Yesterday’s Promise
A Hearthfire Historical Romance
Michele Paige Holmes
Copyright © 2017 Michele Paige Holmes
E-book edition
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever without prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in critical reviews and articles. This novel is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialog are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Interior Design by Heather Justesen
Edited by Cassidy Wadsworth Sorenson and Lisa Shepherd
Cover design by Rachael Anderson
Cover Image Credit: Brekke Felt, Studio 15 Portraits
Cover Model: Kara Moore
Published by Mirror Press, LLC
eISBN-10: 1-947152-04-1
eISBN-13: 978-1-947152-04-5
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Other Books by Michele Paige Holmes
Prologue
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
PART 2
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Next from Michele Paige Holmes
Chapter One
About Michele Paige Holmes
Other Books by Michele Paige Holmes
Counting Stars
All the Stars in Heaven
My Lucky Stars
Captive Heart
A Timeless Romance Anthology: European Collection
Timeless Regency Collection: A Midwinter Ball
Hearthfire Romance Series:
Saving Grace
Loving Helen
Marrying Christopher
Twelve Days in December
Forever After Series:
First Light
Power of the Matchmaker series:
Between Heaven and Earth
Prologue
The Scottish Highlands, September 1746
Collin
“Is this the lad?” A wizened man seated at the head of the long table squinted, bunching the skin surrounding his eyes into folds. His coarse, grey beard dragged across his knees as he pushed back his chair and angled toward me.
I suppressed a shudder. Liam Campbell looked older than the stone walls of his keep, but he appeared every bit as fierce as rumored. The infamous scar he’d earned during the early days of the Watch crisscrossed his left cheekbone and traveled up to where his eyebrow should have been. His jaw set in what appeared to be either anger or hatred— likely both— and I wondered uneasily whether he’d taken me of his own accord or if he acted under the direction of the English.
Either way, this couldn’t be good.
And either way—
I’d meet my fate head on as Da met his. I straightened as best I could, which wasn’t much, held on either side as I was and with my hands still bound behind me.
“He must be the MacDonald rabble,” one of the men restraining me said. “Watched him spend the better part of yesterday digging Ian MacDonald’s grave.”
My chest burned at the mention of my father. The crude hole I’d dug for him hardly qualified as a grave. I glared at the old laird, my own hatred surfacing. When it came to the dead, Scotsmen usually had some sense of respect. But not Campbells, as far back as any history I’d ever heard. Probably the only reason they’d allowed me to care for Da at all was weariness from their own journey.
But I’d scarce placed his body and added a few handfuls of dirt when they’d come at me from behind. I’d not even been given a chance to find a suitable stone for a marker. And now my father lay cold and stiff, his body unmarked and unprotected on one of the Highlands’ endless moors.
“Release him,” Laird Campbell ordered.
I stumbled forward with sudden freedom, only just catching myself from falling. Beside me the men laughed, and the jeers and titters of others echoed throughout the vast hall.
I looked up to see intent grey eyes studying me closely. Laird Campbell was not amused.
“Untie him and get him some food.”
A woman hovering near his chair hurried away as I felt a dirk slash through the rough rope binding my hands. Just the mention of food was enough for the hollow ache in my gut to flare to life, reminding me that I’d not eaten in three days.
Since Da and I had shared the mush he made from the stolen barley. I pushed the thought from my mind and set about rubbing my wrists, attempting to restore circulation.
Laird Campbell turned his attention to the clansmen who’d brought me in. “The lad’s fair starved. Instead of watching him labor you ought to have helped, then given him some bread.” His voice was sharp with reprimand. “It’s a miracle he hasn’t followed his father to the grave yet.”
Yet? Because you plan to see to it personally? Did he want me fit enough to endure whatever torture he had in mind, or did he want me alive to hand over to the English, who were well known for their own cruelty and punishments? I wasn’t sure what he thought either option would accomplish. At this date there was nothing left to tell, no secrets the English had not uncovered. Bonnie Prince Charlie had safely fled Scotland, leaving his loyal supporters behind to suffer the consequences of his failed bid for England’s throne. I met Laird Campbell’s steady gaze and kept my focus there, though I heard the uneasy shuffle of his men.
The one on my right spoke up. “We passed half a dozen English patrols on the way. Could have turned him over to any one of them and received a nice purse.”
“It is well you did not.” Laird Campbell’s ominous tone sent a shiver up my spine.
The man on my other side cleared his throat. “You didn’t say—”
“Must I say everything? Some things ought to be obvious!” The laird’s words reverberated off the walls. He grabbed a staff leaning against the table and slammed it onto the stone floor. “You were to bring me Ian McDonald’s son, alive and well.” He pushed a tankard down the table toward me. “Drink.”
Wariness that this was some sort of trick was no match for my overwhelming thirst. I stepped forward, took up the cup and gulped down its contents— lukewarm water.
