Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
C onnor leaned against the battlements, gaze fixed on the strange woman who paced the courtyard below. A fortnight had passed since she had appeared in the graveyard, and still he had no notion of what to do with her. Kate Adams. Even her name was peculiar.
She moved with purpose, her steps quick and determined as she walked the perimeter of the yard. Her strange garments had been replaced with a simple gown, though she still wore those odd leather shoes she’d arrived in, saying the ones he’d provided hurt her big feet. He’d had to hide his smile as the lass did have overlarge feet. He turned and grinned, admiring her rather fetching backside.
“Still watching her, are ye?” Ewan appeared at his side, a knowing smirk on his face.
He straightened. “I’m observing a potential threat.”
“Aye, she looks terribly threatening.” Ewan’s voice dripped with sarcasm.
“A wee slip of a lass who doesn’t even know how to sew, cook, tend a fire or milk a cow.” He scratched at his chin.
“I could understand if she were from a noble family, but her speech.” He made a face. “She swears like a sailor. That’s no a noble lass.”
“She speaks strangely,” Connor agreed, his eyes narrowing. “And she has knowledge no woman should possess.”
Yesterday, he’d overheard her discussing battle tactics with young Fergus, offering insights about flanking maneuvers that had the lad wide-eyed with wonder. She’d given the boy clever advice about how to outmaneuver the older lads who’d tossed him in the cesspit. Something about using their size against them and staying downwind. What woman knew of such things?
“Perhaps she’s a spy for the MacDonalds,” Ewan suggested, though his tone made clear he thought the idea ridiculous.
“Mayhap.” Connor wasn’t convinced of it himself. If the MacDonalds wanted to place a spy in his midst, they’d have chosen someone who could blend in, not a woman who drew every eye with her strange manner of speaking and her complete ignorance of basic household tasks.
Below, Kate had stopped her pacing and was now examining a patch of herbs in Moira’s garden. She crouched down, touching the plants with careful fingers, her head tilted in concentration. The morning sun caught her chestnut hair, highlighting strands of gold that hadn’t been visible in the dim light of the hall.
“She’s bonny enough,” Ewan commented. “For an English lass.”
“She claims to be American,” Connor corrected automatically, then frowned at himself for the defense.
“American?” Ewan’s brow furrowed. “You mean from the colonies?”
“Aye. Did ye hear what the lass said this morn?” Connor asked. “Said she missed hot running water. Then she coughed and asked wee John about horses. Mistress Kate is rather strange.”
Ewan nodded. “Aye, and her manner of speech is peculiar. Uses words I’ve never heard before.” He paused, glancing at Connor. “Might she be a fairy?”
“Nay. Touched in the head is more like.” Connor frowned, watching Kate navigate between the busy workers below. There was something different about her, something he couldn’t quite place. Either she was mad or... well, he wasn’t sure what the alternative might be. Yet when she spoke, there was a clarity in her eyes that didn’t match with madness.
“She’s hiding something,” he said finally. “Of that I’m certain.”
“Will ye keep her, then?” Ewan asked, interrupting Connor’s thoughts.
“She’s not a stray dog to be kept or cast out,” Connor replied, though in truth, that was exactly the decision he faced. “She has nowhere to go, by her own admission.”
“Aye, ’tis summer. The crossing to the mainland will be easier now with calmer seas. We could arrange passage on a ship to the colonies,” Ewan suggested. “Though she’d need an escort and companion for propriety’s sake.”
Connor rubbed his jaw in frustration. “Any word of shipwrecks along the coast? Or vessels running aground?”
“None,” Ewan replied, shaking his head. “We’ve had scouts checking the shores for leagues in both directions. No debris, no bodies, nothing to suggest where she might have come from.”
With Cameron still held captive and the MacDonalds testing their defenses, Connor couldn’t spare a single warrior or servant for such a journey. Even if he could find someone willing to make the months-long voyage, the cost would drain resources the clan desperately needed.
