The Fearless Highlander (Highland Defender Book 1)

by Amy Jarecki

  In the distance, the roof of his cottage was now afire. Hugh swore he could see Glenlyon’s outline against the blaze, mounted on a horse, his sword raised, bellowing orders, no doubt.

  His orders were to kill the old fox and his sons? I’ll see to it he’ll fail by half, and then I’ll have my vengeance.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  With daylight came more horror. Given the luxury of horseback, Charlotte and Farley arrived first at the two broken down hovels—one with its roof caving in due to rot and the weight of snow.

  Charlotte had no idea how the horses made it through the rugged pass. Her mount had foundered thrice. There had to be at least three feet of snow on the ground and snow was still falling. She prayed they’d blazed a trail for those poor souls on foot.

  Farley levered open the door to the shieling with a roof. Stepping inside, it was too dim to see anything, but Charlotte’s overshoes skimmed atop dirt. “We’d best start a fire.”

  “I’ll set to it.”

  She nodded. “Leave the door ajar to cast some light.”

  Once her eyes adjusted, she’d wished they hadn’t. The place was a shambles. Broken pots and timbers, a single chair missing one leg, a moth-eaten blanket, so filled with holes and infused with dust it would provide no warmth whatsoever. Thatch from the roof piled everywhere, and rather than a hearth, there were rocks in a circle with an iron hook hanging down from the rafters for cooking.

  At least they could use some of the timber for the fire.

  Charlotte picked up the chair to move it aside when a rat scurried out from beneath a heap of thatch.

  Squealing, she dropped the chair and skittered backward. Staring at the heap of debris, it moved as if there were a whole nest of rats under the rubbish. Wringing her hands, she slid back until she bumped into the open door. Nearly jumping out of her skin, Charlotte dashed outside. “Farley!”

  The big man was nowhere to be seen. Curses.

  Charlotte hated rats. The filthy vermin made her skin crawl. She set off through the thigh-deep snow, heading toward the hovel with half its roof missing, when an eagle called overhead. Heaven’s stars, Hugh’s people would soon be here. She could not look the coward in their eyes—and those damnable rats had to go.

  Clenching her fists, she forced herself back inside. With rapid blinks, her eyes again adjusted as she glared at the pile of debris. “’Tis you or me, and I’m a great deal larger.”

  Carefully stepping nearer, she picked up a pole like those holding the thatch above. She gripped the weapon for dear life while her face stretched in a grimace. Levering under the pile, she flung the rushes aside. Rats scurried in every direction. With a yelp, Charlotte ran after the nearest, slamming the pole to the ground. “Be gone you vile beasts!”

  Around and around the cottage she darted, bashing her stick down on anything that moved. “I hate rats!” She clobbered one before it escaped under the sod walls. “I hate them, I hate them, I. Hate. Rats!”

  “Miss Charlotte?” Farley’s voice droned behind her.

  With a gasp, she stopped and turned, gripping the pole against her chest. “Rats,” she said inclining her head.

  The big tracker grinned. “I’ll wager you put the fear of God in them beasties.” Moving inside, he waved his hand.

  Two scantily clad people stepped into the doorway—a man with a bare chest and a plaid tucked around his waist—a woman in nothing but a shift. And Lord, she had a babe in her arms. Neither the man nor the woman wore shoes, their feet bloodied and blue from cold.

  The man looked to Farley, his eyes filled with fear. “Sassenach?”

  The tracker gestured inside. “Tha i Hugh’s bean.”

  Gaelic? “Do you speak English?” Charlotte asked.

  The couple crept forward, giving her a wide berth.

  Goodness, how on earth was she to communicate with these people?

  Farley dropped his armload beside the fire pit. “Most in these parts do—a bit.”

  Charlotte rubbed the outside of her arms. “I think there’s enough wood here. Will you start a fire?”

  “Aye.” Farley pulled a flint from his sporran. “I’ve set some snares as well.”

  Still clutching her pole, she looked over each shoulder. “I think the rats have scattered.”

  He chuckled. “If we weren’t in the midst of this mess, I would have had a good laugh watching you swing that stick of wood around.”

