Mal squeezed her hand in return. “Because the moment a soldier sees a grubby Highlander riding along on a British warhorse, I’ll be shot as a Jacobite. We’ll find a ride soon enough.”
With that last statement, Malcolm pulled her along. He eased his speed a little, but he didn’t stop, tramping on over the Highlands, heading who knew where. Mary hung on to his hand, far more contented to be in the icy cold with Mal than in Colonel Wheeler’s comfortable tent, and let Malcolm take her into the night.
Malcolm was cold, exhausted, and furiously angry, but at the same time, he rejoiced. He had Mary, she was free, and she was safe.
As safe, that is, as she could be rushing about the Highlands in the middle of the night, while British soldiers roamed the glens. Mal needed to get her indoors, warm, out of the clinging mists that seeped under cloth to wet their skin.
He led Mary at the quickest pace he could down the hidden trails that followed the twists and turns of the stream. He’d been walking these paths since he’d been a child, at first with his brothers, then on his own. Highlanders knew the safe ways—had known for generations. The roads forced upon them by the English hadn’t changed that.
After an hour or so of steady trudging, Malcolm turned away from the stream and made his way down into a hollow between hills. A line of cottages nestled here, hidden from all roads and even from the sight of anyone on the hilltop above. If a man didn’t know the houses were here, he’d pass them altogether, oblivious.
A light gleamed once then went out. Mal led Mary to where the light had been, a door in a dark wall opened, and they ducked inside, out of the wind.
The house was a one-roomed rectangle, much like the croft in which Mal had found Mary, but the walls were solid, the cracks well plastered with mud and mortar. A fire smoldered on the hearth, not emitting much light, but filling the tiny house with fragrant warmth.
“All right, Rabbie?” Malcolm asked.
Rabbie, the whisky smuggler they’d met on the road to Kilmorgan, nodded. “All right, me lord. This here is me missus.”
A woman bundled in a thick dress and plaid nodded to them as she came out of the darkness near the fireplace. She said nothing at all, but passed two steaming mugs to Rabbie, who thrust them both at Malcolm.
“This is my missus,” Mal said as he handed one mug to Mary. He wasn’t sure what beverage Rabbie’s wife had given them, but it was hot—all that mattered.
Mary, who’d been looking around in wonder, gave Rabbie and his wife a gracious nod, as though they were the aristo friends who’d invited her to their drawing room. “Thank you for your hospitality,” she said.
Her voice shook with fear and weariness, but she sounded as gracious as a queen. More so, Mal reflected. He’d met a few who were sneering harpies.
Mary lifted the cup Mal had given her and sipped. She made a face but sipped again.
Mal drank from his mug, finding coffee that tasted as though it had been boiled with the same grounds for three or four days.
Rabbie peered nervously behind Mal, though the door was shut and now bolted. “Soldiers ain’t going to pour down here on us, are they?”
“Not tonight,” Mal said. “Tomorrow we’ll be gone, I promise ye. My lass just needs to rest for a time. She can’t walk all night.”
Rabbie didn’t respond, which meant he was reassured. Men like Rabbie didn’t waste breath on small pleasantries.
Rabbie waited until they finished the coffee, then took the mugs from them and passed them back to his wife. He snatched up a dark lantern, lit the candle inside, adjusted the metal sides that would blot out the light from watchers, and motioned them to the door.
He led them back out into the cold. Rabbie’s wife had not said one word the entire time they’d been in the house, and she said nothing now, not even a good-night.
Rabbie took Mal and Mary along a narrow path that ran behind the house and down a short hill to an even tinier house. This cottage too had one room and was built of the same dark stone as Rabbie’s, its roof thatched.
A fire smoldered on a raised stone hearth in the middle of the room, the smoke rising to cracks in the roof. The sharp smell of peat fire coated the room but wasn’t unpleasant—the cracks drew the smoke as well as any enclosed chimney. Blankets and plaids had been piled on one side of the little room as a makeshift bed. Nothing else was inside.
“Abandoned,” Rabbie said, by way of explaining why it was empty and available. “Half of ’em are—folk have gone off to the cities or joined up with the Jacobite army. Me son nipped down here and built a fire while we nattered. He’ll be moving in here with his wife once you’re gone.”
