Her Highland Fling Read online

  And she intended to prove herself an excellent one.

  The coachman chose that moment to bring her valise. He held it out to William MacKenzie, but Penelope snatched it and hefted it against her chest.

  “I c-can manage my own luggage,” she said, perhaps a bit more forcefully than was needed. But the bag held her notebook and her pencils, the very tools of her trade, and this MacKenzie didn’t seem the brightest of souls. Should her things be misplaced or mishandled, she would have a devil of a time finding replacements in a little town like Moraig.

  The Highlander scowled. “It seems wrong.”

  A flare of irritation uncurled in Pen’s stomach. “I assure you, I am a very c-capable j-journalist.” She winced to hear her words begin to jam up. Her stammer always worsened when she was agitated, which was one of the reasons she tried so hard to maintain a calm, serene demeanor. But something about this man’s bumbling presumptions and his bare, flexing calves made it difficult to keep her thoughts focused.

  He shook his head. “No, it seems wrong, a lady carrying her own bag to the Blue Gander. What will people think?”

  “Oh, I do not p-plan to stay at the Gander.”

  William MacKenzie’s head jerked back, and his blue feathered cap fell off his head. “But . . . how will you report on its suitability for tourist lodging if you don’t actually stay there?”

  Pen narrowly avoided rolling her eyes. Did he even understand what half those words meant? He’d clearly not applied himself to the understanding of the earlier bits of the conversation. “As your b-brother said earlier, I am Mrs. Cameron’s sister.” She spoke slowly, so he would be sure to understand. “I had thought to s-stay in their home.”

  William MacKenzie stared at her, a dumbfounded expression on his broad face. Clearly she had taxed the limits of his imagination.

  And he had taxed the limits of her tolerance.

  She turned to James MacKenzie, knowing that there, at least, there was a spark of intelligence she could rely on. “Mr. MacKenzie, might I b-beg upon your assistance? I had not written ahead of the timing of my visit. I had hoped to surprise Caroline, you see.”

  The younger MacKenzie chuckled. “I’d be happy take you to Cameron’s house.” He gestured her forward but wisely made no move to relieve her of her bag. “And if a wee bit of surprise was your hope for the day, I’d say well done.” A crooked grin split his face. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen my brother rendered speechless before.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  “She thinks I’m an idiot.” William stared moodily down at his drink as the familiar scents and sounds of the Blue Gander’s dinnertime crowd swam around him.

  Normally, he quite enjoyed the buzz of the inn’s little public room. But tonight, he felt the clink of every dish like a bolt to the brain, reminding him that he was, in fact, the very blooming idiot Miss Tolbertson no doubt suspected him to be.

  Welcome to Moraig, he had said to her. Such a scintillating welcome.

  And then he had stammered it, no less.

  He groaned and knocked his head against the scarred and pitted surface of the table, though he was probably rubbing his face in week-old spilled ale. Miss Tolbertson’s stammer hadn’t bothered him in the least. But he was quite sure his own tongue-tied performance would be long remembered in her mind.

  “A smart lass then, is she?” McRory took a noisy gulp of ale and slammed his cup down on the table. “Pretty too, from what Jeffers said.”

  William opened a wary eye from his position on the table and glared up at the town butcher. “Too pretty for the likes of you,” he snarled feebly. Though he was long used to Moraig’s rumor mill, his drinking companion’s words made him want to smash something, and the nearest satisfying target was McRory’s thick skull.

  He straightened. And what business did the very married Mr. Jeffers have bandying news of Miss Tolbertson’s attractiveness about town?

  Although, to be fair, attractive unmarried females were not exactly bursting from Moraig’s seams, and gossip was the town’s stock-in-trade. Why in the deuces was he feeling so protective of her? The woman could obviously take care of herself. She hadn’t even brought a maid with her and had still managed to look as fresh as a flower upon emerging from the depths of the coach. An image of her clear blue eyes, glaring at him above the top of her bag, was practically seared into his brain.

  Still, McRory did have a bit of a reputation for inviting unsuspecting women to a sit-down in his lap, especially when he was into his cups.

