Andrew raised his empty hands and slowed as he neared the cottage. When he was ten feet away, he stopped.
“Dia duit. Good day to ye, sir,” Andrew said.
The man lifted his eyebrows and nodded briefly. He cocked his head to one side, as if listening for warnings in the breeze. “And to ye as well. Ye’ve come quite a ways, then, ha’ ye?”
“Aye, I have,” Andrew said. It was a relief to use his voice after being alone for so long. “I’ve been afoot nigh on two months. Yours is the first place I’ve seen in a very long time,” he said.
After a moment of hard scrutiny, the big man stepped closer, chin lifted. “Fàilte, a caraid,” he said. Welcome, friend. His low, rumbling voice was noncommittal. “I’ve no’ seen ye afore. From where do ye come?”
“From Invergarry. My name’s Andrew. Andrew MacDonnell.”
The big man frowned. “MacDonnell?”
Andrew nodded. “Aye. My father was Duncan MacDonnell, an’ my Uncle Iain is—was chief. My brothers and I went with Captain Scotus of MacDonnell to battle almos’ a year past. I—I’ve been on my own awhile now, lookin’ for others.”
The shoulders of the big man relaxed just a little and he nodded slowly. “A pleasure it is to meet ye, Andrew,” he said. He cleared his throat and seemed to come to a decision. “I’m Iain MacKenzie.” He gestured toward the door in invitation. “Thig a-steach. I’d share a dram wi’ ye. Been a while since I had company.”
Andrew swallowed reflexively, the thought of whisky already warming his throat. He followed Iain inside and sat, dripping, at a small wooden table, admiring the carefully painted white walls and the few framed pictures that hung at random. All around the room were small feminine touches: a piece of framed embroidery by the hearth, a chair upholstered in a delicate floral pattern. But there was no woman anywhere to be seen.
The men sat by the fire for an hour or so, getting to know each other while they sipped rough whisky and tore pieces from a hard loaf of bread. Iain had also fought at Culloden, although he didn’t remember much about the battle. Instead, he focused on the fact that he wasn’t at home during that time. He hadn’t kept his family safe in their little white house.
Once he began to tell his story, Iain seemed to forget he wasn’t alone. Words tumbled through his shaggy beard like a river undammed. He had struggled home after the battle, tearing through the forests, his head filled with terrifying images of both where he had been and where he was headed.
“It was like I already knew,” he said. His voice was tired, his eyes focused on nothing. “There were no way to get here any faster, but when I did, I saw there’d been no call for haste. My lass and the bairns was gone, the house bloodied and broke.”
Iain’s voice caught and he hid his face behind his cup. Andrew looked away, concentrating instead on the weathered wooden tabletop before him. An ancient, meandering crack split the top of the table, threatening to extend from one end to the other. Iain’s calloused fingers caressed the chasm, as if he could close the gap with his touch.
The moment stretched. Rain clamoured on the cottage roof in a soothing, persistent din.
“I’m leaving Scotland,” Andrew declared, surprising himself. He’d considered the possibility over the past couple of months, but stating the words out loud felt final, and strangely satisfying. “If ye’ve naught to keep ye here, ye could come wi’ me.”
Iain stared at his big fingers where they fidgeted on the table, ragged nails dark with dirt. When he spoke, his words came from far away.
“Aye,” he said, nodding and stilling his hands with the decision. “I’ll go.”
The rain eased and eventually stopped, and the men stepped outside. Iain carried some dry wood from inside and they lit a fire. The evening was blanketed by a light fog that drifted around the fallen tree trunks where they sat. The men didn’t speak much, but the silence was comfortable. A large brown moth flickered past Iain’s face, attracted to the heat of the flames. Iain trapped the creature between his cupped palms and held perfectly still. After a moment he lifted one hand and the moth appeared, motionless save for its twitching antennae, and the slow lifting and lowering of its wings. Iain raised his palm to the level of his chin and breathed against the moth’s fragile body until it winged silently away.
Andrew stayed the night in Iain’s house, supped on rabbit stew, and fell asleep on the floor. In the morning Iain suggested the next farm might still be functioning, so they set out in that direction. But the farm was abandoned. As were the next two. They walked on, determined to find some proof they weren’t alone.
