“And what happens to Castle Mòr if my brother leaves the country?” Fiona asked as though merely curious.
“Well.” Tavin attempted affability. “We’re the closest male heirs, you know. If you go with Broc, we’ll take good care of it. If you stay …” Tavin took a step closer to her, and Broc had to move out of his way. “The castle is yours, of course. But you’ll need a husband, won’t you?”
One more step, until Fiona could smell the powder on his wig. She heard a rumble, and then Stuart was there, his hands full of Tavin’s coat, hauling the man away from Fiona and to the nearest stone pillar.
Neilan, who was even more of a fop than his brother, his wig decorated with four green silk ribbons, squeaked, and Broc hastened back to Fiona. “See here, you. Unhand him. Fiona, who is this man? I can have him arrested.”
Stuart raised Tavin halfway up the pillar and let him go. Tavin landed on his feet, but his high-heeled shoes turned under him, and he staggered, grabbing for the pillar to hold him up.
Stuart turned around, pulling off his battered hat and throwing it to the ground.
“Feasgar Mhath, Broc Macdonald. How have ye been keeping yourself?”
As had the creaky retainer, Broc cringed as Stuart bade him a good evening in the Scots language. Stuart thought Broc was more upset about hearing his mother tongue than seeing Stuart Cameron returned from the dead. The Macdonald cousins were equally dismayed by the words, but Stuart saw no recognition in their eyes.
“What are …” Broc trailed off and swallowed. “Fiona?”
“’Tis not my doing.” Fiona unwound her scarves, though it was scarcely warmer in here than outdoors. Her face appeared, flushed with cold. “I found him on the way home. Now—it has been a long journey and I am hungry. Is there food? Lights?”
“Everyone has gone,” Broc said. He did not look well, his face pale in the flickering rushlight, and he clutched the stick as though it was all that kept him on his feet. He shot a fearful glance to Padruig and Gair, who’d followed Stuart in. “Deserted me. Only three are left—the gamekeeper, Donia in the kitchen, and Marcas.”
Fiona’s eyes went wide. “Good heavens. Only three people to have the caring of you? Can ye not shift yourself to the kitchen and carve a bit of bread and cheese? I assume Donia is doing the cooking. She was kitchen assistant when I left.”
“Yes, she is carrying on.” Broc’s voice was a near whisper.
“Sit down, man,” Stuart advised. “’Tis clear ye can barely stand. There’s no shame in it. Ye took a hit in battle.”
Broc sank to his high-backed wooden chair—the laird’s chair. All else around the table were benches. Tavin, who’d finally recovered himself and brushed off his coat, smirked at Broc. Tavin hadn’t fought in the war, had likely never picked up a musket in his life.
“What about our tenants?” Fiona asked. “Are they well? Sitting in warm, snug houses, or ones with holes in the roofs?”
“Don’t know. Most have gone. Marcas says many have turned to the cities to find work and won’t be coming back.”
He was a broken man. Stuart again wondered if he’d find his own home like this one. Deserted, empty, all having fled in fear.
“Which is why we should take it over,” Tavin said. “Ye don’t need farms, ye need sheep. Wool fetches a nice price, and sheep don’t fuss over their roofs. Times are changing, Broc. King George beat the Scots idiots who want to live in the dark ages. You picked the right side. Go off to the colonies and leave it to us. You’ll see.”
“This is my home,” Broc said weakly.
“And mine.” Fiona fixed Tavin with her steely gaze. “Make yourself useful, you two. Go down to the kitchens and see what’s to eat.”
“Ha,” Tavin said. “We’re not lackeys.”
“Very well. I’ll go.” Fiona tossed down her scarves and turned toward a door that led to the stairs.
Tavin started after her. Stuart gave him a cold stare, and Tavin quickly backed away. Stuart ducked into the stone stairwell Fiona had entered, holding the walls to steady himself as the stairs spiraled downward.
He’d left Padruig and Gair in the hall, but he did not fear for them. With any luck they’d terrify Tavin and his brother into disappearing into the night.
Stuart caught up with Fiona in a passage that connected storage rooms to the kitchen.
“Are ye all right, lass?” he asked in a low voice.
