A Highlander Christmas Page 9

  Just outside in the courtyard of the small cluster of castle out-buildings, Torean MacDonald leaned against a wall, his arms crossed over his chest. When the laird saw Logan, he pushed himself from the stones and strode toward him.

  Logan stopped in his tracks, standing stiffly as he waited for the laird to approach.

  “Are you going, then?” MacDonald asked.

  “Aye.”

  “I’d hoped you’d stay for the Hogmanay celebrations and perhaps depart in the morning.”

  Logan shook his head. “No. That’s not what was agreed.” He’d sworn to leave immediately if he lost the duel. The rub of it was, he hadn’t entertained the possibility that he’d be the loser. The notion of having to leave Maggie had only crossed his mind once—when she had brought it up. At that moment, the idea of him losing the duel had been out of the question. An impossibility.

  What a fool he’d been.

  “Very well.” MacDonald’s chest expanded as he took a deep breath. “I’ve a horse for you.”

  “Why?”

  “A man in your position shouldn’t be walking across the Highlands.” Logan didn’t answer, and the laird’s eyes flicked away. “What happened, man? I expected you would defeat him.”

  Logan’s lip curled, and he rounded on the laird, furious all over again. “You suggested a duel thinking I would win, even when you’d offered your cousin to my opponent to strengthen the bond between your clans?”

  “I did.” MacDonald sighed. “You see, at first I thought they’d make a good match. Both of them are high-spirited, after all, and I thought Maggie’s quick wit might compensate for Munroe’s lackluster one. But once she explained to me what happened . . . No.” He shook his head firmly. “I am fond of Maggie. I don’t wish to see her hurt. Earlier, I couldn’t believe that Munroe would do such a thing to her—I thought his interest in her was genuine. Now . . . Well, my cousin was in the right and I . . .” He swallowed. “I was wrong.”

  “You were.”

  The laird studied him. “You would take care of her, wouldn’t you?”

  “Your question comes too late. I have promised to leave this place. To give Maggie to Munroe.”

  The words tasted like poison on his tongue. He couldn’t allow Maggie to fall into Munroe’s hands. Yet how could he prevent their marriage and still keep the vows he’d made and retain his honor?

  Hell if he knew. He needed time. Time he didn’t have, for he had no doubt Munroe would claim Maggie soon.

  MacDonald released his breath. “Aye, Munroe has won her. Though . . . I wonder if the fight was fair.”

  “No.” Logan snarled out the word. “It wasn’t fair.”

  “What happened?”

  “He threw something—a fine dust—i nto my eyes. Blinded me temporarily.”

  MacDonald frowned. A long silence descended. Finally, the laird said, “Yet you must still leave.”

  “I swore that I would.”

  It had been stupid of him to assume Munroe would follow any code of honor for dueling. Nothing of this duel, from its inception to its end, had followed that code. He shouldn’t be surprised. And now, because he’d misplaced his trust, he couldn’t legally accuse Munroe of wrongdoing. It was simple: Fair or not, Logan had lost, and therefore honor demanded he must abide by his side of the bargain. He must leave this place.

  “Yet you never promised not to return,” the laird said suggestively.

  Logan stared at him. MacDonald was right. Logan had promised to leave MacDonald land straightaway, but he’d never made any promises to stay away. He could return. It was allowed, approved by the laird, and he’d never agreed not to.

  But if he came back here, what then?

  “Again, I ask you to stay. Just for Hogmanay. Your agreement to the conditions of the duel can be delayed until tomorrow.”

  Logan shook his head. “No.”

  MacDonald nodded, but regret darkened his blue eyes. “Very well, then. Your mount is saddled and awaits you in the stables.”

  The horse MacDonald had given him was a chestnut mare, a fine English horse, not one of the diminutive creatures usually seen in this part of the world. Logan rode back up the mountain, retracing the path they had taken from the cottage.

  The landscape had changed from its appearance a few days ago. Now the steep slope was a cold wasteland. Most of the snow had melted, and everything looked frozen, forbidding, dead, and damp. In spring, the land would be reborn, but now the mountain was lifeless and dull.

