Hero in the Highlands (35 page)

“He seems to have a head on his shoulders, at least,” Tormod the blacksmith commented. “And Cuthbert's a bloody idiot, which we all knew, but now it's fer certain.”

“Ye ken ye'll have fights, if the duke decides to repair one lad's fence before another man's,” William noted.

“Aye. What do ye think of a drawing, of sorts?” Fiona asked. “We'll have to see to the major repairs first, like the irrigation gates, but then we'll put all the houses with roofs that need patching on papers and draw them from a hat. They'll all be done, but nae one person will decide the order.”

“I reckon I could live with that,” one of the fishermen farther down the table said, nodding. “It'd be fair, at least.”

“What aboot the curse, though?” came from one of the picnic blankets to her right. “It's all grand plans, but we've seen it before. Mr. Kieran managed to get the mill working again, and then Brocair burned three nights later. And a week after that, Mr. Kieran rode into the bogs and only his horse came back.”

Fiona wanted to pretend not to hear that, because she had no idea how to answer it. Facts and plans were well and good, but folk had blamed every bad bit of luck on that curse for the past hundred years.

“They say only an Englishman turned Highlander can break the curse,” another voice took up. “We have an Englishman now, at least.”

“Nae Sassenach can ever be a Highlander, and ye know it,” a third villager contributed. “It's a curse that cannae be broken. If we fight against it, then we'll only be putting ourselves in harm's way. ‘His allies shall perish.' That's what MacKittrick said.”

“What, are ye a witch now, Letitia Garretson?” someone else countered. “Does that mean ye'll nae ask to have yer window replaced or yer pig fence mended when the time comes fer it?”

She'd expected the pessimism and doubt, but the number of hopeful voices pleased Fiona greatly. They had a chance, she and Gabriel. They truly had a chance to make things right here. And the villagers were past ready for that, as well, or there would have been a great many more of them fretting about Dunncraigh threatening to turn his back on them. They'd realized—or some of them had, anyway—that he'd already done so.

A high-pitched scream pierced through the cacophony of conversation. Fiona looked up, alarmed. “Where did that come from?” she asked, and Ailios put a hand over her heart.

The sound repeated, a young girl's scream, and a trio of young ones ran into view from the middle of the village. “The well!” the youngest of the Dinwoddie boys yelled. “She's in the well!”

Dear God
. Fiona shot to her feet, ice slicing through her. Gabriel had already launched himself across the top of his table, charging for the well with dozens of men and women on his heels.
Not this,
she prayed silently, hiking her skirt to her knees and sprinting to catch up.
Not this, please.

*   *   *

Gabriel ran, barking orders for someone to fetch rope, ladders, anything they could use to reach the bottom of the well. He couldn't remember even setting eyes on the damned thing, and now—

Christ.
The thought of a child drowning while he dined on sandwiches both sickened and horrified him. He'd seen dead children, and they still haunted his dreams. This, though, was one of his. His responsibility, his care, his duty. He could be sick later, horrified when lives didn't depend on his actions. If nothing else, being a soldier had taught him that. Act first, feel later—if at all.

A half-dozen more children stood leaning over the three-foot stone circle to look down the dark hole in the middle. “Get back,” he snapped, jumping up onto the foot-wide lip and squatting to look down. He was ready to jump, but he wasn't going to risk landing on a struggling child's head. He needed to see, first.

The well looked like a gaping, bottomless black maw. Even worse than the dark, though, was the silence. He sank down onto his stomach, shading his eyes from the sunlight. Behind him adults chattered in a panic, trying to figure out which child was missing.

His eyes began to adjust, and slowly a thin white shape came into view, protruding from the still black surface of the well water. He felt like ice inside. An arm? A leg? Abruptly the shape registered, and air flooded back into his lungs.

“It's a cow,” he said, looking up to meet Fiona's horrified gaze, to see relief return blood to her face. “It's Brian Maxwell's cow.”

Fiona's hands went to her mouth, her eyes bright with tears. “A cow?” she repeated, visibly shaking. “Are ye certain?”

He nodded, wanting to hold her. “I can see an upturned horn and part of the muzzle.”

