“Is that so?” Mackinnon didn’t sound any more impressed, now that he’d heard Hamish’s credentials. “Yet the next Galileo wasnae clever enough to ken that once the full moon came up, the stars would fade to invisibility?”
“I did. But we were headed home before that happened, and I thought we could find our way using the moonlight. Then all the hills started to look alike, and the mist came down, and we got lost,” Hamish snapped, uncomfortably aware that tonight’s debacle was mostly—well, all—his fault. “So will you take us down the mountain?”
Mackinnon shook his head. “No, that I will not, my fine laddie.”
“I say, that’s a bit rum,” Hamish began hotly. “Just because I don’t sound like I live on top of Ben Nevis and have haggis for breakfast every morning—”
The older boy broke into Hamish’s tirade. “The mist makes it too dangerous. I’ll not be risking my neck, let alone yours.”
“Then what are we to do?” Diarmid asked. “It’s getting colder.”
“There’s a cave nearby that will get us out of the wind, not to mention the sleet that’s on the way. We can wait there until the mist clears.”
“And when will that be?” Hamish asked irritably.
“Hamish,” Diarmid said in a reproving tone. “Master Mackinnon is kind enough to help us. He deserves our courtesy.”
While he laughed up his sleeve at both of them, Hamish wanted to say, but he didn’t. “I’m sorry, Master Mackinnon,” he said grudgingly, more for Diarmid’s sake than his own.
“Aye, well, follow me, and I’ll make sure ye get back to your parents in one piece.” Mackinnon clicked his fingers to the dog, who had been regarding Hamish and Diarmid with an expression only a little more disdainful than his master’s. “Come, Bailey.”
Mackinnon set out ahead, the dog trotting beside him, while Hamish and Diarmid did their best to keep up with his long-legged stride. Hamish had to admit that the young Laird of Achnasheen trod these mountains as if he owned them. His familiarity with this rugged landscape made Hamish feel depressingly feeble and…English.
* * *
Hamish mightn’t much like their brusque rescuer, but he liked what their rescuer accomplished. Within an hour, the three boys were hunkered down beside a roaring fire at the mouth of a cave that kept them from the howling wind. They’d all enjoyed an excellent supper of roast mountain hare. Mackinnon had even managed to conjure up some dry bracken for bedding. Prickly, but better than the bare rock.
Hamish struggled to stay awake with the older boys to prove he wasn’t a useless Sassenach, but warmth, hot food, and safety all conspired to put him to sleep.
He had no idea what time it was when he stirred. The fire had burned down low. He was deliciously cozy, and it took him a minute to realize that the scruffy black dog was curled up against his chest, breathing in soft snores.
The flickering light threw strange shadows across the faces of the two boys sitting up and talking in low voices. It highlighted Diarmid’s gypsy dark looks. The black eyes, long bony nose, and thin cheeks. Hamish and Diarmid might be cousins, but nobody would know to look at them. He was as fair as a Norseman, with a sheaf of wheat-blond hair and eyes the bright blue of his mother’s.
The flames turned Mackinnon into a young Scottish warrior. Hamish loathed admitting it, but their rescuer looked much more at home in this stark, magnificent setting than he or Diarmid did. The rich red hair, the cleanly cut features, and some indefinable air of authority marked him as prince of this domain.
Still half-asleep, Hamish lay concealed in the shadows back from the cave mouth. He curled his fingers in the dog’s soft coat, loving the pungent canine smell and the knowledge that a living thing rested up against him. He’d begged his parents for a dog of his own, but his silly sisters were afraid of them.
Cocooned in physical comfort, he didn’t immediately realize what the other lads were talking about. To his surprise, it wasn’t hunting or sport, but their ideas about the girls they might one day marry. This struck Hamish as ridiculously premature, but curiosity kept him quiet as the soft voices, one with a musical Highland lilt and the other clipped and precise and English, murmured across the dying fire.
“Och, aye, bonny. Who wants to look at a sour-faced besom over the supper table?” Mackinnon leaned forward to prod the fire with a stick, and the flare of light revealed the features of a boy not far from manhood. “It would put me off my taties.”
