Highland Betrayal

by Markland, Anna

Morgan admitted inwardly there was a time when he would have done just that. But then there was also a time when Captain Morgan Pendray would have pointed an accusing finger at a suspected traitor and not blinked an eye.

  He tasted the bitter memory of learning from the sobbing midwife his wife and newborn son were dead. Smythe was somebody’s son, a boy who needed his protection. And he would give it. Trembling, he eased the grateful lad away. “We’ll see you safely to Inverness, though I hope you’ll recover before that. I am in dire need of my trusty batman. Syddall here does an adequate job, but…”

  The other lads laughed, obviously relieved the tension had eased.

  He bade them goodnight and stepped outside, content he’d acted honorably on all counts. In some unfathomable way, catching sight of Hannah on that fateful day had changed him. His happiness was marred only by the certainty he’d probably toss and turn all night worrying about her.

  Annoyed with himself that he’d made no provision for her safety in the unsettled camp, he looked up at the dark sky. Storm clouds threatened. Did she have a dry place to sleep? He chuckled as he entered his untidy tent. Hannah Kincaid was likely more than capable of taking care of herself. He lay on his pallet, ankles crossed, hands behind his head. He stretched when the faint hope she might be worrying about him filled his heart with pride and his loins with a pleasant ache.

  ~~~

  Hannah was up before dawn, as was everyone in the camp. Having completed her duties helping to prepare the wagon for departure, she went to assist one of the army wives dress her children for the departure. There was no possibility of washing the urchins. Lizzie Beaton couldn’t afford the fee charged by the sutlers for access to the public baths. At least today the Beaton boys’ cheeks were rosy and they were in high spirits after jumping in one mud puddle after another. She was careful not to let her hair come into contact with their heads. Lice were a complication she didn’t need.

  As the first grey streaks of dawn lit the sky, the little beggars suddenly ceased squirming, their attention drawn by the jangling of harnesses, snorting horses and shouts coming from the hill that led to the fortress. Gradually, the feverish activity in the camp ceased. All eyes looked to a team of six horses hitched to the gun carriage.

  Hannah recognised Wilcock, Baxter and Carr who walked alongside the carriage being coaxed slowly down the slope, carefully checking the rain-soaked ground the wooden wheels would travel over. A handful of musketeers followed, heels dug into the dirt as they steadied the barrel of the cannon.

  Atherton rode one of the horses in the second row, Syddall controlled the third pair.

  All of this she saw as a kind of blurred background. It was the long-legged, broad-shouldered captain seated astride one of the lead horses that held her gaze. The snorting beasts were clearly nervous of the soft terrain, yet Morgan seemed to be in total command. One wrong move might result in a loss of control of the heavy equipment. Animals and men could be crushed beneath the weight of a cannon careening down the hill. Morgan’s jaw was relaxed. He held the reins loosely, and his face bespoke calm assurance, even when he glanced back to the gun. He seemed to silently communicate to man and beast alike that nothing would go wrong. He wouldn’t allow it.

  She had an urge to giggle like a wee girl. Even his silly helmet looked just right perched atop his head. And he’d put Smythe atop the cannon, ostensibly to help guide it, but she recognised it as the action of a kind man who cared about his stricken soldier.

  She smiled, relieved the young lad wouldn’t be left behind. Her happiness quickly turned to seething outrage when a hush fell over the crowd. She looked to the top of the hill where a bruised and battered Lord Ogilvy was trying to help his wife down the slope. Manacles and leg shackles hampered his efforts. Each time Lady Ogilvy stumbled into the muck, a scowling musketeer jostled her to her feet. Hannah was too far away to see the soldier’s face clearly beneath his helmet but had a strong suspicion it was Pritchard.

  Behind their lord came the brave highlanders who’d defended the fortress to the last. Many leaned on comrades as they walked—men too emaciated to support their own weight. Surely Abbott wasn’t expecting this army of the dead to march to Aberdeen.

  At the foot of the hill, the musketeer escort forced the highlanders to turn left. Her heart bled. They were headed in the direction of Edinburgh, a hundred miles away.

  She’d always been reluctant to believe the horrific reports of the forced march from Din-bar to Durham that resulted in the deaths from starvation of thousands of royalist prisoners. Mayhap the rumor was true. The English cared naught for their captives.

  It was clear few of the highlanders would reach Edinburgh alive and she feared Lady Ogilvy would be dead long before the main army arrived in Aberdeen, never mind Inverness. The irony that neither the lady nor her husband knew the identity of the thief who’d spirited away the Honors, nor where they were hidden, only served to heighten Hannah’s distress.

  She fisted her hands at her sides. It was as well to remember Morgan Pendray was an officer in this unholy army that treated animals with more compassion than Scots. For the moment, he was her protector. There might come a time when they both had to choose between friendship and duty.

