Highland Crown Read online

  Jean cursed him roundly. “Damn me, if ye think I’ll let ye take it.”

  Please, Isabella pleaded silently, let him have it and be gone. The thought became a reiterating chant in her head. She wanted him to be gone.

  “How ye going to stop me, eh?” The sneer was evident in his tone.

  “Give it to me, I say.”

  “Save yer wind, auld woman. I’m keeping it.”

  “Ye’ll not be going out of here wi…”

  The sound of the old woman’s cry was followed by a crash and splintering wood. Immediately, Isabella felt the wounded sailor struggle to move. She couldn’t sit still and let Jean be injured by this thieving bully. He was one person against the two of them. Safety be damned. As she began to untangle herself, Jean called out.

  “It’ll take more of a man than ye to hurt the likes of me,” she said in a voice that Isabella realized was intended for her. “But yer still a foul and nasty dog. True when ye was a wee chack, and truer now. Ye’ll burn in hell, to be sure.”

  “Try to take this from me again, and I’ll send ye straight to hell ahead of me. Make no mistake,” Habbie taunted. “Come on, if ye want it. I’d as soon tie a rock around yer neck and throw ye off the Head as look at ye.”

  “This is what we’ve come to in this village now, is it? Ye wait until the curate hears that ye struck me down.”

  Thoughts of violence crossed Isabella’s mind, and she wasn’t alone. Her patient was straining against her hold on him. She pressed her cheek against his back, trying to instill patience.

  “Ye go right ahead. Tell ’em all.” Habbie paused. “Go ahead, auld hag. Pick up that stick of yers. It’ll be the last thing ye do in this world.”

  “If my auld man was still alive, he’d—”

  “Yer auld man’s been gone many a year, so come on and raise a hand to me. Yer just another mouth to feed in this village. I tell ye, no one here’d miss ye.”

  Let him go, Isabella pleaded silently. Please, Jean. Let him go.

  The leather hide behind Isabella shivered as the cottage door opened. He was leaving. Thank God. She listened to the fading footsteps as Jean continued to shout her complaints after him about a “vile world where folk rob their own and auld women are struck down by brutes.”

  A moment later, the door closed, and Isabella heard the warning whisper.

  “Stay where ye are.”

  “Are you hurt?” Isabella asked.

  “I’m fine. Don’t ye worry about that. If ye’d come out, it would have gone worse for all of us.”

  Fear was slow to make room for any feeling of relief. Her heart continued to pound. In her mind’s eye, she saw him bursting back into the cottage, tearing away the hide, and dragging them out of their hiding place.

  “Let me out of here.” The voice was deep and grim. He let go of her hand.

  She inched backward, trying to make more room for him. But there was nowhere to go. His size filled the space, heated the air. Her body shaped itself against him. Isabella didn’t think she’d ever been this close to a man, other than her husband.

  “Not yet. Jean will tell us when it’s safe.”

  He didn’t like her answer. She could feel the muscles flex in his back.

  “Where are we?”

  “We’re in a cottage not far from Duff Head.”

  “He’s still not gone back to the cart,” Jean’s whisper cut in. “Don’t ye move. Hear me?”

  “Why are you hiding?”

  He sounded abrupt, impatient, but his tone calmed her. Regardless of his injury, he exuded courage. She imagined it was a matter of time before he pushed her back and climbed out.

  “Because I don’t belong in these parts,” she answered. “I’m only staying here for a few days.”

  “That doesn’t explain why you’re hiding.”

  His voice carried a trace of the Highland burr. She wondered if he was from anywhere nearby.

  “Who says I’m hiding?”

  “You’re here in a hole too small for a pair of rabbits, curled around me like a worn wool blanket.”

  Jean’s blow to the head obviously hadn’t done much damage to his astuteness. He was absolutely right. Her knees had moved, and were straddling his hips. Her skirts were pushed up.

  “Who are you?” she asked, trying to distract him from questioning her or noticing her encroaching position.

  “Cinaed Mackintosh, owner and ship’s master of the Highland Crown, the brig that’s now strewn all over that reef.”