From the south edge of Loch Ness they headed west. The rough Glenmoriston trails led them along the banks of Loch Affric, whose water was a placid blue mirror reflecting lazy cumulus clouds. Over the next three hours, the clouds darkened and the rain returned. The men tucked their chins to their chests to keep the storm from striking full force into their eyes while they walked.
When they finally met with success, it amazed them. Hector MacLeod’s thriving farm stood by the base of Glen Shiel, surrounded by cattle and a number of ponies. The family welcomed the visitors into their warm two-storey house, provided them with stools by the crackling fire, served bread and whisky, and asked for news.
The elder of the MacLeod brothers, Simon, was twenty, tall and well muscled from working the farm. He was dark, like his father, with short black hair that curled around his handsome face. His brother, Geoffrey, was a year younger, with straight, golden hair that swooped over his brow, partly obscuring calm, gray eyes.
Their younger sister, Janet, was lovely. Her hair fell to her waist in a cascade of black, and she studied everything through startling green eyes.
Hector’s wife, Sorcha, fluttered happily, ensuring everyone had what they needed. It was rare that the family hosted visitors these days. While Sorcha worked, she watched her daughter, whose keen eyes were locked on Andrew. After the men were served, Sorcha went to her spinning wheel. Her eyes travelled between Janet and Andrew, then rested on the young visitor. When he glanced Sorcha’s way, she turned back to her spinning wheel, her expression blank. But her gaze kept flicking back toward him.
“Andrew?” she said, lifting her voice over the whirring of the wheel.
Andrew turned toward her, and she inspected the tattered shirt he wore, the stained fabric taut against the press of his chest.
“Will I find ye a new shirt, maybe? That one’s seen better days.”
Andrew looked down at himself and she saw the tips of his ears redden slightly. His dark brown waves were pulled back into a neat queue, revealing a jagged scar on the side of his chin and another, more recent, over his left eye. He and Iain had trimmed and shaved their beards before the meal and their newly exposed skin glowed a faint pink.
Andrew gave her a weak smile. His thick eyebrows naturally arched up; as if he perpetually questioned his situation. They softened the intensity of his deep brown eyes.
“I’ll be fine, ma’am. No need to trouble yerself.”
She smiled. “No trouble at all. I’d no’ have a guest in my house dressed in such a state. I’m certain I have something more suitable. I’ll fetch it for ye, aye?”
“I’d be most grateful, ma’am,” he admitted.
She stopped the wheel and attached a new bundle of flax to the distaff, then stood and shook out the folds of her skirt. On her way toward the stairs, Sorcha took a moment to observe her daughter. Janet stood between her brothers’ chairs, joining in the conversation. Like her mother, Janet thrived on company. In the days when their home had buzzed with visitors, Janet’s laughter had rung in the rafters. These days she paced almost constantly. She reminded Sorcha of a cat, restless and disinterested.
Andrew and Iain stayed for a few days at the MacLeod farm. They helped build an addition to the house. Andrew was tired at the end of the day, his arms and back aching with a delicious stiffness from the construction work.
On clear evenings the group settled on felled tree
trunks around a blazing outdoor fire. This was the kind of life Andrew remembered, though it was a different fire, with different faces and stories. The night was clear and beautiful. The heat of the flames licked toward the men so their skin reddened with a pleasant sort of burn.
The MacLeods were a close family, and the discussions around the fire were always comfortable. Sometimes that bothered Andrew, and he knew exactly why. He was jealous. Hector hadn’t followed his chief into battle, choosing instead to hide the family and livestock deep in the Highlands when the danger came too close. The decision had been hard on his sons, who had felt entitled to join the ranks of the fighting men.
Duncan had brought his sons to war. And now they were all dead. All but one.
Andrew recognised envy on Simon’s and Geoffrey’s faces. How ironic, he thought, that he envied them for the opposite reason.
Andrew closed his eyes, breathing smoke from the fire and hope from the air. Geoffrey lifted his fiddle from its case and played, feeding Andrew’s hungry soul. He feasted until he could no longer hold his eyelids open, then went inside to sleep, and dream.