  Charlotte propped the branch by the door. “I think I clanked on an iron kettle. It’ll come in handy for melting snow to cleanse wounds—and to drink.” Thank goodness she’d been working in Doctor Munro’s surgery. Her training might come to some use.

  The couple still stood in the middle of the cottage looking dumbstruck.

  Charlotte touched the woman’s arm.

  She yanked away, shielding her child.

  “Forgive me.” Charlotte drew her fist to her chest, nodding to a place by the fire pit. “Please sit. We’ll have fire lit in no time.”

  The pair exchanged bewildered glances, then did as Charlotte asked.

  As soon as they settled, the baby cried and the woman opened her shift, offering the wee one a teat. Turning its head, the infant suckled as its mother rocked in place, her face devoid of emotion.

  “My word, we need food,” Charlotte uttered.

  “And there’s more coming, mark me.” Farley struck the flint against a pile of dried rushes. “You’d best pray my snares trap something—else we’ll be praying to be shot—’tis a much faster death than starvation.”

  Her head spinning from her own hunger and fatigue from riding an entire night without a wink of sleep, she leaned against the door jamb—with a steeply pitched roof extending down to all but three foot, there wasn’t a wall tall enough to lean against.

  Please, God, bring us food—and please, please, please help Hugh arrive safely.

  ***

  When Hugh and Og made it to the cottage with their mother, a fire was crackling. A cast iron pot dangled above it, a shroud of smoke hung in the air, making it appear as if he’d stepped into a dream. In fact, a hollow chasm expanded in his chest as if he’d spent the entire day in the worst nightmare imaginable.

  The walls were lined with crouching refugees who’d escaped the massacre—his kin who the day before were vibrant and filled with life, playing shinty with Glenlyon’s grenadiers. Not an eye looked his way, not a face registered anything but utter defeat.

  “Hugh.” Charlotte stood from where she’d been kneeling beside the fire. Strands of hair hung in her face, and she wore naught but her gown.

  “Where is your cloak?” He blinked, hardly recognizing her. She seemed so out of place amongst his destitute, homeless kin. “Your plaid? ’Tis freezing.”

  She spread her palms. “There are many who are in far more need that I.”

  Lord, she’d given her cloak and her blanket to others.

  “Come in and close the door.” She beckoned. “It has only begun to warm in here.”

  “A moment.” He turned to Alasdair Og. “Take Ma inside.”

  “We heard Glenlyon shot the chieftain,” Gavyn said, using his Gaelic.

  Hugh looked to Charlotte. Och, the Sassenach had no idea what they were saying—he’d use English—most everyone else could do the same. “’Tis true, Da’s dead, and the miscreant Campbell fired the shot.”

  “You’re the chief of the Coe now.” Graham, the elder said, his weathered face looking like death.

  Hugh didn’t want to hear it. “There’s nothing left. They’ve burned all the glen and killed all our livestock.”

  “I’m hungry, Ma,” said a little lad—Lachlan, huddling with his parents.

  As the clansmen and women made room for Og to lay their mother on the dirt floor, Hugh looked at the forlorn faces staring at him, all expecting him to make a miracle happen.

  Christ, I’m fresh out of miracles.

  He squinted to the dark corners. There were people everywhere. “How many are
here?”

  “There are a score and ten,” Charlotte replied.

  His tongue ran across dry, chapped lips. “Any supplies?”

  “I’ve set snares.” Farley stepped forward. “But we’ll need more than a few rabbits.”

  “How many horses do we have?”

  Farley scratched his beard. “Miss Charlotte and I rode in—hers and the one I rode—that’s it.”

  Hugh threw his thumb over his shoulder. “And there’s mine.”

  “You mean mine,” said Farley. “And he’s my ticket home. Now Miss Charlotte is safe, I’m aiming to return to my lady wife.”

  Hugh nodded. This wasn’t the tracker’s fight. He’d already done far more than he’d expect from someone outside his own. “And you’d best take Charlotte with you. The midst of a bloodbath is no place for a lady.”

  “I’m staying.” Charlotte planted her fists on her hips.

