by Amy Jarecki
Reaching up, he gently tugged off her veil. “I still cannot believe you are mine.”
She untied his cravat, her breathing suddenly shallow. “Believe it, husband. Believe it.”
Fighting his urge to haul her to the bed—like he’d dreamed of doing so often, he removed the pins from her hair, running his fingers through angel-soft tresses. Oh yes, this night would be far more memorable if he took his time—savored removing every stitch of clothing, every bit of lace. Peering over her shoulder, Hugh twirled the ribbon of her bodice around his finger, then caught the end and tugged.
With every piece of her dainty clothing, Charlotte unfastened one of his. After the cravat sailed to the floor beside her bodice and corset, she unpinned the plaid at his shoulder and held up the brooch. “Is this your clan badge?”
“A likeness, aye.” It wasn’t Da’s—the one Hugh was supposed to inherit, but the near-perfect copy had been his since his parents had given it to him when he reached his majority.
“’Tis yours?”
He nodded. Later he’d tell her his treasure box buried beneath his longhouse survived. Since two nights ago, he hadn’t been as destitute and poor as he’d thought. “Charlotte, I’ve so much to say.”
She held her finger to his lips. “We have a lifetime to reveal our secrets.”
In a bold move, she took his hand and led him to the bed.
Ever so eager to follow, Hugh’s mouth suddenly went dry. Hell, he couldn’t even manage a swallow. “Are you ready, my love?” he croaked.
Licking those delectable lips, she nodded. “I want you more than the air I breathe.”
No words had ever been so arousing. “You’ve made me so incredibly happy.” He stepped behind her and swept her tresses aside, caressing her neck with fluttering kisses.
With a wee gasp, she shivered and rolled her head back. “That feels divine.”
It only took a tug to untie her overskirt, sending it whooshing to the floorboards. Two flannel petticoats remained over her shift. Hugh placed his hands on her hips with a rolling snicker. Would Charlotte ever cease to amaze him? “I never would have thought a gentlewoman would be one to sport a red petticoat, m’lady.”
A wee laugh curled from Charlotte’s throat, so sultry it sent his cock rigid. “Red’s the latest fashion in London.”
“Aye?” He slowly unlaced the first bow. “Mayhap English women have a bit more spirit than their male counterparts.”
Her stately profile regarded him over her shoulder. “Mm, I would definitely agree to that.”
As the petticoat fell away from her body, Charlotte turned, placing her palm on his chest. “I do believe it is your turn.”
“Och, but you are wearing so many more layers.”
“Mm hmm.” She trailed a finger down to the deerskin sporran suspended from a chain around his hips. “What do you keep in there?”
When she tapped it, the intensity of his shuddering inhale surprised even him. God, he might not make it onto the bed. “A few coins,” his voice strained. “A wee dagger, a handful of musket balls, and a flint.”
When he reached to unclasp it, Charlotte slipped around him and brushed his hands away. “I’ll do it.”
“I hoped you’d say that.” Mercy, his voice had grown as husky as the smithy’s rasp.
Being undressed by Charlotte ratcheted up his desire even higher. Though he stood still, his breathing sped as if he’d run up a flight of stairs. After she placed the sporran on the bed, she smoothed her fingers around his leather belt, sauntering around him until she arrived at the big brass buckle. “Now this.”
Hugh hoped she’d say that, too. If she grew any more assertive with him, she might just drive him to utter madness. “Once you remove my plaid,” he growled. “I’ll be completely and utterly naked.”
“’Tis what I want.” Her tongue snuck to the corner of her mouth, her fingers had a slight tremor as she tugged his belt and the plaid cascaded to the floor. Hugh didn’t move while she stood back and raked her gazed down his body. Only Charlotte had ever stopped to drink him in like that, stare at his abdomen, his thighs, his rock-hard cock. It made him desperate to rip off her final petticoat and shift and do the same to his wife.
He took in a sudden inhale when she brushed her lithe fingers along his length. “Every inch of you is sculpted as if hewn from marble. Is there no part of your body that isn’t hard?”
