The boy’s expression turned mocking, as if he read the epic battle between pride and yearning in Hamish’s heart. “Every good Scotsman needs a good Scots hound by his side.”
Diarmid gave Hamish a surreptitious kick. “Don’t cut off your nose to spite your face, cuz,” he whispered.
Hamish looked at Bailey with a longing that was so sharp, he could taste it. “I’m not allowed to have a dog,” he mumbled. “My sisters don’t like them.”
Mackinnon clapped him on the shoulder and picked up the lantern. With the sun coming up, he didn’t relight it. “I imagine once I bring the two lost lambs back to the fold, a small request like a home for an unwanted puppy willnae be turned down.”
“Is he unwanted?” Hamish asked. He tried not to look down the mountainside. The brightening light made it clear that if he or Diarmid had fallen while they picked their way along the path, they would have broken their necks.
“Well, you want him,” Mackinnon said, striding away with the black dog trotting at his heels. “Come down the brae. I’m ready for something more than hare to eat, even if ye two laddies want to stay up here to enjoy the fresh air.”
The fresh air was icy. The sun hadn’t had a chance to warm things up yet. Hamish realized that he was hungry, too, and dead tired, despite his nap. When Diarmid set off after Fergus, he didn’t hesitate to follow.
The promise of a dog of his own was so exciting that he almost didn’t mind the admiration in Diarmid’s eyes when he looked at Fergus. The kind of admiration, Hamish couldn’t help noting with some mortification, that he was in the habit of directing at his older cousin.
The three boys and the dog left the cave and followed the path over the ridge.
Chapter One
Achnasheen, Western Highlands of Scotland, September 1817
The smart yellow carriage careered wildly along the steep, rutted track that snaked down into the glen. Fergus hauled Banshee to a stop on the bend of the road. Horror churned in his gut, as he watched the vehicle speeding toward the burn, swollen to river size after the rainy summer.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, digging his heels into Banshee’s sides. The mare set off through the twilight at a gallop, while his dogs Macushla and Brecon ran barking at her heels.
The coach horses were running in a blind panic, out of control. As the carriage veered closer, he saw that the coachman had lost his grip on the reins. There was no way that the driver would negotiate the sharp corner at the base of the mountainside to keep the vehicle on the bridge and clear of the water.
Fergus had reached the stone bridge when the inevitable happened. The horses swerved at the sudden appearance of the burn in front of them. There was a crack as an axle broke, then another louder crack followed by the tinkle of shattered glass as the carriage rammed into the sturdy pillar supporting the end of the bridge.
The coachman screamed as he hurtled through the air to land on the grassy verge of the road. For a sickening moment, Fergus was sure not only that the driver was dead, but that the carriage must overturn into the burn. His heart lodged in his throat, as the vehicle teetered on the crumbling bank above the rushing brown water.
Fergus flung himself from the saddle and rushed over to the prostrate man. Banshee shifted uneasily, agitated by the other horses’ terrified whinnying, but bless her, she stayed put. As if things weren’t bad enough already, it started to rain.
“Are ye all right, laddie?”
Praise heaven, the man already started to stir. By the time Fergus got to him, he was sitting up and groggily rubbing his skull. His high-crowned hat lay upside down on the wet grass beside him. “Ma heed, ma heed.”
Even through the shrill neighs of the carriage horses and the thunder of the rushing burn, Fergus noted the Glasgow accent. “Can you move?”
The man’s resentful look told Fergus that any injuries he’d sustained weren’t too serious. What a miracle. “Aye, if I must.”
“Then do something about the horses.” They’d both broken free and shied all over the bridge, trailing tack on the ground and showing the whites of their eyes. “Before they kill themselves or someone else.”
Fergus helped the man up, made sure he was in fact unhurt, then turned his attention to the wrecked carriage. With each second, it appeared more unstable, Fergus guessed because the passengers moved around inside it.
“For God’s sake, stay still,” he called out, as he dashed toward the vehicle. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the coachman stagger across to the jittery horses.
When Fergus reached to tug the door, a woman in a rich crimson cape poked her head out of the shattered window. “Good. You can help.”
Could he indeed? He bristled at her imperious tone, while common sense insisted that he had no time for pique, if he meant to save these travelers from a dousing. “Are you hurt?”
She raised one slender, gloved hand and pushed back the hood on her stylish cape. He found himself under the regard of calm, dark eyes in a face that was striking for its hauteur.
Not at all his sort of woman, he could already tell. Too high-handed by far. Nonetheless, despite the urgent circumstances, he couldn’t help tak
ing a split second to admire her. While the lassie mightn’t be to his taste, she was a prime article.
And by heaven, she was brave. Most women he knew would be in hysterics after that crash.