much more satisfied if you did the same.”

  He grunted, as if he didn’t deign to give her an answer, though she suspected that he was really too busy trying to think of some way to trick her into revealing more than she wished. She leaned against the railing and watched a seagull swooping in the wind. “It’s unfortunate that Jennet has turned into a legend over the years.”

  “I find it amusing. It’s one thing to be a dead princess and quite another to reach ghost status, all while still alive.”

  “I’m not the least amused.”

  “Odd, for I detect some humor in your usually somber gaze, my evasive little princess.” He shot her an unabashed grin that crinkled his blue eyes and set her heart tripping even harder.

  Jane opened her mouth to make a retort, but at that moment, the boat lurched and she lost her hold on the railing and staggered backward.

  Her heel found a coiled length of rope and tipped her even farther backward, where she teetered for a horrible moment, arms flailing, the deck icy beneath her unsteady feet.

  Michael stepped forward, slipped an arm about her waist, and tucked her against him, his natural balance and firm footing holding them both upright as the boat settled back into place.

  The wind gusted against them, swirling his cape about her. Jane knew she should step away, but she was so toasty warm in the circle of his arms.

  But it was more than warmth that held her there. It was the strength of his powerful arms, and the width of his broad chest. It was the masculine scent of his clothing, a mixture of leather and boot blacking and the damp wool of his cloak. It was also the way that her body melted against his, as if she’d been waiting for this very moment all her life—which was ridiculous. Her dreams of her future had always been about travel and adventure and her own independence. Nothing else.

  Still, some quiet, unheard-’til-now part of her clung tightly to Michael’s broad chest, savoring the hard feel of him beneath her hands.

  The ship rolled beneath their feet. Water sprayed across the railing and misted them. The wind whistled in the rigging high above their heads. And yet neither moved.

  Jane was powerfully aware of the way his hands remained firmly clasped upon her back, pressing her cheek to his chest. Does he enjoy this, too? The thought startled her. It was one thing to privately lust after him, something she’d done since they’d first met. It was another matter altogether to think that he might be lusting for her.

  They could not step past the boundaries they’d established. She’d already witnessed the changes caused by just one kiss. Had he been a less complex man—or if she didn’t love her position as his assistant so much—perhaps things could have been different. But things weren’t different.

  Her entire world was pinned upon two things—her precious independence, and her ability to support herself in this crazed, unfriendly world. Both depended upon her keeping herself, and her feelings, untangled from those she worked with—and for.

  She wasn’t about to give up her plum position as assistant to the most successful explorer in the known world. Few men would pay her as well, and even fewer would be as acceptable as an employer.

  More importantly, Michael wasn’t a man to trifle with a woman. When he was interested in something, he pursued it with an intense fascination that defied description. But as soon as he had it—whether it was an ancient Egyptian vase or a woman—his interest waned and he was on to the next mystery.

  With great reluctance, she stepped away, freeing herself from his embrace.

  He let her go easily, his warm hands slipping from her shoulders seemingly without regret. “Back on balance, are you?” His deep voice rumbled over her.

  “Oh, yes.” She managed a brisk smile as she grabbed the railing again and hauled herself against it, determined to look in charge of the moment, though her throat was tight. “That coil of rope took me by surprise. I’m sorry that I fell and then, um—” Her cheeks heated as she struggled to find the word. Finally, she settled on a lame, “Clung. Yes, that’s what I did: I clung.”

  His lips twitched and he stepped across the coil of rope to stand beside her at the rail. She admired the way he maintained his balance. That was one of the things that had drawn her to him—the ease with which he traveled. No matter how they went—ship, camel, or foot—he adapted to it seemingly without effort. After working for a fussy Frenchman who’d demanded the best of everything while constantly complaining of being too hot or too tired or too something, Hurst had been a delightful change.

  He leaned against the railing beside her now, blocking some of the wind, and she was instantly glad he was there, which was at odds with her other feelings.

  She was wary about his interest in a way she’d never been before. His insatiable curiosity made him the explorer he was, and being the focus of that never-ending curiosity was very unpleasant.

  He looked out at the approaching bay. “Even in this gray weather, it’s a lovely island. How long have people lived here?”

  Glad he was no longer looking at her, Jane said, “Barra has passed through many hands over the centuries. She was once inhabited by the Norse, and many of her names are still from that language. When I was a child, a farmer found Norse utensils and a breastplate deep in the dirt in the glen. He brought them to my father, who displayed them in the Great Hall.”

  “Interesting. So there was a settlement here at one time.”

  “Yes. There’s also an ancient Nordic grave on the isle that once had a magnificent headstone. I never got to see it, because it was stolen when I was young. My father said it was carved on one side with a Celtic cross, while the other bore some odd runes.”

