by Amy Jarecki
Charlotte swirled the bite of lamb and turnip in her mouth, contemplating what might happen if she spat it at the insensitive cur. Make an example of an entire clan? And to what end? To show the kindly Highland folk that the king’s men could be the most immeasurable asses in all the world?
Papa leveled his eating knife in the young officer’s direction. “Watch yourself, sir. There is a lady present.”
She stopped mid-chew. Papa’s rebuttal sent heat firing across the back of her neck. Did her father condone such an act of barbarity? Worse, the two men again locked gazes, communicating about something to which everyone at the table was obviously not privy. She rested her fork on the side of her plate. “Fortunately, the MacIain and the Cameron Clans have sworn fealty. Did they not pose the greatest threat?” she asked, dabbing the corner of her mouth. Surely the lieutenant colonel could occupy his time with things other than plotting against the local clansmen and women—or her father for goodness sakes.
Hamilton stabbed a turnip as if he were thrusting a dagger. “Alasdair MacIain was late to pledge the oath. Word came from Inveraray he didn’t manage to sign until the sixth of January.”
Charlotte took in a deep breath, straining against her corset, yet unable to capture the deep breath she needed to settle her trembling fingers. “Not for want of trying.”
“He knew better than to come to Fort William,” the blackguard continued. “Governor Hill could no more record his oath than I could.”
“And why not, pray tell?” She leaned forward. “You are both high ranking vassals of the king.”
“Enough.” Papa reached for his goblet of claret. “I’m happy with the number of chieftains who pledged their fealty to William.”
“Honestly, Governor?” Hamilton eyed Charlotte from across the table. “I think since Miss Hill inquired, it should be made clear no favors will be extended to men who are themselves criminals, living in a den of thieves.”
For the love of everything holy, her stays had become two sizes tighter since the meal began. Though her head swooned, she would uncover the truth of Hamilton’s abhorrence. “Oh? And why is it you have taken such a dislike to Clan Iain Abrach of Glencoe?”
The smirk on the young officer’s face gave her pause. Oh, how hatred and prejudice twisted relatively attractive features into ugly darkness. If Hamilton’s heart were the color of his features, it was black and compassionless. “I believe I’ve mentioned the rogues not only fought against us at Killiecrankie, they ventured home by way of the Glenlyon Campbells and all but ran Captain Robert into bankruptcy. The Laird of Glenlyon is a good friend of mine.”
“Is that so?” Charlotte situated her fork and knife across her plate—busying herself to allay her urge to scream. “I understand Sir Robert is a gambler and a drunkard.”
“Charlotte!” Da admonished. “You will apologize for that remark.”
See what happens when I engage these men in conversation? Now I’m made out to be the muttonhead. “Forgive me.” She folded her hands in her lap and glared at them. Clearly Hamilton harbored abhorrence for Hugh’s clan. Be it a raid on a raider’s lands, she had no idea, but something told her his prejudice delved far deeper than he’d let on.
“I daresay it was quite brilliant of Captain Drummond to stall the old man on his journey to Inveraray.” Hamilton held up his wine glass with a wry grin as if he’d won the battle of words. “Here, here to that.”
“Here, here,” repeated the men at the table, all grinning like a pack of mindless baboons dressed in red coats.
Charlotte couldn’t bring herself to partake in such a heartless celebration of another’s misfortune. Out of the corner of her eye, Papa frowned and swirled his claret. Something didn’t sit well with him either. At least there’s more than one compassionate soul at the table.
“Things in the surgery have been quite busy.” Doctor Munro reached for the decanter and refilled his glass. “Now that I have the bloody flux under control, influenza is upon us.”
Papa shoved a bite of bread into his mouth. “Bring it under control. I cannot have an entire battalion of men abed with fever.”
“Aye, and ’tis terribly contagious.” The physician shot her a pointed look. “Charlotte, I do not want you anywhere near the surgery until the epidemic is over.”
She wouldn’t mind that at all. In fact, she hadn’t visited the surgery in sennights. “Very well. I’ve plenty to keep me busy now I’ve taken up mending uniforms.”
