A Rose in the Highlands

by Heather McCollum

  “Damnation,” Philip said, leaning his head out the window over the door. “Shoot him,” he yelled up.

  Evelyn threw herself toward the opposite window, her fingers curling over the ledge to peer out. Her heart flooded with hope. Grey! Grey was alive. He rode on his gray stallion, his body poised in flight. He was close enough that she could see the fury etched into his face.

  “The match is wet,” yelled the other driver.

  Philip huffed in annoyance. “I have to do everything myself,” he murmured and grabbed his matchlock musket beside the door. He flipped open a small box near his feet, and smoke puffed out. Evelyn watched as he lit a taper from inside and brought it up to the match on the musket.

  “No,” she yelled and lunged toward him, striking the lit taper away. Like a feral cat, caught among savage dogs, Evelyn shrieked, her arms flying, claws raking against every part of Philip she could reach. His wig came off in her hands, and she threw it aside to scratch the skin of his bare neck.

  “You little bitch,” he said, throwing his arm back, striking her along the side of her head.

  Pain erupted. Evelyn blinked against the jarring pain, so much like her father’s cuffing that for a brief moment she was back in his study. She gasped, retreating to the shadows.

  Philip lit the match and lifted the musket to rest on the frame of the window over the door. No. Grey! Love smashed against her fear, and Evelyn surged forward again to curl fingers into Philip’s pale flesh. She scratched down his face as he yelled. Curling her fists tight, she battered him, her arms wild. She kicked him, wishing she wore the trousers instead of a tangle of skirts.

  “Get back, you shrew!” He twisted, dropping the musket. With a balled fist, he punched Evelyn straight in the cheek. She cried out as the force slammed her against the back wall.

  “Stay still,” Philip said, the words gritted out from his bared teeth. He wiped a palm over his cheek and looked at the streak of blood across it before narrowing his eyes at her. “You will pay for this, and my knives leave more than scratches.”

  Sparks swam in Evelyn’s sight where the edges of her vision began to grow dim. No. She absolutely could not faint. Deep breaths. With aching muscles, Evelyn pushed away from the wall. She would stop him or die trying. Philip braced himself before her, without his wig and plume, scratches all over his exposed skin. He cursed and steadied the musket at the window.

  “Evelyn!” Grey’s voice called to her through her fog, and she blinked. He was close enough for her to hear the pounding of his horse’s hooves, close enough for Philip to kill him with one blast.

  Her hair had come undone, falling around her shoulders. The six-inch steel hairpin slid down to her lap, and she grasped its cool, twisted length, her fingers curling around it desperately. Pressing forward, she forced herself to squat between the seats, bracing herself as the carriage flew along the rutted road.

  Use the power in your legs. Grey’s words came back in a flood of detail. His tumbling accent, the fresh smell of pine and leather, the love she’d seen in his eyes before she was dragged from him in the bailey. Thrust upward if you are lower. Use your legs. They are the strongest of your muscles.

  The carriage pitched toward Philip, and Evelyn’s thighs contracted as she rammed her clasped hands upward toward the back of his head, the tip of the hairpin stabbing up through the hollow in the base of his skull.

  Chapter Thirty

  Philip dropped the musket, his hands scrambling toward his throat, but the point of the steel hairpin was lodged somewhere inside, hopefully up into his brain. Wild and gurgling, he fell sideways, his hand reaching out to her, but then his hate-filled eyes grew still, the consciousness bleeding out of them, leaving his body to descend to hell.

  Evelyn jerked backward, a sob bubbling out. She raised palms to her cheeks, which were drenched with tears. She heard a thud on the carriage and Grey yelling. One of the men screamed as he fell to the ground. Evelyn closed her eyes against the sightless stare of Philip and buried her face into the skirts covering her bent knees. She breathed, letting tears flow as the carriage slowed.

  “Evelyn,” Grey yelled, ripping open the door. “Mo chreach,” he murmured, and she lifted her eyes.

  Brutally handsome and very much alive. “Grey,” she whispered.

  With a yank, he threw Philip’s body from the carriage and climbed inside, pulling Evelyn in to him as they knelt together on the floor. “Bloody hell, Evelyn.” His hands captured her cheeks to search her face. She hardly noticed the full pain from Philip’s punch. “Ye killed him?” Grey said, shock mixing with relief on his face. “Lass, ye saved us both.”

