A Very Highland Holiday

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  The color of his eyes had reminded Elspeth of Roy Williams. Though it had been over two years since she’d met him at the Lammas Fair, she would never forget his eyes. Or his smile. Or his kiss.

  Or the fact that he’d never returned to Dunkeld. Not on his return trip from Inverness and not since.

  “Even if we hadn’t planned to stop here for the night, we would have to,” Aunt Leah said, looking out the window of the coach. In her late forties, Aunt Leah often seemed a decade younger, both in her appearance and vigor. “I do hope it stops snowing so we can continue tomorrow.”

  Aunt Leah lived in Perth. After her husband had died a year and a half ago, she’d taken to visiting her closest relatives—Elspeth and her father—quite often. She’d also invited Elspeth to accompany her when she traveled, an opportunity for which Elspeth was most grateful as it had allowed her to collect new stories to write down. In Inverness, she’d gathered stories about the Battle of Culloden that had been fought—and lost—in April.

  The coach drew to a halt, and a moment later, the footman opened the door and helped Aunt Leah to the ground. Next, he offered Elspeth assistance.

  The inn, which Elspeth had traveled past several times as she’d journeyed between Dunkeld and Inverness, was three stories and constructed of thick stone. The structure was a few hundred years old and looked it, though some of the windows seemed new.

  Aunt Leah preceded her into the common room as the footman followed with their bags and the coachman took care of their vehicle and horses. “Oh my.” Aunt Leah stopped short just inside. “This is rather…rustic.”

  Straw covered the floors in patches and a group of dogs was sprawled near the massive hearth on the left side of the room. Many of the tables in the common room were occupied, including by a pair of English soldiers, their bright red coats making them impossible to miss. Even so, the atmosphere was boisterous and welcoming, but then Elspeth loved to hear people talk.

  “I’ll go speak to the innkeeper,” Aunt Leah said as she perused the common room with her assessing blue gaze. “Do you want to sit down? I can tell you’re desperate to hear anything of interest.”

  Elspeth smiled and ducked her chin. “You know me too well, Aunt. Thank you.” She went to find a table surrounded by people so that she could listen to all the conversations around her.

  As she sat and removed her hat and gloves, she perused the common room. She faced the wall where the fireplace was located.

  In the corner to the right of the hearth, his back to the wall, sat a solitary man with a hood drawn up over his head. Perhaps he was cold. Elspeth felt bad that he was alone. She was certain he had a story. Everyone had a story.

  Continuing her survey along the back wall where there was a small counter, she saw Aunt Leah speaking with a man who must be the innkeeper. He sported a knit cap stretched atop his head and an impressively bushy beard. As he directed their footman upstairs, Aunt Leah came to join her at the table.

  “Because we stopped and paid to reserve our lodging on our way north, Mr. Pitagowan—rather, Balthazar, as he prefers to be called—made sure to give us a suite of adjoined rooms.” Aunt Leah removed her hat, revealing her glossy dark hair. Her gloves followed, and she deposited her items on the vacant chair where Elspeth had placed hers.

  “How pleasant,” Elspeth said. Aunt Leah preferred to sleep in her own bed and her own chamber whenever possible. A restless sleeper, she snored so loudly that Elspeth could often hear her even from the next room. Her aunt hated disturbing people.

  “I asked for tea,” Aunt Leah continued. “And for dinner to be delivered to our rooms. I’m rather tired. I hope you don’t mind.” She flashed Elspeth an apologetic smile.

  “Not at all.” Elspeth hid her disappointment. She would just have to soak up the atmosphere before they went upstairs. She listened intently to the conversations humming around her. One rose above the others. She wasn’t sure it was due to the volume or the content. The words “flaming sword” drew her instant and rapt attention.

  The man who’d uttered the phrase sat to her left. He shared his small table with a second man, who appeared as captivated by his words as Elspeth. She leaned in their direction as she strained to hear more. Thankfully, they did not speak quietly.

  “Was it a torch?” the other man, a younger fellow but still older than Elspeth, asked.

