Fiona and the Three Wise Highlanders: A Mackenzies / McBrides Holiday Novella Read online

“Then I never will be,” Stuart growled. “What ye want is bloody impossible.”

  The anguish in Stuart’s voice as he talked about searching Culloden Moor was similar to what she’d heard in other Highlanders she’d spoken to since that battle. They’d seen horror, and while they’d survived, they’d never completely recover from it.

  “Not necessarily.” Fiona set her mostly empty tea mug on the table. “The innkeeper’s daughter has collected things from the moor and keeps them in a room here. She calls it her Chamber of Sorrows. Perhaps she’s found your sgian dubh.”

  Stuart’s blue eyes skewered her. Fiona wished she still held her mug so she could hide behind it. Stuart gazed straight into her soul.

  She hadn’t quite adjusted to the fact that he’d returned. Alive. Part of her was in shock, believing him a ghost who’d vanish as soon as she touched him. The other part sang in heavenly thanks, that Stuart had escaped and was whole. A quarter of an hour ago she’d been mourning him. Now he was here, and joy was burgeoning. When the shock faded, she’d be giddy and incoherent.

  What they’d be to each other after a year apart, if anything at all, remained to be seen, but for the moment, it was enough that Stuart was here.

  Now he continued to stare at her as though he had no idea what she was talking about.

  “Oh, aye?” Gair answered her.

  “I’ll ask her if you can look,” Fiona offered. “She’s an agreeable young woman, I’m finding. Though be careful, Gair. She has made no secret of the fact that she’d like a husband.”

  Gair burst out laughing, which had the unfortunate consequence of him spitting droplets of ale across the table. “No fear on that score, lass. Gair’s not the marrying kind.”

  Fiona had spoken in jest. Carrie, the innkeeper’s daughter, had made it known she’d prefer an Englishman who could take her to softer living, so Gair was safe, but she did not explain. None of the three men at this table would have any use for Englishmen at the moment, even theoretical ones.

  “You do that, chaileag.” Gair took another slurp of ale. “Padruig will be grateful. I imagine this one will be too.” He jerked his thumb at Stuart, carefully not calling him by name.

  Fiona said nothing about Gair addressing her as girl, or of him using the forbidden Erse tongue. It was not easy to cease conversing in a language you’d spoken all the days of your life.

  Stuart kept his gaze on Fiona. Unnerving, that. She longed to ask him what had happened to him, how he’d escaped, how he’d survived. And to tell him what she’d been doing since the day last year when they’d parted so stormily at her brother’s house. She’d been travelling the Highlands too, though she’d returned home from time to time to rest and plan. But she’d tried to stay away from her brother as often as and for as long as she could. Handy to know so many women in the Highlands with sentiments similar to hers.

  They couldn’t discuss such things, though, not here, in a tavern any traveler might enter.

  I missed you, Stuart. I feared for you, my heart.

  Fiona lifted her tea mug and drank the last bitter dregs, but she couldn’t avoid Stuart’s scrutiny.

  Stuart followed Fiona into the Chamber of Sorrows located in the rear of the inn—Fiona had somehow persuaded the landlord’s daughter to admit them. Though Stuart hadn’t heard what Fiona had said to Carrie when the young woman had returned to the taproom, he wasn’t surprised Fiona had arranged it. She had a way with her, did Fiona Macdonald.

  When she’d said sgian dubh, the words soft on her tongue, Stuart’s entire body had become incandescent.

  Fiona was a true lady of the Highlands, her speech holding the unmistakable lilt. Far gentler than the harsh voices of the men he’d been surrounded by, her consonants almost a whisper against the liquid vowels.

  Stuart had missed her until he ached. He hadn’t realized how much until he’d been trussed up in that dark building in the farmlands of southern England, unsure whether he’d live or die. The thought of never seeing Fiona again had been almost as bad as the creative torture the English bastards had inflicted on him.

  To find Fiona here, in this wayward place, far too close to the field where so many of his friends and family had perished was … odd. Why was she here? Fiona never did anything without a reason, and Stuart would have to pry out of her what that reason was.

  The chamber was filled with sorrows indeed. Swords and pistols hung on the walls, and tables and boxes held knives, buckles, and other smaller relics. So much. A testament to the many who’d fallen.