  As the horse climbed, the air grew colder and the snow more widespread. With each outtake of breath, the animal released a cloud of steam. When her chest began to heave with exertion, Logan turned the horse toward a distant dripping noise, which he assumed must be a stream. He’d water her and give her a brief rest before deciding what to do next.

  The stream was situated in a small ravine. Obviously it wasn’t a permanent body of water, rather a temporary collection of recently melted snow. The water trickled down the shallow banks in rivulets, then collected into a trickling pool between walls of dirty snow.

  He dismounted, took the animal’s reins, and led her to the water, the X-shaped wound across his chest stinging with the movement of dismounting. Gratefully, she bent her head and began to drink.

  Logan raised his gaze to take in his surroundings. Just ahead, past a row of bushes, was a small half circle of a granite rock face. The familiarity of the place slammed into him. He hadn’t recognized it at first. But it was where he’d found her, lying facedown in the snow, nearly dead from the cold.

  Innes Munroe had put her in that position. He’d have no qualms doing it again.

  Logan stood still, reins gripped in his hand.

  He loved her, damn it. He possessed a powerful compulsion to care for her, protect her. From the first moment he’d laid eyes on her, his love for her had grown. Now it was a force within him, something that couldn’t be denied.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something gleaming in the waning light. He swung his gaze toward the shining object on the ground.

  There it was.

  His jaw dropped. She was wrong. That dragon wasn’t standing on an agate. It was standing on the damned largest diamond he’d ever seen. The stone was crystal clear, its facets luminous. Perhaps it was made of paste, he conceded, but if so, he’d never seen a counterfeit gem more brilliant or beautiful.

  He released the horse’s reins, and in two long strides, he stood before Maggie’s lost pin. He crouched before it and gathered the heavy silver object into his hand. His fist curled around the cold metal. Even through his fingers, the sun glinted off the facets of the diamond, casting sparkling beams of light onto the lifeless terrain.

  Honor be damned. Maggie MacDonald was his. Innes Munroe would never lay his filthy hands on her again.

  Chapter Eight

  At dusk, most of the castle occupants were sotted, and cover ing himself with a plaid, Logan thought he might slip through the great hall without garnering any attention. But then Donald MacDonald, the man who’d served as his second, spotted him.

  Pushing himself through a group of revelers, the old man strode up to him and clapped him on the back. “Douglas! The laird said he’d welcomed ye to the Hogmanay festivities, but ye’d decided to leave us regardless.”

  “Aye,” Logan said. “But I changed my mind.”

  Donald smiled. “Well, then. Come join me in a dram.”

  “Not tonight.” Logan’s gaze roamed the torch-l it interior of the grand hall. He didn’t see Innes Munroe or Maggie, though Torean MacDonald sat at the opposite end of the room, his cheeks flushed. The busty woman sitting beside him offered him her cup, and he drank heartily from it.

  “Och,” Donald said soothingly. “Yer looking for Munroe, aren’t ye? The bastard.” He spat at his feet. “Well, ye needn’t worry ’bout him, for he’s locked himself up in his bedchamber with his wench. I doubt anybody’ll lay eyes on him till—”

  But Logan had already pushed p
ast him and was heading for the stairs at a near run.

  His wench? Maggie?

  He didn’t give a damn if anyone saw him now. Good God, was he already too late? Had Munroe taken Maggie upstairs? Had he been raping her as Logan had delayed, locked in his misguided attempt to retain his honor?

  Logan barreled up three stories to Innes’s bedchamber. When he reached the man’s door, he turned the handle and found it locked. Of course.

  Maggie could be in there. If she was, he’d never forgive himself.

  Without hesitation, he rammed his shoulder into the door until it splintered. Then he reached through the gaping hole in the planks, released the latch, and pushed the remains of the door open.

  A woman with sleek black hair sprang up from the bed, clutching a dun colored blanket to her naked chest.

  Thank God, it wasn’t Maggie. Nevertheless, Logan took one look at her face, at the tears streaking her pale cheeks, and renewed fury exploded through him.

