by Darcy Burke
Tavish Crawford eyed the pair of English soldiers who remained in the common room. He’d been waiting for the right moment to approach them. After watching them drink an excessive amount of ale over the past few hours, the time was near.
The innkeeper’s red-haired daughter, Carrie, as she’d introduced herself hours earlier, bustled to his table. “Finished?”
“I am, thank you. The stew was delicious.” Tavish gestured to his empty tankard. “Another ale, if you please.”
“Finally. Ye’re the slowest drinker in the entire inn. Can’t believe it given yer size.” She eyed him with stark interest. “Ye talk like ye’re a lord or summat. Are ye?”
Tavish gave her a bland smile. He was many things. “I’m just John MacLean, I’m afraid.” Tonight. He couldn’t help but think of Elspeth Marshall and how he was someone else to her. He’d seen the confusion and then anger in her expression when he’d failed to acknowledge her.
But he couldn’t. Besides, she was better off not knowing him—as Roy Williams, John MacLean, or Tavish Crawford.
“Where are ye from?” Carrie asked as she scooped up his trencher and empty mug. “Not the Highlands.”
“Near Glasgow.”
“It’s not England, but it’d be an improvement,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll fetch ye another ale.” Then she turned and swept back toward the kitchen.
As she passed the soldiers, they asked for more ale. It was time.
Tavish stood and made his way to their table. “’Evening. I hope you don’t mind that I stepped in earlier. I probably should have let you pummel them.” He shook his head with faux regret. “There’s no place for talk of Culloden unless it’s to remind them how badly they lost.” Tavish softened his brogue so that he almost sounded English.
“Damn right,” the captain who’d made the earlier threat said with a sharp nod. His small dark eyes surveyed Tavish. “Did you fight?”
“I’m not a soldier.” Not officially. “What brings you men to the middle of nowhere?”
“On our way home on leave,” the captain responded. “I’m Fowler. This is Sergeant Boyd.”
“Not sure we’ll make it home for Christmas, but we’re going to try our damnedest,” Boyd said as Carrie delivered their ale. “We’re fortunate to be able to go home since you heathens don’t even celebrate the season.” He snorted.
Fowler nodded in agreement. “We’ll make it. Unless we find any fugitives.”
“You’re on the hunt for Jacobites?” Tavish asked casually before taking a sip of ale.
Boyd spat on the floor. “Bloody criminals. We’ll catch every last one and see ’em hang.”
“Or in jail,” Fowler said with more restraint. But then his lip curled and a feral gleam blistered his gaze.
Tavish tensed. He hoped they could leave tomorrow. He didn’t need them hanging about, not when he was also on the hunt for Jacobites. But for a wholly different purpose. He didn’t think there was anyone in Calvine who needed his help, but he was ever mindful and would offer assistance where it was wanted.
“You’re looking for someone in particular, then?” Tavish asked.
Fowler nodded. “Several someones. Know anyone named McCloud or Williams? Those are the two I’d most like to find. McCloud’s a skinny fellow with black hair and a jagged scar across his brow. Williams is larger—about your size, I’d say—with long hair and a thick beard.”
“Can’t say I do,” Tavish lied. “But I’ll keep an ear out.” McCloud was a friend and currently in hiding. His injuries had been extensive. Tavish had recovered more quickly—after shaving his beard and lopping his hair off. He was, most likely, the Williams they wanted.
“There you are.”
The feminine voice drew all three men to turn their heads. Standing next to the table, her dusky green eyes flashing with ire, was Elspeth Marshall.
She’d wound her red-blonde hair atop her head, save a few wispy curls that grazed her cheeks. She wore a dark green gown that laced across the front of her bodice beneath a square neckline. Putting one hand on her slender waist, she fixed her angry stare on Tavish.
He swallowed. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve met.” This could go very, very badly.
Her lips parted. “You really don’t remember me?”
Tavish allowed a lazy smile as he glanced toward the soldiers. “I think I would. Ergo, you must be mistaken. No matter, I’m delighted to meet you now.” Before he could say his name and show her it wasn’t Williams, she spoke.