  She nodded as much as his grasp would let her. “Weeping the whole time.” More tears poured out, and she didn’t bother to check them.

  The tightness of fury melted away from his face, and he touched his forehead to hers. “Like I said, lass, tears don’t mean weakness.” He stroked her hair. “Ye are the strongest, bravest person I know. I love ye, Evelyn.”

  Lips just inches from his, Evelyn cupped his bristled cheeks. “And I love you, Grey Campbell.”

  He leaned in, sealing their oaths with the most tender, heart-filled kiss. They broke slowly apart. “We need to get back to Finlarig,” he said.

  “Nathaniel,” Evelyn said on a gasp. The image of him falling to the ground would play forever in her nightmares. She pushed upward.

  “Your cheek,” he said, his fingers brushing back her hair. His gaze turned black, and he glanced at Philip’s body. “I’d kill him slowly if he wasn’t already in hell.”

  “It will heal,” she said. He lifted her, his arms under her legs, carrying her swiftly over to Adhar. He swung up behind her, tucking her close into his warm chest.

  “Cat was helping him,” he said near her ear as he leaned slightly forward, making the horse leap into a gallop. “If anyone can save him, she can.”

  “Cross?” she asked. “Burdock?”

  “Cross is dead. Burdock will be, when I catch him.”

  They raced over the wet gravel, splatters of mud flying up to pock her skirts. Leaning forward together, Grey seemed to give his war-horse its head, knowing the beast would carry them back to Finlarig without guidance. The minutes moved slowly, and Evelyn prayed through them all.

  Reaching the path, Grey pulled Adhar to a fast walk. Evelyn heard the scrape of steel as Grey slid his sword free near the open gate. The bailey swarmed with Campbell warriors from Killin, some of whom she’d yet to meet. Her gaze scanned the ground where Nathaniel had fallen. “Where is he?” she asked, her words breathless.

  Aiden, blood splattered across his pale cheek, walked over with Craig. “We found Hamish and Kerrick trussed up with bumps as big as goose eggs on their heads. The bastards who came with the Englishman and Cross’s few men are all dead. Only Burdock got away.”

  Grey dismounted and pulled Evelyn down, setting her feet on the mud. The world still wavered, and her head hurt. He steadied her, refusing to let her step away when she tried. “I’ll help ye inside.”

  Grey looked to another warrior. “Send word to Ensign Morris at the compound. Chances are he knows nothing of this, since only a few men came with Cross. Sotheby and his drivers are dead on the main road south.”

  “Where is Nathaniel?” Evelyn asked. She was afraid to ask more.

  “We carried him inside,” Craig answered, his bushy chin jutting toward the keep.

  Grey turned with her, helping her stride across the bailey and climb the steps. They exchanged no words, but he supported her weight easily, his warmth and love giving her strength.

  Nathaniel lay on the long table, Scarlet on one side and Cat with Isabel on the other. Kirstin stood, her face in her hands, by the fire with Alana. Evelyn rushed to Nathaniel’s side, and Scarlet flew around the table to hug her.

  “Thank God, he reached you,” Scarlet said.

  “Hold him,” Cat said, glancing at Grey. “He has a lead ball in his shoulder that I need to pull out.”


  “Will he live?” Evelyn asked, searching Scarlet’s red eyes.

  “If I have anything to do with it, aye,” Cat said, grabbing the cloths Molly set next to her.

  “I’m praying,” Scarlet said. “And hoping God is listening.” Evelyn added her own as they watched Cat dig out the shot and stop the gush of fresh blood, patching the shoulder with wads of clean wool and binding. Wiping her smeared hands on her dress, Cat lay her lips on Nathaniel’s forehead. “No fever yet, but we should start feverfew down his throat.” She frowned at Nathaniel as if his injury were his own fault.

  “I will carry him to his bed,” Grey said. “I need ye to look at Evelyn,” he said to Cat. “She’s hit her head, and her cheek is bruised.” His gaze moved to Evelyn, questions mixed with suppressed anger and worry.

  “That is all,” she whispered and watched him exhale with the relief she, too, felt.

  “Philip?” Scarlet asked.