  “I said it was a sword, did I not?” the first man said crossly. With a shock of bright blond hair, he was perhaps five years older than the other.

  The younger man, who had a hooked nose, waved his hand. “Bah, ye weren’t there. How could ye know?”

  The blond man, who was about thirty, narrowed his eyes at the other. “I heard it from Russell.”

  “He heard it too.” A man at the next table over—between the two men and the solitary man in the corner—gestured to his tablemate. “His brother fought at Culloden.” He looked to the man whose face had turned gray. “Didna ye say he saw a sword that burst inta bright orange flame?”

  Elspeth didn’t bother trying to hide her interest any longer. In fact, half the common room now seemed riveted to the discussion.

  “What’s this about a flaming sword?” Aunt Leah asked only to Elspeth as she leaned across the table.

  Elspeth set her jaw with determination. “I don’t know yet, but I’m going to find out.”

  “Oh, here’s the tea.” Aunt Leah thanked the serving maid who set the pot and cups on the table.

  “We don’t get many requests for tea,” the young woman said, her bright red curls bouncing against her temples.

  “I can’t imagine you do, dear,” Aunt Leah murmured.

  Elspeth ignored the rest of their conversation as she focused on the far more interesting one going on to her left.

  One of the English soldiers stood and glowered at the men who were discussing the sword. “Eh now, enough talk of Culloden!”

  The blond man at the table next to Elspeth curled his lip. “Ye can’t keep us from talking.”

  “I most certainly can. On your feet, Highlander!”

  The common room fell silent as fear raced across the blond man’s features. Elspeth’s gut clenched.

  The hooded man in the corner leapt to his feet and weaved through the tables to where the soldier stood. “Now then, Captain, I don’t think these men mean any harm. They’re drinking ale and sharing fantastical stories. Surely there’s no trouble in that?”

  “Sedition is a crime,” the captain said, glaring at the men who remained seated.

  “It is indeed,” the hooded man agreed in a smooth, placating tone. “But they aren’t doing that. Are you?” He turned his head to look at the men, and the movement caused the hood to fall.

  Elspeth’s eyes nearly popped out. Though the man’s loose sable hair was shorter, probably just long enough to be tied back, there was no mistaking his blue gaze. It was him. Roy Bloody Williams.

  The men shook their heads.

  “We didn’t fight,” the blond man said, his eyes wide and fixed on the soldiers.

  “See?” Williams said. “Let us all return to our ale.”

  Ale? Elspeth wanted to hear about the flaming sword. No, she wanted to interrogate Mr. Williams as to why he’d never returned to Dunkeld. She’d thought the kisses they’d shared meant something.

  She covertly watched him as he sat back down in the corner. He didn’t pull the hood back up over his head. His gaze swept the room and didn’t even pause on Elspeth. There was no look of recognition, no hesitation, nothing.

  Elspeth sucked in a breath and stirred sugar into her tea before taking a sip. She glowered at the liquid before setting the cup back onto the saucer.

  “Is something amiss, Elspeth?” Aunt Leah asked.

  “The man in the corner is Mr. Williams,” she said quietly with barely contained anger—and hurt.

  Aunt Leah’s gaze strayed toward him before snapping back to Elspeth. “That Mr. Williams?”

  Elspeth had told her aunt about him,
in part because Aunt Leah kept questioning when Elspeth might consider marriage. It wasn’t that Elspeth wasn’t considering that she should wed, it was that she fancied she’d already met the man she wanted to. Which was foolish since they’d spent only a matter of hours in each other’s company. It hadn’t felt foolish, however. Not until today.

  Clearly, she was the only one who’d been affected by their time together. He didn’t even appear to remember her.

  “Yes, him,” Elspeth said tightly. She sat up straighter and took a deep breath. “Ignore him. I shall. I have much more important things to attend to.”

  Aunt Leah arched a dark brow. “Such as?” She shot another glance toward Williams in the corner.

  “Such as learning everything I can about this flaming sword that was seen at Culloden.”

