by Amy Jarecki
Hugh looked up to the sky. “Lord, you’d best put wings on Alexander. He’s the best bloody Highland angel you’ll ever see.”
Charlotte would make a bloody good angel as well. Hugh raised his fist. “But you can’t have her. She’s mine.”
A gust of wind hit him with such force, Hugh took a step back, thrusting his fist higher. “I mean it!”
He leaned into the wind and cast his gaze northward. Where was that damned birlinn? Hugh needed to get back to Meall Mòr before his people starved—or froze, and by the looks of the sky, another blizzard was brewing. God, he hated waiting for anything.
Ahead, Robert exited the stairwell, rubbing his shoulders. “Bloody hell, with the wind ’tis colder than a dip in an icy loch up here.”
“Aye. ’Tis at that.” Wearing nothing but his shirt with his plaid draped over his shoulders. Hugh refused to let the cold vex him—dammit, if Robert thought it was miserable atop Castle Stalker, he should spend a couple nights in the mountains with his kin.
Stewart waved his thumb over his shoulder. “You’d never believe who just rowed across from Appin.”
Hugh glanced over his shoulder at the southwestern corner of the keep. He hadn’t visited that side of the wall-walk at all. Was it Hill? Lead sank to the pit of his stomach. “Who?”
“The Earl of Breadalbane.”
Ballocks. “I thought you said I would be safe within these walls.” Hugh started toward the stairwell. Hell, he couldn’t risk being arrested and detained in the Inveraray Tolbooth at a time like this. “Where can I hide?”
Robert grabbed his arm. “He came alone.”
Hugh pulled up short. “What say you?”
“Aye, left his retinue waiting in the snow in Appin. Says he only wants to talk. Says he’ll surrender his weapons if necessary.”
“Bloody hell. What the blazes does he want with me?”
“Not sure, aside from a private audience with you.”
Hugh scratched his stubbled chin. Grey John Campbell, the Earl of Breadalbane was close to his age, but much shorter. Nonetheless, Hugh wasn’t about to take any chances. “No weapons?”
“Aye.”
“Very well.” Hugh might leave his sword and dirk behind, but he’d keep his sgian dubh hidden inside his sleeve as insurance. He’d never again be able to trust one single Campbell backstabber.
“He’s in my solar. You can meet with him there.” Robert chuckled. “My men have already relieved the earl of his weapons.”
When Hugh stepped into the solar, the earl was warming his hands at the fire, his brown horsehair wig curling well past his shoulders. He turned swiftly, raising his aristocratic nose. “MacIain.” He walked forward and held out his hand. “I cannot tell you how much it pleases me to see you escaped this heinous crime.”
Hugh looked down at the extended palm—white skin, smooth as a bairn’s arse. After a moment’s hesitation, he took it, crushing the bastard’s fingers until Breadalbane’s face turned scarlet. “To what do I owe this honor, m’lord?”
Reclaiming his hand, the man rubbed his knuckles and sat at the head of the table. “When news of the massacre reached me in London, I quickly sailed for home.” He gave an exaggerated shake of his head. “’Tis an abomination of the worst sort.”
“Aye.” Taking a seat at the other end of the table far enough away so he wouldn’t inadvertently strangle the cur, Hugh arched an eyebrow. “Word surely arrived in London with haste if you’ve had time to sail this far north in our tempestuous weather.”
Breadalbane pursed his lips, stretching his neck out of the cravat knotted tightly at his throat. “There is a faction of us who are concerned with the way the Master of Stair is conducting the king’s affairs during his absence in Flanders.”
“Oh? I have it from a good source the king’s signature was on the orders to put my entire clan under fire and sword.” Hugh drummed his fingers atop the table, watching the earl’s expression. “All those under seventy, I’m told.”
The man blanched. “Your sources are credible then?”
“Very.” Bless Charlotte Hill a million times a million.
Breadalbane sliced his palm through the air. “Be it known I had no hand in this.”
Hugh believed that as much as he believed in fairy shite. “Aye? You were completely unaware—unable to stop it?”
“By the time I uncovered the Master of Stair’s plan, it was too late.”
