A Very Highland Holiday - Kathryn Le Veque Page 0,97
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 Five
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