  “You don’t think it’s real?” Aunt Leah’s blue eyes narrowed slightly as her brow creased with confusion. “I know you like stories, but it’s absurd.”

  “No, I don’t think it’s real.” Probably. “But it’s reminiscent of one of the Thirteen Treasures of Britain.” Which were also likely not real. This flaming sword sounded like the one Roy Williams had told her about—Lann Dhearg. What did he think of these stories and rumors flying around the common room? “You know I can’t turn my back on a story. It doesn’t have to be true.”

  Aunt Leah smiled warmly. “Sounds like you have work to do.” She glanced around. “Should we invite someone to join us?”

  “Perhaps. But first…” Elspeth turned to the two men seated at the table next to theirs. “Excuse me, might I trouble you to tell me what you specifically heard about this flaming sword at Culloden? I record oral stories, and this sounds like an amazing tale.”

  The blond man eyed the soldiers apprehensively, then scooted his chair closer to Elspeth’s. “My cousin was there. He told me all about it. Ye want to write it down?”

  “I would. What can you tell me? Starting with your name, so I can give you credit for the information.”

  The man flicked another guarded glance toward the soldiers. He spoke in a low voice. “I don’t think I want to give ye my name. But ye could just call me…George.” That he used the name of the king wasn’t lost on Elspeth. “My cousin fought for the Jacobites. He was injured in the battle, but he saw a man wielding a sword that lit with an orange flame.”

  Elspeth leaned toward the man. “Was it a fellow Jacobite?” She understood their cause and felt sorry for their devastating loss, but her father had been careful not to align himself with them. Even so, he’d helped more than a few wounded Jacobites as they’d passed through Dunkeld—secretly, of course.

  George sent another furtive look toward the soldiers. “Yes.” The word was barely audible.

  A Jacobite had wielded Lann Dhearg. Elspeth couldn’t help but look briefly toward Williams. “Do you know what happened to the man with the sword?”

  He shook his head. “As far as I know, no one has seen it since the battle.”

  It would be easy to think George’s cousin had seen something that wasn’t real in the heat of battle. But that other man’s brother had seen it too. Elspeth looked toward the table where the other pair of men had been sitting, but they were gone. Had they left?

  She frowned, wishing she’d had the chance to talk to the brother. As it was, this was barely a story. That didn’t mean she couldn’t investigate further.

  “Thank you.” She smiled at George. “If you hear of anything else, I do hope you’ll let me know. I’d love to record the story. I’ve been writing down many recollections from Culloden. I’ll add this one.”

  The man inclined his head toward her. “That’s well done of ye, miss.”

  Elspeth gave him a single nod, then returned her attention to her aunt. “Well, now I have something to research.”

  “So it would seem. What a fantastical tale.” Aunt Leah blinked at her. “You still don’t think it’s real, do you?”

  “No. The myth likely started with one person fabricating the tale.” That was the way stories originated. Someone exaggerated or made something up outright, such as with the thirteen treasures or with King Arthur, who was often tied to them. Arthur probably existed, or someone like him. Had he pulled a sword from a stone? That hardly seemed possible. Tracing those stories to a single source was impossible, especially after more than a thousand years since Arthur had purportedly lived in the sixth century.

  Aunt Leah picked up her cup. “Can you find that person? That seems unlikely.” She sipped her tea.

  “It is, but since the event happened recently, I may get lucky.” She waggled her brows at Aunt Leah, who laughed softly.

  “If anyone can find the source, it’s you.”

  Unless it really was multiple sources. So far, two different parties had attested to the same rumor. The story either came from that single source exaggerating or outright fabricating the sword, or those multiple parties really had seen a flaming sword. Or something that looked like a flaming sword. What could that be?

  Elspeth’s mind worked as they finished their tea. She nearly forgot about Mr. Williams.

  No, that wasn’t true. She’d just latched on to the distraction that kept her from thinking about him.

  “Are you ready to go upstairs?” Aunt Leah asked.