  ~~~

  Morgan reined the lead gelding to a halt next to the donkeys laden with gunpowder casks, not far from the civilian camp, utterly relieved they’d managed to get the cannon and its carriage down the slope without losing a single horse. He’d made the decision to mount rather than lead the beast, sensing he’d have more control if things went awry in the soft ground. All had gone well. He was rather pleased with himself and hoped Hannah had been among the crowd watching his re-enactment of Hannibal crossing the Alps.

  Chuckling at the comical image of himself riding an elephant, he turned to check on his men. Smythe still sat atop the gun, beaming at him like an idiot. “We did it, sir,” he shouted. The lad wouldn’t have been able to walk down the hill under his own steam; putting him on the gun had been a calculated risk. His batman might have fallen off during the treacherous descent, but the plucky youth had held on, despite having his still-swollen foot jammed into a boot.

  The other lads cheered, wiping the sweat from their foreheads.

  “Well done, gunnery crew,” Morgan declared, “and thanks to our gallant musketeers.”

  The riflemen stared at him, evidently unaccustomed to words of praise from an officer. However, they were all suddenly distracted when a horde of excited little boys raced towards the cannon, hotly pursued by screeching women Morgan assumed were the long-suffering army wives.

  Except—his heart raced when he espied Hannah among them. Fury distorted her lovely face. Evidently, his prowess hadn’t impressed her.

  TOMMY

  Hannah’s limbs dragged like lead weights as she hurried to intercept the lads. Their curiosity and willful exuberance might well result in injury or death. The horses were already agitated. Excited bairns could end up trampled ’neath deadly hooves. If the beasts bolted, the wheels of the gun carriage…

  Frantically, she scanned the scene, searching for Morgan, breathing again when she saw him still mounted atop the lead horse. But his impressive display didn’t calm her anger over the treatment of the Ogilvys. A stream of curses welled up in her throat as General Abbott came into view leading his mount down the hill a little distance behind the prisoners. She couldn’t hear what he was saying, but it was evident as he stroked the animal’s nose that he was soothing its fears.

  “Cares more about his bluidy horse,” she panted as she paused in her attempts to corral the Beaton urchins.

  Morgan’s crew helped dissuade the little boys, herding them away from the horses and the gun. However, Lizzie had apparently overheard her comment. She hefted her youngest onto her hip, her dirt-streaked face a mask of hatred. “But for that sodding Scottish lord, my man wouldn’t have been wounded. Holdin’ out for months. For what? A stupid crown worth more than you an’ me’ll ever see in our lives.”
She spat into the dirt. “Half pay for me husband ’cos he’s hurt. Lord Ogilvee mun try to feed six childer wi’ that.”

  Lizzie flounced off before Hannah had a chance to reply, but it was a sharp reminder she was not among Royalist sympathizers. Morgan seemed to sense her agitation and looked back up the hill, turning quickly to frown and shake his head at her. Protesting the inhumane treatment would arouse suspicion. If Abbott suspected she was a Royalist and learned his gunnery captain had declared himself her protector…

  She unclenched her fists and wiped sweaty palms on her shift. She nodded to Morgan, reluctantly pleased to see his smile of relief. Afraid that continuing to watch the persecution of the Ogilvys might overcome her good sense, she set off back to the camp and soon caught up with Lizzie, trudging along with the rest of her brood hanging onto her skirts.

