One Knight’s Stand Read online

  Mrs. Grace pointed as well, and he nodded, then her faithful companion grasped Elizabeth by the arm and squeezed gently, and said, “Sleep well, dear.” And suddenly she was away, leaving Elizabeth to deal with the innkeeper.

  “So ye’re going tae meet yer groom?” he said, once again tugging at his beard.

  Elizabeth nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “Inverness?”

  “Yes, sir.” The man was entirely too forward; still Elizabeth held her tongue, looking wistfully over her shoulder at Mrs. Grace, who was now conversing quite amenably with “Bess” “o’er there.” It never failed to impress her that Mrs. Grace could so easily get along with anyone—unlike Elizabeth, who hadn’t a good conversational bone in her body. But it really mustn’t be entirely unexpected, when she’d been left to fend for herself for most of her life.

  And anyway it was never on her own behalf that she became nettled; nothing ever got her dander up more than the disaffection of others.

  Elizabeth waited whilst the man searched the myriad of keys on his belt, and then he smiled congenially and led the way into a scullery, where he hollered to a young boy to light the fire in Carrie’s room, and to change the bed sheets. Afterward, he led Elizabeth into another smaller room, then stopped before an old, iron-banded door.

  “So, then, who’s the lucky groom?” he asked as he slid a big black key into the lock. “Is it Douglass?”

  Elizabeth shook her head.

  “Mackintosh?”

  “No sir. I’ll be pledging my…”

  “Ach, now, dinna tell me, it must be MacKinnon!” He shook his head sadly, and said, “Poor bastard.” He jiggled the knob, then opened the door to let her in.

  The room itself was quite cozy, with a small brick fireplace and an adjoining door at the far side of the room. “Is that perhaps another guest room?” she asked, hopefully.

  “Nay,” he said, shaking his head. “Tis my daughter’s closet.”

  “May I use it to store my valise?” She lifted the heavy bag in her hand, only belatedly realizing that he had never once bothered to offer to carry it—not that this itself should bother her overmuch. Elizabeth had long been of the mind that a woman could carry her own bag. It was rather his unhelpful demeanor.

  “Nay,” he said again. “Tis locked. We’ve had some guests snooping of late, and my daughter’s no’ too keen on it. Also,” he said with a lift of his brow. “No baths. Ain’t no one about to draw you any water. And if you want tae sup, ye’ll be more’n welcome in the hall. Mrs. Pitagowan makes a fine stew, and I believe she’s got some frumenty as well.”

  “Frumenty?”

  “Pudding,” he said, “wheat boiled in milk, with cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger, made special for the holiday, all very expensive!”

  “Thank you,” said Elizabeth, and then he was gone.

  Still, she wasn’t alone. She waited patiently for the young man who’d rushed in after them to finish lighting the hearth fire, and then change the bedsheets. After he left as well, Elizabeth closed the door. As weary as she was, she set down her valise in the middle of the room and went to test the bed, considering how hungry she might be—perhaps not enough to brave the randy lot in the tavern. And anyway, she doubted she would see Mrs. Grace again this evening. Her companion was not the sort to dally before bedtime; no doubt she was already making herself comfortable out in the stables—or as comfortable as she was able.

  Suddenly, she leapt up from the bed, curious to explore Carrie’s closet. She jiggled the knob, and, found, much to her delight, and contrary to Mr. Pitagowan’s claims, the door was unlocked. Only one look inside and she gasped over the grizzly display—it was a shrine full of wartime accoutrements: shields, swords, coats, cuffs, spurs, pistols, hats—much of which she suspected was still encrusted with blood. Certainly, the scent of the room was ghastly. And although it wasn’t a small room by most standards, there was little doubt Mrs. Grace would prefer the stables. With a hand to her breast, she closed the door again and, resolved to make it a night—vittles could wait until the morrow, when everyone else was sleeping off hangovers.

  Chapter 2

  Callum MacKinnon was close enough to home now that he could taste the tang of pine in the air. Unfortunately, the carriageway was impassible—vehicles stalled along the roadway, some parked on the embankments, fresh snow piled high against their rutted wheels.