  Isabella had known from his clothing that he wasn’t an ordinary seaman.

  “Move,” he ordered. “I won’t lie here like a…”

  Suddenly, a hide covering a narrow gap on the outside wall flew open and light flooded in. Stunned that there was another opening, Isabella stared at the silhouette of a man filling the doorway.

  “Well, what do ye know? Two castaways.”

  Habbie. He was carrying a stout cudgel. Everything she’d feared was coming true.

  “Auld Jean,” he shouted. “That wee knock ye took was but the first…”

  Isabella felt Cinaed lean forward, and an instant later she gasped. A knife pulled from his boot flashed in the dim light as it flew across the enclosure.

  CHAPTER 5

  Soldier, rest! thy warfare o’er,

  Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking;

  Dream of battled fields no more,

  Days of danger, nights of waking.

  —Sir Walter Scott, “Lady of the Lake,” Canto I, stanza 31

  Cinaed Mackintosh was not a murderer by trade or profession. He felt no obligation to fight for God or king or country. Long ago, he’d decided the Almighty had to be tired of all the killing, and no king had ever deserved his loyalty. When it came to fighting for Scotland, the place of his birth, he believed enough blood had already been spilled in a land that would never be free. Still, that didn’t stop him from causing trouble for the enemy when the need presented itself. He acted because he was fighting for the people. They were the only thing that mattered.

  Cinaed had never served in any army. He’d narrowly avoided being impressed into the Royal Navy years ago. But he knew that many Highlanders had taken up the sword for the English who defeated them at Culloden. They’d fought and bled and died in a dozen wars for the glory of the Empire. They were fools, killing and laying down their lives for the aristocrats and the moneyed elite who scorned their very existence. These Highland warriors were lost men who allowed themselves to become nothing more than killers for hire.

  Cinaed could kill if he needed to. He would kill to survive, and burying that knife in the heart of the blackguard had been an act of self-preservation. If he hadn’t acted, if he’d missed his mark, the two of them hiding in their wee rat hole would be dead, and he was certain it wouldn’t have gone too well for the old woman.

  The doctor was quick to get around to the back of the cottage, and Jean was right on her heels. He heard their voices outside. The villager was dead. He knew that already.

  As Cinaed tried to listen, his head still pounded, and the burning pain in his chest was not improving. He felt as weak as a newborn, but thankfully his mind was clear.

  He could not imagine being in a worse situation. This brutish dolt had found them with very little difficulty. It was only a matter of time before others came looking as well.

  Cinaed dragged himself out of the cramped space and slowly pulled himself to his feet. The table near the window had been smashed into kindling. He looked around the cottage for any weapon he could use. The doctor’s surgical knife was the sharpest and the most lethal thing he could find.

  Moving from one window to the other was painful, but he had to ignore that. Outside, no other people were visible on the beach. Cinaed’s gaze immediately moved to the rocks out on the sea. A different kind of pain pierced his chest. Charred driftwood and torn pieces of the sail were all that was left of his brig. No longboats in sight and no bodies along the shore.

 
Raised voices drew him outside. Around back, the two women were arguing. The dead man lay on the ground between them. Their quarreling stopped as soon as they saw him. Feeling a bit light-headed, he leaned back against a stone wall of the cottage.

  “Ye can just take this stubborn chit and go,” Jean ordered him. “And I mean now.”

  “This man should not even be out of bed, never mind go anywhere,” the doctor asserted, eyeing him with concern before turning her frown back on the older woman. “But when we do go, you need to come with us.”

  “Yer sea dog is well enough to throw a knife and kill a man,” Jean grouched. She turned her back on the doctor and shuffled toward Cinaed. “At the top of the strand, down past these rocks, ye’ll find Habbie’s cart where he left it. Ye take it. And take her. Follow this path up to the coast road. Less than half a day’s ride and ye’ll be in Inverness.”

  The younger woman refused to be ignored. “And just how are you going to explain this dead villager?” She pulled at Jean’s sleeve. “How can we explain to John that we left you in this predicament?”

  “Don’t ye be worrying about telling my nephew anything.”

  “I don’t care what you say. You’re coming with us.”

