HIGHLAND PROMISE (THE SONS OF GREGOR MACLEOD)

Chapter Nineteen

"Laird MacKenzie."

Darach rolled over with a groan and tried to block out Gare's annoying voice. Aye, the sun was up, but Darach had only gone to sleep a few hours ago – after Gregor had brought out the uisge beatha.

"Laird MacKenzie, there's someone here to see you. A woman."

That got his attention, and he cracked open an eye to look into Gare's worried face. His brothers and Gregor slept scattered around him on the dewy ground.

"She says she knows you well."

Darach frowned, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. Who on earth could it be? The nearest farm was at least an hour's ride away.

He sighed, head pounding, and squinted toward the woman. Too far away to see clearly, he pushed back his plaid, stood, and walked gingerly toward her. For sure, his hair stuck out in all directions, but he was too tired to care.

His soldiers backed away as he neared, and his eyes widened. Wynda MacIntyre.

What in hell was she doing here?

The aging, buxom redhead lived in the neighboring clan to the west and Darach had...visited her upon occasion. Four times to be exact, which had been three times too many. She'd been happy to have him in her bed, but Darach was ashamed to say after he'd tupped her, he couldn't leave fast enough. There was something about her he didn't trust, and he should never have returned. Not the second time, the third, or the fourth time.

"Good morning to you Wynda," he said, stopping several feet away. "Is there trouble that brings you so far from home? Your clan and Laird MacIntyre are well?"

She moved closer, and Darach had to stop himself from backing up. "They're fine, Laird MacKenzie. I only thought to share your company if you are returning home. I shall be visiting my cousin, Firth MacKenzie, at your village for the summer. 'Twill be good to see more of you." She laid her hand on Darach's arm and stroked her fingers through the rough, springy hair that covered it.

He quickly stepped back. Her blue eyes hardened as her arm dropped back down.

"I am recently married, Wynda. 'Tis not a personal offense, I assure you." He gentled his voice in order to spare her feelings. "You are welcome to ride with us, of course, and I wish you a happy visit with your cousin, but...I willna seek you out. You understand."

After a moment, she looked up. "Aye, Laird, I understand. I understand that men stray, and when you do, you'll know where to find me."

The thought repulsed him, and he squared his shoulders. "Some men behave so, as I'm sure you know, but I would ne'er disrespect my wife or my vows in such a manner. Doona expect to see me after today." He inclined his head, then turned back toward camp.

Her voice drifted over his shoulder. "We'll see."

~ ~ ~ ~

Caitlin was not responsible for the mess in the kitchen. She'd been in there trying to recreate some of her mother's favorite dishes for Darach, dealing with not only her own faulty memory, for it had been over three years since she'd helped her mother cook, but also the grunts of disapproval coming from Nell every time Caitlin did something different. And apparently there was a big difference between Scottish and French cuisine, at which her mother had excelled.

Her father had always praised Claire's cooking, and now Caitlin knew why. When she'd arrived at her uncle's keep three years ago and finally come out of her depression, the tasteless food she'd been given had been a shock. She'd thought it would be better at the MacKenzies, and it was, but still nothing compared to her mother's cooking. She could recreate it, if only she could remember what her mother had done.