Once Upon a Highland Autumn (10 page)

“Who are you?”

“MacIntosh of Glen Dorian.” He said it simply, as if Nathaniel should know the name. “My brother is Ruairidh MacIntosh, and he’s a lad of just thirteen. If he’s done aught wrong, I assure you he’ll not be doing it again. I trust the English army doesn’t kill children.”

Nathaniel looked at the sentry. “Do you know anything about this?”

“We have a lad, aye, a Jacobite whelp. He was caught slipping into camp on his belly with a wicked- looking knife. He scared two men half to death when he leaped out at them. After a terrible fight they managed to subdue him and take the knife. He’s in proper custody now, swearing like the devil himself, though no one can understand a word of what he’s saying.”

“He’s speaking Gaelic. Is he hurt?” MacIntosh asked.

The sentry raised a hand to strike his prisoner, but the laird held his gaze, and the soldier dropped his fist and swallowed.

“I’ll ask the questions, Sergeant. Bring him inside.” Nathaniel stepped aside and waited while they hauled the Scot to his feet and led him into the tent. “Fetch the boy,” he commanded.

MacIntosh filled the tent, and though Nathaniel was tall and broad himself, the Highlander made him feel puny by comparison. “Sit down,” he said, indicating a campstool, but the prisoner held out his bound hands. Nathaniel picked up the knife he’d been using to sharpen his quill and cut the bonds. He moved to sit down himself, and hit the lantern hanging above the desk with his shoulder. The shadows swung, making the jeweled brooch at the man’s shoulder glitter, and light flared over the signet ring on his hand.

“I’m Captain Nathaniel Linwood.
Are
you a spy?” Nathaniel asked him.

MacIntosh’s lips quirked. “Why, because no one else would be fool enough to be out on a night like this? No, I’m not a spy. As I said, my family takes no side in this fight, though there are some of my clansmen who are on Charlie’s side—and my wife’s foolish young brother, of course. A friend dared him to steal an English soldier’s hat. That’s all he was after—just a silly prank.”

Nathaniel opened his footlocker and took out a bottle of brandy and two cups. “The lad should find better friends,” he said as he poured. “Everyone is on edge. My men have orders to shoot the enemy on sight rather than risk having their throats cut. Your brother is lucky.”

MacIntosh took the cup Nathaniel held out to him, but didn’t drink. “We’ll see how lucky he is when he gets here. His sister—my wife—will thrash him within an inch of his life, once she’s sure he’s safe and unharmed, of course. I hope you’ve saved her that pleasure. I trust he hasn’t been hurt.”

Nathaniel read the warning in the man’s eyes, and took a sip of brandy, let it burn through the chill in his bones. His sword lay under the cot where he’d stowed it out of the way, directly under the Highlander’s feet, out of reach if he needed it. “I hope so as well. I am not in the habit of injuring children. A good caning when deserved is another matter.”

The Highlander nodded. “Agreed. But I’ll be the one to do it if it comes to that.”

“You speak very good English,” Nathaniel observed.

The man smiled. “For a Scottish barbarian? I attended Oxford for a time.”

“Ah. My family are Cambridge men,” Nathaniel replied.

He heard the sound of footsteps approaching, accompanied by harsh commands in English and higher pitched curses in Gaelic. MacIntosh rose and threw back the tent flap, letting in the wind and rain.

“Bring the boy inside,” Nathaniel ordered, and the sergeant picked the boy up by the scruff of the neck and tossed him at his brother’s feet.

“The Jacobite puppy bit me,” the redcoat snapped. “Like animals they are, all of ’em.”

“That will do,” Nathaniel said. “Return to your post.”

He waited until the man trudged away, and turned. MacIntosh was speaking to the child in Gaelic in low tones, his expression serious. The boy looked up at him fiercely, his throat working as he tried not to cry. His relief at seeing his brother was evident. MacIntosh turned him to face Nathaniel, and he read hatred and fear in the lad’s pinched face.

“Say it,” MacIntosh warned him when he remained stubbornly silent.

“I apologize,” the boy mumbled in English. “I meant no harm.”

Nathaniel stood staring down at the child, in his muddy plaid, his small hand clenched in a fist. “Did you not? You hate the English, I assume. Who taught you to hate us? Not your brother.”

