“And they would be?”
“We must first give you an alias, but only if you pledge an oath to the cause.”
“The cause, sir?”
Sir Donald pointed to a silk rose on his lapel, one that Kier suspected served as a secret symbol used by the Jacobites.
Pledge an oath to an exiled king?
In a way, he’d already become a Jacobite and he’d already altered his name to Camp. Kier glanced down at the hopeful expression on his wife’s face. “You once told me you wanted to see the Isle of Skye, love.”
“Please,” she tugged his arm. “We might even be able to see my family again.”
Kier faced the baronet and gestured to the street. “Then lead on, Sir Donald. I would, indeed, be interested in your proposition.”
Epilogue
30th September, 1695
More than three years had passed since the Glencoe Massacre. Kier, now living under the guise of Magnus Prince, overseer of a thriving salt pan operation, sat in his solar in Duntulm Castle overlooking the sea. News didn’t oft come to Trotternish, but today he read through a two-month-old gazette dated 20th of June. After all this time, the Scottish Parliament had finally conducted an inquisition into the massacre. The Privy Council named the Master of Stair, Major Robert Duncanson, Captain Glenlyon, Lieutenant Lindsay and a handful of others as guilty of the slaughter of the Glencoe men under trust. No mention was made of Kier’s guilt or innocence. He wasn’t even named as one of the members of Glenlyon’s regiment. Upon the writing of the article, no men had been summoned for prosecution and no reparations had been offered to Hugh and his crippled clan.
Kier set down the gazette and listened to the laughter of his daughter, Isabelle, as her wee voice echoed through the timbers above stairs. At the age of two, she had become quite a handful. And her newborn brother, Robert, was keeping his mother awake all hours.
After Isabelle had been born, Skye had boarded one of the salt transports bound for Glasgow and had taken the bairn to the Coe to see her family. Her parents had rebuilt their cottage and Tommy had grown so much, he was now taller than his sister.
Kier hoped that, with the outcome of the inquisition, he could clear his name and have his record of good service reinstated. Though he would never again don a red coat.
A quiet knock came at the door and his wife peeked her bonny head inside. “We have a visitor.”
Standing, Kier chuckled. It wasn’t often anyone ventured up the north shore of the Isle of Skye. Even the Baronet of Sleat had only made the journey twice in three years. “Do not keep me in suspense, Wife. Tell me who it is.”
Grinning mischievously, she pushed the door open wide.
A lump formed in Kier’s throat while his stomach squeezed. How in God’s name had Da found him?
The old man stood in the passageway, his eyes rimmed red. He held up the same copy of the gazette as he shuffled into the solar. “Och, Son, I couldn’t go to my grave without telling you how proud you have made me.”
“I—”
“Allow me to finish.” Da held up his palm. “I raised you to be an honorable man. I taught you to stand by your values, yet when the time came to take a stand against tyranny, I chose the wrong side. You, Son, chose the right. On that cold and frigid night three years past, the student became the teacher. I only pray God will see half the honor in me that I recognize in you. Can you ever forgive me?”
Tears welled in Kier’s eyes as he pulled his father into his embrace for the first time since he was a bairn. “Och, Da, ’tis hard to turn your back on hundreds of years of clan fealty. I have always loved you as your son.”
Through his blurry vision, he could see the tears dribbling from Skye’s bonny blue eyes but her smile was more radiant than ever. She stepped in and placed her hand on Kier’s shoulder. “This day is a gift from heaven for us all.”
A Note from Amy Jarecki
Thank you for joining me for The Highlander’s Iron Will. Though it’s a short novella, I enjoyed going back to Glencoe after writing The Fearless Highlander (Hugh and Charlotte’s story) and creating a fictional romance between Kier and Skye.
Usually, my main characters are developed after people who existed and I mold fiction to bring their histories to life. But for this story, Kier and Skye are both fictional characters as is Sigurd Castle on Loch Dochart. The horrific tragedy of Glencoe, however, will forever be a black mark in Scotland’s history. Robert Campbell of Glenlyon did lead his regiment into the Coe, accept Clan Iain Abrach’s hospitality for a fortnight, received orders from Major Duncanson and put them to fire and sword in the midst of a blizzard.
