Legacy of the Highlands

by Harriet Schultz

  He walked purposefully down what was once the center aisle of the cathedral, past the resting places of knights and bishops entombed more than eight hundred years earlier. The elements had worn away the nave’s stone floor and his shoes squeaked as he walked over wet grass toward the shelter of the octagonal chamber house where he was to meet the others.

  “Whose daft idea was it to gather in this ice cold place?” groaned Ian Lindsay the instant Mackinnon entered the gray stone hall.

  “We could have done our business in a pub or at least at a cozy teashop, couldn’t we have?” added John Malcolm. “My feet are fair frozen. A cuppa and a scone would be good about now.”

  “Christ, you lads sound like a bunch of yammering women,” Mackinnon shot back. “And what have you to say, young Duncan? What’s your complaint?”

  The man he called young Duncan was no less than forty, but the other men had been friends of his dead father, so to them Duncan Buchanan would always be a lad.

  “No complaints about the place, but what age must a man reach before you stop attaching “young” to his name?” Duncan asked peevishly.

  Their good-natured laughter echoed off the building’s stone walls and elaborate vaulted ceiling. Mackinnon leaned against one of the massive columns that supported the structure.

  “Maybe this will help,” he said, grinning as he pulled a flask from his pocket. “I know it will ease the ache in my old bones.”

  “Is it whiskey?” young Duncan asked hopefully.

  “Aye,’tis. And what else would I bring for refreshment, a fizzy drink? Of course it’s whiskey,” he said as he unscrewed the cap and raised the silver flask to his mouth before passing it to the next man.

  “I hope Michael arrives soon so we can begin. Why didn’t he ride down with you?” John Malcolm asked Mackinnon. “We’ve never held a meeting without him.”

  “He sends apologies and thinks me capable to act in his stead,” said Mackinnon somewhat peevishly. “One of Michael’s bairns tumbled out of a tree this morning and apparently broke his arm, so Michael’s off to hospital with the wee laddie. He didn’t want us to delay on his account, so I’ll fill him in when I return to Inverness.”

  The other men nodded their understanding, but there was some throat clearing to cover their grumbling. They’d have to be satisfied that nothing they discussed this day would be carried out without Michael’s okay. Mackinnon ran on emotion; Michael Graham tempered his ruthlessness with intellect.

  “Now to business,” said Mackinnon, pleased to be in charge for once. “Ian, close those doors so we have some privacy. We’ll have fair warning if some tourist comes along.”

  Mackinnon paused until he was certain he had their attention. “I’m pleased to report that the police in Boston are still befuddled by the action we carried out and likely always will be. Nothing leads back to my Jamie. We’re in the clear, lads.”

  “And what of Cameron?” Ian asked.

  “Michael sent John Cameron a clear message that his treachery was responsible for his son’s execution. But we’ve no worries from him. Our man in Boston reports he’s behaved like the coward he is. His Da, God rest his soul, would be ashamed to have sired this particular Cameron. He’s not a man, or mayhap I should say he’s nay a Scotsman. Life in America makes men soft. I wager he’s the first Cameron who can’t even lift a broadsword, let alone wield one. He’s taken to the bottle like a babe to his mam’s breast.” The others harumphed their agreement.

  “Perhaps we shouldn’t be so certain of that,” cautioned Ian. “’Tis said that a Scot doesn’t fight until he sees his own blood. The sight of his only son’s blood could give a man like Cameron a thirst to spill ours.”

  “Not to worry lad, not to worry. Here, have another nip to calm your nerves.” Mackinnon extended the flask to Ian.

  “So it’s all settled then?” asked John Malcolm as he pulled his cardigan sweater tightly around his lanky frame, unsure if the chill came from the room’s damp or from the icy coldness of James Mackinnon’s words. Malcolm had been the only one to argue against Will Cameron’s murder. The lad was an innocent after all, but he had been out-voted.

