The Stolen Mackenzie Bride

by Jennifer Ashley

  His sobbed words were in the Scots language, but at one point he said in English, “I mu’ go w’ me captain. I can nae stay without me captain!”

  “What the devil is he on about?” Duncan growled.

  Mary lowered the coach’s window, shivering in the late fall air. “He means me. Let him come—he can ride with me.”

  More snarling from Duncan, some of his sounds simply wordless mutters.

  The carriage door was yanked open, and Mal boosted Ewan inside. The lad’s face was streaked with tears, but he adjusted his woolen cap and climbed onto the seat opposite Mary, sniffling. Mary took a handkerchief from her sleeve and leaned forward to wipe his face.

  Malcolm swung up behind Ewan and dropped to the seat next to the lad. He let out a shrill whistle, and the door slammed and the carriage jerked forward.

  “All right, Mary?” Mal asked her, the same wicked gleam in his eyes he’d had that first afternoon in the upstairs gallery at Lord Bancroft’s.

  “I thought you’d go on horseback with your brothers,” Mary said. The other Mackenzies surrounded them, horses moving smoothly alongside the coach.

  “Once it gets rough, we all will. But until then, I’d rather look after ye myself.”

  Mary couldn’t argue, feeling better with Mal’s presence. Ewan seemed to think the arrangement was a perfect one and forgot about his tears, eager to go.

  They rolled through the city’s gate, Mal’s brothers and father riding close to the coach. The duke rode well and looked as lively as his sons once on horseback, his plaids covering him to his well-worn boots.

  At Holyrood, they went around the back while the prisoners were marched out and put into the carriage. Mal abandoned his place as Mary’s father took the seat opposite her.

  Mary knew her father was not the sort of man who liked his daughters embracing him in joy, but Mary sat forward, took Wilfort’s bound hands, and squeezed them.

  “I am pleased to see you well, sir.”

  “I can say the same about you, Daughter.” Wilfort’s grip tightened briefly, which Mary knew expressed his relief. “You seem none the worse for wear.”

  Mary gave him a nod. “Indeed, the duke and his family have looked after me well.”

  The earl grunted. “Hmm. There are many things for us to discuss, but at a later time.”

  The carriage door on the other side opened and another man was thrust in. The newcomer wore shackles on his wrists and ankles, and he fixed Mary with a piercing gaze. “No one told me I’d be riding with civilians.”

  Mal climbed back in, sitting next to Mary this time, and pulling Ewan to the seat between them. “Lady Mary, may I introduce my prisoner, Captain Robert Ellis of the Thirteenth Dragoons. Captain, the Earl of Wilfort and his daughter, Lady Mary.”

  Captain Ellis bowed the best he could. “I am pleased to meet you. Forgive me for not shaking hands.”

  “Not at all,” Mary answered, giving him a gracious nod. “The circumstances are unusual.”

  Wilfort only snorted, gave the captain a polite greeting, and turned his head to look out the window.

  Duncan slammed the door, and they began moving.

  The hundred and fifty–odd miles from Edinburgh to Kilmorgan Castle north of Inverness took a week and more of rough travel.

  Mary looked about with interest as they went, her curiosity sharp in spite of the chill weather, the constant lurching of the carriage, and the knowledge that she was moving farther and farther from everything she knew.

  Her father didn’t like it. Wilfort shuddered whenever he looked out at the rolling lands of the lower Highlands, and even more when the road began climbing sharp hills. “Bleak,” he’d say. “No idea why it’s worth fighting over.”

  “A man’s homeland engenders his loyalty,” Captain Ellis offered as explanation. “I’ve seen it in the most primitive natives in the Caribbean islands and in the dreariest parts of Ireland and India. Scotland isn’t hot, at least. Makes a pleasant change.”

  They followed the roads forged into the heart of Scotland in the last twenty years by Field Marshal Wade and his band of soldiers and engineers. Besides the carriage and Mal’s family, a cart carried baggage along with the few servants who’d accompanied them, including Jinty to look after Mary.

  North of Perth they picked up one of the narrow Wade roads paved with tamped-down stones. Knifelike hills rose to heights of three thousand feet and more around them.

