by Amy Jarecki
Epilogue
A year later
Sitting at her new dressing table, Mary ran her finger beneath the red wax seal of a letter from Lilas. She hadn’t received a letter from Castleton in some time and her hands trembled a bit, anxious for news. It wasn’t that Mary missed the old castle on the southern finger of the Isle of Skye, but she did pine for her family at times.
Don had seen to her comfort beyond her dreams and over the past year, they’d built a life in Glasgow—had even purchased an estate in Renfrewshire to allow for a growing family.
She unfolded the parchment.
Dearest Sister,
I am writing this on my nineteenth Saints day. As I awoke, I thought of all the things that have changed over the years and of all the things that I miss. Life in Castleton has grown ever so dreary without you.
But that will change, too.
You’ll be happy to hear Mrs. Watt has mellowed since you left. Perhaps your talks with Da served to bring about the needed effect. She’s behaved thoughtfully toward me and Florence, and especially Rabbie. Fortunately, she and Raymond are more amenable as of late, too. Moreover, Da has asked the widow to marry him and they plan to wed in midsummer. Has he written you of this news? I rather doubt it. He has been otherwise occupied and in his solar less often.
I will not be in Castleton for the wedding, as he has arranged for me to be fostered by Lady Forbes in Aberdeenshire until I attain the age of one and twenty. I’m looking forward to the change, though a tad nervous since I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting Lady Forbes. I hear she has a son my age.
Hmm.
Possibly Da is up to his scheming again?
I suppose time will tell.
You’ll be happy to hear Rabbie has become a true musketeer and hits the target nearly every shot, and Florence has become quite proficient at the pianoforte.
I do miss you and hope you can visit me at the Forbes estate. Wouldn’t that be a boon?
Wishing you happiness,
Lilas
Sighing, Mary folded the missive just as Don opened the door. “Good news?”
She held up the parchment. “A letter from Lilas. She says she’ll be fostered by Lady Forbes and Da plans to marry Mrs. Watt midsummer.”
Don leaned against the door jamb, looking relaxed and very gallant in his kilt and waistcoat. “That is good news on both counts.”
“Yes, for Lilas.” Mary pursed her lips and sighed.
“And your father—he’ll be well cared for.”
Alas, she had to give in. The widow would make Da happy and that’s what mattered for him. “True, I can attest to that. Goodness, it seems things never do stay the same.” Mary watched her dashing husband take long strides into the chamber. “That reminds me. How should we go about making a match between Miss Barbara and Sir Coll?”
Donald stopped short. “My sister—”
“Will be one and twenty in a year’s time,” Mary finished, eyeing him.
“But Sir Coll is too rough around the edges. Though I’d have no other clan chief beside me in battle, I’m afraid he’s unsuitable for Barbara.” Oh, how adorable he looked when a tad flummoxed.
Mary held up a finger. “Only the heart kens when a match is right.”
“But they are so different,” Don grumbled. “Barbara is enamored with new gowns and shopping and royal balls.”
“Have you asked her what she wants?”
“Nay.”
“Perhaps you should start there.”
“I’ll think on it. Mayhap I’ll have a change of heart when she’s nearer her twenty-first.” Moving behind Mary, Don smoothed his hands over her swollen belly and regarded her in the mirror. “And how are you faring?”
Mary put her hands atop his so they both cradled their unborn. “Better now you’re here.”
“And our son?”
She giggled. “Or daughter.” With her laughter came a hearty kick.
“Oh my.” Don’s eyes grew wide. “I felt that one, and with a boot as powerful as that, the bairn must be a lad for certain.”
Mary leaned her head against Donald’s arm and closed her eyes. “I care not, as long as the babe is healthy.”
“With a mother as bonny and vigorous as you, I have no doubt our child will be of solid Highland stock.” He drew her hand to his lips and kissed it. “I love you, Lady Mary, and I always will.”
The End
Author’s Note
Thank you for joining me for The Valiant Highlander. Though this is a work of fiction, Mary of Castleton was born and raised on the southernmost finger of the Isle of Skye near Tokavaig. She was the eldest daughter of John MacDonald, 2nd of Castleton, a laird owing fealty to the Baronet of Sleat.
