Highland Temptation

by Jennifer Haymore

  Grabbing the gun that had fallen from the man’s loose fingers, Colin stood and looked around. Two men had mounted horses and were heading away from him, obviously chasing after Emilia. Horses were scattered along the road in various states of confusion and panic, and the gleaming black carriage still stood in the center of the road, its team whinnying and stamping unhappily. Colin and Emilia’s phaeton had come to a stop nearby, its back wheels off the road and tangled in the bushes. Luckily, the horses hadn’t torn it apart on their rampage.

  No men were in sight except the two he’d injured, and he didn’t have time to deal with them now. He strode toward the phaeton, intending to chase down the men who’d gone after Emilia.

  As he passed the black carriage, though, a footstep sounded behind him. He whirled, raising his gun, but he only saw a flash of Pinfield’s bulging waistcoat before a large stick hit him across his temple with a crack. His head whipped to the side from the force of it, and pain seared through his skull.

  He slumped to the ground. Then everything went completely black.

  —

  It was a scene straight out of her worst nightmares. Her father’s men chasing her through the brush, bearing down on her.

  Emilia didn’t know how long she’d been running, but her chest felt like it was going to burst, and she couldn’t take in enough air. It had only been a few minutes since she’d jumped from the carriage, running for her life as she heard deadly gunshots behind her.

  They might have shot Colin.

  They might have killed him.

  She fought the urge to go back, to defend him, to fight for him, but he’d told her to run. So she was running, at the same time praying he was all right. That those gunshots had come from his pistol, not her father’s hired guns’. But she knew the chances of that were slim.

  “Over here!” one of the men behind her shouted, and she ran harder, even while knowing her body was on the verge of failing her.

  Two minutes later, a rough hand grasped at her arm and jerked her to a stop.

  She tried to wrench away, but his grip was too strong. “There now, milady. I’ve got you,” he said. He was a rough man with a rough voice, but he was evidently attempting to be soothing. “We’re going to get you back to his lordship right quick, and you’ll be safe as can be.”

  She stared into the man’s haggard face. “Are you mad?” she cried out. “Let me go!”

  He only squeezed her arm tighter. Branches crackled in the distance—more men coming to help. Her father was close. These men would take her to him. And then…

  Panic crowding her throat, she thrust her knee up into his groin as hard as she could. He squealed and collapsed onto his knees, instantly letting her go. She didn’t hesitate; instead, she turned and ran with renewed energy, leaping high over a fallen log that blocked her path and descending the grassy slope toward a small valley clustered with trees that would hopefully be able to hide her.

  She looked desperately around to the right and left. She was close to the ocean, but a steep incline separated her from the water. Should she try to run toward the shore? Or hide herself within the tangle of low-growing trees?

  She plunged into the copse of trees. They grew together so densely, she had to slow down to push aside branches and twigs. She glanced behind her and saw movement through the thick brush. They were coming closer.

  Instead of hiding herself in the trees, she rushed toward the slope on the other side of the copse and started climbing, exposing herself fully. But she was desperate. She rushed up the hill, then at a sprint descended the gradual slope that led toward the ocean. There were no trees here, only grass and heather that grew to the height of her knees.

  The slope steepened, and she began to slide down, trying to maintain some control and not tumble head over heels to her death below. Halfway down, she looked behind her and saw the men hesitating on the edge of the slope, clearly debating the wisdom of tackling such a steep incline.

  She lost her balance and landed hard on her bottom, sliding over the grass downward toward the shore. Twigs pricked at her legs and tore her stockings, but she hardly felt them.

  Finally, she reached the bottom, bloodied and covered in mud, but still in one piece. There was a long but narrow rocky beach that extended to the waterline, and she ran along it, keeping close to the slope that steepened into a cliff as she ran. There were abundant crags here, formations of rocks, the face of the cliff uneven.

  And then she saw it. An impression in the rock, just big enough for a body to curl into. Flat granite stones lay everywhere on the ground. She glanced behind and didn’t see a soul—she could hardly see anything beyond the rocky protrusion she’d just come around. If she was going to hide, now was the time to do it.

  She quickly gathered five of the flat stones and placed them before the hole. Then she ducked into it, pressing her knees to her chest so she could fit, and scrambling to arrange the stones so they covered her and at the same time didn’t look like someone had placed them deliberately.

  She heard noises—footsteps—as soon as she grabbed the last stone. She quickly settled it into position above the others then pressed her spine against the back of the hole.

  There were plenty of spaces between the stones to see through, and when the men came, she saw them. Three coming ’round the bend, one after the other. Big, mean-looking men. The kind she’d never before today seen in her father’s presence.

  “Where’d she go?” one of them called out.

  “That way.”

  They went right past her, and after she couldn’t see them anymore, she could still hear their gruff voices arguing.

  “She couldn’t’ve gone this far.”

  “Aye, but she was heading in this direction.”

  “I saw her, too.”

  “But she—”

  She stayed put. The cliffs began to drop steeply directly into the sea in the direction they were going. Eventually, they’d give up and have to double back.

