Highland Temptation (14 page)

Colin's entire body bristled with rage, but he held Emilia tenderly, aware of her drifting in and out of consciousness as they raced north, back to the Scottish border, once again passing the unconscious man who lay on the side of the road, blood staining the leg of his trousers. Colin didn't stop. The fool had cast his lot with Pinfield, and Emilia was Colin's only concern.

In Berwick he changed horses and convinced the innkeeper to sell him two blankets to wrap around Emilia. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't stop her trembling.

Now they were only a mile or so from the MacCallums' cottage, and Colin slowed the horse to a walk. The road was quiet here, the afternoon lazy and warm, and Colin's head pounded as if the hounds of hell were trampling through it. He wanted nothing more than to curl up and go to sleep, but first he needed to ensure Emilia's safety.

“Are you awake, lass?” he asked softly, even though he knew she was. He pressed a kiss to her temple. Not knowing where her abused flesh was tender, his action was gentle.

“Yes.” The word was low and slurred. It obviously hurt her to speak. He wanted to kill Pinfield. He
would
kill him.

“We're going to the cottage of an elderly couple who helped me after we encountered…your father.” The words
your father
were the bitterest things he'd ever tasted upon his tongue. No true father would do this to his own child.

“All right,” she said.

“Their names are Mary and Stuart MacCallum. They are very kind. They'll help us.”

She didn't say anything, and he released a long, controlled breath, then tightened his arm over her middle. “There's just one thing, Emilia.”

“Yes?”

“I…er…” He cleared his throat. “I told them we're married.”

She didn't react.

“They dinna ken who I am, or who you are. I gave them the name of John Montgomery.” He didn't give a damn about the name, but the fact that he'd told him they were married…“They believe we're husband and wife, lass. Do you understand?”

“I do,” she said quietly.

“Will you be able to continue the ruse?” God, he felt like an ass. Really, if the MacCallums learned he'd lied to them, who cared? But there were many reasons to stand by what he'd told them, he rationalized to himself. Revealing the truth to the MacCallums would only put them all in greater jeopardy.

“Don't…” She took a breath, obviously steeling herself so she could speak. “Don't worry, Colin. I am prepared.”

He wished he could look into her face, but he couldn't, not now. He pressed a thankful kiss to the top of her head.

A few minutes later, they rode up the winding road that led to the cottage. Mrs. MacCallum's round frame appeared in the doorway as they approached, and when they were close, Colin halted the horse, jumped off, then carefully lifted Emilia down.

Mrs. MacCallum hurried to them, gasping, “Och, ye poor wee thing. What'd those wicked bastards do to ye?”

Helping Emilia walk toward the house, Mrs. MacCallum glanced back over her shoulder, raising a questioning brow at Colin.

“He was behind me,” he said, knowing she was asking about her husband. “He should be here soon.” He could only pray MacCallum had continued to outsmart Pinfield and his men. He'd been doing a fine job of it as Colin had slipped away with Emilia.

Mrs. MacCallum nodded and turned back to Emilia, placing a comforting arm around her. The women disappeared inside as Colin took care of the horse. A few minutes later, he returned to the cottage. The inside smelled of savory cooking and fresh hay, and he found Emilia and Mrs. MacCallum in the kitchen, seated at a table as the older woman gently dabbed at Emilia's face, cleaning her wounds. The room was warm and comfortable, and something delicious-smelling bubbled over the fire. Yet Emilia sat stoically, staring straight ahead, not even acknowledging Colin as he entered. He hesitated in the arched doorway, wanting to take her into his arms and comfort her but not knowing if that was the right thing.

“Ah, there ye are, laddie. Will ye fetch some fresh clothes for yer wife? I've a mind to burn these.”

“Please do,” Emilia croaked out. “This dress is no good to anyone now.”

Mrs. MacCallum's brows crept toward her forehead. “She speaks! I was beginnin' to worry.” She widened her eyes at Colin. “An English bride, eh?”

Colin nodded. “Er…aye. I'll be back with something for you to wear,
mo leannan.
”

“Thank…you.”

He turned, and walked behind the cottage to the outbuilding—a large stone-walled shed where MacCallum had stored the phaeton. But at the edge of the building, he reached out and leaned on the stones, head down, his chest heaving.

God. He'd nearly lost her. He'd almost been too late. And she was so hurt, so terribly hurt…And the look in her eyes was so blank…

He sucked in breaths but couldn't get enough air.

Maybe he
had
been too late.

No. No. He refused to accept that. He fought to regain control of his body. She needed him now, and he wasn't going to fail her. Forcing breath into his lungs, he stood up straight and pushed inside the shed.

