“Alistair, why do the Campbells and MacDonalds dislike each other so much?” This seemed as safe a topic as any, and perhaps it might lead to more discoveries about my past. Though the most recent one— the recounting of my tantrum-throwing younger self— should have encouraged me to let my childhood go unremembered.
Alistair made the same noise in the back of his throat that Collin had earlier. “Dislike is too mild a word.”
“But why?” I did not particularly care what he labeled it. “You’re both Scotsmen, and Highlanders at that.”
“Being a Highlander doesn’t mean you get on with the other clans.” Alistair turned from the window toward me, warming, I hoped, to the subject. “MacDonalds and Campbells been enemies since before anyone can remember.”
“Do you know what started the feuding?” I asked, wanting much more of an explanation.
Alistair shrugged. “Hard to say. Though Mort Ghlinne Comhann made it lasting.”
At my puzzled expression, Alistair reverted to English again. “Glencoe in ’92.”
I still didn’t understand and so said nothing to this, but gave him what I hoped was a look encouraging him to continue.
“Don’t suppose you’d know about that.” Alistair rubbed his beard. “The MacDonalds of Glen Coe waited to pledge their fealty to the new king, you see. And William wasn’t particularly patient. For their reluctance, he ordered that all under age seventy be killed.”
“That’s terrible,” I exclaimed, imagining innocent women and especially children suffering a brutal death.
“Aye,” Alistair agreed. “Can’t say it’s Campbell history I’m fond of.”
“What had the Campbells to do with it?” I leaned forward in my seat, both eager for and dreading the answer.
“Campbells had been guests of the MacDonalds, staying a piece and getting on well— or so it seemed. But it was an act, and Sir Robert Campbell was the one who gave the order and led in the slaughter.”
“And were they— successful?”
Alistair nodded. “Near eighty dead— some from the sword; others froze after their homes were burned. Happened in February, and winter in the Highlands is no time to be without shelter.”
The bleak hopelessness I’d been able to fight off returned with vengeance. These Campbells— these barbarians— were whom I was going to live with. Whom I’ve descended from.
“Don’t go thinking we’re all bad,” Alistair said, as if he’d read my thoughts. “MacDonalds have done their fair share as well. And it’s them who are always stirring up the pot.”
“What do you mean?” I asked warily, fearing another bloody tale.
“Well—” Alistair paused, tugging on his beard this time, as if considering a great deal. “It’s like this. MacDonalds are known for their independence. They don’t want anyone telling them what to do. In ancient times, that worked well. They were the leaders, and respected at that. But when times changed and Scotland formed as one— and England wanted her— that fierce MacDonald independence became costly. For everyone.”
“The English kings punished everyone when some disobeyed.” I’d had enough history from my tutors to understand that much.
“That’s the crux of it,” Alistair said. “The MacDonalds would not give, whereas the Campbells— thinking of the good of all— have cooperated with the ruling powers. And at times, we’ve helped them, too. Probably more than we ought,” he added beneath his breath.
“You’re part of the Black Watch,” I said, recalling that tidbit from my lessons as well.
“Not now so much, but yes,” Alistair said. “Between that and Glencoe, we’ve made a powerful lot of enemies. Yet we’ve survived more than most because of our alliance with the king.”
“You sided with King George during the uprising?”
“Aye,” Alistair said. “We supported the side your grandfather knew would win.”
That seemed rather a lot to boast of, but I did not argue his point. The English had won. “I see.” Or I was starting to, anyway. My father’s conviction that the Highlanders should not be punished so severely and should be given back some of their rights was making more and more sense. As was the mystery surrounding my parents’ union. If the Campbells had been working with the English, was it not possible that some of the English soldiers might have visited with them, or stayed with them even, while stationed in the Highlands?
“Be time to stop and eat soon,” Alistair said, alerting me to the possibility that I might have the opportunity— wanted or not— to speak with my husband.
“Remember,” he continued, his voice kind and not stern. “Jealousy does not become you. And all is often not as it seems.”
