“Photographs? Now that’s sedition, there. We should chase the wee lassie back to England for inciting a riot.” He lowered his voice and stood before her. “Leave her be, Maggie. She’s just a woman a long way from home who stayed to tend to a friend. She’s no harming you with that camera.”
Her eyes narrowed. “She’s harming me by staying at—”
A flash and simultaneous boom shook the tavern. Cameron rushed for the door, remembering another dire time when an explosion occurred in the midst of a storm. The faint smell of smoke drifted in the air, but that could have come from the tavern’s fireplace as much as anything else. Nightmare images driving his pulse, he looked in the direction of Ravenbeck, but no orange blaze reached above the tree line.
Just as he’d convinced himself that the lightning rods had held and the distillery was safe, he heard a woman’s scream. It had to be Claire. Who else would be stubborn enough not to seek shelter in a storm? Peat immediately bounded down the road.
Cameron leapt onto Buaidh and wheeled about to follow. Though rain slashed his face, obscuring his vision, he saw her two-wheeled conveyance careening helter-skelter down the dirt road. He cursed under his breath. She shouldna be out on a night like this in such a frail carriage.
A tree without bark hissed and steamed to his left, but he urged Buaidh past, chasing the runaway gig. Suddenly, the bobbling cart raised high on one wheel, threatening to topple over, but then righted itself with a smashing jolt, tossing the driver free of the seat. Air filled the folds of her black cape, giving the impression that she’d taken wing. But rather than soaring to the safety of a treetop, she fell heavily onto the side of the road. The pony continued its panicked race, the driverless gig bouncing behind.
Too late! Too late! The words pounded in his brain as he pulled his horse to a stop before the inert bundle on the side of the road. Peat was already there, nuzzling her head with his long nose.
“English!” he called, jumping from the saddle, but she didn’t respond.
She lay crumbled on her side. He pushed aside the wide clumps of black, wet hair that covered her face until he could see her parted lips and the spiky eyelashes on her closed lids. He slipped his hand lightly over her lips and nose, praying for a sign of life. “Breathe, English,” he coaxed. “Dinna leave me, Claire. Not you!”
A puff of warm air slipped along his fingers, bringing with it a sense of jubilation that he hadn’t known in years. She was alive! He hadn’t lost her! After a quick check to ensure she hadn’t suffered any broken bones, he gathered her in his arms, preparing to lift her.
“Cam?” she murmured, so softly he almost missed it. His heart leapt in his throat. It was the first time she’d called him by his Christian name. A sweeter word had never crossed his ears, and he was filled with a strange mixture of pride, tenderness, and possession.
“Let’s get you out of this rain,” he said, scooping her aloft.
***
Hushed voices, none of them familiar. A fire crackled nearby, the scent and sound unmistakable. She could smell something akin to a wet dog and something else similar to the alehouses in London. Like a babe in swaddling clothes, she was constrained by something soft and giving. A rooster cackled, then crowed as if to welcome the morning. A rooster! She tried to open her eyes, but they resisted.
“Get the Macpherson. She’s coming round.”
A woman’s voice and muffled steps. This made no sense. Where was Faith? Parts of her felt cold and clammy, yet heat bathed her front. She’d been in the rain. She had to get the print frames and the camera back to the castle . . . the camera! Where was Adam’s camera?
Hands pressed the fabric covering her forearms.
“Claire. Can you hear me, lass?”
Was it Macpherson? She’d not heard that tenderness and concern in his voice before. She forced her eyes open, then blinked his face into focus.
“She’s opening her eyes,” he shouted over his shoulder with exuberance. He turned back to her, searching her face. Apprehension and concern filled the furrow on his forehead and the set of his jaw. “Can you see me, English?”
Why was he staring at her like that? In fact, what was he doing here? Wherever here may be. Her throat was so dry and scratchy that she feared forcing words past it, but she had to ask. “Where am I?”
He released her arms to wash his hands over his face. “Thank God. I was so worried.”
