Teetering on the slippery pavement, Catrina reached out and steadied herself against the pub’s stone façade.
Wind tore through the holes of her gloves.
Her fingers froze, their tips turning numb on the instant.
Bloody nuisance.
An aunt with half a hand lost to a storm was not going to help Little Fergus. Especially not where his unfinished blanket was concerned, its length of soft blue wool draped over her knitting basket in the parlor. Not to mention the difficulty she’d have making a fist, a fist she so desperately hoped would soon collide with The Christmas Rebel’s jaw. Or nose. Or some other part of him where she could inflict pain.
Pain.
No amount of punches would ever take away the hurt she carried over losing Moira. She could beat to a bloody pulp, the thieving beast who’d ruined her sister, and he’d still have the luxury of living. A fact that was most unfair to Little Fergus and Moira.
Moira.
What was the sweet girl thinking falling for the charms of a highwayman? A highwayman for God’s sake! Of all the ways she could have failed Moira after their parents died, leading her baby sister astray was not a mistake she could have imagined making.
A burst of snow blew down from the hilltop.
Holding on to the front point of her tricorne hat with her free hand, Catrina battled her way to The Snarling Wolf’s front door, unlatched it and entered the pub.
Cheers exploded as she crossed the threshold, the room of ruffians raising their tankards to whatever it was that Old Bruce, the brute who fancied himself their leader, had said.
Men.
Offer them a pint and they flock to your feet in droves. Do the same with news of a soon-to-be-born bairn and they flee like cowards.
Despicable.
She tugged off one glove and let the Half-Sovereign she’d hidden in her palm, unstick from her skin. Nearly a week’s wage, the coin really should be put toward raising her sister’s son but catching Fergus’s reckless father was just as important.
What was it about dangerous men that made women swoon over them? She definitely was not going to make the same mistake Moira had made. Absolutely not. A chase vicar was more to her taste these days. Someone who would give her the tranquility of dull afternoons and even quieter nights as love and lust no longer held a place in her world after she’d witnessed what those damning emotions had done to her sweet sister.
She’d go to her own death having never married if it meant avoiding scandal. Or ending up with one of the louts taking up room in the pub tonight.
Another round of cheers went up for Old Bruce.
Cat shook her head.
Pushing her way through the tavern’s rowdy throng of men, Catrina barely had room to move with the wood benches occupied as they were. Every wayward Highlander in the area must have come out tonight as this crowd had to be the foulest of what Dundaire had to offer. By scores.
She inched forward. The warmth emitting from the crackling flames in the pub’s hearth thawing the frost that had previously stalked her fingers. The heat also thawed her nose, though that wasn’t necessarily a welcomed comfort as the stench of unwashed bodies mixed with the aroma of day-old stew now easily jabbed at her nostrils worse than had the smell of manure floating off the nearby cow field. The stench spiraled all the way to her core.
In protest, her stomach churned.
Shite.
Casting up her supper would win her no favors as Old Bruce was a stubborn man who did not see women as strong equals. Convincing him and his men to allow her to join their plight was going to take a small miracle.
She swallowed and continued toward the front of the pub.
At the head table she slapped down the coin she’d been carrying. “I want in on the hunt.”
Old Bruce lowered his tankard but did not bother to stand. “Well now, lads, look at what we ‘ave here. A lass dressed in breeches.” He gave her wool-covered legs, which were now partly exposed thanks to the hem of her greatcoat having gotten stuck on the splintered edge of the bench, the once over.
A round of hoots echoed through the tavern.
“I’m serious,” Catrina said, eyeing Old Bruce head on. “I want to help catch The Christmas Rebel. This is the second year he’s took to thieving and since you still have not managed to catch him, I believe I am what you need.”
On that, the brute rose. Flexing his thin fingers, he drew nearer and tugged at her curls. “They say ye can tell the true nature of a lass’s soul, by the color of her hair. The deeper the copper, the deeper her wanton desire.”
The crowd roared once again.
