Highland Betrayal

by Markland, Anna

  “I’ll nay be deterred.”

  He opened his eyes, thinking mayhap he’d imagined hearing her voice.

  His belly clenched when he espied her on the path below, nose to nose with one of the sentries posted outside the prison.

  She clutched a cloth-wrapped bundle to her breast and wagged an accusing finger. “Ye’ve imprisoned a sick woman in yer stinkin’ dungeon and ’tis yer Christian duty to allow me to tend ’er.”

  Morgan groaned inwardly. Why did she insist on courting danger? But he knew the answer. Because she had a noble heart—and she was right.

  He leaped down the remaining steps and reached out to stop the sentry from shoving her with his musket.

  Her eyes widened when she saw who’d come to her rescue.

  The soldier scowled, but backed off when he realized an officer restrained his weapon. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but I’m ordered to fend off any camp riffraff.”

  Morgan knew at once who had given that order.

  The soldier spat. “Lady Ogilvy ain’t ’ere anyway. She died on the way.”

  “Nay,” Hannah cried, sagging against Morgan.

  The sentry growled, probably concerned he’d get the blame for an officer being assaulted by a Scottish peasant. “Don’t you worry, sir. I’ll get rid o’ the wench right quick.”

  Morgan scooped her up into his arms, relieved she hadn’t sworn at the man. “No need. I’ll take care of her.”

  The soldier winked, slung his musket onto his back and pounded his fist into his palm. “Good on yer, sir. Give the doxy a taste o’ what she deserves, eh?”

  Stifling the urge to butt the crude man’s bulbous nose with his head—not a good idea in front of sniggering fellow officers—he carried a sobbing Hannah into the dark shadows beyond the Tolbooth.

  ~~~

  Hannah closed her eyes to shut out the grief. She nestled her head against Morgan’s chest, drawing on the strength of his steady heartbeat to soothe the hurt. But she couldn’t fail to feel the tension in his strong arms.

  He carried her to the end of the dock and set her on her feet. His body had warmed her. Now she shivered.

  “What were you thinking?” he asked, his big hands firm on her shaking shoulders.

  The darkness rendered it hard to see, but she suspected his blue eyes held censure. Shaking her head, she stared blindly into the night, sniffling back tears. “A brave and gentle woman has been ground into the dirt, destroyed for trying to protect what she held dear.”

  He sighed and gathered her into his arms. “Did you not hear anything of it on the road?”

  She snuggled into his heat. “Nay, and what has become o’ the body? How was it no one knew o’ the death? A life snuffed out and no one noticed.”

  The prospect that she might suffer a similar fate sent gooseflesh marching across her nape. She looked up at him, dismayed by the firm set of his jaw. “I dinna blame ye fer bein’ angry. Lady Ogilvy’s plight o’ercame ma common sense. Stupid to think I could do anything to ease her pain. I brought a salve, bits o’ bread, words o’ hope—when there was none.”

  Sorrow threatened to choke her, but Morgan tightened his embrace. “At least she would have known somebody cared, that she wasn’t completely alone.”

  His sympathy sparked a glimmer in the bleak darkness. Highlanders would never accept English dominance, but perhaps honorable men like Morgan might make it more palatable. Her uncle would respect him.

  The humor stuck in her throat. He was a Welshman!

  She swallowed hard. “I didna expect ye and the other officers to come upon the scene. Now I’ve drawn suspicion yer way.”

  He chuckled. “We can only hope Abbott wasn’t among the onlookers.”

  ~~~

  Morgan had spoken in jest. The general was indulging in a third glass of port when he’d left the upper room. However, it was essential to maintain the pretence they’d begun at the fortress. “I’ll escort you back to the camp,” he told her.

  “Nay,” she murmured half-heartedly, making no attempt to separate their bodies.

  He kissed the top of her head, inhaling the clean smell of her hair. “The lads have spread the word that no one is to molest you. If Abbott hears of the altercation and discovers I know you, I’ll simply say you’re a softhearted wench who couldn’t bear to see a woman suffer.”

  She sighed. “Pigheaded more like.”

  “I love your pigheadedness,” he whispered. “You remind me of my grandmother.”

