The Legend of a Rogue

by Darcy Burke

  “Is he a physician like your father?” Tavish—since he’d asked her to call him that, she would—knew from their first meeting that her father was a doctor and that her mother had died. At the time, it had been only six years since her mother had been gone. Elspeth’s grief had lessened, but the sense of loss, especially at this time of year, was still keen. She, on the other hand, knew very little about him. She realized in retrospect that she’d done much more sharing during their time together in Dunkeld. Probably because he’d been hiding who he really was.

  Elspeth returned her focus to their conversation and replied to his question. “No, he isn’t, but he’d like to be. I think my father is going to help him get to the University of Edinburgh to study.” She shuffled through the parchment and found the few pieces that held the story she’d recorded.

  “Is that it?” Tavish asked, coming toward her from the hearth.

  She held the papers in one hand up to her chest. “Yes. However, you’ll have to trade me for it.”

  He stopped and arched a brow. “What do you want?”

  “Information. You know I collect that, and I am especially interested in people I know—or those who have misrepresented themselves.” She hardened her gaze at him for a moment. “I told you a great many things about myself when we met, while you revealed next to nothing, not even your true name.”

  “I’ve told you my name,” he said slowly.

  She shook her head. “Not good enough. I want more. I require more if you want to read my story.” She lifted her shoulder and gave him a saucy look before setting the papers back on the table—facedown—and sitting in one of the pair of chairs.

  “You drive a steep bargain, Miss Marshall.”

  “Is it so hard to reveal something about yourself?” She looked up at him expectantly.

  Exhaling, he sat opposite her. “When you are going about clandestine activities such as supporting Jacobites, saving them, or hiding them, yes.”

  “Why do you do that?”

  “That is where things become difficult.” A fleeting smile dashed across his mouth, then his eyes narrowed as he frowned at the table. “My father was not a Jacobite. My mother’s family was. She angered them when she married my father.”

  “The cousins are your mother’s family?”

  He nodded. “After my father died—that was fifteen years ago—I finally got to meet my mother’s family. Without any siblings, I was rather thrilled to meet my cousins. We became close. That’s why I supported them in their endeavors. It gave me a sense of belonging.”

  “Of family,” she whispered. “I understand. I don’t have any siblings either.”

  “Then of course you understand.” He smiled at her. “Do I get my story now?”

  She laughed softy. “Yes, but I do hope you’ll tell me more about yourself. If not now, then…later.” She handed him the papers.

  He took them from her, his fingers grazing hers. “Does that mean you forgive me.”

  “It means I’m giving you another opportunity.” She gave him a dark, direct stare. “Don’t squander it.”

  “I won’t. Not this time.” He touched the papers to his chest. “Thank you.” He rose and she did the same.

  “I don’t suppose we’ll be leaving tomorrow,” she said, glancing toward the window, not that she could see anything in the dark night outside. “The snow looked quite thick.”

  “I went out not too long ago, and you are correct. If you want to leave, you must do it on horseback or foot. I imagine you have a coach.”

  “Yes.” She hesitated to say more, but ultimately said, “I can’t say I’m disappointed for the extra day here. Unless you are on horseback?”

  “I am. However, I think I’d rather stay too.” He rattled the papers gently. “As it happens, I have reading to do.” He grinned at her.

  She walked with him to the door. “I will hope to see you at breakfast.”

  “Count on it. And I mean that most sincerely.” His blue eyes gleamed with promise before she closed the door behind him.

  Pressing her back to the wood, Elspeth took a deep breath to try to calm the racing of her heart. Morning couldn’t come soon enough.

  Chapter 3

  Tavish had arisen early. He wanted to make sure the soldiers left on horseback. Once they were gone, he breathed more easily. Now he could focus on finding Lann Dhearg.

  To that end, he went in search of the innkeeper, Mr. Pitagowan, and found him behind the bar in the common room. It was still early, but his daughter was busy preparing the room for breakfast. The innkeeper perched on a stool, his bald pate gleaming as he brushed—brushed?—his full auburn beard.

