Enchanted by the Highlander

by Cornwall, Lecia

  “Don’t joke, John. Not now.” She thought of her clansmen, and the wounded lad who was surely dead by now. She couldn’t lose John, too.

  “We need to stay in the wood and out of sight until morning,” he said.

  “Perhaps there’s a cave or a shieling.”

  He shook his head, his hair brushing her cheek. “They’ll know to look in such places—even if we could find one in the dark.” She closed her eyes, hope fading after all.

  John let her go and slid off the horse. He reached to help her down. He kept his hands on her waist, gently holding her steady. “I don’t know how long I was unconscious, Gillian. Are you . . . all right? Did they . . . ?” His breathing was ragged as he waited for her answer. His hands tightened on her waist, ready to catch her, perhaps, if she fell apart now. She put her hands on his forearms. “I came to no harm. I suppose there wasn’t enough time to, to—I think they were waiting for others to arrive, and when they did—” She tried to smile, felt it wobble. “They had a code of honor, you see, about who gets first choice of the, um, spoils. They hadn’t gotten around to dividing things up yet.”

  He reached up to trace the bloody patterns Rabbie had drawn on her face. “Reminds me of a princess I knew once, a chief’s daughter,” he murmured. “She was brave, too . . .”

  She gently touched the shadowy lump on his brow. “I think I fared better than you. Does it hurt?”

  He didn’t reply. He lowered his head and kissed her gently, a brush of his lips against hers, a comfort, an assurance. “I’m fine, lass, really.”

  “We should keep going.”

  He shook his head. “It would be better to stay put, sweeting, and wait for dawn. It will be easier to decide which way to go when there’s light to see the way.”

  “Will they follow us?”

  “It will be hard to track us in the dark. They’ll probably wait for dawn as well, or count themselves lucky and flee if they’re smart. They have what they wanted. Do you still have the dirk?”

  She drew it from her sleeve. “It was Keir’s.”

  He took it from her silently. “You’ve been through a lot, Gillian. You need to rest a while.”

  She suddenly felt more tired than she’d ever been. She nodded and let him take charge.

  * * *

  John looked at the empty wood around them. They had one dirk, no food, and not even a cloak or a plaid between them. He knew Gillian was clenching her teeth to keep them from chattering—from shock as much as cold. She’d been brave, but now it was over she needed rest, warmth, and food.

  “We can’t risk a fire,” he said regretfully.

  He heard her gown rustle as she straightened her spine. “I know. I’ll be fine. It’s just—this gown is not meant for a night in the wood.”

  “It’s the one you wore at the masquerade.”

  “Yes. You remember?”

  He reached up to touch her face, gently, remembering the bruises, the blood. “I remember. I’ll build a shelter, get you out of the wind at least.”

  “I’ll see to the garron.”

  He cut boughs and bracken, just the way he would have done in the wilds of Hudson Bay. He leaned them against a tree, fashioned a lean-to.

  “I found a burn, let the horse drink, then tied it among the trees,” she said when she returned. She’d washed the blood from her face and hands. She stood looking at the makeshift shelter.

  “Your chamber awaits,” he said, sweeping a bow. “Go inside and sleep for a few hours.”

  He meant for her go in alone, but she held out her hand. “Come with me.”

  He knew he shouldn’t. He should keep watch. It was his duty. But she was afraid now, perhaps, fragile. More than a guard she needed comfort, kindness, strength—and warmth.

  He took her hand, bent low, and followed her inside. “For a little while, until you fall asleep,” he said.

  There was only room to sit or lie down. The boughs made a fragrant, springy bed, the needles of the fir surprisingly soft if one was careful. He’d slept on worse, harder beds that didn’t have the benefit of Gillian MacLeod to share them with. Still, for her sake, he wished they had a plaid to cover it.