As MacCallum had said, their luggage was intact in the boot, and Colin rifled through it, quickly collecting anything he thought Emilia might be able to use. He hurried back to the house, and Mrs. MacCallum chose a nightgown for Emilia to wear.

“Will ye help her get into it, lad?” Mrs. MacCallum said. “I'll just be waitin' outside should ye be needin' anythin'.” Handing Colin the nightgown, she stepped out.

“Emilia,” he said softly, when she only stared straight ahead. He lowered himself into the chair beside hers. “Talk to me,
mo leannan.
”

“What does that mean?”

“Mo leannan?”
He hesitated and then said, “It means ‘my love.' ”

She blinked at him. “Do you?”

“Do I what?” he asked gently.

“Love me?”

This had not been the way he'd meant to reveal it to her. But there was no way in hell he was lying to her. “Aye, I do,” he said, his voice firm with conviction. “I love you. I've fallen in love with you.”

“Why?” She turned to him finally, her eyes bright but dry, though she moved like a lady far older than Mrs. MacCallum, and he almost expected to hear her bones creaking as she faced him.

Her face was wrecked, one eye swollen shut, a nasty bruise forming around it and dipping low onto her cheek. Though no longer caked in blood, her lips were still swollen, and the bottom one was split. The cut on her cheekbone looked deep enough to scar and would probably mar her bonny face forever.

He gently took her hand in his own. “I love you for so many different reasons, Emilia. So many I dinna ken where to begin.”

She wouldn't meet his eyes. “He was going to kill me, I think.”

Colin swallowed hard.

“I…wanted him to.”

He didn't blame her for that.

“What kind of woman wants to die? I gave up. I stopped defending us. You shouldn't love a woman like that, Colin.”

“I dinna care what you said to your father, Emilia. I dinna care whether you defended us.”

“I gave in and told him what he wanted to hear,” she whispered.

“And what was that?”

“That I revealed all his secrets to the Highland Knights.”

Colin closed his eyes. Thank God he had come when he had. The bastard had probably been on the verge of murdering her. His own daughter. Jesus.

“I betrayed you,” she whispered.

“What? Nay,” he said.

“I did.” Her breath hitched. “I told him…”

“Of course you did. 'Tis nothing,” he soothed.

“But don't you see? I gave up. I
wanted
him to kill me. He should have killed me.”

“Nay.” He grasped her shoulders, firm but still gentle, wary of her injuries. “Listen. There comes a point in everyone when they canna take any more.”

She shook her head. “No. The loyal ones never give in. Never offer up their secrets.”

“That's not true. Where'd you ever hear such a thing?”

“I just…I know. I broke. He broke me.”

Where was she getting this absurd idea? “Listen to me, Emilia. You didna break. You told him what he wanted to hear, but he would've discovered that in a few days, anyhow. That doesna mean you're disloyal. You must stop thinking that way.”

“But—”

“Nay,” he said gently. She was tired and hurt and not thinking clearly. “He was hurting you. You did what anyone would have done.”

“You wouldn't have,” she said stubbornly.

“I did, though,” he said.

She blinked, and he clarified. “In Spain…five years ago. I…” He swallowed hard, panic tickling at the fringes of his mind.
Be factual. Be concise. Don't let them in.
“I was captured and held by the French for a time. I…” He pushed out a breath. “I told them everything I knew.”

Her eyes widened so that he could even see a slit of blue in the one that was swollen shut. “You did?”

“Aye. I…had to.” He had never talked about this to anyone. The major and the other officers of the 92nd knew what had happened, but no one made him speak of it. Ever.

“Why?” she whispered.

He looked down. “All that was left was what they wanted to know. They stripped the rest of it away.”

“How?”

“They kept me for several days, blindfolded and gagged, without food, and they only teased me with water. They hit me with a baton until they broke several ribs. And…once my ribs were well and broken, they whipped me.”

“The scars on your back…” She closed her eyes. “Why am I asking you this?”

“Because you need to understand, lass. The men never questioned my loyalty afterward and so neither did I.”

“I h-hate the thought of you in pain,” she whispered. “And…what happened to you yesterday? Your face—”

“Sideswiped by a plank,” he explained. “I feel better tonight. Having you with me…” Hell, he'd forgotten about his own injuries once he'd laid eyes on hers. “I'm fine,” he assured her. “Just a wee bit tired.”

“I'm tired, too.”

“Let's get you into this nightgown, then. And then we ought to try to get some sleep.”

She rose and tried to untie her dress, but her fingers fumbled with the ties and he moved her hands away. “Let me.”