Mary MacDonald of Castleton married Donald MacDonald, 4th Baronet of Sleat, chieftain of one of the largest clans in Scotland and a descendant of the Lords of the Isles. Sir Donald was the last in his line born at Duntulm Castle before the crumbling stronghold in Trotternish was abandoned. The date of Sir Donald and Lady Mary’s marriage is not recorded.
The Baronet of Sleat was known by his clan as Sir Donald of the Wars (or in Gaelic, Dòmhnall á Chogaidh) for his heroism during the Battle of Killiecrankie, who at the age of nineteen raised the standard on behalf of his ailing father. From birth, Sir Donald was a staunch Jacobite supporter, though he resided in Glasgow all of his adult life.
***
I have many planned more books related to these early Jacobite supporters, though there are some upcoming changes I am excited to announce:
~ In 2017 Grand Central Publishing will release three books under their Forever imprint. The GCP books will be in a new series taking place in the same Jacobite era and you will recognize some of the supporting characters:
~ The Highland Duke ~ About the 1st Duke of Gordon and his involvement with the Jacobite cause and his steamy union with Akira Ayres, a Scottish healer, set to be released March, 2017
~ The Highland Lord’s Stolen Kiss ~ The royal court at Whitehall comes into play with Jacobite spies and Whig plots embroiling Lord Aiden Murray and Lady Magdalen Keith in a tempestuous romance. To be set in 1708 with a release date of June, 2017
~ The Highland Earl ~ This is a working title, though the story will be about the Earl of Seaforth and his arranged marriage to Audrey Kennet, a Northumberland heiress. To be released October, 2017
~ The Reckless Highlander ~ I know everyone will be happy to know Coll and Barbara’s story will be released thereafter.
~ Several more Highland Defender/Highland Lords novels have been planned for characters like Kennan Cameron and Robert Stewart as well as the MacRae Chieftain.
Excerpt from The Highland Duke
Chapter One
Hoord Moor, Scotland. 21st August, the year of our Lord 1703
The dead Highland soldier stared vacantly at the thick, low-hanging clouds. Akira clutched her basket tight to her stomach. This man needed no healing. Now only the minister could offer to redeem the hapless warrior’s soul.
Death on the battlefield bore none of the heroics she’d heard from fireside tales. Death on the battlefield was but cold and lonely.
And for naught.
Gulping back her nausea, Akira turned away.
A deep moan came from the forest, the tree line not but ten paces away. She jolted, jostling the remedies in her basket. “Is s-someone there?”
When no answer came, she glanced over her shoulder. Unfortunate. Her companions had moved on—women from the village of Dunkeld had crossed the bridge over the River Tay to Hoord Moor where they tended the wounded before red-coated soldiers marshalled them into the back of a wagon.
The moan came again.
Akira tiptoed into the trees. Two black boots peeked from beneath a clump of broom. A telltale path of blood skimmed over the ground leading beneath the shrub. Had the man dragged himself off the battlefield?
“Are you injured?” she asked, her perspiring palms slipping on the basket’s handle. Would he
leap up and attack?
“My leg,” said a strained burr.
“Goodness gracious,” she whispered while she moved closer.
The poor man is hurt.
Dropping to her knees, she pulled away broom branches and debris. A man’s vivid hazel eyes stared at her from beneath a layer of dirt. Wild as the Highlands and filled with pain, his gaze penetrated her defenses like attacking daggers. She’d never seen eyes that expressive—intense. They made her so…so unnerved.
“What happened?” she asked, ready to run like a rabbit.
He shuttered those eyes with a wince. “Shot.”
Akira’s gaze darted to his kilt, hitched up and exposing an enormous thigh. A mass of thick blood swathed across it with more congealed beneath.
“You a healer?” he asked, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Aye,” her voice croaked, didn’t even sound like her.
“It needs to come out.”
She peered closer—puckered skin—a round hole. “A musket ball?”
His trembling fingers slid to the puncture wound. “’Tis still there—lodged in my thigh.”
