A Highlander for Christmas

by Jamie Carie

  Chapter Nine

  The men spread out around the dark campsite, a soft rustling of movement against the chirrup of insects and whisper of flying geese overhead. Iain looked up at the starry sky and took a long breath of the frosty autumn air. Thank thee, Lord, for thy help. Please now that we should overcome our enemies.

  He looked down the sloping valley at the campsite where Malcolm had stopped for the night. There was a campfire being attended to by one of Malcolm’s men, small tents surrounding it. The horses were hobbled to the left under an overcropping of hillside and near a stand of trees. It was a logical place to keep them, out of the elements, but it also made for an easy hiding place for someone to loosen their lines. He nodded, his gaze scanning the area for a woman, for his woman.

  His wife.

  That he was wed had not really sunk in. Not that he’d had time to consider all that had happened in the last two days. God willing, in a few days he would be bringing home a wife, an English wife to present to his clan and his mother. Matilda MacLeon was a kind and wise woman, but Iain’s throat still tightened thinking of presenting a stranger to her. Juliet would need her support to have any chance of gaining the clan’s approval, but he didn’t know… they would have expected a proper wedding with all in attendance.

  A sudden clamoring came from below. Iain sank farther behind the rock he was hiding behind along with the other men in their troop, watching, gauging the danger. Iain squinted in the darkness as two men came from the far side of the fire, a woman, struggling and screeching, between them. His heart dropped to his stomach. It was Juliet. If he strained he could make out some of what was said.

  Malcolm came out, an angry march, with his cape flaring out. “What is the meaning of this!”

  “She tried to escape, my lord. We chased her down, though, didn’t we, Reggie?”

  A slight young man stuttered his agreement. “We got her, my lord.”

  “You did, did you?” Malcolm reached out and hit the boy across the side of his head with his fist. He went down like he’d been shot. “Fools, the lot of you. She’s a mere skirt and look at you, breathing heavy like aged men.” The other man released Juliet and backed away before Malcolm could strike him. Juliet stood still now, looking at Malcolm, her face in the firelight determined, her gaze not flinching, remaining on her captor.

  Malcolm seemed to enjoy her courage, because he chuckled and took her chin in a tight grip. His voice lowered so that Iain couldn’t make it out, but he saw her face pale while shaking her head no. It was a good thing he hadn’t heard it; it was all he could do to not march toward the man right this instant and put a shot through his head. Iain took a long breath, realizing that he had been practically standing while watching the scene. Malcolm grasped her by the arm and jerked her toward him, walking her toward the largest tent.

  Iain crept over to the sheriff. “We can’t wait. He means to…take her now.”

  The sheriff nodded. “Aye. But we can’t charge just yet. Hold yourself, MacLeon. ’Tis difficult, I ken. But we must wait for a little bit yet, you see?”

  Iain did see, the logical side of him did, but the other side, the side that had vowed to protect her over his own life, wasn’t going to wait long.

  “I say we create a distraction. Those horses.” Iain pointed to the stand of trees. “We could quickly get two or three men to release them, drive them into the camp, and then they could scurry up those hills to a hiding spot. Several other men can move in close, surround the camp to cover them. I’ll head down, as close as I can get to Malcolm’s tent, and wait. As soon as he leaves the tent to see what is happening, I will take Juliet where we left Ruck and then come back and join the fight.”

  The sheriff nodded, looking at his feet. “’Tis a good plan.” He looked back up at Iain, and Iain saw a steely determination light his eyes. “I want Malcolm alive, if God be willin’. He’s to hang for what he did to Henry.”

  “The blacksmith?”

  “Aye, ’is given name, it was.”

  Iain clapped him on the shoulder. “You shall have him.”

  Fire ripped through Juliet’s shoulder as Lord Malcolm jerked her inside his tent. Once inside, he flung her away from him so hard that she fell to the ground on a mound of furs that was to be their bed. Light flickered from a lantern, casting eerie shadows of the man who was her captor. He moved like an angry predator, back and forth and back and forth, a wavering shadow that loomed above her.