Aware of cheering and the clink of glasses elsewhere in the room, she dismissed them as she focused on the surprising depth of compassion and worry of the man before her. Was he worried for her? That made no sense. She was a nuisance, a thorn in his side. Hadn’t he told her that very thing? Or maybe it was that pounding in her head that was scrambling her thoughts.
She pulled her arm free to press her hand against pain in her head, causing a gray blanket covering her to shift and slide. Too late she realized the flash of white beneath the blanket was not her blouse, which she now noted was on the back of a chair before the fire, along with her chemise, skirt and petticoats. No, the white belonged to her damp and somewhat translucent linen corset cover.
Macpherson’s eyes sobered a moment, fixed on her chest, before he caught the sliding blanket and pulled the edges together. A few cheers erupted from the far wall. They were obviously not alone.
“I wouldna do that, English. We had to get you out of those wet clothes, you see.” His eyebrows lifted in apology, but the smile that teased his lips found its way to his eyes.
“Who?” she demanded, clasping the blanket tight around herself while fighting mortification. She’d been practically naked in a room full of strangers.
“Ned’s wife, Mrs. Stewart,” he said sheepishly. “I was more than willing to do the deed myself, but she threatened to bash my head if I tried.”
“Aye, that I did.” Claire raised her gaze to see the large woman who’d been at her failed temperance meeting. She stood nearby with a cup in her hand. “I chased those dunderheids out, so you’ve nothing to be abashed by. They didna see a thing.”
“The threat of Macpherson’s right hook threatened any who tried,” someone yelled from behind her. His comment was met with laughter and more clinking of glasses.
“Give her some of this.” Ned’s wife handed the cup to Cameron, accompanied by another rooster crow. “It’ll warm her insides.”
She was in the tavern! She recognized it now: the sounds, the people, the rooster. She glanced at the cup in horror, remembering the way poor Miss Townsend had been dosed with whisky in a similar situation.
The woman laughed. “Dinna fret. It’s a beef broth. Nothing more.”
She relaxed, recognizing respect for her principles, if not agreement with them. She had to admit this was unlike any of the taverns on Oxford Street. A sense of community and belonging existed here that, to her chagrin, seemed to include her, a stranger.
Macpherson held the broth to her lips and she gratefully sipped, but still some of the broth slipped out and dribbled down her chin.
“Easy now.” He lifted a corner of the blanket to dab at the warm liquid.
Maybe too much community! Without exposing herself to the room, she carefully negotiated her arm out of the blanket so she could hold the cup herself. She crinkled her brow, trying to remember how she got here. Thunder rolled in the distance. A door opened and closed, ushering in the scent of rain . . . Rain! She’d been caught in the rain.
“There was an explosion,” she said, as memories began to return. “The air had a strange feel and . . . crackled.” She looked at Macpherson for comprehension, but the heat in this eyes generated a delicious tremor that warmed her far more than the broth did. She took another swallow before he could recognize his impact. “It scared Thistle. I couldn’t control her.”
“Lightning,” he said, tucking a damp lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers followed down its length to where i
t curled on the blanket covering her breast. Her nipples tightened in response. “That happens sometimes with the oaks. I passed a tree with no bark when I came after you.”
“You came after me?” A loopy smile lifted her lips, but she couldn’t help it. She hadn’t known how she had arrived here, but she melted inside to know it was him.
“You screamed.” He raised his brows. “You no remember?”
She slowly shook her head.
“Aye. I heard your scream and tried to catch the runaway, but I was too late.” His head hung down. He took the cup from her hand, then wrapped both of his hands around hers. “I arrived just in time to see the gig upend and toss you to the side of the road.”
She heard the agony in those two words. Too late. They were ingrained in his mind with the loss of his brother. She didn’t want him to include her in that pool of guilt.
“You weren’t too late. You rescued me.”
“I thought you were dead. I thought . . .” He shook his head, then glanced up at her with an intensity that she felt in her womb. “Then you said my name and I knew you weren’t lost to me.”
