Highland Crown

by May McGoldrick

  “I am connected to no one,” she said too quickly. “I carry the banner for no political movement. I take no side.”

  “And still, you’re wanted for treason.”

  “I said nothing of treason.”

  “You mentioned the punishment for it.”

  Her hand moved involuntarily to her throat. Cinaed wondered if it was a reaction to the thought of the punishment for her crimes, or if she was recalling the bruise he’d caused.

  He wasn’t willing to let go of his questions. She was clearly in trouble. And he knew better than anyone that being this far north didn’t put her outside the reach of British law. Every ocean crossing, he’d been taking men and women that the government called rebels to Canada or America. He knew firsthand about their fight and the tenuous nature of their existence here.

  “Thistlewood, Davidson, Tidd, Ings, Brunt.” He watched the blood drain from her face.

  “I don’t know them.”

  The Cato Street conspirators. Last month in London, all these men had been hanged and beheaded.

  “Lord Kinloch.”

  She shook her head, her gaze refusing to meet his.

  Cinaed guessed she already knew the man’s other name. The Radical Laird. Since December, Kinloch had been in hiding for speaking out in favor of reform. The government was calling for his arrest.

  “Hardie and Baird and others from Glasgow are rotting in prison, waiting to be tried. They’ll surely hang. Why are they chasing you, Isabella?”

  “Please. Stop.”

  He heard the desperation in her tone. She was frightened. And from the bits and pieces of information he’d heard, she didn’t want to involve anyone else in her troubles.

  Cinaed saw her turn to the road. He couldn’t fault her hesitation, for she knew nothing about him. Nothing but the little he’d told her.

  “This here is Stoneyfield House,” Jean told them, gesturing ahead.

  Her announcement put an end to the conversation, and Isabella’s relief was palpable. She turned her gaze toward the inn.

  Cinaed knew this place. Or rather, knew of it. Not so much the inn, but the area. Looking toward the firth, he saw the stone cottages of fishing families clustered along the edge of a protected inlet, surrounded by boats and nets and drying racks for their catch. To the south, beyond the rambling stone inn, with its enclosed yard and stables, farm cottages studded the flat fields, cooking smoke rising above their thatched roofs.

  Not far beyond the bordering swath of forests, the moors of Culloden and Drummossie lay, the wooded hills rising above. The blood of the Highlands stained those fields.

  Just around a bend ahead, a small kirk sat with its squat steeple. Like so many village kirks, its bell had rung out for the Bonnie Prince, calling his Jacobite forces to gather. The sounds of pipes and war drums and cannon had grown silent—for now—but many would never forget the sacrifice of those who had died and the brutality of those who had carried the day.

  The cart rolled past the entrance to the inn yard and stopped.

  Cinaed inched off the cart and forced his fevered brain to focus on their destination. The inn sat on the coach road between Inverness and Nairn, and from the activity in the stable yard, it appeared to be doing good business. The door of the tavern was open, and a trio of farmers was going in.

  “Ye’ll not be coming in with us,” Jean told him. She climbed down and came around to where he was leaning against the cart. “Ye can just climb back up and go on yer way.”

  Isabella was slow to get down. She kept her face averted from the inn as she pulled up her bonnet.

  “Perhaps I should wait,” he said, unable to tear his attention away from the doctor. He was worried about her. “What if your nephew decided not to stay here?”

  “He told me he’d be here.” The old woman started to reach for their bags, but Isabella was already pulling them to the end of the cart. “Ye don’t need to worry. I’ve known the innkeeper for twenty-five years. He’ll look out for us.”

  As Cinaed raised his hand to help with the bags, pain flashed through his body, shooting from his chest up his neck and setting his head ablaze with blinding heat.

  “You’re injured,” Isabella said. Her face was still pale. “I can manage this.”

  Cinaed was satisfied that an understanding had passed between them. At least she knew he was aware of her predicament. She’d have his friendship if she chose to accept it, although in his current condition, he was more of a liability than a help.

