The Pretender (11 page)

“But we wouldna be proper gentlemen, now would we, if we were to let a fine lassie like yerself wander off alone? There be brigands and the like hiding in these woods. You ne’er know what sort o’ mischief might befall you.”

His companion, Brodie or Murdoch, she knew not one from the other, chuckled. “Aye, brigands. And out here, in the thick of beyond, there’s no’ a soul who could hear you scream. . . .”

He took a step toward her. Elizabeth didn’t hesitate. She turned, grabbed up her skirts, and ran for her life.

Behind her, the men whooped, sending up a cheer as they took to the hunt with the eagerness of predators. Elizabeth focused on the line of trees ahead, willing herself to reach them, hoping she could lose them in the thick of the forest, refusing to give in to the fear that was threatening to overtake her.

She reached a clearing where the ground flattened out and she tore across it, fighting for every breath against the lacings of her stays. Her hat tumbled to her feet. Her hair was soon falling from its pins down her back. The two men only laughed behind her, easily closing the distance between them.

When one of them grabbed her elbow, Elizabeth screamed. She was pulled to the ground, twigs and rocks digging into her backside as he captured her beneath his weight.

“Now where’re you off t’ in such a hurry, eh, lass?”

She opened her mouth to scream but he smothered it with his hand. She was breathing hard through her nose. His face was inches from hers, smelling of everything foul and vile. Close to him now, she could see an angry scar that slashed its way across one cheek, ending at his ear. Elizabeth’s vision blurred and she struggled against him, flailing as he reached for her skirts, grappling with the layers of petticoats underneath as he tried to yank them up.

Elizabeth managed to free her arm and ripped at his face with her nails, tearing at his eyes, his ears. He yelled and hit her in the jaw, stunning her for a moment before she clouted him once on the side of the head. He shouted to his friend and in the next moment, her arms were being jerked above her head, stretched and held there.
She’d never felt so afraid in her life. The sunlight began to fade. Somewhere in the back of her mind she realized she was going to faint. She couldn’t breathe. She couldn’t see. All she could do was smell his stench, feel him pressing her hard into the ground as he fumbled with his clothing, trying to free himself.

She couldn’t faint. She couldn’t give up. She had to do something—anything—but give up, but before she could think of what that something was, the weight of him was gone and she was suddenly free.

A single pistol shot sounded, sending the birds from the trees in a panic. Elizabeth lifted her head and through the tangle of her hair, she saw Douglas standing not two yards away, looking down at the motionless body of the brute who had been assaulting her. His eyes were cold with rage. The barrel of his pistol was still smoking.

Then he turned on the other man.

“We . . . we were just having us a bit o’ fun with the lass! We didna hurt her. Not badly anyway. Wha’s your trouble, man? She’s only a bloody Sassenach!”

Douglas grabbed the man by his throat and lifted him until his feet were dangling and his breath was clogged in his neck. He lifted the pistol, placing the nose of it against the man’s nostril. It didn’t seem to occur to him, or to the man quavering in his grip, that he’d already spent his shot. When Douglas spoke, his voice was as hard and cold as the steel blade of a sword.

“That
bloody Sassenach,
you worthless piece of filth, is my wife. If you wish to see the break of another day, I suggest you run from here as fast as your scrawny legs will carry you. Don’t stop running until you are bent and vomiting. And if you ever treat another woman with
such disrespect, I will hunt you down wherever you run and I will kill you.”

Douglas threw the man away from him, sending him sprawling not six inches from the lifeless body of his friend. He scrambled to his feet and ran across the clearing, disappearing through the trees in seconds.

Douglas walked over to where Elizabeth now stood, her arms wrapped around herself, trying to stop her body from trembling.

“Did he harm you, lass?”

She shook her head, still staring at the dead man and what remained of his face.

The moment he saw a tear slip down her cheek, Douglas felt his own strength slip with it. With that tear came a loss of innocence that would stay with her forever. All her life, Elizabeth had lived within the safety of her station, daughter to the Duke of Sudeleigh, protected by the mantle of his power and his authority throughout the kingdom. But now that sense of safety had been destroyed.

He should have been there. He shouldn’t have let her walk so far away from where they’d stopped. He should have followed her. He should have protected her. It was his duty as her husband, and in that he’d just failed. He couldn’t stand it. He gathered Elizabeth into his arms and held her as she sagged against him and wept.

After some time, when her body felt weak and her tears would come no more, Elizabeth slowly lifted her head, to look up at him.

