Stuart halted just inside the door as the noise and stench of the battle suddenly poured back to him. The crack of gunfire, the acrid smell of powder, the screams of the dying, the blood-pounding rage that had kept Stuart fighting, followed by the intense grief of watching Duncan Mackenzie fall, his brothers and father swallowed by the smoke.
Gair pushed past as Stuart froze on the threshold, unable to move.
Fiona was already following the red-haired Carrie through the room, gazing at the assortment, her footfalls hushed.
Gair, who’d raided battlefields, beached ships, burned-out houses, and the like, had no qualms about examining the collection. He kept his hands behind his back much of the time, as though vowing he’d not filch anything, though Stuart noticed Fiona keeping a close eye on him.
“’Tis not here,” Padruig announced after he and Gair had scanned the room for about half an hour. Carrie remained in the corner, letting them look but making certain they didn’t nick anything.
As far as Stuart could tell, Padruig hadn’t done much searching—Gair and Fiona had picked through boxes and studied objects on the shelves.
“Plenty of knives, though.” Gair gestured at a case full of them. “Ye could find a good one. I’m sure the lass would give it to ye for a fair price.”
Padruig, more stoic than usual, shook his head. He turned his back on Gair, pressed past Stuart, and made his way through the outer chambers to the noisy taproom.
Gair shrugged and began to follow. Fiona hurried to the door to stand beside Stuart and block Gair’s path.
“Put them back,” Fiona said evenly.
Gair gave her an innocent stare. “What are you on about, lass?”
Gair was a small man, and Fiona could look him straight in the eye. “Please.” The word was firm, no pleading in it.
Gair’s cheeks stained red. He heaved a sigh, sent Stuart an aggrieved glance, and pulled three buckles, a knife, a ring, and a few coins from his pockets. As the innkeeper’s daughter watched, hands on hips, Gair returned them to the last basket he’d been sorting through.
Astonishing. Stuart hadn’t seen him pocket anything, the sly sod.
“Is that all?” Fiona asked.
Gair let out another sigh and dropped two more coins into the basket. He lifted his hands. “That is all. Sorry, lass.” He flashed Carrie a grin and slid past Stuart and out.
Stuart still couldn’t move. The sorrow in the room pressed at him like a wave of chill fog until he could barely breathe.
Fiona laid her hand on his arm. Her touch, the warm pressure of her fingers, cut through the coldness, and the air began to clear. Stuart’s feet came unstuck. He drew a long breath and stepped aside, giving Fiona room to leave the chamber.
Her hand slid from his coat, her face turned up to his, her green eyes searching. Stuart swallowed, suppressing the sharp need to enfold her in his arms and crush her to him. He remained still, which took all his strength. Fiona at last ducked around him, her expression unreadable.
Carrie remained, not offering to see them out. When Stuart glanced back, he saw her straightening the things Gair had displaced, her movements gentle.
Stuart caught up to Fiona and grasped her elbow, intending to take her aside where they could speak alone, but a maid hurried to her and said, “Chamber’s ready, milady.”
Of course, Fiona would want to trade the smoky and crowded outer room for privacy and relative comfort. She thanked the maid and started to follow her.
“Fio—” Stuart stopped himself as the maid gave him and then Fiona a curious stare. “Miss Macdonald.”
“Thank you for your assistance, sir,” Fiona said, maintaining her serenity. “Good night.”
Damn and blast. Stuart could only bow like a good servant. He watched as she disappeared into one of the large chambers they’d just walked past to reach the collection. Una, with a severe scowl, shut the door.
Stuart glared at the blank wood for a few moments then gave up and returned to the taproom, remembering to shuffle like a lackey.
A harried maid slammed fresh tankards in front of Gair and Padruig as Stuart resumed his seat. Stuart had not had a chance to drink his first tankard, but Gair and Padruig were experts at putting away ale.
“Macdonald,” Padruig said.
Stuart took a fortifying sip. The ale wasn’t bad, as far as ale went, though he’d had better. “What Macdonald?”
“The lass’s brother.”
Stuart had thought that was who he meant. “Broc. A complete arse. Stay away from him.”
