Fiona & the Three Wise Highlanders by Jennifer Ashley

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.

Fiona’s breath caught. She could go to him, place her hands on his shoulders, lean down and kiss him …

She sucked in air and nearly choked. “Aren’t the Butcher’s men looking for you?” Her words were cracked and dry. “It’s dangerous for you to be in Scotland. Their men hunt everywhere.”

“Aye, but I’ve come this far. ’Tisn’t many more miles to your brother’s home. And I’ll continue playing the servant, a beast of burden.”

Stuart was so far from being a beast of burden that Fiona wanted to laugh. “You might hide from Cumberland, but not from my brother,” she pointed out.

“No matter. I’ll discover if he has the dagger, give it to Padruig—or let Padruig convince your brother to let it go—and be off.”

“Going where?” Fiona could barely voice the question.

Stuart shrugged. He climbed to his feet, towering over her once more.

How had Fiona come to be so close to him? She didn’t remember moving, but now she stood only a yard away.

“Home for now.” Stuart’s words filled with emotion. “Back to my own lands.”

“Where you’ll be caught and captured.”

Another shrug. “I’ll do everything I can to prevent that, but I need to see to my house and people before I leave again. If I do. I’m tired of running, Fiona.” His weariness touched her.

She closed her hands so they wouldn’t tremble. If Stuart continued to stand so near and say her name like that, she’d be lost.

“I can’t take ye to Broc. He’ll kill ye.”

Stuart rubbed his forehead, leaving another black streak. “Well, I’m going with or without ye, love. Be easier with ye.”

Her irritation rose. “Bloody stubborn Scot.”

“Aye, that’s me.” Stuart was inches from her, his big hands clasping hers and lifting them to his lips. “Come with me, Fiona. Ye were so angry when I left ye, that ye might enjoy watching your brother trying to best me.”

Never. Fiona had worried herself sick about Stuart from the moment he’d ridden away from the castle, laughing, rushing off to war.

Fiona pried her hands from his, hoping he couldn’t see how much she was melting. “Never mind. I’ll come with you. My intervention might keep ye alive.” She tried to glower.

Stuart shot her a grin that was like sunshine breaking through clouds. “Even if it doesn’t, I’ll enjoy arguing with ye on the way.” He made an exaggerated, courtly bow. “Ladies. Good evening. We leave on the morrow.”

He turned up his collar, hunched himself down, opened the door, and tramped from the room, becoming one more servant in an inn full of travelers. The door closed, shutting out the noise.

“Ye aren’t truly going to go to Castle Mòr with him, are ye?” Una asked in alarm.

Fiona checked her bag once more, making certain it was securely fastened. “Aye, that I am. What we have to do is on the way, anyway. Stuart or my brother might die if I don’t go with him, and if I have a chance to prevent such a thing, I will.”

“Humph,” Una muttered, but thankfully said no more.

* * *

The next morning,Christmas Eve, was bitterly cold but clear. Stuart, with Gair and Padruig, waited in the yard until Fiona and Una emerged. Una was bundled to her ears in misshapen wraps, Fiona in a loose dark skirt, long coat, and scarf.

Gair was ready to set off, clutching a long staff to trudge out of the yard, but Fiona forestalled him. “I must wait for my mount.”

“Ye brought a horse?” Gair asked in amazement.

“I’m certainly not trudging through the snow on foot, sir.” Fiona’s green eyes widened over her scarf, and Stuart smothered a laugh.

One of the lads from the inn brought out a horse from the livery, a shaggy and sturdy mare. The lad moved to boost Fiona into the saddle, but Stuart reached her first. She gave him a startled look as he cupped his hand for her to step into, but she let him grasp her leg and lift her lightly to the mare’s back. Fiona swung her leg over the saddle, revealing leather breeches beneath her skirt, riding astride like the resilient Scotswoman she was.

The contact with her shapely thigh and calf, even through the layers of clothing, warmed Stuart’s blood. This was a woman made for loving, for lazing in bed with on a cold winter’s day.

He’d take steps to ensure that happened once he was finished with Gair and Padruig. The war was over, Scotland in ruins. Fiona should not stay here. After he discovered whether his house was in one piece and retrieved some items from it, he’d take her to France, and they’d wait for time to pass. Together. His heart wrenched at the thought of leaving Scotland again, but he thought he could weather exile with Fiona.

Stuart gave Fiona’s leg a pat. She glanced at him then quickly away. Stuart couldn’t see her cheeks beneath her scarf, but her forehead went a pretty pink.

Before Stuart could turn from her, Una more or less used him as a climbing tree to hoist herself behind Fiona, riding pillion. Stuart grunted as Una kicked him—surely she hadn’t meant to do that—as she settled herself behind the saddle.

Stuart made certain both women were steady before Fiona took up the reins. She spoke softly to her mount, who flicked her ears at Fiona’s voice. The beast had a wooly brown winter coat and a lighter brown mane and tail. A horse, not a pony, as rugged as the hills around them.

