by Darcy Burke
Elspeth rushed upstairs to tell Aunt Leah where she was going and hoped her aunt wouldn’t want to come along. She was relieved when her aunt said she preferred to remain at the inn. As Elspeth donned her cloak and gloves, she hoped she might find a way to encounter Tavish when she returned.
Outside, the sun peeked through the clouds. Elspeth’s boots squished in the melting snow, and she felt a flash of disappointment. She would have no quarrel being trapped at an inn with Tavish for longer—then she’d be assured of getting to know him better.
Looking on the bright side, Elspeth was glad for the dry weather in which to walk through the small village to find Mr. Kerr’s cottage. There wasn’t much to Calvine, but it was a busy stop on the road between Perth and Inverness.
Carrie had been right—Elspeth had no trouble determining which cottage belonged to Mr. Kerr. Feeling optimistic, she walked to his door and knocked.
A moment later, the man she’d seen yesterday answered, his dark eyes blinking in surprise. “Ye’re from the inn,” he blurted.
“I am, yes.” She smiled warmly. “I’m Miss Elspeth Marshall. I was hoping to speak with you about—” A movement behind the man caught Elspeth’s eye and stole the words from her mouth.
Tavish was here?
“Come in,” Mr. Kerr invited as he pulled the door open wider and stepped back.
“I see you already have a guest,” she said, staring at Tavish. What was he doing here?
Tavish stood at the table where he’d just risen. He watched her intently but said nothing.
“This is Mr. MacLean,” Mr. Kerr said. “He also came from the inn. I have to wonder if ye’ve both come for the same reason.”
Elspeth wondered the same thing. She also wondered why Tavish hadn’t mentioned his intentions. He knew she wanted to learn more about the sword. Narrowing her eyes at him, she said, “I don’t know. Why are you here, Mr. MacLean?”
Tavish swallowed, but he didn’t look away from her. “I came to ask about Mr. Kerr’s brother, whom he mentioned yesterday.”
Had he come in search of the brother? Guilt washed over her.
“And about the flaming sword,” Mr. Kerr added, looking from Tavish to Elspeth.
The guilt vanished beneath a stinging wave of disappointment. Elspeth pressed her lips together before focusing on Mr. Kerr. “I came to ask about the sword. I write down oral stories that are told to me. I’ve heard a few about Culloden, and this sounded like one that should be recorded.”
Why did Tavish want to know about it? She looked at him and silently asked the question as if he could hear her and answer.
His lips parted briefly, but he said nothing. His eyes said plenty, however—he looked like a man caught in a lie. One who was sorry for it, which, on its own, did nothing to soothe her ire. No, she wasn’t angry. She was hurt. And she shouldn’t be. They were hardly more than acquaintances. Furthermore, he’d already demonstrated his penchant for half-truths or outright deception.
“Would ye like to sit with us?” Mr. Kerr asked. “I’ll tell ye what I was just saying to Mr. MacLean.” He flicked a glance toward Tavish, who nodded slightly. Was he asking Tavish for permission?
Elspeth wanted to know what was going on here. She also wanted to hear about the sword. “Yes, thank you.”
It appeared Mr. Kerr and Tavish had been seated across from each other, which meant she had to take one of the other sides of the square table and sit next to Tavish.
Pursing her lips, Elspeth moved to one of the chairs. Tavish rushed to hold it for her. “It’s a pleasure to see you, Miss Marshall.”
“Ye ken each other?” Mr. Kerr asked, sounding relieved.
“We met briefly at the inn,” Elspeth said tightly.
“She is someone you can trust,” Tavish said, and finally Elspeth understood Mr. Kerr’s anxiety as well as the unspoken communication between the two men. “Like me.” It appeared Tavish had already persuaded Mr. Kerr he was trustworthy. Well, Elspeth wasn’t convinced.
Mr. Kerr nodded at Tavish, then offered to take her cloak. After undoing the clasp, Elspeth handed the garment to him, and he went to hang it on a hook near the door.