  And they were both well into the fourth of those cups this evening.

  But regardless of McRory’s reputation, it wasn’t as though Miss Tolbertson needed his protection tonight. She clearly had no intention of setting foot anywhere close to the Blue Gander. Why, she’d practically sprinted to Cameron’s house, ruining William’s grand plans to showcase the town’s inn as the focal point of Moraig’s appeal to London tourists. He thought morosely about the room he’d personally paid to refurbish above stairs, expressly for the purpose of impressing a London reporter.

  Of course, he hadn’t known the reporter was a lass at the time, had he?

  Nothing about the day’s events had followed his carefully arranged plans, and that left him floundering in more than the bottom of a glass.

  Dimly, he became aware that McRory wasn’t answering him. In fact, the tenor of the entire crowd had shifted. Hushed, even. A nearly impossible accomplishment for an establishment as infamously rowdy as the Gander. Why, his own brother had once knocked out McRory’s teeth, there on the main floor, and then busted out the row of front windows to boot.

  The pub hadn’t been quiet that night, to hear the rumors.

  Nor any night since.

  William shifted in his seat and fixed his bleary gaze on the door, only to promptly catch his breath. Christ, she was seared into his brain. Because there she was, his thoughts most happily playing this cruel trick on him. As before, he felt strangely hobbled by the impact of those blue eyes, the way her upper lip curved prettily. Invitingly.

  If this was an ale-fueled dream, it was a gashing good one.

  But then the blond-haired apparition moved.

  Straight into the middle of the Blue Gander’s public room.

  Chairs everywhere scraped the floor as man after man gained his feet. William stayed hunkered down in his seat, though he would have happily crawled beneath the sticky floor boards if given half a chance. He was rewarded for his ill manners by staying somewhere beneath her notice. She smiled a pleasant greeting at all and sundry and then took a seat at an empty table, looking around her with undisguised interest. She took off her bonnet and gloves and then placed her reticule on the table and began to rummage through it.

  That was apparently all the invitation required.

  McRory lunged in her direction, and William had to reach out a hand and haul the butcher back by the tail of his bloodstained apron strings. “Sit your arse back down,” he warned.

  “Why?” McRory scowled down at him. “She dinna say she thinks I’m an idiot.”

  “Yet,” William retorted. “The night is young.” He sniffed, taking in a whiff of sour male and the faint hint of offal. “You’re too ripe by half for a lady’s company tonight, and I’ll not have you mauling the reporter who’s come to save the town from economic disaster. You’ll have her writing that every London tourist is invited to sit on the butcher’s lap.”

  McRory slowly lowered his bulk back into his chair. “If they are pretty as that one,” he said, leering, “they’re welcome to sit wherever they want.”

  William’s fists tightened. Oh, for God’s sake.

  That was all Moraig needed, word of McRory’s lap to reach London.

  He slouched down in his seat, though he kept his surreptitious attention on Miss Tolbertson. He hoped she knew what she was about, gallivanting around town without an escort. Presumably a female reporter was hardier than the usual sort of woman, and Moraig was a safer town than most. But God
knew her table wouldn’t stay empty long, not in a place like this. He felt the slow burn of respect at the thought of her bravery.

  Bloody hell, the woman walked about as though she were a man.

  But she didn’t look like a man. She looked like an angel, and William was halfway to heaven just watching her give her order to the serving girl.

  And praise the saints, she ordered whisky. Not one, but three glasses of the stuff, different varieties. From the corner of his eye, he watched in horror and fascination as she delicately sniffed one, then the other, and then—God above—lifted one of the glasses to her lips and took an ambitious swallow.

  She immediately began to choke, eyes squeezed shut, lungs straining for air.

  William was on his feet and halfway across the floor, ignoring McRory’s shout of protest, when she gathered herself for a proper breath. Unfortunately, his chivalry had the misfortune of placing him squarely in her line of sight as her eyes snapped open.