“Mac?” She’d heard others call him that.
“Cameron.” He lifted her hand to his lips, then kissed it lightly.
An internal sort of lightning raced from her fingers to her toes, reassuring her that every inch of her had fully revived from the ordeal—some parts more than others. She shifted uncomfortably in the blanket.
She couldn’t remember any of this and was particularly disappointed to learn that he’d carried her when she was in no condition to appreciate it. However, she was surprised she’d have called him by his Christian name. Given the sweet nuzzling her fingers were now receiving, she was glad she was far bolder unconscious than awake.
Peat, who’d been by her side, forced his nose between Cameron and herself, hoping for recognition. She laughed and scratched his head.
“Cameron,” she said. He glanced up to meet her eyes. The deep, smoldering intensity of his gaze took her breath away. “Thank you,” she managed to say, then leaned forward to reward him with a gentle kiss. She didn’t quite make it.
“Look what we have here.” Miss Fraser lifted Claire’s practical white corset, which had been drying by the fire, and held that intimate item up for display. Peat growled low. “This is not a sight we often see. The prudish Sassenach sits in the Rising Cock with nary a stitch, after telling us of the evils of whisky.”
The people at the bar hooted. Claire gasped and quickly pulled away from Cameron, grasping the blanket more tightly. Heat radiated from her face.
Cameron tore the practical white garment from the redhead’s fingers and handed it to Claire. She hid the stiff corset under the blanket.
“That’s enough, Maggie,” he said softly.
From his tense jaw to his clenched fists, he was an intimidating wall of threat, Claire noted. Miss Fraser must have noted it as well, as she softened her posture right before Claire’s eyes.
“She’s no one of us, Cameron. She disna belong.” The hussy placed her hand on Cameron’s arm, but he lifted her fingers and pushed her hand back.
“She belongs to me. It’s respect ye should be giving, not scorn.”
The redhead narrowed her eyes. “Ye’ll be sorry for this.” Her glare shot daggers at Claire. “The both of ye.”
She turned and stomped out of the tavern.
Claire looked at the tight-fisted Cameron, who was watching Miss Fraser’s exit.
“What exactly do you mean by belongs?”
Chapter 20
Mrs. Stewart appeared behind them before he could answer. “I think her clothes are dry enough. We should get you dressed.”
She wasn’t certain that Cameron had heard either of them, as his glare remained focused on where Miss Fraser had been. Then, much like those odd lizards that change color with ease, his threatening expression dissolved into something more affable, except around his eyes. The abrupt departure of the redheaded woman still bothered him. He glanced then at Claire. His lips turned in that half-smile she loved. “Or I can take you to Ravenswood wrapped in a blanket.”
“Do that and your mother will have an excuse for that wedding she wants.” Mrs. Stewart laughed.
Not to me, Claire thought. Lady Macpherson would never accept her as a proper candidate to be Cameron’s bride under any circumstances. She’d made that clear from the day Claire had arrived, unannounced and uninvited. Small wonder that such a thought would result in laughter. But what did Cameron mean when he claimed her as belonging to him?
“The rain has stopped. We should go,” he said. “The others are likely worried that the gig returned without the driver.”
Only Faith would be worried, she thought with a sigh. Lady Macpherson would be relieved.
“Come on then, get ye gone.” Ned’s wife shooed the men outside. “Your women will be glad to see ye on this cold night. Go on now.”
Several of the patrons stepped over to wish Claire well and slap Cameron on the back before they left. While she was quite certain all the patrons had been drinking spirits in the tavern, none exhibited the aggressiveness of her father when he’d been drinking. All of them seemed in full control of their abilities. Perhaps she’d been overly harsh in judging the tavern patrons. This revelation was one she’d have to consider further . . . but not now. Another matter weighed on her mind.
“And no peeking through the windows!” Mrs. Stewart called after the last group.
“I’ll see to it,” Cameron said, joining the exodus. “I’ll be just outside.”
