by Amy Jarecki
“I’ll send word to the clan, requesting that every family contribute something.” Robert gestured to the dais. “Please, would you share my midday meal?”
Hugh’s knees practically buckled. “I am honored.”
“I hope you plan to stay. I’ve had word from Donald MacDonald of Sleat—he’s requested accommodations whilst he visits Fort William—intends to find out exactly what happened.”
Hugh ground his teeth, though glad to hear the baronet and head of all septs of Clan Donald had learned of his plight. “I can give him a first-hand account.”
“I’d like to hear it myself.” Robert led them up the steps to the high table and raised his eyebrow at Charlotte. “Your father is anxious for your return.”
She followed the chieftain, lifting her filthy skirts to her ankles as she ascended. “He should have thought about that before he condoned an annihilation of an entire clan.” Aye, she did have spirit, but Hugh had been wrong to woo her.
He now feared he’d be set upon by Colonel Hill because of his misshapen love for his daughter. Too right, he should have sent Charlotte home with Farley—bless it, how many times did he have to kick himself over that dull-witted decision?
Once seated, servants filed into the hall with trenchers laden with food. Lord in heaven, Hugh couldn’t stop his mouth from watering. He tried to hide his trembling fingers under the table while a servant placed two juicy slices of roast pork on his plate—after Charlotte and Robert, of course.
“Applesauce?” another servant asked.
He licked his lips. “I’ll have it all.” Parsnips, turnips, bread, gravy. Though it had been less than a sennight since he’d eaten a meal like this, it felt more like he’d been starving for a month. Even sitting in a chair was a luxury. Christ, Stewart set the table with forks.
Once everyone had been served, Charlotte picked up her fork and knife, cutting her meat as if she weren’t famished. “So, Sir Stewart, where is your wife this day?”
He raised his tankard of ale. “Ah, m’lady, I’m but eight and ten.”
Her eyes bulged as she delicately placed a bite into her mouth. “You’ve risen to such an esteemed rank for one so young.” Oh, yes, her soft “mmm” didn’t escape Hugh.
“My father died of consumption but six month’s past.” The young chieftain dipped his bread in a bit of gravy as if he had all day to eat.
Certain he had juice dribbling from the corner of his mouth, Hugh wiped it with the back of his hand. “Delicious.”
Robert smiled. “Simple fare.” He turned his attention to Charlotte. “Would I be too bold to offer you a chambermaid and warm bath above stairs, Miss Hill?”
She glanced down at her gown and cringed. “Heavens, that would be a kindness I could not allow to pass by. I’m afraid I must look dreadful.”
The young buck smiled politely. “Not at all.”
Hugh reached for the tankard and guzzled his ale, washing down the mouthful of bread, pork, turnip—everything he could stuff in his mouth.
“Slow down, big fella.” Robert sat back and folded his arms. “By God, you are starving.”
Hugh could only nod.
“Once you’ve eaten your fill, we can retire to my solar for a dram of whisky—Glenlyon’s abomination—” Robert eyed Charlotte and cleared his throat. “Well, it looks as if it may have breathed new life into the cause. If nothing else, we’d best put quill to paper and record all the sordid events whilst it’s still clear in your mind.”
Bloody oath, Stewart’s words infused Hugh with a thread of hope. He’d lead the Jacobites raiding across Britain today if King James was ready.
***
Wearing a woolen dressing gown tied at the waist, Charlotte sat on the edge of the bed wanting to drop to her back and sleep for a sennight. She hadn’t been appointed with a chamber this grand since she’d lived in London with her aunt and uncle. The four-poster bed was enormous, yet it didn’t even take up a third of the floor. A welcoming fire crackled in an enormous hearth, in front of which was placed a wooden bathing tub.
A half-dozen chambermaids efficiently moved about with buckets of water and armloads of everything Charlotte could think of from drying cloths to petticoats, to hairpins and brushes.
“This was her ladyship’s chamber, God rest her soul.” Mrs. MacCallum, the housemaid in charge, frowned woefully. She had grey streaks peeking beneath her coif and wore a black frock buttoned all the way up to her throat. She hadn’t smiled since they were introduced by Sir Robert. In fact, none of the lasses had. “Sir Robert thought you might be able to wear her clothing.”
