Chapter 29
Home. I’ve found home.
Malcolm groaned as Mary closed around him. In the darkness, there was only her. Firelight outlined her face, her body held his, and her warmth surrounded him.
She tasted of salt and fire, and everything Mal needed. He kissed her lips, gently suckling each one, licking inside her mouth. Mal held her wrists to the makeshift bed, the heat of her making him wild. Mary lifted to meet him, her cries breaking the darkness.
The fact that controlled, ever-practical Mary forgot to be quiet and sedate in his arms made Malcolm’s excitement spike. He came down to her, hot skin to hot skin. Her breasts were tight against his chest, her nails on his back a dark bite amid a wash of pleasure.
Inside this room, the true Malcolm emerged. Not the charmer, or the man with the burning need to make sure everyone in his life was safe. The selfish being that was Malcolm took over. He wanted this woman, wanted her with mindless passion, would do anything, fight anyone to make sure she was his.
“You’re fire, Mary,” he murmured. “Burning so bright, I can barely see.” His words drifted to incoherence, but his thoughts went on.
Ye complete me. I’ll never be whole again if ye aren’t beside me, my brave, beautiful Mary.
Mary dropped away from his kiss to let out another loud cry as her sweet heat flowed over him. Ye pretend to be so cool, but with me, you’re my passionate, beautiful lass.
A few seconds later, and Malcolm came apart, but he kept thrusting, the two of them needing to hold each other, hands clutching as though they’d never let go. Mary was sobbing by the time Malcolm came down on her, dark lassitude picking him up and whirling him away.
He said, “Shh, don’t cry, my Mary,” and tried to brush away a tear.
The words were a mumble, his hand didn’t work, and he crashed onto her. Mary caressed his hair, her lips featherlight on his face.
“It’s all right, Malcolm. Sleep. I’ve got you.”
Malcolm fell into oblivion.
Mary was finishing the bowl of porridge Rabbie’s wife had brought her when Malcolm finally awoke. She found it odd to eat the porridge plain without fruit or anything else to sweeten it, but she knew this was all Rabbie had.
Malcolm blinked in the small amount of light that came through the oil-paper window next to the door. He’d used plaids to cover them both, and now they slid from his torso, one hip emerging from the folds. His amber eyes peered at her through the dirt on his face.
When he saw her demurely eating porridge, his slow smile blossomed. “Ye’re real. Not a dream.”
“No, indeed.” Mary licked the last of the oats from her spoon. As strange as the meal was, it filled her belly and was quite satisfying. “I have remembered now why I was angry with you.”
The smile dimmed. “Aye? Why’s that?”
Mary carefully set her bowl on the floor and rose to her feet. She clenched her fists but faced him calmly, head high. “I have heard that you paid Lord Halsey to not marry me. Is this so?”
Malcolm sat up, crossing his legs, the plaid stretching over his thighs. “I sent his man of business a letter telling him t’ tear up the contracts, and that my man of business would forward the sum of your dowry to him. I did it t’ keep that bastard Halsey from hounding ye the rest of your life, and from hounding your father. It’s a small price to pay to make Halsey stay the hell away from you and your family.” His scowl had returned, the affable Mal gone.
“Halsey ought to honor my choice,” Mary said crisply, “and sever the agreements without penalty.” She knew, though, even as she spoke, that Halsey would never do so. His pride would put Mary in thrall to him for the rest of her life.
Mal gave her an incredulous look. “You’re a dreamer, you are. Halsey’s no gentleman—I don’t care that he’s a peer. He understands money and power, nothing else. I’d rather give him nothing, and to hell with him, but I’m realistic. He’d never stop unless he saw the price of ye. This way, he’d have to work hard to make a case if he tried to bring your da to court.”
“It hardly matters now.” Mary stretched her fingers. “You’ve sabotaged an army camp and kidnapped an earl’s daughter. I’m certain Halsey will laugh as they drag you off to prison, and even harder when you’re on the gallows.”
Mary’s words brought the image to her strongly. Mal in a linen shirt and dark breeches—they’d never let him wear his plaids, a symbol of pride—as he was hoisted aloft from the wooden floor of the gallows, his face covered with a hood, his hands bound behind him. His strong legs would kick as the air left him, the rope crushing his throat. He’d kick and dance until he dropped, breathless and limp, his body swaying gently. Dead. The affable, slant-smiled Malcolm gone, never to give her his hot, sideways glance again.
