by J. L. Jarvis
HIGHLAND SOLDIERS
Book 1: The Enemy
J.L. Jarvis
HIGHLAND SOLDIERS
Book 1: The Enemy
J.L. Jarvis
Copyright © 2012
All Rights Reserved.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
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CONTENTS
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
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
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Chapter 1
Dunross, Scotland, June 15, 1679
Marion wore only her shift and bare feet. They had taken the rest. With nothing to confine them, her dark chestnut waves tumbled over her shoulders. The beadle sent her on her way with a prod of his beefy fingers. She fixed her eyes forward and walked down the makeshift aisle in the barn that served as kirk for today’s secret meeting. Whispers wafted in waves as she passed by each row of parishioners and pressed toward her goal. On she proceeded past a grim gauntlet of narrow-eyed elders to arrive at the stool of repentance. It was oaken and plain, with a hole in the middle. A commode, it was meant to inflict shame. She sat on it and folded her trembling hands on her lap. Her bare feet were flat on the ground, and she pressed her knees close together. Her moss green eyes drifted over the congregation. Skin like cream and full lips of a muted rose hue softened the dread from her features to her detriment. She appeared almost untroubled, which would only inflame the kirk elders as they meted out accusations and determined her punishment.
Steps away stood the minister, a lanky man with keen eyes that could shrivel a soul. His stentorian scolding rang out through the barn, where a few dozen people sat on folding stools watching.
“Marion McEwan, you are charged with engaging in the sinful act of fornication. Confess and repent of your wickedness before this assembly now. Name your partner in sin so he might likewise be brought to justice.”
Her gaze drifted toward him, but lips never parted to break the long silence.
“Speak or suffer the wages of sin. It is your choice. No one else can save you,” he said, with an edge that grated through his tone.
When no answer came forth, his wrath simmered. “Marion McEwan, hear me now. Confess your sin! Repent before God against whom you have transgressed or be cast out from this congregation!”
The minister’s indignation rang into the heavy oak rafters. “Fall down before God. Show your tears of remorse! Name your partner in sin that he might share your utter disgrace and plead for deliverance from the fires of hell!”
Still she offered no words of repentance, nor a name of the father. A gust from the moor blew out the candle she held in her hand.
Suddenly quiet and measured, the minister’s voice intoned his contempt, rising and falling with well-practiced effect. “Are you so shameless and prideful to think you can raise this wee one with no father and no kirk? Will you wallow in your blasphemous ways rather than swallow your pride? We can have you imprisoned, and when you are released, you will be an outcast! Do you hear me? Cast out from your kirk and your kinsmen! Your only hope is confession. Repent now and be delivered from—”
The minister stopped mid-rebuke as a shadow eclipsed the main source of light coming in through the doorway. Before muskets could be raised, a fierce Highland dragoon strode in. Hair, dark and wild as his mood, was lashed back, but the wind caught loose waves. A daunting form, he was draped in plaid colors of earth, dried bracken and heather. Powerful legs took him in a few strides to the minister, who found his chin caught in the crook of the Highlander’s elbow as if in a vise. Fear-numbed faces looked on. A handful of parishioners by the back wall lifted their muskets, but lowered them as three more kilted men appeared in the doorway with doglock pistols aimed at them. The Highlander whirled about and took stock. Satisfied that his men had matters under control, he pressed a pistol to the minister’s temple. One man rose from behind and lunged at the Highlander. He was dispatched with a sharp backward jab of his elbow.
“Blinking eejit! Are there any more fools here?” The Highlander brandished his pistol. “Look outside. Do you see the rest of my men at the top of that brae?”
Heads turned toward the doorway. The setting sun blazed from over the brae. “If these lads and I dinnae join them soon, they will thunder down here and strike down all who dare hinder us.” Confident he had secured their attention, he went on with chilling calm. “Let us leave, and I will neither kill nor report you for this illegal meeting today. But stand in my way and the whole Highland Host will descend and hunt down every man Jack of you.”
His eyes met those of the minister’s son, and he allowed himself a brief moment to burn his scorn into the man’s onyx eyes. He was tempted to pummel the scoundrel, but not today. He would leave this one to the vengeance of God or, better yet, to the sorry lout’s wife.
Sweat beaded the minister’s forehead as the Highlander shoved him toward the stool of repentance. Marion watched, her face now drained of color.
“Kneel,” he ordered the minister. As he did, the Highlander kicked his feet out from beneath him, making him fall face first into a pasty of cow dung and hay. A noise from the back caught the Highlander’s attention. With a sudden pivot, a flash from a musket caught his eye just as one of his men returned fire with his pistol. The musket shooter clutched at his grazed arm and watched his blood darken his sleeve as he slid his back down the wall in a faint.
