by Amy Jarecki
No. This was not the eve to solve problems. Tonight they would lick their wounds, but with six and thirty human beings to feed, the horse meat wouldn’t last.
Ever so quietly, Charlotte slid beside Hugh and under his arm. Together they sat in silence, an island among a homeless crowd with nowhere to turn for help, their future as precarious as a ship at sea with a broken mast.
***
Hugh kept watch throughout the night. The storm made it impossible to post a guard outside the cottage, but he couldn’t sleep anyway. Charlotte was right. No one could survive in this weather—even the soulless dragoons would be huddled beside someone’s hearth—hopefully not a family they planned to butcher. Unfortunately, the fact that everyone must seek shelter gave him no comfort. How many of his clansmen and women were suffering in the cold? How many more would end up dead because of God’s wrath?
Her head resting in his lap, Charlotte had given in to her fatigue—more unconscious from exhaustion than asleep. The lass should have gone with Farley, but bless her, she’d resigned herself to stay. She’d tended Ma until she could hold her head up no longer. Hugh peered around the cottage. Not even Og had managed to stay awake through the wee hours. ’Twas probably for the best. His brother’s rage needed tamping, else he’d soon do something that would get them all killed.
Of the men, Breac, Tavis, Kenny and Gavyn were all stealthy warriors. Though they had not but a plaid wrapped around their waists, Hugh was glad to have them at his back. They’d make pikes from tree branches if forced. They, too, slept huddled with their wives.
Hugh needed the quiet to think and having his kin stare at him, waiting for him to pull a miracle out of his arse only muddled with his mind all the more. He’d spent the entire night trying to make sense of this mess. How could he have prevented the whole sordid butchering? He’d known Glenlyon to be a snake—a turncoat of the basest order.
Christ, Hugh had relieved the bastard of his prized stallion only three years past. Was that why Captain Campbell ordered an entire battalion to open fire on a clan who’d shown him nothing but affability for a fortnight? Not to mention a chieftain who’d treated the blackguard like kin?
An entire clan for a miserable, sterile stallion?
No matter which way Hugh reasoned, his hatred burned a hole in his chest. Glenlyon broke the Highland code of hospitality.
The man’s soul will wander through hell and burn for all eternity.
It didn’t matter that Glenlyon’s orders had come down to him all the way from King William and his deranged minister, Viscount Dalrymple, Master of Stair. Captain Campbell had a mind of his own, and he acted on his orders with all the black-heartedness of his kin. Not a Campbell was to be trusted…ever.
Hugh should have insisted that Da’s men watch them—regardless. How blind Clan Iain Abrach was to welcome backstabbing redcoats onto their lands with open arms and open larders. Christ, the men Hugh had played shinty with were the same murderers who attacked his cottage.
At least those miscreants met their end.
Charlotte took a deep, stuttering breath.
Devil’s fire, he’d be dead without her. He needed to keep reminding himself of that fact. Hate was ugly. Hate played irrational tricks on his mind, and if he let her, hate would eat him alive. The bitch of hate had already started eating away his heart.
Hugh pressed his palm against his head and closed his eyes.
How was he going to rescue his kin from this mess? When would the goddamned snow let up? Where were the redcoats now? Did they have every pass to Glencoe shut off? The horse meat might last two more days, and then what? A handful of rabbits wouldn’t feed six and thirty lost souls.
God’s bones, his head throbbed. Every time Hugh tried to think about the future, he saw Da dead on the floor. He saw the blood streaming down the inside of Ma’s thighs—mindless dragoons shooting cattle and stabbing sheep with their bayonets. He saw the roof of his own cottage going up in flames, burning everything he’d worked to save over the course of his life.
Aye, he’d been born a Highland reiver, just like every other proud clansman in the Gallows Herd—proved his manhood preying on the Campbells. They preyed on his kin, too. But never like this. No one ever broke the trust of hospitality. No one was ever left to starve—murdered in cold blood with no place to run—naked, running on bare feet in a blizzard.
The black chasm of hate spread from Hugh’s chest through every fiber of his body.