While he was completing the task, Tavish bent his head toward hers. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was coming here.”
“Later,” she whispered before giving him a dark stare. “And you will tell me everything.”
He held her chair as she sat. Her back brushed against his fingers, and she bristled.
Tavish withdrew his hands and retook his chair. He did not look in her direction. He did, however, take a drink of ale, his body completely relaxed as if nothing was amiss. Why did he have to look so calm and collected? His dark hair was pulled back today in a neat queue, and he wore a burgundy waistcoat that made the brown of his coat far less drab. In fact, she almost thought it was a different garment altogether.
She jerked her gaze away lest he catch her studying him.
Mr. Kerr returned to the table. “Would ye care for ale, Miss Marshall?”
“Yes, thank you.”
Their host went to the small kitchen area and, a moment later, returned with a small cup of ale. “I get it from Balthazar at the inn, so ye may recognize it.” He took his chair and glanced between them. “It’s a bit odd that ye both came here today.”
“Your story is a bit odd,” Elspeth said. “I would be more surprised if no one questioned you further about what was said yesterday regarding your brother.” She took a sip of the ale.
Kerr ran a hand through his dark hair, tousling the strands atop his head. His face creased with worry. “Ye really just want to know about the sword?” Mr. Kerr asked her, his tone dubious.
“Yes, nothing more. I only want to hear the story as your brother told it to you—if that’s acceptable to you. If not, I will take my leave and understand completely.” She tipped her head toward Tavish. “Mr. MacLean desires other information?”
“I wish to help his brother,” Tavish said. He had said he helped other soldiers from Culloden. Was that actually true?
Mr. Kerr angled himself to face Elspeth. “I was just explaining to Mr. MacLean that my brother, Neil, came home from Culloden and told me the story about seeing the flaming sword. He said those that saw it stopped fighting. The man who was wielding it fell, and the flame stopped.”
“Was the man killed?” Elspeth asked.
“I asked Neil the same thing, but he didna ken. He was wounded a few minutes later and barely dragged himself from the battlefield. Someone cared for him afterward, and he managed to find his way here a few weeks later.”
“Where is he now?” Tavish asked.
“Right, that is what we were getting to when Miss Marshall arrived.” Mr. Kerr sent a quick glance in her direction. His brow was still furrowed. Elspeth could sense his agitation.
“You can trust me, Mr. Kerr. I am not going to share your brother’s location with anyone.” Tavish put his hand on the table, his palm flat. “As I said earlier, that is not my intent either. I’d like to help your brother if I can. I’ve helped other Jacobites from Culloden.”
“How?” Mr. Kerr asked what Elspeth wanted to know too.
“I hide them—sometimes far away. We change their names and sometimes their appearances, as much as we can.”
Mr. Kerr looked at Tavish intently. “How far away?”
“I’ve helped several sail to the American colonies.”
How had he done that? Had they signed a contract to work for a number of years in exchange for the transport?
Mr. Kerr’s eyes widened. “Do they sign indentures?”
“No.” The single word carried a weight that snaked up Elspeth’s spine.
“I’ve considered doing that,” Mr. Kerr admitted before taking a drink of ale.
Elspeth’s chest ached. She supposed it was an opportunity for some who were looking to change their fortune.
“How do ye help them get ta America, then?” Mr. Kerr asked.
“I
have…contacts,” Tavish answered rather enigmatically. Elspeth added that question to the several bouncing around in her head that she intended to ask him when they left. “Do you know where your brother is? I could help him.”
Mr. Kerr cupped his hands around his ale and looked down. “I dinna ken. He was here with me for a fortnight, until he felt strong enough to leave. Soldiers were looking for those who had fought. He didna want ta be caught here with me.” Mr. Kerr lifted his gaze, and it was filled with stark pain. “I didna fight, because I was a coward. My brother is younger, taller, stronger. I have no skills useful in battle. Still, I should have gone.” His head dropped as he fixed on the table once more.
Elspeth reached over and touched his forearm. “Not everyone is a soldier.”
