by Amy Jarecki
***
After Hugh took up the oar, low clouds hung above, making Loch Linnhe inky black, and even better, Hugh’s escape smooth and soundless. Thank God Colonel Hill thought him from Dunvegan. Not a soul in Fort William knew him as MacIain of Clan Iain Abrach, the most powerful sept of Clan Donald. His clan suffered enough scrutiny on account of their everlasting feud and power struggles with the Campbells. His father didn’t need a host of dragoons befalling Glencoe. None of his kin did.
The icy gale across the loch blew cold enough to freeze his cods, and worse, the damned fever hadn’t left him, but, by God, he couldn’t allow himself to succumb to it. He’d been given a gift by an angel and he’d pull through this. His head throbbed with the force of a mallet pummeling his brain with his every movement as he rowed through the loch’s choppy waves. Sick and chilled to the point of retching heaves, his teeth refused to cease their chattering. No matter how much he wanted to curl into the hull and hide from the frigid wind, he refused to stop. He’d face the gallows before going back to Colonel Hill’s rat-infested pit, no matter how much he wanted to see Charlotte again. Bloody oath, he’d force that woman’s bonny face from his mind, regardless if she’d helped him.
All night he rowed, growing numb to the agony in his shoulders. Raw blisters stung his palms, but Hugh continued on, forcing himself to endure the tears to his flesh. He must sail into Loch Leven and past the government lookout before dawn. If the regiment spotted Hugh, Colonel Hill would be alerted within hours.
The good news? Once past Captain Drummond’s lookout, Hugh only needed to row the skiff around the bend and across to the mouth of the River Coe and he’d be on his family’s lands. The mere thought infused him with strength. Though a son of the snowcapped Highlands, Hugh knew the waters of Loch Linnhe and Loch Leven as well as he knew Gleann-leac-na-muidhe, the mountainous site of Clan Iain Abrach’s summer house.
If his luck had taken a turn for the better or if God had blessed him with good fortune, Hugh didn’t know. He muscled through until just before dawn when, with his last shreds of strength, he rowed the skiff onto the sandy bottom of the River Coe outlet.
The bandages wrapped around his feet soaked clean through as soon as he stumbled over the side and tugged the wooden hull into a copse of trees and concealed it beneath the foliage.
Hugh was so close, he could smell the peat burning in the hearth. As dawn shed light upon the glen, the outline of Carnoch, Da’s grand stone manse appeared through the mist like a dream. Bloody hell, his head swam as perspiration dribbled down his forehead. He reached out his hands as if he could touch home. Forcing his legs to continue, jagged rocks ripped through his bandages and punished his feet with their unyielding razor-sharp ridges. Hugh only had mere paces before he’d be sitting before the fires of Glencoe, sipping a pint of warm cider with Da and his brothers, Alasdair Og and Sandy.
The bottom of his foot sliced open on a rock. Grunting, Hugh stumbled and crashed to the ground. His head hit hard—another jagged rock cut his temple. Trying to push himself up, everything spun out of control. He eased himself back to the rocky ground and closed his eyes. I’ll be up in a moment.
***
Hugh shuddered awake when a dog licked his face. Christ, he’d nearly frozen to death lying on the soggy earth with water seeping through his threadbare plaid. An enormous, shaggy deerhound hovered over him. Then Hugh’s heart stuttered. He reached up with all the effort he could muster and gave the dog’s shoulder a pat. “Och, Cuddy, do not tell me you’re still alive, old fella.”
The dog whimpered and sat beside him.
Footsteps slapped the mud. “What have you found you worthless hound?”
Hugh would recognize Da’s gravelly voice anywhere. He tried to sit up, but a volley of shivers coursed across his skin and his teeth chattered so relentlessly, he could utter not a word.
“Lord in heaven.” Da dropped to his knees beside him. “My son has returned!” Da’s big arms surrounded him.
“D-d-d-da,” Hugh managed to utter. Devil’s breath, unable to focus, the relentless pounding in Hugh’s skull refused to ease.
“You’re burning up—hotter than a pot over the cooking fire.”
As consciousness slipped from Hugh’s grasp, Da had hoisted him over his shoulder. “Come Cuddy, we’d best take this lad to his mother straight away.”