“This isn’t England, Elizabeth,” he said quietly. “You no longer have the protection of your father’s name where everyone knows you. Scotland is a wild, untamed
place. You cannot just go wandering off at will. I know you were angry, and, aye, I pushed you to it, but there are fugitive Jacobite soldiers crawling throughout these hills, men who haven’t seen a woman in months and who would love to punish an unprotected English woman for their loss at Culloden. I’m sorry that I wasn’t here when they came upon you. It will never happen again. You have my word.”

Elizabeth scarcely heard what he said, but just the gentle sound of his voice offered her comfort, soothing her fears, wrapping her in its warmth.

Douglas had saved her life.

He had killed for her.

He had slain the dragon.

And just like the fairytales passed down through the ages, when the danger was over, and peace had been restored once again to the land, the damsel always did the same thing, right before the words
happily ever after
ever were written.

She rewarded her knight with a kiss.

And Elizabeth did the same.

It was her first kiss.

And quite simply, it took her breath away.

“How dare you?”

How dare I?

Douglas reeled as Elizabeth flattened her hands, the same hands that had, moments before, been fisted tightly in the linen of his shirt, and pushed him away from her hard.

She said nothing, just stared at him through eyes dim and defensive. But she didn’t need to say a word for Douglas to know what she was thinking. Her thoughts were written clearly on her face. The daughter to one of England’s most wealthy and powerful dukes had just joined her mouth to that of a poor, simple Scottish farmer. No doubt she was wondering if she’d just completely lost her mind.

“Have you just completely lost your mind?”

He blinked once, twice. “Have
I
lost
my
mind?” he echoed. “What the devil did I do?”

“You kissed me!”

Douglas shook his head. “I think you know better than that, lass.”

Elizabeth took a step back, then another, seeking to put as much distance as she could between them. “Well . . . it was nothing. A blind impulse, that’s all. A purely emotional reaction to a distressing situation. I was in danger, and you saved me. Naturally I would want to show you my gratitude.”

“I see.”

“And that was all that kiss was. Gratitude.” She was blathering now. “Besides, I have always wondered what it would be like to kiss a man. It is one of those experiences everybody should have at least once. Like walking barefoot on the shore or . . . or tasting whisky.”
Or, dear God, why had she just said that?
“So I tried it, and that was that. A kiss. Nothing more. Nothing more than a touch of lips really.” A touch of lips and mouths and breaths that had melted her bones inside her body . . .

Elizabeth shook her head as if by doing so she could shake the memory of the past minutes right out of her head. How could she have done that? How could she have kissed him of all people? He was her husband, for heaven’s sake, the one person she should
not
be kissing.

She looked at him. And waited. Douglas simply stared at her, damn him, saying nothing. She needed to do something—anything—to end this awkward stretch of time and so she turned and walked the two yards away to where her hat had fallen in the heather. Her fingers trembled slightly as she clasped the cocked corner of it and pushed it onto her head, shielding her face.

“Where are the horses?” she turned and asked for want of anything better to say.

Douglas simply looked at her. “Over there, beyond the trees.”

“Well, we’d best be going if we’re to make it much farther before nightfall.”

“Aye.”

But he wasn’t moving to join her as she walked away. Instead he bent and started picking up some rocks from the bank of the burn, a half dozen or more, tossing them into a small pile on the shore.

“What are you doing? I thought we were leaving.”

“I’ve to bury the man first.”

“Bury him?”

Elizabeth glanced at the motionless heap crumpled on the ground. How odd that in the wake of the kiss they’d shared, she’d almost forgotten that a man lay dead at her feet. “But you shot him. You had to shoot him.”

“I do not take any satisfaction in his killing, lass. It was a necessary thing to put a stop to a terrible deed. But out of respect for his clan and the sanctity of a life lost, I must give him a proper burial. ’Tis the Scots way.”

Elizabeth stood, watching Douglas as he stooped to pick up another rock, then two.

Nearly an hour later he had buried the body beneath a heap of hastily gathered stones, a cairn to which Douglas fixed a scrap of the man’s plaid by way of a marker. When he was finished, he stood back, made a swift sign of the cross, and recited a prayer in Gaelic for the salvation of the soul of the dead man. The breeze blew; the trees rustled like the distant whispers of mourners around them. As the sun began to loll in the distant western sky, they mounted the horses and continued on their way.

Elizabeth was not unexpectedly quiet for some time afterward as they traversed hill and glen and long stretching pastures lined with drystone walls that seemed to go on forever.

“What are you thinking, lass?” Douglas finally asked.

