The Taming of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  “Bloody hell,” she muttered, uncaring of the obscenity. No one was around to hear it. And she needed the release because she’d just realized that the part of the cork she might have used to “pull instead of push” was the very part she’d spent the past hour or two clawing into tiny bits.

  “Bloody hell!” She slammed her fist into the wood. Again and again. She screamed foul nonsense, using every curse she’d ever heard spoken in England or Scotland.

  Then she remembered the reticule. And the spiral-shaped charm Mrs. MacBean had made her promise to carry with her.

  “’Tis yer bride charm, lass,” the old woman had whispered in her ear. “Promise ye’ll always keep it with ye. Wear it round yer neck, if ye must. Promise me.”

  She’d promised. Now, with painful, bloody fingers, she fumbled for her reticule. Felt inside. And found the bride charm shaped very much like a corkscrew.

  Then, she laughed, loud and long. “Oh, Broderick, my love.” Another laugh. “Mrs. MacBean will never let either of us hear the end of this one.”

  Of all people, Broderick would not have predicted that a weak-chinned, ginger-haired MacDonnell would be the key to finding Lockhart. But Stuart MacDonnell had spent a great deal of time in the treacherous Jack Murray’s company. And, as Stuart rarely spoke more than a few sentences each day, the coachman had made free with the whisky and blethered on more than he should in Stuart’s presence.

  When Janet had informed Stuart about Murray’s true employer, Stuart had straightened his shoulders and quietly announced, “I may ken somethin’ useful.”

  Apparently, Murray had taken to “explorin’ the city a wee bit” when he’d been off duty. One of the places he often went was to a warehouse in Leith, near the waterfront.

  “I asked why, and he said that’s where he found the real riches.” Stuart had thought it an odd thing to say, so when the man sobered the following day, he’d asked what Murray had meant by it. “He brushed it aside, sir. Said he was sotted and referrin’ to whores. But mayhap that’s where he was meetin’ with Lockhart.”

  Broderick braced the young man’s earnest, solemn face between his hands and gave him a grateful shake. “By God, ye’re the best of the MacDonnells, lad.”

  Janet wore a smug smile. “Didnae I tell ye?”

  It took less than five minutes for Broderick, Campbell, and Rannoch to mount up. Munro insisted on coming, too. The weather was foul, dark had fallen an hour past, and the constable talked of Dutch shipping schedules for the entire ride north.

  Broderick cared for none of it. When pain was everything, it was nothing at all. And this pain—the very thought of losing her—was pure anguish like he’d never known. It had a sound. A vibration. It echoed in his skin.

  By the time they neared the waterfront, the vibration had reached a numbing pitch. He would do whatever was necessary. Torture Lockhart. Let Lockhart torture him. It didn’t matter.

  Nothing mattered but her.

  A row of warehouses loomed ahead. Which one could it be? There were at least five near the water. Four of them were unsecured by more than locks on the doors. The fifth was routinely used by a fellow whisky runner—one without a license but a great belief in securing his goods. Lockhart wouldn’t find sanctuary there.

  Which left four possibilities. “We must each take one,” he said. Rannoch and Campbell grunted their agreement.

  Munro protested. “Are ye mad, MacPherson? He’ll nae doubt be armed, as will his men be.” The constable sat straighter and wiped his damp whiskers with an agitated hand. “We’re better off bein’ patient, searchin’ for signs of occupancy first. Mayhap—”

  “We dinnae have time,” Broderick said softly. “She doesnae have time.”

  “If one of us finds Lockhart and dies, then what?”

  “Then, we’re down a man. And the rest will ken where to go.”

  “Use yer head! Bluidy hell, I ken she’s yer wife, but we willnae find her if we cannae reason. If we dinnae plan.”

  Oddly enough, Broderick’s numbness had sunk in deep and generated a strange calm. He listened to Munro. Munro made sense. “What do ye have in mind?”

  “We’ll split up, as ye say. But each of us will take a different building and circle round the outside to look for signs of occupation. Bottles and rubbish piled near doors. Signs of horses and lanterns, laundry or beds.”

