Taming His Rebel Lady

by Jane Godman

  “’Tis a strange story. Just before Culloden, I had a visit from an English officer. His superiors had heard that I disagreed with Bonnie Prince Charlie over his plans for the final confrontation at Culloden. At the time, I sent this man on his way and did’nae give him the opportunity to say more. The prince might have been wrong, but he was my leader and I’d not betray him. The Englishman was cryptic, but he said there were those who knew my value. Then he said that, in return for my help, the English commanders at Fort William would issue a pardon to a murderer they had been seeking for three years.” He spoke quietly, almost as if to himself and his eyes were on the fire, not on Iona’s face.

  “Who was murdered?” Iona asked, even though she had a feeling the question would take him back to a dark time in his life.

  “It was an English army captain named Augustus Hendry. He was the man I blamed for the deaths of Kirsty and young Ewan.”

  Iona put her hand on his knee. She had never seen Fraser as happy and content as he was now with his wife Martha, but she also knew that the death of his first wife and his young son haunted him. “So after Culloden, when ye agreed to mediate, was it the pardon ye sought or the attainder?” she asked.

  He sighed, and some of the tension went out of his large frame. “Both. I wanted a chance at a new life with Martha and the bairn, but I also did’nae want Kirsty’s memory tainted any longer. Augustus Hendry was a man as foul as any that ever lived. He let my first wife and our son die as part of a jest to make me suffer. Had I swung at the end of a rope for his murder, he’d have laughed at me all over again from the other side of the grave. I’ve not sold out to the English, Iona, I’d not betray my heritage.”

  “Anyone who knows you would never think such a thing of you.”

  “After Culloden, I talked again to the Englishman who first approached me. Our agreement was simple. I would help by calming some of the tensions here among the clans of the Great Glen. In return, I would be given an attainder and the authorities would issue a pardon to—as far as they were concerned—the still-unknown murderer of Augustus Hendry.”

  “It does’nae make any sense,” Iona said. “The English gain nothing from such an arrangement. Their plan is to destroy the clans not talk to us! I can’nae see why they would reward you so richly for something they have no use for.” She caught hold of his hand again. “Are ye quite sure ’tis not a trap of some sort?”

  “Who knows? Mayhap they see me as a giant Scots bear to be baited before they tear me apart. We are speaking of the English, after all.”

  “What will ye do if they break their word?”

  “Take Martha and the bairn to France. And you, of course. On that subject…when must ye leave this house?” Fraser became businesslike again.

  “I don’t know. The new owner came two days since, but he said he had no desire to throw me out of my home.” Iona heard the confusion in her own voice. Edwin Roxburgh had caused her more turmoil in the last two days than anything in her life had ever done before.

  Fraser snorted. “More English games? Where is he now?”

  “He has gone to the garrison at Fort William. Although he is a nobleman, he is also a soldier. He said he would be back in a few days.”

  “Then we’ve no time to lose. Gather your belongings together and come away with me to Lachlan.”

  “No.” She shook her head, her expression stubborn. “I meant what I said. I’ll not put you and Martha in danger. Besides, I’ll not run from any man, even the one who owns this house.”

  “Who is he? One of Cumberland’s lackeys, no doubt.” Fraser lifted the decanter and poured himself another dram of whisky.

  “I know nothing of him other than that he is a soldier and his name is Roxburgh.” And he wields a sword like a demon. She decided not to mention that fact to Fraser, in case he should ask her how she knew. The decanter clinked hard against the edge of the glass and whisky splashed onto the floor, its sharp, peaty smell stinging Iona’s nostrils. “Are you quite well, brother mine?”

  Fraser ignored the liquor that dripped from his fingers and took a hefty slug of his drink. “D’ye know his other name?”

  “Aye. It is Edwin. He is Sir Edwin Roxburgh. Why d’ye ask?”

  “’Tis no great matter. Only that the Englishman who approached me before Culloden, the same one with whom I struck up this curious, one-sided bargain…his name is Edwin Roxburgh.”

