Snowy Night with a Highlander

by Julia London

  Her feet paused in their pacing; she suddenly squatted down beside him. “I donna mean to disparage your laird, if indeed he remains your laird and has no’ been shot in a duel or otherwise brought down.”

  “But you have disparaged him, aye?” Duncan asked curtly.

  One lovely dark brow rose high above the other. “I did no’ mean to. I merely assumed he might have met with trouble, naturally, given his general disposition.”

  Duncan gave her a look that he hoped would end the conversation, but the lass was bold. Or oblivious. Instead of politely demurring as she ought to have done, she smiled as if she pitied him his laird. “I beg your pardon if I’ve offended,” she said sweetly. “But perhaps you do no’ know your laird as I have known him.”

  “Have you known him?” he demanded, and hit the spoke with the flat of his palm. He hit it too hard—it shoved the spoke past the notch. Duncan muttered under his breath and started the laborious process over again.

  “I have,” she said.

  “If I a may ask, Lady Fiona, what’s he done to you to leave you with such an unflattering impression of his character?” Duncan demanded.

  “He likened me to a woodchuck.”

  Duncan stilled and glanced at her through the spokes.

  She colored slightly and shrugged a little. “No’ that it matters to me, for it does no’ in the least.”

  “A woodchuck?” he echoed disbelievingly. Now he doubted her completely. He never would have said such a thing about a lady.

  But Fiona nodded adamantly. “It was such a silly thing, really. It happened at my debut, at Gunston Hall. My friend was having a bit of sport with me, and she suggested to your high and mighty laird that perhaps I might make a good match for him, and he said, ‘Fiona Haines?’ ” She mimicked him, speaking in a low voice and looking comically studious as she rubbed her chin with her hand. ‘ ”Lambourne’s younger sister? Brown hair? About so tall? Slightly reminiscent of a woodchuck?’ ”

  Duncan blinked.

  “Aha!” Fiona cried triumphantly. “You are no’ the least bit surprised, then! You know perfectly well that he’s wretched!”

  Oh, but she was wrong. She was terribly wrong—he was surprised and appalled.

  “His friends had quite a laugh at it, which undoubtedly encouraged him even further, for he turned to my friend Molly and said, ‘Thank you, Miss Elgin, but I’d sooner marry a woodchuck.’ ” Fiona laughed, but it sounded forced.

  “Perhaps Miss Elgin fabricated the conversation?” he suggested, hoping that was so.

  “Why should she do that?”

  Any number of reasons. Duncan remembered Molly Elgin—she’d been rather keen to be near him, by any means she could devise.

  “Oh, I’ve no doubt that Molly Elgin was up to no good when she broached the subject with him,” Fiona said airily. “Yet I know he said it, for I heard him. I was standing not two feet away. I heard him quite plainly.” Her laugh again sounded stilted, and she abruptly stood and began pacing again. “I hardly cared, mind you. I’d set my sights on London.”

  A direct contradiction to what she’d said this morning, he noted. He swallowed hard—he was never prepared to be reminded of the man he’d been. Vainglorious and, apparently, cruel. He hit the spoke with the flat of his palm; it popped into the notches on the wheel. He grabbed the spoke and pulled hard to assure himself it was locked into place. Satisfied that it was, he disengaged himself from the wheel and stood up. As he stuffed his hands into his gloves, he said, “Knowing the laird, I rather imagine you are right—he surely said what he did for the amusement of his friends. Yet I am certain he would be ashamed and regretful if he realized the distress his words had caused you.” He looked at her from the corner of his eye. “I am certain of it.”

  Fiona laughed. “Do you realize that is the most words you have spoken to me at one time? And all of them in defense of a profligate. Oh, aye,” she said, nodding vigorously, “he is a profligate of the worst kind. If ever there was a man who delighted in trampling the feelings of others, it is your laird, sir. I’ve heard more tales of him, but I will keep them to myself, then. Honestly, I would no’ have brought it up at all had you no’ asked. I’ve quite forgotten it! Really, I am surprised I’ve remembered as much of it as I have. Look here, it’s begun to snow again.” She leaned her head back and closed her eyes, and stuck out her tongue, trying to catch a snowflake on the tip.

