“Hmmm,” she said, casting her head down to assess her wiggling toes. She looked as though she had something more to say… but, for the moment, Callum was heartily relieved she wasn’t looking directly at him. Even now, he held back tears that longed to be shed. Only once, after rousing from his fever, had he cried… for the father who’d raised him so honorably and died so ignobly. God’s truth, it was no way to meet one’s end—with a gob full of muck. War, indeed, was hell.
“Bloody Sassenach,” he said, with equal parts anger and confusion. How in the name of St. Andrew was it possible to feel so much hatred and gratitude at once?
He knew well enough that Wolfe hadn’t wanted to do it, and the instant he’d had another option, he’d taken it, but it didn’t change the fact that his father was dead.
Despite her confusion, Elizabeth recognized truth when she heard it.
For a moment, she stared at her bare feet, unable to find even a modicum of chagrin over their nudity. For some odd reason, she felt entirely comfortable in this man’s presence. “So then,” she said. “If you are…”
“I am.”
“Then… I suppose…”
He gave her a nod. “You’re betrothed to me,” he finished.
She blushed hotly.
“That… is… indeed…”
“Convenient?”
Elizabeth nodded, wondering how much James had had to do with this very awkward happenstance. Without a bit of help, it seemed entirely unbelievable that she would discover herself ensconced here at this very inn only to be thrust into the same room with her intended—unless, it was… planned?
Or… by some miracle, the fates had intervened.
But nay… Elizabeth blinked with dawning comprehension: Her cousin had returned from Culloden in the dourest of moods. He’d ensconced himself for hours and hours with his father, then emerged from Uncle Edward’s office with renewed purpose.
It wasn’t very long after that meeting that Elizabeth had been told about her betrothal—to a Highlander, no less. When she’d protested, James had privately reassured her that she would be well pleased with the match, and what was more, he’d said: It would serve her sensibilities far, far better than it would to marry some fat, greasy English lord.
In fact, she wasn’t particularly well endowed, and her most recent inquiry had been from an elderly gentleman whose gout hadn’t allowed him to serve in the King’s army.
Naturally, with James’ reassurances, she’d acquiesced. It was only later—much later—when she’d discovered she was actually betrothed to a boy, that she’d felt like socking her cousin in the nose. She’d been irate all over again, although she took some small comfort in the fact that through their affiliation she might, indeed, be able to save a venerable clan.
James was right after all; It spoke to her inner crusader.
Even despite that she didn’t entirely understand the political upheaval, or the Scot’s lament, she knew enough to know that it was not entirely fair to call these men traitors—men who’d fought, not so much for Bonnie Prince Charlie as they had for their way of life.
In the end, James must also have felt the same, because the walls were not so thick as her uncle liked to believe. She knew her cousin had defied a direct order and freed a Scotman…
That man, she realized, must be Callum MacKinnon.
She opened her mouth to ask him a question, then closed it again, realizing that this was no act of God. Was Mrs. Grace also aware of the circumstances, or was she not part of the plot?
She had a difficult time believing Mrs. Grace would go along with such a farce. Nor could she fathom that James trusted Mrs. Grace more than he trusted Elizabeth.
Therefore, it stood to reason that if he hadn’t revealed the sham to her, no doubt he’d never deign to tell such a proper woman as Mrs. Grace.
And then, too… what excuse had James provided for not being able to travel with them? He’d said only that he had some debt of honor to see to. And now, she had a good suspicion as to what that debt of honor must be.
Really, her cousin was a very well-respected man; there was no wonder he’d achieved the rank of brigade major by the age of eighteen, but he wasn’t a bootlicker.
Her uncle Edward like to say that it would either gain James a place in history, or it would get him to an early grave. Right now, Elizabeth suspected it might prove to be an early grave—particularly if she ever got hold of him.
“James,” she said crossly, and the hint of a crooked smile that was beginning to form on Callum MacKinnon’s face suddenly fled—and, yes, he was handsome, she decided. Ruggedly so.
