Snowy Night with a Highlander (4 page)

Fiona glanced up at him. Because most of his face was covered by a scarf and one eye was covered by a black patch, she could see nothing but a fine brown eye. It was remarkable in its clarity and was, she noticed a little uneasily, quite intent on her.

She smiled thinly. “I beg your pardon—thank you.”

His hands drifted away from her body, and with a bow of his head, he stepped back, giving her berth. Fiona looked at him again. “What is your name?” she asked him.

He hesitated a moment. “Duncan.”

“Duncan,” she repeated. There were scores of Duncans in this part of Scotland, but this man did not seem like a Duncan to her—at least not the sort with whom she was acquainted. “Duncan,” she repeated, her eyes narrowing. She glanced at his hands. They were as big as chickens. “Thank you, Mr. Duncan.” She walked briskly toward the public house, trying to ignore the feeling his hand had left on her waist, which lingered a bit longer than it ought to have done.

The public house was teeming with patrons, mostly men. There were a few women in addition to a handful of children who were playing some sort of game that had them running through the throng. The inn was a way station, Fiona gathered, and struggled through the crowd to the retiring rooms.

The accommodations for ladies were lacking, to say the least, but Fiona made do.

She emerged and labored again through the crowd to the door, pausing only when one young lad collided with her in his haste to get away from the pair of girls who pursued him. After skirting two men who were shouting at one another about a dog, of all things, Fiona stepped outside, took a moment to straighten her cloak and draw a deep breath of fresh air.

She glanced around. Sherri was nowhere to be seen.

“If you please, mu’um, we’d best be on our way.”

She started at the sound of Ridley’s voice and twirled around. He was standing in front of Mr. Duncan, a full head shorter. Fiona looked at Mr. Duncan’s remarkable brown eye and hastily looked away. His expression caused a curious little shiver to course through her.

“Of course,” she said, and walked to the wagon. Duncan followed her, and moved to help her up—which, Fiona realized, she was anticipating perhaps a wee bit too much—but she suddenly realized Sherri was not in the wagon and stepped back, out of his reach. “Sherri . . . my maid. She’s no’ here as she should be.”

“What’s that, mu’um?” Mr. Ridley asked, popping around the end of the wagon as he stuffed his hands into gloves.

“My maid, Sheridan Barton. She’s no’ here.”

Mr. Ridley looked at Duncan, then at the public house. “Perhaps she’s within?” he asked gingerly.

“No . . . I was just inside and there was no sign of her. Ah, but she must be around, then. I’ll just have a quick look about,” she said, and hurried back to the public house.

But Sherri was nowhere to be found. She was not standing out in the cold, she was not in the public house,
and another examination of the wagon revealed that Sherri’s portmanteau was missing.

When Fiona realized Sherri’s bag was gone, too, she leaned against the wagon and sighed up at the blustery blue sky. The wench was trying to make her way back to Edinburgh—there was no other explanation.

“Mu’um?” Mr. Ridley asked anxiously.

Fiona glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “I believe, Mr. Ridley, that Sherri has decided to return to Edinburra.”

He looked confused by that.

“She was fearful of traveling into the Highlands because of all the murderers and thieves waiting to nab her,” she said with a roll of her eyes. “She mentioned something about finding another position—but I didna think she meant
immediately
.”

Mr. Ridley’s eyes widened. He glanced at the public house, then at Fiona.

“Are you . . .”

“Certain? Quite,” she said, folding her arms. “Silly, foolish girl!”

Mr. Ridley looked so uncomfortable that Fiona feared he would jump out of his skin. “Then . . . then what will you have us do, mu’um?” he asked a little frantically, squinting at her.

“An excellent question,” Fiona said irritably.
Damn
Sherri! Now what was she to do? And how could she go off and leave Sherri to walk back into Edinburgh?

Fiona put a hand to her forehead and shielded her eyes from Ridley. She just needed a moment to think.

