Highland Betrayal

by Markland, Anna

  The tutors at Shrewsbury had never succeeded in destroying his firm Celtic belief in the power of dreams. He had to cling to Arianrhod’s promise.

  Hannah stirred and smiled when she looked up at him. “I must have fallen asleep,” she murmured, sitting up to stretch her arms above her head. The swell of her perfect breasts as she arched her back was all it took to remind his cock of its duty to salute.

  The farmwife approached and handed a bowl and spoon to Hannah. “Broth,” she muttered. “I expect ye want to feed him, and I’ve me hands full wi’ yon Highlanders camped outside.”

  He smiled as she scurried off. “You’ve succeeded in marking your territory,” he told Hannah.

  “And dinna forget it, Morgan Pendray. Ye’re mine.”

  “Always,” he promised, savoring the first spoonful of broth. “It’s a good sign your uncle is still here. If they were going to flee they’d be gone by now.”

  She frowned. “Mayhap they intend to fight.”

  “They’d have ridden to Bouchmorale in that case. From my vague recollection of this area, it isn’t a good location for a last stand.”

  ~~~

  Morgan’s words rattled around in Hannah’s head as she fed him. The uncertainty was tying her belly in knots. Insinuating herself into her uncle’s inner circle and expecting to be included in the discussions was a foolish notion. Despite all she’d sacrificed for the cause, the chieftains would consider it unwelcome female interference.

  She fretted that the English army hadn’t yet arrived. “Ye spoke of some delay in Beannchar,” she ventured.

  He hesitated, chewing a piece of mutton from the broth, and she got the feeling he was avoiding telling her what had happened. But then he looked her in the eye. “Don’t get alarmed. There was an explosion. A stupid, unnecessary accident, but it demolished a cottage and damaged others.”

  A lead weight settled in the pit of her stomach. She remembered little Duncan’s red curls. “Whose cottage?” she murmured.

  “A man named Angus.”

  She let out a soft cry as the wooden spoon clattered to the floor. She’d cursed Angus for leaving her and now…

  “They’re all safe,” Morgan reassured her. “Duncan wasn’t injured and Feena seemed to be recovering when I left.”

  She dared not ask about Esther. “And yer men? The lads?”

  “They weren’t near the explosion. And she’s fine,” he said. “Esther.”

  “Ye figured it all out,” she conceded. “I’m nay a very good spy, am I?”

  His lecherous smile banished the cold chill that had settled on her nape. “But you’re my spy,” he whispered.

  She looked into his eyes, comforted by the sincerity she saw in the blue depths.

  “By the by,” he added, “Pritchard disappeared.”

  She tensed, suspecting what he would say next.

  “I’ve an inkling Solomon dealt with him.”

  It was sinful to feel relief at the death of another person, but she couldn’t help it.

  “He’s no loss,” Morgan went on, as if sensing she didn’t wish to speak further about the Jacobs. “I estimate the army will arrive on the morrow. Hopefully, the doctor will permit me to get out of bed.”

  She swallowed hard, then gaped at him. He truly had no idea…

  And he might never have known if Murtagh hadn’t chosen that moment to fill the doorway with his brawny presence, looking as if he’d just come from shoeing a temperamental horse. “How fares ma patient?” he shouted.

  A DECISION

  Morgan struggled with the revelation that a blacksmith had amputated his finger. “With pincers?” he exclaimed incredulously.

  “Aye, weel,” the Scot replied, not looking the least bit put out by his victim’s indignation. “I deemed it preferable to using the saw, and quicker since the men were anxious fer their victuals, and they dinna like to wait o’erlong.”

  Morgan should have heeded the warning in Hannah’s pleading gaze, but he chose not to. “You’re the cook as well?”

  Murtagh thrust out his chest. “Aye, and the barber if ye feel in need o’ a wee trim.”

  He supposed he shouldn’t be surprised, having been on several campaigns where one soldier often took on many roles.

  “Think of it this way,” Hannah suggested with a teasing smile. “He isna Peabody.”

  “True,” he conceded, holding up his bandaged hand. “And so far I feel I’m on the mend.”

  “Glad I am to hear it,” Glenheath announced as he strode into the cottage. “If I’m to surrender on the morrow, it’ll be to ye. That would be a mite awkward if ye were still abed.”

  With a startled cry, Hannah rushed into his embrace. “Uncle!”

  The knot in Morgan’s gut loosened. “I should get to my feet and salute you, sir, for your courageous decision, but I fear my legs might give way. I offer you my good hand if you’ll take it.”

  Glenheath accepted the gesture. “’Tis important we stand together on the morrow. And by the way, welcome to my family.” He pulled a tearful Hannah to his side. “Do aught to hurt my niece and I’ll hae yer guts fer garters.”

  Murtagh followed the earl as he marched out, head held high.

  Hannah perched on the edge of the mattress. “He doesna mean it.”

  “Aye, he does,” Morgan contradicted, “but I’ll never knowingly hurt you.”

  “Nor I you,” she whispered.

  They held hands in silence before she spoke again. “Ye were confident he’d surrender.”

  He hoped his explanation wouldn’t alienate her, but he had to know how she felt, deep down, about the earl’s decision. “He’s an intelligent man, and he knows, as you do, the rebellion cannot succeed in the long run.”

  “Aye,” she whispered.

  Relieved, he felt compelled to add, “I trusted he would make the right choice. Now we must hope I’m not mistaken about Abbott.”