  Jean pulled her sleeve free and spoke to Cinaed. “My nephew, John Gordon, always stays at the Stoneyfield House on this side of the port. It’s right on the coast road, so ye should have no trouble finding it. Deliver this one to him. Ye might as well keep the cart and the horse, for Habbie won’t be doing any more hauling in the future.” She waved off the other woman like some annoying insect. “And don’t forget ye owe her yer life. Taking her to Inverness is the least ye can do to repay her for all she’s done.”

  Inverness. Perhaps some of his crew had made it safely to shore and found their way to the port town. After delivering his cargo, he was supposed to continue on to Citadel Quay at Inverness. He was to be paid on delivery by his kinsman Searc Mackintosh.

  Worse, those who’d been expecting him would be seriously disappointed. Months of planning and waiting and secrecy had all come to naught. And Cinaed doubted they would be very agreeable about helping him get a position on another ship or find his crew.

  He had to get back to Canada somehow if he were ever to begin rebuilding. But whatever he had to do, it needed to start in Inverness. This blasted hamlet was nothing but a death trap for him. If the villagers found him, they’d hang him for sure. He had the blood of one of their own on his hands.

  “We’re going,” he said abruptly, motioning to the doctor. “Now.”

  “Not without her.” Her eyes flashed. She pointed at the corpse, ignoring him. “This brute threw you about for a paltry ring. I don’t want to think of how they’ll treat you after this.”

  “Ye’ll be the death of me, woman,” Jean huffed, digging in. “Go. Leave me be. I know how to lie, and they’ll believe what I say.”

  “The way this one believed you?” the doctor scoffed.

  Soft footfalls. From the direction of the beach, someone was creeping up on them. Cinaed edged over to the corner of the cottage. The women continued to argue, paying no attention to him. He’d been only nine years old when his clan had rejected him and sent him away to become a ship’s boy. Good instincts and quick reflexes had saved him from harm many a time. More often than not, he sensed danger before it struck.

  “You say the ship’s captain owes me his life,” the younger woman snapped before softening her tone. “Well, I feel that I owe you mine. When the village discovers this man’s body, you’ll not be safe here. Come with us now. Your nephew can bring you back if you wish it. But I’m not leaving you here alone.”

  The sound of breathing told him someone was listening around the corner of the cottage. Cinaed moved fast. Reaching around, he grabbed a collar of a greasy jerkin and yanked the stalker off his feet, slamming him to the ground. Putting a knee on the scrawny back, he pressed his knife to the throat of the wide-eyed intruder.

  * * *

  “Don’t,” Isabella shouted, rushing toward them. “Don’t kill him. He’s only a boy.”

  “I’m no boy,” the lad protested, squirming like a speared fish and craning his neck to glare up at Cinaed. “I’m a grown man and worth ten pox-eared sea rats. Ye let me go, and I’ll show ye in a fair fight.”

  The boy was tall and thin, and his eyes flashed fire at the indignity of his position. He couldn’t be more than eleven or twelve years old. Shaggy hair stuck out from a woolen cap and a filthy jerkin covered equally filthy pants. He was doing his best to act tough, Isabella thought, but his bravado looked more like stupidity at the moment.

  “The lad’s just a wee fool,” Jean told them. “Habbie uses him to run and fetch. Teaching him to be a lowdown dog, same as him.”

  The ship’s master appeared to have no intention of letting the boy up or fighting. His gaze was focused on what they could see of the beach. Isabella continued to be shocked by his speed and his strength, despite the newly stitched hole in his chest. Trapped with him earlier, she’d never seen him reach for his knife. And when she got to Habbie’s body behind the cottage, she’d been amazed by the precision of his aim.

  He was now using her scalpel as a weapon. He had to be in tremendous pain, and yet he showed no suffering. His stern face was pale but the picture of concentration. He was as relentless and vigilant as a scout scanning the area for any potential dangers. Despite the unbuttoned coat and vest, and the torn and bloody shirt beneath, he was clearly ready to do battle. She couldn’t help but be impressed. More than impressed.

