The Lady and the Highlander

by Lecia Cornwall

  “How is your leg?” she asked. “Perhaps you should have had a doctor.”

  “I’m a Highlander, same as ye. We don’t use doctors.”

  It had been three days. He sat up and flexed his leg, not letting her see that it still ached. It was better, and it would heal.

  She perched on the edge of the chair next to his settee, her eyes on the bandage under his clothes.

  “It will heal on its own,” he said irritably. He wasn’t part of the Clan of Thieves, and he didn’t need mothering. He didn’t want her to care about him. It made him want more from her, something he didn’t deserve, wasn’t worthy of.

  She was silent for a moment. He watched her worry her lower lip with sharp white teeth, and he knew she was wondering if she could trust him. He was, after all, Bibiana’s servant, or he had been. No more, but he didn’t tell her. It was better for both of them that she didn’t trust him, kept her distance.

  “Do you know how to stop Bibiana?” she asked suddenly, and he looked up at her, met the same damned foolish, unshakeable determination in her eyes that he’d seen when she’d bound him in the woods.

  “There is no way. Let it go,” he said softly.

  Her brow furrowed. “How can that be? There must be—”

  “Why? Because there’s always been a way before, because they’re the Fearsome MacLeods, and they’ve never been vanquished?”

  “Yes,” she said fiercely. “My father—”

  “Not this time, lass. It’s too late. It was too late the minute Donal set eyes on Bibiana, and she set her sights on him.”

  Tears sprang into her eyes, sparkled on her lashes. “Nay!” She got to her feet and faced him. “I refuse to believe it’s too late!”

  He shook his head. “Even you aren’t safe. Not here. Ye must go, Laire, flee—somewhere very, very far away—and forget the past,” he said harshly. “Bibiana doesn’t like problems. She doesn’t like to lose. She doesn’t like betrayal.”

  “She’ll lose this time,” Laire said, folding her arms over her chest.

  She was stubborn. He refrained from saying it, knowing how much pain she felt. She’d lost everything, everyone, she loved . . . “Find a ship, sail away. Don’t come back. Think of them as dead.”

  The tears were rolling down her face now, but she stood before him, fierce as a warrior, her face flushed to scarlet, her violet eyes wide. “We are the Fearsome MacLeods. I am a Fearsome MacLeod! We don’t like to lose, and we do not tolerate betrayal. I will find a way to save them, and I’ll never leave them or forget them.” She stood glaring at him, her eyes lit with a holy fire. It broke what was left of his heart to break hers, to crush her hope.

  He wanted to touch her, to ease her pain and his own, but it wouldn’t help. He stayed where he was. One touch, one taste, would make wanting her all the worse.

  Frustrated in all the ways a man could be, he turned away and drove his fist into the nearest wall, reveling in the sting of split knuckles. She flinched at the violence, but he didn’t care.

  Furious, he let the blood drip from his hand as he glared at her. “There is no going back. Think yourself lucky that you escaped their fate, but ye can’t ever go home again. They’re gone, Laire. As good as dead.”

  She stared at him for a moment, her eyes wide, and her body as taut as a bowstring. He saw the disgust in her eyes, the fury. He stood and took it all, every drop, waiting for the tirade or the tears that he was sure would come. Instead, she turned and left the room without a word, and he listened to the angry precision of her footsteps fade into the distant reaches of the house.

  Then there was only silence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Laire left Lindsay House the next morning as soon as it was late enough to politely pay a call. She marched through the snowy streets like a soldier, clad in the black cloak he’d given her only because she had nothing else. She’d take no more from him.

  He’d told her to flee. Well, she intended to do just that—but she wasn’t fleeing from him, or Bibiana, or her family’s gruesome fate. She was fleeing toward help. Wherever her uncle was, she’d go there, find him, bring him home to help her if she had to.

  She looked anxiously around the edge of her hood as she reached her uncle’s door and took a deep breath before knocking. Uncle Hamish was wont to take long voyages to remote parts of the world in search of new plants for his collection. What if he’d gone on such a journey? It would be too late . . .

  She lifted the knocker.

  The woman who opened the door cast a dubious look over Laire’s person. “Yes?”

