Highland Temptation (12 page)

She needed him to come to her. She didn't want to be without him. Not anymore. He'd become
everything
to her.

She was falling in love with him. No, she amended. She wasn't falling. She'd already fallen.

The hours ticked by, slowly and painfully, until Emilia was shivering, her teeth chattering uncontrollably, and the fear of Colin never coming began to fester in her chest.

If he didn't come by morning, what should she do? How long should she wait for him? If she went on to Berwick, would he think she'd given up on him? No, he'd know she'd never do that. But then, he wouldn't want her to starve to death waiting for him, either.

Sitting with her arms wrapped tightly around her and tears leaking from her eyes, Emilia decided she'd wait for him until noon tomorrow. If he didn't come by then, she'd walk to Berwick by herself and try to find someone who would help her.

His eyes were glued shut, but with some urgency he couldn't define pushing at him, Colin peeled them open.

He was lying on a bed in an unfamiliar room. There was no light except that cast by the fat flame of a flickering candle on small shelf beside the bed. He surged upward, his hand going to the
sgian dubh
tucked into his stocking, but there was no blade there. There was no stocking, either.

He jumped out of the bed. A mistake. Nausea surged up within him so strongly, he staggered, then bent toward the empty pot conveniently sitting on the table beside the candle and wretched. Only vile-tasting liquid came up. There was no food in his stomach, and its convulsions were so painfully intense that he saw stars.

He finally stood straight, but dizziness overcame him, and he stumbled back onto the bed, breathing heavily as he looked around in bewilderment. He couldn't make any sense of where he was.

“Och! I thought ye might be up.”

Blinking, Colin looked toward the voice. A figure of a person hovered in a doorway, blurry and round, with soft edges. He blinked hard, trying to focus. He thought it might be a woman. The voice had been that of a woman, hadn't it? He was damn confused.

“Ye should lie down, lad.” She turned and bellowed over her shoulder, “Stuart! Stuart, the lad's come to!”

“I canna…” He needed to get up. He needed to do something. For the life of him he couldn't remember what. He put his hand to his head in frustration, then winced. The entire left side of his head was soft and pulpy, as if he had no bone there, only flesh. What the hell? He tried in vain to remember…anything.

The figure moved closer, and Colin tensed, ready for battle. Had there been a battle?

“You were walloped in the heid,” the woman said. There was a deep kindness in her country Lowland Scots accent that made Colin relax…If there'd been a battle, it certainly hadn't been with her. “I'm Mary MacCallum. My husband, Stuart, and I found ye on the side of the road, sleepin' like a wean but bleedin' like a stuck pig with a lump the size o' a haggis on your skull.”

He looked at her in confusion.

“Must've been highwaymen,” she told him. “They come 'round these parts now and again, so near tae the border as we are.”

The border…Why was he at the Scottish border? Memory began to seep in, in pieces and chunks. Lord Pinfield's stout body stepping out, the man leering at him. Guns aimed at him. Pinfield…he was a traitor. And he was chasing after them…after…

Emilia!

Colin jumped up again, then instantly bent forward gasping, gripping the edge of the little table.

“E-milia…” he pushed out.

“What's that?” the woman said.

Still holding on to the table so he didn't keel over, he twisted his head and looked at the woman, and found he could now focus a bit better. She was short, round, and plump, and in her green tartan dress, she reminded him of an apple. Her face, too, was round and heavily lined, but her eyes were clear and bright blue, and possessed a gleam of intelligence.

“Emilia,” he said again. “Did…did you see a woman, Mrs. MacCallum?”

“A woman?” She looked at him in confusion.

Of course she hadn't. The memories were rolling in now, disjointed but becoming clearer by the second.

A man entered the room and came to a stop beside the woman. Plump, though not quite as round as the woman, with thin, faded red hair sprouting from his head at all angles, his eyes were also a clear bright blue that matched the kindness in his expression. This must be Stuart MacCallum, the husband. How had these two kindly old people been able to get him here? And where
was
here, anyhow?

“You shouldna be up, lad,” Mr. MacCallum said soothingly. “Ye've got quite the lump upon your heid…”

“Aye, well…” Colin blinked hard, trying to dispel the confounding headache. He needed to think straight. Pinfield and his men had left him unconscious and bleeding in the road—maybe they'd thought he was dead, or maybe they were too concerned with finding Emilia to worry overmuch about killing him. The MacCallums had found him well after Pinfield and his men had gone—otherwise, they wouldn't have thought he'd been set upon by highwaymen. And that meant Emilia was long gone, too. Hopefully safe and waiting for him at the abandoned crofter's cottage.

