“Do shut up! We cannot possibly win the day under such impossible odds. There is no hope, Captain. You must tell the men to do the best they can and keep fighting. For King and country! All we need is….” He swallowed uneasily. “We need time to raise the white flag of surrender.”
“Shall I do that now, sir?” Jones asked.
Gregory considered that for a moment. “No! We cannot give up too soon. We mustn’t go down without a fight. Let us press on! Perhaps we can still turn things around. Go back out there and command your men to keep fighting. At any cost. It will strengthen our position in negotiations if we do not back down too quickly.”
Captain Jones’s eyes filled with a look of disillusionment. “Yes, sir. We will keep fighting until we see your white flag.”
“Good man.”
Jones left Gregory’s quarters.
Gregory shut the door and turned quickly to Roberts. “If it truly is the Butcher of the Highlands out there, there is no hope for anyone. We must leave here, Lieutenant. We must find a way to the stables and mount two horses and escape.”
Roberts frowned at him.
“We must survive and reach Edinburgh in order to file a report…and to fight another day,” Gregory explained. “Dammit, Roberts, don’t look at me like that. Do you want to live, or don’t you?”
“I do, Colonel, but shouldn’t we raise the white flag?”
Gregory hauled back and smacked Roberts hard across the cheek with the back of his hand. “You know nothing of the Highlands, you bloody fool. If we surrender to the Butcher, we will die, for he is the most savage Scot who ever lived. Every man must fight for his own survival. We must leave here immediately, so that we may report what has occurred and retaliate when we are better able.”
“Live to fight another day,” Roberts replied despairingly.
“Exactly. Now get me to the stables.”
“Yes, sir.”
Gregory picked up his pistol and followed Roberts into the corridor.
* * *
Logan dodged the soldier’s bayonet charge and grabbed hold of the barrel end of the musket, whirling the man around and swinging him off his feet. The weapon slipped from the soldier’s hands, and Logan spun around to point the blade at the man’s chest.
“I surrender!” he called out, raising his hands in front of his face. “Please, Butcher, don’t kill me! I don’t want to die!”
For a few intense, heart-stopping seconds, Logan glared down at the man who just had tried to run him through, and saw nothing but a lad. He couldn’t have been more than fourteen.
Logan’s heart beat thunderously in his ears, drowning out the sounds of chaos and violence all around him. He stood motionless, arrested on the spot, faltering….
Suddenly, Mairi’s face flashed in his mind.
“Hands on your head,” Logan commanded. “Get up on your feet and march over to that wall, then get down on your knees.”
Logan called out to Tomas who was fighting about twenty paces away. “Tomas! Those who surrender will be taken prisoner!”
“What?” Tomas replied with bewilderment, for that had never been part of their plan.
In that moment, Logan saw a flash of red—two British officers running down the steps toward the stables.
“Sweet Mother of God,” Tomas said, witnessing the same thing and finishing off his opponent. “That’s Colonel Chatham!”
Chatham and his lieutenant ran into the stables and emerged seconds later, astride two bays.
“Yah! Yah!” They galloped headlong toward the open gate.
Logan shouted at the British soldiers who were still fighting. “Look there! Your colonel is deserting you! If you want to live, surrender now! Lay down your weapons and you will be taken prisoner!”
The fighting slowed to a hush as Chatham and his lieutenant galloped across the bridge and disappeared into the night.
For what seemed an eternity, the soldiers of the garrison paused and caught their breath. They glanced around at each other, uncertain what to do.
Then a voice sounded from the far side of the bailey. “We will never surrender! Keep fighting, men! In the name of King George!”
“I’ll get him,” Tomas grumbled. He raced across the blood-soaked ground, leaping over dead bodies along the way, to extinguish the booming voice of the Englishman who had deemed himself their new leader.
Logan turned back to the boy he had just escorted to the wall and felt the breath sail out of his lungs. There was a pressure in Logan’s gut, which quickly exploded into a fierce burning. He looked down and saw the handle of a knife sticking out of his belly.
