A Rose in the Highlands (Highland Roses School)

by Heather McCollum

  “Kirstin?”

  “She was quite easy to manipulate last night when I happened upon her. She’d do just about anything to save her town.”

  Philip’s gaze raked over Evelyn, and she tried to control her wildly beating heart. He wiped one finger along the corner of his lips where a bit of spittle glistened. He leaned across the space, and Evelyn fought the urge to retreat, not that there was anywhere to go. Courage.

  Philip’s smile became a leer. “As much as I’d love to seek out all your hidden treasures now, even sullied as they are, I will wait until the inn.” His grin faded to something dark. “Although you will certainly be punished for your whorish behavior with that Highlander.” He tipped his head to the side as if considering her. “Do you, by chance, like pain with your pleasure?”

  Her aghast expression made him laugh, pointing at her as if she’d told a witty tale. “Never mind, my dear, it doesn’t matter. There will be pain either way.”

  “You’re a monster,” Evelyn said, her words breathless as panic rose like a fist in her throat.

  He tipped his head side to side as if halfway agreeing with her and sucked along his front teeth. “I suppose some would say that. I’m actually called The Surgeon by my colleagues.” He made a slashing motion in the air with one pointed finger, the nail overly long and filed. “A bit of blood drawn by my shiny knives, and people will tell me anything to end their torment with a quicker death.”

  Evelyn stared at him, her mouth unhinged as her courage turned to ash. She squeezed back into the corner of the seat, seeking the farthest distance she could from the man. He’d always been so quiet, lurking in the background. “You’re a traitor and a murderer.”

  “That depends on which side of government you stand,” he said, glancing out the window at the lessening rain. “I work with people who want to depose the monarchy in favor of a parliamentary rule for the people. Charles and his ridiculous expenditures are driving England to ruin. We are the laughingstock of Europe, and Charles is a blatant Catholic, as is his brother. Any moment, Charles might sign away Protestant lives.” Philip looked back at Evelyn. “I wouldn’t expect a woman to understand any of that, although your father certainly thought you were bright enough.”

  Benjamin Worthington? Had Scarlet been correct about Father respecting her views even if he railed against them.

  Philip smiled as if he were a benevolent ruler on his throne. “Yes, Evelyn. Your brutal, red-faced papa thought very highly of your intelligence. Enough that he decided to grant your request not to marry me. I’d kept my more radical ideas silent, perhaps too silent, for he let you convince him that I was an apathetic bore. When he threatened to end our marriage contract, I had to act quickly.” His lips quirked upward. “The man was known for his temper. All it took was a little foxglove in his coffee and…” Philip stuck his tongue halfway out in an exaggeration of death.

  Philip righted his head, and Evelyn braced herself as the coach rocked up and down through a large rut. “It wasn’t difficult to forge his signature on his altered will, giving you no other option but to wed me.” He shrugged. “Next, I would have killed your brother,” Philip said. “But Cross took care of him.”

  “Why marry me?” Evelyn asked, the quiver in her voice hopefully lost in the crunch of pebbles as the wheels rolled.

  “Planning an assassination requires an intricate strategy, and you, my dear Evelyn, were the easiest route to securing a place for parliamentarians to act. All would have been fine for you had you just married me, but you had to run to Finlarig before we wed. I would have brought you here after the wedding and invited Charles for a visit. A secluded castle with hostile Scots surrounding it. A perfect place for an assassination to be blamed on the Campbells.”

  He twisted a large gold ring on his finger. “It will still happen. My plans always have subsequent routes if the first goes astray. Unfortunately, you may need to be a casualty. Can’t have you wagging your tongue about treason. Although I could cut off your tongue,” he said, looking up at the ceiling as if contemplating. “And your fingers, since you know how to write. You will be the sad victim of a maniacal Highlander whom Captain Cross shot after the deed. No tongue, no fingers.” His eyes moved down her body in a way that made Evelyn feel stripped of clothing. “But the rest of you intact for my needs.”

  “You’ll go to hell for certain,” she said, her stomach rolling with nausea and barely controlled panic. “Torture and murder, killing my whole family?”

