The Highland Renegade by Amy Jarecki (10)

Winfred Cummins rubbed his gloved hands while his breath billowed around him. Every muscle clenched tight against the frigid cold. The corporal and pair of sentinels who had gone up the pass to scout hours ago were finally returning. Meanwhile, Cummins’s troops had been useless. The meager fire they’d started popped and hissed and all but fizzled out while he waited.

He hated the Highlands. He hated bloody Scotland. And he’d never been so cold in his life. Earlier his feet had plagued him with pins and needles, and now the right had gone completely numb.

“The trail is impassable,” said the corporal, reining his horse to a stop as the sentinels followed suit.

Winfred clenched his fists at his sides. “You mean to tell me you have allowed those blackguards to evade us?”

“With all due respect, sir, no one up there will survive this blizzard. The poor sops will be trapped for the winter.”

“Dead within a sennight, I reckon,” said another of the sentinels.

Winfred took a step forward and cried out as his leg collapsed beneath him. Flinging his arms forward, he caught the corporal’s stirrup before he fell.

“Are you unwell, sir?”

Hanging on, the lieutenant pulled himself up, unable to keep his teeth from chattering. “If you lot would have shot Robert Grant before he escaped, I would be fine. We all would be fine—warm in our cots at the fort.”

The corporal’s lips thinned while he exchanged glances with the men. Winfred knew what they were thinking. He’d heard the murmurs. They thought he was overreacting.

They’re soft, the lot of them.

None of this was his fault. Highlanders were the basest lowlifes in all of Christendom, and he’d been billeted to this God-forsaken outpost to keep order.

How does a soldier keep order in an icy hell where men vanish into the mist?

Moreover, Janet Cameron needed a lesson in manners. Winfred had watched her dance with enough kilted bastards on Samhain; it would have served her well to give the same attention to the officers in the queen’s dragoons.

To hell with her and her bastard savior. They deserve a long and painful death.

“At least Britain will be rid of a few more troublemakers,” said the corporal.

“So say you.” Gnashing his teeth, Winfred hobbled to his horse and managed to pull himself into the saddle. “But if I discover you have provided me with false information, you will face a court-martial. Hear me clear—all of you men will face consequences.”

He picked up his reins and pointed his steed toward Fort William and a warm fire. Winfred planned to submit a complete report upon his return—as long as his foot didn’t freeze solid in the interim.

Thrashing her head from side to side, Janet woke with a start. Heaven help her, she was freezing and in agony.

Can a person die from pain?

Her arm throbbed and ached as if she’d been branded with a white-hot poker. Sweat streamed from her brow while the inside of her skull pounded. She opened her mouth to cry out, but her tongue was dry and covered with sticky goo. “Water,” she managed to croak.

Someone moved—followed by some rustling. Then Laird Grant kneeled over her, holding a wooden cup. “How are you faring, lass?”

Unable to answer, she cringed as he helped lift her head and lowered the cup to her mouth. She gulped down a sip and licked her lips. “More.”

“You feel warm.”

She forced down another swallow. “C-cold. Hurts.”

He set the cup aside and uncorked his flask. “All I can offer to take the edge off your pain is a tot of this.”

She gave a single nod.

“Can you move your fingers?”

Lord in heaven, the mere thought made her stomach squeamish. But she bore down and tapped her pointer finger twice. The movement brought on a violent shudder.

“Och, ’tis a good sign,” he said, shifting the flask to her mouth.

Janet gulped greedily, then wiped her lips with the back of her hand, trying not to cough. “Whisky is awful.”

“Mayhap when you’re not accustomed to it. But this is a fine Highland spirit. I’d think any Cameron would appreciate whisky from the Duke of Gordon’s still.”

“My father may like it, but I’d rather a tincture of willow bark and chamomile.”

“I pray I’ll find some for you on the morrow.”

“Is it still snowing?”

“Aye—at least when last I checked.”

“Do you think we will be able to travel come morn?”

Shifting his gaze to the door, he ran his fingers over the stubble on his jaw, which had grown thicker. “We’ve no choice but to wait and see.”

There was a sinking feeling in her stomach—one she’d managed to ignore until now. Janet might have been able to weather the scandal of running from the redcoats with Laird Grant and his army, but now she was alone with the man and trapped in a blizzard. When and if they ever made it back to civilization, she would be ruined. Lord knew what action her stepmother might take. But Janet harbored no illusions. Her situation was as precarious as it was grave. Her options would be few: find a man of decent repute who would marry her on the spot; become a governess and commit to a life of spinsterhood; or flee to France, join a convent, and pledge her life to God.

Why did this have to happen to me?

“You’re worried,” he said, brushing a wisp of hair away from her face. The sensation of his touch made gooseflesh rise across her shoulders.

Janet met his gaze. In the firelight he didn’t look anywhere near as stern as he usually did. In fact, he appeared rather compassionate. “I am,” she whispered.

His finger trailed to the top of her injured arm and rested there. “I’ll wager in two to three months your arm will be as good as new. Your break was clean. I felt the bone slip into place and tied the splint firm.”

“I thank you for your care, sir, but I am not as worried about my arm as I am about…” Her gaze shifted aside.

“A scandal,” he finished, his voice grave.

“Aye.”

With a deep sigh, he rocked back onto his haunches. “I will attest to your virtue. No one will doubt me. All ken when my word is given, it is true.”

“All?”

He pursed his lips. “You are referring to your father.”

“He and my kin. The feud between our families has run deep for generations. When my father hears the news…” Her mind raced. There was every chance her father would take up arms and put Laird Grant’s lands to fire and sword.

“I will challenge any man who questions me.” Mr. Grant uncorked his flask and drank. “My mother always said there was no use worrying about that which we cannot control.”

“But I could be ruined.”