Elizabeth took in a deep breath. “I was just thinking that I have never faced death in such a way before. I’ve never really faced death at all, other than my grandmother Minna, who died when I was seven—but then she was ninety and we had known it would soon happen. But this . . . this is different.”

“It’s a thing I am all too familiar with, the ugliness that is the hatred of man to man, clan to clan . . . Scot to Sassenach.”

They rode a little further in silence. Douglas changed the subject. “Is there anything you’d like to know about Skye afore we get there? Have you any questions? Worries? Scotland is a very different place than what you are accustomed to.”

“I’ve begun to realize that already.” They continued along, the horses stepping with sure feet over the rough and rocky ground. Finally she asked, “Tell me what your home is like, where we are to live.”

For the slightest moment, Douglas thought to tell her the truth, that he was not the simple farmer she believed him to be. He was a chieftain in the clan MacKinnon, nephew to the chief, and laird of his own castle, Dunakin, in name if not on paper.

But he couldn’t. He knew this. He’d made a bargain with the duke, a bargain that would see his birthright restored.

So Douglas answered her in the only way he could.

“It is a croft, lass. Not grand like Drayton Hall, but it is warm in the winter and snug with everything a body needs to get by. It was built by my great-great-grandfather, a marriage house for his wife, and it sits nestled in a glen inland from the sea. The hills that surround it are carpeted in heather, and a burn runs behind it. The mist for which Skye was named greets you through the window most every morn and bids you good night at e’entide.”

“It sounds nice.” The love he had for his homeland had softened his voice, misted his eyes. “I have never asked you about your family. What is it you call them? Your clan?”

“Clan and kin are two very different sorts of family, lass. The MacKinnons can claim several thousand among the clan, but for my own kin there is only myself.” Douglas hesitated. “My younger brother, Iain, I’m told, died at Culloden.”

“You have no one else? No parents? No sisters?” Elizabeth couldn’t imagine being without her own burgeoning family, the laughter, the loving spats.

“A MacKinnon is never truly without kith. My mother was Norah MacKinnon, lost when she delivered our only sister, also named Norah, from the womb. A fever took them both within days of one another. From the time I was three years old, I didna see my father. He was exiled to France after the Jacobite rebellion in ’15.”

“And he’s never come back?”

“Aye, he did return to Scotland twice, but I was never taken to see him because it was too dangerous for him, the risk of his capture too great. I’m told he died earlier this year and is buried alone somewhere in France.”

Elizabeth lowered her eyes. “I am sorry.”

“There is nothing to be sorry for, lass. My father, and my brother, too, they both of them died fighting for what they believed in.”

“They were Jacobites?”

“In every sense of the word.”

“Those men who attacked me. They were Jacobites, too.”

Douglas was ashamed of the behavior of his countrymen. “Aye, they were, but dinna liken their kind to that of my da. The Jacobites of the early rebellions were a different breed of men. My father, men like him, they knew what it was they fought for and followed the call of their Scottish honor. Those men today were . . .” He searched for the appropriate word. “They were the worst sort of man there is.”

“Are you a Jacobite, too, Douglas?”

Douglas looked at her. How should he answer the question he had asked himself more times than he cared to count?

“I didna come out to fight with the Bonnie Prince when he raised his standard at Glenfinnan last year. Before anything else I am a Scotsman. My honor and duty will always be that of a Scotsman.”

If she noticed that he hadn’t truly answered her question, she didn’t pursue it, and they had arrived at their stopping point for the night, a small inn tucked away on the outskirts of a tiny Lowland village. The whitewashed stone and thatched roof of the house known as The Shieling was owned by a husband and wife, she Scottish, he English. Because of this unique mix, Douglas knew
there would be no questions, no suspicions cast upon the two travelers just arriving.

A woman greeted them when they entered the dimly lit taproom. “
Och,
well, if it isna Douglas Dubh MacKinnon come all the way fro’ Skye to taste some o’ my cooking.” She had a tray hitched upon the crook of her ample hip, a wisp of soft brown hair falling over her eyes, and a smile as warm and as welcoming as the fire glowing in the stone hearth behind her. “ ’Tis been too long, it has, since you’ve come to stay with us, MacKinnon.”

Douglas smiled at her. “You’re looking fine, you are, Màiri Hetherington. Does that man o’ yours, Tom, still treat you well then?”

“Aye, well enough, for if he didna treat me finely, you know I’d have clobbered him sound in the heid by now, I would.”

Douglas laughed, a full, throaty sound that brought a shimmer to the blue of his eyes. Elizabeth couldn’t help but notice that when he spoke amongst his countrymen, Douglas fell more easily into his native tongue, his words smoky with the dialect of the Gael.