  Broderick breathed out. His breath was white, he noted. It was damned near freezing, the ground turning slick beneath his mount’s feet. He didn’t feel cold but, rather, warm, as if a blanket covered him. “Done. Each of us will scout the grounds of the four likely warehouses. Then, we’ll meet at the corner of Constitution and Bernard. Nae more than a quarter-hour, ye ken?”

  They all nodded. Munro looked impressed.

  Twenty minutes later, they all convened as planned. “Anythin’?” Broderick queried.

  All three men shook their heads.

  He uttered a foul curse. There’d been no signs of anything apart from darkness and frost. “Could it have been a different spot? One closer to the docks?”

  Munro answered first. “The ships leavin’ for Amsterdam dock on opposite ends of the port. ’Twould take us all night to search both places.”

  “We could start with the nearest one,” Rannoch suggested.

  “Is he more likely to choose one over the other?” asked Campbell.

  “I dinnae ken,” answered Munro. “He’s leavin’ for Amsterdam. ’Tis the only place he has resources to draw upon. That’s what Sabella said. Er, Miss Lockhart, that is.”

  Rannoch and Campbell slanted the older man a wry look. Broderick didn’t give two shites if Munro fancied the young woman. What he cared about was finding Kate.

  Something tickled the back of his mind. Amsterdam was in … Holland. “Munro, are both ships bound directly for Amsterdam?”

  The sergeant scowled. “One is. The other docks in Newcastle first.”

  That spoon’s straight from Holland with no stops in between.

  “We’ll start there, then.”

  They found Lockhart in a warehouse on the west side of the port, roughly a mile from where they’d started. The splash of waves could be heard in the distance. The air smelled of fish and refuse.

  And the sign above the small brick warehouse’s door read, “McKenzie Imports & Fine Silver Goods.”

  “Ah,” breathed Broderick. “The spoons.”

  Campbell gripped Broderick’s nape as their da often did. “Rannoch and I will take the back. Munro should take the south entrance. Ye should take the north. I’ve a notion he’s anticipated yer arrival.”

  “Why?”

  Campbell nodded toward a lit lantern placed beside a familiar coach.

  “Doesnae matter. He’ll tell me where she is. If he kills me, ye must promise ye’ll find her.”

  “God, brother—”

  “I’ll have yer word. You as well, Rannoch.”

  Both men vowed they would find Kate should Broderick fall. Then, they each took their positions and slipped inside the building as silently as a shadow. Broderick’s vision worsened in the dark, but the warehouse was half the size of others he’d used—perhaps fifty feet long by thirty deep. Windows lined the top story, which allowed faint moonlight to slant down upon stacks of crates and long shelves.

  Broderick picked his way past a worktable littered with packing straw and barrel staves. When he saw a shadow move in his peripheral vision, he swung around to find Rannoch creeping between two tall shelves. Broderick gave him a questioning look, and Rannoch shook his head.

  They continued to search the building until it became clear Lockhart was nowhere on the ground floor. That left only a series of offices on a mezzanine level above. Broderick took the lead.

  Lockhart was behind the second door he tried.

  “My, my,” the blackguard sneered. “Punctuality is not your strongest suit, is it? Or perhaps it’s cleverness that’s lacking.” He sa
t on a stool behind a desk. When he lit a lantern, Broderick saw he wasn’t alone.

  “Cecilia. Ye dinnae have to go with him, lass.”

  She looked as bonnie as ever. As sad and broken as ever. “I made my choice,” she replied. “I chose him.”

  Nodding, Broderick held up his hands. “What will it take, Lockhart? What must I do?”

  A gruesome grin appeared. “Suffer. Beg. Oh!” Green eyes flared as he leaned forward. “Weep. I should love to see it. Does an eye still shed tears after it’s gone? I must admit to a certain curiosity.”

  “Ye have Cecilia by yer side. She’s loyal to you.”

  “Aye. She’s mine. But we’ve had an arduous task in restoring our affections. Haven’t we, dear?”