Robert Campbell, 5th Chieftain of Glenlyon, indeed, had a reputation for drinking and gambling his estate away and became the oldest captain in the king’s army at the request of his earl cousins, Argyll and Breadalbane. As an officer, he received pay and work that his cousins hoped would keep Robert from their coffers. It is said that after the massacre, Glenlyon could be found in an Edinburgh alehouse, nursing a tankard as he sat against the wall in a dark corner with a haunted stare on his face. People would come to observe the spectacle of that crazed, aging man. “I would do it again!” he reportedly would holler. “I would dirk any man in Scotland or England without asking cause if the king gave me orders.”
Some reports said, “MacIain hangs about Glenlyon day and night.” Indeed, the man’s soul was haunted.
The missive to Captain Campbell ordering the massacre was written by Major Robert Duncanson in Ballachulish on 12th February, 1692, and was said to have been passed down through Glenlyon’s kin until it ended up in the possession of the National Library of Scotland in Edinburgh where it resides today. It reads:
You are hereby ordered to fall upon the Rebells, the M’Donalds of Glencoe, and putt all to the sword under seventy. You are to have a special care that the old fox and his sones do upon no account escape your hands. You are to secure all the avenues that no man escape. This you are to putt in execution ate five of the clock precisely and by that time, or verie shortly after it, I’le strive to be att you with a stronger party; if I doe not come to you at five, you are not to tarry for me, butt to fall on. This is by the King’s special command, for the good and safety of the country, that these miscreanis be cut of root and branch. See that this be putt in executoine without feud or favour, else you may expect to be dealt with as one not true to King nor Government, not a man fit to carry commission in the King’s Service. Expecting you will not faill in the ful-filling hereof, as you love yourselfe, I subscribe these with my hand at Balicholis, Ffeb. 12, 1692.
R. Duncanson
“To Capt. Robert Campbell of Glenlyon.”
“ffor their Maties service.”**
Interestingly, five o’clock was two hours before dawn, and Colonel Hill’s original missive stated seven o’clock. That Major Duncanson wanted no part of the killing was clear, for when he did arrive with his battalion at seven that ill-fated morning, the killing had been done and the survivors were fleeing into the hills in the midst of a blizzard.
Though three years later, the Privy Council did conduct an inquisition and found the Master of Stair, Glenlyon, Duncanson and others guilty of murder under trust, John (Hugh) MacIain MacDonald and his clan never saw a penny of recompense. Further, though convicted, penalties were not enforced, and not one “murderer” spent a single minute behind bars.
Today, Glencoe is a thriving place of awe-inspiring landscape and is home to an abundance of wildlife. In the town of Glencoe there is a lovely museum displaying remnants of the early life. A memorial still stands giving ode to Alasdair MacIain MacDonald, the fearless old laird. Up the A82, the National Trust for Scotland has built an impressive visitors center with something for everyone. Glencoe truly is one of nature’s grand fortresses, one well worth a visit.
The End
About the Author
A descendant of an ancient Lowland clan, Amy Jarecki adores Scotland. Though she now resides in southwest Utah, s
he received her MBA from Heriot-Watt University in Edinburgh. Winning multiple writing awards, she found her niche in the genre of Scottish historical romance. Amy loves hearing from her readers and can be contacted through her website at amyjarecki.com.
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To Love a Highland Rogue
Heart of a Scot, Book 1
Collette Cameron
Prologue
Dunrangour Tower, Scottish Highlands
6 September, 1701
“Logan, my boy, ye sign here.” Artair Rutherford pointed to an empty space below his and laird Roderick Findlay’s bold, slanted signature.
Ach, cow turds.
Despite his frustration, Logan obediently propped his battered toy sword against the table’s leg, and after carefully dipping the quill into the inkwell, lifted his uncertain gaze to his father.
“Me full name, Da?”
“Aye, son.”
“And when I do, it means I must wed her? When I’m a mon?” He pointed the quill at a wee lassie gnawing on her wet fist in an elaborate wooden cradle.
