The temptation of a high.., p.25
The Temptation of a Highlander, page 25
part #3 of Midnight in Scotland Series
Running a hand over his face, he tossed aside the blankets and wrapped a plaid around his waist. Then, he retrieved a gift he’d meant to give her, donned a shirt, and went in search of his wife.
He found her in the front room. Limned in the ethereal blue of a midnight moon, she stood barefoot in her white shift, long curls swaying down her back. A scruffy, lanky, besotted hound stood with his front paws on her shoulders.
Dancing.
She was dancing with Fergus in the moonlight, humming sweetly and keeping her steps small for the dog’s sake.
He rubbed a hand over the agonizing fullness inside his chest, wondering how he was meant to contain this much love. He couldn’t, he supposed. Perhaps instead, he was meant to pour it out as an offering to her.
“A wee enchantress, ye are.”
“Oh!” She spun, causing Fergus to land on all fours. She bent to kiss his head and scratch his ears. As she straightened, her eyes turned teasing. A mischievous smile touched her lips as she swayed and danced lightly in Campbell’s direction. “It seems you’ve caught me with another suitor. A scandalous turn of events.” A wee giggle escaped. “In fairness, Fergus is rather dashing, and a surprisingly good dancer.” She spun on her toes and halted before him. Her face angled up toward his. “Kiss me,” she whispered.
And he did. Gently. Chastely. A reverent brush of his lips across hers. Then, he held his gift for her up and let it dangle in front of her eyes. Even in the moonlight, he could see her delight. Her eyes glossed. She covered her lips. “Campbell,” she choked. “It’s exquisite.”
The owl was wee, less than two inches long. He’d carved it from the oldest rowan wood, incorporating symbols of the auld spirits best suited to guarding precious things. He’d strung it on a fine silk ribbon Rannoch had fetched from the village haberdashery. It was the blue of her eyes. The ribbon would lay softly against her skin and, if he’d estimated the length correctly, settle the owl just above her heart. He looped the necklace over her neck, gathering her hair gently to slide past the ribbon. As he’d expected, the wooden pendant settled slightly above her fertility charm and slightly below her mother’s cross. He nudged the antler of Cernunnos. “Ye may not need to wear this one much longer, gràidheag.”
She beamed. “Do you think so?”
“Aye.”
“Oh, I do hope you’re right.” She fingered the owl, tracing it with loving strokes. “I confess, when I saw the carving you made of Isla, I was jealous. I know you loved her, but seeing it manifested in such beauty from your hands was … tormenting.”
He frowned. “Clarissa, mayhap I havenae been clear. I did love Isla. She was a kindhearted lass, and our affections had a purity that only youth and death can bring. But I didnae carve her face out of love. I did it to lay her to rest. I wanted to bury her where she belonged—in the past.”
She wouldn’t look at him, her eyes trained on stroking the owl’s wing.
“Must I say it plainly?”
Her throat rippled on a swallow. “I suppose you must.”
“Nothin’ in all my days compares to what I feel for you. Not my time with Isla. Nor my time with any other. Ye’re paradise for me. A bluidy Eden with gingham curtains and wee flowers everywhere.”
Her eyes lifted, glossy and startled. “You like the curtains?”
He laughed, his heart flooding its banks again. “Aye, ye bonnie, maddening woman. I love the curtains. And I love my bride.” He held out his hand. “Now, be a good lass and dance with me.”
More startled blinking. Then, a slow, wondrous smile. She sank into a graceful curtsy and slid her hand into his. He pulled her close, bent and scooped her up with an arm beneath her knees and one at her back, loving her squeak of surprise and clinging hands.
She laughed as he took light, sliding steps around the room. Fergus danced alongside. Clarissa hummed a melody only slightly off-key. And Campbell spun through shadows and moonlight holding paradise in his arms.
With morning came fog. Dense, blinding fog. Campbell cursed as he crouched beside Alexander, trying to see the camp below. They couldn’t see much. A few rocks. A gnarled pine. But, mostly, a blanket of whitish gray mist as thick as old McInnes’s skink.
