Gair’s ship, waiting in the Thames, was small and ramshackle, but Celia, who’d voyaged to and from the Continent several times in her life, recognized it as a seaworthy craft. The ropes were firm, the sails whole, and the boards of the ship, while not polished like a naval craft’s or a grand merchantman’s, held no holes or rot.

Celia found herself surrounded by Scotsmen, all of them injured in some way, many of them too ill to lift their heads. Gair, a slightly built, evil-looking man with a thin queue of hair hanging from a mostly bald head, complained incessantly that his hold was taken up with filthy, stinking Highlanders, but Celia noted that he found a hammock or pallet for every man and made sure they were tended.

During the trip, Celia assisted in nursing them, bathing wounds, helping men shave themselves, or covering them with warm blankets at night. Her heart went out to these Scotsmen, hurt, starved, a long way from home and journeying even farther from home to save themselves. They didn’t complain, they made jokes—usually bawdy ones—and settled in to heal.

Will Mackenzie recovered quickly, as did his friend Stuart Cameron. The big men were rough speaking and joined Padruig in toasting their freedom with Scots whisky—the ship seemed to carry many casks of it.

Gair gave over his captain’s cabin to Alec, Celia, and Jenny, but not, he warned, from the goodness of his heart. The cabin would cost them extra. Alec only nodded and promised the money when they reached shore.

“Never pay Gair up front,” he explained as he and Celia sat in the bow, Alec wrapped in a dark green plaid he’d brought out as soon as they sailed. “If he finds a cargo that will make him wealthier halfway to your destination, he might send you off in a skiff and take on the more lucrative cargo.”

“Would he truly do that?” Celia asked, glancing at the man chivvying one of his sailors up a mast. “I’d think no one would trust him after a time.”

“No one does. I exaggerate to make the story better, but not by much. Gair prides himself on being underhanded.”

They’d slid down the Thames under cover of darkness, Gair competently avoiding naval ships at Gravesend and Southend, slipping through marshland and mist, heading to open water as the sun rose. The Channel tossed the boat wildly, and the freed men groaned, seasickness not helping their weakened state.

Alec slid his arms around Celia, holding her close, as the wind of their passage chilled them. They could have hunkered below, but Alec had said he wanted clean air, and Celia agreed.

Will found them, dropping onto the board seat opposite them, wineskin in hand. “Now is time for that story, Alec.” His eyes were alight, his jaw clean and shaved, showing a sharp Mackenzie face, albeit one bruised and cut. “Rescuing a pack of Highlanders and finding yourself a bride in the space of a few weeks? Tell me everything.”

Alec shrugged. “Why don’t we wait until we reach home? I’ll only have to explain all over again to Dad and Mal and Mary.”

He teased—Celia had sensed the lightness in him since they’d made it on board. Will scowled. “I can always beat it out of you, little brother.”

“Ye can try, ye mean. Why don’t you tell me why the devil you were so angry at me for turning up to free ye? Did ye enjoy being prisoner of British soldiers ready to flay ye alive? And why the devil did ye spring up in front of a troop and tell them ye were Prince Teàrlach?”

“So they’d capture me, of course.” Will took a pull from the wineskin, which Celia knew held whisky—Mackenzie malt, Alec had told her.

“Of course,” Alec repeated with a scowl. “Who were ye protecting? Teàrlach himself?”

Will shook his head. “I never saw the man. He’s gone to ground well and good in the western Highlands somewhere. Good luck to anyone trying to find him. Of course, the soldiers were certain I knew where he was, so they took me to their special interrogation prison, which was all to my plan.”

Alec spoke into Celia’s ear, his breath warm against the sea wind. “He’s a madman. Only explanation.”

“Only a little mad,” Will said. “I’d heard rumor of men high-placed in Prince Teàrlach’s army who were being kept in a secret prison. They’d vanished—no one knew what had happened to them, not even their own families. Stuart Cameron was one of them, and he’s an old friend, for his sins. Also Mackenzies who didn’t get themselves murdered on the expedition looking for French gold.”