“Ned, take that squawking bird with you,” she told the rail-thin tavern owner. “Some peace and quiet in this place would be appreciated.”
The last of the men left and a stillness settled in the once-crowded room. Mrs. Stewart brought a cup of tea for both of them and settled on the chair that Cameron had vacated.
“I was at that meeting at the kirk,” she said.
“I know. I remember seeing you there,” Claire carefully replied with a wince. Her head still hurt from the fall.
“I’m pleased that you’re not hurt, but I’m no happy that ye want to shut down the Cock.” She frowned a moment, then looked around the empty room. “But I think there’s little chance of that.”
Claire had to agree. A community existed here that would not be easily dispelled.
“I saw marks on your back when I undressed ye. There’s a story you’re not telling.”
Claire sipped her tea to fortify her courage, then stood to refasten her corset. The sooner she was dressed, the sooner she could escape this awkward conversation. “After my mother died, my father took to drinking. At first it wasn’t a problem; then, more and more, he came home besotted and belligerent.”
“Did he come after ye there?” Mrs. Stewart asked, with a nod toward the bottom of the corset. “Some men do when they’re sodden with the whisky and their wives are gone. If the daughter is of an age . . .”
“He tried, and I hit him with a poker.” Claire shivered, uncomfortable with the memory. “He never tried again, but he hurt me in other ways.” She pulled her chemise over her head, anxious to put layers of material between herself and the knowledgeable woman’s eyes. “Some tore at the skin, but his other methods didn’t leave marks that you can see.”
She nodded. “I thought ye had a story. Have you told the Macpherson?”
Claire shook her head. “There’s no reason he should know. As Mrs. Murray says I’ll be gone soon.”
Mrs. Stewart laughed. “Mrs. Murray hasn’t seen the way he looks at ye, or you at him . . . or do ye always try to kiss a man when you’re barely covered by a blanket?”
She blushed. “You saw that?”
“I wasn’t the only one. Maggie was ready to rip ye hair out. She wants to be the next Lady Macpherson, you know.”
Claire fastened her flannel petticoat, then slipped her arms in her white blouse. She began fastening the buttons. “I’m not standing in her way. It’s not likely a whisky distiller will take a woman of temperance to wife.”
Ned’s wife barked a laugh. “Best ye remember that on the dark moonlit ride back to Ravenswood.”
Claire wasn’t certain what she was referring to, but it was the second time she’d been warned to be careful around Cameron.
“A long time ago, everyone assumed Maggie would be marrying one of the brothers.” Mrs. Stewart handed her the boots that had been steaming near the fire. “Now there’s too many bad memories between them. Lady M is wise to bring in someone new.”
“His mother didn’t bring me. I just happened to show up.”
“All the better.” Mrs. Stewart laughed. “I like ye, Starke. You’re no like the others. Just remember, not all men turn mean when they drink. Some do, but not all. I should know.”
“Thank you,” Claire said. “I like you, too.” Which was a surprise. Of all the people in Beckmore, she hadn’t expected she could call the tavern owner’s wife a friend. “Have the others come to the Rising Cock?”
“They didn’t need to. We have our ways.” She smiled, then sobered. “Just watch out for Maggie,” she warned. “That lass means to do ye harm.”
Chapter 21
The storm had moved on, leaving the trees to gently drip in the surrounding darkness. In the moon-painted light, Claire could almost believe in Cailleach’s stories of mischievous fairies frolicking in the woods. The occasional shudder of raindrops surrounding them made her feel they were not alone, even though they clearly were.
Cameron had lifted her onto the saddle with both her legs dangling on one side. She patted the neck of the massive beast while Cameron mounted the saddle behind her.
“What’s his name?” she asked.
“Buaidh.” His arms stretched in front and back of her before grasping the reins in front. Seated this way, she could see his face while the occasional contact of his arm with her back sent soothing waves of confidence and security and something else. He urged the horse forward in a gentle walk. “It’s Gaelic for victory.”
The Whiskey Laird's Bed Page 13