Chapter Three

T
he good and noble reasons for which Duncan had, reluctantly, agreed to take a very foolhardy woman to Blackwood completely escaped him as Ridley explained that the foolhardy woman’s even more foolhardy lady’s maid had decided to return to Edinburgh.

“How?” he grunted.

“By foot?” Ridley guessed.

Oh, how bloody splendid. A woman with no more sense than the cows standing across the road was attempting to
walk
to Edinburgh?

A quick search for her on horseback turned up nothing. When Duncan heard that a public coach bound for Stirling had come through the way station, he could only assume that the chit was clever enough to at least find her way onto that coach.

Ridley looked frantic when Duncan told him that there was only one thing left to do: Ridley would take the horse and ride for Stirling, hopefully intercepting the public coach and the maid before she got herself into
worse trouble. If he could not find her, he was to return to Edinburgh and deliver the news to Seaver.

In the meantime, Duncan would take the wagon and the other incorrigible female and continue on to Blackwood. He had reasoned with Ridley that he had little choice. The sun was already beginning to slide to the west and they had three, perhaps four, hours of good daylight left. He might make it as far as Clackmannan if he was lucky, and that was being optimistic. If Duncan was going to reach Blackwood for Christmas in two day’s time, and begin the necessary preparations for Hogmanay, he could not turn back and lose a day.

Ridley nervously explained this to Lady Fiona, who took the news with her hands clasped demurely before her. The only indication that she understood a bloody word Ridley said was her elegantly winged brows, which slowly rose up until they seemed to disappear under the rim of her bonnet.

“Do you mean to suggest that I should go on to Blackwood with . . .
him?”
she said, nodding at Duncan, clearly not recognizing him in the least.

“You’ll come to no harm,” Ridley said quickly. “But we canna allow the lass to wander off by herself, aye? We canna say how much longer we might be detained, and the supplies must reach Blackwood.”

The lady seemed to consider that for a moment; she looked at the wagon, then at Duncan, who glanced away from her intently curious gaze.

“You realize, Mr. Ridley, that my reputation will be called into question under your scheme, do you no’?”

Ridley’s face turned very red. “I . . . I—

“Let us carry on,” Duncan said brusquely. They were wasting time.

His interruption drew a startled gaze from Fiona Haines.

“We canna leave Miss Barton to the dangers of the road,” Ridley suggested.

She gave him a sharp look, but shook her head no, they could not leave her.

“If you’d prefer, milady, we could arrange a seat on the public coach to Edinburra? It comes round four o’clock,” Ridley suggested.

“What? No! No, no, I canna go back to Edinburra! No’ now, Mr. Ridley—I’ve tarried too long as it is. I
must
find my brother before it is too late.”

“Aye,” Ridley said, and eyed the wagon. “Well then . . .”

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Lady Fiona snapped, and whirled around, marching for the back of the wagon. Ridley scarcely reached her in time to help her before she launched herself into the back.

Duncan watched the wagon bounce and move from side to side as she made her way to the bench and the brazier that had surely gone cold by now. He imagined her stomping through the supplies and sitting hard on the even harder bench. It had been a long time since he’d been in the company of a woman, but he’d not forgotten the strength of a woman’s ire.

When Ridley had put the gate of the wagon up and locked it in place, he gave Duncan a look of pure misery. Duncan sighed. “It remains to be seen which of us has drawn the worst hand, Ridley.”

“Aye, milord,” Ridley said weakly, and took the reins of Duncan’s horse. Duncan waited until he’d mounted and was on his way before he climbed up onto the wagon’s outside bench. He wrapped the reins around his bad
hand, picked up the driving whip, and touched the neck of the lead horse with it. “Walk on,” he said to the team, and flicked the reins against them.

As the coach lurched forward, he heard a tiny squeal of alarm just behind him and glanced heavenward in a silent appeal for strength.