“What did ye say?”
Elizabeth arched a brow. “Please tell me, who shot your father?”
“Major James Wolfe,” he said, eying her pointedly.
“But of course,” she said, fidgeting under his scrutiny, and then she sighed and confessed, “That blackguard is my cousin.”
Chapter Five
As it were, the only true angel at work this holiday was James.
It was, indeed, Callum MacKinnon he owed the debt to and evidently, after leaving Westerham, he’d tracked Callum to some blackhouse in Alyth, offering him a horse and enough money to travel with, along with papers to carry, all signed and sealed by her Uncle Edward.
The proof was all there; Callum showed her all the documents—all quite official.
And then, with an undeniably heavy heart, he told Elizabeth the rest of his tale—all of it, sparing nothing, not even the manner of his father’s death.
They were both ordered to be executed under General Hawley’s custody. His father was shot with hands bound, and neither man was armed. Her cousin James had pulled the trigger, but then, after Hawley left, he let Callum go.
Elizabeth could have relayed the rest of the story herself…
James had returned home in a terrible state. She had never seen him so downcast, and, in truth, she had suspected something of this magnitude, because, along with those bits and pieces she’d overheard, she knew her cousin well enough that, if he had kept the truth from her, he was likely ashamed. But she didn’t wish to interrupt Callum, so she let him purge his grief, taking his hand when it seemed he might weep. It was a very humbling experience to watch a grown man grieve. And yet, he did not cry; although his bottom lip quivered ever so slightly, he remained strong, and all the while Elizabeth listened patiently until their conversation was interrupted by the innkeeper, who finally arrived bearing a wooden tub.
As Callum stood to converse with Mr. Pitagowan, Elizabeth laid his papers down on the bed, studying the man…
She could do worse.
He was a fine, fine specimen—no boy in him at all.
His thick, broad shoulders bespoke a lifetime of hard labor, and his skin, though pale in the midst of winter, and after an epoch of healing, was still a shade of bronze.
Evidently, he was a friend to Pitagowan family. They spoke with an ease borne of familiarity, and the elder man gave Callum his regrets, telling him of Carrie’s mission to recover her Uncle’s belongings, which were lost or stolen after he fell. The room, so Elizabeth discerned, was her “Chamber of Sorrows,” filled with items belonging to the brave men who fell at Culloden. Every now and again, against his and her mother’s wishes, the plucky young lady took a horse and cart north. That was the only reason that her room was empty.
As promised, Mr. Pitagowan left Little Joe to fill the bath, and he went to retrieve not one, but two bowls of Scotch broth with bannocks.
Immediately on the heels of Little Joe’s departure arrived yet another stack of firewood for the hearth, along with soap, towels, a pitcher of ale and two cups.
But that wasn’t all; Bess arrived with a dessert that consisted of oats, raspberries, cream and whisky—made especially for Callum.
“It’s time to celebrate!” she announced as she laid her whisky drenched cranachan down upon a small table. “Back from the dead, with a bride no less!”
She wink
ed at Elizabeth, and said, “Callum won’t be sayin’ so, mind ye, but ’e always had the ladies in a swoon. You’re a lucky lady!”
Elizabeth nodded dumbly, as she accepted a brimming cup of ale, then gulped it down, grateful for the alcohol’s calming effect. After a moment, Bess, too, departed, leaving her alone with her “betrothed.”
Only now, wondering over the particulars, Elizabeth considered whether she ought to go apprise Mrs. Grace of the shocking turn of events.
“It all makes sense now,” she told Callum as he spooned the steaming broth into his mouth. “James insisted I leave for Dunmore at once. And then, he departed without so much as a by your leave. Naturally, I wondered where he was off to in such haste. Now, I know.”
Callum nodded very soberly, setting down his bowl, although he didn’t yet sit. Her hand drifted into the spot on the bed he had occupied before, feeling for his fading warmth.
