Chapter 28
Colonel Wheeler’s men came upon a cluster of crofters’ cottages, most abandoned, set back from the road, as darkness settled over the empty glen. Colonel Wheeler took over the cottages, and housed his soldiers there for the night.
Mary found herself alone in a tiny, one-roomed house made of crookedly piled stone with wide cracks where mortar should be, shivering in the borrowed Mackenzie plaid and the blankets the colonel’s batman had brought her. She made herself eat the food she’d been given, cooked by Wheeler’s chef from the meager supplies they’d managed to salvage. The meal made Mary feel a bit guilty, because she knew most of the men were getting by on nothing but soldiers’ rations.
She also knew she needed to eat and keep up her strength. If Malcolm managed to slip in and take her away, Mary being hungry or ill would slow their escape.
She finished the small meal and settled down for the night on a hard cot that took up most of the room.
Mary didn’t sleep. Malcolm was out there, and it was only a matter of time before he struck.
As the night wore on, all was quiet. Mary heard the tramp of the men as they circled the cottages, alert and on the lookout. One soldier stood guard at her door—she could see his red coat through the gaps in the boards, shifting as the man grew bored and tired.
It was well after midnight by her reckoning, when a rustle in the corner of the tiny room made Mary sit up. She’d already seen a rat scuttling away when her father walked her to this cottage and bade her good night—rats and other small animals loved to nest in houses, abandoned or otherwise.
The rustle came again. Mary peered hard into the corner . . .
. . . And saw a brollachan. It rose from the stones on the floor, a shapeless being, its red eyes piercing the gloom.
Mary didn’t believe in ghosts, but she was up off the bed, grabbing the plaid as she raced for the door.
The brollachan caught her. A hard arm closed around her body, and a rough hand clamped over her mouth as Mary was dragged unceremoniously back from the door, her feet catching on the stone floor as she tried to scramble away.
The ground seemed to open out from under her, and Mary plunged downward, unable to shout, even to breathe.
She landed on top of the brollachan, which grunted a very Scottish-sounding oof!
“Malcolm!” Mary cried in a fierce whisper.
She could see nothing in the dark but the gleam of his eyes, but she could smell him. Peat, mud, muck, and blood.
Mary let out a sob of relief and collapsed onto Malcolm, flinging her arms around his neck. He held her in the gloom, his embrace strong, his body cradling her.
They stayed like this for a time, then Malcolm gently pushed Mary to her feet and scrambled up beside her. “You all right, lass? That was quite a fall.”
“Blast it all, Malcolm,” Mary said as Malcolm brushed himself off. He was whole and real, warm and solid in the dark. “You scared the wits out of me!”
“Aye, I’m prone t’ do that.” Mal’s teeth gleamed in the darkness with his lopsided smile. He took her hand. “Time t’ go, love.”
“Go where?” Mary clung to his hand, her boots slipping on the damp ground. “What is this place?”
“’Tis where the whisky is made, of course.” Mal’s breath was warm as he leaned close. “Ye don’t think the crofters do it where the excise men can find it, do ye? This way.”
He tugged her with him along the stony floor. Mary was grateful she’d worn her gown and even her boots to bed as she stumbled along behind him, not daring to let go of Mal’s steadying hand.
The tunnel was warmer than the house above it, no wind blowing through cracks under the earth. After a time, Mary heard rushing water, a sound that grew louder with every step. Finally, after what seemed a long time of walking, Malcolm guided her up a rickety set of wooden stairs and through a door that led outside into the cold.
Mary found herself on the bank of a hurrying stream. Hills rose on either side of the stream, and no cottage was in sight, not even lights of any in the distance. Mist gathered above the water in thick patches, and wind pushed the stream’s spray at her. Mary shivered, the cold strong.
“Not long now, love,” Mal said over the water’s rush. “I’ll have ye warm soon.”
He turned and led her by the hand along the stream, into the chill of the mist. Mary couldn’t see him, though he was but a step ahead of her. Mal had become the brollachan again, a shapeless bulk against the shadows.
Mary stumbled along, her feet numb, Malcolm’s hand a lifeline. There was no sound of pursuit—no sound at all except the stream clattering over rocks below.
“How did you know I’d be in that cottage?” she asked when she had the breath. “And that there was a tunnel underneath it?”
“The tunnels are under all the cottages,” Mal answered readily. “I knew which you were in because it was the only one with a guard at the door. I knew the Yorkshireman colonel would stop ye at those cottages, because it was as far as ye could go in one day without the horses.”
Which was why he’d rid the colonel of his beasts. “You herded them there?” Mary asked in surprise.
“That I did. Best place to steal ye, before ye were locked into a house or an army fort at Inverness.”
Mary thought about this as she picked her way along behind him, balancing on the slippery bank. Mal had used his knowledge of the land against those who’d invaded it. Here was the ruthless barbarian she’d always known him to be, in spite of his university education, furniture and art from Paris, and interest in fine food and drink. Mal was the sort of Highlander the English feared, one who’d throw off civilization, rise up, and come plunging down upon them.