She slapped Bruce’s hand away. “I’m the best shot you have. And you know it.” She eyed the scar on his forearm. The scar that remained from her expert aim.
He followed her gaze. “Ye missed me by several lengths.”
“I grazed you on purpose as I don’t believe stealing hares should be a crime punishable by death. Though I would not recommend you try stealing from me again as I cannot promise I will always keep the same view.”
Old Bruce frowned. “Good shot or no, ye are still a woman. And the only way I will allow a woman to ride out with me, especially a Sassenach spitfire such as yerself, is if she’s under me.”
The ruffians cheered.
Catrina ignored the crowd. As well as Bruce’s ridiculous comment. “I heard you lost Angus tonight,” she said. “Which means you are down a man.”
“Aye we are down by one, but Angus is nae dead, merely injured. He was wounded when helping Mr. Murray fight off The Rebel. The bastard ran away with Mrs. Murray’s ruby and pearl necklace. And I already gave Mr. Murray my word that finding the thief willnae be a problem. Which is why I dunnae need the added burden of minding a troublesome female.”
She doubted The Christmas Rebel was fool enough to get caught a second time. “How can you be sure of success this time around? The man has been thieving from some of Dundaire’s most prominent men for nearly a month now—not to mention the thieving he did last year, to the same men, during the same season—and not a one of you have even managed to figure out what he looks like.”
“We dunnae need to know his face. Angus hadnae met the man and still he came close to capturing the beast just an hour ago.”
“Close is not the same as having The Rebel in your hands,” Cat said, quick to point out the difference. “At best, you are a lot of piss-poor drunks who even combined, have proven, are not skilled enough to find our thief.”
Old Bruce glowered at her insult. “Mind yer tongue, woman, for yer mother must be turning in her grave at yer words.”
Just because her mother had been born and raised in Dundaire did not mean she was suited for living in this harsh land. The past eight months had been pure hell on her. Well, maybe not total hell, but Dundaire was not London. Not by far. “I would be an asset to your group of men.”
Old Bruce smirked. “Och, the only way for a woman such as yerself to be a benefit to my horde of lads, is if ye were nae yer mother’s daughter. Now scat before ye sully her good name.”
“You won’t catch The Christmas Rebel without me.” Only she knew the man’s horse was white and that he had one blue eye and one brown one. The details were the last comments Moira had revealed to her, before dying. And since Dundaire’s famed highwayman mainly attacked at twilight, and was very good at keeping his horse hidden, yet close enough to make his escape, The Rebel’s victims were unable to give the horse’s description to the authorities. Even the local newsheet stated such facts only last week. “You are a fool if you don’t take me with you.”
“Dunnae test me, lass, for find him, I will. And I’ll do so by morning because the bastard will be dead by sun-up. Murray took a sword to the beast’s ribs. So, even down a man, I should be able to find The Rebel’s body with little effort. He’s probably lying on the road as we speak.” He paused to rub his long, brown beard. “I dunnae need ye.”
Catrina hated being denied the right
to get justice for her sister and nephew. “Then take me along strictly as a witness. I am even willing to pay for the chance to be there. I will cost you nothing.”
Old Bruce shook his balding head. “No.” He slid the Half-Sovereign back her way. “Now be a good lass and take ye coin and leave. Or I will be forced to take ye over my knee and give that lovely arse of yers a good throttling.”
“Attempt to take me over your knee, and I’ll give you a knee.”
The stomp of the men’s tapping feet shook the small building as they hooted and hollered like riled up animals.
Old Bruce closed the gap between him and Catrina. “Care to repeat yerself, lass?”
“No. But I would not mind showing you.” She kneed him square in the balls, grabbed her coin and was out of the pub before the old bastard had a chance to clutch himself.
She skidded down the road and turned into a dark alley. With her hand at her waist, Catrina doubled over. Tears flowed down her cheeks. This may be a man’s world, but heaven help her, she was going to get justice for Moira and Fergus. Even if it meant going after The Christmas Rebel herself.