Hugh shrugged. It no longer mattered if the earl was lying through his teeth or not. “So, why are you here?”
Removing a kerchief from his sleeve, the earl dabbed the sweat beading on his upper lip. “I have a proposition for you.”
Hugh’s gaze trailed to the fire in the hearth. This conversation grew odder and odder. “For me?”
“I want no hand in this affair.” The kerchief disappeared from whence it came. “You are aware I tried to bring about Jacobite loyalty to King William peaceably.”
“Pardon?” Hugh could have hurled his breakfast atop Stewart’s fine walnut table. “Are you as full of shite as you sound? My father waited for days to sign the oath in Inveraray—when finally Campbell of Ardkinglas managed to show his face, Da signed it with as broad a signature as yours I’ll wager—and all while you sat beside your hearth with your countess.”
The earl’s Adam’s apple bobbed.
Hugh leaned further forward—another foot or two, and he’d be able to strangle that neck. By God, he would have his say. “As I recall, you offered payments to buy the highest ranking chieftain’s loyalty.” Hugh pushed back and rapped his knuckles on the table. “Except no compensation was offered to my father, nor were any payments forthcoming from London to compensate those who trusted you, m’lord.”
Breadalbane again tugged on his cravat. The codfish should have loosened it a bit before requesting an audience. Hugh had no intention of kissing his pasty arse, earl or no.
“The king’s coffers have been bled by the war in France.”
Hugh didn’t care about that either. The bloody war in France is what had prevented James II and VII from gaining support from King Louis. “Still, I do not see what that has to do with me or the fact that my kin are hiding, freezing. Damnation, most have nothing but a blanket on their backs.”
Sitting back, the earl regarded him down the length of his nose.
Hugh smirked. “Not one cow or sheep, or even a chicken was left in Glencoe. We were murdered by your cousin for God’s sake. Is there anything you can do to feed my starving kin? Cause if you cannot, this parley is over.”
“Good God, you’re as arrogant as your father.” The earl gave a woeful shake of his head. Aye, a philanthropist he was not.
But Hugh refused to play the bleeding heart. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
Breadalbane placed his palms on the table. “I did not condone Glenlyon’s actions nor would I ever agree to such an abuse of Highland hospitality. Sir, I have come to you with a proposition.”
Bloody oath, how long did Hugh have to sit there before the earl spat it out? He rolled his hand through the air. “I’m listening.”
“If you will swear and write under your hand that I am innocent of the slaughter, then I will use my influence to secure a full pardon and restitution for your clan.”
Hugh’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “What the blazes do I need a pardon for?”
“I-I agree—your father signed the oath, though six days past King William’s deadline.”
“Not for want of trying. Christ, he had the missive from Hill explaining that he’d gone to Fort William first.” Hugh’s nostrils flared as he took in a deep inhale. Devil’s bones, the man had a gargantuan set of cods. “And what could make me believe King William would give Clan Iain Abrach of the Coe a farthing or retract his order to annihilate us all? He hasn’t made good on a one of his promises to pay monies due. Even Colonel Hill has had difficulty securing back pay for his bloody dragoons.”
His gut twisting in a milli
on knots, Breadalbane’s proposal scraped against every nerve in Hugh’s body. Would he sell his soul to give his people the money they needed to start anew? Hell, yes! But he would not sign his name to aid a known backstabber with a history of making empty promises.
Hugh stood and opened the door. “You want exoneration from my father’s blood on your hands?” He made an exaggerated bow. “Then I suggest you seek one of your Protestant priests.”
Looming in the hallway beside Sir Robert, Lord Donald MacDonald removed his feathered bonnet. “Lord Breadalbane, what a surprise.”
The earl brushed past him with a scowl. “It was the Master of Stair and my worthless, wayward cousin. I had nothing to do with it. I told him this would come to no good!”
Hugh grinned for what felt like the first time in a decade as he watched the man stomp through the passageway to the stairwell.
The baronet held out his hand. “It looks like you made Breadalbane a wee bit hot under the collar.”
