MacLean's Passion: A Highland Pride Novel (2 page)

Colin was surprised to see Campbell sitting atop a mount, his men behind him and a spare horse next to him. Up until that moment he’d believed that Campbell was playing him false about escaping.

He skidded to a halt, breathing fast, his lungs hurting from the exertion. If the dogs didn’t get him, the damn sickness might.

Campbell nodded to him. “Mount up. We haven’t much time.”

“Go on without me.”

Campbell raised a surprised brow.

“The dogs are out. We’ll confuse them if we go our separate ways.” What he wasn’t going to say was that no matter how much he disliked Campbell, he wasn’t going to put him in jeopardy if the English found them together. He owed the man that much for helping him escape.

With effort, Colin mounted the horse. Sensing his fear, his mount shifted and tossed his head.

“Who’s this?” Campbell tipped his head to the lad, whom Colin had almost forgotten about, and who was standing uncertainly in front of his horse.

“My cellmate. He can ride behind me.”

Campbell looked steadily at the lad as if sizing him up. The boy lightly hopped astride behind Colin. Campbell handed Colin a broadsword and a pistol, and a dirk and
sgian dubh
to the boy. He indicated a roll attached to the back of Colin’s saddle. “Provisions,” he said. Colin nodded his thanks, glad he would be out of his bloody, tattered clothing soon.

“Where will you go?” Campbell asked.

“I’ll head home by a circuitous route.” Not entirely a lie and not entirely the truth.

“Take your time getting there. That will be the first place they search.”

Colin spared a thought to his people and hoped Abbott wouldn’t take out his ire on them. It wasn’t their fault that their chief was a ne’er-do-well who didn’t know the first thing about providing for and protecting them.

Colin hesitated before turning his mount north. The dogs were getting closer, and he could hear the shouts of the Englishmen. Behind him, the lad tensed.

“Go,” Campbell said. “I’ll lead the English on a merry chase.”

Colin dug his heels into his mount and they raced off, but Colin wondered about Campbell. If he was an English sympathizer—and there was no doubt that he was—then why help Colin escape, and why lead the English on a
merry chase
?

Behind him, the lad shifted with the movement of the horse, indicating that he was an experienced horseman. Colin concentrated on the path, which narrowed until his mount had to slow to pick his way through it. The dogs were still behind them, howling and barking, but Colin couldn’t hear the soldiers.

He ducked to avoid being hit by a low-hanging branch and directed the horse through the darkness. He knew where he wanted to go and only hoped that what he was looking for would still be there.

There were hundreds, if not thousands, of hidden caves in the mountains. They just had to find the one he was looking for. All Colin wanted to do was crawl into that cave and collapse. Sleep would do wonders. Just a few hours. Enough to confuse the dogs and head off the soldiers. Enough for Colin to regain his strength to continue on.

The lad was breathing hard, and occasionally, Colin could feel him shift to look behind them. He liked that someone had his back.

As the night wore on, he could feel his skin burning with fever and hear his breath rattling in his lungs.

He didn’t stop. He didn’t speak to the boy. With raw determination, a raging fever, and the beginnings of a concerning cough, he doggedly kept going.

Margaret Sinclair was finding it more and more difficult to keep her back straight and not put her arms around the warrior in front of her. She desperately wanted to lean her head against his back and close her eyes for a moment.

The past few hours had been miraculous and surprising and frightening, and she still couldn’t believe that she was free and riding through the forest on the back of a horse with Colin MacLean.

For weeks her sole mission had been to keep her gender a secret. If the English discovered she was a woman…well, she had a fairly good idea what would happen, but she refused to think about it. She kept quiet, didn’t speak, and used the privy bucket only when everyone was asleep. Though it had made for some very uncomfortable days, she’d managed for weeks.

Her cellmate, the man sitting in front of her, had blessedly left her alone, making it easier for her to keep up her facade. She’d liked that, although she had to admit there had been times she desperately wanted to talk to him only because she hadn’t spoken to anyone in weeks.

But that would have been deadly, so she’d kept her mouth shut and watched him from her corner of the cell.

He was a large man. Wide. Not overly tall, like her brother. He was quiet, brooding. Those green eyes saw right past her, which was a good thing.