  Chapter Three

  “They call him the Falcon.” Conversation among the officers at Fort William shifted from the remarkable escape of Bonnie Prince Charlie to another, equally disturbing subject. The voice of the commanding officer was loud with outrage. “May God rot his soul.”

  “Who is this Falcon of whom they talk?” Edwin asked the junior officer who was seated across the table from him.

  “The Falcon is the nickname given to the man who helps wanted Jacobites to escape,” the young man answered. “No-one knows his true identity. There is a whisper that, although it is said that Cumberland gave no quarter at Culloden and not a single fallen Jacobite was left alive, it may not be true.”

  Edwin paused in the act of raising his wine glass to his lips. “I have not heard that particular rumour.”

  “It is said quietly, and it is not a suggestion the Duke of Cumberland wishes to encourage.”

  “I imagine not, since it would damage his reputation as the ruthless Butcher of Culloden,” Edwin said. “If the wounded did not all perish under the blades of our English soldiers, what does this rumour suggest was their fate?”

  “That the man they call the Falcon led some of them to safety and then onward to France.”

  “A brave and talented man indeed. If, of course, he exists beyond the fertile imagination of a few highlanders who still hanker after the old days.” His words might have been dismissive, but Edwin could not disguise the flicker of interest the tale ignited within him.

  “Even if he does not, there have been a number of escapes by imprisoned Jacobites including one, not a week since, when six men, who had been condemned to die in York, were rescued from the scaffold just as the hangman was securing the ropes around their necks.”

  “That’s a story I have heard. Some of the watching crowd had weapons hidden in their farm carts. They stormed the scaffold.” Edwin nodded. “What is it that leads anyone to suspect the involvement of the Falcon?”

  “As the group rode away from the scene, one of the rescued men is said to have called back over his shoulder to the watching crowd. Reports vary about the exact words, but the gist was that ‘the falcon is a bird wise enough to hide his talons until he needs them’.” The officer held out his hand to Edwin. “Captain Fleetwood, at your service. My squadron has been brought here and given one command only. Our task is to discover the identity of the Falcon.”

  Edwin looked up as Fort William’s commander, having finished his meal, passed them on his way back to his quarters. Upon hearing Captain Fleetwood’s words, he paused alongside their table. “Are they discussing the Falcon in London, Roxburgh?” He was a gruff, ruddy-faced man, and his expression was particularly dour.

  “I have not heard his name until tonight, sir.” Edwin rose respectfully to his feet.

  “It’s a damnable business. The Jacobites already have one folk hero in Flora McDonald, the girl who helped Bonnie Prince Charlie escape to Skye. This blackguard’s antics seem set to eclipse even her heroism. And we have the added problem of these night raids.”

  A strange sense of foreboding settled over Edwin at the words. He managed to keep his voice disinterested. “Night raids? Is the Falcon responsible for those as well?”

  “Good God, no! This is small stuff in comparison, but still a damned nuisance. Burglaries of highland homes that have been given over to English families, attacks on troops, lone Englishmen set upon on isolated roads and tracks. Even, would you believe it, an arson attempt here in the fortress!”

  Captain Fleetwood spoke up again. “I’ve encountered them myself. I wa
s up by the Devil’s Staircase when a group of highlanders set upon me and stole my horse. It pains me to admit it, but their leader was no more than a stripling lad. The arrogant pup even had the nerve to wear the blue bonnet and white cockade of the Jacobites. Yes, and tartan trews! I have sworn to bring the young dog to justice.”

  “Never fear, we’ll catch him and, when we do, he’ll swing. Not before I’ve flayed the flesh from his back with my own hands, mind.”

  Those words remained on Edwin’s mind during the rest of his time at Fort William. They pounded themselves into his consciousness with every hoofbeat on the ride back through the highlands.

  Before he reached Cameron House, Edwin paused beside the loch, walking his horse along the bank and allowing the animal to drink from the crystal waters. On the hillside above him, his new home stood gaunt and grey among the tall pines. Overhead the sky was clear and bright, but a knifelike chill in the air warned that the harsh Scots winter was not far away.