“No, but I could have done something else. I could have helped tend ta the wounded, perhaps.”
“Miss Marshall is right,” Tavish said quietly. “Not everyone can—or should—be a soldier. Do you have any idea where your brother might have gone? Family, a friend, something else?”
Mr. Kerr lifted his gaze. “Ye really do just want to help him? Ye aren’t an English soldier in disguise?”
“I am not,” Tavish assured him.
“I heard ye were talking to those soldiers last night,” Mr. Kerr said, his gaze narrowing.
Tavish didn’t look at all bothered by Mr. Kerr’s doubt. “I was, but only to ascertain their movements. They are on leave and going back to England. They were not looking for difficulty—or lost Jacobites.” He leaned slightly forward. “I promise you can trust me, Mr. Kerr. I was at Culloden too. I have the scars to prove it.”
He did? Elspeth turned her head to stare at him, wondering—rather inappropriately—where those scars were.
“Ye seem like a kind man, Mr. MacLean.”
“I try to be, Mr. Kerr. If you can think of anything that might help me find your brother, it would be my honor to see him safe. He can come with me to Glasgow. I’ve had success finding work for a few men there.”
“We dinna have any other family, and our friends are here. I think I’d ken if he were in Calvine.”
Tavish smiled with understanding. “Probably. It’s a rather small village. I’ll be at the inn for at least one more night should you think of something.” He looked toward Elspeth and almost imperceptibly inclined his head toward the door.
Elspeth took another drink of ale. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mr. Kerr. If I do write about the flaming sword, I’ll be sure to keep your and your brother’s name out of the story.”
“I’d appreciate that, miss, thank ye.” Mr. Kerr got to his feet.
Tavish stood and offered her his hand. Elspeth ignored his gesture and rose unaided. She smiled warmly at Mr. Kerr, who went to fetch her cloak. She walked to the door, where he draped it about her shoulders.
Elspeth fastened the clasp at her throat, then walked outside. She did not wait for Tavish, but strode to the lane, where she turned toward the inn.
Tavish caught up to her on her left. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was coming here.”
“You already said that. You really came here because you thought you could help Mr. Kerr’s brother?”
“I did.”
She kept walking, her pace increasing. “Except Mr. Kerr exposed your other purpose—the sword.” She stopped abruptly and turned to glare at him. “You know I wanted to learn more about the sword.”
“Yes.” His tone was annoyingly calm. “I would have shared what I learned with you.”
Elspeth looked up into his eyes. “Would you? I would like to believe that, but so far, you’ve given me little reason to trust you. Change my mind, or our acquaintance ends right now.”
Chapter 4
Miss Marshall’s dark green eyes gleamed with indignation. Tavish was captivated.
“You’re quite beautiful when you’re angry.”
Her lips parted, and Tavish fell even more under her spell. Then she grunted and turned.
He clasped her arm and shook himself out of his idiocy. “My apologies. I’m not at all used to feeling…drawn to someone.” He didn’t know how else to describe it. No one had ever gotten under his skin the way Miss Marshall had.
“Will you let me explain?”
She pulled her arm from his grasp and pivoted to face him once more. “I told you to change my mind. Do it quickly.”
“The flaming sword—Lann Dhearg—is a dark tool. There’s a reason it was hidden while its twin, Dryrnwyn, was not. Dyrnwyn flames for the worthy. Lann Dhearg feeds on fear and strife. Anyone can wield it in the presence of hatred, of darkness, of despair.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “How do you know all this?”
He exhaled. It was time—past time—to tell her the truth. “Because it belongs to me.”
She gasped, her eyes widening.
He offered her his arm. “Let us walk, please.”
She curled her hand around his sleeve, and they made their way along the slushy ground. The snow had melted somewhat, but the clouds had also thickened once more, indicating it might snow again.
“It belongs to you?”
“I should probably tell you the one name I haven’t yet revealed.” He tensed. “I am the Lord Strathclyde.”
She stopped once more and tried to take her hand from his arm, but he covered it with his and held her fast. “Strathclyde?!”