“Ye’ve been kind, Rabbie,” Malcolm said sincerely. He shook Rabbie’s hand, pressing a coin into it at the same time.
“Thank ye, sir. Good night.”
Rabbie made a quick retreat, closing the door behind him. He’d left the lantern, which cast an eerie glow over the dark stones where Rabbie had set it down. Mal slid the wooden bolt across the door, fitting it into the curved wooden strap that would bar any intruders.
He turned around again, and Mary’s warm body slammed into him.
Mal staggered, but steadied himself by dragging Mary tightly against him as her arms came around him. They held each other hard, and Malcolm buried his face in the curve of her neck. She was alive, well, and with him.
“Malcolm.” She was crying, his brave Mary.
“Hush, sweet. I’ve come to take care of ye.”
Mary touched his face. “I was so afraid for you. I thought they’d find you—the colonel gave his men orders to shoot you on sight.”
“They never had a chance, love.” Malcolm brushed a kiss to her lips, then another. “The English soldiers stumble around in the dark, while I flit away like a will-o’-the-wisp. They walked right past me several times. Close enough for me to smell.”
Mary gave him her best severe look. “They had Highlanders with them as well, who presumably could track a will-o’-the-wisp. You took a great risk.”
Mal shook his head. “No one knows the land as I do, my Mary. And I’d risk anything for you.”
He bent to her lips again, the softness of her easing him. He’d been so long in the dark and cold. Mary was warmth and light.
When they eased apart, Mary rested her head on his chest. “I am very angry at you,” she said. “However, for the moment, I do not remember why.”
“Something besides me risking me neck to drive King Geordie’s soldiers mad?”
Mary nodded against him. “It will come to me. Though not, I think, right now.”
“Well, that’s a mercy.” Mal drew her closer. His knees were shaking now that two days of no sleep were catching up to him, but he didn’t want to admit it. He had other things on his mind.
Mary raised her head. “Gracious, you’re swaying like a sapling in wind. Come and lie down.”
Malcolm fell down. He landed on the blankets—which took up one half of the small room—and pulled Mary with him. She landed on him with a crush of feminine body.
“You shouldn’t have come after me,” Mary was saying. “I’d have been all right. You had no need to single-handedly fight an entire army camp to get to me. I planned to go home with my father then make arrangements to return to Scotland and find you.”
Malcolm wrapped himself around her and rolled over with her until he lay on top of Mary, she a warm cushion beneath him. Mary’s cheeks were pink from her scolding, her eyes sparkling in the dim light. Mal brushed a loose lock of golden hair from her face.
“Then I would have followed you home, lass. I’d have climbed in your window and spirited you away. I couldn’t have taken the chance that your father would lock you up or force you to marry someone else. I’m not waiting forever for you.”
“Frogs and toadstools, Malcolm.” Mary glared at him, though her voice was weak with tiredness. “You did it because you enjoyed tormenting the soldiers. But you sealed your fate. They have you down as a traitor now.�
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A slice of anger broke through Malcolm’s immediate happiness. “No, they sealed it when they burned out Kilmorgan Castle and nearly killed my father. They sealed it when they took you away from me. They forged into my lands, stole my lass, and tried to break us. I’ll not meekly submit to a bloody lot of British soldiers and let them get away with taking everything we have. If that makes me a traitor, then I am. Prince Charlie is a fool, but the English are tyrannical bastards sent to make our life a misery. They went too far with me, Mary. And so—I’ll be their brollachan. Aye, I heard what they called me. They need to fear what lies in the dark.”
Mary blinked back tears as the rage surged through him. She stared at him in shock, but when she touched his cheek, her fingertips were gentle. “Mal, I’m so sorry.”
Malcolm growled low in his throat. The tenderness of her touch broke through the anger flaring through him like a bright flame, bringing him once more to the present. He had Mary with him, away from the soldiers, back in his arms. His heart beat hard with his need, his love.
Mary was in the simple clothes she’d liked to wear at the castle, the plaid she’d been wrapped in now part of their bed covers. Malcolm unfastened her bodice one hook at a time, spreading the cloth. He licked her breasts where they swelled over the corset, and slid his fingers beneath her to unlace it.