  ~~~

  When Morgan fell asleep, Hannah left the cottage and sought her uncle. They’d rarely shared embraces, but she wanted to hug him. “I suppose I kent in my heart the rescue of Scotland’s Honors was a final desperate act,” she confessed.

  “Aye,” he agreed. “I consented to it when it was becoming clear our cause was faltering. Dùn Fhoithear was the last bastion. After that there was naught for it but to carry out night raids, which havna always endeared us to our fellow Scots.”

  “But I’m still proud o’ what we accomplished,” she replied.

  He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes. “Hannah, ye carried out the boldest of endeavors alone. I doot I’d have had the courage to do what ye did.”

  “But the Graingers,” she began.

  “Aye, they played a role, but if what Pendray foresees for the future comes to pass, King Charles might yet wear his rightful crown once again, thanks to ye.”

  She gritted her teeth to keep the tears at bay, determined to believe all would be well. “Ye can call him Morgan, ye ken.”

  “Weel, lass,” he replied. “Mayhap I will if we all survive past the morrow.”

  ~~~

  Morgan did his best to scoop the warm oatmeal out of the bowl with his left hand, but control of all his extremities was shaky at best.

  Seated across from him, Hannah touched her toes to his bare foot under the scarred wooden table. He inhaled deeply, finding strength in even that meagre contact of skin on skin.

  “’Tis not yet dawn,” she whispered after a furtive glance at the crofter’s family curled up asleep in front of the hearth. “Ye should be abed.”

  “Abbott will arrive today,” he replied. “I’m sure of it. I’m going to be standing at your uncle’s side when he does.”

  “I’ll stand with ye,” she assured him.

  “No. Too many things can go awry. If they do, I want you to slip away. Solomon will aid you.”

  He expected an argument, but it didn’t come.

  “’Tisna likely the chieftains will allow a woman to
stand with them anyway,” she conceded. “We’re nay important.”

  He ran his foot up the side of her leg, elated to see her eyes darken and her nostrils flare. She wanted him as much as he wanted her. It might be the last chance…

  But a family of five snored softly nearby and the sleeping alcove they’d sacrificed for his comfort offered no privacy. “You’re important to me,” he told her. “When we finally join our bodies it will be in a sweet feather bed, and we’ll take our time.”

  She smiled, but doubt wrinkled her brow. He wanted it gone. “What’s your uncle’s given name?” he asked.

  Her eyes widened. “Munro. Why?”

  “It’s a strong, honorable name for our firstborn.”

  The furrows were replaced by lines of curiosity. “Ye think ’twill be a boy?” she whispered.

  “Arianrhod revealed to me that he’ll have dark hair, just like you.”

  She stretched both hands across the table. He covered them with his good hand just as Murtagh thrust open the door, startling the sleeping children awake. “They’ve been sighted. An hour distant,” he bellowed.

  As a cold chill crept across Morgan’s nape, he flexed the remaining fingers of his bandaged hand, still not quite believing this rough Highland warrior had performed the amputation.

  The blush of arousal had drained from Hannah’s face. She stared into nothingness.

  His heart ached for her as she faced the end of a long and difficult road. “Find my clothes,” he said as Murtagh helped him to his feet, relieved when she stiffened her spine and went to do his bidding.

  SURRENDER

  Incredulous as he was about Murtagh’s role in his amputation, Morgan appreciated the man’s help to mount Fingall. He hadn’t given any thought to the impact losing a finger would have on his ability to accomplish everyday tasks.

