The Fearless Highlander (Highland Defender Book 1)

by Amy Jarecki

  Infused with a brilliant idea, Charlotte sprang from her bed with purpose and hastened to eat the breakfast Emma had brought.

  How could she be so dim-witted when the buzzing village of Inverlochy lay just beyond Fort William’s gates? And what did they have there? Just like any town west of Scotland’s Great Divide, Inverlochy was full of Highlanders.

  She’d witnessed Sir Robert’s generosity, and Hugh had told her about the Baronet of Sleat’s reaction to being “Glencoed”. Yes, Highlanders had actually started using it as a verb. She’d even heard Emma say, “The clans are scared. No soul in all of Scotland wants to be Glencoed.”

  Well, Charlotte would harness that generosity. “Emma, I need your help.”

  “Oh no.” After tucking in the bed linens, the chambermaid held up her palms. “You’ve only just arrived. Your father would murder Farley if he took you back to Meall Mòr.”

  Charlotte groaned. “My, you are unduly preoccupied with that.”

  “Well, ’tis the only thing I can imagine you’d need help with, considering how you carried on yesterday.”

  Charlotte rested her spoon beside her bowl. “This morrow is a new day and there is much to do.”

  Emma wiped her hands on her apron. “Och, I do not like the sound of that either.”

  “Hear me.” Charlotte hopped up and held a chair for Emma.

  The chambermaid arched her eyebrows, then gave the bed a thump and tottered over. “This must be quite a scheme you’re plotting.”

  “It is.” Charlotte slid back into the chair opposite. “I’m going to set up a stall at the market. Papa will give me a table and canvas for a tent.”

  “Are you planning to sell something?”

  “No.” Charlotte smiled—oh heavens, did it feel good. “We’ll paint a sign that says: Help the Glencoe Victims.”

  “Collect alms for them?”

  “Alms would be nice, but they also need everything from shoes and clothing to cookware, tableware, tools and seed to plant come spring.” Charlotte left out weapons on purpose—if she even hinted at supplying the MacIains with arms, her father would hear of it and then her plan would be foiled.

  Emma drew a hand to her chest. “Ooo, I do like it, Miss Charlotte. And what a good use of your time whilst you wait for responses to your father’s letters.”

  Charlotte rose and clapped. “We must start straight away. First I’ll ask father for the supplies we need—and I know exactly where I can find a board and a bit of paint for the sign.”

  “And I’ll ask Farley to spread the word through town. Everyone can part with something.”

  Charlotte clasped Emma’s hands. “Make sure he stops at the churches—I’d love to hear the reverend preach about it on Sunday.”

  Emma grinned, her eyes dancing with excitement. “I do believe you’ve come up with a brilliant idea to help those poor souls.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Easter week came quickly as the snow in the mountains began to melt. Again slipping to Loch Linnhe under cover of darkness like the scourge of the Highlands—an outlaw on his own land, Hugh and Og met Sir Robert Stewart and boarded his galley. They sailed through the Sound of Mull and up the west coast, all the way to the tip of the Isle of Skye.

  The grand fortress of Duntulm Castle loomed atop a rocky promontory with sheer cliffs on three sides. Better yet, its remote location ensured it was out of sight by all but the government-arse-kissing MacLeods. Though that mattered not at all. Tents bespeckled the foreground, giving the impression of a grand fete including Highland games. Nary a ship sailing past would suspect an Easter celebration to be a gathering of Jacobite forces—unless they knew Hugh and Alasdair Og MacIain were present.

  Unsure whom they could trust, Hugh and Og kept to the shadows without participating in any games. Lord Donald MacDonald wanted nothing to appear suspicious, thus the festivities took place while Hugh waited. His brother seethed angst out his pores as together they sat on the hill looking down on the games. All the while, Hugh rubbed his fingers over the kerchief Charlotte had made for him. The heather she’d embroidered reminded him of her eyes.

  God, he ached for her.

  Hugh made use of his time, sizing up the contenders, making mental note of those who showed physical superiority. By all rights he and Og should have been competing. Hugh had never met a man who could best him at wrestling, or Og at the caber toss.