“Emilia…” He hesitated, unsure how to describe Emilia to these people so they understood her significance to him. There was only one way. “My wife…”

Colin vowed right then and there that if they got through this, and if she'd have him, he'd make her his wife as soon as he could.

The woman's blue eyes widened. “Och,” she murmured, her hand coming to her mouth.

“I told her to run…when we saw them. You didna see her?”

The couple shook their heads, dismay deepening the lines on their faces. Colin swallowed hard, trying to dispel the nausea. “I must…go. I must find her.”

“What if they took her?” the woman whispered, her hand pressed to her heart.

“She ran before I faced them, so I'm hoping that wasna the case,” Colin said through gritted teeth. “I'm hoping I was able to distract them long enough, that she's safe…” He found his stockings folded neatly on the edge of the side table and pulled them on.

He was breathing heavily, and he felt the demons on the edges, mocking him, trying to insinuate themselves in. He wouldn't let them. He
couldn't
. Not now.

“I told her to hide inside that abandoned crofter's cottage off the road near the border and wait for me there,” he said to the MacCallums.

“Oh, aye.” The man nodded knowingly. “ 'Tis a widely known landmark in these parts.”

“Where are we now? How far?”

“We're aboot three miles north o' where we found ye,” Mr. MacCallum said. “Ten miles from the border, nine from the cottage ye're speakin' of.”

He was farther from Emilia than he'd thought. “What time of night is it?” he asked.

“A bit after midnight.”

Almost ten hours, then, since he'd faced Pinfield and his men. Damn. It was too long.

The man straightened. “Yer horses were a wee bit spooked, but I brushed them down for ye and let them graze.”

Colin was relieved that the horses had remained close, that Pinfield hadn't taken them. “Did you find my
sgian dubh
?”

“Aye, lad. I was keepin' it safe for ye.” Mrs. MacCallum left the room for a few seconds, then returned with the small dagger, which Colin tucked into his stocking.”

“My pistol?”

Mrs. MacCallum raised her brows. “I didna see any other weapons. Did you, Stuart?”

“Nay.”

Colin ground his teeth, but he had another pistol hidden in the luggage.

“And the carriage?”

“Aye, 'twas fine. Yer things were in the boot. I couldna tell if anythin' was stolen, but I didna wish to pry—”

“I thank you. I must go now.”

“Och, I may be a bit o' an old fustilugs, but I ken this land like nae other. I'll be ridin' south with ye, lad.” The older man put a comforting hand on Colin's shoulder. “We'll find yer wife.”

Mrs. MacCallum nodded in approval, her expression solemn. “Aye, go. Godspeed to ye both.”

Two hours later, Stuart MacCallum said, “We're close now,” his face ghostly white and wavering in the weak light. They were riding side by side, and MacCallum was holding the lantern. Colin had attempted to hold it when they'd first mounted the horses at MacCallum's cottage, but his hand shook so violently, he nearly dropped it.

“There now, laddie,” MacCallum had said, “yer still recoverin' from that blow. Let me take it.” Though nearing the ripe age of seventy, it turned out MacCallum had a steady hand.

They would have been here much sooner, but halfway to the border, Colin had started breathing heavily, and his whole body began to shudder.

He'd tried to stave them off, but his head was tender, his vision was unsteady, and it didn't surprise him that the demons took advantage of his weakened state.

He'd bent over the horse, wheezing, his vision wavering in and out as he fought to keep conscious, sucking in air as if through the tiniest of openings.

MacCallum had cursed and come close to him, grabbing his coat and thrusting him back upon the horse when he nearly fell off. This had gone on for the better part of an hour, infuriating Colin. This damned madness was keeping him from reaching Emilia. Each minute he delayed meant she might be in greater danger.

In fact, he believed it was the fury—the deadly rage he felt toward them—that finally chased the demons away. When he'd caught his breath enough that his eyes could function properly, he nodded at MacCallum and thanked the man—who was inordinately strong for his age, Colin noted. Then he urged the horse to the fastest pace he could manage without endangering the animal in the dark, ignoring the pain that slashed through his head every time a hoof struck the ground. MacCallum kept pace beside him, one hand on the reins, one holding the lantern to light their way.