  “I’m Sir Hamish MacLeod’s niece—” she began, but the woman gave a small cry and brought her hands to her cheeks.

  “Och, ye look just like Sir Hamish’s sister. There’s a portrait of her in the sitting room. You’ve the very same face!”

  “She was my mother,” Laire said. “I was wondering if—”

  “I’m Mrs. Groves, Sir Hamish’s housekeeper.” Laire extended her hand to shake, but the woman grabbed her wrist and pulled her inside. “Come in out of the cold, my dear. I wasn’t expecting ye.”

  “I’m looking for my uncle,” Laire said.

  “Of course ye are,” Mrs. Groves beamed. “I’m afraid Sir Hamish won’t be home until Thursday,” Mrs. Groves said. “He’s gone away with several other gentlemen to Leiden, in the Low Countries, to visit the medical school there.”

  “Leiden? Thursday?” Laire parroted. She felt her heart lift. “So soon as that?” It was only three days off.

  “Aye. They’re raising funds for the new Royal Infirmary. Sir Hamish has gone with Mr. Drummond and Mr. Monro from the Royal College. It isn’t a long trip. There’s to be a fund-raising ball next month, and there’s ever so much planning to do for that. It will be held at the Duke of Argyll’s magnificent home here in town.”

  She opened the doors of a room on the right. “And there’s the portrait of Ella MacEwan,” she gushed. “You can see how I couldn’t have mistaken ye for anyone else.”

  Laire’s mother’s gentle face gazed down at her, and Laire smiled.

  “She was a great beauty,” the housekeeper said reverently.

  Laire looked around the small salon. It was crammed with plants, papers, and books. Mrs. Groves bustled about, moving books off the settee and transferring a potted fern from a chair to a place on the floor by the window. “Sit ye down, lass. I’ll fetch tea.”

  She was gone before Laire could beg a place to stay while she waited for her uncle. She could not go back to Lindsay House, to the unsettling company of Iain Lindsay. Why did he make her heartbeat quicken whenever he was in the same room? She couldn’t think when he was near her. Her hands shook, and her body—

  She blushed even now and turned her thoughts to the present. There were pots and boxes in every corner, plants from seedlings to specimens that swept the ceiling of the small room.

  Mrs. Groves returned with a tray and ducked under a low-hanging bough. “Och, it’s the same in every room, and the conservatory is full as well. It takes a staff of three just to keep all the plants watered. Sir Hamish doesn’t bother about whether things are dusted or tidied, so long as his plants are tended—and I’m forbidden to touch his books. You mark my words—he’ll return from Leiden with another crate of books, and his pockets will be full of seeds, shoots, and berries.” She poured tea into fine china cups, and the steam curled enticingly from the amber liquid. She passed a cup to Laire and sat down opposite her, squeezing herself between two stacks of books.

  “Now I assume you’ll be staying here with us,” Mrs. Groves said.

  “If it’s convenient,” Laire said.

  “It’s most convenient. It’s a delight, in fact, to have company. I’ve already sent a maid upstairs to make a room ready for ye.” She beamed at Laire. “I assume ye’ve had a long journey, since ye look entirely done in. Would ye like to rest until supper? Have ye brought a trunk? Och, I assume it’s waiting at the docks. Shall I send Geordie to
fetch it?”

  “Er, no, I left home rather unexpectedly. I have nothing at all with me,” Laire said. She hugged her body under the cloak, aware of the plain russet woolen gown she’d worn for days.

  A fresh flame of curiosity kindled in Mrs. Groves’s wide blue eyes. “Oh?” she said, seemingly speechless at last.

  “I’ve come on a—a rather urgent family matter,” Laire said. How did one explain to a stranger that her father’s new wife was busy poisoning her kin, and that she needed an antidote and a doctor—or a magician. “An illness,” she said, and left it at that.

  “I see,” Mrs. Groves said, though she obviously did not. She colored like a peony as she reached out to pat Laire’s hand. “Ye’ll be safe here, lass. Sir Hamish is very broadminded about such things. Do ye require—” her blush deepened to purple. “Do ye require a physician at once or—a midwife, perhaps?”

  It was Laire’s turn to blush. She felt a hot flush rise over her cheeks. “I’m not—with child. You see, my father has a new wife, and things have been . . . difficult. I need Uncle Hamish’s advice.”

