Highland Heat (4 page)

Duncan stared straight up at the ceiling, and Grace couldn't help it—she listened. The man fought the surgeons, shouting that he'd rather die than be a cripple, but they were able to hold him down somehow. And then, between the man's intermittent screams and sobs, she heard the saw scraping over bone, and she bowed her head.

“I hate that you have to hear this. You shouldna be here,” Duncan said softly, his gaze searching hers. His hand gripping hers felt like an anchor, keeping her calm and grounded.

She gave him a bleak look. “None of us should be here.”

“Aye. 'Tis true.”

“I hurt for that man,” she admitted quietly. “I hurt for all the injured, and for the dead. I hurt for you.”

“Dinna hurt for me, lass. I'll be good as new in no time.”

She wasn't so sure. If his wound festered, if he developed a fever…She shuddered.

After a few minutes, the doctor returned, and the three of them were silent as he finished stitching Duncan's wound and wrapped it in a fresh bandage before having him rise to a seated position and fashioning a sling to keep his arm still.

“Keep it very clean,” the doctor ordered, “try not to move it more than necessary, and change the dressing every few days. Have one of the field physicians remove the stitches in a week or two. I believe you lost quite a bit of blood and that was why you lost consciousness, so you might continue to feel faint for a day or two. Keep your ankle wrapped and use a cane for a few days. And try to go easy as you march. You've a concussion and possibly a broken rib, and they need time to heal.”

Duncan nodded obediently, though Grace had a feeling that he had no intention of asking for special treatment.

“Should he be marching with all those injuries?” Grace asked. “Shouldn't he stay put while he recovers?”

Duncan shook his head. “Nay, lass. Trust me when I say there are men with far worse injuries who'll be marching today.”

“He's right,” the doctor said, and Grace felt ill imagining all those poor sick and injured men marching thirty miles or more every day. She wished she could help them all, but once Duncan left Waterloo later today, she wouldn't even be able to help him.

“Will you be marching out with the troops, Doctor?” Grace asked.

He shook his head. “No, my lady. I shall remain in Waterloo for now. I'll rejoin the army when they no longer have need of my surgical skills here.”

She smiled at him. “Or you'll go home. By all accounts, the war is over, and perhaps your services won't be needed any further.”

“Perhaps,” the doctor said. “But healing is my calling, my lady. And if I can help keep one man alive, then I will stay with the army for as long as I possibly can.”

“That is very noble,” she told him. “Now, please, go. See to your other patients.”

“Very well.” The doctor looked at Duncan. “You're free to rejoin your regiment, Sergeant. Hurry, though. The troops are readying to march even as we speak.”

Duncan nodded. “Aye, sir.”

The doctor took his leave, and Duncan and Grace were alone.

“Are you well enough to go?” she asked him.

“Oh, aye.”

“Are…you fit?” she asked. “The brandy…”

“Och—I'm no' three sheets to the wind.” He shot her a grin. “Only one sheet. Or two. 'Tis true I'll be swaying like a drunkard when we march.”

“Are you sure you'll be all right?” she asked, resisting the urge to wring her hands.

“Aye,” he said, and his voice softened. “If I'm ever feeling weak, all I'll do is remember your face. How it looks right now, all sweet and pink and flushed. And that'll bring me all the strength I'll be needing.”

If possible, she flushed deeper, the heat surging even more strongly to her cheeks. Blast her pale complexion!

She gazed at him for a long moment. Then she said softly, “Be safe, Duncan.”

“Will you be riding with the 92nd, lass? Mayhap I'll be seeing you on the march.”

Grace wondered whether her brother-in-law was still comatose. If he was, she and Claire would be staying in Waterloo to nurse him while the army marched.

On the other hand, if the major had awakened and was well enough to go with his men, he definitely wouldn't allow Claire and Grace to accompany the regiment. He'd never allowed Claire to have anything to do with his life in the army.

“No,” she told Duncan. “I'm afraid not. We'll likely be returning to England in the next few days.”

They stared at each other, silent for a moment. Today with Duncan Mackenzie had been unlike any day she'd ever had. She liked him. The thought of him marching away made sadness bloom within her.

“I'm sorry I must go, then.” He reached up and stroked a single, rough finger down her cheek. “Now that I've met you.”

“I'm sorry you must go too. I wish…” She swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. “I wish I could see you again.”

Duncan Mackenzie was special. She'd never met anyone like him, and she probably never would meet anyone like him ever again.