Will paused, his expression bleak. Celia had heard the story of a ship carrying gold from France and other weapons and supplies that had landed in the north of Scotland, the gold and goods immediately seized by Highlanders loyal to King George. Jacobites who’d gone to find the gold had been cut down nearly to a man. The gold had been the last hope of the Jacobite army, according to Edward, and that hope had died, making their defeat at Culloden inevitable.

“I heard that rumor too,” Alec said. “Which is why I was looking for you. But I stayed in a comfortable house and questioned people instead of jumping in front of a troop to get myself captured.”

Will shrugged. “I like to be more direct. Anyway I found the prison. They moved it about, from house to house, so if anyone got wind of it, they’d be gone before the area could be searched. The men running it were very aware that they risked their careers, because it wasn’t sanctioned by King Geordie or even Cumberland, as much of a bastard as he is. The plan was to ferret out everything these men knew and present it to the king, in hopes he would lavish them with rewards, money, whatever a greedy man wishes for. Your uncle is ambitious, lass. He also very much enjoyed thinking of ways to torture us.” He rubbed the side of his head, which was crossed with contusions under his scraggly hair. No wonder Will had punched Uncle Perry so thoroughly.

Celia nodded glumly. “He has always been envious of my father, always pushing in on everything he did. My father let him, because he is generous. I suppose Uncle Perry wanted power of his own—perhaps he thought the king might give him a title. Being brother-in-law to a duke isn’t the same as being a duke himself.”

“And ye couldn’t find this out skulking around and listening at keyholes?” Alec demanded of Will.

Will opened his eyes wide. “Is that what ye think I do?” His face was different from Alec’s, narrower, his nose longer, but they both had the dark red hair, smattering of freckles, and the Mackenzie golden eyes.

“All right, there’s some of that,” Will conceded. “But I wanted to know exactly what Lord Chesfield and the Honorable Perry Waterson were up to. What better way than to make them think me in their power? You can find out much about interrogators from the questions they ask.”

“Ye can also get your head bashed in,” Alec growled. “Here I am, running up and down England looking for ye, while you’re sitting all cozy in a cell gathering information.”

Will’s expression cleared. “And I am grateful, Alec. I wasn’t quite sure how we’d all get away—I knew I could, but I did not want to leave the rest of those men to their fate. I planned to use the grand ball at the duke’s to my advantage, but I had no idea you’d decided to use it for yours.”

“Alec planned the ball in the first place,” Celia said, rising to his defense. “He had Lady Flora convince my mother to hold it, and then he arranged for the horses and carriages, and for Gair to be waiting with his boat. Mrs. Oswald—Josette—assisted us.” Celia watched Will as she spoke this last, gauging his reaction to the name.

To her satisfaction, Will’s eyes softened. “Ah, Josette. How is she?”

“She appears to be well,” Celia answered when Alec remained silent. “She was quite worried about you, and a great help.” Celia wasn’t quite sure all Josette had done, but the woman had been genuinely concerned about Will. She’d have to write her and tell her Will was well and free. “Alec and all his acquaintances spent a long time planning your rescue,” Celia went on. “He even married me as a part of it all.”

Alec laughed, the sound rich. “No, lass, marrying you was a selfish ruse.” He kissed her neck, his mouth hot. “To get ye all to myself.”

Celia flushed as her skin tingled. Will watched them, then his face softened and he lifted the wineskin in a toast. “Ah, Alec, ’tis good to see you happy again.”

“’Tis good to be so, brother mine.”

“What did my Uncle Perry want to find out?” Celia asked Will, curious even as she warmed to Alec’s touch. “Did he think you had Bonnie Prince Charlie hidden away somewhere?”

Will shook his head. “Funny, they didn’t seem interested in the prince at all. The sooner he fell into a bog or headed back to France the better, as far as they were concerned. No, what they asked most about was the gold.”

“The French gold?” Celia asked. “Good heavens.”