  He was reluctant, but he let go of the bags. “I don’t feel comfortable leaving you two alone here.”

  Jean waved off his concern. “The innkeeper’ll give us a place where we’re out of the way until John returns.”

  “Let me at least bring your bags in for you,” he offered, wondering how the devil he’d accomplish it if she agreed. “I’d like to see you settled.”

  One grey eyebrow lifted. “Yer daft, man. Look at ye. Yer a bloody mess. Ye’ll draw more attention than if we hung a placard about our necks. Nay, ye can help us best by getting as far from here as that auld nag’ll take ye.”

  Isabella moved around the cart and, without asking his permission, pulled open Cinaed’s coat and waistcoat. She didn’t spare a single glance up into his face, focusing her attention on the bloody bandages covering the wound on his chest. She ran cool fingers over his burning skin. He wanted to reach up and take her hand. Cinaed was relieved to see a soft blush had crept back into her cheeks.

  “You’re bleeding again.” She frowned.

  “A few other things needed tending since you sewed me up.”

  As she pulled the bandage away from the wound and leaned closer to get a better look, Cinaed admired the dark lashes against her pale skin. She pressed the flesh beneath his collarbone and a shaft of red-hot iron ran him through. It was all he could do to remain still.

  “You’re feverish and bleeding,” she said, shaking her head. “You’ll need a physician wherever you’re going.”

  He needed her care. But he wouldn’t ask. Inverness was his destination. Searc Mackintosh was no doctor, but he could find him one.

  More important, he had unfinished business with Isabella. He tried to tell himself he’d already done enough in return for her saving his life, but he knew it was a lie. She put her own life in jeopardy for him. And after what he’d learned, she was in greater danger than he was right now.

  “Do you want me to come inside with you?” he asked, his voice low. The words were only intended for Isabella. “I can wait until you’ve met up with her nephew.”

  Her eyes met his, and for the length of a heartbeat he lost himself in their rich golden-brown color. He knew so little about her, but beneath that serious exterior, there was a courageous woman he wanted to spend more time with. He had things he wanted to say to win her trust. Her hand suddenly snapped back from his chest, and she stepped away. Unexpectedly, a blush bloomed on her cheeks.

  “Thank you. As Jean said, it’s best if you go. Some of the stitches have pulled. It’s critical you find help and a place where you can rest for a fortnight, at least. Your wound needs time to heal.”

  He took her hand before she could step away. “Thank you.” His voice sounded oddly husky, even to himself. “I mean it.”

  She waved him off and reached for her travel bag. “I hope you have good luck in your travels, Captain.”

  As Isabella slung her bag over her shoulder and crossed the road alongside the old woman, Cinaed drew a painful breath.

  “You’re a fool,” he murmured to himself, watching her walk away. “She’s a married woman. And she’s wanted by the British authorities. Both of those things mean trouble you don’t need.”

  Still, he was struck by a strange sense of loss. But how could he lose something that he could never have?

  CHAPTER 7

  And said I that my limbs were old,

  And said I that my blood was cold,

  And that my kindly fire was fled,

&
nbsp; And my poor withered heart was dead,

  And that I might not sing of love?—

  How could I, to the dearest theme

  That ever warmed a minstrel’s dream …

  —Sir Walter Scott, “Lay of the Last Minstrel,” Canto III

  Isabella was no stranger to offers of protection. Her father, her husband, Sir Walter Scott, John Gordon.

  And now Cinaed Mackintosh.

  So many men—friends and associates of her father—had felt the need to be protective of her. It had been the same in Edinburgh. All due to the uniqueness of her position as a female physician, she supposed. But no offer from a man had ever effected her like Cinaed’s words.

  Her involuntary response took Isabella completely by surprise. The flush in her face, the sudden tumultuous fluttering eruption of warmth inside. That was new to her.