  Hugh had just about spent his patience when on the second eve, the Baronet of Sleat called a meeting of the chieftains in the great hall. His guards bolted the door and guarded the entrances from the kitchens and the stairwell. Not even a single henchman was allowed inside—not even Alasdair Og.

  All the men sat around the table on the dais with Lord Donald at the head. Hugh took note of those in attendance. Christ, he’d been watching them for two days. He knew who was worth their salt and who needed an army behind him.

  The baronet pounded on the table with the butt of his dirk. “We all know why we’re really here.”

  “Aye to plot against the Williamite bastard who Glencoed MacIain.” This came from Ewen Cameron, the oldest man in attendance—even older than Da had been. He didn’t partake in the games, but his son and heir, Kennan, had been the best marksman of the lot.

  “I say we all fall upon Glenlyon and eliminate his entire line of Campbells,” said Ian Grant, a knife thrower, with hair black as coal. He very well could be the deadliest man in all of Britain.

  “Attack every red-coated stronghold from here to the border—that’s where we should set our sights.” Och aye, if Hugh wanted anyone to have his back it would be Coll MacDonald of Keppoch. A mammoth beast, the man had won the wrestling tournament—might even be as good as Hugh himself.

  Shouts of outrage rose to the rafters as Lord Donald pounded on the table demanding silence. “Meeting the government troops on the battlefield is all well and good, but I’ll not take up my arms until I’m sure we can win. My father buried enough of our kin after Killiecrankie and Dunkeld and, presently, I need some lads to come into their majority afore I march into battle.”

  “What do you propose?” asked Lachlan MacPherson. Hugh didn’t know the ruddy chieftain from Newtonmore very well. MacPherson hadn’t won a single game, but had placed in them all.

  The baronet must trust him, otherwise, his birlinn would not have made it ashore.

  “We need organization,” said Lord Donald. “You all have armies at your disposal. How many men can we pull together at a moment’s notice?”

  After going around the table, Hugh tallied three thousand. “We need ten times that.”

  “What about the Earl of Seaforth?” asked Allan MacDonald of Clanranald. The bonny young lad by rights should still be a squire at the age of ten and six, but his father’s untimely death left him with responsibility far exceeding his years.

  Hugh scratched his chin. “Indeed the earl would bring a sizeable army—and the MacRaes would follow for certain.”

  Donald frowned. “I sent Seaforth an invitation to our gathering, but received no response.”

  “Mayhap if you pay him a visit,” suggested the old Cameron chief. “An earl needs his ego stroked a bit.”

  “Very well.” Donald pointed to Robert Stewart who sat with parchment, quill and ink before him. “Our first entry will be to recruit more Jacobites to our cause.”

  As the victim who had been “Glencoed”, Hugh thoughtfully listened while the banter continued through the night—every man expressing his objections to King William and sharing widespread misdeeds by government troops. Though none of them had been put under fire and sword, they’d all had a gut full of red-coated dragoons taking their livestock in the name of the king, as well as countless other transgressions.

  It was far past the witching hour when Lord Donald asked Robert to read the creed the Jacobite chieftains toiled to compile that night. The most important tenet listed at the top of the final slip of parchment: To protect Highland families and their lands. This was
followed by things that all free men would expect: To support free trade. To rise against tyranny. To demand justice and equal rights for all. And finally, the last entry, the one by which every chieftain held up his tankard and pledged his oath: To support the reinstatement of the Stuart line on the throne of Scotland.

  In the wee hours they formed a secret society. They agreed to meet four times per year under the guise of Highland games. After everyone had sufficiently liquored up with whisky, the baronet opened a long wooden crate in the center of the table and pulled out the brands. “Hugh MacIain designed the sign of the Jacobite warrior. Every one of your fighting men will bear this brand.”

  “And each of us will be the first to be marked,” shouted Ewen.

  “Och aye.” Hugh held up his tankard. “Every Highland Defender shall be branded. No missive will be accepted except from a Defender!”

