Once Upon a Highland Autumn (15 page)

He rode into the courtyard and pulled up. A dozen men stood waiting, seemingly impervious to the weather. The torchlight gleamed in their eyes as they appraised him silently.

“I’ve come to see the MacIntosh. Is he here?” he asked.

“What for?” asked one of the Highlanders, his expression blank and wary.

Nathaniel forced a grin. “A neighborly visit, nothing more.” Without waiting for an invitation, he dismounted, standing among the warriors, putting himself on the same level. They were bigger than he was, and he was a tall man himself. He raised his brows expectantly and held the gaze of the man who’d spoken. Highland hospitality was legendary. So were the stories of giving a guest a meal and a bed for the night only to cut his throat come morning.

The Highlander finally jerked his head toward the door. “This way. Your men can warm themselves in the smithy.”

Nathaniel followed the clansman to the door and wondered what kind of welcome awaited him inside.

The room was presumably the great hall, but it was a fine wide, warm place, and though the floors and walls were solid stone, there were soft rugs laid down, and the walls were hung with colorful tapestries. A display of weapons fanned out over the fireplace—fierce Lochaber axes, shining swords and dirks, and studded targes. The furniture was fine, and the cupboards displayed gleaming pewter and fine china.

A group of women sat before the fireplace, sewing and chattering.

“Mairi, we’ve got a visitor,” Nathaniel’s escort called. “He wants to see Connor.”

The chattering stopped at once, and there was a collective feminine gasp of horror at the sight of his red coat. Nathaniel removed his hat and bowed. The women immediately began to whisper in Gaelic.

He almost gasped himself when the lady of the house rose to her feet, hushing her companions. She was the prettiest woman he’d ever seen. Her dark hair hung over her shoulder in a thick braid, and the firelight played over high cheeks, a long swan’s neck, and a slim and elegant figure clad in work-a-day russet wool. It was her eyes that stopped his breath in his throat—clear and golden, fringed with thick lashes. He saw fear pass over her fine features as she scanned his uniform once again. She dropped her sewing on the bench, and hurried toward him.

“Is Connor—”

The clansman interrupted. “He says it’s a neighborly visit,” he said in English, then switched to Gaelic, no doubt telling the lady that Nathaniel had brought only three men, and they were lightly armed.

He saw the tension fall from her shoulders. “I’m Mairi MacIntosh, Connor’s wife.”

He bowed again. “I’m Captain Nathaniel Linwood,” he said. “I met the MacIntosh—and your young brother—at Nairn a few weeks ago.”

“Oh!” Her eyes widened. “Yes, my husband mentioned it to me.” She smoothed her hands over her skirts and indicated the chairs by the fire, now vacated by the women. “Come and warm yourself by the fire. Connor is out hunting today, but he is expected back very soon. Will you take a cup of ale or a dram of whisky while you wait?”

“Whisky, if you please,” he said, and remained standing while she crossed to the cupboard and took down the cups. He had to remind himself to breathe. She moved with an unconscious grace, concentrating on her task. He unbuckled his sword before he sat down, and laid it aside, a show of good faith. She took a seat across from him, and the giant clansman took the last place, his eyes never leaving Nathaniel.

“The weather is cold,” Nathaniel said to him in fledgling Gaelic.

The clansman’s lips rippled, and one brow rose in sardonic amusement. “As a witch’s teat,” he replied in English, and Mairi blushed.

“Hush, Iain. Major Linwood will think we’ve no manners.”

“He’s a soldier, Mairi. He knows what I mean.”

“He’s a guest, and this is my home,” she insisted, and he heard the steel wrapped in her soft tone.

“Aye, Mairi,” the clansman said, cowed. Nathaniel felt a surge of admiration for her. She took a poker from the fire and put the hot end into the cup of whisky. It hissed furiously. “It’s best warm on a cold day,” she said. Nathaniel took it and smiled his thanks.

She handed a cup to Iain as well, with her eyes on Nathaniel. “Iain Fraser is my husband’s cousin,” she said by way of introduction.

Nathaniel sipped the hot whisky and felt it burn a trail not only down his throat, but also up into his head while stealing the breath from his lungs. “I’ve not had whisky warmed this way before, my lady, though I’ve grown to like the drink very well since I came to Scotland.”

“What did you drink before?” Iain Fraser asked.

“Oh, brandy, wine, coffee . . .” Nathaniel said.

“I’ve heard the English drink nothing but lukewarm tea,” Iain said.

