The Renegade (The Renegade, Rebel and Rogue)

by Christine Dorsey

  His own amusement.

  If his life had any goal before that misty morning on Culloden Moor it had been the impetuous pursuit of his own amusement. How much better it would have been for the clan had Angus lived, or Duncan, or even William, young as he was. Any one of his brothers would have known better what to do than he.

  Unable to bare the direction of his thoughts, Keegan turned, folding his arms around Zoe, pressing her tightly to his body. She molded into his embrace willingly, holding him with the same intensity he held her. Keegan squeezed his eyes shut, allowing himself the luxury to think of nothing but her. Of her soft skin and gentle lips. Of the heat of her body, and the way she seemed to lose consciousness for a moment right after her passionate release. How she made him do the same thing.

  He needed that sweet oblivion now. Needed to forget if for only a moment about all the people who depended upon him. All the lives.

  His arms tightened. The kiss he gave, the response he demanded left no doubt to his purpose or the immediate nature of his desire. While his tongue invaded, his body pressed hers against the wall, pinning her with his hips.

  Keegan’s fingers found the laces of her bodice. With a yank the simple homespun fabric loosened. He caught her sigh with his mouth then nudged his chin down, rasping along the delicate skin of her neck. He paused to tongue the flutter of pulse, then nipped and soothed his way down to push at the simple shift.

  Her breasts were small and firm and so responsive to his touch that Keegan groaned. He nuzzled, then bent, hands beneath her skirts and inched them up her thighs. When her knees gave way he lifted. “Wrap around me,” he said, his voice husky.

  Zoe managed to do as he asked, though her mind, her limbs seemed beyond functioning.

  “Aye, that’s it, lass.” With hasty fingers Keegan fumbled with his trews, shoving them down to free his manhood. She was open to him, her womanhood a ripe plum waiting for his touch.

  When he entered they both sighed, then caught their breath as the rocking motion began. She met each thrust, clutching fistfuls of cotton shirting at his shoulders, caught by the fevered crescendo. She soared, touching again that magic place where life seemed to end and heaven began.

  Keegan brought her to peak once more, wanting to see the expression in those smoky grey eyes when they fluttered open. She always appeared dazed as if she was some fairy princess awakening from a long sleep of passionate dreams. He found the idea wildly erotic.

  Gripping her bottom he surged into her, losing control, joining her in that special place where their souls merged.

  When his eyes opened she was smiling, a cat-that-swallowed-the-cream smile, that Keegan couldn’t help returning. She wriggled. He grunted. And they both laughed aloud.

  It amazed Keegan how much better she could make him feel. When they made love he could almost forget everything, including that she was his captive.

  ~ ~ ~

  “François said he barely recognized ye.”

  “He did?” Zoe was cuddled in his arms, not far from slumber. “That’s silly.”

  “Do ye think?” Keegan combed his fingers through her curly hair. “Ye have changed ye know.”

  “Mmmm.”

  “The sun has put golden strands in yer hair, and brightened yer cheeks.”

  “Perhaps I should wear a hat,” she said and Keegan chuckled.

  He pressed his lips to the top of her head. There were more changes. Some noticeable on first glance; the softer, rounder figure, straighter carriage and brighter eyes. Others subtle, like the lack of any complaint about food or lack of rest. All were delightful. Keegan snuggled her to him spoon-like, her back to his chest. He didn’t want to lose her. Even the idea made his chest tighten. But that was another worry he couldn’t seem to shake.

  ~ ~ ~

  Keegan declared a holiday—a time when everyone could come together to sing and dance and eat. Like in the days before Prince Charlie touched foot upon the Scottish shore. It would be the first break since Keegan and Zoe arrived, since the clansmen came back to Glen MacLeod.

  True, they were all frantically doing what they could to fill the larder and make the castle livable before winter set in, but that was such a constant thing. And the pressure was taking its toll among the clan.

  Arguments were breaking out with little or no provocation and spirits were low. So one night, as they lay together Keegan mentioned his idea to Zoe. Her enthusiasm was all he needed.