As the Highlander wielded his pistol to keep other foolishly brave souls at bay, he cast a quick glance at Marion McEwan and his deep brown eyes softened. “Come, lass.” He held out a strong hand and she took it. While rising she faltered. With a sure grip, he steadied and guided her up to his side while he took in her unsteady state.
Without warning, the Highlander stomped his heel on the minister’s hand, which had inched its way down to his belt and grasped a knife hilt. The Highlander relieved the reverend of his knife and, with an easy yank, pulled the offending hand onto the stool. With a shuddering stab, he pinned the minister’s sleeve to the seat of the stool of repentance.
Marion’s eyes drifted half closed as she swayed. The Highlander circled her waist with his arm as the burnt-out candlestick fell from her limp hand. “Steady, lass,” he said as he tightened his grip.
With a weak glance up to him, she whispered, “I’m fair done.”
Shoving his pistol into his belt, he scooped her up into his brawny arms. Warmth softened his eyes as he looked at her, even as his jaw tig
htened. Now livid, he strode toward the door with a few well-placed dark glares that forbade any to stop him. “Shoot me and you’ll shoot her as well,” he said, casting the words over his shoulder with conviction and measured haste. Once outside, he hoisted her onto his large gray drum horse, and then mounted behind her. His men backed away, pistols pointed, then mounted their horses in a run as they all galloped off toward the brae. Soon they were but silhouettes against the last remnants of the day’s sun.
*
The minister finished wiping the dung from his face and returned the handkerchief to its owner.
“Someone do something!” said a man who showed no signs of moving himself.
“Dinnae be daft,” said the reverend with biting impatience.
“We should follow!” said another.
“And do what—complain to the authorities that our illegal worship meeting was interrupted by the king’s royal dragoons? He has the law on his side. And as long as we meet against the law like this—outside of the kirks that were taken from us—we can do nothing!”
Thomas settled his shaken new bride in a stool, and then turned his attention to the men’s discussion. “We were fortunate, aye? They could have killed every one of us on the spot and been thanked by the crown for their service.” His words were met with spontaneous nods of agreement, for while he was an accomplished student of St. Andrews University and therefore deemed worth their attention, he was also the minister’s son.
“Right you are, Thomas,” said the Reverend Blackwell.
“We should not act in haste,” his son added.
“Thomas is right,” said an Elder. “‘Sufficient unto today is the evil thereof.’ Better we rally and fight for freedom another day!”
“And what if it were your daughter spirited away? Would you just let her go?” said Margaret McEwan, the young woman’s mother.
“Whisht, Margaret,” said her husband, Archie, in a low voice. Discreetly, he gripped her arm.
Thomas said, “She brought it upon herself—and on us.”
“How so?” asked her father as he leapt to his feet. Now it was Margaret who clutched Archie’s arm to restrain him.
The minister said, “One has to wonder why the whole Highland Host has descended upon us for one girl.”
“The whole Highland Host?” said her mother. Mouth agape, Margaret looked first to him, then her husband.
The reverend ignored her interruption and continued, “Highland barbarians came seeking your daughter. What has she done to draw such interest, I wonder?” He gave her a knowing look.
“Och!” Margaret fumed and opened her mouth to protest, but Archie tightened his grip on his wife’s arm. She closed her mouth and looked down to the ground to conceal her anger.
Reverend Blackwell studied her with sharp eyes. “It’s clear now where your daughter gets her rebellious spirit. Hold your tongue, Mistress McEwan, or you will find yourself taking your daughter’s place on the stool of repentance.”
Margaret took in a sharp breath to reply, but Archie’s quiet, throaty grunt cautioned her to hold back her rage.
Having dispatched his authority, Reverend Blackwell continued, “Thomas is right. Marion brought this upon herself by consorting with those savage Highlanders. Ah well, we ken who the father is now, do we not? My only surprise is that he came to claim the wee bastard and its mother.”
Several of the men nodded.
Archie quietly asked, “Can we not send a party to search for my daughter?”
The reverend shook his head. “The wages of sin have been paid on this day. I’ll not stand in the way of God’s judgment.”
With a sideways glance toward her husband, Margaret whispered through tight lips, “Archie, you’d best take me home before I say what I’m thinking.”
*
As they rode from the kirk, Marion turned and looked over the Highlander’s shoulder to see whether anyone followed.
He said, “Dinnae look back, lass. ‘Tis bad luck.”
“Aye? Well my luck could not get any worse.” Had she been stronger, she might have laughed, but instead she leaned wearily back against the Highlander’s solid chest, secure in the strong arms that held her.
He glanced down with a soft smile. “Have I no changed your luck a wee bit?”
“Aye, so you have.” She let her eyes close and she rested against him, this Highlander, royalist, and papist from whom she drew strength and support. He had done more for her than her own people this day, and the truth of that ached.
