MacLean's Passion: A Highland Pride Novel (3 page)

Maggie didn’t know what to do. They’d been in the cave for three days and MacLean had yet to wake up. Yesterday she’d heard the dogs barking, which meant the English had not given up looking for them and they needed to leave soon. Although the fact that they hadn’t found her and MacLean yet gave her hope that the dogs had lost their scent when they went through the stream. It was closing in on dusk and she hadn’t heard the dogs again today, which made her think that they just might be in the clear. Lord, but she hoped so.

Except MacLean’s health wasn’t improving. His fever had broken early this morning, drenching him in sweat. She’d thought he would wake up then, but he hadn’t. He’d moaned periodically and thrashed enough that there were times she had to practically sit on him to keep him from rolling into the fire. He’d broken open some of the wounds on his back, and he was bleeding again.

He’d mumbled, talking about a Fergus and a Dougal. She had tried giving him water. His lips were dry and cracking, and she’d thought water might help, but the
numpty
choked on it every time she poured it down his throat.

Rifling through the pack that Campbell had given them, she’d found oats and had been able to make bannocks. She’d spent far too much time cooped up in this small cave. She’d had to venture out a time or two to get more firewood and fill a bucket with water from the stream and take care of nature’s needs, but other than that, she’d stayed close to MacLean.

He was mumbling again, and sweat dotted his brows. She didn’t care for the helplessness she was feeling, so for something to do, she ripped a strip of blanket off and soaked it in the cool stream water she’d brought up. He was hot and the water was cool. Surely that would help, wouldn’t it?

She sat beside him and marveled at just how large he was. She’d seen taller warriors, for sure, her brother being one, but MacLean was wide and thickly muscled. She gently touched the cool cloth to his hot forehead, and he turned his head toward her and mumbled again, although this time a little more calmly. She had a sudden urge to utter soothing words to him but thought better of it. How ridiculous that would be, talking to this large warrior like he was some bairn still in nappies.

Maggie rolled her eyes at herself and ran the cool, dripping cloth down his neck and over his thickly muscled chest. He’d kicked off the blanket long ago, and she’d given up pulling it over him. Obviously, he wanted nothing to do with the layers, and who was she to say he needed them? In the hope of cooling him off, she’d untied his shirt, but that had done little to help. Eyeing it warily, she contemplated what to do. It wasn’t as if it were his churchgoing shirt, after all. It was tattered and bloody and all-around filthy. Grabbing a fistful in each hand, she yanked. It ripped easily enough, falling away to reveal a well-defined chest gleaming with sweat. She sat back quickly, waiting for him to awaken.

“It’s no’ as if I’ve a mind to ravish yer body,” she said to him, even though she knew he wouldn’t answer, most likely couldn’t even hear her. “Sheesh. Ye’re no’ all that marvelous.” But her eyes strayed to his chest, and she tasted the lie on her lips. “And I’m
no’
impressed,” she said a little more vehemently than necessary.

She scooted away from him. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust herself around him, because that would be silly. It was that he was her way out of here.

In the darkness and silence, there was naught to do but think, so she thought long and hard about where she wanted to go next.

She’d been rounded up by the English directly after the battle of Culloden and had been lost in the shuffle of prisoners, which had been fine with her. Unlike MacLean, who had arrived well after the battle, for reasons unknown. However, it was clear the soldiers knew exactly who he was.

She missed her brother horribly, and thoughts of what she’d done to him by running off to join the battle were almost too much to bear. Her heart hurt, just thinking about Evan. What did he presume had happened to her? When she was first imprisoned, she’d held out foolish hope that Evan would come striding into the dungeon and open the door and free her.

That was ridiculous. Evan was a Jacobite sympathizer who’d been at Culloden as well. He couldn’t just stroll in and demand that they release her.

What if he did no’ survive Culloden?

That damn irritating voice invaded her thoughts, the questions stirring a fear that was almost as bad as fighting at Culloden and being captured by the English. She never let it fully form, though.

Evan was alive. He had to be.

He was their people’s leader.

He was her father and brother and mother all rolled into one person. Life without Evan was unthinkable.

But what if he did no’ survive Culloden?