  “It’s not quite settled, no,” responded Mackinnon. “Michael has received reports from America that trouble may come from a friend of the dead lad’s, a man called Diego Navarro. The two were like brothers I’m told. This Navarro has money and power and the ear of the lad’s widow. The lass is descended from Gillies Mor MacBain who struck down fourteen of the English single-handed at Culloden before the whoresons ran him through with a blade. Do ye know of him?” Mackinnon asked his attentive cohorts, who responded with muttered “nays.”

  “Christ, have ye no interest in our history?” he said with disgust. “They were fierce and bonnie fighters, the MacBains. Why, that clan stood shoulder to shoulder with my own people on Culloden’s front lines. I just canna abide harm coming to the lass and I told Michael so, but he has someone keeping an eye on the bonnie Alexandra on the chance she carries a Cameron in her belly.”

  “Aye, James. That makes sense,” said Buchanan. “With young Cameron gone, that clan is finished and John Cameron knows it. But it’s still useful for him to believe his son’s wife is in danger, no?”

  “Right. There’s no need to ease the devil’s mind or his guilt, but killing a lass is…” Mackinnon scratched his head as he searched for a word. “Well…it’s different, is all. But Cameron must understand that no one betrays us. No one! Like all of us, he took the blood oath and must abide by it — or his must die.”

  Chapter 18

  Diego was stunned that Alex had actually thrown him out of his own suite. What amazed him even more was that he’d obeyed her order to get lost. He’d stormed into the bedroom and when he emerged in shorts and a T-shirt, he’d muttered another Spanish curse and left. Alex had the power to make him crazy, yet he suspected that her brand of persuasion would work on John better than his. Whether she’d be able to handle whatever Cameron revealed worried him, and he was sorry to have put her in that position. He vowed to find a way to make it up to her.

  Alex had no doubt that Diego was hurt, and more than a little offended, that she’d ordered him to get out, but she wasn’t going to worry about the state of his oversized ego. The wreck of a man in front of her was more important, for the moment at least.

  She stood with her arms crossed, facing John. “It’s just you and me now and I need you to tell me the rest. You owe me that,” she coaxed and braced herself for what might come. Minus the volcano known as Diego, John seemed more composed — a good sign.

  “All right. I’m sorry that I’m having so much trouble explaining all of this and I apologize for implying that you were having an affair with Navarro. There’s some history between our families and it was a gut reaction. I know you wouldn’t get involved with a man like him. What do you want to know?” All of the fight had gone out of him and he was acting more like the confident man he’d been before Will’s death.

  Alex hadn’t missed John’s reference to the Navarros, but she let it go. Her fingers were ice cold and she leaned forward to wrap her hands around the coffee pot, but it wasn’t warm so she rewrapped herself in the comforter from Diego’s bed.

  “You told us that your father was involved in some Scottish organization. Can we go back to that?” She wanted to hear more about Mackinnon, but guessed that a chronological telling would be easiest for John. She was less sure than Diego that John was in any way responsible for Will’s murder. The Camerons might appear to be heartless, but Alex knew how much they’d loved their son. They would never put their only child in harm’s way. Will had once told her they’d never even spanked him.

  John took a couple of deep breaths, removed his blazer, and loosened his silver and navy striped necktie. He carefully rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt just as Diego had done earlier. Alex was freezing, but the two men obviously had some internal source of heat. He rubbed his hands over his face and then, with a faraway look
in his eyes, resumed his tale.

  “I already told you that my ancestor, John Cameron, was a clan chief and one of the signatories of the Declaration of Arbroath. To Scots that means he’s something like George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin — at least that’s what my father drilled into me. Naturally this ancestor became my hero, especially since I had the same name. My fate, I guess.” He shrugged, then continued without a prompt from Alex. “My father filled my head with glorious, heroic tales of Clan Cameron, how generations of my family fought for Scotland’s freedom, and how it was my duty to carry on this fight.”

  Alex was exhausted, her head ached, and she was anxious for him to get to the point. Her coffee was cold, but she gulped it anyway, hoping its caffeine might ease the pain behind her eyes. She knew she had to be patient with John, but it was increasingly difficult. “John, I don’t need to know all the history. Let’s focus on the present and why you think you caused Will’s murder.”