“Nay, lass.” He thrust his hips forward. “More than anything else, this is hard for you.”
Grinning, Hugh took a swaggering step and clamped his hands on her shapely hips. Lord in heaven he wanted to go slowly, but she’d pushed him to the ragged edge. “I’ve yet to unlace your last petticoat.” His gaze traveled down her body and stopped at her waist. “May I?”
Closing her eyes, she nodded and stood perfectly still while the last flannel petticoat slipped away from her waist. Standing in nothing but her linen shift, Hugh ran his finger around the lace neckline. “Now this.”
Lids fanned with honeyed lashes gradually opened and she raised her hands.
“Are you nervous?” he asked.
“Not anymore.”
Within a blink, he had her completely disrobed. Charlotte’s arms flew across her body. Hugh slid his fingers over her wrists. “Let me gaze upon perfection.”
She looked away with a shake of her head. “I’m not.”
He coaxed open her arms, ever so slowly. “Aye, but you’re wrong, lass.” God save him, he could scarcely take a breath. It had been so long since he’d seen her disrobed and now he swore she’d grown more beautiful. “I have to be the luckiest man alive.”
He could restrain himself no longer. Wrapping the love of his life in his arms, he covered her mouth with a claiming, heart-stopping, bone-shattering kiss. Lord, the woman knew how to please him in every way. Even if she had a wart on her nose, he could love no one else in this world as he loved Charlotte Hill MacIain. He ground himself against her, his cods afire—demanding relief from the pent up desire he’d ignored for months.
Before he completely lost his head, he lifted her into his arms. As he rested Charlotte on her back, he kneeled over and kissed her, their mouth’s joining in a dance that had now become enticingly familiar. Trailing kisses down her neck, he moved his hand to her breast and caressed the most succulent flesh he’d ever had the honor of touching. Charlotte arched into him and bucked. “Please, Hugh. I cannot wait much longer.”
“Mm hmm.” But his mouth didn’t stop. He ran kisses all the way down her body, lingering for a moment over her nether parts, his hot breath teasing her, drinking in the ambrosia of her sex.
Moaning, she circled her hips for him. “Pleeeease. I need you now.”
He slid back up her body and pushed between her legs, ready to explode. “I, too, can wait no more.”
Charlotte opened her eyes, so incredibly dark. Her lips swollen and seductive, his entire body shuddered as if he might spill his seed right then. He ground his hips against her core, his cock catching at her entrance. Heaven help him, she was so wet—so ready.
With a gasp catching in his throat he slid inside heaven.
Charlotte’s fingers gripped his buttocks. “Faster. Deeper.”
All Hugh could do was hold on and thrust. The world became a shower of starlight as together they rode the wave of passion. Her high-pitched mewls sent his mind into utter oblivion. All he could think of was how good this felt and how lucky he was to have this woman as his wife. With a cry catching in the back of her throat, Charlotte shattered into a thousand trembling shudders. The friction blew his mind as with two more deep thrusts he met her at the peak and roared with the potent force of his release.
When he recovered his breath, he pushed up, staring at the most unbelievably fantastic woman of all his imaginings. “My God, I will love you forever.”
She cupped his cheek and smiled. “You’ve no idea how happy you’ve made me. I am fulfilled in every way.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
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The sun shone for Clan MacIain Abrach as together they marched down the pass and into the glen with Colonel Hill riding his horse behind them. Og and Gavyn rode the ponies, while Cuddy helped them herd the sheep to the valley where the grass had grown lush and green. Hugh clutched his bride’s hand, while both excited and hesitant to take her there.
To Hugh there was no place on earth as stunning as Glencoe. The best thing about leaving was always returning home again. No matter what time of year he crossed the valley, it took his breath away. Emerald green, majestic mountains towered above, their precipices stern and rugged, warning of the dangers brought by sheer cliffs and piled rocks.
During his exile, Hugh had glimpses of home from a distance but with dragoons infesting the glen, it had been too risky to go there. As the crags of their hiding place behind Meall Mòr gave way and sloped to the valley, Hugh stopped, holding up his hand.
