The Stolen Mackenzie Bride

by Jennifer Ashley

  The likelihood she could find Malcolm out there by herself was small. She wasn’t even certain which direction Kilmorgan lay from here. North, yes, but which way was north?

  The practical side of her told her to sit still until she reached Lincolnshire and home. Then she could gather money and provisions and make her way back up through Scotland to Kilmorgan. If Kilmorgan proved to be entirely destroyed and the Mackenzies gone, she’d go to France and stay with Audrey. Alec’s friends were there, possibly some of Mal’s too. They could help her find Malcolm and contact him, if he was alive to be found.

  Everything would be fine, as long as Mary kept her head and did nothing stupidly rash.

  She calmly ate her fish and sipped her wine without being able to appreciate any of it. Outwardly, her movements were steady and mechanical, like a clockwork automaton’s.

  Inside, Mary was a roiling mess of emotions—terror, uncertainty, rage. These men had burned Mal’s home, cheerfully destroying all he and his family had, in the suspicion that Mal and his father might—might—be a danger. They were brutes, no matter how talented Colonel Wheeler’s chef was, or how sweet was his Bavarian wine. They’d pillaged the castle with glee, smashing things, stealing them, laughing as Alec and the duke fought—two against five dozen.

  Fury spun around Mary’s heart, twining with her fear. She’d believed all her life that the English were good and just people, rational in matters of learning and good government. But give a man a weapon, tell him another man was a possible threat to him, and he became a ravaging boor, destroying all in his path. And then the commander of these brutes had brought his captives to his tent to try to impress them with a fine supper. She exchanged glances with her father and saw, to her surprise, that he appeared to agree with her. The thought warmed her.

  Colonel Wheeler, oblivious to Mary’s condemnation, brought out brandy for his male guests. He’d enjoyed his meal, and now settled his wig on his round head, preparing to enjoy more of his luxuries. He poured the brandy into tiny glasses that were nearly lost in his thick fingers, and asked Mary if she would like coffee.

  Mary opened her stiff mouth to reply coldly in the negative when a piercing scream sounded outside, followed by confused shouting.

  Wheeler heaved a sigh, his wide-sleeved blue coat brushing the tablecloth as he down set the brandy decanter. “Ah, now what?”

  He pushed back from the table, came to his feet, threw his napkin onto his chair, and strode out. Halsey lifted the brandy Wheeler had served and sipped it, undisturbed, but Wilfort left his seat and went out after the colonel.

  Mary rose, her skirt nearly knocking the chair over in her agitation. Halsey put out a hand and steadied it.

  “Let the colonel take care of whatever ails his soldiers,” Halsey said languidly. “Sit down and behave yourself.”

  Mary shot him a venomous look and ducked out of the tent into the firelight and noise.

  Soldiers were shouting, other men were trying to calm them down and demand to know what was going on. “What the devil is this?” Wheeler bellowed into the mix, his deep voice carrying over the others’.

  “Poxy corporal saw a ghost,” a sergeant snapped.

  “Not a ghost,” one of the young soldiers cried. “Dead men. They’re strung up in the trees. Our men, sir.”

  “I saw them too,” another soldier, just as young and fearful, said. “All white, covered in blood.”

  “Where?” Wheeler snapped. “Show me.”

  Wheeler strode after his men as they went out from the edge of camp and down a hill. Wilfort gave Mary a stay here look as he followed, but Mary was having none of it. She gathered the plaid she’d been wearing as a shawl around her shoulders and hurried after her father.

  At the bottom of the rise was a rushing stream lined with a string of trees. White fluttered from the black branches of the trees, long, pale forms caught by moonlight and mists. When one of the things turned, Mary saw gashes of black. Blood?

  Wheeler halted, his back stiff, round face scarlet. After a long moment, he barked, “Lieutenant—have ’em cut down.”

  A lieutenant, sergeant, and a few soldiers moved forward, joined by others. The younger lads did not want to go, but they were cowed by harsh words from their sergeant. Captain Ellis, who’d emerged from another tent when the shouting began, walked after them.

  Mary waited, her hands balled at her sides, the wind cutting through the plaid. Her father stood close beside her, the ends of his coat moving in the sharp breeze.

