“Will Gair and Padruig return, do you think?” Fiona asked.
“Probably not.” Stuart guided her inside to the warmth of the main hall, Broc behind them. “Once Gair is paid, he vanishes. On to the next mark—I mean job.”
“I heard him suggest they travel to a cove near Kilmorgan,” Broc said. “And fetch their ship. Isn’t that the seat of the Mackenzies?”
“It is,” Stuart said. “Deserted now. But I imagine the Mackenzie brothers will find their way home. They always do.”
Broc looked downcast. “I’d meant to pay you back by finding the sgian dubh. I was imagining presenting it in triumph.”
“Take Padruig’s gesture as a sign of peace between us,” Stuart said. “All is well.”
Fiona watched the two men shake hands, and impatience twinged her. “All is well? Nae so, Stuart Cameron. You’re still a wanted man.” She faced her brother. “If ye wish to pay back Stuart for ridding us of our greedy cousins, clear his name. Write to all your cronies in England and the army, and wherever else, and tell them Stuart is not to be touched. Say he was listed as a rebel by mistake. Something. Anything. I’m to marry the man—I don’t want to worry the rest of my life that soldiers will come in the night and take him away.”
Broc was already nodding as Fiona ran out of breath. “It shall be done. I dinnae want my sister married to an outlaw either.”
“Excellent. Shall we adjourn to your study so you can begin your letters?” Fiona took Broc firmly by the arm and turned him toward the stairs.
Stuart gave a shout of laughter. “Better do as she says, lad.”
“Aye.” Broc shot Stuart an ironic glance. “You see what you’re marrying?”
“I do,” Stuart said with warmth. “And I love her dearly for it. She truly is an angel of mercy.”
Stuart’s words and smile heated Fiona from head to toe. She guided her brother out, Stuart following, his laughter and his very presence the best Christmas gift she could have wished for.
Epilogue
Ten years later
Hogmanay of 1756 arrived with all its bluster. Stuart Cameron gazed about the hall of his own house, which was filled with revelers.
When he and Fiona had reached the Cameron home the day after Christmas ten years ago, it had been as deserted and silent as he’d feared. But when word went out that Stuart had returned, his retainers and household staff emerged from all corners of the glen. They’d hidden after they’d heard of Stuart’s capture and likely execution, but now reappeared to welcome home their laird and his new lady.
Ten years on, Stuart gazed across the wood-beamed ceiling at his wife, Fiona Cameron, who busily helped their oldest daughter, Alina, string garlands. A fiddler and a drummer practiced in the corner, ready to break into song. It was Hogmanay, and when the First-Footer arrived, the dancing would begin.
Alina, their first-born, looked so much like her mother, sharing her dark hair and green eyes. Likewise did their oldest son, who’d come two years later, Stuart Michael—they called him by his second name. The third son was Broc, named in honor of Fiona’s brother. He was all Cameron, a strapping lad with bright red hair and blue eyes. Innis, the youngest daughter, also a redhead, had arrived two years ago. She played with empty spools at the moment, watched over by a smitten Una, the babe excited by the celebration.
Ten years of hope, happiness, and recovery. Ten years of love. The house was warm, full, laughter and music echoing from every corner. Broc had kept his promise and had used his influence in the government and military to clear Stuart’s name. No more fear of the Butcher’s men chasing him through every corner of the country. When Malcolm Mackenzie had been restored to the dukedom of Kilmorgan, he had added his assistance to make certain Stuart, the Mackenzies’ old friend, lived undisturbed. Even so, Fiona and her network of ladies had continued aiding Highlanders who needed to flee Scotland, and Stuart had been happy to help her.
Broc had found a lass for himself—not a sad dowager who’d leap at the chance to marry any man, as he’d feared, but a fine woman with fire in her eyes. She’d nursed Broc back to health and borne him three dark-haired sons. Broc had been transformed.
Tavin and Neilan had wisely decided to try their luck in France, and had departed Scotland’s shores, so far never to return. Broc, as their nearest relative and their laird, had taken over their property, keeping it in trust for his younger sons.
Fiona swirled by, stooping to kiss Stuart on the lips. His body stirred, craving another morning like this one had been, he with Fiona in their large bed, wrapped around each other.
Fiona winked at him as she hurried on, knowing his thoughts.
“The First-Footer!” Michael shouted as someone pounded on the massive door below.
He and his brother raced down the stairs. Stuart caught up Innis and followed, Fiona and Una coming after him with Alina.
The clocks were striking twelve. If the first guest in the door had dark hair, they’d have good luck all the year. If he or she were blond …
Michael, impatient, shoved open the bolts. A man, slight and small with white-gray hair pushed inside, snow swirling after him.
“About time ye opened up. Me balls will freeze off.”
“Gair!” Fiona eyed him reproachfully even as she pulled him inside. “You’re the First-Footer. It was supposed to be Broc or one of his sons.”
“He’s pulling his children off the horses—takes him a while.” Gair beamed a broad smile. “’Tis no matter. Me hair was black as tar when I was a boy.”
