“Do it, lad,” Padruig growled.
Gair immediately pulled a battered tin bottle from his pocket. He opened it, releasing the pungent odor of whisky.
“Uisge beatha,” one man said in reverence. “Thought I’d never taste fine malt again.”
“And ye won’t now, I wager,” Stuart said.
The man took the flask, drank, and coughed. “You’re right, there. Tastes like me gran’s washing-up water.”
The others laughed but they reached eagerly for the flask in turn. Fiona handed them the food she’d purchased at the tavern for the journey, all of her share. Stuart moved to stop her, but Fiona’s face was set, and he knew he’d only begin an argument.
The mystery of why she carried the clothing was solved. Now to the mystery of how she’d known these men would be here.
“We encountered Black Watch about seven miles to the northeast,” Fiona told them as they ate. “They were heading toward Inverness. Tonight will be a good time to slip out and make your way to Kinloch Hourn. A ship will be there to take ye to Skye.”
“Straight through your brother’s lands,” one man pointed out. “Skirting them, anyway.”
Fiona nodded. “I will keep Broc occupied, and he’ll never notice. I’ll burn down the castle if I have to.”
More laughter. “I believe ye,” the man continued. “Why don’t you come with us, lass? We could use a soft face to light our way.”
Amid nods from the other men, Fiona jerked her thumb at Stuart. “I have to help this one out of trouble first. Will take all my skill, I think.”
“Aye, Stuart Cameron is nothing but trouble,” the man said. “Where’ve ye been, lad? Haven’t seen ye since Culloden. Thought you were dead.”
“I was helping His Majesty discover how many knives can cut into a Highlander before he betrays his fellows.”
Fiona glanced at him, her eyes glittering in the darkness.
“And what is the answer?” the Highlander asked.
Stuart shrugged. “Don’t know. I never let them get to the end. I decided to quit playing and legged it.”
The chuckles came again. Most of the men were happily eating the meager meal, shared exactly between them.
Padruig, who’d been standing guard at the door, ducked inside. “We should not linger.”
“True.” Fiona re-latched her bag. “Any messages for your families, lads?”
They all had something to say, though more than one begged Fiona not to endanger their loved ones by revealing where the men would go.
“Never worry,” Fiona said cheerfully. “I am quite discreet.”
“We thank ye, lady,” the lead Highlander said. “We hate to take your charity, but sometimes a man grows desperate.”
“Not charity,” Stuart broke in. “It’s Christmas.”
“Aye, and that makes us the three wise men,” Gair said. “We come bearing gifts, as I like to say.”
“But you’re about to go see King Herod,” the leader returned. “Broc Macdonald, who once pretended to be a friend.”
“A friend to all of us,” Stuart said. “I think, when he discovered I had designs on his sister, he went a bit mad.” Fiona flushed but did not correct him.
“He was mad before that,” the Highlander said. “I’ve known him all me life. Don’t wish him well from me. My apologies, lass.”
Fiona shook her head. “The times have changed us all. My brother is an arse. I will tell him that.”
Laughter rang out, softened at the last minute. “God bless ye,” another man said. “Happy Christmas.”
“Happy Christmas.” Fiona bathed them all in a warm smile and slid out of the shelter, Stuart holding the blanket for her.
The leader caught hold of Stuart before he could go. “Take care of that one,” he murmured, his breath sharp with Gair’s whisky. “She’s an angel of mercy. But if she’s caught helping men like us …”
“I won’t let her be,” Stuart said with conviction.
He waited until Gair retrieved his empty flask, then followed him out.
Padruig was about to assist Fiona onto her horse, but Stuart waved him off. Padruig ducked aside, taking the bag from Una under her very watchful eye.
Stuart turned Fiona to him, the two of them resting against Piseag’s warm flank. Before she could speak, he tilted her face to his and kissed her.
The kiss took Fiona’s breath away. She’d missed Stuart with every beat of her heart in the long year since she’d seen him last, and his presence now both elated and weakened her. His arms hard on her back kept her upright as his tongue tangled hers, he tasting of whisky and the bracing cold.