  “Scarlet can stay alive long enough to entice Charles up here. He’s quite lustful for her. I’ve already sent a missive saying that she wishes him to visit to comfort her after her family’s death, but she will either have to die or lose her tongue and fingers, too.” He chuckled. “What a pair of quiet sisters you two would be. Charles will likely find her grotesque, but we will kill him so…” He tipped his head casually.

  Evelyn couldn’t believe the horrors that were rolling out of Philip’s mouth. A monster of torture and treason, hidden behind a flopping plume and apathetic silence. In truth, he was brother to Satan in vileness.

  With deep breaths, she tried to push back the horrid vision of Philip cutting off her fingers. To survive this, she needed to use her clever mind and the self-defense techniques Grey had taught her. Grey. Gracious God, please let him live.

  Philip didn’t seem to have any blades on himself. The only weapon in the carriage was the musket he had propped by the door, its long barrel too cumbersome to wield in the cramped interior. She’d realized that he was strong as he threw her into the carriage, but she was desperate, and desperation could give one strength.

  Evelyn’s mind churned out plans that bordered on insane. The best she had was to try to throw herself out the window and hope to die upon impact. The trees flashed by as they raced toward the inn. Yes, she would surely die at this speed. She leaned back against the seat, clenching and unclenching her fingers to rid them of numbness.

  Philip shifted in his seat, his hand going between his legs. Evelyn’s breath stopped as she watched him openly stroke himself, his eyelids lowering halfway. “Now that I consider it, we do have time before the inn for me to take a look at the prize I’ve won.” He chuckled lightly. “Take a better look at what is under those skirts.”

  “Don’t come near me,” she said, her words hissing. Philip sat straight in his seat, a cruel grin on his face.

  “Rider,” called the coachman above. “Rider from behind.”

  “Damnation,” Philip said, leaning his head out the window over the door. “Shoot him,” he yelled up.

  Evelyn threw herself toward the opposite window, her fingers curling over the ledge to peer out. Her heart flooded with hope. Grey! Grey was alive. He rode on his gray stallion, his body poised in flight. He was close enough that she could see the fury etched into his face.

  “The match is wet,” yelled the other driver.

  Philip huffed in annoyance. “I have to do everything myself,” he murmured and grabbed his matchlock musket beside the door. He flipped open a small box near his feet, and smoke puffed out. Evelyn watched as he lit a taper from inside and brought it up to the match on the musket.

  “No,” she yelled and lunged toward him, striking the lit taper away. Like a feral cat, caught among savage dogs, Evelyn shrieked, her arms flying, claws raking against every part of Philip she could reach. His wig came off in her hands, and she threw it aside to scratch the skin of his bare neck.

  “You little bitch,” he said, throwing his arm back, striking her along the side of her head.

  Pain erupted. Evelyn blinked against the jarring pain, so much like her father’s cuffing that for a brief moment she was back in his study. She gasped, retreating to the shadows.

  Philip lit the match and lifted the musket to rest on the frame of the window over the door. No. Grey! Love smashed against her fear, and Evelyn surged forward again to curl fin
gers into Philip’s pale flesh. She scratched down his face as he yelled. Curling her fists tight, she battered him, her arms wild. She kicked him, wishing she wore the trousers instead of a tangle of skirts.

  “Get back, you shrew!” He twisted, dropping the musket. With a balled fist, he punched Evelyn straight in the cheek. She cried out as the force slammed her against the back wall.

  “Stay still,” Philip said, the words gritted out from his bared teeth. He wiped a palm over his cheek and looked at the streak of blood across it before narrowing his eyes at her. “You will pay for this, and my knives leave more than scratches.”

  Sparks swam in Evelyn’s sight where the edges of her vision began to grow dim. No. She absolutely could not faint. Deep breaths. With aching muscles, Evelyn pushed away from the wall. She would stop him or die trying. Philip braced himself before her, without his wig and plume, scratches all over his exposed skin. He cursed and steadied the musket at the window.

  “Evelyn!” Grey’s voice called to her through her fog, and she blinked. He was close enough for her to hear the pounding of his horse’s hooves, close enough for Philip to kill him with one blast.

