Highland Sons: The Mackay Saga (9 page)

Cameron’s heart tumbled and raged beneath his ribs. The words he wanted to say wouldn’t come, locked as they were inside his chest, so he nodded to his brother and turned to go.

“I missed you, Cameron,” Duncan said to his back. “I’m glad you found me.” He paused. “I’m really glad you came.”

Cameron slung his bag onto his shoulder and waved, but didn’t turn back around. There was nothing he could say that would even come close to what his brother had done.

The brother who had joined the Confederate Army to protect his land and his heritage—only to lose both—had given up a priceless link to the past. He’d relinquished it to the younger brother who had valued country and politics over clan and land, a man who hadn’t considered himself a Mackay in anything but name for a long time now.

Cameron’s eyes burned, and he put the ring in his pocket. He didn’t deserve to wear it. But he couldn’t return it to Duncan, either, because if he did, Duncan would insist Cameron stay. If he did that, Cameron just might.

Cameron didn’t turn until he’d reached the road. When he did, he saw Duncan up on his porch, his arm around his wife. She had her arms wrapped around his waist, and the way she looked up at him reminded Cameron of the way his mother had looked at their father, back in the days when their family had been happy and whole.

Duncan waved.

Cameron pretended he didn’t see it, and continued on his way toward the town and his freedom.

Virginia City, Nevada

June 1869

“You’re going home with me tonight, sweet.”

Fiona Keenan’s companion leaned in close, his sour breath hot against her cheek. Turning her face away, she purred a quiet laugh and ran her hands down the front of his vest, plucking his watch from his pocket.

From behind the mask obscuring most of her face, she batted her lashes. “I think I’ll be going home the way I came. Alone. But I’d be happy to dance,” she replied, gesturing to the crowded dance floor behind her.

Tobacco smoke, thick as fog, clung to the air, and raucous music filled the dancehall. Men shouted, slamming their fists on the bar as they drank and gambled, and outside, gunshots rang out like fireworks. Old animosities were long forgotten, as former enemies joined together in celebration.

Money was a great way to make friends of old rivals.

Just as her companion was taking her into his arms—and her fingers were finding a way into his pockets—the saloon doors opened and a mountain of a man entered. He took off his black hat, exposing the most glorious head of red-gold hair she’d ever seen. The color of the sun at early dawn, the waves caught the pale flickering of the lanterns and cast a glow around him like a halo of light. The gallop of her heartbeat had nothing to do with the fast-paced dance.

She’d always had a soft spot for a ginger-haired man.

Fiona shook off the desire to abandon her current partner, whoever he was, and ask the newcomer to dance. She wasn’t here seeking her own pleasure, nor was she here to celebrate the birth of a country she barely cared for. She was here to work.

For she had a particular skill set for which the
Ceàrdannan
were well known, and she’d been assigned to use them tonight.

She was an actress. A pickpocket, a fortune-teller, a swindler.

A miner in fading britches and a long, graying beard bumped into her. “Beg pardon,” he slurred, catching himself on her shoulders.

“No harm done,” she demurred, her fingers dipping into his pockets and coming away with a small purse she hid discretely in her skirts.

“That’s my girl, there,” her companion barked, taking the older man by the collar and shoving him toward the door.

“Don’t see no ring on her finger.” The older miner growled and twisted away from her companion to take a drunken swing at him. In seconds, a fight erupted, spilling out the door and into the street, and Fiona moved on to find another mark.

Just like everyone else in this rough and tumble town, she and the gypsy band she traveled with had come in search of fortune. Only most of them came for the silver. She was here for whatever was in their pockets. And in a few weeks, after Independence Day, her band would pack up and continue on, in search of another town where they could entertain, swindle, and cheat. By that time, the locals would be delighted to see the them go.

Until then, she had work to do.

She pretended to drink. She flirted. She danced, and with each change of partners, she came away with a little something extra to line her pockets. And more than once, her stomach dropped to the floor as she caught sight of the man with the red-gold hair watching her from across the room. She glanced in his direction again and their gazes collided, his lips curving into a smile and her heart bounced around beneath her breast as if on springs.

She wondered what color his eyes were. She wondered if his voice would match his broad proportions and the handsome masculinity of his face. She wondered what it would feel like to dance in his arms.

And because she did, she would never approach him.

Instead, she focused on her latest dance partner. Or rather, she focused on the chain of his pocket watch. Her fingers had just curled around it when a man’s voice asked, “May I cut in?”

He spoke in a deep, southern drawl, and Fiona’s fingers spasmed and dropped the chain. Her eyes shot up to his face.
Him.