  But she was no wilting flower. He opened his arms, and she sighed, and lay beside him, rolling against him, facing away. The soft weight of her body warmed his own. She wriggled, trying to get comfortable, brushing against him, pressing closer. The soft, sweet scent of her skin rose around him. His arousal was instant, and he gritted his teeth, tried to delicately shift away, but she followed. He willed his hopeful body to see this as duty and chivalry only, but she was soft in his arms, and even in the dark—especially in the dark—he knew she was beautiful and desirable. He hoped she was innocent enough that she would mistake his arousal for a wayward branch. But she turned, her hands seeking in the darkness. “What is that?” she asked, and he swallowed hard, wondering if she was so innocent he’d have to explain it.

  But her hand reached inside his shirt instead and closed on the leather pouch, the medicine bag, and she began to pull it out.

  Instinctively he closed his hand over hers, stopping her. She held still, waited, but didn’t let go.

  “It’s—” How could he explain it? He’d never shown it to anyone. “It was a gift,” he said. She remained silent, left space for him to fill if he wished to. He had not spoken to anyone about his past in six years, had hoarded it, kept it to himself. He wondered if he was ready to speak now, to Gillian, in the dark, to bare his soul and show her the scars, the sins, the mistakes he’d made.

  He let go, let her hold the pouch in her hand. The contents crackled as she squeezed it. “Don’t open it.” It came out as an order, raw and stark.

  “Tell me,” she said softly, an encouragement, permission.

  “It’s an ugly tale.”

  “Do you think I’m not strong enough to hear it?”

  He would like to have read her meaning in her eyes—or to see the strength in her gaze, but he knew it was there. Still, he wondered if she would condemn him, damn him, once she knew the tale.

  “It’s a medicine bag,” he said. “The natives of the New World hold them sacred as part of themselves and their culture. Each person has one, wears it close to their body.”

  “What’s inside?”

  He considered the contents, felt bitterness fill his mouth. An arrowhead stained with blood, a lock of hair, a ring . . . “Many things,” he said aloud. “River stones, a feather. Once there were herbs as well, but they’ve likely dried to dust by now.”

  “For healing?” she asked.

  “Aye.” He lay on his back, stared up at the boughs above him, invisible in the dark. She lay on her side, facing him, the light froth of her skirts covering them both, an inadequate blanket, but an intimate connection. “It was my brother’s medicine bag, a gift from the daughter of a Cree chief.” He turned his head toward her. “She was as brave and beautiful as you are. She was my brother’s wife.”

  “Is he there still?” she asked without scorn or shock.

  “He’s dead. Killed in a raid.”

  She touched his chest. “I’m sorry.”

  “He was never supposed to be there at all. I was the one—” He swallowed. “I was the one who was sent away, the family disgrace, the thorn in my father’s side, the son who could do nothing right in his eyes. I gambled, and I liked women and trouble. He wanted me gone, and the Company of Adventurers was looking for men to work in the fur trade, to explore, trap, and trade with the native tribes. It was a chance to make my fortune, to pay back the debts I owed my father—gaming debts, mostly. He cut off my quarterly allowance, and I was left with no choice. Daniel was my father’s heir, the golden child. He fought with my father, told him if I was sent away, then he’d go as well. Daniel wasn’t like me. He was quiet, clever, and kind. I don’t suppose my father believed he’d do it, but he did.” John shut his eyes, saw his brother’s laughing face again, the way it had been at the start of the adventure, healthy and eager.
They’d left together, eluded the Clive men their father has sent in pursuit of his heir, and sailed away.

  “We thought it would be a grand thing, that we’d be fur barons on a new frontier. Daniel knew he’d eventually have to return to England, take up his place as my father’s heir, become Earl of Clive in his turn. He left behind a woman he’d been betrothed to since childhood, the daughter of a friend of my father’s, a neighbor. She was like a sister to both of us.”

  “What was it like in the New World?” Gillian asked.

  “The voyage took weeks, and Daniel was sick the whole way. He walked off the ship at the outpost at York Factory as gaunt as a skeleton, and I teased him that he looked like a dead man who hadn’t the sense to lie down and let us bury him.” He ran his hand over his face, wishing yet again that he could call back that jest.

  He saw in his mind the broad stretches of endless woodland, the vast lakes, wild rivers, and wide skies. “The sky was so blue in summer. I’d never seen such a color before. Yet the sky in Scotland is just as beautiful. I think that’s why I stayed when I came home with Dair. The distances in the New World are much greater than anything here. A man could ride for days, weeks, months, and see nothing but trees. But it wasn’t lonely.

