She opened one and slipped inside.
Wilfort turned from the window. Mary had not seen him since the night Malcolm had taken her from the tiny Scottish village that Colonel Wheeler had commandeered. Her father looked older, his shoulders stooped, his hair holding more gray than had been there before.
Wilfort studied Mary for a long moment, as though making himself believe that she was truly standing before him. Then, everything stern and distant in Mary’s father fell away. He moved swiftly to her, took her by the shoulders, and then, his eyes filling, pulled Mary into his arms.
“My daughter,” he whispered into her hair. “My own Mary. Oh, my love, I thought I’d lost you forever.”
Mary held him close, amazed to find her father shaking. “I’m here,” she said.
“I’m sorry,” her father said. “So, so sorry.”
Mary wasn’t certain what he apologized for, but she stroked his shoulders, her love for this man no longer confused. “I’m home now,” Mary said. “I love you, Papa.”
Even then, Mary could not cry. She’d become a rigid statue, going through the motions, numb inside.
Not until she was alone in her chamber, Whitman finally convincing everyone she needed to rest, did Mary’s grief break through.
She lay in bed, bathed for the first time in weeks, a hot brick to warm her. In the darkness, Mal came to her thoughts. She was transported back to their bedchamber in the distillery at Kilmorgan the day Malcolm had said good-bye. The memory of Mal lying against her on the rug was so vivid that Mary felt his weight, his bare body on hers, his warmth. Malcolm touched her face.
Ye know I’ll always come for ye, Mary . . . I love you so very much . . .
The wall around Mary’s heart splintered, and the tears came.
Malcolm’s journey to Lincolnshire took nearly three weeks. Scotland was boiling with soldiers and Highlanders fleeing, Lowlanders either taking in their neighbors or working with the English to capture them. Malcolm made his way south and east, avoiding military outposts and forts as he could.
He witnessed soldiers putting innocent people to the sword, simply because they wouldn’t reveal whether a clan leader had passed their way. Men were arrested merely because they wore a tartan. Malcolm helped the best he could, warning villagers that soldiers were coming, diverting those soldiers’ attentions with his tricks, melting away before he could be caught.
He traveled at night, slept during the day, kept his hair muddy so the red of it wouldn’t be a beacon to those searching for anyone looking remotely Scottish. He spoke slowly and carefully, when he spoke at all, trying to keep the betraying lilt from his voice. He’d abandoned the clothes he’d stolen from the soldier, burying them at Kilmorgan, and now wore the dark breeches and linen shirt of a farmer. No plaid anywhere about him.
Mal was exhausted and grief-stricken, but his spirit wasn’t broken. Not yet. At the end of his long road was Mary—his lady, the other half of his heart, his life.
That was not to say the way was easy. He had to fight many times to stay alive, the victim of soldiers who were rounding up anyone they happened to see.
Malcolm had rolled away through boggy ground after one encounter, thrashing around in the marshes until he found a solid path again. Will-o’-the-wisps danced about him, enticing him to follow. Mal resolutely ignored them, trying also to ignore his gnawing hunger and burning thirst.
He made his way from the marsh to find himself in a wood of thick trees. He heard men approaching, damn them.
Nothing for it. Mal scrambled up the nearest tree. He lay on a thick branch, like a cat reposing, watching two English soldiers, red coats cutting the gloom, wander about below, looking for signs of the man they’d chased.
Mal lay still, willing his body to blend with the tree. The soldiers decided to pause under his tree and have a chat, mostly complaining about the cold and their annoyance that one of the Scottish bastards had gotten away.
“’E’s in here somewhere,” one soldier said, his accent putting him from the gutters of London. His coat was wrinkled, its back stained. “Not many places ’e can go.”
“I say we go back and claim we shot ’im and dumped his body,” the second said. “’E’ll be rounded up sooner or later.”
The first sniffled. “Bloody damp out ’ere. I’ll be dead of the ague soon.”
A light flashed deeper into the woods. Mal just stopped himself from snapping around to see what it was. The soldiers came alert.
“Wha’ was that?”