  The soldiers went closer, Wheeler directly behind them. The lieutenant stopped when he was beneath the first of the hanging figures. “Damnation!” he shouted and swung on the younger soldiers. “Is this a joke, lads?”

  Captain Ellis came back to Mary and Wilfort, grim humor in his eyes. “Sheets stained with paint, hanging in the wind like efreets.”

  Mary let out a breath. Not soldiers with their throats slit. Bed sheets to frighten the susceptible in the dark. Malcolm.

  “Why—?” She heard Wheeler begin, then the colonel wheeled around and charged up the hill. “Back! Everyone back to camp! Now!”

  His last word was drowned by a boom! Men were shouting, and a cloud of black smoke drifted up through the mists.

  The camp was chaos. Another officer came rushing past Mary. “He got to the armory, sir,” he said, his eyes so wide Mary saw the whites of them in the dark. “Every bit of spare ammunition and powder was in there.”

  “Son of a poxy whoring bitch,” Wheeler spat. “Every man who should have been guarding it gets a flogging!”

  The officer swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

  Spittle flecked the edges of Colonel Wheeler’s mouth. “Ghosts and dead men,” he said in disgust. “I never heard owt so daft. Burn those bed sheets and put double guards out for the rest of the night.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Two more tents went up in flames. Mary let out a cry at the surprise of it, and Wheeler stopped cursing and simply stared.

  Mary’s father put his arm around her. Mary shook, torn between fear and elation. Malcolm was taking his revenge. But he alone against so many—he was sure to be caught by the angry Wheeler, who would no doubt put him to death.

  Wheeler saw Captain Ellis. “Take the woman inside,” he said. His jaw hardened as he turned back to his men. “I want that bastard found and brought to me. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” the lieutenant said, and faded into the smoke and gloom away from his commander’s glare.

  The soldiers searched but never found Malcolm. Not a trace of him. Another tent had been robbed while Wheeler and his soldiers stood at the bottom of the hill—the one that housed the colonel’s private food stores—but no one had seen anyone go in or out of it. What foodstuffs hadn’t been stolen had been trampled and ruined, and Wheeler’s beloved bottles of wine were smashed, the wine soaking into the ground.

  A few of the men who’d gone out after Malcolm returned while Mary and her father stood with the colonel outside his commissary tent. The soldiers looked about nervously, their leader, a Scots sergeant with a hard face and beefy arms, white about the mouth.

  They’d so far found no sign of Malcolm. However, horses had spooked, noises and lights had drawn them off the paths, but they’d found nothing when they investigated. Thin ropes stretched across the ground had tripped horses, and one officer had been pulled completely off his mount, his pistol stolen by ghost hands.

  The sergeant had had enough. “He’s no’ a man; he’s a brollachan,” he snarled, then stamped away to begin cleaning up the mess.

  “A what?” Halsey, who’d finally emerged from the colonel’s private tent, asked. “What sort of word is that? It sounds like a throat full of phlegm.”

  “A brollachan,” Mary repeated. Mal had told her stories while they’d lain together, tales of old Scotland and its legends. “A formless creature with red eyes who can possess a man’s body and do terrible things in the dark.”

  “Ah,” Halsey said, trying
to sound wise. “Superstition. The Highlands are full of it.”

  “Superstition can teach us much,” Captain Ellis said, the look in his dark eyes a mixture of amusement and wariness. “Lady Mary, I agree with the colonel. You need to be inside.”

  He watched her expectantly. So did her father, Halsey, and the colonel. They wanted her out of sight, where she wouldn’t be a bother—at least, the colonel and Halsey did. “Yes, all right,” Mary said woodenly.

  She took Captain Ellis’s arm and allowed him to escort her to the small tent that had been prepared for her. As they went, Mary scanned the darkness around her.

  Malcolm was out there. She could sense him. Somewhere in the mist he waited, biding his time, leading the soldiers a merry dance.

  When he was ready, he’d do what he’d come to do. Mary had no doubt about that.