  “Pardon?” Hugh looked from Og to Farley receiving not an inkling of support from either man. He took Charlotte by the elbow and led her outside—snow still falling sideways with hard driving wind. “Bless it, woman. Do you know what you’re saying? If your father’s men figure out where we’re hiding, we could have every dragoon on the west coast of Scotland bear down upon us. And this time, Stair’s goddamned orders to exterminate the entire clan just might come to completion.”

  Charlotte rubbed her outer arms. “The people in there are suffering. Most have nothing on their feet. They fled with a few threads on their backs if they were lucky. Most are in such a state of shock they cannot string two coherent words together—even if I could understand what they were saying.” She folded her arms and tilted up her chin. “That’s the end of it. I’m staying. With Doctor Munro’s training, I can be of more use to you than you realize.”

  “Aye, if my clansmen don’t slit your throat whilst you’re sleeping.”

  “I beg your pardon?” She stamped her foot in the powdery snow. “I am trying to help. Why would anyone want to do that?”

  “Because you’re the spawn of Colonel Hill—the man who ordered this madness.”

  “My father did no such thing!”

  “You cannot tell me he didn’t have a hand in it.”

  She clutched her abdomen and turned her back. “He tried to stop it.”

  “But he couldn’t.”

  “No. And the Master of Stair copied James Hamilton on his missives to ensure Papa obeyed his orders.”

  Hugh reached out his hand, but couldn’t bring himself to place it on her shoulder. The haunting screams of the dying echoed in his head. Bringing his cold fist to his mouth, he blew warm air on it. “You ken I’ll protect you. When you helped me escape the bowels of Fort William, I swore I would give my life for you, but I cannot remain by your side at all times. You heard them. I’m chieftain now, and only God kens what’s in store. Do you realize they’ve annihilated Glencoe? Every home, every lean-to…Christ, even fence posts were burned. Glenlyon left not one sheep, not one cow or chicken for us to survive. If—I said if we pull together and steer clear of those red-coated vermin infesting Glencoe’s hills, it will be a long and painful road.”

  “I understand the risk.” She turned and placed her hand on Hugh’s arm. It burned through his shirt like she’d branded him. “I want to stay with you.”

  God bless it, Charlotte was not the reason for their plight. Hell, if not for her, Hugh would most likely be lying in a pool of his own blood, burning to cinders in his cottage. Clenching his teeth, he gathered her into his arms and pressed his cheek atop her head. If only he could allow himself a moment’s respite, she felt so damn good—felt like home to a man who’d just watched his go up in flames. But keeping her there was too selfish, even for a rogue like him. “I want you beside me more than anything. You must know that. Go with Farley. After this is over, I’ll find you and if you’ll wait for me, we can start anew.”

  She pushed away. “What do you mean, if I’ll wait? Do you think so little of my love for you? For goodness sakes, I rode all night though a blizzard.”

  Hugh’s gut twisted—his mind flashing with the sight of flames licking his father’s lifeless body. Would he ever rest until he had his revenge? How could he hold Charlotte in his arms while his clan stood by and watched? No. He must stand his ground with her. The lady’s presence would only serve to make things worse. “Your father is the goddamned Governor of Fort William. His name must have been on the order to put my clan under fire and sword.” He pointed a finger shaking with rage—not for Charlotte but for the atrocities he’d just witnessed. “I am responsible for the lost souls in there. My father has just been murdered. My own mother has had a knife taken to her—” He couldn’t say it. The ghastly terror stretched across Charlotte’s face silenced him. Hugh dropped his chin with his shoulders. “I fear she’ll bleed to death, and I’ve all but a woolen blanket to bring her comfort.”

  Colonel Hill’s daughter moved closer and took up his hand, her fingers cold like ice. Looking up into his eyes, she kissed his knuckles as a tear spilled down her cheek. “There are no words to describe how horrific this day has been. But I swear on my mother’s grave, I will not walk away. Not now. Not ever.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Not long after Farley took his leave, Alasdair Og had killed one of the horses for meat. Charlotte watched while a half-dozen more stragglers arrived at the cottage nearly frozen to death and hungry. How many more MacIain’s were out there who hadn’t found shelter? The snow and the driving wind hadn’t let up all day—not a soul would be able to survive for long in such weather.

  A scratch and a whimper came at the door. One of the men opened it to a scraggly-looking deerhound.

