The Storm Breaks (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 4)

by Julia Brannan

  Under intense pressure, Charles gave in. He established a grand council, to which he appointed his favourites and the leaders of the clan regiments. They would meet every day to discuss and resolve problems and in the meantime the army would camp at Duddingston and be inspected daily by the prince, to keep up morale.

  “That’ll no’ keep the morale up for long,” Alex pointed out to Lochiel, who had just come from the latest meeting to apprise his friend of what had happened. “They’ll be fine for a week or two, maybe, then they’ll start to get restless. How long does Charles mean to wait?”

  “He didna mean to wait at all,” said Lochiel. “He wants to invade England. I canna understand the man.”

  “I can. It’s exactly what he should do in my opinion, before George has a chance to pull the army back from Flanders.”

  Lochiel looked at Alex in surprise.

  “I canna understand you either then,” he said. “Are ye no’ against the Union, yourself?”

  “Aye, I am,” said Alex.

  “Well, then, if the Union’s repealed, Scotland can become an independent kingdom again and James will be king. Scotland’s ours, but for the details. Why bother invading England at all?”

  “Is that the view of the whole council?” asked Alex, frowning.

  “I’m no’ sure. It’s certainly the view of a good number of us.”

  “It wouldna work, Donald. Do you really think that the Elector would let the Stuarts keep Scotland?”

  “I dinna see why not. He doesna want it. He’s never treated us with anything but contempt. I dinna see he’s a choice in the matter, forbye. The Stuarts have all but got it, and with the French behind us…”

  Alex made an extremely rude sound.

  “The French,” he spat contemptuously. “I’ll believe that when I see their troops pouring off the ships. I’m sorry, Donald, but I’ve met Louis. He’s more slippery than a snake. He’ll no’ commit men to us unless it’s in his own interests to do so. If we invade England, he may well help us. If we dinna, then it’s only a matter of time before George collects his whole army together, which incidentally numbers some thirty thousand, and invades to take Scotland back. It isna a matter of whether he wants it or not. He canna allow a bunch of upstart barbarians to deprive him of part of his kingdom without undermining the rest of it and bringing his fitness to rule into dispute. But if we march south now, while there’s nobody to defend it, and take London, not only will George go back to Hanover, but all the lily-livered English Jacobites who’ll never do any more than drink toasts to us otherwise, will finally rise for us. It’s a lot harder to regain a country when you’ve lost it entirely and gone into exile. The Stuarts ken that more than anyone.”

  Lochiel, as was his manner, did not answer immediately, but took the time to weigh what his friend had said.

  “Aye,” he said finally. “I can see your point, Alex, though we’ll have to agree to differ, I think. Whatever we do though, we canna do it without money, shoes, arms and more men. We’ll have to wait a few weeks at least. In the meantime I’ve been designated Governor of Edinburgh, and one of the first things the Governor’s going to do is see if we canna take the Castle.”

  “How are ye going to do that, man?” asked Alex, looking along the Lawnmarket to the formidable edifice of Edinburgh Castle. “General Preston’s a vicious old bastard. He’d blow it up before he let you take it. Ye’ll never get in.”

  “Aye, I ken that,” said Lochiel. “But with my men guarding all the approaches, they’ll never get out, nor will any provisions get in to them. We’ll starve them out, if they dinna surrender first.”

  “Good luck. At least ye’ve got bonny weather for it.” Alex smiled. “And in the meantime, I’ll try to think of things to keep my men occupied until Charles, or rather, the council, see that invading England’s the only way forward.”

  * * *

  “So I was after thinking that as we’re likely to be here for some time, some of ye might like to go home for a wee while, see your wives and bairns.”

  The men, lying or sitting outside their tents enjoying the warm September sunshine, looked up at their chieftain.

  “Will we have long enough?” Alasdair asked.

  “Aye, I reckon we’ll be here for a while yet. We’ve had no rain for weeks, so the roads’ll be good. Ye could have a week or so at home. I assume ye’ll be wanting to go, and Dougal, and Simon too.”

