The Stolen Mackenzie Bride

by Jennifer Ashley

  Ewan’s salute was shaky, but he looked less pale. “Yes, sir.”

  Malcolm settled his kilt around him again, adjusted his dirk, and checked his pistol. He’d carried the weapons as he’d ridden the lands, and he had a pouch full of bullets and powder as well.

  Mal caught his horse, mounted, and rode off in the direction Ewan had pointed—the small company of soldiers had left a broad trail, in any case. He faded into the mists, as silent as the smoke that poured from his ancestral home, and went to fight his enemy and rescue the wife of his heart.

  The man who greeted Mary and her father as they were shown into the commander’s tent was not who she’d expected.

  George Markham, the Earl of Halsey, Mary’s former fiancé, rose from a camp chair and smiled gently at them.

  “I can tell by your faces that you are shocked,” Halsey said. He wore a clean and elegant frock coat, leather breeches, and boots, the very picture of an English country gentleman. “It is good to see you again, my friends. I am pleased we are in much happier circumstances.”

  Halsey reached for Wilfort’s hand and shook it. Wilfort stared at Halsey in disbelief, then jerked from the man’s grip. “I’ll not shake hands with a traitor,” he growled.

  Mary stood rigidly, transferring her terrible fear for Malcolm to anger at the man before them. “Nor I,” she said clearly. “You saved your own neck, while my father bravely resisted interrogation and was kept a prisoner. What secrets are you now selling these men?”

  Halsey lifted his hands. “My dear Mary, you do have a sharp tongue. I remember our discussion, Wilfort, about clouting her every once in a while to keep her tame. I think you have grown lax in that regard.” He gave Mary a patient look. “Did you truly think I gave up the positions of the British army and the resistance in the Lowlands to the Jacobites? I fed them what they wished to hear, nothing more. Prince Charlie’s men might find a few scattered squads to skirmish with on their way south, but they’ll have to discover more important intelligence from another quarter.”

  He looked very pleased with himself. On the one hand, if Halsey was telling the truth and hadn’t, in fact, betrayed his own people, he’d be admired for it. On the other, he’d done nothing at all to save Mary’s father from being a Jacobite prisoner.

  “Did you send troops to Kilmorgan?” Mary asked. “They set fire to the place. Was that necessary? That lovely, lovely castle, with . . .” She broke off, the jumble of horrors cutting away her words.

  She again heard her maid Jinty screaming as the soldiers broke down the doors, the confusion of the servants being herded by Alec to the cellars, which opened to tunnels leading out to the glen. The splintering of wood, the shouting of the duke, the orders of the commander to burn the place, his men grimly doing just that.

  All the time, Mary feared Malcolm would return, try to fight, and be shot by the soldiers ready with their muskets. Or he might already have been taken when he was out seeing to the crofters. He’d ridden off alone, saying it was too cold for Mary to come with him, bidding her to remain warm and comfortable at home.

  Home. Mary had begun to think of Kilmorgan as such, not her father’s house in Lincolnshire. And now Kilmorgan was gone, burned from the inside out.

  “I did not have to,” Halsey said in answer to Mary’s question. “The commander here has long wanted Kilmorgan brought to heel. I traveled north from Edinburgh as soon as Charles rode out of the city. I knew you’d been taken to Kilmorgan’s stronghold, and I hoped to find you. Edinburgh Castle is still held by the British and so is Stirling. The Scots prince will find it a bit more difficult holding Scotland than he imagines.”

  The politics of it didn’t interest Mary. “What about the duke? Is he all right? And Lord Alec?”

  Halsey looked surprised. “I have no idea. You were wrested from the Mackenzies’ clutches, Mary—why should you be concerned?”

  “The duke is a good man,” Wilfort said, frowning. “Hospitable.”

  “And Captain Ellis,” Mary said.

  Halsey looked blank. “Who?”

  Wilfort answered, “A fellow prisoner, who became a friend.”

  “Oh, him.” Halsey waved a hand. “He’s off somewhere being questioned about his capture, I imagine.”

  “And Lord Alec?” Mary repeated, wanting to launch herself at Halsey and shake him. “Is he well?” And alive? The soldiers who’d captured him had beaten him again and again.

