The Scotsman and
the Spinster
Joan Overfield
The Scotsman and the Spinster
Joan Overfield
Copyright 2000, 2014 by Joan Overfield
This book is dedicated to the memory of Robert Bush. With love, from Anthony and Tyler Iszler
This book is also lovingly dedicated to my brother, Larry Blaine Overfield.
February 19, 1959-June 26, 2013.
To the best little brother ever.
"DO YOU KNOW, MISS TERRINGTON, WHAT I THOUGHT THE VERY FIRST TIME I CLAPPED EYES ON YOU?"
She looked curious, and then a warm glow of color infused her face as she apparently recalled that the first place he had seen her was in his bedchamber. "I am sure I do not," she said, her eyes fixed at a point somewhere over his shoulder.
"What I thought, Miss Terrington," he continued, "was that you looked like an elf. What the crofters call a síthiche, a mischievous sprite come from the glens to lead me back along the Low Road to the Highlands. Then you opened your lips to bark orders and questions at me, and I was certain you were a tannasg instead, come to pester me into perdition. In the days since, I've come to think I was right."
Her cheeks flushed brighter with indignation. "I'm not so bad as that!"
"Aye, lass." He grinned, carrying her hand up to his lips for another kiss. "You are. But do not worry yourself over it. I am a soldier, and used to fighting for what I want. Now come, I am sure your aunt must be wondering where you've gone."
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
AUTHOR'S NOTE
About the Author
Prologue
Spain, 1813
Alvares
"Get down, blast your bloody hides!" Sergeant Ross MacCailan roared the command over the staccato burst of gunfire. The ambush had come out of nowhere, taking him and the rest of the patrol by surprise. Two soldiers were dead and two more were wounded before he succeeded in guiding them to the dubious safety of the abandoned stone cottage. Now they were pinned down by heavy fire, and the devil of it was he had no idea who was shooting at them. Given the uncertain conditions in Spain, it could be French Regulars, Spanish partisans, or even British deserters willing to slaughter their own comrades for whatever poor trinkets they possessed.
"Corporal Roberts to me!" he shouted, firing at the stand of trees where the murderous shot continued unabated.
A huge man, his face blackened by gunpowder, crawled over to join him at the window. "Aye, Sergeant?"
"How many are there, do you think?" Ross demanded, his sharp green gaze never leaving the trees as he reloaded his rifle.
The corporal fired his own rifle before answering. "Could be ten, I'd say, perhaps more. Not guerrillas, though, else we'd all be dead. French, I'm thinking, or maybe not," he added, ducking as a musket ball screamed through the air just above his head. "Them Frogs don't shoot half so well."
Despite the gravity of the situation, a wry grin split Ross's lean face. It quickly faded as he turned his mind to more prosaic matters. "How many men have we injured?"
"Three. The lieutenant's the worst; gut-shot."
Ross tore his gaze away from the window long enough to glance toward the corner of the room where a young man lay softly moaning. The front of his uniform tunic was already stained black with blood, and his face was ashen with the rapid approach of death. Much as Ross's heart ached, he accepted there was nothing he could do and turned back to the window.
"Take his rifle and spread his ammunition amongst the others," he ordered. "Tell them to start firing at thirty-second intervals, and to stop once they've gone through half their ammunition."
A look of crafty understanding stole into the older man's eyes. "Aye, lad. Have a plan, do ye?"
Ross thrust back a strand of sweat-dampened blond hair that had fallen across his forehead and nodded. "Perhaps. Have them ready to fire on my order."
Over the next twenty minutes the soldiers in the small cottage bravely held off their attackers, the rain of fire they loosed punishing the unseen enemy. But soon the shooting grew sporadic: eight shots, then five, then two, then none. An unearthly silence descended upon the clearing as Ross and his men waited for whatever came next.
"Come on, you sorry sots, come on," he whispered softly, his rifle clenched in his hands. "We've no ammunition left, we're sitting here waiting for you to slaughter us. Come on."
As if in response to his muttered imprecations, a voice called out in accented English. "You in the cottage, surrender in the name of the emperor!"
"French," the corporal grumbled, crawling over to join Ross at the window. "May the devil take the lot of them!"
"He will," Ross replied, then cautiously raised his head. "What guarantee have I you will not harm my men?" he called out, affecting the elegant tones of a gentleman.
"Why, my word as one officer to another," came the mocking reply. "Surrender, monsieur. My patience grows thin."
"Now what?" the corporal asked. "The bloody fool thinks you're an officer."
As this was Ross's intention, he wasn't concerned. Instead, he glanced back at the corner where the lieutenant lay sprawled in the stillness of death. The lad had done them little good in life, he reflected. Mayhap in death he would serve a better use.
"Move all but two men to this side," he told Roberts. "When the French show themselves, be ready to fire at my signal."
The corporal gave a slow nod of understanding. "Aye, lad, I ken. But do ye know what ye're about? Ye'll be placing yerself between our fire and theirs. Ye're like to get blown to hell."
Ross didn't respond. After fifteen years in the Army he'd faced death too many times to give the matter of his mortality any thought. If he died, he died, but in the meanwhile it was his intention to take as many French with him as he could manage.
