To make a foray like this – it was sheer madness.
Domnall, a practiced soldier, knew it was doomed to defeat – the support they had the first time, the fighting weight of the loyal clans – this was all gone, now. Most of the Highlanders were going home, as best they could, to the Highlands. The French and their other foreign allies had disappeared. They were a band of fifty wearied men, sick of war, and they would have no chance against the fresh, victorious opposition.
“You reckon he means to stop marching sometime?”
Domnall shrugged. “I reckon he’s barmy enough not to know, yes or no.”
Bethann chuckled. “Well, we’ll see. Meself, I’ll take a breather by that tree there.”
“Breather?” Domnall raised a brow. “Reckon he’ll let you?”
Bethann grinned. “Reckon I don’t care.”
Domnall looked away. Privately, he thought the way Bethann taunted McLammore ill-advised. A fool he could have been, but harmless – no. Fanatics were all dangerous men.
And this man is a fanatic.
He surveyed the column of weary, marching men, marching behind McLammore. With packs slung over their shoulders, canvas weather beaten from perhaps years of doing just this, these men were sick of warfare. They did not wish to be here, just the same as Domnall.
And now I have even less reason to wish to be here, he thought.
He shook his head, swallowing hard. Chlodie. The thought of her was peril. He couldn’t let himself think about that, for if he did, the grief and anger would make him do something stupid.
If I think about Chlodie, and how much I want to be near her, I’ll kill McLammore.
That was what scared him. Instead of risking it, he kept his thoughts of Chlodie behind a high wall in his mind, not letting himself visit them until he was alone, almost asleep.
Then, he thought his visions of her would drive him mad. He’d wept, the first night, tears flowing silently down his cheeks, mixing with the wet soil beneath him where they camped.
Now, he had learned to visit those memories more slowly, and avoid the painful ones. He recalled her smile, which made him smile. Her warm laugh.
Everything else is too dangerous.
He had been marching two days.
“Hey! What you think you’re doing, eh?”
Domnall raised his head, to see that the comment was not directed at him, but at someone standing nearby the tree.
He looked over, and felt his heart sink to see Bethann, standing under the tree, giving everyone a jaunty smile.
Bethann…please stop.
He wanted to shout it, but he knew that he was far too late. He saw his friend shrug at the officer who’d challenged him. McLammore had appointed the “officers” himself, neglecting to respect the previous ranks held by his recruits.
“I’m taking a rest, Sarge,” Bethann said. “I think a feller needs one, once in a while. Hey?” he called to the others, cheerily. Somebody yelled, approvingly.
The officer – a fellow with thick graying hair and a strong jaw line – stared at him.
“Get back in line!” he barked.
Bethann shrugged. “I’ll get back in line,” he said. “But can you tell me when we’re going to stop? The men need a proper rest.”
“Aye!” somebody else shouted.
Grumbles of assent followed. Near Domnall, a man sat down, heavily.
“Bethann,” he whispered, feeling desperate. “No…”
Bethann caught his eye and grinned. He took off his cap and waved it, cheerful. “Hey, fellows! How’s about we all follow McLammore, and ask him when he’s going to let us stop. Eh? We need information.”
“Information!” somebody shouted.
“Information!”
“Tell us more!” someone chanted.
Soon, almost all were shouting. The march had stopped, and the valley was filled with the chorus.
“Tell…us…more.”
Domnall, a practiced soldier, felt his hair stand on end. The clearing thrummed with danger, something he couldn’t prevent. He had seen this sort of thing, once or twice. Men rebelling against orders, officers losing their authority. Making reprisals swiftly, to try and regain it. His whole stomach twisted, nauseatingly. He felt sweat prickle his skin. He saw McLammore turn around, eyes wild. He ran to Bethann.
At that moment, a shot rang out.
Domnall and Bethann collapsed together in the trees, the shot, clearly meant for Bethann, whistling over.
“Sir!” Bethann said, staring at him. His shock was almost funny. “He shot me!”