“She may stay until we can determine her true purpose,” he decided. “But she’ll earn her keep.”
Ewan snorted. “Doing what? She nearly burned down the kitchen yesterday trying to make porridge.”
He winced at the memory. The entire keep had filled with acrid smoke, and Nessa had banned Kate from the kitchens thereafter.
“She can...” He searched for a task she might manage without disaster. “She can mend garments.”
“Have ye seen her needlework?” Ewan raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t trust her to sew a button on my shirt.”
Connor sighed. Kate’s attempts at sewing had been pitiful, her stitches crooked and uneven. She’d pricked her fingers so many times that the cloth had been spotted with blood, and she’d cursed in a most unladylike manner throughout the entire ordeal.
“Then she’ll learn,” he said firmly. “Everyone has a purpose at Bronmuir. She’ll find hers.”
Ewan clapped him on the shoulder. “As ye say, laird.” His use of the title was deliberate, a reminder of his position and responsibility. “I’ll leave ye to your... observations.”
Connor scowled at his friend’s retreating back. Ewan was too perceptive by half. Yes, he’d been watching Kate more than was strictly necessary, but it was only to assess the threat she might pose. It had nothing to do with the way her eyes flashed when she was challenged, or how her smile transformed her face when she was pleased.
Nothing at all.
* * *
The great hall buzzed with activity as servants prepared the midday meal. Connor sat at the high table, reviewing the inventory of supplies with his steward. The spring planting had gone well, and the early summer crops showed promise, but with the MacDonald threat, they needed to ensure they had enough provisions should more conflict arise.
His concentration broke when Kate entered the hall. She moved differently than the other women, with a directness that was almost masculine. She didn’t duck her head or step aside for the men in her path. She expected them to move for her, and surprisingly, they did.
She caught his eye across the hall and gave a small nod of acknowledgment. No curtsey, no deference to his position. Just that nod, as if they were equals. It should have angered him, this lack of proper respect, but instead, he found himself nodding back.
“My laird,” his steward said, drawing his attention back to the ledger. “About the plantings?—”
Shouts erupted from the hearth, drawing everyone’s attention. Young Willy, one of the kitchen boys, stood trembling beside an overturned pot, its contents spreading across the rush-covered floor. His small face had gone white as the cook advanced on him, brandishing his wooden spoon like a weapon.
“Ye witless fool!” the man’s voice boomed across the hall. “That was meant for the laird’s supper!”
Before Connor could step in, Kate had already positioned herself between the terrified boy and the cook’s approaching fury.
“He didn’t mean to,” she said, her voice steady but gentle. “Look at the floor here. It’s uneven. Anyone could have stumbled.”
“He knows better than to carry it without a proper grip,” the cook insisted, trying to push Kate out of the way.
She held her ground, chin lifted. “He’s just a child. We all make mistakes.”
Her eyes softened as she glanced at Willy. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”
The cook looked at Connor, clearly expecting him to put this presumptuous woman in her place. Instead, he found himself saying, “The lass is right. No harm done that can’t be mended.”
The tension in the hall eased, and the boy gave Kate a look of such gratitude that Connor felt a twinge of something like admiration. She’d stepped in without hesitation, defending someone weaker than herself.
As the mess was cleaned up, she knelt beside the boy and spoke quietly to him. Connor couldn’t hear her words, but he saw the boy’s shoulders relax, saw the small smile that crept onto his face. When she ruffled his hair and sent him back to his duties, the lad went with his head held higher as he followed her out of the hall.
“She has a way with the children,” his steward observed.
He grunted noncommittally, but he couldn’t deny the truth of it. The children of the keep, initially wary of the stranger, had taken to following Kate about like ducklings after their mother. She made up outlandish stories of metal carriages that moved without horses and boxes that showed people speaking and moving as if they were present in the room. Nonsense, of course, but the children were enchanted.