“That is very kind.” Charlotte gripped her hands in her lap and smiled at one of the girls who instantly looked away. Another practically hugged the walls as if she were afraid. Charlotte’s knuckles grew white from clenching her fingers too tightly. After her stay at Meall Mòr, she should be growing accustomed to leery stares by now, but still their behavior was unwarranted. “Have I done something to upset you?”
Draping a petticoat over a wooden chair, Mrs. MacCallum glanced up. “Why would you ask that?”
“Because you’re all looking at me like Judas.”
The maid who kept to the walls gasped and fanned her face.
Then a fair-haired lass stepped forward, folding her arms. “The men say you’re Colonel Hill’s daughter. Is he not the one who ordered Glencoe?” She said it as if it were an event rather than a place.
They all stopped and stared at Charlotte as if they expected her to draw a flintlock pistol from her sleeve and fire it at them.
She tried not to cringe. “My father tried to stop it. He remained at Fort William while officers Hamilton, Glenlyon, Duncanson and Drummond fell upon the glen, far outnumbering the poor MacIains.”
“He stayed at the fort?” asked the fair one.
Having tried to rationalize it herself, Charlotte gave the only answer she knew to be true. “Because the Master of Stair ordered him to do something he could not abide.”
Mrs. MacCallum now folded her arms. “But didn’t the directive come from the colonel?”
“I’m ashamed to admit it, but yes—the orders to mobilize the troops came from him.” Charlotte couldn’t lie—true her father had played his part, but he seemed to be the only person who realized the order signed by the Master of Stair and King William was pure insanity. She hung her head. “Please do not judge me in the same light as the government troops. When I learned of Papa’s orders, I rode all night to warn Mr. MacIain.”
The fair-haired maid stepped forward, her face inquisitive. “But you were too late?”
Charlotte nodded. Thank heavens someone showed a bit of curiosity before condemning her. “I arrived at his cottage only moments before the shooting began. Mr. MacIain fought off the six dragoons who were sent to murder him and burn his house.”
The nice girl’s jaw dropped. “He fought six soldiers all by himself?”
Still sitting with her hands folded, her fingers began to throb. “My guide helped.”
“While you watched?”
“I hid in the…” Charlotte shouldn’t say Hugh’s bedchamber “In the rear room.”
“Oh my.” The maid actually looked as if she were sympathetic. “That must have been terrifying.”
“Aye,” said another. “You were in the thick of it?”
Charlotte looked down, her old shyness creeping up the back of her neck. “Yes.”
Mrs. MacCallum clapped her hands. “We must leave Miss Hill to her bath before the water chills.”
As the chambermaids filed out the door, Charlotte hopped up and tapped the friendly maid on the shoulder. “What is your name?”
“Alice, miss.”
“Thank you, Alice. Not many people have had a kind word for me in the past few days.”
She curtsied. “I figured there was a good reason Laird MacIain brought you with him.” The tension in the chamber eased with her grin. “Imagine that, Colonel Hill’s daughter is a Jacobite.”
/> Snapping a hand over her mouth to hide her gasp, Charlotte watched as the door closed and left her alone. Holy Mother. If I’m in love with Hugh, I must be a Jacobite. She paced in a circle. I surely do not condone the king’s orders, nor do I appreciate the way he’s ignored my father since he took the throne.
With her realization, she discarded the borrowed robe and sank into the bathwater. Charlotte had always loved baths, but this one sent her sailing with the clouds. Even the lilac soap smelled like a gift from heaven. She slid down until the water reached her chin. Her entire body reveled in soothing warmth for the first time since she’d left Fort William.
Chapter Twenty-Six
After spending the day devising plots against the government troops with Robert Stewart, Hugh had accepted a change of clothes, washed and shaved. Seeing his reflection in a looking glass had been frightening. True, he’d gone without shaving many times before, but the dark circles under his eyes and drawn, hollow pitch to his cheeks was new. He could have passed for a beggar on the streets of Edinburgh.