“You want to try being a hero?” Domnall said, a wry smile on his face. “Some people will try shooting at you.”
Bethann chuckled. He reached a hand to Domnall, who grasped it. They both laughed. Suddenly, the whole incident was funny. They were still laughing when Domnall noticed the clearing was silent.
McLammore was passing through the ranks, coming toward them.
Bethann, sensing the danger, scrambled to his feet. He reached a hand down to Domnall, who took it, and let him help him upright. Together, they faced McLammore.
“Get back in line,” the fellow hissed.
Domnall looked at him carefully. Shoulders slumped, eyes wandering, he looked like a man who’d had a bad shock. His whole posture held an air of brokenness.
He knows he’s lost influence. And we gained some.
He looked at Bethann, brow raised in admiration.
Bethann looked away.
Together, wordlessly, they rejoined the column.
“Nice work,” Tam Haverford whispered to them, a newfound friend. He patted Domnall’s shoulder.
“Thanks for saving the lad,” he added.
Domnall chuckled. “Bethann’s alright.”
Bethann grinned, a smile of genuine emotion.
“Thanks,” he said.
They marched on in silence.
The day was starting to move to late afternoon, the dusk falling, darker due to rain. They were slowing now, and, eventually, the front ranks were sitting down.
“We make camp,” the shout went around.
Domnall turned, feeling someone press his hand. “Thanks,” Bethann whispered.
Domnall inclined his head. “It was nothing. You’re a hero, Bethann. A big fool to try it, but a hero. Well done.”
Bethann went pink. He shrugged.
“Just did what was natural, sir.”
Domnall pushed his shoulder, gently. “You’re alright, Bethann.”
“Thanks.”
They sat down together in the darkness.
While the camp fires were lit, and soldiers rummaged in their packs to find their rations, Domnall found his mind wandering to Duncliffe Manor. He wondered what Chlodie did there. He thought about her, so still, the candles touching her pale skin with warmth as they sat at the dinner table. He remembered the sweet way her lips parted when she thought of something surprising.
His loins ached, and his heart wept. He wanted to be there, beside her, talking about silly everyday things. See her expression. Smell her scent.
* * *
Here he was, stuck out in a wet forest, with fifty men and a madman leader. With no way of knowing if we’ll survive.
That was the worst part. They knew the outline of McLammore’s plan – if a plan it could be. He was going to lead the men to Ruthven and from there mount an offensive. Domnall knew that any attempt was likely doomed. Their foreign allies had all gone, and most of the Highland troops had departed already. They were too few, and the enemy too strong.
We will be cut to ribbons, and for nothing more than one man’s madness.
He leaned back, closing his eyes. Beside him, in a whisper, Bethann questioned.
“What’re you thinking about, Lieutenant?”
He shrugged. “Nothing important. Just wondering, is all.”
“Reckon we should run for it?”
The statement was so casual that Domnall barely heard. Then, when the
words made sense, he turned, staring, to Bethann.
“We can’t.”
Bethann nodded. “Reckon I know.”
It was too late for that. The thought of leaving the remaining men to slaughter and death did not appeal to Domnall. He would rather stay and try to stop the madness than simply run. Besides, the risk of a bullet in the back was high. McLammore had posted his “officers” around the camp at night, to ensure nobody fled.
“Well, then. Not much we can do about it, eh?” Domnall sighed. “Might as well have dinner.”
Bethann chuckled. “There’s that, too, sir.”
Domnall stood and went to the fire, taking his ration of bread with him.
As he held out a plate for stew, he had a sudden swift recollection of Chlodie’s hand, passing him a plate at dinner. The way those fine, tapering fingers gripped it firmly. The pale pink of her skin.
“Damn it,” he hissed.
“What was that?” McLammore challenged him.
Domnall shook his head. “Nothing, sir.”
“You and your friend,” McLammore intoned slowly. “Say a lot. I don’t like men who say a lot.”
