by Amy Jarecki
“Yes.” For a moment Father smiled like he used to when Mama was alive. “Doctor Munro has asked my permission to court you.”
Her corset suddenly became too tight for her to manage a breath. To be courted by the physician? But she had no feelings for the man whatsoever. “Munro?” she said as if it were the first time she’d uttered the physician’s name. Thank heavens Father hadn’t already summoned the priest. She wouldn’t have been inordinately surprised if he had. One of her first observations was that Colonel Hill always acted decisively. Once Papa set his mind on something, there was little chance he’d waver.
“Why, yes, you’ve made quite an impression assisting him in the surgery. He’s a good man and well respected in Edinburgh. You’d live in a manse, have plenty of servants. My grandchildren would be well looked after.” Papa rattled off the positives as if he were calculating sums.
Grandchildren? Father definitely spoke out of turn. Charlotte clutched her chest, straining to breathe. “I cannot—” Swooning, she toppled backward.
“Charlotte!” Papa caught her elbow before she collapsed to the floor. “What the devil?”
She fanned her face while he led her to a chair.
His thick, greying eyebrows drew together. “I thought you would be elated with this news.”
Taking in deep inhales, she recovered her senses enough to speak. “The physician is very capable, indeed, but I do not love him.” Honestly, over the past months she’d grown to like him less and less, coming up with excuses to avoid the surgery whenever possible.
“Love?” Papa ran his hand over her crown. “My dear child, what ideals you must hold in your fanciful head.”
“I do…I-I-I—um.” This was definitely not something she wanted to discuss with Papa. But she could not allow her tongue to tie while her future hung in the balance. “Shouldn’t there be some sort of attraction? I-I mean, shouldn’t my future husband be pleasing to the eye?”
He waved a dismissive hand through the air. “Fondness, love, allure—all that comes in time. In fact, I didn’t marry your mother until I was one and forty.” He took the seat opposite her. “But I would be remiss if I didn’t ask if there is another officer who might be more to your fancy?”
Charlotte folded her hands in her lap and looked down. “No.” Just a braw Highlander whom I’ll never again see.
“Surely you’ve thought about marriage. I know I have been a tad remiss in my fatherly duties since accepting this post at Fort William, but do not all young maidens dream of the day a gallant man will ask for her hand? The physician is a learned man—definitely no slouch in anyone’s eyes.”
Papa hasn’t seen him at work in the surgery. “He’s not very pleasant when it comes to attending prisoners.”
Father chuckled. “Nor should he be. If anyone is to blame for his lack of manners when tending thieves and murderers, it is I.”
Charlotte tried another approach. “Let us hope with the Highlanders pledging allegiance to King William things will soon settle and we can return to London. If I am to marry, I think an Englishman would suit.”
“Unfortunately we are a long way from London, my dear.” Papa sat back and frowned. “I wouldn’t raise my hopes about peace in the Highlands. There are still a number of clan chiefs who have not yet sworn allegiance. And mark me, the king will not be lenient with those who fail to visit the sheriff.”
“I’m certain he will not,” Charlotte’s voice trailed off. In her one and twenty years of life, Charlotte had never witnessed leniency from the crown. Honestly, the amnesty offered to the Jacobites and the release of the prisoners from the battle of Dunkeld was the most lenient act she’d seen from the Williamite government.
Father reached out and grasped her hand. “I will grant my approval for this courtship. You will be chaperoned by either Mrs. Emma or a guard when Doctor Munro comes to call.”
“But—”
He shook his head. “I ask only that you give this match serious thought. But keep in mind I will not be around forever and you will need a husband to see to your maintenance.”
Still looking down, Charlotte nodded.
Papa cleared his throat. “Will you do that for me?”
“Yes,” she whispered. She hadn’t thought about how much of a burden she must be for her father. So many doubts swarmed in her head. Was she the reason Papa hadn’t remarried? Could she be the cause of his unhappiness? The lines across his brow had grown ever so furrowed in the time he’d been at Fort William. Charlotte had always assumed the pressure from governing a fortress in the midst of the highest population of Jacobites and Highland rebels was the cause of his despondency, and the reason for the way he’d become curt at times…and the decreasing amount of time he spent with her.
