“Nearly all of them are at home in Dunkeld. I do have one that I finished in Inverness. It was told to me by a man who lives near my cousin. Her husband was at Culloden. He didn’t fight. He was there to help care for anyone who was wounded.”
“Is he a physician like your father?” Tavish—since he’d asked her to call him that, she would—knew from their first meeting that her father was a doctor and that her mother had died. At the time, it had been only six years since her mother had been gone. Elspeth’s grief had lessened, but the sense of loss, especially at this time of year, was still keen. She, on the other hand, knew very little about him. She realized in retrospect that she’d done much more sharing during their time together in Dunkeld. Probably because he’d been hiding who he really was.
Elspeth returned her focus to their conversation and replied to his question. “No, he isn’t, but he’d like to be. I think my father is going to help him get to the University of Edinburgh to study.” She shuffled through the parchment and found the few pieces that held the story she’d recorded.
“Is that it?” Tavish asked, coming toward her from the hearth.
She held the papers in one hand up to her chest. “Yes. However, you’ll have to trade me for it.”
He stopped and arched a brow. “What do you want?”
“Information. You know I collect that, and I am especially interested in people I know—or those who have misrepresented themselves.” She hardened her gaze at him for a moment. “I told you a great many things about myself when we met, while you revealed next to nothing, not even your true name.”
“I’ve told you my name,” he said slowly.
She shook her head. “Not good enough. I want more. I require more if you want to read my story.” She lifted her shoulder and gave him a saucy look before setting the papers back on the table—facedown—and sitting in one of the pair of chairs.
“You drive a steep bargain, Miss Marshall.”
“Is it so hard to reveal something about yourself?” She looked up at him expectantly.
Exhaling, he sat opposite her. “When you are going about clandestine activities such as supporting Jacobites, saving them, or hiding them, yes.”
“Why do you do that?”
“That is where things become difficult.” A fleeting smile dashed across his mouth, then his eyes narrowed as he frowned at the table. “My father was not a Jacobite. My mother’s family was. She angered them when she married my father.”
“The cousins are your mother’s family?”
He nodded. “After my father died—that was fifteen years ago—I finally got to meet my mother’s family. Without any siblings, I was rather thrilled to meet my cousins. We became close. That’s why I supported them in their endeavors. It gave me a sense of belonging.”
“Of family,” she whispered. “I understand. I don’t have any siblings either.”
“Then of course you understand.” He smiled at her. “Do I get my story now?”
She laughed softy. “Yes, but I do hope you’ll tell me more about yourself. If not now, then…later.” She handed him the papers.
He took them from her, his fingers grazing hers. “Does that mean you forgive me.”
“It means I’m giving you another opportunity.” She gave him a dark, direct stare. “Don’t squander it.”
“I won’t. Not this time.” He touched the papers to his chest. “Thank you.” He rose and she did the same.
“I don’t suppose we’ll be leaving tomorrow,” she said, glancing toward the window, not that she could see anything in the dark night outside. “The snow looked quite thick.”
“I went out not too long ago, and you are correct. If you want to leave, you must do it on horseback or foot. I imagine you have a coach.”
“Yes.” She hesitated to say more, but ultimately said, “I can’t say I’m disappointed for the extra day here. Unless you are on horseback?”
“I am. However, I think I’d rather stay too.” He rattled the papers gently. “As it happens, I have reading to do.” He grinned at her.
She walked with him to the door. “I will hope to see you at breakfast.”
“Count on it. And I mean that most sincerely.” His blue eyes gleamed with promise before she closed the door behind him.
Pressing her back to the wood, Elspeth took a deep breath to try to calm the racing of her heart. Morning couldn’t come soon enough.
Chapter Three
Tavish had arisen early. He wanted to make sure the soldiers left on horseback. Once they were gone, he breathed more easily. Now he could focus on finding Lann Dhearg.
To that end, he went in search of the innkeeper, Mr. Pitagowan, and found him behind the bar in the common room. It was still early, but his daughter was busy preparing the room for breakfast. The innkeeper perched on a stool, his bald pate gleaming as he brushed—brushed?—his full auburn beard.
“Good morning, Mr. Pitagowan,” Tavish said cheerfully, trying not to fixate on the man’s odd behavior. He supposed brushing a beard of that volume was a necessity—Tavish’s hadn’t been that…bushy—but he wondered if there might be a better place to conduct such matters.
“Ye must call me Balthazar,” the innkeeper said as he set his brush beneath the bar. “How did you pass your night, MacLean?”
“Quite well, thank you.” He’d devoured every word of Miss Marshall’s story before seeking his rest. She was as gifted a storyteller in writing as she was in the spoken word, which he’d heard when they’d met. In fact, if not for her storytelling, he might not have stopped and made her acquaintance at all.
Tavish continued, “I hope you won’t mind if I stay another night. I’d rather not travel in the snow.”
Balthazar grunted. “Ye can stay as long as ye like. I’m happy ta take yer money.”
Tavish chuckled. “I won’t be staying indefinitely.” He wanted to get home before the new year. It had been some time since he’d seen his grandmother. As Miss Marshall had pointed out, family was important.
Miss Marshall. If he found Lann Dhearg today, would he still leave tomorrow, knowing he could spend one more day in her company?
“Carrie said ye were from Glasgow. Is that right?”
That was close enough. “Yes.” It was time to obtain the information he needed to track down Lann Dhearg, starting with the man whose brother had seen it at Culloden. “I wonder if you might tell me where I can find one of the men who was here yesterday. We chatted briefly, and I found him quite interesting. He left before we could continue our conversation. Shorter fellow with wide shoulders and brown hair? Perhaps twenty-five years or so?”
Balthazar stroked his impressive—and tidy—beard. “Ye must mean Dougal. Dougal Kerr. Lives in a cottage on the northeast edge of town.”
“By himself?” Tavish liked to know what to expect.
“Now he does. His brother seems to have moved on.” He shook his head sadly.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tavish said.