When the Laird Captures (Accidental Highland Wives #2)

Chapter 1

Melody’s heart hammered in her chest, threatening to burst right through her ribs and out through the ugly gray material that formed her maid’s dress.

The dress in question, which she’d filched from an overflowing laundry basket near the back of the kitchens, stunk of roasted meat. There was what appeared to be a gravy stain on the bodice, so she’d snatched up an apron to cover it up.

It wasn’t theft. She was going to put the dress and the apron back, just as soon as she’d achieved what she came to do. As soon as she had completed her quest.

The stupidest quest in the entire world, no doubt. She had the letter from the Misses Fitzwilliam crinkling in her pocket. The letter was short and direct, written in a sloping, highly curled hand that could have belonged to either of them.

She’d half-expected shock and horror from the ladies, and a half-hearted attempt to convince her not to be so foolish. Instead, the reply had been decidedly positive. She knew it off by heart.

‘Your proposal intrigues us, Lady Melody. We accept your wager and wait to hear with bated breath the outcome of your little quest. We can allow you only a month, however, to prove that the beast is indeed a man.’

A month was plenty of time. At the end of a month, Papa would insist upon her wedding to Lord Sinclair. Sinclair himself did not seem concerned at his bride scuttling off to Scotland. But then, of course, he and Papa both believed that she was visiting Victoria.

A pair of maids wearing identical gowns and aprons rounded the corner, talking and laughing in hushed giggles. They shot Melody an odd look, and she hastily averted her gaze. She passed them by and allowed herself a sigh of relief.

Disaster averted.

“Excuse me, lass. What’s yer name?”

Oh, bother. Not quite averted after all.

Melody froze, her heart hammering even harder. Should she feign a Scottish accent? She had discovered already that a young woman of her age and height was very noticeable when traveling alone. An English woman, even more so.

She turned slowly, pasting a faint smile on her face.

Both girls were very short, barely five feet tall.

At only a few inches short of six feet, she towered uncomfortably over them.

Her hair was tucked under her cap, but that would have attracted attention, no doubt.

Long, glossy black hair did not seem common in this area.

Everybody seemed to have brown or red hair.

The woman who’d spoken eyed her, placing her hands on her hips.

“I daenae ken ye,” she stated. “What’s yer name?”

There was nothing for it. She would have to speak.

“Melody,” she answered, trying to make her voice sound deeper and less refined. “I am new here.”

It didn't work. The woman’s eyes flew open, and she let out a huffing breath.

“Ye are English? Joan, did ye hear that? An English lassie, in this Keep, nay less!”

“Aye, I heard,” Joan responded, scowling. “I’ll wager we’ll nae see her down on her knees scrubbin’ with the likes of us.”

“Oh, no, no, you will,” Melody gabbled, backing away. “I must go, I… I’m sorry!”

She turned on her heel and sprinted away. One of the women gave a sharp gasp.

“After her, Joan! I daenae ken what she’s doin’ here, but it cannae be good. Bloody English.”

“I bet she’s a spy.”

“Aye, well, the Laird will string her up from the keep walls. Get back here, ye!”

Well, nobody in their right mind would risk coming back after that.

Melody lifted her skirts to free her legs and broke into a dead sprint. The slap of feet on stone flags told her that she was being pursued.

The maid’s gown was looser and more comfortable than the tight-laced bodices Melody was used to.

She could move, and she could breathe as deeply as she wanted.

At first, she ran so fast and hard it felt like she was flying.

Then a stabbing pain shot through her middle, forcing Melody to slow to a jog.

There was no sign of the pursuing maids behind her, but she could still hear their shouts.

I need to hide.

Melody paused and looked around herself.

She was in a large, round room, cavernous and empty.

Doors opened at regular intervals, like the spokes of a wheel, and one rounded wall bulged forward into the room itself, a large door set deep within it.

She moved toward that door and tried the handle, praying hard.

It opened! Without thinking twice, Melody dived into the gloom inside, slamming the door shut behind her.

