The Lady and the Highlander

by Lecia Cornwall

  Just a lass . . .

  “I need her heart,” he said.

  The body snatchers looked at one another. “Her heart? What for? Did ye know her?”

  “I can pay,” Iain said, ignoring the question. “What do ye get for a body?”

  “Intact?” the wet one asked.

  The man with the knife laughed and shook his head. “More than ye’ve got, Teuchter.”

  Iain fumbled for his purse. He tore it off his belt and tossed it at their feet. The coins inside jangled together. “I only want her heart. Ye can sell the rest.”

  It was cold, craven, and cruel, but he’d been cruel before, and this lass’s heart would appease Bibiana. It would buy him time . . .

  The knife stayed hard against his windpipe as they counted the silver coins. He heard a thin whistle. “Take it all. Put the heart in the purse instead,” he said.

  He turned away while they peeled opened her sodden garments and opened her chest. At last they thrust the purse into his hand. It was heavier now. He forced himself to his feet and bit back a gasp at the white-hot pain in his leg.

  “They tell us it’s how doctors learn,” the wet man said as he closed the woman’s garments over the gaping hole in her breast. “They cut up dead bodies, see how things work inside. Can’t bring ‘em back to life, but they might find something to save someone else. If she was yours, I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “She wasn’t mine.” Iain hesitated. “I’m looking for a different woman. Dark hair, pale skin. A Highland lass.”

  The wet one shook his head. “This is the first lass we’ve found in a month.”

  The other man brandished his knife under Iain’s nose. “No more talk. Ye got what ye wanted. Now go. Don’t come back here again or I’ll gut ye.”

  Iain tied the heavy purse to his belt and limped away.

  He made it back to the Pearl, but the knife wound made his progress slow. By the time he arrived , he could feel blood squelching inside his boot. Mistress Fairly saw him climbing the stairs and summoned a pair of strong lads to help him before he attracted the attention of her customers, or bled on her fine carpets. She followed with a tray of bandages and a bottle of whisky.

  “Drop your trousers,” she ordered. Iain wondered how many times she’d said that before. Still, he did as he was told, hiding the purse under his discarded clothing.

  The manservant drew a ragged breath through his crooked teeth at the sight of the slash, but Janet Fairly regarded the wound without a hint of emotion. “Hmm. Long and bloody, but not deep enough to kill ye. It will need stitching.”

  She opened the bottle and poured a dram of whisky. “Is there any chance the one who did this followed ye here to finish the job?”

  Iain shook his head. She handed him the cup, and he drained it in a single swallow.

  “Hold him still,” she said to the biggest manservant.

  “No need,” Iain said, gritting his teeth. She raised her brows but dismissed the men.

  “Should I ask how this happened?” she said as she threaded the needle.

  “No,” he said. The whisky was warming his limbs nicely, though it did little to dull the pain as yet. “I’ll take another dram before ye start sewing,” he said, and she obliged him.

  She poured a third cup when he drained that, and emptied it over the wound to clean it. It burned like fire, but he trapped his tongue behind his teeth and stayed silent.

  She smiled. “Brave man. I know men who cry like bairns at a scratch.”

  She took the first stitch, watching him. He held still, though it was far worse than the sting of the whisky. “So did ye find the lass you were looking for?”

  “Nay,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Pity,” she said. “I may be a businesswoman, but I do enjoy tales of true love now and then.”

  “It’s not like that,” he said. “She came to find her uncle.”

  “Aye—Hugh or Harrison, the man of science. So who is she, this dark-haired lass?”

  “A woman in trouble,” he said.

  She looked up for a moment, gave him a knowing smile. “Then you’re a hero, are ye? Rescuing damsels in distress?”

  “Something like that.” He glanced at his torn, bloody trousers on the floor. The pouch was still tied to them. He felt anything but heroic. He waited in tense silence for her to finish.

  “I made some enquiries for you.”

  The whisky was taking effect now. “Oh?” he asked.

  “There are, of course, many men of science in Edinburgh—doctors, astronomers, physicians. But it seems one man knows them all. He holds a weekly salon when he’s in town. Sir Hamish MacEwan.”