I was blind to think his duties were the reason.
Papa moved to his writing desk. “If there is nothing else, I’ve some missives to pen before supper.”
“Of course.” Charlotte stood. “Is there anything I can do to help ease your burden?”
He straightened and looked her in the eye. “Well, I do believe we’ve just had a lengthy discussion about that, have we not?”
Chapter Seven
After nine months of hearty eating and hard work, Hugh again felt like he could conquer the world—or lead Clan Iain Abrach of Glencoe against the backbiting Williamite army. He would not soon forget the hospitality shown to him at Fort William—bar one delicate morsel whom he’d never forget.
With the livestock turned out for the winter, he’d taken the opportunity to renew the thatch on his cottage roof before the snow got too deep. Though he’d grown up living in the great Carnoch manse, when he reached his majority he’d built a home up the River Coe near Signal Rock—the outcropping where he lit the cauldrons when his father made a call to arms.
He’d built the cottage sturdy with ample room—more than most of the crofter’s shielings in the valley. At one time, he’d dreamed of marrying a Highland-bred lass who’d bear him sons and daughters, but those dreams always managed to be pushed aside by clan duty and war.
Hugh swung his ax over his head. With a heave, it came down and spilt the log in two perfect halves. Then he wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve.
Perhaps Ma had been right. Hugh needed to find a wife. The only problem? Nary a lass had made his blood run hot since he’d met Charlotte Hill. Blast, his miserable luck had continued to follow him. Take a fancy to a lass who not only was a Sassenach, her father was the bleeding Governor of Fort William—Colonel Hill embodied the hated Williamite government and all the tyranny that came with it.
Hugh reached inside his leather sporran and pulled out the fork Charlotte had used to feed him—the same tool he’d also put to use picking his locks. Funny how a Sassenach tool aided in his escape. I wonder if she realized she’d left it behind. He slid the keepsake back into his sporran and patted it closed.
Aye, he’d one day inherit the Glencoe title—if he outlived his father. A mammoth man of six feet seven inches, Hugh figured Da would outlive them all. True, Hugh had inherited his father’s height for the most part, bar an inch. He’d inherited Da’s temper as well. But he’d seldom met a Highlander worth his salt who didn’t have a bit of audacious cheek in his swagger.
A dog barked, running toward him, clumps of snow hanging from his wiry coat. Hugh looked up and dropped to one knee. “Cuddy! What the blazes are you doing all the way up here?”
Thundering into Hugh with slurping swipes of his tongue, the deerhound yipped and looked back down the trail. Big as a mighty oak, Da marched up the glen wielding a sturdy walking stick. Da’s long ginger beard may have turned white, but that only served to make him appear more menacing—just like the spiked moustache, the blue bonnet cockeyed over his long white tresses pushed back enough to expose the deep scar on his right cheek. His countenance alone was enough to give a man pause, but that combined with his enormous stature left no question as to who was chief: Alasdair Ruadh MacIain MacDonald, Twelfth o
f Glencoe. A true Highland commander, Da solely had the right to judge and condemn his own people, even to carry out the thrust of a dirk or order the swinging of a hangman’s noose.
And no, the big chieftain had never done anything to cosset his eldest son. Though Hugh acquired rank and privileges by birth, Da had challenged him at every opportunity. From an early age, Hugh had to prove his valor and talent for leadership. He’d been beaten up and bloodied more times than he could remember—sent on cattle raids and led sorties against the Campbells—the very clan with whom Da was now trying to make amends. Bloody oath, if Hugh had not proved his grit on many a raid across Campbell lands, he’d be six feet under and Alasdair Og the heir. That was the way of the MacIain MacDonalds—the proud descendants of Angus Og who took the title Lord of the Isles. From their great ancestor’s loins Clan Donald populated the Hebridean Isles by the Butt of Lewis to South Uist, from Skye to Jura and Islay. On the mainland, besides Glencoe they held Lachaber, Ardnamurchan and Kintyre. In Ireland MacDonalds filled the glens of Antrim. Och aye, they were the lords of Gaeldom no matter who tried to usurp them, be it king or neighboring Campbell.