“All right, I suppose I’d like her to be pretty. But there’s more important things than how a girl looks.”
The comfortable note in Diarmid’s voice indicated he was enjoying the company. Hamish felt an unworthy prick of jealousy, only partly mollified by knowing that after tonight he’d never have to see that rude sod Fergus Mackinnon again.
“Aye, like being willing to recognize her lord and master and do what she’s told. If there’s one thing I cannae abide, it’s a pert lassie who doesnae ken her rightful place in the world.”
“I hope you’re so lucky.” This time Diarmid’s laugh held an edge. Hamish could imagine why. Both their mothers, the famously beautiful Macgrath sisters, gave as good as they got when it came to family decisions. “No, I was talking about qualities like honesty and loyalty, and maybe a bit of spirit to keep things interesting.”
“Och, aye, if ye must have those things. Remember, a lassie wants a man to protect her and smooth her path in life, while a man wants a woman who sees a hero when she looks at him. And by God, whatever you say, any wife of mine is going to be bonny.”
“It’s not always easy to be wed to a beautiful woman,” Diarmid said somberly, and something in his voice made him sound older than his eleven years.
Hamish frowned. He ignored family politics, as long as they left him free to pursue his astronomical interests. But over the last few weeks, even he had picked up the bristling tension between Diarmid’s parents.
“I’ll keep her in line.”
“You’re very confident.” It was spoken more as a question than a compliment.
Mackinnon shrugged. “I took charge here five years ago, after my father died. My mother was prostrate with grief, and my two sisters were only six and seven. They all appreciated a strong hand on the tiller.”
Part of Hamish’s mind marveled at—and unwillingly admired—Mackinnon if he had been master of his estate since he was a mere nine years old. Perhaps there was some justification behind that insufferable self-assurance.
“And you exerted this influence at nine?” Diarmid asked with a hint of disbelief.
“Aye, I did. I was old enough to know that a woman’s like a horse. A man needs to keep a firm grip on the reins and show her who’s in control, and she’s all the happier for it.”
“I want a good Scots lass who makes sure nobody ever calls my children Sassenachs,” Hamish said, before he thought to stop himself.
“And do ye think a good Scots lass will have ye, my wee laird in the making?” Mackinnon asked, looking in his direction, and Hamish went back to hating him. How could such a nasty brute have such a nice dog, when some very nice boys couldn’t have a dog at all?
“Why not? Glen Lyon is a fine estate, and I’ll treat her well.”
“When you’re not watching the skies,” Diarmid said.
Hamish sat up, disturbing Bailey. He was getting ready to punch his cousin for his lack of loyalty, when he looked out the cave mouth. “Does it seem lighter to you?”
The others turned toward the opening. “By God, I think the mist is clearing,” Diarmid said.
All three boys scrambled to their feet, and Mackinnon began kicking dirt over the fire. “At last. I’ll have ye both back at the hunting lodge before breakfast.”
“We can find our own way,” Hamish said ungraciously, wanting this stranger gone and Diarmid to himself again. The dog rose with a groan, had a good shake, and stretched.
“Maybe. But having saved your necks, I dinna want ye tumbling down the next brae, once I leave ye t
o your own devices.”
Diarmid ignored Hamish fuming beside him and extended a hand in Mackinnon’s direction. “Master Mackinnon, I’d like to thank you for saving our lives. I dread to think what would have happened if you hadn’t come along. We’d have frozen to death, if we hadn’t fallen down a cliff first. This adventure will always unite us.”
Devil take Diarmid, Hamish hoped not.
A hint of a smile hovered on Mackinnon’s face. “Given I’ve just saved your thin southern skins, ye should call me Fergus.”
“I think so, too. I’m Diarmid.”
As the young Scotsman shook his hand, Diarmid cast his younger cousin a disapproving glance. “Hamish?”
“Oh, aye,” he said in a sullen tone and stuck out one grubby paw. “Thank you for saving us.”
To his surprise, Mackinnon shook his hand and laughed—not nastily either. “Not as eloquent as your cousin, but, aye, I’ll take it.”
