could jump in the sea and wash,” she suggested, unperturbed by his outburst. “The water’s almost bearable this time of year. Besides, you’ve not broken anything that I noticed.”
“And you noticed everything,” he retorted in annoyance.
“ ’Twas difficult not to,” she agreed, grinning.
For a moment Duncan nearly surrendered to an overwhelming impulse to turn tail and run all the way back to England, pretending he bore no relation to or responsibility for this cl an. But his entire future hinged on the success he met here. In view of what he had seen already, it was a daunting thought. Yet he was under the explicit orders of the Crown. The responsibility for his clan had been dumped at his feet by the War Office itself.
Over the course of time, reports of his clansmen’s mildly violent yet persistent attacks on the Crown’s officers had trickled all the way back to London. As luck would have it, Castle MacElgin sat right in the middle of an ancient road that led to a British garrison on the remote, rock-strewn coast that had been used for years as a port of entry for French spies and Jacobite rebels.
Because of Duncan’s late father’s notorious subversive activities against the English king, Castle MacElgin had been confiscated by the Crown the winter before. Duncan would have wished them the joy of it, but he hadn’t been given that appealing option.
The Crown, as it turned out, didn’t really want another crumbling castle to maintain. In fact, if Duncan could restore order to his unruly clansmen long enough for the English soldiers to complete work on their military roads, Duncan would be rewarded with a handsome Border dukedom.
Hell, he’d whipped the most miserable troops in Europe into shape. He had turned foreign mercenaries into fighting machines. How difficult co uld it be to rekindle the self- respect of his own clansmen?
Discipline. That was the first order of the day. And Lord knew this lot hardly loo ked like it possessed the self- motivation to scratch their own behinds in the morning.
He’d started off on the wrong foot with them too, let them make him look like a fool. He’d have to deal them a double measure of discipline to shift the balance in his favor. And he would start by making a public example of their ringleader. Right or wrong, they had to learn their disorganized attacks didn’t have a chance in hell against the British army.
He glared down his nose at his distant cousin Lachlan, a plumpish young man with thinning brown hair and a perpetually worried frown. “Enough of this bloody nonsense. Who is responsible here?”
Lachlan looked up in alarm, having obviously realized that life as Clan MacElgin knew it was about to change, and most likely not for the better. “Why, you are, my lord,” he said cautiously.
“Yes, but who was responsible before I came? Who, precisely, masterminded the attack on your lord and chieftain?”
“It was me,” the girl said in an unapologetic voice, pretending to examine her ragged fingernails. “And now that we’ve got that settled, there’s no need to go on making such a bother about the whole thing, is there?”
“ You?” Duncan’s voice rose into a shout as he swept a scathing gaze over the men watching him. “Do you mean to tell me that Clan MacElgin follows the foolish directives of a mere woman?”
“Most of the time your clan follows no directives but those motivated by its most basic urges,” she continued with a touch of resentment in her tone. “But, yes, since you seem to need someone to vent your temper upon, then I shall shoulder the blame. I’m the one responsible for the attack today.”
“You? A girl?”
She inclined her head as if she were a princess receiving a compliment from a peasant.
The man who had brought great European generals to their knees in surrender found himself at an utter loss. How could he make an example of a stubborn girl? How could these men be so incredibly stupid as to
“And you noticed everything,” he retorted in annoyance.
“ ’Twas difficult not to,” she agreed, grinning.
For a moment Duncan nearly surrendered to an overwhelming impulse to turn tail and run all the way back to England, pretending he bore no relation to or responsibility for this cl an. But his entire future hinged on the success he met here. In view of what he had seen already, it was a daunting thought. Yet he was under the explicit orders of the Crown. The responsibility for his clan had been dumped at his feet by the War Office itself.
Over the course of time, reports of his clansmen’s mildly violent yet persistent attacks on the Crown’s officers had trickled all the way back to London. As luck would have it, Castle MacElgin sat right in the middle of an ancient road that led to a British garrison on the remote, rock-strewn coast that had been used for years as a port of entry for French spies and Jacobite rebels.
Because of Duncan’s late father’s notorious subversive activities against the English king, Castle MacElgin had been confiscated by the Crown the winter before. Duncan would have wished them the joy of it, but he hadn’t been given that appealing option.
The Crown, as it turned out, didn’t really want another crumbling castle to maintain. In fact, if Duncan could restore order to his unruly clansmen long enough for the English soldiers to complete work on their military roads, Duncan would be rewarded with a handsome Border dukedom.
Hell, he’d whipped the most miserable troops in Europe into shape. He had turned foreign mercenaries into fighting machines. How difficult co uld it be to rekindle the self- respect of his own clansmen?
Discipline. That was the first order of the day. And Lord knew this lot hardly loo ked like it possessed the self- motivation to scratch their own behinds in the morning.
He’d started off on the wrong foot with them too, let them make him look like a fool. He’d have to deal them a double measure of discipline to shift the balance in his favor. And he would start by making a public example of their ringleader. Right or wrong, they had to learn their disorganized attacks didn’t have a chance in hell against the British army.
He glared down his nose at his distant cousin Lachlan, a plumpish young man with thinning brown hair and a perpetually worried frown. “Enough of this bloody nonsense. Who is responsible here?”
Lachlan looked up in alarm, having obviously realized that life as Clan MacElgin knew it was about to change, and most likely not for the better. “Why, you are, my lord,” he said cautiously.
“Yes, but who was responsible before I came? Who, precisely, masterminded the attack on your lord and chieftain?”
“It was me,” the girl said in an unapologetic voice, pretending to examine her ragged fingernails. “And now that we’ve got that settled, there’s no need to go on making such a bother about the whole thing, is there?”
“ You?” Duncan’s voice rose into a shout as he swept a scathing gaze over the men watching him. “Do you mean to tell me that Clan MacElgin follows the foolish directives of a mere woman?”
“Most of the time your clan follows no directives but those motivated by its most basic urges,” she continued with a touch of resentment in her tone. “But, yes, since you seem to need someone to vent your temper upon, then I shall shoulder the blame. I’m the one responsible for the attack today.”
“You? A girl?”
She inclined her head as if she were a princess receiving a compliment from a peasant.
The man who had brought great European generals to their knees in surrender found himself at an utter loss. How could he make an example of a stubborn girl? How could these men be so incredibly stupid as to
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