  “Twenty years building roads so the British army could stamp out Highland insurrection,” Captain Ellis said to Mary one rainy morning as they slowly bumped along. “And now the Highlanders themselves have used them to sweep down from the hills and take over Edinburgh. A lesson in irony.”

  Malcolm, who’d been apparently dozing in the corner, began murmuring in song:

  Lord, grant that Marshal Wade,

  May by thy mighty aid,

  Victory bring.

  May he sedition hush, and like a torrent rush,

  Rebellious Scots to crush,

  God save the king.

  Captain Ellis watched him without smiling. “Does it not worry you that your loyalties are so fluid, Lord Malcolm? You fought valiantly against us at Prestonpans, yet you save me and Lord Wilfort from hanging, and argue with your brother about his Jacobitism. Everywhere we stop, Lord Duncan is out trying to recruit for his side, and your father is arguing just as loudly that all the men in kilts should go back home.”

  Malcolm shrugged. His look was sleepy, but Mary saw the alert gleam of his eyes. “That’s Highland clans for ye. No matter how loudly we argue or how fiercely we fight, in the end, it’s only the survival of our clan that matters. Duncan’s an idealist. Dad only wants to make sure his clansmen and families eat through the winter.”

  “And you, Lord Malcolm?” Captain Ellis asked. “Where do you fit? Loyal to your clansmen? Or the Stuart kings?”

  “Me family will always come first,” Mal said. “What I do with my time left after that . . . I’ll wait and see.”

  Mary’s father made a skeptical sound but did not speak.

  Sometimes when the roads grew too steep, those in the carriage had to descend and walk. Mary was always given a small but rugged horse to ride at these times, while the men tramped along beside or behind the carriage.

  Lord Wilfort and Captain Ellis were at all times surrounded by Malcolm’s brothers, but that didn’t stop Captain Ellis from trying to escape. During the journey, he attempted it no less than fifteen times.

  “Save your strength, sir,” Wilfort snapped at him after one incident. When they’d halted for a rest, Captain Ellis had run as fast as his bound hands and feet had let him down a hill toward a stream. Duncan, Will, and Malcolm, all on horseback, had loped almost leisurely after him, caught him, and brought him back. “If you keep on,” the earl added, “they’ll simply shoot you to be rid of the bother of you.”

  Captain Ellis sat down in the middle of the road, breathing heavily. “It’s a soldier’s duty to escape the enemy.”

  Malcolm dismounted and handed Ellis a water skin. “We’re the best friends ye have out here, man. Ye never know if the next knot of soldiers ye run into are for Charles or for George. And if ye keep covering yerself in grime, those for George won’t recognize ye as English.”

  Captain Ellis shrugged as he sipped the offered water. “I do my duty as I see fit.”

  Malcolm took the water skin back and tamped in its stopper. “Aye, well, I respect a man with strong principles.”

  One night, when they rode late through a tiny village along a deserted stretch of the road, they found it full of soldiers, British ones. The duke led the way through them, telling the captain in charge clearly who he was and that he was no Jacobite. Angus and Will kept Duncan out of the way, and Duncan, who’d proved to be no fool, even if passionate about his beliefs, kept his mouth shut.

  Mary held her breath as the English soldiers surrounded them. Now would be the perfect time for Captain Ellis to roll from the carriage
, declare loudly that he’d been captured by the Mackenzies, and claim his freedom.

  Captain Ellis volunteered nothing. He sat quietly, a rug hiding his manacled hands. When the soldiers looked inside the carriage, they saw a middle-aged English aristocrat, his respectable daughter, a captain in the British army, and a young lad who appeared to be a servant. None of them seemed fearful or the worse for wear.

  The soldiers waved them through, even saluting Captain Ellis, who only nodded tiredly in return.

  Once they were well away from the cluster of houses, the earl said, “Damn it, Ellis, there was your chance. Why did you not take it?”

  Captain Ellis gave him a neutral look. “If I’d tried to escape into that mob with muskets, Lady Mary might have been hurt.”

  The earl stared at him a moment, then gave him a nod. “Ah. Then I thank you, sir, for your discretion.”

  Wilfort turned his gaze on Mary, with a look in his eyes she didn’t like.