His thoughts were interrupted by a high-pitched scream from outside. Connor was on his feet in an instant, hand going to the dirk at his belt as he strode toward the door. The sound came again, a child’s terrified cry, and he broke into a run.
Outside the keep, chaos reigned. People were shouting and pointing toward the millpond, where little Morag, the blacksmith’s daughter, thrashed in the water.
Connor sprinted toward the pond, but he was too far away. Morag’s head disappeared beneath the surface, and his heart lurched painfully in his chest. Then a blur of movement caught his eye. Kate, running faster than he’d ever seen a woman move, skirts hiked up past her knees as she ran.
Without hesitation, she plunged into the water, fully clothed. For a moment, both she and Morag were gone from sight, and the world seemed to hold its breath. Then Kate surfaced, the child clutched against her chest, both of them gasping for air.
He reached the pond’s edge as Kate swam toward the shore, her gown plastered to her body, her hair streaming with water. She handed Morag to her father, who had arrived just behind Connor, his face ashen with fear.
“She’s all right,” Kate panted. “Just scared and cold.”
The blacksmith clutched his daughter to his chest as the lass cried, murmuring prayers of thanks. Around them, the gathered crowd exhaled collectively, relief palpable in the air.
Connor reached down and lifted Kate by the arms, helping her up the slippery bank. She was shivering, her skin cold to the touch, but her eyes were clear and steady as they met his.
“You can swim,” he said, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. Few women in the Highlands could swim, few men, for that matter. The water was too cold, the skill rarely needed, not to mention the water spirits.
“My parents taught me when I was little,” she replied, teeth chattering.
He swept her into his arms in one fluid motion, ignoring her startled gasp and subsequent protests as he cradled her against his chest, her sodden clothes soaking through his shirt.
“Put me down! I can walk perfectly fine,” Kate insisted, though her trembling betrayed how cold she truly was.
“Aye, and leave a trail of water through the entire keep?” He tightened his grip as she squirmed. “Be still, lass.”
Connor was acutely aware of the clan’s eyes following them as he strode back through the gates toward the keep, their daily tasks forgotten in favor of this unexpected spectacle. He could feel the heat of her blush against his neck, though whether from embarrassment or their proximity, he couldn’t tell.
“Nessa,” he called out to the housekeeper, who was already hurrying to keep pace with his long strides as he carried Kate through the great hall. People stopped their tasks to stare at their laird carrying the dripping woman, but Connor paid them no mind as he took the stairs two at a time.
“See that she’s given dry clothes and warmed properly.”
Only when he reached Kate’s chamber did he set her down, stepping back quickly as Nessa bustled in behind them.
Ewan waited at the bottom of the stairs, arms crossed and wearing a knowing smirk that he chose to ignore.
“Not a word,” Connor warned as he descended.
Ewan raised his hands in mock surrender. “I said nothing, my laird.”
“Your face says plenty.” Connor strode past him, heading back to the hall. He needed to finish the inventory, to focus on the practical matters of running the clan. He did not need to think about the way Kate had looked with water glistening on her skin, or the courage it had taken to dive into the pond without a moment’s hesitation.
He did not need to think about her at all.
* * *
Night had fallen, and the keep was quiet. Connor sat alone in his study, a cup of whisky in hand, staring into the flames of the hearth. The events of the day played through his mind, particularly Kate’s rescue of young Morag.
A soft knock at the door roused him from his thoughts.
“Enter,” he called, expecting Ewan with some matter of clan business.
Instead, she stood in the doorway, wearing a clean gown with her hair still damp but neatly braided. She looked uncertain, hovering at the threshold.
“May I speak with you?” she asked.
Connor gestured to the chair opposite him. “Come in.”
She closed the door behind her, improper, but he didn’t comment on it, and took the offered seat. For a moment, she said nothing, just stared into the fire as if gathering her thoughts.
