And the others, standing by and watching…” He shook his head. “I want to go back there now and finish what I started. I want to shove his head under the water and watch him splash and kick and die. Why’d you stop me?” Duncan’s fists were clenching and unclenching.
“Because I … I couldn’t bear to watch.”
He seemed to be fighting some inner demon that wanted to break free. He wouldn’t lift his eyes. Amelia stared at the top of his head, still matted with blood. His shoulders heaved with each breath.
She was still so unsure of him, so fearful of his explosive, hot-tempered nature. He had beaten those men insensible back there and still wanted to go back and do more damage.
And yet he wanted to do those things to protect her. To wreak vengeance on those who tried to dishonor her.
Or perhaps it was not her dishonor he wanted to avenge.…
“Thank you,” she softly said, for she did not know what else to say. “Thank you for rescuing me from those men.”
He looked up in anger—or was it remorse?—then put a hand to his head and staggered sideways. “Ah, bluidy hell .”
She dashed forward and tried to grab hold of him under the arms but could do nothing as he sank heavily to the ground in a huge tartan-covered heap.
She leaned over him on her knees and slapped at his cheeks. “Duncan! Duncan!”
Good God! Sitting back on her heels, she pressed a fist to her forehead. He had just saved her from those awful men.
She was alive and still in possession of her virtue because of him. What had she done?
An owl hooted in the treetops, and she looked up at the moonlit sky. She had no idea how to help him. They were in the middle of nowhere.
Then she heard a noise from beyond the glade—a cow lowing in the night. Perhaps there was a herd, and if there was a herd, there might be a drover, or even a crofter’s cottage with a barn and a family with food and clean water and supplies.…
Rising to her feet, she looked down at Duncan unconscious on the ground, glanced briefly at his horse nibbling on the grass, then darted off in a run toward the sound she had heard and prayed it was not another troop of drunken English soldiers.
Chapter Eight
A faint, flickering glow illuminated a window. It drew her out of the trees and across a field to a small cottage, built of rough stone and thatched with hay. A ribbon of smoke trailed upward from the chimney to the clear, starry sky, and she heard again the sound of a cow lowing somewhere in the darkness.
Hoisting her skirts up to her knees, Amelia dashed across the uneven ground, then reached the door and rapped hard upon it. She’d already decided what she was going to say, for she had no idea what to expect from these Highlanders, or what manner of household she had chanced upon.
The wooden door creaked open, and she found herself looking down at a frail, elderly man in a kilt. He leaned over a rough-hewn wooden cane, and his snow-white hair flew fantastical y outward in all directions, as if he hadn’t combed it in a decade. His saggy skin was creased with deep grooves that looked as ancient as the bark on a two-hundred-year-old oak.
Amelia’s hopes sank. She thought she might be greeted by an able-bodied young crofter, who would hurry to the glade with her and perhaps even carry Duncan to shelter.
“My apologies for disturbing you at this hour,” she said,
“but I am in need of assistance. My…” She paused, then started again. “My husband is injured in the forest.” She turned and pointed.
The door opened more full y, and a young barefoot woman stepped into view. She wore a plain white shift. Her flaxen hair fell in loose curls upon her shoulders, and she held a baby in her arms.
“She’s English,” the old man said in a scratchy, suspicious voice.
Then, to Amelia’s incalculable relief, a younger, more stalwart Scotsman appeared in the doorway. He was fair in coloring and wore a loose nightshirt. “Injured, you say?
Whereabouts?”
“In the glade not far from here,” she answered. “I can take you there, if you will help us.” She decided it would be prudent to offer some additional information: “My husband is Scottish.”
The young man nodded. “No matter, lass. I’ll hitch up the wagon.” He turned to his wife. “Put the kettle on the fire and fetch some blankets.”
He disappeared for a moment, then came back wearing a kilt, which he fastened over his shoulder while he followed Amelia outside. She was uncomfortably aware of Duncan’s shield bouncing lightly at her back.
A short time later, they were rolling through the woods on a rickety wagon with a squeaky axle, behind a stout white pony who plodded along too slowly for Amelia’s current state of anxiety.
“It’s just through there.” She pointed toward the moonlit glade, then hopped down from the seat while they were still moving. She ran ahead and found Duncan exactly where she’d left him.
“Here!” she called out. “We’re over here!”
Please, God, let him be alive.
Dropping to her knees, she touched his cheek. His skin was still warm, and a strong pulse throbbed at his neck.
The wagon creaked to a halt, and the Scotsman hopped down. “What happened to him?”
Amelia paused, searching for a plausible explanation while the pony jangled the harness. “He fell off his horse and hit his head.”
The Highlander glanced briefly at Turner, nibbling quietly on the sweet green grass, then leaned forward on a knee. He glanced also at Duncan’s axe and claymore, then proceeded to examine his scalp. “It’s a deep gash, to be sure, but at least he didn’t split his skull wide open. Help me get him onto the wagon bed.”
With a great deal of combined effort, they managed to lift Duncan and set him on a bed of hay in the back. Amelia climbed in with him and held his head on her lap for the short return journey to the cottage.