  “Give the bairn to me,” she insisted, holding out her arms. “I’ve bought a place in yon sutler’s wagon. Tommy can ride wi’ me.”

  The harried woman hesitated only a moment, handed Tommy over, then hoisted another plaintive child onto her hip. She sniffed the air as if detecting a foul odor. “’S allreet for them friendly wi’ captins.”

  Tommy whimpered and held out his arms to his mother.

  She shushed him. “Nay. Go on wi’ yer, then.”

  The boy watched his mother walk away, then looked at Hannah. Her belly clenched at the utter bewilderment in his sad eyes. She prayed that if the Lord saw fit to grant her healthy bairns, they would know only love and peace. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she plastered a smile on her face. “Let’s find something to wipe yer snotty nose, young man,” she said.

  ~~~

  Nose in the air, Abbott was overseeing the forming up of the units into a column. Morgan had no choice but to stay with the gun, though he itched to follow Hannah. It appeared she and some woman were having an argument, but then she’d taken the other woman’s little boy and walked off with him on her hip.

  After the loss of his son he’d sworn never to expose himself to the same gut-wrenching grief again, but his mind filled with an image of Hannah’s belly swollen with his child. She’d be a good mother, one who would defend her family against any adversity.

  The dream of his babe suckling at Hannah’s breast dissolved quickly. He’d committed himself to an army career in order to deliberately avoid the trappings of a family. Some officers took their wives on campaign with them. They lived in much more civilized conditions than the regular army wives, but Morgan wouldn’t wish that kind of life for Hannah. She deserved…

  “Sir!”

  He blinked. Still seated astride the cannon like Jonah riding the whale, Smythe was waving at him. “General Abbott has ordered us to bring the gun into line. Behind the musketeers, sir.”

  He glanced over to his scowling commander and quickly urged his horse to pull the carriage into line. He saluted, cursing the arrogant sod who thought nothing of obliging the gun crew to eat the infantry’s dust. But then this was the same bloody-minded officer who tortured noblewomen and burned holy places to the ground.

  Cocooned in his reverie about Hannah’s child-bearing hips, he’d lost sight of what had happened to Lord and Lady Ogilvy. Not that he could do anything to help the wretches. They’d made their choice, now they must abide by the consequences, but he worried what Hannah might do if their plight became too much for her to bear. His concern they might betray her was lessening. It seemed likely they didn’t know she was the collaborator.

  Abbott rode to the distant head of the column and signalled for a forward march. Morgan readied the reins and leaned over to reassuringly stroke the horse hitched to his own. He nodded to Atherton and Syddall, then glanced back. Wagon drivers sat ready to coax horses and donkeys into motion; ostlers controlled strings of spare horses, reins fisted in beefy hands; men, women and children waited to trudge behind the army, keeping their distance from donkeys laden with gunpowder casks and other supplies. He was suddenly reminded of a Bible story his grannie had often recounted about a great exodus out of Egypt.

  He shook his head at the fanciful notion. They certainly weren’t heading for the Promised Land and he hoped they wouldn’t be wandering for years in the wilds of Scotland.

  However, Hannah was somewhere amid the hubbub, and she would walk for days in a cloud of choking dust—because he’d asked her not to flee. He should perhaps have let her go, but now their lives were inextricably bound together and he would do everything in his power to protect her. Some might say she was a sorceress who’d bewitched him with alchemy. Mayhap he was under her spell; he surely felt like a different man.

  STONEHYVE

  The wheels bogged down and the carriage came close to careening off the coastal path umpteen times on the way to Stonehyve. The mishaps slowed the column, much to Abbott's muttered irritation, but also allowed camp folk who were on foot to overtake them from time to time.

  Hand in hand with a ragged urchin, Hannah walked alongside the gun carriage for several of the wider stretches of the path worn by centuries of use by men and horses. It certainly wasn’t suitable for transporting artillery.

  Catching sight of her calmed Morgan when he was about to lose his temper with the frustration of the journey. Knowing she was safe and nearby soothed his agitation. Her teasing smile brought home to him that there were more important things in life than heaving a gun carriage out of innumerable ruts and mud-holes.