“Aye, lad.” Inclining his head, Da patted Logan’s shoulder, the gesture more prodding than reassuring. “She’ll be yer wife.”
Logan sucked in his cheeks and crimped his mouth. “I dinna want to get married.”
What need have I for a wife? Da doesn’t have one.
Bending over a little, Da peered intently into his eyes. “It’s a good match. A brilliant one, truth to tell. But more importantly, son, the union benefits Scotland.”
“So say some.” Findlay, Dunrangour’s giant of a laird, snorted loud as a draft horse and shook his shaggy blond mane.
Logan gulped and took a reflexive step backward.
“Ever heard such a colossal jobby before, Fergus and Hamish?” Findlay bit out, his jaw muscles jumping.
Such a pile of shite?
Which part?
The stupid match or the benefiting Scotland part?
A pair of Dunrangour clansmen acting as witnesses, their flinty gazes unyielding and faces granite hard, grunted and smirked in agreement.
“And o’ course, Mayra’s dowry—particularly the land portion—be of nae interest to ye, be it, Rutherford? But, ye cannae touch either yet, can ye? Nae until our children actually wed. And then it’ll be the lad’s to do with as he pleases, not yers. How that must set yer teeth on edge and stick in yer greedy craw.”
Findlay’s low chuckle, more sinister than humorous, filled the tense silence. Satisfaction, or mayhap, even gloating tinged his words and ignited his vivid blue eyes.
Viking eyes.
Da said Dunrangour’s laird was descended from the barbaric Norsemen, and Logan could well believe it.
“Asinine requiring me to provide half her marriage settlement now. Reeks of extortion.” Findlay’s hefty glower encompassed Da and Mr. Hyde, the king’s agent.
Logan scrunched his forehead and mouth, gazing between the angry laird and his gentle lady.
Didna they want this troth thing either?
As a lad, he couldn’t disobey Da’s order, but they were grown-ups. And adults could do what they wanted.
Why didna they just say nae then?
Reddish brows drawn into such a severe vee they almost touched, Da glared hard at Findlay until Logan’s tugging on his coat finally drew his father’s attention.
“What’s a cowry, Da?”
“Dowry.” His father’s stern features softened a wee bit. “It’s a token promising ye and the lass will wed.”
A sneer curled Findlay’s mouth as he crossed his thick arms and planted a bulging shoulder against the fireplace. “I’d call it extortion and a forced match between a wee six-year-old lad and an infant lass.”
“Give careful thought to yer words, Findlay. Some might consider them and yer attitude treasonous. Ye wouldn’t want a hint of anything untoward to reach His Majesty’s ears.” Mr. Hyde, tsked disapprovingly, his eyes gone squinty and suspicious. His pointy nostrils even twitched in reproach.
Like a giant wharf rat.
Logan pinched his nose and pointed his face away. Reeking of dirty feet, stale sweat, and rotting teeth, the agent stank worse than Leith’s docks.
“Go ahead, sign,” Da urged Logan. “We needs be on our way.”
Mutiny surged in Logan’s chest, and he thrust out his lower lip.
Something about this didna feel right—made him slightly afraid and his tummy waffy.
Like when he awoke during the middle of the night and the castle was too quiet. Too ghostly and strange. And he lay alone in his chamber with only his sword and a carved dog for protection. Too scared to move or get up, but just as terrified to stay buried beneath the weighty bedcoverings.
“Why do I have to marry her? Why cannae someone else?” Logan veered the fretting bairn a troubled glance and, leaning toward Da, whispered, “She’s nae verra bonnie.”
“Yer king asks it of ye, lad. As do I.” Da indicated where Logan should sign again.
So he must marry a strawberry-faced, slobbering baby for a prissy king he’d never met?
Unfair!
Logan wasn’t supposed to swear, but he could think oaths with nae one the wiser. And right now, he wanted to think whole bunches of them.
Bloody hell. Blister and damn. God’s toenails.
Bampot. Diddy. Scunner.
Shite. Shite. Shite!