“I wanted to thank you,” she finally said.
Connor frowned. “For what?”
“For letting me stay. For not throwing me out when I can’t even cook a simple meal without nearly burning down your home.”
A small smile played at the corners of her mouth.
“I know I’m not exactly earning my keep.”
“You saved Morag today,” he pointed out. “That’s worth more than any number of perfectly cooked meals.”
She looked up, surprise evident in her expression. “You’re not what I expected.”
“And what did you expect?”
“I don’t know. From the stories I’ve heard about Highland lairds, I thought you’d be more...” She gestured vaguely.
“Barbaric?” he supplied dryly.
She had the grace to look embarrassed. “Something like that.”
He leaned back in his chair, studying her. In the firelight, with her guard down, she looked younger, more vulnerable. Not at all like a spy or a threat.
“You’re not what I expected either,” he admitted.
“No?” Her brow arched. “And what did you expect?”
“I’m not certain.” He took a sip of his whisky, considering. “Not someone who would dive into a pond without thought for her own safety. Not someone who would stand up to the cook to protect a lad she barely knows.”
A comfortable silence fell between them, broken only by the crackling of the fire. Connor found himself relaxing in her presence, the wariness he usually felt around her easing.
“I still don’t know what to make of you,” he said at last. “A woman from the colonies, traveling alone.” His tone suggested how improper he found the notion.
“I know it’s... unusual.” She smoothed her skirts, a gesture he was beginning to recognize as nervousness.
“But sometimes circumstances leave us little choice.”
“And what circumstances brought you here?” He couldn’t keep the suspicion from his voice. “Why did you leave the colonies?”
She met his gaze steadily. “Loss. Change. A need to start fresh.”
“Your family?” he asked, the question careful, measured.
“Gone.”
“No husband?” The question escaped before he could consider its propriety.
Her chin lifted slightly, then faltered. “I’m... I’m a widow,” she said, the words coming out awkwardly, as if she were trying them on for the first time.
Connor caught the hesitation, the slight tremor in her voice that betrayed the lie. Still, he found himself relieved at her answer, false though it might be. A widow would be far more acceptable to house here at the keep than an unwed maiden. The clan would gossip either way, but at least with a widow, propriety could be maintained.
“I see,” he said, choosing not to challenge her deception. “And how long have you been...” He let the question trail off.
“Long enough,” she replied firmly, her composure returning. “Though I fail to see how that’s relevant to my staying here.”
He found himself fighting back a smile at her spirit. Even in her obvious discomfort, she maintained her defiance.
“You may stay at Bronmuir,” he said, the decision crystallizing in his mind. “For as long as you need.”
Relief washed over her face. “Thank you. I was supposed to stay with a cousin in Edinburgh. A distant relation on my mother’s side. But I received word just before leaving that she’d passed from fever.”
Kate’s voice softened. “By then, it was too late to change my journey. I promise I’ll learn to be useful here. I can?—”
He held up a hand, stopping her. “We’ll find what you’re good at. Everyone has a place here.”
She nodded, rising from her chair. “I should let you rest. It’s been a long day.”
“Good night, Mistress Adams,” he said softly, standing.
She paused at the door, looking back at him. “Good night.”
After she left, Connor remained standing, staring at the closed door. The woman was a mystery, one he wasn’t sure he should try to solve. She disrupted the orderly running of his keep, challenged his authority, and carried herself with a confidence that both intrigued and unsettled him.
And yet, when Morag had almost drowned, Kate hadn’t hesitated. She’d acted with courage and decisiveness, risking herself for a child she barely knew. That wasn’t the action of a spy or someone with ill intent.
It was the action of someone with honor.
Connor returned to his chair and whisky, watching the flames dance in the hearth. Whatever Kate was... from the colonies, a spy, or simply a lost soul, she was now under his protection. And a MacLeod always protected his own.
Even when his own good sense told him that he might come to regret it.