  “You mean the mad Highlander who fought like the devil? I believe they brought him in and chained him up somewhere. Serves him right. He came to my cell in Edinburgh and offered to pay me the price of your dowry if I released you from our betrothal, cheeky devil.”

  Mary’s lips went numb. “That could not have been Alec . . .”

  “No—his name was . . . Ah, I have it. Malcolm Mackenzie. So difficult to tell these barbarians apart.”

  Mary wanted to sit down, but no chair was handy. She kept to her feet, her knees shaking.

  Even the syllables of Malcolm’s name made Mary’s heart squeeze. Was he still alive? Well? Lying bloody and dying?

  She had to escape this place, find him. Once she knew he was alive, could touch him, then she could shout at him for offering to pay the price of her dowry. If Halsey told the truth—he had proved himself to be a vile liar.

  “Wilfort, may I speak to Mary alone?” Halsey was asking. “I have been quite dreadfully concerned for her. I would like to express my sentiments in private.”

  “No,” Wilfort answered coolly and without hesitation. “I’m not certain about your actions, Halsey. We will have to discuss the question of the betrothal at length, when we are home and safe.”

  Halsey’s smile turned sour. “An agreement is an agreement, Wilfort. I haven’t broken my side of it. Has Mary?”

  Wilfort stiffened. “Mary has been in my care during this entire ordeal.”

  “But barbarians, with such a pristine lady in their midst . . . I cannot expect they respected her as they should. Perhaps you let them do as they wished, in order that your captivity was not as dire as it could be.”

  Wilfort’s face went dark red. “Now, see here, Halsey—keep your disgusting thoughts to yourself in front of my daughter . . .”

  “Yes,” Mary broke in. Her fear and rage whirled together. Images of the burning castle and soldiers battering the furniture with their muskets spun together with Malcolm making love to her in their aerie above the castle, where she’d be wrapped in his plaids and warmed by the fire.

  “I am Malcolm Mackenzie’s lover,” Mary said fiercely to Halsey. “I am not ashamed of it. I love him, and if he’s been hurt, I will find a way to kill you.”

  Halsey’s eyes widened during this speech. Then they narrowed in fury and he struck out. Mary ducked the blow, having expected it, and Halsey found his fist caught in the steely grip of Captain Ellis.

  “Please do not attempt to strike this lady again, my lord,” Ellis said, his voice chilly. “Lady Mary and her father are under my protection, and I might take offense.”

  Halsey tried to jerk away but Captain Ellis held him fast. “Let go of me, sir. Do you know who I am?”

  “You are the man about to apologize to Lady Mary,” Ellis said, his gaze unwavering.

  “No, I am the man who can make your life very difficult. I can have your commission taken and you facing court-martial in a moment’s thought.”

  “If it’s done after you apologize, then very well.”

  Halsey jerked again, and Captain Ellis deliberately opened his hand, letting him go. Halsey straightened his coat and glared at Mary. “I do not apologize to whores.”

  Captain Ellis didn’t blink. “I see.”

  In the next moment, his fist struck Halsey’s jaw, and the man went down.

  Shouting outside the tent pulled Mary away from the delightful sight. Captain Ellis calmly turned and exited the tent, and Mary ducked out after him.

  The night beyond the camp’s fires was dark. The commander had halted the
m here, a bit north of Inverness, wanting to wait for light to travel the final fifteen miles to the town. With the loyalties of the Highlanders in this area in question, it was safer to camp and set guards than be spread thin on the trail in the dark.

  Mary hurried as quickly as she dared after Captain Ellis, her father behind her. She stopped not far from the tent but close enough to the commander to hear him shouting at his men. The commander was from Yorkshire, and his northern English accent cut through the night.

  “Gone? What d’ye mean, he’s gone? Ye shackled him proper, didn’t ye?”

  “Locked him in the stocks, sir,” a young English lieutenant, face smeared with mud, answered. “Locks were picked, chains empty.”

  “Bloody hell, Lieutenant. Then take some men and go after him!”

  The lieutenant hesitated and exchanged a glance with the sergeant of a Highland company next to him. The commander noted the look.