But his mouth held heat, his breath scalding her cheek. Fiona dug her fingers into his coat, the rough wool laced with his warmth. Her body ran with fire, need squeezing her, as well as joy that he was here, unhurt, and alive.
She felt the gazes of Padruig, Gair, and Una on them, none of the three ready to politely turn away. Stuart didn’t seem to care. He scooped Fiona up into him, kissing his fill. Piseag remained solidly at her side, as though the mare understood Fiona needed her to prop her up.
A sharp blast of wind made Stuart lift his lips from Fiona’s. He gazed down at her, his blue eyes like pieces of aquamarine. He was Scotland, its sky and bluster, its strength and wildness.
He slowly released her, his breath coming fast. “Are ye well, lass?”
Fiona didn’t know. She never would be, not until Stuart was completely safe.
“Yes,” she whispered.
Stuart traced her cheek. His leather glove was coarse against her skin, but his touch was gentle as could be.
He abruptly stooped down, grasping Fiona’s booted foot to boost her up into the saddle. He lifted Una behind her, while Una gazed over her scarf with all the scorn of a Viking queen.
Stuart caught Piseag’s reins and turned the horse. “Come on,” he said to Gair and Padruig. “We should get ourselves indoors before nightfall.”
The first wisps of snow began to fall as they crossed the last open valley and into the fold of mountain where lay the Macdonald family home.
Fiona eyed the glen with mixed feelings. She’d played here in her happy girlhood, knew sorrow with the deaths of first her mother then her father, and grew frustrated when she realized her brother saw her as a commodity to be married off. A clanswoman could be used to strengthen ties with other clans. Broc hadn’t intended for her to fall for a Cameron, especially one with Jacobite sympathies—Broc believed that being loyal to King Geordie would help him rise in profit and status.
Stuart had said very little to her since his impetuous kiss, resuming the trek through the cold wind. Fiona hadn’t quite recovered, and wasn’t certain she would. The kiss had staggered her, opening up places she’d forced closed.
Her thoughts went back to the last kiss she’d shared with Stuart, September of the previous year, before Teàrlach reached Edinburgh and took it over. They’d had a grand ball at Castle Mòr, Broc’s way of saying he wasn’t afraid. He’d invited both Jacobites and loyalists, as though daring anyone to make trouble. The Camerons had come, Stuart in their lead, and with him had been Mal, Alec, and Will Mackenzie.
Fiona had laughed and danced with them all, knowing in her heart disaster was near. Those supporting Teàrlach were too confident, those opposing too scornful. Their arrogance would clash violently, and she’d been right.
Stuart had swung her out of the Scots dance and into a hall outside the ballroom. He’d leaned her against a wall, his fiery hair loosening from its queue, his body warm in the night.
“Come with me, lass,” he’d whispered. “When all this is over and Scotland ruled by its own king, come home with me. We’ll have a grand celebration, with you as my lady.”
It wasn’t exactly a proposal of marriage but Fiona had known that was what he meant.
They’d kissed, long and passionately, Stuart’s hands on her waist, one coming up to cup her breast. The taste of him had lingered from that day to this, brought to l
ife once more by their kiss outside the shelter.
Fiona hadn’t given him an answer that night. The future had been so uncertain, and she hadn’t wanted to upset Broc.
Stuart had come to her one more time before he’d left to join Teàrlach’s army, and Broc had threatened to kill him.
Ye think I’ll let me sister run off with a bloody Jacobite? What will ye drag her to, a hovel while you hide as a traitor?
’Twill be a damned better fate for her than being forced to marry one of your toadies, Stuart had growled. Have the grace to follow Teàrlach and die like a man for your lands. Let Fiona be laird—she’ll be far better at it than you.
Broc had let out a snarl of fury and drawn his dagger. Fiona, in alarm, had stepped between the two men.
I’m going nowhere, she’d shouted. With either of you!
She hadn’t dared storm from the room, or Broc might have gone at Stuart. Stuart would have defended himself, and blood would have been spilled.
Stuart had rounded on Fiona, his red and green plaid swinging. Come with me, lass, away from this rotten bastard who’ll drag ye into the muck with him.