“No, sir.”
Domnall kept his head down, but he could see the way those feral eyes hunted him as he went back to his place. He shivered. He knew that, in a battle, he would not just be facing enemies from the opposition’s side.
That fellow’s like as not to shoot me as any Hanoverians will.
He shuddered. He was pleased Bethann had made a challenge, but he knew they had an enemy now. A dangerous one. They would have to be careful.
The rain had stopped hours ago, which was a mercy. At least it made it possible to sleep. He stretched out on a borrowed canvas sheet, arranging his cloak around him. Weary, he closed his eyes.
Images of Chlodie pressed on his thoughts, sweet and insistent. The soft warmth of her mouth, the perfume of her skin. He gritted his teeth and tried not to think of how sweet it was to kiss her; how wordlessly wonderful it was to lie with her.
“Sir?”
He must have slept, because the whisper brought him startlingly awake. He sat up, rubbing a weary hand over his skull.
“Bethann?” he hissed, voice sharp. “What is it?”
“Someone. In the trees.”
Domnall looked over to where he indicated. He was right. Over there, in the midst of the pressing tree boughs, someone was lurking. His hair stood on end.
“Who do you think it...?”
“Who might it be?” Bethann retorted softly.
“McLammore?”
“Who else?”
Domnall shivered. He could just make out the shape of the man, stiff and poised. He frowned, narrowing his eyes to sharpen his focus. He could have sworn McLammore was not as slight as that, nor that he was so poised. This was a younger person, he reckoned.
“It isn’t McLammore,” he informed.
“You reckon not?” Bethann was skeptical. He had, Domnall noticed, un-slung his rifle. Black and lethal-looking, it reposed in shadow on his knees. They both stayed, half-crouched, staring, into the darkness.
“It’s too poised,” he said. “See? Look at him moving. McLammore hasn’t that grace.”
Bethann watched, and then nodded.
“You’re right,” he opined. “This is a younger sort.”
“Yes,” Domnall agreed.
Together, they watched as the young shadow moved through the trees, heading around the margins of the camp towards the front. Domnall tensed. A spy?
His first thought was that, if the fellow was there to shoot McLammore, he wasn’t going to intervene. Better for all of them, he reckoned, if McLammore was somehow prevented.
What if it was a spy, though? Someone sent to count numbers, report back? He looked at Bethann. Bethann shrugged.
“Follow, sir?”
Domnall nodded. He managed to stand, his knees stiff and sore from the cold. Together, silently, they stood and followed the shadow through the woods.
The younger man was moving swiftly, now, almost as if he sensed pursuit. Domnall leaned back into the shadow of a tree just as he turned.
Whew. He’s nearly seen me.
He glanced at Bethann who, contrary to usual, was walking with some sensitivity. He had ducked behind a tree and was well-concealed. Domnall nodded to him. Made a circling motion with his hand.
Bethann nodded.
Together they crept forward, following their target.
They were getting closer, nearing the man, when, all of a sudden, someone called out a challenge. The young man broke for cover and ran, crashing, through the brush.
Domnall and Bethann, strayed from camp, tensed.
“Where’re you running, eh?” the sentry muttered. “You think you can leave?”
Domnall and Bethann stayed where they were, well-hidden. While the sentry blundered about, they waited, breath tense, anticipating the yell, the shot in the darkness that would end their life.
When nothing happened, Domnall felt himself breathe out. He relaxed, sharply, his knees feeling weakened.
“He’s gone,” he whispered.
Bethann, beside him, relaxed. He felt him slide back against the tree, shoulders brushing down the bark.
“That’s good.”
Domnall smiled at him, dazzling in the darkness, and together they slipped back to camp. All that night, Domnall was restless, wandering who the form was they had detected, hiding in the darkness.
MESSAGE IN THE DARKNESS
Chlodie stirred on her pallet. The room was dark, she saw through eyelids that flickered open briefly. The darkness that surrounded her was more pressing. Her eyes fell closed again, and the dark intensified inside her. It brought with its pressing weight feelings of fear.