  So it was decided. Work would cease midafternoon, except for food preparation, of course, and by dusk, all would be ready for a night of fun and frolic.

  Zoe, along with the other women, searched through the undisturbed wardrobes for any bits of lace and ribbon to add to their dresses. They took turns dressing each other’s hair and sewing up gowns. The camaraderie was something Zoe had never experienced before and she loved it. Of course Seonaid sniped at her occasionally but Mary stopped her with a sharp word, then pulled Zoe aside.

  “She had designs on Keegan, she did, though I don’t recall him ever givin’ her much notice. But ’tis jealousy greasin’ her tongue, and ye mustn’t pay her any heed.”

  “I didn’t mean to take Keegan’s affections...” Zoe wasn’t even certain that’s what she had. His desires, certainly. But though she’d long since realized it was love she felt for him, he’d yet to convey the same.

  Zoe glanced at Seonaid, swirling about with her arms up to show off the extra petticoat she’d found. She was a pretty thing, with fiery hair and temper to match. Zoe felt pale and drab in comparison.

  “Ach, and what are ye doin’?”

  Zoe looked back at Mary who now stood, hand on ample hips. “ ’Tis ye the young MacLeod has chosen. Don’t be worrin’ none about that one.”

  Zoe smiled, thanking Mary and tying a red bow in her hair. But she wondered what the older woman would think if she knew exactly how Keegan had chosen her.

  Simon had managed to save his pipes when the soldiers came through the glen. There was also a fiddle and tin horn, hardly the most elegant of orchestras, but enough to keep the revelers dancing. The sun had set, the moon was high and the flames of the bonfire licked into the air.

  Reel after reel played, with much pounding of bare feet and swinging of skirts. To Zoe it was as grand as a coronation ball. She danced and danced, swirled about by Donuld and Andrew, Cawley and Adair, even François... and of course Keegan.

  He looked wild, and splendid in a snow white shirt with a plaid pleated about his trim waist then draped across his shoulder. A silver pin belonging to his father and found in a corner of the old laird’s bedroom, kept the wool from slipping. His hair, combed neatly when the party began, now tangled about his shoulders, shining like an old copper penny in the firelight. He was handsome beyond belief, and Zoe’s heart pounded whenever she looked upon him.

  Though he danced with others and encouraged her to do the same, it was Zoe who sat with him when they ate, Zoe whose shoulders he squeezed, Zoe who stood with him as the moon waned and the last haunting strains of “Will He No’ Come Back Again” echoed through the glen.

  Will he no’ come back again?

  Will he no’ come back again?

  Better lo’ed he’ll never be,

  And will he no’ come back again?

  The song brought tears to her eyes, tears she couldn’t quite hide when Keegan glanced down at her.

  “What is it, lass?”

  Zoe just shook her head and smiled. There was no explaining her feelings to him when she’d yet to decipher them herself. Had love for him expanded to include all those about him, his country... even his cause? Foolish thoughts, but Zoe knew she didn’t want anything to threaten this glen or the happiness she felt.

  As the night sky began to pale, most of the Scots lay sound asleep, some sprawled in the heather wrapped only in their plaids. Zoe turned in slumber, finding a warm pillow for her head in Keegan’s shoulder. The first shrill blast from the sheep’s horn made her snuggle deeper into his body. The s
econd had them both sitting upright.

  Keegan grabbed for his trews and the broadsword. Zoe scrambled to her feet. “What is it?” The horn sounded again and again.

  “The hills Zoe,” he shouted before racing from the room. “Get t’ the hills!”

  Sixteen

  Still more asleep than awake, Zoe gripped her gown, staring after Keegan. Wanting to call out to him... saying nothing. It was a false alarm surely, as the other had been. But that other time when François came to the valley the warning blast had been short, not like the prolonged wails that screamed through the air now.

  For an instant, panic paralyzed her. What should she do? What? Then with a surge of energy Zoe yanked the dress over her head. She grabbed up a plaid, tying it about her shoulders, stepped into her shoes and ran from the room.

  Her foot missed a step when she heard the first report of a gun. Frantically she lurched for the banister, catching herself from tumbling down the wide curved staircase.

