Miss Leslie's Secret

by Jennifer Moore

  “And ye thought I’d object to leavin’?”

  He turned toward the cliffs. “’Tis far away—across the sea.”

  “Would we return?” Her voice was soft, and he heard a bit of a waver.

  “I dinna ken.”

  Aileen slipped her arm around his waist, unable to move closer and still hold the horse in place. He took the reins from her hand, dropping them and then pulling her against him.

  “It doesna matter where we go, Conall, as long as we go together.”

  He pulled back to see her face. “Ye’d really leave Dunaid?”

  She drew in a quick breath and smiled, though she couldn’t quite hide the pain the idea caused. “I’d leave if my husband wished.”

  His heart swelled with love. “Don’t fear. We’ll not be goin’ anywhere, at least for a while. I wrote to Mr. Hamish Roberts, tellin’ him I was interested in purchasin’ the manor house.”

  Aileen nestled beneath his arm, resting her cheek on his chest. With his hand on her back, he could feel her relax in relief. “Dunaid is home, isn’t it?”

  He rested his chin on her hair. “Home is where ye are, Aileen. Ye and Jamie.” She tightened her arm around his waist, and he held her in a blissful embrace that was disrupted when Nellie bobbed her head, telling them ’twas time to be returnin’ home.

  They continued on through the village, walking in a pleasant silence until they reached the cottage.

  “’Tis the last time I’ll be biddin’ ye good night and walkin’ away,” he said.

  A blush stole over her cheeks, turning them a lovely pink. She laid a hand on his shoulder and rose on tiptoe to kiss him.

  This time, he ignored the horse and pulled her in tight, savoring the moment: the feel of her arms around him and soft lips moving over his.

  “Will I ever tire of this?” she whispered.

  “Of what?”

  “Kissing ye.”

  He lifted a loose tendril from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. “I hope not, lass, or I’ll have to go in search of—”

  She kissed him quickly, likely trying to prevent him from bringing ruination on them all by naming the fair folk.

  Conall turned his head, deepening the kiss and eliciting a small noise from Aileen that set his blood aflame. He pulled her tighter.

  “If the two o’ ye are quite finished tryin’ to swallow each other, I’ve a bride to prepare.” Mrs. Campbell’s reprimand sounded loudly from Aileen’s cottage.

  He closed his eyes, letting out a calming breath. He couldn’t find it in his heart to be angry with the woman—not when she and Mrs. Ross had put such effort into wedding preparations. And, he was pleased to find, when the two had an occasion to plan, they’d much less time to be nosey aboot his personal life.

  “Jes’ a moment, Mrs. Campbell,” Aileen said.

  “Davy already fetched Jamie to yer house, Sergeant,” Mrs. Campbell said. Apparently she was not going to allow them any more privacy. “Now haste ye back home. Ye’ll have plenty o’ time for slousterin’ tomorrow.”

  Aileen’s eyes widened, and her pink cheeks flamed red. She pecked a quick kiss on Conall’s cheek and took her basket, thrusting the horse’s reins at him.

  Conall called a farewell, but she’d already hurried into the house, with Mrs. Campbell closing the door behind. He mounted the horse and turned toward home, unable to hold back a laugh at the outspoken auld woman and Aileen’s reaction.

  He was still chuckling when he turned up the lane that led to the manor house. Lights glowed inside, and he imagined the men of the village were already startin’ on the drink. Hopefully, they’d save him some rum. They’d surely be waiting to blacken his feet and legs with some difficult to remove substance such as boot black or soot mixed with egg. ’Twas a silly tradition, but he didn’t mind a bit, not when tomorrow was so promising.

  When he reached the corral, he found Jamie sitting on the fence waiting for him.

  “I’ll tend to Nellie if ye want to go inside to yer party.”

  Conall shook his head. “The party can wait.” He and Jamie worked quickly, removing the saddle and tack. He returned from the storage building and found Jamie brushing Nellie, just as he’d been shown. Conall leaned his forearms on the fence rail, watching the lad.

  After a moment, Jamie moved to the other side of the horse and continued brushing where the saddle had been. “Are ye nervous, Sergeant?”

  “For the stag-night party?” Jamie must have seen what the men were planning. He hoped they’d not use something sticky like tar.

  Jamie shook his head. “For bein’ married.”

