Highland Betrayal

by Markland, Anna

  He didn’t have to tell them twice. They squatted down on the groundsheet, grabbed the wooden spoons and tucked in, muttering a garbled Sir with mouths full of porridge.

  She wondered why Morgan intended for her to eat outside, but once they exited the tent, he led her a few paces to another, larger tent. She hesitated when he held open the flap. “’Tis unseemly for me to be alone wi’ ye in yer tent, my lord.”

  He looked into her eyes as if searching for something, then passed a bowl to her. She cupped her hands around its lingering warmth, finding comfort in it.

  “My name is Morgan,” he said, gesturing to the inside of the tent. “I told you last night you need not fear me.”

  She had no alternative but to enter, and being a camp-follower had already sullied her reputation. Besides which, the oatmeal…

  He followed her in and nodded to a camp stool next to the largest pallet. “You’d probably prefer to sit there.”

  Once she was seated, he took up his spoon and began to eat heartily. “Still hot. Enjoy.”

  “Will ye nay sit?” she asked, savoring the wholesomeness of her first spoonful.

  He shook his head as he scooped out the last of his porridge and licked his lips. “I have duties to attend to, but I’ll return shortly.”

  He’d missed a spot of oatmeal at the corner of his mouth and she had a ridiculous urge to lick it off. She pointed to the same place on her face. “Ye’ve still a wee bit on yer…”

  He frowned slightly, but then apparently sensed her intent; he retrieved a napkin from the hip pocket of his buffcoat and dabbed the food off his face. “How’s that?” he asked with a smile, bending for her perusal.

  It was too intimate, an interaction between friends, or between a man and a woman who were more than friends. Perfect popped into her head, but she simply nodded and averted her eyes to her bowl, lest she jump up and kiss those full lips.

  Unsure what had come over her and afraid of the possible consequences of allowing him to become her protector, she clutched the bowl more tightly. “I’ve been thinkin’…now the siege is o’er and done…I’m nay from these parts…’tis time I returned home.”

  She didn’t dare risk looking up at him, fearing what she might see in those piercing blue eyes. She should have known better than to babble on, but she did. “Yer lad will heal quickly. The army’s set to decamp. Ye’ll be sent elsewhere. To Inverness, ye said. I canna go there.”

  “Where is your home, Hannah?” he asked quietly.

  She blurted out the response to the unexpected question. “In the west. Kil—”

  Sanity returned just in time. “A wee village in Ayrshire.”

  She grew uncomfortable as he watched her, scraping his knuckles along the stubble of his chin, but then he said, “I’ll have to get Syddall to shave me while Smythe is recovering.” He drew a finger across his throat and grimaced. “That’s a terrifying prospect.”

  She laughed despite her nervousness and took another spoonful.

  “I love the sound of your laughter,” he said, his voice too husky for her liking. “Promise me you’ll not run off to Ayrshire while I’m gone.”

  She wasn’t sure if it was an order or a plea, but the reply came easily to her lips. “I promise, my lord.”

  “Morgan,” he reminded her.

  “I promise, Morgan.”

  NEEDS MUST

  Hannah finished her satisfying breakfast, fretting over what to do next. It was all very well for Morgan to expect her to remain in the army encampment, but there were no facilities for females. In the civilian camp the women had their own latrines. There was a burn nearby that the laundresses used. Once a week most of the women walked there to bathe. If she didn’t go today, she’d have to wait another week.

  She squirmed on the stool, wishing she hadn’t thought of latrines. Nature was compelling her to find somewhere to take care of her needs. She had promised not to flee home, but surely the civilian camp wasn’t out of bounds. She left the tent, confident Smythe no longer needed her. His comrades knew what to do.

  She scanned the area near the cannon, hoping to catch sight of Morgan. For some reason she felt it necessary to tell him where she was going. His height made him easy to spot, but he was walking away with Abbott through the splintered gates.

  She popped into Smythe’s tent, intending to leave word with him, but the boy was dozing. She pressed her hand to his forehead, relieved to feel no fever. A glance at his toes showed improvement. “Tell Captain Pendray I’ve gone to the camp,” she whispered.