He’ll drag ye to a Jacobite dunghill, Broc had countered. Go with him and be damned to ye. You’ll both be hanged soon enough.
Behind his bluster, Fiona had seen Broc’s fear, his pain from the death of their parents that time had not erased. Broc worried for Fiona, sure that Teàrlach would lose, and she being with Stuart would doom her. He didn’t want to lose Fiona as well.
Stuart had glared at Fiona, his fury at Broc plain. Behind it, he also had fear—that he’d never see Fiona again.
I can’t, Stuart. Fiona had let her voice go soft. When it’s over, and if you’re alive, you come back to me.
It will be over swiftly, Stuart had promised. In weeks, lass.
In weeks, you’ll be dead, Broc had declared, his head up, his arrogance high.
Stuart had laughed. Then I’ll never have to see you again.
If I do see ye, I’ll kill ye. Broc had pointed his dagger at Stuart, determination in his eyes.
Stuart had laughed again, spun on his heel, and was gone, the sound of his boots ringing on the stones.
Fiona hadn’t worried much, not then. Stuart had been correct—Teàrlach had already been poised to take Edinburgh, and then he’d quickly won at Prestonpans. Stuart would come marching back soon, and Fiona would leave her home to be with him. She imagined that once the Jacobites had the upper hand and Teàrlach’s father was installed as king, Broc would switch sides with blinding rapidity.
But none of that had happened. France’s promised support had vanished in the fickle wind. Teàrlach’s army had eventually been crushed, so many men dying, and for what? For a callow young prince who’d proved he had no idea what he was doing against a force that far outnumbered his.
Now proud Highland men hid in makeshift hideaways, dependent on the charity of Fiona and women like her.
Stuart hadn’t returned to her. She’d read of his capture, knew he’d soon die, and tried to bury the anguish in her heart.
Until she’d glanced up at the inn yesterday afternoon, and beheld him.
This time, she knew, she could never let him go.
Stuart expected, as they approached the castle, that the giant door would open, and a dozen soldiers, egged on by Broc, would pour out and surround them. They’d not even bother arresting Stuart—they’d stab him through immediately, or wait a bit while they built a gallows to hang him. But nothing like that happened.
The castle, as good castles that had survived from the 1400s were wont, squatted on a hill overlooking two valleys. A long road wound to it, the approach visible from the tall windows.
The castle itself was a square tower that rose five floors, with a two-story addition built in the 1600s in front of that. The newer wing held the great hall, where Stuart had danced with Fiona in happier times.
Gray-brown stone made the castle appear to be yet another rock thrusting up through the snow. Stuart saw no light in any window, no sign of habitation.
Perhaps Broc had given up cold drafts and moved to a more solid house in Edinburgh—Stuart couldn’t help hoping. Fiona would take over the castle and liven it up. Stuart always said she’d be better at running the place than Broc.
He glanced at her, but she’d pulled her scarf over her face again, a hood covering her hair. He couldn’t see her in the darkness, couldn’t tell what she thought of bringing Stuart to her home.
Would Broc kill Stuart right away? Or philosophically reflect on how much life had changed both men?
Stuart stifled a laugh. Broc wasn’t the reflecting sort.
No one challenged them as they slogged on. The castle loomed high, and Stuart’s breath quickened as they climbed the steep hill toward it. Were they walking into an ambush? Or would they find an empty and deserted castle?
A gate in the center of the outer wall led, Stuart remembered, to a courtyard and the great hall. The gate was closed, likely bolted for the night.
Fiona nudged Piseag, turning her flank to the gate, which Fiona pounded with her fist.
Stuart squashed his hat down on his head, pulling up the collar of his coat. With any luck, he would still pass for Gair’s lackey. He’d find Padruig’s knife—or convince the man it wasn’t here—and move on to his own house.
After a long wait, Gair moving restlessly, the gate creaked open, and a pale face peered out. “Who’s there?” a hoarse voice asked.
“Marcas?” Fiona sounded astonished. “Why on earth are you answering the door? Where is everyone?”
“Miss Fiona.” The name was exhaled in relief. A thin man with graying red hair pushed open the door, his lined face eerie by the flickering light of his lantern. “They’ve all run off, miss. Well, most have. Terrified they’ll be taken as Jacobites. Or killed by Jacobites.”
