The Highland Renegade

by Amy Jarecki

  The mare faltered. She backed. Janet tapped her crop. The horse shook her head and reached for another next step—a step that sent them both falling down the steep, snowy slope.

  A shrill scream echoed across the mountains. Robert’s gut turned to lead, and he watched helplessly as Janet and her mount tumbled down the hillside with clouds of snow in their wake. Shouting orders, he reined his mount down the treacherously sheer ridge. “I’m going after her!”

  “Wha—” Lewis’s voice echoed.

  “Meet me at Glenmoriston!” Robert bellowed, leaning so far back in the saddle his back bounced against his horse’s rump.

  Chapter Nine

  The stallion skidded to a halt at the bottom of the glen. Robert feared the worst as he leaped down into thigh-deep snow. But the sting of the icy crystals was nothing compared to the panic seizing his chest. Janet was somewhere beneath the blanket of white.

  With his gloved hands he attacked the snow, scooping and sweeping it away as fast as he could. Every breath, every heartbeat counted in a race against death. Finally he spotted a swath of blue taffeta.

  “Miss Janet!” he yelled, the name clipped and rushed while he rapidly clawed away the snow until he found her shoulders. Heaving, he hoisted her from the snow.

  “Ow!” she squealed, falling atop him.

  He grinned so wide, tears stung his damned eyes. Her cry of pain had to be the most uplifting sound he’d heard in all his days. “You’re alive.”

  “My arm.” She curled forward, cradling it against her stomach, her breath coming in short gasps. “I can’t move my fingers. I-I think it is broken.”

  Robert reached for her blood-soaked sleeve. “May I have a look?”

  With her nod, Janet’s eyes filled with fear and pain. “What have I done?”

  “’Twas nothing you did, lass. The snow gave way.” He peered beneath the blue taffeta and lace that should never be worn in the midst of a snowstorm this high in the mountains. Holy Christ. Janet’s forearm was broken, all right. The bone protruded from the flesh and needed setting for certain.

  “I-is it bad?” she asked quietly, though her voice strained with the high pitch of pain.

  Before he answered, Robert’s gut twisted. He mustn’t mollify his response, no matter how much he wished to. “Aye. You were right. ’Tis broke.” Rocking back on his haunches, he scratched his head while snow continued to fall atop them. “I’m no bone setter. I need to take you to a healer.”

  She sucked back a gasp, blinking away tears. “Is there one nearby? Is there a village? A croft?”

  There wasn’t. “Nay.”

  The lass whimpered, cradling her arm tighter. “Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear. What a dreadful mess.”

  Robert had to agree; they were at the bottom of a ravine near the top of the highest mountain range in Scotland. “One thing’s for certain, we cannot linger here.”

  “Dear Lord, my arm hurts to move.” Janet rocked back and forth. “My horse? Where is she?”

  Robert looked back to the mare, covered with snow and debris. She tossed her head, fighting to break free. He hastened to the filly’s side and pulled away a log. As soon as the weight lifted, the horse sprang up and tried to run, but she was nearly too lame to walk.

  Ballocks. “She’s faltering—favoring her left hock.” He reached for his flintlock pistol.

  “No!” Janet shouted as if he were about to murder a bairn.

  Grant pulled back the cock. “She’s in pain.”

  “So am I, but you’re not planning to shoot me, are you?”

  He watched the horse, clearly in agony, blood dripping from her nose as she hobbled nearer his steed. “Bloody hell, you’ll never be able to ride her again.”

  “I don’t care. I love that mare. I trained her from a foal, and I’m not about to let you shoot her.”

  Against his better judgment, he sheathed his weapon. “Very well, but she’ll have to keep pace. I’m not willing to risk our lives for a nag.”

  Still cradling her arm, Janet rocked to and fro. “She’ll keep pace. I promise. She has the heart of a lion.”

  Robert removed his neckcloth. “We’ll all die if we don’t find shelter soon. I need you to hold your arm close to your body. I’ll tie it in place.”

  “Then where to? You said there’s nowhere close.”