“Oh, thank God,” she breathed. “Thank God.”

“How the devil did a cow end up in the well?” Niall Garretson demanded, the miller's voice unsteady.

They'd all been shaken. Around Gabriel, relieved, half-hysterical laughter filled the air, coupled with speculation about how any cow had ended up at the bottom of a well. He sat as the big blacksmith pounded up, ropes coiled over his shoulder. “Any idea how to pull a cow out of here?” Gabriel asked him, gesturing.

“A cow? Thank Saint Andrew.” Tormod leaned over the lip beside him. “Horses and rope, I reckon. Someone'll have to go doon there to get a line around her.”

Abruptly Brian Maxwell was there, peering over the side. “My red?” he asked, tears running down his freshly shaved face. “Oh no, lass. Ye ken she likes to wander, Yer Grace, but she's a clever one, she is. She'd nae just jump into a well.”

Gabriel refrained from pointing out that the first time he'd encountered the red-furred cow, she'd been trapped up to her chest in a mudhole. That didn't seem especially clever of her. “However she got in there, Brian,” he said, gripping the farmer's shoulder, “we need to get her out. This is the village's main water supply.”

The farmer nodded. “Aye. Aye, I ken. My Brady, he'll do it. He's a good lad.” A young man of about fifteen stepped forward, his expression grim.

It had been on the tip of Gabriel's tongue to countermand that suggestion, and to announce that of course he would go down there himself. Strouth was his land, these, his tenants. The risk should be his. Before he could say it aloud, though, he caught sight of the villagers around him nodding their approval at the farmer's words.

His pride didn't like it, but his common sense understood. Brian had been negligent—again—and allowed his cow to escape her pasture. Brian therefore needed to make this right. He held out a hand to the boy. “Come up here, Brady,” he said. “We'll tie a rope around you and lower you down. You'll need to secure the second rope around both horns, and you'll have to do it mainly by feel.”

The lad nodded. “I ken. Let's get her oot before she spoils the water.”

Gabriel and Tormod tied the rope under the boy's armpits while several others unhitched three pairs of horses from the waiting wagons and harnessed them together. When everything was ready, Brady sent his father a nod and then scooted off the well's stone lip.

While Brian hung over the edge and motioned them to let out rope, Gabriel, Tormod, and two other villagers slowly lowered Brady Maxwell into the darkness. They played out nearly twenty-five feet of rope before the farmer announced that his boy was in the water.

More men lowered a second rope, and then what seemed like an hour later but must have been only a few minutes, Brady yelled that he'd finished. They hauled the boy up.

“There's blood in the water,” Brady said breathlessly, as they freed him from the wet rope and Fiona threw a picnic blanket over his shaking shoulders. “I couldnae make oot how much, or where it came from.”

“Let's get her up, and we'll find out.”

With six horses, even the waterlogged weight of the dead cow moving straight up the inside of the stone wall of the well didn't present much of a problem. A moment later and the bloated carcass with its twisted horns bumped heavily over the lip of the well and thudded to the ground.

“She's well gone,” Tormod noted, wrinkling his nose at the smell. “She must've wandered into the village last night, tried to climb up fer some reason, and fallen in.”

“Aye,” Brian said mournfully. “Dogs always spooked her. She might've been affrighted.”

To Gabriel that didn't seem particularly plausible. The red beast had been accustomed to wandering and likely to all the dogs in the village, as well. But if it hadn't been an accident, then someone had dragged a dead cow into the middle of Strouth, dumped it deliberately into the well, and escaped—all without being noticed.

“It were the curse,” the farmer said, toeing the cow. “We all knew someaught would happen. If the bairns hadnae seen that twisted horn of hers, we'd nae have noted anything was amiss until folk started getting sick.”

Gabriel exchanged a glance with Fiona. Did she have the same questions? Was she wondering who might gain from poisoning the well water? “Let's get this away from the village and burn it,” he said. “If some illness caused her to do this, I don't want anyone eating the beef.”

“A good milking cow lost and nae a thing gained,” Brian muttered. “'Tis the curse, poor lass.”