How the devil had Charlotte put up with him? He not only looked like a rogue, he’d been treating her like thresh on the floor. Now cleaned up with a good meal in his belly, he scoffed at his behavior. The lass had done nothing but volunteered to help him and his kin, and they resented her for it. He’d resented her, too, but couldn’t for the life of him understand why.
And now, he again sat in the great hall in anticipation of the evening meal. He wouldn’t be so daft as to refuse Sir Robert’s fare, but his throat thickened at the thought of his clansmen and women huddling in that miserable hovel up at Meall Mòr. If only Clan Iain Abrach of the Coe had a fortress like Castle Stalker none of this would have ever happened. No, the Master of Stair and the Campbells had singled out the MacIain sept of Clan Donald because of their close proximity to Fort William and their lack of a motte and bailey defense. Hugh clearly remembered telling his father Glencoe was both a fortress and a trap. God, he’d had no idea how right he’d been.
Beside him, young Stewart pushed back his chair and stood, a soft whistle blowing through his lips.
Looking up, Hugh sprang to his feet, the screeching the floorboards behind him.
“Holy Moses,” Robert swore. “Why didn’t you tell me Colonel Hill’s daughter was as ravishing as a princess?”
Hugh clenched his fists as he watched Charlotte exit the stairwell and proceed to the dais. The talk in the hall ebbed to complete silence. “Devil’s bones,” Hugh mumbled like a simpleton.
The woman had a bloody bath and turns herself into a goddess? Smiling like a fairy nymph, Charlotte floated across the floor, every male chin dropping as she walked past, her red gown shimmering with every step. Bloody hell, the scooped neckline displayed too much of her milky white bosoms. She seemed oblivious to all the attention she commanded as her gaze focused on Hugh. Christ, the woman could win the heart of any man in all of Britain, and she thought she wanted him—a chieftain without a home?
Sir Robert clambered to the dais steps and offered his hand. “My word, Miss Hill you are a vision.”
She blushed as if she’d never heard a man tell her she was beautiful. Blast it, the slathering pup practically drooled on her as he led her to a seat—not beside Hugh, but the one to Robert’s right. That would be the way of it. Hugh would have to spend the entire evening watching a pup who hadn’t even reached his majority fawn all over his woman.
And Charlotte smiled at him as if she enjoyed his adolescent drool.
“Mother’s gown fits as if it were made for you.”
Charlotte sat as Sir Robert pushed in her chair. “Thank you ever so much for lending it to me. The color is beautiful.”
“It compliments your fair coloring.” Sir Robert turned to Hugh. “MacIain, why didn’t you tell me Colonel Hill’s daughter was bonnier than a mountain of heather in bloom?”
Hugh plopped in his chair. “It took a bath for you to notice?” He leaned forward and caught her gaze. His damned heart leapt. “And your gown does bring out the blue-violet in your eyes—ever so much.” There, let Stewart chew on that.
Robert’s brow furrowed. “You do seem an unlikely pair. How in God’s name did you meet? I doubt Colonel Hill would have been anxious to make the introductions.”
“Mr. MacIain was—”
“Let’s just say I was an unwilling guest at Fort William for a time.” Though the prisoners from the battle of Dunkeld had been pardoned, Hugh still didn’t want anyone knowing the reason for his incarceration or the fact that Charlotte had helped him escape. He was in enough trouble with the government. No use piling on more reasons for her father to send him to the gallows.
Sir Robert filled Charlotte’s glass with wine. “Word from the fort is your father is anxious for your return.”
She leaned forward and glanced at Hugh. “I should send him a letter.”
“You should go to him,” Hugh said. “Hiding in the hills of Glencoe is no place for a lady as fine as you.”
“Did you think I would give up so easily? I cannot just walk away and return to my father as if nothing happened. I would be an utter hypocrite.”
“MacIain has a point. You are far too delicate a lady to be suffering with a mob of refugees in the hills during the midst of winter.” Robert held up his glass. “You are welcome to stay here, if you’d rather.”
Hugh slapped his palm on the table a bit too hard, making wine slosh out of his glass. “She’s either going back to Fort William or staying with me.”
Charlotte leaned forward, arching those damnable eyebrows at him. “So now you’re making decisions for me?”
“I will if you will not make the right ones.”