Her dance partner stepped aside, and
he
took her into his arms. Everything about this moment felt so right, from the way his hand rested on her waist to the way he smelled like leather and man and linen, dried in the summer sun.

“I’m Cameron Mackay.”

A good Scottish name. Sakes alive, but she was in trouble. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Cameron Mackay,” she said, carefully keeping her own accent out of her voice. Her Scottish brogue was just different enough to be noticeable even in a town crawling with Welsh and Cornish miners.

The corners of his lips ticked up, and his hand tightened on her waist, though he didn’t pull her in closer to his body like she wanted him to. “And you are?”

Fiona allowed her fingers to trail down his arm before placing her palm on shoulder. “I’m Elizabeth.”

He studied her for a moment, and she wondered if he saw right through her. After a moment, he said, “Elizabeth what?”

She gave him what she hoped was a dainty shrug. “Just Elizabeth.”

His smile lit spaces in her soul she hadn’t even realized had gone dark, and a part of her long since ignored twisted.

“Maybe I don’t like mysteries.” He arched a pale eyebrow suggestively, drew her body flush against him and whirled her around. The moment he loosened his hold on her as the dance warranted, her body ached with the loss.

“I guess that’s too bad for you, because I’m a mysterious girl.”

His laughter rumbled up from the hollows of his chest. “I bet. In that case, I might have to make an exception.”

“I could be trouble.” It pained her how true those words were. She’d never warned a mark away before, and that’s precisely what she’d done, no matter how she’d tried to mask it with flirtation.

Her eyes met his and his smile never faltered. Instead, it spread across his face and made his eyes crinkle at the corners, revealing a charming dent—not quite a dimple—in his left cheek.

“Trouble,” he echoed, his dark eyes scanning her face. He released a breath of wry laughter. “Somehow, I don’t doubt it.”

He was so close she had to tilt her head up to meet his gaze. Grinning, she said, “You’re a wise man.”

His eyes glittered with amusement. “I’ve been called a great many things, but I’ve never been called wise.”

“You're a trouble-maker, too?”

“I’m living in Virginia City. What do you think?”

He whirled her around the dance floor, and the way he held her made it hard to think, hard to breathe. Hard to fight against the desire to run her hands along his muscular shoulders and down his arms, to rest her head against his chest and listen to the beating of his heart.

She took a deep breath to regain her wits. If she’d learned one thing, it was how to pretend to be something she wasn’t. Casting him a bright smile, she said, “I think the only people who would dare to live in a town like this are fortune hunters, trouble-makers, and the desperate.”

“And which one, pray tell, are you?”

“Maybe I’m a little bit of all of those. You?” She was relieved to hear the breathiness in her voice sounded more suggestive and seductive than disconcerted and nervous.

“Not so desperate anymore, but I have been called a troublemaker, and not just by my dearly departed ma. And as for that first one, well . . .” He trailed off and made a subtle movement with his shoulders that wasn’t quite a shrug.

Intrigued by his answer, or lack of one, she asked, “Did you find your fortune, then?”

His hand snaked around her waist to the small of her back, and he leaned in. Against her cheek, his warm breath carried a hint of mint instead of the bite of alcohol. “You won’t tell me your name and you wear a mask, but you want to know about my fortunes? A bit presumptuous, don’t you think?” His words were spoken lowly, but when she leaned back to meet his gaze, his eyes were merry.

Play the game
, she reminded herself. “I’d think you’d be flattered. After all, I’m assuming you’re no pauper, so you must have found something.”

“Maybe I run the paper.”

Mimicking the laughter of a gentlewoman, she tittered. “You don’t have the hands of a writer.” After all, she’d felt the calluses as he took her hands in his. He had the hands of a laborer, of a man accustomed to rough work.

He had the hands of a Scotsman.

“You wound me,” he said in mock horror, twining his fingers in hers and bringing her hand to his chest. Her fingers itched to peel the away the fabric separating them and stroke the skin beneath. “I have the soul of a poet.”

“I can’t speak to the qualities of a man’s soul. That’s for the preacher to do,” she countered. “So I make my judgments based upon what I can see.”

His arms tightened around her, drawing her in until they were separated by little more than her hand on his chest. Her fingers curled, digging into the fabric of his dark vest. She tilted her chin up to meet his gaze, and when she inhaled deeply, her breasts brushed against him, a sensation so delicious she shivered.