“They’re leeches,” she said furiously. “Sucking us dry.”
“I see that. Family can be hell.” Stuart cupped her shoulders. “It’s been a long ride, and ye’ve done much.” He brushed a finger over her smooth cheek. “Your compassion astonishes me.”
Fiona shrugged, but he saw a flicker of darkness in her eyes. “I can’t not help Highlanders who are trying to survive. They fought so bravely, while my cousins sit on their cushions, eat sweetmeats, and tend to their wigs.”
Stuart flashed her a grin. “Ye have hidden depths.”
“They need to stay hidden, don’t they? Or I’ll be arrested and those lads hunted down.”
“Aye, as you say. How many others have ye helped while I sat on my … cushion … in prison?”
“I don’t know. Dozens.”
“How do ye find them? If you’ll let me ask? How did those lads come to hide in the rocks near Càrn Eige?”
“They were sent word.” Fiona kept her voice quiet, still wary of being overheard. “And I received word that they were there. No one pays much attention to what women get up to. It’s wives and sisters and mothers all over the Highlands who find the men and make sure they’re fed, clothed, and provided a path to safety. Supplies are left by those who can obtain them at places like the inn where you found me. I and a few others coordinate it.”
Stuart lightly caressed her shoulders. “They are correct—you are an angel of mercy.”
Fiona’s face softened, and she rested her hands on his chest. “If I’d known you were in prison, I’d have tried to find out where and have you released. I’m so sorry.”
Stuart stared down at her in amazement. “If ye’d poked around, ye might have been arrested, or … King Geordie’s soldiers got up to terrible things. I’m glad ye didn’t know. But it’s all right now.”
“Is it?” Fiona’s eyes sparkled with tears. “I’ve always thought of my home as a refuge, even with the arguments I have with Broc. Now it’s too sad. Broc …”
“Aye, he’s not well. He needs to be somewhere warm where he can heal.”
She stiffened. “Not Antigua. I’m not letting Tavin send him off to the colonies.”
“I meant warm and snug, not hot and malarial.”
“Oh. Then what…?”
Stuart forestalled her words by tilting her face up and kissing her. He couldn’t resist with her standing so close, she shrugging off her sacrifices to assist defeated men, never mind the grave danger to herself.
He got lost in the kiss, Fiona rising to him, her arms going around his neck. Fiona held on, her body flowing to his, her lips parting. Stuart kissed her leisurely, tasting her, letting the wanting he’d bottled up surge through him.
Fiona gave and gave of herself, assuming a brisk air to keep others from wounding her. So few gave to her.
But Stuart was here for her now. Coming to this castle and seeing Broc Macdonald had revealed to him exactly what he needed to do.
He eased away from the kiss, tracing her lower lip with a gentle thumb.
Fiona drew in a breath. Stuart expected her to berate him, but she only met his gaze with a steady one, opening herself to him.
He read Fiona’s hurts and fears over the last year as she’d watched Scotsmen and Scotswomen become intoxicated and then destroyed by Prince Teàrlach’s cause, saw her brother come home wounded, his spirits ebbing.
She’d also believed she’d lost Stuart—he saw the sharp devastation his disappearance had caused. He pulled Fiona close, burying his face in the curve of her neck.
“Never again,” he
whispered. “We’ll never be parted again.”
Fiona’s relieved sigh made his heart sing. Her arms came around him, enclosing him, shielding him. Stuart had missed her with a mad intensity.
After a long time, he lifted away. “That is, unless ye want to see the back of me.”
He kept his words light, but he waited in trepidation for Fiona to agree.
Fiona touched his face, running her fingertips over his unshaved whiskers. She laughed softly, dissolving his fears. “’Tis the front of you I like seeing.” She sent him an arch look and took his hand. “Though the back of ye can look well too. Now, I am truly hungry. Shall we feast?”
They did not find much in the larder, but even the meager pickings of bannocks and drippings, slices of cold mutton, and a few wilted greens seemed a feast after the long day of travel.
Donia, the cook’s assistant, had taken over and was not happy about it. “I want to go live with me mum,” she said. “But I hate to leave the master. He’s all in, the poor love.”