In the stillness, however, they could hear sounds. The trickle of a wee burn that winnowed down from the upper hills. The crackle of a campfire. The cawing of crows.
Alexander shifted his rifle slowly from his shoulder to his lap.
“Can ye see anythin’?” Campbell asked in an airless whisper.
Alexander shook his head.
Bloody hell. This mission had gone to shite.
Last night, after his dance with Clarissa, he’d taken her back to their bed and made love to her again. Before she’d fallen asleep, she’d shown him the note sent by Mrs. MacBean. The old woman’s sight might be stronger than his, but he couldn’t decipher her mad ramblings. Apart from the bit about the turnips. Bill the Donkey was a gassy creature. He’d have to remind Da to change his feed.
Below, the crows grew louder, their cries more frequent. Something near the camp huffed and grunted, breathing heavily. Northfield?
Blast, he couldn’t see. Then came a knocking sound. Knock, knock, knock, knock. Long grass rustled as someone moved in sporadic bursts. Perhaps the man’s mind was gone, and he was thrashing about as madmen were wont to do.
Campbell would gladly put him out of his misery.
He gestured to Alexander instructions to flank the camp from either side of the rocky outcropping above Northfield’s camp. Alexander nodded. As they each made their way down the slope, the crows’ cawing grew constant, drowning out some of the thrashing. He closed in on Northfield’s position, following the grunting sounds through the fog.
When he heard Alexander’s signal—the distinctive squeak-and-pop call of the capercaillie—he halted in place and whistled two sharp, upward notes. Alexander’s request irked Campbell a wee bit. He’d wanted to kill Northfield himself. But if the bugger was in Alexander’s sights, he had only one reply: Fire away, brother.
The shot echoed with a sharp crack! Chaos reigned. What must have been hundreds of crows took flight, scattering the mist and creating a deafening noise. Beneath that was the thrashing, knocking, and deep grunts of a life about to end. Then came a splitting whine—wood or branches being torn, perhaps—and someone raced away at a pounding pace.
Campbell gave a single upward whistle before taking off at a dead run. If Alexander’s shot had either missed or merely wounded Northfield, Campbell would be the one to find the bastard. He would be the one to bring him down.
He raced after the sounds, using his longer strides to close the distance. Soon, he saw the trail of blood. By God, the rabid dog had been hit. A surge of satisfaction thrummed through him. He ran harder, hearing Alexander behind him.
Ahead, the arrhythmic thudding of Northfield’s footsteps slowed. Stuttered. A wheezing grunt sounded strange and muffled. The metallic odor of a bloody demise reached him just as the footsteps ceased on a final whump. He slowed his pace and approached with caution, following the trail of blood.
When he saw its source, he halted. Ice bloomed inside his veins. Spread outward in a relentless tide of dread. It deepened. Hardened. Filled him until he was drowning.
Alexander came to a halt alongside him, breathing heavily. Then, he began cursing with the foul blackness Campbell wished he could manage.
He couldn’t speak at all. He couldn’t speak any more than the poor stag that had been trapped in a net, staked out near the camp, and shot by Alexander’s rifle. That animal couldn’t utter a sound. Because that animal was lying dead on the ground at his boots.
And Northfield was very much alive. Not here. But alive. Likely closing in on Campbell’s wife as he stood there, watching an innocent creature’s blood drain into the long grass.
Alexander bent forward at the waist then straightened and stared up at the sky. “Bluidy bastard!” he roared. “I’ll cut your fucking throat for this!”
Campell’s cold sank deeper. Every muscle hardened with a new purpose. “Nah,” he breathed. “I will.” He clamped a hand on his brother’s nape and gave him a shake, as Da had always done. “We must go, now. He’s hunting her. We must get to him first. Ye ken?”
Alexander nodded, though his breathing remained heavy and his eyes furious. “Let’s go.”
They raced for the horses, mounting at a run and urging their mounts to a gallop. The quarry was in the east hills at least an hour’s ride from his farm. But at a run, they could shorten the ride by half. He didn’t know if the horses could take such a punishing pace, but it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. If he had to, he would run it on foot.