  “You thought to escape, did you?” His voice was low and rasping, a dark mirth underlying his words. “You thought you could outwit me?” He stopped pacing suddenly, turning toward her as a sudden change came over him. There was such rage on his face that her breath froze in her throat. A little sound, a sound so pathetic and terrified, came from her throat.

  Oh, God. Please, help me.

  He glared down into her face, inches away. “You thought to outwit me!” he whisper-yelled, spittle coming from his lips. He got even closer and grasped her chin hard, shaking her head. “You little beggar. You don’t know who you are dealing with yet, do you?” He moved closer, his breathing heavy and harsh, and then he pressed his mouth to hers.

  Juliet screamed against the pressure on her lips and pushed at his shoulders as they crashed into her. She fell back with a sob, his hands going toward her breasts. Panic overwhelmed her—hands clawing, feet kicking, jerking her head away. He reached up and grabbed hold of her hair with one hand, the other pressing harder and harder into the soft flesh of her breast.

  Stay alive

  The words came fast and sudden into her consciousness. She wasn’t doing this right. He expected—wanted, even—a fight.

  I will come for you

  Iain was coming. She had to buy time. She had to distract him. She had to play…his…game.

  She went limp and compliant. Took a shattering breath and turned her face toward his.

  He paused. Reared back and looked at her with suspicion.

  “Wait, my lord,” she begged. “Perhaps….” She looked away as if embarrassed, allowing the flush to come up her chest and neck and into her face. “Perhaps you are right.” She turned and looked him in the eye. She made herself believe the next words. There would be no second chance at this scheme. She had to make him believe her.

  A tear trickled from one eye and slid down her temple into her hair. “I think…” She paused a moment, as if the words were hard to admit, her chest panting. “…you may have been correct in your assessment at the blacksmith’s shop.”

  “Yes?” His eyes grew intrigued but still guarded, very guarded. She had to play on his weakness—his pride.

  “I think perhaps I may have not have thought things through and have acted rashly, my lord. Your arguments…” She looked down in mock modesty and whispered, “The things you said about our wealth and power at court as a couple…I had not considered such a life at any length but now I believe. I…I, pray forgive me, am young and impulsive and you were rather distant when we first met. I let a fool’s romantic thoughts of the highlands carry me away.” She let a slow smile slide across her face and looked up at him. “I didn’t realize you had such strength, such passion, my lord. Perhaps we are well suited after all.”

  He was fighting it, she could tell by the tightness in his lips and the tremor in his arms braced on either side of her, but he backed away, sat on his heels and studied her as if to judge her words. And his eyes were pleased.

  She was almost there.

  She cleared her throat. “Might we have something to drink? I should like to get to know you better.” She forced admiration into her gaze.

  He wavered, tilting his head and studying her intently.

  Her heartbeat was so loud in her ears that she feared he could hear it and detect her game. She forced a small, encouraging smile, a look of promise filling her gaze. She didn’t know exactly how she knew how to give those kinds of looks, but it was something she had always had, something that had always attracted men to her—her vo
ice, which she lowered automatically to suit the web she was spinning, and now these looks, heated and purposeful but with a degree of challenge and patience, like a cat eyeing its prey.

  He turned and reached for the wine cask. While his back was to her she let out a silent breath of relief and sat up. Now to get him talking. He enjoyed talking about himself, didn’t he? He must.

  “Tell me of your home, my lord. I know it is close to Eden Place but I’ve never seen it.”

  “It’s three times the size of Eden, which, by the way, is ours, you know.” He held out a cup with deep red wine.

  “Ours?” She felt genuine surprise. “How can that be?” Ruck was the eldest son and should inherit any estate her father had left behind.

  He tilted his head in that strange way as his lips curved up in a joker’s smile. “When I paid off your father’s debts I bought it. It was part of our agreement, you and Eden. Your family is free to live there, provided you mean what you say.” His voice turned deadly.