  “One thing at a time. First we’ll restrain your arm to keep it still.” He looked her in the eye and held out the cloth. “I’ll try not to jostle it overmuch.”

  Janet tensed and hissed while he slid the makeshift sling around her wrist. “That should be the worst of it,” he said, tying the ends of the cloth at her nape.

  Her shoulders shook. “This is a colossal muddle. A-and my poor mare.”

  “I ken, lass.” Robert tried to sound consoling, though Miss Janet’s horse was the least of their woes, especially if the storm didn’t ease. “I need you to bear down and keep your arm still whilst I lift you onto my stallion. Can you do that for me?”

  Cringing as if she wanted to cry but was forcing herself to be strong, she gave a nod. Robert stood, bent his knees, and gently pushed his hands into the snow and beneath her. “Ready?”

  “Aye,” she said, but her breathing sped while he lifted her from the snow and cradled her to his chest.

  “Not much farther,” he cooed, noticing a gash just below her hairline. Most likely she has bumps and bruises everywhere. As carefully as he could, Robert lifted her up to his saddle, then mounted behind. “We’ll follow the burn. ’Tis cutting a path through the snow,” he said aloud, though it was more of a thought than anything. At least the water hadn’t frozen yet. He knew two things: they were heading northeast, which was away from Fort William, and, if his bearings were sound, they were riding toward MacDonnel’s summer grazing lands. No one in their right mind would be camped up there on the first of November, especially not in the midst of a blizzard.

  Moreover, the stallion was already spent from riding half the day and wouldn’t make it till dark. The lass might be putting on a brave face, but she needed tending sooner rather than later.

  Robert ground his molars while they picked their way through thick forest and snow, tugging the lame mare on a lead line behind. How the hell had he ended up in this mess? After the altercation at the gathering, he and his men were safely heading home. Why had he turned around? Christ, Miss Janet would have been better off imprisoned in Fort William for a sennight or two than stranded in the snowy mountains with a broken arm.

  They rode in silence for a time while Robert continued to berate himself. A few miles on, the trees opened to a mountain lea. He sat taller, a whit of his burden easing from his shoulders.

  God giveth.

  Fifty feet away stood a shepherd’s bothy. Hewn of stone with a crude thatched roof, it butted up against a small outcropping. “Do you see that, Miss Janet?”

  She glanced up and gasped. “Is anyone living there?”

  “I doubt it—the sheep and cattle have been taken to the saleyard, I’d reckon. But she’ll give us shelter for the night.” And that’s all he would say. No use adding to the poor gel’s trepidation.

  Janet searched the horizon before giving a nod. Lord knew if there were any other option—any other comfort within miles—if the ground weren’t covered with three feet of snow, he would rather take her elsewhere, too.

  But right now, the wee bothy might as well be a palace.

  Robert wanted to cue the stallion to a canter and race to the door, but his horse was spent. Instead he dismounted and led the beast through the drifts of snow. “I’ll have a look inside afore I jostle your arm again.”

  “Hurry, please.” The poor lass sounded in agony and breathless.

  He didn’t expect to find much. Inside was a crude hearth made without mortar, but it had a grill plate suspended from a rope and hook. Beside the hearth sat a cast-iron pot. He found pelts of deer and cowhide piled against one wall, and a small stack of firewood. Robert guessed the two upended logs were
used as stools. He spotted an ax, utensils, and some wooden dishes. Not horrible for a bothy, and it would do in a pinch.

  He took a few of the furs and fashioned a pallet, then carried Miss Janet inside and rested her atop the makeshift bed. “We’ve no recourse but to weather the night here. With luck, this squall will pass. ’Tis still early in the season. I doubt the snow will last.”

  “I can only imagine what my father will say about this.”

  He rolled a rabbit pelt and slid it under her head. “If he’s smart, he’ll be grateful you’re alive.”

  She pursed her lips and glanced away.

  “I’ll set to starting a fire.” Robert used a bit of flax tow from his sporran. He struck his dirk to flint. Sparks ignited the wooly ball. Carefully he added kindling, then a small stick of wood. Once sure it had taken, he used a twig and lit a crude tallow lamp. “I’d best tend the horses,” he said, excusing himself.