Fiona had never heard her brother called a “poor love.” Broc had always been arrogant and commanding, even after his injury, but tonight, she’d found him a pathetic wreck.
Una, who’d entered the kitchen after taking Fiona’s things to her room, began assisting Donia without a word.
“We’ll feed him up,” Fiona promised. She took the tray that Donia had piled high with food and crockery, but Stuart immediately relieved her of it.
“You’re good to stay, Donia,” Stuart said. “I’m thinking the others will return when the countryside is calmer. The cities are full of smoke and hardship, no place to raise a family.”
“I tried to tell them.” Donia’s eyes filled. “I hope you’re right, sir.”
“I am.” Stuart strode from the kitchen with all the confidence Fiona remembered. If he said a thing would happen, it would.
Stuart led the way up the stairs, carrying the heavy tray as though it weighed nothing. When they reentered the hall, Gair was busy trying to interest the two cousins in purchasing a silver snuffbox in pristine condition. Fiona did not want to know where he’d obtained it. Possibly a perfectly legal transaction, but then, this was Gair.
Broc’s eyes brightened when the tray landed on the table and Stuart began handing out dishes like a trained servant. Tavin and Neilan hadn’t quite worked out yet who he was.
“Thank you, sister,” Broc said. “I could use some grub.”
“Not too much,” Tavin said quickly. “You’re weak. Broth is better for a man in your condition.”
“Bollocks.” Stuart plunked a good portion of the mutton and bannocks onto a plate and slid it in front of Broc. “He needs feeding up. Have you been starving the man?”
Broc lifted his knife and started sawing at the mutton, using the tip to shovel the meat into his mouth. “Been a long time since I had a full meal.”
Fiona turned her glare to her cousins, but spoke to Broc, “Well, you needn’t worry any more about that. I’ve come to look after you.”
“As you should.” Broc’s automatic reply made him sound like his old self, the high-handed laird certain Fiona should obey his every command. She’d never understood why he’d assume she’d listen.
Stuart dished out a plate for Fiona and himself and also for Gair and Padruig, who had no qualms about joining them at the table. Neilan continued to gaze covetously at the snuffbox. Neither cousin noticed Stuart wasn’t serving them until Stuart sat down and began eating.
“Steady on, man,” Tavin said. When Stuart ignored him, Tavin let out a growl and reached for the food—what was left of it. He took as much as he could for himself and shoved the mostly empty platters toward Neilan.
Stuart had found a carafe of whisky in the kitchen and now poured a dollop for everyone at the table except Tavin and Neilan.
They ate in silence for a time, during which Padruig shot a hard look at Stuart. Fiona wondered why Padruig wanted the sgian dubh he sought, and why he thought it would be here. He’d claimed Broc had taken things from Culloden Moor—Broc had gone to observe even if his wound had precluded him from fighting—but so might have many a man in the king’s army.
“Sister,” Broc said after he’d eaten his fill and drunk a little of the whisky. “I’m glad you are home.”
“I am happy as well,” Fiona said cautiously. It was a rare day Broc didn’t follow a kind word with a demand.
“Tavin is right that I should go away from here. I doubt I’ll ever have an heir.” Broc had not married. The lady he’d set his eyes on had chosen another, and he’d nursed resentment and wounded pride in the five years since. “If you marry Tavin, you can both live here, and you’ll bear the Macdonald heir.”
Broc spoke woodenly, as though the speech was rehearsed. Fiona could guess who’d coached him.
She turned a sweet smile on Tavin who was trying to persuade Gair to hand him the whisky. Gair would begin to and then stop and pour more for himself or Padruig.
“No, thank you, Tavin,” Fiona said clearly. “I will not marry you.”
Tavin gave her a sour glance. “You might not have a choice, cousin. Broc won’t sire any sons, thanks to his injury. You are his only hope. I am the logical man for you to marry. Neilan is the younger—he’ll run our lands, while I take over here.”
“Won’t sire any sons?” Stuart’s large rumble interrupted. “He was shot in the leg, not the balls. He’ll sire sons just fine.”
Broc’s face went crimson. “Dinnae mock me, sir.”