  Her hair had come undone, falling around her shoulders. The six-inch steel hairpin slid down to her lap, and she grasped its cool, twisted length, her fingers curling around it desperately. Pressing forward, she forced herself to squat between the seats, bracing herself as the carriage flew along the rutted road.

  Use the power in your legs. Grey’s words came back in a flood of detail. His tumbling accent, the fresh smell of pine and leather, the love she’d seen in his eyes before she was dragged from him in the bailey. Thrust upward if you are lower. Use your legs. They are the strongest of your muscles.

  The carriage pitched toward Philip, and Evelyn’s thighs contracted as she rammed her clasped hands upward toward the back of his head, the tip of the hairpin stabbing up through the hollow in the base of his skull.

  Chapter Thirty

  Philip dropped the musket, his hands scrambling toward his throat, but the point of the steel hairpin was lodged somewhere inside, hopefully up into his brain. Wild and gurgling, he fell sideways, his hand reaching out to her, but then his hate-filled eyes grew still, the consciousness bleeding out of them, leaving his body to descend to hell.

  Evelyn jerked backward, a sob bubbling out. She raised palms to her cheeks, which were drenched with tears. She heard a thud on the carriage and Grey yelling. One of the men screamed as he fell to the ground. Evelyn closed her eyes against the sightless stare of Philip and buried her face into the skirts covering her bent knees. She breathed, letting tears flow as the carriage slowed.

  “Evelyn,” Grey yelled, ripping open the door. “Mo chreach,” he murmured, and she lifted her eyes.

  Brutally handsome and very much alive. “Grey,” she whispered.

  With a yank, he threw Philip’s body from the carriage and climbed inside, pulling Evelyn in to him as they knelt together on the floor. “Bloody hell, Evelyn.” His hands captured her cheeks to search her face. She hardly noticed the full pain from Philip’s punch. “Ye killed him?” Grey said, shock mixing with relief on his face. “Lass, ye saved us both.”

  She nodded as much as his grasp would let her. “Weeping the whole time.” More tears poured out, and she didn’t bother to check them.

  The tightness of fury melted away from his face, and he touched his forehead to hers. “Like I said, lass, tears don’t mean weakness.” He stroked her hair. “Ye are the strongest, bravest person I know. I love ye, Evelyn.”

  Lips just inches from his, Evelyn cupped his bristled cheeks. “And I love you, Grey Campbell.”

  He leaned in, sealing their oaths with the most tender, heart-filled kiss. They broke slowly apart. “We need to get back to Finlarig,” he said.

  “Nathaniel,” Evelyn said on a gasp. The image of him falling to the ground would play forever in her nightmares. She pushed upward.

  “Your cheek,” he said, his fingers brushing back her hair. His gaze turned black, and he glanced at Philip’s body. “I’d kill him slowly if he wasn’t already in hell.”

  “It will heal,” she said. He lifted her, his arms under her legs, carrying her swiftly over to Adhar. He swung up behind her, tucking her close into his warm chest.

  “Cat was helping him,” he said near her ear as he leaned slightly forward, making the horse leap into a gallop. “If anyone can save him, she can.”

  “Cross?” she asked. “Burdock?”

  “Cross is dead. Burdock will be, when I catch him.”

  They raced over the wet gravel, splatters of mud flying up to pock her skirts. Leaning forward together, Grey seemed to give his war-horse its head, knowing the beast would carry them back to Finlarig without guidance. The minutes moved slowly, and Evelyn prayed through them all.

  Reaching the path, Grey pulled Adhar to a fast walk. Evelyn heard the scrape of steel as Grey slid his sword free near the open gate. The bailey swarmed with Campbell warriors from Killin, some of whom she’d yet to meet. Her gaze scanned the ground where Nathaniel had fallen. “Where is he?” she asked, her words breathless.

  Aiden, blood splattered across his pale cheek, walked over with Craig. “We found Hamish and Kerrick trussed up with bumps as big as goose eggs on their heads. The bastards who came with the Englishman and Cross’s few men are all dead. Only Burdock got away.”

  Grey dismounted and pulled Evelyn down, setting her feet on the mud. The world still wavered, and her head hurt. He steadied her, refusing to let her step away when she tried. “I’ll help ye inside.”