  “Well? Speak up, Sergeant,” he said to the Highlander. “It’s clear you have sommat t’ say.”

  The sergeant stood to attention. “Begging your pardon, sir, but Lord Alec didn’t set himself free. His brother must have done it.”

  “His brother, eh?” The commander looked thoughtful, then returned to full bellow. “Well, then get after them both! You should have brought the pair of ’em in in the first place.”

  “Sir,” the Highland soldier said. “With respect, sir, you’re speaking of Malcolm Mackenzie. There’s no one knows this part of the Highlands better than him. You’ll never find them. Mal Mackenzie will creep up behind your men in the dark and slit their throats before they even know they’re dead.”

  The commander, a rather squat man with a round, red face under a simple, one-tailed wig, considered the sergeant’s words with ill-concealed impatience. “Take ten men,” he told the lieutenant. “Including you, Sergeant, since ye know this Mackenzie so well. Find these brothers, and then bring ’em to me. Do ye understand?”

  Both sergeant and lieutenant looked resigned, but barked a brisk, “Yes, sir,” and turned to their men, the sergeant bellowing orders.

  The commander’s gaze fell on Captain Ellis. “Go with them, eh, Ellis? Be off and capture your captor.”

  Ellis came to attention. “Sir. Please make sure Lady Mary is well looked after. She has been through much.”

  The commander gave him a dry glance. “Lady Mary and Lord Wilfort are personal guests, Captain. They will lack for nothin’.”

  Ellis looked straight at the commander for a moment, seemed to be satisfied with the answer, saluted him, and jogged off after the small knot of men fading into the darkness. Firelight brushed his red coat, then he was gone.

  The commander watched him go then turned to Wilfort and Mary. “It’s me pleasure to host you, my lord,” he said. “We’ll repair to me tent, if you don’t mind, and dine. But don’t worry about having to eat army rations, my lady. Me chef cooks a fair bit of grub.”

  Chapter 27

  Malcolm slipped into the crack in the rock above the river and hauled Alec up beside him. The brothers braced their boots on the slippery gray stones, hands on the rock wall.

  They hadn’t exchanged a word since Mal had crept in through the edge of the camp and knelt behind the stocks where Alec sat, his hands and feet locked into wooden clamps, one of Alec’s hands chained to a metal pole. Mal had picked open the locks, silently unscrewed the chain and manacle, and led the bruised and bloody Alec off into the night.

  “Dad?” Was Alec’s first gasped question, nearly drowned out by the water rushing below them.

  “He’ll do,” Mal answered in brief syllables. “Castle is burned.”

  “Damn it t’ hell.”

  “Mary?” Mal asked, voice tight. “I saw her—what are they going to do with her?”

  Alec folded one arm across his chest, hurting and striving to hide it. “As much as I could hear, she and her dad are guests of the commander. Commander’s taking them to Inverness—from there they’ll be sent back to England. No one touched her. I made sure of that. So did Wilfort and Ellis.”

  Mal nodded. He’d been curiously cold and precise ever since he’d gotten his father out of the burning castle and heard that Mary had been taken away. He’d felt the same cold precision as he’d crawled on his belly into camp, right past the sentries, to set his brother free. He and Alec had waited until the guards were distracted by the bullets Mal had set at the end of a slow fuse, and then they’d run together into the darkness.

  “How many men in the camp?” Mal asked.

  “Sixty, under one commander, a Colonel Wheeler. They’re roaming about, looking for those keen to follow Charles to England, trying to convince clans who might join the Jacobites to think again.”

  Mal didn’t question Alec’s numbers. He’d have observed what he could and filed it away in his sharp brain. Alec thought in pictures—he could never memorize a column of figures or words in a book, but he’d remember every single object in a room, every placement of every person there, long after the event.

  “How are they dispersed?” Mal asked him.

  “Men from several companies, sort of a delegation. Mostly Foot, a few cavalry, and Highland guards. Like this.” Alec put his hand on Mal’s chest in the darkness and traced the outline of the camp. “Infantry patrolling here and here. One or two cavalry soldiers circle in and out here. Commander’s area here. That’s where Mary will be.”