  Despite his efforts to banish it, Captain Fleetwood’s threat intruded into the tranquillity of the scenery. It couldn’t be her, he decided, as he mounted his horse once again. She had attacked him because he was coming to claim her home, that was all. Even Iona wouldn’t be so foolish as to lead a series of raids against the English, he assured himself, as he rode up to the front entrance of Cameron House.

  As soon as he saw Iona again, he knew beyond doubt it was her. He found her in the formal gardens at the rear of the house. She was playing with Cù-sìth, running and dodging along the footpaths as the dog chased after her. She was laughing but, when she noticed Edwin watching her, she stopped and a wary look came into her eyes.

  Never had he seen a woman so perfectly matched to her setting. The wild beauty of the highlands was reflected in the stubborn tilt of her chin and the proud angle of her head on her shoulders. The shades of the mountains perfectly matched her russet hair, pale skin and tawny eyes. Even her movements were in tune with the graceful breezes that stirred the pines and chased the clouds across the darkening sky. Her scent was that of the wildflowers, heather and fresh, clean air of the glens.

  Of course it was her.

  “You stupid bloody bitch,” he said, closing the distance between them.

  “In Scotland we generally use a greeting such as ‘good morning’ or ‘good afternoon’. I can only suppose your English customs are different,” Iona replied.

  He noticed the way her pointed chin slanted a fraction higher. Her hands clenched on the folds of her gown, and he guessed she was trying to hide the fact that they were trembling. The gesture made him want to grab her and shake all that stubborn Scottish pride out of her.

  “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t hand you straight over to the commander at Fort William.”

  She considered the matter. “No, I can’nae think of one, good or otherwise. Will ye do something for me?” He raised his brows, surprised that she had not tried to deny her guilt or even ask what he meant. He wondered if she was about to plead for mercy. In a way he hoped not, but it might be better if she did. He could be magnanimous. Doing so would allow him to subdue all that wild spirit, put a stop to her defiance and perhaps get her out of his mind once and for all. “If I am to be imprisoned, I will need someone to look after Cù-sìth. I can’nae ask my brother. His hounds would terrify her.”

  He was stunned. “That’s it? You are facing execution and your only thought is for your dog?”

  Her lip curled slightly. “Did you expect me to beg? To throw myself on your mercy? To promise you I will never do it again? Oh, you poor, sad Englishman.”

  Anger propelled Edwin forward so that he closed the gap between them in one stride. His hand shot out and gripped her chin hard, forcing her face up to his so that there was barely an inch between them when he spoke. Her breath brushed his lips. They were so close he could feel the tremor that ran through her body and smell the scent of the heather in her hair.

  “You—” he forced the words out slowly and deliberately between lips that were rigid with fury, “—are the most infuriating woman it has ever been my misfortune to meet.” And the most desirable. Even through his rage, he was forced to acknowledge it. Against his will, his body was hardening with longing for her. His gaze locked on hers. He knew she was aware of it too, this primitive energy surging insistently between them. It was savage in its intensity.

  Iona broke the moment by flinging herself away from him. “If you ever touch me again, you will lose any body part that comes into contact with me.” Gold fire flashed in the depths of her eyes. She drew a deep, steadying breath. “Now, when do we leave for Fort William?”

  “We don’t.” It was a struggle, but he managed to regain control over his emotions. A wry smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “I have no proof, after all, that you actually are the mysterious blue-bonneted ‘lad’ my comrades seek. And I don’t relish having to tell the story of how you almost worsted me in a sword fight. Let this be the end of it.”

  Iona eyed him with suspicion. He returned her gaze without speaking. “Very well. It seems I have no choice but to trust you,” she said at last. “I will make arrangements to leave here on the morrow.”

  “No.” Edwin shook his head. “In return for my discretion about your nighttime activities, you will remain here. At least for the time being.”

  “Why?” The stubborn look was back.

  “So that I can keep an eye on you. But, I warn you now…your nighttime adventuring is at an end, my lady.”