“Son,” Ma called weakly from her bed on the dirt floor.
Hugh gently rested Charlotte’s head on the ground, then kneeled beside his mother.
Ma reached for his hand, her fingers ice cold, her grip feeble. Nothing about his mother had ever been feeble. Never.
She smiled at him, just as weakly. “’Tis time for me to join your father.”
A lump the size of a walnut stuck in Hugh’s throat as prickles swarmed down the outside of his arms. “What are you saying? You are the matriarch of the family. We all look to you for wisdom.”
“’Tis your time now, son.”
“No—”
“I’ll have my say.” She gulped, her lips parched.
Hugh held up a chipped clay cup he’d filled with water. “Here. Drink.”
“No.” She closed her eyes. “Promise me you will never abandon your home. Promise me you will build a manse grander than Carnoch.” She gripped his hand—much tighter this time. “Swear it.”
“I promise, Ma…but—”
She opened her eyes and caught his gaze, beckoning him closer. “You will raise your bairns in Glencoe.” Her breath quickened like she was running. “Never let them forget. Always remind them they are descended from Alasdair Ruadh MacIain MacDonald—a direct descendant of the Lords of the Isles…” She swallowed again, then pulled his ear down to her lips. “Never be ashamed of who you are.”
Hugh drew in a sharp inhale. Her voice was haunting, her breath warm against his ear. Grasping her hand to his heart he regarded Ma’s face. Oh, how her words rang true. The cold, hungry and destitute people huddled in this wee cottage were his kin. They were driven from their lands, but by God, he would find a way to take them home. No matter if it took him the rest of his life, he would see justice—demand it.
“Promise,” Ma’s voice grew reedy.
“I swear. With God as my witness, I swear.”
A long exhale wheezed through Ma’s throat, and then she lay still. The soul left her eyes as they stared at nothing, her mouth agape.
Hugh’s heart stopped as he pressed his fingers to her throat.
Nothing.
“Ma?”
A cry caught in his mouth. “Please, Ma.”
But she was gone—left to be with Da as she’d said. Life slipped away with her last exhale. His hands trembling, he closed her lids, then took her into his arms and rocked. God, he wanted to burst into tears and wail like a wee bairn.
No.
No.
No.
Clenching his teeth, his head shook as he fought back his anger, his tears, his rage. How much more death would he witness before this was over?
Og slid across and kneeled beside him. “I’ll never forgive the government for this. They wanted to quash the Jacobites? Well, King William just declared war.”
“Amen,” said Gavyn behind them.
Glancing over each shoulder, it seemed everyone had roused and witnessed Hugh’s promise to his mother.
“’Tis all her fault,” said Nessa, pointing at Charlotte.
Without time to rub the sleep from her eyes, Colonel Hill’s daughter scooted closer to Hugh.
Earie stepped forward, squinting at Charlotte like she was the devil incarnate. “We should run a dirk across her throat.”
Nessa, with her babe in arms, nodded. “Aye, it would be one less mouth to feed.”
Og pulled his sgian dubh from his sleeve. “You cannot trust her, brother. Look at what Sarah did to Sandy.”
“Put her under the knife!�
�� The taunts grew louder, as the lost souls took out their ire on the poor lass who had done nothing but try to help.
Hugh stood, taking Charlotte with him, clutching her fast to his body. “Sheathe your goddamned dagger!”
He panned his gaze around the walls until he’d made eye contact with every soul. “Did you not see Miss Charlotte tending Ma? Who else lifted a finger to cleanse the blood from between our mother’s legs? I say our mother because she was just that to every one of you. She always had compassion in her heart—treated each and every one of you like her own.”
“Aye—always being friendly.” Kenny stepped into the circle. “Mayhap that’s why we’re cowering in a ramshackle cottage in the mountains in the midst of winter.”
Og slid his dagger back into his sleeve. “I think the Sassenach woman should go back to Fort William. She isn’t one of us.”
“Aye,” agreed Tavis. “She represents the bastards who put us under fire and sword.”
