The Highlanders: A Smitten Historical Romance Collection

by J'nell Ciesielski

  Nab nodded. “Aye, except for one of the scouts returning to Fort Bedford.” He stuck his fingers in his mouth and gave a sharp whistle.

  Lachlan’s grip on Nab’s shoulder dug in. “Ye’ll have the Shawnee and who knows what others down on our heads.”

  Nab gave a cockeyed grin and shook his head. “They’ve cleared out. Gone. Did ye not ken that we won the battle?”

  “What? Nay! Tell me what happened. I was killed, but not dead. When I woke up, I couldna tell the lay of things, and I dragged myself off. I feared all was lost.”

  Nab sought Wenonah again, and Lachlan drew her near. Her arm trembled in his grasp, and he longed to reassure her. He offered a gentle squeeze.

  “This is Wenonah. I meant what I said. She saved me. Took care of my wound and kept me fed.” A flash of movement caught his eye as a ranger stepped out from among the trees beyond Nab. He was close enough to have killed them if he’d had a mind. He stalked as silently as an Indian.

  Jesse set the stock of his Brown Bess on the earth and swiveled to follow Lachlan’s notice. He addressed the newcomer. “Look who I’ve found. My friend McRea whom I thought dead. Turns out, he’s of stronger Scot’s stuff than even his brethren could have imagined.” Nab grinned at Lachlan again and looked him up and down, from Lachlan’s bandaged leg to the way he leaned on his gun again. “Are ye able to travel?”

  “Only slowly. I thought to make it to Pitt as soon as I dare. Is the fort secured then?”

  Nab nodded. “’Tis.” The ranger remained silent, eyeing them from his position at the wood line. “We are quartered there for the time being. Bushy Run may have turned the tide of this native rebellion.”

  “How did it happen? I was separated, and those around me killed. I couldna figure a way back toward the others without crossing paths with the Indians, and me bleeding out a trail easy to follow.” Lachlan gave a shake of his head. “I thought I was done for.”

  “As did we all. Each time we charged, the Indians vanished into the woods, until the troops were broken apart.”

  “Aye ...” Lachlan rubbed his chin. ’Twas precisely what happened to him and a handful of men with him.

  “Bouquet ordered a fort built of the flour bags where the wounded were given cover. ’Twasna much for protection, but we defended the hill as best we could when the fighting resumed the next day. I searched for ye among the men. ’Twas then I feared the worst.

  “When morning came, Bouquet formed an audacious plan.” Nab grinned and draped one arm over the end of his barrel. “He’s an old Indian fighter, ye ken. The Indians had left a hole in their circumference—an escape route for their defenders—as they often do. They were a-tightening the noose around our forces, but Bouquet realized there had been no attacks from down the gully to the east. He pulled out two of our own companies of the 42nd, and we slipped through the gap. We ran across the open and took cover in the forest beyond—ye recall that wide swath of open ground—well, the Indians thought we were on the run, and they took the bait.” Nab’s chuckle rumbled. “We filled our guns with double shot and turned the ambush on its end.”

  Nab was deep into the tale now. He raised his brows and studied the area around them as though seeing the terrain from that day. He drew a circling motion with his finger. “Then Campbell brought his Highlanders around the hill in a fishhook, and before long, they closed the trap on the right flank of those screechin beasts. They flushed out and broke cover. As ye can imagine, the hill exploded.” He gave a slow shrug and puffed up his chest. “Nothin more to it. The savages have scattered to the west. I doubt they’ll be able to round up enough fighters to prolong the troubles.”

  Nab eyed Wenonah again. “None of ’em are likely to come ’round here to bother us now that we’ve chased ’em off.”

  She stiffened beneath Lachlan’s touch, and he grazed his thumb in a soothing caress against her arm. “That would bode well for Wenona as well as the rest of us then,” he said.

  Nab’s pupils disappeared inside his narrow gaze.

  “What are Bouquet’s plans now?” Lachlan’s question drew Nab’s attention from Wenonah. He glanced at the scout, who remained at a passive distance, his eyes alert around them.

  “Bouquet intends to remain here in this godforsaken wilderness, keeping down uprisings around the forts.” Nab turned his head and spat. “He’ll have a hard time keeping his army together. The enlisted Royal Americans want to return to their homes.”

  Home—a thing no longer to be grasped by Lachlan. “And what is to keep them from goin?” he muttered.

