Highland Tides

by Anna Markland

  “I dinna ken. Tannoch lost an arm in the capture of the third assassin, Robert Graham, but they ne’er would have tracked down Graham without Rheade’s help. He took his brother’s place as Robertson clan chieftain.”

  It perplexed Braden that these tales seemed clear in the mind of a man who was failing, but he acknowledged clansmen were steeped in their clan’s lore.

  The never-ending discussion among the other inmates turned on Bonnie Prince Charles. When he tried to change the talk to King James Stewart he was advised not to bring the notion up with the Duke.

  He dreaded the day of his summons, yet a strange relief soared when he was finally hauled to his feet, chained to George and pushed through the iron grille that served as a door.

  Then began an interminable climb up a dank stone stairway. George was soon in difficulty, his steps uncertain, his breathing labored. Braden put his shoulder to the man’s arse and shoved him up, helping him keep his balance. He had to admire Satan for the cunning punishment. He’d imagined fire and brimstone. This was worse. Mayhap the steps went on for eternity.

  Eventually they staggered into blinding light and fell into a heap. The guards poked them with long metal sticks, rousing them to their feet.

  “I thank ye, Ogilvie,” George rasped with a wink as Braden assisted him to rise. “For all yer help.”

  He marvelled the wretch still had it in him to wink after what he’d endured, or mayhap he was squinting.

  They trooped across a courtyard and it came to Braden he was breathing fresh air. His body was stiff and sore from lying on stone, and a dawn chill lingered, but he relished being outside. Never a man to spend time indoors, he filled his lungs. The salty tang on his lips reminded him of Oban and lifted his spirits. The sky was blue, exactly like the last cloudless sky he’d seen before being swallowed up by Corryvreckan. They were surrounded by the stone walls of a castle grander than anything he remembered from Argyll. Inbhir Nis George called it. He vaguely recalled that King Malcolm had built a castle of that name four hundred years before Braden’s birth, but this edifice was of much later construction than that.

  They were herded through a narrow archway, up a shorter, cleaner stone staircase and into a spacious chamber dominated by a large, highly polished table. Behind it, in a well-upholstered chair, sat a man who couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than a nobleman. Yet Braden had never seen the like of the clothing he wore. The doublet was red, the front edges trimmed with black embellished with gold stripes and disks. A fringe of gold tassels dangled from each shoulder. Beneath the doublet was a long vest of beige velvet, fastened with a myriad of shiny white buttons. The last few had popped open over a slight paunch. His frilled shirt was white and around his neck he wore a cloth, wound tightly and pinned with a jewel. Braden had an inkling the outfit was a uniform. This was no doubt Duke John Campbell. He didn’t look like a demon, though his stern expression was accentuated by his grey hair being pulled tightly back and rolled up around his ears in a peculiar fashion. Braden wouldn’t have judged him old enough for grey hair. He tapped his steepled fingers against his chin as he watched them enter.

  George Robertson sniffled loudly then wiped his nose with the back of his hand, causing their linked chains to clink and clatter.

  “Bow to his Lairdship.”

  For the first time, Braden noticed a second man, attired in a red uniform with less gold trim, and three chevrons on his upper arm. His desk was smaller. On it sat quills and inks and what looked like fine parchment. A lackey. It was he who had barked the command.

  Braden bowed his head, but George did not.

  The Duke seemed disinclined to rebuke him for it.

  “Robertson,” the second soldier intoned after consulting a parchment on his desk. “Taken prisoner at Culloden Moor.”

  “George Donnachaidh Starkey Reid Robertson,” George replied, straightening his shoulders and puffing out his chest. “Fought with the Chisholm Regiment of Strathglass.”

  The Duke arched a brow. “The Chisholms suffered heavy casualties at Culloden.”

  It was curious the Duke wasn’t dressed like a Scot, yet his speech betrayed his roots. It reminded Braden of something he’d once been told concerning King James Stewart. The monarch spent his early years as a hostage of the English court and spoke with a trace of an English brogue. Had the Duke come to this Scottish Hell by way of England?

  George swayed. “Aye. I’m the sole survivor of the regiment.”

