Uncle Ralph came forward. ‘If you could lend a hand, it would be greatly appreciated, my good fellow. And you will be handsomely rewarded for your trouble.’
The man looked him up and down with disdain and knitted his black brows to a frown as her uncle felt in his jacket for a coin. ‘I will help, but you may keep your coin, Englishman. I’ve no need of it,’ he said gruffly. ‘Go and take hold of the horses and pull on my command.’
‘Very well. As you like,’ said Uncle Ralph archly, curling his lip.
‘How rude that man is, and such a ruffian to turn down your uncle’s kind offer,’ hissed Mistress McGovern.
The man rushed over to them, and Tara feared he had heard. Then he tore off his jacket and handed it to her. ‘If you please, lass,’ he said, and she had to take hold of it.
Tara said nothing, clutching onto the rough wool of his jacket and frozen to the spot as the Scot stomped over to the carriage and put his shoulder to it. ‘When I say push, we all go together,’ he said with some authority to the other two men at the back. His eyes flicked to hers and held for the briefest of moments. How fierce his face was, hard-eyed, as if he found her wanting in some way.
Then the man looked away and splayed a broad hand against the carriage. He had long, thick fingers with broken nails, indicating he was a farmer or someone who did hard labour, and his height and muscular build made him quite intimidating. The man braced his feet far apart, the edge of his kilt dragging in the mud, but he did not seem to notice.
‘Push,’ he yelled in a voice like boulders crashing together, and the carriage swayed forward, the wheel rising up from the mud and almost breaching the top of the rut in which it was held fast. It hung, poised on the edge, and then swung back at the men, almost running over the stranger’s foot.
‘Take care.’ The words were out of Tara’s mouth before she could stop herself. The eyes of her uncle and the Lecher seemed to bore into her back, and Mistress McGovern gripped tighter.
Again, the man leant into the wheel and braced to push. As he did so, his eyes flicked to hers again, and he frowned. Goodness, what a scowl he had on him. The Scot broke his gaze and yelled, ‘Again. Pull hard on those reins. Push now, you men.’
The stranger’s arm muscles bulged through his shirt, flattened against his body in the brisk wind coming off the moor. Tara marvelled at his determination as his thick legs strained against the mud, and his face twisted with the effort. Finally, he let out an enormous grunt, and the carriage lurched upwards and over the rut with a sucking sound.
‘Well done. Very well done,’ screeched Mistress McGovern, letting out a spontaneous round of applause before lapsing into embarrassed silence as everyone stared at her. Then the three men had to help each other clear of the mud, for it held their boots fast.
Uncle Ralph rushed over. ‘A fine effort, indeed. What strong, hearty fellows, all of you,’ he said, eyes flicking to the big Scot with disdain. ‘Ladies, we must get you out of this infernal wind,’ he said, sweeping out an arm to guide them inside the carriage before being distracted by the carriage man calling out to him.
Mistress McGovern hurried inside first, leaving Tara to follow. She handed the Scot his jacket, and he shrugged it on, not looking at her. As she mounted the steps, the Scot raised a mucky hand to help her up, and she took it without thinking. Their eyes met. His were a dark blue-grey and serious as death, yet they were compelling. And he may be dirty and roughly dressed, but there was pride in his bearing as he said, ‘Are you headed to Inverness?’
‘Indeed, we are.’
‘Best make haste, then,’ he growled, still holding her hand fast. ‘You are losing the light.’
Tara looked up at the sky, which was the same colour as the man’s eyes and just as stormy. ‘I thank you for your efforts in coming to our rescue, Sir.’
He gave a curt nod. ‘Twas nothing, lass.’ Then he smiled, and it was the most wondrous thing, for it lit up his face and made her breath catch a little. ‘And I am no ‘Sir’ to you, lass. My name is Callum Ross.’
Tara was about to give her name when Mistress McGovern shrieked, ‘Get inside, my dear, and close the door before I catch my death of chill. Hurry, child.’
The Scot guided her inside the carriage, and his hand fell away as her uncle came rushing over. ‘I am glad you did not injure yourself on our account,’ he said, though Tara knew full well he cared nothing for common folk or their welfare. The Scot said little in return, to the point of surliness, as her uncle pompously gushed his thanks as though he was the only occupant of the carriage and, therefore, its owner. ‘Now we must be on our way, as I am sure you must be on yours,’ he said. It was a thinly veiled dismissal and horrible impolite.
‘Aye, and as I said, best make haste before the weather closes in,’ said Callum Ross. This last comment was directed at Tara as he gave her a look so piercing it was as if he looked right inside her soul. How dare he? No English gentleman would ever look at a lady like that. It was insolent and somehow violating, so Tara looked away.
She dared not look at him again until he had mounted his horse. Then she stole a glance, fascinated and frightened all at once, as Callum Ross stared down the road with an angry glare. He gave the horse a sharp kick and galloped off into the murky afternoon.
The carriage lurched onwards, and Tara could not get warm again. Her uncle was in good spirits after their little adventure, as he whispered in her ear. ‘Fear not, niece. You will have more genteel company in Inverness, for there is an English garrison at the Fort. You need have little to do with these uncouth Highlanders. Why, most of them are little better than barbarians, as we have just been witness to.’
‘Yet that man was kind to stop and help strangers, Uncle.’
‘Yes, I suppose. The man was strong like an ox but with about as much wit and intelligence. A beast of burden is all, Tara. His kind are best avoided, my dear. They do not move in the same circles as us gentlefolk.’
Tara was mortified by her uncle’s opinion, and for miles afterwards, she could still feel the touch of that savage Scot, making her face flood with heat.
***
Callum strode into the great hall at Raigmoor Castle and headed for the hearth, where a meagre fire struggled to chase the chill from the place. It was gloomy and damp, with but a few candles sending shadow phantoms across the bare stone walls. His late father had favoured frugality over comfort, and so there was nothing to soften the place. A tapestry or two might help, but he had no time for such fripperies.
Callum braced both hands on the mantle and stared into the flames as his lurcher, Monk, settled at his boots with a sigh. He let the image of the lass ease into his mind - her skin, creamy and perfect, a blush pinking her cheeks when she caught him stealing a glance at her. It had been hard not to stare outright, for she had been so achingly delicate, and her brown eyes, so bonnie.
Yet she had seemed fearful. That was probably on his account. She was hardly likely to enjoy the attentions of a rough stranger with dirty hands, worn boots and a tatty plaid, nor the days-old stubble coarsing his face. And he had been tongue-tied as he always was in the presence of great beauty. Even by looking at her and feeling his loins flood with heat, Callum felt he had besmirched her in some way.