“Oh, I know you already, Mr. Williams. And you know me. What I’d like to know is why—”
Tavish couldn’t let her continue. “My name is not Williams. You are mistaken, miss.” He hardened his gaze and prayed she would go.
“Williams?” Fowler asked, his eyes focusing—and narrowing—on Tavish.
“As I said, I’m MacLean.” Tavish looked directly at Miss Marshall. “John MacLean. Now, if you’ll excuse us, miss, we are drinking ale and discussing things that don’t involve a young lady such as yourself.” He turned his attention to his tablemates even as he heard her sharp intake of breath.
Miss Marshall didn’t immediately leave. Tavish felt her presence and her outrage like a stiff, cold wind. Still, he refused to be buffeted.
With a small sound of indignation, she spun on her heel and left. Inwardly, Tavish winced. Outwardly, he lifted his ale and muttered, “Good riddance.”
Fowler scrutinized him across the table. “You really aren’t Williams?”
“A Jacobite?” Tavish snorted in disdain. “No. But I’d be happy to help you find him. He ought to be strung up with the rest of the traitors.”
“Hear, hear!” Boyd banged his tankard on the table before taking a long drink.
Fowler hesitated, but eventually did the same. Then he leaned back in his chair, still holding the mug. “Good, because I’m not in the mood for a fight tonight. I just want to get home to my family. Is that too much to ask?” He sounded weary. Tavish could understand that. They all wanted comfort after the nightmare of Culloden.
“Amen to that,” Tavish said.
“What do you make of that silly story about a flaming sword?” Boyd sniggered. “These bloody Highlanders will believe anything.”
Today wasn’t the first time Tavish had heard rumors about the sword. He knew they weren’t rumors, of course. The sword had been used at Culloden, and he needed to find it. While he was always looking for Jacobite survivors of Culloden, his primary concern at the moment was locating Lann Dhearg before it fell into the wrong hands. And if it already had, well, he’d have to get it back.
“They particularly appreciate legend and fantasy,” Tavish said derisively.
Fowler pressed his lips together. “I’ve heard about this fiery sword before. For a fallacy, it is remarkably persistent.”
Boyd let out a snort. “That doesn’t make it true. I didn’t see anything of the sort that day. Can you imagine it, though? A sword that burst into flame. That would be very useful in the dark.” He laughed before taking another drink.
“Seems like I’ve heard the rumor too,” Tavish mused. “Can’t remember where exactly.” He pretended to think and hoped one of the other men would play along.
“The first time I heard about it was just outside Inverness,” Fowler said. “A month or so after Culloden.”
Tavish looked at the captain over the rim of his tankard. “You’ve heard the tale multiple times?”
“Indeed. I’ve heard its flames took out a dozen men, that it’s a broadsword, and that the man wielding it was seven feet tall.” His tone was droll.
Tavish smiled into his ale before taking a drink. He was tall, but not that tall…
“Nonsense, but at least it’s entertaining!” Boyd set his mug onto the table with a thud. “I need to take a piss.” He stood and left the common room, going out the front door.
Fowler glanced toward the stairs in the corner. “Too bad you didn’t really know that pretty thing. But th
en if you did, I’d have to take you into custody.” The edge of his mouth ticked up in an arrogant half smile.
“If I were Williams, I wouldn’t be sitting here with you. And I sure as hell wouldn’t allow you to take me anywhere.” Tavish let a brief moment pass before he let out a low, dark laugh, which Fowler joined.
“We’ll find him,” Fowler said with great confidence. “One by one, we’re rounding them all up. They can’t hide forever.”
“You’ll be back up here, then—after your holiday?”
Nodding, Fowler took another drink. “Right after Epiphany.”
Tavish wondered if all the soldiers scouting for Jacobite stragglers were doing the same. Not that it mattered overmuch—those who’d fought or supported the Jacobites mustn’t let down their guard.
Fowler’s dark brows drew together as he cast a look at the front door. “Hell, Boyd is taking a long time. The other night, he fell over when he went out to piss. I’d better go check on him.”
