One Knight’s Stand

by Crosby, Tanya Anne

  He realized that as much as he did the simple fact that she was trying to help. And nevertheless, he said again, through gritted teeth, “I am fine.”

  She stepped back to assess him, looking perfectly stricken although she knew him not at all. Nor did she know what injuries he’d sustained beneath his shirt and trews.

  He looked up at her then, grateful that they’d switched places, because, at least now, he could no longer see her fine form limned by the light of the fire.

  She was beautiful, certainly, although as fierce as she had been standing up to him, raging against Balthazar, her eyes were now filled with kindness and compassion, and it was nearly his undoing. God’s truth, any man would be fortunate simply to know her, much less wed her—a woman unfettered by her emotions, and brave enough to stand up to a stranger, yet tender-hearted enough to consider his wellbeing.

  Suddenly, Callum was bone tired, ready to be home in his own bed, wishing he could forget the hell he’d encountered at Culloden and the pain of his injuries since.

  For a long, long moment, he didn’t know what else to say… so he said nothing…

  The man was clearly in pain.

  There was nothing about his demeanor that decried this fact, and Elizabeth was utterly torn, both incensed that the innkeeper had let her room to some man not of her acquaintance, and now entirely horrified to find him at sixes and sevens.

  “Please… won’t you allow me to help?” she asked, and before he could think to refuse her, she seized up the shawl she’d lain over her valise and rushed out the door, straight through the adjoining chamber, and into the scullery, fully intending to find the man a proper doctor.

  “Pardon!” she said loudly.

  A number of eyes flicked in her direction, although, considering the holiday crush, the majority returned to their given tasks, except for the young man who’d lit her hearth fire.

  “My lady?” he said.

  “Is there a doctor about?”

  “No, my lady.”

  “A midwife?”

  “No my lady.”

  “Well!” Elizabeth donned her most haughty demeanor, taking a cue from her aunt Celeste. No one ever dared gainsay Aunt Celeste, and come to think of it, if her Uncle didn’t appreciate strong women, he certainly surrounded himself with more than enough of them. “I would like to speak to the proprietor, at once!”

  The young man scratched his head. “You mean, Balthazar?”

  “Mr. Pitagowan. Balthazar—whatever his name is!”

  “E’s—" The lad pointed, and never got the chance to finish his statement, because Elizabeth didn’t wait. She turned her back to the kitchen and marched into the adjoining room, where the innkeeper stood, once again, combing his infernal beard.

  “Good sir,” she said. “There’s a man in my room who requires your immediate attention!”

  The innkeeper looked confused, and said, “MacKinnon?”

  “Yes, as I’ve said. I am Lord MacKinnon’s betrothed, and I really must insist you bring in a physician at once. And, please, please, don’t worry, I will accept the charges.”

  The innkeeper pocketed his comb, but he furrowed his brow, and just at that instant, one of the tavern guests raked back a chair and approached the bar.

  “Well, well,” said the guest “What’s this?” He turned to his acquaintances at the table behind him and said, “Loud as a cannon, but pretty as ye please. I’ll help ye, sweet dove. You need a doctor, you say?”

  A voice boomed at her back.

  “Mind your own affairs, Douglass. Put your fat nose back in your cup, else I’ll gi’ ye a reason to drink!”

  The man visibly shrank from the man at her back. “Callum!” he exclaimed. “We all thought ye were dead.”

  “I nearly was, but believe me, I’m hale enough to keep my word. Didn’t ye hear the lady say she was MacKinnnon’s bride?”

  The Scotsman—Douglass—lifted a hand in surrender and Elizabeth turned to assess the man at her back. If he was still in pain, there was nothing about his demeanor now that betrayed the fact. He did, indeed, look hale as anyone she had ever met.

  In fact, the sight of him stole her breath…

  And nevertheless, she didn’t need his defense. She could fend for herself. There were British guards posted out in the yard. This was no longer a lawless country. She would have told Mister Douglass so, but this man—Callum—didn’t give her the chance. The scowl on his face darkened as he advanced on her and slid his arm about her waist, drawing her close. She gasped with shock, as he bent to whisper in her ear.