  “What’s this?” Munroe heaved his body upward and the blanket slid down, revealing the mass of white flesh that was his torso.

  Logan stepped inside to reveal himself, kicking the remains of the door shut behind him. He stood tall, his hand on his musket.

  Munroe sneered, but not before Logan saw the quick flash of fear in his eyes. “Our duel is over. What are you, an idiot?”

  “You cheated.” Logan’s voice was low. Deadly.

  Munroe released a sputtering breath. “There is no cheating in battle. You do whatever it takes to win, you damned fool. We don’t follow those foolish lowland rules of dueling. You should know that. We fight in our way. The Highlander way. Whatever it takes to win.”

  “The Highlander way?” Logan asked with a sneer of his own. “You believe the Highlander way is the way of the underhanded and devious?”

  Munroe’s lips spread into a grin. “It worked, didn’t it? I am the victor, and rest assured, I will claim Maggie MacDonald for my own.”

  Logan turned to the woman cowering in the corner. One side of her face was mottled and swollen where someone—most definitely Munroe—had struck her. “Go, lass,” he urged her in a low voice. “Go find some help.”

  She rose and scurried away, fumbling as she tried to work the broken door. Watching Munroe, who glowered at him from the bed, Logan thrust open the door for her. She scuttled down the passageway. Logan backed over the threshold, keeping his eyes on the man in the bed. When he was out of Munroe’s sight, he turned to follow the girl toward the stairs.

  Munroe wasn’t worth talking to, much less arguing with. Logan needed to find Maggie. Perhaps she was in her room in the tower. He’d search there next.

  Just as he raised his foot to step from the landing onto the stairway, a floorboard creaked in the corridor behind him. Tightening his grip on his musket, Logan spun around.

  Munroe stood not ten paces away, naked, flushed, and sweating. He yanked his hand out from behind him. The barrel of a pistol shimmered at Logan in the dim flickering torchlight.

  Munroe’s finger tensed on the trigger.

  As in the duel, Logan was faster than his enemy. In a fraction of a second, he raised his musket and aimed at the center of Innes Munroe’s chest. And fired.

  Deafeningly loud, the boom of the shot echoed in the confines of the enclosed space. Munroe lurched backward with the force of the ball entering his chest, and then he collapsed flat on his back, his head cracking against the wooden floor. Blood gushed from the hole torn in his breast.

  Logan stared down at him. A year ago, Mrs. Sinclair had told Logan to keep his musket close, that it would lead him to his “one.” He hadn’t suspected there was any credence in her words. He’d kept the weapon near because it was the last gift he’d received from his brother. Now he realized he had followed behind the barrel of his gun when he’d first found Maggie’s brooch, and then Maggie herself.

  The truth struck him like a hammer. Innes Munroe had to die. He would never have let go of his desire to possess Maggie MacDonald. Logan had to kill the man in order to keep Maggie safe.

  As the footsteps of scores of people pounded up the stairs behind him, Logan slowly lowered his gun.

  Curled into her only upholstered chair, Maggie sat staring at the lazy, low flames of her fire, blinking back tears. She’d convinced her servants to leave earlier, to enjoy the Hogmanay bonfire and then join the ongoing festivities at Naughton’s mother’s house.

  Logan had lost the duel, had left her forever. Honor had compelled him to leave her to Innes Munroe.

  Hogmanay had always been her favorite holiday. When Maggie was a child, she and her mother would join the other women in the castle kitchens in the days leading up to Hogmanay, helping to prepare the feast. On Hogmanay day, Maggie would play with the other children; then in the evening, after a heavy supper, she would sit in awe as she listened to the castle bard tell glorious tales of the MacDonalds.

  Late at night, with their bellies full and their eyelids heavy, Maggie and Torean would follow her mother upstairs to the nursery. Speaking in low tones so as not to wake the other children, her mother would rub their backs and tell them about the legends of New Year’s Eve.

  She said that when they grew older, they would stay up until the New Year dawned. She warned them to be wary of strangers on Hogmanay. If a light-skinned, light-h aired man knocked at the door after midnight, it was very bad luck indeed and boded poorly for the future. If a dark-skinned, dark-h aired man came bearing gifts of salt and coals, it would mean good luck for the coming year.