  But, of course—Captain Ellis was English, a gentleman, a cavalry officer, who were usually wealthier than their infantry compatriots, and he’d just showed that he valued Mary’s safety over his freedom.

  Malcolm was Scots, by all evidence an idler, and too mercurial to pin down his loyalties. And again—he was Scots. Mary was certain her father would make that point twice.

  Mary said nothing, only closed her eyes and pretended to sleep, but she remained uneasy.

  When the terrain finally became too rough for wheeled vehicles, Malcolm and his brothers loaded the baggage onto stout Highland ponies they bought from a local man and sent the carriage, coachman, cart, and driver back to Edinburgh.

  Mary had noted that Malcolm and Will always negotiated with the Scots they met along the way for food or lodging, while the remaining Mackenzies hung back and let them. Considering that Mary always had a soft place to sleep each night and at least one cooked meal each day, she came to believe that Mal and Will between them could charm the skin off a snake, and the rest of the family knew it.

  A pony now carried Mary, who again wore the leather breeches and peasant skirt Ewan had given her. She’d worried that the small horse wouldn’t carry her weight, but the little mare proved surprisingly strong, comfortable, and tireless.

  “Men fight battles on these ponies,” Malcolm said as he settled her. “They’re sturdy beasts, from the far north. A funny sight t’ see the men on them, but the beasts never miss a step.”

  The pony carried Mary over the mountains, which in early October were filled with brisk, sharp winds and strong sunshine. Duncan led the pack, his father beside him. Though the two blustered at each other constantly during the light of day, once night fell, they became, by tacit agreement, quiet and careful.

  One evening after sunset, Duncan came riding back to where Mary, her father, Ellis, and Malcolm rode alongside the baggage horses.

  “Someone’s out there,” Duncan said. “A whole pack of them, we think—we heard several horses. They’ve stopped and are waiting, either for us to pass or to attack us, we don’t know. It’s too steep and dangerous here to get around.”

  “Then Will and I need to go out and meet them,” Mal said. “And discover what they want.” Mal suited action to word, as he always did, already nudging his horse forward.

  “No, I should,” Duncan said, hand on his pistol. “They might be soldiers.”

  Malcolm didn’t wait. “Then it should be me. The situation needs diplomacy and discretion. You don’t have any.” He rode out of their little circle into the darkness before anyone could stop him.

  Chapter 23

  Mal felt them lurking in the night, hidden in shadows even moonlight couldn’t penetrate. The road itself glowed eerily, stretching in a thin pale line until it bent around a corner and vanished.

  The waiting men were far too silent to be British soldiers. Anyone this stealthy had to be Highlanders, ones who knew this road. Mal doubted Jacobites would try to hide from a small party of civilians. That left only one possibility in his opinion.

  He glanced at Will, who, by the look on his face, had already drawn the same conclusion. “It’s all right,” Mal called out in Erse. “We aren’t excise men. We’re Highlanders going home.”

  Silence. A horse snorted in the darkness and shook its head.

  After a tense moment or two, a lone man stepped out. He wore a great kilt that covered him to mid-thigh, and worn boots.

  “You’ve got a solider with ye,” he said, pointing a thick finger past Malcolm.

  Malcolm knew the man couldn’t see Ellis from there—he must have sent scouts to find out exactly who their group contained. “He’s a prisoner,” Mal said. “Captured by me. I’m taking him home, to Kilmorgan.”

  A risk telling the man where they were from. If his clan was historically enemies with Malcolm’s, there could be a bloody fight.

  The man stepped forward and peered up at Malcolm. “You a Mackenzie?”

  “Aye,” Mal answered. “I’m Malcolm—this is me brother Will.”

  “Lord Malcolm Mackenzie,” the man repeated, and his voice grew warmer, full of enthusiasm. “You’re legend, you are, me lord. I’d be honored, sir, if ye’d try a drop.”

  It amused Malcolm, looking back on the incident, how quickly the train of ponies had materialized after that. They were small, wiry horses, each laden with two or three casks. Moonlight revealed a line of about twenty, which meant a great deal of contraband moving south.

  The man, who said they could call him Rabbie, but cannily didn’t mention his surname, brought forth one of the casks and broached it. He called for a cup and handed it to Malcolm, who dipped it inside.