Hamish felt a pang as Bailey wagged his tail and trotted back to his master. “I like your dog.”
“Aye, Bailey’s a braw creature, if not the bonniest. He’s just fathered a litter of puppies, if you’d like one.”
“Would I?” Hamish responded with a rush of enthusiasm, then native caution revived. “Why on earth would you give me a dog?”
The boy’s expression turned mocking, as if he read the epic battle between pride and yearning in Hamish’s heart. “Every good Scotsman needs a good Scots hound by his side.”
Diarmid gave Hamish a surreptitious kick. “Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face, cuz,” he whispered.
Hamish looked at Bailey with a longing that was so sharp, he could taste it. “I’m not allowed to have a dog,” he mumbled. “My sisters don’t like them.”
Mackinnon clapped him on the shoulder and picked up the lantern. With the sun coming up, he didn’t relight it. “I imagine once I bring the two lost lambs back to the fold, a small request like a home for an unwanted puppy willnae be turned down.”
“Is he unwanted?” Hamish asked. He tried not to look down the mountainside. The brightening light made it clear that if he or Diarmid had fallen while they picked their way along the path, they would have broken their necks.
“Well, you want him,” Mackinnon said, striding away with the black dog trotting at his heels. “Come down the brae. I’m ready for something more than hare to eat, even if ye two laddies want to stay up here to enjoy the fresh air.”
The fresh air was icy. The sun hadn’t had a chance to warm things up yet. Hamish realized that he was hungry, too, and dead tired, despite his nap. When Diarmid set off after Fergus, he didn’t hesitate to follow.
The promise of a dog of his own was so exciting that he almost didn’t mind the admiration in Diarmid’s eyes when he looked at Fergus. The kind of admiration, Hamish couldn’t help noting with some mortification, that he was in the habit of directing at his older cousin.
The three boys and the dog left the cave and followed the path over the ridge.
Chapter One
Achnasheen, Western Highlands of Scotland, September 1817
The smart yellow carriage careered wildly along the steep, rutted track that snaked down into the glen. Fergus hauled Banshee to a stop on the bend of the road. Horror churned in his gut, as he watched the vehicle speeding toward the burn, swollen to river size after the rainy summer.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, digging his heels into Banshee’s sides. The mare set off through the twilight at a gallop, while his dogs Macushla and Brecon ran barking at her heels.
The coach horses were running in a blind panic, out of control. As the carriage veered closer, he saw that the coachman had lost his grip on the reins. There was no way that the driver would negotiate the sharp corner at the base of the mountainside to keep the vehicle on the bridge and clear of the water.
Fergus had reached the stone bridge when the inevitable happened. The horses swerved at the sudden appearance of the burn in front of them. There was a crack as an axle broke, then another louder crack followed by the tinkle of shattered glass as the carriage rammed into the sturdy pillar supporting the end of the bridge.
The coachman screamed as he hurtled through the air to land on the grassy verge of the road. For a sickening moment, Fergus was sure not only that the driver was dead, but that the carriage must overturn into the burn. His heart lodged in his throat, as the vehicle teetered on the crumbling bank above the rushing brown water.
Fergus flung himself from the saddle and rushed over to the prostrate man. Banshee shifted uneasily, agitated by the other horses’ terrified whinnying, but bless her, she stayed put. As if things weren’t bad enough already, it started to rain.
“Are ye all right, laddie?”
Praise heaven, the man already started to stir. By the time Fergus got to him, he was sitting up and groggily rubbing his skull. His high-crowned hat lay upside down on the wet grass beside him. “Ma heed, ma heed.”
Even through the shrill neighs of the carriage horses and the thunder of the rushing burn, Fergus noted the Glasgow accent. “Can you move?”
The man’s resentful look told Fergus that any injuries he’d sustained weren’t too serious. What a miracle. “Aye, if I must.”
“Then do something about the horses.” They’d both broken free and shied all over the bridge, trailing tack on the ground and showing the whites of their eyes. “Before they kill themselves or someone else.”