  Stuart halted just inside the door as the noise and stench of the battle suddenly poured back to him. The crack of gunfire, the acrid smell of powder, the screams of the dying, the blood-pounding rage that had kept Stuart fighting, followed by the intense grief of watching Duncan Mackenzie fall, his brothers and father swallowed by the smoke.

  Gair pushed past as Stuart froze on the threshold, unable to move.

  Fiona was already following the red-haired Carrie through the room, gazing at the assortment, her footfalls hushed.

  Gair, who’d raided battlefields, beached ships, burned-out houses, and the like, had no qualms about examining the collection. He kept his hands behind his back much of the time, as though vowing he’d not filch anything, though Stuart noticed Fiona keeping a close eye on him.

  “’Tis not here,” Padruig announced after he and Gair had scanned the room for about half an hour. Carrie remained in the corner, letting them look but making certain they didn’t nick anything.

  As far as Stuart could tell, Padruig hadn’t done much searching—Gair and Fiona had picked through boxes and studied objects on the shelves.

  “Plenty of knives, though.” Gair gestured at a case full of them. “Ye could find a good one. I’m sure the lass would give it to ye for a fair price.”

  Padruig, more stoic than usual, shook his head. He turned his back on Gair, pressed past Stuart, and made his way through the outer chambers to the noisy taproom.

  Gair shrugged and began to follow. Fiona hurried to the door to stand beside Stuart and block Gair’s path.

  “Put them back,” Fiona said evenly.

  Gair gave her an innocent stare. “What are you on about, lass?”

  Gair was a small man, and Fiona could look him straight in the eye. “Please.” The word was firm, no pleading in it.

  Gair’s cheeks stained red. He heaved a sigh, sent Stuart an aggrieved glance, and pulled three buckles, a knife, a ring, and a few coins from his pockets. As the innkeeper’s daughter watched, hands on hips, Gair returned them to the last basket he’d been sorting through.

  Astonishing. Stuart hadn’t seen him pocket anything, the sly sod.

  “Is that all?” Fiona asked.

  Gair let out another sigh and dropped two more coins into the basket. He lifted his hands. “That is all. Sorry, lass.” He flashed Carrie a grin and slid past Stuart and out.

  Stuart still couldn’t move. The sorrow in the room pressed at him like a wave of chill fog until he could barely breathe.

  Fiona laid her hand on his arm. Her touch, the warm pressure of her fingers, cut through the coldness, and the air began to clear. Stuart’s feet came unstuck. He drew a long breath and stepped aside, giving Fiona room to leave the chamber.

  Her hand slid from his coat, her face turned up to his, her green eyes searching. Stuart swallowed, suppressing the sharp need to enfold her in his arms and crush her to him. He remained still, which took all his strength. Fiona at last ducked around him, her expression unreadable.

  Carrie remained, not offering to see them out. When Stuart glanced back, he saw her straightening the things Gair had displaced, her movements gentle.

  Stuart caught up to Fiona and grasped her elbow, intending to take her aside where they could speak alone, but a maid hurried to her and said, “Chamber’s ready, milady.”

  Of course, Fiona would want to trade the smoky and crowded outer room for privacy and relative comfort. She thanked the maid and started to follow her.

  “Fio—” Stuart stopped himself as the maid gave him and then Fiona a curious stare. “Miss Macdonald.”

  “Thank you for your assistance, sir,” Fiona said, maintaining her serenity. “Good night.”

  Damn and blast. Stuart could only bow like a good servant. He watched as she disappeared into one of the large chambers they’d just walked past to reach the collection. Una, with a severe scowl, shut the door.

  Stuart glared at the blank wood for a few moments then gave up and returned to the taproom, remembering to shuffle like a lackey.

  A harried maid slammed fresh tankards in front of Gair and Padruig as Stuart resumed his seat. Stuart had not had a chance to drink his first tankard, but Gair and Padruig were experts at putting away ale.

  “Macdonald,” Padruig said.

  Stuart took a fortifying sip. The ale wasn’t bad, as far as ale went, though he’d had better. “What Macdonald?”

  “The lass’s brother.”

