Unraveled By The Rebel

by Michelle Willingham

  “Then I should go with you. So you can keep me safe.” She turned to face him, when he’d finished buttoning up her gown. “Paul, my parents are there. And so are my sister and her husband, the duke. You’re not the only one who can keep me protected. And I trust them more than I’d trust being here alone.”

  He embraced her hard. “Do you ken what it would do to me, if aught happened to you?”

  “And what if something happened to you? It’s no different at all,” she insisted.

  But it was. He didn’t care about what happened to him. Keeping her safe meant everything.

  “Don’t let your desire for revenge overshadow good sense,” she warned. “You must be careful.” Her hands rubbed against his back, and though his mind roared that it wasn’t right, he nodded.

  “All right. We’ll go together. But at any sign of danger—”

  “I promise I’ll go to my parents or to His Grace,” she vowed. “I won’t do anything stupid, Paul.” She reached up to touch his hair, and the gesture of affection slid down to his heart. “Besides, it’s time that you met my parents as my husband.”

  He didn’t doubt that Lord Lanfordshire would have a great deal to say in regard to their elopement. “I canna say that I’m looking forward to that conversation.”

  “I have no regrets,” she whispered. “And none at all about what happened today.”

  He could only hope that there were no consequences, despite the care he’d taken.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “My lord… the fleeces were set on fire last night. All of the barns burned to the ground. The wool—it’s gone.”

  Gone.

  The word reverberated in his skull, and Brandon could hardly believe it was true. It couldn’t be.

  “All of it?” he asked quietly.

  His factor appeared terrified, but he nodded. “I’m afraid so. We—we have nothing to sell now.”

  Rage and fear roared through with a violence that made Brandon want to put his fist through glass. He knew who had done this. Without a doubt.

  He stared at his factor, whose face had gone white. The man should be afraid. It was his task to keep their supplies safe from raids. Not only had the orders diminished, but now he had no means of fulfilling those he did have.

  “How?” he ground out.

  “It was last night… the fires started all at once. We think some of the MacKinlochs were involved.”

  “Of course they were,” he growled. He’d evicted them from their homes last winter and had ordered his previous factor to burn the dwellings. It was within his right, since he owned the land and everything upon it. He’d allowed them to take their possessions, but that was all. Anyone who had dared to defy him and remain had paid the consequences.

  And there would be consequences for this, as well. They would pay for what they’d done.

  If their lives were the cost, so be it.

  The journey to the northwest region of Scotland took longer than she’d expected, but Juliette didn’t mind. She never tired of watching the endless green hills and glens, nor the gray lochs nestled against taller mountains. Here, she felt her spirit softening. And though she missed her son, she didn’t miss London.

  They had traveled within their own private coach, stopping along the way in numerous inns. She’d spent every night in her husband’s arms, and no longer did she fear him in any way. Though he hadn’t made love to her a second time, they had spent hours learning what pleased one another.

  Yet, she couldn’t help worrying that their time together was slipping away.

  “You’re quiet,” he said to her, moving across the space to sit beside her. “What is it?”

  “I’m just uneasy about returning home. It seems so strange to think of it. I sent a letter to my mother, but we might reach Ballaloch before the letter does.”

  “Are you afraid of what your parents will think of me?” Though he spoke the words offhandedly, she wondered if he was still sensitive about his impoverished past.

  “It doesn’t matter what they think. I married you, and I intend for it to stay that way.” She would never be ashamed of him, no matter what anyone said.

  He squeezed her hand and stared out the window of the coach. They were close to Ballaloch now, but as they continued toward her parents’ land, she scented smoke in the air. It was as if the fire had happened yesterday instead of five months earlier.

  “Where is it coming from?” she asked Paul.

  He shook his head. “I don’t ken, but I’ll find out.” Knocking on the ceiling of the coach, he called out for the driver to stop. He swung open the door and then helped Juliette down. The summer air was warmer than she’d expected, and she shielded her eyes against the sun.

  “It’s coming from the earl’s land, toward the east,” he said.