Beside him, Charlotte gasped. “Papa?”
A group of black cattle stood in a makeshift pen, and rows of white tents cut through the landscape as if the army had moved in. “What the devil?”
Hugh turned around to see his father-in-law cantering toward them. “I figured you’d need temporary accommodations until you could put new roofs on your cottages.” The old colonel dismounted and led his horse while he walked beside them. “The six heifers and bull are my wedding gift. Should give you a start.”
Charlotte grasped his arm and hugged it, resting her head on his shoulder. “Oh, Papa, thank you, thank you ever so much.”
“Aye, sir,” Hugh stretched his palm forward and shook the old man’s hand. “Your generosity exceeds all expectations.”
Colonel Hill wiped his eyes. Perhaps the stern colonel had a gentle side when it came to his child. “Nonsense. I would have my daughter well looked after.” He handed Hugh the reins and grasped Charlotte’s shoulders. “Does anything of your dowry remain?”
She met Hugh’s gaze before answering. “Most of it.”
“Then I expect you to put it to good use.” He pulled her into his embrace. “I shall miss you ever so much. You are the sweetest thing ever produced in this weary soldier’s lifetime.”
Then Charlotte held him at arm’s length. “We will see you often,” her voice trembled as if she were staving off tears. “’Tis only twenty miles to Fort William.”
“I will hold you to that.” The colonel smiled, his teeth stained yellow. “I expect to see grandchildren within the year.”
Hugh chuckled. “We’re working on that, sir.”
Charlotte covered her mouth, her eyes shocked. “Hugh!”
The old man extended his hand. “Take care of her. She’s more precious than all the king’s gold.”
Hugh grasped the offered hand and held it firm. “I will, sir.”
After the colonel and his men took their leave and the clansmen and women set to cleaning the burned shells of their cottages, Hugh led Charlotte to Carnoch. Black creosote scorched the manse’s stone walls with upward lashings, posing as a testament of the devastation of that fateful morning on 13th February, 1692.
Charlotte squeezed his hand. “I pray the inquisition will rule in your favor and compensate you and the clan for all you have suffered.”
Hugh still would have rather taken up the sword and fought until he ran William of Orange out of London, but as Donald of Sleat had said, times were changing. The Jacobites needed the support of France to be successful. In time, perhaps there would be another rising. When that time came, Hugh would be at the forefront of the first line, leading the army of Clan Iain Abrach. But for the time being, he must play the game of the ruling aristocracy. Aye, there would be an inquisition in Edinburgh and, aye, he would testify and repeat the truth over and over—as many times as it took for the peers who lived lives of luxury to understand the extent of the heinous crimes committed against his family and his people.
Moving his arm around Charlotte’s waist, he clutched her to his side. “As I said before, our lands have been returned to us. At least that is a start.”
“Yes it is.”
They stood in silence for a moment and stared at the burned shell of the place of Hugh’s childhood memories—of Da and Ma—of an era that somehow had passed and faded into the earth.
“It will be a quite a job to rebuild such a large manse,” Charlotte whispered.
Hugh shook his head. “We will tear down these walls.”
She looked up at him in question.
“Here, I will build a memorial to my parents as testament to their lives and their brutal deaths. Never shall anyone who passes through this place forget what happened here.”
“Yes.” Charlotte rested her head on his shoulder. “You are right to honor them.”
Swallowing back the thickness in his throat, he took her hand. “Would you like to see where I will build your house, m’lady?”
She grinned. “You mean our house?”
He mirrored her smile. “Aye.”
Taking her hand, he led her along the path to the mouth of the River Coe. They stood on a curved peninsula high above the river where it would be free from floods. Hugh spread his arms wide and looked across Loch Leven. “The hills of Glencoe will be our backdrop, the river of the Coe will be our music, and our galleys will sail through the waters of the Leven to Loch Linnhe and out to sea. Mark me, my love, Clan Iain Abrach will rebuild, and will once again rule these lands.”
He looked into her eyes and saw joy there. “And you will be my queen.”