His eyes were hot and hungry, and he reached up to gently stroke her chin. Her body went soft, her heart dancing a wild jig in her chest. The music, the dancing, the other revelers all seemed to melt away, and she even lost sight of her band mates among the crowd. In the space of those moments, she and Cameron became the only two people in the room. His voice drove into her like bullets as he whispered, “And what do you see?”

She took the time to adjust her mask, simply to shake the passion in his eyes out of her head. No one had ever looked at her like that. She wasn’t sure anyone ever would again.

After all, she was nothing but gypsy trash.

Hoping her girlish giggle didn’t belie her raging heart, she took a step back and turned his palm over in her hand. Tracing the calluses ridging his palm, she said, “You work with your hands. No ink stains, so you’re not a writer, however much you might claim otherwise. I’d say you’re a farmer, but since there’s no water to speak of out here, that seems unlikely. You’re a miner.” She regarded him for several seconds before adding honestly, “It doesn’t suit you.”

He laughed and pulled her in against him again, and this time, she didn’t even have her hand separating them. God, he was so warm, and the heat pouring off his body made her want to curl up next to him and purr like a contented cat. “Everyone out here is a miner, and being trapped underground doesn’t suit anyone. Your betting is too safe for a woman of mystery. Tell me something else.”

A challenge. This time, the delighted smile rising to her lips wasn’t false. “What would you wager for, then?”

He grinned. “How about a kiss? We could start there.”

“And what if I win?”

He took her hand and led her over to a quieter spot near the entrance. As he placed his hand on the wall above her head, heat crackled in the space between them, their proximity to one another strangely intimate despite the several inches between their bodies. Behind him, the door opened, and the cool wind carried dust and the crashing sound of ore processors.

His eyes darkened and he stiffened. Glancing over his shoulder, he moved his big body so she was no longer shielded from the door and the crowd. Instead, he stood so he faced the door and most of the room, only a portion of the bar at his back. His gaze narrowed as he scanned the room. In that moment, his were the eyes of a man always on guard, a man who had seen too many battles and perhaps too much death.

“A kiss isn’t good enough for you?” The darkness left his expression, replaced by amusement.

She inhaled deeply, and she didn’t know whether to be offended or flattered when his eyes never drifted from her face. “Come now, we’re in Nevada. I don’t play for kisses. I play for money.”

“How about I play for kisses and you play for money?”

“Hardly seems fair, Mr. Mackay. I’ll clean you out.”

He breathed a laugh. Was her impression of him was mistaken? The lines of his shoulders were relaxed, his smile easy and ready. “I welcome the challenge, then.”

“Very well, I agree to your terms.” She extended her hand to seal their agreement. He took her palm and held it a moment too long before, feeling off balance, she withdrew. Studying the dance hall, she took in the tobacco smoke, the raucous music, and the shouts of men as they gambled, danced, or propositioned women. She gestured to the crowd. “This makes you uncomfortable.”

He laughed again. “Of course it does. Everyone in this hall is armed. Miners, guns, and cheap whiskey are never a good mix. You’ll have to do better than that.”

“And you owe me a penny.”

“Absolutely not. Surprise me. Telling me I’m uncomfortable in a room full of armed, drunk men is hardly worthy of payment. Any man with sense would be uncomfortable.”

She granted him that with a nod. “Fine. You’re not from around here.”

“The southern drawl gave me away?”

She winked at him, but shook her head. “No, that’s not what I meant. Of course you’re not from around here originally. No one is. I meant you don’t live in Virginia City. You’re a country boy, so you wouldn’t live in town. You need the quiet, the space.”

“That’s a good one. I’ll pay for that.” He reached into his pocket and placed a shiny, new nickel in her hand, the pad of his thumb stroking gently against her palm.

Drawing in a startled breath at the power of his touch, she asked, “So, where are you from?”

The corners of his mouth ticked up into a smile. “Are we getting personal?”

“No, sir.” She gave him a slow blink. “I’m asking to satisfy my curiosity.”

That charming dent reappeared in his cheek. “Shenandoah Valley.”

“Where’s that?”

“Virginia. You?”

“Oh, here and there.” She shrugged.

His eyes narrowed, and he frowned. “Not much of an answer, sweet.”

“Maybe there’s not much of an answer to give,” she replied, her heart strangely dismayed at the disappointment she saw in his eyes. “I’ve traveled a lot.”

After the space of a few heartbeats, he accepted her answer with a nod. “Very well. Tell me something else.”

Her eyes scanned his face, and she noticed a tiny scar running through his left eyebrow, and another along his jaw. “You haven’t been here long. A couple of years, maybe. You didn’t come here to escape the war.”