“Very well,” Fiona said, resigned. “Upstairs to the hall with you. But nothing goes in your pockets, mind.”
Gair widened his eyes. “I don’t know what you mean.”
Padruig pushed in behind him. “Shut it, Gair.” He turned his gray eye to Fiona. “I’ll watch over him.”
Padruig and Gair appeared scarcely any different. Same weather-beaten faces, same scruffy clothes. But they’d filled out, well-fed, and their coats, though salt-crusted from the sea and mud-spattered from their journey, were of fine brocade and velvet. Rumor had it that they’d stumbled across a treasure—possibly even the French gold that was supposed to have come to aid Prince Teàrlach. No one could confirm this rumor, and Gair and Padruig had never mentioned it to a soul.
“You are welcome,” Fiona said to Padruig. “As always.”
Padruig gave her a nod. “Thank ye, lass.” He handed her a small silk bag that clinked. “A gift for ye and your wee ones.”
Fiona took the bag with a smile, loosened its drawstrings, and peered inside. Her face lost color. “Padruig …” she said in awe.
Padruig closed her hand over the bag. “Never ask.”
“Of course not.” She slid the bag into her pocket.
The fiddles and drums upstairs began to play. Broc, with his wife and children, sailed through the door, Broc no longer needing the stick to hold him upright. A slight limp was all that was left of his wound from Falkirk.
Fiona hugged him and her sister-in-law and nephews. Amidst the greetings she took her children’s hands and led everyone upstairs while music poured around them.
“A fine Hogmanay,” she called above the fiddles to Stuart. “Complete with my three wise Highlanders.”
Stuart leaned to her. “And my bonny wife. I love ye, Fiona Cameron.”
“I love you too, Stuart.”
The drums sped, the fiddles played, and Stuart swept his wife and children into the first dance, his world complete.
“And they lived happily ever after.”
Ian Mackenzie concluded the story with the expected phrase, and Megan sighed happily.
Ian had become aware, as he told the tale, that the other Mackenzie children, Ian’s brothers, and Beth had crept in to listen. Jamie, his son, as unlike Ian as could be—thankfully, in Ian’s opinion—was the first to ask questions. This was usual.
“MacNab. The name on Padruig’s sgian dubh. Wasn’t the mum of Old Malcolm Mackenzie a MacNab?”
“Did Gair and Padruig really have the French gold?” Ian’s oldest daughter, Belle, asked.
Ian shrugged. “So Will Mackenzie believed. Fiona’s journal doesn’t say what was in the bag Padruig gave her.”
“It was some of the gold,” Jamie declared. “I’m sure of it.”
“How can you know?” Belle asked. “If no one has said for certain?”
“Because Gair and Padruig were old scoundrels. Of course they wouldn’t confess they had all the gold from the French king.” Jamie’s older-brother scoff was firm.
Belle, who had plenty of fire, began to argue. The discussion was taken up by other Mackenzies, including Ian’s brothers Mac and Cameron, all having an opinion to share.
Ian let them go on while his gaze went to Beth, her blue eyes shining in merriment.
Ian enjoyed the stories of the past, when his ancestors had fought to survive, using cunning and craftiness to keep themselves and their families safe. They’d lived and loved with intensity in a time when Scotland had been untamed.
As Ian glanced about the full room, he decided that as interesting as the past must have been, now was better. Ian was surrounded by his family and his wife—who loved him and whom he loved back with vehemence.
They’d saved his life, especially Beth, who bent down to kiss his cheek. She’d made certain Ian could sit in peace, surrounded by warmth and love.
That was the truest gift of all.
* THE END *
About Jennifer Ashley
Thank you for reading! This novella is a part of the Mackenzies / McBrides series, which begins with The Madness of Lord Ian Mackenzie. For more information on this series and others, see the website: www.jenniferashley.com.
New York Times bestselling and award-winning author Jennifer Ashley has more than 100 published novels and novellas in romance, urban fantasy, mystery, and historical fiction under the names Jennifer Ashley, Allyson James, and Ashley Gardner. Jennifer’s books have been translated into more than a dozen languages and have earned starred reviews in Publisher’s Weekly and Booklist. When she isn’t writing, Jennifer enjoys playing music (guitar, piano, flute), cooking, reading, hiking, and building dollhouse miniatures.
To keep up to date on her new releases, sign up for her email blasts here:
http://eepurl.com/47kLL
One Knight’s Stand
By Tanya Anne Crosby
Part of A Very Highland Holiday Collection
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever, electronically, in print, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both Oliver-Heber Books and Tanya Anne Crosby, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
COPYRIGHT © 2020 Tanya Anne Crosby
One Knight’s Stand
Bound for a marriage she hopes will save her cousin from the gibbet, Lady Elizabeth Louise Wolfe finds herself en route to Scotland to marry the younger son of a known traitor to the Crown. Fate intervenes when, on the way, she checks into an inn and registers as the “MacKinnon’s bride.” Presumed dead at Culloden, Callum MacKinnon, stops by the inn as well, intending to clean up before his return as the prodigal son. Imagine his surprise to discover his “bride to be” has already procured a room. And more—the feisty sassenach everything he never realized he desired.