Over my dead body will my sister run off with a Cameron and a rebel! Broc had shouted it at the top of his voice, and Fiona had quietly told Stuart he’d better go.
Broc Macdonald had inherited his father’s lands, becoming laird of the surrounding glen. He had an ancient castle that had been made comfortable with modern furniture and carpets. So why was Fiona not there, warm and snug, even if she’d have to look after the ungrateful swine, and instead out in the deep cold between Inverness and Culloden Moor?
“He has it.”
Stuart snapped back to Padruig. Even Gair ceased his drinking to frown at his partner. “Who has what?” Gair demanded.
“Broc Macdonald has the sgian dubh.”
“Oh, aye? We just spent half an hour picking through that dross, and ye tell me it’s for nothing?”
Stuart eyed Gair calmly. “You only think it a waste because Fiona caught you nicking half of it. Why do you think he has your knife, Padruig?”
“Worth a chance, wasn’t it?” Padruig said. “The young Macdonald lass put me in mind of her brother. He happily watched his kinsmen be slaughtered then picked them clean. I saw him doing it.” Padruig folded his thin lips together, having made the longest speech Stuart had ever heard him utter.
Stuart hadn’t been aware Padruig and Gair had been anywhere near Culloden during the battle, but he said nothing about that. They’d been on hand to help the surviving Mackenzies flee to France in Gair’s rickety ship, true, but he hadn’t realized they’d come in from shore.
“What are ye saying?” Gair asked Padruig. “Ye want the lass to go home and tell her brother to give it up to ye?”
“I’m saying he should.” Padruig flicked a bony forefinger at Stuart. He lifted his tankard. “And we should go along with them.”
Gair regarded his partner in amazement. “When did ye become so daft? It’s Christmas in a few days, and I planned to put me feet up here and wait for Hogmanay.”
Stuart lifted his hand for attention. “What makes you think Broc Macdonald will even let me near his house?”
“Ye have his sister,” Padruig said.
Stuart shook his head. “I haven’t seen the woman in more than a year. That’s nae having her, Padruig.”
Padruig shrugged as though that was something Stuart needed to work out.
“I agree with Gair,” Stuart said. “You’ve run mad. I’ve never heard ye once mention the name of Fiona’s brother or this sgian dubh ye want.”
“The lass brought it to mind.”
So calm was Padruig, as though what he asked was a trifle Stuart could fetch for him in five minutes.
“Help me understand.” Stuart tried to keep his voice steady. “Until I find it for you, I’m to be in your debt and follow you about Scotland like a hostage to your clan?”
Padruig pursed his lips as he thought this through, then gave Stuart a slight nod.
“And if I refuse?” Stuart hadn’t battled for months against King Geordie’s armies, Butcher Cumberland, and the Black Watch, nor survived weeks imprisoned and tortured, to succumb to the whims of Gair and Padruig. “Ye don’t want to cross me, man,” he said to Padruig.
Padruig’s one good eye went icy and the hand that rested on the table tensed. Stuart kept his focus on that hand, which he knew could draw a knife in a flash.
Gair laughed, the sound lost in the general noise of the tavern. “I don’t know why he’s so set on retrieving this knife, lad,
but Padruig don’t set on a thing often. Best indulge him.”
Stuart could fight them both—he’d taken on larger and tougher men. But together, Gair and Padruig made a formidable team, especially because they fought dirty, knew more tricks than a pair of weasels, and would not give up until they defeated their foe. They’d not survived this long without that sort of doggedness.
Stuart opened his hands in a gesture of surrender, pretending to relax, though the thought of facing Broc Macdonald and so many memories chilled him. “So be it.”
Padruig’s fist softened and the frost left his eye. He took a silent sip of ale.
“I warn you though, ’twon’t be easy.” Stuart directed his statement to Gair. “Fiona will want to keep a sharp eye on you.”
“Aye.” Gair deflated, his laughter dying, he probably imagining Fiona’s eagle gaze fixed on his every move. “I thought as much.”
Fiona’s stomach growled as the savory odor of food being carried into the chamber wafted to her. She had her back to the door, only glimpsing the servant trundling in as she tidied her bag of belongings. She pushed the men’s shirts and breeches she’d arranged to be left here with Carrie beneath her own clothes, so that anyone having a peek into the bag would see only her spare petticoats and stockings.
