The Highlanders

by Ciesielski, J’nell

  And to Scotland. My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go. Sláinte mhath!

  Believing she was born in the wrong era, J’nell Ciesielski spends her days writing heart-stopping heroes, brave heroines, and adventurous exploits in times gone by. Winner of the Romance Through the Ages contest and Maggie Award, J’nell can often be found dreaming of a second home in Scotland, indulging in chocolate of any kind, or watching old black and white movies. Born a Florida girl, she now calls Virginia home, along with her very understanding husband, young daughter, and one lazy beagle. Find out more at www.jnellciesielski.com.

  Dedicated to my grandma, Marie Rose (Gilbert) Schoechert, out of whose bloodline comes the only bit of Celtic blood I can lay claim to. Residing in the presence of the Lord for some years now, she held no earthly fame, but her life of dedication, perseverance, and love for family left an imprint on the generations that knew her, including me. She taught me more than she ever knew.

  Chapter 1

  His Majesty’s Forces at Bushy Run, Pennsylvania

  August 6, 1763

  LACHLAN MCRAE PRESSED HIS chest to the earth behind a fallen chestnut tree. His heart throbbed against the musty leaf litter, sending further pulses of pain into his leg where a musket ball lay embedded.

  He hadn’t a true will to live, yet neither did he wish to have his skull laid wide by a tomahawk blade. Sweat trickled into his eyes as he turned his head just enough for a desperate glimpse into the forest. He hovered between two worlds. In the present one, his warm flesh still bled. In the future world, where Moira waited with their child, her unfelt touch was all that mattered.

  He splayed his fingers across his tattered kilt and pressed it to the bleeding wound on his thigh. Wetness leeched through. Lachlan gritted his teeth. How far had the others in his regiment gone?

  “Nab.” His friend’s name was a rasp between gasps of agony. “Nab, are ye there?”

  Deathly silence answered all around. Lachlan had not seen Jesse Nab since the ambush yesterday when their battalion of light infantry charged forward to support the advance guard. The Indians had reappeared in another position on the neighboring heights. Soldiers had dispersed in varying directions seeking cover as the Indians assailed them from over the ridge, first coming from one side of the draw and then another. Many of his comrades had fallen. Lachlan, Nab, and a half dozen others broke off and had hunkered in a small depression in the hillside, but were later separated during the melee.

  Lachlan’s Brown Bess lay beside him, powder damp from his tumble into Bushy Run, but the bloody bayonet remained affixed. Small comfort it offered, while his thigh lay torn through the flesh. When the ball from an Indian’s musket struck his leg, Lachlan hadn’t even discerned the direction the shot had come from, yet he’d managed to halt the sudden appearance of his assailant with his bayonet. This morning, the firing had begun again, and since then, the last Highlander he’d seen lay dead somewhere east or south of his current position.

  Now, as eerie stillness engulfed the land, he couldn’t be sure whether Bouquet’s entire army had been wiped out or if the Indians had been pushed back. He dare not drag himself onto the road toward the smoke rising in the distance to find out. His only recourse was to move to deeper cover.

  He gritted his teeth and forced himself upright. The effort stole his breath. He disengaged the bayonet and pulled himself to stand on one foot, using the musket as a crutch. He must get free of this place or bleed out while he tried. If any of Bouquet’s army remained—the 60th Royal Americans, the 77th Highlanders, or his own 42nd Highlanders—they would still be headed to relieve the siege at Fort Pitt, as had been their mission before the Indians attacked.

  Lachlan staggered forward peering left and right. After twenty rods, he pinched back a groan and fell to a stop. He huffed for breath. A humid breeze fluttered the leaves along a deep swale, the rustling sound able to cover moccasined feet. Lachlan tightened his jaw. Sweat trickled down his temple and stuck the shirt beneath his brick-red waistcoat to his back.

  Blood continued to trickle down his leg, soaking into the red and white crisscross pattern of his hose. With gory fingers, he removed his belt and grimaced as he cinched it at the top of his leg near his groin. Tremors shook him from head to feet. For a moment he questioned his sanity in not letting himself bleed out. Moira. He could almost taste her name on his lips. Perhaps if he closed his eyes and lay here a bit longer, she would come to him and take him away.