***
Hugh stirred to a soft cloth brushing across his forehead. “Och, you’re a bonny lass, Miss Hill,” he mumbled.
“Hill? And who might that be?” came a voice decidedly like Ma’s.
He must have been lying atop a feather mattress, because he couldn’t remember ever being so utterly warm and comfortable. He hadn’t a mind to open his eyes, but he did so all the same. “Ma?”
The careworn face he’d adored all his life smiled. Blue eyes twinkled beneath a ruffled linen coif. “You’ve come back to us, laddie.”
“Aye.” His voice rasped. “I finally found a rabbit hole out of Fort William.”
“By the looks of you, I’d reckon the escape nearly sent you to an early grave.” She smoothed her hand over his forehead.
Hugh choked down a sticky gulp. “I came down with the bloody flux whilst inside—did a turn in the infirmary—escaped from there.”
Ma patted her chest rapidly. “Oh, merciful father. I hope we won’t have a mob of dragoons beating down our doors.”
“Nay, Ma. They all think I’m a MacLeod.”
She laughed out loud—the same laugh that had always filled the rooms at the chieftain’s manse in Glencoe—had always made him feel loved.
When her laughter ceased, Ma cupped Hugh’s cheek. Her fingers weren’t silken like Miss Hill’s. Ma’s skin was rough and calloused. Aye, Clan Iain Abrach of Glencoe mightn’t have a motte and bailey fortress, but their wealth came through the tilling of the land and the raising of cattle. Their walls were three thousand feet high, walls only rugged Highland stock could navigate. Nay, Ma need not lift a finger to work, but she forever busied herself doing something—spinning, embroidery, weaving—Ma even rolled up her sleeves and kneaded bread when she felt the leavening could use an extra bit of muscle.
Her expression took on a troubled frown. “What happened at Dunkeld? Your father never speaks of it—just says if it hadn’t been for you, all of Clan Iain Abrach would be rotting in Fort William’s pit prison.”
Hugh took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “That’s about the gist of it, I’d reckon. At least I got off five good shots afore they cornered me.”
A deep crease formed between her greying eyebrows. “I nearly strung up your father by his thumbs when he came home without you.”
“Not to worry. You would have been proud to see him.” Hugh chuckled at the memory of his fearless da. “He fought with the strength of ten Highland warriors.”
Ma pressed on the cloth atop his forehead. “But he left his son in the hands of the usurper’s men.”
“Aye, there were too many of the Williamite bastards. If Da came after me, it would have been the end for all of us.”
“You could have died in there.”
“But I didn’t.” Reaching up, Hugh touched his fingers to Ma’s weathered cheek. “And now I have your gentle hands to set me to rights.”
“You’d best heal with haste.” She gave him a stern Highland mother’s stare. “Once you’ve risen from this bed I’ll expect you to help your father with the livestock. The herd has grown so large we’ll need to take some steers to market.”
“’Tis good news.”
“And then we’ll need to find you a wife.”
Bloody hell, Hugh had been conscious for all of five minutes and Ma was ready to send him to the altar. “No need to rush there.”
“Did you ken Sandy married?”
“He did?” Hugh grinned. He always thought his younger brother might end up married first—since birth the lad could win the hearts of every female within ten miles. “Who’s the lucky lass?”
&nb
sp; A nervous chuckle pealed through Ma’s lips. “Sarah. She’s the eldest daughter of Alexander Campbell of Lochnell.”
With a spike from his heart, Hugh tried to sit up, then flopped back to the mattress. “You cannot be serious.”
“You ken the way of it. One year we pinch cattle from the Campbells, the next they raid our lands and murder our sons and daughters. Well, ’twas time your father put a stop to it.”
“But still, a Campbell, Ma?”
“That’s the way of it.” Her mouth formed a straight line with her nod. “One day you’ll be Chief of Glencoe and the people will look to you for protection. What better way than to make alliances with our greatest enemies?”
“Had I not heard it from you, I never would have believed it.” Hugh stared at the exposed ceiling beams on a sigh. “If Da wanted to make a Campbell alliance, why did he not go straight to Argyll?”