  Braden put his hand under his friend’s elbow. “With permission,” he said politely, “he’s an auld man, mayhap a chair?”

  The soldier leapt to his feet. “Silence. Ye canna speak to the Duke unless called upon.”

  “Sorry,” Braden said. “’Tis only that—”

  “Silence!”

  The lackey’s pudgy face flushed as red as a winter beetroot, but the Duke seemed mildly amused, the corners of his mouth edging up into what might be a smile. Braden held his tongue. Evidently consideration for the elderly wasn’t a notion respected at Inbhir Nis.

  The Duke turned his attention back to Robertson. “You admit you fought at Culloden for the Jacobite Rebellion? I caution you that such an admission proves you a traitor to His Majesty King George.”

  “Charles Stuart is the rightful king o’ Scotland, not yer Hanoverian usurper,” George snarled in reply. “I was proud to fight for my King at Culloden.”

  The smirk on the lackey’s face as he recorded George’s words persuaded Braden this was obviously the wrong answer if a man wished to avoid Tilbury.

  The Duke’s expression was bleak. “No choice then, George Robertson but to send you to Tilbury for trial.” He looked to his lackey. “Who’s next, Sergeant?”

  While more documents were shuffled, George leaned into Braden. “’Twas my wish,” he whispered hoarsely. “I hope ’tis the noose for me. I’m too auld to be transported to Maryland.”

  To Braden’s ears, Maryland sounded like a better fate than Tilbury, but he had no opportunity to ask what transportation was before the sergeant muttered, “Yer pardon, my lord, I’ve no papers for this man.”

  The Duke drummed his fingers on the desk. “I gave strict instructions every prisoner was to be documented. What’s your name lad?”

  “Braden Ogilvie, my lord Duke, from Oban.”

  Campbell’s eyes widened. “Oban? In Argyll?”

  “Aye. Son of Sir Duncan of Ogilvie House.”

  The Duke frowned. “Ogilvie House, on the cliffs overlooking the bay?”

  Braden’s heart lifted. “Aye. A grand house.”

  The Duke’s scowl was unexpected. “You’ll have to do a better job of lying than that, Braden Ogilvie, or whatever your name is. Ogilvie House has been in ruins for nigh on two hundred years.”

  Braden’s thoughts scattered to the four corners of the chamber, and he was relieved when George rasped, “May I speak for this lad, yer honor?”

  The Duke nodded. “You’ve proven yourself a truthful man, if misguided in your loyalties.”

  George again wiped his sleeve across his nose. “I swear on my life I ne’er saw this young laddie on Culloden Moor, nor in any other encounter with government forces. A mon can see from his auld plaid and simple ways he’s nay a warrior.” He raised his hand to his mouth as if to share a secret with the duke. “He thinks James Stewart is still on the throne.”

  “The Auld Pretender?” the Duke asked.

  “Nay,” George replied. “James the First o’ Scotland.”

  The Duke studied Braden. “Assassinated in the fourteen hundreds by Robert Stewart? That King James?”

  For the first time it occurred to Braden that mayhap he had indeed travelled to some time in the future. “I swear to ye, my lord Duke,” he said, his throat dry as dust, “when I drowned in Corryvreckan, James Stewart and his fair Queen Joan Beaufort ruled Scotland.”

  The Duke leaned forward, glanced at George Robertson, then fisted his hands atop the polished wood. “You drowned? In Brecan
’s Cauldron?”

  “I did,” Braden replied. “In the year of Our Lord Fourteen Hundred and Thirty-six, along with my two brothers.” He deemed it best to make a clean breast of things. “I caused their deaths.”

  The Duke sat back and stared at Braden for long minutes before turning to the lackey. “I find no fault with this man. He’s to be freed. I suppose he should go to Bedlam if we weren’t stretched to the limits chasing Jacobite fugitives. But he seems harmless to me.” He narrowed his eyes at Braden. “Count yourself lucky and go home.”

  The lackey spluttered, knocking over his chair as he got to his feet.

  George chuckled.