“Have faith, lass. You fell down a ravine and broke your arm in the midst of a blizzard. Let people think what they may, but I will speak on your behalf.” He was right. They were stuck alone in the bothy now, and not a soul could save her.

Janet nodded as he handed her the flask. This time she took a long swig, welcoming the burn and resultant swirling in her head. “This spirit won’t last long.”

He took it and pushed in the cork. “Ah well. We shall enjoy it whilst we can.”

“Are you always so untroubled?”

He smiled—dimples, white teeth. It was an endearing smile, rather than the sinister sneer she would expect from a clan enemy. “Mayhap if I were, the Grants and the Camerons would be fast friends.”

“Hmm.” Janet couldn’t pull her gaze away as she considered his words. When she’d first seen him in Inverlochy, he’d accused her kin of stealing his cattle. He’d been adamant about his accusation, regardless of the Cameron livestock losses. Aye, she’d seen him at Highland gatherings over the years, but he’d always kept his distance. For the most part, she’d considered him an arrogant mule until the day she sewed his cheek. He became a person then—akin to a friend or acquaintance.

“What are you thinking?” he asked.

She quickly dropped her gaze to her hands. “N-nothing. Ah…” Good heavens, he must think me daft for staring. “I was just wondering how your cheek is healing. I-it is difficult to tell beneath your stubble.”

He rubbed his finger along the outside of the wound. “It itches more than anything. I’d like to pull the stitches out.”

“But you mustn’t do that. The healer always says to leave them be for a fortnight.”

“The bloody sutures might drive me mad by then.”

Her ears piqued at his vulgarity.

“Forgive me. I shouldn’t speak so coarsely when in the presence of a lady.”

Her shoulder twitched up. “I suppose Kennan wouldn’t bother to apologize.”

“That’s different.”

“Is it?” She chewed the corner of her lip.

He grasped her good hand and held it between his warm palms. The pads of his fingers were rough and meaty. Her heartbeat quickened as he slowly raised it to his lips and kissed. “You must try to sleep.”

The back of her hand tingled with the lingering essence of his kiss, and she drew her palm over her heart. “You as well, sir.”

Those dimples teased her again as he threw his thumb over his shoulder. “If you need anything I’ll be just there.”

“Thank you.”

“You will ask should you need assistance?”

“Aye.” She smiled. “Good night, Your Lairdship.”

Janet awoke with a start and no idea of the time. Everything ached as she forced herself to sit up. Daylight shone from a crack at the top of the door. The only other light was provided by embers glowing in the crude hearth, but Mr. Grant was nowhere to be seen. As she set her hand down, her fingers brushed the whisky flask. Beside it were a cup of water, a piece of dried meat, and a note that looked as if it had been written on a slip of vellum with nothing more than charcoal.

Starving, she bit into the meat while she read:

Though moving caused enough pain to make her swoon, she couldn’t wait any longer to step outside. Careful to hold her arm close to her midriff to prevent it from jostling, she opened the door to thigh-deep snow as far as she could see. Mr. Grant had trampled a path toward the wood. Janet’s feet turned to ice as she followed it with silent footsteps, quickly took care of business.

Once done, she clucked for her mare. At the edge of the wood, the horse nickered, standing akimbo to protect her hock.

“Good girl,” she said. “We both need to heal quickly because we certainly cannot survive a winter in these mountains.”

Content that the mare was settled, Janet hastened back inside.

“Brr.” She shivered and blew on her good hand as she neared the fire. The pot of warm water looked tempting. Beside it were a wee bar of pine soap and a scrap of linen. Slipping out of the gown was easy because of the loose-fitting trumpet sleeves. It took some time, but she managed to loosen her stays enough to pull them around to the front and open the laces enough to push them off over her hips. Down went three petticoats, leaving only her shift.

Janet added a stick of wood to the fire, then stood very still and listened. Nothing. At Achnacarry hunting took an entire day; thus she figured she had plenty of time to bathe. Slowly she pulled the string at the neck of her shift while she looked longingly at the warm water. After her flight to the mountains and her tumble down the hill, she was covered with sweat and grime. Gritting her teeth, she gingerly slipped the garment away from her injured arm.

She crouched and soon realized washing with one hand was cumbersome at best. Unable to lather the cloth, she resorted to scrubbing herself with the soap, then dousing the cloth and running it over her body. The most tempting part? There was enough water remaining to wash her hair. She patted the tangled mass that had been styled by the maid three nights ago. Surprisingly, the decorative comb still held some of the coiffure in place, though strands hung on either side of her face.

She pulled out the comb, ribbon, and remaining pins, dunked her head in the water, did her best to work up a lather, rinsed, then wrung it out.

Now dripping wet, Janet realized her next challenge was finding a drying cloth. Curses. I should have thought about that before I washed my hair.

Coming up with nothing, she resorted to wringing out her hair again—not an easy accomplishment with one working hand. Then she crouched beside the fire and briskly rubbed her skin, the friction and warmth helping her to dry while she cradled her injured arm close to her body, trying to block the pain from her mind.

Her ears pricked up when a noise came from outside. Holding her breath, she stopped moving and listened.

’Twas nothing.

Nonetheless, she must dress straightaway. Removing her clothing had been difficult enough, but the mere thought of tugging her splinted arm through a sleeve made her skin crawl. Clumsily she grasped the neckline of her shift and gathered it until she could slip the whole underdress over her head. With it around her neck, she worked the armhole down to the fist clinched at her waist. Taking in a deep breath, she attempted to lift her arm and straighten it enough to pull the sleeve on.

A sharp, bone-jarring, torturous jab hit her so fiercely she cried out and fell to her backside. “Owwwwww!” Weeping hysterically, unable to catch her breath, she couldn’t move.

Then, to her horror, the door burst open.