  Nab’s look drifted again to Wenonah and settled on the babe. The gleam in his eyes held unasked questions. Lachlan refrained from encircling Wenonah’s shoulders with a protective arm.

  “They’ll go if they’re keen on doing so,” Nab said. “Perhaps they’re more of a mind to protect their families from these uprisings than to worry over a scatterin of forts in the wilderness.”

  Lachlan felt Wenonah’s nearness. Who would shield her and her child? He searched the area. “Perhaps.” He forced a small smile and adjusted his weight on the musket. “Have ye had anything to eat? If not, there should be a rabbit lying amid some brush over yon, waiting to be skinned.” He spoke softly to Wenonah. “Go on back now. We’ll come.” He gave Nab a nod and hobbled past him, expecting he would follow.

  “Hold a moment.” Nab strode toward the scout. They spoke in tones Lachlan could not hear, then the scout melted into the forest. Nab’s feet crunched along behind Lachlan. “He’ll go, now I’ve found ye. I’ll stay with ye until ye can make the trek to Fort Pitt, if ye don’t mind my intrusion.”

  Lachlan’s shoulders tightened with unease, but there was nothing to be done for it. He thanked Nab, and they wandered about the brush for several minutes until Lachlan discovered his quarry. He plucked the dead rabbit up by its long, hind legs. “Let us see if there’s still a fire burning in the hearth.”

  Nab raised his brows, his questions sealed behind his lips as Lachlan led the way. When the trapper’s cabin came into view, Lachlan glimpsed Nab’s squint.

  “So, ye’ve been set pretty well then.”

  “I was almost killed dead when Wenonah found me and gave me aid.”

  “What inspired her to do it, I wonder?”

  “Her husband was English. This is his place.”

  Nab rubbed his jaw. “I see now.”

  Lachlan took out his knife and slit the creature’s skin. As he cleaned their dinner, Nab strode about, looking over the cabin’s exterior. “What happened to him?”

  “Killed by raiders.”

  Wenonah stepped out the door and looked to Lachlan, pointedly ignoring Jesse Nab. “I look at wound then cook rabbit.”

  “A’right.” Lachlan called to Nab, “Come on then.”

  Nab peered about as they entered, taking in the small but tidy lodging, the pot of herbs steaming over the fire, the tiny babe nestled on the rope bed on the side of the room, and Lachlan’s own pallet of hides on the floor. He looked over the array of small tools and other bare essentials hanging from pegs on the wall. “’Tis tight and cozy enough, I reckon.”

  Lachlan settled on his pallet, and Nab took the log stump near Wenonah’s bed. His attention flicked to the babe, and Wenonah’s fingers coiled atop Lachlan’s leg. He reached out and gently patted her hand. “The babe is called Waaseyaa. First Light of Dawn.”

  Nab leaned over and looked closer at the child. “I wonder how it was the woman was able to find you and still take care of the bairn.”

  “Jesse ...” Lachlan flinched as Wenonah tightened the bindings over his leg, her eyes darting to his. “I was here when she birthed the child. I didn’t plan to say so, but ...”

  Nab’s chin dipped. “I ken ye’ve come to care for them.”

  Wenonah’s glance shot between them and lowered. Her lips pinched tight, but a flush on her skin deepened its lovely color. Lachlan touched her hand again. “Aye. I reckon I ‘ave.”

  “Hatito, Wen
onah!” A deep shout came from outside the door, and all three of them lurched. Wenonah jerked back from Lachlan, and Nab jumped to his feet, his tomahawk already in his hand.

  Wenonah scrambled past Nab with a hurried shake of her head and spoke through the closed door. “Hatito! Thah-kee-chee nee-sah-hah.” Her dark eyes turned to them, and she laid a finger to her lips. Nab stepped back against the wall, and Lachlan reached for his gun as he pressed himself into the corner.

  Wenonah edged the door open only far enough to slip outside, but Lachlan glimpsed the well-muscled Indian standing in the sunlight before she closed them in again.

  “She’ll betray us,” Nab whispered with a hiss.

  Lachlan shook his head and pressed his lips together. He grimaced as he rose to his feet. Then he hoisted the gun.

  Outside, native speech leeched muffled tones through the door, first the big man’s voice then Wenonah’s. She’d drawn him further away. Lachlan limped forward and pressed his ear to the door.

  The big Indian’s voice was smooth, wooing. His deep, throaty chuckle sent a shard of jealousy through Lachlan. He couldn’t hear Wenonah’s response.

