Highland Betrayal

by Markland, Anna

  He hoisted the coil of rope over one shoulder and made his careful way back to the path. The sand coating his burden grated his skin, but he supposed it was a small penance for his stupidity. He had to grudgingly admit he admired the courage of a young woman who’d probably risked life and limb to save her country’s royal regalia. Patriotism was one thing a Welshman had no trouble understanding.

  Urgent cries interrupted his rehearsal of the report he planned to give Abbott. “Sir, sir.”

  He scanned the rocks. The lads were clustered around the signal boy who appeared to have slipped again.

  Carr cupped his hands to his mouth. “Think Smythe’s broke his leg, sir.”

  Morgan clenched his fists. They’d likely been engaged in shenanigans while he’d been preoccupied. It would be a miracle if he held on to his commission after two lapses. A broken limb could be a life-threatening injury, especially miles away from proper medical care. Morgan shuddered at the prospect of the army surgeon getting his hands on the boy. The man was a drunken sot. Jimmy Smythe was fifteen. Even if he recovered he might walk with a limp for the rest of his life.

  However, the accident provided a distraction. He drew the incriminating coil off his shoulder and hefted it into a crack between the rocks, then set off to help the stricken youth.

  ~~~

  Alarm bells clanged in Hannah’s brain, but her feet carried her across the fields toward Dùn Fhoithear though it was evident from the smoke the castle was a ruin.

  The cannon still brooded outside the walls. English soldiers scurried here and there, the sun glinting off their ridiculous helmets. A few local folk milled about in small groups near the smoldering ruin. It was folly to continue. She should return to the path and make for Stonehyve. Her uncle’s agent had already arranged transportation home to Kilmer.

  Yet she walked on, drawn by some inexorable force she didn’t understand. She paused at the top of the path to the beach and filled her lungs with the salty air, preparing for the onslaught of memories of the terrifying climb. Finally, she risked a glance at the rocky trail.

  For a moment she feared she was hallucinating. A soldier climbing up from below was nearing the spot where she stood. He carried a lad in his arms. He had removed his shirt, revealing a well-muscled torso that probably explained why neither the climb nor his burden seemed to have caused him distress. Only a sheen of sweat across his impressively broad shoulders betrayed he’d undertaken any exertion at all. Several younger men scrambled up behind him, all breathless.

  Her heart raced. No one descended to the treacherous beach for pleasure. They’d been sent to search.

  She should turn away, but couldn’t seem to pry her gaze from the soldier she recognized without a doubt as being the one who’d espied her. His helmet had hidden his golden hair, but there was no mistaking it was the same man who’d haunted her thoughts ever since.

  Did he suspect? Her belly clenched when she recalled trusting the tide would carry the rope away. Perhaps they’d found it on the rocks. She breathed again when she saw none of the men carried anything.

  Fleeing would raise suspicion. Mayhap he’d informed his commanding officer of her presence on the beach, and the heavy burden she struggled to carry.

  She glanced at the castle. They had yet to come within sight of the sentries.

  Her knees trembled. The lad’s ankle was swollen. The pained expression contorting his face touched her heart. It was likely the local women would refuse to tend an Englishman, though he was barely more than a bairn.

  Her soldier paused for only a second before continuing to walk towards her. His deep frown must mean he’d recognized her—and that he suspected.

  She was a fly trapped in the spider’s sticky trap. She gathered her shawl around her trembling shoulders and closed her eyes, waiting for the axe to fall.

  BONESETTER

