The Fearless Highlander (Highland Defender Book 1)

by Amy Jarecki

  Every day the soldiers drilled until noon, the bray of sergeant’s orders shouting above the relentless beat of the drums. “Pikemen take heed. Advance your pikes. Charge your pikes…” On and on the sergeants droned while Hugh and the clansmen and women watched from the corners of their eyes, grumbling Gaelic curses while tending to their chores.

  Every morning Glenlyon walked from Inverrigan’s house to take his breakfast with Sandy and Sarah. Though Hugh’s younger brother voiced his unease to Hugh, the loose-tongued captain was made welcome. He gambled every night with his host, playing cards and backgammon, all the while swilling MacIain whisky and wine.

  Two days past, Alasdair Og had led a hundred clansmen and women to Da’s manse and asked him to drive the soldiers from the glen. Hugh, as much as anyone wanted to see their backsides as they rode north or south—anywhere to be rid of their uninvited guests, but he stood beside his father. The old man’s face grew red with anger. “Glenlyon is a Highlander. His men are Highlanders. They have bowed their heads at our tables and have broken bread with our clan. Therefore no harm will be done on their part and we shall give them no offence.” His words were not shouted, but they seethed through clenched teeth as he disbanded the mob.

  The afternoons, however, were never without amusement. Campbell’s men joined the MacDonalds in Highland games—wrestling, shinty, throwing the stone and tossing the caber, archery and sword dances with Clan Iain Abrach’s pipers playing well into the night. Hugh even found Sergeant Barber and Drummer Cuthbert Hunter to be good sorts—men with good humor and always willing to lend a hand.

  Unfortunate there aren’t more like them.

  More than anything, Hugh wanted to send the regiment on their way because he desperately needed to see Charlotte. Since Glenlyon’s arrival, he hadn’t even had the chance to dispatch a letter to her. He’d left with such haste. It was no way to say goodbye to the woman to whom he’d proposed marriage.

  This eve, Hugh strode beside Og on their way to Brodie MacDonald’s house in Inverrigan. Captain Campbell had invited them to play cards as he had done many times in the past fortnight. A gale whipped through the glen and even Hugh was forced to lean into it to keep from being blown down.

  Og looked to the sky. “A storm’s brewing for certain. The clouds are so thick I can scarcely see the light in the windows ahead.”

  “Och, we couldn’t expect the fine weather to continue. We have but to look forward to another month of winter afore the snow in the glen melts for good.”

  After they knocked, Captain Campbell opened the door with a grin plastered across his timeworn face. “Gentlemen, the cards are waiting.” The man’s nose was already as flushed as his cheeks.

  Hugh raised a flagon of whisky. “From my still in the hills. The spring water there adds flavor that cannot be surpassed. The spirit slides over the tongue like nectar.”

  Glenlyon took the bottle and slapped Hugh on the back. “You’re a man of good taste.”

  Sitting beside Cuthbert Hunter, Sandy waved from the table. “Brothers, come and save me from this shark—he’d winning already.”

  “What? You didn’t wait for us?” asked Og.

  “Just a wee wager,” Glenlyon said, handing the whisky bottle to Brody, acknowledging his host for the first time since Hugh stepped inside.

  Hugh sauntered to the table while Brodie served drams of whisky all around. “Better you than I, little brother.”

  Glenlyon shuffled the deck, his long fingers plying the cards like the efficient plucks of a harpist. “Shall we play All Fours?”

  “Very well.” Hugh arched his brow at Og. “Why not make three teams of pairs to mix it up a bit?”

  The captain grinned. “I’m not overly fond of splitting my winnings.”

  “Who says you’ll win?” grumbled Og. Of all the MacIains, he was the least trusting of their long-staying guests.

  “Come, Uncle.” Sandy raised his cup. “Side with me and we’ll show this lot of rabble how skilled we are.”

  Glenlyon lowered his gaze to his hands as he shuffled the deck one more time. “Three pairs it is. I’ll play with Sandy—Hunter and Hugh—Brodie and Og.” he bellowed loud enough to be heard by the cattle outside. Then he threw his head back with a hearty laugh. “I’m feeling lucky this eve.”

