The innkeeper looked confused, and said, “MacKinnon?”
“Yes, as I’ve said. I am Lord MacKinnon’s betrothed, and I really must insist you bring in a physician at once. And, please, please, don’t worry, I will accept the charges.”
The innkeeper pocketed his comb, but he furrowed his brow, and just at that instant, one of the tavern guests raked back a chair and approached the bar.
“Well, well,” said the guest “What’s this?” He turned to his acquaintances at the table behind him and said, “Loud as a cannon, but pretty as ye please. I’ll help ye, sweet dove. You need a doctor, you say?”
A voice boomed at her back.
“Mind your own affairs, Douglass. Put your fat nose back in your cup, else I’ll gi’ ye a reason to drink!”
The man visibly shrank from the man at her back. “Callum!” he exclaimed. “We all thought ye were dead.”
“I nearly was, but believe me, I’m hale enough to keep my word. Didn’t ye hear the lady say she was MacKinnnon’s bride?”
The Scotsman—Douglass—lifted a hand in surrender and Elizabeth turned to assess the man at her back. If he was still in pain, there was nothing about his demeanor now that betrayed the fact. He did, indeed, look hale as anyone she had ever met.
In fact, the sight of him stole her breath…
And nevertheless, she didn’t need his defense. She could fend for herself. There were British guards posted out in the yard. This was no longer a lawless country. She would have told Mister Douglass so, but this man—Callum—didn’t give her the chance. The scowl on his face darkened as he advanced on her and slid his arm about her waist, drawing her close. She gasped with shock, as he bent to whisper in her ear.
Chapter 4
“Ye look like a doxy,” he said for her ears alone, and with another gasp of outrage, she tried to extricate herself from his arms, but Callum wouldn’t oblige her.
“How dare you!” she said, and then, perhaps remembering her state of undress, she went limp in his arms. Clearly, she’d been so concerned over his wellbeing that she’d forgotten what she was wearing. No doubt her dress covered all her fine bits, and her shawl hid the most tempting features. Thankfully, without the firelight to illume her, she was nearly concealed, except for those bare ankles and toes—more than enough nudity to tempt a grizzled old man whose greatest pleasure on the new year was to pour ale down his gob whilst watching the Mirrie Dancers in Bess Pitagowan’s hearth fire.
Only for good measure, perhaps out of some misplaced sense of spite, Callum bent to nuzzle her neck, and then he couldn’t help himself; he sniffed her hair, before meeting auld Douglass’s curious gaze.
The faintest scent of roses caught his breath…
“Go back to your pints,” he demanded of Douglass, his tone brooking no argument. Then, willy-nilly, he dragged “Lord MacKinnon’s plucky bride” back to the room.
God’s bloody bones, he should have been too tired and far too nettled to sport an arousal, but she smelled so fine. It was all he could do not to resort to some primitive yearning to toss the lady over his shoulders and tote her back to his bed—his bed.
Damn him to perdition, he was too bloody tired to argue over it, but for both their sakes, he released her the instant they entered the room, then kicked the door shut behind them.
Once safely inside, his angel of mercy wasted very little time in finding her mettle, retreating behind her tiny valise as though it were Hadrian’s Wall. “How dare you!” she said again, and her expression was furious.
“Ach, lass. Didn’t ye say ye were wedding the MacKinnon?”
“Lord MacKinnon,” she corrected him again. But the simple fact was that no Act of Proscription could strip Callum of his birthright. They might brand him a traitor, but he was still the rightful heir of Clan MacKinnon. As the eldest surviving member of a clan that was descended of Kenneth MacAlpin, he was now chieftain, and he’d be damned if he’d let his title go without a fight, particularly if this woman was somehow to be his prize.
“I am laird MacKinnon,” he announced, as he found and sat on the bed, with a sudden new ache to worry about—one that was beginning to form a tent of his breeches. Callum hid the evidence of his discomfort from her delicate view, suddenly reticent although he’d never been bashful a day in his life. However, at the moment, he bloody well wished he had her shawl.
Adjusting himself appropriately, he cast the woman a sour glance, finding her staring, open-mouthed, and he nearly asked her if she was looking to catch flies.
“But it can’t be.”
“I assure you I am who I say I am,” he insisted.
“But… h-he’s…”
“Dead?”
“No, he’s not dead. Though he’s just a boy!”
“He is fifteen,” said Callum. “I’m the eldest, by far, but if you prefer my younger brother, I can still arrange it.”
Open-mouthed still, she pinched her shawl before her, looking every bit as though she might swoon. “B-But… I don’t understand.”
Callum heaved a sigh. “Ach, lass. What’s there tae understand? I’m back from the dead. Ye’re among the first tae know it.” Then he narrowed his eyes. “In fact, I’m on my way home—a rather convenient coincidence, I might add.”
She blinked disbelievingly. “Are you really?”
“Really what?”
“Lord MacKinnon?”
“I am now,” he said with no small measure of disgust. “My Da took a bullet at Falkirk. I would ha’e, as well… were it not for the bloody bastard who shot my Da. So, ye see, here I am by the good graces of a Wolfe.”
“Hmmm,” she said, casting her head down to assess her wiggling toes. She looked as though she had something more to say… but, for the moment, Callum was heartily relieved she wasn’t looking directly at him. Even now, he held back tears that longed to be shed. Only once, after rousing from his fever, had he cried… for the father who’d raised him so honorably and died so ignobly. God’s truth, it was no way to meet one’s end—with a gob full of muck. War, indeed, was hell.
“Bloody Sassenach,” he said, with equal parts anger and confusion. How in the name of St. Andrew was it possible to feel so much hatred and gratitude at once?
He knew well enough that Wolfe hadn’t wanted to do it, and the instant he’d had another option, he’d taken it, but it didn’t change the fact that his father was dead.
Despite her confusion, Elizabeth recognized truth when she heard it.
For a moment, she stared at her bare feet, unable to find even a modicum of chagrin over their nudity. For some odd reason, she felt entirely comfortable in this man’s presence. “So then,” she said. “If you are…”
“I am.”
“Then… I suppose…”
He gave her a nod. “You’re betrothed to me,” he finished.
She blushed hotly.
“That… is… indeed…”
“Convenient?”
Elizabeth nodded, wondering how much James had had to do with this very awkward happenstance. Without a bit of help, it seemed entirely unbelievable that she would discover herself ensconced here at this very inn only to be thrust into the same room with her intended—unless, it was… planned?