She was lost, uncertain. Hunted. She felt sweat trickle down her back, cold and chilling. She was in the forest, the trees soaring through the dark. It was silent.
I don’t know where I am.
She felt the heart-stopping fear of being lost. Around her, the trees pressed close, their shadows making wells of blacker dark before her eyes. She felt a terror that was worse than simply being confused or unsure. It was a terror of being pursued. An even greater fear of what lay ahead, as well.
“Tam!” she heard a scream. “Tam? Where are you?”
A new vision flashed up, a woman’s face, gaunt and anguished, appeared before her vision, clouds of black hair loose around her shoulders, face twisted in terror.
Then, breathless, she was awake.
The water dripped from a cistern. The coals glowed. She was in her bedroom in Invermore, silent.
“What..?”
Chlodie leaned back on the headboard of the bed. She felt utterly finished. Her feet were cold, and she shivered, drawing the blankets around her. Threads of her visions still played out before her eyes. Someone ran through woodlands. Somebody wept.
“Tam,” she said.
She had no idea why, but the face of the youth from the Highlands – someone she’d barely noticed at the dinner three nights ago, too preoccupied with other things – came to mind.
The woman screaming, the one whose anguished cry woke her, was his mother.
“Lady Adeline. I must warn her.”
Something was going to happen to Tam.
Shaking herself to wakefulness, Chlodie slipped out of bed, sliding her feet into soft slippers. She went to the window and drew back the curtain. Night lay over the gardens, the shapes of trees and paths just discernible in shadow.
“What just happened..?”
Chlodie shook herself. She had one of her visions. That much was obvious. What it meant, she had as yet no idea.
All I know is that I need to tell.
Perhaps a week ago, she would have concealed the vision. Would have risked sharing it only with her maid, who – even if she thought her strange – tended to listen, or at least passed the message on to those who needed to know.
Now, after her encounter with M
errick, the shame was gone. Her visions were real, and important. This one, she needed to pass on.
The boy will be killed, if I don’t.
She shuddered. There had been someone else in the vision, too – someone on the outskirts, not involved, directly, but observing. Her heart ached, though she didn’t know why. Whoever watched was in danger too. She had to deliver this message to whomever it concerned.
“Lady Adeline.”
Springing out of bed, she started preparing herself. She set out her purse, her bonnet, her cloak. Opened the wardrobe and laid out her traveling things on the chair by the bed. Fetched her boots. She looked at the clock.
Two o’ clock in the morning.
Shivering, she got back into bed. She had several hours to wait before the dawn. More, before she could depart.
As soon as I’m ready, I’m leaving.
Lady Adeline, she recalled, was staying near Duncliffe. It meant a day’s hard riding, or even longer in the coach. However, she had to reach her. It was urgent.
“I will go as soon as I am ready.”
She slipped back under the covers and she must have slept, because the next thing she knew was the touch of sunshine on her face, falling through the drawn-open curtains.
“Morning,” she said, sitting up immediately. Her head was fuzzy with exhaustion, and she felt sick. However, she slipped out of bed and went to the bell rope. She had traveling to do. She rinsed her mouth with water from the ewer, washing her face in the cold liquid. Then she rang the bell again.
“Mattie?”
“Milady!”
Her maid appeared almost as soon as she’d put her head round the door. She looked horrified.
“Milady! It’s seven o’ clock in the morning! What are you doing about so early..?”
Chlodie shook her head, feeling weary. “I have to go, Mattie,” she said. “It’s important.”
“Milady..?” Mattie frowned, looking worried. “Are you…alright?”
“I’m fine, Mattie,” she said flatly. Inside, she wondered if her father’s overriding belief in her oddness had spread through the staff. It annoyed her, making her feel misjudged. She turned her back to Mattie, looking through the window.
A Highlander's Gifted Love (Blood 0f Duncliffe Series Book 9) Page 14