“Malcolm,” Mary said after a time. “What did you do with the horses?”
“Hmm?” Mal halted, sending Mary into him, his body warm and hard in the cold. “I cut them free. Don’t worry, lass. Horses know their way home. I wager the colonel and his men will return to barracks to find them already in the stables. Well, those that don’t get stolen along the way.”
“What I mean is, did you save one for yourself?”
“No.”
Mary squeezed his hand, her feet aching. “I see. Whyever not?”
Mal squeezed her hand in return. “Because the moment a soldier sees a grubby Highlander riding along on a British warhorse, I’ll be shot as a Jacobite. We’ll find a ride soon enough.”
With that last statement, Malcolm pulled her along. He eased his speed a little, but he didn’t stop, tramping on over the Highlands, heading who knew where. Mary hung on to his hand, far more contented to be in the icy cold with Mal than in Colonel Wheeler’s comfortable tent, and let Malcolm take her into the night.
Malcolm was cold, exhausted, and furiously angry, but at the same time, he rejoiced. He had Mary, she was free, and she was safe.
As safe, that is, as she could be rushing about the Highlands in the middle of the night, while British soldiers roamed the glens. Mal needed to get her indoors, warm, out of the clinging mists that seeped under cloth to wet their skin.
He led Mary at the quickest pace he could down the hidden trails that followed the twists and turns of the stream. He’d been walking these paths since he’d been a child, at first with his brothers, then on his own. Highlanders knew the safe ways—had known for generations. The roads forced upon them by the English hadn’t changed that.
After an hour or so of steady trudging, Malcolm turned away from the stream and made his way down into a hollow between hills. A line of cottages nestled here, hidden from all roads and even from the sight of anyone on the hilltop above. If a man didn’t know the houses were here, he’d pass them altogether, oblivious.
A light gleamed once then went out. Mal led Mary to where the light had been, a door in a dark wall opened, and they ducked inside, out of the wind.
The house was a one-roomed rectangle, much like the croft in which Mal had found Mary, but the walls were solid, the cracks well plastered with mud and mortar. A fire smoldered on the hearth, not emitting much light, but filling the tiny house with fragrant warmth.
“All right, Rabbie?” Malcolm asked.
Rabbie, the whisky smuggler they’d met on the road to Kilmorgan, nodded. “All right, me lord. This here is me missus.”
A woman bundled in a thick dress and plaid nodded to them as she came out of the darkness near the fireplace. She said nothing at all, but passed two steaming mugs to Rabbie, who thrust them both at Malcolm.
“This is my missus,” Mal said as he handed one mug to Mary. He wasn’t sure what beverage Rabbie’s wife had given them, but it was hot—all that mattered.
Mary, who’d been looking around in wonder, gave Rabbie and his wife a gracious nod, as though they were the aristo friends who’d invited her to their drawing room. “Thank you for your hospitality,” she said.
Her voice shook with fear and weariness, but she sounded as gracious as a queen. More so, Mal reflected. He’d met a few who were sneering harpies.
Mary lifted the cup Mal had given her and sipped. She made a face but sipped again.
Mal drank from his mug, finding coffee that tasted as though it had been boiled with the same grounds for three or four days.
Rabbie peered nervously behind Mal, though the door was shut and now bolted. “Soldiers ain’t going to pour down here on us, are they?”
“Not tonight,” Mal said. “Tomorrow we’ll be gone, I promise ye. My lass just needs to rest for a time. She can’t walk all night.”
Rabbie didn’t respond, which meant he was reassured. Men like Rabbie didn’t waste breath on small pleasantries.
Rabbie waited until they finished the coffee, then took the mugs from them and passed them back to his wife. He snatched up a dark lantern, lit the candle inside, adjusted the metal sides that would blot out the light from watchers, and motioned them to the door.
He led them back out into the cold. Rabbie’s wife had not said one word the entire time they’d been in the house, and she said nothing now, not even a good-night.
Rabbie took Mal and Mary along a narrow path that ran behind the house and down a short hill to an even tinier house. This cottage too had one room and was built of the same dark stone as Rabbie’s, its roof thatched.
A fire smoldered on a raised stone hearth in the middle of the room, the smoke rising to cracks in the roof. The sharp smell of peat fire coated the room but wasn’t unpleasant—the cracks drew the smoke as well as any enclosed chimney. Blankets and plaids had been piled on one side of the little room as a makeshift bed. Nothing else was inside.
“Abandoned,” Rabbie said, by way of explaining why it was empty and available. “Half of ’em are—folk have gone off to the cities or joined up with the Jacobite army. Me son nipped down here and built a fire while we nattered. He’ll be moving in here with his wife once you’re gone.”
“Ye’ve been kind, Rabbie,” Malcolm said sincerely. He shook Rabbie’s hand, pressing a coin into it at the same time.
“Thank ye, sir. Good night.”
Rabbie made a quick retreat, closing the door behind him. He’d left the lantern, which cast an eerie glow over the dark stones where Rabbie had set it down. Mal slid the wooden bolt across the door, fitting it into the curved wooden strap that would bar any intruders.