  “Good morning, Mr. Pitagowan,” Tavish said cheerfully, trying not to fixate on the man’s odd behavior. He supposed brushing a beard of that volume was a necessity—Tavish’s hadn’t been that…bushy—but he wondered if there might be a better place to conduct such matters.

  “Ye must call me Balthazar,” the innkeeper said as he set his brush beneath the bar. “How did you pass your night, MacLean?”

  “Quite well, thank you.” He’d devoured every word of Miss Marshall’s story before seeking his rest. She was as gifted a storyteller in writing as she was in the spoken word, which he’d heard when they’d met. In fact, if not for her storytelling, he might not have stopped and made her acquaintance at all.

  Tavish continued, “I hope my room is available for another night. I’d rather not travel in the snow.”

  Balthazar grunted. “Ye can stay as long as ye like. I’m happy ta take yer money.”

  Tavish chuckled. “I won’t be staying indefinitely.” He wanted to get home before the new year. It had been some time since he’d seen his grandmother. As Miss Marshall had pointed out, family was important.

  Miss Marshall. If he found Lann Dhearg today, would he still leave tomorrow, knowing he could spend one more day in her company?

  “Carrie said ye were from Glasgow. Is that right?”

  That was close enough. “Yes.” It was time to obtain the information he needed to track down Lann Dhearg, starting with the man whose brother had seen it at Culloden. “I wonder if you might tell me where I can find one of the men who was here yesterday. We chatted briefly, and I found him quite interesting. He left before we could continue our conversation. Shorter fellow with wide shoulders and brown hair? Perhaps twenty-five years or so?”

  Balthazar stroked his impressive—and tidy—beard. “Ye must mean Dougal. Dougal Kerr. Lives in a cottage on the northeast edge of town.”

  “By himself?” Tavish liked to know what to expect.

  “Now he does. His brother seems to have moved on.” He shook his head sadly.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Tavish said.

  Balthazar’s gaze moved past him toward the stairs. He jumped off the stool. “Time for breakfast!” He bustled back toward the kitchen.

  Tavish turned to see Miss Marshall step into the common room. Gowned in a blue wool dress, she looked fresh and lovely. She surveyed the surroundings until her gaze found him. Her heart-shaped face lit as a smile pushed at her pink lips.

  She was not alone. A more petite woman with dark hair stood at her side. That must be her aunt.

  Tavish left the bar and went toward them. “Good morning, ladies.”

  “Good morning, Mr. MacLean,” Miss Marshall said smoothly. Tavish inclined his head slightly in appreciation that she went along with his alias. She flicked a glance toward the woman at her side. “Aunt Leah, this is Mr. MacLean, whom I told you about. Mr. MacLean, this is my aunt, Leah Craig.”

  Tavish took her hand and bowed. “I’m pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Craig.”

  “Oh, he is as charming as you said, dear.” Mrs. Craig gave her niece an approving wink.

  Carrie had arrived and was now staring at Tavish with something that might have been desire. “Very charming,” she murmured.

  Miss Marshall, her aunt, and Tavish all looked at the serving maid.

>   “Do ye want breakfast?” she asked.

  “We do,” Miss Marshall answered.

  “Take a seat, then.” Carrie waved toward the tables.

  “Shall we sit near the fire?” Tavish asked. “The dogs are not about.”

  “That would be lovely,” Aunt Leah said.

  Tavish offered his arms to both ladies and then guided them to the table. He held a chair for Miss Marshall’s aunt first and then Miss Marshall.

  “It looks like we’re going to be here another day,” Mrs. Craig said. “What about you, Mr. MacLean?”

  “The same, but I can’t say I mind.” He smiled at Miss Marshall, whose cheeks tinged pink. “I enjoyed your story about Culloden very much.” He wanted to say more, that her descriptions had evoked his memory of the day in a visceral way. Hopefully, he would have a chance to tell her so later. Reading it had made him want to tell her his story of the day. Perhaps someday he would.

  Mrs. Craig looked between them. “You read Elspeth’s story?”

  “I gave it to him last night,” Miss Marshall explained. “We encountered each other on the landing and spoke for a while.” Which was the truth. At least part of it.