  Evelyn squeezed her hand. “He killed Father and planned to kill us all to keep Finlarig for himself. He was the Surgeon of London, a sadistic murderer.”

  “I…” Kirstin came across with Alana. “I am so sorry,” Kirstin said. Tears coursed down her cheeks. “He said… That Englishman said that if I got ye to come down and get in the carriage that he’d take ye away, and Finlarig would belong once again to the Campbells. That Grey would be safe.”

  Grey spoke low in Gaelic, the words a curse, and Kirstin’s tears started anew.

  “He lied, Kirstin,” Evelyn said, anger eating inside her gut. She tried to breathe past it. “Philip Sotheby was a manipulative liar and traitor. He murdered my father and tortured others.” She looked at Grey. “He worked with Cross to falsely accuse your parents in order to eventually get control of Finlarig, where they planned to murder King Charles. He manipulated Nathaniel into buying this place to take it when he married me and killed Nathaniel.”

  Scarlet held a hand over her mouth, her eyes wet. Evelyn wrapped an arm over her shoulder. “But Philip and Cross are dead, and Finlarig is safe. For when Nathaniel wakes…” She paused, meeting Grey’s gaze, his strength and love evident. “When he wakes, we are giving the castle back to the Campbells of Breadalbane.”

  …

  Evelyn held the cup of broth to Nathaniel’s lips. “I can do it, Evie,” he said, and her heart swelled with relief at the strength she heard. He took the cup in his unbound arm. It had been over a week since his wounding, and Cat’s constant, albeit surly, care had brought Nathaniel through the worst of his fever as well as the loss of blood from his wound. Each day saw him stronger.

  “Nathaniel,” she said and cleared her throat. “While you were ill, I made a decision for our family.”

  He lowered the cup from his mouth, his eyebrow rising. “You did?”

  “Yes. As the eldest functioning Worthington, I declared to Grey Campbell and his sister that we would return Finlarig to them. It doesn’t make up for the loss of their parents, but we can give them back their honor. While you were unconscious, I wrote to King Charles, explaining the mess that Philip and Captain Cross created with their treasonous lies.”

  His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “No school then?”

  She released her breath and shook her head. “Not here. Not if the townspeople don’t want it. After all the terrible examples of English, I don’t know if I’ll ever win their loyalty enough to build a successful school in the Breadalbane parish.”

  “And what of Grey Campbell?” he asked, setting the cup down on a wooden tray.

  Grey had spent the last week searching for Lieutenant Burdock, dealing with a hysterically guilt-ridden Kirstin, and speaking with Ensign Morris about clearing his parents’ names. Evelyn had barely seen him, except at night when he’d find his way to her after bathing the day’s grime off himself. She’d wake to his fresh, warm smell and sigh as he lifted her from her small bed to carry her to his large one through the door that she left open between their rooms.

  They hadn’t spoken of their future, and as much as she wanted to remind him of their loving oaths in the carriage, part of her worried that his passionate words were spoken to drive away the terribleness of death hanging so thickly around them. For all the courage that Grey thought she possessed, Evelyn was afraid to ask him to marry her. Each day she promised herself that she would talk to him, only to wait in hopes that a normalcy would descend again.

  “Grey Campbell will remain the chief here,” she finally said to Nathaniel.

  “And you?”

  “I don’t know yet.”

  He squeezed her hand. Despite the hard stare that Nathaniel had inherited from their Father, he was kind. “You are always welcome back to Hollings, and I won’t make you marry anyone.”

  She leaned forward to kiss his bristled cheek. The more time he spent convalescing, the more he looked like a handsome Highlander and not a rich courtier.

  Knock. Knock. “Evie,” Scarlet said. “You need to come below.” She whisked up to the bed to kiss Nathaniel’s forehead, but then looked Evelyn up and down. Her smile puckered. “Let’s get you out of your apron.” She reached up to pluck apart Evelyn’s braid.

  “What are you doing?” Evelyn asked, trying to brush her hands away.

  Scarlet fluffed out her waves around her shoulders and then grabbed her hand. “I’ll bring her back later, Nat,” she called, tugging Evelyn behind her out the door. “Come along.”

  Evelyn gave Nathaniel a dumbfounded glance before Scarlet pulled her toward the steps. “What is going on?” Evelyn steadied herself with a hand on the rough stone wall.