  “I’d like to see that.”

  “So would I. I’ve always thought—” Her gaze flickered past him and her attention was caught. “We’re almost there. We’ll be rounding the sound into Castle Bay in a moment and you’ll see Kisimul Castle—or what’s left of her.” It was impossible to keep the bitterness from her voice. Kisimul Castle was as much a part of Barra as the rocky shores.

  They were making the final turn into Castle Bay. She almost didn’t want to look, but even as she had the thought, the promontory that protected the bay on one side slid into view and a memory struck her.

  She’d been abou
t seven, and had been riding with Lindsee MacKirk, her best and only friend. There were only a few children upon the isle, and even fewer who weren’t working with their parents in the fields or at a trade. Lindsee was the daughter of a well-off widower, and she and Jane had been riding along the promontory on their ponies when Jane’s father—speaking with some fishermen on the shore—had seen them. He’d instantly grinned and lifted his arm in greeting, the wind ruffling his sleeve.

  It was an odd snippet of memory, for it had no importance, yet she could see her father as clearly as if she were still that seven-year-old astride her fat pony. He’d looked so young, but of course Mama had been alive then, too. He’d aged quickly after Mama had died. So had Jane.

  A swell of emotion threatened and she brushed aside the troubling memories. There was no benefit in reliving the past, good or bad. As Father used to say, ’twas better to live today than lament a yesterday already gone.

  Still, she couldn’t help but wonder about the pieces of her past that might still be present on Barra. Where was Lindsee? As a girl, she’d been as determined to leave Barra as Jane. As Lindsee grew older and lovelier, she’d drawn the attention of suitors from the surrounding isles. Jane had no doubt that Lindsee was now married and living somewhere nearby, probably in a castle much larger than Kisimul.

  Which is how it should be. Leave the past in the past and all will be well. Jane pulled her cloak closer to her, her booted feet beginning to ache from the cold.

  “Kisimul,” Michael said in a musing tone. “That’s an usual name.”

  “Some call it Caisteal Chiosmuil, which means ‘castle of the rock of the small bay.’ Others say the original name is from cios mul, which is Gaelic for ‘the place where taxes are paid.’”

  “Did the MacNeils build it?”

  “Aye. We settled in Barra in the eleventh century. Parts of the castle originate from within a hundred years of that time.”

  “They must have been a very hotheaded family to think they’d need a fortress.”

  “You have no idea. Some claim the MacNeils are descendents of Niall of the Nine Hostages.”

  “Ah, the high king of Ireland. Interesting.”

  She shot him a surprised glance. “How do you know of Niall?”

  “My grandmother is as much a Scot as you, and she spent more time than she should have filling the ears of her eager grandchildren with tales of old.”

  “She sounds lovely.”

  “She’s cantankerous and outspoken and rude.”

  Jane grinned. “Like I said, she sounds lovely.”

  “She is certainly a brave woman,” he said, watching Jane from the corner of his eye. “She has no issue with claiming her family in public.”

  “It’s not my family I don’t wish to claim. It’s my name.”

  He faced her now, his blue eyes locked on her face. “Why is that, Jane?”

  She frowned. “We came to Barra to find the Hurst Amulet, not to dig about in my past.”

  “Why don’t we do both? It could be fun.”

  She tugged her cloak tighter. “I hope we find that blasted amulet quickly.”

  “Already in a hurry to leave your beloved home?” He tsked. “We haven’t even arrived.”

  Her hair blew across her face and she brushed it back. “I’m in a hurry to get back to warmer weather so I can thaw. Years of working in Egypt have thinned my blood.”

  He reached down and wrapped his large hands about the fluttering edges of her cloak. With an easy tug, he tightened it about her. “I’m glad I’m not the only one to hate this biting cold. Once we land, we’ll—” His gaze lifted over her head to focus on something close by. “Ah! Your castle.”

  Jane’s eyes widened behind her spectacles and she spun around.

  Michael looked over her head. The blackened ruin stood forlornly in the middle of the small bay. At first glance, the castle appeared to be sitting in the middle of the water on the barest sliver of rock, but as the ship sailed closer, he could see that there was a decent-size beachhead to the east where a small skiff could tie up. Around it was a ring of rocks set at even intervals. Pilings to tie off larger ships, perhaps? “The MacNeils had ships?”

  “They were pirates, some of them. They used to have a large galley that they sailed up and down the sea, taking what they could from foreign vessels. They were widely feared.”

  So she was the descendant of pirates, too? “Next you’ll be telling me you’re a direct descendant of King Arthur.”