“Fetch him another,” the laird ordered, and the cup was whisked from my hand by a second woman lingering nearby.
“How long since you’ve last eaten?” the laird asked me.
“Three days.” It hurt to answer. The half cup of water hadn’t been nearly enough to soothe my parched throat.
“Three days.” The laird pointed the staff at the men on either side of me. “That is when each of you shall eat again. While you are awaiting your next meal, you’ll have ample time to think on following orders. Take them below.”
I didn’t turn to watch the proceedings behind me but registered that they occurred without protest or fight. Liam Campbell was both respected and obeyed, it seemed. I kept my eyes on him, appraising, wondering if he was still as tough as the wounds he’d earned, or if age had made him vulnerable.
I co
uld only think that if his wrath kindled at so little a grievance from his own people, things did not bode well for me, a MacDonald and therefore an ancient enemy. But the tone the laird used next was different from the one directed at his men.
“What’s your name, son?”
My eyes snapped to his as Da’s bullet-riddled body sprang to mind. I stepped closer. “Collin MacDonald— Laird MacDonald now, since you’ve murdered my father.” I spat and watched with satisfaction as my saliva hit near its mark and slid down the laird’s cheek.
A collective gasp echoed around the room. I jerked backward as my arms were seized again.
He shook his head, and his men fell back. “So we ended up with Collin, did we?” His gaze was upon me once more. “You should be grateful. Your brother mayn’t fare so well. And I shouldn’t be certain of your status as laird just yet— second born, as you are.”
“Ian’s dead.” I thought of my twin brother as I had seen him last, a fortnight ago, his body still and twisted at the bottom of a ravine near Munro lands.
“Is he, now?” Laird Campbell said slowly, and in such a manner as to make me question what I’d thought to be true.
Da said to leave him, that there was naught to be done. I pictured my father’s grief-stricken face as he’d scrambled back up the hill. The watch had been just behind us, and we’d barely made our escape that night— the only time I’d ever heard my father cry.
“All is not always as it seems,” Laird Campbell said, bringing me back to the present.
What was he talking about? Did he have Ian here, too? I glanced around, half-expecting to see him brought in wearing chains, or to see a man with an axe approaching, or to feel a pistol held to my head.
But Laird Campbell had made no move to wipe his face, and appeared, if anything, less hostile than when I’d been brought before him. If his aim was to make me uneasy, it was working.
He drummed his bony fingers on the table as he stared at me. “Bravery— an admirable quality.” He nodded slowly. “But pride is foolishness.” He shook his head. “The downfall of many great men, many a MacDonald.” He lifted a rag from the table and held it out to me. “I’ve no desire to start off on the wrong foot. I’ll take your apology and my face cleaned, or you’ll be taking a trip outside with my men for a thrashing.”
Because he was too old to do it himself? My hands clenched into fists at my sides. Da barely in his grave, and the man responsible for his death expected an apology? Next he’d be wanting my fealty.
I lifted my chin and met his gaze steadfast. “Whatever purpose you’ve brought me here for, you cannot succeed. You’ll not have me. Do what you’d like to my body, but you’ll not have an apology or anything else.”
A wicked smile curved the old laird’s lips. “Did I want a body to do something with, it would not be yours, lad.” The hall erupted in laughter.
I felt my face burning scarlet but told myself not to mind. What was humiliation compared to what I’d been through these past months? I’d survived the English dogs this long. I wasn’t about to let one of my countrymen— traitor though he was— take any satisfaction from me.
Pursing my lips, I steeled myself against what was to come. How bad can it be? It wasn’t as if I’d never been beaten before. Da had taken a switch to my backside more than a time or two. I’d just pretend it was him. I’ll take it for you, Da.
“Stubbornness,” Laird Campbell said. “Another questionable trait. Though I suppose I should expect no less from a MacDonald.”
I fought the urge to spit on him again. “The MacDonalds are strong, too. We’re the oldest, most powerful clan in the Highlands.”
“Once, long ago,” Laird Campbell said. “But now...” His voice trailed off, almost as if he didn’t wish to recount the obvious. For our loyalty to the prince, we had been nearly annihilated.
Laird Campbell’s gaze seemed to soften. His mouth turned down, and his eyes drooped as if sorrowful. For a fleeting second I wondered whether he regretted the punishment he’d handed down or if he was mulling over the current, sad state of the Highland clans and Scotland in general. Either way, he’d no one to blame but himself. Had his clan sided with the Jacobites we might have had success instead of slaughter.
Another minute passed, and I sensed he was still waiting for me, giving me one more chance. I would not take it. I’d not grovel at the feet of my enemy. Not yet, anyway. Unease that had nothing to do with hunger stirred my innards. In the past year I’d seen men brought low under torture. I’d never experienced that suffering myself, but I’d seen pain reduce grown men to bairns. I wanted to believe more of myself than that. But at fourteen, I’d not yet been tried.
