by Karen Ranney
The squat fort beside it could not be ignored, no matter how much she wished it away.
To her left the forest stretched up over rounded hills, then undulated down into a neighboring glen. Ahead was the loch, and beyond it the firth leading to the sea. A vast place, she’d been told, where a ship might travel for weeks without viewing land. But the reward was the sight of places that sounded mystical and almost frightening—Constantinople, China, Marseilles.
She pushed a few branches out of the way to see Hamish standing there defiantly, dressed in his kilt. Nestled in his armpit was the deflated bladder of his bagpipes. His back was to the newly constructed Fort William. A mischievous breeze blew the rear of his kilt up, but he didn’t appear at all concerned that he bared his arse to the English.
“It is a foolishness you do, Uncle,” she said with asperity.
He frowned at her, his fierce expression reinforced by the fact that his brows, white and furry like overfed caterpillars, grew together over the bridge of his nose.
“I’ll not be scolded by a slip of a girl,” he said fiercely. “Especially not about the pipes.”
“I’ve not been a slip of a girl all these many years, Uncle, and you know it,” she said. Placing her fists on her hips, she glared at him. “And playing the pipes is outlawed now, or have you forgotten that?”
“An English law. Not mine.” He drew himself up to his full height and stared up at her.
It was difficult to see him at that moment. Once a broad bull of a man, he’d shrunk in the last two years. His beard had whitened to match his hair. But he still bore a look of stubbornness about him.
“There are young ones in the clachan, Uncle, who do not deserve to suffer.” The English would enforce their laws despite Hamish’s defiance and bluster. The soldiers at Fort William were never going away, a fact she regrettably understood, but one Hamish did not yet comprehend.
“Come away,” she said kindly, reaching out for his arm. But he had ceased to listen to her. Instead, he had turned and begun to play his pipes again. She glanced at him, then beyond to Fort William. The soldiers spilled out of the fortress like a determined column of red ants. A foolish wish, indeed, to hope that he had not been heard.
“The English are coming,” she said, resigned to another visit from Major Sedgewick. Another threat, another act of cruelty. What would he do today? Take away their livestock? It was gone, all the cattle and sheep. Trample their crops? Already done. Take their possessions? He’d already stripped the village of all those valuables not concealed in the neighboring caves.
“You should hide the pipes,” she said, biting back a more severe retort. It was worthless to be angry with him. In some ways he still lived in the past, when the MacRaes had been kings of this land. “Hide yourself as well, Hamish,” she cautioned.
She left him without turning to see if he took her advice. Hamish would do as he wished, regardless of what she said.
By the time she’d descended the hill, the English soldiers had reached the village. Those people who were not quick enough to gather were roughly pulled from their cottages. Twenty-seven of them left, where once there had been over three hundred. But that had been in her youth, when the only English troops in Scotland had been General Wade with his eternal road-building.
She walked swiftly to the gathering place in the middle of the village. Major Sedgewick sat upon his horse, his officers similarly mounted and surrounding him. He was dressed in his usual fashion in a square-cut red coat, the lapels pinned back. His breeches were blue, his boots and belt of buff leather. His hair, golden and clubbed in the back, was lit by a last gleam of sunlight spearing through dark, boiling clouds.
She reached up with one hand and gripped her shawl tightly, engaging in a tug-of-war with the fierce wind, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. Instead, it was the look in Sedgewick’s eyes as his gaze rested on her.
“What will they do, Leitis?” Dora asked from beside her. The older woman’s face was tight with worry. Leitis only shook her head, uncertain.
“What else can they do?” Angus asked. He leaned heavily on his cane and frowned at the English soldiers.
The major reminded her of a rat, with his narrow face and pointed teeth. He had carried out his orders with great zeal. A lesson, then, about the English notion of victory. Keep people hungry and they will have no will to rebel. Watch as they bury first the old and then the young, and soon enough they will obey without question.
She kept her gaze upon the ground, wishing that he would look away. She took care to avoid the attention of the English. Every woman in the clan knew the danger that faced her with one hundred soldiers at Fort William.
“One of you is guilty of disobeying the Disarming Act again,” the major announced. At their silence, he smiled thinly. “Where is your piper?” he demanded.
It was not the first time Hamish had angered the English. Nor, she suspected, would his defiance end today. But not one person spoke up to betray him. Despite their common knowledge that it would cost them all, they remained mute.
The major dismounted, stood before them, his face twisted by anger.
“Have you nothing to say?” he asked, coming up to Angus. “If I promised you a full meal and a pint of ale, old man, would you speak?”
“I’m an old man, Major,” Angus wheezed. “My hearing is not as good as yours is. I heard nothing.”
Sedgewick studied the old man’s face for a long moment before he moved on, stopping in front of Mary. She cradled her child, born after her husband’s death. “And you, madam?”
Mary shook her head, then pressed her cheek against Robbie’s downy hair. “I was tending to my child,” she said softly. “And heard nothing.”
Sedgewick strode through their group, studying each face, his expression growing increasingly angrier when no one spoke up to denounce Hamish.
Leitis saw his boots as he approached her. “What about you? Were you occupied with other duties?” he asked in a low tone.
