Awakening His Highland Soul (Steamy Scottish Historical Romance)

by Maddie MacKenna

  William flung out his arm to protect himself as Jeames seized him and bore him to the ground. There was a sharp cry of pain from the Scotsman and the knife went skittering away across the floorboards.

  Beatrice’s eye could not follow clearly what happened next, but in a flurry of movement Jeames ended up on top of William. The Highlander’s knee was pressed hard between the ringmaster’s shoulder blades, pinning him to the floor. A couple of heavy punches to the kidneys quieted the Englishman’s struggles and Jeames pressed his forearm to the back of William’s neck to hold him securely in place.

  It was only then that Beatrice noticed another bloody gash across Jeames’s broad chest.

  That must have been where William threw his arm out to protect himself at the end. The arm holding his dagger.

  “Jeames,” she said, starting forward.

  “Wait by that door, lass!” Jeames commanded.

  Beatrice could not make out his features, as he had his back to the fire, but she could hear that his voice was constricted with pain.

  “But–”

  “Wait by the door, I tell ye!”

  It was only then, so distracted by the fight in front of her had she been, that Beatrice realized that the pounding on the other side of the parlor door had abated.

  “I think that they’ve gone–given up,” she said. She pressed her ear to the wood, but she could make nothing out on the other side.

  “Are ye sure?” Jeames asked, over the sound of William’s muffled curses.

  It must be hard to curse with your face squashed into the floor like that.

  “Yes. I’m sure,” she said.

  “All right,” Jeames said. “Then grab some rope from the ties that hold the curtains when they’re open. That’s it. Now, bring it here.”

  Whilst Jeames continued to hold the struggling ringmaster, he had Beatrice tie the man’s wrists as well as she was able to. When she had done that, he had her swap positions with him so that he could firmly bind William by the knees and ankles. Then, with the comprehensive efficiency of a man who is used to trussing up game most days, he retied William’s wrists and turned him over.

  Beatrice looked at Jeames after this was done. The man, due to the two wounds that he had sustained in the brawl, looked gray-faced and exhausted.

  “Let me have a look at those cuts,” she said to him.

  Jeames shook his head. “Nae yet. Nae until we ken what is goin’ on in the rest o’ the castle.”

  At that very moment, there was the sound of running feet in the corridor and the door to the parlor burst open.

  A Scottish guardsman with a spectacular black eye appeared in the doorway. In one swooping glance he took in the carnage of the room, the two men on the floor and Beatrice.

  “Master Jeames,” he said. “How dae ye fare?”

  Jeames looked down at his blood-stained shirt and an ironic grin spread slowly across his face.

  “I’ve fared better,” he said in a dry voice. He started to chuckle but stopped with a wince.

  “Dae ye mind openin’ that door, miss?” the guard asked Beatrice, indicating the parlor door, which was still bolted.

  “There are more of them out there!” Beatrice said, her eyes still fixed on Jeames who had propped himself against the upturned base of an armchair that had been knocked over in the fight.

  “Nay, lass, nae anymore,” the guard said. “In fact, we’ve been tryin’ tae batter our way in here fer the past little while. We found a couple of brawny fellows tryin’ tae get in, so we snuck up and dealt with ‘em.”

  “You killed them?” Beatrice asked, horrified.

  I wonder who it was.

  “Nay, lass, we did nae kill ‘em. Just gave them a wee clip around the earhole. They’ll be feelin’ it in the mornin’, but they’ll live.”

  “What about the others?” Jeames asked. He had ripped a strip of cloth from the bottom of his shirt and had it pressed to the wound on his chest.

  “All accounted fer, sir. We think some made a run fer it, but I daenae think they’ll be comin’ back.”

  “No,” Beatrice said. “They’re not fighters or murderers, but thieves. Thieves when necessity calls.” She swallowed and looked down at William. “I should know.”

  The ringmaster was lying on his stomach staring into the fire. His face, what little she could see of it, looked sad.

  I have cut him far worse than he cut Jeames, in a way.

  “What o’ this one, Master Jeames?” the man asked, indicating William with a contemptuous nod of his head. “Dae ye want us tae put him in the dungeons wi’ the rest of his ilk?”

  “Aye, take him down there. Chain him but make him comfortable.” Jeames cast a searching look at Beatrice. “Make the lot of ‘em comfortable.”

  “Ye daenae want us tae give ‘em a wee kickin’ for their impudence then?” the guard asked.

  Beatrice made an outraged noise in her throat, but Jeames laughed.

  “He is just jestin’, aren’t ye Fergus? He kens well enough that that is nae the way that Abernathy’s treat their prisoners.”

  “How many others were there?” Beatrice blurted out. She was glad to hear that no harm would be coming to any of the performers-cum-thieves that had been apprehended.

  “Nae that many,” the guard, Fergus replied. “Ten maybe. Came in in pairs through five separate entrances. Quiet as cats they were, but our lads were quieter still.”

  “Were ye required tae get forceful wi’ anyone?” Jeames asked.