  Outside, he loosely hobbled the stallion’s rear legs so he could use his front to dig through the snow and find the mountain grass. The mare wouldn’t wander. He preferred to focus on small tasks than think of the brutal chore ahead. Bile churned in Robert’s gut as he looked to the bothy’s door. If only there were another way. But putting it off was no option.

  Using his dirk, he cut two green branches from a tree, ensuring they were both about the same width and length. Then he cut one more—this one a bit smaller and shorter.

  Gulping, Robert stared at the rickety wooden door for a moment before he entered.

  Janet glanced up from her pallet, perspiration beading her forehead. “Is there more of that dried meat?”

  “Aye, and I’ll fetch it in a moment.” He doubted she’d have much of an appetite after. Not looking her way, he pulled his spare shirt out of his satchel and tore it into strips for bandages. Then, steeling his nerves, he faced the lass and presented his flask. “We’ve put off setting your arm long enough. You’d best have a few sips of this.”

  As she sat up, her face was ashen, even in the amber firelight. “Must you? It is not hurting quite as much now.”

  Robert’s lips thinned. “Can you move your fingers?”

  Her jaw twitched as she glanced downward with a look of determination, but those fingers didn’t budge. “Och. I cannot even feel them.”

  “Then it must be done,” he said gruffly, hoping she wouldn’t cry. Good God, he could handle screaming and shouting, but weeping would tear his heart to shreds.

  Defiance filled her gaze as she leaned away from him. “B-but mayhap tomorrow we’ll find a healer.”

  “I will say this once.” Robert shifted the flask under her nose. “If you ever want to use that arm again, you’d best drink.”

  She took the whisky and tossed back the tiniest of sips, then gagged and coughed as if he’d given her poison. “’Tis awful.”

  “The first sip burns the most. Again.” He made her take a total of five tots before he kneeled and rolled up her sleeve. “Now lie flat.”

  Her lips quivered as she did as he asked.

  He examined the arm, his stomach turning over. By the swelling, it was clear where the bone had been displaced. He had seen a man’s shinbone set before—the poor bastard bucked harder than a bull in the castrating pen. But at least Robert had witnessed the surgery. That had to count for something. He held out the smallest of the three sticks. “Bite down on this.”

  “Dear Lord, have mercy.” Taking the twig between her teeth, she closed her eyes and released a shaky breath.

  Before he started, he put one of the bandages in his teeth, wishing he had another pair of hands. “Steel yourself, Miss Janet.”

  Her face contorted, but she managed to nod.

  He placed one of the splints on her arm and pushed hard and fast until the bone slipped into place.

  Shrieking, Janet kicked, her head thrashing.

  Robert bore down, holding her arm steady. He worked as fast as he could, wrapping the bandage around, then grabbing the second splint and applying it to the underside of her arm. He bound it tightly until he used all the bandages he’d made. Then he tied them off and tested the splint’s soundness. Thank the stars, she wouldn’t be moving that arm for days.

  Pursing his lips, he made himself look at her face. A sheen of sweat moistened her forehead. She took one glance at him and gasped while her eyes rolled back.

  “The worst is over,” he whispered, cupping her cheek. “Ye are the bravest lass I’ve ever seen.” Without another thought, he bent down and kissed her forehead.

  Chapter Ten

  Winfred Cummins rubbed his gloved hands while his breath billowed around him. Every muscle clenched tight against the frigid cold. The corporal and pair of sentinels who had gone up the pass to scout hours ago were finally returning. Meanwhile, Cummins’s troops had been useless. The meager fire they’d started popped and hissed and all but fizzled out while he waited.

  He hated the Highlands. He hated bloody Scotland. And he’d never been so cold in his life. Earlier his feet had plagued him with pins and needles, and now the right had gone completely numb.

  “The trail is impassable,” said the corporal, reining his horse to a stop as the sentinels followed suit.

  Winfred clenched his fists at his sides. “You mean to tell me you have allowed those blackguards to evade us?”