  “McEwan,” Iain said.

  She smiled softly and studied her fingertips. “Hamish is—was—an old and rather dear friend of mine once. I haven’t heard his name mentioned in many years.” She shrugged and began to wrap clean linen over the wound. “He lives in Saint George’s Square. I’ll lend you my coach, since you can hardly walk with this. You should stay off it for a day or two, but ye won’t, will you?” Iain didn’t reply. “I thought not,” she said as she tied a knot in the bandage. “Just be careful not to tear the stitches.” She took the bottle off the tray and left it where he could reach it.

  “My thanks,” he said. “Shall I give Sir Hamish your regards?

  She smiled faintly. “I doubt he’d remember me. Still, I hope this will lead you to your bonny lass. I do love a happy ending.”

  Iain drank down another swallow of whisky. “How d’ye know she’s bonny? I didna’ say she was.”

  She gave him a knowing look, and he felt himself blushing. The whisky was to blame for that, he told himself, not the remembered sparkle of Laire MacLeod’s violet eyes, the lush curve of her lips . . . Liar—she was all he thought about.

  Janet caught the look and chuckled. “Oh, I can see she’s bonny indeed. I hope ye find her before someone in my profession does.”

  “I intend to. No offense.”

  “None taken,” she said easily. “A lass should have a choice. I take good care of the women in my employ, and they are safer here than they’d be on the streets.”

  She looked at him thoughtfully. “Tell me, Lindsay, are you a good choice, or a bad one? You look like a hard man to me, a rogue. Perhaps this lass doesn’t wish to be found by you. No offense.”

  He raised the whisky glass to her. “None taken. I’ve sworn off women,” he said. “I was married once.”

  “As was I. When he died, he left me this house, but not a penny to run a household. So I took a lover, and when he died, he left me a very expensive necklace as a parting gift, and I started a business. Needs must. And your wife?”

  “Dead,” he said flatly, and poured more whisky. It slopped over the edge of the glass slightly, but Janet didn’t scold.

  “I wish ye better luck with your next wife.”

  “There won’t be a next time for me. I’m not the marrying kind. I have a job to do, and then . . .” He let his voice trail off.

  Janet frowned. “Oh, that would be a pity. If ye need companionship, or employment, I’ve always got room here.”

  He swallowed more whisky. His head buzzed pleasantly as the pain in his wounded leg diminished. “I’ll keep that in mind. Thank ye for your hospitality, but I’ll be leaving tomorrow.”

  It was time to go, to return to Lindsay House.

  He lay back with his head on the pillow and was fast asleep before she left the room.

  In the morning, he carefully tucked the lass’s heart into the alabaster box with all the reverence he could give it. He wondered if someone was looking for her, worried about her, and he felt a moment’s sorrow for all the lasses he hadn’t helped. Bibiana’s victims.

  He closed the box and slid the small gold latch into place. He asked the manservant for Sir Hamish MacEwan’s address on his way out. He hired a carriage, made his way down to the docks, and found a tavern by the water. He inquired about a ship to Inverness and someon
e willing to carry a package to Lady Macleod at Glen Iolair.

  Then he went back to Lindsay House and let Morag make a fuss over his unexpected reappearance before he changed his clothes and left to see Sir Hamish.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Iain found St. George’s Square and Sir Hamish MacEwan’s home. It was a fine townhouse, four stories tall and made of yellow brick stained with soot. It had an air of gentle refinement and comfort. He looked up at the windows that faced the street. With luck, Sir Hamish would know someone who knew a man of science named Hugh or Harrison, kin by marriage to Donal MacLeod.

  He rubbed his chin and straightened the fine lace cravat at his throat. He had only one dirk, and it was concealed under his fine, sober, respectable coat. The elegant clothing felt unfamiliar after so long, and the tailored coats that had once fit him perfectly were now tight across his shoulders. His knee breeches bunched over the bandage on his leg, even without the added muscle on his thighs. Seven years as a sealgair had sculpted his lean body, added muscle.