Dundaire Abbey
Several miles away from The Snarling Wolf
For the third time within the hour, Niall MacHendrie, Laird of Dundaire, re-read the ledger that confirmed his beloved abbey finally free of debt. Debt he himself had personally worked toward settling. Debt his father hadnae rightfully owed but couldnae prove otherwise. Debt his late father’s supposed friends had hoisted upon him to save their own sorry arses. Debt he….
A cough interrupted his rising anger. Glancing up from the desk, Niall focused on the tall, thin man standing just past the library’s open door. “Yes, Edgar?”
“He’s been found, sir.”
Robert. It amazed him how only three years separated him and his younger brother, yet the eejit acted as if he were a lad of ten rather than a man of twenty. And he’d acted so for two Christmases straight. Thank the Good Lord their mother was no longer alive to witness her son’s fall. Her Catholic heart would have been broken at Robbie’s total disregard for the holiday. “Was he drunk?”
“No,” Edgar answered.
“Alone?”
“Aye.”
Niall leaned back in his chair, the crackle of the hearth’s fire snapping at his ears. “And where, pray tell, is the fool now?”
In a surprising move for the often-bold acting butler, Edgar lowered his gaze. “Mr. Robert has taken to his bed, sir.”
Now that was unexpected. “Here? As in this verra abbey?”
“Aye, sir.”
Robert hadnae been home in almost four weeks. Nor had the insulant prat sent word of his whereabouts during that time, causing Niall more than a fair share of worry. “I suppose, overall, that is a good thing.” He remained seated. While he wanted desperately to run upstairs, hug his fool of a brother and thank the Good Lord for returning the lad home, he wasnae going to give in that easily. He’d made that mistake last year and it served only to have the lad repeat his actions, this year. “Thank ye, Edgar. That will be all.”
“Sir?”
“Yes, Edgar?”
“I fear ye dunnae understand the gravity of the situation.”
A knot twisted in his gut. “Go on.”
“It appears Mr. MacHendrie was involved in an altercation.”
For the love of God. “Was he in the ring again?”
“I fear it is graver than a mere fight.”
Niall rose. “How much graver?”
“I have sent word to fetch the surgeon, though I dunnae believe he’ll make it here in time.”
Niall bounded through the library and up the hall’s main stairs in less time than it took for him to catch his breath. He slammed open the door to Robert’s bedroom and froze.
Blood oozed from his brother’s side.
He dashed to the bed and pushed the sheet against the open wound. “What the bloody hell did ye do, Robbie?”
Robert grabbed Niall’s arm. “I have a confession to make.”
“Nae now.”
“Please, Niall, ye must let me have my say. Ye didnae allow me the chance last year and now ye must hear me out.”
Denying a dying man his last wish, wouldnae be right. “Verra fine. Make yer peace.”
“I am The Christmas Rebel.”
Shock coursed through Niall’s veins. “Yer speaking nonsense, lad.” The loss of blood obviously had his little brother in a state of derangement.
“No. ’Tis true. It took me two years. I chose the Christmas season because that is when those bastards who destroyed…who killed father, carried out their heinous act. They didnae have decency with us. Thus, I had none with them.”
“Aw, Robbie. But have ye never listened to my lectures? Revenge doesnae give a man justice.”
“The items I took were stolen from others. They didnae belong to the bastards who’d confiscated them.”
“That may be, but two wrongs dunnae make a right. Thieving is thieving.”
Robert dug his fingers deeper into Niall’s arm as he took a deep breath. “Ye must return it all for me—to the rightful owners, nae to those bastard bankers—as I dunnae want to die for naught. Ye will find it all—including the ruby and pearl necklace that Father had bought for Mother that last year—in the secret compartment at the bottom of my armoire.”
Their mother had died before she had the chance to wear the jewels, but still, Robbie’s actions werenae without sin. He pulled back the sheet to inspect his brother’s wound. “Who did this to ye?”
“Murray.” Robert moaned as he shifted slightly on the bed. “Promise me ye will confront the bastard and restore our family’s good name.”