Hugh marched toward his father and grasped him by the elbow in a firm greeting that meant so much more than a Sassenach handshake. “What brings you up here on this frigid morn?”
“I’ve a missive with the seal of King James in France.”
Hugh’s eyes popped wide. “You should have sent a runner for me, but now you’re here, I’ve a kettle of cider warming over the fire. Come. Tell me more.”
As they strode side by side, Hugh glanced over at his father. “Either you’re shrinking or I’m still growing.” At three and thirty, he doubted the latter.
Da eyed him and grumbled under his breath. “I can still beat the likes of you any day.”
Hugh doubted that too, but he no longer had a need to prove himself. Instead, he grinned. “’Tis why you’re still clan chief and I’m living in the hills.”
The big man thwacked him on the back with a hearty laugh. “’Tis good to see you’ve retained your sense of humor, lad.”
Walking across the threshold, Hugh gestured to the bench and headed for the hearth while Cuddy curled up on the rag rug. “I suppose it disappeared for a bit—but never for long.” He picked up the ladle and stirred the cider. “What news from France?” Hugh hoped to God King James had sent word of a full-blown attack with the French and Spaniards sailing their eighteen gun galleons across the channel to blow the Dutchman back to Holland.
The old man removed his bonnet and ran his fingers through his mop of unruly white hair. “King James hasn’t been able to rally the French forces.”
A lead ball sunk to the pit of Hugh’s stomach. “Unfortunate. Now I’ve regained my strength I’m more than ready to ride against the government bastards.”
With a glowering purse to his lips, Da pulled the missive from inside his buckskin coat and slapped it on the table. “Says we’re to pledge the oath of fealty to King William, else risk annihilation.”
“Bloody hell.” Hugh squinted. “You mean to tell me James wants us to kiss William’s lying arse? What about the money Breadalbane promised the Highland chiefs? Has anyone seen a farthing?”
“Not a penny has come from London’s coffers.” Da shook his head. “I’m more worried about the multitude of redcoats infiltrating the entire western shore. A man cannot ride north or south without meeting a company of bloody dragoons.”
“The redcoats will be infesting the hills of Glencoe soon. And now King James is asking us to perjure ourselves and sign our support to a cutthroat usurper?” Hugh slammed his fist on the table. “Jesus, Da. I spent nineteen months of my life in the bowels of Fort William owing to my support for the true king—the man with the God-given right of sovereignty over Scotland and England.”
Da tapped the missive with his forefinger. “I ken, son—our king asks us to be patient, and bide our time. Worse, John Dalrymple, the Secretary of State and Master of Stair is looking for any excuse to make an example of a clan such as ours.” Da leaned forward with an intense blaze flashing in his blue eyes. “They’re looking for any reason to march into the Highlands with ten thousand men and put us to fire and sword. And Colonel Hill has amassed enough backbiting dragoons to do it. The Camerons and MacDonalds of Sleat have already made their pledge. If I do not make haste for Fort William, we could find ourselves defending the Glen without an ally at our backs.”
Hugh’s gut twisted. “The news grows worse.” He picked up the missive and read. “For Christ’s sake, this is dated December tenth.”
A tic twitched under Da’s eye. “The runner said we were among the last to be notified.”
“If you don’t sign now, two days hence you’ll have missed the bloody deadline.” Hugh slapped the parchment on the table. “Devil’s fire, there are three-foot drifts of snow out there.”
Da snatched the missive and shoved it back into his coat. “Aye, that doesn’t give me much time now, does it?”
The thought of a jaunt up to Fort William wasn’t entirely unwelcome—though the reason for the journey made him want to slam his fist into the wall. Remembering the cider, Hugh placed a tankard in front of his father and sat beside him with a cup of his own. “When do we leave?”
“Oh no, you’d best stay here. Someone up at the fort could recognize you.”