“Bloody oath I did.” Hugh gestured to the table. “Thank you for coming, cousin. We have much to discuss.”
When Hugh looked at the two faces staring at him across the table, he felt like a grandfather. Bless it, the Baronet of Sleat was only three and twenty—a year or two older than Charlotte. But these two young men had plenty of clout not only with the Jacobite cause, but with the Privy Council in Edinburgh. Taking his seat, Hugh told them about Breadalbane’s offer and his refusal.
Lord Donald ran his fingers through his thick, black tresses. “I understand your reasons, though it would have been good to sway him to our side.”
Robert snorted. “He’s a king’s man no matter who’s sitting on the throne. Bloody oath, after his uncle was beheaded by Cromwell, he’s afraid to piss without asking the king’s permission first.”
“Well then, we’ve more important matters to discuss.” The baronet flicked his wrist at Stewart. “Robert, have some ale sent up.”
“’Tis on its way.”
“Very well.” Eying Hugh, Lord Donald shook his head. “The western clans are infused with rage over this abomination. Hell, the Camerons are ready to take up arms and march on Fort William.”
“As am I,” said Hugh.
“But not while they’re expecting our retaliation.” The baronet looked between them, his hawk-like gaze emitting maturity well beyond his years. “While you were chatting with the earl, Robert showed me your account of Glenlyon’s heinous act. We need to ensure copies are made and they fall into the right hands.”
“Absolutely,” agreed Sir Robert. “This is news—the story needs to be told in every gazette across Europe—expose William for who he really is.”
Hugh nodded. “Fair enough. I say we send an original to King James in France.”
“Agreed,” said Donald. “And our allies in Edinburgh will see to it a copy is placed before the Privy Council. Not a Jacobite will rest until we gain restitution.”
Hugh pursed his lips. Breadalbane had just used the same word. Could there be hope? The clamminess spreading across his shoulders told him no. The government had declared war. “We must unite the clans. If we cannot gain support from the French, we have to build our forces within.”
Lord Donald slid his hand down his chin. “’Tis tricky, especially now William has made allies with Spain.”
A servant entered with a tray and Robert gestured to the table. “Leave it.” He reached for the ewer. “We must prepare. Be ready at all times.”
Hugh took a tankard and held it up for Robert to pour. “We have to meet—I want every clan chief to know what happened after my father traveled seventy miles in a blizzard to sign the bastard’s bloody oath.”
“Nay.” The baronet shook his head. “’Tis too dangerous to bring us all together at once.”
After he’d taken a swig, Hugh slowly placed his tankard on the table, his eyes narrowing. “How about under the guise of competition?”
“You look like you have an idea.” Lord Donald leaned forward on his elbow.
“For centuries clans have met to compete in Highland games. Why not hold an annual fete bringing all the western clans together?”
“At least those who support James.” Robert held up a tray of oatcakes, offering them to Lord Donald.
“My thanks,” said the baronet. “Once a year is not enough.”
Hugh threw up his hands. “Och, first you say ’tis too dangerous, and now an annual fete is not enough?”
Robert bit a bit of crunchy cake. “Quarterly?”
The baronet sipped his ale and eyed Hugh over his tankard’s rim. “Quarterly could work."
Och aye, Hugh would soon have all the Jacobite clans in his palm. “We must meet straight away.”
“Are your men ready to compete?” Robert asked.
Hugh knew they weren’t. Hell, he’d been weakened by hunger. “I am. Og, too.”
The baronet leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Let me think on it—Ewen Cameron will have something to say for certain.”
Oh no, Hugh wasn’t about to let this pass without setting a date. “Duntulm Castle. As soon as the snow melts.”
“April?” suggested Robert.
Donald shook his head. “Beltane.”
“Too late.” Hugh clamped his fingers around his tankard’s handle. “Easter is in early April this year. Tie it in with the holiday.”
“Holy week?” The young lord swirled the drink in his cup, his black eyebrows knitting.
“Why not?” Robert took another oatcake. “We could start the Monday after the ascension.”
“I like it.” Donald’s face lit up. “I do believe we have a plan, gentlemen.”
