Off to her left, Archie reached the relative safety of the trees along the burn without another shot being fired. And there was no other sound but the autumn wind screaming atop the heather. Nothing.
She ought to move, most likely—back toward the treeline with the others now that the moment of crisis seemed to have passed.
Greer took her courage in hand—along with her gun, holding the cocked and loaded fowling piece at the ready—and began to stealthily ascend the moorside in the opposite direction of the rest of the party—toward Glas Maol, rather than away from it. Because if she did not find out who was stalking the glens and the people she loved now, she might never understand what had happened to Ewan.
Upward she crept, continuously scanning the ridge above, while also keeping a wary eye out for better cover should she find she had made a monumental mistake.
So intent was she on the ridge above that she paid scant attention to what was happening behind until someone was upon her, slamming into her the heather.
“Get down, lass.”
She half expected it to be Archie Carrington, come back to make her take part in the exodus. But it was not. It was Ewan—her darling, beloved, lost Ewan—looking like God’s revenge against murder.
His hard, whipstrong body slammed into hers, carrying her to the ground beneath him, knocking the wind from her lungs. “For God’s sake, lass, are ye mad? Stay down.” His large work-roughened hand covered the top of her head, shielding her, while the rest—all fourteen-odd, uncompromising stone of him—pressed her down into the humid earth.
It was the most wonderful thing she had ever felt.
He had come back to her.
They were all tangled together—his leg had insinuated itself between her rucked up wool skirts, and the hard ridge of his knee pushed her quilted petticoats against the inside of her thigh. His arms surrounded her, both pinning her against the ground and pulling her into him. He curved his long body around her, caging her with his strength. “Are you hit, lass?”
“Nay.” She wasn’t hit by a ball, but by the overwhelming mixture of relief and gladness to see him.
She tucked in her elbows and turned, rolling beneath him so she could exercise the fear and want and sheer, unmitigated joy that had brought him back to her, if only for this moment. A moment she was not going to waste, no matter if he never remembered her.
She pulled his mouth down to her and kissed him.
She kissed him with all the love and relief and hurt and grief and breathless wonder that she could channel into the bliss of her lips on his. She kissed him because he was alive and so was she, and they were together. She kissed him because she could.
“Aye, lass.” He lifted his head enough to smile down at her. “I’m that glad to see you in one piece, too. But we’d best get you to better cover.”
“The bracken,” she managed. “Along that little burn to the left.”
She had no time to catch her breath before he said, “No time like the present,” and sprang to his feet. Greer managed to grab her fowling piece before he took her other in a hard hold and pulled her at a breakneck pace for an outcropping of rock alongside the burn where the bracken of fern grew thick and sheltering.
She lost her hat somewhere along the way, and they were both panting from the exertion and the frantic, sheer terror and excitement of the moment, but she had never been so happy in her entire life. She threw herself into his arms, pressing herself against the warm surety of his body. He was alive and so was she, and it was absolutely lovely.
“Aye, lass, I’ve got you.” She felt his kiss against her hair. “I’ll not let any harm come to you.”
“Not me.” She laughed to keep from crying against the warm leather of his jerkin. “I’ve been that worried about you.”
“I’m all to rights, lass,” he assured her. “We’re safe enough here for a bit.”
She buried her face against the warm crook of his neck and fisted up the linen of his shirtfront to hold him close, and squeezing her eyes shut so the tears that she had held back might not spill down her cheeks.
“What’s this?” he murmured as he tipped her chin up so her lips could meet his. He kissed her with such heat and tenderness that she was left in no doubt of his feelings about her. Just as she was in no doubt of her feelings for him. There was so much to say, so many questions to ask, she hardly knew where to begin.
She couldn’t stop looking at him—it was as if she were seeing him for the first time. There was something about knowing he was her Ewan again, that warranted a longer, more intimate look than she had ever taken at her lost friend in the bothy. Her eyes pored over each feature, from his kind green eyes to his crooked, broken nose, memorizing every facet of his face, so she could never forget, never doubt that he was her Ewan again. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to have you back.”
“Aye, I’m back, lass.” He kissed away her tears. “And I aim to stay.”
“Oh, Ewan, that is the best news I have heard in a very, very long time.”
“Aye, lass. It is.” And because he was himself again, he pulled her close and kissed her.
He kissed her with such fierce possession and passion that all the grief and frustration of the long, lonely, wasted weeks disappeared. He kissed her as if she was what he had been searching for through the fog of memory. As if she was all he wanted.
And when he was done, and they were both gasping, his attention went back to the danger lurking above. “I’m going to try and circle around him along the shoulder of the ridge. You stay here.”
“I will not! And neither should you.” She clutched at his arm, her alarm a cold fist gripping her chest. “What I mean is that you should stay put as well. I’ve lost you once, I don’t want to risk losing you again.”
“You’ll not lose me, lass, for I’ve a thick skull and a thicker hide. But I won’t sit here while he keeps shooting at you until he hits you.” He turned her hand and placed a tender kiss in her open palm. “Nay, lass, I’ll not allow that.”