  Before her marriage, she’d always found herself to be immune to men who made the conscious effort to attract her. She was fully aware of it when they tried to be charming, flirtatious, forward. The captain was attempting no such thing. He’d spoken the truth, as frightening as it was. And at the same time, he respected her need for privacy. Still, Cinaed Mackintosh had breached the wall that shielded her heart.

  She’d married Archibald for protection. For herself and her sister. And for a chance to pursue her medical career. But now he was gone. She’d always appreciate everything he’d done for her. Her response to Cinaed was a surprise, but she felt no guilt about it.

  “It’s not too late,” Jean said, breaking into her thoughts as they approached the inn’s tavern door. “I heard what he said. If ye want, we can put a blanket over his shoulder. Ye both can wait right by this door until I find out where my John is boarding.”

  “I can’t.” Her objection was too fast and sharp, and she drew a curious look from the older woman. Isabella fumbled to explain. “More than likely, half the village are coming after us from Duff Head. If he comes in with us, the cart will be out there on the coach road. They’ll know we’re here.”

  “We can move it into the stable yard.”

  “The captain is badly wounded. He’ll not be able to fight anyone.”

  “Well, mistress, I wouldn’t say the man’s good for naught, even with that wee hole in his chest.”

  Isabella entered the tavern room ahead of Jean. She didn’t want to discuss this any further. Of course she didn’t want to leave him alone in his condition. She wanted to take him by the hand and have him come in, for him and for her. And though she would not say it to Jean—she could barely admit it to herself—it bothered her to think he was about to disappear from her life forever.

  All these mad thoughts had to be the result of exhaustion. Isabella couldn’t remember the last time she’d slept. Jean, on the other hand, appeared to be holding up fairly well.

  The older woman stationed Isabella just inside the door with their travel bags, giving her curt directions. She was not to ask or answer any questions, under any circumstances. She was simply to wait until they found out the whereabouts of her nephew.

  Jean crossed the wide room to the innkeeper, who sat closeted behind a wide serving plank, puffing away at a pipe and reading a newspaper. Behind him, a half-dozen casks lined a wall, and above him, empty tankards for beer hung from hooks.

  Standing in the shadows, Isabella held her cloak over her arm and cast furtive glances about the room. Of the dozen or so tables, only two were occupied. The trio of farmers who’d entered before them had joined a fourth farmer. Cards sat on the table, but no game had yet commenced. By a window, two more men who appeared to be traveling merchants sat engaged in a serious conversation over an open ledger book. A waiter in a worn black vest and apron, with greying hair that stuck up like that of an angry hedgehog, leaned against a wall near a wide fireplace. He was critically eyeing a young potboy who was carrying a pitcher of beer over to the farmers. A small, smoky fire burned in the fireplace with a kettle hanging above the flames. The smell of roasting mutton and potatoes wafted in from some distant kitchen.

  The waiter reluctantly pushed away from the wall and slouched over to Isabella. In a somewhat peevish tone, he asked if she’d care for a table, but upon receiving a shake of her head for his trouble, the man stumped back to his original place.

  As they traveled up through the Highlands, John Gordon had taken care to choose which inns or houses they stopped at, which door they used to enter or exit, and where they ate. Always securing a private dining room for their use, he’d made sure the three women had been constantly shielded from public attention. Standing in the tavern now, Isabella felt exposed and vulnerable.

  One of the farmers was watching her, and she could catch occasional snatches of talk between the men. She understood Jean’s insistence on her remaining silent. The native Gaelic language of the Highlands had been outlawed seventy-five years earlier—after the Jacobites’ defeat by the British—but more than a few native words still peppered the conversation. In addition, the accents were rich, and the way they pronounced words was very different from the way she spoke. She’d be singled out as an outsider the moment she opened her mouth. And she could already tell that Duff Head wasn’t alone in its dislike of strangers. The longer she stood waiting by the door, the more hostile the looks.

  Isabella was relieved when Jean shuffled back to her. The look of disgust she fired over her shoulder signaled her dissatisfaction with whatever answer she’d received.