She was in danger. That stag had been a decoy, tied and tangled, likely bound loosely enough that it could escape if it thrashed hard enough and long enough. Which would happen if it was shot. But the bastard hadn’t been content to merely sacrifice the animal. Its newly sprouting antlers had been sawn off, its snout bound with wire so it couldn’t scream.
Northfield must have known they were coming. And the only way he’d know is if he’d heard Campbell and Alexander making plans in the yard. Which meant he’d been close enough to hear their voices. Which meant he’d been near her. Watching.
Christ on the cross, had he been there the whole time? How? Campbell had established regular patrols. He’d surrounded the farm with traps and men. He’d sent Fergus out scouting with Daniel twice a day. He’d taken every conceivable precaution, and it hadn’t been enough.
His horse began flagging. Alexander’s fell behind. Campbell leaned forward, murmuring reassurances to the exhausted animal. He promised oats and rest. He promised mares aplenty and a pasture all to himself if Dunmore would just get him home in time.
“My female is there, old friend,” he said in Gaelic. “I need you to help me save her.” The large stallion heaved and put on a new burst of speed.
They didn’t bother taking the northerly path, instead veering south through thick brush and woodlands. The fog was denser around the loch, limiting visibility to about ten feet, but he and Alexander had explored every inch of the glen before they’d sprouted whiskers. They drove their mounts at a reckless pace, leaping over fallen logs and ancient stone walls. On they raced up into the western hills, taking the road when it was faster and cutting through raw heathland when his patience lost the battle with urgency. By the time they topped the rise above the farm, smoke was an acrid omen.
And the queer, glowing nimbus below was the arrival of hell.
Black smoke filled the sky in a towering plume, but the farm remained enveloped in fog, creating a massive ball of pulsing orange surrounded by white.
Dunmore balked. Campbell slid from his back, grabbed his rifle, and ran toward the shouts of his men and the devouring roar of fire. Distantly, he heard Alexander shouting something behind him, but he ignored it. Instead, he ran, driven by the encompassing dread.
Time is short, he thought. The old woman had told him time was short.
He’d only just taken his first breath after a long death. Clarissa couldn’t be gone. She couldn’t. He’d feel it.
Aye. He’d feel it if she were. Bone of my bones. Flesh of my flesh. Words spoken by Adam about his Eve. The anchor is in the blood. His bairn, perhaps. Inside her womb. Safe and wanted and loved. His hope, given to him by his wife.
He’d inherited his sight through blood ties, his grandfather and Mam. Perhaps a similar tie to his child would be strong enough to find her. Save her.
He raced toward the largest blaze—the barn. Fire had turned it into an inferno. The roof had collapsed. He veered past escaping cows and soot-stained men, shouting for Rannoch. He was out of air, his lungs burning from the smoke as much as the exertion. “Rannoch!” he roared.
One of his men found him. He carried two buckets and offered Campbell one. Seeing the wet kerchief over his man’s face, he tore off his shirtsleeve and doused it in the bucket before tying it over his mouth and nose.
“Rannoch’s with Daniel, sir! They’re on the wagon just past the stable. Daniel was shot.”
Ah, Christ. How many had been wounded? How many had died?
Bloody hell, he couldn’t think about that now. He must find his wife. Clarissa was the bastard’s prize. She would be his true target.
He staggered into the yard surrounded by flames, smoke, and chaos. His men fought the blaze as best they could, but the buckets of water might as well be a sprinkle of dog piss for all the good they did. The cottage’s thatch roof shot up flames twelve feet high. A booming crack signaled the collapse of the cowshed. Finally, amidst the madness, he spotted his brother standing by a wagon thirty feet beyond the burning cottage. The nearby stable was the only building spared.
“Rannoch!”
His brother turned. His face was blackened by soot, his right hand roughly bandaged with a strip of wool. “Cam,” he rasped.
On the back of the wagon sat Daniel, his blood oozing down into his beard from a wound near his temple.
“What happened?” Campbell demanded. “Where is Clarissa?”
Rannoch nodded toward the stable. “There. With Fergus.”