“Not mocking. ’Tis a fact. What have these idiots been filling your head with?”
“They talk a lot of sense,” Broc said, though Fiona glimpsed a silent plea in his green eyes. “I won’t be able to be laird much longer. A stronger man should take over.”
“I see I came home just in time,” Fiona began, but Stuart held up his hand.
“I crave a boon, Macdonald,” Stuart said.
Broc flicked his tired gaze to him. “What?” He took a large sip of whisky, like a thirsty man who’d just found water.
“I’m searching for a sgian dubh. One lost on Culloden Moor. Do ye have such a thing? If ye can find it for me, I promise I’ll rid ye of your unwanted guests and restore ye to your power.”
Chapter Seven
Broc frowned, more bewildered than interested. “A sgian dubh—?”
Padruig spoke the first words he’d uttered since they’d arrived. “Plain hilt. Crest of MacNab on it.”
“I heard ye were light-fingered on that battlefield, Macdonald,” Gair added. “Arrived to watch the slaughter and then retrieved weapons and things. Stashing them to bring home with ye.”
Broc blinked. “Confiscating. They were the weapons of a fallen enemy and had to be secured.”
Gair took a noisy sip of whisky. “Where did ye secure them to?”
“My strongroom. Until they’re wanted. They’ll be melted down, I think.”
Padruig’s silence was far more unnerving than Gair’s snort. Stuart decided he’d better interrupt.
“It’s one knife among many,” Stuart said. “King Geordie will never miss it.”
“They’re not mine to give away—”
“They weren’t yours t’ take,” Padruig said in his firm voice.
“Did ye hear my terms, Broc?” Stuart asked. “The sgian dubh, and your cousins vanish into the smoke and leave ye be. You are laird, you’ll recover, find a bonny lass to marry ye, and have a score of bairns. These lummoxes have filled your head with tales.”
“Now, look here—” Tavin began.
“God’s balls, but ye sound like a Sassenach,” Stuart growled. “Why don’t ye take yourselves to England and have done?”
“We are loyal to England—to Britain.” Tavin spoke as though he explained to a child. “We have land here, that we will keep arable or for sheep, and pay taxes we owe. In return, His Majesty leaves us alone. That’s the sensible road to take these days. No popping white cockades on bonnets and believing the Stewart
kings will rise again.”
“Land, aye.” Stuart nodded. He finished up his bannocks, which were crumbly and oat-y as he liked them. “But it’s a lawless time. Ye never know what will happen to your lands if ye leave them for too long.”
“That is why Neilan will go home and tend the estate,” Tavin said patiently. “While I stay here and help Broc.”
“Should go soon, the pair of ye,” Stuart said. “I happen to know quite a few Highlanders not happy with those who turned on them. Ye never see them, but they’re about. Wouldn’t be surprised if ye find your fields burned, your houses taken down brick by brick, your tenants and retainers gone …”
Neilan looked nervous, but Tavin bristled. “Marauders will be arrested, hanged as traitors and looters.”
“If ye can catch them.” Stuart calmly sipped whisky. “I know many men, throughout Scotland, and even England, in fact, who wouldn’t mind stripping Hanoverian sympathizers of all they have.”
“You never would,” Tavin said, though he took on a note of uncertainty. “I’d arrest you.”
“Oh, I won’t go near your lands. Nothing to do with me.” Stuart sent Fiona a wink.
Fiona gazed back at him, her eyes a beautiful green. She had no idea what he was doing, but her smooth face betrayed nothing.
Neilan spoke up. “What do you mean?” The silver snuffbox rested at his elbow, which meant Gair had successfully persuaded him to buy it.
Stuart leaned toward the cousins, enjoying himself. “Have ye never heard tell of the brollachan that did so much damage to the enemy camps during the Uprising? Oh, I beg your pardon, I mean loyalist camps, full of Highlanders happy to bow to King Geordie and pay him taxes.”
“A brollachan?” Tavin scoffed. “Don’t be daft. There is no such thing.”
Neilan nodded, his eyes round. “I remember the tales.”
“It was never a ghost,” Tavin said loudly. “It was one of the Young Pretender’s men playing tricks.”
A Very Highland Holiday Page 20