  “Dae ye mean did we kill anyone, Master Jeames?” Fergus asked.

  Jeames shot him a reproving look. Beatrice felt her stomach tighten in anticipation of bad news.

  “Nay, we did nae kill anyone,” Fergus said. “There’re a few sore heads, me own included, and we had tae get a wee bit rough with one great giant of a lad.”

  “How rough?” Beatrice asked. She thought that Fergus might have been referring to the Oliver Oakheart, the circus’s resident strongman, a man whom William habitually took on his raids for his great prowess as a figure of intimidation.

  “Broke his arm, I’m fairly certain,” Fergus said. “Though we have the physician splintin’ it now fer him.”

  Jeames nodded. “Speakin’ of the physician, I think that it might be nice if ye could send him up tae me chambers when he is done splintin’ the giant’s arm.”

  Jeames tried tae get to his feet, but Beatrice could see how he was struggling. She hurried over to his side, just as Fergus moved to help him.

  “You go and get the physician, um, Fergus, and I’ll help Jeames back tae his room.”

  Fergus looked at Jeames and the Laird’s son gave him a brief nod.

  “Daenae forget tae take this tall fellow with ye,” Jeames said, his voice weaker than it was wont to be.

  “Aye, Master Jeames,” Fergus said. He cut the bonds at Williams knees and ankles and hauled the ringleader to his feet.

  “William, I am sorry. I…I’m sorry,” Beatrice said.

  William did not reply, but he gave Beatrice one long look. There was no hatred in his green eyes, no fury or frustration. There was only a deep sadness.

  Sadness at what, though? At what he sees as my betrayal? At himself for getting himself into this mess? Or for those who he led and cajoled into sharing whatever fate lays in store for him?

  “Come,” Beatrice said to Jeames, as Fergus led William from the room. “Let’s get you to bed.”

  28

  Jeames was a big, athletic man, but he had never felt bulkier than when Beatrice was helping him up to his room on the third floor of the castle.

  The equestrienne was slight and slender as a willow switch, but she struggled gamely under his weight as they moved up the stairs, one of Jeames’s arms over her shoulder, the other pressed to his chest where he held the make shift bandage to his chest wound.

  Jeames did not think either of his wounds were that serious, but he was not stupid either and knew that it would be best to get them cleane
d, stitched and bandaged as soon as possible to minimize the risk of infection.

  Mr. Ballantine turned out tae be quite a foe. Just goes at show, ye can can judge a man by how he appears outwardly. I thought he would nae be much of a fighter, but desperation can lend strength tae a man, no doubt about that.

  Eventually, they made it to the floor that Jeames’s bed chamber was located on. It was all that Jeames could do to take some of his weight off of Beatrice’s shoulders when they reached the top of the stairs.

  “Which way?” she asked.

  Jeames pointed down the hallway to guide Beatrice, and they set off. His head felt very light. It was almost pleasant–though part of him knew that it was not a good sign that he felt so relaxed.

  After what seemed like days, Jeames pushed open the door of his bed chamber and both he and Beatrice stumbled inside. Jeames just had the sense and strength to make it to one of the chairs that sat in front of the fire and collapse into it.

  “Thank ye,” he croaked.

  Beatrice snorted. “You’re thanking me, after what just happened?”

  Jeames blinked. He felt as if he could drift off at any moment. Sleep was waiting for him. All he had to do was step into it.

  He gasped as someone pinched him. The world came back into focus. Beatrice had appeared in front of him.

  “You stay awake, you hear?” she said.

  Jeames nodded.

  “Ye are a wee bit bossy, ye ken,” he said.

  Beatrice laughed and turned to stoke up the smoldering fire that was in the grate.

  “And the bonniest thing that I ever saw,” Jeames muttered. He blinked muzzily.

  Did I just say that, or did I think it?

  Even though her back was to him, Jeames got the distinct impression that Beatrice was smiling.

  “Keep talking,” she said. “It’ll help you to stay awake.”

  Jeames watched as Beatrice added fuel to the fire. Then she swung the kettle over it.

  “What are ye makin’ there, lass?” he asked, his words coming out slowly. “Soup?”

  Beatrice smiled and pinched him again. Once more, Jeames’s world came back into focus. “No,” she said, “I’m heating water so that, when he gets here, the physician has something to wash those cuts with.”

  Jeames took a deep breath. Without any chance of success, he started to try and pull his shirt over his head. The wounds on his arm and chest made this an exercise of the upmost futility. He collapsed back into his chair after only a few moments.

  “Daenae use water,” he said, speaking to Beatrice. “There’s whiskey on the dresser there. Get this shirt off me and slosh a bit on the cuts.”

  “How am I to get your shirt off you?” Beatrice asked.

  Jeames motioned to the knife at his belt.

  Beatrice pulled the dirk from its sheath and slit Jeames shirt carefully up the middle. Then she cut right down the sleeve of his injured arm. Jeames watched her work. He focused on her face, running his eyes over each detail over and over again.