  Isabella was certain she’d never in her life met anyone like him. She didn’t even think men like him existed outside of stories. Wounded warriors who rose above physical pain and debilitating injury, who never gave up even in the face of certain annihilation. Like the mythic heroes of ancient times. Prometheus, Hector, Odysseus, Achilles’s Myrmidons. She recalled the Athenian warrior who carried the news of victory from the plains of Marathon.

  “How many more are with you?” Cinaed asked, sparing the boy only a glance as he withdrew the blade.

  The young one didn’t answer fast enough and got a knee jammed harder into his back for his trouble.

  “No one,” he yelped. “I was down by the cart waiting. When he didn’t come back, I thought to see what happened to him.”

  The boy turned his head and his eyes fixed on Habbie. His mouth hung open for a moment. Suddenly, he didn’t look like the young tough he was trying to be. In Isabella’s eyes, he was no more than a child unable to fathom the sight before him.

  “What have ye done to him?” he croaked, staring wildly at his captors before looking back at Habbie. The high-pitched wail made it clear he’d seen the handle of the knife protruding from the man’s chest.

  Isabella was tired of the bloodshed, but she wasn’t about to blame the ship’s master for the dead man lying at their feet. She doubted that any explanation or any plea would have convinced Habbie to let them walk away unharmed. She was a physician. In the past, she’d found it impossible to condone the taking of another’s life. But this case was an exception, and she couldn’t bring herself to assign guilt. If Cinaed hadn’t acted, more violence would have occurred.

  “He knew ye was up to no good, ye auld hag,” the boy cried out. “He was right, and ye had to kill him for it, didn’t ye?”

  Only moments ago, Jean had been arguing that she wouldn’t go to Inverness with them, despite the dead body on her doorstep and evidence that she’d been harboring two strangers in her cottage. Isabella hoped the older woman would now see things differently. This boy’s words would go a long way with Habbie’s friends in the village, and he wouldn’t be alone in accusing her.

  Suddenly, the boy began shrieking for help.

  “Quiet,” Cinaed barked.

  But the lad only cried out louder. With a determined sigh, Cinaed pushed the lad’s face into the sand for a moment. That was enough to frighten him into silence.

  “What will it be, Jea
n?” Isabella asked softly. “We can’t stay here all day. Others are sure to come.”

  The old woman nudged the dead man with the tip of her shoe, a look of sadness and resignation on her face. Crouching beside the body, she took Isabella’s wedding ring out of Habbie’s pocket. Then, without ceremony, she pulled the knife from his chest and wiped it clean on his jacket.

  “No point in wasting anything of value on this one,” she murmured. “I’ll just tidy up my home afore we go.”

  Relief washed through Isabella. No one could have foreseen the series of events they were dealing with. As it was, trouble and death had found their way to Jean’s cottage door. Staying here was not a viable option.

  John Gordon would surely see that when they all reached Inverness. The man was capable enough to handle the details for spiriting three fugitive women out of the country; he’d know what to do for his aunt. And he could find a place for this one to recover. Perhaps the captain had his own people in the port.

  As Jean started for the front of the cottage, she gave the knife to the ship’s master and placed the ring in Isabella’s palm.

  “Ye better be killing me too, ye auld witch,” the boy cried, talking tough to Jean, since she was the only one of the three that he might be able to handle. “I’ll tell everyone what ye done to Habbie. Ye won’t be getting away with this, hear me?”

  Isabella had raised a sister and a stepdaughter from the time they were slightly older than this boy’s age. Putting aside their education and the life of privilege they’d grown up with, neither of the girls were reckless. They both were thoughtful and shrewd when it came to danger. She’d witnessed Maisie and Morrigan’s behavior since they’d fled their home. And they were anything but stupid.

  “Have at it. Kill me too. I’d fancy seeing ye hang for it.”

  This one, Isabella thought, was stupid.

  As the captain shook his head, she saw the tug of a smile that quickly disappeared, replaced by a frown. He seemed as amused as he was unimpressed with the foolish whelp squirming beneath his knee. She imagined he’d commanded many boys as young as this one aboard his ship. And she was glad that he was in control of his temper and not about to give the lad his wish.