He leaned toward her until his shoulder touched hers. “On a lighter note, I do believe the sentries have cleared away the snow from the wall-walk. Would you take a turn with me atop the battlements? After, we could warm our insides with some of Mrs. MacGregor’s raspberry leaf tea.”
If nothing else, Charlotte needed to clear her head and the physician seemed to be the most amiable officer at the table. “I do believe a spell of frigid air would revive the soul.”
“Be careful not to stay out too long. With the influenza about, I do not want you catching a chill, my dear.” Papa stood and took Charlotte’s hands, giving her a peck on the cheek.
The physician stood as well. “One turn and then a warm cup of tea. I promise.”
After donning their cloaks, Doctor Munro grasped Charlotte’s hand and led her up the narrow stairwell. His hands were always clammy and cold. But it would be insensitive for her to pull away now.
“How long do you think the influenza outbreak will last?” she asked.
“Only God knows. But sure as the rain, we have an outbreak during winter every year which, on average, puts a soldier on his back for a sennight, with another sennight of sniffles, coughing and muscle weakness.”
“How dreadful.”
Doctor Munro stopped and took both of Charlotte’s hands between his palms, holding them against his heart. “I meant what I said about staying away from the surgery until the epidemic is over, but what troubles me more is I haven’t enjoyed the gift of your presence in over a fortnight.”
She stared at their joined hands and felt nothing. Her heart didn’t race as it had when Mr. MacIain held her fingers against his heart. Was she attracted to rogues and villains? Perhaps not entirely. Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton’s blue-eyed stare did make her shudder—as opposed to the tingles that made her heart swell when she gazed into Mr. MacIain’s eyes.
But she must face the fact that though she felt no abhorrence, she experienced no giddy heart pounding when the physician held her hands and gazed into her eyes. She truly wished he wouldn’t be so familiar with her. Yet, wasn’t that how a man was supposed to act when courting a woman?
What a dreadful state of affairs. If only I could return to London now and not wait until the snow melts. Why, it’s so deep, it may not melt until July for all I know.
“I fear your thoughts are a hundred miles away.” Doctor Munro’s gaze drifted aside. “Have I done something to drive you away?”
She stared at his chin. “No.”
“Then what is it? Do I displease you?”
“Oh, Doctor Munro—”
“Roderick.”
Charlotte gulped. She could no longer pretend. “Forgive me, Roderick, but I must tell you it is unfair of me to continue this pretense of courting given my inattentiveness.”
“Is it Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton?” The physician’s brow furrowed. “He is quite a handsome gentleman.”
“Most certainly not.” She gave an exaggerated shake of her head. “I fear that man’s heart is evil.”
“He seems to be a most ardent soldier.”
Growing suddenly warm, Charlotte pictured herself like a kettle with steam billowing out the top of her head. “With bloodlust as large as his love of advancement.” Yes, she’d given a curt reply, but someone in this fort needed to call attention to the errant, power-loving wiles of that braggart.
A timid smile played across Roderick’s face. “Though it is a relief you harbor no feelings for Hamilton, I want to strengthen our bond. Do you not find ou
r friendship invigorating?” His eyes grew dark as he slowly lifted her hands to his mouth and plied them with a purse of his lips.
Charlotte tried to smile. But honestly, did he have to kiss her hands and look so miserably forlorn? And why couldn’t she find it in her heart to love him? He was educated, from an esteemed family, and would always maintain a stately home. Life with Roderick Munro would be comfortable.
“What must I do to gain your adoration, my love?”
Grow ten inches taller, carry an enormous sword with which you would always vow to protect my honor and speak to me with a rolling Highland burr. Charlotte cringed. Was she so shallow, she could not see beyond all the things that attracted her to Hugh MacIain? For goodness sakes, she hardly knew the Highlander, and more than once she’d heard tales about his fierce battles. Perhaps if she could spend an afternoon strolling the wall-walk with Hugh, she’d discover his true self and discern if her unabashed attraction consisted of a foundation of stone or sand. Alas, she’d probably be sailing back to London before Mr. MacIain ventured to Fort William again, if he ever did.