The stable boy tried to hand Fiona’s bag to Una, but Stuart intercepted it and slung it over his shoulder. Fiona pretended nonchalance, but Una’s silent concern was palpable. Interesting. What was in the bag they feared he’d see?

Stuart settled it on his back with his own small sack of belongings, and at last, they set off.

The bulk of the Macdonald realms lay on Scotland’s western coast and the islands, which was why those clans had been among the first to support Prince Teàrlach—the prince had arrived on the islands and worked his way eastward, recruiting his army along the way.

Not all Macdonalds had joined the cause, which had created a bitter split in the clan, dividing families and friends. Fiona’s brother had firmly stood against supporting the prince, and had finally taken up arms against his fellow Highlanders.

Broc Macdonald’s castle lay south and west of Inverness, some twenty miles distant. Very near the lands of the Camerons. They were neighbors, if uneasy ones.

They couldn’t skirt the long lake south of Inverness, because they’d run too close to Fort Augustus and other strongholds of the Hanoverians, who were still hunting Highlanders. Stuart doubted they’d give up even for Christmas.

No matter. Stuart knew these glens well, probably better than Gair and Padruig, who preferred hugging the coast so they could slip off over water. Stuart also knew the people in each village, though whether they’d hide him if asked, Stuart couldn’t say. Too much fear lay in these lands, and no one wanted to be caught with one of the rebel Scots.

Fiona rode serenely along, gazing at the surprisingly clear sky, the hills rising to their right. Stuart walked next to Fiona’s horse, where he could grab its bridle if the mare tried to bolt, though the horse seemed tame enough.

Gair, who walked a few paces ahead, following Stuart’s directions, took them up a path that rose through woods, avoiding the more habitable places along the lake. Padruig brought up the rear. Unlike Gair, he used no walking staff and had strapped his small pack to his back, leaving his hands free.

Roads in the Highlands, once off the main thoroughfares, were more like wandering tracks made by cows sometime in the Middle Ages. Stuart’s boots were coated in snow, ice, and mud before they’d gone a few miles.

“I see why ye’re up there,” he grumbled at Fiona. She hadn’t said much except for bland remarks on how lucky they were in the weather. As this time of year was usually full of pissing rain or blinding snow, Stuart couldn’t argue.

“It is drier on horseback, I grant,” Fiona said. “And Piseag is so warm.” She sank her gloved fingers into the horse’s fur.

Stuart rumbled a laugh at the name. “Ye call her ‘Kitten’?”

“What’s wrong with that? She’s gentle and soft.”

“When I was a lad, a kitten climbed me and scratched my face all over.”

Fiona’s eyes crinkled as she studied him. “Poor Stuart. I don’t see any scars on you. Well, it toughened ye for the army.”

“Aye, Geordie’s men were no match for that cat. She’d have had them begging for mercy.”

“How did ye manage to have yourself captured, then?” Fiona asked, as though inquiring about why he’d been late for tea one afternoon. “If ye were so hardened by your cat?”

“Oh, you know. Helping a friend.” The aftermath of Culloden rose in Stuart’s mind. Jacobite soldiers were fleeing, after those who’d surrendered and laid down arms were slaughtered where they stood. His childhood friend, Calum, had been half dead, unable to run. Stuart had lingered to drag him away when four of Cumberland’s men had surrounded them. Calum, already dying, had flung himself at the soldiers, and they’d cut him down. Stuart had attacked, bellowing a fierce cry, and had fought, enraged, before he’d been felled by a blow to the head.

“Still don’t know why the soldiers didn’t kill me outright,” Stuart said, lightening his tone to hide his anger. “But they tied me up and took me off, first to an outbuilding, later marching me to a ship to journey south. Ended up in prison with Willie Mackenzie. Good thing. His brother Alec and the lady he married wrested us free, and I fled with all of them to Paris.”

“Mackenzies?” Fiona asked in surprise. “I thought Will and Alec perished, along with the rest of the family.”

“So did I, but there was Alec, opening the door of my cell, and Will chivvying us all out. Indestructible, is Will Mackenzie.”

“It appears you are too.” Fiona’s voice lowered, “I read your name on the rolls. Captured. I was sure you’d be hanged.”

“As was I, lady. But here I am.”

She frowned at him, though she blinked, her eyes moist. “Walking right back into danger.”

“I intend to stay out of it. Find Padruig his trophy and be about my business.”

“Ah.”

Stuart glanced quickly at Fiona, hoping he heard regret in her voice. He did not tell her that when he next vanished, he’d ask her to come with him. If she said no, he’d simply have to convince her, and he could come up with some very creative methods …

“Another reason for riding a horse,” Fiona interrupted his thoughts. “Is that I can see farther than I can on foot. For instance, a few Black Watch and one English soldier are waiting for us around the next bend.”