A Very Highland Holiday - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,74

run off with a bloody Jacobite? What will ye drag her to, a hovel while you hide as a traitor?

’Twill be a damned better fate for her than being forced to marry one of your toadies, Stuart had growled. Have the grace to follow Teàrlach and die like a man for your lands. Let Fiona be laird—she’ll be far better at it than you.

Broc had let out a snarl of fury and drawn his dagger. Fiona, in alarm, had stepped between the two men.

I’m going nowhere, she’d shouted. With either of you!

She hadn’t dared storm from the room, or Broc might have gone at Stuart. Stuart would have defended himself, and blood would have been spilled.

Stuart had rounded on Fiona, his red and green plaid swinging. Come with me, lass, away from this rotten bastard who’ll drag ye into the muck with him.

He’ll drag ye to a Jacobite dunghill, Broc had countered. Go with him and be damned to ye. You’ll both be hanged soon enough.

Behind his bluster, Fiona had seen Broc’s fear, his pain from the death of their parents that time had not erased. Broc worried for Fiona, sure that Teàrlach would lose, and she being with Stuart would doom her. He didn’t want to lose Fiona as well.

Stuart had glared at Fiona, his fury at Broc plain. Behind it, he also had fear—that he’d never see Fiona again.

I can’t, Stuart. Fiona had let her voice go soft. When it’s over, and if you’re alive, you come back to me.

It will be over swiftly, Stuart had promised. In weeks, lass.

In weeks, you’ll be dead, Broc had declared, his head up, his arrogance high.

Stuart had laughed. Then I’ll never have to see you again.

If I do see ye, I’ll kill ye. Broc had pointed his dagger at Stuart, determination in his eyes.

Stuart had laughed again, spun on his heel, and was gone, the sound of his boots ringing on the stones.

Fiona hadn’t worried much, not then. Stuart had been correct—Teàrlach had already been poised to take Edinburgh, and then he’d quickly won at Prestonpans. Stuart would come marching back soon, and Fiona would leave her home to be with him. She imagined that once the Jacobites had the upper hand and Teàrlach’s father was installed as king, Broc would switch sides with blinding rapidity.

But none of that had happened. France’s promised support had vanished in the fickle wind. Teàrlach’s army had eventually been crushed, so many men dying, and for what? For a callow young prince who’d proved he had no idea what he was doing against a force that far outnumbered his.

Now proud Highland men hid in makeshift hideaways, dependent on the charity of Fiona and women like her.

Stuart hadn’t returned to her. She’d read of his capture, knew he’d soon die, and tried to bury the anguish in her heart.

Until she’d glanced up at the inn yesterday afternoon, and beheld him.

This time, she knew, she could never let him go.

Stuart expected, as they approached the castle, that the giant door would open, and a dozen soldiers, egged on by Broc, would pour out and surround them. They’d not even bother arresting Stuart—they’d stab him through immediately, or wait a bit while they built a gallows to hang him. But nothing like that happened.

The castle, as good castles that had survived from the 1400s were wont, squatted on a hill overlooking two valleys. A long road wound to it, the approach visible from the tall windows.

The castle itself was a square tower that rose five floors, with a two-story addition built in the 1600s in front of that. The newer wing held the great hall, where Stuart had danced with Fiona in happier times.

Gray-brown stone made the castle appear to be yet another rock thrusting up through the snow. Stuart saw no light in any window, no sign of habitation.

Perhaps Broc had given up cold drafts and moved to a more solid house in Edinburgh—Stuart couldn’t help hoping. Fiona would take over the castle and liven it up. Stuart always said she’d be better at running the place than Broc.

He glanced at her, but she’d pulled her scarf over her face again, a hood covering her hair. He couldn’t see her in the darkness, couldn’t tell what she thought of bringing Stuart to her home.

Would Broc kill Stuart right away? Or philosophically reflect on how much life had changed both men?

Stuart stifled a laugh. Broc wasn’t the reflecting sort.

No one challenged them as they slogged on. The castle