  The giant seemed to sense his irritation. “’Twill be easier once ye teck off yon bandage,” he said gruffly.

  Morgan settled into the saddle, accepted the reins with his good hand and tucked the other into the front of his buffcoat. “It’s odd how losing a finger affects a man’s balance,” he replied.

  Murtagh’s lips split in a toothless grin as he held up a massive hand, missing a thumb. “I ken,” he chuckled. “Lost it at Din-bar.”

  That didn’t augur well for the imminent peace talks with an English general who’d fought at Din-bar, but Morgan was more bothered by what an ungrateful ass he’d been towards the warrior. He’d probably be dead by now if Peabody had been his surgeon.

  He clasped hands with the blacksmith. “I never did thank you, Murtagh,” he said.

  The Scot’s face reddened under the layer of grime. Surprise widened his eyes. “’Tis naught. Now if ye’d been an Englishmon and nay Welsh…” he mumbled before striding away.

  Morgan was tempted to chuckle, but Glenheath rode up beside him, his face stern. “They’ll be at the bridge in ten minutes,” he said. “My men are ready.”

  Morgan glanced over his shoulder. Some of the rebel troops had fled, but at least two hundred Highlanders waited, some mounted, others on foot. He was reminded of the survivors who’d paraded out of Dùn Fhoithear the day the fortress had fallen. They might be about to surrender to the enemy, but no one would suspect it from the jut of their chins and the set of their shoulders. “I’m proud to ride with you,” he told Glenheath. Cromwell might gain control of the Highlanders’ territory, but he would never win their hearts.

  Morgan couldn’t lose sight of the fact that he was here as an officer in the Parliamentary army, but he wouldn’t betray the courageous woman standing at the door of the crofter’s cottage, arms folded tightly across her breasts. She would never be forced to reveal where she’d hidden the crown jewels. The notion brought immense satisfaction. He nodded to her and set his horse in motion, heading down the hill towards the Bridge of Gairn.

  ~~~

  Glenheath called a halt at the bridge. “We’ll wait here.”

  It was a good strategy. The hump-backed bridge would provide a neutral meeting point.

  Morgan closed his eyes, listening to the Gairn babbling over rocks a few feet away.

  His relief at finding Hannah there had made him careless and it had cost him dearly. He couldn’t afford to make a mistake now.

  Birds twittered, a crow cawed. Two hundred men waited behind him in total silence. It was hard to view this as the same place where Hannah had shot the badger.

  He smiled at the memory, though at the time he’d thought his ears had exploded. She’d saved his life.

  He removed his hand from the folds of his coat and let it hang at his side for a few minutes.

  “Does it pain ye much?” Glenheath asked.

  “Some,” he replied, “but the prospect of explaining how I was injured pains me more.”

  Glenheath chuckled. “Dinna fash, laddie, yer secret’s safe wi’ me.”

  Fingall neighed and shook his head.

  Morgan straightened, more alert than he’d been since the accident. This was the point of no return. “He smells his stable mates,” he said, patting the horse as much for his own reassurance as the animal’s.

  Glenheath stood in the stirrups. “Dust yonder down the road.”

  Soon the air filled with the sounds of feet tramping, horses whinnying, donkeys braying, wheels squeaking, men shouting.

  Morgan bristled. It surely couldn’t be his gun carriage axle making the ungodly racket, not after being greased twice. The din and dust raised by the English army evoked a fear they might march right past the silent Scots waiting to surrender a hundred yards up the road. They were, after all, expecting to clash with the Royalists in Bouchmorale.

