Even now, the heinous memory brought an unmanly sting to Callum’s tired blue eyes, and he vowed to carry the ignoble image to his grave. So far as his brothers were all concerned, all they ever needed to know was that Angus MacKinnon died like a man—unlike his eldest son, who’d scurried away from the specter of death like a rat from a torch.
As for Wolfe… the sorry bastard…
If he’d meant for Callum to survive, a shoulder wound would have sufficed. How he’d made it so far as he had without succumbing to fever, Callum might never know. The memory of his final days on the run only resurfaced with a blur. Ever since, he’d spent months convalescing, two of those he couldn’t even recall.
In the meantime, he had three young brothers and a wee sister waiting at home and, considering that he had very likely been pronounced a traitor to the Crown, he hadn’t dared to apprise anyone he was still alive. Unfortunately, it was long past time to do so.
Consequently, and once again because of Major Wolfe, he was here on the Yuletide, stopping short of his destination, dawdling like a coward on the eve of a new year.
God’s teeth, it was enough to sour any man’s mood, and not even the promise of Mrs. Pitagowan’s cranachan managed to lift his spirits.
With some effort, he slid down from his horse—a borrowed mare he’d have to return as soon as he was able. Wincing over the pain in his leg, ignoring the one in his heart, he handed the reins to a young lad, scarcely older than his brother Lachlan. He recognized the youth as one of Pitagowan’s nephews, a bright haired lad with more freckles than the night had stars.
“Good tae see ye, lai—sir,” said the youth, dressed as a proper Sassenach. And yet, despite that they’d gone and outlawed the clans, and forbade them to carry weapons, no one could mistake the boy’s brogue. He was Scots through and through, and Callum knew his father well. The poor soul had fought beside him at Culloden, and died, so he’d been told. His cousin Carrie had since taken to scouring the battlefields for proof of life… or death.
“Uncle John’ll be pleased tae see ye,” said the lad brightly.
Callum gave the boy a nod, then fished out a full crown, handing it to him. It was New Year’s Eve after all, the beginning of Hogmanay, and he trusted John to serve him on credit till he could chance to repay him. In the meantime, Little Joe and his brother needed all the help they could get.
Inside the inn, Pitagowan’s wife had decorated the place in good Scot’s style—festooning the hearth and trim with boughs of holly. She’d also lit a Yule log for the holiday—a hefty block of birch sprinkled with saltpeter to give it that violet hue. The smoke it emitted tickled the back of Callum’s throat, and he’d warrant those men drinking and singing in the puffed up tavern would wake on the morrow with double the ache in their heads.
Better them, than me, he thought.
All he wanted for the instant was a good nights’ rest, and nevertheless, he feared, not even that was bound to soothe his soul.
He found John Pitagowan behind his bar, doing what he liked doing best—combing his thick, white beard. Callum smiled over the all-too familiar sight and shook his head, a barb rising to his tongue. “Too bad you’ve no hair remaining on your head,” he said, with a grin, and Pitagowan’s comb halted midair. His, thick wiry brows collided, and then he slapped a hand to his burly breast.
“Is it you?”
Callum nodded, and the old man grinned.
Pitagowan had been a good friend of his Da’s. During the most difficult of times, it was his father who’d given John Pitagowan the coin to go south and settle in Calvine.
John pulled the hat from his head, scrunching it, then brought a finger to his crusty old lips. “Call me Balthazar,” he said. “Folks here don’t know me as Pitagowan.”
“Yes, they do!” said Bess, coming up behind Callum. “Dinna fool yourself into thinking they don’t, husband.” And then she craned her neck back to peer up at Callum. “Ain’t ye a sight for sore eyes, Callum MacKinnon! We thought ye’d gone and swallowed a bullet!”
“Not me,” Callum said, frowning.
The twinkle immediately extinguished from Bess Pitagowan’s eyes and she said a little more dourly, “Alas, we heard.” Her hand reached out to squeeze Callum’s forearm. “We were right sorry to hear it, don’t y’ know. My Carrie keeps going up to see what she can find. My brother himself didn’t show up on the rosters, and neither did he come home.” She shook her head sadly. But, then, just as suddenly as it had vanished, her smile returned. “My sweet girl will be so sorry she missed you.”
Callum raised a brow. Carrie was a lot of things, though she wasn’t particularly sweet, nor was she little anymore. She was a wee bit loud, a wee bit crude, and a wee bit of a tease. One of these days it was going to get her in a lot of trouble. Callum had found himself, on more than one occasion, fending off the flame-haired vixen with the saucer eyes and freckled nose—a trait all the Pitagowans shared.
“Alas, I’ll be gone come morn,” Callum said. “I was only hoping ye’d have a room to let for the night?”
“Oh, dear, no,” lamented Bess, “We’ve just rented the last—”
Pitagowan’s eyes suddenly lit up. “Ho!” he said. “As it so happens to your very lovely bride!”
“Bride?” said Callum, taken aback.
“Aye! She’s already here!” announced Pitagowan. “Snapped up the very last room! Come,” he demanded, seizing Callum by the arm, and ushering him quickly through the scullery, as Bess wandered back to her guests.
Callum hadn’t a moment to set the man straight.
“She’s a bit like Carrie,” he said. “Though I’m guessing you already know. Here we thought you’d been laid six-feet under, and all the while you were out hunting for a wife. It all makes sense,” he said. “Being she’s a Sassenach. You cunning devil!” he said. “Just like yer Da. In fact, I wouldn’t be too surprised if Angus showed up here tonight as well.”
Callum felt the proclamation like a punch to his gut. There was no way his father was still alive. He was dead as the iron nails in Carrie’s bedroom door—dead as his heart had been for going on six months, until it was replaced by this bone-deep fury he couldn’t shake.
To his utter dismay, he could scarcely keep up with a sixty year old man, but Pitagowan didn’t notice, or was too polite to say so. He pulled Callum before Carrie’s door, shoved in a ready key, then pushed Callum inside, barking with laughter.
“I’ll send in a hot bath,” he said, winking. “Looks like you need it. Oh! And something to eat.” He laughed again, as he gave the other occupant of the room a raised thumb and then pointed to Callum and turned about with another chortle. “Love me a good miracle,” he said, and then happily closed the door with an exuberant, “Ta ta!”
Chapter 3
“Ta ta?”
The sight that greeted Callum as he entered Carrie’s room—certainly not Carrie—effectively silenced any protest he might have uttered. A lovely, tawny-haired beauty sat wide-eyed on the bed, in little more than a delicate chemise.