  He frowned at the sight, considering that he might be able to slide through the blockade by abandoning the roadway, but, even eight months later, the area was still crawling with Sassenachs soldiers.

  Bloody hell.

  At this point, neither he nor his horse were particularly enjoying the bite of the wind, and the snow had already dampened his cloak. The last thing he wished to do was to arrive home looking like the walking dead, and scare his sister into pissing her bed.

  And anyway, he was still far enough that, even if he managed to get through the crush, his aching bones might not make it through the night. His wounds were still raw—those on his body, and the one in his heart. Not only was his clan forever divided—some had fought for the Stuart King—he was returning home a traitor, pardoned only so long as he forfeited title and lands.

  Decision made, he grunted his annoyance, although, in truth, he couldn’t blame it on the weather. He was perpetually disgruntled these days, mourning that bright-hearted self he’d lost on a blood-soaked field at Culloden.

  Ach, now, why shouldn’t he be sour as sorrel?

  He had an Englishman to thank for saving his miserable life, and considering that it was that same bloody Englishman who’d put a ball between his father’s eyes, none of it sat well in his gut.

  Bloody rotten bastards.

  Even despite the fact that they’d already surrendered, General Hawley had ordered both Callum and his father executed, then, to make sure it was done, he stood by as one Major James Wolfe had fired the first ball. That his man wasn’t too thrilled to end a life of a prisoner off the battlefield wasn’t much of a comfort to Callum’s father. Young as he was, the major was an excellent marksman, although once Hawley departed, Wolfe put the next two volleys into Callum—one through his shoulder, the other his thigh—then ordered Callum to run. And run, he had, by God. Only now he sometimes wished he too had taken a ball to the head rather than be forced to relive the memory of his father’s twitching corpse and piddled plaid.

  Even now, the heinous memory brought an unmanly sting to Callum’s tired blue eyes, and he vowed to carry the ignoble image to his grave. So far as his brothers were all concerned, all they ever needed to know was that Angus MacKinnon died like a man—unlike his eldest son, who’d scurried away from the specter of death like a rat from a torch.

  As for Wolfe… the sorry bastard…

  If he’d meant for Callum to survive, a shoulder wound would have sufficed. How he’d made it so far as he had without succumbing to fever, Callum might never know. The memory of his final days on the run only resurfaced with a blur. Ever since, he’d spent months convalescing, two of those he couldn’t even recall.

  In the meantime, he had three young brothers and a wee sister waiting at home and, considering that he had very likely been pronounced a traitor to the Crown, he hadn’t dared to apprise anyone he was still alive. Unfortunately, it was long past time to do so.

  Consequently, and once again because of Major Wolfe, he was here on the Yuletide, stopping short of his destination, dawdling like a coward on the eve of a new year.

  God’s teeth, it was enough to sour any man’s mood, and not even the promise of Mrs. Pitagowan’s cranachan managed to lift his spirits.

  With some effort, he slid down from his horse—a borrowed mare he’d have to return as soon as he was able. Wincing over the pain in his leg, ignoring the one in his heart, he handed the reins to a young lad, scarcely older than his brother Lachlan. He recognized the youth as one of Pitagowan’s nephews, a bright haired lad with more freckles than the night had stars.

  “Good
tae see ye, lai—sir,” said the youth, dressed as a proper Sassenach. And yet, despite that they’d gone and outlawed the clans, and forbade them to carry weapons, no one could mistake the boy’s brogue. He was Scots through and through, and Callum knew his father well. The poor soul had fought beside him at Culloden, and died, so he’d been told. His cousin Carrie had since taken to scouring the battlefields for proof of life… or death.

  “Uncle John’ll be pleased tae see ye,” said the lad brightly.

  Callum gave the boy a nod, then fished out a full crown, handing it to him. It was New Year’s Eve after all, the beginning of Hogmanay, and he trusted John to serve him on credit till he could chance to repay him. In the meantime, Little Joe and his brother needed all the help they could get.