“Swamp gas,” the second said, but nervously.
Another flash and then a bang! “Not gas,” the first soldier said. “Gunfire. Go!”
The two forms rushed deeper into the woods. Another flash and explosion sounded in the opposite direction. Mal watched, mystified, as the men charged toward it.
There was a low, growling moan, another explosion, gunshots, a wailing scream. Brush bent, and the sound of running and the soldiers’ voices came to Mal.
“Wha’ was that?”
“Banshee—no, don’t look at it. Go!”
The soldiers fled, making much noise as they did, then silence descended. Mal waited a long time before he moved—the soldiers could calm and decide to return. If they did, they’d be angry. Or they’d bring more men with them.
An hour passed. The moon rose, bathing the woods in a pale glow. No one came, and no more odd lights and noises occurred.
Mal slid from the branches and landed on his feet . . . and knew instantly he wasn’t alone.
He wasn’t sure how he sensed this, but something in him told him that a man hid in the brush on the other side of the tree. And that man was aware of him.
Malcolm quietly drew the dirk out of its sheath under his arm. Bracing himself on a fallen log, he abruptly launched himself into the brush.
A blade flashed at him in deadly silence. Malcolm ducked it and came up again, his dirk ready . . .
. . . To find himself facing a knife point, a bulk of a man in the darkness. The eyes glittering over the knife were ones Mal knew.
“Will!”
At the same time, the apparition shouted, “Runt!”
Then they were laughing, slamming together, pounding fists on backs. Will Mackenzie, alive, solid, real. Joy and relief flowed over Mal, warming him for the first time since he’d crawled from the battlefield.
“Ye damn, devious, cunning bastard,” Mal cried, lifting his taller brother off his feet. “I knew they couldn’t kill ye.”
Will traveled with Malcolm from that point forward, the pair moving swiftly and stealthily through the English countryside. It had been Will playing the tricks on the soldiers in the mist, he told Mal, smug about his cleverness. Swamp gasses could be made to explode, lanterns hung on trees to flash in the gloom. A bulk of a fallen tree haloed by sudden light could look like a huge beast rising from the marsh. The moaning had been a bit of theatre. That was Will, the man who’d taught Malcolm all his dirty tricks.
Mal watched the big man striding next to him, chuckling over his pranks. Will had darkened his hair with mud as Mal had, and he wore nondescript breeches and a linen shirt, heavy shoes, and a bulky wool coat. He could easily be mistaken for a farm laborer from England’s north, one with a spring in his step and a deep laugh.
But Will grieved, Mal knew. Will had watched Duncan die, he said, had fled for his life and gone to ground, certain he’d never see his family again. Lines had deepened about Will’s eyes, etched there permanently. He’d not been able to discover what had happened to Alec and their father, and it haunted him as it haunted Mal.
Will, of course, knew exactly where lay Stokesay Court, the ancestral home of the Earls of Wilfort, in Lincolnshire. Or nearly exactly. He did get them lost once.
At last, the two men skirted the village of Stokesay in the dark, a neat collection of cottages set around a perfect square. Of course it was neat—Mary lived here.
Stokesay Court was a typical English estate house—lofty, expensive, h
aughty. The gardens were just as haughty, but well laid out, Mal had to admit. He’d have to take note of them.
Will’s knowledge failed when it came to exactly which room in that house was Mary’s, or whether Mary was even there.
They both agreed that walking up to the front door and knocking was a foolish idea. Mal had no idea where Wilfort’s loyalties lay—would he embrace Malcolm as an old friend, his daughter’s husband? Or call the local militia to arrest him and Will to try them with the rest of the Scottish traitors?
Mal and Will crouched near a hedgerow like thieves, peering up at the windows in the rear of the house, several of which were lighted. Lacy curtains hung against the glass, obscuring the rooms beyond.
Will touched Mal’s shoulder, pointed.
One curtain had drawn back. A lady stood in the window, two floors above the flat flagstone path that skirted the garden. Her silhouette showed her in a dressing gown, her hair tumbling down. She peered out into the night, but did not seem to be looking at anything in particular.