His fingers wrapped around the back of her neck. His hand was big, strong, his fingers rough with calluses. She gazed at him, trying to remember to inhale, her pulse banging at the hollow of her throat.

“Maybe we'll meet again someday,” he said.

“I hope so.” Though the chances of that were close to nil.

He pulled her close, and closer still, until the warm washes of his breath whispered over her lips. He kept her there for a long moment, then murmured, “Until then, I'll be givin' you something to remember me by.”

“All right,” she said on a breathy sigh.

“I'll be kissing you now, Grace.”

“Yes,” she whispered. She'd never been kissed before. She wanted Duncan to be her first.

The touch of his mouth against hers sent a violent shudder coursing through her body. His lips were unbelievably soft, a sharp contrast against the roughness of his fingertips. The way they moved over hers was so sensual, so erotic, she whimpered.

She moved tentatively, then gasped at the glide of their mouths as they moved together.

This was…This was…She had no words. Her whole body was bristling, alive. She reached up and slid her hand around his neck, her fingers touching the soft russet hair at the base of his skull. He was soft and he was hard. He was a virile, handsome man, and he was kissing her.

His tongue touched her lip, and she jerked in response, then almost instantly moved against him again, curious to feel, to touch, to explore…

He traced the seam of her lips, coaxing her to open. When she did, his tongue touched hers, and she whimpered again, growing bolder in her own movements, moving her lips and tongue over his and closing her eyes as she sank into the sweet sensation of having the wits kissed out of her.

He drew back far too soon, breathing heavily—they both were. He kept his hand cupping the back of her neck, and she held on to his neck, too, as he touched his forehead to hers.

“Bonny Grace,” he murmured. “Dinna forget me.”

“Never,” she breathed.
“Never.”

Grace and Duncan stopped at the door of the house that had been given to Major Campbell. It was a small, unassuming structure, a rectangular box with two stories and two windows on each level, looking out over the street. A pair of slightly more elegant and larger homes abutted the house on either side.

Grace turned to Duncan and gave him a small curtsey. “Thank you for accompanying me home, Sergeant.”

Duncan was nearly overcome by the urge to drag her into his arms—well,
arm,
to be more accurate, since one of his arms was currently indisposed—and kiss her again. But that was impossible. Not here, where traffic trundled by incessantly, and the major—unconscious or not—was only mere feet away.

Damn.

“You're welcome, milady. I am at your service.”

“I wish you the best of luck on the march. Please do take good care of your arm.”

“I will,” he promised.

She gave him a tentative smile. “I'm very glad the war is over. I would worry so if you were headed back into battle.”

That made warmth bloom into him. “I'm honored you'd think of my well-being.”

“Of course I would…probably incessantly, after…” Her voice trailed off.

Good.
She'd remember that kiss for a long, long time. So would he. He watched with pleasure the flush that spread over her pale cheeks. God, he wanted so badly to kiss her cheeks.

A company of soldiers marched by just then, reminding him of his duty. He needed to get back to the regiment before they left Waterloo without him.

He leaned forward. “Goodbye, Grace,” he said in a voice so low only she could hear.

“Goodbye, Duncan,” she whispered back.

He wanted to linger, to say more, to take her somewhere private to kiss and talk and simply be with her. But that wasn't destined to be. He swiveled and, feeling the burn of her gaze on him, lost himself in the mass of humanity making its way out of the village.

When he arrived at the part of the camp set aside for the 92nd Regiment, hardly anyone noticed him—the camp was in chaos with all the men preparing to leave. He wasn't the only injured man by any means, either—many of his comrades were wrapped in bloodied bandages or wearing splints or slings.

As he awkwardly attempted to roll his blanket with one arm, he tried to push the thoughts of Grace Carrington's soft lips from his mind. The laudanum—and the brandy—had gone to his head, and the bedroll shimmered and wavered before his eyes. When he heard the clearing of a throat behind him, he glanced up to see Captain Stirling. Duncan rose immediately, albeit clumsily, and stood at attention. “Aye, sir?”

The captain hesitated, then said, “You wilna be joining the men on the march today, Mackenzie.”

Duncan frowned. “Sir?”

“You will be staying behind in Waterloo, with the major. The major's wife and sister require escorts to ensure their safety as long as they remain. Sergeant Fraser will be sharing that duty with you.” He cocked his head. “Unless your injury is too severe?”

Duncan gaped at the captain. Was this fated? He'd just left Grace for what he thought had been the last time, then he'd been thinking about her, and he knew he'd continue to think about her in the upcoming days…but this…It was almost unbelievable luck.