“I beg your pardon?” She pushed her chair back. “I shall not dine with someone who thinks so little of my sensibilities.”
Now he’d gone and shoved his foot in his mouth. “I didn’t mean—”
“Please stay.” Robert put his hand on her elbow—a far too familiar gesture. “I most certainly didn’t mean to upset you with my remark. Perhaps you are right. You should pen a missive to your da. I’d be happy to have my runner deliver it on your behalf.”
Looking at Hugh, she gave a curt nod. “That would be ever so kind of you, Sir Robert.”
Wonderful. Hugh ground his fist into his palm. Now he’d been made to look an unmitigated arse to the woman he loved.
A servant placed a tray of sliced roast beef in front of Stewart and he promptly picked it up, offering Charlotte first choice. “The Baronet of Sleat will arrive from Duntulm Castle on the morrow.”
She selected a small portion. “’Tis good to hear the head of all the MacDonald septs is showing his support.”
“Aye,” Hugh agreed, helping himself to a juicy cut—the largest on the patter. “We’ll certainly know more on the morrow. ’Tis worth spending another day away from our kin in the mountains.”
“You both are welcome to stay as long as you need.” Sir Robert reached for the salt cellar and used the tiny spoon to sprinkle his food—ever so civilized of him.
Hugh practically kicked himself under the table. For Christ’s sake, the man is opening his home to us. “My thanks. Your hospitality will nay be forgotten.”
“Indeed.” Charlotte reached for her wine and sipped. “Do you often invite minstrels to play on your gallery?”
“Pipes mostly, though I do enjoy a good fiddle.”
“Oh, so do I.” She grinned vibrantly as if she hadn’t ridden down from hell earlier that day.
Young Stewart’s gaze dipped too low—where was her damned privacy panel now? “Are you musically inclined?”
She blushed like a wee maiden. “I play the violin some.”
“Honestly?” Sir Robert looked like his mouth had burst with sweet flavor. “Why, there’s a fiddle up on the gallery just waiting to be played.”
Hugh cleared his throat and shoved a bite in his mouth. The wet-eared chieftain would have her agreeing to stay at the damned castle for
an eternity soon.
“Would you do me the honor of serenading us? These halls haven’t been filled with a merry tune since Christmas.” Robert elbowed Hugh in the shoulder. “What say you, MacIain?”
It would be a very long time before Hugh was ready to kick up his heels and dance jig to a raunchy fiddle. Charlotte ought to know that. Hell, did the ride down the mountain wash away the horror of what her father’s men had done to his kin? Bloody hell, a sennight had not yet passed.
Robert and Charlotte looked at him as if he were daft. Hugh flicked his wrist toward the gallery. “Go on then. If it would please our host.”
Charlotte stood, casting Hugh a disapproving frown before she turned and headed up the steps. Hugh’s gut twisted. Ballocks, he was acting like an arse—but what did everyone expect? Should he cast aside the cannonball-sized hole in his chest and make merry as if nothing had happened? He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t rest until he saw justice—until Glenlyon got his comeuppance. He wouldn’t rest until every Jacobite in Scotland pulled together and took a stand.
Damnation.
Robert leaned in. “She has eyes for you.”
Och, by the hostility in her glare, Hugh seriously doubted it. “I owe her my life.” Christ, where did that line of drivel come from? He guzzled his ale. He did owe Charlotte his life and he wasn’t a damned bit happy about it.
Or was he?
Bloody hell, he needed air.
“You look a bit piqued,” said Robert.
“I’m fine.”
“Oh?” Robert pushed a bit too far.
“Bugger off.” Hugh set his tankard down and shoved a cooked carrot in his mouth.
Robert leaned back in his chair. “Well, I suppose I’d be as sore-headed as you, given the same circumstances.”
An eerie pitch sang from the gallery. One long, lonely note resounded and swirled throughout the hall as if an angel swept down and requested their silence.
Hugh’s breath caught as Charlotte used the fiddle, not to produce a foot-stomping ditty, but the strings sang a ballad so melancholy, gooseflesh rose across his skin. Aye, he’d heard countless minstrels when they’d stopped in Glencoe to play, but he’d never heard anyone make a fiddle sing hauntingly like the entire world wept.