  He nodded, though his eyes remained closed.

  She exited the tent and walked briskly down the hill to the civilian camp. After a quick visit to the latrines, she hurried to catch up to the women who had left not long before.

  She loved the walk, but not for the company of other females since she preferred her own thoughts to the silly prattle of the whores. They boasted of the carnal prowess of various soldiers, a topic that held no interest—until now. She thought back, glad she could recall no mention of Morgan.

  The stark beauty of the distant Grampians renewed her soul. She filled her lungs with air free of the stench of death and foreboding that hung over the fort. They encountered no English soldiers who were probably foraging north as far as Stonehyve. Crofters scowled and sheep bleated as they went by; the whores insisted on stopping to examine the tawdry wares of an itinerant pedlar.

  She dreamed of a Scotland that was ever so, a brooding yet peaceful land. The hope her uncle’s rebellion against the usurper was gaining ground buoyed her spirits. She prayed the Graingers had got word to him of the success of her mission, for there’d been no opportunity to contact the agent in Stonehyve. She had done her part for king and country. It was up to Glenheath and his army now.

  ~~~

  Morgan glanced at the incriminating rope that lay coiled in a heap just inside the ruined gates of the fortress. Abbott nodded to it. “No point firing the castle now. The regalia was evidently lowered to the beach and is long gone.”

  Morgan inhaled deeply, hoping to calm the too-rapid beating of his heart. “No telling how many days ago,” he offered.

  The general snorted. “That excuse won’t appease Cromwell.”

  The notion was satisfying, as was the probability Abbott would be censured for failing to station guards on the inhospitable shore. “No, sir.”

  His superior led the way to the far wall overlooking the cliff. “Likely lowered from here.”

  Morgan put his hand atop the ancient stone and traced a scratch mark with his thumb. “I agree, sir. This looks fairly recent.”

  They leaned forward over the wall and peered down to the rocks below. Abbott held on to the hilt of his sword, Morgan to the contents of his belly. He’d never liked heights.

  “The scoundrel had courage,” the general huffed. “I’ll grant him that.”

  Pride swelled in Morgan’s heart. “Indeed,” he mused.

  Abbott glared.

  Morgan worried he had given away his sympathies, but realized quickly the general was merely concerned with military subservience. “Indeed, sir,” he amended.

  Seemingly satisfied, Abbott led the way past the still-smoldering chapel, coming to an abrupt halt when he looked up at the flagpole atop the tower. He summoned a nearby musketeer. “Get that rag down from there.”

  The soldier eyed the royal standard of King Charles with dismay. “Begging yer pardon, sir, but them Scots somehow fixed the halyard so it won’t come down. Yon flag’s stuck up there. And the buggers—yer pardon, sir—’ave greased the pole.”

  Abbott bristled. “Well, get it unstuck. Half rations until it’s down and Cromwell’s standard in its place.”

  The man saluted and hurried off to find assistance. Morgan was thankful he hadn’t been assigned the task. Simply looking up at the limp red lion made him dizzy. He followed Abbott out through the gates to the cliff path. The general stared out to sea. “And you saw no one coming up from the beach recently?”


  Here was the point of no return, but what were his choices? He could hang for dereliction of duty or for treason. The die had already been cast. “Not a soul, sir,” he replied.

  Abbott fiddled with the ends of his annoying moustache. “They can’t have transported the trove far. I’ve ordered the musketeers to fan out and search every cottage in the area.”

  Morgan’s gut clenched. Given the vicious temperament of many of the musketeers, there wouldn’t be so much as a sheepcote left standing, and the rape and slaughter of the innocent would be for naught. Hannah had mentioned visiting sheep farmers to the south, but he doubted if the Scottish crown jewels had been entrusted to crofters. “I understand there’s many a cave in the mountains,” he suggested.

  Abbott swivelled to narrow his eyes at the distant Grampians. “It would take years to search there. We’d need a guide.”

  Morgan’s worry eased. Precious time would be wasted organising and carrying out such an expedition.

  His relief was short-lived when Abbott looked him in the eye and said, “Lord and Lady Ogilvy must know who spirited the regalia away and where they’ve been hidden. I’ll instruct the jailers to extract the information by any means necessary.”

  Morgan fisted his hands. Did the Ogilvys know who had carried out the theft? Objecting to torture would raise doubts about his allegiance in the general’s mind. “Sir. I’ll set the crew to cleaning the gun and preparing for departure.”

  Abbott shook his head. “Plenty of time for that. We need every available man if we’re to recover these confounded Scottish gewgaws. Take your lads and search the farms to the west.”