  Something about that stirred Duncan deep inside. He did not want to be intrigued or otherwise aroused—it would only lead to frustration and pain, and he had a long way to go with this one yet. But he could not help but wonder where life might have taken him had he not been so dismissive of Fiona so long ago. If he’d met her, really met her. . . . Such were the regrets in his life—he would never know now. Bloody hell, he couldn’t even tell her who he was now without making everything she’d said of him seem true.

  Nevertheless, he racked his memory for the night in question, and vaguely remembered an encounter with Molly Elgin, but for the life of him, he could not remember saying such a thing.

  He did not remember it, but he could not doubt it. She was right—he’d been terribly cavalier with other people’s feelings then. Especially women. But where he’d once treated pretty young women as cattle, he would now be on his knees with gratitude if but one of them could see past the scarring of his skin and the scandalous death of his close friend.

  A deep sense of regret and loss pervaded him as he checked the wheel once more. That he could have been so cruel to someone as vibrant and lively as Fiona Haines made him feel more inhuman than he normally did, and he’d not thought it possible to feel any lower.

  He dusted off his buckskins, walked to the driver’s bench, and shoved the broken spoke beneath the bench. One of the horses whinnied nervously; he assumed the horse wanted a warm stable. But another horse snorted and bumped against the harness, and Duncan glanced over his shoulder at Fiona.

  What he saw made his heart stop beating.

  Now all of the horses were shifting nervously and tossing their heads. Fiona was oblivious to it—she was holding out her gloved hand, watching the snow fall into her palm. Behind her, not more than ten feet away, was a very lean wolf, crouched low on its haunches, stalking the horses.

  The number of wolves had been drastically reduced in the Highlands to save sheep, but Duncan had heard tales of the occasional desperate and hungry lone wolf. He could see the ribs on this one; it was hungry, and Fiona stood between him and a meal.

  All of the horses were stomping and snorting now, whinnying at Duncan.

  Fiona glanced at the horses, then at Duncan. “They must be hungry,” she said brightly. “Look at this snow, will you? It’s really beautiful, aye?”

  Duncan nodded as he carefully reached beneath the driver’s bench for his pistol.

  “Have you blankets for the poor things?” she asked. “Perhaps they are cold.” The wolf was only five feet from her now. If she cried out, if she made any sort of threatening move, Duncan feared what the hungry wolf might do. He had one clear shot, but he couldn’t sight the wolf properly with the patch on his eye.

  “Lass . . . listen to me now,” Duncan said softly as he pushed his hat from his head. “Stand where you are, but donna move a muscle. Do you understand me?”

  “Why ever no’?” she asked laughingly. “You sound so ominous, sir. Why should I no’ move? Please allow that I might at least stamp my feet, as it is right cold.”

  He pushed the patch from his eye and wrapped his hand around the pistol, snaking his finger into the trigger. He’d have only seconds to fire.

  Fiona’s smile faded. “Why are you holding that pistol? You are frightening me,” she said, the gaiety gone from her voice.

  “Donna move,” he said again, shifting his gaze to the wolf, who had begun to inch forward. The horses sensed it; one of them tried to break forward, but the wagon was dead weight, the wheels locked by the hand brake. The horse whinnied again, high and shril
l, prompting the others to do the same. The sound of their nervous cries startled Fiona—she moved.

  Duncan lunged toward the wolf to draw his attention from Fiona and fired. Fiona screamed, covering her ears with her hands. One of the horses tried to rear, shaking the wagon as the wolf fell to its side with a bark of pain. He began to claw his way up; Duncan pushed Fiona behind him, trained the gun again, and fired, killing the wolf.

  The horses were frantic now, bumping against one another and dragging the wagon behind them. “Fuirich, fuirich!” Duncan shouted at the horses to steady them as he whirled around and grabbed Fiona up before she could scream, before she could see the blood of the wolf pooling darkly against the thin layer of snow and spreading toward her. He twisted her away from the sight of the dead wolf, clasped her in his arm, and pressed her face into his shoulder. “Steady, lass,” he said. “Steady.”