He undressed her slowly, checking carefully for breaks, cuts, and bruises. A multitude of scratches marred her legs, some deeper than others, but by far it was her face that sported the worst damage.

Though she told him she'd already washed her legs at the stream near the abandoned farmhouse, he ran a cloth over them again, wiping up small trails of blood and bits of dirt.

“It's best Pinfield kens that the Knights have been told of his treasonous actions,” he said after a short silence.

“Why?” she whispered.

“It means you'll be safe in London now. Your father won't dare show his face in Town now.”

“Are you certain?”

“Aye. Once you're well enough, we'll head south again. We'll go to London. You'll be safest there among the Knights.”

She nodded. “I did want to see the Scottish Highlands, but—”

“Dinna fash yourself,
mo leannan.
You'll see the Highlands. I'll bring you back once this is all over.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.” He slipped the nightgown over her head.

“Colin?”

“Aye?”

“I
did
give up, you know.”

He pulled her into his arms and kissed the top of her head. “I hate him for hurting you, Emilia. I hate him so damn much.” He couldn't wait to kill the man. But first he had to ensure Emilia's safety.

“So…so do I.”

He pulled back and gazed into her face—her bonny, damaged face that made him want to scream with rage. “And you ken it's all right, don't you? It's right that you hate him. If you loved him after all this…” He shook his head. “Well, that wouldna be right.”

“I thought I might have an ounce of love left for him somewhere, but I was wrong. I despise my father,” she said, her voice as flat and dry as an autumn leaf, and equally as brittle. She pressed her forehead into Colin's chest and whispered, “I want him to hang.”

They left the kitchen, to find Mrs. MacCallum in the great room, talking animatedly to her husband. Thank God, Colin thought, looking over the older man with a critical eye. He'd made it. He looked as fit as he had early this morning, except for the bit of exhaustion creeping around his blue eyes.

MacCallum came toward them, smiling. “Ah, Montgomery. What a bonny wee wife you have.” He took Emilia's hand and bowed over it. “Mrs. Montgomery.”

“You must be…Mr….MacCallum,” Emilia said haltingly. It hurt her to speak, and Colin had been worried her jaw was broken, but he'd checked it and thought it was just badly bruised.

“Aye, that I am.”

“Thank…you. Col—
John
told me all that you've done for us.”

“ 'Twas my pleasure, lass. Happy to help.”

“Now then, I have some rabbit stew a-boilin',” Mrs. MacCallum interjected. “The lot of ye look like yer aboot to keel over any moment. So let's get tae eatin', ye can tell me what happened, then ye all must go straight tae bed.”

They headed back into the kitchen area, where they sat around the table while Mrs. MacCallum ladled soup into bowls at the stove. She doled them out, along with a plate piled high with bannocks. Colin ate ravenously, as did MacCallum—they hadn't had a bite to eat all day. Chewing pained Emilia's jaw, so she sipped at the broth and didn't touch the bannocks, but at least she was trying to take in some sustenance.

Between the three of them, MacCallum had the most energy, and he prattled on, first telling Colin about how he'd found Pinfield's injured man on the side of the road as he'd headed back north. The man had been conscious but disoriented, and MacCallum had put him on his horse and taken him back to Berwick. The old man had given him some coin and ordered him to get his leg looked after, have a hot meal, and reevaluate his choices in life.

Then MacCallum told his wife about how they'd found Pinfield's carriage and the accompanying men, and how he'd distracted the group whilst Colin had snuck in and spirited Emilia away.

“Worked like a charm.” MacCallum grinned broadly.

“Ye always had quite the mouth on ye,” Mrs. MacCallum said, but she looked proud, and her voice was laden with fondness.

“What happened after we got out of there?” Colin asked the older man.

“It took a good few minutes before that pompous arse realized the lass had disappeared, because I kept goin' on about the dangers of proceedin' along the road. Finally, he'd had enough, and when he opened the carriage door, he just stood there and gaped for five seconds or so. Meanwhile, I mounted my horse, ready to go. I kept talkin', though. ‘Well, if ye must insist upon goin',' I said, all haughty-like and puttin' on a bit of an air, ‘I dinna care to watch the slaughter.' And calmly as you please, I turned the horse and began to ride north. Seconds later, I heard him screech, and everyone jumped to action. But I didna stay to see what came of it.”

Colin nodded. “Good. I dinna think he'll be able to track us here.”

“I doubt it,” MacCallum agreed.

Mrs. MacCallum patted Colin's hand. “Ye're safe here. And ye can stay as long as ye like.”

“I thank you.” Colin glanced at Emilia, who was gazing into her broth. “A few days, perhaps—until Mrs. Montgomery is well enough to travel.”