  Go on, Lachlan.

  He shook his head. “No, Moira. I want to come to ye.”

  Go on, Lachlan.

  He opened his eyes. Blue skies peeked down through the treetops. Again, he pushed to his feet, and this time he did cry out.

  “I canna keep going. I’ve gone on enough.”

  Go on, Lachlan. The voice in his head was no longer Moira’s, but whose? God’s?

  “I beg Ye to take me.”

  This time, not even a leaf rustled in reply.

  He stepped forward and bit his cheek against the fire racing up his leg. Then began the slow, miles-long journey over hill and rock and gully. He dragged himself on, eating the bits of jerky he carried in his pouch and chewing on withering berries. He sensed no fever, only weakness, pain, and hunger. Bushy Station stood abandoned. Moccasin footprints in the mud outside showed frequent visits by the ranging natives.

  As the hours passed, his leg swelled, but the bleeding hole had hardened to a seeping crust. He suspected infection setting in and smirked. Such a way to finally die. Did any of his comrades even now suffer so? How many lay dead in the bush ’neath the hot sun? He prayed not many and that Nab was not among them, but his heart held bitter doubts as he laid his head on the ground.

  In the morning, he awoke. Alive still, he glimpsed toward heaven. “So this is what Ye intend, then?” He dragged himself on, step by tortuous step.

  Lachlan moved northwest, each footfall its own agony, keeping the main trail within a distance of twenty rods or so. Still, by the third day since the battle, he sensed he’d not covered more than a handful of miles. The forests and gullies lay endless. He collapsed in a thicket. “God! What would Ye have me do?” He panted and rubbed his torn sleeve across his grizzled chin.

  His ears pricked. Footsteps? He crouched lower. No. Not footsteps but the trickle of moving water. Lachlan moved his parched tongue across cracked lips. He had not passed a creek since yesterday, and his canteen was empty. Now the hope of quenching his thirst nearly put away caution. He slung back his head with a gasp, then leaned forward and pushed to his feet again. Perhaps, at the water, he would loosen the belt and lay his leg in the shallows. Mayhap the coolness would numb the pain. Mayhap, he’d lie there until Moira came again.

  He was out of breath and strength when he reached a stream a little further on. Breaking through the trees, it flowed along over shale and rock. He scanned the area, seeking danger, but as he’d not come across another human being, either red or white, he shuffled to the water and stepped into the black mud along its edge. He laid aside his musket and withdrew his sword, setting both weapons on a flat stone. Gently, he eased himself down. He stripped off his shoes and hose and set his feet into the water. With teeth clenched, Lachlan leaned back on his arms and gasped as the water washed over his wound. It did not numb but, rather, enlivened the pain. He struck the water with both fists. Gritting against the burning, he stripped off the belt and let his circulation flow. After some moments of nearly blinding pain, it began to ease. An ugly redness stitched lines around the hole making a ragged opening in the meat of his thigh. Surely, it was a good thing to clean out the debris embedded in the wound.

  For what seemed nearly an hour he lay there. His leg soaked to white, shriveled flesh, and his kilt too was soddened. The stream of red thinned to nearly clear water again. He’d removed his coat but left his waistcoat and shirt in place. If he could find a rock touched by the sun, perhaps he would lie upon it and sleep while he dried and dreamed.

  He’d only consi
dered the idea when a new sound, like a mourning dove’s notes, reached him. His heart punched inside his chest, for he knew ’twas no bird. He scrambled for his sword and gun, jerking his leg from the water in a manner that brought new agony. Clasping the items against his chest, he scooted backward toward the trees.

  Ah! His shoes and hose. There was nothing for it. They would have to remain in the open, and hopefully whoever came would take no notice of them.

  The red of the stockings seemed like flares to Lachlan’s eyes, however. As the sound of humming drew closer, he willed blindness on the intruder. With a narrow oak to his back, Lachlan peered behind, over his shoulder. A movement on the opposite bank of the creek captured his attention. A flit of deerskin. A shine of dark hair. He held his breath and froze, his hand on the hilt of his sword.