Mary brought her hands up, but her push against him lacked strength. “You need to sleep, Mal. You’re half-dead.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Malcolm nuzzled her as he tugged the corset’s laces free. “I can’t keep away from ye. I crave ye, lass, and I’ll never sleep until I have ye.”
The corset came away. Mary made an intoxicating little sound as Malcolm licked between her breasts, then closed his mouth over her. Another sound as he began to suckle, her body moving as though he were already inside her.
Mary started to laugh. “Mal, you’re filthy. Covered in mud.”
“I know.” More kissing, licking. “And ye taste so sweet. After we’re done, ye can bathe me. Ye already ken how.”
Mary’s laughter shook her agreeably. “I love you, Malcolm Mackenzie.”
Malcolm stopped. He carefully lifted his head and stared down at her, stunned. Mary lay under him, her eyes heavy with need and exhaustion, her little smile piercing his heart.
Mal had never thought himself lovable. He’d been told over and over, all his life, that he was anything but that. Charming, yes—people liked to say he was charming. He was well liked by some, he knew, but no one had ever said the words love and Malcolm in the same breath.
That this woman, the beauty Mal had coveted from the moment he’d seen her, spoke the words, penetrated his senses and splintered him.
He wasn’t quite certain after that how he got both of them unclothed, but before the warmth of her words died away, he gathered Mary into his arms and slid himself inside her.
Chapter 29
Home. I’ve found home.
Malcolm groaned as Mary closed around him. In the darkness, there was only her. Firelight outlined her face, her body held his, and her warmth surrounded him.
She tasted of salt and fire, and everything Mal needed. He kissed her lips, gently suckling each one, licking inside her mouth. Mal held her wrists to the makeshift bed, the heat of her making him wild. Mary lifted to meet him, her cries breaking the darkness.
The fact that controlled, ever-practical Mary forgot to be quiet and sedate in his arms made Malcolm’s excitement spike. He came down to her, hot skin to hot skin. Her breasts were tight against his chest, her nails on his back a dark bite amid a wash of pleasure.
Inside this room, the true Malcolm emerged. Not the charmer, or the man with the burning need to make sure everyone in his life was safe. The selfish being that was Malcolm took over. He wanted this woman, wanted her with mindless passion, would do anything, fight anyone to make sure she was his.
“You’re fire, Mary,” he murmured. “Burning so bright, I can barely see.” His words drifted to incoherence, but his thoughts went on.
Ye complete me. I’ll never be whole again if ye aren’t beside me, my brave, beautiful Mary.
Mary dropped away from his kiss to let out another loud cry as her sweet heat flowed over him. Ye pretend to be so cool, but with me, you’re my passionate, beautiful lass.
A few seconds later, and Malcolm came apart, but he kept thrusting, the two of them needing to hold each other, hands clutching as though they’d never let go. Mary was sobbing by the time Malcolm came down on her, dark lassitude picking him up and whirling him away.
He said, “Shh, don’t cry, my Mary,” and tried to brush away a tear.
The words were a mumble, his hand didn’t work, and he crashed onto her. Mary caressed his hair, her lips featherlight on his face.
“It’s all right, Malcolm. Sleep. I’ve got you.”
Malcolm fell into oblivion.
Mary was finishing the bowl of porridge Rabbie’s wife had brought her when Malcolm finally awoke. She found it odd to eat the porridge plain without fruit or anything else to sweeten it, but she knew this was all Rabbie had.
Malcolm blinked in the small amount of light that came through the oil-paper window next to the door. He’d used plaids to cover them both, and now they slid from his torso, one hip emerging from the folds. His amber eyes peered at her through the dirt on his face.
When he saw her demurely eating porridge, his slow smile blossomed. “Ye’re real. Not a dream.”
“No, indeed.” Mary licked the last of the oats from her spoon. As strange as the meal was, it filled her belly and was quite satisfying. “I have remembered now why I was angry with you.”
The smile dimmed. “Aye? Why’s that?”