"I would negotiate with you for the safety of my men," he called out again, this time in impeccable French. "Step into the open that I might see you and know you mean what you say."
"You are scarce in a position to make demands, mon ami," the French officer replied, clearly amused. "But I will do as you wish. Be so kind as to come outside. Hands up, if you please."
"I am wounded and cannot stand," Ross replied, accepting the pistols from Corporal Roberts and tucking them into the waistband of his leather breeches. "My sergeant will be with me."
There was another silence. "Very well, but no tricks, I warn you. One wrong move, and you are a dead man, comprehend?"
"Mais oui," Ross answered, and crossed the room to gaze down at the lieutenant. In death the pompous officer who had been the bane of Ross's existence looked pathetically young. How old had he been? Ross mused. Twenty? He doubted the lad had even bedded his first woman, and wondered if whoever had purchased the youth his commission had any idea they'd sent him to his death.
Pushing back his bleak thoughts, Ross bent and hefted the lieutenant to his feet. "Sorry, Lieutenant Mackelby," he said, turning toward the door. "But you're about to become a hero."
The rough clearing in front of the cottage was filled with French soldiers, all of whom trained their weapons on Ross as he stepped out into the watery sunlight. There were ten, he noted, including the two officers mounted on high-stepping grays. Ross concentrated on the captain, and in the other man's cold eyes he could see his intention to kill him and the others
the moment they surrendered.
He stepped forward cautiously, keeping the lieutenant's body slightly in front of him to hide the fact he was armed. "My lieutenant has fainted," he said, exaggerating the Scottish accent he'd all but lost a decade earlier. "I do no' think I can hold him much longer."
"Then drop him, Sergeant, and order the others to come out," the captain said mockingly, drawing a pistol and aiming it at Ross's head. "I grow weary of this game."
"Yes, sir," Ross said, bending his legs and carefully lowering the lieutenant to the ground. When he was confident he had everyone's full attention, he shoved the body to one side and dove for cover.
"Fire!" he yelled, rolling to the side and firing. His bullet struck the captain in the center of his forehead, and even as the courtyard exploded with gunfire, Ross had the satisfaction of seeing the officer tumble dead from his horse.
The battle was short but decisive and when the shooting stopped, all of the French soldiers lay dead. Ross felt neither satisfaction nor elation, merely a grim numbness that blocked out everything else. He confiscated the dead officers' horses to help transport the wounded, and then he and the others dug graves for the dead. Before leaving, he pocketed Lieutenant Mackelby's personal effects, knowing his family would want them.
Several hours later he and the remaining men limped their way into the encampment. Ross was filthy, hungry as a wolf, and exhausted beyond the point of collapse. He knew he should report to the captain, but he was too exhausted to care. There would be time enough later to give an accounting, he told himself wearily, and in the end it would make little difference. The dead would be no less dead for the wait.
He ducked into the ragged excuse of a tent he shared with three other men, and had only just begun undressing when a young major lifted the flap and came scurrying inside.
"Hurry, man, hurry! We've no time to wait!" he exclaimed, so wild-eyed Ross thought the camp was under attack.
"What is it? The French?" he asked, reaching automatically for the rifle that was never out of reach.
"No, it is the general!" the other man cried, dancing from one foot to another in his agitation. "He is in the camp and asking for you!"
Ross relaxed at learning it was no more than that. General Callingham was a terror to his junior officers to be sure, but Ross had served with him long enough to know he wouldn't fault him for taking a few minutes to eat.
"I thank you for telling me, Major," he said, forcing himself to respond courteously when what he really wanted to do was throw the fellow out on his ear. "Pray present General Callingham with my compliments, and tell him I shall report as soon as I—"
"No, not the general," the major interrupted. "The general! 'Tis Wellington himself! Hurry, we cannot keep him waiting!"
Had the man been any less excited, Ross would have suspected him of playing a trick on him. He was still suspicious, but accepted there was little he could do: an order was an order. He reached for the jacket he'd just discarded.
"You can't mean to go wearing that!" the Major gasped, pointing a trembling finger at the front of Ross's uniform.
Ross glanced down at the blood staining the jacket and shrugged. " 'Tis French blood."
"But—"
"Major," Ross interrupted, scowling, "you can have me fast, or you can have me clean. You canno' have both."
In the end the young officer decided a clean sergeant would make a better impression than a dirty one, and he granted Ross a scant half hour to make himself presentable. Thirty minutes later Ross found himself being presented to the great general, while half the command staff looked on in interest and obvious resentment. General Arthur Wellesley, only recently elevated to the rank of Earl of Wellington, was geniality itself as he thanked the officers and then dismissed them in a manner that was polite, but unmistakable. The moment they were alone, he turned back to Ross with a decided twinkle in his eyes.
" 'Tis a wonder we manage to win a single battle, with dolts like that leading the way," he observed, shaking his head. "Ah, well, at least they usually have the good grace to get themselves killed before causing too much harm."
Ross thought of the young lieutenant he had buried a few hours earlier, and held his tongue. "Is there something I can do for you, my lord?" he asked, remaining rigidly at attention.