  The humming ceased abruptly. A bird warbled in the treetops and another answered. Lachlan glanced at his bare leg where a pink ooze issued from the wound. Did someone creep close? Were these to be his final moments? Would his scalp be lifted while his feet yet kicked the earth? He adjusted his grip on the sword and turned his head enough to see the water flowing and that no one crept up behind him. He turned another inch, then two, and then he saw her. A woman stared at him from across the stream, her eyes fixed and bright. She crouched at the water’s edge, a string in her hands, and on one end, lifted from the water, a fish wriggled.

  He ducked back and clenched his eyelids shut. Memories of the clearances at home in Scotland threatened. Of Moira’s suffering. He didn’t want to kill a woman, but if she thought to attack him ... God. Dinna force my hand.

  He peered once more, and she was gone. Lachlan’s heartbeat quickened as he searched the forest around him. There was no sign of her. But for how long, and would she return with a war party?

  He glanced to the place he had seen her with the fish, and his stomach tightened. Perhaps she dropped it, and it lay there still on its string. Would he be able to cross the slippery rocks in the stream and find out? In answer, his belly groaned. He maneuvered out of the woods and retrieved his stockings and shoes. Rinsing one of the stockings, he used it to wrap his wound and then stepped barefooted into the stream.

  Inches turned to a journey over the rocks, slick with wet moss. Sharp stones poked the tender flesh of his soles. The rushing water made him wobble. Then, just when he was within feet of the embankment, his stronger leg slid out on a stone, and he tumbled. His hip crashed into a rock and Lachlan flipped over. He dropped the Bess, and as he clamored to retrieve it, he slid on another rock and fell, bashing his skull.

  Moira stood there on the shore, holding out her hand. Oblivion crept around the edges of his vision, narrowing his view of her. “Dinna go.” He moved his mouth, but whether or not he spoke aloud, he didn’t know. Perhaps it didn’t matter, for she tilted her head as if she listened. He urged words, but they were mist. Ye must come get me, darlin, for I canna come on my own.

  Wenonah dropped the stringer holding her catch of fish and shoved her cabin door shut. She slid down against it, breathless. Pressing her hands to her stomach, she fought against rising panic. What was she to do if the soldier found her here, as he might if he continued down the river? What would prevent him from doing just as the raiders had done, stealing her things and destroying what little remained? How would she then survive the ordeal ahead of her, and what of the supplies she must keep for her coming journey?

  She lowered her hands and stared at the empty pot sitting at the hearth. He is wounded or ill. She could tell it easily enough. Anguish lay in his eyes, and the way he held himself proved pain of some sort, for he had barely been able to stand on his bare feet. He is hungry.

  Hunger made a dangerous enemy. Hunger and desperation could kill. At least the raiders had let her live, but would this man?

  Wenonah swallowed against bile knotting in her throat. To fight her fear, she must take action. Resolved, she pushed to her feet and cracked open the door. Her breathing calmed as she peered out. Light rain fell, and darkness would come soon. The soldier was weak. He would not find her tonight.

  And tomorrow she would not let him.

  Slipping her knife from its hilt at her hip, she picked the stringer off the floor and carried the fish outside. Tonight, she would eat and gather strength. Tomorrow she would rise early and return to the river’s edge.

  Wenonah cleaned the fish and spitted them. Then, choosing a few well-dried sticks of oak from her supply of wood next to the hearth, she built a small, nearly smokeless fire and cooked the fish above the glowing red coals. There was no sense sending out a beacon to the soldier. Perhaps others of his kinsmen still roamed the forest. Hopefully, they had all moved on to the English for, but she could not be sure of such. And what if they returned this way? Between the soldiers and Shawnee warriors with their allies of half a dozen nations passing to and fro, Wenonah’s safety was nothing but a brittle reed that might easily be crushed.

  As darkness fell, she sharpened her knife. She set it beside her as she settled on the furs covering her rope bed. Gentle rain on the rooftop turned heavy at times then lightened again, but continued half the night, assuring Wenonah that the soldier must have sought shelter. Yet, she slept the dreamless sleep of the wary, her eyelids springing open at the sound of a field mouse scurrying in the corner, and her thoughts waking her with plans for the coming day.