“Aye,” Will said. “It was never found, you know. Mal and I suspected it was stolen by the Highlanders who intercepted it, and they’ve now spent it on ostentatious things like food and clothing to keep them warm through the winter. But Lord Chesfield and your uncle are convinced the gold is still floating about the northern Highlands. They were so adamant, they’ve nearly convinced me as well.”

The end of Will’s nose twitched, as though he were anxious to dive overboard, swim ashore, race to Scotland, and start hunting for lost gold.

“And then I came along,” Alec broke in, “to put an end to your information gathering. And to save your life and that of twenty Scotsmen at the same time. I can see why you’re cursing me.”

Will’s grin flashed. “Truth to tell, I was bloody glad to see ye. Ye did a fine thing, Alec. And ye got yourself a wife in the bargain.” He looked Celia over, his pleased expression warring with one of curiosity. “We’ll be having a grand celebration when we’re back in the bosom of the family, I’m thinking.”

“Aye, that we will,” Alec said. He gathered Celia close, the fold of his plaid coming around her shoulders. “As I introduce to them the woman I love.”

“Love?” Celia asked, her heartbeat speeding.

She hadn’t meant to blurt the question, especially not in front of Will. She flushed, but she studied Alec—he could use the word so casually.

“Yes.” Alec’s golden eyes held fire, passion, truth, and a hint of challenge. “I love you, my Celia.”

“Oh.” Celia burned all over, any hesitancy, fear, and trepidation dissolving at the heat in his voice. “I love you, my Highlander. My Alec.”

A huff of laughter accompanied a swirl of plaid as Will took himself away and down the deck, leaving them alone.

The wind from the sea to the north was brisk, sending rain through the Channel and rough water. The boat tossed, the cold bit at them, but as Alec leaned to kiss her, Celia had never felt warmer in her life.

* * *

They lingered on the coast of France, Gair again avoiding British ships prowling the waters in their ongoing war with King Louis. Will had a hideaway near Le Havre, and there the men rested and recovered. Most had a broken bone or two, and some were simply too ill to move.

Alec watched Celia come into her own as she bathed wounds, wrapped limbs, and bullied the landlord who ran the house into scrounging up clothes, medicines, clean bedding, decent food, and hearty ale. She did it all in perfect French, ordering large, strong men about with the intensity of a battlefield general. Perhaps having something of her mother in her wasn’t a bad thing.

After two weeks, the Highlanders improved and grew stronger, and talked about what they would do. Some wanted to brave going home, to make sure their families were well. Others planned to settle in France or find their friends who’d gone to the Low Countries for life in exile. Stuart Cameron was one who planned to return to Scotland, though he promised he’d keep his head down and not require Will and Alec to rescue him again.

Letters had gone back and forth between Le Havre and Paris, Mal telling Alec he had everything ready for Alec’s return with his bride and daughter. Celia insisted on writing to her father to ensure him she was well, and Will got the letter smuggled across the Channel.

They set out on a fine summer morning in a chaise Will had procured, one with good springs and soft cushions. Sally rode inside with them, she and Celia cooing over Jenny, who loved every moment of attention. Alec and Will rode facing the two ladies, the brothers traveling in companionable silence. Will looked his old self again, his beard long gone, his red hair trimmed, his eyes as animated as ever.

The journey went in easy stages, Alec not wanting to tire Celia, Sally, and Jenny. He liked the slowness, which gave him time to talk at length with Will and discover everything he’d learned since they’d last seen each other.

The Mackenzies would have to lie low in Paris for a time, Will said, though Lord Wilfort was subtly pulling strings to have the family cleared of treason and slowly brought back to life. Will, for his part, preferred to stay dead—he could travel about and poke into things easier if everyone thought Will Mackenzie had perished on the battlefield.

Alec didn’t mind one way or another—he had Celia and Jenny, a place to live, time to pursue his painting and raise his daughter. One day, he would return to the lands of his ancestors, but for now, he’d while away his time in Paris, not a bad city to spend an exile in.

