The Fearless Highlander (Highland Defender Book 1)

by Amy Jarecki

  Stepping in she shook her finger at his big nose. “You cannot back away from this. If you do I’ll…I’ll have no recourse but to go alone.”

  “Bloody Christmas.” He marched ahead, then lashed the gelding’s reins to the post outside a small cottage. “Wait here whilst I go tell Emma I’ve a job to do.”

  Charlotte clapped her hands to her chest with a huge sigh of relief. “Thank you.”

  With a grunt, Farley slipped inside the ramshackle cottage. Charlotte clutched Papa’s cloak tighter around her shoulders and looked back along the close. Their footprints had already been covered with snow and she could scarcely see but ten feet ahead.

  The door opened and Emma stepped outside with a plaid wrapped around her shoulders. “Miss Charlotte, please return to the fort. Leave this to Farley. He’ll warn Mr. MacIain for you.”

  She dug her heels into the snow. “I’m going.”

  Farley came out, pulling a woolen bonnet over his head. “You’ll slow me down.”

  “I can ride as well as any man, and I’ll pay you two month’s wages.” Bless it she would not back down on this.

  “Bloody hell,” said Farley. “Where did you come up with all this coin?”

  Charlotte raised her chin. “’Tis mine.” That’s all he needed to know—besides there was much more where that came from.

  With a sigh, the big man looked to his wife. Emma shrugged and removed her blanket. “The least I can do is give you a plaid to throw over your head and shoulders.”

  “Thank you.”

  Farley stuck his finger an inch away from Charlotte’s chin. “If what you say is true, the perimeter of Glencoe will be crawling with redcoats. Worse, we’ve already seen an inch of snow in the past hour. That means our only chance at success is to skirt around Loch Leven and up the hills to find Hugh.”

  “Will we arrive before dawn?”

  “I know not, but one thing’s for certain.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If you’re pulling my leg, I’ll be needing more than two month’s wages.”

  ***

  Though Charlotte wore her father’s cloak, overshoes, and atop it all, Emma’s thick woolen plaid draped over her head and clutched taut at her neck, she’d never imagined a human being could be so cold. Worse, Farley’s “back way” taking them around Loch Leven added far too many miles and precious time to the journey.

  They’d been riding for hours, and if she asked one more time how much longer their journey would take, she feared the big tracker would knock her off her horse and leave her lying in a drift of snow. He’d practically alluded to as much with his grumbling responses to her questions, so Charlotte had kept her mouth shut for what seemed like an eternity.

  Ahead, the big man rode on, his hand gripping her horse’s lead line as he trudged through abominable conditions—it wasn’t only inky dark, the snow blasted on the wind in sideways sheets. Farley had insisted he take charge of her mount in case they hit heavy snow, all the while griping about her worthless sidesaddle. Charlotte watched the mane in front of her. About an inch had built up again, like it had a few times thus far—the white flakes would accumulate and then grow overwarm and slide down the gelding’s neck. She could see a foot, mayhap two ahead, and could swear ice crystals formed beneath her nose with every exhale. Her hands were too numb to move—not to mention her feet. Goodness, even her eyelashes were incased in frost.

  With no mantel clock to tell her the time, all Charlotte could do was pray. They must arrive well before dawn. She was so distraught, she wanted to slap Farley’s horse’s rump with her crop and demand a faster pace. Curses, curses, curses!

  How could men stand to travel like this in the dead of winter? Were all of the officers in Britain out of their minds, ordering an attack in the midst of a blizzard? Lord, she couldn’t decide what made her more miserable—the fatigue sweeping through her entire body, demanding sleep, or being so cold she could no longer move. She ground her chattering teeth and tightened her grip on the plaid. In no way would she utter one word of complaint. The MacGregor man should be abed with his wife right now, but no, Charlotte had insisted he ride at once and take her with him.

  She would freeze to death before she uttered a word of complaint.

  They would make it to Hugh’s cottage.

  They must.

  With resolute fortitude, Charlotte shook her head and focused on the only thing she could now see—her horse’s ears. How Farley could pick his way through this squall in the darkness of night, she had no idea, but she trusted the tracker. If Hugh trusted him, then she did, too.