  “Arrive without welcome. Leave without farewell,” Jean spat disdainfully. “That’s the way of it with this owner.”

  Leave without farewell. Isabella tried to comprehend the meaning of the words. If John Gordon was gone, where could he be? She never should have sent the captain away. She should have waited to know for sure that Jean’s nephew was definitely at the inn. The complication of where they would go from here and how she could reach the girls pricked her with needles of alarm.

  Jean sat herself on a bench at a nearby table.

  “Is John here?” she asked, joining her.

  A half-dozen fishermen poured through the door, boisterously calling for beer and filling the space in front them.

  “Aye. That he is. Or this poor excuse for an innkeeper thinks so, but he says he can’t be too sure until he speaks with his wife.”

  “I thought you said you knew the man.”

  “I did. The last owner.” Jean spat on the floor. “This vile toad and his wife run the place now. Says the auld fellow passed away over a year ago. I don’t think John knew this inn was being run by the likes of this one. When I asked him if he remembers my nephew, the fool brazenly said he only remembers guests by the size of the tips they leave.”

  Isabella hoped John was generous with servers.

  “How long ago were you here?”

  Jean shrugged. “Maybe two years since.”

  Or maybe three or four years, Isabella thought, already recognizing Jean’s tendency to forget things.

  “So where is the innkeeper’s wife?”

  “He doesn’t know where she’s gone off to. Says she’ll be back soon enough. Though how he knows that is beyond me.”

  Isabella reached into her cloak for a money purse she kept there. “Why don’t you go back and offer him something? Perhaps a shilling will help him remember if John Gordon is staying here or not.”

  “We’re not giving him anything,” Jean said firmly, putting her trembling hand on top of Isabella’s and stopping her from producing any coins. “That greedy toad’ll take the money and still be of no help. I could see the way he was looking at me. Just an auld fishwife beneath his notice. I offer him yer money, he’ll take it and immediately forget the reason I gave it to him.”

  “Perhaps I should speak to him.”

  The old woman’s stern shake of the head spoke of the pointlessness of such suggestion.

  “Don’t make things worse, mistress. We’ll just wait here. Be patient.”

  An impossible feat. Isabella wished she could s
ummon some of Cinaed’s cool confidence. In that wild moment when they’d been discovered back at the cottage, he’d known exactly what he had to do. And he’d done it. While she could function perfectly in a medical emergency, this violent new life she’d been thrown into required different skills. Perhaps while she’d been learning surgery, Isabella thought, she should have learned other uses for a knife.

  A headache gnawed at her, and she rubbed her temples. She tried not to think of his recitation of the names of all those men who’d already been swept up unjustly.

  The feel of his broad back against her cheek, she’d not forgotten. Nor the reassuring hold of her hand. The image of Cinaed standing by the cart was back. The man’s blue eyes matched the early-morning sky. Or that rare blue of the ocean in summer. They enthralled her with the promise of finding treasures in their depths. The long curls of his dark hair framed the strong angles of his jaw and the effect, combined with the growth of beard, was alluring.

  Isabella expelled a frustrated breath, trying to shake off thoughts of Cinaed Mackintosh. She had to. She didn’t need him. She only needed a whisper of faith that all would be fine.

  “I believe the Queen of Sheba’s arrived.”

  Jean nodded in the direction of a stout woman wiping her hands on her apron as she came across the taproom toward them. From the way the waiter and potboy jumped when they saw her, Isabella knew she had to be the innkeeper’s wife. As she drew near, she and Jean both stood, but the woman looked only at her, at the bags, and at Isabella’s forest-green carriage dress before addressing her.

  Before they’d left Duff Head, Isabella had changed out of the bloodstained travel dress she’d been wearing into this one, which was of higher quality material and required no cloak in good weather. She’d intended to change into it once they’d boarded the ship for Halifax or after they arrived. But the blood from surgery had given her no choice. And she was limited to the two pieces that her housekeeper had hurriedly tucked in around her medical instruments while they were hiding from the authorities in Edinburgh.