  She stiffened in his arms and he instantly wished he could bite back the words. “I mean…that’s not what I meant…she was…oh, for pity’s sake.”

  He kissed her before laughter could bubble forth. Her plaid slipped from her shoulders when she clasped her arms around his neck. She opened readily, her tongue gently welcoming his. Her sweet taste turned the pleasant interest stirring at his groin to an urgent need. She kneaded his scalp, sending heat flooding through his veins. He cupped her bottom and lifted her to his arousal. “Hannah,” he breathed into her mouth, dizzied by the desire consuming him.

  “Heads up, Pendray,” a voice muttered. “The Abbot’s out for a stroll. Best take your strumpet somewhere else where you won’t be scolded.”

  Hannah froze.

  He tensed, peering into the darkness. Two sniggering musketeer captains loomed large, arm in arm. Each took a swig from a bottle before being swallowed by the night.

  Hannah pushed against his chest. “Our pretence fooled them,” she whispered.

  He held firm and moved his hips forward so she would have no doubt of his need of her. “I wasn’t pretending.”

  He held his breath, praying he hadn’t alarmed her. His heart soared when she teased his neck with her tongue and murmured, “Nor was I.”

  His body hated him for it, but he set her back on her feet, pulled her plaid onto her shivering shoulders and gathered the edges in his fist. It was on the tip of his tongue to mention the room that awaited him at the inn, but he thought better of it. “I’m not a man to swive a woman I care about on the docks, and you’re not the peasant wench you claim to be, so let’s get you safely back to camp.”

  “Aye,” she whispered.

  He’d half-hoped she might reveal her true identity, but understood why she couldn’t. This wasn’t the place and mayhap she didn’t fully trust him yet.

  They walked hand in hand to the bustling camp. She led him to a sutler’s wagon and climbed aboard, picking her way through sacks and tins piled haphazardly all over the floor. The half dozen shelves along the sides were empty. “This is where you sleep?’ he asked.

  She pointed to a narrow shelf half way up one side of the wooden conveyance. “Aye. That one’s mine. Up yonder.”

  She must have seen the outrage on his face. “’Tis safer and dryer than out there in the open,” she explained. “And he doesna charge me much.”

  He clenched his fists. “You pay for this?”

  She narrowed her eyes and lifted her chin. “Only wi’ coin.”

  MEDUSA

  Solomon Jacobs was a rarity among the sutlers providing provisions to the English army. Folk scorned his Jewish faith and mocked the little cap he wore atop his balding head, but his reliability was never called into question. He charged exorbitant prices, but the goods he sold were quality. If you bought oats, they didn’t come with mouse droppings; biscuits were guaranteed weevil-free.

  The elderly Jew and his wife slept in a sturdy canvas shelter attached to the side of his wagon. No one ever molested Jacobs nor threatened his possessions, though many were jealous of his prosperity. Hannah wasn’t sure whether it was the pistol he kept with him at all times, or the terrifying presence of Esther Jacobs that deterred them.

  She was a tiny, rotund woman with greying hair that writhed like a nest of snakes when she walked. One icy scowl from her ugly face could frighten the wits out of any ne’er-do-well. Hannah avoided her, reminded of the legend of the Medusa whenever their paths crossed.

  Solomo
n made no demands on the women who rented sleeping space from him, save that they return the stock to the shelves come dawn. It wasn’t cheap or comfortable, but as Hannah had pointed out to Morgan, it was safer than most places in the camp.

  She lay staring up into the dark ceiling, resigned to a sleepless night. Others in the wagon snored softly. Esther’s voice drifted on the still air. Hannah didn’t understand the foreign tongue, but it was apparent from the clipped, impatient words that the sutler’s wife was once again scolding her husband for some misdeed. He never answered back, though few in the camp would pick a fight with him.

  As the evening’s chill seeped into her bones, she pulled the shawl up to her chin, wishing she was curled up in Morgan’s arms. She’d never felt the need of a man’s warmth and strength before, but there was no doubt the Welsh captain had insinuated himself into her heart. Hannah Kincaid without Morgan Pendray would be like…well, Solomon without Esther!

