Secrets to Seducing a Scot

by Michelle Marcos

  Malcolm tossed McLeish a piece of bread. “A real man doesn’t go around calling himself a real man.”

  “He does if he has the ballocks to prove it! What do ye say, lass?”

  A wicked smile cut across Serena’s face. “Oh, I never judge a man by the size of his … caber.”

  “That’s right,” said Malcolm. “Size doesn’t matter.”

  “Spoken like a true deficient,” quipped McLeish, sparking an outburst of laughter. “Ha! Hang on, lasses. It’s about to get wild now.”

  Malcolm smiled at Serena. “That’s what he said to his wife twenty years ago, and she’s still waiting.” Amid the laughs, Malcolm downed his ale and stood up.

  “Well, I’m afraid Serena and I must be on our way.”

  Serena took her cue and stood, too. “Thank you all for an enjoyable meal. And for the beautiful dress, Una. I shall treasure it always.” She gave Una a firm hug.

  McLeish tapped his eldest boy on the shoulder and told him to fetch the horses Malcolm and Serena rode in on. “Come, Malcolm. I’ll see ye oot.”

  McLeish took Malcolm aside. “Look, I’ve never been one for doing the right thing, as ye well knoo. But I didn’t want my sons to follow the life I led. One McLeish on the game was enough.”

  Malcolm grinned and nodded.

  “But,” McLeish continued, “I don’t want English troops quartered in my home or burning me off my property. I don’t trust them Sassenach soldiers, and God help them if any one of those devils lays a hand on my Una. What I mean to say is that if that ambassador fella that McCullough’s got is able to stop a war, then I’ll tell ye what I knoo.”

  Malcolm’s eyes widened, his jaw jutting firmly. “Go on.”

  McLeish gave a quick glance over his shoulder. “McCullough is organizing his troops at Ramh Droighionn Castle. He’s got himself at least a thousand men there, Scots and Irish, plus several more divisions stationed throughout the Highlands. They’re armed to the teeth—muskets, pistols, broadswords. I dinna knoo where McCullough got the weapons, but I heard tell that he vowed that his soldiers would not be outgunned like the Jacobites were at Culloden Moor. But Ramh Droighionn is where the McCullough is headquartered. If yer lass’s da is imprisoned anywhere, it’ll surely be there.”

  Malcolm’s chest fanned. “How far is Ramh Droighionn?”

  “Aboot fifteen mile north of here. In Ross-shire.”

  “Thank you, McLeish. Ye’re a decent sort.”

  “Sort of what?” McLeish guffawed. “Och. I may be a stupid man, as my parents often told me, but even I knoo there’s no such thing as a good war. Or a bad peace.”

  THIRTY

  Swathed in an ill-fitting black kilt, Earlington was escorted from the dungeon by the bearded man and two burly guards.

  The McCullough. He wondered who it was he was about to be presented to. Was it Duncan McCullough, the man who at last report was on his deathbed? Was it another named successor? Or was it, he shuddered to contemplate it, Brandubh McCullough?

  Brandubh. His name in Gaelic meant “black raven.” And how apt it was. He now realized, after so many broken dialogues between them, that Brandubh was a scavenger by nature. He’d been known to pick over the carcasses of weaker politicians, putting on their mantle of power. An exceedingly intelligent man, he had the mental acuity of any great leader or hero—except that he used his faculties for personal gain rather than for collective prosperity. And if he assumed power, there was no telling how much damage he could do to his country.

  Earlington was taken to the castle’s long dining hall. Hanging from the ceiling were a dozen colorful but dusty banners bearing coats of arms, presumably of the families who had fought for the McCulloughs. There was a relief plaster frieze running across one wall depicting a continuous line of Roman soldiers on horseback. Along the opposite wall, weapons of antiquity were hung on display.

  He was escorted down the length of the hall, which was filled with kilted men, most of them armed. The majority were men his age, a sea of white hair and gray resembling dirty snow. But he also saw boys no older than twenty, their youthful heads topped by the earthy shades of red, orange, brown and all the mixtures therein. The men’s enmity toward Earlington was palpable. There had been so much fighting between their respective countries in the last few decades that they didn’t want him to be in the same country as them, let alone the same room.

