Jack

by L. L. Muir

  Not something. Some one.

  “Ho, now! Everyone all right?” Macpherson’s deep voice called from just overhead. “My fault. I didnae see the lass until it was too late!”

  “Anything broken?” The man on top of me rolled off, then started squeezing different parts of me.

  I finally caught my breath. “I’m fine. I promise. You can stop.”

  The squeezing ceased. Then someone behind me dug their hands under my arms and lifted me up onto my feet like I was a fifty-pound child. “How about the legs, then?”

  I turned so Macpherson would have to let go of me.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “I found my wallet and was just trying to catch you, to pay you for my dinner.” It suddenly dawned on me I should have paid Maggie instead. But I didn’t want the guy thinking I owed him anything, even for a minute.

  He frowned down into my face. I worried he might have recognized me from a photograph, not that my mother had anything recent from me.

  “Ye’re bleedin’. Let me take ye up to the house and get ye seen to.” Macpherson turned to the other man. “The both of ye.” Then he went to his car, opened the back door, and motioned for us to climb inside. “’Tis the least I can do, aye?”

  The man standing beside me was none other than the Scotsman from the first pub, the man who’d given me the knife. He shrugged and gestured to the car. When I realized the dark spot on his arm was blood, I figured it was no time to make a stand when the guy clearly needed medical attention. So I got into the enemy’s car and scooted to the far side, to make room for my injured hero.

  After we’d gone a couple miles, I finally spoke, since it didn’t seem like my hero would. “I’m sorry,” I told him. “I’m a little slow on my feet tonight. Thank you for coming to my rescue. I hope you’re not seriously hurt.”

  “Dinna fash for me, lass. Not much harm has been done, praise be.” Then he leaned close to my ear, tapped on my left hand, and whispered. “I cannot imagine how ye thought to fight a car with a wee blade, but ye might have at least nicked the paint if ye’d have removed it from its sheath, first.”

  I showed him my other hand and wiggled the foreign bills. “I was just trying to pay him back for buying my dinner. I forgot to put the knife back into my purse, that’s all.”

  He grinned, then tilted his head and spoke to our large chauffeur. “Ye bought her dinner, did ye? All broken fences mended then?”

  Macpherson frowned at me in the rear-view mirror. “Broken fences?”

  I reached my hand toward the other man’s mouth but he pushed it down and held tight. “Sure,” he called over the seat. “Ye’re John Macpherson, are ye not?”

  “I am.” Macpherson adjusted the mirror so he could look at both the road and the man in costume. “Have we met?”

  I squeezed the latter’s arm and, with my eyes, begged him to stop speaking.

  “Just heard yer name earlier tonight. My condolences on the death of yer wife.”

  Macpherson nodded, adjusted his mirror again, and pushed a button on his visor. Large iron gates swung open, and before I could think to get out of the car and run, we were headed up a long drive to a sparsely lit castle on a hill.

  “Welcome to Chattan House,” he said. “My cook can take a look at yer wounds, and if need be, we’ll get ye to hospital.”

  While the car purred along, I watched my entire grasp on reality slip out of my fingers. Every thought I’d had since ringing the doorbell at my mom’s old house was turned on its head. I was turned on my head.

  Macpherson parked the car at the foot of the stairs that led to the front door. Half a dozen servants fluttered out the door and waited to be needed while others opened the car doors and ushered us out. “Take them to Margaret so she can see how badly they’re hurt.” To us, he said, “I will join ye in the library shortly, aye?”

  The Scotsman looked at me and took my hand. “I willnae leave ye, if ye’ll not leave me.”

  I nodded. “Deal.”

  Chapter Eight

  Jack supposed that the reason he’d felt little pain from the impact of the road was due to the fact he wasn’t truly flesh and blood, that perhaps the wee Muir witch had been able to restore his senses only so far and no farther. The blood on his sleeve and arm looked real enough. It just didn’t happen to be his own.