Epilogue
It was mid-July, the year of our Lord 1695—three years since the massacre of Glencoe. Hugh and Charlotte had pooled their treasures and built a fine manse at the mouth of the River Coe where Hugh had taken her the day they returned to the valley. The lintel above the door bore their initials inscribed in stone. Every time Charlotte crossed the threshold she regarded it, proud to be the matriarch of the new generation of MacIain MacDonalds.
The Jacobite chieftains continued to gather under the guise of their Highland games. And with their every meeting their forces grew stronger—both in brawn and more so, their web of clandestine activities. Nonetheless, Charlotte prayed every night for peaceful resolution of the differences between the Williamite and the Jacobite parties.
Warmed by the sun, they sat on the verandah awaiting Colonel Hill’s arrival. Charlotte held three-month-old James in her lap while Hugh rocked two-year-old Alexander. Two healthy sons had been born to carry on their legacy—the eldest named for Sandy, the youngest for their exiled king.
A single rider approached in posting trot, wearing a tell-tale red coat. Charlotte grinned. “He’s here.”
Together they stood and said their hellos. Papa’s back had stooped more since the last time she’d seen him. The inquisition hadn’t been easy on Hugh, but it had been even harder on the old man.
Charlotte gestured to a chair. “Please sit with us and share a cup of ale.”
“I don’t mind if I do.” The colonel grunted as he sat—Charlotte could almost hear his bones creak. “My, the boys are growing too fast.”
“That they are,” Hugh agreed. “Have you news?”
After pouring, Charlotte resumed her seat, her stomach squeezing. They’d had word that the Scottish Parliament under direction of the Privy Council had drawn up its address to the king.
Papa took a drink, then pulled a missive from inside his coat. “Indeed, parliament has condemned the slaughter as ‘Murder under Trust’.” He handed the missive to Hugh. “Thank God for justice.”
Both elated and concerned for her father, Charlotte placed her palm atop Papa’s hand. “And you? What are the findings regarding your role?”
“Innocent.” He hung his head and shook it. “Only because of all the appeals I made against Stair to begin with.”
“Oh, praises be.” She bit her bottom lip. “And the king?”
“Of course, they couldn’t convict William without inciting a rebellion.” He regarded her with sad, rheumy ey
es. “The Master of Stair was named as the original cause of the whole sordid affair. Robert Duncanson was convicted as well because his order to Glenlyon exceeded the directives I’d given him.”
Hugh folded the parchment and tapped it. “Captain Campbell of Glenlyon and Captain Drummond were also accused.”
Papa raised his tankard. “At least it recommends full reparation for your loss.”
Hugh smirked. “I doubt we’ll ever see that. The king never did make good on the promises he made through Breadalbane.”
“I wish I could admit differently, but with the war in Flanders, payrolls are oft overlooked at Fort William.” Papa took a long pull of his ale. “It seems there are never enough funds to cover all the expenses.”
James awoke and yawned, his tiny mouth turning toward his mother. “The wee one will need to suckle soon.”
Hugh stood and stretched, setting young Alexander on his feet. “Thank you for bringing this news, colonel. We shall have a gathering to share the resolution with the clan.” He bowed to Papa. “You’re welcome to join us.”
“It would be my pleasure.”
The lad toddled over and raised his arms to Grandad. “Up.”
Papa chuckled and pulled Alexander onto his lap, his eyes growing moist. “You and my grandchildren are the only joy left in this old man’s heart, my dear.”
At last their plight had been resolved. Charlotte stood with James on her hip and kissed her father. “I am blessed with so many men to look after me.” Looking to her husband, she straightened. “Tonight’s gathering shall be the grandest the Coe has ever seen. Let us revel in our good fortune.”
Hugh moved beside his wife and smoothed his hand around her waist, tugging her close. “And celebrate a new era for us all.”
Author’s Note
Thank you for joining me on this fictional journey that encompasses the Glencoe Massacre. Hugh MacIain MacDonald was fashioned after John by the same last name, the son of Alasdair MacIain MacDonald, murdered 12th Chieftain of Glencoe.