  Mal brought the acrid-smelling brew to his lips and sipped. A burning sensation filled his mouth then spread rapidly down his body. He coughed.

  “That good, eh?” Will asked. He dismounted, took up Mal’s cup, and had his own sip. He coughed too, then laughed. “My God, man. That will cure all illness.”

  Rabbie’s eyes twinkled. “They’ll water it down a bit, I wager. What d’ye think, sir?” he asked Malcolm.

  “It’s robust,” Mal said when he could speak. “Grabs a man by his short hairs and doesn’t let go, does it? But you’re nearly there. A touch more malt, barley only, and longer in the oak, and ye’ll command any price.”

  “Mmm,” Rabbie said. “But malt is taxed enough to ruin a man.”

  “Well . . . ye can be a bit vague about how much ye have.”

  Rabbie chuckled. “I tell them nothing as it is. But if I keep it too long in the cask, me family starves while we wait for it to age.”

  “Vary your batches, then. Keep one longer, call it your reserve, and start overlapping your producing times. Pretty soon, you’ll have something t’ sell and something held back, something maturing all the time until it’s right. Trust me, then ye’ll have plenty t’ eat in the winter, and your women will have all the pretty frocks they want.”

  “I’ll consider it, lad. But it’s different for us.”

  “Aye, I know.” Mal had been able, with his mother’s inheritance, to buy a license to produce and sell his whisky legally, which gave him more leisure time to produce a decent brew. Poor men like Rabbie had to make their whisky in secret and trundle it down the Wade roads under cover of darkness.

  The two exchanged more pleasantries, mostly about the conditions of the roads, and Mal told Rabbie where they’d run into the British army patrols. They parted with mutual good wishes and firm handshakes, then Rabbie’s party stood aside and let Malcolm’s pass without impediment.

  Malcolm noticed, though, that Rabbie had been the only one who spoke. The other hard-eyed men leading or riding the ponies kept to the shadows and watched in suspicious silence. One or two gave them nods, but most only waited for Malcolm and family to go by. Malcolm also noticed that every single one of them was armed in some way.

  “Smugglers,” Captain Ellis observed when Mal rejoined them. “Since we’re not at sea, I take it they’re carrying whisky?”
/>
  “Aye. Either that or musket cleaner—it was a trifle difficult to tell by the taste.”

  Ellis rumbled a laugh. “Thank you for throwing yourself into the line of fire.”

  Mary regarded Mal curiously. “You told me the Mackenzies produce whisky. Why aren’t you smuggling it over the mountains on ponies?”

  “Because the Mackenzies have an approved distillery, and we can afford to make it,” Malcolm explained. “Men like Rabbie—they barely survive through the winter. Not much grows in the remote Highlands, but anyone can build a still.”

  “So you approve of smuggling,” Lord Wilfort said coldly. “The natural characteristic of the Scot.”

  “No, I understand it,” Mal said. “If laws are so tight they prevent a man from eating, he’s going to find ways around them. If it’s a choice between following ridiculous regulations or watching your family starve t’ death, risking excise men on a mountain road is but a small price to pay.”

  Wilfort only gave him a cool look, but didn’t argue. That boded well, Malcolm thought. The man was softening to him.

  “I’ll say nothing about Rabbie and his band of smugglers when I get free,” Captain Ellis said. “If you show me this whisky of yours when we reached Kilmorgan. If I reach there,” he amended quickly. “I will continue to try to escape.”

  “Done,” Malcolm said.

  Mary only smiled, but she included Captain Ellis in the smile, which Malcolm did not like at all.

  “There it is,” Mal said several days later. “Behold your new home, lass. A bit terrifying, isn’t it?”

  They’d ridden down from a hill into a long valley, a wall of mountains rising to the west. In a flat, open area, about fifty yards from a thick stand of trees, lay a pile of stones—not a ruin, but quarried stone laid out, ready to be used for building. Trenches had been dug in the earth, and here and there Mary spied a stake pounded into the ground, but no work was being done.

  Beyond this, up on a cliff, rose a proper castle, with a square keep topping the hill. Castle Kilmorgan.