“Uncle John’ll be pleased tae see ye,” said the lad brightly.
Callum gave the boy a nod, then fished out a full crown, handing it to him. It was New Year’s Eve after all, the beginning of Hogmanay, and he trusted John to serve him on credit till he could chance to repay him. In the meantime, Little Joe and his brother needed all the help they could get.
Inside the inn, Pitagowan’s wife had decorated the place in good Scot’s style—festooning the hearth and trim with boughs of holly. She’d also lit a Yule log for the holiday—a hefty block of birch sprinkled with saltpeter to give it that violet hue. The smoke it emitted tickled the back of Callum’s throat, and he’d warrant those men drinking and singing in the puffed up tavern would wake on the morrow with double the ache in their heads.
Better them, than me, he thought.
All he wanted for the instant was a good nights’ rest, and nevertheless, he feared, not even that was bound to soothe his soul.
He found John Pitagowan behind his bar, doing what he liked doing best—combing his thick, white beard. Callum smiled over the all-too familiar sight and shook his head, a barb rising to his tongue. “Too bad you’ve no hair remaining on your head,” he said, with a grin, and Pitagowan’s comb halted midair. His, thick wiry brows collided, and then he slapped a hand to his burly breast.
“Is it you?”
Callum nodded, and the old man grinned.
Pitagowan had been a good friend of his Da’s. During the most difficult of times, it was his father who’d given John Pitagowan the coin to go south and settle in Calvine.
John pulled the hat from his head, scrunching it, then brought a finger to his crusty old lips. “Call me Balthazar,” he said. “Folks here don’t know me as Pitagowan.”
“Yes, they do!” said Bess, coming up behind Callum. “Dinna fool yourself into thinking they don’t, husband.” And then she craned her neck back to peer up at Callum. “Ain’t ye a sight for sore eyes, Callum MacKinnon! We thought ye’d gone and swallowed a bullet!”
“Not me,” Callum said, frowning.
The twinkle immediately extinguished from Bess Pitagowan’s eyes and she said a little more dourly, “Alas, we heard.” Her hand reached out to squeeze Callum’s forearm. “We were right sorry to hear it, don’t y’ know. My Carrie keeps going up to see what she can find. My brother himself didn’t show up on the rosters, and neither did he come home.” She shook her head sadly. But, then, just as suddenly as it had vanished, her smile returned. “My sweet girl will be so sorry she missed you.”
Callum raised a brow. Carrie was a lot of things, though she wasn’t particularly sweet, nor was she little anymore. She was a wee bit loud, a wee bit crude, and a wee bit of a tease. One of these days it was going to get her in a lot of trouble. Callum had found himself, on more than one occasion, fending off the flame-haired vixen with the saucer eyes and freckled nose—a trait all the Pitagowans shared.
“Alas, I’ll be gone come morn,” Callum said. “I was only hoping ye’d have a room to let for the night?”
“Oh, dear, no,” lamented Bess, “We’ve just rented the last—”
Pitagowan’s eyes suddenly lit up. “Ho!” he said. “As it so happens to your very lovely bride!”
“Bride?” said Callum, taken aback.
“Aye! She’s already here!” announced Pitagowan. “Snapped up the very last room! Come,” he demanded, seizing Callum by the arm, and ushering him quickly through the scullery, as Bess wandered back to her guests.
Callum hadn’t a moment to set the man straight.
“She’s a bit like Carrie,” he said. “Though I’m guessing you already know. Here we thought you’d been laid six-feet under, and all the while you were out hunting for a wife. It all makes sense,” he said. “Being she’s a Sassenach. You cunning devil!” he said. “Just like yer Da. In fact, I wouldn’t be too surprised if Angus showed up here tonight as well.”
Callum felt the proclamation like a punch to his gut. There was no way his father was still alive. He was dead as the iron nails in Carrie’s bedroom door—dead as his heart had been for going on six months, until it was replaced by this bone-deep fury he couldn’t shake.
To his utter dismay, he could scarcely keep up with a sixty year old man, but Pitagowan didn’t notice, or was too polite to say so. He pulled Callum before Carrie’s door, shoved in a ready key, then pushed Callum inside, barking with laughter.
“I’ll send in a hot bath,” he said, winking. “Looks like you need it. Oh! And something to eat.” He laughed again, as he gave the other occupant of the room a raised thumb and then pointed to Callum and turned about with another chortle. “Love me a good miracle,” he said, and then happily closed the door with an exuberant, “Ta ta!”