He also liked the time to lie abed with Celia, learning her body, teaching her to explore his. Sunlight lingered into the night at this time of year, which let him enjoy her in the long dusk, her body a place of light and shadow.

Paris unfolded like a smoky smudge on the horizon after a few days. The outskirts were thickly clustered with houses, the buildings rising higher and becoming more lush as they neared the Tuileries, Palais-Royal, the Louvre, and the squat towers of Notre Dame. Tall houses crowded onto the Pont-au-Change and other bridges, the Seine beneath as smelly as the Thames.

Alec took them to a house in the Saint-Germain district, a confection of stone and painted shutters that rose to a mansard roof. The main door led to a courtyard, beyond which was a large garden shared by houses in the square.

A door in the courtyard sprang open as soon as the carriage pulled into it, and out came Malcolm Mackenzie, the Runt towering over Alec as he pulled him out of the coach and smothered him in a hug.

He shoved Alec aside and yanked Will out next, giving him the same crushing embrace.

“I was sure you were both dead,” Mal declared at the top of his voice. “Without me there to look after ye.”

A young woman with very blond hair and a quiet manner stepped out of the house after Mal, beaming her wide smile on Alec.

“I knew you’d prevail,” she said, rising on tiptoe to kiss Alec’s cheek, then Will’s. “Mal worried every day, but between you and Will, I was sure you’d be right as rain.”

Mary stepped back and took them in, and Alec saw the smudges of worry that had stained her face, despite her glib words. Alec also noted that her gown was cut to hide her thickening belly, and Mary touched her hand to her stomacher. “He kicks something lively,” she said. “A Mackenzie without question. Now, where is she?”

Mary reached Celia before Alec could, the two greeting each other with enthusiasm, as Alec helped his wife from the coach.

“You could have knocked me over with a feather when Mal told me Alec had married Lady Celia Fotheringhay,” Mary exclaimed. “I thought you betrothed to that horrid Lord Harrenton. We must talk.”

“Watch yourself,” Mal warned Alec, standing shoulder to shoulder with him. “That’s a bad sign.”

“You love listening to Mary chatter, Runt,” Alec returned. “Don’t pretend you don’t. I imagine the house will be filled with chatter now, and babies crying. We won’t be able to think.”

“There’s always whisky.” Mal clapped both brothers on their shoulders. “I am bloody glad to see you both, I won’t deny it.”

Sally emerged from the coach with Jenny, and Alec took his daughter gladly into his arms. At the same time, a rumble filled the courtyard as Daniel William Mackenzie, Ninth Duke of Kilmorgan, barreled out the door.

“Did anyone bother to tell me they were here?” he bellowed. “It’s more gray hair you’ve given me, Willie, you and Alec both. I can’t spare any more sons, damn the lot of ye. Is this the wife?”

Alec held Jenny securely, she observing the duke without fear as she chewed on one fist with new teeth. Alec put his arm around Celia, and Mary remained steadfastly on her other side.

“This is Celia,” Alec said. “Your daughter.”

The duke, who’d glared so hard at Mary when she’d first appeared in his house, sent the same glare to Celia, but his eyes quickly softened.

“Well now.” The duke cleared his throat. “Ye appear as though ye can look after my good-for-nothing son. Got a bit of steel in you, I warrant. You’d have to, t’ run off with him.”

“I hope so,” Celia said. She made a very proper curtsy. “I am happy to meet you, Your Grace.”

She held out her hand. The duke took it, but instead of bowing over it, he tugged Celia close and enclosed her in an embrace. He said nothing, but his eyes were moist when he released her.

“She’s too damned fine for the likes of you, Alec,” he said as he straightened. The duke surreptitiously wiped his face, muttering something about dust.

“Don’t I know it.” Alec grinned at Celia. “That means he likes you.”

“Humph.” The duke set his face in its habitual scowl and stormed back into the house. “There’s a feast waiting for ye. Make Mary happy and come and eat it.”

“Ah.” Alec said as he followed the grumble into the house, Celia at his side, Jenny on his arm. “’Tis good to be home.”