“Damn…” he whispered.
The boy who had charged him with the bayonet ran off. Logan turned to watch him, and dropped wearily to his knees.
Just then, the boy was shot in the back. He fell forward in a bungled heap, lifeless on the ground, while Logan gazed down at the blood seeping across his own shirt.
Chapter Twenty-two
Father?
Logan wasn’t sure how long he had been lying on his back, staring up at the twinkling stars in the sky. The moon was especially beautiful beyond wispy, floating clouds. All the sounds of battle had faded to nothing.
We did it, Father. The English are beaten and their colonel has fled. The Campbells will soon have their castle back, and your old friend Tomas will be here to guide them.
The pain in Logan’s belly melted away. There was only a cool, numbing sensation spreading from his core to all his extremities.
Fitzroy is dead too, and Darach is alive in France. I wrote him a letter. Perhaps he will return one day.
A tingling awareness danced across Logan’s flesh and he began to feel cold. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine a hot summer day.
The sun beat down upon him.
Mairi gave him a dazzling smile at the edge of the creek where he once kissed her.
I’m sorry, Mairi. I wanted to come home to you and Hamish, to live a peaceful life. No more killing.
He thought of the boy soldier.
You were right. Killing darkens the soul. And yet….
* * *
Logan heard a voice in the distance.
“Captain Kearney! Do you have the key to the powder magazine? We need only light a fuse!”
Kearney?
Somehow, Logan found the strength to sit up and look around. He saw an officer running across the bailey. “I am on my way!” the man shouted.
No, you are not.
Logan reached for his sword, which lay in the dirt beside him, and wrapped his bloodied hand around the grip.
Captain Kearney arrived at the door to the powder magazine and dug into his pocket to search for a ring of keys, while the other man who had beckoned to him was shot dead beside him. Blood splattered onto Kearney’s cheek. He watched the man drop, then fumbled faster to find the key.
Logan stood up and gritted his teeth. He set his feet apart, planted them firmly on the ground, then slowly, carefully, pulled the knife out of his stomach. Blood gushed forth from the open wound, but he ignored the pain as he let the knife fall from his grasp. He focused on Kearney and nothing else.
Logan envisioned what that despicable scoundrel had done to Mairi five years ago. A mixture of white-hot fury and vile, black hatred oozed from his soul. He quickened his pace and reached Captain Kearney just as he was inserting the key into the lock.
“Are you Captain Joseph Kearney?” Logan asked, while the whole world turned red before his eyes. Rage—and a ravenous desire to kill a thousand times over—exploded in his head. He found himself amending a previous thought.
No, Mairi, you were not right. Peace is not for me. I am a warrior. I will kill this man and gladly die a warrior’s death.
Captain Kearney, initially distracted by the task of unlocking the door to the powder magazine, turned around. He glanced down at Logan’s bloody shirt and the heavy claymore in his hand, which Logan held low at his side, for he did not possess the stren
gth to lift it.
“Yes, I am he,” Kearney said. “Who are you?”
“The name is Logan Campbell, and you raped my wife.”
Kearney’s eyes narrowed with derision as he slowly reached for his sword. “I have no idea what wife you are referring to, savage, because I’ve raped too many Campbells to count.”
Just as he drew his blade from the scabbard, Logan pulled his pistol out of his belt and blew a hole in Kearney’s guts. Kearney fell lifelessly to the ground.
With a dark satisfaction that bordered strangely on indifference, Logan stepped over him and pulled the armory key out of the lock. He placed it in his sporran for safekeeping. Then he stumbled slowly along the wall, dragging the tip of his sword through the dirt, toward a quiet place in the corner of the bailey, behind two wooden barrels. He used his sword to keep his balance as he lowered himself to his knees. Then he lay down on his back, looked up at the sky again, and listened to the sounds of the night.
The battle was coming to an end. There was no more musket fire. No screams of agony. It was done.
Tomas bellowed from the rooftop. “The castle is ours!”