  In later years, Maggie participated in the ritual with glee. She’d laughed behind her hand as she watched the older women ply dark young men with packs of salt and coals and then send them to make rounds, ensuring that the person making the first footing of the year into each home was a dark-h aired man bearing the requisite gifts.

  Maggie glanced at the clock. It was past midnight already, she realized. It had been a long, painful day. It was the New Year, and Innes Munroe planned to come for her soon.

  How would she endure it? How could she survive a life without Logan?

  “Keep to yourself,” her mother had said. “Be independent and self-sufficient until you know you are safe.”

  Maggie rose and slowly turned in a circle, surveying the interior of her cottage. In the years after Duneghall’s death, she’d felt safe here. But now that Innes Munroe had invaded this space and stolen her away, it was no longer secure.

  She’d only be safe if she were with Logan. She knew that now.

  She must leave this place. Run. She was no brawny man like Logan, but she was no fool. If she prepared herself well enough, she’d survive the elements.

  Rapidly, she calculated what she needed to do. She must gather what she needed and slip away a few hours before dawn, early in the morning when all the people were still sleeping off the effects of Hogmanay. She’d bundle up and carry the barest supplies necessary for a weeklong walk. By the time everyone awoke, she’d be long gone. And if they came searching for her . . . well, there was an abundance of places to hide in the mountains.

  Excitement welled in her chest. She was going to follow Logan home. To hell with Torean and Innes, and their duels and promises. They weren’t worth her trouble.

  When Innes came for her, he wouldn’t find her. She’d be long gone by then. She’d be with Logan.

  Was that what her cousin had intended for her to do? Was that why he’d given Innes a whore? To distract him from pursuing her? To give her a head start?

  As Maggie hurried to her shelf of clothing, her heart expanded with forgiveness for her cousin. She took a plaid from the shelf and spread it across her bed; then she picked the lightest but most nourishing foodstuffs from her pantry and tossed them to the center of the plaid.

  A sharp knock sounded on her mended door, and clutching a packet of dried fish in her hand, Maggie stiffened.

  Innes Munroe’s image flitted through her mind. Innes was fair, light-h aired, and light-skinne
d. Would he be the pale stranger bringing bad luck to her doorstep? Would he come for her so soon?

  Yes. Knowing Innes, he would. He’d be drunk and violent. He’d hurt her.

  Another knock. More urgent.

  She looked around wildly for something to use as a weapon. Finally her gaze alighted on the iron fireplace tongs.

  She lurched forward, dropped the packet of fish on the bed, and grabbed the tongs. This time when he broke down the door, she’d be waiting to wallop him over the head.

  “Maggie, it’s me.”

  At the sound of the voice, the fear drained out of Maggie in such a powerful rush, she was left gasping for air. Her knees nearly buckled. The fireplace tongs fell to the floor with a clatter.

  “Logan? ”

  “Open the door, Maggie.”

  She jumped forward, yanked the door open, and threw herself into his waiting arms. Just as quickly, she retreated, horrified. “Your wounds! Oh, did I hurt you?”

  “No,” he said gruffly, stepping inside and shutting the door behind them. “Come here.” He tugged her back into his embrace.

  For long moments, they stood holding each other at her threshold. Maggie closed her eyes, letting the questions simmer, but when they began to well, she pushed them aside. Later. For now she just wanted to touch him, to revel in his closeness.

  She burrowed her head into his shoulder, breathing in his essence of heather and peat, and taking in his ever-present warmth. He pulled her closer, held her body flush against his, from head to toe.

  “Why did you come back?” she whispered.

  “Did you not wish me to?”

  Her breath left her in a harsh exhalation. “I wanted it more than anything! I was planning . . .” She glanced at the bundle she’d began to gather on the bed. “I was going to slip away. To . . .” She took a deep breath. “To follow you.”

  “I’m glad you would have come to me.” His arms tightened around her, and his lips pressed into her hair. “Even when I was the one to have failed you.”