  John pulled his chair closer. She couldn’t look away from the intense expression in his gold-flecked hazel eyes; nor did she want to. He filled his lungs, exhaled forcefully, and began.

  “I’m a member of a secret organization called the Group of One Hundred. Our name comes from a phrase in the Declaration of Arbroath,” he said.

  “You mean that bit about never giving up as long as a hundred are still alive?”

  “Yes. We’ve tried to win Scotland’s freedom for centuries, sometimes openly and with our blood, but more often covertly,” he paused and sighed deeply.

  “So are you…a spy or some kind of terrorist?” she stammered. The very idea was ludicrous, but it seemed John Cameron had a lot of secrets.

  “Nothing so glamorous. In recent times, the Camerons’ only responsibility was to raise money to finance the struggle. When my father died, that job passed to me. It’s important to blur the trail of financial support that comes from what are best described as ‘questionable’ sources. I know how to do that. It may sound sleazy, but it’s done more often than anyone realizes. I’m not a spy and I’m certainly not a terrorist, but money laundering is illegal. I could wind up in prison.”

  “Oh!” she gasped.

  “Some of our support comes from countries and radical groups that take great delight in anything that hurts England. They have no interest in an independent Scotland, of course, but they want us to succeed in order to weaken the British government and to humiliate it.”

  “This is like a James Bond movie,” Alex said, astonished to discover that John Cameron was a money launderer and involved in anti-British conspiracies. Her head was spinning, but she closed her eyes and forced herself to concentrate. Diego would expect her to repeat all of this to him. Would he be as shocked as she was or might John’s shady side appeal to him? She wouldn’t be surprised if Diego even respected him as a kindred spirit.

  “I know it sounds crazy, but I saw myself as part of an ancient struggle for freedom. My father did an excellent job of brainwashing me with stories about the oppression and brutality of the English.” He bent his head and his voice dropped, “I was convinced that our cause was just. I still am. I simply couldn’t live with some of a few of the more fanatical members’ tactics.”

  “Did Will know anything about this?” she interrupted. She thought that John might have revealed his involvement once Will became interested in his Scottish roots. But then Will would have told her, wouldn’t he?

  “No, I never told him about what I did or the family’s connection to the group. I didn’t want to risk involving Will in any of this,” John said, his voice rising. “I’m still angry that my father brought me into it. Honor and duty, he said. Bullshit! This isn’t our struggle. So what if we are Camerons? My father thought of himself as more Scottish than American, but I don’t.” He shrugged and rolled his neck to ease its tension, then he suddenly smiled at her.

  “You’ll probably be shocked that my father was overjoyed when Will chose you as his bride. ‘Blood will out, laddie,’ he’d crowed. ‘Your son is marrying a Scottish lass, a descendent of Gillies MacBain, a Jacobite hero.’ But I was terrified that your father, or even you, might be part of the Group of One Hundred too, and would draw Will in. None of us know who all of the other members are. I eventually spoke to your Dad — God rest his soul — and he said your grandfather told him about the organization, but for the past 200 years the MacBains have had nothing to do with it. I neglected to tell him that I did.”

  Alex didn’t want to be distracted, but this tangent was worth pursuing. “Is that the reason you and Anne never approved of me? I don’t understand.”

  “Alex dear, there’s no defense for the inexcusable way we behaved toward you, but we feared your influence over Will. My father had researched your genealogy the way other families might run a Dun & Bradstreet check into a fiancée’s finances. For all I knew you could have been recruited into this group without your parents’ knowledge. I’d worked so hard to keep Will ignorant of his ties to Scotland and its battles and then when you two went to the Highlands…well.”

  “Shit,” she muttered. It always came back to that trip. Somehow their innocent vacation had sealed Will’s fate and Alex began to understand that the chill she’d felt from her in-laws for so long wasn’t merely disdain for her lack of social status, but sheer terror.