  Braden was elated he wasn’t being sent back to the hell-hole, nor to Tilbury, nor apparently to Maryland. As for this Bedlam the Duke spoke of, he’d no notion where that was. But best not to mention that if Ogilvie House was a ruin, he had no home to go to.

  A BRIGHT SPOT

  “Disappointed, Charlotte?” the Duke asked.

  Engrossed in the interrogation papers he had given her the previous day, she hadn’t heard him enter the dining hall. Her breakfast lay untouched, and he’d obviously taken note of her pouting dismay. “No. The stories are interesting, if heart wrenching, and I believe you’ve been fair with the rebels. It’s that every account is more or less depressingly similar. It makes a person want to weep for Scotland.”

  She didn’t admit that the Jacobites’ unwavering devotion to the cause of restoring Charles Stuart to the throne was almost enough to make a believer out of her—but then she knew of the Young Pretender’s darker side. “Have they tracked down the fugitive Bonnie Prince?”

  Her uncle shook his head. “Not yet. There’s many a place to hide in the Highlands and many a loyal Jacobite who’ll risk his life for the cause.”

  “Or her life,” Charlotte interjected.

  Campbell smiled weakly. “Always the champion of the fairer sex,” he allowed. “We may never track him down, though Cumberland is determined.”

  She noticed he held documents. “More of the same?” she asked.

  “Pretty well. However, there was one bright spot in the morning’s darkness.”

  Her hopes rose. “Something different happened?”

  He sat in one of the King George style dining chairs, the sheaf of papers resting on his lap. “A lad from Oban.”

  “Oban?”

  “Or so he said. Ogilvie. I remember because he claimed to be a son of Ogilvie House.”

  “But it has been in ruins for more than a century.”

  “I know that, but he looked stricken when I told him, as if he hadn’t known.”

  She gazed at the papers, inexplicably excited at the prospect of a hidden gem. “Will he go to Tilbury?”

  He handed her the papers. “No. I freed him. They’re removing his shackles as we speak.”

  She leapt out of her chair and grabbed the documents. “But if he was captured at Culloden—”

  “He wasn’t, and George Robertson swore the lad isn’t a Jacobite.”

  She thought to ask who George Robertson was, but what did it matter? Her uncle had obviously trusted his word. There was a more interesting question. “Then why was he in the cells?”

  Her uncle rose, removed his uniform jacket and poured a coffee from the servery on the marble topped console. “It’s a good question. But a better one is why does he insist he and his brothers drowned in Corryvreckan and that James Stewart is still on the throne?”

  Her first reaction was to laugh, but then she inhaled deeply, desperately trying to recall anything of the history of James the First, who’d ruled in fourteen hundred and something. She itched to read about a man who believed he lived in the fifteenth century. However, it was best not to show too much excitement lest it raise her uncle’s suspicions, though the urge to rub her hands together in glee was overwhelming. She had sensed there was a story to be found in the cells.

  “He might be a simpleton,” he remarked.

  She hadn’t considered that. Her hopes fell.

  “His clothing bears it out. Looks like something our forebears might have worn hundreds of years ago. But for me the most perplexing thing is mariners in the straits near Argyll still tell the cautionary tale of three brothers who drowned in Corryvreckan hundreds of years ago.”

  This was too intriguing to wait any longer. She rifled through the sheaf, resisting the urge to brandish the document when she located it. After scanning the brief account she asked, “Where will he go once he’s free?”

  He regained his seat and sipped his coffee. “Damned if I know. Should be sent to Bedlam, but I can’t spare the men to take him there.”

  She racked her brain trying to fathom how she might meet the young man who’d defied the odds and escaped the usual fate of those imprisoned in Inbhir Nis.

  GET THEE GONE

  “Get thee gone,” the guard admonished once Braden’s shackles had been removed, but he remained hunkered down on the stone floor of the cells next to George, flexing his hands and lacerated wrists. “Ye saved my life,” he rasped. “I thank ye.”

  It seemed a strange thing to be saying after he’d believed for so long he was already dead, but the interview with the Duke had brought home the reality—he had been carried three hundred years into the future and landed in the midst of a rebellion that had torn Scotland asunder.