“So will you and the lass be wantin’ a room for the night then, MacKinnon?”

“Two rooms,” Elizabeth replied before Douglas could open his mouth.

Màiri lifted a brow.

Douglas said, “Aye, two rooms if you have them, Màiri.”

“I’m afraid we’re a wee bit crowded for the night. All we’ve got left is the loft room.” She looked at Elizabeth. “ ’Tis two rooms connected by a doorway on the topmost floor of the inn, lass. There’s only one bed, but we’ll
bring in a cot for you to sleep in the side chamber if you’d like, Douglas.”

“That’ll do fine, Màiri. We’ll take our supper in the rooms, too, if it widna be too much trouble for you.”

“Och, you know ’tis no trouble a’tall, MacKinnon. We’ve colcannon and haggis in the kitchen with some fresh bannocks I’ve just taken off the fire. You know where the room is, so get you and the lass on up and I’ll bring up your supper directly.”

“Excuse me, Mrs. Hetherington,” Elizabeth said then, stopping the Scotswoman in mid-stride. “Would it be too much trouble to have a bath brought up as well?”

Màiri glanced at Douglas. “A bath? We dinna . . .”

“Màiri, we’ve had a rough time of it traveling today and so if you’d do your best to see to the bath, I’d be most obliged.”

Màiri smiled. “A bath it is, then.”

She made off on bare feet, Elizabeth noticed, skirts swishing on the dirt floor strewn with fresh-smelling herbs and rushes. Douglas motioned to Elizabeth, leading her up a narrow stairwell tucked in the far corner of the taproom. It was very dark, and with no lantern to light their way, Elizabeth stumbled on the stairs, catching herself on Douglas’s arm. At the very top, he opened a door onto a room that was tucked generously beneath the inn’s thatching.

A small bench and two chairs were set before the stone hearth. Beyond that lay another room with a poster bed in one corner and a washstand in the other. Though sparsely furnished, the room looked clean and cozy and smelled of herbs. Having spent all day on horseback, Elizabeth would have slept in the barn if she’d had to.

Douglas knelt before the hearth to coax a fire. Within minutes the room was bathed in a faint red glow that flickered and danced across the whitewashed walls.

Màiri came in shortly after with a heaping tray steaming and smelling delicious.

“I’ve put the water on in the kitchen to heat for your bath, lass, and I’ve a lad gone to fetch the tub for ye. ’Twill take a short while, but you can take your supper and have some tea in the meantime. I brought you a cake of some heather and oatmeal soap to wash with, too.”

“Thank you.”

“Douglas,” Màiri went on, “I’m afraid that scruffy terrier bitch of Tom’s decided to deliver a litter of pups on the cot. She snipes at anyone who comes near them, too. But I’ve plenty o’ blankets and woolens that you can lay on the rug in front of the fire for your bed.”

“That’ll do, Màiri.”

When she’d gone, Douglas joined Elizabeth at the table before the fire.

Elizabeth eyed the tray of food. “What exactly is a haggis?”

Douglas took up a forkful of the stuff that resembled a crumbling sort of pudding. “I’ll tell you, but only after you’ve taken a bite.”

He offered the first bite to a wary Elizabeth. She took it and chewed slowly, tentatively, then swallowed. She nodded. “It is spicy and a bit grainy in texture, but really quite good. Tastes a bit like a sausage.” She took up a second bite.

Douglas smiled. “I’m glad to know you like it, lass. Most Sassenachs think the haggis a vulgar dish, but it stands as a testament to the Scotsman’s resourcefulness
when times of want called for using not only the loin of the sheep to survive. To make it you just toss in a bit o’ oatmeal with some—”

“No.” Elizabeth gave him a small smile. “Don’t tell me. I think this is probably one of those things better left unspoken.”

The tub was brought up while they ate, a huge wooden thing Màiri no doubt used for washing the inn’s laundry, and was filled with bucket after bucket of steaming water. When the lad had poured the last bucket, nodding and backing from the room, Elizabeth turned to where Douglas yet sat stretched out before the warmth of the fire.

“I, uh, should like to take my bath now.”

Douglas had been so comfortable in her company over supper, he’d forgotten he should leave. He reminded himself that getting comfortable with her was a thing he couldn’t do.

“Will an hour be long enough for you? We’ve a long day’s journey again tomorrow, so we should retire early.”

Elizabeth nodded. “An hour will be fine, thank you.”

He was at the door, however, when she realized he couldn’t leave just yet. “Douglas?”