A cheer rang out from below.
But Logan could not cheer. All he could do was lay quiet and still, wondering if his soul would float to Mairi and stay with her forever on the croft in the glen. Or would he go straight to heaven…or to hell?
Hell, most likely.
“Joseph Kearney is dead,” he whispered to Mairi. “He will never lay a hand on you again.”
I’m sorry I could not forgive.
He felt a cold shiver run through him. Logan’s eyes fell closed. When he opened them a moment later, he was gazing up at the face of a rugged, aging Highlander with a long beard.
“Father…?”
Then Logan was lifted from the ground, and taken away.
Chapter Twenty-three
Mairi was on her knees at the creek, filling a bucket with water, when she heard the approach of a horse and rider from across the field. Quickly, she got to her feet and set the bucket down on the creek bank. Leaving it there, she gathered her skirts in her fists and ran toward the house.
“Please, Logan, let it be you….”
Her voice faltered and her stomach dropped when she reached the house and saw that it was not her husband trotting into the yard, but a MacDonald warrior she did not recognize, ponying a second riderless horse behind him.
The Scotsman was a large man with freckles, a red beard, and a gruesome-looking scar that ran diagonally across his face from his temple to the bottom of his nose.
“Good morning,” he said, sitting high in the saddle, leaning forward over the pommel. “Am I in the right place? Are you Mairi Campbell?”
Isla came out the front door while wiping her hands on a washcloth, and greeted him. “Aye, you’re in the right place,” she said. “Who are you?”
“The name is Gawyn MacLean. I come with news from Leathan Castle.”
“Good Lord,” Isla replied. “Come into the house.”
Speechless, Mairi stared at the man as he dismounted, for she couldn’t seem to think or move beyond the rising tide of apprehension that clouded her thoughts.
Gawyn glanced at her only briefly as he passed by, as if he were hesitant to deliver the message. Her heart throbbed in her chest and she had to fight to keep her emotions in check, for she feared the worst.
She followed him inside and spotted Hamish in the chair by the window darning one of his own stockings—which Isla had insisted he learn how to do. He had poked a hole in it with his big toe.
“Hamish, go outside and fetch the bucket of water I left down at the creek,” she said.
Her son gazed with fascination at the monstrous, red-haired warrior who stepped across their threshold. “But ma….”
“No arguments, Hamish. Go now, please.”
He let out a huff and shuffled dejectedly out of the house.
Gawyn waited for Hamish to go, then turned to Mairi. “I have good news and bad news.”
“Start with the good news,” Mairi said.
“Right.” Gawyn cleared his throat and fidgeted with the tartan that was draped over his shoulder. “The invasion was a success and the Campbells reclaimed the castle. The Redcoats who surrendered were taken to the prison where they are being held until confirmation arrives that the English will not retaliate or try to drive the Campbells out again. What else…?” He paused and searched his mind for the rest of his speech, which it appeared he had rehearsed many times. “Oh yes. Negotiations are taking place as we speak, and we have the support of the Duke of Moncrieffe, who is close to the King. In light of the fact that Colonel Chatham was both a tyrant and deserter, we have every reason to believe that all will work out in our favor and Leathan Castle will be lawfully restored to the Campbell clan.”
“What about Logan?” Mairi quickly asked. “Is he all right?”
Gawyn hesitated. A sick feeling crept into Mairi’s stomach.
“That’s the bad news, lass,” Gawyn said. “Logan was gravely wounded during the battle.”
“Gravely…”
“Aye. He was stabbed in the belly. They tried to fix him—they had the British army surgeon working on him, but—”
“But what?” She stepped forward impatiently.
“When I left, he hadn’t regained consciousness and a fever had set in. He was in a bad state, Mairi. He lost a lot of blood, and I suspect the infection has already….” He stopped himself. “Tomas sent me to tell you this because they wish to bury Logan at Leathan, next to his father. Tomas thought you would want to be there.”
“Wait a moment….” She shook her head as if to clear it. “You mean to tell me that when you left the castle, he was still alive?”