Chapter 11
A Cry for Help
The MacLeods were generous with their home. Andrew spent a fair amount of time in the stable, grooming, feeding, and caring for the ponies. He enjoyed the uncomplicated company of animals. When Hector suggested Andrew might like to ride up the mountain on his own, he was quick to accept.
A bay-coloured mare hung her head over the half door and nuzzled Andrew’s hand when he came toward her stall. She seemed more than happy to escape the confines of the stable and stood calmly while he swung onto her broad back. When the fresh air hit her nostrils, she became restless under him, tossing her head and champing on the bit in anticipation. Andrew felt the same urge and looked forward to letting her run as fast as she wanted.
Andrew and his brothers had learned to ride at their uncle’s castle in Invergarry. He had eventually become a groom, working with the garrons, the shaggy ponies of the Highlands. For Andrew, riding the animals was as natural as walking. He rode lazily through the trees, pushing aside the branches that stretched to touch him, until the forest opened to a wide meadow, flecked with purple blooms of heather and clumps of bracken as tall as he was. The breeze swept the long grass in invitation, and Andrew leaned into the pony’s neck. He pressed his thighs firmly against her sides, and she raced across the field, her thick mane stinging Andrew’s cheeks, her tail rippling behind her like a banner.
Partway across the meadow, the pony slowed of her own accord and Andrew relaxed along with her. She checked herself into a trot and finally into a rambling walk. He dropped from her back before she had stopped, and collapsed in the grass with a sigh of contentment. The meadow was alive with the constant buzz of bees at work. Their fuzzy bodies hovered anxiously when the pony lowered her head to graze, then returned to their duties. Andrew closed his eyes and draped his arm over his face to shut out the sun’s glow. He relaxed into the bed of wildflowers and began to doze.
The moment suddenly shattered. Shards of panic shot through his body so that his heart raced and his fingers prickled with heat. He heard screaming, felt pain, terror—he struggled to escape its grip, but could do nothing. Slowly, like a figure emerging from a fog, the dream revealed itself and something in Andrew’s mind realised it wasn’t he who was trapped. He was only a stunned observer. His mind reeled. She was there. It was she who was screaming. He felt her agony as if it were his own. His mind pushed blindly to find her, to protect her. It was as if he were being tossed a precious parcel, but was expected to catch it without the benefit of light or hands.
When she finally appeared from the confusion, the clarity of the vision was like nothing he had ever experienced. His heart constricted at the sight of her. The brown waves of her hair were matted with leaves and filth, her eyes bloodshot, and the bruises on her face tracked with tears. He wanted to touch her, to hold her against him and protect her. He focused his mind on the core of her panic.
“Help me,” she whispered, and he nearly wept at the sound. He had never heard her speak before.
But how to help? How could he possibly do anything? She needed a weapon. She needed some way to defend herself. His mind raced, searching. He had always been able to find hidden things and people. Now he focused his thoughts, demanding answers.
There it was. There, floating just out of reach, then suddenly in his hand: her salvation. An old hunting knife, abandoned long before by its owner, lay on a boulder nearby. He gripped the smooth wooden handle and felt the weight of the unfamiliar blade, then set it back down and gestured toward it with his open palm. He didn’t know from where it might have come, but its savage blade was as solid as the rock upon which it now lay.
Something strange and exciting happened to Andrew while he lay there. It stirred his blood with its unfamiliar power, and he embraced the sensation. He felt as if he were no longer an observer, but a part of her. He felt the air she breathed, hot and dry, stirring the hairs on his arms. He smelled the trees above her, different from any he had ever seen. The ground was hard and dusty, choked with unfamiliar weeds and grass. Beyond the trees was the same sky, the same shining sun warmed them both, but what lay beneath was foreign. Where was she? It didn’t feel like Scotland, but he couldn’t be sure of anything. He lifted his hand and stroked her cheek, imagining he could feel the wetness of her tears against his palm.
“At the river,” he murmured, having no idea where the words came from. “Look for me at the river.”
He awoke slowly, rising from the dream as if fighting a strong current. One of his hands was vaguely stiff, the fingers curled from gripping the knife in his vision. He stretched his fingers and rubbed the sore knuckles. His nails had carved tiny half-moons into his palm.