  At the far end of the hall, there was a man seated atop a dais, surrounded by a retinue of Scotsmen who were speaking to him. Earlington felt as if he was back at Carlton House, being granted an audience by the Prince Regent. As he approached, the features on the face of the seated man became clear. There was Brandubh, looking for all the world like a king on a throne.

  “Commissioner!” Brandubh’s face lit up like a tiger that had spotted a wounded fawn. “Welcome to Ramh Droighionn Castle. I hope ye’re being treated well.”

  Earlington had only been given one meal each day he was here—a slice of hard bread and a thin brown soup made from beef drippings. “As well as can be hoped for in a house of mourning. Your father must have passed away, for in his place you sit.”

  “Aye. He was frail and sickly. Men of a certain age should never be allowed to remain in positions of command, for their leadership will reflect their own weakness. Isn’t that right, Commissioner?”

  A ripple of laughter went out from the men surrounding the throne.

  The barb grazed him, but Earlington ignored it. “My condolences on your loss.”

  “Thank you. ’Tis considerate of ye to wear black.”

  The advisers around him laughed again.

  “I brought ye here so that ye may hear what yer regent has to say to his Scottish subjects.” A man next to him handed him a parchment scroll, which he unfurled and read aloud. “From His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, Regent of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, in the name and on behalf of His Majesty, a proclamation. Whereas His Royal Highness has been made aware of and seeks to suppress unlawful insurrections fomenting in the counties of Caithness, Sutherland, Ross-shire, Cromartyshire, and Inverness-shire, to the utter destruction of the public peace, be it enacted that henceforth, all persons who are found in these areas must surrender their arms and weapons, and any persons unwilling to do so are to be arrested and transported to England for trial. Be it enacted that persons who assemble for the purposes of planning or implementing a rebellion will be charged with treason against His Royal Highness’s grace, and if convicted, will suffer execution. Be it enacted also that for better regulating the governance of Scotland, the present council is to be immediately disbanded. All members of the governing body in Scotland must prove themselves to be true and faithful subjects to the kingdom by swearing allegiance to His Highness’s grace, and paying a fealty of one-quarter of their holdings to the Royal Treasury, the sum of which will be used for the betterment of his loyal subjects in Scotland. Royal Army regiments will be dispatched to enforce compliance with these measures.”

  Brandubh rolled up the parchment. “Tell me, Commissioner, what say ye to this?”

  Earlington was nonplussed. “His Majesty wishes an end to the strife that has been caused here. How do you see it?”

  “I see it as a tactic to humiliate, impoverish, and weaken the Scottish people. The troops quartered in Perthshire have confronted ordinary citizens and ordered them to surrender not pistols or swords, but pitchforks, scythes, and hammers. I have learned reports of old men asked to surrender their walking sticks. According to this edict, Commissioner, anything can be used as a weapon. I shouldn’t wonder if it next be asked of a Scotsman to surrender his cock.”

  The comment drew chortles from the assembly.

  “I know mine will be,” chimed in one man. “Long as a broadsword, and just as hard.”

  “That’s not what his wife says,” said another, and the room erupted with laughter.

  Earlington interrupted their raucousness. “May I remind you, McCullough, that it was yo
ur hue and cry that rallied the rebels in the first place.”

  “Rebels?” Brandubh shook his head. “We’re not rebels, Commissioner. We’re patriots.”

  “Not in the eyes of the law.”

  “And who wrote that law? A king … or a tyrant? History will tell whether he be noble or abusive. And so will it me.”

  “Men of violence can never be called noble. You oppose the king to the detriment of all your people. Think before you set these people alight.”

  “Not I, Commissioner. Their own unhappiness spurs them to their flammable tempers. Ask them yerself. Go on. See if ye can sway them from the cause.”

  It was a taunt, but Earlington was willing to take up the challenge. He turned to face the crowd. “Men of Scotland, listen to me. These speeches—this assembly—is treasonous. The king will not abide the insult to his majesty. England will oppose you in force, and you—shall—be—put—down.”