Chapter One
December 31, 1746
Lady Elizabeth Louise Wolfe fidgeted in her seat, feeling the tension mount in her shoulders as the carriage wended its way closer to their intended destination: Chreagach Mhor, a no-man’s-land eight months after Culloden.
The old laird had been executed, the elder son as well—traitors to England, so she’d been told. Now, if only to further someone’s notion of justice, she was consigned to wed the younger son, who was only too callow to reveal himself a traitor… as yet.
What was he? Fourteen? Fifteen?
Young and malleable, Lachlan MacKinnon was to be “softened” by Elizabeth and then mentored by her Uncle. If she succeeded, England would have itself a new northern “friend.”
If she failed…
She would be married to an undesirable at best.
A traitor, at worst.
But that alone wasn’t what bothered her most. Rather, she appreciated men and women who followed the dictates of their hearts and stood up for causes they believed in—like her. Or at least she liked to believe they were like her. And really, it took courage even to distribute pamphlets to rouse interest for the defense of runaway slaves—as her mother had done.
In fact, perhaps she would be well in Scotland, though she knew her uncle was sending her away, in part, to remove her from the influence of “that motley crew of ne’er do wells.”
Still, it didn’t help her mood all that much to know that she must do this alone, with only her chaperone for company. Wasn’t a wedding supposed to be the grandest thing ever?
It was the worst.
Her father couldn’t be roused from his travels to join her, her uncle and aunt were too busy celebrating the Twelve Nights, and not even her cousin James could be swayed from his noble duties—what had he said? He had some debt of honor to pay?
To whom.
And why couldn’t his debt be left for another occasion?
Why must he, too, leave Elizabeth to face this alone?
Worst of all, how was she supposed to face that poor child?
She was twenty-three, and he just a boy. How was she supposed to denude herself, and perform wifely duties, when he was a child, with more hands than sense?
And, dear God, how in the name of England was she supposed to help mend a rift between their nations? Wasn’t that putting too much on the shoulders of women conscripted for this effort? Mind you, that’s precisely what this was, yet another form of compulsory service. It would be one thing if she had adopted this cause all on her own. It was another thing to force a woman—any woman—to lie back and do her duty for the sake of England… in bed.
And nevertheless, it wasn’t so much that she didn’t wish to… explore. It was merely that she wished it to be her own choice—not that of her uncle’s or cousin’s.
Upsetting herself more and more with dark thoughts, she considered that she was being used for a crusade not her own. While, in truth, she didn’t have any meaningful opinions about The King Over the Water, neither did she feel invested in the Forty-Five Rebellion—not for its cause, nor its resolution. These were men’s wars, and in Elizabeth’s estimation, women would never agree to put their sons on a battlefield with swords at each other’s throats. It was no more than a dangerous game of King of the Hill—one minute this king, the next another. What they really needed was a woman on that throne—one with sensibilities something like her own.
Tapping her fingers impatiently, she flicked a glance at Mrs. Grace—the only person in her life who had ever truly understood her, except for maybe her cousin, James, although he, in fact, was the very author of a misery.
“It will be good for you to get away,” he’d said.
“You’ll be lady of a great house,” he’d said.
“Think of it this way,” he’d said.
“Your affiliation may well save a good family from ruin.”
Bollocks.
That family was already ruined. They’d lost both a father and a brother and for all intents and purposes, their lands as well. And in the meantime, it stood to be seen as to whether Elizabeth would even have a complete roof over her head. Many of the Scots’ homes had been razed, if not seized.
And what was she supposed to do if she arrived to find the place in shambles? What would her mother have said, if only she’d lived to see this day?
Plenty, Elizabeth was certain.
Like Elizabeth, her mother had been painfully outspoken.
Unfortunately, her father didn’t appreciate Elizabeth’s forthright nature. The very instant her mother kicked up her toes, he’d foisted her upon an aunt and uncle who scarcely had time for their own progeny, much less an annoying niece who was a champion for the poor and oppressed. Neither did they understand her. Only her cousin James had ever cared much for her welfare; although now, so it seemed, even he was against her.
What was he thinking?
Did he expect she wouldn’t speak up if she found the situation untenable? After all these years, did he believe she would turn a blind eye to the atrocities her compatriots were inflicting? Indeed, she was not to be trusted to hold her tongue, and what then?
She, too, would be branded a traitor…
Did they execute women?
At the best of times, Elizabeth was not the one they should assign to such a delicate mission. No matter what her country of origin, she tended to call things the way she saw them. So then, what now if she should happen to agree with her husband’s family?
Lord only knew, not even her uncle could save her then.
She sighed portentously, annoyed all over again, and hardly in the mood to arrive in the dead of night at some wreckage in the wilds of Scotland.
“It won’t be long now,” said Mrs. Grace, with a forbearing smile.
Elizabeth smiled back at her chaperone, wondering if she knew how close Elizabeth was to shouting for the driver to halt… so she could run away, screaming.
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