Page 1 of Sweet Home Highlander
Chapter One
Scotland, May 1828
The boulder-sized fist that connected with Niall Maclaren’s temple almost took him to the ground. It was a miracle he managed to remain standing at all and not go sprawling flat on his arse. If he had, he might as well pack up and head for England.
“Had enough yet?” his best mate and closest neighbor, Hamish MacLeod, crowed. “Do ye yield?”
“I’ll yield when pigs fly, ye pompous, overgrown pup.”
Niall bounced on his toes and shook his wet hair, sweat flying in all directions, as he squared off against his opponent. Hamish MacLeod—at least all three blurry versions of him at the moment—was built like a mountain. A mountain with thick sturdy legs and a powerful left hook. Niall should know—they’d been sparring partners for years, and then, as they’d grown older, more serious rivals in the ring. He should have seen the blow coming, but he’d been distracted.
A buxom milkmaid had appeared at the edge of the crowded circle surrounding them, and he’d lost his focus and his footing for a scant second. Enough for Hamish to get in the lucky strike. The man’s brute strength was enough to knock any normal man down, but Niall wasn’t any normal man. He hadn’t trained rain or shine or in ballock-shriveling cold every day for most of his life to not know how to take a hit. Nor was he about to relinquish his title of Champion of Tarbendale three years running. Hamish would have to do more than sneak in a lucky wallop to win.
Bare-knuckle boxing wasn’t quite sanctioned by his father, Laird Maclaren and Duke of Dunrannoch, but what Niall did on his own lands was his own business. And Tarben Castle was his, sold to him by his sister, Sorcha Montgomery, who’d had no need for the property that had been part of her tocher. Neither she nor her husband, the Duke of Glenross, had wanted it. She’d said that if Niall could turn a profit, she would sell it to him. That had been three years ago. Tarbendale was now his, along with its lucrative cairngorm mines.
His eyes flicked to the dairymaid who’d cost him what would be a beautiful shiner by the evening meal. A healthy Scottish lass, with dark curling hair, apple-round cheeks, pink lips, and a very,veryample bosom that was a sneeze away from spilling out of her bodice, gazed back at him. Not that he was a man known for ogling women’s bosoms, but hers was truly exceptional. He’d have to be blind not to notice. And he wasn’t the only one.
Niall sighed. He’d been without a woman for far too long if the sight of a pair of breasts could make him lose a fight to Hamish MacLeod.
His friend noticed his stare and leered. “Tell ye what,” Hamish said in a low voice. “Let’s add her to the pot. Ten head of cattle, plus a kiss from the lass.”
“She’s no’ mine to give. And I’m no’ interested.”
“Ye’re laird here, are ye no’?”
“No’ that kind of laird,” Niall said with a scowl. Though hewaslaird. For a fourth son, and the last of five children, being master of his own lands had been a godsend. His eldest brother, Ronan, was heir to Maclaren and the dukedom, along with the vast holdings that came with it, but the small, unentailed pocket of Tarbendale was Niall’s alone.
Hamish grinned. “Ye seemed interested in the lass before, didnae ye? Or parts of her at least. Imagine sinking yer face into those bonny pillows.”
“I told ye, I’m no’ interested,” Niall said with an upward jab that missed, putting him slightly off balance.
Not one to squander an opportunity, Hamish threw a punch toward Niall’s bare midsection that connected with a loud, fleshy thud. Niall returned the blow with a combination of right fist and left elbow to his opponent’s ribs. Hamish grunted and danced out of the way. Both wearing breeches and naked from the waist up, they were covered in perspiration and dirt. A swim in the loch would be in order once the match ended.
“Is it Fenella then?” Hamish asked with a grin. “She looks like she’s about to set that poor lass on fire.”
Niall grunted, his eyes shifting to where Fenella, his longtime friend and more recently housekeeper, stood glowering at the unsuspecting girl. Her dark eyes met his and she stalked away, back toward the castle. She was not fond of his brawling, as she called it. But what Fenella didn’t understand was that Niall needed the fights. He needed them to keep uglier things at bay. His left arm twinged as if in response, the rounded end of the stump at his wrist covered by a snug leather glove. He’d designed the covering himself, one of many he’d worn since losing his hand more than a decade ago. But the loss had never held him back, especially in a fight.
The crowd had grown thicker, Niall noticed, with many more females than would be expected for such an exhibition. His lips curled into a smile as he flung a wet clump of hair out of his face. Once, he’d have thought they would come just to see the one-handed son of the duke. The cripple of Maclaren. But from the rosy looks on the women’s faces as they eyed his glistening muscled chest and arms, he’d wager the last thing they were thinking about was his missing left hand. Satisfaction rolled through him, costing him another well-placed blow from Hamish before he stepped neatly out of the way of a second.
“Lucky shot,” he said with a grunt and paid back in kind with a jab to Hamish’s thick jaw.
“Aye,” the man said, dancing forward, sweat pouring off him in sheets. “Ye seem distracted, my friend. Mayhap some wenching is in order to cure whatever ails ye?”
“Ye think about women far too much,” Niall replied with a punch thrown in for good measure, ducking a swift counter-blow.
“And ye dunnae. Look at them,” he said, waving a drenched arm to the boisterous crowd. “They all want ye.”
Niall’s eyes narrowed, seeingthatlook on his friend’s face and feeling his temper start to boil. “Hamish,” he said in warning.
“Ye could have yer pick of the lasses,” Hamish went on.
“Enough.”
“If ye weren’t still pining over the one who—”
The red haze Niall fought to keep contained threatened to break free of his rigid control. “I’m warning ye, Hamish, keep yer bloody mouth shut.”
The block-headed man didn’t take the hint. “—left ye.”