He was beaten quite regularly. Strangely enough, it was through his beatings that she’d come to admire him. He was stoic afterward, although clearly in quite a bit of pain.

She’d known that he was scheduled to hang the next day, and that had made her sad and afraid. She appreciated him as a cellmate because he didn’t ask questions, and she worried that the next occupant wouldn’t be quite so reticent. She also worried that her hanging was next, and she didn’t want to die.

But something miraculous had happened. Lord Campbell had given MacLean whispered directives, and just as unexpectedly, Colin was walking out of the cell and telling her to follow him.

And now they were riding hell-bent through the Highlands. The only problem was that the more time they spent together, the more likely her secret was to be discovered, and she wasn’t at all certain what his reaction would be.

He coughed and she frowned. She’d known he wasn’t feeling well. One didn’t spend every minute of every day with someone and not get to know that person well. His breathing had become harsh over the past day, and his cheeks had turned rosy beneath his thick black beard. And now he was coughing, and even through all of their layers of clothing, she could feel the heat radiating off him.

The sickness had swept through the prison. The already weakened prisoners had succumbed to it, many dying as a result. She’d prayed that she wouldn’t catch it because she couldn’t afford for her jailors to cart her off to the surgeon.

Slowly, she leaned forward to press her cheek against his solid back, mindful of the cuts of the whip. Even after weeks of being held prisoner, he was still muscular, and she could feel the flex of those muscles as he guided their mount through the darkness. Even though she could well take care of herself, she still felt safer knowing those broad shoulders shielded her.

Her eyes drifted closed. She straightened and shook her head, forcing herself to search the path behind them. It was automatic, and she was glad to be helping in even this small way. She’d hoped the dogs would have followed Campbell, but apparently they had not, for she could still hear them.

MacLean turned the horse to the right, causing their mount to stumble before finding his footing. She ducked when MacLean ducked and leaned when he leaned. They weren’t following a path any longer but making their own way through the lush underbrush. She understood his reasoning. He was making it more difficult for the dogs to follow.

They eventually came upon a stream. She could hear the soft gurgling of the flowing water before she saw it in the moon’s glow.

“The dogs will no’ be able to track us through the water,” he said, his voice vibrating through his back and into her chest. She hadn’t realized that she was leaning on him again and instantly straightened so they weren’t touching. She needed to stay alert, but his unnatural heat drew her to him.

They trudged through the stream for what seemed like eternity, soaking her boots and the bottom of her trousers. Her toes lost feeling first and then her calves, all the way to her knees. She’d gladly sacrifice feeling to escape the English prison, but she did hope they would exit the stream soon.

Just as dawn was cresting the majestic mountains, MacLean directed the horse out of the stream and up a slight rise. Maggie breathed a small sigh of relief to be out of the frigid water, even though the cool air didn’t offer much improvement.

MacLean leaned over the pommel and coughed hard, his body shaking with the effort. Maggie reared back, watching him with a frown. She wasn’t certain what she should do. Offer support? Pat him on the back? What did one do with a sick man? At home, she stayed far away from ill people. Unlike most Scottish lasses, she had not been trained in the art of healing and did not know the first thing to do.

He straightened with a groan. She placed a hand on his back, then instantly pulled away. It felt as if her hand had been singed.

“Ye’re hot,” she whispered in a low tone, trying to disguise her voice.

“No’ much farther,” he said in response. Was that supposed to appease her?

The horse continued to climb up a steep rise with the stream behind them and the mountains in front of them. The sun crested the peak of the mountain, bathing everything in pinks and yellows. It had been weeks since she’d seen the sun, and she realized that at some point she’d given up hope of ever seeing it again. It was breathtaking, and she vowed never to take it for granted.

“We leave the horse here,” MacLean said, and slid off, startling Maggie. Quickly, she dismounted, automatically feeling for the dirk and
sgian dubh
Campbell had given her. It felt good to be armed again.

MacLean loosely tied the horse’s reins to a low-hanging branch. “This way,” he said, and started to climb the steep rise.

Maggie scrambled after him.

Colin thought of nothing but getting to the cave hidden atop the mountain.