  There was quiet. Lachlan tensed. Then Wenonah gasped. With a racing heart, Lachlan eased up the door latch.

  “What are ye doing?” Nab’s whisper cut across the room.

  Lachlan opened the door a crack and peered with one eye into the bright forest. Wenonah and the Shawnee stood down the path. Catehecassa held onto Wenonah’s upper arm as she attempted to veer from him. He breathed words against her ear. Wenonah tugged. Even from where Lachlan peered out the crack, he could see Catahecassa’s grip tighten, refusing to release her. He inched the door open further.

  Wenonah’s face was set. Lachlan didn’t understand her language, but her expression was clear. The Shawnee’s nostrils flared. His eyes burned bright with intent as he ground out more words, all wooing gone from his tone.

  Wenonah shook her head.

  Lachlan’s heart raced as the Indian man jerked her closer. Lachlan pushed through the door. The Indian’s gaze shot up. With one hand on her still, Catahecassa drew his tomahawk.

  Lachlan leveled his musket, and the man’s eyes widened. “Get yer hands off her.”

  Catahecassa dropped his hold on Wenonah, and she stumbled clear. The Indian jerked the tomahawk back with a shout, and Lachlan squeezed the trigger.

  Click. The metal hammer snapped without percussion.

  “McRae!”

  Lachlan twisted sideways as Catahecassa’s tomahawk spun past and ricocheted off a tree. The Shawnee charged. Lachlan caught Nab’s musket. Catahecassa leapt, knife drawn in an arc above his head. The gun exploded, and a cloud of smoke filled the space. The Indian’s heavy body struck Lachlan with a force that knocked him to the ground. Lachlan scrambled to push him off, but suddenly Nab was there. With a grunt, the other Highlander yanked Catahecassa free by his scalp lock. The Shawnee blinked twice at Lachlan, then his eyes rolled back. He sputtered once. Blood spewed down his face and mingled with the pool running out his chest before he died.

  Lachlan fell back and closed his eyes. He heaved for breath. A shadow fell upon him, and then a touch. He opened his eyes again and raised his head. The throbbing in his leg was forgotten as Wenonah bent over him and grasped his shoulders. Fright in her eyes slowly eased away as she saw that he was well, but a tear escaped down her cheek and dripped off her chin.

  “I’m a’right.” He looked down over his shirt, covered in Catahecassa’s blood. “My leg pains me something fierce though.” He searched out Nab. “Thank ye for saving my life. Seems providence brought ye to us at just the right time.”

  Jesse Nab retrieved the fallen musket and glanced between Lachlan and Wenonah. His mouth turned up on one side. “I reckon ’tis you who done the savin.”

  Wenonah’s lips arched in a smile.

  Chapter 8

  WENONAH KNEELED AT THE stream and scoured Catahecassa’s blood out of Lachlan’s waistcoat. If she got rid of the blotch in its entirety, she might forget the fearful events of this day. Catahecassa had been a stain to her as well, a man she would not have, but a man who would not accept her answer. He had threatened her there on the path. Told her he would take her against her will if she did not accept him. Said he would pay her father the bride price if he must. He even insinuated he would harm the trapper’s child if she refused.

  She clenched her lips and scrubbed harder. She would have murdered Catahecassa herself were she strong enough. Dropping the waistcoat in a puddle on the rock before her, Wenonah leaned back on her legs and closed her eyes. Just as the water washed out the blood and carried it away, so she must let go of her anger. Holding such scorn inside would only seed a great hatred. It was not right. Catahecassa was dead. There was no reason to hold onto bitterness. Her husband, Abraham Wolsey, had been old and dull but always kind to her. He had read to her of the great God who carried away sin. Her hatred was sin.

  And yet ... she was not sorry Catahecassa was dead. The stranger Jesse Nab had buried him in a shallow grave while Wenonah tended Lac-lan’s injury. Lac-lan had grimaced and spoken tenderly of Waaseyaa while she cleaned and redressed his leg. Now, Lac-lan cradled her daughter while he spoke with his friend, and Wenonah slipped away to clean the waistcoat.

  Her stomach tightened at the thought of his leaving, for he would surely do so now that the other soldier had arrived.

  What were the words that Lac-lan’s friend had been saying right before Catahecassa’s arrival? Something that made her blush ... something that made her yearn for the words to be true.

