Or… by some miracle, the fates had intervened.
But nay… Elizabeth blinked with dawning comprehension: Her cousin had returned from Culloden in the dourest of moods. He’d ensconced himself for hours and hours with his father, then emerged from Uncle Edward’s office with renewed purpose.
It wasn’t very long after that meeting that Elizabeth had been told about her betrothal—to a Highlander, no less. When she’d protested, James had privately reassured her that she would be well pleased with the match, and what was more, he’d said: It would serve her sensibilities far, far better than it would to marry some fat, greasy English lord.
In fact, she wasn’t particularly well endowed, and her most recent inquiry had been from an elderly gentleman whose gout hadn’t allowed him to serve in the King’s army.
Naturally, with James’ reassurances, she’d acquiesced. It was only later—much later—when she’d discovered she was actually betrothed to a boy, that she’d felt like socking her cousin in the nose. She’d been irate all over again, although she took some small comfort in the fact that through their affiliation she might, indeed, be able to save a venerable clan.
James was right after all; It spoke to her inner crusader.
Even despite that she didn’t entirely understand the political upheaval, or the Scot’s lament, she knew enough to know that it was not entirely fair to call these men traitors—men who’d fought, not so much for Bonnie Prince Charlie as they had for their way of life.
In the end, James must also have felt the same, because the walls were not so thick as her uncle liked to believe. She knew her cousin had defied a direct order and freed a Scotman…
That man, she realized, must be Callum MacKinnon.
She opened her mouth to ask him a question, then closed it again, realizing that this was no act of God. Was Mrs. Grace also aware of the circumstances, or was she not part of the plot?
She had a difficult time believing Mrs. Grace would go along with such a farce. Nor could she fathom that James trusted Mrs. Grace more than he trusted Elizabeth.
Therefore, it stood to reason that if he hadn’t revealed the sham to her, no doubt he’d never deign to tell such a proper woman as Mrs. Grace.
And then, too… what excuse had James provided for not being able to travel with them? He’d said only that he had some debt of honor to see to. And now, she had a good suspicion as to what that debt of honor must be.
Really, her cousin was a very well-respected man; there was no wonder he’d achieved the rank of brigade major by the age of eighteen, but he wasn’t a bootlicker.
Her uncle Edward like to say that it would either gain James a place in history, or it would get him to an early grave. Right now, Elizabeth suspected it might prove to be an early grave—particularly if she ever got hold of him.
“James,” she said crossly, and the hint of a crooked smile that was beginning to form on Callum MacKinnon’s face suddenly fled—and, yes, he was handsome, she decided. Ruggedly so.
“What did ye say?”
Elizabeth arched a brow. “Please tell me, who shot your father?”
“Major James Wolfe,” he said, eying her pointedly.
“But of course,” she said, fidgeting under his scrutiny, and then she sighed and confessed, “That blackguard is my cousin.”
Chapter 5
As it were, the only true angel at work this holiday was James.
It was, indeed, Callum MacKinnon he owed the debt to and evidently, after leaving Westerham, he’d tracked Callum to some blackhouse in Alyth, offering him a horse and enough money to travel with, along with papers to carry, all signed and sealed by her Uncle Edward.
The proof was all there; Callum showed her all the documents—all quite official.
And then, with an undeniably heavy heart, he told Elizabeth the rest of his tale—all of it, sparing nothing, not even the manner of his father’s death.
They were both ordered to be executed under General Hawley’s custody. His father was shot with hands bound, and neither man was armed. Her cousin James had pulled the trigger, but then, after Hawley left, he let Callum go.
Elizabeth could have relayed the rest of the story herself…
James had returned home in a terrible state. She had never seen him so downcast, and, in truth, she had suspected something of this magnitude, because, along with those bits and pieces she’d overheard, she knew her cousin well enough that, if he had kept the truth from her, he was likely ashamed. But she didn’t wish to interrupt Callum, so she let him purge his grief, taking his hand when it seemed he might weep. It was a very humbling experience to watch a grown man grieve. And yet, he did not cry; although his bottom lip quivered ever so slightly, he remained strong, and all the while Elizabeth listened patiently until their conversation was interrupted by the innkeeper, who finally arrived bearing a wooden tub.
As Callum stood to converse with Mr. Pitagowan, Elizabeth laid his papers down on the bed, studying the man…
She could do worse.
He was a fine, fine specimen—no boy in him at all.
His thick, broad shoulders bespoke a lifetime of hard labor, and his skin, though pale in the midst of winter, and after an epoch of healing, was still a shade of bronze.
Evidently, he was a friend to Pitagowan family. They spoke with an ease borne of familiarity, and the elder man gave Callum his regrets, telling him of Carrie’s mission to recover her Uncle’s belongings, which were lost or stolen after he fell. The room, so Elizabeth discerned, was her “Chamber of Sorrows,” filled with items belonging to the brave men who fell at Culloden. Every now and again, against his and her mother’s wishes, the plucky young lady took a horse and cart north. That was the only reason that her room was empty.
As promised, Mr. Pitagowan left Little Joe to fill the bath, and he went to retrieve not one, but two bowls of Scotch broth with bannocks.
Immediately on the heels of Little Joe’s departure arrived yet another stack of firewood for the hearth, along with soap, towels, a pitcher of ale and two cups.
But that wasn’t all; Bess arrived with a dessert that consisted of oats, raspberries, cream and whisky—made especially for Callum.
“It’s time to celebrate!” she announced as she laid her whisky drenched cranachan down upon a small table. “Back from the dead, with a bride no less!”
She winked at Elizabeth, and said, “Callum won’t be sayin’ so, mind ye, but ’e always had the ladies in a swoon. You’re a lucky lady!”
Elizabeth nodded dumbly, as she accepted a brimming cup of ale, then gulped it down, grateful for the alcohol’s calming effect. After a moment, Bess, too, departed, leaving her alone with her “betrothed.”
Only now, wondering over the particulars, Elizabeth considered whether she ought to go apprise Mrs. Grace of the shocking turn of events.
“It all makes sense now,” she told Callum as he spooned the steaming broth into his mouth. “James insisted I leave for Dunmore at once. And then, he departed without so much as a by your leave. Naturally, I wondered where he was off to in such haste. Now, I know.”
Callum nodded very soberly, setting down his bowl, although he didn’t yet sit. Her hand drifted into the spot on the bed he had occupied before, feeling for his fading warmth.