Mary carefully set her bowl on the floor and rose to her feet. She clenched her fists but faced him calmly, head high. “I have heard that you paid Lord Halsey to not marry me. Is this so?”
Malcolm sat up, crossing his legs, the plaid stretching over his thighs. “I sent his man of business a letter telling him t’ tear up the contracts, and that my man of business would forward the sum of your dowry to him. I did it t’ keep that bastard Halsey from hounding ye the rest of your life, and from hounding your father. It’s a small price to pay to make Halsey stay the hell away from you and your family.” His scowl had returned, the affable Mal gone.
“Halsey ought to honor my choice,” Mary said crisply, “and sever the agreements without penalty.” She knew, though, even as she spoke, that Halsey would never do so. His pride would put Mary in thrall to him for the rest of her life.
Mal gave her an incredulous look. “You’re a dreamer, you are. Halsey’s no gentleman—I don’t care that he’s a peer. He understands money and power, nothing else. I’d rather give him nothing, and to hell with him, but I’m realistic. He’d never stop unless he saw the price of ye. This way, he’d have to work hard to make a case if he tried to bring your da to court.”
“It hardly matters now.” Mary stretched her fingers. “You’ve sabotaged an army camp and kidnapped an earl’s daughter. I’m certain Halsey will laugh as they drag you off to prison, and even harder when you’re on the gallows.”
Mary’s words brought the image to her strongly. Mal in a linen shirt and dark breeches—they’d never let him wear his plaids, a symbol of pride—as he was hoisted aloft from the wooden floor of the gallows, his face covered with a hood, his hands bound behind him. His strong legs would kick as the air left him, the rope crushing his throat. He’d kick and dance until he dropped, breathless and limp, his body swaying gently. Dead. The affable, slant-smiled Malcolm gone, never to give her his hot, sideways glance again.
Mary’s strength gave out, and she collapsed. She landed on the pile of bedding with him, and he steadied her with an arm around her. He was alive for now, and here.
“What are we going to do, Malcolm?” Mary asked in a rush.
Mal rubbed his chin, as calm as though discussing what amusement to take in that afternoon. “Not sure
yet. We have several choices that I can see.”
“Do we?” Mary asked, giving him a skeptical look. “What are those?”
Mal touched each finger as he listed them, continuing to be maddeningly calm. “We return to Kilmorgan and make certain my da’s all right, then we go north and I put you on a ship bound for France. Or, we find Will and help him make sure the English don’t chase Prince Charlie back to Scotland to plague us. Or, we stay here with Rabbie, help him make whisky and sneak it south. I like the first one best, personally.”
“I don’t.” Mary sat cross-legged, as he did, settling her skirts on her knees. She hadn’t done so since she was a girl. “We ought to see that your father is all right, then both go to France. We take your father with us and keep him safe.”
Malcolm studied a pinched fold of his plaid. “Dad will never leave Kilmorgan. I can’t abandon him there on his own to the mercy of English soldiers. But you can be out of this, away from Halsey, away from Yorkshire commanders who drag ye off where ye don’t want to go. Ye wait in Paris for me t’ come when the Jacobite cause is either won or lost. Ye’ll be with your sister, and all.”
His tone was so reasonable that Mary glared at him. “Sit by myself worrying to death whether you’re alive or dead, or whether you’ve done some bloody fool thing to get yourself arrested or killed? What do you expect me to do all day while I’m fretting—embroider?”
“Mary, these are dangerous times.” Mal looked up at her, a sternness in his eyes she’d never seen before. “They’d be dangerous for you even in Lincolnshire, even in London. The Lord only knows where Charles will take his army and what he’ll do to those in his way. The English won’t rise and join him—they’ve no wish t’ go starry-eyed after ancient princes. King Geordie will send a powerful force to chase him and crush all his Highlanders. I don’t want you caught in the middle of that.”
Mary jammed her arms across her chest, cold but angry. “Well, we should have thought of that before we decided to be illicit lovers and run away together. You should never have followed me upstairs in Lord Bancroft’s house. I’d still be in Edinburgh, whiling away my time until the uprising was over.” Not hidden away in a crumbling stone cottage, loving you and breaking my heart.
The Stolen Mackenzie Bride Page 24