  “The fires are burning atop Signal Rock.” Farley’s grumbling voice came from the silent darkness.

  Charlotte peered ahead, but saw not a thing. “How can you tell?”

  “There’s a faint glow up and to the left.”

  “Are we almost there?” Charlotte asked, straining to see anything with snowflakes clouding her eyes.

  Farley cleared his throat.

  Curses, she’d vowed not to ask a gain. “Apologies.”

  A low chuckle rumbled. “Hugh’s cottage is about a mile ahead.”

  Her heart skipped a beat. They were so close! Hugh was right to trust the tracker—Farley was a good man, despite his gruff mien. “Do you have any idea what time it might be?”

  “Afore dawn.”

  “I could have told you that.”

  “Then why did you ask?”

  “I supposed if we’re so near the cottage, you might have a better idea than I.” Charlotte tapped her heels and urged her mount closer to Farley’s. “We must arrive well before the sunrise.”

  His white-shrouded outline twisted and regarded her. “Aye, and how many times are you aiming to remind me of that fact?”

  “Forgive me.” She bit her lip. “I’m ever so anxious.”

  “Let’s just hope we don’t end up dead, diving into the midst of this mayhem.”

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m praying we arrive soon enough to thwart the whole thing.”

  Farley tugged the lead line without another word.

  Truth be told, I’ll wager the tracker’s as nervous as I.

  The following mile took an eternity to traverse—probably because the visibility was so poor. Charlotte didn’t even see the cottage until they stopped at the door. Lord, the tracker could have probably led them there blind.

  With a rush of her pulse, she snapped from her frigid cocoon and dismounted without assistance. Dashing to the door, she hammered on it with both fists, ignoring the shooting pain of ice cold knuckles. “Hugh! It’s me!” With no immediate answer, she turned the latch and pushed inside.

  Coals glowed from a small hearth, casting a dim light. Charlotte turned, spotting another door. Racing through, she found him beneath a heap of bedclothes. “Hugh!” She shook his shoulder. “You must wake.”

  He sat up with a start, dirk in hand.

  Charlotte skittered away, well aware of what a man could do when roused from deep slumber.

  “Charlotte?”

  “You’d best listen to her,” Farley said from the doorway, holding an oil lamp. “We’ve ridden all night in a bloody blizzard.”

  Hugh lowered his weapon. “What the devil?”

  “I-I-I read a missive from the Master of Stair. They’re going to put all of Glencoe to fire and sword—before dawn!”

  “My God.”

  “’Tis worse.” She clutched her fists beneath her chin. “Orders are to kill the old fox and his sons—put everyone under seventy under the sword.”

  “You’re certain of this?” Hugh swiped his hand across his face. “But I saw myself—Glenlyon received his marching orders only this eve.”

  Dashing to the bed, she grasped his hand, squeezing it between her palms. “He received orders to murder you.” She sucked in a gasp. “Major Duncanson is moving in from the west, and Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton’s battalion is climbing the Devil’s Staircase to block the pass to the west.”
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  “With the amount of snow building up, I doubt Hamilton will make it to the party,” said Farley.

  Hugh leapt from the bed, belting his plaid atop his shirt. “What about the south?”

  “Just a wall of mountains,” Farley said.

  Hugh shifted his gaze to the wall clock. “Jesus Christ. ’Tis only two hours ’til dawn.”

  A shot rang out in the distance—followed by another and then a volley of fire.

  He pulled a sword from a hiding place inside the roofing thatch and belted it across his shoulder. “Take Charlotte southwest behind Meall Mòr.” Shoving daggers into his sleeves and hose, he continued. “There are a pair of ramshackle hunting shielings hidden in the hills.”

  Charlotte jolted as the musket fire increased.

  Hugh snatched a powder horn from the wall and charged two pistols, shoving them into his belt.

  “You must go with us!” Charlotte grasped his arm. “Do you not hear? ’Tis madness to ride down there.”

  His eyes blazed as he met her stare. “I cannot abandon my clan.” Hugh gripped the back of her neck, planting a fierce kiss on her lips. “Go with Farley. I’ll meet you there.”

  She grazed her fingers over stubbled cheeks. “But you could be killed!”