“So it seems,” he said. “He came to assure me my passage was safe, and then he also insisted I leave at once. He apprised me the precise route to take, and then gave me papers to show in case I should need them.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “But he didn’t tell you to stop here, did he? What made you do that?” she asked, curiously.
Callum shrugged. “I don’t know. I was damp to my bones. I knew Bess and John well enough to know they’d give me a bed for the night, and a thick bowl of stew. But most of all, I suppose the thought of arriving home wasn’t entirely without its sorrow.”
“I can only imagine,” she said, and now he came and sat beside her on the bed, but not too close. He hesitated a moment, then removed a ribbon of tartan from his pocket to show her.
“They burned the rest of his plaid along with his body, and mine as well, but the lady who tended me cut me a piece. She gave it to me before I left.”
Red, green with a hint of white.
“The MacKinnon plaid?” she surmised.
He nodded glumly, looking for the moment like a wee little boy.
Elizabeth didn’t understand what it was about a small scrap of cloth that the Scot’s found so worthy of dying for. And nevertheless, she didn’t need to understand to appreciate the fervor with which they applied themselves. They loved their tartans as fiercely as they loved their families… and their land… and now, so it seemed, it wasn’t legal to have either…
But she needn’t marry the man for pity’s sake. There were English guards out in the yard; and knowing what she knew, she could call upon them, and they would arrive with due force, and very likely execute Callum for merely possessing that small scrap.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He shrugged, and said, “In the end, I suppose I wasn’t looking forward to providing details.” He winced, as though the memory offered him a new blow to the gut.
Elizabeth asked gently, without intending injury, “Don’t you think they should know by now?”
“Aye,” he said. “But it’s the how of it I’m dreading, lass.”
Elizabeth reached over to lay a few fingers on his bare arm, and the touch gave her a shock, startling her. She pulled her hand away as he peered up at her, his blue eyes glittering, oh so fiercely. The silence that fell between them stretched interminably…
“So, then… are ye keen for the match?” he asked, finally. “With my brother, Lachlan—I must assume it’s Lachlan?”
Elizabeth lifted a shoulder. “I wasn’t opposed, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“Aye, lass, but is it Lachlan ye’re wanting?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “I have never met him.”
He lifted a brow then, and said, “I am guessing your cousin’s intention was that I would return in time tae take his place at the altar. Tis as heavy-handed a scheme as I’ve ever encountered.”
Elizabeth nodded. “And yet… I’m certain he meant well.”
He peered down at the ribbon, pulling it between his thumb and forefinger. “Aye, lass… I’m sure he did. Canny lad,” he said, smiling ruefully. “For a Sassenach…” His smile widened then, and Elizabeth’s heart tripped a few beats.
He lifted his brow. “I’m also guessing he knew, as my brother must have known, that the only chance of us getting through this with our lands is to align ourselves with the English. Your uncle, precisely?”
“Elizabeth nodded, picking nervously at a thumbnail, understanding the implication. “Yes, well… I can assure you my uncle Edward hasn’t the least intent to profit from your lands.”
“Mayhap not,” said Callum, “And yet he will.”
Alas, it was Elizabeth’s turn to sigh, because, of course, it was true. It would be dishonest to deny it. Some lands were already being appropriated, and forfeited to the Crown. Callum’s lands, all but a portion, would be assigned to her uncle and leased to his family. All produce attained from MacKinnon lands would be offered first to the King’s regiments, who were bound to be permanent fixtures about Scotland in order to keep the King’s peace. “I could… go… home,” she offered, realizing she didn’t want to.
His smile persisted. “Or you could marry my brother?” he said.
Elizabeth met his gaze, sensing a question in his eyes even as they softened to regard her, and she felt…
Something…
Chapter Six
Something about the way she’d slid her hand across the bed… into the warm spot he’d left behind… it spoke to Callum like nothing ever had. He’d found himself wishing he was still seated there beside her, if only to find her hand… The thought ignited a fire in his veins that he suddenly realized he didn’t want to go out.