He had no idea how close they were, if at all.

In the back of his mind, he registered that the lad was quietly following, his footsteps so light that Colin didn’t even hear them. He didn’t know the lad’s story, but from the little time they’d spent together, Colin could tell he was well trained, and for his age that was impressive. “Guard our backs,” he said through his labored breathing.

“Always,” the lad said quietly.

They reached the top, and Colin stopped to catch his breath, but the deeper he breathed, the more he needed to cough. He was bent over, his hands on his knees, attempting to hold it in, when the lad strode past him.

“Is this it?” Colin asked.

The boy began pulling the brush from the entrance of the cave and disappeared inside while Colin straightened and tried to catch his breath. He was sweating but also freezing. His body was wracked with shivers and his knees wanted to give out.

Damn, but why did he have to get sick now? Time was of the essence, and they needed to keep moving away from the English camp.

The lad reappeared from inside the cave and looked at him from beneath all that dirty black hair that constantly fell over his eyes. “There’re food and blankets in here,” he said suspiciously.

Colin forced his legs to carry him into the cave. He had to blink a few times because it was so dark, but his eyes couldn’t adjust and his head was starting to swim.

“Why are there food and blankets in here?” the lad asked.

Colin slowly sank to his knees, his body giving out.

The lad cursed and tried to catch him, but Colin was too big and the lad too slight, and Colin listed to the side with a groan. The dim cave receded, and he felt himself slipping to the ground, cushioned by the lad’s arm.

Maggie caught the brunt of Colin’s weight when he collapsed to the ground, with her arm pinned beneath him.

She looked down on him from her awkward position, kneeling with her arm trapped. She tried to free herself, but he was too heavy.

She pushed on his shoulder, but that didn’t elicit any response, so she pushed harder. “Bloody hell, ye big
numpty
. Roll.
Over
.” She heaved, putting all of her strength into it. He moved just enough that she could slide her arm out.

She stood, shaking her hand to get the feeling back as she stared down at him. “What in the hell am I supposed to do with ye now?” she asked into the dark, echoing cave.

He drew in a deep breath that caused him to cough. It was a wet cough. That wasn’t good, was it? It certainly didn’t sound good. She thought of the prisoners who had caught this sickness and died, and a spurt of fear raced through her. She couldn’t have him dying on her.

Hands on hips, she looked around the cave. It was too dark to see into the deeper recesses, but closer to the entrance, far enough away not to get wet, was a stack of blankets. Next to that was a stack of dry firewood.

How had MacLean known of this place? There were so many caves and caverns and hideaways in these mountains that it was too coincidental for him to have happened upon the only one with supplies.

She mulled that over as she built a small fire. She didn’t make the fire too close to the entrance, for fear of the damn English seeing the smoke, and she was a little concerned about the smoke building in the cave. But one look at MacLean’s shivering body and she knew she had to get him warm. Although he was burning with fever…Maybe getting him warm would harm him more?

She shrugged, having no idea.

She placed the blankets close to the fire but far enough away that he wouldn’t burn a limb should he roll, creating a fine, comfortable nest. Now all she had to do was get him there. She looked from the fire to MacLean and back to the fire.

He was lying right where he fell. His arms were crumpled beneath him, his cheek pressed into the dirt floor, his mouth open. She grimaced and set to work rolling him toward the blankets.

He was a heavy one. Not fat. Muscular. Lots and lots of muscles. He groaned once or twice, and she cursed him with each groan. “If ye had no’ collapsed where ye stood, I wouldn’t be rolling ye now, would I?”

She pushed on his back with all her effort and he rolled over, his face squished into the floor. Quickly, she moved to the other side of him, took a good grip on his shoulders, and pulled him toward her.

He rolled easier this time, right into her shins, causing her to plop onto her arse with a muttered curse. “Hell and damnation, man, can ye no’ help me out?”

He didn’t move, and he certainly didn’t answer.

A few more pushes, pulls, and yanks, and he was somewhat on the blankets. “Good enough,” she said with a deep breath as she brushed her hands together.

He was on his back, one hand on his stomach, the other flung out to the side. His legs were parted. Using the toe of her boot, she nudged his legs until they were straight. Now he looked like a corpse all laid out for a viewing before the burial.