  ~~~

  Hannah ducked down so the frigid water covered her breasts. The burn was little more than a ditch, but it ran deep in places. She shivered, curling her toes into the pebbly bottom as the cold soared up her spine. She smoothed her palms over rigid nipples, dreaming of what it might be like to feel Morgan’s touch—there.

  Most of the other women splashed about in shallower parts of the burn, shrieking and complaining about the icy water. It was ever thus. She’d at first tried telling them it was easier just to immerse one’s body quickly, but they paid no attention.

  She was rubbing her upper arms briskly, plucking up the courage to dunk her head, when she heard mention of her name. “Hannah Kincaid! F’rever lookin’ down ’er nose at us, all the while conniving to keep the brawest mon fer hersel’.”

  She frowned at the women, aware it was Maggie Campbell who had spoken, but a dozen angry faces glared back. Putting her head underwater no longer seemed like a good idea, so she turned away.

  “Miss ’igh an’ mightee,” another shouted. “Pretendin’ to be naught but a laundress while she’s swivin’ the gallant captin.”

  It was pointless to argue. Maggie was the undisputed queen of the whores. The rest would all follow the spiteful bitch’s lead. News of Morgan’s protection had obviously spread quickly. She’d hoped it would shield her from suspicion, but evidently these women didn’t consider themselves bound by any limits an officer’s favor afforded. She continued to scrub her arms, hoping they would soon lose interest in their jibes.

  Without warning, the titters died as every head turned in the direction of male voices not far off. Hannah bent her knees until her chin was in the water, gasping when a handful of English musketeers came over the small rise that protected the burn.

  The air filled with whoops of male delight when the men caught sight of the main group of half-naked women, who waved and squealed in response.

  So far the Englishmen hadn’t espied her. She toyed with the notion of ducking underwater, but sooner or later she’d have to come up for air. Hopefully, they too were aware of Morgan’s patronage.

  She glanced behind her at the bank where she’d left her clothing, intending to attempt an escape while the soldiers were preoccupied. Her throat constricted. A musketeer hunkered down close by, her chemise in his hands—the same brute who’d knocked her to the ground. He’d apparently circled around without her seeing him.

  “What have we here?” he taunted, burying his nose in the linen. “Methinks ’tis the sweet smell of a maiden.”

  Maggie laughed loudly, her copious breasts held fast in the grip of another soldier. “Nay, yon lass is the captin’s bit o’ fluff. Says she belongs to ’im.”

  The bully arched his brows as he came to his feet, still clutching the plaid. “But he ain’t here, is he?”

  The malicious glint in his eyes and Maggie’s raucous laughter left Hannah in no doubt as to his intent. She cursed that her dagger was tucked underneath her shift.

  He opened his arms wide, a corner of her shawl in each beefy hand. “Come out, come out. Let me dry yer Scottish twat.”

  She swallowed hard. Preoccupied with an English captain—or Welsh—whatever he was, she’d let her guard down for the first time in years. Now she would be raped while a bawdy crowd cheered on her attacker.

  “Stay where you are, Mistress Kincaid.”

  The voice was unmistakable. It was one that echoed in her dreams. She glanced up to the rise as relief washed over her trembling body. Morgan stood there, legs braced, sword in hand, his young crew behind him, all trying hard to keep their eyes on the sky.

  She’d never been so glad to see anyone in her life. It was as if King Charles himself had come to her rescue.

  A sudden silence took the place of happy squeals.