  Even dressed as a gentleman and the rightful laird of Clan Lindsay, he knew he still looked like a lone and dangerous wolf, a man who had gambled his own soul and lost. He half expected a burly manservant take one look at him and toss him off the step and onto his ass before he could even give his name.

  He pursed his lips and limped up the steps anyway.

  He lifted the doorknocker and let it fall.

  A wee ball of a woman in a frilled bonnet opened the door. “Yes?” she said crisply, regarding Iain suspiciously. She clutched a hand to her shawl, drawing it protectively close to her throat.

  Iain forced himself to smile, but that seemed to make the woman’s fears all the worse. She closed the door ever so slightly and stepped back, peering through a narrower crack.

  “My name is Iain Lindsay. Is Sir Hamish MacEwan at home?”

  “Nay, he is not.” She moved to shut the door. He put his hand against it before it closed. She made a small sound of surprise.

  “When may I call to see him?”

  “He won’t be back today, or tomorrow either,” she said. “I have a pistol. Kindly remove your hand or I’ll shoot ye.”

  Iain would have laughed if her expression had not promised she would do so.

  He stepped back and the door banged shut. He heard the locks slide into place.

  He retreated down the steps and paused to scowl at the house. An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of his belly at the delay. Finding Laire wouldn’t be as easy as he’d hoped. It could take days, perhaps weeks.

  But by then, Bibiana would realize he wasn’t coming back, and if she guessed that the heart didn’t belong to Laire MacLeod, she’d come to find out why.

  And she wouldn’t be pleased with the answer.

  “I asked some old friends at the medical school. Sir Hamish lives on Saint George’s Square. Everyone knows him,” Dux said, leading Laire through the Edinburgh streets the next day. Wee Kipper skipped beside them. “He holds a salon for colleagues, professors, and even students on Thursday afternoons, and today is Thursday,” he said happily.

  He ducked between buildings and down vennels and crooked streets, past houses, shops, and kirks until they arrived at another square. He pointed at one of the tall townhouses. “It’s that one. I hope you’ll introduce me to him. I do miss medical school.”

  Laire smiled at him. “Of course I will. I’ll tell him you rescued me.” Wee Kipper tugged on her cloak, and she took his small hand in hers. “And you of course, Wee Kipper. You most of all.”

  He nodded proudly.

  She gazed up at the windows of the tall house. She was finally here and safe at last.

  She picked up her skirts and hurried toward the steps.

  Iain turned to go, lost in thought, and collided with someone. He felt the surprised exhalation of breath on his cheek, and instinctively grasped her elbow to keep her from falling. She wore a black cloak, the hood pulled over her head, half covering her face, and it fell back as she tilted her head to look up at him.

  He stood in shock for an instant, staring down into Laire MacLeod’s violet eyes. He watched them widen, saw her cheeks blanch and her lips part to scream.

  “Laire . . .”

  Something small and hard hit his leg. He gasped as his wound caught fire, flared to agony. He let go of her arm. He glanced down and saw a small boy holding tight to him, his wee face ferocious.

  Laire reached for the child, her face anguished, her eyes wide with terror, but before she could grab the boy, a young man, blond and bespectacled, grabbed her and began to drag her away. She resisted, her face crumpling.

  Iain tried to move toward her, but the boy latched onto his hand and bit him. The child fought like a wildcat, kicking and using his fists to pummel Iain. The red mist of pain thickened, and Iain did his best to hold the child away from his injured leg without hurting him. The young man was pulling Laire’s hand, but she was fighting him. There were tears in her eyes . . . the lad was speaking to her urgently, refusing to let go of her.

  The child. She is trying to reach the child, he realized.

  She met his eyes, her expression fierce, full of anguish and warning. Iain felt his face fill with blood. Does she think I’d harm a child? The child was harming him. The boy bit him again, and kicked at Iain’s injured leg. It hurt like the bloody devil . . . Iain grabbed the lad by the back of the collar, lifted him off his feet, and held him away. Still, the boy’s fists swung at him, and his teeth were bared, his face red with fury despite the cold. He didn’t make a sound.

  Iain looked at the young man, who peered back at Iain through dusty spectacles, his expression hard, resigned. He was abandoning the boy to save Laire . . . He put his arm around her waist and tugged her into an alley and was gone.