  The notion elicited a soft chuckle as she carefully turned onto her side and clamped the fingers of one hand on to the wagon’s wooden frame. She’d only fallen off the shelf once and didn’t want to repeat that disaster, having come close to forfeiting her place after the resulting disturbance.

  The soreness from her falls on the rocks had eased, but the hard wood seemed to come into contact with every bump and bruise. She found herself gauging the distance to Morgan’s tent. He was probably alone there, mayhap thinking of her. It wasn’t far—five minutes at most.

  But in five minutes she could bump into a host of problems, all of them sodden with drink and looking for easy prey. And that was just within the camp itself. Who knew what the English soldiers might be up to? Abbott had lost control of his troops before. She shivered at the memory of the women raped and butchered at Dùn Dè and decided to stay where she was.

  ~~~

  Morgan sprawled on the bed, hands behind his head, legs dangling over the side. The room on the second floor of the Drovers’ Inn was akin to a cupboard, but the other officers’ predictable reluctance to share a billet with a Welshman had worked in his favor.

  He chuckled. They thought he’d drawn the short straw, the worst room with a tiny bed and naught else. But the linens were clean, the straw mattress well-stuffed. And he was alone, which he preferred. The privacy offered a golden opportunity.

  Getting Hannah into the inn wouldn’t be a problem. Muffled sounds coming from other chambers suggested women had already been smuggled in. The presence of a female in Morgan’s room might raise an eyebrow or two and start a few rumors, but that was all to the good. It would let people know she was off limits.

  The difficulty would be in persuading her. She was proud. The look of terror on her face when she thought the musketeer was about to rape her suggested she was still a virgin, unlikely as it seemed given she’d dwelt among camp followers. He’d have to remind her of his good intentions.

  The unmistakable grunts of a man in the throes of sexual release reached his ears. He sat up on the edge of the bed, resting his forearms on his thighs, willing away the image of Hannah beneath him, naked, whispering his name, or even shouting out her euphoria as the whore next door did now.

  But Hannah wasn’t a whore, and he’d sworn not to take advantage. Cuddling in the tiny bed would test his resolve. Mayhap he’d sleep on the floor, what little there was of it.

  She might refuse to come, though he’d no doubt after the kiss on the dock that she was drawn to him. He raked his fingers through his hair, cursing his own folly. A captain in an invading army and an enemy spy could never find happiness together. It was impossible. Surely he’d learned by now that happy endings weren’t for the likes of him. Calvin’s teachings about predestination had been drummed into him at Shrewsbury. Best he remember there was no such thing as free will.

  As a peaceful silence descended on the inn, he lay back with his head on the bolster and stared at the low ceiling. There might be no future for him and Hannah but they could at least find solace in each other’s arms for a few days in this cozy nest.

  She’d have to agree it was preferable to sleeping on a shelf.

  ~~~

  A civilian camp never slept. There was always noise of some kind; a fretting child, a howling dog, watchmen calling the hours, men and women coupling, as Solomon and Esther did now, though they were quieter about it than most.

  Hannah had never understood the notion of sexual congress. She’d not had the benefit of a mother’s advice, and her widowed uncle wasn’t the kind of man to answer a lass’s questions about such things. Her lady’s maid had been a confirmed spinster who never had a good word to say about men. No one knew how old Deirdre was when she died but she had served the earl’s grandmother.

  Maidservants and scullery wenches at Kilmer weren’t shy about expressing opinions of men and their physical urges. Was that what drove a man to penetrate a woman? Or did Solomon love his unlovable wife? She thought of Mrs. Grainger tending her husband in front of the fire in their humble cottage.

  It was evident to Hannah that Morgan desired her, yet he’d sworn not to take advantage. That must be difficult for a man if indeed his sexual appetites were…

  She pushed the shawl off her upper body, suddenly too hot. Merely thinking about Morgan’s long legs, broad chest and handsome face filled her with an unbearable yearning. But did decent women enjoy sexual relations? The pulsating need in private places suggested it was possible. Either that or she was a wanton, a fallen woman. She cupped her aching breasts, longing to feel his hands there, his lips on her tingling nipples. Mayhap confiding in crabs in tide pools wasn’t good for the health.