  Stuart had thought that was who he meant. “Broc. A complete arse. Stay away from him.”

  Over my dead body will my sister run off with a Cameron and a rebel! Broc had shouted it at the top of his voice, and Fiona had quietly told Stuart he’d better go.

  Broc Macdonald had inherited his father’s lands, becoming laird of the surrounding glen. He had an ancient castle that had been made comfortable with modern furniture and carpets. So why was Fiona not there, warm and snug, even if she’d have to look after the ungrateful swine, and instead out in the deep cold between Inverness and Culloden Moor?

  “He has it.”

  Stuart snapped back to Padruig. Even Gair ceased his drinking to frown at his partner. “Who has what?” Gair demanded.

  “Broc Macdonald has the sgian dubh.”

  “Oh, aye? We just spent half an hour picking through that dross, and ye tell me it’s for nothing?”

  Stuart eyed Gair calmly. “You only think it a waste because Fiona caught you nicking half of it. Why do you think he has your knife, Padruig?”

  “Worth a chance, wasn’t it?” Padruig said. “The young Macdonald lass put me in mind of her brother. He happily watched his kinsmen be slaughtered then picked them clean. I saw him doing it.” Padruig folded his thin lips together, having made the longest speech Stuart had ever heard him utter.

  Stuart hadn’t been aware Padruig and Gair had been anywhere near Culloden during the battle, but he said nothing about that. They’d been on hand to help the surviving Mackenzies flee to France in Gair’s rickety ship, true, but he hadn’t realized they’d come in from shore.

  “What are ye saying?” Gair asked Padruig. “Ye want the lass to go home and tell her brother to give it up to ye?”

  “I’m saying he should.” Padruig flicked a bony forefinger at Stuart. He lifted his tankard. “And we should go along with them.”

  Gair regarded his partner in amazement. “When did ye become so daft? It’s Christmas in a few days, and I planned to put me feet up here and wait for Hogmanay.”

  Stuart lifted his hand for attention. “What makes you think Broc Macdonald will even let me near his house?”

  “Ye have his sister,” Padruig said.

  Stuart shook his head. “I haven’t seen the woman in more than a year. That’s nae having her, Padruig.”

  Padruig shrugged as though that was something Stuart needed to work out.

  “I agree with Gair,” Stuart said. “You’ve run mad. I’ve never heard ye once mention the name of Fiona’s brother or this sgian dubh ye want.”

  “The lass brought it to mind.”

  So calm was Padruig, as though what he asked was a trifle Stuart could fetch for him in five minutes.

  “Help me understand.” Stuart tried to keep his voice steady. “Until I find it for you, I’m to be in your debt and follow you about Scotland like a hostage to your clan?”

  Padruig pursed his lips as he thought this through, then gave Stuart a slight nod.

  “And if I refuse?” Stuart hadn’t battled for months against King Geordie’s armies, Butcher Cumberland, and the Black Watch, nor survived weeks imprisoned and tortured, to succumb to the whims of Gair and Padruig. “Ye don’t want to cross me, man,” he said to Padruig.

  Padruig’s one good eye went icy and the hand that rested on the table tensed. Stuart kept his focus on that hand, which he knew could draw a knife in a flash.

  Gair laughed, the sound lost in the general noise of the tavern. “I don’t know why he’s so set on retrieving this knife, lad, but Padruig don’t set on a thing often. Best indulge him.”

  Stuart could fight them both—he’d taken on larger and tougher men. But together, Gair and Padruig made a formidable team, especially because they fought dirty, knew more tricks than a pair of weasels, and would not give up until they defeated their foe. They’d not survived this long without that sort of doggedness.

  Stuart opened his hands in a gesture of surrender, pretending to relax, though the thought of facing Broc Macdonald and so many memories chilled him. “So be it.”

  Padruig’s fist softened and the frost left his eye. He took a silent sip of ale.

  “I warn you though, ’twon’t be easy.” Stuart directed his statement to Gair. “Fiona will want to keep a sharp eye on you.”

  “Aye.” Gair deflated, his laughter dying, he probably imagining Fiona’s eagle gaze fixed on his every move. “I thought as much.”