They reached the croft and slowed to a halt in front of the door. The young man lifted Duncan over his shoulder and carried him inside. A fire blazed in the hearth. The crofter’s wife was now dressed in plain brown homespun.
“Gracious,” she said, setting her sleeping infant down in a basket. “He’s one strapping giant of a Highlander. What happened to him?”
“He fell off his horse and hit his head,” her husband answered skeptical y, giving her a sharp look.
“What’s your name, lass?” the woman asked. Her tone was direct but not without kindness.
“Amelia.” She decided not to mention her family name or title. They did not need to know she was the daughter of an aristocrat.
The woman stared at her curiously. “I’m Beth,” she said,
“and this is my husband, Craig. We’re MacKenzies, and you met my father at the door. He’s a MacDonald.”
“I’m honored to make your acquaintance,” Amelia replied, nodding respectful y at the old man who stood hunched over his cane in the center of the room, not looking at her. His angry, incredulous eyes were fixed on Duncan.
«Well, let’s see if we can bring this clumsy Highlander around,” Beth said, reacting casual y to the tension in the room while she crossed to the rough-hewn table. “He’s your husband, you say?” She did not meet Amelia’s eyes.
“Yes. Can you help him?”
Beth exchanged another dubious glance with Craig, but Amelia could not concern herself with their suspicions now.
All she wanted was for Duncan to wake up.
“We’ll do our best.” Beth picked up a plate and mashed its contents with a wooden spoon. “You said he was wounded, so I prepared an ointment of foxglove leaves while you were gone. This should do, but if it’s a serious head wound, there might be swelling of the brain and there’s not much anyone can do but wait and pray.”
Amelia suppressed her fear, then glanced uneasily at the old man, who backed away toward the wall and watched her with dark, menacing eyes. The old man’s expression harkened straight back to the terrifying nightmares of her childhood.
* * *
Later, when Craig went outside to tend to the pony and wagon, Beth looked Amelia in the eye. “Tel me the truth now, lass. He’s not your husband, is he?”
She and Beth sat down at the table. “No.”
Beth’s father, the white-haired MacDonald, was sitting in a chair by the fire with his gnarled fingers folded over the top of his cane, glaring irately at her.
“Don’t mind him,” Beth whispered, leaning forward slightly.
“He can’t hear half of what anyone says anyway.”
“He heard enough to know I was English.”
Beth shrugged. “Aye. He’s cautious, nothing more. So how is it you know this big-boned Scot?” She gestured toward Duncan, resting quietly on the bed.
Amelia turned her gaze toward him and felt a sharp pang of anxiety. What if he did not recover?
“He stole me away from my fiancé,” she careful y replied.
Beth’s blue eyes narrowed with suspicion. “So the two of you are lovers, then?”
Amelia knew Beth did not believe that. She was just trying to draw out an explanation. “No, we are not.”
The old man tapped his cane on the floor three times, as if he wanted something brought to him. Beth held up a finger.
“You can dispense with the secrets, lass,” she whispered.
“I know who this man is, and I know you’re not his beloved.”
Amelia fought to stay calm. “How would you know such a thing?”
She pointed at the round shield still strapped to Amelia’s back. “That’s the Butcher’s shield. Everyone knows it holds the stone taken from the weapon of his ancestor—Gilleain na Tuaighe.”
“Gillean of the Battle-axe,” Amelia repeated, translating it into words she understood all too well from the legendary stories about the Butcher, who was descended from a famous warlord. She removed the shield over her head to examine it more closely and touched the polished oval stone in the center of the circle. It was pure white, with swirling veins of gray.
“It’s a Mullagate,” Beth said.
“It’s very beautiful.” But God help her now.
Beth nodded. “My husband noticed it when he followed you outside. Then he saw the basket-hilted broadsword your Highlander wore—with the tiny hearts engraved in the steel—along with the impressive black stallion you claim he toppled off of, and knew it was true. The man in the glade was the Butcher, and you were trying to save him.”
Trying to save him … “Yes,” she replied. “Yes, I must ensure that he lives.”
“But you’re not his beloved,” Beth added. “I know that, too.”
“How can you be so sure?” Amelia surprised even herself with the challenge behind that question.
Beth’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Because his beloved is dead, lass, and from what I’ve heard, the Butcher buried his own heart in the ground with her on the day she died—at least the part of his heart that was capable of love. Now he fights for Scottish freedom. That’s all that matters to him.
Freedom and justice. Besides,” she added, glancing at her baby asleep in the basket, “you’re English. The Butcher would never give his heart to an Englishwoman. I mean no offense by it. It’s just the way it is.”
Amelia sat back in her chair, shaken by the depth of knowledge this woman possessed about the infamous Butcher—the specific details she knew about his weapons and ancestry and the grief inside him, which motivated him to fight and kill .
“You say he fights for Scottish freedom,” Amelia commented. “But how does killing accomplish anything?”
She thought of her dear father, who had tried to negotiate peaceful y with the Scottish nobles and had succeeded with many who were willing to lay down their swords and unite with England under one sovereign.
Beth stood up from the table. “Would you like some wine?