Fortunately, his passenger remained quiet for most of the afternoon, save a cry of alarm every so often when the wagon hit a rut. He was lost in thought when he realized the sound he was hearing was not a squeak of the axle, but Lady Fiona, who, at that very moment, shouted,
“Pardon!”

He did not stop the team from trotting along but leaned to one side and said, “Aye?”

“Will you
please
stop?” she cried. “I really
must
have you stop!”

Duncan reluctantly pulled the team to a halt. The horses had been in a rhythm of their own and stomped and snorted their displeasure.

“Aye?” he said again.

“I need . . . I should like . . .
Lord,
” she said, and the wagon began to bounce a bit. She was climbing out.

Duncan quickly unwound the reins from his hand and leaped from the bench, striding to the back of the wagon, reaching it just in time to see a lovely derrière sliding over the back gate. He reached up with the thought to help her, thought the better of it, and dropped his hand as she took the last step—misjudging it, of course—and stumbled to her feet, knocking against the wagon in a desperate bid to keep herself upright. When she was certain she was on the ground, she adjusted her bonnet, turned, and looked up at him with a pair of golden eyes with a coppery tint.

He wondered fleetingly how he’d missed such remarkable eyes all those years ago.

“I didna wish to disturb you, sir, but the truth is, what with all the jostling and banging about, I really must . . . I
need
 . . .”

She was too much of a lady to bring herself to admit it, so Duncan bowed and gestured grandly to the forest that lined either side of the road. She squinted in the direction he pointed and then bit her lower lip before glancing at him sidelong. “I donna suppose there is another alternative, then?”

Under his scarf, he allowed himself a ghost of a smile.

“What if there are creatures? Or worse, highwaymen?”

He moved slightly, just enough to open the vent of his greatcoat, and showed her the pistol he wore at his side.

“Ah,” she said, nodding. “That should come in quite handy . . . for
you
. Likely I will be dead, either from shame or shock, by the time you reach me. If indeed you intend to reach me.” She glanced at him again. “Well then, Mr. Duncan, if you will excuse me?” And with that, she marched off the road, stepping gingerly into the trees. She paused and glanced back at him. “You may wait on the other side of the wagon, if you please!”

Duncan touched the brim of his hat and walked around to the other side of the wagon. But he peeked around the back, watching her enter the forest with her arms held wide, as if she were surrendering to someone, and slowly, carefully, made her way into the forest.

Fiona Haines, Duncan was discovering, was a curious and surprisingly lively young woman.

*   *   *

When Fiona emerged from the woods, the Buchanan man was standing at the back of the wagon, one arm folded across his chest, the hand resting beneath his other arm, which seemed to hang at an odd angle from his body, and one leg casually crossed over the other. His head was down and the brim of his hat was pulled low, over his face. He was tall, well over six feet, a big man with very broad shoulders.

He was intriguing, this big, silent man with the damaged arm and the patched eye, and she was curious to know what he looked like beneath the scarves and the wool coat and gloves and the eye patch. If he hadn’t spoken a word or two at the way station, she would have thought him mute.

He straightened when he saw her and opened the wagon’s gate. He leaned over, cupping one hand to help her up. Fiona followed him and stood a moment, looking at his hand. “Come on, then,” he said low, the irritation evident in his voice.

But his voice! It was quiet and low, like a dark whisper. It sparked something in her, a rush of blood and a distant memory or a dream so fleeting she could not catch it. “I am coming,” she said. “No need for a fit of apoplexy.” She slipped her booted foot into his hand, felt his fingers close tightly around her foot, then vault her up, as if she were light as a feather. She put one knee down, a breath catching in her throat when he put a hand to her hip to keep her from falling backward.

Fiona quickly moved inside and glanced over her shoulder, looking at him. The Buchanan man put his good hand on the gate, and swung it shut, locking it into place, and returned her look. Their gazes held a long moment. A long, crackling moment.