Fergus helped the man up, made sure he was in fact unhurt, then turned his attention to the wrecked carriage. With each second, it appeared more unstable, Fergus guessed because the passengers moved around inside it.
“For God’s sake, stay still,” he called out, as he dashed toward the vehicle. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the coachman stagger across to the jittery horses.
When Fergus reached to tug the door, a woman in a rich crimson cape poked her head out of the shattered window. “Good. You can help.”
Could he indeed? He bristled at her imperious tone, while common sense insisted that he had no time for pique, if he meant to save these travelers from a dousing. “Are you hurt?”
She raised one slender, gloved hand and pushed back the hood on her stylish cape. He found himself under the regard of calm, dark eyes in a face that was striking for its hauteur.
Not at all his sort of woman, he could already tell. Too high-handed by far. Nonetheless, despite the urgent circumstances, he couldn’t help taking a split second to admire her. While the lassie mightn’t be to his taste, she was a prime article.
And by heaven, she was brave. Most women he knew would be in hysterics after that crash.
“No. Just a little shaken,” she said steadily. “But I fear Papa has broken his leg.”
To confirm this, a groan and a stream of curses in Italian emanated from the coach’s shadowy interior.
“He’ll end up in the drink if we don’t get him out. So will you. Is there anyone else in the carriage?”
“No, only the two of us.”
For a brief moment, Fergus wondered why she wasn’t traveling with a maid. The carriage was expensive, and so was that cape. Discreet jewels sparkled at her ears and throat. Whoever the lady was, someone had spent money on her appearance and comfort.
After months of rain, the bank was all mud and not the most reliable foundation. To anchor the carriage, he stood on the step. “Can you get out alone, or should I lift you?”
When she shoved uselessly at the door handle, the coach gave an ominous creak and tipped closer to the rushing brown water. “I think—”
“For pity’s sake.” Fergus wrenched open the jammed door with a grunt of effort, and hoisted her free.
He had a brief impression of lily fragrance and a tall, nicely curved body, before he set her on her feet on the road. She clutched a worn leather satchel that seemed too big for a lady.
“Well, that was decisive.” In the rain, she looked as ruffled as a wet hen, but he didn’t have time for polit
eness.
“Stay there and don’t move.”
He turned to shout at the coachman who was hauling the horses up the bank, away from the bridge. “Are the horses hurt?”
“No, my lord, only frighted.” The man edged away from Macushla and Brecon who approached him, more out of canine curiosity than aggression, Fergus knew.
“Then get down here and help me,” he said, blinking the rain away from his eyes.
“But the horses, my lord—”
“They willnae wander far, if they wander at all.”
Fergus returned to the step and stuck his head into the carriage. The lady’s father turned out to be a portly gentleman huddled in the far corner, just where he was most likely to tip the vehicle. The light inside was dim, but not too dim to hide the unnatural angle of the man’s left leg as it dangled in the well between the seats.
“Maledizione. I told Marina this viaggio was cursed, but does she ever listen to her papa?” the man said in a thick Italian accent. “No, not that one. She always knows best.”
“Papa, stop complaining and come forward so we can pull you free,” the woman—she was no ingénue, but at least in her middle twenties—said from beside Fergus’s shoulder.
He stifled a growl of annoyance. No wonder she hadn’t objected to his orders. She’d decided to ignore them instead. At least when she added her weight to his on the step, it helped counterbalance the tilting carriage. Even if things were a wee bit cozy for strangers, with the two of them sharing the narrow metal platform.
“My leg, she hurts,” her father groaned, shifting further away.
Fergus bit back a curse. If the coach slipped now, all three of them would end up in the burn.
“The rest of you will hurt if you fall into the river,” the woman said, edging closer to Fergus. The scent of lilies mixed with the fresh smell of the rain. When she reached inside for her father, the carriage gave another alarming creak.
“Get out of the way, lassie. This is no place for a woman,” Fergus snapped, catching her by the waist again. He’d already rescued her once. He shouldn’t have to do it twice. “And mind the broken glass.” Jagged shards littered the seats and floor.
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