“O' course.”

Colin rose. “I should get her to bed,” he said, going to Emilia's side.

Mrs. MacCallum clucked. “Och, aye, we dinna want her to be fallin' face-first into her soup!”

Colin helped Emilia up, and she gave the old couple a wan smile.

“Ye'll be usin' our bed, long as ye stay,” Mrs. MacCallum informed them.

“Nay,” Colin said. “We'll be fine if we just—”

Mrs. MacCallum gave him a light whack on the shoulder. “You're our guests and you'll be sleeping where we put ye. Nae arguments, ye hear?”

Colin kept his mouth shut and followed Mrs. MacCallum into the bedroom, where he'd awakened from his unconscious state what seemed like a year ago but had just been early this morning. Clean bedclothes covered the heather-stuffed mattress, and the place smelled of fresh hay and lavender.

Mrs. MacCallum turned down the bedcovers and then rose to face them. “Ye'll tell me if ye'll be needin' anythin', aye?”

“Aye,” Colin agreed.

“Good night, then.”

“Good night,” Emilia murmured. “And thank you. Thank you so very much.”

“ 'Tis our pleasure, sweet lass,” Mrs. MacCallum said kindly, and slipped out, closing the door behind her.

Colin helped Emilia into the bed, then went around to the other side before stripping down to his shirt and climbing in beside her.

He groaned softly as he turned, pulling her back against his front. It felt so good to lie down, so good to have her body pressed to his once more. He kissed the back of her head.

“Sleep,
mo leannan.
”

She snuggled into him. “You, too,” she murmured. “You must be exhausted.”

He was. His head felt as if it weighed a thousand pounds. Yet his body was alert, the blood flowed swiftly through his veins, and his concern over Emilia thrummed in his soul. He lay quietly, trying to relax his muscles.

Several minutes passed. Colin could tell from Emilia's breathing that she wasn't asleep, either. She reached back and laid her hand on his thigh. “It's going to be all right, Colin. We're safe now,” she murmured. “We're alive. And we're together.”

She was right. He closed his eyes, and finally slipped into a dreamless sleep.

Six days later, the swelling on Colin's and Emilia's faces had diminished completely, leaving ugly bruises. Emilia could chew and talk without pain, and her eyes had brightened. She was slowly returning to herself, her innate strength rising back to the surface.

There had been no sign or word of Lord Pinfield and his men. If Pinfield was smart—and he was—he would have gone into hiding, knowing that by now Emilia's accusations would be public knowledge. There was an article about him in the
Times
that MacCallum had brought from the village yesterday, stating that he was a dangerous traitor and that he had disappeared, first heading north but then vanishing seemingly without a trace. It spoke of a massive manhunt being organized to find him.

The
Times
further listed the associates of Pinfield who were wanted under suspicion of treason—nearly all the names Emilia had originally given to Colin. The Highland Knights had wasted no time. As soon as they'd received that letter, they must have flown into action, collecting evidence and rounding up the traitors.

Colin would have usually been in the center of it all—but now his primary concern was Emilia. Ensuring her recovery and her safety mattered more than anything to him.

She was doing well. Early this morning, they'd made love, then as she'd lain in his arms, she'd said, “I think I'm ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“To go home. To London.”

He was quiet for a moment. She was going to be all right, and there was no reason to infringe on the MacCallums' hospitality any longer. Though Colin was going to make damn sure they were well recompensed for all they'd done for him and Emilia.

“The court will need my help to build the case against the traitors.”

She was right. The information she had would be invaluable in ensuring those men received justice. “Aye,” he'd agreed. “We'll go. This morning.”

Now he was outside, hitching the pair of horses to the phaeton, and MacCallum clapped his hand to Colin's shoulder.

“I ken ye're no' a Montgomery, lad,” he said in a low voice.

Colin turned to him, frowning.

“Those Sassenachs who took the lass—they weren't highwaymen, neither.”

Colin nodded slowly. He'd actually wondered why the man hadn't brought this up earlier. It was rather obvious that Pinfield and his henchmen were something other than common highwaymen.

The older man stared at him, his blue eyes bright in the morning sunlight. “I ken they weren't good men, aye? Especially after seeing how ill-used yer lass was.”

“They aren't good men,” Colin agreed in a low voice.

MacCallum studied him. “I believe you. But the man who was inside the carriage—he was an English lord, was he no'?”

“He was.”

MacCallum blew out a breath. “Which one?”

“It's best I dinna tell you, sir,” Colin said, but he was certain the older man would figure it out soon enough.