  He’d been set free, but had no inkling how he would survive or where he’d go in this strife torn land. Mayhap death would have been preferable.

  George put a gnarled hand on his arm. “Ye must seek out my clan. ’Tis uncertain how many still live, but our chief, Alexander, dwells at Dunalastair. He’ll help ye if he’s able. Tell him o’ my fate and that I’m content wi’ it.”

  The guard poked Braden’s shoulder with the stick he’d learned was called a musket. Reportedly it spewed fire and lead balls that tore into a man’s flesh. In his day the crossbow had been the most lethal weapon. According to George, the musket had been the undoing of the clans at Culloden. “That and the artillery guns,” he’d added.

  He got to his feet, reluctant to leave the auld warrior, but George waved him away. “I’ll tell King James Stewart I met ye when I see him inside the pearly gates,” he quipped.

  Braden climbed the narrow stone steps, his heart heavy at leaving Robertson and the other doomed prisoners, but elation soared when he reached the outdoor courtyard.

  He raised his arms and filled his lungs. “I’ve no notion where Dunalastair is, nor how to get there,” he proclaimed to the wind and the sky, “but it seems I’ve been given a sign and I’ll follow it if I can.” He chuckled inwardly. “What’s the worst that can happen? I might die.”

  But the first priority was a cleansing dip in a nearby stream.

  ~~~

  Charlotte pressed her face to the window glass and craned her neck to keep an eye on the courtyard where she anticipated Braden Ogilvie would appear upon his release.

  She’d despatched Simone to meet with him, but the maidservant hadn’t yet arrived. The French maid wasn’t known for her punctuality. And would she get the message right?

  Suddenly a man emerged from the mean archway that led down to the cells. She gasped at first sight of the blonde giant, fogging the glass. Irritated at having momentarily lost sight of him she rubbed her forearm across the pane.

  He tilted his head and looked to the sky, throwing his arms wide. She giggled. He rejoiced in his freedom. The smile died when her eyes fixed on the incredible breadth of his chest as he inhaled deeply. Her gaze travelled the length of his long, powerful neck. She swallowed hard when he smiled unexpectedly.

  A knot tightened in her belly at what looked like cuts on his wrists and ankles, but then it came to her that his strong, powerful legs were bare to the knees.

  He was a fine male specimen, but what on earth was he wearing? A ragged, old-fashioned léine, colorless plaid, and shoes that looked like something John the Baptiser might have worn.

  Her heart plum
meted. Her uncle had the right of it. A handsome, well-muscled simpleton.

  When Simone strolled into view she was tempted to rap on the window and call her back, but the silly girl wouldn’t hear from two stories below.

  He seemed startled when the maid spoke to him, but he bent his head politely to listen, nodding in apparent understanding as he adjusted his plaid on those enormous shoulders. A ridiculous surge of jealousy stabbed Charlotte. She should have gone to meet him personally, but that would have been unseemly.

  Would he go with Simone as requested, or—

  She stumbled backwards when he unexpectedly looked up, right at her window. What had Simone said? Had he seen her watching him? She took out the kerchief tucked into her sleeve and dabbed the beads of sweat on her forehead. No decent woman perspired, especially not because she’d set eyes on a—

  She clamped a hand on the back of a chaise in an effort to stop the dizzying tremor that shook her. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. Perhaps she was ill. Too long in this damp castle.

  She hurried into the hallway and walked purposefully to the out-of-the-way chamber she’d had prepared—simply to make sure the servants had done an adequate job of filling the bath tub and laying out fresh clothing.

  Inspecting the garments, it dawned on her the shirt and trews were too small. She hadn’t expected him to be so big. She gathered them up. Something more suitable would have to be found.

  Another worry gnawed as she eyed the wooden bathtub the footmen had hauled up. It was doubtful his massive frame would fit. She giggled, picturing the blonde giant with knees bent to his chest in the hot water. She never giggled, but twice in the space of fifteen minutes she’d laughed like an empty headed ninny. A peculiar flutter winged its way up her thighs and into her most private place. Crivvens, she was perspiring again.

  Hugging the unsuitable garments to her chest she hurried to the door, flung it open and collided with Simone.