  It would be only moments before the sentries espied Morgan with Smythe in his arms and came running to investigate. Mere seconds to decide. Duty dictated he denounce the Scot who swayed in the wind, her grey checkered plaid clutched to her body. But the terrified resignation on her face pulled at his foolish Celtic heart. He didn’t have it in him to deliver a young woman into Abbott's hands. Such a comely lass was born to please a man, not die in agony. He was fairly certain of her role in the theft of the jewels, but even she might not know their current location. She was probably a lowly cog in a very big machine.

  He briefly questioned why the conspirators had chosen a peasant woman to undertake the riskiest part of the venture, but pushed the question aside as he looked down at her. “I’m Captain Morgan Pendray. My signal boy fell on the rocks. Treacherous, they are.”

  She opened her eyes and stared at him, as if in a trance. He swallowed hard, suddenly short of breath. A man might drown in those green depths. “He’s injured,” he muttered, wishing he could lay the lad down, take her into his embrace and assure her all would be well.

  But it might not be.

  He turned to his crew. “Get cleaned up and make a pallet ready in the tent for Jimmy.”

  “Sir,” they replied before hurrying away.

  A moan from the boy jolted him back to reality. Smythe was too pale and suddenly felt like a dead weight. His foot had swelled like an inflated pig’s bladder. Morgan looked back at the girl. “Is there a bonesetter in Stonehyve, or Dunnottar?” he asked.

  Her unsettling gaze wandered over him, slowly. His skin heated under her surprisingly lusty perusal, but he tamped down the pleasant tingle in his loins, worried she might be imbecilic—perhaps the reason she’d been selected for the mad scheme.

  Every village in Wales had a bonesetter. Surely Scotland was the same? He was loath to hand Jimmy over to the army surgeon. The man was a butcher even when sober and would likely recommend sawing off the lad’s foot with only a cursory examination.

  Her response took him off guard. “Ye’re nay an Englishmon.”

  Her sultry voice uttering the first words she had spoken to him did something peculiar to his insides. “I’m Welsh,” he replied, “from Wales,” he added lamely, filled with an absurd desire to make sure she understood he wasn’t one of them.

  Except he was. He shook his head. The climb up the steep path and the worry over Smythe had clearly affected his judgement. He glanced to the castle. They’d been spotted and several musketeers were loping towards them. “He needs proper tending,” he pleaded.

  She lay a pale hand on his bicep, as if he was the one requiring reassurance. “No one nearby can set bones. I’ll do what I can.”

  It was the first time in his life a desirable woman had touched him willingly. An urge to thrust out his chest and bellow his euphoria bubbled up in his throat.

  Anger quickly took its place when the musketeers surrounded them, Pritchard among them. He gripped his musket in two meaty hands and used it to shove the woman to the ground. Pain and shock registered on her face when she landed hard on her bottom, legs flailing, but her instinct was to cross her arms over her breasts. Outrage threatened to choke Morgan. Only a coward would strike a female where she was most vulnerable, but he’d had the measure of the man before. The brave lass had been gifted with generous breasts and the thought of dark bruises…

  He gritted his teeth, not surprised to see it was the lout who’d abused Lady Ogilvy. “Stop,” he commanded. “She’s a bonesetter who’s willing to tend the lad.”

  The lie seemed to pacify the musketeers. One offered his hand and helped her stand, though Pritchard still loomed over her. Eyes wide, she smiled uncertainly at Morgan, but there was a hint of a shared secret in her brief glance. He supposed she wondered why he had exaggerated her skills. He wasn’t certain of the reason himself.

  He stiffened his shoulders and reminded himself he was a Parliamentary officer who couldn’t afford to behave like a lovesick youth. “Follow me,” he ordered curtly as he headed for the crew’s tent.