  After a good half hour, they did. Emilia was desperately cramped in her little hole, but she refused to move. As they passed in the opposite direction she heard one of them curse, “Bloody hell,” and another say, “Pinfield’s goin’ to have us drawn and quartered for losing the chit.”

  “Mayhap we should just go,” another responded.

  “Pinfield’s a bastard. He’ll use this as an excuse not to pay.”

  “Aye, well…” Their voices dwindled, and Emilia silently implored them to go through with it. Yes, she thought, you’re right. He won’t pay you. He’ll punish you for failing to catch me. Don’t go back to him. You’re fools if you do.

  She waited another half hour, then began to push aside the rocks. Her body was so cramped from being curled in an awkward position for such a long time, it took her several minutes before she could stand up straight. When she could finally move again, she turned and headed south.

  She was going to that abandoned farmhouse, and as she walked, she prayed Colin would be there to meet her.

  —

  A gloomy dusk was encroaching when Emilia finally arrived at the farmhouse. She’d stayed well off the road, traveling as stealthily as she could, hiding every time she heard the clomp of horses’ hooves or the rattle of carriage wheels. As she’d walked, the various cuts and aches on her body began to make themselves known, and by the time she reached the farmhouse, she was limping. The place looked dreary in the weak late-afternoon sunlight, caked in mold and mud, with a half-collapsed thatched roof and a marked absence of windows and doors. There were no horses or carriage nearby, which made her heart sink, although Colin might have hidden them elsewhere. That made sense. He would have put them by the stream she’d crossed a little way back, where there were enough trees and bushes to conceal them.

  She stepped inside and stood for a moment as her eyes adjusted to the dimness. The place was awful—it stank as if a family of rats had chosen it as a place to die. The floor was piled high with debris—thatch, splintered
beams of wood, and dirt.

  “Colin,” she called softly, “are you here?”

  No answer. In fact, the silence was so complete, she was certain no one had stepped foot inside this place in a very, very long time.

  She picked her way over the debris—realizing there was really nowhere for her to comfortably wait for Colin. Returning outside, she took big gulps of the fresh air, then made her way around to the back of the house, where there was a small and half-collapsed lean-to. Between the lean-to and the house, there was a tiny clearing upon which a soft-looking patch of grass grew. She could rest against the wall of the house and be well hidden from the road but still hear anyone who might be approaching.

  First, though, she needed to clean herself up. With one ear to the road in case she needed to hide, she went to the stream. She drank some water, washed her face, then removed her stockings—they were torn to shreds, anyhow. She cleaned them in the flow of water, then used them to dab the blood and dirt from the many cuts and scratches on her legs.

  Taking stock of herself, she found her legs were the only part of her that had truly been injured, and none of the cuts were deep enough to be much of a concern. They did sting, though. And her back ached where her father’s cat-o’-nine-tails had sliced into her flesh days ago, making her worry that perhaps she’d reopened the wounds that had been healing so well.

  Feeling somewhat better after cleaning up, she made her way back to the farmhouse, ducking behind a clump of heather when she heard the clomp of horses’ hooves as someone passed by on the road.

  Behind the farmhouse, she wedged herself into the corner made by the intersection of the lean-to with the wall of the house and hugged her knees to her chest. An evening chill had already settled in the air, and though she was wearing the thick wool pelisse Lady Claire had given her, if she was going to have to spend much of the night here, she was going to be quite cold. Her lack of stockings wasn’t going to help matters.

  She sat for long minutes, her mind going over the events of the day.

  She hoped Colin would be here soon…but what if he wasn’t?

  Colin was a warrior. He’d been in many battles. He knew how to fight. She had to trust in that and not let visions of him being shot by her father’s men encroach.

  “Please,” she whispered out loud, as if an audible prayer might be more effective than one she merely recited in her mind. “Please let him be all right.”

  The thought of Colin being hurt, much less dead…she couldn’t countenance it. In the last few days, Colin Stirling had brought her more happiness than she’d accumulated in twenty-one years of living without him.

  She needed him to come to her. She didn’t want to be without him. Not anymore. He’d become everything to her.

  She was falling in love with him. No, she amended. She wasn’t falling. She’d already fallen.

  The hours ticked by, slowly and painfully, until Emilia was shivering, her teeth chattering uncontrollably, and the fear of Colin never coming began to fester in her chest.

  If he didn’t come by morning, what should she do? How long should she wait for him? If she went on to Berwick, would he think she’d given up on him? No, he’d know she’d never do that. But then, he wouldn’t want her to starve to death waiting for him, either.

  Sitting with her arms wrapped tightly around her and tears leaking from her eyes, Emilia decided she’d wait for him until noon tomorrow. If he didn’t come by then, she’d walk to Berwick by herself and try to find someone who would help her.

  Chapter 15

  His eyes were glued shut, but with some urgency he couldn’t define pushing at him, Colin peeled them open.

  He was lying on a bed in an unfamiliar room. There was no light except that cast by the fat flame of a flickering candle on small shelf beside the bed. He surged upward, his hand going to the sgian dubh tucked into his stocking, but there was no blade there. There was no stocking, either.