  “Sláinte!” bellowed every man at the table, including young Allan.

  The Baronet of Sleat placed the brands in the fire and the men shared another tot of whisky while they waited until the iron turned flame red.

  Hugh stood and handed the brand to Donald. “I’d like to be the first.”

  “Agreed. ’Tis proper for the son of Alasdair Ruadh MacIain MacDonald to be the first to pledge his oath.”

  Hugh removed his doublet and rolled up his sleeve.

  “Place your arm on the table.” Donald held the brand so close, the heat singed the fine hairs on the underside of Hugh’s arm. “Do you swear to uphold the creed of the Highland Defenders, inscribed this night by the chieftains who live by its doctrine?”

  “I so swear.” Hugh gnashed his teeth as his flesh sizzled under the agonizing pressure of the brand. Sweat dribbled from his brow as his entire body shook. But he uttered not a sound.

  One by one, each of the two and twenty chieftains in attendance presented their arms for branding. There may have been a few restrained grunts, but every single man bore his pain with stoic determination.

  With the sun’s rise, pounding resounded from the hall door. Lord Donald nodded to the guard who opened it to a runner waving a missive. “I’ve a copy of the Paris Gazette sent up from our allies in Edinburgh.”

  The baronet beckoned the man forward and read the article. Then he looked up and grinned. “If this does not light a fire under William of Orange’s arse, I fear we’ll all be damned.”

  Sir Ewen picked it up and read aloud, translating the French:

  “The Liard of Glencoe was butchered several days ago in the most barbarous manner, although he was amenable to the present Government…” The article went on about Glenlyon’s involvement and the men, women and children who were murdered and how such barbarity made all nations see what little trust could be placed on those in power. Unfortunately it named Governor Hill as an accomplice in the massacre—the very man Hugh was counting on to help him gain his lands back. Nonetheless, it was a black mark for the Williamite Party—one that would sour the king’s reputation across Europe.

  Sir Donald spread his arms and faced the table of chieftains, now sallow with pain from their seeping brands and a night without sleep. “This is a fortuitous day, indeed. With our new alliance and with the strength of this message from France, we shall be heard.”

  “Sláinte!” the men bellowed.

  “Information is our strongest ally. I will ensure every Scottish town crier receives a copy of the Gazette.”

  ***

  A storm tossed the birlinn through choppy seas on the voyage back to Appin. After they sailed through the Sound of Mull and into Loch Linnhe, Hugh looked to the north. His heart twisted into a goddamned knot. Hell, looking up toward home hurt worse than if he’d had his entire body branded.

  As they approached Castle Salker, Hugh’s mouth watered. Eight miles up the coast was the outlet to Loch Leven. And around that bend was home.

  Moreover, twenty miles further up was Fort William and his Charlotte. God, he’d missed her in the few weeks of her absence. He missed the subtle calming brushes of her fingers, her ever present, stalwart support as he battled with his men to provide for the survivors. If only he could sail there now.

  But he was still a wanted man.

  Would he ever be free from the shackles that kept him from freedom? Would the words of the Gazette and letters from Colonel Hill be enough to exonerate him?

  Thousands of times he’d told himself Charlotte was better off with her da. She could sleep in a warm bed, bathe in a proper tub. She had Mrs. MacGregor to tend her and beautiful gowns as any woman of her station should be clad. Charlotte wouldn’t have her food rationed and she could warm herself by a hearth of stone on cold nights.

  If only Hugh could have provided her with enough warmth.

  But he was still living in poverty. The plaid on his back had worn and hung on his limbs like a rag.

  What was Charlotte doing now? Had the physician resumed his pursuit of her hand?

  That bloody, pasty codfish. I’ll wager he never put in an honest day’s work in his life.

  “Are you coming ashore, or are you aiming to stare northwards for the rest of your days?” asked Og.

  “Huh?”

  “You haven’t moved since we sailed into Loch Linnhe. Everyone’s stepped ashore except you, brother.”