Una poked at the fire, not trusting the inn’s staff to build it to her liking. The small room was gloriously warm, defying the snow swirling outside the dark window.
“Thank you,” Fiona said to the servant. “Leave it on the table, and we’ll have at it.”
“Aye, miss,” came the gravelly reply.
Fiona swung around. The servant, hunched in a homespun wool coat, glanced up at her, a twinkle in his blue eyes.
“Una,” she said. “Will you wait outside a moment? Ask Carrie to give you something to eat.”
Una took one look at Stuart Cameron bending over the food tray, folded her arms, and plunked herself onto a stool by the fire. “Nay,” she said. “I’m staying.”
Chapter Three
Fiona weighed the perils of Una remaining—she’d have to argue long and hard to send her maid away for a private moment with Stuart. Stuart clanked the plates on the tray, also making no move to leave.
Fiona, resigned, stepped past Stuart and closed the door.
“Your reputation, ma’am,” Una said, aghast.
“Is beyond saving by this time,” Fiona returned briskly. “Either everyone pities me as the sister of Broc Macdonald or they believe me a hussy, and nothing will change their opinion. It scarcely matters these days, does it?”
Stuart lifted his head. “When did you grow so cynical, love?”
His soft lilt threatened to shatter Fiona’s heart. “When Highlanders died and my world was destroyed.”
Stuart rose to his full height, his feigned obsequiousness falling away. “Why are you truly here, Fiona? Traveling alone?”
“Nothing I can tell you now.” Fiona shivered as she indicated the walls and one small window. Anyone could listen, anyone could be in the pay of the Hanoverians, or hate the Jacobites for their own reasons. So many scores were being settled in the Uprising’s aftermath.
Stuart nodded his understanding. “Will ye be returning home then?”
Fiona went to her bag and buckled it closed. “I don’t know.” Go back to Broc for Christmas and pretend to dote on him? She’d been gone for months this time, her travels ostensibly to visit friends all over the Highlands, which was partly true—she simply didn’t mention what she and her friends got up to. Broc thought her a frivolous gadabout and had upbraided her the few times she’d returned. She hadn’t been home now since June.
Stuart pushed his hair from his face in the endearing way she remembered. He was so tall, his broad shoulders in keeping with his size. He was a crazed fighter—she’d seen him do battle—and yet, the blunt hands that wielded a claymore and pistol so deftly could be gentle …
Stuart’s fingers left a sooty streak on his cheek. “When ye do go, I have a boon to ask.” He darted a glance at Una, who fixed him with a scowl. “Take me with ye.”
Fiona came out of her daze. “To Castle Mòr? Are ye mad? If Broc sees ye again, he’ll kill you. He said so.” She put her fists on her hips, her slim panniers swaying. “I recall you saying the same about him.”
“Aye, but Padruig wants to go there. He thinks your brother might have this dagger he’s searching for. The pair of them sent me in here to persuade you.”
“Oh.” Fiona tamped down her sudden disappointment. She had no reason to believe Stuart would want to rekindle what they might have had if Prince Teàrlach hadn’t arrived in the west. They’d only begun a few tendrils of passion, and then hell had come to them.
“If I find this bloody knife, I can go about my business,” Stuart said. “Debt paid.”
“Ye trust them?” Una asked in amazement. She’d never learned that retainers weren’t to interrupt their employers—Una was a distant cousin, in any case, a member of Fiona’s clan.
“Not really,” Stuart answered. “But I’m ready to be shot of them. Gair isn’t helping me out of the kindness of his heart.”
“Aye, well, it might end in shooting,” Una said darkly.
Gair and Padruig were no strangers to casual violence, Fiona knew. She also knew they would never betray a Jacobite Highlander. They might bleed that Highlander of all he had and steal anything left, but they were loyal Scots to the bone.
“I’ve come to beg ye.” Stuart made a show of going down on his knees, which only made him slightly less tall.