  Mrs. Groves’s sigh of relief had the force of a gale. “How wonderful! How very wonderful! We’ll get ye rested and fed and put the roses back in your cheeks before Thursday, then.”

  Laire smiled and took off the cloak, since the house was tropically warm to preserve the plants, and also to prove to the housekeeper that she was most definitely traveling alone.

  Wee Kipper stood in the shadows across the street and watched Laire knock on the door and go inside her uncle’s house. He’d seen her gather her cloak and slip out of the house as quiet as a mouse when she thought no one was looking. He’d followed her, staying well back to see where she was going. He didn’t want to lose her. He needed her—they all did. He loved her apple tarts and the way she read to him, Fussle, and Magpie—even Hoolet and Bear listened to Laire’s stories. She made him remember a time when he had a home and someone to love him.

  He waited outside of Sir Hamish’s house all morning for her to come out, but she didn’t. He frowned at the door, willing it to open. An hour after that, he saw the curtain in an upstairs window twitch, and he saw Laire’s pale face appear in the glass, looking out over the square.

  Wee Kipper gaped. Was she a prisoner?

  He waved at her, jumped up and down to let her know that help was near, but she turned away without seeing him.

  His heart thumped in his breast and tears stung his eyes.

  He ran home again as quickly as he could.

  Out of habit, Wee Kipper crept into the house through the cellar.

  He found Chieftain sitting by himself by the fire, a half-bottle of whisky in his hand, taken from upstairs. “Where’ve ye been?” he demanded as Wee Kipper crept in. Kipper wiped away the tracks of his tears. “Of course ye’ll not say, will ye?” Chieftain took another long drink of whisky. His eyes were glazed, his face red from the drink, and Kipper kept his distance, tried to slip past and reach the stairs that led to Hoolet, Bear, Dux, and Laird Iain. They’d know what to do, how to save Laire . . .

  “Not so fast.” Chieftain grabbed his arm. His fingers went nearly twice around Wee Kipper’s thin arm. Wee Kipper could smell the whisky on Chieftain’s breath. He tried to pull free, but Chieftain only laughed and pulled him closer. “We’re going on a mission you and I, since the others are so busy upstairs. What do ye say, boy?”

  No. It’s what Wee Kipper would have said if he could speak. It was only midmorning and bright daylight. Their missions only took place at night. They crept in and out of the tunnels and sewers like mice and scurried about in the dark, unseen.

  Chieftain was on his feet, still holding on to Wee Kipper. He fetched down the empty sacks from the hooks by the door, the ones they stuffed full of loot and carried home on their backs. “I’ll not sit here under the orders of the bastard upstairs who calls himself a laird. You’ll see—he’ll throw ye all out when he tires of your company. Or he’ll turn ye into servants. Ye’ll be scrubbing dunnies and plucking fowl for his table. Is that what ye want?” He belched loudly, and laughed. “I can offer ye freedom, a king’s life.”

  Wee Kipper frowned. He remembered the terror of the dark tunnels, the fear of being caught, the nights they all went to bed hungry and cold.

  Chieftain leaned closer and pointed at his own chest. “I’m your chief, and ye owe me your loyalty. Ye all swore to obey in return for your bread and a share of the profits. It means you obey me, not Laird-bloody-Iain-bloody-Lindsay.”

  Had he sworn to obey? Wee Kipper didn’t remember. Chieftain and Hoolet had plucked him off the streets, starving. He would have agreed to anything for a crust of bread. And profits? No one had given him anything of value. Even the clothes he wore were ragged and thin, the cast-offs from some other boy, and several boys before that one.

  Chieftain was looping the bags over Wee Kipper’s thin shoulders. They hung limply down to his knees. “Let’s go. We’ll go to the Sinclair warehouse by the docks—they just had a ship come in last night and the pickings’ll be good.”

  Wee Kipper refused to cry, but he scowled at Chieftain. Chieftain only laughed. “One last mission for ye, lad. Then ye can go on your way if ye like. We’ll gather the clan, cast a vote, even. I’m a fair man—riches and freedom, or slavery. Now let’s go.”