What would Da do if Logan stomped his feet and hollered nae at the top of his voice or threw the quill on the floor, mashing it beneath his foot, cursing all the while?
If he was required to wed that red-faced bairn, shouldn’t he have something in return?
Hmm…
Maybe…
“Can I have a puppy then?” Logan skewed a hopeful brow and chewed the side of his lower lip.
He really, really wanted a puppy, but Da always stalled, saying mayhap when he was older. And older never, ever … ever came.
Logan squared his shoulders and jutted out his chin. “If’n I’m old enough to become—What was the word?—be…trussed, then I’m old enough to have me own dog.”
“Be-trothed,” Mr. Hyde muttered beneath his breath, stressing each syllable. “The word is Be. Trothed. And the nerve of the lad. Asking for mongrel when he should be thanking His Majesty for the honor he’s bestowed upon the boy.”
Mr. Hyde shook his head and tsked reproachfully again.
Showed what the cranky auld tosspot kent, comparing honor to a puppy. Lads didna play with honor. Or have it curl up in their beds and keep them warm. Or lick their giggling faces until they gasped for air.
Logan held his breath, afraid Da would say nae. Again.
But this time Da laughed, his eyes folding his face clear to the corners in amusement, and even Findlay’s lips twitched a mite.
“Aye, ye can have yer puppy. Now sign the document. We need to depart soon if we’re to make the first lodging house before nightfall.” Dad closed the dowry chest’s lid, and after securing the lock, tucked the key into his sporran.
Logan murmured each of his five names, Logan Greer Wallace Robert Rutherford, as he laboriously wrote them, remembering to carefully shape the letters as his tutor demanded. Only the nib scritching against the crisp parchment and the bairn’s coos interrupted the eerie calm entombing the great hall.
Once he’d finished, Mr. Hyde all but snatched the quill from Logan’s hand and proceeded to scribble his name, sprinkle sand atop the ink, and lastly, affix a fancy seal to the scarlet wax at the bottom.
“Can I play with Coburn now, Da?”
Beaming in a verra pleased way Logan had never seen before, his father dipped his square chin.
“As soon as ye say yer farewells and give the lass the gift ye brought, ye can play with yer cousin.”
Logan opened his
pouch, and sticking his tongue between his lips, fished around in his sporran for the pin. He’d assumed it was a present for Lady Findlay when Da asked him to carry the heart-shaped, crown topped token. Once he’d pulled the piece free, he turned it over and picked a bit of fuzz—probably from his plaid—from the bright blue stone in the center.
“It matches her eyes.” He extended the Luckenbooth brooch.
The bairn snatched it from his hand and promptly stuffed the scrolled end into her mouth, but Lady Findlay gently took the clasp from her daughter.
“Nae, sweeting. Ye’ll hurt yerself.”
Her voice sounded funny and choked, as if she tried not to cry.
Grabbing his wooden sword, Logan made to join Coburn. Barely one year older and often mistaken for his twin, his cousin was also his best friend.
“Logan?” Lady Findlay’s lyrical voice stopped him.
Holy rotten haddock.
What now?
Eager to find Coburn, and slay all manner of mythical beasts from dragons to trows, Logan fingered the sword’s smooth hilt and slowly faced her.
“M’lady?”
Her ladyship offered him a brave, if somewhat wobbly smile.
“I ken ye be young, and ye dinna fully understand what has transpired here today. But I ask ye to be kind to Mayra, to nae hurt her—to keep her from harm. And someday, perhaps, ye can come to love her. Can ye promise me that?”
After coming to stand before Lady Findlay, he cocked his head.
“Aye, m’lady. I can.”
Bracing his hands on his upright sword, Logan peered into the cradle.
Covered in lacy stuff, the infant gurgled, waved her chubby fists, and blinked her big blue eyes. Whitish bumps covered her face, and drool ran from one corner of her wet mouth.
Och.
He pinched his features tighter.
“Why’s her face all puckered? Riddy and blotchy?” He touched his own smooth cheeks while eyeing her doubtfully. “Are ye sure the bairn is a lassie? She has nae hair.”
The Forbidden Highlands Page 32