“Shut up!” She jumped to her feet and clapped her hands over her ears to quiet the insidious voice that wouldn’t leave her alone; it had quietly pushed at her for the past several weeks. MacLean stirred but didn’t awaken.

Maybe ye brother never came for ye because he’s dead.

“Stop it!” She turned in a circle and fled the cave, stumbling out into the dusk, but no matter how far she ran, the voice followed her. She dropped to her knees and doubled over. “He’s no’ dead,” she said. “He’s no’.” She dug her fingers into the rich soil. She didn’t cry. Maggie never cried. Not when her mother died. Not when her father died weeks after. Not when she witnessed man after man felled by English swords.

But she railed at the heavens now. She cursed and thrashed until she crumpled to the ground, exhausted from fighting the demon voice and nursing the warrior in the cave. By the time the sun went down, she was lying on her side, curled into herself, her mind blessedly blank.

She was pulled back to reality by thoughts of MacLean, helpless and alone in the cave. She forced herself to muster the strength to return to her patient, who needed her if he was to survive the night.

Colin moaned and rolled onto his back. Except for the play of firelight on the dark ceiling and rough walls, it was dark.

He turned his head and found his cellmate sitting with his back to the wall, that black hair falling over his eyes, his face set, his dark eyes glittering. For a moment Colin thought they were back in their cell, but then there wouldn’t be a fire and he wouldn’t be wrapped in blankets.

He pushed himself up, closing his eyes until the room stopped spinning. It took a moment. He was far weaker than he cared to admit.

“How long have we been here?” he asked through a rough throat. He ran a hand over his hair and grimaced. Hell, even his hair hurt.

“Three days.”

He looked into the fire and recalled how hot he’d been, burning from the inside out. A fever. That was all. Not the fires of hell.

“Who is Fergus?”

The question jolted Colin. “How the hell do ye know about Fergus?”

The lad shrugged. “Ye called for him a time or two.”

Colin turned his face away from the boy, embarrassed that he’d been calling for his brother.

“Who is he?” the boy asked again.

“No one.”

The boy stood and poked a stick into the fire, stirring the embers. “Ye were powerfully sick,” he said.

Colin grunted. This was the most the two of them had said to each other, and he wished the lad would shut the hell up. “I thank ye for staying to take care of me.”

The lad shrugged. “ ’Twas best I stay here, away from the damn English.”

Colin grudgingly smiled.
Damn English
. He’d said it as if it were one word.

“Have ye heard the dogs?” Colin asked.

“No’ for a day or so. I think they gave up.”

Colin dropped his aching head into his hands. He was so tired he could easily sleep for another day, but they didn’t have the luxury of time. “We need to move farther north.”

The lad stopped poking at the fire and looked at Colin. “How did ye know this place had blankets and dry firewood?
Why
does this place have blankets and dry firewood?”

“It does no’ matter.” There wasn’t a chance in hell that he was telling this boy about Sutherland’s safe houses. He was just glad that he’d found the right cave in his fevered state.

The boy narrowed his eyes, though Colin could barely see that through the mop of black curly hair. He was a small thing, probably far too young to have been fighting at Culloden, but that wasn’t for Colin to judge. There had been too many kids in the battle, fighting to keep Scotland alive.

“What’s yer name?” Colin asked.

The boy jabbed at the fire again. “I made bannocks. They’re cold but still edible if ye’re hungry.”

He wasn’t, but he knew he should before they broke camp and headed out. The lad rummaged through the sack that Campbell had given them and produced a cold bannock.

Colin bit into it and chewed. “What clan are ye from?”

The boy pressed his lips together.

“What do ye plan on doing? Ride with me the whole time? Surely there’s family ye can go to.”

The last thing Colin wanted was a boy he had to watch out for; he hoped to deposit him with his people and be on his way. Being imprisoned, staring death in the face, had a way of making one see what was important. He wasn’t cut out to be clan chief. Hell, he’d never been taught the first thing about that responsibility and had never wanted anything to do with it. That had fallen to Dougal and then Fergus after him. Colin was the youngest. The wastrel. The ne’er-do-well. The one who never took anything seriously. He wasn’t equipped to watch out for himself, let alone a young lad. And a clan.