“Nay,” he said. “The injury is to my left arm. I fight with my right. I'm fit enough to protect the major's women.”

“As I thought,” Stirling said mildly. “I'll be remaining here in Waterloo as well,” he continued. “The major and I, as well as three additional officers, have been ordered to return to London as soon as he is well enough.”

Why would five officers of the 92nd be sent to London instead of marching to Paris? It defied reason. Duncan merely nodded, though. He was a soldier who'd been trained to do as he was told, not question it.

“Two enlisted men will be accompanying us to London. The rest will rejoin the regiment as it approaches Paris.”

“And me, sir?” Duncan asked quietly. Would he be one of the enlisted men going to London? He fervently hoped so. He'd had enough of the Continent to last a lifetime.

Stirling's lips twisted slightly, but there was no humor in his eyes. “The major will be assigning the sergeants to our party. But you are a good soldier, Mackenzie. Worthy of our trust. I'll be naming you as one of my suggestions.”

Duncan nodded.

“Fraser is at the house now. Take some rest and relieve him at dusk. You look dead on your feet.”

Duncan gave him a rueful look. “I've imbibed half a gallon of brandy and enough laudanum to kill a dog.”

“Aye, well, you're the sturdiest of us all.” Captain Stirling patted Duncan's good shoulder. “But sleep it off—we need ye fit enough to be the watchman for the major and his family tonight. If you're no' feeling up to it, have Fraser fetch one of the other men.”

“I'll be fit enough by dusk, sir.”

Stirling took his leave. Duncan kicked open his blanket and sank onto it, avoiding jostling his arm, though it hardly hurt at all now. As soon as his head hit the ground, he was asleep.

He woke, what felt like moments later, to someone shaking his good arm. “Sir? Ye're to stand guard at the house where Major Campbell—”

Duncan snapped to alertness, accustomed as a soldier to being awakened at all hours. The world around him was fading into twilight, and an unfamiliar boy was shaking him; a private, perhaps from one of the other Highland regiments.

Duncan rose, ignoring the pain that jolted through his arm. “Thank you, lad.”

He stretched, assessing himself. His arm burned, but his ribs and head ached less, and his ankle was an annoyance but wouldn't slow him if he needed to run. He splashed water over his face, shoved his good hand through his coat sleeve, and hung the other armhole over his shoulder. In moments he was ready to go. As twilight melted into night, he took the five-minute walk to the village, where Sergeant George Fraser stood at attention at the front door of the major's house.

Fraser was one of Duncan's closest friends. They'd come up through the ranks of the 92nd together—both had enlisted when they were sixteen years old, and often turned to each other during those challenging days when they were growing accustomed to leaving their families and living the life of infantrymen.

“Ye look like hell, man,” Fraser said bluntly as Duncan approached.

“Oh, aye?” Duncan said good-naturedly. “Well, you're no' so braw tonight, Fraser. Ye ought to be off gettin' your beauty sleep.”

Fraser was known by the men of the 92nd as “Brave, Braw, and Broon” thanks to the combination of his many heroic feats on the battlefield and his dark-haired, rakishly handsome good looks. While Duncan was a brute of a man—thickly muscled and possessing the rugged look of a warrior—Fraser would appear more at home in some high-mannered London drawing room than in the center of a bloody battle.

Appearances could be deceiving, though. If any of their foes thought Fraser a useless foppish dandy, it was to their detriment. Still, the men of the 92nd, Duncan included, never passed up a chance to tease him.

Fraser rolled his eyes, then slapped Duncan on the back. “Glad you lived through that hell, Mackenzie. I wasna so sure when you didna return to the camp afterward. 'Twas a hell of a battle.”

“Aye, that it was,” Duncan said soberly. They stared at each other for a moment. Of all the battles they'd fought in together during the Peninsular Wars, this was the first time one of them had been injured. “How is the major?”

Fraser's lips twitched in a smile. “He's awake, finally. He suffered a nasty blow to the head, but the surgeon says with some rest he'll be good as new. He'll be sleepin' in that chamber over there.” He gestured to one of the windows on the ground floor.

Duncan breathed a sigh of relief. The major would recover. “There's some good news, then. Now off with ye.”

“I'll relieve you at dawn.”

Duncan nodded and watched as his friend strode off, soon disappearing between a man on horseback and a cart going in the opposite direction. Wagons, carts, and men on foot and on horses traveled this way and that. Shouts, conversation, the rattling of carriage wheels, and the clomping of hooves filled Duncan's ears with noise, reminding him of a busy London street at midday.