  She cheered with other gawking bystanders when his crew managed to get the gun underway again.

  Smythe limped beside her for a little while, but Morgan ordered him back atop the cannon after a cautionary shake of her head.

  It was intriguing how he and Hannah communicated without words. Just a look was enough, or a smile, or a tilt of the head in a certain way. He’d known her only a few days yet he was more aware of her moods, mannerisms and unspoken feelings than he’d ever cared to be with Blodwen.

  That ought to make him feel ashamed, but he pushed the guilt aside. His wife had made it plain she feared childbirth and he’d blamed himself for her death.

  Hannah had filled his existence with excitement and yes, danger, but he’d done penance long enough. It was time to savor what life had to offer.

  Stonehyve was a mere mile and a half distant from Dùn Fhoithear, but Morgan, his crew, and both teams of horses were exhausted by the time they arrived hours later. Ostlers from the camp took the mounts to the stable of the village’s inn. The setting sun glowed on the sandstone of the adjacent Tolbooth prison while the crew set up camp in boggy fields behind it. Morgan couldn’t shake grave misgivings about the journey ahead. Scouts had told Abbott the Causey Mounth to Aberdeen was an old sheep drovers’ road, passable in all but the worst weather. The route from Aberdeen to Inverness…he’d a feeling that was another story.

  A sojourn in Stonehyve at least held the promise of decent food. The army cooks took over the prison kitchen. Morgan hoped the local fishermen would be paid for the bounty they provided, but doubted it. There’d be families going to bed hungry in the hovels clustered around the nearby harbor.

  The men ate in the mess tents. Abbott invited his officers to dine with him on the second floor of the Tolbooth, which normally served as the courthouse. Morgan enjoyed eating in a more civilized manner than he had for a while. The local reeve had even provided knives and spoons. But his thoughts drifted to Lord and Lady Ogilvy who’d been imprisoned below according to the latest rumor.

  His musings on how soon he might see Hannah again were interrupted when Abbott cleared his throat, dabbed his mouth with a napkin and got to his feet.

  “Gentlemen,” he began before turning away to muffle a belch with another cough. “Gentlemen. I have good news.”

  His words captured the attention of two or three in the room, but the civilian camp was still being set up not far away and the racket was impossible to ignore. Pots and pans clanged, mothers scolded wailing children, men shouted, horses whinnied. An ominous splash followed by shrieks
of alarm indicated at least one urchin had tumbled off the dock into the murky waters of the harbor.

  “Good news,” Abbott reiterated, shouting to be heard over the cacophony. “We are to remain here until General Hartlock's troops join us.”

  A murmur rippled through the handful of officers. Abbott scanned the small gathering. He was playing his usual game, drawing out the uncertainty, toying with them, relishing his power of command. Morgan clamped a hand on his twitching knee, reluctant to be the one to rise and ask for specifics. The less attention he drew the better.

  “I see you’re anxious for the details,” Abbott allowed at last, clearly disappointed they’d all remained in their seats. “A few days at most, I expect. Then we’ll be on our way.”

  A few days in army terms likely meant at least a sennight, giving him and Hannah an opportunity to plan. The notion brought him up short. Plan what? She perhaps had no wish to become a permanent part of his life.

  “And you’ll also be glad to hear,” Abbott added, “I have commandeered the Drovers’ Inn. You officers will have a roof over your heads while we’re in Stonehyve.”

  This welcome news set Morgan plotting how to smuggle Hannah into his room. He’d first have to make sure he wasn’t billeted with anyone else.

  Abbott dismissed them with a half-hearted goodnight.

  Pondering his new challenges, Morgan followed the others down the outer stone stairway, inhaling the salty smell of the sea. It was a far cry from the fresh air of the Welsh mountains and valleys where he’d grown up and he experienced an unusual pang of nostalgia.

  The sea air wasn’t unpleasant, if you ignored the reek of fish guts clinging to the docks. It conjured images of pirate galleons, violent storms, and endless beaches.

  He stopped abruptly and gripped the railing alongside the steps, closed his eyes and willed away the vision of Hannah picking her way across the treacherous beach below the fortress.