The Fearless Highlander (Highland Defender Book 1)

by Amy Jarecki

  Pushing between them, Emma shook her finger. “Miss Charlotte is the only English speaker in the Highlands who has a heart—something I would think a physician would know a thing or two about.”

  “The insolence.” Munro shirked from the insult.

  But Charlotte wasn’t about to allow his rudeness to pass without adding her own dig. She’d listened to his jibes at the officer’s table enough times to know him to be truly black-hearted. “Yes it is quite evident your studies are lacking when it comes to matters of the heart—or compassion of any sort.”

  He tugged up his gloves. “That clan is nothing but a mob of thieves.”

  “You know this?” Charlotte’s fists moved to her hips. “You’ve visited them and broken bread with them? Accepted their hospitality for a fortnight as Glenlyon had?”

  “I do not need to listen to this drivel.”

  “Then show you do have a heart!” She jammed her finger atop the alms box. “Donate to their plight. For goodness sakes, they’re flesh and blood people just as we are.”

  “Och aye, Miss Charlotte,” Emma cheered, then leaned toward the physician. “May the pox be upon you and your spawn!”

  He sneered like a rogue. “Your insolence is abhorrent.” Thrusting his hand into his purse, Doctor Munro did something completely unpredictable. He slammed a handful of guineas on the board. “Damn you. Let no man say I haven’t a capacity for benevolence.” He glared at Emma. “And I spit on your forked-tongued curses, madam.”

  Charlotte stood arm-in-arm with Emma while they watched the physician storm away until the crowd swallowed his red-coated form. “Was it my plea for a donation or your curse that persuaded him to give?”

  Emma grinned as wide as a tot with a plum tart. “I’ve no idea, but I think we make a good team.”

  “We surely do.” Charlotte picked up the coins. “This coin will buy grain for certain.”

  “If only they can plant it afore ’tis too late.”

  ***

  Charlotte sat in her father’s study and whipped stitches in her haste to mend numerous pieces of clothing. She hadn’t yet forgiven him for insisting she return to Fort William, but the best way to pick up tidbits about recent events was to force herself to sit with him in the evenings has she had always done.

  Papa threw a tabloid on his writing desk, then leaned forward, cradling his head in his hands.

  “What is it?” Charlotte asked.

  With a grunt he nudged the paper toward her. “Read for yourself.”

  She prayed it was something from the Master of Stair admitting his guilt in being the mastermind behind Glencoe. The paper had been clipped from the Edinburgh Daily Record, the title: Colonel Hill is a Murderer

  Sitting, she read while her stomach tied in knots. “They’re blaming only you.”

  Papa moved to the sideboard and poured himself a brandy—something he’d been doing a lot of as of late. “I had a hand in the whole abominable affair.”

  “But you only carried out the extent of Stair’s orders once he’d copied Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton. In fact, it is quite evident to me now that James was placed here only to undermine your authority and insure you acted on the Master’s orders explicitly.”

  “Thank God that ambitious young man is off to Ireland.” Father leaned his backside against the sideboard, his hand trembling as he sipped.

  “’Tis good he’s gone, indeed, but what will you do about this?” Charlotte replaced the paper on Papa’s desk.

  He smirked, his shoulders shaking. “There’s not much I can do that I have not already tried. I kept copies of each missive to every man of influence from London to Edinburgh with my pleas against an uprising. Now, only God Almighty will judge me.”

  “Yes, he will.” Charlotte’s gaze trailed aside. There were no shades of grey with this crime committed by the crown. There was only right and wrong.

  “I know.” Papa shook a gnarled finger at her. “You believe I am guilty of this genocide, but no soldier hath ever tried more diligently to prevent it than I.”

  Ah, but you could have refused and then resigned yourself to face the consequences. “Do you truly believe that?”

  “Yes, I do. And if I hadn’t relayed my orders, Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton would have carried out the deed in my stead.”

  She pursed her lips and crossed her arms, standing firm. “You could not have stopped Hamilton?”

  “Charlotte, I am a soldier of the king. My orders were signed by William himself. Stopping Hamilton would have made me a traitor to the country I have served for two score and four years of my lifetime.”