Mal’s breath left him. She was so beautiful, his Mary, one arm holding the lace curtain in a graceful arc. A picture Alec could paint.
Mal knew he should dash across the yard, wave his arms, catch her attention, bring her running down to him. He couldn’t move. He remained fixed in place, barely feeling Will’s exasperated nudging, until a single thing happened.
Mary absently drew her hand down her body to her abdomen. She rested her palm there, as though cradling whatever lay beneath.
Malcolm had sprinted halfway across the open ground before he realized he’d moved. He reached the house and swarmed up the almost sheer wall, finding hand- and footholds all the way. He grasped the window when he reached it, and flung it opened.
Mary gave a strangled scream. Her blue eyes widened in her colorless face, her hand falling from the curtain.
Malcolm swung his knee to the sill, then his muddy hands slipped as the curtain slapped them. Empty air behind embraced his back, enticing him to fall.
“Damn it all, woman,” he snarled. “Help me.”
Chapter 38
The ghost of Malcolm, the formless brollachan that had risen to Mary’s window and peered at her with burning yellow eyes, growled at her in a very Scots voice. The hand that clung to the window frame was broad, sunbaked, rough-skinned, and Malcolm’s.
Mary couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t be real, and yet . . .
Another snarl galvanized her. Mary lunged forward, caught Malcolm’s arms, and braced herself to pull in his bulk. Mal heaved himself up and over the windowsill and fell against Mary and into the room.
He took her down to the floor with him, landing full-length on top of her. The weight of him, the familiar feel of his body on hers, convinced her.
“Mal . . .” Mary struggled to speak. “Malcolm.”
Mal didn’t wait to say good evening, didn’t let Mary gasp out questions, offered no explanations. He bore her down into the carpet, his kisses landing on her face, hair, throat. He pulled open her dressing gown and nightdress, hands and mouth on her bare skin.
Malcolm was filthy, covered with mud and grime, his hair black, his face nearly the same color. Mary was dirty too now, dark smears across her breasts, stomach, thighs.
She didn’t care. Mary impatiently helped him open his clothes—no kilt now. Malcolm shoved everything out of their way, not waiting, and slid himself straight inside her.
Everything stopped as they came together. Tragedies and triumphs, hopes and fears, vanished, no longer mattering. They were Malcolm and Mary, face-to-face, body to body, the two of them against the world.
Mary said, “Malcolm,” this time in complete happiness. Mal was alive, whole, with her. What they had to face after this they could—they were together now.
Malcolm growled under his breath. He made love to her in a frenzy of passion, his body encompassing hers, Mary’s cries breathless. Mal came apart with her, pounding his balled-up fist into the carpet as he hoarsely whispered her name.
“My Mary.” Malcolm came down to her, his mouth warm. “Not Death himself, love. I promised ye.”
Mal hadn’t forgotten that Will waited outside for them, but he didn’t hurry. He carried Mary to the bed and made love to her again, taking his time. He got dirt on her pristine sheets, but then, it was a fitting metaphor. Mary was all that was clean and unsoiled, and he was . . . well, he was Malcolm Mackenzie.
As they quieted, Malcolm slid his hand to her abdomen and cupped the softness there. “Did I guess right?” he asked.
Mary hesitated, then she nodded, her look warm.
Mal’s heart swelled until his eyes moistened. Every hurt and sorrow he’d endured was eased in that moment. Here in this sanctuary with Mary, the wee babe under his hand, nothing mattered. Nothing in the world.
“Come away with me,” Mal said. “Ye can bring the bairn, if ye want. We’ll go someplace where men aren’t aching to drive a sword through anything Scots.”
Mary had started to smile at his joke, but worry returned to her eyes. “They’re hunting you, Malcolm. My father says they’re handing out little mercy to any who raised a hand against King George’s men. You need to get away . . .”
“Not without you, love.” Mal gazed down at her, tight with determination. “I’ll not be apart from ye again, understand?”
“I do, but—”
She broke off abruptly, her eyes widening at something behind Malcolm. Mal felt a presence there and spun around, not a stitch on, not even a blanket between himself and the world.