  “No. ’Tis nay time for me to die.” With a clang of weapons, Hugh raced for the door. “Farley will keep you safe. God help me, I will be there.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Hugh opened the door to his cottage to the click of a flintlock. Diving back inside, the musket fired, splintering the door. “Snuff the lamp,” he barked at Farley. “Charlotte—hide!”

  Shoving their bayonets through the doorway, six dragoons filed inside. Hugh drew his pistols and fired. Two men dropped.

  Casting the weapons aside, he drew his sword, advancing with a roar.

  Farley took up the flank.

  The stunned dragoons charged with their bayonets.

  With an upward swing, Hugh advanced. “Campbell sent only six to cut me down?” He lunged for the kill. “Thought I’d be abed did you?”

  Spinning, he took out the next.

  Farley cut one down.

  Hugh whipped around, looking for the last. “Where is the bastard?”

  “Never thought I’d see the likes of Colonel Hill’s daughter hiding in a rat’s nest,” jeered a red-coated dragoon levering a dagger at Charlotte’s throat.

  Hugh lowered his sword. “Let her go. She has nothing to do with this.”

  “Is that so?” The man’s gaze shot to Farley as he inched toward the door with Charlotte in a stranglehold. “My guess is she tipped you off.”

  “How can you murder these people in cold blood?” Charlotte struggled, unable to break free.

  The soldier pushed his knife harder. “Orders.”

  Charlotte grimaced with a hiss. “Do you not have a mind of your own?”

  “Shut your gob.” The bastard tightened his grip. “I’d like nothing better than to run my blade across your neck and blame your death on MacIain.”

  Hugh slid a foot forward, raising his sword a bit. By God he’d kill the louse just for touching his woman. “Why not take me on—just us pair?” Come, you maggot.

  “You?” the cur smirked. “I’m not planning to die this day.” His feet slid sideways as he continued to inch toward the door.

  Staring straight at Hugh, Charlotte’s fingers clamped around the arm holding the dagger.

  He tightened his grip around the sword’s hilt. Och aye, she was the daughter of a soldier.

  She blinked.

  Hugh gave a subtle nod.

  Before he drew another breath, she bore down and twisted. The knife fell.

  Lunging for the attack, Hugh drove his blade through the bastard’s gullet.

  In a blink, he had Charlotte wrapped in his embrace. “I should have kent the daughter of a colonel would be brave. My God, you are amazing.”

  Clutching her fists beneath her chin, she shook like a terrified puppy, but Hugh meant what he’d said. Lord, he knew men who wouldn’t have acted with such courage when facing a dagger held at the neck.

  “I—I…”

  Hugh kissed her temple. “Wheesht, lass. ’Tis over.”

  Down below, musket shots continued to fire.

  “I’m afraid it has only begun,” said Farley.

  Hugh nodded. Lord knew what horrors he’d find in Glencoe. With one last kiss, he nudged Charlotte toward the tracker. “Go with MacGregor.”

  Her fingers clung to his waist while a tear slipped from her eye. “Why can you not go with us?”

  If only he could spirit her away—but Hugh MacIain MacDonald was no coward. “I give you my word I’ll be with you soon.”

  “Take my horse,” said Farley. “He’s already saddled.”

  “My thanks.” Shoving his sword back into his scabbard, Hugh sprinted out the door, leapt on the pony, and dug in his heels.

  Approaching Glencoe at a gallop, Hugh couldn’t believe his eyes. Yes, he’d raided and had been plundered, but he’d never seen complete annihilation. Every roof was ablaze, and as he neared, his kinsmen and women ran in all directions without aim, some naked, some barely clad while snow fell atop them.

  “A Meall Mòr,” he bellowed, digging in his heels. He drove straight toward a dragoon chasing a Mary with a battleaxe. Before Hugh reached them the sick cur cleaved the woman—no older than Charlotte—in the back.

  Infused with rage, Hugh barreled on course. Drawing his sword, he roared at the murderer and cut him down.

  Surrounded by death and dying, Hugh spun his horse and swung at every red-coated devil in his path. Blood spewed across the snow. As he fought, he steered Farley’s garron toward his parent’s house. In the distance, angry flames leapt from Carnoch. Seeing no clear route to the manse without facing a mob of bloodthirsty dragoons, he headed for the river path. It might take longer, but with luck he wouldn’t be shot for his efforts.