  Below her in the great hall people were running about, mothers calling for their children, babies crying. Zoe spotted François just as he ran through the open door. The little Frenchman looked left then right. His coat flapped open, his head usually covered by a wig, was bald. He lifted his gaze, caught sight of Zoe and scrambled toward the staircase.

  “Mademoiselle Zoe, thank God. Monsieur Keegan sent me to see to you.” He grabbed her arm and yanked.

  “Do you know what is happening?”

  “Non, but I can only guess it is the soldiers,” he said with a shudder. “But do not concern yourself. Monsieur Keegan will not allow them into the valley. Come now.”

  They hurried down the stairs, then headed out the door. A veil of mist shrouded the path into the glen. Zoe arched her neck, trying to see, but only once did the tattered wisps part, and it was only Highlanders she saw.

  “My God, chérie, come on with you.” A stream of women and children were winding their way along the rocks to the north, climbing into the hills, disappearing into the fog. François was anxious to have Zoe join them.

  “I should go to him. Perhaps I can help.”

  Lord save him from sentimental females. “Chérie.” François tried to be rational but with the sounds of battle and the children’s cries it was difficult. “You can do him no good this way. He wants you safe. He will escape and come to you.” François held up his finger. “But you must be there.”

  Zoe whirled back toward the castle. Most of the provisions they’d managed to scavenge from the fields, the bedding they’d found, were there inside the grey stone walls. True, some people had been taken to the hills earlier. But what was left inside would do them no good. Yet there was no help for it. Sadly Zoe turned back to follow the other women and children.

  François was already several steps ahead of her along the path. “Come, come, Mademoiselle Zoe,” he urged.

  In front of him Mary was trudging along, Moia on her hip, her son Justin hanging to her skirts. Zoe quickened her pace, reaching for the redheaded girl as she drew abreast of Mary. “Let me help,” she said while positioning the tot’s legs round her waist.

  Her burden lightened, Mary was better able to stay up with the others. They climbed higher, twisting around rocks, rugged and grim in the morning light. There were eighteen women and children on their way to hide in the hills and every one of them was related in some way to the men they’d left behind to defend the glen. It was a somber group, but they knew their duty.

  Their spirit seemed to penetrate Zoe who wanted nothing more than to turn back. But she trudged forward, and upward, only once stopping to look out over a dizzying precipice. Below, the loch cut through the valley, shimmering. She could see the dark shape of the castle, but nothing else.

  It was near three quarters of an hour later when Zoe realized she no longer heard the crackle of gunfire.

  Zoe tried not to think of what was happening below but she could not shake it from her mind. Was Keegan dead? Was her brother one of the British soldiers? If so, how did he fare? Unlike the other wanderers on the side of the mountain, she had loyalties to men on both sides of the sword.

  The babe in her arms began to fuss, looking up at her with eyes that rivaled the blue of a summer sky. “I’m not your momma, I know,” Zoe cooed. “But she’s nearby and everything will be all right.” Zoe just wished she believed those words.

  ~ ~ ~

  “They’ve retreated into this blasted mist and rain.” The sergeant remembered himself and quickly added a “sir” to his remark. Fox dismissed the man with a salute, then strode to the cold stone fireplace. Carved mythical beasts graced the hearth that stood near two stories high. Fox smacked his palm against a serpent’s head and cursed.

  “Where is that bastard MacLeod?” More importantly, did he still have Zoe with him? He’d planned this predawn raid in hopes of finding them both... of getting to her before the damn Scots could hurt her. That is if she weren’t already dead.

  But he hadn’t counted on the lookouts. Hell, he hadn’t even known for certain there would be anyone here. But for some reason he almost felt as if he could read the Scot’s mind. He was a proud one, and arrogant. He wouldn’t take the confiscation of his estate easily. Or so Fox had thought. And he’d left word with Miss Phelps that he’d be here. So Fox had come looking. And he’d found them... MacLeod and what was left of his clan.

  But he hadn’t captured him. He hadn’t captured any of them. Again his hand slapped the cold stone.