  “With all due respect, sir, no one up there will survive this blizzard. The poor sops will be trapped for the winter.”

  “Dead within a sennight, I reckon,” said another of the sentinels.

  Winfred took a step forward and cried out as his leg collapsed beneath him. Flinging his arms forward, he caught the corporal’s stirrup before he fell.

  “Are you unwell, sir?”

  Hanging on, the lieutenant pulled himself up, unable to keep his teeth from chattering. “If you lot would have shot Robert Grant before he escaped, I would be fine. We all would be fine—warm in our cots at the fort.”

  The corporal’s lips thinned while he exchanged glances with the men. Winfred knew what they were thinking. He’d heard the murmurs. They thought he was overreacting.

  They’re soft, the lot of them.

  None of this was his fault. Highlanders were the basest lowlifes in all of Christendom, and he’d been billeted to this God-forsaken outpost to keep order.

  How does a soldier keep order in an icy hell where men vanish into the mist?

  Moreover, Janet Cameron needed a lesson in manners. Winfred had watched her dance with enough kilted bastards on Samhain; it would have served her well to give the same attention to the officers in the queen’s dragoons.

  To hell with her and her bastard savior. They deserve a long and painful death.

  “At least Britain will be rid of a few more troublemakers,” said the corporal.

  “So say you.” Gnashing his teeth, Winfred hobbled to his horse and managed to pull himself into the saddle. “But if I discover you have provided me with false information, you will face a court-martial. Hear me clear—all of you men will face consequences.”

  He picked up his reins and pointed his steed toward Fort William and a warm fire. Winfred planned to submit a complete report upon his return—as long as his foot didn’t freeze solid in the interim.

  * * *

  Thrashing her head from side to side, Janet woke with a start. Heaven help her, she was freezing and in agony.

  Can a person die from pain?

  Her arm throbbed and ached as if she’d been branded with a white-hot poker. Sweat streamed from her brow while the inside of her skull pounded. She opened her mouth to cry out, but her tongue was dry and covered with sticky goo. “Water,” she managed to croak.

  Someone moved—followed by some rustling. Then Laird Grant kneeled over her, holding a wooden cup. “How are you faring, lass?”

  Unable to answer, she cringed as he helped lift her head and lowered the cup to her mouth. She gulped down a sip and licked her lips. “More.”

  “You feel warm.”


  She forced down another swallow. “C-cold. Hurts.”

  He set the cup aside and uncorked his flask. “All I can offer to take the edge off your pain is a tot of this.”

  She gave a single nod.

  “Can you move your fingers?”

  Lord in heaven, the mere thought made her stomach squeamish. But she bore down and tapped her pointer finger twice. The movement brought on a violent shudder.

  “Och, ’tis a good sign,” he said, shifting the flask to her mouth.

  Janet gulped greedily, then wiped her lips with the back of her hand, trying not to cough. “Whisky is awful.”

  “Mayhap when you’re not accustomed to it. But this is a fine Highland spirit. I’d think any Cameron would appreciate whisky from the Duke of Gordon’s still.”

  “My father may like it, but I’d rather a tincture of willow bark and chamomile.”

  “I pray I’ll find some for you on the morrow.”

  “Is it still snowing?”

  “Aye—at least when last I checked.”

  “Do you think we will be able to travel come morn?”

  Shifting his gaze to the door, he ran his fingers over the stubble on his jaw, which had grown thicker. “We’ve no choice but to wait and see.”

  There was a sinking feeling in her stomach—one she’d managed to ignore until now. Janet might have been able to weather the scandal of running from the redcoats with Laird Grant and his army, but now she was alone with the man and trapped in a blizzard. When and if they ever made it back to civilization, she would be ruined. Lord knew what action her stepmother might take. But Janet harbored no illusions. Her situation was as precarious as it was grave. Her options would be few: find a man of decent repute who would marry her on the spot; become a governess and commit to a life of spinsterhood; or flee to France, join a convent, and pledge her life to God.

  Why did this have to happen to me?