  Cecilia’s lashes fluttered oddly. “Aye,” she breathed.

  Distantly, Broderick noted the sounds of fighting—MacPherson grunts and fists, pained cries from the poor, wee victims of said fists.

  “Just tell me what I must do,” he said, stepping further into the room. “Give me the price, and I’ll gladly pay it.”

  “You know, in some places, thieves are punished by removing their hand.”

  Broderick raised his arm. “Take it. If ye tell me where she is, ye can take it now.”

  “Oh, but you haven’t merely stolen a loaf of bread.” Leaf-green eyes went colder. Colder. Ice. “You were inside her. The violation was absolute.”

  The calm that had been keeping Broderick sane cracked. Pain intruded through the fissure, spiking above the numbness. Lockhart had no intention of telling him anything. The man would spend his last breath taunting Broderick. Punishing Broderick.

  “I see you’ve realized your conundrum,” the bastard said. “Kill me, and she dies. Don’t kill me, and there’s the slightest chance I’ll tell ye where to find her. But will it be in time? Now, there’s the thorny bit. Perhaps she’s dead already, in which case, this conversation is naught but a delightful diversion on a wintry eve.”

  Behind him, he felt his brothers arrive, flanking him like a wall. A faint, coppery smell came through the door. MacPhersons were not to be trifled with.

  “What do ye need, brother?” Campbell asked.

  “Nothin’ yet. He has a pistol trained on me.”

  Lockhart grinned and raised his hand above the desk. “I wondered if you’d noticed.”

  “Ye’ve only one shot.”

  “One is all I require. Ask Alexander about that.”

  More sounds from the open door. Shuffling and a pained groan. “Och, cease wailin’ like a wee bairn, ye worthless traitor.” Munro dragged a bloodied Jack Murray by his collar and shoved him forward. “Tell MacPherson what ye told me. Go on!”

  The coachman wiped his bloody nose with his wrist. “She isnae here.”

  “Where, then?”

  “Another warehouse. I dinnae ken which one. I only helped with the cask.”

  Cold whistled through him, bringing pain as vast as a frozen sea. “What cask?”

  “The one w-we sealed her up in.”

  Broderick faced Lockhart and saw the truth in his eyes. His gloating, triumphant eyes.

  “We spared no expense for your bride, MacPherson. Previously, that cask housed some of the finest whisky in Scotland.” He leaned an elbow on the desk as though holding the gun was wearying. “It’s a wee bit larger than the ones you use, so, provided she doesn’t thrash about too much, I’d say she has about four hours before running out of air.” He made a show of looking at the watch that sat near his left wrist. “Oh. Oh, dear. Well, this is regrettable. It seems eight hours have passed since we sealed her up.” He clicked his tongue. “Punctuality. A virtue without equal.”

  A fissure ruptured. A monster roared. The devil raised a hand to fire. That hand shook and bled. A woman with flaxen hair and rosebud innocence screamed the monster’s name and clawed the devil’s face. The devil cast her off. Pointed his weapon. But never fired.

  Instead, he wore the monster’s blade, which the monster had thrown with beastly force into the devil’s eye.

  The devil fell.

  Too late. Too late. Too bloody late.

  The monster roared again but heard nothing. Saw nothing. Felt nothing but the blackness.

  Still, he must find her. He would always find her, even in the darkest place.

  With savage blows, he turned on the betrayer, demanding to know where they’d hidden his light. The coachman wept pathetically, vomited blood, sobbed that he didn’t know.

  Then came a soft voice. “He doesnae ken, Broderick. Ye can stop now.”

  The monster turned. Focused.

  “He doesnae ken,” she said, the blood of her lover smeared across her pristine cheek. “But I do.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  In a sea of darkness, Kate floated between worlds. One was cold. The other warm. One was quiet. The other a symphony. One promised pain and smelled of burnt wood and heady liquor. The other promised rest and felt soft as down.

  But Kate had never been one to laze about in bed when there was something better to do. And what was better than fighting?

  She was fighting for Broderick, after all. Broderick and all the “wee bairns” they would make together. Would a dozen be too many? She must ask him.