  “And me,” said Angus impulsively, then reddened as several men looked at him. “I may no’ have a wife yet,” he said, “but I’d like to see my…friends.”

  “Whose wife are ye thinking of having then, Angus?” asked Alasdair, to general amusement.

  “No’ yours, at any rate,” retorted Angus, grinning. “She’d cleave me if I went anywhere near her. I tried to kiss her once…afore ye were married,” he added hastily, seeing Alasdair’s expression. “My ears were ringing for days afterwards.”

  “Right, well then, ye can leave as soon as ye’re ready,” said Alex. He bent down to Angus. “Say hello to my future sister-in-law for me,” he whispered in his brother’s ear. “She’s a bonny lassie, but try to remember she’s no’ quite sixteen yet, and that I’ll no’ defend ye from her father if ye do forget.”

  He wandered off, leaving Angus to cope with the good-natured ribbing and the men to start making their preparations, and went in search of his wife, with whom he was to attend a ball at Holyroodhouse that evening, at the express invitation of the prince.

  Although he knew where she would be, and that the comfortable room at the inn where she slept every night and he slept half the time, spending the other half bivouacking with his men as a chieftain should, was only a few hundred yards away from the camp, it was still over two hours before he reached it, having been waylaid half a dozen times on the way. When he finally opened the door it was to see the tempting sight of his wife clad only in her shift, her silver-blonde hair spilling in heavy waves down her back. A powder-blue satin dress was laid out on the bed next to his dress kilt and plaid. He eyed her with admiration and smiled as she turned to face him.

  “If I’d known I’d end up spending my evenings dancing and making small talk in ballrooms, I’d have maybe brought some of Sir Anthony’s more tasteful clothes along wi’ me,” he said. “Still, I suppose all these parties and assemblies do have a purpose. It’s what’s expected of royalty, and it’s certainly raising Charles’s popularity wi’ the people of Edinburgh.” He started to strip off his soiled shirt, in preparation for having a wash.

  “I’m not going,” said Beth unexpectedly. She folded her arms belligerently and glowered at him.

  He scrunched the shirt into a ball and threw it into the corner with the other dirty laundry.

  “We have to, I think,” he said. “Charles has invited us personally. Are ye no’ feeling well, then?”

  “That’s not what I mean, and you know it,” said Beth fiercely.

  Contrary to what she appeared to think, he didn’t know whatever it was at all. His brow furrowed.

  “Beth, in truth I havena a notion what ye’re on about,” he said.

  “I’m not going to Loch Lomond with Angus and the others tomorrow, and you can’t make me,” she said.

  “Aye, I ken that,” he replied.

  “Because if you do,” she continued, “You’ll have to tie me on the horse to get me there, and I’ll come straight back the first chance I get.”

  “I’ve just said…”

  “Waiting for news about Prestonpans for four days nearly killed me. I won’t sit in a hut miles away for months, not knowing whether you’re alive or dead. I’d go mad.”

  “I’m not asking ye to, Beth.”

  “And I…what?” For the first time she registered what he was saying.

  He took a step towards her and she backed off as though expecting him to make a lunge for her. He stopped.

  “I’m no’ asking ye to go home wi’ the others. I ken well ye dinna want to. I dinna want ye to,
either. Although ye’d be safer there than wi’ me, that’s certain.”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” she said. “I’d rather be killed with you than live without you. Are you serious? You’re really not going to try to make me go home?” She had obviously expected to have to make a fight of it, and was deeply suspicious that he’d given in so easily.

  “No,” he said, taking another step forward and placing his hands lightly on her shoulders. “I’ll no’ ask my men to do something I wouldna do myself. And I’ll no’ ask my wife to, either. I know what it’d do to ye to sit at home idle and ignorant for months. If we had bairns it’d be different. Or if ye were pregnant. Ye’re no’ pregnant, are ye?”

  She shook her head, glad for the first time since they married that she wasn’t.

  “Well, then,” he said. “I think ye ken the dangers, to some extent at least. If ye change your mind, ye must tell me, and I’ll get you away.”