  She flung her arms to her sides, leaning toward him. “But your actions were wrong.”

  “Silence!” Papa carried the bottle and the glass to his desk. “You spent too long in the company of those heathens. Since you have refused Doctor Munro, I have no choice but to send you back to London, where I pray my sister will be able to find you a match now you’ve shown your propensity toward treason.”

  “What on earth are you saying? I have shown nothing but my propensity to act as a Christian woman. I am making an effort to help those poor souls.” She stamped her foot. “We must soon take the supplies to them.”

  “Oh no, you will not be accompanying those supplies anywhere—”

  “Dammit all,” Charlotte cursed for the first time in her life. “Heathens? Treason for acts of charity?” Steam practically oozed from her pores as she stomped to his desk and leaned forward. “Tread carefully, Father. Your façade of superiority makes you appear weak and vainglorious—just like Breadalbane, or Stair, or Argyll, or any of the other men in power who conveniently turn their heads and do nothing but blow wind out their mouths!”

  “You insolent child.” Papa pulled out his chair, then slammed it back against the desk.

  “I am not a child! If anything, I am brutally honest.” Charlotte pointed to the strongbox. “You promised Hugh I could marry him. I want my dowry monies. They were Mother’s and by rights are mine.”

  “Oh no.” Papa strode around the desk and clamped his fingers around Charlotte’s wrist. “Those funds are to go to your husband, if I can ever make a match for you, now you’ve spent the better part of two months with that rogue.”

  She yanked her arm away. “I will marry Hugh MacIain MacDonald, Thirteenth Laird of Clan Iain Abrach of Glencoe, and that fat pouch of coin should go to him!”

  “Dammit, Charlotte, I didn’t want it to come to this, but I forbid you to marry him. I may help him win his lands back, but he will never be good enough for you. You are a well-bred English lady and a Protestant to boot.”

  “I am a Jacobite,” she seethed.

  “That is sedition!” he shouted, the color in his face turning from red to purple.

  “Oh no, Papa. I’ve seen the letters you have written on Hugh’s behalf. You have uttered the Williamite lies for so long you believe them yourself. But you cannot fool me. I know what is in your heart. Those people hiding in the hills are no different than we are. They eat and drink and raise children, tell stories and play games just like us.”

  He vehemently shook his head. “But they are Highlanders and they follow an exiled king.”

  Charlotte crossed her arms. “Does it matter?”

  “There can only be one king.” His shoulders sagging, Papa slid into his chair and rubbed a hand across his brow. “I must depart for a visit to Lord Forbes in Inverness on the morrow. Upon my return, I will arrange transport for you to travel to London.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Charlotte stood in her father’s study and stared at his strongbox with a fork in her hand. She raised the tined implement. How the devil did Hugh pick the lock?

  Unfortunately, Papa had left for Inverness with his key stowed safely around his neck. There wasn’t one in his bedchamber—Charlotte had made sure of that before she opened her keepsake chest and removed the fork Hugh had returned to her. The base of one tine was kinked where he’d obviously bent it. The pr
oblem was it took a man hewn of iron to bend it again. No matter how much pressure Charlotte applied, she couldn’t get the accursed thing to budge.

  Turning full circle, she spied the hearth—and the fire poker. A bit of leverage might help. She took the fork and wedged it between the poker’s hook and the shaft, then twisted with all her might. Stars crossed her vision, but with a loud grunt, the tine gave way and bent.

  Lord, how Hugh managed to bend the blasted thing with his hands when he was weak with fever, Charlotte would never know.

  Now to figure out how the pick the padlock. Tiptoeing to the strongbox, she slid the tine inside and turned. Nothing. With flicks of her wrist, she jiggled it, but the lock held fast. Then she tried pulling it out by fractions of an inch and twisting.

  When nothing she tried worked, Charlotte yanked the fork out of the lock and pounded the top of the chest with her fist. She growled through clenched teeth. “Curses. This must work!”

  Thrusting the tine back inside she levered it up and down as fast as she could, rattling the blasted thing while her teeth clenched to the point of breaking. “Please, please, please!”