She said nothing, only shook her head, wishing he would move away.
“Where is the piper?” Sedgewick demanded, turning and addressing the clan.
No one spoke.
“Bring me a torch,” he said. One of the soldiers hurried to obey him, returning with a length of thatch torn from a nearby roof and twisted into a sheaf. Sedgewick waited until it was lit, then grabbed it and held it aloft.
“How much is your loyalty worth?” he asked them. “Your homes? Your lives? We shall have to see.”
He moved to the nearest cottage and put the torch to the low-hanging roof. It immediately burst into flame, the fire fueled by the winds of the coming storm.
The cottage was blessedly empty, its occupant having died the summer before.
Sedgewick moved on to the next structure. Leitis watched in silence as her own home was set ablaze.
Her thoughts were her own, and as long as she held them tight within, she could not be punished for them. She stared at the ground, unable to witness the destruction of her home. At that moment her hatred of all things English grew so strong that it threatened to choke her. But her anger would not aid Hamish and it would not stop Sedgewick.
The major moved on to the next cottage, watching with some satisfaction as another roof erupted in a blaze. His intent was all too obvious. He would not stop until their entire village was on fire.
It wasn’t enough that she had lost her loved ones. But now all her memories were to be destroyed, too. The pottery her mother loved with the faint blue pattern upon it, the plaid she’d hidden below a mattress, the loom that occupied her days.
The black storm clouds mimicked her mood, crowding out the last hint of blue sky and rendering the day nearly dark.
“Tell me where he is,” Major Sedgewick said, approaching Leitis once more.
“You English will not be happy until there is no trace of a Scot in Scotland, will you?” she asked unwisely. But she was suddenly weary of remaining docile
when it brought nothing but more cruelty. “Are we not dying fast enough for you?”
He struck her, so hard that she fell to her knees. He stood above her, waiting for her to stand, no doubt, so that he could strike her again.
“I would rid this place of its vermin,” he bit out. “Perhaps you will be the first.”
Lightning answered him, streaking suddenly from cloud to earth, the flash so brilliant that it blinded her for a moment. The thunder following a second later was loud enough to be the voice of God. In that next moment, all Leitis could hear was emptiness, an echo of her own heartbeat, fast and panicked.
She pressed her hands against her eyes, then blinked rapidly in order to regain her sight. The air smelled like fire, as if the earth had opened up in that moment and the creature she saw emerging from the white glare had ascended to earth on Satan’s mission.
He was outlined in the next flash of lightning, an image limned in black. His black hair, like the other men’s, was tied back with a ribbon. His coat was crimson, his waistcoat beige and bearing an ornate badge on one lapel and an insignia on the other. His breeches were also beige, topped with a white shirt ruffled on the chest and cuffs.
He wasn’t an illusion or a demon after all, only an Englishman. A red-coated officer not as richly outfitted as the major. There were fewer buttons on his waistcoat, and they appeared to be made of bone, not gold.
She wished, improvidently, that she might see his face.
He ignored the lightning flashing around him as if it were no more than a minor inconvenience. His left hand rose and the men who followed him slowed. A man accustomed to authority, if the way he controlled his restive horse was any indication. He held the reins loosely in his right hand, his left hand now resting on a muscled thigh.
Major Sedgewick cursed softly, moved away from her.
“Colonel,” he said, standing stiffly at attention. “I did not expect you until next week.”
The other man said nothing, his gaze fixed sternly on Sedgewick. Leitis had the sudden thought that she would not like to be the focus of his anger. As if he heard her, the stranger looked over at her. Her breath was captured on an indrawn gasp.
His face was square, his jaw accentuated by the tightness of his expression. The look in his eyes was so direct that Leitis felt as if he stripped her bare in that moment, learned her secrets, and divined her silent rebellion. His cheekbones were high and well defined, his mouth now thinned by rage.
A dangerous man.
She took one step back, away from Sedgewick. A moment later the stranger granted her unspoken wish by looking away. Only then did she dare to breathe.
Chapter 2
L eitis.
His recognition of her was instantaneous, even though he had deliberately not thought of her on the journey from Inverness, telling himself that she would have married and moved away from the village long ago.
Riding to her side, he dismounted quickly. She flinched when he bent and placed his hands on her arms and helped her to rise. He frowned as he noted the swelling on the side of her jaw. Sedgewick’s blow would leave a mark.
“Are you all right?” he said softly.
She nodded, averted her head, staring instead at the troops encircling the village.
Her mouth was full, her cheeks pink with color. The years had darkened her hair until it was not bright red as much as a muted auburn, but it still curled around her shoulders, tied back with a ribbon just as she’d worn it as a child. Her eyes, those surprising light blue eyes, marked her as the girl he’d known.
“You will have a bruise,” he said gently, studying her face.
She turned her head and looked directly at him. There was no doubt as to her feelings at that instant. Her eyes were filled with hatred and her mouth thinned in anger. “I’ve known worse, Colonel.”
Time had not softened her daring. But perhaps she’d had need of it in the past year. The weak had not survived.
Alec turned, surveyed the soldiers. “Who’s in command here?” he demanded.