A deep groove appeared between the older man's brows. “ 'Tis wise no' to anger English lords, lad. The English have an appetite for revenge. They're more like to slaughter ye than forgive ye.”

This was a Scot, Colin realized, who had been raised in the aftermath of the massacre at Culloden and the defeat of Bonnie Prince Charlie. Colin knew from his own experience that some things were difficult to forget.

He leaned forward and spoke quietly. “My real name is Sir Colin Stirling.”

MacCallum stared at him for a moment, then recognition lit his eyes. “The MP's lad?”

Colin smiled. It shouldn't surprise him that the man would remember a Scottish politician from years back. “Aye. I was in the army for many years, but now I work in service to the Crown.”

“And the lass?”

“I'm protecting her.”

“She's no' yer wife, is she?”

How the hell had the man ferreted that out? He tilted his head, gave MacCallum a warning look. “Not yet. But she soon will be, if I've anything to say about it.”

MacCallum nodded slowly. “And she is amenable?”

“I havna asked her yet.”

MacCallum's eyebrows rose. “Why not? What're ye waitin' for?”

“Well…” He hesitated, then shrugged. “It hasna seemed like the best time.”

MacCallum clapped his hand over Colin's shoulder once again. “Lad, no time is the best time. If ye love the lass well enough to marry her, then ye must ask her first, aye?”

Colin turned back to the horse. “Aye,” he agreed under his breath.

MacCallum was right. It was time he made his feelings and his hopes for the future known to Emilia.

Still, he'd never told a woman he wanted to spend his life with her. The thought made him nervous in a way he'd never been before.

As they were preparing to leave, Emilia impulsively turned to her notebook and carefully tore a page out. It was a sketch she'd made of Mr. and Mrs. MacCallum one morning as they'd bent over the newspaper, their heads touching intimately.

Her gray brows raised, Mrs. MacCallum took it from her, then laughed aloud. “Why, lass! I kent you scribbled in that book o' yers, but ye didna tell me you possessed such a talent.” She clutched the sheet to her chest and tears brimmed in her bright blue eyes when she looked back at Emilia. “I'll cherish it forever, lass. I'll look at it and remember yer bonny face.”

Emilia threw her arms around the older woman. “Thank you so much,” she said. “Thank you for everything.”

The day was dull and dreary, the sky like lead as they rode south. Six hours into the journey, they stopped for a brief bite to eat at the edge of a stream. Like before, they laid out a plaid and ate sitting upon it. Emilia couldn't stop thinking about what had happened the last time they'd stopped like this. How close their connection had been. How everything had changed for her at that moment. How she had become
his.

She gazed at Colin as he chewed a bite of bread; then, brushing his hands together, he rose and stretched. Looking down at her, he said, “I'm going to wash up a bit.”

She nodded and watched him as he stripped off his coat and shirt, revealing his upper body, so powerfully strong and masculine, her breath hitched. He turned and strode to the river's edge, the weak sun highlighting the silvery lines of scars on his back.

The bank was muddy, and he froze as soon as he stepped into the soft muck. He stood there for a few seconds, but then he didn't move. The seconds stretched on to a minute, and he'd been standing still, staring into the water, unmoving.

Her heart in her throat, Emilia slowly stood. “Colin?” she called uncertainly.

No answer.

She walked slowly toward him. “Colin, I'm right here. What's wrong?”

But he didn't seem to hear her. Suddenly, he lurched backward, stumbling as if he'd received a powerful punch to the stomach. He fell in the mud but scrambled backward, calling, “Nay. Nay. I canna…I'm sorry. God…” He groaned. “So damn sorry.”

“Colin!” she shouted now, even though she was only a few feet away.

“Go,” he moaned. “Go on now, lad…Ye must go…”

Lad?
“Colin, it's me, Emilia. You're…” What was happening? She didn't know…but this was just like one of his nightmares. “You're only dreaming,” she told him. “Do you hear me? It's only a dream.”

“A…” His hands dropped, flat at his sides in the mud. Blinking, he looked up at her. “Archie,” he said raggedly, then he frowned, clearly not recognizing her.

Who on earth was Archie? “I'm not Archie,” she told him. “I'm Emilia.”

He stood, eyes narrowed, looking all around and turning in a slow circle, until his gaze finally landed on her again. He stared at her, still no recognition in his eyes. She needed to keep talking. “It's me, Colin. You're just having a dream. It's naught but a dream…”

She didn't stop, assuring him that whatever it was wasn't real—that he was real and she was, and there was no one else.

Ever so slowly, recognition dawned in his expression, and he turned, scanning their environs once again. He swallowed hard, his throat moving, but his lips were pressed tightly together, and he was so pale, she thought he might faint.