  The boy still swung at him, even at arm’s length and out of reach. His green eyes were full of murder.

  “Easy, lad. “I’ll not hurt ye—or her. Where did she go?” he asked. But the boy twisted in his grip, refused to speak. He was light as a feather, all wee bones and wide eyes and no substance at all.

  Iain’s leg was bleeding again. He couldn’t pursue her in this condition. He felt frustration well and cursed silently, mindful of the child’s tender ears. The boy kicked again, hit a rib this time.

  Iain tucked the child under his arm, hailed a carriage, and ordered the driver back to Lindsay House.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Chieftain stood in the middle of the floor, his face red with fury. Bear looked sorrowful. Fussle and Magpie were sobbing. Hoolet was glowering at Dux, who looked guilty. Silent tears rolled down Laire’s face.

  She should have left the clan when she knew the sealgair had found her, and not endangered them. What could Wee Kipper do against a full-grown man? He’d held the child by the scruff of the neck like a lost kitten . . .

  “Ye shouldn’t have taken the boy with ye,” Chieftain railed. “He canna talk, but he can still show the bastard where we are. We’re done for. The old woman nearly caught Fussle in the library this morning. She was dusting fit to burst, and ye know what that means—her masters are back.”

  Dux removed his spectacles and swiped at his eyes.

  “I didn’t mean for Wee Kipper to get caught,” Laire said. “I would have gladly taken his place. I don’t know how the sealgair found me.” She was trembling, and it had nothing to do with the cold.

  “He was just waiting there,” Dux said. “Standing right by the steps of Sir Hamish’s house, like he knew she’d come.”

  “We should have known when we saw him here, upstairs,” Hoolet said. She looked at Bear and Chieftain. “He was eight feet tall and built like a blockhouse. He had hands as big as whole hams . . . and he’s a Highlander. I’ve heard they eat children. He’ll make a meal of poor Wee Kipper.”

  Magpie began to cry harder.

  “I’m a Highlander,” Laire said fiercely. “We don’t eat children. We protect them with our very lives.” She had barely re
cognized Bibiana’s sealgair today, dressed in fine clothes. He’d looked like any other Edinburgh gentleman. Well, not any other—he’d always stand out in any crowd.

  He’d been as surprised as she when she ran into him outside her uncle’s house. She’d watched his gray eyes widen. “Laire.” He’d breathed her name. His grip on her arm hadn’t been hard . . .

  Would he truly harm a wee boy?

  She fingered the edge of her cloak—his cloak, the one he’d wrapped around her shoulders on a cold night when she was frightened, to warm her and protect her . . . Which was he, brute or gallant? It was time to find out.

  “Poor Wee Kipper,” Hoolet said, turning away from the others so they wouldn’t see the glitter of tears in her hard eyes. “We don’t even know where the beast has taken him.”

  But Laire knew. Or at least she had an idea. She shut her eyes, rubbed them with her finger and thumb, numb with loss, fear, and worry. She was weary to her very bones, tired of running and hiding. He’d be waiting for her. No doubt he expected her to come for the boy. She would not sacrifice his life for her own.

  The clan continued to argue. Unnoticed, Laire got to her feet and walked toward the stairs.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  His leg burned, and the pain made him dizzy. He was sure Janet Fairly’s careful stitches were torn and the wound was open again. But he couldn’t leave the boy alone, for fear he’d escape. He was the only link he had to Laire. If the child trusted him, he might lead Iain to her. So far he hadn’t said a word.

  For now they sat together in the dining room of Lindsay House, supping on Morag’s roast chicken. For such a small child, the boy ate like a starving Highland warrior.

  He heard the door open, and expected Morag.

  Instead, Laire MacLeod stood there.

  Iain felt his throat dry. For a long moment he held her eyes, saying nothing, and she hesitated in the doorway. He watched her hand curl against the wood of the frame, and his heart kicked against his ribs.

  The boy looked up from his meal and saw her. He dropped the chicken leg in his hand and ran to her. Iain rose, leaned on the edge of the table. She dropped to her knees and hugged the child, her long fingers caressing his hair.