Care of musket wounds far exceeded her skill. “I-I’ll fetch the physician.”
“No,” he said with an intense whisper. Before she moved, the man clasped her arm in a powerful grip. The strength of his huge hand hurt. Gasping, she tugged away, but his fingers clamped harder and those eyes grew more determined. “You do it.”
She shook her head. “Sir, I cannot.”
Releasing her arm, he pulled a knife from his sleeve. “Use my wee dagger.” The blade glistened, honed sharp and shiny clean against his mud-encrusted doublet.
“But you could die,” She shirked away from the weapon.
“Do it, I say.” For a man on the brink of death, he spewed the command like a high-ranking officer.
Licking her lips, she stared at the wound, then pressed her fingers against it.
He hissed.
“Apologies.” She snapped her hand away. “I was trying to feel for the musket ball.”
“Whisky.”
She glanced to her basket. “I’ve only herbs and tinctures.”
“In my sporran.”
The leather pouch rested askew, held in place by a belt around his hips. Merciful mercy, it covered his unmentionables. Moreover, he was armed like an outlaw with a dirk sheathed in one side of his belt, a flintlock pistol in the other—a gargantuan sword slung in its scabbard beside him. Who knew what other deadly weapons the imposing Highlander hid on his person?
Akira clenched her fists then reluctantly then pointed to the purse. “In there?”
“A wee flask, aye.” His shaking fingers fumbled with the thong that cinched the sporran closed.
She licked her lips. “You expect me to reach inside?” Goodness, her voice sounded shrill.
“Och,” he groaned, his hands dropping. “Give a wounded du—ah—scrapper a bit o’ help, would you now?”
Akira scraped her teeth over her bottom lip. Merciful fairies, the Highlander did need something to ease his pain. Praying she wouldn’t be seen and accused of stealing, she cringed, shoved inside the hideous thing and wrapped her fingers around a flask. She blinked twice as she pulled it out and held it up. Silver? Gracious, the flask alone could pay for Akira and her family to eat for a year or more.
She pulled the stopper and he raised his head, running his tongue across chapped lips. “Give me a good tot, lass.”
He drank a healthy swig and coughed. “I’m ready,” he said, his jaw muscles flexing as he bared his teeth—straight, white, contrasting with the dark stubble and dirt on his face. Lord in heaven, such a man could pass for the devil.
Remembering her gruesome task, Akira cringed. The faster she worked, the less he’d suffer. With a feather-light touch, she swirled her fingers over the puncture and located the hard lump not far beneath the skin. Thank heavens the musket ball had stopped in his flesh and hadn’t shattered the bone. A few months ago, a man in Dunkeld was shot in the knee—the musket ball lodged in his bone and the physician was unable to remove it. A shudder slithered up her spine. She’d tended the poor soul through the duration of his slow decline and eventual death.
With a shake, she pushed the awful thoughts from her head.
This man could not die.
Please, not a man as bonny as he.
But she’d never removed a musket ball before. “Are you certain you want me to do this—n-not a physician?”
“Aye,” he clipped as if growing impatient.
Steeling her nerves, she resumed her grip on the knife and willed her hand to steady. “Prepare yourself, sir.”
Without another hesitation, she slid the small knife through the opening with one hand and pushed against the ball with the other. The Highlander’s entire body quaked. A strained, but whispered wail pealed from his throat.
Blood gushed from the wound and soaked Akira’s fingers. Gritting her teeth, she applied more pressure, pushing the knife until she hit lead.
I cannot fail.
Refusing to give up, she gritted her teeth and forced another flesh-carving twist of her wrist. The ball popped out. Blood flooded from the wound like an open spigot.
The man thrashed wildly. Akira dove for her basket and grabbed a cloth. Wadding it tight, she shoved it against the puncture with all her might. “Hold on. The worst is over.”
Though he never cried out, the Highlander panted, sweat streaming from his brow. “Horse.”
Akira pushed the cloth harder. “The soldiers took all the horses.”
“Damnation,” he swore through clenched teeth, his breathing still ragged. “I will pur-chase…yours.”