Hugh polished off his ale. “Hand me a quill and a bit of parchment.”
Robert complied. “Another statement?”
“Something I’ve been thinking of since the Battle of Dunkeld.” Dipping the quill into the inkwell, Hugh drew two dirks, making a square cross. “Any man bearing this sign branded on the underside of his forearm is with us.”
Robert flinched. “Branded?”
Hugh shoved the parchment toward him. “Are you milk-livered, or are you of true Highland stock?”
“A brand will serve to separate men from lads. I’ll have my smithy make the molds—one for each clan.” Raising his tankard, Lord Donald grinned. “We’ll see it done in April.”
Hugh and Robert followed suit, toasting in unison. “Sláinte!”
Thank God. Hugh and Charlotte could return to Meall Mòr with supplies from the Stewarts of Appin and news that the Jacobite cause had been rekindled.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Charlotte traveled back to the mountains with Hugh under cover of darkness. He could take no chances, and with the order for his death still fresh with ink, the threat of being killed by government forces was too risky. He had made every effort to be inconspicuous, wearing a dark blue mantle draped across his shoulders and an English three-pointed hat Sir Robert had given him. Through the darkness, Charlotte rode cradled in his arms while he led a milking cow and six pack mules laden with supplies—again due to the kind generosity of Sir Robert and Clan Stewart. Goodness, he’d even insisted on giving Charlotte the violin, saying that with fingers so deft, she should never go a day without making the instrument sing.
How the gentry in London could think so poorly of Highlanders, she would never understand. Ignorance was the only excuse. If only the Master of Stair could spend a sennight in Castle Stalker, he’d realize how mistaken his beliefs.
Still Charlotte could not rationalize Hugh’s plight—a fugitive in the mountains, unable to return to his own lands along the River Coe. The order for his death still hung over his head like a black cloud. Only the good Lord knew when any exiled refugee from Clan Iain Abrach would be free to live in peace again.
As the pack mules ascended the hills toward the shelter, warriors stopped them in a narrow gully with sheer cliffs on each side. Their shadowy figures faced them and in their hands the
y held branches fashioned into pikes—the weapons might be crude, but would be deadly all the same.
Hugh reined the horse to a stop. “Og has done a good job securing the pass.”
Tavis MacIain’s teeth shone through the darkness. “Both entrances are blocked.” He pointed to the cliffs above. “And we’ve plenty of boulders lined up to drop on the enemy’s heads.”
Charlotte cringed. The enemy could be her father, or any of the other men she knew from the fort.
“How are things?” Hugh asked.
“The same. Og shot a deer, but that used the last of the powder.” Tavis leaned on his pike. “Another half-dozen stragglers came into camp—had been hiding in the caves.”
“Good to hear.” Hugh inclined his head over his shoulder. “The Stewart gave us supplies. It’ll help some.”
The warrior peered around at Charlotte. “I see Miss Hill has returned for more misery.”
“I’d have it no other way,” she said before Hugh could speak for her. “I am a Jacobite now.” She’d never forget Alice’s words. Always the proper young lady, Charlotte never would have thought she’d become a rebel—but she had. Yes, indeed, she’d joined with the most notorious clan in Scotland.
***
Two weeks after the massacre saw the end of February, but no end to the bitter cold and blustery snow. Hugh had become withdrawn again, snapping orders and working like a dog from dusk until dawn. Nearly everyone busied themselves caring for the most basic of human needs. The men had put a new roof on the second shieling.
Trees had been felled, and lean-to’s hastily erected to give families much needed accommodation. The supplies of grain from the Stewarts quickly dwindled, and they lived mostly on broth made from rabbit meat simmering in the big cast iron pot suspended over the fire in the man cottage. Thank heavens for the small varmints, as most had fashioned rabbit pelts for shoes. Lord, Charlotte felt grimy, cold and downright miserable, yet she refused to complain.
The days droned on with little privacy and little compassion. Charlotte tried to work as hard as Hugh, tending the sick, hauling in snow to be melted, taking her turn cooking, serving, cleaning, mending, gathering firewood—the list of chores seemed endless as one short winter day blended into the next.