  “God help me, I never saw it!” she cried, her voice shaking. “I was almost eaten alive!”

  Duncan smiled wryly above her head. “I assure you, he preferred horsemeat,” he said. “He is dead; you’ve naugh’ to fear. But come now, let us be on our way—the wheel is repaired.”

  She reared back and looked up at him. “Mr. Duncan! You saved my life!” she cried, her eyes searching his face. “With no regard for your own safety, you saved my life!”

  “I had a gun,” he reminded her, but Fiona would not accept that and wildly shook her head, her eyes searching his face. Duncan was painfully aware that his bad eye was exposed to her and out of habit, turned his head.

  “I owe my life to you! How shall I ever thank you?”

  “By getting in the wagon,” he said, pulling her toward the enclosure.

  “What? Oh, no,” she said, firmly shaking her head. “I donna intend to ride back there after that,” she said, gripping his wrist. “I shall stay close, if you donna mind. We might be set upon by packs of them at any moment. Aye, we should hurry along before they come!” she said, and let go of him.

  “He was a lone wolf,” Duncan tried, but she was already marching past him, and helping herself up onto the driver’s bench.

  He’d not win this battle, that was plain. With a sigh, Duncan saw after the skittish team before gathering his hat and his eye patch. If she’d noticed his eye in the ruckus, she gave no indication, but Duncan quickly pulled the patch over his eye nonetheless. He tugged his scarf up over his nose, donned his hat, and pulled the brim low over his eyes before climbing up and sending the horses to a trot.

  The snow was coming down heavily now, wet and thick. He figured they had perhaps three hours of light left and worried how far they would be able to travel. His team trotted along, throwing their heads back to sniff the air. Beside him, Lady Fiona felt compelled to relate all the ghoulish tales of wolves she’d heard as a child, but as the snowfall thickened, she delighted in it, and recounted a sledding episode on a hill at an English country estate that had ended with the Prince of Wales tumbling head over heels down an embankment like a drunken snowman.

  Fiona really was quite entertaining. She had a talent for telling stories that made even him chuckle, someone who had not laughed in so long he could no longer remember the last time.

  But the heavy snow made travel difficult, and he could feel Fiona shivering next to him. As much as he enjoyed her company, it was dangerous to expose her to the elements. So Duncan pulled the team to a halt and climbed down from the driver’s bench.

  Fiona looked down at him with a smile. The tip of her nose was bright red, and the brim of her bonnet had begun to sag under the weight of the snow. “Come down,” he said.

  She instantly twisted about, looking back at the road they’d traveled. “Why? Are there more wolves?”

  “No,” he said. “But you should be under the tarpaulin.”

  “I’m really quite all right.”

  “Come down.”

  Fiona blinked wide eyes, but reluctantly came down off the bench. He helped her down, took her by the hand, and dragged her to the back of the wagon.

  She tried to lift the latch of the gate. “This is really unnecessary,” she said, her voice straining with her effort to unlatch the wagon’s gate. “From the look of it, there are only the two of us in all of Scotland. What harm is there if we enjoy a bit of human companionship? I doubt nations will fall if we sit together.”

  “I will no’ be responsible for any ague that comes on you.”

  “I am made of the hardiest Highland stock, sir! And what of you?” she demanded as he covered her hand with his and easily lifted the latch. “Are you impervious to ague?”

  “I’m fine,” he said. “Up with you, then. We should no’ tarry.”

  “At least take another rug with you to the bench,” she said, showing no sign of hurrying things along.

  Duncan impatiently dipped down, caught her around the waist, and ignored the squeal of surprise as she grabbed his shoulders. He lifted her up and sat her on the wagon’s gate—but he did not let go as he’d intended. Something happened to him—he was captivated by her amber eyes. He could not look away.

  Nor did she. Her hands remained on his shoulders, her eyes locked on his.

  Something passed between them, something intensely magnetic.

  Duncan was the first to move, slowly sliding his arm away from her waist. Such attraction as he was experiencing was pointless, useless. She despised him. And even if she could be persuaded that he was indeed a changed man, she had not yet noticed his face. When she saw his face . . .