  ~~~

  The lust in Captain Pendray’s eyes was unmista
kable. Her uncle’s men knew better than to salivate over the niece of an Earl, but as a spy among ordinary folk Hannah had seen greed in many a hungry gaze. It had quickly become apparent that most men were braggarts who shied away when she called their bluff.

  The determined set of the captain’s jaw told her there would be no toying with Morgan Pendray, and her body insisted on responding like the flirt she wasn’t. It was a perilous dance, and she hoped she wouldn’t trip over her own feet. His melodious, accented voice washed over her like a warm breeze from some exotic land—which was ridiculous. Everyone knew Wales was even bleaker and wetter than Scotland.

  And the golden hair! She was definitely playing with fire, a fear that was confirmed when she laid a hand on his rock-hard arm and heat spiralled up her thighs.

  But she’d never been one to shy away from danger.

  He was the first Welshman she’d met. Weren’t they fanatical patriots? What was this man doing fighting for an English army in Scotland?

  Close up he looked even bigger and stronger than he had on the path that fateful afternoon, and in her frenzied state she’d at first thought a giant stood atop the cliff. The impressive array of chiseled muscles explained why the climb up the hill with an awkward burden hadn’t taxed him in the least.

  Anger blazed on his face when the musketeer struck her with his weapon. He clearly disapproved. Glenheath would have had the wretch whipped. She’d seen the soldier bully women before in the camp and had an urge to spit on him.

  Noblewomen didn’t spit, but the temptation was a measure of how far she’d strayed from her genteel upbringing. Pulling her hair back from her face, she swallowed hard, grudgingly aware spittle was in short supply at the moment in any case. Being sent sprawling in the dirt likely hadn’t improved her appearance and the ungainly tumble with bare legs flailing in the air had been a blow to her pride, not to mention her modesty.

  The musketeer’s face was etched on her memory, but that was a battle for another day.

  Upright again, she deliberately rubbed her palms over both breasts, mainly because she was in some discomfort and the impact of the musket had undoubtedly left bruises. However, Pendray’s eyes were fixed on that part of her body, so she might as well keep his attention there.

  It wouldn’t be a hardship to use feminine wiles. She was drawn to him anyway, but his sudden deep frown made her stomach clench. Mayhap he did intend to denounce her after all. She breathed again when he asked about a bonesetter and she realized his concern was for the moaning boy. Had he forgotten the local villages had been blighted by the long siege? Anyone with the ability to tend the sick had likely been recruited inside Dùn Fhoithear’s walls and perished there.

  Her late aunt had tutored her in the healing arts and she’d taken over that responsibility for the estate when Lady Glenheath passed. She’d assisted the physician to set bones at Kilmer, but Morgan had told the musketeers she was a bonesetter. Why he’d exaggerated her skills was a mystery. Surely the army had its own surgeon.

  However, tending the lad might afford an opportunity to gain access to Lady Ogilvy, if the poor woman still lived. She risked a weak smile and followed Morgan Pendray to the tents pitched near the cannon.

  CONFLICTING OPINIONS

  The crowd around the tent fell silent and parted when another youth held open the flap for the captain. Hannah stuck close and followed in his wake before the scowling English soldiers could keep her out. The Welshman went down on one knee and laid the boy on the pallet. For all that he was a big man, there was a gentleness about him.

  When he stood, she drew off her shawl and knelt to examine the swollen ankle, acutely aware of the giant behind her. He seemed to fill the small space, though a cursory glance at the pallets shoved to one side indicated the entire gunnery crew usually slept within. She supposed Pendray had his own tent, as befitted an officer. She conjured an image of his huge frame stretched out on a pallet, hands behind his head, ankles crossed…

  When the lad shrieked, she swivelled her head to his ashen face. Preoccupied with thoughts of the officer’s bare feet and legs inches from where she knelt had caused her to poke the injured foot too hard. “Can ye move yer toes?” she asked, wishing someone would open the tent flap to let in more air, though she doubted that would get rid of the smell of smoke.

  The boy glanced warily at the captain, evidently seeking his approval. Relief surged when five toes moved a smidgen. She turned to tell Pendray she didn’t think the ankle was broken, but he stiffened and saluted when another officer strode into the tent. Her belly clenched. This could only be Abbott, the monster who’d failed to prevent the massacre at Dùn Dè. Behind him came a man wearing a blood-stained apron over his yellowed buffcoat. The whiff of spirits emanating from him was unmistakable.

  The slight wrinkle of the captain’s nose betrayed he was aware of the reek of whiskey. The general and the surgeon eyed her as if she was a piece of rubbish someone had dropped on the groundsheet. She scrambled to stand and withdrew until her back was against the damp canvas wall. She clutched her shawl tightly, still feeling sore where the soldier had shoved her. The boy no longer needed her. The doctor would quickly verify he had suffered a bad sprain.

  “Report,” Abbott snarled as the doctor leaned over the pallet.

  Pendray glanced at the lad. “Smythe slipped on the rocks, sir.”

  The general scowled. “Yes, yes, but did you find any trace of the jewels during your search?”

  Fear and disgust made her lightheaded. Abbott didn’t care about one of his own men and would think nothing of torturing a Scottish spy who’d stolen the treasure he sought.