His chin rose. “My mother’s kin fights for the true prince. So do I.”

“Ruairidh,” MacIntosh warned him into silence with that single word, clamping a hand on the lad’s shoulder. “I trust we are free to leave?” he asked Nathaniel.

Nathaniel hesitated a moment, then nodded. He did not imprison children, and there was no reason to detain the laird of Glen Dorian.

MacIntosh reached for his purse. “Is there a fine to pay?”

Or a bribe. Nathaniel watched the boy’s lip curl, and waved his hand in dismissal. He opened the tent flap, and called for the nearest soldier to bring MacIntosh’s weapons back.

It was a fine sword, basket-hilted, set with gems, Nathaniel noted as they handed it to MacIntosh, and he watched the Highlander slide it back into the sheath buckled to his waist.

“You seem to be a man of some wealth,” he said, wondering if the man had any influence over his rebellious kin.

“He’s the MacIntosh of Glen Dorian,” the boy piped proudly.

“Let’s go. Mairi’s waiting for us” was the laird’s only reply.

“I trust I won’t see the boy here again,” Nathaniel called after him.

“You won’t,” MacIntosh agreed, and the pair strode out into the night.

I
t had been an hour, and still Lord Rossington had not emerged from the castle. Megan hurried down the slope to the causeway. He did not belong here. Why did the castle not frighten him away? If the castle would not send him off with a flea in his ear and fear in his heart, she most certainly would.

She paused halfway across and looked up at the empty windows. What if the place had
killed
him?

Even now, the earl could be lying on the stone floor, staring up through the broken roof, his gray eyes empty of life, rubble crushing his legs or his chest. Or he might be alive, in pain, his cries for help snatched away by a laughing wind, as he grew weaker and weaker, until—

She picked up her skirts and ran, silently admonishing the castle not to harm him.

Not that she cared, really, but he was young and handsome and alive. She did not believe in revenge—not for the wrongs of the
distant
past, at least. She hadn’t forgotten how Rossington had insulted her with his cruel rejection.

Not that she wanted him. If he had shown the slightest interest in her mother’s ridiculous plan to marry them off, she would have been the one to refuse—he’d just said the word first, with sharp horror, as if marrying her was the worst thing that could happen to a man. She tasted the bitterness of that on her tongue as she hurried through the courtyard.

She reached the inner door she’d entered a few days earlier, and prayed the shutter would still be open, letting light and air and sanity into the room beyond. The door swung open as she approached, and she stepped back and swallowed a cry of surprise. The heavy oak panel shivered in the wind—it must be the wind, surely—and light poured through the portal. She forced herself to step forward. She was being foolish. It simply meant the shutters
were
open, and the wind had blown the door wide. No ghostly hand had opened it for her.

“Hello?” she called, slipping into the hall. There wasn’t even an echo. “Lord Rossington?” She stepped farther inside, scanned the corners, looking for signs of fresh blood, or a broken body.

She took a step down, stood near the fireplace, heard the wind whistling down the chimney, crooning a sad, haunting tune.

“It’s me, Megan McNabb,” she said, and the whistling stopped a moment. The castle seemed to still, listening, considering. She felt the creep of eyes on her back, knew someone was watching her—someone she could not see. Unseen hands reached for her and she spun, but there was nothing behind her.

“Lord Rossington?” she called again, but her voice came out as an uncertain squeak. She cleared her throat. “My lord?” she said, making her tone firmer, more commanding.

She heard a grating sound, watched as a beam the size of a caber shifted on the far side of the room. There was a clatter of dust and debris, and a roar like a waterfall.

“Bloody hell!” she heard him bellow. It must be Rossington, since it was in English. It was followed by a string of words she didn’t understand, but made her blush just the same. Curses, in any language, were clear enough.

“Hello!” she said, louder still, and the cursing stopped.

He came out from behind a pile of rubble. His face was dirty, and there was blood on his shirt.

“Dear God, you
are
hurt!” she said and rushed toward him, fumbling in her pocket for her handkerchief.

“There’s a splinter of wood in my finger,” he said. “Where on earth did you come from?”

She ignored the question and took his hand in hers, examining the injury.

A shard of blackened wood stuck out of his flesh. Blood dripped and pattered on the stone floor.