She rested her forehead against the closed door, panting hard. Outside, footsteps raced past, and she heard the babble of the maid’s voices. Then there was blessed silence.

Thank heavens. I’ve escaped.

From behind her came a slow creaking sound, which, for some reason, conjured in her mind the exact image of someone rising from a seat. All the hairs on the back of Melody’s neck lifted.

“And who,” came a low, angry growl of a voice, “are ye, lassie?”

She turned slowly. It would have been easier to press her forehead against the door and pretend that nothing was happening, but really, that would do her no good. So, she summoned her courage and turned.

She was standing in a medium-sized, round room, with a winding staircase that disappeared into the ceiling. The room was stacked with books, piled on lopsided bookshelves and pushed together in book-mountains here and there.

A rectangular desk, covered in maps, paper, and books, sat near the back of the room, in front of the only window. Behind that desk, a man stood, staring at her.

The man was, quite unmistakably, the monstrous laird from the Fitzwilliam pamphlet.

He was huge, at least half a foot taller than Melody herself. She was not used to looking up at anybody, not even gentlemen. Stepping around the desk, he prowled toward her, and there was no denying that there was a distinct air of wolfishness around him.

There were the broad shoulders depicted in the pamphlet, the wild black hair pulled back in a rough queue, and the most arresting gold-green eyes Melody had ever seen.

What was one of the names the Marzipan Twins said that he had? Oh, yes. Kinslayer.

The name sent a shiver down her spine. She tilted up her chin, trying to look unafraid but unthreatening at the same time. She suspected that she was not succeeding.

His eyes were, of course, missing the slitted pupil of the sketch, although the brows were every bit as heavy and black.

He had the beginnings of a beard, scratches of black stubble clinging to his cheeks, as though he’d shaved carelessly a couple of days ago and not bothered to do it again.

How old was he? It was hard to tell, with that scowl, but Melody suspected that he was perhaps thirty.

Advancing, he seemed to grow in height and breadth until Melody felt, to her own amazement, quite small.

“I’ll ask ye again, woman,” he snarled, fury blazing in his eyes. “Who are ye? More to the point, what are ye doin’ here?”

Melody swallowed thickly, pressing herself back against the door. She could have held out her forearm with her elbow against her sides, and her fingertips would have brushed his stomach, which was covered by a battered leather jerkin.

I, Melody thought quite clearly, am in trouble.

An answer was required. Further delays would only enrage him, so Melody wet her lips and forced a rather pathetic smile.

“I… I came in here to clean,” she managed, gesturing weakly to her maid’s garb.

The man’s heavy, dark eyebrows flickered. “English, eh? Well, ye are nay maid.”

She frowned, piqued. “I am! I am English!”

His arm shot out, and before she had a chance to resist, long, firm fingers curled around her wrist, jerking her whole arm forward. He turned her hand over briskly in his grip and released it with a snort.

“Nae calluses. Soft, white hands. Ladies’ hands. Ye are nay maid. Besides, all the maids ken all too well nae to come in here to clean. This is me study, woman, and it’s off-limits.”

Melody pulled her hand back to her chest. There was an unusual scent coming off him, a mixture of leather, book-paper, and mint, of all things.

It was a far cry from the pomades and perfumes most fashionable men wore back in London.

If the man wasn’t so unpleasant, she might have enquired what cologne it was.

Still glaring, the man retreated a few steps, still scowling at her.

“Well, I have learned to leave you be,” she managed, not even bothering to try to disguise her accent. There was really no point, now. “I shall trouble you no longer.”

She inched her hand toward the doorknob, but the man gave a bark of mirthless laughter.

“Daenae ye dare, lass. Daenae ye dare. Ye are nae goin’ anywhere, nae until I get to the bottom of this. Who sent ye?”

It took her a moment to understand what he had said.

“S-Sent me?” she stammered.

The man retreated to his desk, leaning back against it. He gave a grim smile, folding thick arms across his broad chest.

“Aye. Answer the question. And daenae lie to me. The thing about lairds, ye see, is that they are very good at workin’ out when they are lied to. I’m better at it than most.”