  “Cuddy?” Hugh asked.

  The dog whined and sauntered inside. First he went to Hugh and stood for a scratch behind the ears. “I cannot believe you survived, old fella.”

  “Another mouth to feed,” grumbled Og.

  “Wheesht.” Hugh gave the dog another pat, then Cuddy sauntered around the shieling, sniffing everyone.

  When the dog stopped at Charlotte, he whined. She let him smell her hand before she petted him—his coat felt softer than it looked.

  Then the dog lay down, pressing his body against her.

  Across the fire, Hugh’s brother looked at Charlotte with hateful eyes, so dark he left no doubt he’d rather be roasting her over a spit than horse meat. She tried to block the uneasy feelings from her mind, but she knew everyone in the cottage focused their anger on her.

  And why should they not?

  To them she was the daughter of the devil, and trying to tell them any differently would only worsen their contempt. Even Charlotte couldn’t rationalize her father’s actions. Papa could have walked away—though in doing so, he would be seen as a traitor of the very government he served. Still—one man’s death over hundreds?

  The mere thought turns my stomach.

  She shuddered while she dipped her petticoat in the kettle of warm water and wrung it out. It was the only piece of cloth available. Lifting Mrs. MacIain’s blanket ever so slightly, she reapplied the flannel to the wound—though Hugh couldn’t utter it, the vile beasts who served Captain Glenlyon had taken a dagger to the poor woman’s womb. ’Twas an abomination. ’Twas unforgiveable.

  “I think the bleeding has stopped,” Charlotte said, pressing the back of her hand to the woman’s head. Hugh’s mother shivered, though a fever had set in. The woman endured her pain, never saying a word. Her eyes vacant, she stared at the rafters while tear after tear dribbled into the dirt.

  Hugh kneeled beside Charlotte and held out a bit of meat. “Eat.”

  She hadn’t allowed him to send her away with Farley. Since, his words had been sparse, as if he were sinking deeper into his own world of terror and flames.

  Though she’d lost her appetite, Charlotte rocked back on her haunches and took the meat. She bit down and tore it with her teeth—tough as leather, the bite landed in her stomach and sat there like
one of her father’s lead musket balls.

  She cast her gaze through the dim light to the faces of the clansmen and women who sat on the dirt floor and lined the walls. They were stunned, freezing and silent, staring into the fire as if their very souls were lost. Aside from an occasional outburst from the baby, it was too quiet—eerie—as if they were all frozen.

  “Is there anywhere we can take your mother for help?” Charlotte whispered.

  Hugh shook his head. “I reckon the redcoats have infiltrated every byway in a twenty-mile radius of Glencoe.” At least he’d strung an entire sentence together.

  Charlotte’s back straightened. “But the soldiers are cold, too. No one can make it far in this storm.”

  Hugh’s eyes were as dark and vacant as the others’. “How many men did your father amass at Fort William afore they set out to annihilate us?”

  Charlotte’s cheeks burned. Was he, too, now blaming her? “The fort was bursting at the seams with a thousand men. That’s why Glenlyon’s grenadiers were sent to Glencoe.” She hung her head. “At least that’s what everyone was led to believe.”

  “And Captain Campbell kent about it all along—accepting our hospitality, eating with us, playing cards.” Alasdair Og slammed his fist into the dirt. “And we let them—brought the slithering Campbell snake in like he was kin.”

  “He was kin,” grumbled Hugh. “Until that black-hearted bitch drew her knife across Sandy’s throat.”

  Silence again cast a pall throughout the cottage. The smoke burned Charlotte’s eyes, but venturing outside for air was no longer possible. She might push through the door and walk about three feet before being completely stopped by a wall of icy snow.

  Hugh’s jaw twitched as he sat silently and stared at the fire. The howling wind made the cottage shudder. Even the flames flickered with the force of the storm outside.

  Charlotte wanted to say so many things—the soldiers will have to turn back because of the weather—she hoped the storm would soon pass—was there no one to whom they could turn for help? How long did Hugh intend to keep these people in this insufficient cottage? What was next? But she held her tongue. Her every suggestion or question had been met with a wall of rebuttal—especially from Alasdair Og.