“I am, sir. Major Matthew Sedgewick,” one man said, stepping forward.
“Explain yourself, Major,” Alec said, his voice low with fury.
“She is a Scot, sir,” Sedgewick said tightly. “One who does not know her place.”
“Striking a woman is more the act of a coward than an officer,” Alec responded.
The major’s face darkened, but he said nothing.
“Is there a reason you’ve set fire to this village, Major Sedgewick?” Alec asked. “Or did you do so simply because it’s Scottish?”
Sedgewick’s brows drew together. “These people are guilty of sedition, sir. After numerous warnings, they continue to shield a man known to encourage rebellion. A piper, sir.”
Alec glanced over at the huddled villagers. There was not one able-bodied man among them. Mostly women and children in the company of a few old men.
Where were James and Fergus? Had they perished, as well as other members of the clan he’d known as a child?
“Would it not be more worthwhile to find the miscreant, Major?” he asked. He gestured for his adjutant. Harrison dismounted, walked to his side.
“Get those men into a fire brigade and have them find whatever they can to carry water,” he said, pointing in the direction of the stream that fed the glen. “I want a trench dug between the cottages that are ablaze and those that have not yet caught fire.”
Harrison nodded and left to convey his orders.
“I am charged with controlling the Highlands, sir,” Sedgewick said testily. “These barbaric Scots do not deserve any clemency. Cumberland himself decreed that any man who gave aid to the enemy was to be hanged.”
“I’m well aware of the duke’s words, Sedgewick,” Alec said curtly. “Are you presuming to remind me of my duty?”
Sedgewick wisely remained silent.
“I apologize for the actions of this man,” Alec said to Leitis. An errant wish made him want to smooth his fingers over her cheek, spare her the pain of the blow.
She looked startled at his words, but she remained silent. So as not to anger him? He felt a surge of anger toward Sedgewick once again.
The men began to form a line from the stream. As they realized what the soldiers were doing, the villagers began to move. They retrieved buckets, bottles, basins, pitchers—anything that could hold water from their own homes in an attempt to save their friends’ cottages. Alec watched as Leitis joined the procession, glancing back at him once before looking away.
The lightning flickered across the darkened sky, the thunder drowning out the noise of the flames. It was a curious sensation, Alec thought, to be so aware of the moment that it seemed to slow. Leitis’s hand reached up and, in a delicate motion, brushed a tendril of hair from her cheek. Turning, she took a bucket from the man behind her and relayed it to the person ahead of her, the movement swirling her skirt, revealing an ankle and the feminine sway of a hip.
Her eyes, however, were downcast, her attention directed on her chore. He had the feeling that she deliberately didn’t look in his direction, and her effortless repudiation stung. He had recognized her easily enough, but she did not look past the crimson of his uniform.
The rain began at that moment, hard and punishing, as if to summon Alec back to himself.
Black smoke from the fire curled into the sky like wet ribbons. The rain-soaked air carried with it the smell of burning thatch, acrid and choking.
Hamish MacRae stood on the crest of the hill and watched the conflagration, feeling a sense of pride so powerful that it nearly knocked him to his knees. Not one person had spoken out to denounce him.
He readjusted the bladder beneath his arm, straightened his sporran. He wore the MacRae plaid, another sin according to the English.
There was no choice, after all. He must surrender himself. Either that or allow the village to be burned to the ground.
He left the knoll, strangely exuberant as he followed the path that wound t
hrough the forest. Perhaps he should have been afraid, but he wasn’t. And that might have been the most foolish thing of all.
He tucked the bag into place, the plaid sticky with the honey that rendered the bag airtight. Three pipes rested on his shoulder as he blew into the blowstick and fingered the chanter.
The pipes were designed to be played in the open air, with God listening above the bowl of sky. Hamish hoped that God was indeed listening now, and began to play.
The thunder finally eased as if nature had tired of its noisy tantrum. But the air was still white with rain.
In moments her dress was sodden, the hem dragging in the mud. Her hair hung in wet tendrils down her back. Her eyes smarted from the smoke.
It was only too obvious that there was no chance of saving her cottage, but Leitis passed a bucket filled with water to Angus and forced a smile to her face when he glanced over his shoulder at her.
As the blaze grew hotter, glass and pottery began to burst from the heat. Every sound affected Leitis like a cannon shot.
There was, in the end, nothing to be done. It was, perhaps, a lesson in the strength of hope that she did not stop working even long after the others began to slow and step aside.
Finally, Angus touched her shoulder in wordless comfort, his eyes filled with pity. She nodded, moving out of the line. Walking to the ruins of her cottage, she stared inside the doorway. The moss-covered stones still stood; the mortar only grayed by the smoke. But the interior was blackened, every item reduced to ash or a glittering puddle of melted glass. The raindrops hissed as they struck the heated objects, the sounds almost like the whispers of grief.
Her home was gone.
She heard the thought, knew it was true, but for some reason she couldn’t feel anything. She stared at the destruction, unable to understand.
A movement to her side made her turn her head. The English officer stood there, his face and hair slick with rain.
His presence, oddly enough, rendered the devastation real. The sudden pain she felt was almost unbearable.