  Grey looked to another warrior. “Send word to Ensign Morris at the compound. Chances are he knows nothing of this, since only a few men came with Cross. Sotheby and his drivers are dead on the main road south.”

  “Where is Nathaniel?” Evelyn asked. She was afraid to ask more.

  “We carried him inside,” Craig answered, his bushy chin jutting toward the keep.

  Grey turned with her, helping her stride across the bailey and climb the steps. They exchanged no words, but he supported her weight easily, his warmth and love giving her strength.

  Nathaniel lay on the long table, Scarlet on one side and Cat with Isabel on the other. Kirstin stood, her face in her hands, by the fire with Alana. Evelyn rushed to Nathaniel’s side, and Scarlet flew around the table to hug her.

  “Thank God, he reached you,” Scarlet said.

  “Hold him,” Cat said, glancing at Grey. “He has a lead ball in his shoulder that I need to pull out.”

  “Will he live?” Evelyn asked, searching Scarlet’s red eyes.

  “If I have anything to do with it, aye,” Cat said, grabbing the cloths Molly set next to her.

  “I’m praying,” Scarlet said. “And hoping God is listening.” Evelyn added her own as they watched Cat dig out the shot and stop the gush of fresh blood, patching the shoulder with wads of clean wool and binding. Wiping her smeared hands on her dress, Cat lay her lips on Nathaniel’s forehead. “No fever yet, but we should start feverfew down his throat.” She frowned at Nathaniel as if his injury were his own fault.

  “I will carry him to his bed,” Grey said. “I need ye to look at Evelyn,” he said to Cat. “She’s hit her head, and her cheek is bruised.” His gaze moved to Evelyn, questions mixed with suppressed anger and worry.

  “That is all,” she whispered and watched him exhale with the relief she, too, felt.

  “Philip?” Scarlet asked.

  Evelyn squeezed her hand. “He killed Father and planned to kill us all to keep Finlarig for himself. He was the Surgeon of London, a sadistic murderer.”

  “I…” Kirstin came across with Alana. “I am so sorry,” Kirstin said. Tears coursed down her cheeks. “He said… That Englishman said that if I got ye to come down and get in the carriage that he’d take ye away, and Finlarig would belong once again to the
Campbells. That Grey would be safe.”

  Grey spoke low in Gaelic, the words a curse, and Kirstin’s tears started anew.

  “He lied, Kirstin,” Evelyn said, anger eating inside her gut. She tried to breathe past it. “Philip Sotheby was a manipulative liar and traitor. He murdered my father and tortured others.” She looked at Grey. “He worked with Cross to falsely accuse your parents in order to eventually get control of Finlarig, where they planned to murder King Charles. He manipulated Nathaniel into buying this place to take it when he married me and killed Nathaniel.”

  Scarlet held a hand over her mouth, her eyes wet. Evelyn wrapped an arm over her shoulder. “But Philip and Cross are dead, and Finlarig is safe. For when Nathaniel wakes…” She paused, meeting Grey’s gaze, his strength and love evident. “When he wakes, we are giving the castle back to the Campbells of Breadalbane.”

  …

  Evelyn held the cup of broth to Nathaniel’s lips. “I can do it, Evie,” he said, and her heart swelled with relief at the strength she heard. He took the cup in his unbound arm. It had been over a week since his wounding, and Cat’s constant, albeit surly, care had brought Nathaniel through the worst of his fever as well as the loss of blood from his wound. Each day saw him stronger.

  “Nathaniel,” she said and cleared her throat. “While you were ill, I made a decision for our family.”

  He lowered the cup from his mouth, his eyebrow rising. “You did?”

  “Yes. As the eldest functioning Worthington, I declared to Grey Campbell and his sister that we would return Finlarig to them. It doesn’t make up for the loss of their parents, but we can give them back their honor. While you were unconscious, I wrote to King Charles, explaining the mess that Philip and Captain Cross created with their treasonous lies.”

  His eyes narrowed as he studied her. “No school then?”

  She released her breath and shook her head. “Not here. Not if the townspeople don’t want it. After all the terrible examples of English, I don’t know if I’ll ever win their loyalty enough to build a successful school in the Breadalbane parish.”