  By morning, Malcolm had not shown himself. As the sun rose, and the mists faded, the soldiers discovered that all but two of their horses had been cut free and were gone. The only beasts remaining were those that Mary and her father had ridden.

  Wheeler, who Mary had gathered was on most days an even-tempered man, had reached the end of his tether.

  “I want every man in this camp out there hunting him! Not a one of us leaves until he’s found.”

  Mary stepped in front of Colonel Wheeler as he turned to shout more orders. “I beg your pardon, sir.”

  Wheeler stopped, his round face reddening as he looked down at her. His wig was soiled with the night’s search—his batman, whose task would be to keep it clean, was no doubt out searching with the others.

  Mary watched the colonel rein in his temper with effort. “Don’t worry, lass,” he said, his voice scratchy from shouting. “I’ll keep ye safe. Now that it’s light, we’ll find this so-called brollachan or chase him off.”

  He spoke impatiently, wanting her to be gone. Mary stood her ground. “You don’t understand, Colonel. He wants me. Let him have me, and he’ll leave the rest of you alone.”

  Wheeler pulled his attention from the camp and his harried men to regard her sharply. The blue eyes that looked into Mary’s were shrewd, those of a man who’d risen through the ranks by his abilities, not his money or family. A man who knew exactly where he stood in life, and what he’d do to advance still further.

  “You’re a brave young lady,” Wheeler said after a time. “T’ come out here and face me alone and make that sort of offer. I have a daughter about your age, and I’d like t’ think she’d be as brave as you, were she in your circumstances. But because of that daughter, I’ll not turn ye over to a dangerous man like that. Highlanders think it’s a fine thing t’ steal women, but I’ll have nowt of it.” Wheeler gave her a nod, regarding her with more respect. “It’s good of you, lass, but ye mun not worry. We’ll be in Inverness by tonight, and you’ll be safe from this monster. I give ye me promise.”

  Mary swallowed, her throat sore from smoke, cold, and fear. Wheeler did not understand what Malcolm was capable of, and Mary was coming to realize she hadn’t understood him either. She remembered the night she’d first seen Mal, when she’d thought of him as a wolf among sheep. A dangerous man, no matter that he wore civilized clothes.

  Wheeler was not going to budge. He’d protect Mary from the Highlander she loved, no matter what she wished. Mary could only return to her tent, her heart beating faster, the rain thoroughly chilling her.

  The men packed up the camp and set off along the road, everyone on foot now except Mary and her father. The baggage horses were gone, so supplies had to be abandoned, the soldiers carrying what they could.

  Because of the slower pace; the steadily falling, freezing rain, which turned to ice upon the ground; and Wheeler expecting his troops to bring him Malcolm at every turn, they were nowhere near Inverness by nightfall.

  Chapter 28

  Colonel Wheeler’s men came upon a cluster of crofters’ cottages, most abandoned, set back from the road, as darkness settled over the empty glen. Colonel Wheeler took over the cottages, and housed his soldiers there for the night.

  Mary found herself alone in a tiny, one-roomed house made of crookedly piled stone with wide cracks where mortar should be, shivering in the borrowed Mackenzie plaid and the blankets the colonel’s batman had brought her. She made herself eat the food she’d been given, cooked by Wheeler’s chef from the meager supplies they’d managed to salvage. The meal made Mary feel a bit guilty, because she knew most of the men were getting by on nothing but soldiers’ rations.

  She also knew she needed to eat and keep up her strength. If Malcolm managed to slip in and take her away, Mary being hungry or ill would slow their escape.

  She finished the small meal and settled down for the night on a hard cot that took up most of the room.

  Mary didn’t sleep. Malcolm was out there, and it was only a matter of time before he struck.

  As the night wore on, all was quiet. Mary heard the tramp of the men as they circled the cottages, alert and on the lookout. One soldier stood guard at her door—she could see his red coat through the gaps in the boards, shifting as the man grew bored and tired.

  It was well after midnight by her reckoning, when a rustle in the corner of the tiny room made Mary sit up. She’d already seen a rat scuttling away when her father walked her to this cottage and bade her good night—rats and other small animals loved to nest in houses, abandoned or otherwise.

  The rustle came again. Mary peered hard into the corner . . .