  “What burned?” she asked. Lord Strathland had ordered the crofters’ homes destroyed over a year ago, to make more grazing room for the sheep. She couldn’t think of what there was left to burn.

  “These fires were more recent,” Paul said, turning to face the air. “Within the past few days.” He turned back to her. “We should go to your parents’ house and learn what’s happened.”

  She nodded in agreement, but stopped him before he could help her back inside the coach. “Paul, your mother—”

  “I’ll go to her, as soon as I’ve seen you safely to your house. It should be finished by now, from what I’ve heard.”

  Even so, her earlier feelings of uneasiness continued to grow. It wasn’t safe here. Not for her family, and certainly not for Paul and herself. He urged the driver to quicken their pace, and as they approached her father’s land, the scent of smoke permeated the air, cloaking it with the scent of death.

  When they reached her family’s house, she was glad to see that the stone exterior had been rebuilt, and it looked much the same as it had before. The two-story home rested atop a hillside while a gravel path led toward a clearing where only a few months ago, dozens of tents had been set up. Now, all the tents were gone, since the crofters had relocated to the Duke of Worthingstone’s property to build permanent homes. Although it was quiet, she heard the sound of chickens clucking and the clang of pots from Mrs. Larson’s kitchen.

  Paul took her hand and led her to the door. “Stay here until I return for you.”

  “I think you should come inside and speak with my father and mother,” she said. “Before you go dashing off again.”

  “I feel in my bones that something bad has happened, Juliette. I need to see that my mother is unharmed. Then I’ll be meeting with His Grace to learn how the crofters were involved with these fires.”

  “And if something bad did happen? I don’t want you caught in the midst of it.” She gripped his hand tighter, as if she could force him to stay.

  “I’m still a physician, Juliette. If anyone was hurt, I have to be there.”

  There was nothing she could say to argue with that. He had an intrinsic need to help others. Despite his new title, that would never change.

  “When will you return?”

  “I don’t ken. But if I’m not back by tonight, sleep without me. I’ll come to you when I can.”

  It sounded as if he had no intention at all of returning. Although they had been home only a matter of minutes, she sensed the way he’d shifted. He intended to face the danger alone, leaving her safely behind guarded walls.

  “If you don’t come back, I’ll go out looking for you,” she warned. Though he started to argue, she touched a finger to his mouth. “Promise you’ll return.”

  “I will.” Paul kissed her swiftly and ordered the driver to bring her belongings to her. Then he took one of the horses and disappeared across the glen.

  But she didn’t believe him.

  “What’s happened?” Paul demanded, when he reached Bridget. His mother’s gown was covered in blood, and his heart nearly stopped.

  “Oh, thank God ye’ve come. There are so many wounded. I could use your hands, la
d.”

  A rush of relief filled him to know that the blood wasn’t hers. “Who was wounded and how?” he asked.

  Bridget wiped her hands on a cloth and began assembling bandages and herbs into her basket. “The factor and Strathland’s man came last night and began shooting. There’s a dozen or more wounded. I’ve been working all night.” The exhaustion on her face gave evidence to that, and Paul rolled up his sleeves.

  “Did you write a letter, sending for me?” he asked.

  Bridget shook her head. “No, but I’m glad ye’ve come.”

  He sobered, knowing that his instincts had been correct. Strathland had indeed wanted to lure him here.

  His mother poured water into a basin and handed him a cake of lye soap. Paul scrubbed his hands, and said, “Tell me who’s hurt, and I’ll handle the others while you rest.”

  “Not yet. Only when we’ve seen to all of them.” She took a deep breath and led him outside, her basket looped over one arm.

  “Why would Strathland attack the crofters?” Paul demanded. “They’re no longer living on his lands.”

  “Someone set fire to all of his wool stores a few days ago. He’s got naught to sell now, and he took his vengeance on the innocent, to punish the guilty ones.”

  “Do you think they truly attacked?” Although there were many of the MacKinlochs who were hot-tempered, destroying all of Strathland’s wool was an outright act of war.