  Chapter 4

  “Ye look like a doxy,” he said for her ears alone, and with another gasp of outrage, she tried to extricate herself from his arms, but Callum wouldn’t oblige her.

  “How dare you!” she said, and then, perhaps remembering her state of undress, she went limp in his arms. Clearly, she’d been so concerned over his wellbeing that she’d forgotten what she was wearing. No doubt her dress covered all her fine bits, and her shawl hid the most tempting features. Thankfully, without the firelight to illume her, she was nearly concealed, except for those bare ankles and toes—more than enough nudity to tempt a grizzled old man whose greatest pleasure on the new year was to pour ale down his gob whilst watching the Mirrie Dancers in Bess Pitagowan’s hearth fire.

  Only for good measure, perhaps out of some misplaced sense of spite, Callum bent to nuzzle her neck, and then he couldn’t help himself; he sniffed her hair, before meeting auld Douglass’s curious gaze.

  The faintest scent of roses caught his breath…

  “Go back to your pints,” he demanded of Douglass, his tone brooking no argument. Then, willy-nilly, he dragged “Lord MacKinnon’s plucky bride” back to the room.

  God’s bloody bones, he should have been too tired and far too nettled to sport an arousal, but she smelled so fine. It was all he could do not to resort to some primitive yearning to toss the lady over his shoulders and tote her back to his bed—his bed.

  Damn him to perdition, he was too bloody tired to argue over it, but for both their sakes, he released her the instant they entered the room, then kicked the door shut behind them.

  Once safely inside, his angel of mercy wasted very little time in finding her mettle, retreating behind her tiny valise as though it were Hadrian’s Wall. “How dare you!” she said again, and her expression was furious.

  “Ach, lass. Didn’t ye say ye were wedding the MacKinnon?”

  “Lord MacKinnon,” she corrected him again. But the simple fact was that no Act of Proscription could strip Callum of his birthright. They might brand him a traitor, but he was still the rightful heir of Clan MacKinnon. As the eldest surviving member of a clan that was descended of Kenneth MacAlpin, he was now chieftain, and he’d be damned if he’d let his title go without a fight, particularly if this woman was somehow to be his prize.

  “I am laird MacKinnon,” he announced, as he found and sat on the bed, with a sudden new ache to worry about—one that was beginning to form a tent of his breeches. Callum hid the evidence of his discomfort from her delicate view, suddenly reticent although he’d never been bashful a day in his life. However, at the moment, he bloody well wished he had her shawl.

  Adjusting himself appropriately, he cast the woman a sour glance, finding her staring, open-mouthed, and he nearly asked her if she was looking to catch flies.

  “But it can’t be.”

  “I assure you I am who I say I am,” he insisted.

  “But… h-he’s…”

  “Dead?”

  “No, he’s not dead. Though he’s just a boy!”

  “He is fifteen,” said Callum. “I’m the eldest, by far, but if you prefer my younger brother, I can still arrange it.”

  Open-mouthed still, she pinched her shawl before her, looking every bit as though she might swoon. “B-But… I don’t understand.”

  Callum heaved a sigh. “Ach, lass. What’s there tae understand? I’m back from the dead. Ye’re among the
first tae know it.” Then he narrowed his eyes. “In fact, I’m on my way home—a rather convenient coincidence, I might add.”

  She blinked disbelievingly. “Are you really?”

  “Really what?”

  “Lord MacKinnon?”

  “I am now,” he said with no small measure of disgust. “My Da took a bullet at Falkirk. I would ha’e, as well… were it not for the bloody bastard who shot my Da. So, ye see, here I am by the good graces of a Wolfe.”

  “Hmmm,” she said, casting her head down to assess her wiggling toes. She looked as though she had something more to say… but, for the moment, Callum was heartily relieved she wasn’t looking directly at him. Even now, he held back tears that longed to be shed. Only once, after rousing from his fever, had he cried… for the father who’d raised him so honorably and died so ignobly. God’s truth, it was no way to meet one’s end—with a gob full of muck. War, indeed, was hell.