“Charlotte?” Doctor Munro brushed her cheek with the back of his finger. “Are you deep in thought about my ardent love for you, or are you elsewhere.”
She stepped back and cleared her throat. “Forgive me. Your question made my mind swarm. Please, if you need an answer from me forthwith, I must say no, for my feelings for you run no deeper than friendship.”
His eyebrow arched. “’Tis said friendship is a delightful place to start a marriage.”
Her stomach squeezed and not with a tingling sensation. It clamped with dread. Marriage? Of course courting led to marriage. And she wasn’t getting any younger. If she didn’t accept a proposal from Doctor Munro, she just might end up a spinster. “No,” her lips blurted, seemingly governed by a force outside her body.
“Not ever?” The man blinked rapidly as if she’d slapped him.
Drawing a hand to her chest, she took a deep inhale. “I am not yet ready to speak of marriage, and it would be selfish of me to expect you to wait whilst my feeble mind tries to make a decision.”
“May I suggest you defer to your father? He waited until middle age to marry. He might be best to advise you, since I obviously am struggling to make you see reason.”
Charlotte moved back and folded her arms. “You think I am unreasonable?”
“Not so much that, but I do think you need a mature person with whom you can consult.” Roderick took her elbow and proceeded along the wall-walk. “Until then I am not planning to leave Fort William any time soon. I’ve another two years on contract with the army. I’ve nothing but time, my love.”
With such selfless encouragement, Charlotte almost agreed—until a picture of Hugh MacIain shackled to a cot in the surgery soaking wet and shivering popped into her head. Doctor Munro might be genteel with her, but there were grave matters upon which they fiercely differed.
***
A score of clansmen and women sat in Da’s drawing room, most on wooden chairs, some of the younger ones on the floor. Ma, Sandy and his wife, Sarah, occupied the overstuffed couch across from the hearth. As children, Hugh and his brothers used to fight for such a comfortable spot beside Ma when Da started in on one of his stories. But none of that mattered anymore. Hugh sat on a stool jutted up against the whitewashed stone wall.
Da took a long pull of ale from his prized drinking cup of French silver—a relic from his time in Paris where the sons of Highland chiefs were sent to polish their God given autocracy and pride. A place where honor and chivalry were a part of the curriculum, but only second to leadership and absolutism. Hugh had the honor of a term in Paris where he made allies with men like Donald MacDonald of Sleat, Iain-a-Chraggain Grant of Glenmoriston, and Kennan Cameron of Lochiel—all young bucks like Hugh, and all men upon whom the good fortune of being the first born heirs of a clan chieftainship befell.
Sputtering, the old man, white with age, but still with a spine as straight as a plank looked out over the gathering, his blue eyes sparkling with good humor. “Never forget the land of the Coe sprouts the very roots to the MacIain sept of Clan Donald. It was the year of our Lord fifteen hundred when the greedy house of Argyll tried to evict our ancestor John of the Ilis from Glencoe. They viciously set upon us whilst they had the great chief Donald Dubh locked in their rat infested dungeon at Innischonnell…”
A story Hugh could recite in his sleep, Da continued whilst the peat in the hearth crackled and all eyes focused on their fearless chieftain. Indeed, if the day ever came when the stalwart icon of the family perished, Hugh would have very big shoes to fill, both figuratively and literally.
Nonetheless, Hugh loved to listen to his father ramble on about the history of Coe and clan, and how he’d fought to keep their lands from greedy Campbell fingers. Amusing, each time Da told a tale it changed—always in Da’s favor. When he was still wet behind the ears, Hugh resented his father’s boisterous and gregarious manner. But now he’d come into his own as a man, he admired his father. Regardless of how the chieftain relayed a story, Alasdair MacIain MacDonald wasn’t only a descendant of Angus Og, progenitor of the Lords of the Isles—he was a legend in his own time.
Growing up in the shadow of a great man taught Hugh many things and set an example. No, his youth wasn’t particularly comfortable. Da had been a hard task master issuing bruises most days and bloody noses when Hugh erred too far. At the age of five, under threat of birch branches taken to his bare buttocks, Hugh roused before dawn to collect firewood, no matter the time of year, no matter the weather. Och aye, a swatting with a clump of thin birch twigs made welts rise that wouldn’t ease for three days.