  “Yes.” Elspeth wasn’t really, but perhaps she’d steal back down later after Aunt Leah fell asleep. As she rose, hat and gloves in hand, she looked toward Mr. Williams. His gaze met hers, and for a moment, she felt an invisible connection stretch between them. The light of recognition was still absent in his expression, but there was something else. Briefly, she wondered if she’d been wrong, that he wasn’t really Williams. But no, she wasn’t wrong—she’d never forget his eyes.

  What she wanted to know was if he truly didn’t recognize her or he was pretending not to. That was the mystery—one she planned to solve.

  Chapter Two

  Tavish Crawford eyed the pair of English soldiers who remained in the common room. He’d been waiting for the right moment to approach them. After watching them drink an excessive amount of ale over the past few hours, the time was near.

  The innkeeper’s red-haired daughter, Carrie, as she’d introduced herself hours earlier, bustled to his table. “Finished?”

  “I am, thank you. The stew was delicious.” Tavish gestured to his empty tankard. “Another ale, if you please.”

  “Finally. Ye’re the slowest drinker in the entire inn. Can’t believe it given yer size.” She eyed him with stark interest. “Ye talk like ye’re a lord or summat. Are ye?”

  Tavish gave her a bland smile. He was many things. “I’m just John MacLean, I’m afraid.” Tonight. He couldn’t help but think of Elspeth Marshall and how he was someone else to her. He’d seen the confusion and then anger in her expression when he’d failed to acknowledge her.

  But he couldn’t. Besides, she was better off not knowing him—as Roy Williams, John MacLean, or Tavish Crawford.

  “Where are ye from?” Carrie asked as she scooped up his trencher and empty mug. “Not the Highlands.”

  “Near Glasgow.”

  “It’s not England, but it’d be an improvement,” she said with a sigh. “I’ll fetch ye another ale.” Then she turned and swept back toward the kitchen.

  As she passed the soldiers, they asked for more ale. It was time.

  Tavish stood and made his way to their table. “’Evening. I hope you don’t mind that I stepped in earlier. I probably should have let you pummel them.” He shook his head with faux regret. “There’s no place for talk of Culloden unless it’s to remind them how badly they lost.” Tavish softened his brogue so that he almost sounded English.

  “Damn right,” the captain who’d made the earlier threat said with a sharp nod. His small dark eyes surveyed Tavish. “Did you fight?”

  “I’m not a soldier.” Not officially. “What brings you men to the middle of nowhere?”

  “On our way home on leave,” the captain responded
. “I’m Fowler. This is Sergeant Boyd.”

  “Not sure we’ll make it home for Christmas, but we’re going to try our damnedest,” Boyd said as Carrie delivered their ale. “We’re fortunate to be able to go home since you heathens don’t even celebrate the season.” He snorted.

  Fowler nodded in agreement. “We’ll make it. Unless we find any fugitives.”

  “You’re on the hunt for Jacobites?” Tavish asked casually before taking a sip of ale.

  Boyd spat on the floor. “Bloody criminals. We’ll catch every last one and see ’em hang.”

  “Or in jail,” Fowler said with more restraint. But then his lip curled and a feral gleam blistered his gaze.

  Tavish tensed. He hoped they could leave tomorrow. He didn’t need them hanging about, not when he was also on the hunt for Jacobites. But for a wholly different purpose. He didn’t think there was anyone in Calvine who needed his help, but he was ever mindful and would offer assistance where it was wanted.

  “You’re looking for someone in particular, then?” Tavish asked.

  Fowler nodded. “Several someones. Know anyone named McCloud or Williams? Those are the two I’d most like to find. McCloud’s a skinny fellow with black hair and a jagged scar across his brow. Williams is larger—about your size, I’d say—with long hair and a thick beard.”

  “Can’t say I do,” Tavish lied. “But I’ll keep an ear out.” McCloud was a friend and currently in hiding. His injuries had been extensive. Tavish had recovered more quickly—after shaving his beard and lopping his hair off. He was, most likely, the Williams they wanted.

  “There you are.”

  The feminine voice drew all three men to turn their heads. Standing next to the table, her dusky green eyes flashing with ire, was Elspeth Marshall.