“But where were you hiding? How long were you there? Do you think anyone else saw you?” With any luck one of his friends, Archie or Alasdair, had seen him and were even now spreading the word of his return.
“I was worried about you,” he admitted. “I thought you might come to the bothy and find me gone, but then I saw you come back over Glas Maol, and the two men following you—”
“Following me? Who?”
“Gow—I first saw him with Dewar, when they tried to track me up from the village yesterday. And another man I didn’t recognize”
“Malcolm Cameron?” All the dreadful fear and apprehension returned as swift as a kick. “I thought they were looking for you—but you think they were following me?”
“Aye, I know it—I watched them double-back toward Glas Maol. I reckon they might still be up there, but the light’s falling…”
The daylight was falling fast as a damp enveloping mist settled in, blown up the glen by the cold east wind. She shivered, despite the comfortable enveloping warmth of his arms.
“Aye.” He lifted his head to check the weather. “We’ve to get off the moor, and to shelter.”
“Not before we find out for sure who was up there,” she insisted, more confident in their abilities as a team than she had been alone. “Probably best if we circle around from opposite directions.” It was a practical logical plan.
“You’re going to insist, aren’t you?”
“Aye.”
“How’s your deer stalking technique?”
“Ingrained,” she answered.
“Ye’ll do, lass.” He patted her shoulder in reassurance, before he changed his mind and kissed her. It was no more than a quick buss on her lips, but it was warm and firm and told her everything that he did not say—that she was important to him, and that he would protect her with all that he was. “Ready, then? Is your powder dry?”
“As dry as it can be.” She checked the covered pan of her fowling piece a
nd took a deep breath before she nodded.
“We’ll go together. Follow behind me. Slow and low,” he said low into her ear. “Make haste slowly.”
They were very nearly the most beautiful words she had ever heard. Her Ewan was back, and at that moment, crawling carefully over her like a great tortoise, until there was nothing for her to do but watch the soles of his feet disappear into the bracken.
She took his words to heart, silently repeating them in her head as she inched forward on hands and knees and elbows and toes, moving in his path up the moorside toward the high rock outcropping near the crest of Glas Maol as best she could manage without being seen.
But once he reached the top, she found their caution had been unnecessary—whoever had been there before had already fled. Ewan went ahead, and now stood alone between the rocks, staring at something he had found.
“Ewan,” she called to let him know it was she. “What is it?”
“He used a Jäger rifle.” He scowled down at a long gun left among a litter of papers. “My Jäger flintlock rifle—this is my gun.”
“What do you mean?” She was confused. “Did you lose it, or did they steal it from the bothy?”
“No. I never had it in the bothy. I bought it in Hanover when I traveled there, a long time ago. I can see the gunsmith’s shop as clear as day.” He squeezed his eyes shut, as if he could see more. “Alasdair was with me, approving the purchase.”
“He was there, searching for you, today. Did you see him?” She hoped either Alasdair, Quince, or Archie had seen Ewan with her—and would tell Mama to keep her from worrying overmuch.
“Was he there? Hell mend me. I never noticed him—my eyes were all for you.” He bent down to pick up the gun, running his fingers over the engraved steel of the lock mechanism. “The pan is cold. He left some time ago.” He studied the ground and picked up a wee fleck of thin paper. “His powder twists.” He searched the area and found two larger twists of paper that had held the charges of powder. “He was well prepared to kill you.”
His tone was so grim and bitter and full of fury, she hastened to correct him. “I don’t think so. The first shot was at my father. I was well away on the flank.” She was sure of it—two shots to the center of the line. “But if this is your gun, where did it come from?”
“Crieff.” He took her by the hand. “Castle Crieff. I’m Crieff. I’m from there. That is my home.”
“Yes,” she breathed, happy for his revelation. Happy for them both. “Then you remember?”
“Not all, but most.” He looked down at the gun in his hand. “I remember this. I remember that I used this rifle for deerstalking on these hills, in these glens. I remember where it was stored in the gunroom at Crieff, under lock and key that only the steward, the keeper, or I had. But someone else has that key now, and they brought the gun here from Crieff.” His clear gaze sought hers. “The men who followed you here.”
“Malcolm Cameron. The man who is now Duke of Crieff. Your cousin.” Thoughts were racing through her head tumbling one over the other in their haste to reach her brain.
Accidents happen all the time.
“My cousin tried to kill you?”
“Nay. It wasn’t meant for me.” Greer was sure of it. “He shot at Papa.” But what could Malcolm Cameron hope to accomplish by shooting her father? What could he hope to gain?
The realization hit her with all the force of a shot—her.
Her hand in marriage. Her dowry. Her un-entailed estate.
Without a protective, canny father to object to his debts, Malcolm Cameron must have hoped to frighten her into accepting him. What he could not accomplish by so cleverly appealing to her vanities and ambitions, he had tried to gain by malice.
Aye, there was malice in these glens. And it definitely came from Crieff.