  Pendray looked up into the peak of the tent. “No, sir. Nothing.”

  No one paid attention to the squeak of relief that emerged from her throat.

  “Sir, what about…” Smythe interjected weakly.

  She gritted her teeth.

  The captain clenched his jaw and glared at the boy who averted his gaze and closed his mouth.

  Dizzy with relief, Hannah nevertheless knew in that moment Pendray had indeed found something incriminating. It could only be the rope. Why had he not denounced her?

  Preoccupation with her own dilemma fled when the surgeon straightened, wiped a dirty sleeve across his mouth and announced, “Badly broken. Bring him to my tent. I’ll have to amputate.”

  Her knees threatened to buckle. The drunkard had scarcely even looked at the injured limb.

  Whatever Smythe had been about to say was forgotten as he wailed a denial of his fate and dissolved into wrenching sobs.

  Pendray gritted his teeth and turned to look at her, as if expecting her to speak. He likely sensed the ankle wasn’t broken, but what weight would her opinion carry?

  “Very well,” Abbott intoned, stroking his moustache. “Courage, brave lad,” he said, though his attention was on the tent flap when he offered the empty words of condolence.

  It was too much. She clenched her fists and stepped forward. “I beg to differ,” she declared with as much conviction as she could muster. “’Tis merely a bad sprain.”

  ~~~

  An insane urge to kiss the fear off the lass’s pale face seized Morgan. He itched to scoop her up and tell her how much he admired her bravery in stepping forward, but then he already knew she was courageous. His opinion alone wouldn’t have made any impact on Abbott, though his commander was well aware of the surgeon’s incompetence.

  The general came to an abrupt halt, one eyebrow raised. “Who the devil is this woman?” he demanded.

  “A camp follower,” the surgeon mumbled with a dismissive wave of his hand. “I’ve seen her there.”

  Morgan hesitated but then decided to lie anyway. “A local bonesetter,” he said. “Doctor Peabody is already burdened with too many injured men,” he suggested in an effort to placate the sulking surgeon who was likely anxious to get back to his bottle. “If she can heal the lad, you’ll still have a loyal soldier. I need every available man to get the cannon back
to Edinburgh.”

  Abbott arched both brows. “A bonesetter? Here? What’s your name, gel?”

  “Hannah, me-lord,” she replied with a brief curtsey. “Hannah Kincaid.”

  Morgan liked the sound of her name. She might have made it up, though it had rolled smoothly off her tongue. He’d coax her to whisper Hannah Kincaid over and over while their tongues mated…

  A stern voice jolted him back to reality. “Very well,” the general hissed, fingering the end of his pompous moustache. “You’ve a sennight to get the lad fit for travel. You’ll be taking the gun to Inverness.” His gaze drifted to Morgan’s feet. “Get your boots back on sharpish. What will the men think?”

  “Thank you, miss,” Smythe rasped as the two officers left the tent without offering an explanation of the surprising news about Inverness. He’d expected orders to return to Edinburgh.

  “Yes, my thanks too,” Morgan echoed, hoping Smythe was too young and Hannah Kincaid too innocent to know what the inconvenient bulge at his groin signified.

  He’d put his career, even his life, in jeopardy for a lass he didn’t know but who stirred emotions and feelings he hadn’t felt in a long while. His male urges had got the better of his common sense. He’d obviously been too long without a woman.

  Mayhap she was a sorceress. Best he watch his step or next thing his neck would be in a noose. “What do you need?” he asked gruffly as she knelt again to tend his signal boy.

  He swallowed hard when she looked up at him. Was it longing he saw in those green depths? His cock thought so.

  He cursed himself for a fool when she averted her gaze and replied, “Linens for bandages. Clean water, and comfrey.”

  HELPLESS

  The short distance between tents didn’t provide sufficient time for Morgan to solve the complicated problem of Hannah Kincaid.

  His own shelter was a little farther away from the castle and he hoped the reek of smoke hadn’t permeated, but it was a forlorn wish. Bits of ash floated in the air, even within the canvas walls. He batted them away, preferring not to dwell overlong on what had gone up in flames in the chapel besides wood and vestments.