  “Laire’s gone,” Magpie said, entering the library looking forlorn. “And so’s Wee Kipper. I’ve looked everywhere for them.”

  Iain looked up from his breakfast.

  “Gone?” Hoolet said.

  “Where would they go?” Bear said.

  “A walk perhaps, a bit of fresh air and sunshine?” Dux suggested around a forkful of eggs.

  Iain considered the matter. He’d told Laire to flee, to forget her family. Knowing her, she’d do the opposite. But she wouldn’t take the lad, not to Glen Iolair . . . Still, Iain had a tight, uneasy feeling in his belly. The young members of the clan of thieves were all looking at him, waiting. Iain set his fork down.

  Nay. She wouldn’t go home without what she came for. And if she wished to escape from him, she’d go to her uncle’s house, enquire where he was, when he’d be back . . . and if she was there, and the lad with her, then they were safe enough.

  “Finish your breakfast,” he said. “They’re fine for now. I’ll go and fetch the lad this afternoon.”

  “What about Laire?” Magpie said.

  What about her? Iain felt a longing for her in his soul that made his breath catch. He coughed and forced himself to turn back to the food on his plate. He attacked the eggs and sausage as if they were living things.

  Chieftain barely fit in the tunnels anymore. It was why he had younger, smaller lads like Wee Kipper. Still, he followed Wee Kipper through the narrow openings now, goading him onward.

  Wee Kipper didn’t want to go. It was cold and wet with melting snow, and his knees ached. The light made him afraid. He heard footsteps above him, saw the shadows of dozens of people. Their movements shook dust and dirt down on his head and into his eyes. Long, thin needles of daylight pierced the cracks and grates in the floor. If anyone looked down, would they assume he was merely a rat, the way they did in the dark, and let him pass? He waited for a shout of discovery.

  They reached the warehouse. It was big, filled with goods from all over the world, brought to Scotland by the trading ships of the Sinclairs. Hoolet said they had so much money they could afford to share a few sacks of loot with the likes of them. Wee Kipper knew it was still stealing, even if he just did it so he could eat.

  He hunched miserably against the wall under the grate. Chieftain crouched beside him. “I’ll wait for ye here,” he said, and nudged the heavy grate aside with his shoulder. “Coins, lad, and gold, that’s what we want. Ye know how to pick the lock on a strongbox.”

  Wee Kipper swallowed as Chieftain grabbed him by the seat of his pants and shoved him forward. “Up ye go,” he growled, allowing no objection, and Wee Kipper found himself on the floor of the
warehouse, behind a great stack of crates and bundles. For a long moment he waited there, too frightened to move. There were voices close by, and people moving through the sunlight that poured down through the high windows. Light was the enemy. It warmed his flesh, but made it creep with dread. The empty sacks around his shoulders felt as heavy as boulders.

  “Go on,” Chieftain snarled from under the grate.

  Wee Kipper crept to the corner of the nearest crate and curled his fingers around the edge. He peered out into the warehouse. A dozen men were moving goods. None of them looked in his direction. Two set down a heavy box near him and walked away. He saw the padlock on the latch, which suggested there was something valuable inside, something Chieftain would want.

  He crept forward on his hands and knees, pretending he was just a mouse, all but invisible to ordinary folk. He crouched beside the box and took the picklock out of his pocket. He grabbed the ice-cold metal of the padlock in his small fist and tried to poke the tool into the lock. His hands were shaking and he dropped it, spent precious seconds searching for it on the floor. He found it and pushed it into the lock again.

  The mechanism popped, sprang loose in his hand. He unhooked it and slowly slid away the chain that bound the chest, one link at a time, so it made no sound at all, and lowered the heavy links to the floor. He ducked behind the box as another man passed by, holding a sheaf of paper and the stub of a pencil.

  Slowly, Wee Kipper pushed his fingers under the lid of the box, and raised it an inch, then two. He shoved his whole hand into the box, up to the elbow, feeling for the treasures that lay inside. His hand closed on something made of metal. He tugged, and it came free. He had to raise the lid a little higher to remove it. He pulled the item out, expecting the gleam of gold or silver, but it was just a pewter candlestick—a simple, very ordinary pewter candlestick. Wee Kipper’s stomach plummeting to his muddy shoes.