  Stay awake, Katherine Ann Huxley MacPherson. You may sleep when you have his arms around you, and not before.

  Because pain was better than softness. And silence was better than music. And cold would do fine, thank you, for she was far from done.

  No more wallowing.

  With numb fingers that no longer shivered but barely followed her commands, she fumbled with the brooch for the hundredth time, working the torn strip of tartan back through the metal knot and cinching it tight with her teeth. It wasn’t much, but she suspected her tiny prison was sitting in a sea of other casks, and if she wanted Broderick to find her, she must offer him some sort of banner. The tartan was red, so that would help. Of course, she still didn’t see any daylight coming either through the bung or the seams between staves.

  She threaded the tail end of the tartan through the hole before shoving the wadded length as far as it would go. Then, she tried to loosen it from the brooch so she could fasten it to the wood.

  Her fingers refused to comply. She couldn’t see them or feel them, but she thought perhaps they were wet. The brooch slipped. Clanked through the hole. Pinged, metal against metal.

  What did that mean? Confusion turned her head into porridge. What had she been doing?

  The cold was turning warm again. Her eyes were open and closed again. The music was drifting closer again.

  And far in the distance, beyond the dark and the wood, the numbness and the pain, a gull heralded a new day. If only she could stay awake to see it.

  As Broderick entered the warehouse where the exciseman had been killed, he expected to feel dread or grief or fury. Something. But once again, he felt nothing apart from urgency.

  As though she could be saved. Impossible.

  Nevertheless, he couldn’t shake the feeling. He barked orders at Munro and his brothers, telling them to look for signs of oddities. The massive building housed several thousand barrels. His wife was inside one of them, and he would find her.

  They spread out, taking a fast initial sweep of the lengthy, towering rows. None of them noticed anything odd. Outside, gulls had started their loud greetings.

  Broderick closed his eye, bracing a hand on the nearest cask, and prayed he might find her alive. An impossibility. But how could he go on if she were …

  No. His eye flew open. He would not give in. She was here. He must find her.

  Their second and third sweeps likewise yielded no clear anomalies. Lockhart had said the cask he used was slightly bigger than those used by the MacPherson Distillery, so that narrowed down the search to roughly fifteen hundred.

  A fourth sweep had them opening three casks with odd markings. Nothing but whisky.


  Frustration ate at his guts. He couldn’t see well enough in the dark. Finally, in desperation, he went outside to the coach they’d brought with them and took down one of the lanterns.

  Kate liked the light, he recalled. She liked to look at him and kiss his scars.

  For a moment, he reeled beneath an onslaught of pain. Staggering sideways, he caught himself on the loading platform. Must force it down, he thought. Must find Kate.

  Returning inside with the lantern, he performed a fifth sweep and a sixth.

  On the seventh, something glimmered. He wouldn’t have noticed if it weren’t for the lantern. But a wink of metal lying between two casks caught the light just so. When he looked closer, he saw a pattern resembling his wife’s wedding ring. The one that had belonged to his mother.

  The following minutes blurred into a stew of pounding heart, frantic shouting, and desperate calls to his wee, bonnie Kate. He found her cask behind two others. When he saw the strips of MacPherson plaid streaming from the bung—a bung which had been somehow unsealed from the inside, his shouts grew louder. Joyful. She might be alive.

  He and Campbell lifted her down from atop a platform while Rannoch raced to retrieve tools to open the cask. A hammer was all he found.

  A hammer would do.

  Broderick tore into the wood. The metal hoops. Tore the cask apart with hammer and hands until he saw her bonnie brown curls. When he saw her skin was blue, he roared her name. Reached for her. Carefully unfolded her body from its cramped position. Lifted her in his arms and raced for the coach.

  All the while, he kissed her, hoping to feel her breath. She was like ice, but he would make her warm. She was still and silent, but he would hold her until she awakened. He whispered his love and begged her to stay.

  He needed his light to awaken and dance for him.

  But as the coach lurched into motion, his brothers wore grieving expressions.