The Highlander's Maiden. Elizabeth Mayne
ventured into Lochaber without protection. Say, the certain protection of Cassandra’s Lady Quickfoot reputation. Then she smiled, because she would see to it that they never found the elusive Lady Quickfoot, the best guide in the Highlands.
The tall one put down his cord and stacked a few nearby rocks on the cord to hold it in place. Then he walked back down to the horses and took a brown folio from the packs. He settled the folio in his arms, using his back as a shield against the sharp wind. He shuffled parchment after parchment to the top, pulled a stub of a pencil out of his sporran, moistened the point with his tongue and began to scribble, it seemed to Cassie’s curious eyes.
The stout one took this pause to help himself to a healthy swig of the liquid his pocket flask contained. He offered a drink to his companion. That man shook the offer aside—too busy with his scribbling to break from it. When he finished and began putting the folio away, the stout one took hold of the string lying on the snow-dappled ground and began winding. It was a very, very long string with many knots in it and made a large and oddly bumped ball.
“How curious,” Cassie observed aloud.
“Faster!” Ian called her attention back to him.
Cassie caught the loose ends of her wind-ruffled hair together and tucked them back inside the hood of her cloak. She needn’t advertise her marital status to outright strangers. “Shall we teach this little ram how to really skate, Millie? Take his other hand.”
“I kin do it,” Ian yelled boldly, legs splitting and wobbling underneath him.
“No, Ian, you have to learn how first.” Millie sounded very much like her mother, Maggie.
A week of skating lessons on the pond behind the farmhouse had turned Millie into a very confident skater. She was bright and quick and it only took someone with a little time on their hands and energy to keep up with the girl to teach her anything. Unmarried aunts like Cassie suited that task perfectly. Sadly, the unusual winter warm spell had turned that convenient pond too slushy for Ian’s lessons.
Taking firm hold of opposite hands, Cassie and Millie wheeled the little one around the sheltered mountain pool. Euan had brought the sheep up to this field himself this morning and tested the ice’s thickness and strength before telling his children at dinner that they could continue skating lessons this afternoon.
Ian laughed and laughed, delighted by the wind that was so cold it stung his cheeks bright red and took his breath away in big puffs of frosty air.
“I do it m’self!” Ian grew impatient with their steadying hands.
Millie’s small face formed the perfect picture of long-suffering sisterhood. She sighed before letting go of her little brother’s hand. Cassie also thought it time to let him try skating on his own. When he fell on his bottom a couple of times, he’d accept their help more readily.
“You’re on your own, little man.” Cassie saw him turn around and head into the soft snowdrift on the north bank of the pond. Here, the ice was thickest. She had no fear that it would shatter under his little weight, no matter how hard he fell. If she remembered it right, this pool was deep and treacherous in other seasons because of its wicked currents.
He inched away, his little body struggling to keep his balance. His arms flopped in great awkward circles. His knees and ankles wobbled. His bottom went up and down and back and forth. Somehow—through all the gyrations, one little wooden skate inched forward after the other.
“Slide yer feet!” Millie shouted, skating in front of Ian on gleaming skates her father had made her last evening at his forge. Her old wooden skates now graced Ian’s nimble toes. She stopped and dropped to her knees, holding out her arms for the little boy to come to her. “Oh, Auntie Cassie, you should see Ian’s face, he’s trying so very hard! Why, it’s all screwed up like the last apple in the stillroom and red as the devil’s toes!”
“Is not!” Ian grunted and threw himself at his sister’s arms. He crowed in triumph, “I did it!”
“So you did, wee Ian-Dhu.” Cassie came to a graceful stop beside them, put her knee to the ice and hugged Ian affectionately. She was so pleased with his efforts she even rumpled his dark curls till he laughed with glee.
“Mumph,” grunted a male voice nearby, making that throaty sound every Highland woman recognized as a preamble to actual speech.
Expecting to find Old Angus scowling at her for spoiling the boy, Cassie looked up to find both travelers standing at the edge of the pond, grinning like a pair of loons.
“Pardon me, goodwife…” the taller one began. The second man cleared his throat as if he was correcting his companion without words.
“Och, Auntie Cassie’s not a goodwife,” Millie declared impulsively. “If y’er looking for a goodwife, you’ll be wanting to see my mother. She’s at the dairy, churning butter.”
“‘Tis my auntie Cassie,” Ian chimed in possessively, patting Cassie’s wind-stung face. “‘Tisn’t married.”
“Whisht, children,” Cassie said repressively as she came gracefully to her feet. “May I help you, gentlemen?”
“We hope you can.” The taller one spoke for both of them. “My friend and I were given directions to Glencoen Farm, though by our measurement, we seem to be north of it. We have a packet for Euan MacGregor who lives there, and a letter of introduction from his kinsman, Laird Malcolm MacGregor of Balquhidder. Do you know the precise location of that farm?”
The children giggled, but Cassie managed to shush another outburst with a stem glance. She wasn’t as good at that as her sister. Maggie could get these two imps to shush by just quirking one dark eyebrow. But then they probably couldn’t tell when Cassie’s pale eyebrows twitched or moved. Nobody could.
“Actually, sir, you’re standing on part of it as we speak. This is the north meadow of Glencoen Farm. You missed the turn coming through MacDonald’s cattle field.”
Cassie pointed to a narrow path beyond the snowd-appled rocks and foraging sheep. “You’ll find the right track there at the twisted pines and the sheepfold. The snow is melting, so be careful where you walk. Some of it is quite muddy. You can’t miss Glencoen Farm. It’s the only two-storied house in twenty miles. Just keep moving downhill.” She added a smile and a few extra words. “South by the southwest.”
Her addendum brought a sudden smile onto her questioner’s face. He thanked her and wished them a good day, then raised his hand to his brow in a polite salute on parting.
That gesture drew Cassie’s attention to a pair of very wonderful blue eyes and his hands. He wore mittens just like she and the children did. Simple fingerless tubes of knitted wool stitched at the great knuckles. His fingers were so dirty and chapped raw from winter’s cold that she could hardly tell where dark wool left off and skin began. That wasn’t unusual for any man trekking the hills in winter, but it certainly didn’t go with his gentle-seeming eyes.
Those eyes tilted deeply at the outer corners. While his skin was stung from exposure, the sparkle in those blue eyes and the length of his eyelashes betrayed his age. He was somewhere close to her own. She was days away from twenty. Those eyes declared he wasn’t older than twenty-five, if that.
As they strode away, her own eyes narrowed in revision of her earlier impressions. The two men were very nearly the same weight. The one she had thought stout was only larger boned and wore heavier clothing under his winding plaid. The other, the one she’d spoken to wore only a leather jerkin and woolen sark beneath his plaid. His slender frame was practically bare in comparison. Warm enough garments for most Highlanders. The leather surrounding his chest was as close as one could come to being waterproof—definitely a boon in Glen Orchy and Lochaber.
She noted another detail. His kilt was separate from his plaid and stitched. Precise knife pleats encircled his hips and fell in a neat swirl ‘round his knees. His plaid swung over his shoulder and was firmly clipped beneath a hunting brooch. Both ends were secured under his belt, keeping the cloth close