  Hugh cleared his throat and straightened his sword belt. “Then there’s no time to waste. We’ve supplies to haul up the mountain afore daylight on the morrow.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Regardless of the weather, Charlotte worked in the tent not simply during Wednesday markets, but she manned her stall every day, asking people to extend their generosity. “Please. We will accept anything to ease the suffering of the victims of the massacre,” she repeated so many times the words filled her dreams. She would have preferred to dream about Hugh, but he only managed to consume her every waking thought.

  After the circulation of the article from the Paris Gazette implicating her father in the “butchering”, things in the market became uncomfortable.

  “You should help those poor souls,” a woman snapped as she shoved a pair of knitted stockings into Charlotte’s hands. “The sooner they tear down the walls of Fort William, the better.”

  Charlotte bit her lip while heat burned her cheeks. Indeed, her father’s association with the whole abominable affair was unforgiveable. But with the ever present dragoons, she couldn’t voice her disapproval too loudly, else they just might gripe to her father and her alms collection service would be shut down. On the other hand, the locals’ taunts were but whispers for the same reason—berating the colonel’s daughter with soldiers looking over their shoulders could earn them a day locked in the stocks.

  At least Emma stood beside her faithfully. The MacGregor woman was of tough stock and she could take the whispers as well as dish them out. “At least Miss Hill is doing something to help them.” She looked the woman up and down. “I don’t see you clambering to stand out in the wind and rain to set up a tent and collect alms for the poor souls hiding and freezing in the mountains.”

  Charlotte offered a polite smile to the woman. “Thank you ever so much for the stockings. Your generosity will be rewarded handsomely come Judgement Day.”

  Together they stood shoulder to shoulder while they watched the woman walk away, basket in hand. Emma chuckled. “I like the bit you added about Judgement Day.”

  Charlotte covered her grin with her fingers. “A pair of stockings? Bless it, they’re nearly worn through, and by the looks of her mantle and overshoes, it would have made no difference to her purse to put five pounds in the alms chest.”

  “Even a few guineas would have been nice.”

  Rubbing her fingers over the wooden box, Charlotte sighed. “A few guineas from anyone would be wonderful. When I counted last night we had a score of farthings, two guineas and five and ten pennies.”

  Emma shrugged. “At least we’ve been given plenty of blankets.”

  She had a point there. They’d been gi
ven the odd petticoat and a few shirts—mostly rags, but Charlotte set herself to task mending holes and seam tears in the evenings.

  The chambermaid picked up a blanket and refolded it. “We ought to be able to take these things up the mountain soon.”

  Charlotte’s stomach squeezed. “Papa wants to wait until he can deliver good news.”

  “I’d sooner believe pigs would fly than the Master of Stair back down.”

  Charlotte refused to allow doubt to cloud her mind. “Fortunately, King William ranks above Lord Dalrymple—if it were up to the viscount, the government troops would have butchered all Jacobites, rather than making an example of one notorious clan.”

  Emma cringed like she’d tasted something bitter. “Did your father say that?”

  “Yes.”

  “I thought no less.” Emma picked up the stockings and put them in the burlap bag for safekeeping.

  “My dear Charlotte, how goes the benevolent collection?” Doctor Munro stopped in front of the tent and regarded the sign.

  Her hackles prickled at the back of her neck, but she forced a smile. “We’ve collected nearly fifty blankets and numerous pieces of clothing.”

  The physician used his pincer fingers to lift the corner of one of the far-less-than-new plaids. “I suppose even a dog needs a blanket to lie upon.”

  “How dare you?” Charlotte quipped.

  Tipping up his chin, Doctor Munro advanced toward her. “You, madam, are lacking in the good sense to stay away from matters that shine you in an ill light.”

  “Oh?” Moving her hands to her hips, Charlotte looked the braggart in the eye. “I am quite assured of my choices.”

  “Giving up a life of privilege for one of misery?” The physician sniffed. “You are a fool and I am fortunate not to have made the folly of marrying you.”

  Charlotte snapped her hand to her chest. “Well, I’ve never been—”