  “It hardly matters now,” she remarked, hurrying toward one of the huts. “Strathland thinks they did.”

  And that was enough for murder.

  Paul followed his mother, grimacing at what lay ahead. But Bridget slowed her pace before they reached the first house. “Ye wed Miss Juliette Andrews, I understand. And ye didna think to ask if I would want to attend the wedding? You’re my only son, and I wanted to be there.”

  Paul didn’t think now was the best time to discuss his marriage, particularly when there were men suffering from gunshot wounds. “We wed in haste” was all he said, trying to ignore his mother’s chastisement. “How many were shot?” He stepped inside the dimly lit home and found a man lying upon a bed with a bloodstained bandage around his thigh.

  “Thirteen,” she said. “This is Alexander MacKinloch. He was shot in his leg, and I’ve done what I could to stop the bleeding.”

  The man was in his early fifties, so far as Paul could gauge. He was lying upon a low bed, and a blanket covered most of his torso, hiding the position of the gunshot wound.

  “I’m thirsty. Could I have some water?” The man’s voice was tremulous, and Paul said, “We’ll see about some water in a moment.” Drinking anything after being shot wasn’t wise at all if there were internal injuries. Paul pulled back the blanket and saw that his mother had used a tourniquet on the man’s upper thigh. Even so, the bandage was stained dark red.

  As soon as Paul saw the location of the wound, he knew. The bleeding wasn’t going to stop. The bullet had nicked too close to the artery, and there was nothing either of them could do to save this man.

  His mother sent him a silent question. He knew she’d used the tourniquet to sustain life, in the hopes that they might amputate the leg and save him. But it was far too late for that. All he could do was make the man’s last moments comfortable.

  “Have you a wife, Mr. MacKinloch?” he asked, reaching for his bag.

  “N-no,” the man said, shivering hard. “My wife died a year ago in the fires.”

  “Any children? Or grandchildren, perhaps? Sometimes a man can heal quicker if his family is with him.” He exchanged a look at Bridget, who nodded and left the hut.

  He reached inside his bag for a tiny vial containing a tincture of opium. A few drops would ease the man’s pain.

  At times like these, he wished there were a way to suture an artery or cauterize the wound to stop the bleeding. But the femoral artery was too deep below the flesh. The gunshot wound had blown apart all hope of saving this man. It was a miracle that he’d survived this long.

  “M-most of my family left Ballaloch,” Alexander admitted. “I’m s-so cold.” His body began to shudder as it slipped deeper into shock.

  Paul adjusted the tourniquet again, though it would do little good for this man. “Who burned Lord Strathland’s wool? Have they found the one responsible for the fires?”

  Alexander shook his head. “Might’ve been Joseph MacKinloch, Lady Lanfordshire’s former footman. He’s been causin’ trouble, from what I’ve heard.”

  “I thought he fled to the coast.” After he’d learned that the man was responsible for setting the Lanfordshire house on fire, Paul had demanded that MacKinloch leave or face trial.

  Now that MacKinloch’s sister was dead, it was entirely possible that Joseph had arranged for the wool to be destroyed. But he would have needed others to set so many fires.

  The door opened at that moment, but instead of his mother entering, Juliette emerged in the dim light. “Mrs. Fraser thought I could help,” she said. Her voice was bright and filled with encouragement. Though her gaze passed toward the bleeding man, her eyes focused upon Paul.

  I’m here for you, she seemed to say. And though he didn’t want to expose her to this man’s pain, she appeared to have made up her own mind.

  She went to sit beside Alexander and held his hand. “My husband is a doctor who studied in Edinburgh. If anyone can help you get better, it’s he.”

  Juliette’s hair was pulled up in a topknot, and her gown was the same light blue silk she’d worn earlier. She gave the man a gentle smile, and Paul didn’t miss the look of gratefulness in his eyes. MacKinloch would believe anything Juliette told him, for Bridget had gone and fetched an angel of mercy.