Nathaniel forced a smile. He was not here to fight with anyone. “I don’t touch tea myself. On a hot summer day, ale is best, or on a cold spring evening like this, brandy is preferable—or whisky.” He held up his cup. “How do I wish you good health in Gaelic?”

“Air do sláinte,”
Mairi said. “On your health.”

“Or
sláinte mhòr,
” said Iain softly.

Nathaniel watched Mairi’s eyes widen, and she pursed her lips and set her cup down, unsipped. He wondered what the clansman’s toast meant, but before he could ask, the door opened, bringing a gust of cold into the warm room.

Connor MacIntosh strode in, carrying a brace of rabbits.

“Connor!” Nathaniel watched Mairi’s face light up. If she was pretty before, the love in her eyes and the radiant smile on her face made her breathtakingly beautiful now. She hurried across the room, and Connor MacIntosh quickly deposited the rabbits on the table, put a powerful arm around his wife, and drew her in for a kiss.

Nathaniel felt his stomach knot with envy.

“What’s
he
doing here?” He heard the boy’s cry ring out. Ruairidh MacIntosh appeared behind his brother-in-law, carrying two bows slung over his narrow shoulders. Nathaniel rose and met the boy’s fierce glare.

“Ruairidh MacIntosh, Captain Linwood is a guest in our home. You’ll mind your manners,” Mairi admonished. Nathaniel’s eyes were on Connor. The laird kept his hold on his wife as he regarded his visitor, his jaw tight, a slight frown creasing the skin between his brows.

“What brings you to my door on such a dreadful day, Captain?” Connor asked.

“We were passing by,” Nathaniel said, suddenly feeling like a trespasser.

“Were you?” Connor asked. “Then this has nothing to do with the capture of Fort Augustus this morning?”

Nathaniel felt a shock rush through him. He’d been out on patrol all day. He hadn’t heard. Prince Charlie’s forces were on the move then. He glanced at the sword he’d placed so politely out of reach, and wondered if he was in any danger, if the men in his charge were safe. Iain Fraser began to ask rapid questions in Gaelic, his eyes ablaze. Ruairidh, too, spoke up, and Nathaniel watched Mairi’s face pale.

“We’ll speak English,” Connor commanded, putting them off with a wave of his hand. “Woman, I’m parched and half frozen. I’ll join the captain in a dram, if you please.”

Mairi hurried to obey, pouring a cup for her husband. “Ruairidh, take the rabbits into the kitchen and find some dry clothes,” she ordered. Nathaniel stood where he was as the boy went away grumbling.

Iain Fraser went to sit at the table, where he checked over the bows and knives Connor had brought back.

Connor approached the fire and warmed his hands by the blaze.

“You’ve had no more trouble from Ruairidh, I trust? He gave me his word.”

Nathaniel shook his head.

MacIntosh took the cup from his wife’s hand, curling his fingers around hers for a moment before turning to regard his guest.
“Sláinte,”
Nathaniel said softly.

“Sláinte,”
MacIntosh repeated and drank.

“Terrible weather,” Nathaniel said again.

“I trust you’ve found warmer quarters than a tent,” Connor said. He sat at his ease, at home in his castle, yet Nathaniel knew by the hardness of the man’s jaw that he would be dead before he could reach his sword, should Connor MacIntosh wish it so. Iain glowered at Nathaniel from the table behind his laird.

“We are in a village just north of here.” That was common enough knowledge. “I have insisted my men pay for their accommodation,” he added, and MacIntosh’s brow rose, as if he were amused. “Tell me more of Fort Augustus.”

“It’s in Jacobite hands. That’s all I know,” Connor said. “I met a Fraser clansman in the hills while I was hunting.”

Nathaniel kept his eyes on the laird. “Then I can only assume that the clans are massing, preparing for battle. Has the call gone out? Will you join Charles Stuart after all, or stay loyal to your king?”

“Not
my
king,” Iain grumbled.

Mairi drew a sharp breath, but Connor caught her wrist, held her hand in his. Nathaniel watched her fingers curl over her husband’s stronger ones until they were white. “I told you that I have no interest in this fight. I will keep my clan out of it if I can.”

“If you can?” Nathaniel asked through tight lips.

“If I am attacked, I will fight. I have a home to defend, and a family. I will do what I must to keep them safe.”

“What of your clansmen?” Nathaniel asked softly, nodding toward Iain.

“Some of them have kin in Charlie’s army,” Connor said vaguely. He looked into his cup, and frowned. “Tell me, Captain, what would you do? If this was England, and you knew an enemy was coming, that your family was divided in its loyalties. What side would you take to protect what you love?”