  Mal followed the lines his brother was impressing and merged them with what he’d observed himself. He knew he could fetch Mary away from these soldiers, but he’d have to do it before they reached Inverness. At Inverness, Mary would be taken to some house in the town, or worse, into one of the army forts along the loch to the south. Only a dozen or so English soldiers inside the fort at Ruthven had held off Charles’s advance, and Charles had had hundreds of angry Highlanders on his side.

  Mal took Alec’s hand, squeezed it. He’d already given his injured brother his gloves, as Alec had been taken without any. The November wind was icy, slicing down this cut in the rock.

  “Dad’s at the distillery,” Mal said. “Can ye get there?”

  “Aye. But what about you? You’re not going to try to snatch her on your own, are ye?”

  “I can get in and out quicker alone. You’re hurt, and ye have a wee one to think of now. You find Dad, and then head north and look for Gair.”

  Alec did not want to leave Mal, that was apparent, but Alec was no fool. He’d understand that he’d slow Mal down at a time when speed and absolute stealth were necessary.

  “So that’s your plan, is it?” Alec asked over the water’s noise.

  “It’s one plan. I’ll have others. Go on, now, before they catch you again.”

  “They won’t.” Alec clasped Mal’s forearm. “They only grabbed me because I was trying to fight them off Dad and Mary.”

  Mal pulled his brother close, the two of them balancing while trying to hug each other. It might be a long, long time before they saw each other again.

  “God go with ye, runt,” Alec said, releasing him.

  “And you,” Mal said, his voice rough. “Godspeed.”

  Alec squeezed his hands one last time, then climbed back up the cut, waited a few moments, watching at the top, and was gone.

  Mal felt emptier when Alec was gone, but Mal had been right. He’d be able to do this much better alone. One day, though, this would be over. They’d all be together, his brothers, their families, his family. I swear this, he vowed silently.

  Mal waited nearly two hours. He needed to give Alec time to disappear, to evade his hunters and find a trail north. Also Mal wanted the soldiers to have time to settle down and give up the search. The camp was going nowhere—they’d be there all night.

  Finally Mal emerged, keeping to deep shadow in the cut of the stream. A small amount of mud from the stream’s bank blackened his face, and he hid his weapons well inside his plaid so they wouldn’t gleam. Then he left the relative shelter, becoming
another shadow himself in the rising mists.

  He headed south, toward the camp. Mary was there, and the pull to her overrode all else.

  Mal’s mind became cool and precise once more, his thoughts filled with nothing except finding Mary and taking her from her captors. Nothing else existed; nothing else mattered.

  Mal had a purpose, and he would pursue it until he succeeded or died.

  Mary picked at the fish in sauce that was tasty but dry as dust in her mouth. The commander—Colonel Wheeler—had a fine cook he took with him wherever he went, who fixed him meals fit for an aristocrat. The colonel also provided them with sweet white wine he’d brought back from a campaign in the southern German states, light enough for ladies, he said, but fine enough for a gentleman.

  Colonel Wheeler was a gracious host and deferential to Mary, her father, and Lord Halsey. However, an undercurrent of tension flowed beneath the conversation, making Mary’s fingers cold and her food tasteless.

  They’d go to a house in Inverness, where they’d be safe, Colonel Wheeler assured them, and then Mary, Wilfort, and Halsey would be escorted the long way back to Lincolnshire. Charles Stuart had taken his army south through Carlisle, and now held that city, so Mary and her father would take the eastern roads.

  Mary’s fingers clenched around her fork as she strove to keep herself still. She wanted to leap from the table and flee the tent and camp to go in search of Malcolm, who she knew was out there somewhere. He’d be waiting, watching. Wheeler was a fool if he believed the reports that his soldiers had lost both Alec and Mal, that they must be long gone, fleeing back to Kilmorgan. Mary’s feet twitched, longing to run after him, and she curled her toes in her boots.

  Her common sense told her that such a flight would be imprudent. First, she’d be caught and brought back before she went ten steps. Second, even if Mary did manage to break through the camp’s perimeter, she did not know her way around in the darkness of the Highlands. She’d likely plunge into a stream or fall over a cliff—or some such foolish thing—or possibly be shot by a nervous sentry.