“I have family,” the boy said grudgingly.

“Do ye care to tell me the name of this family?”

His jaw worked as he stared at Colin. “Sinclair.”

“How convenient that we’re headed north, then. We can pass through Sinclair land.”

The lad’s eyes flashed and narrowed. What the hell could he be angry about? Colin was willing to take him home; he should be pleased.

“What if I do no’ want to go home?”

Colin shrugged. “No’ my business, but ye canno’ stay with me.”

“Where will ye be going?” Sinclair asked.

“Home. Eventually.” Maybe he’d stop off to see if Sutherland needed help and to find out how he’d convinced Campbell to help Colin escape. He’d take a circuitous route, just like he’d told Campbell he would. He also needed to check in on his smuggling operation. It had been a while since he’d done that.

“I’ll be taking ye to yer own people first,” Colin said, brushing his hands free of crumbs and eyeing the satchel. “Are there more bannocks?”

Sinclair raised an eyebrow. “I’m no’ usually known for my cooking.”

“The fever made me powerfully hungry.”

Sinclair dug in the bag and tossed Colin another hard bannock. Colin bit into it, and Sinclair edged toward the entrance to the cave. “Since ye’re feeling better, I’ll attend to…business.”

Colin nodded absently, barely noting when Sinclair slid out of the cave. He was fairly certain the boy could take care of himself and knew to stay away from the main roads and pathways. After all, he’d kept them safe while Colin had been out of his mind with fever.

Colin finished off the bannock in a few quick bites and decided to try his legs. As soon as he got to his feet, the cave walls wavered. His eyes lost focus and he swayed. Gritting his teeth, he locked his knees and forced himself to stay upright by leaning a shoulder against the cave wall. That was when he realized that he wasn’t wearing a shirt. He was fairly certain he’d been wearing one when he’d entered the cave, so where the hell was it? He looked around, but the cave was dark, and his vision was blurring as his body fought to stay upright, and he realized he didn’t much care what had happened to his shirt because he was going to fall over.

Damnation, but he hadn’t been this weak since he was a babe. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed more time to recuperate. Yet he wasn’t entirely convinced that the English had stopped looking for him, and he didn’t want to find out.

He took a shaky step. His stomach heaved and the two bannocks threatened to come back up. He swallowed them down and took another step. “Hell and damnation,” he ground out between clenched teeth. He made it to the entrance of the cave, clutching the clothes Campbell had provided, fighting his body with each step.

He tilted his face up to the cool breeze and let it dry the sweat on his brow. He felt better out here, although the bannocks in his stomach were still protesting and his knees were still knocking.

He picked his way down the steep hill. Another day in the security of the cave wouldn’t matter, would it?

He knew it very likely could matter, but he also knew he couldn’t sit atop a horse. Not if he didn’t want to risk falling off.

He heard the stream before he saw it and recalled that they had waded through it to throw off the dogs. He licked his cracked lips with a dry tongue, practically tasting the cool, crisp water. He changed course and stumbled toward the stream, falling to his knees before it and cupping the cold water in his hand to take a deep drink.

Lord almighty, but that tasted good.

A bath would do the trick. He was sweaty and disgusting from his fever, and he didn’t want to change into clean clothes without bathing first.

He was drinking another handful of water when he heard splashing to his left. He froze, realizing too late that his broadsword wasn’t on him. Hell, he didn’t even have a dagger.

Slowly, he raised his head in the hope that whoever it was hadn’t seen him yet. If it were the English—or the
damn
English, as Sinclair liked to say—he might be able to slide into the bushes without being seen.

But it wasn’t the damn English. It was Sinclair, bathing with his back to Colin.

The boy needed to get some meat on that thin frame. His shoulders were thin, his bones poking out. Of course, being imprisoned could do that to a body; the damn English weren’t keen on feeding their prisoners regular meals.

Sinclair raised his arms and Colin frowned. Something wasn’t right about that kid. He was too…thin. Scrawny.

The boy turned and Colin fell onto his arse. His mouth came open but no sound escaped. Sinclair hadn’t seen him and clearly didn’t know Colin was sitting just a few feet away from him.