  She twisted the confounded fork until her wrist burned from exertion.

  Then something clicked and her hand turned over.

  Charlotte gasped, her eyes popping. Turning the fork a bit further, the big blackened-ironed lock popped open. “Oh, praises be.”

  She lifted the lid and grasped the leather pouch of coin, careful to click the lock back into place. The dowry monies may be rightfully hers, but she didn’t want to take any chances of having her father’s correspondence fall into the wrong hands.

  Then she took the bent fork and her coin and dashed up to her bedchamber. “Emma, we must make haste.”

  The chambermaid stood at the hearth, tongs in her hand. “Whatever are you on about?”

  “We must find Farley and buy some sheep and hire some drovers.” Charlotte inhaled deeply to catch her breath. “Quickly. This all must be done before Papa returns from Inverness.”

  Emma’s gaze dropped to the pouch. “What on earth is going on?”

  “Let us just say, ’tis time I took my dowry into my own hands.”

  “You stole it?”

  “How could it be stealing if ’tis mine?”

  “I suppose you have a point.” Emma smacked her lips. “How much coin is in there?”

  “I have no idea, but by the weight of it, we can purchase a herd of sheep and some grain.” Mayhap have some left to furnish a cottage.

  “And you expect the MacIains to shepherd the sheep in the mountains?”

  “Why should they not? The snows are melting. There ought to be ample grazing—why Hugh even told me they had summer shielings up at Black Mount.” Charlotte covered her mouth. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “What would I care where their summer grazing lands are?” Emma clasped her hands together. “But what you propose will take a great deal of thought.”

  “’Tis Wednesday on the morrow. Surely there are a few men in Inverlochy who need a day’s wages.”

  “And you expect Farley to help you?”

  “I hoped he would.” Charlotte tightened her fist around the bag of coin. “Honestly, I’ve never droved sheep before—or anything for that matter.”

  “I would hope not.” Emma shook her head. “Your father would be mortified if you had.”

  Charlotte started for the wardrobe. “Please, I need Farley’s services only once more. There’s ever so much to do. We must make haste.”

  “I daresay, Miss Charlotte, I was completely wrong about your character when you first arrived at Fort William.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “You’re about as demure as a badger—though you’re as resourceful as a beaver.”

  Pulling her cloak over her shoulders, Charlotte chuckled. “I shall take that as a compliment.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “You’ve grown weak. Now come again,” Hugh swung his sword in an arc and beckoned Tavis with a flick of his fingers.

  “I’m not bloody weak, you blind bloodhound.” Baring his teeth, the young warrior raised the old, two-handed sword and lunged in with a downward strike.

  Hugh countered, their blades clanging with reverberating force. Locked in a battle of wills, the steel screeched until their cross guards met. “Now you’re showing a wee bit of vim, you milk-livered swine.”

  “I’ll knock you on your arse afore this is finished,” Tavis grunted through clenched teeth.

  Hugh sidestepped as they circled. Lord, it felt good to have a sword in his hand and expel his pent-up hostilities. “In your dreams, young pup.”

  “Hugh,” Og’s voice came from behind. “You’ll never believe what’s coming up the pass.” Thank God the tone in his brother’s voice was one of bewilderment rather than urgency.

  He gave Tavis a nod, pressing him backward before lowering his weapon. “I take it Glenlyon isn’t leading an army to finish us off?”

  “Come. There’s a flock of sheep heading our way.” Og swiftly led them up the crag to the northern lookout.

  Hugh stepped to the edge of the cliff. Heading for their secret hiding place, the bleats from a mob of sheep kissed his ears like angel’s bells. Thick wool covered their backs. Aye, the ewes and weathers would soon need to be shorn—a gift from heaven for certain. “I’ll be damned.”

  “They’re driving them straight up the pass,” said Tavis, pointing. “Och, is that Miss Charlotte bringing up the rear?”

  Lord in heaven, Hugh wouldn’t mistake her outline for anything. His chest tightened until he could scarcely suck in a breath, his skin perspired, a hot bolt of longing made him instantly hard.

  Damnation.