  Fiona’s stomach growled as the savory odor of food being carried into the chamber wafted to her. She had her back to the door, only glimpsing the servant trundling in as she tidied her bag of belongings. She pushed the men’s shirts and breeches she’d arranged to be left here with Carrie beneath her own clothes, so that anyone having a peek into the bag would see only her spare petticoats and stockings.

  Una poked at the fire, not trusting the inn’s staff to build it to her liking. The small room was gloriously warm, defying the snow swirling outside the dark window.

  “Thank you,” Fiona said to the servant. “Leave it on the table, and we’ll have at it.”

  “Aye, miss,” came the gravelly reply.

  Fiona swung around. The servant, hunched in a homespun wool coat, glanced up at her, a twinkle in his blue eyes.

  “Una,” she said. “Will you wait outside a moment? Ask Carrie to give you something to eat.”

  Una took one look at Stuart Cameron bending over the food tray, folded her arms, and plunked herself onto a stool by the fire. “Nay,” she said. “I’m staying.”

  Chapter 3

  Fiona weighed the perils of Una remaining—she’d have to argue long and hard to send her maid away for a private moment with Stuart. Stuart clanked the plates on the tray, also making no move to leave.

  Fiona, resigned, stepped past Stuart and closed the door.

  “Your reputation, ma’am,” Una said, aghast.

  “Is beyond saving by this time,” Fiona returned briskly. “Either everyone pities me as the sister of Broc Macdonald or they believe me a hussy, and nothing will change their opinion. It scarcely matters these days, does it?”

  Stuart lifted his head. “When did you grow so cynical, love?”

  His soft lilt threatened to shatter Fiona’s heart. “When Highlanders died and my world was destroyed.”

  Stuart rose to his full height, his feigned obsequiousness falling away. “Why are you truly here, Fiona? Traveling alone?”

  “Nothing I can tell you now.” Fiona shivered as she indicated the walls and one small window. Anyone could listen, anyone could be in the pay of the Hanoverians, or hate the Jacobites for their own reasons. So many scores were being settled in the Uprising’s aftermath.

  Stuart nodded his understanding. “Will ye be returning home then?”

  Fiona went to her bag and buckled it closed. “I don’t know.” Go back to Broc for Christmas and pretend to dote on him? She’d been gone for months this time, her travels ostensibly to visit friends all over the Highlands, which was partly true—she simply didn’t mention what she and her friends got up to. Broc thought her a frivolous gadabout and had upbraided her the few times she’d returned. She hadn’t been home now since June.

  Stuart pushed his hair from his face in the endearing way she remembered. He was so tall, his broad shoulders in keeping with his size. He was a crazed fighter—she’d seen him do battle—and yet, the blunt hands that wielded a claymore and pistol so deftly could be gentle …

  Stuart’s fingers left a sooty streak on his cheek. “When ye do go, I have a boon to ask.” He darted a glance at Una, who fixed him with a scowl. “Take me with ye.”

  Fiona came out of her daze. “To Castle Mòr? Are ye mad? If Broc sees ye again, he’ll kill you. He said so.” She put her fists on her hips, her slim panniers swaying. “I recall you saying the same about him.”

  “Aye, but Padruig wants to go there. He thinks your brother might have this dagger he’s searching for. The pair of them sent me in here to persuade you.”

  “Oh.” Fiona tamped down her sudden disappointment. She had no reason to believe Stuart would want to rekindle what they might have had if Prince Teàrlach hadn’t arrived in the west. They’d only begun a few tendrils of passion, and then hell had come to them.

  “If I find this bloody knife, I can go about my business,” Stuart said. “Debt paid.”

  “Ye trust them?” Una asked in amazement. She’d never learned that retainers weren’t to interrupt their employers—Una was a distant cousin, in any case, a member of Fiona’s clan.

  “Not really,” Stuart answered. “But I’m ready to be shot of them. Gair isn’t helping me out of the kindness of his heart.”

  “Aye, well, it might end in shooting,” Una said darkly.

  Gair and Padruig were no strangers to casual violence, Fiona knew. She also knew they would never betray a Jacobite Highlander. They might bleed that Highlander of all he had and steal anything left, but they were loyal Scots to the bone.

  “I’ve come to beg ye.” Stuart made a show of going down on his knees, which only made him slightly less tall.