Moonstruck Madness

by Laurie McBain

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2011, 1977 by Laurie McBain

  Cover and internal design © 2011 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover design by Dawn Pope/Sourcebooks

  Cover image © RomanceNovelCovers.com; IStockphoto.com/da-kuk; Jason Friend/Photolibrary

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  FAX: (630) 961-2168

  www.sourcebooks.com

  Originally published in 1977 by Avon Books, a division of the Hearst Corporation

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  McBain, Laurie.

  Moonstruck madness / Laurie McBain.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-4022-4243-4 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Heroines--Fiction. 2. Brigands and robbers--Fiction. 3. Women--England--Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3563.C3334M66 2011

  813’.54--dc22

  2010043734

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prelude

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  For my readers,

  with affection and gratitude

  The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,

  And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,

  Awaits alike the inevitable hour.

  The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

  —Thomas Gray

  Prelude

  Culloden Moor, Scotland, 1746

  A northeast wind blowing rain and sleet welcomed the early morning watchers on the hill, their cloaked figures cowering together in vain for protection from the cold, penetrating wetness that seeped through to the skin. Some distance away, and farther down the slope of the moor, a lone figure crouched low in the heather.

  Sabrina Verrick hugged her cape more tightly around her as she stared in horrified fascination at the scene before her. The battlefield was the only patch of color across the wide expanse of gray moor. Colorful blue, yellow, and green standards waved above the scarlet-coated battalions of the English king’s army, its Union flag boldly flying in Scottish skies.

  Sabrina raised her head and felt the icy rain fall on her face. In the distance she could hear the monotonous beating of the drums. Drums beating in time for marching English feet, bringing them closer to the bright tartan plaid of the clans. Below her Sabrina could see her clan with her grandfather stalwartly leading them. His bonnet, trimmed with eagles’ feathers, was cocked jauntily over his weathered brow, the blues and reds of his tartan jacket and kilt now darkened by the rain; but on his left shoulder the silver and cairngorm brooch that pinned his plaid still gleamed richly. He’d drawn his broadsword and was swinging its double-edged blade threateningly before him. He stood tall and magnificent before his men as they awaited the signal to attack. A burnt wooden cross, tied together by a piece of bloodstained linen, leaned crookedly in the ground—silent now that the call to arms had been answered.

  The haunting notes of the bagpipes echoed through the air as the fierce Highlanders surged forward to meet the enemy, their heavy broadswords singing as they sliced through the air in defiance of the shining bayonets of the English.

  But few reached the English ranks before they were cut down by the roaring cannon ripping through the clans, dismembering and leaving only parts of bodies where once bold men had stood.

  Sabrina screamed in terror as she saw half her clan wiped out by a single volley of cannon. Those who managed to escape the barrage of cannon fire were left to be cut down by the continuous, evenly timed musket fire that never stopped coming in waves of death and destruction. Sabrina felt the bile rise in her throat as she stared down at the massacre. Red was the only color that penetrated her numbed mind. Scarlet coats, bloodied swords and red-stained heather jumped before her eyes as English and Scot lay dying alike. It was impossible to separate the two enemies now. They were one surging mass of violence.

  Sabrina narrowed her eyes, straining them as she searched for her grandfather among the men below her, praying that she wouldn’t see him crumpled to the ground with the countless others. Where was he? Where was her clan? She stayed low, sinking down into the heather as she sought desperately for a sight of their tartan. She turned suddenly at screams behind her and watched in disbelief as English soldiers, gradually making their way up the slope, bayoneted the small group of watchers on the hill. They began to scatter in panic, running for their lives as the soldiers bore down upon them, ruthlessly cutting down everything in their path. Sabrina remained still, afraid to move at all lest she meet the same fate. As she silently stared at the battlefield she caught a flickering movement as a small band of men made their retreat through the mangled bodies of their comrades and the enemy, escaping the field of their devastating defeat. Three carried her grandfather, and what was left of the clan limped along behind, their broadswords still raised to ward off any attack from the rear.

  They were not the only ones fleeing the moor. The battle had been lost. The clans were now trying to gather together what remained of their members and escape to safety in the hidden glens and lochs, losing themselves forever up in the craggy hills and unapproachable valleys that cut in deep chasms through the barren countryside.

  Sabrina carefully fled her hiding place and followed. She ran as though the devil were at her heels, running until her breath came painfully and her legs felt leaden. She followed them up into a narrow opening that twisted and climbed until the slaughter across the moor was hidden from view, and made her way through the passage, her mind a blank until she saw a small sod-and-stone cottage, little more than a hut, some distance ahead.

  “Let me pass,” she told the guard blocking the door, his bloodied broadsword held defiantly before her, barring her way.

  “Nay, lass, I couldna’ dae that,” he answered slowly, his blue eyes still dazed from shock. His face was darkened by streaks of blood from a deep wound beside his ear that was now clotted with dried blood the color of his hair.