As the minutes passed, the street grew brighter as the travelers lit lanterns to guide their way. Duncan glanced at the major's window. He hoped the man would be able to rest in this racket.

Duncan stood sentry, his body quiet but his mind alert as he watched the traffic of the departing army. It would take some time for this little town to resume its usual sleepy life.

When he heard the creak of the door behind him, he turned, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.

Grace stood in the doorway, gazing at him. Her narrow frame was wrapped in a dark cloak, a stark contrast against her pale, creamy skin and light blond hair. She wore no bonnet, and Duncan fought not to stare at her lovely hair—shining gold and spun sugar catching the light of the lanterns from the street. To touch those tresses—to run his fingers through them, to press kisses into them, to slide his tongue along her hairline and nip the back of her neck—

His body grew hard before he could check himself.

Her lips curled, and Duncan shook free of the forbidden thoughts gripping him and bowed. “Milady. Can I be of service?” He might have been altered by brandy and laudanum earlier, but now he was aware that people surrounded them, and that the major—her
brother-in-law
—was mere feet away.

He couldn't regret that kiss, though. The spirits hadn't taken his memories away, and thank God for that. That kiss had been worth the risk.

“I'm surprised to see you again, Sergeant Mackenzie.” There was a smile in her voice. “But I'm happy you're here. Are you our assigned guard for the evening?”

“That I am.”

“Then your arm must be much better.”

“I canna feel a twinge of pain.” That was almost the truth. He didn't want her to be unsure of his ability to protect them.

“I am so glad to hear it.” Her gaze lingered on his lips, and even in the dim light, he could see the pink of a flush spreading across her cheeks. It was just that her light-complexioned skin was prone to blushing, he was sure, but still he found it utterly erotic.

She stepped closer to him but maintained a respectable distance. Even without looking at her, he could sense her proximity—the warmth of her flesh, her fresh lilac smell.

“What do you think of this town?” she asked him.

That shook him out of his focus on her—Christ, if anyone saw the way he was looking at her, he'd probably be called out. If the major saw it, he'd probably have him beaten to a pulp.

He needed to be more careful.

“Er…”

He wasn't one to look at villages for their aesthetic appeal or for their architectural details or for their prospects of the countryside. This was just another village to him. One of many they'd passed through on this particular march, and one of hundreds he'd marched through in the last several years.

For the first time, he studied his surroundings, trying to ignore the motley traffic of the street. “It reminds me of an English town, perhaps one not too far from London.”

“Does it?” Her gaze scanned the houses up and down the street. “It seems so foreign to me.”

“Aye, well, have ye been to Spain? Africa? India? Those places will be foreign. Here we're not to far from home, after all.”

“But still…a different country, a different language…”

“Have ye never left England before, lass?”

She shook her head. “No. This is the first time.”

“Then it's a pity ye had to see it like this.”

“In the aftermath of battle?”

“Aye.” He leaned a hair closer to her. “Ye've never been to Scotland, then.”

“No, I haven't.” Her eyes slid toward him. “I've heard it is very beautiful, though.”

“Oh, it is that.” He paused. “I should like to show it to you someday.”

The words hovered in the air, but Duncan didn't know why. It was an offhand comment—something both of them knew would never come to pass. But they hung there anyhow, heavy with meaning.

“I would like to see it someday,” she said after a long moment. Then she added, “With you.”

He held her gaze, and something passed between them, some sweet communication the likes of which he'd never had with anyone. They understood each other.

“Do you go home to Scotland often?”

“Oh, nay. I havena been home in two years.”

“Do you miss it?”

“Every day.”

“Tell me about your home.”

He grinned. “ 'Tis a wild place.”

“How's that?”

“You're from London, aye?”

“Well, I split my time between London and Kent, where my father's country house is located.”

“London is a god-awful mass of people—ye'll never be seeing that in the Highlands. Even if you gathered the entire population, it'd still be a fraction of what you might see on a single London street.”

“I imagine it's quite peaceful, then.”

“Aye, it is that. And quiet. From our farmhouse, you could walk for miles in any direction and never see another soul.”

She smiled. “I like peace and quiet. Sometimes I lock myself into my room just for a while so I can imagine there's no one else about.”

Duncan nodded.

“It hasn't been very peaceful here—quite the opposite,” she observed, watching a cart loaded with supplies lumber past. “Yet I imagine this is usually quite a quiet little village.”

“I imagine it is.”

“If it were more peaceful, then it would be easier to find a bit of privacy to…” Her voice trailed off and Duncan raised his brows.