“Aye lass, but just barely, and that was three days ago. I swear I’ve been praying for him every step of the way, but I don’t want you to get your hopes up. You must prepare yourself.”
She blinked a few times, half in a daze.
“I must go there at once,” she said, moving to her bedroom to gather up what she would need. “Will you take me?”
“Of course. That’s why I’m here, lass. I only wish I had better news for you.”
Gawyn remained in the kitchen with Isla who offered him something to eat before they headed out.
* * *
Three days later, after a grueling trip across the Highlands with little rest and no time to spare, Mairi and Gawyn reached a crest on the hill overlooking a loch, where they saw, in the distance at last, the impressive stone bastion that had recently been reclaimed by the Campbells.
Mairi had never seen the castle with her own eyes. She had only heard tell of it from Tomas and others. Seeing it now caused a stirring of pride in her, for it was Logan’s birthright and her clan’s indestructible stronghold in the Highlands. It was doubly gratifying to know that it had been recovered through an alliance with the MacDonalds and even a few MacLeans—all former enemies.
“Let us hurry,” she said, kicking in her heels to urge her horse into a gallop along the top of the cliff. “I cannot bear it. What if we are too late?”
“I’ll keep praying,” Gawyn said as he followed.
* * *
The guards patrolling the battlements on the rooftop recognized Gawyn immediately as he and Mairi approached, and the heavy gate lifted. Mairi followed Gawyn across the wooden bridge into the bailey, where she quickly dismounted and asked the groom about Logan. “Do you know if he lives?”
The groom stared at her with wide eyes. “Are you the Butcher’s bride?”
Her eyebrows pulled together into a frown and she shook her head agitatedly. “No, I am Mairi Campbell. I am wed to Logan Campbell. Is he alive?”
The groom’s cheeks flushed with color as he regarded her uneasily. He pointed toward a set of windows on the second level of the castle, which overlooked the bailey. “Go there,” he said. “They will answer your questions.”
Mairi handed her horse
over to the groom and turned to Gawyn, who merely shrugged. “Let’s get ourselves up there,” he said.
A moment later, Gawyn was pounding his big fist on the heavy oaken door. “Open up! Is anyone there? It’s Gawyn and Mairi!”
The door opened fast, and Mairi found herself gazing up at Tomas.
“Oh, Tomas!” She rose up on her tiptoes and wrapped her arms around his big shoulders.
“My dear, sweet lass. I’m so glad you made it. I wasn’t sure what would happen when you learned of Logan’s fate.”
She stepped back to accept whatever painful truth Tomas was about to deliver. “What do you mean, his fate? Am I too late?” Her throat closed up and her eyes filled with tears.
“Nay, lass, you’re not. The fever broke two days ago, and he’s been cranky as a bear, asking for you every minute since. I thought you’d never get here.”
“He is alive?” Mairi gazed up at Tomas with wonder and disbelief. Am I dreaming?
“Aye, lass.”
Tomas smiled with laughter and her heart burst open with bright and bottomless joy. She covered her mouth with her hands as relief poured through her trembling body. “Thank God!”
“In all my years,” Tomas added, “I’ve never met such a fighter. Come in, come in.”
Mairi entered a large room that appeared to be a study of some kind with a desk in front of a window. “Where is he?” she asked.
Tomas pointed. “Through there.”
She crossed to a closed door that led to another room beyond, and placed her hand upon the latch.
“But be careful, lass,” Tomas warned, following behind her. “He’s not fully mended yet. He’s still very weak. Go easy on him.”
Mairi opened the door to a darkened bedchamber where the curtains were drawn. To her relief, there lay her sleeping husband in an enormous four poster bed…alive.
Slowly, with her insides still quaking with elation, she moved across the stone floor to the carpet where she stood at the foot of the bed, staring at her husband as he lay beneath nothing but a thin white sheet.
How could this be possible? How can I be so blessed?
Taken by the Highlander Page 15