  Her shocked gaze met his, five seconds of time that felt like a match set to paper. Her fair brow furrowed, and he felt again that jolt of lust—fueled, this time, by four of the best draughts of ale the Blue Gander had to offer.

  And then she bent her head.

  It was only then that William realized she held in her hand a leather-bound notebook and was scribbling furiously in it with a pencil.

  Well. She might stay alone at her table if she acted like that. Academically accomplished females were even rarer in Moraig than attractive ones, and the Gander’s usual sort of patron had no idea what to do with one besides stare at them. She would probably stay safe enough if she kept that pencil clasped in her pretty hand.

  Despite the lack of an obvious need for his assistance, William forced his feet to continue their forward trajectory. After all, she had seen him. No point hiding now. At least he was wearing trousers this time, his great hairy knees properly covered and his more frightening parts safe from the odd breeze. She was prudently covered as well. In fact, she looked a proper lady, no excess bit of skin visible anywhere on her person. But William was possessed of a solid imagination, and his mouth was already watering over the possibilities that lay beneath.

  He wanted to say something witty. Something better than a stammered greeting. But despite the fact he counted a Cambridge education among his list of accomplishments, his tongue was apparently still as tied tonight as it had been this afternoon.

  He paused in front of her table and grunted like a peasant.

  Blue eyes raised to his. “Was there s-something you wanted, MacKenzie?” she choked out, still suffering the residual effects of her brush with the whisky.

  Bloody hell, she even addressed him like a man. And his brain was apparently not as tied as his tongue, because inside his skull, a refrain echoed: I want you.

  For once, he was glad of his limited abilities for actual speech while in her presence.

  “Er . . . I came to ask if you knew what you were doing.”

  She wiped her watering eyes on the edge of a napkin. “Research, of course.”

  Christ, he really was an idiot. She was a reporter. Reporters researched things. And if there was one thing Moraig could boast to London tourists, it was twelve varieties of a good Highland whisky.

  “Ah, I remember my first brush with a Highland malt. Much the same reaction as yours. ’Tis the sort of taste one acquires with time and practice.” He slid into the wooden bench across the table from her and pointed to the glass that held the darkest liquid. “Someone should warn you that this one is rather potent. And the previous lass who did this sort of research at the Blue Gander wound up married.”

  Blue eyes widened. “To you?”

  He chuckled, the words coming easier now. “No. To my brother, James. Not that the lady minded in the end, you ken.”

  “That sounds intriguing.” She leaned forward across the table. “T-tell me more.”

  William grinned. It was a relief to know his tongue could still work with a little effort. “It was quite the scandal at the time. Now they’ve a bonny wee babe to bounce on their knee.”

  Her blond head bent down, and she scribbled something in her notebook.

  William felt a frisson of foreboding. “I don’t believe . . . that is . . . Their courtship is not something you should write about.”

  “Oh?” she asked, still writing furiously. “I thought I was invited here to expressly write about Moraig’s charms.” She looked up at him, though her hand kept flying across the page. “And it’s very a charming story. T-tell me, how does one usually get married in Moraig?”

  William hesitated, distracted as hell by the sight of her talking and writing at the same time. “The blacksmith most often does the honors. And . . . ah . . . Reverend Ramsey, if the couple wants a church wedding.”

  “And your brother’s wedding,” she pressed. Her nonoccupied hand slid the darkest glass of whisky toward him, as though inviting him to share. “What sort of ceremony d-did they have? You mentioned the lady was inebriated?”

  William’s chest squeezed tight, and he sought a moment’s respite by tossing the proffered glass back. His brain was definitely muddled, and not only by the ale. He could handle four pints. What he was beginning to doubt he could handle was Miss Tolbertson.

  Now would be a good time for his tongue to retie itself. The story wasn’t a secret, per se. In fact, the circumstances of his brother’s impromptu wedding came closer to legend around these parts. But he felt rather protective of Georgette, his new sister-in-law, and truly, the events of that night had not been her fault at all.