He found himself facing the dragoon captain he’d once unhorsed, Captain Ellis’s pistol pointed straight at Mal’s nose.
Ellis’s eyes flickered in surprise, and the corners of his mouth twitched down. He hadn’t expected the intruder to be Malcolm, but his shock quickly faded, and the pistol did not waver.
“I must be tired,” Mal said to him, “if I didn’t hear ye.”
Ellis kept the pistol trained on him. “You’re alive, then.”
“As ye see.”
Mary was covered with a sheet at least. Ellis carefully didn’t look at her, but his gaze took in the dirt-stained pillows, the wreck of the covers, the pile of clothes on the floor.
“It is my duty to arrest you,” Ellis said to Mal, his voice even. “In the king’s name, for bearing arms against him, for treason.”
Mary had lain utterly still, her chest barely rising, but at Ellis’s words, she flung up her hand, palm out. “No.”
Ellis’s eyes flickered again. He still would not look at her, the gentleman in him pretending Mary wasn’t even in the room.
He cleared his throat and directed his words at Mal. “But for Lady Mary’s sake, I will tell you to go. Quickly, before I change my mind.”
Malcolm rose from the bed, but slowly, not wanting to startle Ellis with any sudden moves. He didn’t trust the man not to shoot if Ellis decided that would be best.
Mal leisurely took up his grubby clothes and drew them on. “Mary,” he said. “Can I pack anything for ye?”
Ellis shot a quick glance at Mary as she sat up, holding the sheet to her chest. “You’re going with him?” Ellis asked her in a hard voice.
Malcolm held his breath, masking his sudden fear by carefully tying the laces of his shirt.
“Yes,” Mary said.
Ellis uncocked his pistol and lowered it, even as Malcolm masked his sigh of relief. Ellis gave Malcolm a resigned look, and in that glance, Mal understood exactly what letting them go was costing him.
Ellis loved Mary. The return of her crazed Highland husband had now put paid to any chance Ellis might have had of winning her.
Mal sympathized with the man, but at the same time, damned if he’d do the noble thing and step aside. Should Mal turn himself in and let himself be hanged, so that the brave English captain could be with the beautiful Englishwoman he loved?
He’d never do anything so daft. Mary was Malcolm’s, and there was an end to it.
/> Captain Ellis conceded to step outside the room for Mary to dress. He didn’t sound the alarm or rouse the house; he simply waited for them to emerge from Mary’s chamber, then escorted them downstairs to a side door, unbolting it so they could walk out into the night.
Mary paused on the threshold and rested her hand on Ellis’s forearm. “Thank you, Robert.”
Captain Ellis nodded once, always formal. “Lady Mary.”
He said nothing at all to Malcolm but sent him a severe look, then disappeared back into the house, quietly shutting the door.
“Robert, is it?” Malcolm said lightly as he led Mary away. “I’ve only been dead a few weeks.”
“Captain Ellis has been very good to me,” Mary said. Her melodious tones flowed over him, and Malcolm did not much care what she said, only that he could hear her voice again. “He brought me home safely. He’s a good man.”
“Aye, and I’m grateful t’ him,” Mal said. “But he didn’t do it t’ be good, ye know. He was hoping ye’d wed him to assuage your grief for your poor dead husband. And now I’ve risen from the grave.”
Mary glared at him, her eyes lovely in the starlight. “Stop talking like that. Thunder and moonbeams, Malcolm, I thought I’d never see you again.”
The tears in her voice cut Mal to the heart. He stopped near the hedge that marked the end of the gardens and took his wife into his arms.
“And I thought I’d never hear you say those maddening phrases again. Mary, love, getting back to you was the only thing that kept me alive. I missed ye . . .” Mal’s voice broke, the emotions he’d been suppressing in order to keep going threatening to overwhelm him.
Mal showed her how much he’d missed her without further words, loving the warmth of her against him again. She was both softness and steel, his Mary, a bulwark against the gruesomeness of the world. But the world couldn’t be an entirely bad place if it had created Mary.