  Juliet changed the topic, not able to think about her family right now. “And your home. Are you there often or do you also enjoy a townhome in London? You mentioned balls. Do you enjoy the season, my lord?”

  He chuckled and a deep shiver went down her spine that she tried to disguise by turning onto her right hip on the furs. “I have little use for balls or soirees. Parliament, though…I am”—his narrow chest puffed out—“one of the most influential members of Parliament.”

  Juliet smiled. “I couldn’t doubt it.”

  He turned toward her, a quirk in his brow. “Couldn’t you?” He smirked. “You were trying to run off not an hour ago.”

  She bit down on her tongue. She mustn’t overplay this hand. She looked down, averting her eyes. “I was afraid.” Her voice was low and deep.

  “Afraid of me?” He sounded offended by it.

  “My lord, you forget I am only twenty and not used to such…powerful figures as yourself.” She thought quickly of Iain and hurried on. “The MacLeon was more my brother’s idea than mine, and the Scotsman didn’t even wake from the laudanum Ruck gave him until we were nearly at the church.”

  “I don’t believe it!” He said the words but sounded pleased at the same time, as if he did believe it.

  Emboldened, Juliet looked up and nodded. “It’s true. We panicked, Ruck and I, not knowing you. Pray forgive us. Let us start anew.”

  “Anew?” His eyes took on a confused and yet intrigued light.

  Juliet nodded. “A church wedding, as is proper. As you know, nothing has happened between the MacLeon and I. I’d have our lives start out as the church commands: blessed by the church, for our future and our future children.” She glanced down at the furs and said low, with conviction, “Not with violence to be punished by God.”

  There. She had used an argument that he could not contend against. Like any good Catholic, Lord Malcolm might only fear one thing—the church and its laws and superstitions. She had come as close as she could to saying that if he forced her, God might punish him with a life without an heir.

  She looked up to see him sipping his wine and giving her that long and uncomfortable stare.

  Suddenly he threw back his head and roared with laughter. With one giant gulp he drained his cup and threw it aside. As if time were suspended, she watched the cup roll through the grass, her heartbeat speeding and speeding and roaring in her ears, like a pot coming to full boil and then boiling over.

  Dear God, she’d failed.

  The knowledge slammed into her as fast as he did. He rose onto his knees and lunged toward her, too quick for her to move.

  She screamed as he fell on her. “Nice try, my pretty little conniving wench.” He grasped her hair and forced her head up toward his. Her gaze locked on his crazed one. She screamed again but not very loud as her throat was frozen in terror.

  Chapter Ten

  Iain heard the scream and knew he couldn’t wait a second longer. He was crouched just outside the tent and knew his wife was in there with Malcolm. Where were those men with the distraction? He was going to have to go in alone and risk the plan coming apart at the seams.

  Just as he rose from his squatted position, the sounds of horses whinnying and loud snorting sounded into the quiet of the night. He looked up and saw the shadow of one of their men untying a lead and pushing the horse toward the campsite. Thank God, it was beginning.

  He looked expectantly at the tent where Malcolm held his wife, but the man wasn’t coming out to investigate. Other men in the camp were beginning to note the problem, however, and rousing themselves. A sudden shout went up and then several other men rushed to the center of the camp. Pistols and muskets were being loaded, but still no one seemed to be overly panicking.

  He was going to have to do something…now.

  Raising his pistol, he aimed toward the farthest wooden pole that held up the tent. It was dark and he was breathing heavily but he had to hit the pole; there was no room for error. He squinted down the sight on the barrel and pulled the trigger.

  Smoke choked from the pistol, making it impossible to see if he’d hit it for a second or two, and then he heard a snap, a flapping of the tent side collapsing and a bellow of rage from inside the tent.

  Malcolm came rushing from the entrance, one hand holding his neck, blood rushing from it. Had Juliet done that? He remembered the knife and grinned.

  Malcolm started roaring demands. Iain could just make out the fact that his pants were unbuttoned. His stomach rolled. He was going to be sick…or worse, strangle the man in cold blood.