  “You can get yourself under cover, I’ve no doubt,” he said abruptly, and retreated to the driver’s bench. But as he climbed up and dusted the snow from the seat and pulled a pair of furs over his lap, he heard her grousing behind him.

  Something about being ordered about by a Highlander.

  She fell silent as he sent the horses to a trot again, their breath rising in great plumes. Duncan imagined Lady Fiona Haines on her bench inside the wagon, bouncing along, her hands gripping the edge.

  A headwind picked up, pushing the snow into neat piles alongside the road. The limbs of the pines under which they were passing were hanging low under the snow’s weight.

  After another hour of traveling in wretched conditions, Duncan realized they were far from a village and even farther from Blackwood. The team was tiring, and if the snow kept falling, it wouldn’t be long before it would be too deep to pull the wagon. Duncan did not relish a night spent literally on the road.

  It was dumb luck that as the horses began to labor up a hill where the trees thinned, he happened to see a cattle enclosure on the sheltered side of a large rock. And he considered it nothing short of a miracle that the enclosure held three sheaves of hay.

  “Whoa, whoa,” he said, pulling back on the reins, bringing the horses to a stop once more.

  When he helped Fiona out of the wagon, she only grumbled a bit when he explained their predicament and pointed to the enclosure. “We shall freeze to death,” she said.

  “We will no’,” he countered.

  “It will scarcely matter if we freeze, for wolves will feast on us.”

  “The wolf is dead,” he patiently reminded her. “And if he were alive, he’d no’ come near a fire.”

  She pressed her lips together, studying him, and nodded. “All right, then. What must we do?”

  “Help me remove the tarpaulin.”

  Between the two of them, they removed the tarpaulin from its frame and dragged it up the hill to the enclosure. She helped him make a shelter of sorts. With hay on the ground and one of the lap furs to cover it, he used the rest of the hay to form a lee around the fur. On the edge of the enclosure, he scuffed a circle and kicked hay and snow away, leaving the earth bare. “Stay here,” he said to Fiona. He trooped down to the wagon again, loaded wood onto his damaged arm, then returned to the space he’d made. He made the trip to the wagon thrice more.

  As Fiona watched, he built a fire, held his hand over the flame a moment, and when he was certai
n it would not go out, he touched the brim of his hat. “Here is wood,” he said, pointing to the little pile. “Keep the flame burning while I tend the horses.”

  The snow was beginning to thin, but now the wind was blowing and he was chilled to the bone. He disengaged the horses one by one from the harness frame and led them to a stand of Scots pines, where he hobbled them together. He hung oat bags on each of them—no small feat, given their height and his useless appendage. And with the four of them munching away, he draped them each with horse blankets.

  Satisfied that the horses would huddle together and survive the night, Duncan returned to the wagon and fetched the pail of food Mrs. Dillingham had made for them. He also dug out a flask of whisky from beneath a sack of grain and leaned down, tucking it inside his boot.

  He had a feeling that being trapped in a small shelter with an attractive, alluring woman might make this the longest night of his life, and he was going to need every bit of help he could get.

  Chapter Seven

  Fiona was relieved to see Duncan when he emerged from the gray mist that was settling around them, a fur rug draped over his shoulder, the pail of food in hand. He’d been gone long enough that she’d begun to fret something had happened to him.

  But then again, she’d noticed today that things were not easy for a man with a wounded arm.

  She stepped out from beneath the tarpaulin to relieve him of the pail. He followed her underneath the cover and shrugged out from underneath the rug, letting it fall between them.

  Fiona glanced at the fur as she kneeled down and began to remove the straw Mrs. Dillingham had packed into the pail. “Only one?”

  “You’re sitting on the other,” he said as he squatted down and added more wood to the fire.

  The import of that statement slowly sank in—there was only one rug for the two of them to use to cover themselves, one rug between the two of them and nature’s icy grip.

  The idea that they’d have to share a lap rug, while entirely titillating, was also alarming. There had been that moment at the back of the wagon in which Fiona actually feared she might have kissed this Highlander had his face not been wrapped in woolen scarves.