  Hugh reached in his sporran and pulled out a handful of coins, slapping them onto the table. “Then let’s have at it. When this pile is gone, I’m heading to my bed—there’s a storm brewing, and I’d prefer not to sleep under Brodie’s table as I did last eve.”

  “Me as well,” said Og. “In the past fortnight I’ve had enough to drink to keep my head swimming until spring.”

  Cuthbert snorted. “I’ve never seen anyone match the captain like you MacIain MacDonald lads.”

  Og raised his cup. “Had a good teacher.”

  “Och aye,” agreed Glenlyon. “Your da can put it away for certain. I’ll be dining with him in the manse on the morrow.”

  Hugh knew that to be true. He and his brothers were guests as well—detailed by Ma’s shaking finger. “You wouldn’t want to miss a table prepared by Ma. She’s even pulled the rhubarb from the cellar for a tart.”

  Everyone at the table responded with mms, and smacking lips. Glenlyon rubbed his belly. “I’ll look forward to such a feast with great anticipation.” He sipped his whisky, then his rheumy eyes popped. “Mm. You distilled this yourself?”

  Hugh nodded. “Aye. A man needs a great many talents to survive in these times.”

  The captain dealt the first round. “Many talents, indeed.”

  On and on the game continued while Hugh’s pile of coins grew rather than dwindled for a change. Until Brodie answered a demanding knock at the door.

  “Captain Drummond with a missive for Captain Campbell.”

  Hugh’s gut turned over as his fingers brushed the hilt of his dirk. And across the table Og ground his fist into his palm. Sandy set his cards down and slipped his hand into his sleeve.

  Aye, the bastard who’d detained Da and his men on their way to Inveraray stepped inside, brushing a healthy dusting of snow from his cloak. Then he pulled a missive from the cuff of his gauntlet and handed it to Glenlyon.

  No one spoke while Campbell sliced his finger under the red wax seal and read. Brodie stood beside Drummond without offering the man a seat or a tot of whisky.

  All eyes watched Glenlyon.

  A single eyebrow arched as he folded the missive and stashed it in his waistcoat. Looking up, he grinned. “At long last my orders have arrived.” He looked to Brodie and stood. “The burden we’ve put on Clan Iain Abrach has been lifted, but I’ve much to do afore the sun rises on the morrow.”

  Every man stood and Hugh extended his hand. “It has been our pleasure to receive you and your men as guests.”

  “Aye,” the captain belted in his usual loud voice. He shook Hugh’s hand, though his gaze wandered sideways. “Thank you for your generous hospitality. My only regret is I haven’t relieved you of that pile of coin yet this eve.”

  Remembering his manners, Hugh bowed his head to Drummond, and to the tune of laughter, the brothers said their farewells. Then Hugh mounted his horse and headed the mile up the mountain for his bed. Lord, he was bone weary. At last, Glenlyon and his regiment of foot would be off to impose on some other poor Highland blighters.

  Chapter Twenty

  Charlotte hadn’t taken the evening meal with the officers in a fortnight. She’d hardly said a word to her father, and hadn’t visited his study at all. Only twice had he popped his head in to her chamber—to see if she was still with the living, no doubt.

  Well, she’d had enough of the present stalemate. Hiding in her chamber wasn’t helping anything and only served to worsen her misery. Regardless if the colonel intended to keep her under house arrest for the rest of her days, this evening she traipsed to the officer’s dining room with one purpose.

  Deliberately she arrived ten minutes late, but upon opening the door, Charlot
te gasped. “Where is everyone?”

  Doctor Munro lowered his knife and looked up, his face somber. “All out on a mission. Left me here with a handful of stragglers.”

  “Is my father away as well?”

  “No. I gave him a tonic to settle an upset stomach as well as something to help him sleep.”

  Charlotte let out a long breath and tapped her fingers to her lips. At least she wouldn’t have to wait until after the meal.

  The physician stood and pulled out the chair beside him—the one where Charlotte usually sat. “I’ve missed enjoying your company during supper.”

  “Unfortunately, I will not be dining here this eve.” Charlotte clasped her hands and squeezed. “Though I did want to have a word with you.”