  “We were there for only a year. We spent the summer on the river, traveling into the heart of a new continent, mapping, exploring, living off the land. We had native guides who taught us how to survive, how to trade, how to speak their language. I spoke French as well, could speak to the French traders. I was useful, and I was happy. In the fall, I returned to the fort and spent the winter there, and the trappers brought us pelts to tally and prepare for shipment back to England. Daniel chose to spend that winter in a Cree village to learn the language, and I didn’t see him again until spring. By then, the ships rode low in the water with so much cargo, a king’s ransom in furs.

  “When Daniel returned to the fort in the spring, he brought a young woman named Hurit, a Cree lass he’d taken as his wife. He was in love. He was supposed to be the one who sailed home that spring, leaving me there. He asked me to take his place because he’d decided to stay, make his home there permanently. I’d see him in the fall when I returned. He gave me a letter to take home to my father, renouncing his claim on the earldom, asking my father to declare him dead, make me his heir instead. He said he’d never wanted to be earl. He wanted—” He swallowed. “He wanted what he’d found in the wilderness there. I told him I didn’t want the title, but he pressed the letter into my hand. I agreed to take his place on the sailing, but I refused to visit my father, be the one to tell him.”

  John felt his body tense at the memories, his brother’s face, his native clothing, the feathers in his blond hair, the tattoo on his chest which meant he’d seen battle with the Cree, had fought. Hurit was beautiful, the love between them clear. Grief rose, and John fell silent, fighting it.

  Gillian’s hand found his in the dark where it lay on his breast, above his heart. She slid her cool fingers into his, and he gripped her hand. “What happened?” she asked.

  “Hurit wanted to see the ship, so she and Daniel accompanied me out on the launch so she could go aboard for a few hours before we sailed.” He shut his eyes.

  “A band of Iroquois attacked the fort, wanting to steal the furs. They were fast, dangerous, and well supplied with French guns. They came out of the mist on the bay. We didn’t see them until it was too late.

  “Daniel tried to force the men in the launch to turn around, go back to shore, but the warehouse was already in flames, and there were screams and shots . . . They would have listened to a viscount, the heir to an earldom, but not to a man with feathers in his hair, and a native wife. They ignored him, rowed hard for the ships, thinking it would be safer there.

  “Daniel stood up, tried to order them back. An arrow hit him.”

  Gillian’s fingers tensed in his. “There was so much blood. Hurit tried to stop it, using her hands She was screaming. The sailors were afraid her cries would attract the raiders. One of them hit her with an oar and broke her neck. Daniel saw it happen.” He heard Gillian’s soft gasp.

  “When we got to the ship, I carried Daniel aboard, and the ship’s surgeon refused to tend a native. I forced him to, told him I was the viscount, Clive’s heir, used my father’s name to make him do it.

  “The captain ordered the crew to sail at once so they could save the cargo. The poor bastards on shore didn’t matter.” He shut his eyes. “They said it was the roughest crossing in twenty years. Every man on that boat feared we’d drown.”

  “Were you afraid?” she asked.

  He shook his head, a rustle of sound on the boughs. “My brother was badly wounded. The surgeon gave him up for dead at once, said it was a lost cause. Daniel was fevered, delirious, asked for Hurit day and night, called her name. I stayed by him, cared for him. I pulled the arrow head out of his flesh, did what I could, but corruption set in. My brother lingered for weeks, half alive, suffering. I—” He squeezed her hand so tight he knew he must be hurting her, but she made no sound. “I prayed he’d die.” He said it aloud for the first time. She didn’t stiffen or pull away. She stayed where she was, her thumb rubbing his in a soothing gesture, soundless permission to go on and tell the rest.

  “I prayed it for my sake as well as his, for silence, and an end to my torment, for being the one left alive, for letting him come with me, one more sin, one more terrible, final sin . . . He woke near the end, clear-eyed for the first time in days.