Mary’s strength gave out, and she collapsed. She landed on the pile of bedding with him, and he steadied her with an arm around her. He was alive for now, and here.
“What are we going to do, Malcolm?” Mary asked in a rush.
Mal rubbed his chin, as calm as though discussing what amusement to take in that afternoon. “Not sure yet. We have several choices that I can see.”
“Do we?” Mary asked, giving him a skeptical look. “What are those?”
Mal touched each finger as he listed them, continuing to be maddeningly calm. “We return to Kilmorgan and make certain my da’s all right, then we go north and I put you on a ship bound for France. Or, we find Will and help him make sure the English don’t chase Prince Charlie back to Scotland to plague us. Or, we stay here with Rabbie, help him make whisky and sneak it south. I like the first one best, personally.”
“I don’t.” Mary sat cross-legged, as he did, settling her skirts on her knees. She hadn’t done so since she was a girl. “We ought to see that your father is all right, then both go to France. We take your father with us and keep him safe.”
Malcolm studied a pinched fold of his plaid. “Dad will never leave Kilmorgan. I can’t abandon him there on his own to the mercy of English soldiers. But you can be out of this, away from Halsey, away from Yorkshire commanders who drag ye off where ye don’t want to go. Ye wait in Paris for me t’ come when the Jacobite cause is either won or lost. Ye’ll be with your sister, and all.”
His tone was so reasonable that Mary glared at him. “Sit by myself worrying to death whether you’re alive or dead, or whether you’ve done some bloody fool thing to get yourself arrested or killed? What do you expect me to do all day while I’m fretting—embroider?”
“Mary, these are dangerous times.” Mal looked up at her, a sternness in his eyes she’d never seen before. “They’d be dangerous for you even in Lincolnshire, even in London. The Lord only knows where Charles will take his army and what he’ll do to those in his way. The English won’t rise and join him—they’ve no wish t’ go starry-eyed after ancient princes. King Geordie will send a powerful force to chase him and crush all his Highlanders. I don’t want you caught in the middle of that.”
Mary jammed her arms across her chest, cold but angry. “Well, we should have thought of that before we decided to be illicit lovers and run away together. You should never have followed me upstairs in Lord Bancroft’s house. I’d still be in Edinburgh, whiling away my time until the uprising was over.” Not hidden away in a crumbling stone cottage, loving you and breaking my heart.
“Aye, and ye’d have married that bastard, Halsey.” Mal’s golden eyes glittered. “Your sister would be pining for love of Jeremy Drake, who couldn’t wake up and carry her away until someone kicked him in his backside. Your father would have shoved Audrey at another man for his political schemes, married her off whether she liked it or not. You really wanted that life for her? For yourself?” He let out a derisive breath. “You’re damn lucky I came along to save ye from all that.”
“And I know you can twist anything to your own purposes, my dear Malcolm.”
“True enough, but if ye think ye’d be safer in Edinburgh now, ye’d be wrong. There will be fighting, and it will be bloody. Who knows when the Jacobites will decide to cut the throats of English aristos who’ve been sneering at them all these years? Your father has a nice bit of land in Lincolnshire, doesn’t he? Why shouldn’t a Scotsman have it for his sons, turning your family out into the cold?”
Mary went quiet. “Are Highlanders so ruthless?”
Malcolm gave the ceiling a brief glance. “Oh, they are that. I’ve lived with them all me life. I ought to know.”
“You’re a Highlander,” Mary reminded him.
“Why d’ye think I know so much about it? Let me put you out of harm’s away, Mary, love.”
Mary firmed her jaw. “No, indeed. If you are off to Kilmorgan, I am going with you. We can send word to my father and Aunt Danae that I am well and not to come for me. If you are staying at Kilmorgan, then so am I.” She stopped, a qualm stealing over her. “In any case, don’t you think Colonel Wheeler will have sent men to Kilmorgan, waiting for you to return? He is very angry at you. We may already be too late.”
Mal dismissed this with a wave of his hand. “I won’t be marching t’ the front gates brandishing me claymore, will I? I planned to use stealth, sweet Mary. Wheeler will tire of looking for me soon—he can’t spare the men to chase one annoying Highlander around the glens.”