  It wasn’t as if they had something to hide. Yes, he’d gone into her chamber, but nothing untoward had happened. That didn’t mean he hadn’t considered it. Standing with her in the small quarters, the firelight making the reddish strands in her blonde hair glow and her spicy floral scent taunting his senses, he’d almost been moved to kiss her. Indeed, he’d had to talk himself out of it.

  Carrie arrived at their table with a tray of food. She placed trenchers of kippers, fried eggs, and oatcakes in front of each of them. Then she deposited a crock of raspberry jam in the center of the table. “Fer yer oatcakes,” she said. “I’ll bring ye some ale.”

  “And tea, please,” Mrs. Craig requested.

  Nodding in response, Carrie took her leave.

  “The jam looks delicious.” Miss Marshall reached for the pot just as Tavish did the same, intending to move it closer to her. Their fingers touched, prompting their gazes to connect.

  A frisson of longing swept through him along with a jolt of electricity. She was the first to look away, and she withdrew her hand.

  Tavish picked up the crock and set it near her trencher. “My grandmother adores raspberry jam. She has a recipe for it that she refuses to share.”

  “That’s too bad,” Miss Marshall said as she dolloped some of the bright red jam on one of her oatcakes. “If she changes her mind, you must let me know.”

  “You make jam?”

  “I’ve helped our cook, Mrs. Fisher, on occasion. However, I think I’d prefer to collect recipes and stories about them and combine them into a book.” Her eyes twinkled with enthusiasm.

  “What a wonderful idea,” Mrs. Craig said. “Have you started this project?”

  “No. I thought of it recently, and Mr. MacLean’s mention of his grandmother’s recipe has reminded me. Perhaps I will pursue it.”

  Tavish thought it a brilliant idea. “I hope you do. You’ve a gift with words. While the recipes will be helpful, the stories behind them will make the book a treasure.”

  Mrs. Craig cast a loving look at her niece. “Our Elspeth can do anything she puts her mind to.”

  Tavish didn’t doubt that. Though he had only known her briefly, she had a sense of purpose and an inner strength that were impossible to miss. He recognized those things because he possessed them himself. “And what is it you put your mind to, Miss Marshall?” He took a bite of the smoked kippers.

  “Hearing stories and writing them down, mostly.”

  “Her father and I wish she would set her mind on marriage.” Mrs. Craig laughed softly as she helped herself to the jam.

  Carrie arrived with the tea and ale and arranged the various items atop the table. “Did I not tell ye the jam was excellent?”

  “It is delicious,” Miss Marshall said.

  With a satisfied smile, Carrie winked at Tavish before turning and departing.

  Though Carrie’s arrival had interrupted their conversation, Tavish hadn’t lost the thread. Miss Marshall’s family wished for her to wed. He could understand that—his grandmother wanted him to do the same.

  Mrs. Craig looked toward him with interest. “Do you have a profession, Mr. MacLean?”

  Tavish chose his words carefully. “Farming, mostly.” That was true. He glanced toward Miss Marshall, who was watching him intently. She, of course, knew of his other activities. At least some of them. He should tell her the full truth. Later, he would. He was apparently counting rather heavily on spending time with her today.

  They continued to eat and share pleasant conversation, all while Tavish kept stealing looks at Miss Marshall. On occasion, he caught her doing the same, until he felt as if the energy between them was perhaps visible to everyone else who’d entered the common room. Let alone Mrs. Craig, who must surely be aware of whatever was simmering between them.

  “Elspeth is hoping to track down a story today,” Mrs. Craig said. “I suppose it’s fortuitous that we must stay here.”

  “It is indeed,” Miss Marshall said with a grin. She had to mean Lann Dhearg. Of course she would try to find more information—she’d indicated as much last night.

  Tavish considered what he should tell her. If he told her the truth about who he was, he ought to include all of it. But would her need to tell the story be too powerful to resist? He didn’t yet know her well enough to say, and the answer was crucially important. This was not a story she could reveal.