  “I’m the laird’s granddaughter. I must be with him!” Sabrina cried, pushing past the beaten sentinel who gave easily and moved wearily aside.

  Sabrina stopped abruptly as she entered the one-room hut. A peat fire was burning weakly in the middle of the room while an old woman squatted nearby, a worn shawl wrapped about her thin shoulders as she steadily stirred a rusted iron pot that hung over the fire. A sickening sweet odor of stewed mutton floated to Sabrina as she moved into the room.

  It was quiet, deathly quiet, as if all the men had d
ied. They watched silently as Sabrina walked to the far end of the room and knelt down beside her grandfather. She choked back the sob that rose from her throat as she stared at his broken body. He was breathing heavily, an odd rasping sound that shook his chest in deep, painful shudders.

  “Oh, Grandfather, what have they done to you?” Sabrina sobbed as she wiped the blood trickling from the corner of his lips with the edge of her cape.

  “Grape. Tha’ did it.” A voice spoke sharply beside Sabrina.

  Sabrina looked up into the blazing eyes of the man bending over the other side of her grandfather. His eyes were the only spot of color in his pale face. They glowed fanatically as they stared into hers, hatred pouring out of his soul.

  “It wae like a thousand knives bein’ thrown at us. They couldna’ just shoot us doon, nay, they had tae cripple us with tha’,” he said bitterly, indicating the rusty iron nails and leaden balls that littered the ground, shreds of tartan still clinging to some.

  “Ripping us apart, aul tae pieces, nae knowin’ wha’ hit us.” He looked down at Sabrina’s grandfather, a frown between his eyes. “They even got the auld laird,” he mumbled as if he couldn’t believe it yet. He looked at his own bloodied hands, rubbing his fingers convulsively. “But they did nae get me pipes. I’ll play for ye ever’ nicht,” he promised the laird. “They’ll nae stop Ewan MacElden.”

  Sabrina was staring in alarm at the half-crazed man when she felt her hand grasped by shaking fingers and looked down to see her grandfather’s eyes opening. She closed her hands about his cold fingers, trying to warm them as she looked into his face. It was devoid of expression and feeling, and she knew she gazed into a death mask. His eyes seemed to be pleading with her and she bent lower as his lips parted.

  “Shouldna’ come doon from the hills. Waur fools tae fight in the open. Slaughtered like sheep,” he whispered, his usually perfect English now thickened with an accent.

  “Please, Grandfather, don’t speak,” Sabrina pleaded, “we’ll get you back to the castle.”

  Sabrina looked to the others who stood silently about her. There were only five or six of them, and she wondered frantically why they just stood there.

  “Do something!” she screamed. “Can’t you see he’s dying?” Tears wet her cheeks as she watched a shudder shake his once proud body, now powerless as he lay in his own blood. She flinched as his fingers suddenly tightened painfully on her small hand.

  “Must tell ye. Knew this wae tae happen, but haed tae ficht. Go awa’, lass,” he struggled to say as he coughed up blood that oozed from his mouth.

  Sabrina bit her lip as she fought for control. “I won’t leave you here.”

  “Ye can dae nothin’ tae help me. I’m a deid mon. Sabrina, lass,” he implored her, “ye must get awa’ frae Scotland. A ship on the loch tae take you tae safety. Go awa’ an’ take my grandson. His richt—his inheritance. For the clan and—” He stopped as another cough shook him, leaving him gray-faced and shuddering.

  “No, I’ll not run,” Sabrina declared in a small, tight voice that throbbed with tears.

  “Lass, ye forg’t,” her grandfather whispered, “ye be half English yesel’. Ye can leave. Nae one need know tha’ ye haed been here. I planned it this way—ye must. I’ll nae hae my bloodkin aul die with me.”

  “Someone’s comin’!” the sentinel warned from beyond the door, his cry jolting the silent men into life. They seemed to surge like a wave out of the door, their claymores lifted for the last time, prepared to wreak vengeance before they died.

  “Nae time,” the laird whispered almost inaudibly. “Tae late. Sabrina, listen, child. Buried it, near the—” He choked, his face turning purple as he was seized by a convulsion.

  “Grandfather,” Sabrina whispered pleadingly, willing him not to die.

  “Must tell ye the secret… false… the kirk… threads… gold… golden threads.”

  Sabrina jerked her head up as the old woman began to wail, her body swaying back and forth. Through the door she could hear shots and yells as the combat was renewed.

  “Grandfather,” Sabrina began, only to stop as she looked into his gray eyes that stared past her into nothingness. He was dead. She crumpled over him, her body shielding his as she cried in despair.

  “Oh, Grandfather, why? Why?” she asked aloud. She raised her head from his chest and with gentle fingers closed his eyes and pressed her soft lips to his cheek. She felt something hard and cold against her hand and looking down saw his claw-handled pistols still hanging from his belt. She quickly removed one of the Highland dags and then the richly wrought silver dirk from his hip. Its sharp blade pricked her skin as she secured it in her bodice.