  As Hugh clambered over the icy bank, bedraggled MacIains huddled and shivered. “A Meall Mòr,” he repeated over and over as he dug his heels deeper into the horse’s barrel.

  At the path to Carnoch, Hugh reined his mount to a stop. Dragoons ran through the snowy paddocks, firing their muskets at livestock. Piles of black hide lay in contrast with the white ground.

  Hugh dismounted and crouched in the foliage, creeping toward the burning manse.

  His mother’s wail shrieked on the wind.

  The rear door swung open and creaked as if hanging from a derelict shack.

  Sword at the ready, Hugh stepped inside the kitchen. Smoke oozed through the air like ghostly spirits, but there was nary a soul in sight.

  Ma’s wail came again.

  Hugh sprinted for his parent’s bedchamber.

  Finding the door kicked in, nothing could have prepared him for the horror beyond its splintered timbers. Completely naked with blood streaming between her legs, Ma crouched over Da’s lifeless body, weeping out of control. Beneath the old man’s head, dark blood seeped, spreading into the plaid rug. By the gaping wound in Da’s skull, he’d been shot in the head—there’d be no chance for him now.

  “Ma.” Hugh dashed to his mother, wrapping his arms around her, shielding her from her nakedness.

  “The captain b-burst in here and s-shot him,” Ma shrieked in a staccato wail.

  Tears stung Hugh’s eyes.

  Curling into a ball, every muscle in her body tensed. “And they took a d-dagger to me.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Hugh jumped up and snatched a plaid from the bed. “They were here a fortnight.” He draped the blanket around his weeping mother. “Stayed under our rooves as guests under trust.”

  “I’ll kill them all,” a husky voice growled from the doorway.

  “Og.” Hugh protectively placed his palm on Ma’s shoulder while his brother stepped inside, blood dripping from his sword.

  “Sandy’s dead. Sarah ran a dirk across his throat whilst he slept.”

  “Noooo
ooooo,” Ma wailed, clutching her fists. “Not. My. Bairn!”

  Hugh kneeled beside her, tears blurring his vision as he tucked the blanket around her. “Glenlyon, Hill, William, Stair…they’ve all declared war.”

  Og leaned on his sword, taking deep breaths. “When I saw six of them ride up the hill, I thought you’d be dead, too.”

  “Not likely.” Hugh ground his teeth. “We must move Ma to safety afore they double back to bayonet the survivors.” Hugh hefted his mother into his arms. “Campbell has orders to put all under seventy under the sword.”

  “They’re doing a bloody good job of it.” Og sidled toward the window and peered out. “If it weren’t for the creak of the floorboards, I’d have been murdered in my bed by my backstabbing houseguest.”

  “’Tis an abomination,” Ma cried with a shudder.

  “Come, brother, take our mother to the cottages behind Meall Mòr.”

  “Why not up the pass—we might be able to make it to the summer houses?”

  “That route’s blocked. Hamilton’s marching his men up the Devil’s Staircase.”

  Og blinked and strode back to the center of the room. “How do you know?”

  “Miss Hill arrived with Farley MacGregor moments afore the shooting started.”

  “Hill?”

  “I reckon she saved my life—and now she’s fleeing for hers. Headed to Meall Mòr like the rest of us.” Hugh placed his palm on Og’s shoulder. “I’ve a horse tethered by the river. Take Ma. I’ll stay and fight.”

  Mother grasped his arm and squeezed. “No. No more fighting.”

  “Are you mad, brother?” Og glared. “Those who haven’t fled are dead.”

  Burning timbers crashed down, blocking the doorway.

  Hugh raced for the window and levered it open. “Hurry, else we’ll be burned alive.”

  Together, the brothers spirited their mother outside while tongues of flames chased them out the window.

  With Ma hunched over the horse’s withers, Hugh and Alasdair crept along game trails to the pass of Meall Mòr, the flat-topped mountain with its steep slopes. He prayed the government troops had discounted this route—treacherous, it was one he’d taken only when hunting mule deer in summer.