  Margaret, bless her heart, insisted he remove his shirt so she could have it washed. But after his arm was placed under a tap of warm water and the blood washed away, there were no wounds to be found.

  The older woman gave him the evil eye. “What’s this, then? A trick to get in the gates?”

  “It must have come from me,” said the woman, and she lifted her elbow up to show the bloody back of her elbow poking through a wide hole in her coat. Thankfully, the coat had taken the heaviest damage.

  “Forgive me, lass,” he said. “I—”

  “I told you before. It was my fault for running out into the street. I might have broken my legs if you hadn’t pushed me.”

  The cook ordered one of the other servants to tell ‘the master’ no one needed to see a doctor. By the time the younger servant returned, Margaret had cleaned and bandaged the American lass.

  “His lairdship extends an invitation to the pair of ye to stay at Chatton House for the extent of yer visit to Fort William. We are to send the lads to collect yer things.”

  The lass seemed stunned, either by the invitation or the news that her intended victim was a Scottish lord, so Jack spoke for her.

  “Verra generous of him. As I am only passing through, I have nothing to collect. The lass, here, left her things at a Bed and Breakfast on Middle Street. The one with the blue door.”

  “Auch, that’ll be Jenny’s,” said Margaret. “Under what name have ye rented the room?”

  The lass in question was now frowning at him. “How do you know where I’m staying?”

  Jack rolled his eyes and waved her question away. “They need yer name, so Jenny will know the room.”

  “Callie Broadbank,” she told the cook, then her eyes widened and her hands flew up to cover her mouth. The younger maid nodded and disappeared, not noticing anything amiss.

  The cook’s brows rose. “Callie Broadbank? Don’t ye know the master has a step-daughter by the same—” She sucked her lips between her teeth and took a step back. “Welcome to Chatton House.” She offered a slight bob, then ducked out of the room, ignoring the lass’ silent pleading for her too stay.

  “Step-daughter, eh?” Jack tilted his head and looked at the purse sitting on the counter behind her.

  She seemed to read his intentions, for she grabbed the wee bag and held it behind her back. The movement caused her elbow some pain and she sucked a breath in between her teeth while she forced a smile. “I won’t hurt him.”

  “I should hope not. He seems the kindest sort.” He started edging closer, slowly, with his hands held out to his sides.

  “He does. You’re right. I know, he does. Just let me keep it until I stop freaking out, okay?”

  Nose to nose with her now, Jack grinned and placed his hands on the counter’s edge, to either side of her. “I believe ye have that backward. If ye’re freaking out, ye shouldn’t be trusted with a blade. When ye’ve finished freaking out, ye’ll be less of a worry.”

  He stared into her eyes, trying to judge just how unhinged she might be, but he saw nothing dangerous there. Whatever anger had plagued her at the pub, after he’d given her the weapon, was gone for the moment. Though, he would have to watch her carefully when she faced John Macpherson again.

  Jack understood the need to step back and give her room to breathe, but he was distracted by the smell of her. If she spoke again, he might be able to taste her. And though he watched her lips for half a minute, she had nothing to say.

  Someone cleared her throat. “If ye’ll follow me,” said the younger maid, then she blushed when he turned her way. “There’s a fire in the library. His lairdship will be along to join ye in a bit.” />
  Callie took the hand he offered but kept the purse behind her. Her hand was cold and he wondered if there was enough warmth in his own hands to warm it. A fire would make touching her unnecessary, but he hoped she wouldn’t notice, distracted as she was.

  And just to keep her distracted, he would demand to know the story behind the step-father she had never met.

  Please, Soncerae, give me a wee while longer.

  Yes, he’d spared the woman from potential harm on the street, but he hoped it wasn’t the only help she needed from him. For the danger contained in the package that was Callie Broadbank had yet to be disarmed.

  Chapter Nine

  With my purse tucked safely behind me in the wing-backed chair, I allowed the Scot—Jack MacGilles—to sit on the ottoman and rub my hands, to get them warm. The fire warmed the room, which did a good job of melting my nose, but the shock of the near-accident, and the bigger shock of the Lord of Chatton House, turned my hands to ice.