“Very well, then.” Mary’s chin came up. “I will sneak to Kilmorgan with you.”
Malcolm closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Ye aren’t going t’ be an obedient and unquestioning wife, I’m thinking, are ye?”
“Certainly not. Englishwomen are resilient creatures. I do not know why people assume we are sweet and docile, innocent and weak.” Mary unfolded her arms and rested her hands primly in her lap. “Look at Boadicea, who led forces against the Roman army for a long, long time. Queen Elizabeth, who often had to remark she was ‘only a woman’ to spare the feelings of gentlemen she could outthink. Even Aunt Danae has survived three husbands and is entertaining thoughts of a fourth, on her own terms. You have no need to worry about me.”
A slow smile had spread across Malcolm’s face as he listened to her speech. When she finished, his eyes were alight, the depths of gold warm.
“Ye see? I knew ye had fire inside you, lass. An inferno of it. You and me—we’re going to burn up the world.” Mal reached for her and took her hand. “But I was wrong about one thing.”
Mary’s throat hurt, dry from her adamant speech. She closed her hand around his and held on, his strength bolstering her own. “What is that?”
“You’re not yet my wife.” Mal’s smile turned wicked. “But we’ll be fixing that today.”
Malcolm purchased a sturdy pony from Rabbie for Mary to ride. He also gave the man money for extra tartans to wrap around her and keep her warm.
They waited for dusk to fall before they left. Mary was happy with that, mostly because Malcolm needed to sleep. He might enjoy acting the part of brollachan, but he was only human, and days without rest could be deadly.
Also, Mary still feared Malcolm being found by the soldiers. The colonel and Mary’s father might have ordered the men to scour the land for them. If Mal took her wandering in daylight, would they be seen, two figures bent into the wind, hurrying deeper into the Highlands? Would the soldiers instantly shoot Mal dead, even if Mary begged for his life? She thought about the exasperated anger of Colonel Wheeler and decided that, yes, they probably would.
They left the cluster of cottages once it was dark, Mal pressing on Rabbie more coin and warm thanks. Rabbie’s wife nodded her good-byes, but for their entire visit, she’d never spoken a word. Mary wondered if perhaps she was unable to.
No other crofters had appeared all day, though Mary had seen the smoke drifting in thin wafts from their houses. Wise of them, she thought. These people had too much to lose to risk anyone discovering how many of them lived in this hollow.
She mentioned as much to Mal as they made their way uphill after sundown, Malcolm leading her pony.
“Aye, they’re a careful lot,” Mal replied. “But Rabbie seems to have a kindness in him, and the others do what he says. If not, they’d have tried to rob us while we slept.”
Mary stared at him. “Good heavens—I thought you trusted them completely. Such thoughts certainly didn’t keep you awake today.” Mal had snored all afternoon long, and when he’d woken, he’d loved her again.
“I wouldn’t have let them touch us,” he said, his voice a comfort in the darkness. “Now cease your chatter. We’ve a tricky bit to go through.”
The “tricky bit” was a flat open plain. Clouds parted to reveal a bright moon, which spilled a path across the land. Mal kept the moon at his right shoulder, leading her and the pony quickly across the open ground.
Mary had no idea where they were. When Colonel Wheeler had taken them toward Inverness, they’d been making straight south for the ferry at Kessock—at least, so she’d been told. Malcolm had sneaked her across country when he’d rescued her from the crofters’ village, following no road. Mary hadn’t stepped outside Rabbie’s cottage all that day, and when they’d finally emerged, the sun had been gone, setting quickly this time of year. She’d seen only a high ridge of hill above a stream, and then this wide stretch of moor.
The drawback about Mal sleeping all day, Mary thought, was that now he was at his full energy. He charged ahead like a mad bull, setting a quick pace through the ice-cold night.
The open heath ended in a thick woods, which Mal plunged into without hesitation. He seemed to know his way through, though to Mary it was dark as pitch, except where mist glowed ghostly white. Branches reached out to tug at her, and she lowered herself to the sure-footed pony’s neck.
Lights flickered at the edges of her vision. At first she thought she imagined them, but Mary once turned her head in time to see a very clear glow that immediately winked out.
“Malcolm!” she called in an urgent whisper.