  . . . And saw a brollachan. It rose from the stones on the floor, a shapeless being, its red eyes piercing the gloom.

  Mary didn’t believe in ghosts, but she was up off the bed, grabbing the plaid as she raced for the door.

  The brollachan caught her. A hard arm closed around her body, and a rough hand clamped over her mouth as Mary was dragged unceremoniously back from the door, her feet catching on the stone floor as she tried to scramble away.

  The ground seemed to open out from under her, and Mary plunged downward, unable to shout, even to breathe.

  She landed on top of the brollachan, which grunted a very Scottish-sounding oof!

  “Malcolm!” Mary cried in a fierce whisper.

  She could see nothing in the dark but the gleam of his eyes, but she could smell him. Peat, mud, muck, and blood.

  Mary let out a sob of relief and collapsed onto Malcolm, flinging her arms around his neck. He held her in the gloom, his embrace strong, his body cradling her.

  They stayed like this for a time, then Malcolm gently pushed Mary to her feet and scrambled up beside her. “You all right, lass? That was quite a fall.”

  “Blast it all, Malcolm,” Mary said as Malcolm brushed himself off. He was whole and real, warm and solid in the dark. “You scared the wits out of me!”

  “Aye, I’m prone t’ do that.” Mal’s teeth gleamed in the darkness with his lopsided smile. He took her hand. “Time t’ go, love.”

  “Go where?” Mary clung to his hand, her boots slipping on the damp ground. “What is this place?”

  “’Tis where the whisky is made, of course.” Mal’s breath was warm as he leaned close. “Ye don’t think the crofters do it where the excise men can find it, do ye? This way.”

  He tugged her with him along the stony floor. Mary was grateful she’d worn her gown and even her boots to bed as she stumbled along behind him, not daring to let go of Mal’s steadying hand.

  The tunnel was warmer than the house above it, no wind blowing through cracks under the earth. After a time, Mary heard rushing water, a sound that grew louder with every step. Finally, after what seemed a long time of walking, Malcolm guided her up a rickety set of wooden stairs and through a door that led outside into the cold.

  Mary found herself on the bank of a hurrying stream. Hills rose on either side of the stream, and no cottage was in sight, not even lights of any in the distance. Mist gathered above the water in thick patches, and wind pushed the stream’s spray at her. Mary shivered, the cold strong.
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  “Not long now, love,” Mal said over the water’s rush. “I’ll have ye warm soon.”

  He turned and led her by the hand along the stream, into the chill of the mist. Mary couldn’t see him, though he was but a step ahead of her. Mal had become the brollachan again, a shapeless bulk against the shadows.

  Mary stumbled along, her feet numb, Malcolm’s hand a lifeline. There was no sound of pursuit—no sound at all except the stream clattering over rocks below.

  “How did you know I’d be in that cottage?” she asked when she had the breath. “And that there was a tunnel underneath it?”

  “The tunnels are under all the cottages,” Mal answered readily. “I knew which you were in because it was the only one with a guard at the door. I knew the Yorkshireman colonel would stop ye at those cottages, because it was as far as ye could go in one day without the horses.”

  Which was why he’d rid the colonel of his beasts. “You herded them there?” Mary asked in surprise.

  “That I did. Best place to steal ye, before ye were locked into a house or an army fort at Inverness.”

  Mary thought about this as she picked her way along behind him, balancing on the slippery bank. Mal had used his knowledge of the land against those who’d invaded it. Here was the ruthless barbarian she’d always known him to be, in spite of his university education, furniture and art from Paris, and interest in fine food and drink. Mal was the sort of Highlander the English feared, one who’d throw off civilization, rise up, and come plunging down upon them.

  “Malcolm,” Mary said after a time. “What did you do with the horses?”

  “Hmm?” Mal halted, sending Mary into him, his body warm and hard in the cold. “I cut them free. Don’t worry, lass. Horses know their way home. I wager the colonel and his men will return to barracks to find them already in the stables. Well, those that don’t get stolen along the way.”

  “What I mean is, did you save one for yourself?”

  “No.”

  Mary squeezed his hand, her feet aching. “I see. Whyever not?”