  The musketeer dropped the shawl and lifted the strap of his musket over his head with one hand, the bandolier of apostles with the other. “A sword ain’t no match fer a musket,” he sneered.

  “No match for a musket, sir,” Morgan reminded him. “Shooting an officer, with so many witnesses, well, you’re a smarter man than that, aren’t you, Pritchard?”

  The musketeer’s hooded eyes darted from his comrades to Hannah and thence to Morgan who took a step towards him. “And if you kill me, you’ll have to dispatch my crew as well.”

  His lads lifted their chins and nodded.

  “And doubtless some of these fair ladies would be injured in the confusion…”

  The women had already pushed away from their male companions and were trying to hurriedly shrug wet bodies into discarded clothing.

  “We dinna want no trouble, captain,” Maggie muttered, but she didn’t lift her eyes to his gaze.

  Smug satisfaction loosened the knot in Hannah’s throat—the horrible woman knew an officer held the power to have her banished from the camp.

  Morgan strode to Pritchard, grabbed the musket and bandolier and hurled them into the shallow part of the burn. “Next time you plan to shoot a man, you might want to load your gun first.”

  The bully scowled at his comrades when they laughed at his expense. The gun might be reclaimed with a thorough cleaning, but the powder would be useless, as would the apostles until they were completely dried out. The grins left their faces when Morgan cleared his throat. “You men are obviously not following General Abbott's direct orders.”

  They hunched their shoulders at the mention of the commanding officer’s name. Hannah wondered briefly what orders her protector was talking about, but her teeth were chattering so badly she could scarcely think.

  Morgan indicated the women. “But I won’t report your disobedience if you escort these ladies safely back to the fortress. Now.”

  The whores had managed to dress and the men scrambled to fall into line for the march. The bully joined them, his face twisted like an ancient gargoyle.

  “Don’t forget your musket,” Morgan reminded him, “and keep your powder dry in future.”

  Mumbling something unintelligible, the man retrieved his weapon and the bandolier from the shallows and rejoined his comrades.

  Shivering with relief, Hannah watched the disgruntled band march off.

  Then she looked back at Morgan and recognized her problems weren’t over. She was still in the water—naked and freezing.

  FIRST KISS

  Morgan
’s grannie had taken it upon herself to ensure he and his siblings were raised Protestant. It was she, not his feckless father, who’d paid for him to board at the Shrewsbury School, a popular institution for the sons of Welsh gentry. The strict curriculum was based on Calvinism. He prided himself on the moderation and self-control inculcated into him at Shrewsbury, and wondered what on earth had happened to it as he stared at Hannah. Had his men not been present he’d have stripped off his clothes and jumped into the ditch with her. Cold water be damned.

  Swearing now!

  His wits returned when he realized her teeth were chattering. He turned to his men, two of whom were watching the retreating musketeers and their floozies while the other three gawked at Hannah. “Forage for wood and build a fire.”

  “Sir,” they chimed in unison before scurrying off to obey.

  Hannah never took her wary eyes off him as he approached. He was annoyed she’d left his tent, but didn’t want her to fear him. The terror etched on her face when he’d come upon the scene had chilled his heart. “I’m not going to harm you, Hannah,” he said calmly as he stooped to pick up her plaid.

  His words seemed to have the desired effect. She rose a little until the water was at shoulder height. He licked his lips. It was improbable he was going to get a glimpse of her breasts, but a man had to hope. Just another inch and they might bob close to the surface of the clear water.

  Perhaps a scolding was in order. “If you hadn’t run off this wouldn’t have happened,” he said.

  She pouted. “I ken, but I didna run off as ye put it.”

  He held his breath when the blush spread from her face to her throat as she came a little further out of the water. Indignation had evidently taken the place of propriety. “So how do you come to be here?”

  Was it the glint in his eyes that gave him away? She bobbed down again. “Are ye goin’ to turn yer back or let me freeze to deeth?”

  Chuckling inwardly at her discomfiture, he held the plaid wide and looked up to the sky. “I promise not to peek.”