  “Why would I be nervous?” Conall asked.

  Jamie looked thoughtful as he put away the horse brush. “I know the men are jes bein’ playful, but they say ye’ll be shackled and that marriage, ’tis like a lifetime punishment with no chance of parole.”

  Conall placed a hand on Jamie’s shoulder as they walked to the house. He could see preparations already in place for the feast on the morrow—tables and chairs were set in place throughout the yard. Mrs. Ross had the women of the village baking cakes and tarts while she herself had prepared fowl, mutton, and endless scones. “I’m not nervous, Jamie. In fact I’ve never been so happy aboot anythin’ in my life as I am about marryin’ yer ma and bein’ yer da.” He opened the door, standing aside to allow Jamie to precede him inside.

  “I’m happy too,” Jamie said. “And Mam—she’s singin’ and smilin’ all the day long. She loves ye, Sergeant.”

  The lad’s words touched him, and Conall swallowed hard against the constricting of his throat.

  Jamie took a few steps into the kitchen then turned around, wrapping his arms around Conall’s waist. “We both do,” he said then whirled and hurried inside.

  Conall stood in the kitchen doorway. His heart was full, and he thought again that he could have never imagined being so happy.

  Chapter 17

  Aileen stood in the middle of the cottage as Dores fastened the buttons on the back of her dress. The bride skimmed her hands over the cream-colored silk, savoring the feel of the soft fabric. Conall had delivered the gown a few weeks earlier, ignoring her protests that the price must have been very dear and she certainly did not need such a fine dress to wear for only one day. He’d also brought shoes for Jamie, insisting the boy could not attend his own mother’s wedding unshod.

  “There.” Dores held on to Aileen’s shoulders, turning her around. She reached up and adjusted one of the flowers she’d arranged into Aileen’s hair then stepped back, looking over her masterpiece with a critical gaze. She touched a hand to Aileen’s cheek. “I never saw a more bonny bride.”

  Aileen was surprised at the soft tone and even more surprised at the tears in her friend’s eyes. Her own eyes prickled as she reached for Dores’s hand. The woman had been the closest thing to a mother that Aileen had known. They’d been together when they’d been turned out of their homes and ’twas with her help that Aileen had been able to care for Jamie as they fled Strathcarron. “What would I do wi’out ye, Dores?”

  She wagged her finger. “Ye’d never ha’ ensnared tha’ handsome sergeant, an’ tha’s certain.”

  Aileen knew the auld woman well enough to recognize when Dores was concealing her emotions beneath an abrasive exterior. She pulled her friend into an embrace. “Thank ye, Dores, for everythin’.”

  Dores returned the embrace, just for a moment, then pulled away, bustling about the cottage, picking pieces of stems and fallen petals from the dirt floor. “Enough o’ that. Ye’ll crumple yer dress, an’ we’ve no time to press it. Yer groom will be here any moment.”

  Aileen’s stomach turned over, every nerve in her body feeling overly sensitive. The time had come at last. Conall was probably right this moment on his way, leading the wedding procession to fetch her and Jamie. She imagined him wearing his kilt and sporran, looking devastatingly handsome as he strode through the village. She strained her ears, listening for the sounds of th
e pipes. Her hands started to tremble, and her head felt light.

  “Och, but yer pale, dearie.” Dores led her to a chair, fussing with the skirts before helping her to sit. “Please tell me ye’ve had a bite to eat this mornin’.”

  When Aileen shook her head, the older woman rolled her eyes. “On a day such as this? What do I do wi’ ye? Can ye imagine if ye were to faint away before the minister?” Dores took a small loaf from the cupboard and set it on the table in front of her. “Now eat, lass.”

  Aileen obediently tugged off a piece of the bread, chewed, and tried to swallow it past a dry throat.

  Jamie came inside carrying a fresh pail of goat’s milk and looking like the perfect young gentleman in his Sunday best. “I didna get my shoes dirty, Mam.” He held out each foot in turn to demonstrate.

  “Ah, but ye look handsome, mo croí.”

  He set down the pail, and Dores snatched it up and poured the milk into a pitcher.

  Jamie stood before her. “Mam, wha’ aboot when ye’re married? Will ye call Conall mo croí then? He’ll be yer love and not I.”