  “I wonder if we might dine together tonight?” Mrs. Craig asked. “Elspeth can share what she learns today.”

  “I look forward to that.” Tavish suddenly itched to leave. It wasn’t just that he was eager to question Kerr, but that he was afraid Mrs. Craig would next ask him what he planned to do today. He was getting the sense that she was noticing the…connection between him and Miss Marshall and hoped to encourage it.

  “Excellent,” Mrs. Craig said.

  Tavish decided it was time to depart. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must check on my horse.”

  “Of course,” Miss Marshall said. “We’ll see you later.” She gave him a look that said something a bit different, something that didn’t include the pronoun “we.”

  Tavish stood and bowed to them, his gaze lingering on Miss Marshall. With more reluctance than he cared to recognize, he turned and left the inn.

  Elspeth watched Tavish leave the common room. Cold air drifted from the door, sending a slight chill up her spine as she finished the last of her tea. She wished she could have accompanied him.

  “I’m so pleased you found Mr. Will—MacLean again.” Aunt Leah sent her an apologetic grimace.

  That morning, when Elspeth had told Aunt Leah about meeting Tavish for breakfast, she’d explained his aliases. Actually, she hadn’t given her his real name. That seemed as though it would confuse an already complicated situation. “I am too.” She lowered her voice and leaned closer to her aunt. “And thank you for understanding about his names.”

  “Of course,” she whispered in response. “He sounds like such a kindhearted man—a farmer who helps people in need after that horrid battle. Don’t you think so?”

  “That he’s kindhearted? Yes, he seems to be.” Elspeth wasn’t entirely certain. She barely knew the man. But she wanted to. Hopefully, she’d get the chance. She glanced longingly toward the door, again wishing she’d been able to go with him to the stable. Perhaps she could “check” on their coach and horses. After all, their coachman had family in town and was visiting with them. Aunt Leah had already said she would have one of the inn’s grooms take a message to him to let him know they’d be staying another day.

  But Elspeth had something else to focus on—chasing her story. Turning her head, she looked for the innkeeper’s daughter but didn’t see her in the common room.

  “What’s the matter, dear?” Aunt Leah asked.

  “Not
hing’s the matter. I want to speak with Carrie.”

  “About your story, of course. I’ll go speak with Balthazar about having a groom deliver a message to Fisk.” Aunt Leah stood. “I’m sure he’ll be delighted to have another day with his mother.”

  “Indeed he will,” Elspeth said with a smile.

  Elspeth rose, intending to look for Carrie. She and Aunt Leah walked toward the bar as Carrie appeared from the kitchen with a plate of food. After she deposited it on a table, she walked back toward the kitchen.

  “Carrie, is your father busy? My aunt would like to make a request.”

  “He’s in the kitchen.” Carrie wiped her hand on her apron and looked to Aunt Leah. “Can I help?”

  Aunt Leah explained what she needed, and Carrie said she’d see it was taken care of. Satisfied, Aunt Leah left to go upstairs.

  Before Carrie could return to the kitchen, Elspeth stopped her. “May I ask you a question?”

  Carrie stuck her hip out and rested her fist against it. “All right.”

  “I’m looking for a gentleman who was here yesterday. He left just after the commotion with the English soldiers.”

  “Ye mean Dougal Kerr. He doesna like the English. Canna say I blame him.” She stepped closer so that Elspeth could see Carrie’s freckles in great detail. “His brother fought at Culloden.” The serving maid looked away. “Forget I said that, please. It’s not something to be known—who fought there.”

  “I wouldn’t blame him for not liking the English either,” Elspeth said softly.

  Carrie eyed Elspeth cautiously. “Why de ye want ta speak with Dougal?”

  “He mentioned something yesterday that I want to ask him about. I record stories, and he said something intriguing.” Her breath caught as she waited to see if Carrie would help her find the man.

  “He may not want ta talk ta ye, but ye can try. He lives on the northeast corner of town—small cottage that needs some repair on the roof. Ye’ll know what I mean.”

  Relief flooded Elspeth along with anticipation. “Thank you, Carrie. I appreciate this so much.”