Lady Greer Douglas
Kirdsay Castle
Orkney, Northern Isles
1 June, 1790
Dear Lady Greer,
It seems we have, like two ships in the night, passed each other unseen. I am happy that you find delight in your travels and will hope with all my heart that you have safe and smooth passage to the Northern Isles. Please convey my deepest condolences to your lady mother on her loss.
Thinking of the loss of your grandmother, I am happy to be at Crieff with my grandfather, who, thankfully, continues in excellent health despite his advanced age, which makes me more anxious than ever to use my remaining time at university wisely, and to Crieff’s best advantage.
And speaking of vantages, I made the climb up the glen to the crest of Glas Maol, and I fancy that I found something of yours there—a wee GD scratched into the top of the rock. It was deep enough to give me the impression that you have dug it out during years and years of successive visits, each time making another cut. I hope you will be happy that I have done the same and started my own initials next to yours. If you are not happy, I will apologize for the impulse, but it is already done—etched in stone as it were—with no going back.
Pray enjoy your travel but come back and tell me what you think of my work. And give me at least one of the kisses you have saved.
Your devoted friend, EC
Lady Greer Douglas
Kirdsay Castle
Orkney, Northern Isles
2 July, 1790
Dear Lady Greer,
We have made an impromptu visit to Amsterdam, as Rory was sent there by his father to purchase a painting. And as I could not see you at Dalshee, I went with him for the journey.
I have purchased something else for you that is more in keeping with our shared passion for agriculture. Within this pot is a special tulip bulb, Tulipa marjollettii, bred by a horticulturist friend who recommended it especially. It is said to have delicate, pale lemon-to-cream petals that are touched at the edges with rose. I thought you should like it to experiment in your glass houses at Dalshee.
Pray plant them in the autumn, as a November planting should yield a bloom by Easter, by which time I hope to be home to you for good.
Until then, I remain your devoted friend, EC
Chapter 22
Bloody hell, the lass was going to faint—her face went white with shock. He gathered her to him, wrapping his arms around her slight form. “Easy now.”
“No, I’m just shocked, is all,” she said, stating the obvious. “I knew he was in heavy debt, your cousin, and I knew he wanted to marry me, but I didn’t think he was so desperate as to attempt something so…so villainous and malicious! And to think I felt sorry for him, and even considered it.”
“Marry you?” The jealousy he thought he had quashed came roaring back. “My cousin?”
“Aye. But clearly he only wanted the money—my inheritance from Dalshee, which is not entailed.” She let out a sound of disgust that was only muted by the rising patter of the rain starting up in earnest.
That was emphatic enough to put paid to any residual jealousy. “Come, lass.” He took her by the hand. “Let’s get to shelter.” He turned north leading her along the ridge, away from Glas Maol. “I know a safe place.”
She came willingly, though she still clutched her fowling piece in her other hand as if it were a lifeline. She was wrung out, he could tell, but still had enough wherewithal to occasionally break into a jog to keep up with his long strides.
“I’m sorry,” he said more than once, but he did not slacken his pace—they would both be soaked to the skin by the time they reached the bothy tucked high above the glens at the edge of a mountain meadow. It would be cold there, but safe—he had hidden Cat Sìth in the lean-to stable at the back earlier in the day.
They reached the bothy just as the last glow of twilight faded from the purple hills, plunging them in deep, impenetrable grey. Gent greeted them with gyrations of delight, but soon left them be, and they entered the small snug space. Ewan put the flintlock rifle on the pegs over the door, and took her fowling piece, to set it carefully to the side of the door, a care to be taken up later bef
ore he went to light the fire.
But she was no delicate daisy, his lass—though she was soaked through and shaking with the chill, she came to her knees at the hearth beside him, feeding in the kindling until the blaze took hold and began to light and heat the gloom. “I know this place, though I haven’t been here in years. You were smart to come onto Dalshee lands.”
“I thought since you had invited me, you wouldn’t mind.” He stood and began to unbutton the leather jerkin. “Best to have the wet things off, aye, to set before the fire to dry.”
“Oh, aye,” she agreed. But her eyes swept around the sparsely furnished hut, taking in the straw pallet with one tartan blanket.
He handed her the tartan. “This should help.” And he turned his back to change himself out of his soaked shirt and breeches. But having her out of his sight somehow made his other senses stronger, and more acute. Because he could hear the soft sound of each button on her coat jacket popping free of the button holes. And the whoosh and shush of tweed over silk as she shook out her skirts and petticoats. And the stroke of her boot laces being undone, followed by the quiet fall of her soles against the floor.
His body stirred in rude appreciation, and he had to stab a hand into his short hair to chafe some better sense into his head, before he shucked his wet clothes. But when he bent down to pick up his sopping small clothes and leather breeks, he caught a glimpse of her clad only in her stays and shift and blouse, and he knew he had never seen anything lovelier.
By the time he had donned his only other pair of dry breeches and a linen shirt, she was seated in front of the fire, wrapped in the tartan with her bare feet poking out toward the heat of the fire. Far more like a ragamuffin than a lady. “I should have thought of filling the kettle before I took my boots off.”
MAD, BAD & DANGEROUS TO MARRY (The Highland Brides Book 4) Page 22