  Aileen pulled Jamie toward her, not caring if it crumpled her dress. She brushed his hair to the side, letting the curls spring back, then kissed his cheek. “Ye’ll always be mo croí, Jamie. Bein’ married won’ change tha’ one bit. Do ye ken?”

  “Aye, Mam.”

  She held him tight a moment longer until he wiggled from her embrace. She considered it a victory that she’d gotten him to tolerate both an embrace and a kiss, so she’d not complain.

  She’d just taken a drink of the milk and stuck another bite of bread in her mouth when a knocking sounded at the door. He’s here. She stood, brushed crumbs from her lap, and ran her tongue over her teeth, hoping no remains of the hurried breakfast lingered.

  Jamie started toward the door, but Dores stopped him. “Tarry ye a moment, lad.” She lifted the bouquet she’d made and handed it to Aileen, pushing the sprig of white heather in tightly. “Ye’ve a sixpence in yer shoe?”

  Aileen nodded, gripping the stems of the flower arrangement, her breath coming in nervous gaps.

  Dores brought a horseshoe and hung it on Aileen’s elbow. “Now dinna forget to cross the threshold wi’ yer right foot, dearie.” She placed a kiss on Aileen’s cheek and nodded for Jamie to admit Conall.

  The lad grinned and pulled open the door but then stepped back.

  A man with thick, dark hair covered by a smashed cap loomed in the doorway, the light behind casting his face into shadow. From his silhouette, she could see ’twasn’t Conall.

  “Well, if ’tisn’t little Aileen Leslie. I’ve been looking for ye.” The tone of his voice sent a shiver over her skin. He stepped inside and was followed by two other men. One shut the door.

  Now that he was out of the doorway, Aileen could see the dark-haired man’s face clearly. Balfour MacTavish.

  No. Her stomach dropped. How had he found them?

  Dores gasped, and Jamie moved closer to Aileen.

  “Mam, who is it?”

  “Who is it?” Balfour strode toward them, a deep scowl pulling his dark brows low. “Why, ’tis yer father, lad.”

  Jamie looked at Aileen. “My father?”

  Aileen finally found her voice. “What are ye doing here?”

  He sneered. “’Tis rather obvious, I’d think. I’ve come for my son.”

  “No.” She held on to Jamie, feeling him shrinking away from the stranger.

  Balfour’s scowl deepened. “This is Sorcha’s doing, hidin’ him away from me. Did ye truly think I’d never find ye?”

  Aileen looked at the other two men. They stood blocking the door, looking exactly how she pictured evil villains from a story. The smaller was lean, dressed in clothes that must have been fashionable at one time but now were worn and stained. He had a pointed beard, and his face bore the marks of hard living: red-rimmed eyes, blisters around his lips. The other man was exceptionally large, bald-headed, with a nose that looked as though it had been broken multiple times. Aileen ached to get Jamie away from these men, through the door to safety, but they looked as if they both knew what she was thinking and remained, blocking her only exit.

  Balfour continued toward her.

  Aileen backed away, dropping the bouquet as she scooted to the other side of the table and pushed Jamie behind her.

  Balfour continued to scowl as he watched her. “Truthfully, I’d nearly given up until a kirk man came around Inverness askin’ if anyone knew where to find Fearghas Leslie. His daughter, Aileen, and grandson, James, were living in Dunaid.” He rounded a corner of the table tapping his chin comically. “Fearghas Leslie, I thought. Wasna his daughter, Aileen, my wife’s dear friend?” He gave a shrug. “I asked at the Stag and Thistle, and it turns out the boy’s eight years old with bright red hair, just like Sorcha’s.”

  “Mam?” Jamie’s voice shook as she pushed him back into the corner of the room.

  Balfour continued toward them. “I thought ’twas too much o’ a coincidence to be ignorin’, ye see.” He stopped right before them, dirty lip curling in a sneer as his gaze moved over her. “Och, but little Aileen Leslie, ye’ve grown up nicely.”

  His leer made her skin crawl. She held out her arms, shielding the lad behind her and trying to look brave. “Ye canna take Jamie.”

  His scowl hardened, and the anger in his eyes shot ice through her core. “I mos’ certainly can.” He motioned to the two men, who came toward them. “And if ye resist, I’ll return wi’ the constables. Even in an isolated village like this, kidnapping is a crime.”