If Wellington sensed his resentment he ignored it, giving him an enigmatic smile instead. "Eventually, Sergeant, eventually. In the meanwhile, you must allow me to congratulate you on your accession to the peerage . . . Viscount St. Jerome."
Ross jerked his head back in shock. "My uncle is dead?"
"These three months past," the general said, handing Ross a franked letter. "The mails are a trifle slow, I fear."
Ross accepted the letter numbly, noting the waxed seal had already been broken. The loss of privacy this indicated should have enraged him, but he felt only a vague indifference. "There has been some mistake, sir," he said, not bothering to open the letter. "My uncle must surely have disinherited me years ago in favor of my cousin. 'Tis him you should be congratulating, not me. I am no English lord." He made to hand the letter back.
"Ah, but you are, sir, you are," Wellesley said, folding his arms across his chest and ignoring Ross's gesture. "Whatever his feelings toward you, your uncle had no legal grounds to break the entailment. You are the only son of his only brother, and as such, you are rightfully next in line for the title. Your cousin, I believe, is descended from the female line. Rail against it however you will, Sergeant, you cannot change that fact. You are the viscount."
Ross clenched his hands, a black rage descending upon him at the memory of the rigid, mean-spirited man who had been his uncle. Douglas MacCailan had long since forgotten his clan name and honor, and he'd never forgiven Ross's father for returning to the Highlands in defiance of his wishes. When his father died, his uncle had ordered Ross brought to London, dangling the promise of a commission if Ross did as he was told. Ross's response had been to join the Army as a common soldier, and he'd thought that the end of the matter. It seemed, however, he'd neglected to consider the vagaries of English law.
"To the devil with him and with his bloody title!" he cried, not caring if his insolence won him a thousand lashes. "I am a soldier, a Scot, not some prancing fool of an Englishman!" Then he broke off, appalled at what he had said and to whom he had said it.
To his surprise, the general actually chuckled. "And I am an Irishman who more than shares your opinion of the majority of English gentlemen, Sergeant MacCailan. A more sorry and useless lot I've yet to see, but that's neither here nor there. Agents of your uncle will be arriving in camp tomorrow, and when they do, you, sir, shall be leaving with them."
Ross rubbed his head, abruptly weary of this ridiculous conversation. "General, I mean no offense, but I—"
"Sergeant," Wellington interrupted, his voice gentle, "you said you are a soldier, and so you are, a damned fine one, from all accounts. And as a soldier you must know there are times when sacrifices must be made; when the wants of one man must be set aside for the greater good of the regiment. Is that not so?"
"Aye," Ross agreed reluctantly, wondering what the general was prattling on about. "I know."
"You've fought well, lad, and I am grateful to you for all you have done. Now I am asking you to help me fight a different sort of battle, a battle I greatly fear we are about to lose."
Ross stirred uneasily. Despite the disdain he felt for the pampered officers he'd been forced to serve under, he'd become friends with one or two of them, and through them he had learned much of London gossip. "You are speaking of the debates," he said, understanding at last the reason for the general's visit.
The older man nodded. "I am. We fight day to day to drive Napoleon from this godforsaken place, paying in good English blood for every cursed inch of ground we gain. But even as we have victory within our grasp, those pompous fools in London risk throwing all of it away. If these newest acts pass I will be recalled, and our Army will be put under th
e command of some useless Society pet more acceptable to those blue-blooded idiots. Well, I will not let that happen to me or to my men, do you hear me, sir? I will not!"
Ross fell into a brooding silence as he considered Wellington's words. "I understand you want me to accept the title that I might cast my vote for you in the House of Lords," he said. "And so I should, if I thought it would do a whit of good. But I do not see that it will. I am but one man. How can I make any difference?"
The general's response was a wolfish smile. "One man, Sergeant, can make all the difference in the world, provided he is the right man."
Ross blinked up at him in confusion. "But I am a sergeant, and a Scotsman in the bargain; no fine title or fortune will ever change that. Those blue bloods you speak of won't so much as glance in my direction."
Wellington raised an imperious eyebrow. "Have you ever known me not to have a plan or two tucked up my sleeve?" Before Ross could respond, he handed him a second letter.
"Take this, and go to the address I've written down. When you get there, whatever the person there tells you to do, you are to do it. No questions, no arguments. Just carry out their orders as you would my own. Is that clear?"
Ross accepted the letter reluctantly. "General—"
"Sergeant, I do not ask this lightly," Wellington said, his expression grave as he met Ross's gaze. "Your commanding officers all speak highly of your bravery and your loyalty, qualities I shall stand in sore need of in the coming months. If I had a choice I should keep you here at my side, but I do not have that choice. And neither, sir, do you. If you wish to help me and the men under my command, you must accept the title and return to England. There is no other way."
Ross gazed down at the address scribbled across the letter.
A. Terrington, Number Eleven Bruton Street. Who was that? he wondered. Some political crony of the general's, he didn't doubt. A doddering old man who would take him under his wing and teach him how to go about. Ross wished he could toss both letters into the flames and walk away, but he knew he could not. The wily old soldier was right, he thought bitterly. There was no other way.
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