“They’re will-o’-the-wisps,” Mal said without turning around. “Pay them no heed. If you don’t follow them, they can’t hurt you.”
Another light flickered. Mary turned swiftly, but it had winked out before she could pinpoint it. She gave a nervous laugh. “So, you do believe in ghosts, after all?”
Mal made that scoffing noise she liked. “The light is caused by gases rising in marshy ground. Don’t know how it works, but that’s what happens. If ye chased it, and fell into a bog and drowned, well, the effect would be the same as if it really were a ghost, wouldn’t it?”
He had a point. Mary kept an eye out for the lights, but they came fewer and farther between as they pushed through the woods, and finally stopped altogether.
Mal led them out of the trees not long after that. Moonlight shone on a long stretch of water that smelled of brine, and Mary heard the whisper of waves lapping gently at the shore.
“Gracious, where are we?” she asked. This couldn’t be the sea—she’d had the idea that they were steadfastly moving away from it. But they couldn’t have reached the other side of Scotland, surely.
“Firth of Cromarty,” Mal answered. “The west bank of it. I circled us well away from Inverness and any place we’d have to take a boat or ferry. Couldn’t risk that ferrymen aren’t loyalists who’d give me up for a shilling. There’s a village I know here with no love for the English, and a church with a minister.”
Mary’s heart constricted, his last words more alarming than his first. “A minister? You mean to do this, then?”
Malcolm finally turned to face her. He patted the pony’s neck then laid his hand on her plaid-covered knee, his eyes dark in the gloom. “It’s not what I wanted for ye. I wanted it all t’ be beautiful, perfect, a wedding ye could be proud of for many a long year.”
Mary answered softly, “That’s not so important to me anymore.”
When she’d been resigned to marrying Halsey, she and Aunt Danae had begun planning a wedding that would be the envy of every lady in England—a glittering pageant in St. George’s, Hanover Square, a wedding breakfast and celebration at Lord Wilfort’s London mansion that would be discussed in every newspaper from Dover to Carlisle. But she had realized after meeting Malcolm that it was not the wedding that was important—it was the marriage itself.
Mal thumped his fist on his chest. “It’s important t’ me. I seduced ye, coerced ye, and now am leading ye around the country as though we’re a pair of beggars. The least I could do is give ye a decent wedding.”
“You did,” Mary said, trying to smile. “Up on the cliffs above Kilmorgan. It was a marvelous ceremony.”
Mal abruptly began to adjust the pony’s bridle, turning his face from the betraying moonlight. “Aye, well. That was a bit of theatre.”
“No. It was lovely.”
Malcolm gazed across the firth. “Even if I can’t give ye the wedding ye deserve, I will marry ye this day. Giving you my name will restore your reputation now that I’ve tarnished it and see ye right if the English succeed in ridding themselves of me. Ye will have all my worldly goods, never ye worry. I have a lot of them, and not simply those stashed under the floorboards of Kilmorgan. I have accounts in London, and in France, and other bits of land here and there. I don’t want us t’ live in exile, but if we have to, we’ll do well.”
Malcolm at the moment was nothing but a shapeless lump of plaid—as Mary was—his hair unwashed and flyaway. Anyone would mistake him for an impoverished vagrant, instead of the son of a duke with wealth stashed all over the world.
Mal wasn’t one simple thing, Mary had come to understand—not the rakish charmer, or the practical businessman, or the crazed warrior who blew up tents filled with ammunition and rescued his brother and Mary out from under their guards’ noses. Nor was Malcolm merely a man of the land, at home on the edge of this inlet of moonlit sea, equally at home helping his tenant farmers bring in the harvest or in drawing rooms filled with furniture given to his family by a king.
He was all these things and more. Mary uncovered another layer of Malcolm Mackenzie each day, which deepened her love for him further.
“But I’m forgetting one thing,” Mal said, the charmer coming through in his smile.
Mary attempted a lofty look to tease him. “Oh? What is that?”
Malcolm pulled her from the pony to her feet, then he dropped to one knee in front of her, never mind the mud. He took her hand, his bare, cold, and callused.
“Lady Mary Lennox,” Mal asked in a solemn voice. “Will ye marry me?”
Mary’s pulse jumped. Wind blew across the firth, dragging her hair into her face, and stinging her eyes.
She closed her other hand around Malcolm’s and answered with her heart.
“Yes.”