His temples throbbed, and he pushed his fingers against them, trying to ease the pressure. The pony was watching, alerted to the unusual energy flowing around him. She swished her tail at a fly and nudged Andrew’s shoulder. He groaned, but rose to his feet, still rubbing his temples.
“Ye’re ready to go, are ye, lass?”
He stroked her velvet muzzle. Drops of moisture twinkled inside her nostrils. He leaned his face into the mare’s neck, inhaling the tang of her dried sweat and hints of the straw she had left behind in the MacLeods’ barn. He still saw the girl in his mind. Her tortured features cut painful lines across his heart.
The afternoon sun was moving on, the shadows of the trees lengthening into stark, black lines. Crickets would begin their chorus soon.
“Aye, all right,” he said to the pony. “We’ll head back.”
He reached for her mane and hoisted his body onto her broad back. He smiled as they set off toward the MacLeods’ home. Not even the shock of the dream had diminished the day. He had saved the girl in some way. She would survive.
Chapter 12
Entreaty
When Andrew reached the stables, Janet was waiting for him, a smile lighting her eyes.
“Ye had a good ride, did ye?” she asked.
“I did.”
“Fognan’s a sweet pony,” she said, reaching up to stroke the smooth, russet neck.
Andrew swung off the pony’s back and led her into the stable. Fognan walked into her stall, ears flicking with interest when she smelled fresh oats. Andrew latched the stall door on his way out, then went to where Janet leaned against the wall, watching him. She rubbed her palms on her long brown skirt, as if they were damp. He folded his arms over his chest and smiled expectantly at her.
“What is it then?” he asked.
“I was only wonderin’,” she said. “Ye’ll be off soon, won’t ye?”
“Off? I jus’ got back,” he said, puzzled.
She shook her head and gave him a brief smile. “No. I meant ye’ll be leavin’ our home and movin’ on.”
“Oh, aye,” he said. “I expect so.”
She nodded and her cheeks suddenly flared red.
“Take m
e wi’ ye,” she whispered.
“Eh?” Andrew exclaimed. “I canna do that, Janet. Dinna be daft.”
“Sure ye can. Please, Andrew. It’s only—I canna stay here. I’ll go mad,” she blurted.
Andrew looked at her as if she’d just asked him to stand on his head.
“Why would ye want to leave here?” he asked. “ ’Tis a lovely place, an’ yer family loves ye well.”
“Oh, I ken that fine,” she said with a sigh. “I love them, too. An’ I like it all right here on the farm, but, well, ’tis only—I need more, aye? I need to see more o’ the world, to do other things beside milk a cow an’ mend torn britches. And I’d like someday to be marrit, wi’ bairns. Most of the men around here died last spring in battle.”
Andrew softened at the distress in her voice. “But why come to me? Speak wi’ yer parents—did yer father no’ mention ye’ve relatives in Edinburgh? Ye could maybe go there for a visit. Why me?”
Janet bit her lip and looked away.
“You are…” She looked back into his eyes and swallowed hard. “I ken I shouldna be so bold, but Andrew, ye’re all a lass could ask for. Ye’re handsome an’ brave an’ funny, an’ ye dinna plan to stay put in one place yer whole life, like everyone else around here.”
Andrew was taken aback by this. She was by no means a shy woman, but this was unexpected. Her eyes darkened as she spoke, softening into liquid emeralds. She stepped closer and reached up so that one small white hand cupped his chin. He had shaved that morning, but her thumb brushed the new bristles, tickling his cheek. She blinked slowly, staring into his eyes. Without thinking, he bent down and kissed her, and felt her lips move against his own. He wrapped his arms around her waist so the ends of her hair tickled his hands. She wasn’t the first lass he had held in his arms, but it had been a long time since the last one.
The need for physical contact was overwhelming, and he took what she offered. His fingers combed through her hair and he breathed her in, smelling the hay from Fognan’s stall and a hint of the gravy she had prepared earlier in the day. She pressed her body against his then pulled her mouth away, searching his dark eyes. Her breath tickled his lips, fleeting as the wings of the moth Iain had held the night before, drawing him in like a flame.
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