  Her muddled thoughts snagged on another unavoidable thorn. There were fellow Royalists in Stonehyve, but she didn’t know their names nor how to contact them. She was expected, so it was likely they would seek her out. Strangers entering the civilian camp wouldn’t turn heads. A woman wandering the village streets was another matter.

  Her uncle had to be told she was safe and heading for Inverness. She must reveal the English army’s plans and send a warning that Cromwell’s general had learned the impetus for the rebellion lay in the Highlands. He intended to hunt the Royalists down before their influence spread further south to the Lowlands.

  She reasoned her actions wouldn’t endanger Morgan’s life. Glenheath’s marauding bands were too small to attack a large English force.

  DEAD KINGS

  A timid tapping at his door woke Morgan. He cupped his aching balls and stretched, gritting his teeth when it came to him the erotic encounter with Hannah had been a dream. Now he’d the problem of what to do with his rock-hard arousal, and who the devil was at the door.

  “It’s Syddall, sir. Come to shave ye.”

  He sat up and cursed. He’d prefer to go back to the vivid dream rather than submit to Syddall’s unpractised hand. The sooner Smythe could tackle the stairs, the better Morgan’s chances at not having his throat cut.

  Another tap. “Sir?”

  He normally took great pains not to appear out of uniform in front of his men, but he got up and yanked the door open wearing naught but his linen drawers.

  Syddall’s smile vanished. His face turned the same grey as the towel slung over his shoulder. His eyes darted to Morgan’s crotch, then scanned the interior of the chamber. He struggled not to drop the shaving paraphernalia and the pitcher of water he carried.

  Morgan bit his bottom lip and forced a smile. It wasn’t the lad’s fault he was as randy as a goat.

  Forgive me, Blodwen.

  “Come in,” he said.

  Syddall stepped over the threshold, then looked at the rumpled bedding, probably wondering where Hannah could possibly be hiding in the tiny chamber.

  “Get on with it,” Morgan muttered, sitting down on the edge of the bed. He gripped the mattress as he lifted his chin. Syddall had a hard enough time controlling his trembling hands when his victim was seated in a chair. “Do your worst,” he quipped.

  Ten long and wordless
minutes later, Syddall patted his face with the towel and stepped back. “Done, sir.”

  Morgan opened his eyes, somewhat astonished he wasn’t bleeding to death, and irritated he’d once again been dragged from a pleasant daydream involving the slow removal of Hannah’s clothing.

  He ran a hand over his newly-shaven face. “You’re improving,” he said.

  Syddall mopped the sweat from his brow with the damp towel. “Thank you, sir. Bathing facilities is down the hall, and Atherton’s on the way with your clean laundry. The other gentlemen are aiming to break their fast upstairs in the Tolbooth with General Abbott.”

  The young man was trying hard. He’d obviously scouted out the lay of the land and questioned the other batmen so his captain would be aware of what was expected of him. “Well done, Private. You’ve the makings of a fine batman.”

  Pleased to see Syddall’s grin, he got to his feet and weighed his options. Maybe it was time to test the theory of free will. “Convey my apologies to General Abbott. I’ve matters to attend to concerning…er…the gun.”

  “Oh, all’s well with the cannon, sir,” came the reply. “We checked it already.”

  Morgan reached for the door handle, suddenly not caring a fig he was about to walk down a public hallway in naught but his drawers. In fact he rather hoped he might bump into Abbott.

  That overly risky notion brought him up short and cooled his enthusiasm. Nevertheless, he opened the door resolutely and looked back at the gaping youth. “On your way. Atherton can assist me when he arrives.”

  ~~~

  Hannah woke before dawn, ashamed to find her hand pressed to a place it shouldn’t be. She looked about, relieved to discover her companions were gone. Hopefully, she hadn’t cried out in her sleep. The dream of joining with Morgan had been so very vivid.

  She clamped her palm on her neck, alarmed by the heat rising there. She was definitely ailing for something, but remaining in the wagon wasn’t an option. It was surprising Esther hadn’t turfed her out before this. The inevitable queue for the latrines and access to washing water was probably already a mile long, and of course Maggie Campbell and her retinue would be there. If she had cried out her euphoria the bitch would have a field day with that piece of gossip. With any luck there was no laundry water to be found in this tiny seaport, though she wanted desperately to be clean.