  It hadn’t actually rained on my head yet, but the humidity made me feel like I was still outside. And now my new warm coat was ruined.

  Jack had been holding my hand, on and off again, since we’d arrived. And though Macpherson couldn’t be the con man I’d imagined, that didn’t mean Jack was innocent. He claimed he didn’t want his knife back, but then he’d followed me? He must have seen me go into the B&B and had to have been the reason I felt like someone was standing behind me.

  I would be an idiot not to be grateful he’d been there to push me out of the way, but I still knew nothing about him. Like an armed torpedo, my mind was still looking for that target, still looking for that con man. I knew it sounded ridiculous, but my paranoia was out of control.

  Jack couldn’t be a set up, I reasoned. That first pub was a random choice, and he was there when I arrived. But the words came anyway.

  “Is this your regular gig, then?”

  “I beg pardon?” He barely heard me, he seemed so engrossed in rubbing my left hand.

  “You pick an American, traveling alone, and follow them around? Until what, you find out how much money they have in the bank?”

  His mouth dropped open, but I noticed he didn’t deny it.

  “You didn’t send anyone to pick up your luggage, so you must be a local right?”

  “I hail from Kinross. To the east.”

  “Just passing through.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Aye.”

  “And you are only here for a couple of days, so if we’re going to fall in love, we’d better do it quickly, before you have to go? Is that it?”

  He got to his feet and took a step back. His dark slashing brows slammed down over his eyes. “Look ye here—”

  “No. Really. I don’t need to hear it.” I pulled my purse from behind me, zipped it open, and pulled out the thing that brought us together in the first place. “Let me just give you back your knife and you can go find someone else. Someone who’s in the market for a Highland fling with a handsome Scotsman—”

  He blinked a few times, then one brow floated up. “Auch, ye think me handsome, then?”

  I rolled my eyes and tossed him the heavy sheath. He knew exactly what he looked like. And even in October, he could find hundreds of female tourists anxious to take a selfie with someone like him. He should be able to make a nice income and never have to hold anyone’s hand to get it. But maybe a nice income wasn’t what he was after. Maybe he just wanted one big payday.

  “I see what ye’re up to, Callie. And it willnae work.”

  “Oh, I’m up to something?”

  “Aye. Ye dinna wish to tell me what is afoot, here, between yer step-father and yerself, so ye have chosen to make me into a villain.”

  He did look like a villain wearing the white t-shirt they’d provided him with while that part of his costume was washed--a villain from two different centuries.

  “Okay. Fine. What do you do for a living, Jack?”

  “A living?” He laughed at some private joke. “I was a gentleman farmer before I became a soldier.”

  “So, you’re a soldier now?”

  “Always.”

  “Then why are you in costume?”

  I could see the wheels turning. “My first time back on the streets of Scotland, I thought to embrace my heritage. It is not uncommon.”

  I shook my head. “Not buying it.”

  “Unnaturally suspicious, are ye?”

  I closed my eyes and tried to relax for a few seconds, to simply listen to the fire snap and crackle in the hearth, and pretend the world was a simple place. I jerked awake and opened my eyes. Jack sat in the other chair now, still waiting for me to speak, so I hadn’t drifted off for more than a second or two.

  “Sorry. What was the question?”

  “What made ye such a suspicious woman?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe… Maybe it has something to do with my mother lying to me for the past year. Maybe longer. Maybe a lot longer.”

  He nodded, then looked at his hands that were linked across his stomach. “All right. Tomorrow, if ye’re so inclined, I will show ye from whence I hail, and ye’ll see that I do not make my way in the world by getting beautiful women to fall in love with me.”

  I ignored the beautiful part. “I might be leaving tomorrow.”

  “And so might I. But at the very least, can ye set yer suspicions aside?”

  “I can try.”

  “So tell me. Why have ye been hunting John Macpherson? And how is it, in this world of daily photographs, he did not recognize ye?”