  Sabrina turned around quickly, startled as the door was swung open and MacElden fell in. He closed the door sharply and rushed over to her, looking down at her as she held the pistol pointed nervously in his direction.

  “Deid?” he asked quietly.

  “Aye,” Sabrina answered automatically as she had heard her grandfather answer so many times. She got to her feet slowly. “You’ll see that he’s buried with his broadsword and dag? That he’s not left to…” She paused, unable to finish her words and the image they conjured.

  “Aye, he’ll rest wheer he should. On his own land,” MacElden promised grimly. “They’ll nae strip him like scavengers, nor desecrate him—nae the laird.”

  Sabrina shivered uncontrollably as she heard the fighting outside, wondering who the victors were. The old woman’s wailing droned in her ears like a warning—but where could she flee? She was trapped with no avenue of escape.

  She felt the pistol in her hand and wondered whether she would be able to kill any of them before they killed her. Or would they take her prisoner and torture her as they had so many others? Suddenly MacElden pulled her to the corner of the hut. Shoving aside a rough-hewn table and shabby wool rug, he knelt and removed several large stones, disclosing a small opening in the side of the hut.

  “Quick with ye, through here an’ oop tae the pines. Follow them tae the castle,” he said, pushing her through the small space he’d made.

  Sabrina glanced back over her shoulder at the dead body of her grandfather and murmured a last farewell. “Aren’t you coming?” she asked MacElden.

  He drew himself up, straightening his shoulders. “I canna’ run oot on the laird. He would nae ken wheer I be,” he answered incredulously.

  Sabrina nodded, then wiggled through the narrow space which opened into the back of a large wall of peat, stacked and drying for fuel in the winter months. Sabrina crawled along its length, then cautiously looked around the edge. She could see the pines standing tall against the barren line of hill in the distance.

  Suddenly the ground seemed to shake as the loud, mournful wailing of MacElden’s pipes began. All other sounds were drowned by the shrill, uneven notes of the bagpipe. Sabrina quickly fled the neat stack of peat and hurried into the protection of the pine trees, the pipe’s lament still reaching her ears as she struggled up the hillside. She glanced back over her shoulder and began to cry as she saw the red and white coats of the English soldiers surrounding the little hut while other soldiers followed the few men of the clan who’d managed to escape yet again into the cover of the hillside.

  Sabrina missed her footing and fell heavily, feeling her breath knocked out of her as she hit the ground. Struggling to rise she leaned against a rock as she pulled herself up, closing her eyes as she breathed deeply of the frigid air, feeling it burn her lungs as she tried to catch her breath.

  Suddenly she stilled, a cold sweat breaking out over her body as she sensed that she was not alone, and slowly opened her eyes to stare at a pair of shiny, black jackboots. Her gaze traveled on up past the white breeches and scarlet coat, lingering on the drawn sword before coming to a halt at the face.

  Sabrina’s wide eyes stared in fascination into those of her captor, he
r lips trembling with fear.

  The soldier sheathed his sword and then shook his head with its cocked hat perched high above his brow. “A child. Just a little girl,” he spoke softly, almost to himself. His voice was very cultured and smooth, and some of the fear Sabrina had felt shaking her began to recede.

  “I won’t hurt you, child. What are you doing here?” he asked in a voice used to command, his eyes narrowing as he noticed for the first time the pistol she carried in her hands.

  Sabrina swallowed nervously. “M-my grandfather, the laird. He lies dead in the hut,” she answered, her fingers wrapping themselves around the trigger.

  “I see,” the officer replied casually, his body seemingly relaxed. “Why don’t you put down the pistol. It’s much too heavy for such little hands.”

  “I’d like to put a hole in you,” Sabrina said shakily as she raised the barrel to the center of his scarlet-breasted chest.

  “I know you would, little one, but that won’t bring your grandfather back. I saw him fight. He was a brave man, but he was badly wounded, and he’s better off to have died quickly.”

  He frowned as he stared at her upturned face, taking in the delicate features. What an unbelievably beautiful creature, he thought as he stared into the heart-shaped face with its huge violet eyes, and how ironic to discover such a perfect being in the midst of battle. He shook his head and raised his hand to touch her to make sure that she really existed.

  Sabrina took a panicked step backwards as the English officer started to reach out. She stared at him, feeling hatred coursing through her veins. This tall, red-coated man represented all that she despised and feared. The memory of her grandfather’s torn body suddenly surged before her, and with a small, anguished cry she pulled the trigger.

  A deafening roar cut through the air, surprising Sabrina by its shattering effect and the violent jumping of the pistol in her hands. But the officer had read the hatred in her face and deflected the barrel of the pistol before she had even fired it, sending the bullet harmlessly through the branches of the pines.