He turned around again, and Mary’s warm body slammed into him.
Mal staggered, but steadied himself by dragging Mary tightly against him as her arms came around him. They held each other hard, and Malcolm buried his face in the curve of her neck. She was alive, well, and with him.
“Malcolm.” She was crying, his brave Mary.
“Hush, sweet. I’ve come to take care of ye.”
Mary touched his face. “I was so afraid for you. I thought they’d find you—the colonel gave his men orders to shoot you on sight.”
“They never had a chance, love.” Malcolm brushed a kiss to her lips, then another. “The English soldiers stumble around in the dark, while I flit away like a will-o’-the-wisp. They walked right past me several times. Close enough for me to smell.”
Mary gave him her best severe look. “They had Highlanders with them as well, who presumably could track a will-o’-the-wisp. You took a great risk.”
Mal shook his head. “No one knows the land as I do, my Mary. And I’d risk anything for you.”
He bent to her lips again, the softness of her easing him. He’d been so long in the dark and cold. Mary was warmth and light.
When they eased apart, Mary rested her head on his chest. “I am very angry at you,” she said. “However, for the moment, I do not remember why.”
“Something besides me risking me neck to drive King Geordie’s soldiers mad?”
Mary nodded against him. “It will come to me. Though not, I think, right now.”
“Well, that’s a mercy.” Mal drew her closer. His knees were shaking now that two days of no sleep were catching up to him, but he didn’t want to admit it. He had other things on his mind.
Mary raised her head. “Gracious, you’re swaying like a sapling in wind. Come and lie down.”
Malcolm fell down. He landed on the blankets—which took up one half of the small room—and pulled Mary with him. She landed on him with a crush of feminine body.
“You shouldn’t have come after me,” Mary was saying. “I’d have been all right. You had no need to single-handedly fight an entire army camp to get to me. I planned to go home with my father then make arrangements to return to Scotland and find you.”
Malcolm wrapped himself around her and rolled over with her until he lay on top of Mary, she a warm cushion beneath him. Mary’s cheeks were pink from her scolding, her eyes sparkling in the dim light. Mal brushed a loose lock of golden hair from her face.
“Then I would have followed you home, lass. I’d have climbed in your window and spirited you away. I couldn’t have taken the chance that your father would lock you up or force you to marry someone else. I’m not waiting forever for you.”
“Frogs and toadstools, Malcolm.” Mary glared at him, though her voice was weak with tiredness. “You did it because you enjoyed tormenting the soldiers. But you sealed your fate. They have you down as a traitor now.”
A slice of anger broke through Malcolm’s immediate happiness. “No, they sealed it when they burned out Kilmorgan Castle and nearly killed my father. They sealed it when they took you away from me. They forged into my lands, stole my lass, and tried to break us. I’ll not meekly submit to a bloody lot of British soldiers and let them get away with taking everything we have. If that makes me a traitor, then I am. Prince Charlie is a fool, but the English are tyrannical bastards sent to make our life a misery. They went too far with me, Mary. And so—I’ll be their brollachan. Aye, I heard what they called me. They need to fear what lies in the dark.”
Mary blinked back tears as the rage surged through him. She stared at him in shock, but when she touched his cheek, her fingertips were gentle. “Mal, I’m so sorry.”
Malcolm growled low in his throat. The tenderness of her touch broke through the anger flaring through him like a bright flame, bringing him once more to the present. He had Mary with him, away from the soldiers, back in his arms. His heart beat hard with his need, his love.
Mary was in the simple clothes she’d liked to wear at the castle, the plaid she’d been wrapped in now part of their bed covers. Malcolm unfastened her bodice one hook at a time, spreading the cloth. He licked her breasts where they swelled over the corset, and slid his fingers beneath her to unlace it.
Mary brought her hands up, but her push against him lacked strength. “You need to sleep, Mal. You’re half-dead.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Malcolm nuzzled her as he tugged the corset’s laces free. “I can’t keep away from ye. I crave ye, lass, and I’ll never sleep until I have ye.”
The corset came away. Mary made an intoxicating little sound as Malcolm licked between her breasts, then closed his mouth over her. Another sound as he began to suckle, her body moving as though he were already inside her.
Mary started to laugh. “Mal, you’re filthy. Covered in mud.”
“I know.” More kissing, licking. “And ye taste so sweet. After we’re done, ye can bathe me. Ye already ken how.”
Mary’s laughter shook her agreeably. “I love you, Malcolm Mackenzie.”
Malcolm stopped. He carefully lifted his head and stared down at her, stunned. Mary lay under him, her eyes heavy with need and exhaustion, her little smile piercing his heart.
Mal had never thought himself lovable. He’d been told over and over, all his life, that he was anything but that. Charming, yes—people liked to say he was charming. He was well liked by some, he knew, but no one had ever said the words love and Malcolm in the same breath.
That this woman, the beauty Mal had coveted from the moment he’d seen her, spoke the words, penetrated his senses and splintered him.
He wasn’t quite certain after that how he got both of them unclothed, but before the warmth of her words died away, he gathered Mary into his arms and slid himself inside her.