Hugh glanced down at Charlotte’s face. The lass looked stricken—as if they’d issued consecutive slaps to her face. Well, he was chieftain now. His word was law. “I’ll hear no more of this. We are not the animals the redcoats are. Miss Charlotte has my protection until I can take her home. If anyone hurts her, ’tis the same as hurting me.”
Hugh looked directly at Og. “Do I have your vow, brother?”
The anguish on his brother’s face reflected the same pain in Hugh’s heart. But taking his ire out on an innocent woman would solve nothing. Hugh pushed Charlotte behind him and took a step toward Og. “I need your word,” he growled through clenched teeth.
“Aye. She did warn you.” He folded his arms with an up-ticked chin. “No one touches the lass whilst under your protection.”
Hugh turned full circle. “Does anyone disagree?”
A few shook their heads.
He slid his hand into his sleeve and fingered his sgian dubh. “Does anyone wish to challenge me as Chieftain of Clan Iain Abrach?”
Several men mumbled, “Nay.”
“Very well.” He drew in a deep breath. “’Tis a new day, and if we aim to survive, there’s much to be done. First, we prepare Ma’s body for burial. I need an account of our weapons. We need firewood. Farley MacGregor set snares. We need them checked and more set. If we’re to stay alive, we must have a constant supply of food. Guards will be posted around the clock. As soon as the weather lets up, I want a volunteer to go to Appin to beg blankets and clothes from the Stewarts.”
Alasdair Og held up his hand. “I’ll go.”
“Nay.” The elder, Graham MacDonald stepped forward. “The request must come from the chieftain. The Stewarts might turn anyone else away.”
Hugh nodded his agreement. But appointing himself to go—possibly sleep in a bed and eat at the high table in Castle Stalker while his people suffered did not sit well. Dammit, Graham was right. “Very well. A visit to the Stewarts will also enable me to send a missive to Donald MacDonald of Sleat. The baronet should be aware of this abomination to our clan.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
After three days of wind and snow, Charlotte thought they’d all die of starvation in that dank cottage. The experience had tested her to the limits of forbearance. Yes, she wanted nothing more than to work beside Hugh while he pulled his people out of this disaster, but she hadn’t counted on being the brunt end of their ire. Even after Hugh had declared her under his protection there were persistent hateful looks and hushed murmurs of distrust.
Worse, Hugh had withdrawn. He never let her leave his side, but that was all. There were no fervent looks across the fire. He didn’t reach out and hold her hand or draw her into his arms. He’d been as cold and frigid toward her as the icicles hanging from the cottage’s eaves. Sometimes she thought he blamed her for the massacre. Perhaps he did in some illogical way.
Charlotte hated it—almost wished she had returned to Fort William with Farley. Goodness, she was only trying to help—trying to start a life with the only man she wanted to marry. Why did this have to happen to Hugh’s clan? Had their love been torn away along with everything else he’d lost?
At least he’d brought her along on this journey to Appin.
Sitting in the saddle, she hunched over and clutched her arms close against her body. The snow may have stopped, but the wind blew a gale, cutting through her woolen gown as if she wasn’t wearing a stitch of clothing. In no way could she have asked them to return her cloak or the blanket that Emma had lent her.
Leading the garron pony through the rugged terrain, using only discrete animal trails, Hugh wore only a shirt with his plaid belted around his waist, spread across his shoulders. At least he was one of the few with a pair of leather Highland boots on his feet.
“Why can we not ride double?” she asked, trying to keep her teeth from chattering.
“You want the old fella to founder?” Hugh didn’t bother to turn around. His curt remark mirroring the other clipped responses he’d tossed her way over the past few days.
“I’m sorry to be such a bother.”
“I would have left you at the cottage if I thought you’d survive.”
Charlotte shuddered. Without Hugh there to protect her—curt or not—she didn’t want to be left alone with them. Not when so much bitterness coursed through their blood. They all wanted revenge—were driven mad by it, and she was the nearest English person within reach.