  Through his panicked musings, the pencil scratched merrily on. William stared at it, half fascinated, half appalled. Christ, but Miss Tolbertson was tenacious. He was beginning to have an inkling she was probably an excellent reporter.

  And that meant he needed to be a bit more careful around her.

  William reached out a hand and stilled the pencil’s furious progress. “Has anyone ever told you about the mysterious creatures that inhabit Loch Moraig?” he asked, thinking as quickly as his addled brain would permit.

  “Are you referring to water d-dragons?” A pale, perfect brow arched high. “Several bodies of water in this region boast such creatures. That hardly makes Moraig special.”

  William blinked, already mortified he had said such a thing. Out loud. Damn his brother for putting such a ridiculous idea in his head. He might have had a few pints and a glass of whisky, but he was also an educated man, hardly believing in such things, even if some of the more superstitious town residents still spoke of wraiths and other creatures that would drag a man to his death.

  And Moraig was special. He would prove it to her yet.

  But he needed tourists to want to come here for a restorative holiday, not fear for their lives if they dipped a toe in the loch’s waters. “No, I refer to crodh mara, of course.”

  She laid down her pencil. “Crodh mara?”

  “Aye.” He nodded. “Water cattle.”

  “Really.” Her lips pursed into a heart-stopping smile. “C-cattle seem so much less . . .”

  “Fearsome?” William leaned back, feeling rather proud of himself for thinking of it.

  She shook her head and laughed. “Charming.”

  Pen watched as surprise and good humor flitted across MacKenzie’s broad face.

  Though this afternoon he’d seemed a rather empty vessel, tonight he wore his every thought openly. Was this really the same gruff man who’d greeted her so rudely outside the posting house? He seemed more relaxed. Or perhaps that was just an effect of a mild intoxication. He really was rather sweet, trying so hard to convince her of Moraig’s appeal.

  But he needn’t bother. The town was charming.

  Far more charming than London, which had done little to impress her with anything beyond its sheer size and head-spinning bustle. Though she’d only just moved to the city, she was already questioning how she might live there. As a result of her impoverished Brighton upbringing,
she’d come to expect a certain freedom of movement beyond that which most ladies enjoyed. But she certainly couldn’t move about London without an escort, or else she risked being accosted on the street. And after experiencing the summer stink of the Thames firsthand, she could see why the city’s residents fled to more pastoral places when the temperatures soared.

  Though she was still none too impressed with the man’s intelligence—blathering on as he was about mythical creatures—she was marginally impressed that MacKenzie had at least shown enough sense to deflect her questions about his brother’s marriage.

  She was a reporter. It was her lot in life to ask probing questions.

  But it was equally clear that his lot in life was to protect his family and his town, and that was something she could not help but respect.

  Still, she couldn’t resist teasing him a bit now. “If you would like me to report on these water cattle, then by all means, do go on.” She picked up her pencil again. “Are they very large creatures?” She tapped the pencil against her lips. “Perhaps they b-bellow a warning to unsuspecting boats, warning them of the water dragons?”

  His lips twitched. He leaned forward, and she was surprised to find herself dragged into the warm depths of his eyes. “Crodh mara are not to be trifled with, lass.” He lifted his hands, pantomiming horns. “They’ve gored all the water dragons, you see. But that’s a good thing, because now it’s quite safe for the tourists to walk about our loch.”

  She couldn’t help it. She laughed out loud.

  He chuckled as well, and with that shared intimacy, warmth spread through her that had nothing to do with the whisky she’d gulped. Tonight, there was something about his easy grin that threatened to lay waste to the poor initial impression he’d made. She was tempted to believe that perhaps he’d not meant to mock her this afternoon.

  Moreover, both James MacKenzie and David Cameron had insisted that William MacKenzie was the man to speak to if she had any questions related to the upcoming Highland Games, so she knew she needed to further this acquaintance.

  And heaven help her, the way he’d said “crodh mara,” with a caress of brogue, made her stomach tilt in new and dangerous directions. Then, of course, there was the matter of his well-made legs to contend with—the memory of which made the blush she had fought off so valiantly this afternoon return in full measure.