  Inside the inn, Pitagowan’s wife had decorated the place in good Scot’s style—festooning the hearth and trim with boughs of holly. She’d also lit a Yule log for the holiday—a hefty block of birch sprinkled with saltpeter to give it that violet hue. The smoke it emitted tickled the back of Callum’s throat, and he’d warrant those men drinking and singing in the puffed up tavern would wake on the morrow with double the ache in their heads.

  Better them, than me, he thought.

  All he wanted for the instant was a good nights’ rest, and nevertheless, he feared, not even that was bound to soothe his soul.

  He found John Pitagowan behind his bar, doing what he liked doing best—combing his thick, white beard. Callum smiled over the all-too familiar sight and shook his head, a barb rising to his tongue. “Too bad you’ve no hair remaining on your head,” he said, with a grin, and Pitagowan’s comb halted midair. His, thick wiry brows collided, and then he slapped a hand to his burly breast.

  “Is it you?”

  Callum nodded, and the old man grinned.

  Pitagowan had been a good friend of his Da’s. During the most difficult of times, it was his father who’d given John Pitagowan the coin to go south and settle in Calvine.

  John pulled the hat from his head, scrunching it, then brought a finger to his crusty old lips. “Call me Balthazar,” he said. “Folks here don’t know me as Pitagowan.”

  “Yes, they do!” said Bess, coming up behind Callum. “Dinna fool yourself into thinking they don’t, husband.” And then she craned her neck back to peer up at Callum. “Ain’t ye a sight for sore eyes, Callum MacKinnon! We thought ye’d gone and swallowed a bullet!”

  “Not me,” Callum said, frowning.

  The twinkle immediately extinguished from Bess Pitagowan’s eyes and she said a little more dourly, “Alas, we heard.” Her hand reached out to squeeze Callum’s forearm. “We were right sorry to hear it, don’t y’ know. My Carrie keeps going up to see what she can find. My brother himself didn’t show up on the rosters, and neither did he come home.” She shook her head sadly. But, then, just as suddenly as it had vanished, her smile returned. “My sweet girl will be so sorry she missed you.”

  Callum raised a brow. Carrie was a lot of things, though she wasn’t particularly sweet, nor was she little anymore. She was a wee bit loud, a wee bit crude, and a wee bit of a tease. One of these days it was going to get her in a lot of trouble. Callum had found himself, on more than one occasion, fending off the flame-haired vixen with the saucer eyes and freckled nose—a trait all the Pitagowans shared.

  “Alas, I’ll be gone come morn,” Callum said. “I was only hoping ye’d have a room to let for the night?”

  “Oh, dear, no,” lamented Bess, “We’ve just rented the last—”

  Pitagowan’s eyes suddenly lit up. “Ho!” he said. “As it so happens to your very lovely bride!”

  “Bride?” said Callum, taken aback.

  “Aye! She’s already here!” announced Pitagowan. “Snapped up the very last room! Come,” he demanded, seizing Callum by the arm, and ushering him quickly through the scullery, as Bess wandered back to her guests.

  Callum hadn’t a moment to set the man straight.

  “She’s a bit like Carrie,” he said. “Though I’m guessing you already know. Here we thought you’d been laid six-feet under, and all the while you were out hunting for a wife. It all makes sense,” he said. “Being she’s a Sassenach. You cunning devil!” he said. “Just like yer Da. In fact, I wouldn’t be too surprised if Angus showed up here tonight as well.”

  Callum felt the proclamation like a punch to his gut. There was no way his father was still alive. He was dead as the iron nails in Carrie’s bedroom door—dead as his heart had been for going on six months, until it was replaced by this bone-deep fury he couldn’t shake.

  To his utter dismay, he could scarcely keep up with a sixty year old man, but Pitagowan didn’t notice, or was too polite to say so. He pulled Callum before Carrie’s door, shoved in a ready key, then pushed Callum inside, barking with laughter.

  “I’ll send in a hot bath,” he said, winking. “Looks like you need it. Oh! And something to eat.” He laughed again, as he gave the other occupant of the room a raised thumb and then pointed to Callum and turned about with another chortle. “Love me a good miracle,” he said, and then happily closed the door with an exuberant, “Ta ta!”

  Chapter 3

  “Ta ta?”