Hugh looked from his one shoulder to the next. “I reckon I’ve put on two stone of muscle since March—shaved my beard as well. I doubt a soul would peg me.”
“Och, you think so?” Da leaned forward. “What about your height? Not many men on this earth are as tall as a MacIain.”
Hugh picked up his tankard and drank. “I’ll give you that. But I’m not allowing you near that place without my sword at your back.”
“You’re not allowing me?” Da’s deep voice rumbled with a rueful laugh. “Next, you’ll be muscling me aside and collecting the rents.”
“I already collect the rents on your behalf.”
“Och aye, you have a set of cods, lad.” Da grinned. “A man bred from my own loins for certain.” Da picked up his cider and drank it down. “If you’re hell bent on riding with, be at the house afore first light. With the snow piling up, the going will be treacherous, mark me.”
“All the more reason for me to have your back.”
***
The evening of December 30th proved to be miserably cold and snowy as Charlotte perched in the corner of her father’s study. For more than a week the weather had been dreadful, and this night had to be the worst of it with deep drifts formed by the howling wind. She inclined her embroidery toward the flickering candlelight, painstakingly making minute stitches in her effort to capture the hills below Ben Nevis abloom with heather as they had been last August. How long ago summer seemed now.
Papa rigorously wrote missives to every person in Edinburgh and London he could think of who could possibly have some influence on the miserable state of affairs at Fort William. A payroll hadn’t been received in three months. The only food stores were borrowed on the weakening credit of the crown, and the Highlanders in the surrounding towns were becoming less and less willing to part with supplies they might need to see themselves through the winter, let alone accept a promise of payment to part with their food in support of the four hundred hungry men stationed on the lonely peninsula jutting out into Loch Linnhe.
Entering with a rap on the door, the Captain of the Night removed his hat. “Governor, a Highland gentleman and his retinue has passed over the moat and through the main gate. He and his son now await an audience outside your door.”
Charlotte cringed as she turned to look out the window. Though dark, snow had all but covered the panes. Indeed, the storm continued to usher in heavy snowfall. The gentleman’s need must be dire for him to travel to the fort in such a squall. She lowered her embroidery to her lap as her father asked for the Highlander to be shown inside.
Heavy footsteps clomped upon the passageway f
loorboards until an enormous Highlander stood in the doorway. His bonnet, long white hair, and beard were covered with snow, as was the plaid wrapped tightly about his shoulders. His dark blue eyes shone proud over the fierce curl of his moustache. Yes, Charlotte had seen many a Highlander before, but none with such a commanding presence as this man. With bold strides he stepped into the drawing room, paying not a mind to the melting snow dripping around his feet while his large sword clanked at his hip.
Behind him, another man remained in the passageway. The back of Charlotte’s neck prickled, making her sit forward and strain for a better look. However, the Highland gentleman posed too great an obstacle for her to make out the man behind him.
Papa hastily stood. “MacIain MacDonald? What brings you all the way to Fort William in this abominable storm? You should be by the fire with your lady wife.”
“I have ridden all the way from Glencoe to swear the oath.” The man’s voice was as menacing as his appearance. His gaze shot to Charlotte and his eyebrows arched as if noticing her for the first time. “Will you kindly administer it, that I may have King William’s indemnity?”
“Me? I am but a soldier.” Papa snorted ruefully and snatched a piece of paper from his desk. Holding it up, he pointed. “Why in God’s name did you come here? Glencoe is under the jurisdiction of the Sheriff of Inveraray. Blast it man, you should know as well as I the proclamation states the oath must be taken ‘in the presence of the sheriffs of the respective shires where any of the said persons shall live.’”
The man’s blue eyes grew fiercer. “Aye,” he grumbled. At his sides, his gloved fingers clenched into fists. “But you are King William’s highest ranking officer in the Highlands. Surely you would not deliver me into the hands of my greatest enemies whilst a blizzard blows a gale strong enough to move Ben Nevis.”
Papa threw the proclamation on his writing desk and faced the Highlander with bold sternness. “If only I were able, I’d set quill to paper immediately, but you must gain an audience with Sheriff Campbell of Ardkinglas.”