“Stay with me, please.” He kept walking, pulling her along with him. “Yes, Strathclyde. And to answer what you surely must be thinking, yes, I’m a descendant of Rhydderch Hael. More importantly, I’m a direct descendant of his younger brother, Constantine. Lann Dhearg was his sword. Once he learned how dangerous it could be, that it would flame for anyone and grow even more powerful through hatred and anger, he hid it away. Our family has done so for centuries.”
“That’s why no one has heard of it,” she breathed.
He could hear the fascination in her tone, the curiosity. “And why no one ever will. I foolishly took the damn thing to Culloden.”
“Why would you do that?” The disappointment in her voice matched his own. No, nothing could do that. He was positively livid with himself.
“Because I thought I could control it. I don’t feel angry or afraid when I hold it—because I am supposed to wield it.”
“You are?”
“Anyone from my line—my father, my son.”
This time, she took her hand from his arm so quickly, he wasn’t able to keep hold of her. “You have a son?” She turned and glared up at him.
“No! I meant a future son. I have told you everything—I have no children, no wife, no family at all, save my grandmother.”
She eyed him skeptically. “Why should I believe you?”
“Because I won’t lie to you ever again. About anything.”
She pulled her gaze from his and stared off to the right, her jaw working. He could practically see the anguish in her brain and loathed himself for it. Just as he’d stupidly thought Lann Dhearg would make him invincible in battle, he somehow believed he could keep her from knowing about it. About the sword or about his idiocy?
She glanced toward him. “I don’t know if I should trust you. You deceived me—on more than one occasion. On every occasion.”
“Never again.” He took her hand. “I swear it.”
“You’re a bloody lord. You should have honor to spare.”
Her words stung, as they should. “I try to. I’m afraid I allowed my mistake and the ensuing humiliation I feel because of it to drive my actions.” He took a deep breath as he tried to think of how to say what else needed to be said. “I was also concerned about sharing the details with someone like you.”
“What does that mean, someone like me?”
“A born storyteller. You want to share the story of Lann Dhearg—it’s a completely unknown legend.”
“It isn’t a legend, apparently,” she said with disdain. “It’s history.”
“For my family, but not
for everyone else.” He frowned. “This is why I didn’t tell you. You want to share the story.”
“Then why tell me—and David—about Lann Dhearg at all two years ago?”
“Because I was smitten.” Afterward, he’d berated himself for revealing his family’s secret legacy. “I shouldn’t have shared it, but I was trying to impress you.”
She blew out a breath and looked away for a moment before pinning him with an earnest stare. “Yes, I want to tell the story. It proves Dyrnwyn—and perhaps the rest of the Thirteen Treasures of Britain—are real.”
“And then countless numbers will search for it just as they do for Dyrnwyn and the rest of the treasures. As they do for Excalibur. Or the holy grail.” He stepped toward her so that they were close enough to…kiss. “Do you know the lengths men will go to in order to find and own such objects? There is a secret organization full of dangerous men who spend their lives trying to hunt them down.” He stared at her. “Let me ask you something, and please be as honest as possible—I won’t think less of you.” Certainly no less than he thought of his own behavior. “Do you want to tell the story because you think it’s important for people to know, or because it will gain you notoriety for learning it?”
Her eyes widened slightly and her brows rose. She looked away from him, pulling her cloak more tightly around herself as the wind picked up.
“We should get back to the inn,” he said softly.
She nodded and took his arm once more, which gave him comfort—and hope.
At length, she said, “You’re right. I want to tell the story because it would be the greatest story of our generation. Perhaps the century.”
“I’m not right. I didn’t know the answer. That’s why I asked. I should have asked sooner.”
She looked at him askance. “Is there really a secret organization that searches for the treasures?”
“Yes. And they’re dangerous.” He met her gaze. “I promised I wouldn’t lie—that’s the truth as I know it. My uncle liked to tell tales about our family. It got him killed, or so my father told me when I was young.” How he missed his father, lost to illness more than a decade past.