  Paul poured a few drops of the tincture of opium into a cup of water. The man’s shivering increased, and Juliette rubbed his hands between her own. “There, you see, he’s gone and prepared some medicine for you. You’ll feel better quite soon.” She took the cup from Paul and helped the man sit up to drink it. “There are some friends outside, praying for your recovery. Would you like to see them?”

  “I’d rather hold the hand of a bonny lass,” he admitted. “They can come in a wee bit later.”

  Paul met Juliette’s gaze. Though both of them knew that no medicine would cure his wounds, the opium would ease his pain and make the passing easier.

  “Of course,” she said gently. But as his wife calmed MacKinloch and spoke soothing words to him, all Paul could think of was how devastated he would be if anything ever happened to her. He’d saved many lives over the years, and lost just as many.

  She took MacKinloch’s hand in hers, continuing to murmur comfort to the man. And though her words were meant to soothe him, they reminded Paul of a mother’s comfort.

  He’d taken that from her, stealing her away from her only son. And although he’d claimed that it was meant to protect the boy, he wondered if his own selfish reasons had intervened. He’d wanted Juliette to himself.

  A woman like her was meant to be surrounded by bairns, opening her arms to them. Her voice was made to read bedtime stories and sing lullabies. But he would never father a child upon her. Not if her life was the price.

  It took only a few minutes longer for MacKinloch’s hands to relax their grip before he slipped into unconsciousness. When he checked the man’s pulse, it was uneven and erratic. Juliette continued to hold Alexander’s hand. Her green eyes met Paul’s, and when Death’s quiet hand took the man’s final breath, she was still holding his palm.

  Paul loosened the tourniquet, allowing the man to die in peace. “You didn’t have to come,” he said quietly, taking MacKinloch’s hand away from hers and closing the man’s eyes.

  “I was already following you. Bridget found me and brought me here when I asked it of her.” She reached out and embraced him. “There are more of them, aren’t there?”

  “Aye. She brought me to this man because he was closest to death. She thought I might have a way of saving him.” He shook his head in r
egret. “No matter how many lives you save, these moments haunt you.”

  “You brought him comfort and peace. He died with no pain,” she said. Her arms came around him, and she kissed him. The need to possess her, to take the comfort she offered, was undeniable. He gripped her hard, and he vowed that no matter how much she tempted him, he would be careful.

  For he couldn’t lose her. Not ever.

  “Why don’t you go and visit your sister?” he suggested. “I’ve many more men to see. I’ll find you later.”

  She pulled back, but he let his hands trail down her neck. “We’re staying with my parents,” she told him. “Now that the house is rebuilt, there will be rooms enough for us.”

  “Or we could stay with your sister and Worthingstone.” He didn’t relish confronting her family after the elopement. Even with his title, there would be repercussions from their actions. The idea of sleeping under the same roof was not a welcome one. But neither could they dwell with Bridget. His mother lived in a one-room house, which was even worse.

  “I’ve already spoken with my mother,” Juliette said. “She knows of your title. That will help.”

  “And your father?”

  She sent him a rueful smile. “That may take some time.”

  And well he knew it. Paul led her to the door, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. “I’ll be late, so don’t be waiting on me.”

  “Would you rather I stayed with you to help?” Though he could see that she was serious, he doubted she’d have the stomach for what he had to do.

  “No. I’d rather join you when it’s done.”

  “Then I’ll wait.” She reached out and touched his cheek. He touched her hand, wishing he could hold on to this moment. And when she was gone, his mother returned.

  A softness edged the corners of Bridget’s mouth. “I ne’er thought I’d see the day when ye’d wed the likes of Juliette Andrews. I’m happy for ye, lad.”

  “Why did you never tell me what happened to her?”

  Bridget sobered, her gaze fixed upon Juliette until she was out of earshot. “It was her secret to tell, no’ for me to say.” His mother led him away and added, “I’m glad she’s wedded to ye, Paul. Ye’ll be the one to give her the love she needs. Perhaps a child one day.”