  He jumped out of the bed. A mistake. Nausea surged up within him so strongly, he staggered, then bent toward the empty pot conveniently sitting on the table beside the candle and wretched. Only vile-tasting liquid came up. There was no food in his stomach, and its convulsions were so painfully intense that he saw stars.

  He finally stood straight, but dizziness overcame him, and he stumbled back onto the bed, breathing heavily as he looked around in bewilderment. He couldn’t make any sense of where he was.

  “Och! I thought ye might be up.”

  Blinking, Colin looked toward the voice. A figure of a person hovered in a doorway, blurry and round, with soft edges. He blinked hard, trying to focus. He thought it might be a woman. The voice had been that of a woman, hadn’t it? He was damn confused.

  “Ye should lie down, lad.” She turned and bellowed over her shoulder, “Stuart! Stuart, the lad’s come to!”

  “I canna…” He needed to get up. He needed to do something. For the life of him he couldn’t remember what. He put his hand to his head in frustration, then winced. The entire left side of his head was soft and pulpy, as if he had no bone there, only flesh. What the hell? He tried in vain to remember…anything.

  The figure moved closer, and Colin tensed, ready for battle. Had there been a battle?

  “You were walloped in the heid,” the woman said. There was a deep kindness in her country Lowland Scots accent that made Colin relax…If there’d been a battle, it certainly hadn’t been with her. “I’m Mary MacCallum. My husband, Stuart, and I found ye on the side of the road, sleepin’ like a wean but bleedin’ like a stuck pig with a lump the size o’ a haggis on your skull.”

  He looked at her in confusion.

  “Must’ve been highwaymen,” she told him. “They come ’round these parts now and again, so near tae the border as we are.”

  The border…Why was he at the Scottish border? Memory began to seep in, in pieces and chunks. Lord Pinfield’s stout body stepping out, the man leering at him. Guns aimed at him. Pinfield…he was a traitor. And he was chasing after them…after…

  Emilia!

  Colin jumped up again, then instantly bent forward gasping, gripping the edge of the little table.

  “E-milia…” he pushed out.

  “What’s that?” the woman said.

  Still holding on to the table so he didn’t keel over, he twisted his head and looked at the woman, and found he could now focus a bit better. She was short, round, and plump, and in her green tartan dress, she reminded him of an apple. Her face, too, was round and heavily lined, but her eyes were clear and bright blue, and possessed a gleam of intelligence.

  “Emilia,” he said again. “Did…did you see a woman, Mrs. MacCallum?”

  “A woman?” She looked at him in confusion.

  Of course she hadn’t. The memories were rolling in now, disjointed but becoming clearer by the second.

  A man entered the room and came to a stop beside the woman. Plump, though not quite as round as the woman, with thin, faded red hair sprouting from his head at all angles, his eyes were also a clear bright blue that matched the kindness in his expression. This must be Stuart MacCallum, the husband. How had these two kindly old people been able to get him here? And where was here, anyhow?

  “You shouldna be up, lad,” Mr. MacCallum said soothingly. “Ye’ve got quite the lump upon your heid…”

  “Aye, well…” Colin blinked hard, trying to dispel the confounding headache. He needed to think straight. Pinfield and his men had left him unconscious and bleeding in the road—maybe they’d thought he was dead, or maybe they were too concerned with finding Emilia to worry overmuch about killing him. The MacCallums had found him well after Pinfield and his men had gone—otherwise, they wouldn’t have thought he’d been set upon by highwaymen. And that meant Emilia was long gone, too. Hopefully safe and waiting for him at the abandoned crofter’s cottage.

  “Emilia…” He hesitated, unsure how to describe Emilia to these people so they understood her significance to him. There was only one way. �
�My wife…”

  Colin vowed right then and there that if they got through this, and if she’d have him, he’d make her his wife as soon as he could.

  The woman’s blue eyes widened. “Och,” she murmured, her hand coming to her mouth.

  “I told her to run…when we saw them. You didna see her?”

  The couple shook their heads, dismay deepening the lines on their faces. Colin swallowed hard, trying to dispel the nausea. “I must…go. I must find her.”

  “What if they took her?” the woman whispered, her hand pressed to her heart.

  “She ran before I faced them, so I’m hoping that wasna the case,” Colin said through gritted teeth. “I’m hoping I was able to distract them long enough, that she’s safe…” He found his stockings folded neatly on the edge of the side table and pulled them on.

  He was breathing heavily, and he felt the demons on the edges, mocking him, trying to insinuate themselves in. He wouldn’t let them. He couldn’t. Not now.

  “I told her to hide inside that abandoned crofter’s cottage off the road near the border and wait for me there,” he said to the MacCallums.

  “Oh, aye.” The man nodded knowingly. “ ’Tis a widely known landmark in these parts.”

  “Where are we now? How far?”

  “We’re aboot three miles north o’ where we found ye,” Mr. MacCallum said. “Ten miles from the border, nine from the cottage ye’re speakin’ of.”

  He was farther from Emilia than he’d thought. “What time of night is it?” he asked.