For a moment, Callum merely stared at her, wondering how the devil to propose, and whether he truly wanted to…
On the one hand, he loathed being manipulated; it would serve that wretch right if his cousin married his brother as planned, but poor Lachlan wouldn’t know what to do with her. Although he’d very clearly already accepted the betrothal on behalf of the family, he’d probably done so without ever knowing what his bride even looked like or how fiery her spirit—and, oh, that she was. He sensed it keenly, even as she sat so primly beside him, her thumbs twirling nervously in her lap. The gesture endeared her to him as surely as did the blush in her cheeks… and the flowering of hope in her eyes.
So then, he recognized the boon he’d been offered, and… yes, indeed, there must be such a thing as miracles, because here sat one beside him—with golden-red hair, and eyes as blue as cornflowers. And suddenly, he couldn’t bear the thought of her marrying his brother. She was a woman, through and through, and shouldn’t be wasted on a boy.
And anyway, he knew Lachlan well enough to know that the burden of leadership would be too much for him to bear. Callum was eldest by thirteen years, and Lachlan was scarcely fifteen. The rest of his brothers were eleven, eight and four, and their wee sister’s birth saw their mother gone from this world, barely a year before the Forty Five Rebellion.
Therefore, this was the only logical conclusion…
“Else… you could… marry me,” he said, and found he meant it. He knew a good thing when he saw one, no matter how conspiratorially it was delivered.
Indeed, whatever feelings he had about her cousin, they were already growing ambivalent—on the one hand loathing James for killing his father, on the other, grateful as hell for, not only setting him free, but for seeing to it that he had safe passage home to his family… and a future and home to return to…
“You never gave me your name…”
“Elizabeth Louise,” she said, and Callum smiled, because the name didn’t suit her. It was far too conventional and he had a sense she was anything but.
“Aye, well, Elizabeth Louise…”
He slid from the bed and fell to his knee, hitching up his chin. “If you’ll do me the honor of becoming my bride, I shall promise to provide for you to the best of my ability and I will honor and cherish you as a man should honor and cherish his wife.”
Elizabeth blinked.
&n
bsp; Was he truly asking her to marry him?
On his knees?
The gesture was so intensely sweet that she felt a sting of tears spring to her eyes. Long, long ago, when she was still just a wee girl… she’d dreamt of a moment like this. And with every year that passed, without a proper suitor, nor prospects that weren’t stodgy and old, she’d lost all hope of love with marriage. And though it seemed she mustn’t truly have a choice, this man… this stranger… was giving her one…
She could return home, even to the dismay of her uncle and her cousin.
Her father had never cared one whit what her desires might be, and even now, he was traveling God knew where. Her uncle wouldn’t like it if she muddled his plans, but neither would he disown her. In fact, he had given her this choice to begin with, as distasteful as it might have seemed, and Elizabeth had chosen to come here of her own free will, in order to help restore a family’s good name. So why shouldn’t she still do so?
Simply because it no longer seemed a matter of charity?
Even as Callum knelt before her, asking for her hand, she knew he would honor whatever decision she arrived at. If she asked him to allow it, he would send her back to Westerham, and he would… what? Return home to face his own dispossession?
And what about her cousin? She knew well enough that the only reason James wasn’t being court marshaled for having freed his charge was because, first of all, until now, there hadn’t been proof. Callum MacKinnon hadn’t yet returned from the dead. Although her cousin was now commissioned to his father’s regimen, and he was under Uncle Edward’s protection, it wouldn’t suit either of them if it became known… unless, James and Uncle Edward had some way to reassure the Crown that its interests were being met. Unfortunately for Callum, it was only their marriage contract that could save him from the gibbet. Eventually, unless he too had her Uncle’s protection, he would answer for his participation at Culloden…
Elizabeth studied his face… handsome, despite the small scar on the right side of his chin. She hadn’t the first inkling what his brother Lachlan looked like, but it didn’t matter, because he was just a boy and Callum was a man…
A Very Highland Holiday Page 25