“I think I’ll turn in.” Tavish stood along with the captain and bid him good night.
When he got to the stairs, he looked to make sure Fowler had left. When the front door was closed, Tavish walked upstairs. As soon as he hit the landing, a figure jumped out in front of him.
Hands on her hips, Elspeth Marshall glared at him, her eyes ablaze. “You’re a lying blackguard.” Then she drove her fist into his gut.
As Williams doubled over, Elspeth considered delivering another injury. He deserved at least that.
“I deserved that,” he said, echoing her thoughts. His voice was muffled from his bent position.
“You saying that doesn’t make you less guilty.” It did steal a bit of her outrage, however.
He straightened and grasped her hand, dragging her along the narrow corridor to a door at the end. Opening it, she saw another flight of stairs.
She dug her feet into the floorboards. “Where are you taking me?”
“We can’t stand here out in the open.” He tossed a look toward the landing at the top of the stairs from the common room where she’d been waiting for him. His dark brows were drawn low over his eyes. “We can go to your room or mine, which is upstairs. Choose. And be quick.”
“Mine.” She turned across from the door he’d just opened and unlatched the one to her room. “Here.”
She stepped inside and pulled her hand from his.
He closed the door firmly behind them and faced her. His cloak from earlier was gone, leaving him dressed in a rather drab suit of brown, not unlike the one he’d worn when they’d met. No, not drab. He was far too arresting—from his dark hair to his supple lips and square jaw to the way his muscular form filled out his clothing.
Elspeth stood in the middle of the small chamber and folded her arms over her chest. “I’m waiting.”
Williams or MacLean or whatever his name was glanced about. “Where’s your companion?”
A loud snore answered him. His eyes widened, and he looked to the left, where there was another door—which led to Aunt Leah’s chamber.
“In the next room.”
“That’s not an animal?”
Elspeth pursed her lips so she wouldn’t laugh. “My aunt snores.” She stared at him expectantly.
He went to the hearth and crouched to stoke the fire, then added another piece of wood. “I had to lie. Those soldiers were looking for me.”
Dropping her arms to her sides, Elspeth exhaled some of her ire. Most of it, really. “They found you.”
He turned his head from the fire. “They’re looking for a man called Williams—a Jacobite. They don’t particularly know what he looks like.”
Shock replaced the remains of her anger. “You’re a Jacobite?”
Setting the poker back on the hearth, he stood and faced her once more. “I believe in Scotland and in my family. I have cousins who are—were—Jacobites.”
She moved to stand near the hearth. Not near him—she wanted the warmth of the fire. “You fought at Culloden?”
Stepping to the side, he gestured for her to take the spot in front of the fireplace. “I did. As Roy Williams.”
“But now you go by John MacLean.”
“Yes. However, my real name is Tavish Crawford.” He gave her a lopsided smile that made her heart skip even as he pricked her outrage once more.
“You lied about who you were when we met?”
“It was necessary, I’m afraid. At the time, I was on my way to Inverness to meet with Jacobites.” He didn’t seem the least bit sorry. “I had to be Roy Williams.”
“So Roy Williams is a Jacobite and a soldier. What is John MacLean?”
“A man who helps those in need. Particularly those wounded at Culloden.”
She had trouble retaining her anger given his desire to help people. “A Jacobite sympathizer, then.”
He lifted a shoulder. “I sympathize with those who have suffered and seek to provide aid where I can.” He took a step toward her. “I apologize for lying downstairs and for my rude behavior toward you.”
“I recognized you as soon as your hood fell away.”
His blue gaze held hers. “I recognized you as soon as you walked into the common room.”
The ripple of awareness or whatever it was that she’d felt downstairs when she’d looked at him returned with greater force. She was glad to know she hadn’t imagined the connection she’d felt to him two years ago. And that it hadn’t diminished. If anything, the attraction felt stronger.
Elspeth’s breath caught. She’d given up on him. Well, she’d tried to, anyway. “You said you’d come back.” Her words were barely above a whisper.
“I said I hoped to see you again. I was still hoping.” The crooked smile returned, as did the answering trip of Elspeth’s heart. “On this very trip, in fact.”