  “Bloody Sassenach,” he said, with equal parts anger and confusion. How in the name of St. Andrew was it possible to feel so much hatred and gratitude at once?

  He knew well enough that Wolfe hadn’t wanted to do it, and the instant he’d had another option, he’d taken it, but it didn’t change the fact that his father was dead.

  Despite her confusion, Elizabeth recognized truth when she heard it.

  For a moment, she stared at her bare feet, unable to find even a modicum of chagrin over their nudity. For some odd reason, she felt entirely comfortable in this man’s presence. “So then,” she said. “If you are…”

  “I am.”

  “Then… I suppose…”

  He gave her a nod. “You’re betrothed to me,” he finished.

  She blushed hotly.

  “That… is… indeed…”

  “Convenient?”

  Elizabeth nodded, wondering how much James had had to do with this very awkward happenstance. Without a bit of help, it seemed entirely unbelievable that she would discover herself ensconced here at this very inn only to be thrust into the same room with her intended—unless, it was… planned?

  Or… by some miracle, the fates had intervened.

  But nay… Elizabeth blinked with dawning comprehension: Her cousin had returned from Culloden in the dourest of moods. He’d ensconced himself for hours and hours with his father, then emerged from Uncle Edward’s office with renewed purpose.

  It wasn’t very long after that meeting that Elizabeth had been told about her betrothal—to a Highlander, no less. When she’d protested, James had privately reassured her that she would be well pleased with the match, and what was more, he’d said: It would serve her sensibilities far, far better than it would to marry some fat, greasy English lord.

  In fact, she wasn’t particularly well endowed, and her most recent inquiry had been from an elderly gentleman whose gout hadn’t allowed him to serve in the King’s army.

  Naturally, with James’ reassurances, she’d acquiesced. It was only later—much later—when she’d discovered she was actually betrothed to a boy, that she’d felt like socking her cousin in the nose. She’d been irate all over again, although she took some small comfort in the fact that through their affiliation she might, indeed, be able to save a venerable clan.

  James was right after all; It spoke to her inner crusader.

  Even despite that she didn’t entirely understand the political upheaval, or the Scot’s lament, she knew enough to know that it was not entirely fair to call these men traitors—men who’d fought, not so much for Bonnie Prince Charlie as they had for their way of life.

  In the end, James must also have felt the same, because the walls were not so thick as her uncle liked to believe. She knew her cousin had defied a direct order and freed a Scotman…

  That man, she realized, must be Callum MacKinnon.

  She opened her mouth to ask him a question, then closed it again, realizing that this was no act of God. Was Mrs. Grace also aware of the circumstances, or was she not part of the plot?

  She had a difficult time believing Mrs. Grace would go along with such a farce. Nor could she fathom that James trusted Mrs. Grace more than he trusted Elizabeth.

  Therefore, it stood to reason that if he hadn’t revealed the sham to her, no doubt he’d never deign to tell such a proper woman as Mrs. Grace.

  And then, too… what excuse had James provided for not being able to travel with them? He’d said only that he had some debt of honor to see to. And now, she had a good suspicion as to what that debt of honor must be.

  Really, her cousin was a very well-respected man; there was no wonder he’d achieved the rank of brigade major by the age of eighteen, but he wasn’t a bootlicker.

  Her uncle Edward like to say that it would either gain James a place in history, or it would get him to an early grave. Right now, Elizabeth suspected it might prove to be an early grave—particularly if she ever got hold of him.

  “James,” she said crossly, and the hint of a crooked smile that was beginning to form on Callum MacKinnon’s face suddenly fled—and, yes, he was handsome, she decided. Ruggedly so.

  “What did ye say?”

  Elizabeth arched a brow. “Please tell me, who shot your father?”

  “Major James Wolfe,” he said, eying her pointedly.

  “But of course,” she said, fidgeting under his scrutiny, and then she sighed and confessed, “That blackguard is my cousin.”

  Chapter 5

  As it were, the only true angel at work this holiday was James.

  It was, indeed, Callum MacKinnon he owed the debt to and evidently, after leaving Westerham, he’d tracked Callum to some blackhouse in Alyth, offering him a horse and enough money to travel with, along with papers to carry, all signed and sealed by her Uncle Edward.