  “I was sure I’d see an independent Scotland in my lifetime,” John continued, “so there was no need for Will to know all of this or to have any obligation to become part of it. The fight would end with my generation. I was so wrong! My son might still be alive if I’d told him to be careful, especially after what I did.”

  He walked purposefully to the windows overlooking the Common and began to roll the sleeves of his shirt back down to his wrists in preparation to face the outside world again.

  “John.” Alex’s voice seemed to startle him. “I’m not through with you. A minute ago you said that Will might be alive if you’d told him about something you did. What exactly did you do to make someone want to kill him?”

  “Oh, right, I’m sorry. Give me a minute.” He returned to his seat the way a man might approach the gallows. It took some time for him to resume his explanation.

  “The condensed version is I found out that there were a few members of the organization who were buying material to build bombs. I wasn’t supposed to know, but because I was involved with the money, I came across proof that they were procuring weapons. When I refused to release the money until I knew what the arms were needed for, they tried to bullshit me until they finally admitted that they were going to carry out terrorist strikes in London. They fancied themselves the Scottish version of the IRA. I was outraged. Friends of mine were killed in the Twin Towers. I couldn’t allow other innocent people to be murdered in the name of some cause. I tried to talk them out of it, to convince them that violence made them no better than their despised Butcher Cumberland when he ordered the slaughter of innocent Scots after the ‘45. We’re so close to a political agreement with Westminster. Something this stupid would ruin our chances of ever again being taken seriously. But they wouldn’t listen, said their plans were already in motion and it was too late. I played along and gave them the money, but I had to stop them.”

  “And…” Alex prodded. She had to know. John’s face was flushed with anger, but he spoke very softly as if he didn’t want his confession to be overheard.

  “I contacted someone I trust in British intelligence and turned everything I knew over to him, including names. Of course I couldn’t reveal how I’d come by this information — that would incriminate me — but with the leads I provided, three men were arrested. One of those men is Mackinnon’s son. He must have known who Will was when he gave him that Arbroath document to deliver to me as a reminder of my oath — and as a warning. I was stupid to think they wouldn’t find out it was me who’d turned them in and even dumber to think they wouldn’t retaliate. I thought they’d come after me, if anyone, and if they killed me…well, so b
e it. But I should have protected my family, and that includes you. That was why I tried to find you after the funeral. I couldn’t live with myself if anything happened to you too.”

  “Me? What do I have to do with it? I may have the Cameron name, but I don’t share your blood.”

  “These aren’t rational people. Rational people don’t deliberately kill innocents like Will. You must be very careful, Alex.”

  “So it was a biblical eye for an eye? Your son for Mackinnon’s? My God! Was my husband a bit of collateral damage, the victim of an international conspiracy gone bad? Is that what you’re telling me?” Her voice was tinged with hysteria and there was roaring in her ears. When John nodded, she jumped up from the couch, but quickly sat again when her body began to sway.

  “Put your head between your knees and you’ll be all right,” he advised on his way out of the suite. She also heard him whisper, “it should have been me,” as he closed the door.

  She was furious that he’d been stupid enough to involve himself with fanatics in the first place and then to think he could expose them and escape unscathed. He may have wanted to protect Will, but how could a man as clever as John not even consider that his family might somehow pay for his actions? What an idiot! But something else was dancing around the edges of her anger. When she recognized the intruder as pity, she tried to banish it. She didn’t want to feel sorry for him, but it was there. Along with the sorrow of losing his son, she knew that John also carried an extra burden — unimaginable guilt.

  She’d been running on adrenalin for most of the afternoon and the tank was now below empty. Mission accomplished, she curled her body into a ball on the sofa, pulled the quilt around her shoulders and drifted away.

  When she opened her eyes the sun had gone down, taking with it the room’s natural light. She hadn’t heard Diego come in, but there he was, sitting on the floor with his head resting against the sofa, close to hers. As she stretched, trying to work the kinks out of her shoulders, she lazily ruffled his hair with her fingertips.