  His face brightened, making her take two steps back, a knot between her shoulder blades clamping taut. Just out with it. “I’m afraid I must tell you that I cannot possibly consider marrying you.” She hesitated, taking a deep breath.

  His face fell.

  The last thing she wanted to do was hurt Roderick, but the damage had been done. There was no use listing all the reasons she didn’t think their union would work. “Forgive me.”

  She pushed out the door and dashed to her father’s study.

  John Hill sat in his chair with a near empty bottle of wine beside him. He looked up, his eyes red, his features grey and pinched to the point of anguish.

  She wanted to run to him, but something in his expression warned her against it. “I’ve refused Doctor Munro’s proposal of marriage.”

  Papa nodded and reached for the bottle, taking a healthy swig.

  “Is something amiss?”

  “Nothing that concerns you,” he slurred, his gaze unfocused.

  Charlotte had never seen her father so completely despondent. “Are you inebriated?”

  “Perhaps.” He swirled the wine in the bottom of the bottle, holding it to the lamplight.

  Steeling her resolve, she stepped further into the study. “Regardless if I have your blessing, I have made up my mind. I love Hugh MacIain. It is he whom I will wed.”

  Papa guzzled the remaining dregs. Slamming the bottle to the table with a belch, his gaze wandered to the hearth rather than to Charlotte. “No.” He drew the word out and it hung in the air and chilled like death. “You cannot marry a corpse.”

  Chills fired across her skin. “What in God’s name are you saying?” Charlotte clutched her trembling fists to her abdomen. “You cannot send a man to the gallows for loving a woman!”

  Da pushed back his chair and stumbled to the door. “There’s no need for me to do so.”

  ***

  Unable to breathe, Charlotte stood alone in the center of Papa’s study. How could he be so heartless, and then just up and walk out with no explanation? Clamping her hands to her crown she paced. Should she barrel into his bedchamber and demand answers? Heaven’s stars, she’d never been allowed to enter his bedchamber. A flicker of brass caught her eye. The key to Papa’s strongbox was still in the lock.

  Why were all the men gone…and if they were on a mission, why had they marched without Papa? Her head swarmed with questions and her father was in no condition to answer a one.

  “You cannot marry a corpse.” The words echoed in her head and crawled over her skin like slithering serpents. Never had she heard her father be so insensitive.

  Charlotte’s palms perspired as she moved to the strongbox. The key slipped in her fingers, but she tightened her grip and turned until the click echoed off the study’s walls. She paused for a moment, listening to the whispering silence. Then she steeled her nerves and opened the lid.

  Piles of missives stacked so high they almost spilled over the edge—and to the side a leather money pouch appeared to be stuffed with coin, a tag affixed to it read “dowry”.

  Aside from being surprised of its girth, she couldn’t care less about the contents of the pouch. On top of it all was a map of Glencoe. To the east marked the Devil’s Staircase with Hamilton’s regiment. To the south, mountains. To the west was a mark showing Major Duncanson’s battalion. North denoted Captain Drummond and his men, with Glenlyon’s regiment marked with an X in the center of Hugh’s home.

  Lord in heaven, there must be a thousand men deployed.

  Reaching in a trembling hand, Charlotte pulled out two missives bearing the seal of John Dalrymple, Master of Stair. Moving to the chair, she opened the first letter, dated 21st January, the year of our Lord 1692:

  In response to your correspondence of 16th January, I have but one thing to say. The king does not agree that all is at peace in the Highlands….Pray, when anything concerning Glencoe is resolved, let it be secret and sudden…cut off that nest of robbers who have fallen in the mercy of law. They did not come forward in the time prescribed. This pleases the king, for now you are at will to take action…I apprehend the storm is so great that for some time you can do little, but so soon as possible you will be at work…Deal with them…and by all means be merciless.

  Charlotte shook as she read the signatures at the bottom. Both the king and the Master of Stair signed with bold strokes of their quill.

  Is this why Papa is so despondent? Charlotte looked to the window, snow still clung to the panes. It had hardly stopped snowing all winter.