She flicked a fingernail over the protruding end of the splinter. He cried out and tried to pull his hand away. She held on tight.

“What on earth are you doing?” he demanded.

She looked into his eyes fiercely. “Hold still. It must come out.”

“I can do it myself,” he snapped, trying to pull away again.

She stepped back, and folded her arms across her chest and waited. She watched as he looked at the wound. “I think I’ll need medical assistance,” he said stiffly. “It’s in very deep.”

She tilted her head and looked at him smugly. “Suit yourself. The nearest doctor is in the village—that’s a half-hour’s walk, and he might be out. If you leave it, you might bleed to death, or it might become corrupted. That stick is dreadfully dirty.”

“Nonsense. It’s hardly a stick—it’s a tiny splinter. I get them all the time.” Still, he looked at it again, his brow furrowing. “Do you really think it’s as bad as that?”

She tried to remember he was English, arrogant, and rude, and that she found him utterly detestable. But the light poured through a hole in the roof and illuminated his fair hair, and his eyes were soft now, uncertain. He looked like a lad, as sweet and kind and young as Eachann. Her breath caught in her throat. He was surely twice as handsome as he had been in the drawing room at Dundrummie.

She moved toward him carefully, her half boots crunching on the little stones that covered the floor. “Does it hurt?” she asked.

“Only very little,” he said.

“Is it still bleeding?” She drew nearer still.

“No, it’s almost stopped.” She leaned over his hand, her forehead nearly touching his, and gazed at the wound. She touched his wrist, and still he didn’t move. Instead he looked at her. She could feel his eyes on her face like a caress, and tried vainly to refrain from blushing.

She felt his pulse pick up under her fingertips. He didn’t say anything, and she felt her skin tingle, heating where it touched his. She could feel his breath on her cheek, and for an instant she was powerless to move.

Then a bird took flight, flapping its wings as it rose, seeking a way out. He turned to look at it, and quick as she could, she brought his hand to her mouth, caught the end of the splinter between her teeth and pulled it out.

His roar shook more birds from their roosts, and for a moment the air shimmered around them, light and shadows whirling, ascending to the sky. She put her hands over her head, told herself that it was only birds and wing beats and dust.

“You bit me!” he cried, looking at the blood dripping from the injury.

“Have you a flask of whisky?” she asked him calmly.

He rummaged in his inside pocket with his good hand. “Why, do I taste bad?”

She smiled. “Dreadful. Pour a little over the wound.”

He hesitated. “It’s brandy.”

Megan took the flask, and opened it. “It won’t work as well, but it will probably do.” He hissed as the spirit flowed over the cut, and looked away while she bound his finger with her handkerchief and tied the ends. “Are you one of those who can’t bear the sight of blood?” she asked.

He glared at her. “Of course not. I was very nearly a soldier. I would have seen plenty of blood.”

“Nearly? What happened? Was it too fearsome?” she said tartly, squeezing his hand to stop the bleeding faster.

“I inherited an earldom. I had responsibilities in England, and I could not leave.”

She heard the very slight edge of regret in his tone, and felt guilty for teasing him. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

“For what? For biting me, or because I am an earl?”

She raised her eyes, found his face inches from her, and felt her breath hitch again. He really did have the most extraordinary effect on her. Standing close to Eachann never kept her from breathing properly.

“Because—” she began. Because she’d been the rude, saucy minx her family always accused her of being. Hadn’t her mother warned Megan that her sharp tongue would get her into trouble one day? Perhaps today was the day. She told herself he’d been far ruder than she could ever have been, that he’d humiliated her, made her fear that if she did indeed go to England in search of a husband, she’d be laughed all the way back to Scotland.

She let go of his hand and moved away. “I meant I’m sorry you were injured. What on earth were you doing?”

He ignored the question. “You have a soft heart then. Or perhaps you are simply skilled at fixing small wounds. Is it a Highland tradition that women are healers?”

He was staring at her, his eyes intent. It stirred her belly. A soft heart? Not for him. “’Tis simply a matter of being practical. My sisters and I used to get hurt all the time—scraped knees, splinters, bruises . . . perhaps we are simply more resourceful here in the Highlands. I doubt you’ll have a scar, if that’s what worries you.”