“Truly?” Fiona asked in indignation.
Stuart wasn’t very surprised. Broc had never engendered loyalty, the man being so distrusting himself. Stuart wondered, with a qualm, if he’d find the same situation at his home.
“Aye. It’s a sad state of affairs,” Marcas said. “Not long after ye left the last time, they decided they’d had enough, and up and went. Come in—the laird will need to see you.”
Not will want to see you or be happy to see you, but need to. Hmm.
“Then we’ll go to him right away. Tapadh leibh, Marcas.”
She’d merely said thank you, but Marcas peered up at her in worry. “Never speak Erse here, Miss. Ye know the laird doesn’t like us to.”
“Nonsense. Where is he?”
Una had already dismounted, and now Fiona swung her leg over the saddle. Stuart caught her and lifted her to the ground. Fiona glanced at him gratefully and stepped inside the gate, leaving Stuart to handle the horse, as a servant should.
The courtyard was deserted. Even this late, with snow starting, Stuart would expect to see it a hive of activity. Broc was a laird, which meant he was the main landholder in this area. He’d not only have tenants but all the workers who kept the castle running—gamekeeper, farm steward, blacksmith, cooks. Various other servants should be there to make certain the laird and his family had plenty of food and firewood this cold winter’s night.
No one but Marcas, whom Stuart remembered was Broc’s valet, appeared. Marcas ushered them across the silent courtyard. Stuart broke away to take Piseag to a stall inside the walls, quickly stripping off her saddle and bridle, and making sure she had food in her manger.
He caught up to Fiona and party as they entered the new addition of the castle and the empty great hall. His footsteps echoed as they crossed the slates where Fiona had danced with Stuart to the merry tunes of fiddles and the thump of drums.
“Everyone is gone?” Fiona asked.
“All but me and a few others.” Marcas sounded tired. “I tell the laird he should go, to Edinburgh perhaps, or London, but he doesn’t listen. His cousins say the same.”
“Cousi
ns?” Apprehension filled Fiona’s voice.
“Aye. Neilan and Tavin Macdonald have been coming and going some months now. Just yesterday they arrived for Christmas”
“Oh, no.” Fiona turned from Marcas and fled the great hall, hurrying into the dark passageway beyond.
Chapter Six
Fiona hastened through the short corridor that connected the new hall to the old castle, built so the laird would not get wet or too cold traveling from his private chambers to the public area.
She went up another flight of stairs in the old building to the inner hall, which was much smaller than the new one, about twenty feet long and ten wide. The ceiling had been renovated in the last century and now contained dark carved beams that lent some warmth to the gray stones.
Or would lend warmth, if there was any light or heat to the place. A smudge of rushlight glowed at one end of a table, haloing the faces of three men—Broc and next to him, the cousins, Tavin and Neilan, reprobates and parasites. They being here could not bode well.
“Broc?”
At the sound of Fiona’s voice, the man at the head of the table jumped to his feet. He tottered, grabbed a stick next to him, and hobbled forward.
“Fiona?” Relief tinged his voice. “Is it you? I’d given up.”
Fiona grew cautious, but Broc sounded genuinely glad to see her. He stumbled toward her, leaning heavily on the stick, and caught her in an embrace.
“It is a happy Christmas indeed,” he breathed in her ear.
“Cousin Fiona.” Tavin rose from the bench he’d been sitting on and made his way to her. His brother Neilan also rose but remained at the table. “Welcome. How fortunate.”
“Fortunate?” Fiona’s suspicions immediately rose. The last time she’d seen Tavin, he’d been trying to convince her that marrying him and giving him all her money was a grand idea.
“Aye. We’re trying to persuade Broc to take ship for the Americas. Better for him than limping around here. He can start a new life in the colonies.”
“Can he?” Fiona skewered Tavin with a gaze. Tavin was tall and admittedly good-looking, and he thought much of himself. He dressed in the English style—breeches and brocade frock coat that was far out of place in this ancient setting. He wore a wig, white and sleek over his true dark hair.
A Very Highland Holiday Page 19