  Her hands were cool on his waist, but her smile was radiant.

  “I won’t change my mind!” she cried ecstatically. He gathered her in to him.

  “Ye might do, when you see what it’s really like on campaign. It isna all parties and sitting in the sun. I’m awfu’ sweaty,” he added unromantically as she snuggled against him. “I’ll dirty your clean shift.”

  “To hell with my clean shift,” she murmured against his chest. “I’m so relieved. I thought you’d make me leave you, and I couldn’t bear that. I can cope with anything, as long as I’m with you.”

  He smiled and bent to plant a kiss on the blonde head. He wanted to tell her that he couldn’t bear to be without her, either. His decisions were usually based on common sense and practicality. This had been a purely emotional one, and didn’t sit easily with the pragmatic side of him. He decided not to reveal his feelings this time. If she found the army life too arduous, she would find it easier to say she wanted to leave if she thought he would be happy for her to do so. There was of course the fact that if he did force her to go home now, he had no doubt that she would try to return to him, and would be in far more danger if she did that than she would be staying with him. His decision did at least have a tiny element of practicality to it. Iain was no doubt having much the same experience with Maggie. He lifted a strand of the beautiful, memorable hair, and thoughtfully wove it through his fingers.

  “If ye can cope with anything, can ye cope wi’ wearing a wig, then?” he said.

  * * *

  The ball, held in the great dining room, was not dissimilar to ones Beth had attended in London; there were the same small gossiping groups of richly-attired men and women dotted around the room, which blazed with candlelight. Excellent wines and brandies were served, and tiny, exquisitely prepared pastries, fruit and cakes sat on silver trays on a mahogany table along one wall. Music was provided, and if the dances were composed of reels and jigs rather than English country dances and minuets, still the participants moved with as much grace and enthusiasm as any of their southern counterparts. There were, however, a few notable differences, in Beth’s view.

  One was the welcome fact that she felt under no obligation to attach herself to any group; she did not have to endure the pomposity of Edward or the sniffing of Lord Winter, the vapourings of Isabella or the spitefulness of Lady Winter. Another, for which she would be eternally grateful, was that she didn’t have to feign antipathy toward her husband any more. She observed him now as he talked animatedly with a group of acquaintances. No longer needing to slouch in order to conceal his height, he stood tall and proud, his long chestnut hair gleaming richly in the candlelight. His muscular physique was shown off to good effect by the red and black kilt and plaid and the black velvet jacket he wore, which emphasised the breadth of his shoulders, the slimness of his waist and the length of his legs. A frisson of arousal ran through her as she rejoiced in the fact that he was hers, all hers, and tonight that beautiful body would lie beside hers in bed, and those powerful arms would wrap themselves around her, protecting her, loving her. Ah, life was wonderful!

  The skirts of his kilt flared suddenly as he became aware of her gaze and turned, reaching out a hand and beckoning her to join him. She did, blushing prettily, and was introduced to several people she hadn’t met before, and one or two she had. Lochiel, Murray of Broughton and his beautiful wife Margaret, Mr Oliphaunt, Lord Elcho, and several ladies whose main occupation seemed to be to gaze wistfully at a group of men standing beneath a portrait of King James V, one of whom was Prince Charles Edward Stuart himself, resplendent in red waistcoat and breeches and blue coat trimmed with gold lace, the Star of the Order of St Andrew gleaming on his left breast.

  “Is he not the handsomest man alive?” breathed one young lady in white satin. “Who do you think he will choose to dance with first?”

  A collective sigh ran through the ladies as each one prayed it would be her.

  “None of you, Janet,” said Murray bluntly, dashing their hopes without a care. “He has vowed to put all his energies into the campaign, and has stated he willna dance until he has regained the crown for his father.”

  “Oh!” cried Beth. “But His Highness is so fond of dancing!”

  The other women all looked at her with new interest.

  “Are you personally acquainted with the prince, Lady MacGregor?” asked Janet.