“Good Lord, Maggie, quit thinking such dreadful thoughts,” she muttered.

She unfolded the last blanket and draped it over him. It fell across his face and she yanked it off, thoughts of him in a death shroud not sitting well with her. How the hell would she tell the MacLean clan that he’d died on her watch? No, thank you.

Colin was convinced that he was burning in the pits of hell. Nothing on earth was as hot as this, so there was only one place he could be.

Not that he was surprised. After all, his mother had always said he would go to hell if he didn’t mend his ways. He’d thought that was just a saying to scare him into doing the right thing. Apparently, it wasn’t.

Because he was in hell.

His body hurt like the devil and the flames of hell nipped at his heels, singeing his skin and burning him from the inside out. It hurt to breathe. He’d never thought about breathing in hell, but it seemed that one did, and it hurt like…well, it hurt like hell.

Fitting.

Of course, his brothers weren’t here. He was alone in his torment, his brothers probably languishing in heaven’s comfort, laughing at him. “I knew ye would end up no good,” Dougal said.

His dead brother’s face danced before him, and Colin reached out but Dougal managed to slip from his grasp.

“Sorry,” Colin managed through a throat that felt like it was lined with sword tips.

Dougal just shook his head sadly, and Colin had to turn away because the guilt was nearly as painful as the fires. But when he turned, he was in a different place. Another hell.

He was on the battlefield of Culloden.

The English were slicing their way through the Scots, taking the Highlanders by surprise with their efficiency. Never had Colin seen anything like it. They were like a machine, the English, working in unison and leaving his countrymen slain upon the battlefield.

He was beside his other brother, Fergus, who was holding his own against the soldiers advancing upon them. Fergus’s broadsword was covered in blood. It dripped from the tip and ran in rivulets down the basket to coat his hand. Fergus growled and cursed with each lunge and thrust.

Colin was engaged in his own fight with a soldier who didn’t seem old enough to be out of the nursery. The lad was scared and it showed in his fighting. He was making mistakes no seasoned soldier would make. Colin would have felt sorry for him if he had not been English and had not been here to invade Colin’s country.

Fergus yelled out, and Colin took his eyes off his enemy to see that his brother’s broadsword was lying on the ground. It had slipped from his hand, the blood making it too slick to hold. Fergus’s opponent saw his opportunity and lunged.

Colin tried to step between them to take the blow meant for his brother, but the young soldier swung, keeping him occupied. Automatically, Colin blocked the swing and their swords clashed, but it was too late. In saving himself, he’d sacrificed his brother. He could only watch Fergus fall under the fatal blow of the English soldier’s sword.

Fergus’s eyes widened in shock and locked upon Colin, who had yelled out. Fergus opened his mouth, but Colin would never learn what his brother’s final words would have been, for the soldier dropped to his knee and sliced Fergus’s throat open with a dagger he’d pulled from his belt. Blood spurted everywhere—onto the soldier’s face and shoulders, into the air, and onto Colin’s boots.

Colin sliced his opponent’s stomach open and, still swinging the broadsword, sliced Fergus’s killer across the back. The man screamed, arched his back, and collapsed on top of Fergus. Colin kicked him off, not wanting the stench of an Englishman to be the last thing Fergus smelled.

Colin dropped to his knees and lifted Fergus’s head, but it was too late. And it was all Colin’s fault. He should have had Fergus’s back. He should have dispensed with the untried soldier he’d been toying with.

Now Colin moaned, the fires of hell licking at his face, his hands, his feet. It would consume him. He knew that just as much as he knew he would never see his brothers again, because they were in a far better place than he would ever be.

He turned his head away from the battle scene. But a deep, wet cough racked his body, causing him to double over. Except that moving made the pain in his head unbearable.

“Drink this.” The voice came from the darkness and he jumped in surprise.

So he wasn’t alone in hell? Who would be with him? He didn’t recognize the voice.

Something was pressed against his lips, and cool liquid slid down his throat. He gagged and coughed, and whoever had poured the liquid down his throat cursed.

“Ye bloody arse. Ye’re supposed to swallow it.”