  “Ye’d not dare.” Dores stepped in front of the men, wagging a finger. “Now away wi’ ye scoundrels, and stop botherin’ decent folk.”

  The men hesitated, perhaps unused to being chastised by an auld woman with a sharp tongue.

  Balfour barked out a laugh, planting fists on his hips. “Dores Campbell, as I live and breathe. Yer still as much of a busybody as ye ever were.” He took ahold of her arm and pulled her away roughly. Leaning close to her face, he hissed through his teeth. “Keep yer nose oot o’ my business, or I’ll have to teach ye a lesson, ye auld bat.” Still holding onto Dores, he snapped his fingers, jerking his head toward Jamie.

  The smaller man grabbed ahold of Aileen, pushing her aside, and the large one seized the lad.

  “Mam!”

  The terror in her child’s scream pierced her heart. “No! Mr. MacTavish, please don’t take him.” She grasped Balfour’s arm. “Please.”

  Jamie kicked out his legs, overturning a chair and knocking the pitcher from the table. It hit the floor with a crash.

  “Famhair. Stop the brat from hollerin’,” Balfour said. “Do ye want to alert the entire village?”

  The man called Famhair—’twas obvious why his mother had given him a name that meant “giant”—grabbed the back of Jamie’s neck.“If yer not quiet, lad, I’ll hurt yer ma.” His voice was a low rumble.

  Aileen shook Balfour’s arm. “No, please. Ye canna—”

  He gave a wrench, flinging her across the room. She hit against the kitchen cabinet and fell, head swimming. She tried to get up but was too dizzy.

  “That’ll teach ye to take what doesna belong to ye.” Balfour’s voice came from far away.

  Aileen felt Dores lifting her head as the door slammed, leaving them in silence.

  Chapter 18

  Conall stopped in front of Aileen’s cottage. He turned to survey the crowd that had joined him as he’d walked through the village. Smiling faces looked back at him. Some he’d never met, but most were people he’d grown fond of in his months in Dunaid: Davy and Catriona, Mrs. Ross, the crotchety Mr. MacKenzie. He gave a nod of thanks for their well-wishes and stepped to the door, his heart light and a grin spread over his face.

  He smoothed down his shirt, flattened the lapels of his jacket, and made sure his plaid was fastened properly at his shoulder. He took a deep breath, letting out slowly, and knocked.

  The wait was longer than he
’d expected, and he began to grow uneasy. Was Aileen havin’ second thoughts?

  He tugged on his collar, feeling warmer than he should until, finally, Mrs. Campbell opened the door.

  Conall smiled, but it dropped, and his muscles tensed in warning when he saw her face. Something was wrong.

  Hearing sobbing, he pushed past the woman and found Aileen lying on the sleeping pallet. She was curled up, hands fisted, arms covering her face. The flowers in her hair were crushed, her dress crumpled. The sobbing was accompanied by a keening. Conall’s stomach went rock hard. “What’s the matter, lass?” He pulled her arms away from her face and discovered blood on her temple. He saw more blood on her dress and on a rag beside her. “Aileen, what the devil happened here?” He sat, pulling her against him and pressing the bloody rag to her head.

  Her sobbing continued. “Jamie. He took Jamie.”

  Her voice was muffled against him, and he was reminded of when she’d carried on with the fever madness. He rubbed his hand on her back. “Lass, ’twill all be well.”

  She shook her head, sitting up and pulling away the rag. Her face was pale, streaked with blood and tears. “Balfour. He was here.”

  Conall glanced around the room, seeing for the first time the broken pitcher and overturned furniture. Had a man been here? The thought filled him with rage. He took ahold of her shoulders. “Aileen, ye must tell me what happened. Did someone hurt ye? Where’s Jamie?”

  “Balfour took him away.” Unlike when she’d suffered from fever, her eyes were clear, her speech lucid. In spite of the fear in her voice, he believed she understood what she was saying.

  “Who is Balfour?”

  “Jamie’s father.”

  The words struck him with a force that seemed tangible. Conall froze, replaying the sentence in his head, and bit by bit, the warmth he’d felt earlier retreated to be replaced by ice. He pulled his hands away, looking at the woman he’d been holding and realizing he didna know her at all.