“Och, I doubt I’ll see the day when the MacIains are making alliances with the earl. Lochnell was enough of a stretch.” Ma’s eyes twinkled. “Sarah’s a nice lass—hard worker, too. I thought the news might come as a blow, but give her a chance. I think you’ll like her.”
Devil’s fire, to hear his mother talk, she’d practically opted to forgive all past transgressions of the earls Breadalbane and Argyll. At every turn for centuries the pair of Campbell bastards attacked MacDonald lands with fire and sword—and with not a care for women and children. And what about Sandy, the poor sop? “Is he happy?” Hugh asked.
“Och, you ken your brother. He’s content to watch the sun rise every morn. There’s not a happier lad in all the Coe. Besides, Sarah’s a sturdy lass—she’ll give him many bairns.”
He hoped to God Da kent what he was doing with the wench. Hell’s bones, Hugh would have preferred to slumber atop the feather mattress for another day before his mother bludgeoned him with the news they were now related to the Campbell Clan—a small sept at least. “Miserable bleeding hell,” Hugh groaned.
“Promise me you will not do something rash,” she said with a shake of her finger.
Right—as if Hugh would hop out of bed and kick Sarah’s sturdy, child-bearing hips back to Lochnell. “I’ll try to keep an open mind. But if she does anything to bilk or backbite my brother, so help me…”
Ma grabbed Hugh’s hand and squeezed. “The lass is well aware I’ll tolerate no nonsense on Clan Iain Abrach lands. Regardless, we must keep faith. I ken ’tis not an alliance with the house of Argyll, but ’tis a step toward harmony.” Ma released her viselike grip. “And I hope they’ll keep their grubby hands off our lands and off our wee beasties.”
Hugh sighed with a labored breath. “Forever the peacemaker, are you not, Ma?”
“Wouldn’t you rather have peace than to lay awake every night wondering if the Campbell bastards are planning to slip inside and run a dirk across your throat?”
Hugh groaned. “I’ve lived with that fear all my life—’tis what makes a MacIain tough and rock solid to his core.”
Ma smoothed her hand over his cheek. “Give it some time. You’ve had a terrible ordeal. Once you’re on your feet, take a wee hike up the Rannoch trail. The tranquility will calm your troubles away.”
Chapter Six
Wrapped in a sealskin cloak, Charlotte stood atop the battlements and cast her gaze north, just as she had every day since last August when King William offered a pardon to all Highland Clans providing they took an oath of allegiance before New Year’s Day, 1692. Finally Papa’s letters had been heard and all surviving Jacobite prisoners had been released. Though at first Charlotte had hoped the king’s pardon would lessen the tensions in the Highlands, it only served to make things worse.
Skirmishes between government troops and Jacobites broke out in every corner, and her father had been forced to increase the patrols, using second-rate sentries who carried out their duties with abject indifference. Indeed, civil war had been imminent until mid-December when news came that the exiled King James II sent word permitting the Highland Chiefs to sign their allegiance to William and Mary.
Charlotte’s hopes for peace rose. On another note, as her father suspected, they hadn’t located Hugh MacLeod at Dunvegan or anywhere on the Isle of Skye. True, guilt had made her stomach clench every time anyone mentioned the incident—but if given the chance, she would have done it again. Since that March night when she helped Mr. MacLeod escape, Charlotte had awakened each morning with an image of his striking face emblazoned upon her vivid dreams. She’d never forget the color of his eyes. And ever since he’d made her heart flutter with his fleeting kiss, she’d looked closer at every man she happened upon. Not a one sported Hugh’s fathomless treacle brown. She was quite certain the color owed to Hugh MacLeod alone—if that indeed was his name.
Colder than usual, grey, ominous clouds hung so low, if she didn’t know the peak of Ben Nevis existed to the east, she never would have believed it loomed so near, presiding over the township. Her nose continuously ran, complaining about the relentless wind. Blanketed in white, a hush muffled the entire village as if Jack Frost put all of Fort William and Inverlochy to sleep for the winter.