  As much as it annoyed her to admit it, Edwin had been right. It was a painful reality Iona was forced to accept as, clinging low to Aoidh’s mane, she rode the fleet-footed mare along the forest track. The thundering of English hooves behind her was a stark reminder—if one was needed—that, had she listened to his stern words, she would have been tucked up in bed at this moment instead of facing the inevitability of capture.

  But it was his fault she had chosen to ride out with her men this night. If he had not behaved in that odious, arrogant, English way of his, she would not have felt any need to prove him wrong. Hadn’t he ever met a woman to whom an order not to do something was an instant challenge guaranteed to drive her straight in the opposite direction? She wondered what sort of women he was used to. Simpering, obedient ninnies who sighed over his dark good looks and threw themselves panting onto his bed, she decided. He obviously knew nothing of highland lasses. Not that she was remotely interested in what Sir Edwin expected from a woman. He didn’t interest her at all. Except, that was, in the strange matter of his dealings with her brother.

  “I will ask Martha to write to her cousin Rosie in London and see what she knows of Sir Edwin Roxburgh,” Fraser had promised as he departed again for Lachlan.

  “I still can’nae believe Rosie married another man so soon after Jack’s death,” Iona said. “And her husband is the very man who betrayed you and Jack to the king’s men when you were in Derbyshire.”

  “Ye must’nae judge her too harshly. Let us not forget that her father died only weeks after Jack—the man she was promised to marry—was killed at Culloden. Shock makes people behave in strange ways.”

  “Aye, but the love she had for Jack shone out of her. Ye can’nae just change those feelings when someone dies.” Iona had looked up at his face as he sat astride his horse. His expression was bleak. Rosie Delacourt, Martha’s young cousin, was not the only person who had loved Jack Lindsey. From their boyhood until Jack’s death, he and Fraser had been inseparable. “I know ye miss him sorely still.”

  “I do, lass,” he said, wheeling his horse around and lifting his hand in farewell. “Every day.”

  “Murdering English bastards,” Iona muttered, and Aoidh’s ears twitched as if in agreement. But there was fear, as well as defiance, in Iona’s words. Her pursuers were gaining on her.

  It had seemed simple enough. Word had reached her that a small troop of red-coated soldiers were encamped on the hillside close to the village of A’ Chorpaich, whe
re some local lads had drunk too much whisky and shown their defiance by donning their kilts and playing their bagpipes. The soldiers had meted out a few hefty beatings and were remaining in the area to ensure there was no repetition of such a wild display.

  It was the sort of raid Iona and her brave little group of highlanders had undertaken a dozen times since Culloden. Their routine was well rehearsed. While the soldiers slept, they would creep into the camp. Two men would keep watch with guns at the ready. Two others had the task of stealing weapons and belongings. Another pair would lead the horses away from the camp before setting them free. Iona, the most nimble of the group, would tiptoe around the sleeping bodies of the soldiers, gathering up any items of clothing and placing them on the dying campfire before reigniting it.

  Only this time it hadn’t gone to plan. It had been a trap. As soon as Iona was inside the encampment, the apparently sleeping forms had sprung up from beneath their blankets, muskets and swords in hand. There were twice as many soldiers as Iona had expected. Chaos had ensued. Luckily, Iona had been able to use the cloak of darkness and the fact that she was so much smaller and swifter than the men to her advantage. The injury to her right arm would not enable her to join in any hand-to-hand fighting. Because of this, her own men—led by her loyal second-in-command, Alec—had taken up the fight so that she could escape. It soon became apparent that Iona herself was the intended target of the ambush.

  “There he goes, Captain Fleetwood! The lad in the blue bonnet is getting away.” The shout had gone up, and as Iona threw herself onto Aoidh’s back, half a dozen soldiers had mounted their own horses and set off in pursuit.

  “Don’t lose him. I want that Jacobite neck in a noose by sunrise.” The English voice was too close behind her for comfort as she drove Aoidh on upward. Both horse and rider were desperately tired after leading the soldiers a merry dance for several hours. Iona’s shoulder was on fire and her right arm was almost useless. Her valiant little horse was doing most of the work, leading her mistress home. If I’m to die this night, I’ll die there and I’ll do it fighting even if it’s with a sword in my left hand.