He sprinted for the stable door. Inside, it was dark and strangely quiet. Too quiet. Too still. “Clarissa?” Frantically, he searched every stall, hoping he was wrong. When he wasn’t, his heart collapsed. There was nothing. Except, on the floor at his feet lay a leather collar tied to a rope. He staggered against the railing, a wave of dizzying sickness assaulting him.
Back outside, he ran, ignoring the burning in his stomach, the fear gnawing at his bones. “She’s gone.” The words emerged without sound, forcing him to repeat them in a roar. “Rannoch! My wife is gone!”
Rannoch shook his head. “No. She was here. Right here.” What Campbell could see of his brother’s face lost all color. “Ah, God, no. Not again.”
Campbell charged forward and grasped his brother’s nape, forcing him to focus. “Tell me what happened.” He gave him a shake, his lungs heaving and aching and burning. “And, for God’s sake, be swift about it. Time is short. If she dies, it’s the end of me. Do ye ken? The end of me.”
“I ken, brother. I’ll help ye find her. Ye’re not alone in this.”
Fury like he’d never known blazed upward from the blackest depths of his soul. It split him down the center. It broke his voice in two. “I’ll find her. Then, I’ll tear him apart. Nothing will stop me.”
Rannoch’s eyes flashed into wariness. He swallowed. Nodded. Then, he calmly explained how Campbell’s paradise had been stolen and replaced with hell. “It all started with tea and oatcakes.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
On the day that changed everything, Clarissa awakened with a craving for oatcakes and honey with a strong cup of tea. Outside, crows were creating a wild cacophony. That must have been what disturbed her sleep, she thought, because she could have slept on for another hour. She stretched in bed, feeling the remnants of her night with Campbell—a magical night filled with dancing and pleasure and love. She sighed blissfully at the memories.
Then, she laughed as Fergus trotted over to wash her face with his tongue.
“Eww, Fergus!” She pushed him away and rolled onto her feet. Wrapping herself in her gray plaid, she opened the door to let him out. “Go find Daniel, hmm?”
The dog trotted merrily into the corridor before loping toward the stairs.
She closed the door and started to wash and dress. She noticed the fog hadn’t yet lifted. When Campbell had kissed her goodbye before dawn, he’d cursed the nuisance weather but said it should burn off by noon. She glanced at the small clock on her dressing table. Half eleven.
After tying a shawl over her sprigged cotton day dress—the blue one with the white roses—she sat on the bed to roll on knitted wool stockings rather than the silk ones she’d originally selected. If the weather meant to be chilly, then she meant to be comfortable.
Of course, “comfortable” was a condition of degrees. Her inner thighs were sore from both overworked muscles and whisker-chafed skin; her bosoms flashed fire at every brush of fabric; and her womanly bits had been thoroughly pillaged by a ruthless marauder.
Campbell “The Marauder” MacPherson.
Blast, the man was relentless. And magnificent.
She grinned and fingered her owl necklace. Thank heaven he was hers.
Downstairs a short while later, she entered the kitchen to find Rannoch munching on buttered bread and chatting with a rosy-cheeked Abigail. He paused to give Clarissa a wickedly charming grin as he slid a plate of oatcakes across the table. “Good mornin’, sister. I promised ye oatcakes and tea.” He poured steaming water from the kettle into the teapot then placed it on a trivet. “And here ye are. Oatcakes and tea.”
She chuckled. “Indeed, you are a man of your word.” She nodded toward the sideboard. “Fetch me that honeypot, won’t you? I’ve a craving.”
He plucked it up, frowned, then peered inside. “’Tis empty.”
“Oh, aye,” said Abigail, wiping her hands on her apron. “Apologies, Mrs. MacPherson. I used it all for the honey cakes. They’re a special treat I was plannin’ for this evenin’ after … well, when Mr. MacPherson comes home.”
Clarissa’s belly twinged with worry as she recalled the risk he was taking. “Very thoughtful, Abigail. Thank you.” She pasted on a bright smile. “Rannoch, I believe there’s more honey in the larger crate on the supply wagon. Perhaps you could carry it inside for me?”
He finished the last of his bread and dusted his hands. “Straight away.” He reached for the rifle propped beside the potato bin. “Stay here, ye ken? Mayhap pour us some tea. I’ll only be a moment.”