  “Ye’ve come to care for them.” And Lac-lan had nodded. “I reckon I ‘ave” Lac-lan had touched her hand and looked into her eyes. The simple gesture had warmed her in a way she had never experienced. Ever. Even now, with eyes closed at the memory, she felt that touch, the kindness in those words.

  Could they have been more than kind? How could she ever know? He would leave soon, and she must begin the long journey back to her people.

  Wenonah’s eyes fluttered open at the stinging thought. She would return to her father’s lodge with nothing to offer and a child to care for. What would keep her father from selling her again, perhaps this time to someone less gentle than Abraham Wolsey? He might easily accept a bid for her from someone like Catahecassa.

  She would rather remain with Lac-lan.

  Her heart fluttered. If not for fear of injuring him further, she would have thrown herself into his arms when he lay sprawled on the ground after Catahecassa’s attack. She would have pressed her head to the heart beating in his chest and inhaled his warmth. But she had not dared.

  And now she did not dare look directly at Nab, whose eyes narrowed in study.

  Wenonah moved the soiled garment aside. She leaned over the water and washed her face. She combed fingers through her hair and tied it into two long tails. Then she wrung the sopping waistcoat and rose to her feet, her body sore, and more so to think of the coming weeks when she would be alone again. She must accept her fate. Nab would take Lac-lan away.

  She carried the damp clothing back to the cabin. Lac-lan and his friend stood outside. Lac-lan leaned against the wall, relieving the weight from his leg.

  Wenonah lifted her chin. “Where baby?”

  “She’s inside, asleep.”

  Relieved that the child slept, Wenonah turned aside and hung the waistcoat from a branch. The day had grown hot once again, and the coat would dry quickly. She stepped toward the cabin and lowered her eyes as she strode between the men. Nab’s hand shot out, stopping her. Her heart jumped, and she frowned.

  “I’ve something to say. It involves ye, so you’d best hear.” He looked at Lac-lan. “I don’t think it’s good that ye travel yet. I’ll go back to the fort alone. You stay with her.” His glance swept over Wenonah. “Let her tend ye a while longer. I’ll give a report, and then I’ll fetch ye when the time is right.” He focused again on Lac-lan, and his voice deepened. “When you’ve healed.”
>
  Nab wanted Lac-lan to stay with her? To have her tend him longer? Her own long journey lay ahead of her. In a few weeks, the weather would begin to turn. Time would have been lost. But if Lac-lan agreed with Nab, could she refuse?

  No. She could not.

  Lac-lan bowed his head and didn’t answer right away. He must disagree with his friend’s plan. He shifted his stance, and still he did not look at them … at her. He murmured something in that strange, rolling tongue she could not clearly understand.

  “Amen,” Nab said. “Are ye in agreement then?”

  Lac-lan nodded. Wenonah’s heart thumped. She did not understand, but the moment his forest green eyes met hers, her heart slowed, and her journey ceased to matter.

  “I will wait as long as I need to keep the wound from putrefying. If the Indians have cleared off as ye say, and ye return as guide before too many days, I see no reason against resting a while longer. Wenonah has plans of her own. It is up to her if she will stay.” His voice was soft, accepting, while at the same time some flicker of hope edged from it into his eyes. At least she thought so.

  Wenonah clenched her hands into fists, her decision made. She gave one nod. “I stay here. I take care of Lac-lan.”

  His lips twitched, and the corners of his eyes eased into a smile. “And I’ll make sure ye don’t lack for rabbits.”

  She blushed and could not hide it. She turned away and moved through the doorway to check on Waaseyaa, though there was no need. She left the door open to their voices.

  “I’ll be goin after I’ve had a share of that rabbit turning on the spit then,” Nab said. “I wish ye both well while I’m away.”

  Chapter 9

  JESSE NAB HAD FINALLY ceased his talking now that food lay before him. He no longer sent Wenonah suspicious glances. He had promised to return and guide Lachlan back to the fort later. When ye’ve healed. Given space to think, Nab’s remark echoed in Lachlan’s head. The look on Nab’s face when he said it was laden with memories of Scotland. For the first time in two days, Moira’s image visited him as he ate. Her long blond hair, so different from Wenonah’s, wrapped about her shoulders. Her hands clasped together behind his neck, with her fair, freckled arms warm and welcoming. Wenonah’s skin was dark, rich as maple syrup, and just as smooth. Even with her life of hard work, her hands felt like cream beneath his touch.