  I want him alive, the sheriff had said. It was the only thing keeping Iain from leaping out and attacking him that very instant.

  Stick to the plan.

  The words roared inside his head, but his body strained to leave the cover of the brush and rush to his bride.

  He watched with held breath as Malcolm marched toward the commotion of the stamping, running horses and his men, spinning around, looking for the cause in the darkness. As soon as Malcolm reached the campfire, Iain took a deep breath, the first in minutes, and pushed gently out of the brush to pad across the short distance of grass to the tent’s entrance.

  He pushed back the flap and rushed inside. “Juliet?” The tent was dark and half fallen in. He heard a sob and then felt her press into his arms. She was trembling from head to toe and held a bloody knife in her hand.

  He squeezed her tight to him and whispered, “You stabbed him?”

  She nodded against his chest, a sob escaping.

  “Shhhh, it’s all right now. Let’s go.” He took the knife from her, wiped it in the grass, shoved it in his belt and took her hand. He opened the tent flap a little and peered out, listening. The commotion had been joined by the musket shots. “Stay down,” he instructed Juliet.

  Crouching, they crept from the tent back toward the hiding place where Iain had been. Once behind the thick cover of branches, they stopped for breath. Iain turned to assess the situation. Malcolm was leading his men toward the hill and stream, looking for the sheriff’s men. Out of the corner of his eye Iain saw a dash of white and realized that Malcolm had sent one of his men back to the tent to guard Juliet. He motioned for Juliet to get farther down as the man ran into the tent and then out again. He would rush to tell Malcolm, and Iain couldn’t let that happen.

  Leaning across the top of one dense bush, he pulled his pistol forth and stretched it toward the man. A sound of a blast came from their right side before he could take aim. The man fell to the ground. Darting around, Iain saw the sheriff perched on a small cliff just across on their right side. With a wave the sheriff let Iain know that he had been watching and that he knew Juliet was with him. He’d been covering them all along. Iain took a deep breath of relief and sank down next to his bride.

  “Juliet, listen carefully.” He gently took her face into his hands and turned it toward him. Her eyes were wide with shock and full of tears. “Shhhh, my sweet, ’tis going to be all right, you know.”
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  She shook her head. “What do we do? There are so many of them.”

  “I’m here with the sheriff from Gretna Green and a dozen militia. We can win this fight.” He squeezed her shoulder and pointed downhill, away from the camp, where they had first ridden in. “See that stream? We’re going to follow it back toward the road to Gretna Green. About two leagues is our camp; it’s hidden in the hallows of those foothills.

  “You can’t send me there alone.” She clutched his arm with a desperation he’d never seen in her. Had Malcolm succeeded before she stabbed him? Just the thought made him want to retch, but now was not the time to ask.

  “Nay, lass. I will take you there.”

  He took her hand and pulled her behind him down into the valley along the stream, shots still ringing out behind them.

  Dark, shadowy clouds moved with the wind, the moonlight coming and going, glistening over the stream as they rushed, their breath thick and heavy in the still night, away from the scene. As soon as they were far enough away to no longer hear the blasts of shots, Iain pulled Juliet to the side, to a large, flat stone and bade her sit down and catch her breath.

  “But should we stop?” She was holding her side and he knew she had a stitch there.

  “Just for a moment.”

  She gulped air and nodded. When she’d caught her breath enough to talk, she rushed out all the questions she must have been thinking. “What’s to happen? Did the blacksmith survive? I feel so horrible.” She looked up at him with pain-stricken eyes, her skin luminous in the sharp light. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

  “Aye.” Iain looked briefly away and wiped a hand over his eyes, feeling suddenly tired. “The sheriff and the militia came to our aid because of the blacksmith’s death. They mean to see Lord Malcolm hang for it, though I don’t know that they have the power to hold him here in Scotland.”

  “So it’s the blacksmith’s death that could save us.” She shook her head, tears in her eyes. “It’s not fair. I just… Ruck and I… Is Ruck with them?”