A Very Highland Holiday - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,91

bedtime; no doubt she was already making herself comfortable out in the stables—or as comfortable as she was able.

Suddenly, she leapt up from the bed, curious to explore Carrie’s closet. She jiggled the knob, and, found, much to her delight, and contrary to Mr. Pitagowan’s claims, the door was unlocked. Only one look inside and she gasped over the grizzly display—it was a shrine full of wartime accoutrements: shields, swords, coats, cuffs, spurs, pistols, hats—much of which she suspected was still encrusted with blood. Certainly, the scent of the room was ghastly. And although it wasn’t a small room by most standards, there was little doubt Mrs. Grace would prefer the stables. With a hand to her breast, she closed the door again and, resolved to make it a night—vittles could wait until the morrow, when everyone else was sleeping off hangovers.

Chapter Two

Callum MacKinnon was close enough to home now that he could taste the tang of pine in the air. Unfortunately, the carriageway was impassible—vehicles stalled along the roadway, some parked on the embankments, fresh snow piled high against their rutted wheels.

He frowned at the sight, considering that he might be able to slide through the blockade by abandoning the roadway, but, even eight months later, the area was still crawling with Sassenachs soldiers.

Bloody hell.

At this point, neither he nor his horse were particularly enjoying the bite of the wind, and the snow had already dampened his cloak. The last thing he wished to do was to arrive home looking like the walking dead, and scare his sister into pissing her bed.

And anyway, he was still far enough that, even if he managed to get through the crush, his aching bones might not make it through the night. His wounds were still raw—those on his body, and the one in his heart. Not only was his clan forever divided—some had fought for the Stuart King—he was returning home a traitor, pardoned only so long as he forfeited title and lands.

Decision made, he grunted his annoyance, although, in truth, he couldn’t blame it on the weather. He was perpetually disgruntled these days, mourning that bright-hearted self he’d lost on a blood-soaked field at Culloden.

Ach, now, why shouldn’t he be sour as sorrel?

He had an Englishman to thank for saving his miserable life, and considering that it was that same bloody Englishman who’d put a ball between his father’s eyes, none of it sat well in his gut.

Bloody rotten bastards.

Even despite the fact that they’d already surrendered, General Hawley had ordered both Callum and his father executed, then, to make sure it was done, he stood by as one Major James Wolfe had fired the first ball. That his man wasn’t too thrilled to end a life of a prisoner off the battlefield wasn’t much of a comfort to Callum’s father. Young as he was, the major was an excellent marksman, although once Hawley departed, Wolfe put the next two volleys into Callum—one through his shoulder, the other his thigh—then ordered Callum to run. And run, he had, by God. Only now he sometimes wished he too had taken a ball to the head rather than be forced to relive the memory of his father’s twitching corpse and piddled plaid.

Even now, the heinous memory brought an unmanly sting to Callum’s tired blue eyes, and he vowed to carry the ignoble image to his grave. So far as his brothers were all concerned, all they ever needed to know was that Angus MacKinnon died like a man—unlike his eldest son, who’d scurried away from the specter of death like a rat from a torch.

As for Wolfe… the sorry bastard…

If he’d meant for Callum to survive, a shoulder wound would have sufficed. How he’d made it so far as he had without succumbing to fever, Callum might never know. The memory of his final days on the run only resurfaced with a blur. Ever since, he’d spent months convalescing, two of those he couldn’t even recall.

In the meantime, he had three young brothers and a wee sister waiting at home and, considering that he had very likely been pronounced a traitor to the Crown, he hadn’t dared to apprise anyone he was still alive. Unfortunately, it was long past time to do so.

Consequently, and once again because of Major Wolfe, he was here on the Yuletide, stopping short of his destination, dawdling like a coward on the eve of a new year.

God’s teeth, it was enough to sour any man’s mood, and not