  The sight that greeted Callum as he entered Carrie’s room—certainly not Carrie—effectively silenced any protest he might have uttered. A lovely, tawny-haired beauty sat wide-eyed on the bed, in little more than a delicate chemise.

  The firelight caught the hint of red in her tresses, giving her pale, golden hair a soft, burnished hue. Her clearly defined cheeks bloomed with color, and he couldn’t help himself; fascinated, he watched the blush spread down her long, delicate neckline, into her décolletage.

  All his physical pain was forgotten, if only for the instant, and he was slow to remember his tongue as John closed the door behind him.

  “I beg pardon,” the woman said, rising from the bed. “There must be some mistake. This is my room!” And then she suddenly cocked her head, her golden brows colliding, as she asked, “Did I hear him say he would draw you a bath?”

  Callum nodded, bemused.

  “Insufferable! He told me there was no one available to draw one for me! And what’s more, he insisted I eat out in that tavern with that randy lot of men; therefore, I was quite prepared to go to bed without supping.”

  She was English, by her accent, of that there was no doubt.

  Wellborn, too, he decided.

  And spoiled.

  Callum blinked as she crossed her arms, her silken chemise entirely too revealing as she stood before the hearth fire. In her pique, she mustn’t even realize, and God knew, it had been far too long since Callum had even seen a woman of her ilk, much less stood before one half-dressed. Swallowing convulsively, he lifted a hand to cover his eyes, as though to shield himself from the bright light of the sun—and that she was, bright as a sweltering noon-day sun, burning him up with her too-close proximity. No matter that she was the one blushing, Callum felt the heat of embarrassment creep over him as well—so bloody hot that, for a moment, he feared the return of his fever. “I-I’m sorry,” he said, and he meant to turn and go, but she thrust a hand against the curve of her hip and glowered fiercely, shocking him with her pronouncement—not to mention, that bold way she puffed up her chest, revealing the soft moons of her bosom rising above her neckline.

  “I am to wed Lord MacKinnon,” she apprised him. “Do not doubt he’ll have word of this from me, and both you and that tonsured innkeeper will have the devil to pay!”

  Callum blinked thrice, trying to make sense of her words.

  She was to marry who?

  Not his father for certain, not him, and certainly it couldn’t be young Lachlan, who’d only last year sprouted hairs on his bollocks.

  “Mind you, I gave that man half a crown for this room,” she was saying, “and if anyone should be sharing this room with me, it should be my chaperone, not you!”

  Again, he blinked. “You’re tae wed the MacKinnon?”
he asked dubiously.

  “Lord MacKinnon,” she corrected him. “Need I remind—”

  “Nay, my lady. You need remind me of anything,” Callum said furiously, and, with the spell suddenly broken, he limped into the room, moving past the other occupant, and straight toward his bed. “I assure you I am reminded daily of what we Scots have lost. I don’t need any bleedin’ Sassenach to advise me.”

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, sounding alarmed, instead of angry. “Are you hurt?”

  He was acutely aware that she moved behind him, her hand hovering behind his elbow as though he were some feeble old man in need of help. “I am fine,” he snapped. “Dinna fash yourself, my lady!”

  “Oh, but you are not!” she insisted.

  “Yes, I am,” Callum argued, although he wasn’t. Every bone in his body ached, and none more than his heart. The physician had said he was fortunate. Part of his femur had shattered with the impact of the ball, and, unfortunately, the doctor hadn’t arrived in time to remove it so the wound wouldn’t fester. By the time the bullet was extracted, he was left with a raging fever that persisted for weeks. However, he didn’t remember any of that.

  Evidently, the wound in his shoulder had fared only a little better. At least it hadn’t gotten infected. Still, he reached for his shoulder as he sat upon the bed, grimacing, one hand on his leg, the other crossing his chest to clutch at his aching flesh.

  Like some lady of the lamp, the woman advanced upon him, offering her hands to steady him as he sat, and some angry, raging part of Callum wanted nothing more than to seize her, drag her into his embrace and kiss her punitively—half out of some primal need to ease his ravaged soul, half out of a fierce desire to punish someone for the crimes of her countrymen.

  And nevertheless… none of it was her fault.