  “You need to answer a question,” Scarlet said, her head bobbing before Evelyn as she led the way. Around and around, they hurried down the steps.

  “Can’t you take care of it?” Evelyn asked.

  Scarlet laughed as they reached the bottom. “No.”

  Evelyn rounded the corner into the great hall and froze. The silent room was full. Craig, the blacksmith, nodded to her, his apprentice by his side. Kerrick, Hamish, Hamish’s family, Rebecca, Alana with her wolfhounds, the pups scurrying around with a child who was being hushed by his mother. Even Kirstin stood toward the back, the permanent remorse still etched on her face. There were warriors Evelyn had seen in the bailey after the attack and Aiden and the elderly women from the Beltane fire. James and young Thomas stood with an impishly grinning Molly.

  “What is this?” Evelyn whispered.

  Then she saw Grey. He walked from the entryway with his grandmother on his arm, a man in priest’s robes before them. Elizabeth Campbell wore the same blue cloak from Beltane. She frowned at Evelyn, her chin tilted high, as Grey led her into the hall. Was the woman returning to Finlarig? Was this some ceremony to change ownership back to the Campbells?

  Dressed in a bright white shirt and fresh kilt, his beard closely trimmed, Grey paused when he met her gaze across the room. They stared at each other for a moment. “Grey?” she asked, her voice carrying in the silence.

  He led his grandmother to stand next to Alana, bending to whisper in her ear. The elderly woman’s lips were pursed tight, and she looked away from him. When Grey turned to meet Evelyn’s gaze, he had a dangerously serious look. It caught Evelyn’s breath. Striding forward, he stopped before her.

  “Is your grandmother returning to the castle?” she asked.

  “Nay. I asked her to visit today.”

  Evelyn glanced around Grey to where Alana held tightly to Elizabeth Campbell’s arm. “She doesn’t look too happy,” she whispered. “I should invite her to tea.”

  Grey shook his head. “Don’t drink or eat anything she gives ye,” he whispered back.

  “Uh…very well,” Evelyn said, her brows lowering at the odd remark. “So…why is everyone here?”

  Grey cleared his throat and leaned toward her ear. “Forgive the surprise, but Hamish says it’s a sound strategy to ask ye before a crowd.”

  “Ask me?” she said, her heart beating wildly. “I don’t understand.”

&nb
sp; He rubbed a hand down his short beard. “Ye’ve a kind heart, kind enough not to humiliate me.” A nervous grin grew on his face.

  A tentative smile relaxed her tight mouth as her brows pinched slightly. “If we are demonstrating a self-defense scene, I’m not holding back,” she whispered.

  He chuckled. “I am warned.” He took her hand, presenting her to the group. “Thank ye for coming as witness. He nodded to the priest and turned to her. “Evelyn Worthington of Lincolnshire, England, before these people of Killin and all of Breadalbane territory, before Father Paul and God, I declare that I love ye and ask ye to wed, to live here with me at Finlarig so we can be master and mistress.”

  Evelyn’s heart pounded, and her stomach leaped with joy. She could hardly breathe and reached out to steady herself on Grey’s strong arm.

  “And teach us all to read,” Rebecca called from the back of the room. Several people laughed.

  “And teach us to scramble the brains of scoundrels,” Alana called. Despite her bloody words, she smiled brightly, and a low cheer followed. Her grandmother nodded at her declaration.

  Grey leaned to her ear. “Not all scoundrels.”

  Evelyn turned into his arms. She looked up, a slow smile growing on her face. “I love you, too.” She blinked as the tears gathered in her eyes. He caught one as it broke along her lower lid. She laughed. “Yes,” she said. “The answer is most certainly yes.”

  As Grey’s lips descended to seal their promise, a cheer rose up behind them. But Evelyn was once more lost in the heat that grew so easily in Grey’s strong embrace. Their love wove tightly around them, healing old wounds and creating joy from their shattered beginnings. They would move forward together, stronger than ever before, in their everlasting love.

  Epilogue

  Evelyn stepped out from the dressing screen in the corner. “Prepare to be thwarted by a Highland Rose, Chief Campbell,” she said as she strutted forward wearing the tight training trousers. Although she hadn’t donned them again with her students, her husband certainly liked her in them, and out of them.