“You planned to stop in Dunkeld?”
“I did.”
Elspeth couldn’t help but feel a rush of pleasure. Still, she was a trifle hurt. “Perhaps I am betrothed.”
His gaze remained steady. “Since you said perhaps, I will take that to mean you are not.”
She blew out a breath. “No, I am not. Angus Macintosh did ask me last year, however.”
“You said no.” Of course he knew she had, but the confidence with which he uttered the words gave her a slight pause.
“It was at the Lammas Fair. He wanted to handfast, as was common in the past.” She rolled her eyes. “I was the third woman he’d asked.”
Williams—no, MacLean—no, Crawford laughed.
She put her hands on her hips. “What am I to call you? I feel as though I don’t know you at all.” And really, she didn’t. A few hours’ acquaintance over two years ago barely signified, attraction or not.
“How about Tavish? Unless you see a British soldier, then I’d prefer you call me John.”
“Mr. MacLean is probably more appropriate.” She realized they were alone together in a room, which would draw raised eyebrows, if not plain outrage, from some.
“Whatever makes you most comfortable, Miss Marshall. I should be devastated if you remained angry with me. Am I forgiven for my behavior downstairs?”
“And for not visiting Dunkeld in the past two years?”
He bowed slightly. “And for that.”
She looked him in the eye. “That depends. What do you know about this flaming sword that was seen at Culloden? Since you were there and you’re the one who told me about Lann Dhearg in the first place, I must presume you know something.”
“You’re still writing stories?”
“Always.”
“Then you must want to write this one. I wish I could help you.” His tone held a touch of regret. “I didn’t see it, but I have heard it mentioned several times before today.”
“I was just in Inverness visiting my cousin and listened to a few stories of the battle, one of them from a firsthand account. No one mentioned the sword.”
“As I said, I didn’t see it, and no one I knew who was
at Culloden mentioned it.”
Elspeth paced to the small table where her stack of parchment sat. She’d dashed off the information she’d heard earlier in the common room. “I can’t decide if it’s one person’s fiction—a fantasy in the midst of a horrid event—or if someone, or multiple someones, actually saw something they thought was a flaming sword. In the absence of a firsthand source, I have to think it’s fiction.”
“Either way, just seeing a flaming sword isn’t much of a story, is it?”
She exhaled. “Not really. While I might use a superlative to tell a story, I try not to embellish what I’ve actually heard.”
“So you won’t position the sword as the turning point in the battle?” he asked wryly.
She smiled. “Not unless someone tells me that. I always write down my sources and whether they were firsthand.”
“Do you get many of those?”
She shook her head. “Not until lately as I’ve begun traveling to collect stories.” She’d accompanied Aunt Leah on trips to visit family and friends over the past year. “It’s much different from writing down a legend or a myth that’s been retold countlessly across time and space.”
“I can imagine.” He looked at her with a light in his eye. Was that admiration? “How wonderful to spend time talking with people and recording the history of our land through their eyes as they are living it.”
Elspeth hadn’t thought about it in that way, but she supposed that was what she was doing. “I find it fascinating, but I wasn’t sure anyone else would.”
He glanced toward the parchment on the table. “Miss Marshall, I wonder if you might allow me to read one of your stories.”
“Oh.” She hadn’t expected that. No one asked to read her stories except her father and her aunt. Children and even some adults asked her to tell them, but no one asked to read them.
“Nearly all of them are at home in Dunkeld. I do have one that I finished in Inverness. It was told to me by a man who lives near my cousin. Her husband was at Culloden. He didn’t fight. He was there to help care for anyone who was wounded.”
“Is he a physician like your father?” Tavish—since he’d asked her to call him that, she would—knew from their first meeting that her father was a doctor and that her mother had died. At the time, it had been only six years since her mother had been gone. Elspeth’s grief had lessened, but the sense of loss, especially at this time of year, was still keen. She, on the other hand, knew very little about him. She realized in retrospect that she’d done much more sharing during their time together in Dunkeld. Probably because he’d been hiding who he really was.