  He’d tried to ignore his feelings of loss after he’d sent her away—tried to work harder, relentlessly driving his men, preparing them for the possibility of another attack. But seeing Charlotte sitting erect in the saddle looking up the hill while the sunlight caught her face hit him between the eyes like he’d been stunned. The vision brought more emotion than any raucous sparring session could have prepared him for—and he’d given Tavis a walloping. But one glimpse at Charlotte and Hugh’s knees buckled as if he’d been delivered a blow to the gut. His fingers twitched to touch her, to wrap her in his arms and inhale the heady scent of woman. God, he’d missed her, wanted her, craved her.

  Blinking, Hugh shook his dazed head and regained a modicum of sanity. Why was she riding with a mob of drovers bringing sheep up the mountain? Devil’s bones, what has she been up to?

  “Aye, ’tis Miss Charlotte for certain,” said Og. “But why the bloody hell isn’t she leading a herd of cattle?”

  Hugh thwacked his brother with a backhand. “If I hear anyone utter one spiteful word against her, I’ll cut out their tongue and eat it for breakfast.”

  Og made a show of clutching his chest and shuffling backward. “Christ, Hugh. You’re a wee bit sensitive about the lass, are you not?”

  “Wheesht.” He didn’t need an opinionated brother’s snide remarks. “Tavis, go tell the women we’ll have guests for the evening meal. Og, we’ll give them a Highland welcome—if you can manage to keep your off-color comments to yourself.”

  “I was just saying cattle would be preferable to sheep.”

  “Shut it.” Hugh gave his brother another smack. “Damnation, we’re in no position to barter, you bleeding milksop.”

  Climbing down the hillside, a tightness gripped his chest. Ballocks, why did Charlotte have to be his Good Samaritan? This whole thing didn’t feel right. If any Highlander in Scotland had given him a small flock to help set the clan back to rights, he’d be kicking up his heels. But to see Charlotte riding behind the lambs didn’t sit well. What the devil? Lord knew he would move heaven and earth to be with her, but as clan chief—hell, as a man, he needed to be the one to provide. He needed to make a proper home for her—not the other way around. Aye, it might take a few years, but he would regain h
is lands and rebuild Glencoe.

  By the time they arrived at the pass, the entire clan had assembled, clapping their hands, their faces rapt with joy for the first time in what seemed like a hundred years.

  Damnation.

  “I can taste the roast lamb now.” Young Lachlan smacked his lips.

  Hugh frowned. “We do not yet ken if the flock is intended for us.”

  “’Tis ours.” The lad pointed with more surety than he ought. “Miss Charlotte has brought them for us.”

  A twitch fired at the corner of Hugh’s eye.

  Bonnie clapped her hands and pressed praying fingers to her lips. “Aye, thank heavens for Charlotte Hill. Indeed, she is a saint among women.”

  “Och aye?” Hugh gaped at the woman. “And it wasn’t so long ago you were telling her she didn’t belong with us.”

  Bonnie’s round face flushed bright red.

  “Mayhap you’ve had a change of heart?” Hugh didn’t wait for her to respond. The clan hadn’t treated Charlotte well and now the lass had appeared with alms he expected from no man.

  The children ran to the pack mules, squealing around Miss Charlotte, asking if she’d brought them any sweets. Hell, they surrounded her horse, making her stop. She grinned at every one of them. “I’ve brought blankets and clothing mostly. Perhaps there’s a pair of shoes that might fit.”

  “Och, I don’t need shoes now ’tis spring,” said Lachlan—the cheeky beggar.

  Hugh strode forward and reached for her gelding’s bridle. “You all leave Miss Charlotte be. She’s had a long ride and needs her rest.”

  His gaze strayed to her face. Blessed be Mary and all the saints, a pure rose never looked so radiant. How could she be more beautiful than he remembered? And Lord knew he’d remembered her as the bonniest lass he’d ever laid eyes upon. Her healthy smile brightened the entire world and the corner of Hugh’s mouth tuned up like a simpleton. “What is all this?”

  “My dowry.” She grinned even wider. “At least a portion of it.”

  Hugh couldn’t stop the concerned pinch of his eyebrows. “Pardon?”