  Hands trebling out of control, she opened the next missive, signed only by the Master of Stair and dated 26th January:

  I reject your appeal to my letters concerning the dispatch of Glencoe. You cannot receive further directions…be as earnest in the matter as you can…be secretive and sudden…be quick…You are hereby ordered to proceed to put all under the sword under seventy before dawn on the 13th February. Ensure the old fox and his sons on no account escape your hands…Lieutenant Colonel James Hamilton has received a copy of these orders to ensure you do not undermine my authority yet again…This time you will not hesitate…

  Choking back bile, Charlotte dashed to the strongbox, dropped the missives inside and filled her pocket with coins. Then she grabbed her father’s cloak from a peg on the wall, dashed to the door, slipped into her overshoes and ran for the stables.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  By the grace of God, Charlotte found Farley at the alehouse. She hastened toward him only to be stopped by a vile, stringy-haired man with foul breath. “Where are you off to in such a hurry, lassie?”

  Another blackguard grabbed her arm. “Aye, ’tisn’t often we see a morsel as tasty as this come through the door.”

  Someone tugged on her cloak. “And she’s wearing an officer’s mantle.”

  “Did you steal it, lass?”

  Charlotte tried to wrench her arm away. “Leave me be, you vile beasts!”

  “Och, coming into an alehouse with a stolen cloak and demanding to be treated as a lady?”

  “Stop!” a deep voice boomed from the rear. Farley stood with both palms resting on his table. “That there’s the governor’s daughter. You lay a hand on her and you’ll have every dragoon for a hundred miles breathing down your neck.”

  When the grimy hands released her arm, Charlotte hastened forward. “Thank you, Mr. MacGregor.” She clapped praying hands together. “I urgently need your help—Mr. MacIain is in trouble. We must leave at once!”

  A rumbling laugh snorted through the big man’s nose. “How would a wisp of a woman like you be able to help a scrapper like Hugh MacIain?”

  “You do not understand.” Glancing over her shoulder, she leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I am privy to confidential information—news I should not be aware of. I need you to take me to Hugh’s cottage in the mountains immediately.”

  Farley swayed, blinking his red eyes. “Are ye daft?” he slurred. “Besides there’s storm a brewing”

  “Good Lord, is everyone in his cups this eve?” She wasn’t about to allow this big bear to turn her away. Charlotte stepped around the table, grasped his doublet in her fists and shook. “You must help me,” she seethed. “Hugh told me if anything went aw
ry to send word with you…well, this is life and death.”

  He straightened and blinked. “You’re honest to God scared?”

  “Truly I am frightened down to the tips of my toes, now let us saddle your horse and be on our way.” She tugged his arm, but he stood there solid as a stubborn oak. Curses, she’d beg if forced. “Please. I can pay you an entire month’s wages.”

  “Now why didn’t you say you had coin?” His eyes bugged wide. “What’s afoot?”

  She tugged with more force. “I’ll tell you once we’re outside. No use starting a riot.”

  “Riot?” He guzzled his remaining ale as if she were but a fly yanking on his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me ’twas that grave?”

  With a groan, she led the way out the door. Spouting the words life and death hadn’t been grave enough? “Where’s your horse?”

  “Stabled out the back of my cottage.”

  Charlotte untied the reins of the gelding she’d borrowed. “Come then, we’ve no time to lose.”

  “We?” He stepped in beside her, taking her reins and leading her down a narrow close. “You won’t be going anywhere but back to the fort.”

  She clutched her cloak tighter around her shoulders. “Is that so?”

  “Aye, now give me your message and I’ll decide if it can wait until morning.”

  “’Tis grave.” Her gaze darted side to side as she hastened to keep pace with his long strides. “They’re putting all of Glencoe to fire and sword—before dawn on the morrow. Captain Campbell is there now—other regiments are moving into place as we speak.”

  Farley stopped dead in his tracks and regarded her as if dumbstruck. “Holy Mary, Mother of God.”

  Practically jumping out of her skin, she grabbed his wrist and tugged. “There’s no time to waste. I must warn Hugh forthwith.”

  “Och, no, lassie.” He yanked his arm away. “You do not ride into the midst of fire, not when you’re outnumbered by a thousand to one.”