  It wasn’t over yet.

  ~ ~ ~

  The caves were high in the hills, hidden from all but the stoutest climber... and the desperate. Zoe and the others reached them by midafternoon. The sun was a distant memory on this day when the mist seemed to swell, then drizzle down, as if the mountains were crying.

  But the caves, if not free of dampness were at least free of rain. As Zoe entered one it reminded her of that other time when she and Keegan had escaped the storm. But this was no tempest, just the dreary constant drizzle of the Highlands.

  At least there were provisions. Keegan and the men had not been blinded by their desire to stay in the glen of their ancestors. They’d been bringing food and supplies to these caves from the beginning.

  Some of the women who’d lived here, after the first time the English soldiers burned and pillaged Castle MacLeod, settled in quickly. They started smoldering fires of peat to ward off the chill and cooked a great kettle of oatmeal.

  Zoe ate with the others, taking her turn at entertaining the children, though all but the youngest seemed as stouthearted and resigned to their surroundings as their mothers. No one mentioned the men. There were no senseless questions asked, no weeping or wailing. But Zoe knew their absence prayed on every mind.

  What had happened to them? It was evening now and the temperature, never warm this day had dropped till every shoulder was wrapped in plaid. But still there were no men except François. Zoe could see the unasked question in his eyes. But in the Highlands it didn’t seem the thing to do.

  So the women did what they had to. When darkness spread over them like a blanket they sought the solace of sleep. And perhaps for some it helped. But Zoe tossed and turned, dozing fitfully only to awaken from a nightmare that seemed all too real.

  She awoke to find mist heavier than she’d ever seen, with no hint of sun. But by midmorning it shone weakly. By noon the first men came strangling into the clearing in front of the caves.

  Some were wounded, all were tired and hungry, and Zoe worked with the other women to see to their needs. She bandaged wounds and spooned out gruel and all the while her gaze kept straying to the V in the rocks that led to the path.

  “Aye, the MacLeod was with us. ’Tis him that gave the order t’ retreat when the bloody bastards kept comin’ at us.” Donuld squatted in front of the fire, his gnarled fingers fisting. Zoe was beside him, a trencher of oatmeal in her hands, but he’d brushed the nourishment away, too churned up as he put it, to eat.

  “Did he retr
eat with you?”

  He looked her square in the eye, his expression sympathetic. “I wish I knew,” was all he said.

  So Zoe waited and pretended to be as stoic as the others. Talk was of the English soldiers, of their weapons and determination.

  “We saw smoke too, risin’ from the glen.”

  “They’ve burned us out again.”

  “Aye, but we’ll be back. We’re MacLeods and that land is our birthright.”

  But at what cost, Zoe wondered. Two men had yet to return. Two of eleven who had stayed to defend the land.

  ~ ~ ~

  The wind was off the ocean and cold. Zoe sat, the plaid wrapped about her, staring into the white ash of the dying fire. The other women were in the caves, settled down for another night, as were all the men but two. Donuld and Cawley were huddled on a boulder that looked down over the side of the mountain. Keeping watch. Even here, one step away from the sky, they weren’t safe.

  With a sigh, Zoe stood. Arching, she stretched the aching muscles of her back. When she straightened, Zoe glanced one more time toward the hazy silhouette of the two men. They weren’t there.

  Without thought Zoe started across the clearing, her steps gaining speed as she went. By the time she reached the rocks, she was running. If it was the English they would have sounded the alarm. They must have seen something, someone, who caused them to leave their post.

  Zoe let out a cry as she spotted the men climbing back up the trail, Keegan between them. They each had an arm around him, helping him across the rocks, but Zoe didn’t care. He was alive and the relief that shot through her was near painful in its intensity.

  He lifted his head when he heard her. Their eyes met and then she was there, wrapping her arms about his waist, sobbing against his chest. And Keegan felt as if he’d come home.

  Zoe pulled away when she felt something warm and wet against her arm. “You’re wounded.” Something she should have realized when she noticed the men helping him, but hadn’t. “We must get him to the caves.”