  Beth, at first not connecting the unfamiliar name with herself, realised that because she was at a ball she had expected to be addressed as Lady Elizabeth Peters. Lady MacGregor. Every Highland chieftain’s wife was addressed as ‘lady’ in Scotland. But to openly be a MacGregor, oh, that was so much better! Alex’s hand tightened warningly on her waist and she took heed.

  “We have met, briefly,” she said. “But I thought his love of music and dancing was well known.”

  “You have met! Did you not find him the most charming man? Oh, he is so delightful!” Another round of sighs and wistful glances were launched at the young prince, who seemed oblivious to the hearts he had won.

  “Yes, no one could say he was not charming,” replied Beth, trying not to smile at the young woman’s infatuation, which seemed to be shared by every other female in the room, old or young.

  “Charles has every woman in Edinburgh falling at his feet, doesn’t he?” Beth said a moment later when Alex had stated his desire to join the dancing and had broken away from the group.

  “Does he now?” he said, raising one eyebrow and looking forbiddingly down at her.

  “Every woman except one, then,” she amended with a smile. “I must say in his favour, he doesn’t seem to be encouraging them. He’s positively prickly, if anything.”

  Alex looked across at Charles.

  “Aye, well, I found out when I was Sir Anthony that the more ye ignore the lassies, the more they want you. He’s finding it as much of a nuisance as I did, to be honest. He’s made it quite plain that not only has he nae intention of dancing until the campaign’s over, but he’s nae intention of taking any woman to his bed, either. Even so, he canna stick his nose out of the door without being besieged by silly swooning lassies. I think he expected the novelty to wear off after a day or so, but it hasna, and he kens he canna be openly rude to them no matter how persistent they are, because they’re encouraging their menfolk to join him, and raising money for him.”

  “And it comes naturally to him to be charming, anyway,” she said, watching as one young woman, more courageous than the others, pushed her way into his group and sank at his feet in a curtsey. The prince took her hand and raised her to her feet, smiling and addressing a few sentences to her, before politely making his excuses and leaving the room.

  “Aye, it does. It’ll do the cause no harm, though. Women are more powerful than they’re given credit for. Look at Jenny Cameron, for example. She raised her Glendessary clansmen herself, and brought them to Glenfinnan. And they have a lot of influence wi’ their menfolk, too. A woman can persuade her husband into anything, if she’s a mind to.”

  Beth looked up at he
r husband.

  “When have I ever managed to persuade you to do anything against your will?” she asked.

  He leaned down and kissed the end of her nose.

  “If ye dinna ken that for yourself, d’ye think I’m about to tell ye?” he said. “Now, madam, would you care to dance, or would ye rather stand by the wall with all the other women until the prince asks ye?”

  She danced two dances with Alex, one with Lochiel, another with a man who introduced himself as James Hepburn, and then she slipped quietly out of the room to get some fresh air. She sank down in a chair in the corridor for a few moments, enjoying the respite from standing. Grateful not to be wearing the enormous court hoop that was de rigeur in London, she leaned down to ease her shoe off.

  “Elizabeth! Good evening!” came a familiar voice from above her. She shot to her feet, and sank in a hurried and somewhat ungraceful curtsey.

  Prince Charles took her hand, as she had seen him do with the other woman, and raised her to her feet. Unlike with the other woman, however, he did not relinquish her once she was standing.

  “I did not recognise you!” he cried, looking her over with a smile. “Why on earth are you wearing a wig? Your own hair is so much more beautiful.”

  She reached up automatically to touch the hot and heavily powdered monstrosity which perched on top of her head.

  “We felt that it would be better for me to cover my hair as much as possible when in public, Your Highness,” she said, grimacing a little. “The authorities will have a far better description of myself than of my husband, and my hair is the feature by which I would be most easily identified.”

  “Indeed it is,” agreed the prince. “A most remarkable colour, and a tragedy indeed to have to conceal such a glory. But your husband is right, it is important that you are not discovered. Did you know there is a reward of a thousand pounds for his capture?”

  “No, I did not know that, Your Highness,” said Beth, shocked.