  The proof was all there; Callum showed her all the documents—all quite official.

  And then, with an undeniably heavy heart, he told Elizabeth the rest of his tale—all of it, sparing nothing, not even the manner of his father’s death.

  They were both ordered to be executed under General Hawley’s custody. His father was shot with hands bound, and neither man was armed. Her cousin James had pulled the trigger, but then, after Hawley left, he let Callum go.

  Elizabeth could have relayed the rest of the story herself…

  James had returned home in a terrible state. She had never seen him so downcast, and, in truth, she had suspected something of this magnitude, because, along with those bits and pieces she’d overheard, she knew her cousin well enough that, if he had kept the truth from her, he was likely ashamed. But she didn’t wish to interrupt Callum, so she let him purge his grief, taking his hand when it seemed he might weep. It was a very humbling experience to watch a grown man grieve. And yet, he did not cry; although his bottom lip quivered ever so slightly, he remained strong, and all the while Elizabeth listened patiently until their conversation was interrupted by the innkeeper, who finally arrived bearing a wooden tub.

  As Callum stood to converse with Mr. Pitagowan, Elizabeth laid his papers down on the bed, studying the man…

  She could do worse.

  He was a fine, fine specimen—no boy in him at all.

  His thick, broad shoulders bespoke a lifetime of hard labor, and his skin, though pale in the midst of winter, and after an epoch of healing, was still a shade of bronze.

  Evidently, he was a friend to Pitagowan family. They spoke with an ease borne of familiarity, and the elder man gave Callum his regrets, telling him of Carrie’s mission to recover her Uncle’s belongings, which were lost or stolen after he fell. The room, so Elizabeth discerned, was her “Chamber of Sorrows,” filled with items belonging to the brave men who fell at Culloden. Every now and again, against his and her mother’s wishes, the plucky young lady took a horse and cart north. That was the only reason that her room was empty.

  As promised, Mr. Pitagowan left Little Joe to fill the bath, and he went to retrieve not one, but two bowls of Scotch broth with bannocks.

 
Immediately on the heels of Little Joe’s departure arrived yet another stack of firewood for the hearth, along with soap, towels, a pitcher of ale and two cups.

  But that wasn’t all; Bess arrived with a dessert that consisted of oats, raspberries, cream and whisky—made especially for Callum.

  “It’s time to celebrate!” she announced as she laid her whisky drenched cranachan down upon a small table. “Back from the dead, with a bride no less!”

  She winked at Elizabeth, and said, “Callum won’t be sayin’ so, mind ye, but ’e always had the ladies in a swoon. You’re a lucky lady!”

  Elizabeth nodded dumbly, as she accepted a brimming cup of ale, then gulped it down, grateful for the alcohol’s calming effect. After a moment, Bess, too, departed, leaving her alone with her “betrothed.”

  Only now, wondering over the particulars, Elizabeth considered whether she ought to go apprise Mrs. Grace of the shocking turn of events.

  “It all makes sense now,” she told Callum as he spooned the steaming broth into his mouth. “James insisted I leave for Dunmore at once. And then, he departed without so much as a by your leave. Naturally, I wondered where he was off to in such haste. Now, I know.”

  Callum nodded very soberly, setting down his bowl, although he didn’t yet sit. Her hand drifted into the spot on the bed he had occupied before, feeling for his fading warmth.

  “So it seems,” he said. “He came to assure me my passage was safe, and then he also insisted I leave at once. He apprised me the precise route to take, and then gave me papers to show in case I should need them.”

  Elizabeth tilted her head. “But he didn’t tell you to stop here, did he? What made you do that?” she asked, curiously.

  Callum shrugged. “I don’t know. I was damp to my bones. I knew Bess and John well enough to know they’d give me a bed for the night, and a thick bowl of stew. But most of all, I suppose the thought of arriving home wasn’t entirely without its sorrow.”

  “I can only imagine,” she said, and now he came and sat beside her on the bed, but not too close. He hesitated a moment, then removed a ribbon of tartan from his pocket to show her.