  A hue and cry went up. He needn’t have worried. They’d been spotted.

  Orders were shouted and the military machine ground to a slow halt.

  Morgan peered into the dust. English musketeers ran to the junction and formed up, weapons trained on the bridge. To his dismay, his crew unhitched his saker from the team and wheeled it into position. He’d taught them well, and had to admire their efficiency, but he’d never imagined being a sitting duck in the sights of his own gun. His gut clenched as he concealed his hand once more.

  “Best me and thee go to the middle of the bridge,” Glenheath suggested. “Lest they blow us up before we’ve a chance to surrender.”

  They rode slowly to the center of the stone bridge and watched the enemy prepare to annihilate them. It made no sense. Morgan was tempted to gallop to the main road and demand to know what they were thinking, but the musketeers would mow him down without blinking.

  “In my experience,” Glenheath observed, shifting his weight in the saddle, “if an army plans to attack, they normally dinna sit waitin’ fer ye to get yer artillery in place. Do they nay realize…”

  Morgan unclenched his jaw when two men appeared, riding up the trail towards the bridge. “Abbott,” Morgan explained, “and Hartlock.”

  “Arrogant sods,” Glenheath hissed.

  “That’s as may be,” Morgan replied. “But I advise you to let them speak first.”

  The generals reined to a halt short of the bridge.

  Morgan saluted with his left hand, narrowing his eyes in an effort to assess the mood of the powerful men. Abbott looked curious.

  “What’s the meaning of this, Pendray?” Hartlock shouted, fury contorting his face. “As if desertion and horse theft aren’t enough, now you’ve gone over to the enemy and insult me by saluting with your left hand. And look at your uniform. You’re a disgrace.”

  Morgan glanced at the blood spatters on the front of his buffcoat. In another life he’d have been appalled at his appearance, now it was the man’s sheer stupidity that he found appalling. He gritted his teeth. “Sir.”

  “Is the mon daft?” Glenheath asked under his breath.

  Abbott looked to the sky then edged his horse forward. “Why don’t you explain, Major Pendray.”

  Morgan’s hopes lifted, but Glenheath spoke b
efore he had a chance.

  “’Tis simple. I am Munro Cunynghame, Ninth Earl of Glenheath and I wish to formally surrender my troops to Major Morgan Pendray.”

  Abbott smiled.

  Hartlock spluttered. “But he isn’t the senior officer here.”

  “I surrender to Pendray or not at all,” the earl insisted.

  Abbott glanced over his shoulder at his fellow general, then said, “Very well. Are you prepared to accept responsibility for this action, Major Pendray?”

  “I am, sir.”

  “Despite your injury?”

  Glenheath grunted. “He’s a brave man, your major. Underwent an amputation yesterday for a battle wound and here he is today, doing your army proud and saving lives on both sides.”

  Hartlock joined Abbott on the bridge. “Amputation?”

  Morgan withdrew his throbbing hand from the protection of his coat, hoping that would be an end of it.

  Abbott turned and shouted a command to the men on the road. “Send Major Pendray’s batman forward.”

  Smythe jogged up the trail after a minute or two and saluted the generals.

  “Hold Major Pendray’s horse so he can accept the Earl of Glenheath’s sword,” Abbott ordered.

  Smythe obeyed, grinning at Morgan as he reached for the reins. “Good to see you, sir,” he said softly.

  Glenheath drew his sword and offered the hilt to Morgan. “On behalf of my sovereign, King Charles Stuart, I surrender these troops, with the proviso that General Abbott guarantees none of my men will lose their lives for their loyalty to king and country.”

  Abbott nodded. “On behalf of the Protector, Oliver Cromwell, I guarantee it, with the proviso they divest themselves of their weapons and agree to accompany us as our prisoners to Bouchmorale.”

  Glenheath nodded. “So be it.”

  Morgan accepted the earl’s sword and held it high. Cheers sounded from the English ranks.

  ~~~

  Clustered around the small table in the cottage, Hannah and the crofter’s family waited in silence. Even the bairns seemed to understand the drama that was going on yards from their home.