But heaven help her, she wanted Hugh. Wanted the same ruffian who’d been so bold to visit Fort William with his father and kiss her in the window embrasure. She wanted the Highlander with the cavalier spirit who slipped into her chamber with hundreds of dragoons mulling about. Yes, Hugh had put on a stoic face and set everyone to task, but Charlotte feared he’d lost his spirit and thirst for life.
Once they reached the burn the going grew easier, and when they turned south on the road along Loch Linnhe, the horse didn’t stumble at all. In fact, the snow wasn’t nearly as deep as it had been up at the cottage.
“How much further?” Charlotte asked.
“Should be there by midday.”
Hugh may have spoken the words in a monotone, but Charlotte’s stomach rumbled. Half-starved like everyone else, midday meant one thing—a meal. Mayhap one with bread and cheese—perhaps a meat pie with fluffy pastry. Shivering, she closed her eyes and hugged herself tighter against the frigid wind blowing off the loch. Am I being heartless for craving a good meal? If only I could take such mouth-watering delights back to Meall Mòr. Would they accept me then?
When a castle sitting atop a tiny isle came into view, Charlotte’s heart squeezed. “Is that it?”
“Aye.”
“Are the waters shallow enough for the horse to cross?”
“Nay.”
“Will we have to take a boat, then?”
“Mm hm.” Nothing had changed since they’d left the cottage.
Charlotte shivered again. This time she wasn’t certain if the tremor had been caused by the cold or by Hugh’s aloofness.
***
Since Ma’s death, Hugh had felt like he had a cannonball lodged in his chest. And dammit all, Charlotte kept trying to raise his spirits. Didn’t she know to keep silent? Aye, his feelings for the lass hadn’t changed, but he needed time. Over and over, he’d kicked himself that he hadn’t insisted she return to her father.
His kin were right. She didn’t belong in the shieling. Mayhap she didn’t belong with him. If nothing else, the past few days of suffering with his kin had shown him a glimpse of the long and arduous road to rebuilding. He had nothing to offer the lass. Nothing. He couldn’t even kiss her without an audience. Worse, marriage was the last thing he could think about with hungry mouths to feed, and the thirst for revenge roiling through his blood.
The one good thing? He hadn’t spotted a single redcoat on the journey to Appin. Aye, he’d kept to the burn and the byways, aside from the last stretch, but even Glenlyon wouldn’t attempt an attack so close to the Stewart of Appin
seat.
Met by Sir Robert Stewart’s guard, Hugh and Charlotte received an escort, boarding a skiff to ferry them across the water to Castle Stalker—the grand old keep rose out of Loch Linnhe like a warrior from the sea clad in age-old armor, ready to take on anyone who tried to breach her walls.
The guards led Hugh and Charlotte straight to the great hall.
Footsteps pattered down the stairwell until Robert Stewart’s bonny young face appeared. Christ, Hugh felt like he’d aged fifty years when he saw the young chieftain grin. “My God, you did survive.”
Hugh offered a clipped nod. “Aye, and I’ve now gathered near three score of clansmen and women. They’re all freezing in the hills, too afraid to show their faces, lest they be murdered by any red-coated bastard who happens past.”
Robert looked Charlotte from head to toe—in truth the ordeal hadn’t been kind to her either. Her matted hair draped over her thin gown, made thinner by her lack of petticoats. “Have you no mantle, no bonnet?”
Remembering his manners, Hugh gestured toward her. “Miss Charlotte Hill and I were fortunate to escape with the threads on our back. Most of my kin were not so fortunate.”
“Charlotte Hill?” The chieftain extended his hand, his eyes filled with question. “The governor’s daughter?”
She shot Hugh a startled glance, then nodded.
“If it weren’t for this lady’s warning, I’d be dead.” Hugh still couldn’t smile. “I’ve come to ask for your charity. I’ve nothing to pay you with, nothing to trade, but my people are cold and starving, and I’ve no alternative but to stand before you with my upturned palms and beg.” His gut twisted into a hundred knots as the words slipped through his lips.
Robert drew his hand over his mouth and glanced at his guardsmen. “Of course. With the season our stores are low, but you’re welcome to anything we have to spare.”
“Clothing and blankets?” Charlotte asked.