Chapter Three
“Ta ta?”
The sight that greeted Callum as he entered Carrie’s room—certainly not Carrie—effectively silenced any protest he might have uttered. A lovely, tawny-haired beauty sat wide-eyed on the bed, in little more than a delicate chemise.
The firelight caught the hint of red in her tresses, giving her pale, golden hair a soft, burnished hue. Her clearly defined cheeks bloomed with color, and he couldn’t help himself; fascinated, he watched the blush spread down her long, delicate neckline, into her décolletage.
All his physical pain was forgotten, if only for the instant, and he was slow to remember his tongue as John closed the door behind him.
“I beg pardon,” the woman said, rising from the bed. “There must be some mistake. This is my room!” And then she suddenly cocked her head, her golden brows colliding, as she asked, “Did I hear him say he would draw you a bath?”
Callum nodded, bemused.
“Insufferable! He told me there was no one available to draw one for me! And what’s more, he insisted I eat out in that tavern with that randy lot of men; therefore, I was quite prepared to go to bed without supping.”
She was English, by her accent, of that there was no doubt.
Wellborn, too, he decided.
And spoiled.
Callum blinked as she crossed her arms, her silken chemise entirely too revealing as she stood before the hearth fire. In her pique, she mustn’t even realize, and God knew, it had been far too long since Callum had even seen a woman of her ilk, much less stood before one half-dressed. Swallowing convulsively, he lifted a hand to cover his eyes, as though to shield himself from the bright light of the sun—and that she was, bright as a sweltering noon-day sun, burning him up with her too-close proximity. No matter that she was the one blushing, Callum felt the heat of embarrassment creep over him as well—so bloody hot that, for a moment, he feared the return of his fever. “I-I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant to turn and go, but she thrust a hand against the curve of her hip and glowered fiercely, shocking him with her pronouncement—not to mention, that bold way she puffed up her chest, revealing the soft moons of her bosom rising above her neckline.
“I am to wed Lord MacKinnon,” she apprised him. “Do not doubt he’ll have word of this from me, and both you and that tonsured innkeeper will have the devil to pay!”
Callum blinked thrice, trying to make sense of her words.
She was to marry who?
Not his father for certain, not him, and certainly it couldn’t be young Lachlan, who’d only last year sprouted hairs on his bollocks.
“Mind you, I gave that man half a crown for this room,” she was saying, “and if anyone should be sharing this room with me, it should be my chaperone, not you!”
Again, he blinked. “You’re tae wed the MacKinnon?” he asked dubiously.
“Lord MacKinnon,” she corrected him. “Need I remind—”
“Nay, my lady. You need remind me of anything,” Callum said furiously, and, with the spell suddenly broken, he limped into the room, moving past the other occupant, and straight toward his bed. “I assure you I am reminded daily of what we Scots have lost. I don’t need any bleedin’ Sassenach to advise me.”
>
“Oh!” she exclaimed, sounding alarmed, instead of angry. “Are you hurt?”
He was acutely aware that she moved behind him, her hand hovering behind his elbow as though he were some feeble old man in need of help. “I am fine,” he snapped. “Dinna fash yourself, my lady!”
“Oh, but you are not!” she insisted.
“Yes, I am,” Callum argued, although he wasn’t. Every bone in his body ached, and none more than his heart. The physician had said he was fortunate. Part of his femur had shattered with the impact of the ball, and, unfortunately, the doctor hadn’t arrived in time to remove it so the wound wouldn’t fester. By the time the bullet was extracted, he was left with a raging fever that persisted for weeks. However, he didn’t remember any of that.
Evidently, the wound in his shoulder had fared only a little better. At least it hadn’t gotten infected. Still, he reached for his shoulder as he sat upon the bed, grimacing, one hand on his leg, the other crossing his chest to clutch at his aching flesh.
Like some lady of the lamp, the woman advanced upon him, offering her hands to steady him as he sat, and some angry, raging part of Callum wanted nothing more than to seize her, drag her into his embrace and kiss her punitively—half out of some primal need to ease his ravaged soul, half out of a fierce desire to punish someone for the crimes of her countrymen.
And nevertheless… none of it was her fault.
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 Four
“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 bi
rthright. 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.”
A Very Highland Holiday Page 24