This year, Mr. Frost had also sent Charlotte’s heart into seasonal slumber. Though Doctor Munro had been annoyingly clear about his romantic interest, she felt nothing for the man whatsoever. She’d been melancholy and unsettled, which wasn’t like her at all. Perhaps something was wrong with her. It certainly made no sense to stand upon the battlements in the bitter cold, searching for someone who quite possibly was an outlaw in his own right—a menace to everything her father stood for. Mr. MacLeod could very well be a member of the thieving clans that infested the Highlands, preying upon and stealing from each other, all the while having no respect for the interred government that ruled them. Of course, those were her father’s words.
Thus far, Charlotte had seen no reason to abhor the Highlanders.
Some plaid-wearing men served in her father’s garrison—clans like Menzies, though they were oft regarded with more contempt than respect. True, they dressed in bold tartans that exposed their knees, and they mostly kept to themselves. Highlanders probably didn’t mix with the others because there was no encouragement to do so.
Marching in place, Charlotte tried to stave off the bitter cold—rather unsuccessfully. The holiday season was upon them, and fewer travelers mulled through Inverlochy’s streets, though in the past fortnight they’d been flooded with clansmen all accompanying their chiefs to pledge their fealty to King William.
“I thought I’d find you up here.” Rubbing the outside of her arms, Emma hastened forward. “My, ’tis freezing.”
“Where is your cloak?” Charlotte asked, opening hers and putting her arm around her serving maid’s shoulders.
“Never mind that, Colonel Hill asked to see you straight away.”
Charlotte’s back tensed. Father usually saved their daily conversations for after supper. “Did he mention why?”
“To me?” Emma rolled her eyes. “Your father wouldn’t tell me if the sky was falling.”
“Oh stop. He isn’t all that bad.” They headed to the stairwell and down the winding steps.
“Mayhap not to you.”
“He’s an inordinately busy man.”
Arriving outside the governor’s door, Emma primped Charlotte’s curls. “I know, and I’m ever so glad he employed me to look after you.”
With a grin, Charlotte grabbed Emma’s hands and squeezed them. “As am I.”
Taking a deep inhale, she opened the door. “Good evening, Papa. You wanted to see me?”
The colonel rested his quill in the silver stand and stood from his writing desk. Though a fire crackled in the hearth, she could still see his breath. “Ah yes, Charlotte, my dear.” He spread his arms and beckoned her into his embrace. “How are you?”
“Well.”
His brows pinched together as he inclined his face down to look at her. “I’ve noticed you’ve not quite been your energetic self as of late. Is
something troubling you?”
Oh Lord, if she told him she’d fallen in love with the man who’d escaped the surgery nine months ago, he would declare her completely daft. Besides, how on earth could she merely have a conversation with a man, lead him to safety, give him a hurried kiss and fall in love? Perhaps her mind was addled. Love at first sight only happened in books—and usually a princess had to kiss a toad to find her prince. “I think ’tis simply the season,” she finally said. “I do miss Mama so very much.” Honestly, she did. Mother had fallen ill and passed away when Charlotte was but ten.
Papa released his grasp on her shoulders and turned his head. “I must admit I do share your pensive feelings toward the season. Christmas should be a time of great joy, yet I fear my own mournful woes have had a profound effect on you.”
“’Tis not that.”
“No, I believe it is.” He strode toward the hearth, scratching his chin. “And I have been ever so selfish in keeping you to myself. You see, you are the only bright rose in this wretched soldier’s life.”
“Oh dear, don’t say that, Papa.” She’d never considered her father might be lonely. Heavens, most of her life, he’d been away from home. Even after Mama passed, Charlotte had lived with her aunt and uncle in London while her father tirelessly served in the king’s army. Her ten-month turn at Fort William had been the longest span of time she’d ever spent with her father. It seemed every day she grew to know him better. He was far more human and less stringent than she’d realized. Though an ardent soldier, he experienced emotions like any other person. Why Charlotte found that odd, she had no idea. Surely Papa had needs just like anyone else. “Do you…do you want to remarry?”
He faced her and chuckled. “You are a dear, forever thinking of everyone’s needs but your own.” He reached out and grasped her hands. “To be honest, I believe it is past time for you to wed.”
Her heart stopped. Worse, her head swooned. They were three days from celebrating the New Year, and Papa wanted her to… “Me?”