Beneath the waving grasses, the uneven moorland made for a rough ride. Unaware she was doing so, she clutched his arm tighter as each wave of pain struck. Despite effort to conceal it, a small moan of pain escaped.
He leaned his cheek against her hair, his voice quiet and low. “We’ll slow down as soon as it’s safe. Then we’ll find a place for you to rest.”
“Ensign?” she said faintly.
“Aye?”
“I cannot see the rest of your men on the brae.”
“No? Och well, the sunset’s too bright. You would not see them.” His mouth twitched up at the corner. “Even if they were there.”
Chapter 2
Two Months Earlier
Marion McEwan crossed the moors with her brother, Jamie, and his sweetheart, Ellen. They were on their way home from an illegal outdoor church meeting, which the Covenanters called a conventicle. Marion walked ahead to give Jamie and Ellen time alone together. They were in love. She once thought she had been, too. But her love had been false. And now nothing was quite the same for her, not even the kirk, and for that she felt wicked. She only came to the meetings for Jamie—he paid well for the favor in farm chores. In truth, although she would never admit it to Jamie, she would have done this for either of them. She loved her brother, even though she took every opportunity to point out that Ellen was far too lovely and good for the likes of him.
A distant movement caught Marion’s eye. With increasing apprehension she watched it. “Jamie.” She looked back to find Jamie well aware of the same sight. Kilted horsemen bore down upon them.
“Accursed Highland Dragoons!” Jamie spat the words out.
There were no trees to conceal them on this part of the moor. They could run, but the horsemen would easily catch them. Their only chance was to face them in hope of talking their way out of suspicion.
Without taking his eyes from the approaching horsemen, Jamie said, “Ellen, give me your bible.”
“Jamie, no.” She clutched his hand. They both knew that the mere possession of a bible would put them in danger. They could be called upon to swear an oath renouncing everything they believed in—everything they had sworn before God to uphold. If they did not swear it, soldiers had the legal authority to kill them on the spot.
*
Ellen possessed the only bible among them. Marion had left hers at home. She and Jamie had bickered about it before leaving. When she realized she’d forgotten her bible, Marion had taunted him with wide eyes. “I’ll just share with you, Jamie.” She’d grinned at his glare, knowing that sharing a bible afforded her brother the chance to touch Ellen’s hand, which was as much intimacy as could be had in a kirk service—even if that kirk service was held in a field.
Marion continued to torment him. “Of course, I’ll need to sit in the middle to be able to see it. My eyes are so weary from sewing.” She put her hand to her brow with a pitiful sigh.
“Och! Brilliant! You’d have me court Ellen with you in the middle!”
With feigned sweetness, Marion said, “But Jamie, are you not there for the worship?”
“Aye, to worship my Ellen ‘neath the braw moon and stars.” He glared at her sideways. “With my daft wee sister between us!”
Marion had grinned broadly, thoroughly satisfied to have irked her brother.
*
But now, as three Highland dragoons approached, there was only one bible that concerned him.
“Ellen, give it to me,” Jamie told h
er with quiet urgency.
“I cannae, Jamie. I’ve already hidden it.”
Knowing full well what she was risking, she met his eyes and showed him the depth of her love in a look. His expression pled for what could not be, for the dragoons were upon them. It was too late for the bible to change hands. Jamie gripped Ellen’s hand and pulled her beside him as the dragoons came to a stop.
“Good evening,” said Jamie, with dark caution in his eyes.
Two of the soldiers dismounted, while one remained on his horse. “Search them,” he ordered his men. The three men were a fearful lot, with skin mottled and leathered by their austere existence, but it was their leader who made Marion shudder. He had the features of someone who might have been handsome in his youth. His nature had etched brutal lines in his features, from which two eyes reflected a cavernous soul. To Jamie he said, “It’s a bit late to be out for a walk.”
“It is not too late for us.”
The dragoon’s tone sharpened. “Where are you going this evening?”
“Home.”
“Where is that?” asked the second. He had the look of a man who had fought hard battles and survived with even harder emotions.
“Dunross,” said Jamie as he eyed the Highlander.
“Dunross?” asked the leader, dismounting.
Jamie nodded warily.
One soldier wrenched Ellen from Jamie’s grasp, while another circled and grabbed hold of Jamie from behind. In the struggle, Ellen’s bible dislodged from beneath her jacket and fell to the ground.
“What’s this?” asked Ellen’s captor with a smirk.
Jamie lunged toward him, but the heftier dragoon had his arms hooked about Jamie’s from behind. Jamie struggled in vain.
The one on the horse pointed a pistol at Ellen.
Helpless, Jamie clenched his teeth in terror for Ellen.