“We'd all best leave the well be fer a few days,” Fiona said, putting her hand on Gabriel's arm for balance so she could lean over and look into the depths. “The water flows doon there, but we dunnae ken how slowly.” She straightened. “There's food still to eat, and enough's been wasted today.”

Gabriel placed her hand around his arm again as they and most of the villagers wandered back to the picnic. Several of them crossed their fingers and spat over their shoulders as they passed the well. “We were lucky,” he murmured, low enough that only Fiona could hear him. “Twice over.”

“I nearly choked on my own heart,” she returned, “thinking it was a bairn who'd fallen in. But if they hadnae all gathered aboot to play here today, all we'd know fer a time is that Brian Maxwell's cow went missing again.”

“Do you think it was an accident?” he asked, lowering his voice still further. “Because I don't.”

“I hope it was. I truly do. But I wouldnae wager any coin on it.” She glanced over her shoulder. “And I'm thinking ye should keep those extra men watching the sheep.”

He nodded, a smile tugging at his mouth. “You are a sensible lass.”

“And ye're a fine man, stubborn though ye are. I dunnae think I was the only one to notice how ye stepped right into the middle of the lads to help. And ye let Brian save face. It almost makes me want to kiss ye.”

“‘Almost'?”

“Aye,” she said, grinning at the ground. “Almost. I've nae wish to turn this from a picnic into a hanging. Though I'm beginning to believe ye'd get by with a good flogging, after this.”

“That's encouraging. Thank you.”

She bumped against his side. “I think ye should thank me later.”

Oh, that he would do. Several times.

 

Chapter Sixteen

Fiona wakened from a dead sleep, a sound she couldn't quite identify pulling at her. Warmth surrounded her, and she shifted just a little to feel Gabriel's solid form against her back. He had one arm stretched beneath her head, and the other draped over her ribs, and she wanted to stay that way forever. She loved the stubborn Sassenach and the way he was so willing to take on the impossible without even a second's hesitation. When they were like this, she could see them together in a future with fields full of butterflies and crops growing tall and green.

In the dark she could also acknowledge that her being in love with him wouldn't prevent him from marrying someone else, that he'd never mentioned words like “marriage” or “love” or “forever” in her presence. She took a breath. He was a soldier, accustomed to fighting in order to survive from one day to the next. Perhaps “forever” never occurred to him. And really, if all his day-to-days ended in her company, she had nothing about which to complain.

A low-pitched cry echoed dimly into the room, sounding like it had come from very far away. She couldn't make out the words, but that had to be what had awakened her before. The hair on the back of her neck pricked.

“Did you hear that?” Gabriel asked, his voice alert.

“I did. I couldnae make it oot, though.”

He stretched, then sat up. “I'll go find out. Stay here and keep the bed warm.”

Fiona scooted to the edge of the bed. “Ye can get a wee coal pan fer that, ye sluggard.”

The voice came again, from closer, and this time she could make it out. “Fire!”

Gabriel drew in a sharp breath. “The cow wasn't an accident,” he muttered, grabbing for his trousers.

She had nothing but her night rail with her. Cursing, she slipped it on over her head. “I'm getting dressed,” she said, running for the door.

“Fiona, if you smell smoke, don't stop for a gown,” he ordered, already stomping into his boots.

“If I smell smoke, I'm coming back fer ye,” she shot back, and pulled open his door. The hallway was empty, but she could hear voices coming from the direction of the stairs. The air didn't smell of anything but an evening's chill, either, and so after a quick mental debate over whether she should dress or go find out where the fire was, she hurried to her bedchamber.

Muttering curses to herself, she yanked open her wardrobe. In the dark she couldn't tell which gown she touched first, but that didn't matter. She left on the night rail and pulled the gown on over it. It wasn't much, but it would provide her at least a little additional warmth. She also dug out her heavy work boots, which would likely serve her better than any of her prettier, less practical shoes.

A heavy man's coat went on over everything, and she headed back for the door, pausing only to grab a ribbon so she could tie back her loose hair. She still didn't smell any smoke, but it was a big house. And Gabriel would be ahead of her, diving directly into wherever the most danger lay.