I know my father will want a wee dram if he hears me talking of the past.”
“Yes, thank you,” she replied.
Beth went to the cupboard, retrieved a heavy stone jug, and poured wine into three goblets. She carried one to her father, who accepted it with a shaky nod, then brought the other two to the table.
Beth sat down. “There are many Scots who believe fighting is the only way to preserve our freedom, because many remember a time when negotiations proved futile. Do you not know of Glencoe?”
Amelia shook her head. “I’ve never heard of it.”
“Nay, most of you privileged English ladies wouldn’t be told of such things. I can tell by your accent, lass. You’re no kitchen maid. In any case, it happened back in ’92, likely before you were born. Your King—that usurper, William of Orange—gave the clansmen an ultimatum to swear loyalty to his Crown or suffer the consequences and forfeit their lands.
Most of them signed the document, but one of the MacDonald chiefs failed to meet the deadline, and not long after, his clan was massacred. They were taken out into the snow at dawn and shot dead. Few Scots have forgiven the English for that injustice, or the Campbells for that matter, because they did the dirty work. And now the Campbells support the Hanover succession.” She leaned forward. “So natural y, there are more than a few Highlanders who are itchin’ to pick up a sword or musket and fight for the true Scottish Crown.”
“You are referring to the Stuart succession,” Amelia said.
“Is that why the Jacobites rose up in rebel ion? Because of what happened at Glencoe? I thought it was because they wanted a Catholic on the throne.”
Beth set down her goblet. “Ah, it’s complicated, lass. Too much Scottish blood has been spilled over the centuries, and that blood still flows as thick as ever in the rivers and streams of this country. We need to fight,” she explained. “We cannot help it. Our proud Highland men are brave and bold. They have warrior instincts coursing through their blood, and they don’t like to roll over for a tyrant.”
“King George is hardly a tyrant,” Amelia argued.
“But your parliament can be,” Beth countered. “I’m not even going to mention Cromwel ,” she whispered, “because if my father hears that name in this house, he’ll be kicking over his chair and swinging his cane, and wanting to follow your Butcher out the door in the morning to kill a few redcoats for himself.”
Amelia glanced at the weathered old Highlander, then back at Duncan, who had not yet moved. “Pray God he does wake by morning.”
“Pray God indeed,” Beth said. “Because if he does not, I promise you the clans will rise up like you never imagined and your precious German king will wish he’d never been born.”
Amelia uneasily sipped her wine and pondered all that she had just heard. She had not known of the terrible massacre at Glencoe. Clearly, her father had kept that information from her.
To protect her, of course. Because in her world delicate young ladies of a certain sensibility were to be sheltered from such horrors.
She turned her tired eyes toward Duncan and realized yet again that there was much she did not know about this country. Its history and politics were far more complicated than she’d ever imagined, and getting more complicated by the hour.
“Do you know the Butcher’s true identity?” she asked, sitting forward, still watching him. She was more curious now than ever about his life and upbringing. Had he been at Glencoe? Did he have family? Brothers or sisters? What kind of childhood had he known? Had he gone to school?
Learned to read? Or had he only ever known how to fight and kill ?
“No one knows where he comes from,” Beth said. “Some say he’s a ghost. But rumors abound that one of the rebels who fights at his side is a MacDonald who survived the Glencoe massacre. He was just a wee lad at the time, and his mother stuffed him into a trunk to hide him from the Campbells. He crawled out after it was over and watched her bleed to death in the snow.”
Was it Angus she spoke of?
Beth tossed her head toward her father, who was quietly drinking his wine by the fire, and lowered her voice. “My father’s nephews perished
there, too.”
Amelia’s stomach turned at the thought of all those people dying so violently on that cold winter morning.
“What about the woman who was to be the Butcher’s wife?” she asked suddenly. “Does anyone know who she was?”
Beth shook her head. “It’s a well -guarded secret. But I reckon many young Scottish lassies would like a chance to help heal that damaged heart of his. The lads like to talk about his axe and his sword and the mystical powers in that ancient stone, but the lassies like to gossip about the power of what he keeps under his kilt.” Thankful y, Beth changed the subject. “So you say the Butcher stole you away from your fiancé?”
“Yes.”
Just then, the door burst open with a terrible crash. Beth screamed, and her father dropped his goblet on the floor and rose out of his chair with a threatening war cry.
In a blinding flash of tartan, Duncan, too, was off the bed and onto his feet, sweeping Amelia behind him with one arm while he drew his pistol from his belt and aimed it at the intruder.
The hammer cocked under Duncan’s thumb. The whole world seemed to stand still as Amelia stared across the room at Beth’s husband, Craig—trapped in a stranglehold with a knife to his throat.
Chapter Nine
Duncan, evidently, had recovered. Amelia, however, thought it might be her turn to take to the bed, for she was certain she was about to faint dead away at his feet.
“What’s happening here?” he asked in a deep and threatening voice. He still held the pistol aimed at Craig, and his gaze flicked from Beth to the old man, then settled darkly on Angus, who kept Craig under control with the sharp point of his dagger. “Who are these people?”
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