  She would move out at morning’s light, and if the stranger had gone, then so be it. Surely, he hoped to reach the fort. If he remained at the river, she would offer him the kindness of food. Perhaps her gesture would soften his heart, and he would continue on in peace. If not … Wenonah laid her hand on the buckhorn handle of her knife. She would defend herself, stopping him completely if necessary.

  Chapter 2

  PAIN SEARED HIS HEAD. The throbbing forbade him opening his eyes. He curled onto his side, but sharp tentacles wrapped hold of his leg and gripped. Alive. Lachlan felt like weeping.

  He passed into blackness again, and the next time he woke, the dark of night lay thick, and rain fell softly. Moira had not stayed with him. Neither had he gone to her.

  He shivered. Had a woman really been here, watching him at the riverside today, or had it only been Moira’s spirit, taunting him? At least sleep had lessened the pain in his head. He gently prodded his skull with his fingertips and found a tender welt. The skin was intact. The last thing he needed was another place leaking blood. He squeezed the bones in his shoulders and arm and bent his head to be certain his neck worked. Lachlan didn’t remember climbing out of the water after he’d fallen, but he must have, for here he lay on the creek bank.

  Forcing himself to sit up, he peered deeper into the darkness. Where had he dropped the gun? He would not find it in the dark. And his sword, did it lay in the creek bottom too?

  He felt around him. Nothing he owned lay within reach. No shoes, no stocking, not even the canteen. He would simply have to wait for dawn and hope that when it came, a party of Indians would not be waiting to finish the job they’d started at Bushy Run.

  He dragged himself further from the bank, up against a hollow in a gully wall protruding with green rock and roots. He leaned against it and closed his eyes. It was not a cave, but it offered the merest shelter and a screen from anyone coming up the trail on this side of the creek.

  As the gray mist of dawn wet his skin, Lachlan woke again, weak with hunger and cold. His clothes had never fully dried, and now more drizzle fell from the sky. There was nothing to be had in his pouch. The jerky had long since been eaten. He pulled back the kilt and examined his leg again. The hole had filled with a plug of dried blood, but the rest of the area was a swollen mass. Gently, he moved his fingers along the edge and beneath wherever the pain radiated. The musket ball had not exited, and the muscle felt mutilated inside, but Lachlan was fairly certain it hadn’t damaged his bone. He leaned forward. He could lie here and die, but instinct urged him to keep moving. He planted his palms on the earth to heave himself up when the sou
nd of a cracking twig stopped him. He glanced around him. He’d no weapon. Even his tomahawk had been lost in the battle. He flexed his hands and pushed to his feet, but the pain almost sent him to the forest floor again. He sucked in his breath and waited. Footsteps shuffled on damp ground sounded only feet away, just beyond the edge of the rock. Lachlan held his breath.

  The woman from yesterday stepped into view carrying a bucket made of stiff, tanned hide, with the end of a stick protruding out of it. Her head jerked around, and her eyes widened at the same moment that Lachlan’s heart jumped. He raised his hands to brace for an attack.

  She took a step back toward the water’s edge, and her stance shifted revealing the protrusion of her belly at the front of her dress.

  She carries a bairn.

  She fled, and Lachlan leaned forward. “Wait!” The woman kept moving and glanced back for only a second before disappearing completely into the woods.

  Lachlan slumped back against the promontory to ease the pain. After a few moments’ rest, he straightened and limped toward the stream. He could not go on without the musket, and it must lie somewhere beneath the riffles of the stream. He soon spotted it beneath the surface amongst the rocks. His sword and canteen lay sparkling in the mud of the shallows nearby. The drizzle had turned to rain, and Lachlan was already soaked through as he eased himself into the water. He slid one foot across the bottom and dragged his wounded leg.

  At last, he retrieved the weapons, but he could not find his shoes. The whole procedure had drained him beyond his limits. He needed food and rest, or he would never make it to Fort Pitt.

  He rolled onto his back, limp and without hope, until sleep called again.

  Some inner sense pricked him back to life. His eyelids sprang open. Shafts of sunlight angling from the west filtered down through the dripping crown of oak and maple, hemlock and pine, but his heart pumped painfully inside his chest as awareness sent his senses tingling. Not alone … He didn’t look, not right away. Let them think he was unaware. His hand lay next to the pommel of his sword. He drew his fingers over it. Then he turned but a fraction and shifted his eyes.