  Since it seemed like the man in question wasn’t in any hurry to join us, I lowered my voice and told the mysterious Jack MacGilles everything that had happened from when I got the call telling me my mother was dead, to letting my name slip in the kitchen.

  “Condolences on yer mother, lass. It must hurt yer heart something fierce to have missed saying yer goodbyes.”

  “Now that you mentioned it, that is the part that hurts the worst. I’d kill to have just twenty minutes with her, you know?”

  “Aye. I do know. There is something I would have liked another twenty minutes to remedy. So precious an amount of time when that amount is all ye need.” He sighed heavily. “So, now that ye see he was not a con man, not a gold digger, can ye forgive John Macpherson?”

  “Forgive him? How can I? What reason could he have had, not to give us time to get to the funeral?”

  “Callie?” That deep voice grumbled from behind me and I turned in my chair. John stood beside a velvet lounge, leaning his knee against it like he might have been standing there for a while.

  I looked at Jack, who nodded in answer to my unasked question.

  “Forgive me, lass,” said the big man. “I should have called ye myself, but I was angry. The pastor’s wife, Gail, said she would make the calls. She said she knew ye and yer sister, and she had phone numbers for ye. I assumed she would do so right away, not three days later! When ye didn’t come to the funeral, I was angrier still. That note I left… It was unforgiveable.”

  I stood up and faced him, explained why we couldn’t come on a moment’s notice. “I know it was selfish of me, but—”

  “Yer mother would have understood,” he said. “And I would have moved the date. Gail was a close friend of yer mothers, ye see. And she always groused about how rarely Miriam heard from her daughters. Now that I think on it, she was as much a fan of punishment as her husband was for touting forgiveness. And I’d only known her the two years.”

  The floor shifted under my feet and I leaned on the back of the chair. “Did you say two years?”

  Chapter Ten

  The lass admitted how long she’d gone without sleep, in an attempt to avoid jet lag. And though Jack had never imagined what the effects of flying might feel like, he was certain it couldn’t be much worse that the torture Callie put herself through to avoid it.

  With John’s help, they got her tucked into bed with promises that everything would be made right in the morning. To
give her just a little more peace, Jack left the sheathed skean duh on her night stand and leaned over to kiss her on the head.

  “If real danger comes, lass, be sure to take it out of the scabbard first, aye?”

  She laughed, but her eyes were already closed.

  Though he would have preferred to stay and watch over the woman, the mortality of his current body meted out its price and he was grateful, in the end, to slip between clean, cool sheets and enjoy a bone-deep sleep for the first time in 269 years, and then some. In the early hours before dawn, he woke, slung his kilt around his waist, and checked on Callie. Since she slept on, he went back to bed and pushed his head into his pillow once more. Only this time, he dreamt…

  Patrolling the edge of Drumossie Moor, he heard the cry of a wee babe coming from a copse of trees fifty yards outside his assigned route. He knew he should move on and ignore it, but he also kenned resistance was futile. How could any man ignore such a cry?

  Taking leave of his companion, he hurried across the misty, farrowed field, but stopped and raised his gun as he neared. There was plenty of reason to believe it was a mean trap, set by the Hanoverians preparing nearby, for battle.

  Foot by foot, he advanced, ready for an attack from any direction, prepared for the enemy to drop from the mist-hidden branches overhead. But nothing moved.

  The babe cried again, muffled this time, from the base of the trees.

  He advanced again, checked the branches above him, again. The mist thinned and a form appeared. A woman in a green gown, a black cloak. She watched him step closer, noticed his plaid, and relaxed a bit.

  “Help me, sir. I beg ye. I’ve dried up and my bairn needs milk. Have ye any milk?”

  “Milk?” He shook his head. “I can find some. Follow me.”

  But she shook her head in return. “The army will not welcome a wailing child as they wait for a battle cry. Can ye go, and bring some back? If I can but quiet him, I can be on my way again.” She put the child to her breast, both to sooth him and muffle his cries.