  The crowd jeered at him, shouting epithets and insults.

  He continued. “I know that we are in the midst of a situation that is boiling with political hatreds. But defiance will not bring about the resolution you seek. Let me negotiate a peace between us. Even now, there are regiments at Fort William ready to march on Inverness. Some of you have no experience of soldiering. Tell me then … will you have another Culloden? Or another Glenshiel? Will you not prefer peace?”

  Several men answered him at once.

  “To stand against tyranny is to face death!”

  “We would rather fall dead one across another than surrender!”

  “We are Highlanders after all. If we die, we die as heroes!”

  Earlington turned to the man who answered him last. “No. You will die as traitors. And history will remember you as such—if it remembers you at all. A dead man cannot testify to his motives. And if you are killed, who will care for your wives, your children? Here, now, the lines are being drawn. Question your own loyalties. Will you be on the side of the law? Or will you betray the trust our king reposes in you?”

  A young man interrupted him. “Ha! Ye would have Scotland be called North England! We will not have it! Look at the French and the Americans. They fought for greater participation in their ruling class … and won. We will do the same!”

  Earlington turned to the man who spoke, a mere boy in comparison with the rest of the assemblage. “But at what cost? The Americans lost twenty-five thousand lives, and the French lost a hundred and seventy thousand. There aren’t that many people in the whole of the Highlands. Gentlemen, no one questions the courage of your convictions. But there is a right way to move the hand of government, and a wrong way. Use your power not to fight with your adversary, but to reason with him.

  “I have great power. A word from me will bring all the military might of the Crown of England, or a different word can allay the anger of the monarch. You, too, have great power. You have the power of choice, and it is a great and awesome thing. Submit, and you will receive the gracious pardon of His Royal Highness for this insurrection. Rebel, and there will be loss of life and deprivations such as you cannot imagine. Think carefully what you will do, for your decisions will be lived by you, your families, and your countrymen for generations to come. Now is the time, gentlemen. Will you lay down your arms?”

  There was silence throughout the room. Earlington looked from face to face in that hall. A spirit of patriotism was battling with one of peace, of loyalty warring with fear of reprisal. One of them had to emerge the winner.

  A shout came from a man in the center of the assemblage, like the first arrow released in a battle. “A free Scotland!”

  A roar of assent exploded from the others.

  “We will not submit!”

  “War, not words!”

  “Let’s rid ourselves of the English contagion.”

  Earlington’s shoulders drooped, and his head sank. He had never felt a defeat so keenly.

  Brandubh McCullough leaned back in his chair, a smug look on his face as he tried to speak above the hurrahs. “Ye see, Commissioner, we speak with a single voice. Scotland will be an independent nation.”

  Earlington looked at him through slitted eyes. “You make a very costly mistake, McCullough. You will never be king.”

  Surprise passed over his face, but his arrogance overtook it. “Why not? These same people will carry me to the throne.”

  “No, Brandubh. After this conflict is over, there will be no one left for you to govern.”

  Brandubh’s nostrils flared. “My father had the audacity to speak those same words to me. He expelled his last breath shortly after.” His words were pregnant with meaning, and Earlington suspected there was more to Duncan McCullough’s death than most people knew.

  Brandubh stood. “Friends. Our hands are at our swords. The English think themselves gods, but they are not. In our presence, with our swords at their necks, they will realize they are naught but men.”

  A man called out from the rabble. “The Commissioner’s a slaighteur! Brand him!”

  Brandubh held his hands out. “No. He is not for branding. The Commissioner will serve another function. We will send his head to the Prince Regent. Let him see the strength of our resolve.” He turned to Earlington. “Let them both see.”

  Malcolm and Serena reached Ramh Droighionn by nightfall. The town at the foot of the hill was bubbling with activity as women tugged small children on their way home from the baker or the butcher.

  Malcolm alighted from his horse at a corner pub. The wooden sign swinging in the wind above the door read king’s arms, but someone had scrawled the word SCOTTISH above the emblem. Its wooden door was propped open to let in a breeze.