  She offered no comment, her hair obscuring her expression from view.

  He turned back to the castle. The walls that were still standing were three stories or higher. Two towers sat at opposite corners, one quite large, while the smaller one seemed more ancient in its design.

  It wasn’t until the ship began to sail directly past the castle that the real damage could be seen. The entire western wall had collapsed, and a pile of rubble and great stones filled what must have been a courtyard. Another wall was leaning dangerously, supported only by the thick walls of the tower. Michael eyed the shapes and placements of the parapet stones. Hmm. Mid-fourteenth century, perhaps older. The shape of the smaller tower could mean—

  The faintest sound came from Jane. He turned to look at her, her hair streaming behind her so that he could now see every line of her face. Her gaze was locked on the castle as a single tear ran down her face, her lips quivering.

  Michael felt like every sort of fool. Here he was, evaluating the site as he would any other ruin he’d been sent to examine. But to Jane, this wasn’t just a castle; it was her childhood home.

  He looked back at the blackened ruin and wondered how he’d feel if this had been Wythburn Vicarage, where he and his brothers and sisters had grown up. His throat tightened. There is something special about the place one grows up. And no matter how much Jane may wish to forget it, this was her home.

  Bloody hell, what should he say now? He was horrible about this sort of thing, and for once he actually wished for Mary’s advice. After a moment, he managed to say gruffly, “I’m sorry.”

  Jane had already pulled a handkerchief from her pocket. She quickly wiped her tears and then hurriedly tucked it away. “That’s quite all right.” She fixed a firm smile upon her lips. “She was a formidable castle, wasn’t she?”

  “She’s larger than I expected.”

  “Aye, ’tis just as well that I saw her burned and broken firsthand and got it over with.”

  Her brogue was more marked, though he didn’t think she realized it. He nodded toward the castle. “The great tower is impressive.”

  “My father always thought the Watch Tower, which is opposite the Great Tower, was the older of the two, though he was never certain.”

  “I agree with him. The shape of the upper windows look as if they’re from an earlier period.”

  “I’m fairly certain that the oldest portion of the castle is the chapel, which is—was—inside the wall.”

  “Perhaps we can take a look at it later. More may be standing than you think.”

  She nodded, a faraway look on her face. “There were several structures inside the castle walls of varying ages. According to the castle records, the last structure was built by Marion of the Heads. That one, which is—I’m sorry, was—quite airy and had its own fireplace, was called the Marion Addition.” A faraway look settled in Jane’s eyes. “Marion was a fierce one, she was. They said she ordered two sons from her husband’s prior marriage beheaded so that her own child would become the chieftain.”

  “A real harpy, eh?”

  “Mayhap. Then again, it could just be an old wives’ tale—you’ve already seen how the Scots love their stories. Her son did end up being the chieftain, but perhaps it was his time. His brother built another castle on the other side of the isle. A smaller one, meant only for observation in times of conflict.”

  “There are two castles on this small island? Bloody hell, we are in Scotland.”

  She laughed, a gentle peal
that made him feel as proud as if he’d discovered an ancient tomb on his own. Her eyes twinkled as she said, “Yes, you’re definitely in Scotland. The other castle is more a tower and is called Dun Mhic Leoid, or MacLeod’s Tower. There are some interesting stories about that tower, all bloody and bold.”

  “Your people are the most contentious, argumentative, complicated—” He shook his head. “It’s a wonder any of you survived your own families.”

  She laughed again, and he grinned back at her, feeling like he’d won some sort of a prize.

  She placed her hand over his, and though it was gloved, he was still aware of the chill of her fingertips. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  His throat tightened in an odd way and he was relieved when she turned back to look at the castle as they left it behind them. She removed her hand and pointed toward a small dock that protruded out in the far end of the bay. “That’s where we’re going. It’s the only dock on the island now that Kisimul is no more.” She looked at the castle as the small ship rounded it. “She was a fine castle.”

  “I can see that. What other buildings are inside the walled ring other than the chapel and Marion’s Addition?”

  “There’s the Great Hall, which is a black house.”

  “Ah. No fireplace, just a fire pit in the center of the room.”

  “Which left the walls black with soot. When I was a child, I used to draw on those walls with a stick. My mother would get very angry, for my clothes would be smudged and I’d need yet another bath.”

  He couldn’t imagine it. The Jane he knew was always neat. Well, except for right now, with the wind whipping her hair about her pink-cheeked face. She looked younger and . . . less staid, perhaps? There’s something about Scotland that agrees with her.

  Unaware of his regard, she continued. “Beside the Great Hall, there’s the Tanist’s House—”

  “Tanist’s?”