Perhaps it’s all a dream, she thought briefly. A nasty little dream. I’m at home, in Papa’s comfortable London house, and in a moment I’m going to wake up and laugh at this ridiculous dream.

“You… You are a laird? A Scottish laird?” she ventured.

He snorted. “Daenae pretend that ye didnae ken already. Answer the question, woman.”

“Nobody sent me.”

“Liar.”

Melody pursed her lips. “For a man who claims to be so good at sniffing out liars, you certainly can’t tell when somebody is telling you the truth.

Tell me, do you just accuse everybody around you of lying?

Is that why nobody can lie to you? If so, I must tell you that you are manipulating the statistics quite badly. In England, we’d call that cheating.”

He sighed. “We’re doin’ it the hard way, eh? I assume the Scottish lasses are all finished, then.”

“What are you talking about?”

He ignored her, pushing off from the desk, and began to pace up and down.

“Perhaps she thought an English lass would intrigue me,” he muttered to himself. “At least she’s stopped sendin’ those pint-sized women.”

Was he mad? That seemed entirely possible. Melody slid her hand toward the doorknob again, but her fingertips had barely brushed the cool brass before he spun around, jabbing a finger in her direction.

“Me grandmother sent ye, did she nae? Answer me! Ye are here to seduce me.”

Melody stared at him in appalled silence.

“Why is your grandmother sending women to seduce you?” she managed at last.

He gave a brittle laugh. “Well, ye didnae cave like the others. The last lass burst into tears as soon as I raised me voice at her. At least ye are made of sterner stuff. If this were nae all a ploy, maybe I would be tempted.”

Tempted by what? Melody thought, faintly panicked. That was a very small thought, however, and it was quickly overshadowed by a rising tide of righteous fury.

The man was implying that she was sent to… to lure him to bed! How appalling! The mere thought of it made Melody’s cheeks heat up like the very fires of Hell that apparently this man cooked his meat upon.

She knew, of course, of the mechanics of the act between men and women, but to discuss it so blatantly!

No man would utter the word seduce in mixed company, and here this fellow said it as easily as if it were any word in the world.

The redness in her cheeks would not subside, and nor would the sudden tightness in her chest.

“How dare you!” she gasped, taking a step forward. “I am not here to seduce you! I am appalled that you would even think… No! You ought not to speak to a lady that way.”

He glanced at her, something like surprise written on his face.

“What?” he managed at last.

“I am not sent by anyone, and I am certainly not here to seduce you,” she insisted, wishing her face were a little less red. “It is not gentlemanlike to talk in such a way in front of a lady.”

That curious green-gold gaze lingered on her, turning thoughtful.

“I am nae a gentleman,” the man stated briefly. He strode across the room toward her. For a moment, she was convinced that he was going to do something truly shocking, like kiss her.

Kiss me? No, he would never. Why did I even think of that?

He reached forward, plunging his hand into her apron pocket. Melody managed a small, outraged squeak at the intrusion.

At once, his hand came out, clutching a fistful of crumpled paper. He opened his palm, and there, in full view, lay the pamphlet. Melody closed her eyes. It was undeniably him, with words like ‘Kinslayer!’ written underneath.

What did those maids say about him hanging me from the walls of the Keep?

The man did not react, however. He simply handed the pamphlet back to her and stared at the blank sheets and the charcoal beneath, visibly consternated.

“These are drawin’ implements,” he said at last. “Did ye plan to draw me as a gargoyle this time?”

“I… I didn’t draw the picture on that pamphlet.”

“Nay, I imagine nae,” he responded brusquely, handing back her paper and charcoal.

She swallowed, dropping her charcoal. “I can explain.”

“Nay time,” he interrupted, seizing her by the wrist. “As I imagine ye ken already, I am Callum Bain, Laird of Clan MacDean. Ye have tangled with the wrong man, I can tell ye that.”

“I meant no offence, I just…”

“Enough.” Dragging her away from the door, he wrenched it open. “Come with me, lass.”