He’d kill the man, not just confront him. “A necklace isnae worth yer life, Robbie.”
“To me it was. The necklace was the last on my list. Murray had no right taking it from Da.”
On that, he agreed with Robbie. Murray was the most ruthless of their father’s former partners. Demanding the necklace as partial payment in a blackmail scheme, however, was the least of what the man had stolen from them. Mother’s death was their true loss. The humiliation she’d suffered over the financial ruin had devastated her, broken her to the point she’d lost all will to live. Father dying only months later made their loss even worse.
Blood dripped through Niall’s fingers. He couldnae lose his brother, nae now when he had so much good fortune to share with him. “Sleep, Robbie. Ye need yer strength.”
Robert’s hold on Niall’s arm grew tighter. “Ye have to promise me, Niall. Promise me ye will return it all in my stead. And promise me ye will restore the family name. Murray must be confronted for what he did to Da.”
“Aye.”
“When ye are finished, when all the goods have been returned and ye have the family reputation where it belongs, then and only then, ye must do one more thing for me.”
He’d face the devil himself if he could for Robbie. “Anything.”
Moving slowly, Robert handed him a folded piece of paper. “Take all that is left of my inheritance and deliver it to this address.”
“Why?”
Robert coughed, the corner of his mouth now bearing a drop of blood. A deep rattle rose from his throat. He trembled, his hand going cold and limp.
“Robbie?” Niall slapped his brother’s face, but Robert’s eyes merely looked to the ceiling, the essence of life gone from their stare.
Pain sliced his soul.
Niall gazed at his now dead brother; his heart shattered into a million pieces. He leaned forward and placed his forehead against Robbie’s. “Why, God?” He cried. “Why nae take me instead?”
He stayed at Robbie’s side for what seemed like hours, going over in his head every possible mistake he’d made with the lad. And while he couldnae bring his little brother back to life, he could seek justice for him. Make certain the lad’s name was never associated with The Christmas Rebel. He’d return the missing items to their rightf
ul owners, in secret, then go back and confront each of the men who’d caused his family’s demise, force them to confess the truth of their own thieving ways. He’d worked hard these past years to regain what had been stolen from his father. He’d even gone beyond that and now had more money and more power than had all those thieving bankers put together. More than enough of what was needed to get the justice his family deserved.
Opening his hand, the piece of paper Robbie had slipped him, unfolded. It bore no name, only an address: Rose Cottage, Wolf Lane.
The address was unfamiliar to him, but that came as no surprise as not all land within Dundaire remained his. Especially parcels in the wilds of Dundaire, as those lots had been sold off years ago, by his grandfather. He’d have to check the ledgers to see where Rose Cottage stood, but he surmised it was somewhere in that vicinity as Robbie had often traipsed off into those parts, his actions led by his heart rather than his head. And while he could think of several possible reasons why his brother would want his inheritance delivered to the cottage, Niall would have preferred not being left to guess that reason. But this was the hand Fate had dealt him. And fulfilling Robbie’s dying wish was a must.
Chapter 1
Dundaire Abbey
Christmas Eve, one year later…
Niall trudged into the drawing room; the lower half of his body nearly frozen to the bone. Who would have thought returning one small silver spoon could cost him two hours of his life? Certainly not he. The task was specifically saved for last because it was the nearest to Dundaire Abbey, the spoon’s owner being one of Niall’s own tenants. But never in his life would he have taken the aged Mrs. Douglas for a woman who favored waking before dawn solely to sit at her window and sip her tea—slowly—waiting for the sun to rise.
Of course he could have picked the back window by which to slip the spoon through, but by the time he’d discovered Mrs. Douglas’s morning habit, it was too late for him to rise and make his way around the small house, undiscovered. His legs suffered instead. As did his arse, his cheeks still numb from sitting on that blasted bank of snow. His breeches and coat were both sopping wet.
Have Yourself a Merry Little Secret : a Christmas collection of historical romance (Have Yourself a Merry Little... Book 2) Page 68