  Helps tae keep the pain at bay, havin’ somethin’ so fair tae look at whilst I’m bein’ tended tae.

  He watched the graveness in her face as she peeled the cloth away from the wounds. He winced as his bloody shirt pulled away from the cuts, opening them anew.

  Jeames examined the cuts, trying to focus on them even though his vision had taken on a slightly blurred quality.

  “Clean cuts,” he said. “Nae tae deep, but straight and true. Must’ve been a sharp knife the lad used.”

  He saw that Beatrice’s face was pale as she looked at the knife wounds.

  “Coulda been worse, lass,” he said. “A lot worse. He could’ve stabbed me and got somethin’ vital.”

  Beatrice set her jaw in that determined way that Jeames was coming to adore more and more. She held up the whisky jug.

  She is hard and indomitable. What a woman!

  “Aye, splash some on the cuts and wipe away the crusted blood wi’ what’s left o’ me shirt. Wait! Ye better pass that here first.”

  Beatrice smiled slightly as she passed him the jug of strong spirits. Jeames took a deep draught, feeling the good Scottish grog burn all the way down to his belly.

  “Ye better have one tae,” he said, passing it back to the Englishwoman.

  Beatrice sipped from the jug, coughed and then splashed a good measure on to the wound on Jeames arm.

  Jeames’s lips pulled back from his teeth in a silent snarl of pain.

  “And the other,” he hissed.

  His chest hurt far more, and Jeames moaned through his rictus at the intense stinging of the liquor on his rent flesh. He closed his eyes and took a few ragged breaths as Beatrice wiped the crusted blood away.

  Jeames heard the door open, just as Beatrice was administering some more whisky to the deeper cut across his chest. He butted his head backwards into the chair and groaned as the burning, cleansing whisky fire took over.

  When he opened his eyes, he saw that his father was standing beside him. His face was white, but he was smiling down with relief at his son.

  “God, lad, but ye are a clumsy one, are ye nae?” he said, pointing at Jeames’s sliced chest muscle.

  Jeames managed a tight grin through his pain. “Ye heard what happened, Faither?” he asked.

  “Aye, I did. Fergus told me as he was cartin’ that tall lad off tae the dungeons.”

  “Good,” Jeames said. “Because I daenae think I’d have the strength tae tell ye the whole tale.”

  The Laird looked down at Beatrice who was still concentrating on cleaning Jeames’s cuts.

  “Am I mistaken or was that tall man yer illustrious Mr. Ballantine?” he asked.

  Beatrice gulped. “Yes, it was,” she said.

  “I see,” the Laird said. “And those other ten or so that me men stopped in their attempt tae breach me castle, were they acquaintances of yers also?”

  Beatrice stopped dabbing at the cut on Jeames’s arm and looked up at the Laird. “Yes, Your Lairdship, every one of the people who tried to steal from you tonight is a circus performer.”

  Jeames observed as his father looked down and regarded the young woman kneeling in front of him. After a long moment he said, “I see. Were ye aware of the plot to raid me ancestral home?”

  He asked the question in the same tone he might have used were he asking Beatrice whether she knew what the weather was doing outside. Jeames marveled at the way that the Laird was able to keep his voice completely free of emotion. It was quite impossible to tell what he was thinking. It was highly unnerving.

  “Yes,” Beatrice said, her voice quavering only the littlest bit.

  Brave. Even when confronted by a man who could have her life as forfeit, she has told the truth.

  The Laird raised a bushy eyebrow at Beatrice’s admission of guilt and Jeames knew that he was impressed.

  “I see,” he said. “So, tell me, why should I nae have ye escorted down tae wait with the other prisoners in the dungeon?”

  Beatrice bit her lip. “Honestly, I can’t give you a reason Your Lairdship. Not really. All I can say, in my defense, was that I was steered by loyalty, of a kind. Loyalty to a man that raised me as his own. It is hard to set that sort of thing aside.”

  The Laird said nothing but continued to regard Beatrice with his pale gray eyes. He was sifting her words, Jeames could see that as clear as day, even through the haze of pain, blood-loss and exhaustion.

  “Dae ye tend me son as some sort of contrition fer the wrong that ye have done him?” the Laird asked bluntly. “Dae ye swab his cuts with good Scottish whisky to win me favor, to impress me so that I might show ye some sort o’ clemency?”

  Beatrice looked up at the Laird’s serious words.

  Jeames readied himself to say something in the young woman’s defense, but before he could arrange his clumsy words, Beatrice had fixed the Laird with her hazel eyes.

  “No, Your Lairdship,” she said, in the no-nonsense tone that Jeames had co
me to think of as quintessentially Beatrice. “No, I tend him now because I love your son. Because I have loved him ever since I lay eyes on him sleeping in the forest, not far from this very spot.”

  “And how dae ye ken that it is love ye feel fer this son o’ mine?” the Laird asked. His tone was still unreadable, but Jeames thought that there was something bemused about his expression.