“England had a Civil War a hundred years ago. My family home served as headquarters to a Royalist force. When they retreated, the Parliamentarians burned it to the ground,” Nathaniel said.

Connor leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “So which side did they support?”

Nathaniel smiled. “Both. One son fought for the king, the other was for Cromwell. Both were killed, and left only a child to inherit, and he did what he was told by the winning side. And when the second King Charles was restored to his throne, my ancestor pledged his loyalty to the Crown. He regained the family fortunes, the titles, and rebuilt everything. Like you, he did what he had to for his family.”

“Many clans are divided now,” Mairi said softly.

Connor looked at her briefly. “We will keep our folk together, and weather this,
gràdhach
.”

Mairi met Nathaniel’s eyes over her husband’s head, and he read the fear in her expression, the question. He tightened his grip on his cup.

“Battle
will
come,” Nathaniel said aloud. “Probably very soon.”

“Is there no chance of peace, then?” Connor demanded.

“Will Charles Stuart surrender himself to the Duke of Cumberland, and swear allegiance to King George?” he asked. Mairi made a small sound of despair in her throat, and Connor frowned.

“Then it is inevitable,” Connor said softly. “And after?”

“I suppose that depends on who wins,” Nathaniel said. “Same as any battle. I am not willing to predict an outcome just yet. Are you?”

Connor set his cup down. “No. I only hope . . .” He didn’t finish.

Mairi squeezed her husband’s forearm, drew closer to him, her expression fierce, but not frightened. She sought to lend her husband her fragile strength, to reassure him with her touch. Whatever happened, Lady Mairi MacIntosh would not flee—she would stand by Connor and their people. He felt a thrill of awe in his breast at her bravery and her loyalty. He got to his feet. “I must go before it gets too late to travel safely,” he said.

“It’s already dark. I’ll ride with you,” Connor said, also rising. “It will provide safe passage.”

Nathaniel hesitated, then nodded, remembering the bold anger on the faces he’d passed by earlier in the day.

He belted on his sword and waited as Connor bid his wife a whispered good-bye in Gaelic.

They rode in silence over the dark hills until Nathaniel heard the English pickets demand his identity as they reached the town, and called an answer.

“Captain, my family is very important to me,” Connor MacIntosh said. “I have my doubts the battle will go well for the rebels. If it should go badly for the Scots—” He paused, his throat working, and Nathaniel nodded.

“I will do what I can for them,” he said. “I don’t believe in making war on women and children, MacIntosh.”

“Aye.”

He stood and watched as MacIntosh turned to ride away. “Come back again to Glen Dorian if you can, dine with us. You’ll be welcome.”

Would he? Nathaniel watched the Scot ride away, a tall shadow in the saddle. His own gut was tight with apprehension. The battle was coming, and he would be called to fight. As much as he’d come to admire the Scots, and to love the fierce beauty of the Highlands, he was a soldier. One day soon he would face men like Connor MacIntosh across the line of battle, and he would fight. He spurred his horse after the Scot.

“MacIntosh, what does
sláinte mhòr
mean?”

Connor drew his horse to a stop. “It means Health to Marion. It’s a code, a secret name for Charles Stuart,” he said softly. “Where the devil did you hear that?”

“At your hearth,” Nathaniel said through tight lips. “Travel safely.”

“O
h for heaven’s sake! It looks more like a fight in a hen house than a preparation to go to a dance!” Eleanor complained, coming into the dressing room where Devorguilla and Miss Carruthers were overseeing the readying of Megan and Alanna for the dance that evening. Upwards of a dozen gowns had been brought out for consideration, then discarded as “not quite right.” They rolled across the room like a rising tide of froth and frills, and Eleanor used her stick to help her wade through the knee-deep flood.

“Perhaps if you add a sash of McNabb tartan,” Eleanor suggested as Megan tried on yet another dress, this one creamy white with silk rosebuds at the bodice and hem. Megan’s eyes lit, but Devorguilla frowned.

“Certainly not.”

Alanna was already dressed in a pretty gown of coral silk that brought out the delicacy of her complexion. She was seated in front of the mirror while Devorguilla’s maid pulled, twisted, and piled her auburn hair high atop her head. “She’ll be taller than any of her partners, that’s certain, and easy to find over the crowd,” Eleanor quipped, settling into a chair to watch the commotion. Megan sent her sister a sympathetic look as a pin scraped her scalp and Alanna winced. Megan spun in place at her mother’s command and allowed her gown to be considered from all angles.