Aye, he was Alasdair MacIain’s heir, but Da firmly believed being born to power didn’t mean shite. A lad had to prove himself over and over again—take a beating, then get up and take another. Damn good thing Hugh towered over the other lads his age, because after the wood had been chopped, the lessons learned, the cows milked and put to pasture, the real training began—training to become a man. A Highlander. A warrior. A defender of women and children and protector of the lands acquired by fire and sword centuries past.
Da made sure all his sons could handle a sword, dirk, musket, bow and arrow. He’d say, “To take up the sword pledges your oath to die for your kin, to die for your honor so that our clan will prosper.”
Then he’d make the boys race to the river with buckets and poles, fill them and race back, the poles across their shoulders with a bucket at either end. The winner—the first to arrive with full buckets was rewarded by a sparring lesson with Da himself—not necessarily a reward given the arse-beating Da would dish out, but the losers had it worse. After they sparred for hours, Da gave them the disgusting detail of emptying all the waste buckets for the chieftain’s house as well as the servant’s quarters.
Hugh made a point of receiving his arse-kicking from Da near every eve and left the shite detail to his younger brothers.
Da stopped his story for a moment and took another drink from his silver cup. “I’ve been blessed to reach the ripe age of two and sixty, and over the years I’ve seen my share of battles. I’ve defended my home, I’ve raided my enemies, and I’ve fought for king and country. One of the greatest honors of my life was when my sons Hugh and Og flanked me as we faced the dragoons in the battle of Killiecrankie. Bonnie Dundee may have lost his life, but he died with a sword in his hand, well aware he had Glencoe men beside him, fighting for the right of the Stuart line…”
Hugh’s gaze traveled across the room to Ma’s face. Rosy cheeked, she always sat peacefully listening to her husband while working on embroidery or knitting, her fingers constantly moving, creating something from a skein of wool that would become a piece of art.
Beside her, Sandy held his wife’s hand with a half-cocked smile on his ruddy face, listening to Da expound upon his tale with ale and a wee bit of whisky influencing his heroism. Beside Sandy, Sarah moved not at all. She kept her stare comp
letely expressionless as if the story had no impact on her good or bad. Even her cheeks were pale—white like an unblemished canvas. She looked up for a moment, her gaze connecting with Hugh’s. He hid his face behind his dram of whisky and observed.
Her stare was starker than the paleness of her complexion. Was it the dimly lit room, or were her eyes really cold as grey slate kissed by Glencoe’s mist?
Hugh shuddered.
“What?” Da asked, coming out of his story. “Is the fire not warm enough for you, lad?”
Ma’s fingers paused. “Oh dear, I hope you’re not coming down with the influenza.”
Hugh raised his cup, directing a pointed look to Sarah. “I’ve never felt better. My best times are sitting with kin listening to the old tales of clan and sword. It gives us all a sense of our history. Something to remember with pride.”
Sarah glanced away and shifted in her seat. Och aye, it would be a cold day in hell afore Hugh grew to trust that woman—a shift of the eyes and frown might seem a trifle, but it spoke volumes about her character. Had Sandy not made his Campbell wife happy? Hugh vowed to find out.
Then he grinned at his father. “You were just coming to the best part. Please. Carry on.”
And continue he did.
But Hugh didn’t hear the rest. He stared into his cup as a wicked ache stirred in his loins. Aye, he’d gone too long without bedding a woman. The only problem? Just one woman filled his thoughts—a fair lassie he absolutely must block from his dreams.
God’s bones, he was a rouge. True, he probably shouldn’t have kissed Miss Hill in the window embrasure, but in that moment, temptation had taken ahold of his cods and ignited a raging fire that hadn’t eased since. If only he could make an excuse to see the lass again. One more kiss might quell his lust—as long as she didn’t press those succulent breasts to his chest. Och aye, the woman’s flesh could put a hex on any man. To prove his point, thoughts of her practically made Hugh want to sign on with her da.