  “‘The letter,’ he’d said. ‘You won’t need it now. You’ll make a better earl than I would have, be a better leader, fix the wickedness and waste of father’s rule.’”

  John reached for the medicine bag, clutched it in his free hand. “He gave me this. It was his. A person carries important things in their medicine bag—memories, things for protection, luck, and healing. It cannot be opened by another person, though the items inside and their meanings can be shared. Daniel shared his with me—the signet ring that marked him as Viscount Fellwood, my father’s heir, a feather, a blue glass bead from the tunic Hurit had worn on their wedding day. He told me about each item. He asked me for the letter he’d written to my father, and the arrowhead I’d cut from his body, still stained with his blood, and he added them to the pouch. Then he put it around my neck, to wear close to my body so I’d remember him. He made me promise to live my life well. He died an hour later. I added a lock of his hair to the pouch, and it’s mine now.” A sailor had come and sewn Daniel’s body into a scrap of sailcloth, and he’d been buried, with a half-dozen other souls, at sea.

  “I spent the rest of the voyage pacing the tossing deck, daring the wind and the waves to take me, too. The crew forced me below, tied me, and kept me in the hold, afraid I’d curse them all, bring ill luck and death. They put me off the ship at Bristol, abandoned me. I was sick for a while. It took me four months to get home to tell Clive that Daniel was dead—his beloved heir, his perfect child, gone.”

  She rose up, freed her hand, put it against his cheek. She leaned over him, found his mouth with her own, and kissed him. He reached for her, pulled her into his arms, dragged her over him, and kissed her back. He was raw from telling the tale aloud, desperate with sorrow and regret. She poured herself over him. Spread her body over his like a balm.

  She’d been through a horrible ordeal, seen people she loved killed before her eyes, faced abuse and possibly rape, and she was comforting him. There was more to Gillian MacLeod than anyone knew.

  Except him—and a regretful pack of outlaws, who were likely wishing they’d chosen easier prey.

  He could feel her tears falling on his face, could taste them as he kissed her.

  He drew back. “Why are you crying? Not for me?”

  “Aye, for you. For all that happened to you then, and today. You could have died,” she said. “It must have made you remember terrible things, but you kept me safe. If not for you, I wouldn’t have been brave. I was afraid—” She p
ut her hand against his chest, felt his heart beating. “But we’re alive. Alive.”

  He pressed his hand over hers, concentrated on the present, on recent events. He feared he’d overwhelmed her with his story, yet he knew he’d not have spoken of the past if not for the things that had happened today, the danger they’d shared.

  He felt his heart swell, fill. He could scarcely breathe, though her weight on his chest was slight.

  “I wanted to be brave,” she said.

  “And you were.” He stroked her back, feeling the silk warm under his touch.

  “Is it so surprising? I am as much a MacLeod as my sisters, or even my father.”

  “Oh, sweeting, I don’t doubt it for a minute.”

  “I wasn’t afraid for myself, John. I’ve lost people I love before—my mother, my stepmothers, and now . . .” She lowered her eyes. “Callum, Keir, Tam, Lachlan, and Ewan. Lachlan was to be married, John, like the lad by the fire. He’ll never wed, or have the farm he wanted, or hold his bairns, or grow old.”

  “Are you speaking of Lachlan or the lad?”

  She was shaking, and he suspected she was crying again. “Both, I suppose. The boy thought I was his lass at the end, was comforted by that at least. But how will she feel, his Sorcha, when she hears he’s dead? Life is too short not to know love and happiness, to find it and hold on to it.”

  His own life had proven exactly that. But some men weren’t destined to know love and happiness . . .

  “John,” she whispered, and he heard the urgency in her voice, the need, and knew what she wanted. She shifted against him again, moving with purpose now, an undulation of her hips, belly, and breasts against him. He shivered and felt his body respond.

  “Nay,” he said. His hands curled around her arms to move her off him.

  “But I want—”

  “Don’t say it,” he said, his voice gruff. He rolled out from under her, rose to crawl out and leave her, but she caught his hand.

  “Stay,” she whispered. It wasn’t a trembling plea. It was the firm tone of a woman who knew what she wanted.