At last Laird Campbell nodded to his guards, and I almost felt relief when they took my arms and made to take me from the room. It was always better to get a punishment over with. Sometimes the dread was half the agony. Though, noting the strength of the two men who held me, I somehow doubted that would be the case.
“Wait!” A shrill, yet tiny voice halted our procession.
I glanced over my shoulder as a lass, little more than a bairn herself, appeared behind the laird’s chair. She reached up onto the table and grabbed the cloth Laird Campbell had held out to me just moments before.
“Don’t hurt him.” She spoke as if she was used to ordering others about. “I’ll clean Grandfather’s face.” She looked directly at me. “You’ll only have to say you are sorry.” She turned to Liam Campbell and, standing on tiptoes, reached to wipe his cheek. He bent closer, allowing her better access, and a broad smile— genuine, this time— formed on his mouth, transforming the fierceness into a face nearly bearable.
“That was very kind of you, Katie lass.” He picked her up and settled her on his lap. They both turned to look at me.
“Well,” Laird Campbell asked. “You aren’t going to let my granddaughter’s generosity go to waste, are you?” A sharp look at his men, and they released me, one of them muttering beneath his breath as he did.
“I—” I wasn’t sure what to say. I faced Laird Campbell and the girl. I’d not expected to have a waif of a child— and a lass at that— come to my rescue. It was humiliating, and any form of apology still went against grain. “I cannot apologize to the man who killed my father.”
“I didn’t fire those muskets, lad.”
“You might as well have,” I said. “You turned him in. You handed him over when you knew they’d kill him.”
“I did only what your father asked of me.”
“Liar!” I burst out. “That isn’t true.”
“It is.” Laird Campbell’s voice sounded heavy— tired. But also truthful, and as his arms wrapped protectively around the child in his lap, he didn’t look like a man capable of such brutal treachery.
Don’t be fooled.
I reminded myself that his gruesome scar told another story— one of his early betrayal, an encounter with Grahams before they, and the other clans, realized that the Campbells were working for the English and had formed the black watch.
A nice way of phrasing the word spies, Da had said. A justification for using brutality against the other clans and in return receiving favors from the English.
“My father wouldn’t ask for his own death. He wasn’t a coward.” I thought of the cave and the supplies we’d been gathering there. We would have made it a few more months, at least. And while a life in hiding wasn’t the one Da was used to leading, I felt sure he hadn’t been ready to give up. He’d still had some fight left in him.
“No man as brave as your father chooses to die— without a reason,” Laird Campbell said. “But sometimes we wish those we love to live more than we care about our own lives— or deaths. Your father chose to turn himself in so you might live. He came to me and asked me to betray him, so you’d be given into my care, and so you’d be spared the fate of nearly every other MacDonald male.”
“That’s not true.” My breath left me as if I’d just been punched. I suddenly wished I was out
side feeling the sting of a lash against my back instead. That was pain I could live with. The thought that Da might have faced a firing squad in order to save me was not.
The Campbell laird had to be wrong. He’s lying. “I wasn’t in any danger. I’m only fourteen. The English were only interested in the men— in those who fought.”
“You don’t look fourteen, lad.” Laird Campbell’s gaze strayed to my feet— large by any standard— then traveled up my lean body to the top of my head, nearly equal in height with most of the men in the room. “Your father sensed you were in danger, and he was right. As son of a laird, your name was listed on that execution order, alongside his.”
No, I wanted to cry out. It wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. I wasn’t in any danger so long as Da and I were together. And we were good at evading the English soldiers and watch alike. My father knew the hills and crags of the Highlands as well as anyone. We could have lasted a long time. He could have still been alive.
“MacDonalds were there to welcome the prince when he arrived, and MacDonalds smuggled him away at the last,” Laird Campbell continued, as if he thought I didn’t believe his claim about the price on my head.
“I know what we did.” I’d been there for most of it.
“Well, the English do not take it lightly, son.”
I bristled again at the use of the endearment. I couldn’t figure Liam Campbell out, or what he wanted from me.
Not for the first time in the past two days I wished I’d disobeyed my father. If I hadn’t listened, if I’d come out of those bushes with him... I squeezed my eyes shut tight, closing out the light of the room and the strangers surrounding me. But all the darkness brought was the image of Da being led away and the echoes of shots.
“Aren’t you going to say you’re sorry?”
I opened my eyes to find the wee lass staring up at me.
“It isn’t nice to spit on people,” she said matter-of-factly. “Even when you’re sad or angry— or frightened— you should still be nice.”
My ire rose further at her reprimand, and I placed my fists on the table, leaned forward, and glared at her. “What does a little bit like you know about sorrow?”
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