As they approached the abandoned farmhouse, they slowed the animals, then dismounted, leaving the horses at the side of the road.

Colin cast a glance up at the sky, debating whether to take the lantern, and he decided they should. The day had been sunny, but clouds now obscured the moon and stars, and the night was too dark. The benefits of having the lantern with them outweighed the risks.

They approached the farmhouse. All was still as death. Colin stepped inside and nearly choked on the foul smell that instantly assaulted his senses.

“Look,” Mr. MacCallum murmured, pointing to their feet.

Colin looked down and saw fresh footprints in the mud—dozens of them, and of varying sizes.
Bloody hell.
He pressed his lips together so he wouldn't curse out loud.

Without speaking, they searched the old farmhouse. There wasn't a soul inside, though they did disrupt some night creature that scuttled away and disappeared into a chest-high pile of rubbish.

By the time they exited the farmhouse, Colin's jaw was so tight, he thought it might snap. Somehow he managed to say, “Let's look behind the house.”

They did just that…and it was there that what Colin had suspected since seeing the footprints was confirmed.

Emilia's stockings were in a wet pile near the back wall of the house. Colin shook them out, finding them soaking wet and heavily torn. If they were this bad, then Emilia's legs must be covered in cuts.

So she'd certainly been here. For a while. She'd removed her stockings, gone to the stream, probably washed.

The marks on the ground left no doubt as to what had happened next. There was a plot of soft-looking grass between the house and a half-collapsed lean-to, but beyond the small patch of green, there was a long strip of thick mud. And that revealed more footprints. And drag marks. Lots of them, leading to the front of the house.

So Emilia had been waiting for him, but they'd found her here. They'd taken her. Clearly against her will.

He met MacCallum's sober gaze. “Back to the horses,” he said tightly.

They strode quickly back to the road. As they walked, Colin said, “You ought to go home. I believe they've gone south, toward London. I'll pursue them, but I dinna ken how long it'll take and how far south I'll have to ride before catching them.”

“Nay,” MacCallum said. “Did I no' tell ye I ken this land like nae other?”

Colin closed his eyes briefly. He did not want the responsibility of another life, and for God's sake, he didn't want anyone slowing him down, but despite his age, MacCallum had handled himself well thus far. In fact, the man might prove to be an asset.

He took a breath. “If that's what you want.”

“ 'Tis,” MacCallum said simply.

They rode hard for the next hour, not encountering anyone until they reached the town of Berwick, where, just after crossing the bridge over the river Tweed, they came upon a pair of men deep in their cups. The men swerved down the center of the empty street, their arms entwined as they sang at the top of their lungs,
“Let every man here drink up his full bum-per, let every man here drink up his full bowl, and let us be jo-lly and drown melanch-olly—”

“Ho!” Colin called to them, and they clumsily turned, nearly tripping over each other in their surprise at being interrupted.

But then one of them—a wiry man who stood a full head taller than his compatriot—hailed with an overdone salute, grinning broadly. “Ahoy, cap'n!”

“Guid evenin', gents,” Mr. MacCallum said.

Colin wasn't interested in small talk. “Have you seen a black carriage go by? Pulled by a team of bays? There were men, too, along with the carriage, perhaps four of them.”

The two men looked at each other, frowning, then back to Colin.

“Nay, sorry to say, cap'n. I've seen nothin' of the sort,” the tall man said with an apologetic shrug.

Damn, blast, and bloody hell. Colin wanted badly to break something.

“Why d'ye want to know?” asked the shorter man. He was drunk, definitely, but not as drunk as his friend, and there was a gleam of sobriety somewhere in the depths of his dark eyes.

“They took something of mine,” Colin said, so frustrated and angry his voice was a crackling rasp. “Something I need back.”

“Yer blunt?” the tall one asked with a sympathetic nod.

“Nay,” Colin bit out. “My…
woman.
”

That stopped them cold. The shorter one's mouth dropped open, then snapped shut. His eyes narrowed in memory. “Aye, I saw that carriage you're speakin' of. Fancy gold crest on the side, it had. Four bays, and four more horses flanking it.” The short man hawked and spat to the side. “ ‘Whoever's there inside that thing,' I says to meself, ‘thinks he's the goddamned King of England.' ”