Goodness, the man could die with his next breath, yet he still issued orders as if he were in charge of an entire battalion of cavalry.
“I can barely afford to feed my siblings. I have no horse. Not even a donkey—not that I’d let you have it if I did.” There. She wasn’t about to allow this Highlander to lord it over her as if he were the Marquess of Atholl.
His eyes rolled to the back of his head. “Buy one.”
“I told you—“”
“Spor—ran. Coin.”
Akira glanced at the man’s sporran again, dubious about what she’d find this time. Digging her hands into any man’s purse was vile enough, but this one had to be resting atop the most unspeakable place imaginable. Though she might be poor, she was certainly no harlot.
Fishing in there was as nerve wracking as carving a musket ball out of the man’s well-muscled thigh. With a cringe, she tried shifting his belt aside a wee bit. Curses, the sporran shifted not an inch.
And goodness, he was still bleeding like a stuck pig. “Even if I did purchase you a horse, you couldn’t ride. I’d wager you’d travel no more than a mile afore you fell off and succumbed to your wound.” Still holding the cloth in place, Akira reached for her basket. “Let me wrap this tight and I’ll call the soldiers. They’re helping the wounded into a cart.”
“No.” His eyes flashed wide as he gripped her wrist. “They must not know I’m here.”
She gave him her most exasperated expression, the one she always used when infuriated with her surly sister, Annis. “But they can help you.”
“The Government troops? They’re murderers.” He winced. “They’d slit my throat for certain.”
Since the battle’s end, she hadn’t seen anyone slit a throat…but then she hadn’t asked where the soldiers were taking the injured. She’d just assumed to the monastery to be tended by the monks. But something in this man’s cold stare told her to do as he said. Further, something in his voice commanded she obey him.
The hairs on her nape stood on end as she twisted the bandage like a tourniquet and tied it. “Who are you?”
“Merely…merely a Highlander who needs to hightail it back to his lands…” he drew in a stuttering breath. “A-afore the backstabbers burn me out.”
She narrowed her gaze. A man of property? Aki
ra might be a Scot, but her Gypsy blood still told her to take advantage of a wager—especially when her mother’s larder was bare. “I’ll do it for a shilling.”
“Done,” he said as if such coin meant nothing. “Make haste—and tell no one I’m here.”
Gulping, she glanced down to the sporran and cringed. But she’d been in there once before. And the Highlander was in no shape to do anything untoward. If it weren’t for the care of her mother and three sisters, she’d call over the dragoons—let them see to this man’s care. But for a shilling? Ma would be ever so happy.
Akira’s fingers trembled.
Taking a deep breath, she reached inside. Goodness gracious, she pulled three silver shillings and two ten shilling pieces. She’d never seen so much money in her life. No, she should not feel badly about asking for payment. After dropping one shilling in her pocket and returning all but one of the other coins, she held up a ten shilling piece. This ought to be enough.
Standing, she hesitated. “What, may I ask is your name, sir?”
A deep crease formed between his brows. “’Tis no concern of yours.”
He didn’t trust her—not that she trusted him either. “I won’t reveal it.” she crossed herself. “I swear on my grandfather’s grave.”
His lips thinned. “You can call me Geordie…and you, miss?”
Using a familiar moniker? And Geordie is no given name I’ve ever heard. Odd.
She curtseyed. “Then you may call me Akira.” Blast, she wasn’t going to say Akie. Only her sisters referred to her thus. And “Ayres” would make him suspicious for certain. Her family might be descendants of Gypsy stock, but they’d given away their heathen practices for the most part. If Mr. Geordie wanted to hide his identity, she certainly would hide hers. With blue eyes, she hardly looked like a Gypsy, aside from her dark hair and olive skin.
***
After the healer left, George Gordon closed his eyes and prayed the woman had enough sense to keep her mouth shut. Jesus Christ, he wasn’t supposed to end up shot. Yes, he’d agreed to stand by his cousin and challenge the Government troops with vengeance. Their timing was paramount. After Queen Anne rejected Scottish Parliament’s Act of Security, the entire country was in an uproar—ready to strike at last.