Fiona’s breath caught. She could go to him, place her hands on his shoulders, lean down and kiss him …
She sucked in air and nearly choked. “Aren’t the Butcher’s men looking for you?” Her words were cracked and dry. “It’s dangerous for you to be in Scotland. Their men hunt everywhere.”
“Aye, but I’ve come this far. ’Tisn’t many more miles to your brother’s home. And I’ll continue playing the servant, a beast of burden.”
Stuart was so far from being a beast of burden that Fiona wanted to laugh. “You might hide from Cumberland, but not from my brother,” she pointed out.
“No matter. I’ll discover if he has the dagger, give it to Padruig—or let Padruig convince your brother to let it go—and be off.”
“Going where?” Fiona could barely voice the question.
Stuart shrugged. He climbed to his feet, towering over her once more.
How had Fiona come to be so close to him? She didn’t remember moving, but now she stood only a yard away.
“Home for now.” Stuart’s words filled with emotion. “Back to my own lands.”
“Where you’ll be caught and captured.”
Another shrug. “I’ll do everything I can to prevent that, but I need to see to my house and people before I leave again. If I do. I’m tired of running, Fiona.” His weariness touched her.
She closed her hands so they wouldn’t tremble. If Stuart continued to stand so near and say her name like that, she’d be lost.
“I can’t take ye to Broc. He’ll kill ye.”
Stuart rubbed his forehead, leaving another black streak. “Well, I’m going with or without ye, love. Be easier with ye.”
Her irritation rose. “Bloody stubborn Scot.”
“Aye, that’s me.” Stuart was inches from her, his big hands clasping hers and lifting them to his lips. “Come with me, Fiona. Ye were so angry when I left ye, that ye might enjoy watching your brother trying to best me.”
Never. Fiona had worried herself sick about Stuart from the moment he’d ridden away from the castle, laughing, rushing off to war.
Fiona pried her hands from his, hoping he couldn’t see how much she was melting. “Never mind. I’ll come with you. My intervention might keep ye alive.” She tried to glower.
Stuart shot her a grin that was like sunshine breaking through clouds. “Even if it doesn’t, I’ll enjoy arguing with ye on the way.” He made an exaggerated, courtly bow.
“Ladies. Good evening. We leave on the morrow.”
He turned up his collar, hunched himself down, opened the door, and tramped from the room, becoming one more servant in an inn full of travelers. The door closed, shutting out the noise.
“Ye aren’t truly going to go to Castle Mòr with him, are ye?” Una asked in alarm.
Fiona checked her bag once more, making certain it was securely fastened. “Aye, that I am. What we have to do is on the way, anyway. Stuart or my brother might die if I don’t go with him, and if I have a chance to prevent such a thing, I will.”
“Humph,” Una muttered, but thankfully said no more.
The next morning, Christmas Eve, was bitterly cold but clear. Stuart, with Gair and Padruig, waited in the yard until Fiona and Una emerged. Una was bundled to her ears in misshapen wraps, Fiona in a loose dark skirt, long coat, and scarf.
Gair was ready to set off, clutching a long staff to trudge out of the yard, but Fiona forestalled him. “I must wait for my mount.”
“Ye brought a horse?” Gair asked in amazement.
“I’m certainly not trudging through the snow on foot, sir.” Fiona’s green eyes widened over her scarf, and Stuart smothered a laugh.
One of the lads from the inn brought out a horse from the livery, a shaggy and sturdy mare. The lad moved to boost Fiona into the saddle, but Stuart reached her first. She gave him a startled look as he cupped his hand for her to step into, but she let him grasp her leg and lift her lightly to the mare’s back. Fiona swung her leg over the saddle, revealing leather breeches beneath her skirt, riding astride like the resilient Scotswoman she was.
The contact with her shapely thigh and calf, even through the layers of clothing, warmed Stuart’s blood. This was a woman made for loving, for lazing in bed with on a cold winter’s day.
He’d take steps to ensure that happened once he was finished with Gair and Padruig. The war was over, Scotland in ruins. Fiona should not stay here. After he discovered whether his house was in one piece and retrieved some items from it, he’d take her to France, and they’d wait for time to pass. Together. His heart wrenched at the thought of leaving Scotland again, but he thought he could weather exile with Fiona.
A Very Highland Holiday Page 17