  He helped Serena slide from the horse, but held her fast. He whispered in her ear. “Ye’re dressed like a Highland woman, but don’t open yer mouth. Do ye understand? No one must know ye’re English.”

  Serena nodded fearfully. Una had also given her an arisaid, and Serena now draped the length of wool fabric over her head to help obscure her features.

  Together they walked into the pub, a cramped establishment with three odd tables and a scattering of mismatched chairs. The wood paneling looked as if it had been replaced in sections throughout the years without any regard to matching it to the original woodwork. The smell of stale liquor wet the air.

  Malcolm stepped up to the man behind the bar and spoke to him in Gaelic. “Evening.”

  The pub keeper was a slender man crowned with white hair and weathered skin that sagged around his face. “It be a mighty warm one. What can I get for ye?”

  “The missus and I would like a room. Have ye got one?”

  “Aye. There be one behind the bar. It isn’t much, just a place we put the ones too drunk to negotiate their carriage home. One shilling.”

  “We’ll take it. Is anyone around to stable our horses?”

  “Sorry, got no stable hands. Can’t offer you warm food, either. All we have is bread and cheese.”

  “Why so bare?”

  The man shrugged. “All the food we be making in the kitchen is for them up at the castle.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t ye know? From where do ye hail?”

  “Up Cromarty way. We’re traveling down to Dumfries. The wife wants to be with her family when she gives birth.”

  The old man looked Serena up and down. “Hmm. Congratulations to ye.” Without a shred of emotion, he turned back to Malcolm, and leaned an elbow onto the bar. “Listen, friend. If I were ye, I’d ride straight down to Dumfries. It’s a troubled climate here. There’s bound to be a war soon, and our chief is organizing for when the English attack. All able-bodied men have been taken to the castle and given a weapon. They’ve taken my stable lad, my cook—even my son, who’s nearly forty but whose mind is like a child’s. And if ye’re not careful, they might even call ye up to fight alongside them. I’ll give ye a room, but a word to the wise—set out as soon as ye can.”

  As soon as the pub keeper spoke, Malcolm heard a com
motion outside. He darted out onto the cobbled street, and saw a lone horse and rider galloping up the high street.

  “Make way! Make way!” the rider shouted as his horse’s hooves clattered on the ancient stones. He was headed straight for the path that led up to Ramh Droighionn Castle.

  Malcolm’s instincts leapt into heightened awareness. A messenger on horseback at full gallop bound for the clan chief … this did not bode well.

  They hid their horses in a thicket at the foot of the hill far removed from the road up to Ramh Droighionn Castle.

  “We go on foot from here,” said Malcolm. “From now on, we must rely on stealth.”

  Serena adjusted the dark arisaid around her to cover as much of her light-colored dress as she could.

  “Well done,” Malcolm said. He pulled out a pistol from the waistband of his kilt and handed it to her. “Ye may have need of this. Have ye ever used one before?”

  She shook her head as she turned the weapon over in her hand.

  “Do ye know how to shoot?”

  “No, but many is the time I’ve wished I had one of these to shoot you with.”

  A grin appeared on his face. “Funny enough, the same thought had occurred to me.” He took the gun from her and modeled a stance for her. “Ye shoot like this. The trigger is very stiff, and it requires a lot of strength to squeeze. Ye may have to use both hands to pull back on it. Like this.” He showed her how to do it. “Ye only have one pistol ball, so shoot only if ye have to, and only if ye have a reasonable expectation of putting yer man down.”

  Putting her man down. It was a sobering thought. All of a sudden she realized what the implement of wood and metal in her hand was capable of. Malcolm must have sensed her apprehension, for he put his hands on her shoulders.

  “If it comes down to yer life or another’s, shoot to kill. Do ye understand?”

  Numbly, she nodded. That made it worse. It wasn’t the weapon that would put her man down. It was she herself who would be doing it.

  “Stay low and out of sight,” he added. “Remember, nothing can happen to ye if ye’re invisible. Use the bushes to hide behind. And if anything should happen to me, don’t stay here. Make yer way back to Lord Askey’s home in Fort Augustus. All right?”