He was speaking about the lass and me marrying. A grander delusion I could not imagine. She peeked around the corner again, then entered the great hall, vacant now, save for the laird and myself, sitting alone at the high table, the candle between us sputtering low.
“Come, Katie,” he said. Though he was facing away from her, and though she made no sound, he had somehow known she was there. Perhaps he had noted my gaze straying to her. Was it I who had given her presence away?
Chapter Ten
My jealousy had abated somewhat by the following afternoon, replaced by an acute loneliness that would not subside. With each passing hour it seemed the literal ache in my heart grew stronger. I wanted to believe this was caused by each mile traveled farther from my home. But I feared the reason otherwise.
Surly as he was, I longed for the companionship of my husband. But Collin had not spoken to me since yesterday morning. He had not ridden with me, nor even been anywhere near me. And though I feared it was Ian’s reminder of Mhairi that kept Collin away, I missed him and the hope I’d had for our companionship.
Alistair had not deemed it wise to impart any more of the past to me, but instead sat stiff and alert on the seat, ever wary of some unseen enemy. For the first time since our journey began, the Campbell party had become separated by considerable distance from the MacDonalds. Alistair said this was for our added safety, as we neared the border. If an English patrol were to happen upon us and choose to detain us, the MacDonalds would be in the rear, able to come to our rescue if need be.
I had my doubts that they would actually choose to do that— if need be— but kept those to myself. Ian had vowed that he would not spend another night on English soil, so it seemed that any delay, particularly one involving Campbells, was not likely to be tolerated.
As this was to be our longest day of travel, having begun well before dawn and set to end well after dark, with our crossing into Scotland, I’d slept in my gown, petticoats, and stays the night before, correct in my assumption that no assistance would be offered me at our early morning departure.
Before first light we’d left Newcastle behind and the thrilling glimpse of Hadrian’s Wall. How I would have loved to walk beside it, to touch the ancient stone and to see and feel the history I’d only heard from my tutors. But there was to be no stopping for such frivolity, no stopping at all. A bourdaloue sat on the floor in one corner of the carriage, having been provided for me— should I have need to relieve myself, Alistair had explained, his face heating to crimson. In other words, I was not to request that we stop today— for any reason.
Aside from this practicality, for the most part, I did not mind the long day. The rolling green hills and endless sky were enough to keep my mind occupied, imagining the landscapes I might paint. I finally saw a moor, rife with the purple Collin had described. I turned to the other side of the carriage, eager to point it out, only to recall that he was not there and would possibly never speak to me of moors or honey or the color of my hair ever again.
The hours crawled by, our progress good. The sun was now on my side of the carriage, forcing me to turn away from it and face Alistair, who’d today been nearly as silent as my husband.
“That’ll be trouble,” he said suddenly, scooting to the edge of the seat. His eyes flickered to mine, then to th
e bench beneath me as the carriage started to slow. I leaned out my window to see the cause of our delay, but Alistair pulled me back. “Keep your head. Stay calm.”
“I am,” I said even as a sea of redcoats surrounded us. Being both English and having grown up around soldiers, I felt at once that I should be the one to talk with them. We came to a complete stop. I stood, leaning over Alistair to reach the door.
He grabbed my wrist. “What do you think—”
His hand fell away as a soldier appeared in front of what was left of the door. I gave Alistair a brief smile, imparting confidence, I hoped, before the door swung open, and I accepted the soldier’s outstretched hand.
“Thank you, sir.” I turned my smile upon him and descended the carriage. “What a relief it shall be to stretch my legs for a few moments after such a long and tiresome ride.”
Alistair appeared directly behind me, his expression troubled. I sensed his dilemma at once— stay with me or with the weapons, which might ultimately save us, were we to find ourselves in trouble.
“No need to get out, cousin,” I said lightly. “I am certain this gentleman will behave.”
“You’ll remain in my sight,” Alistair said gruffly, his Scots’ brogue as evident as my English accent. I was going to have some explaining to do.
“Very well.” I stepped aside, and the soldier shut the carriage door. A dozen other redcoats were out in front of the carriage, circled around the Campbell riders. I didn’t need to wonder what had roused the interest of the soldiers to our group. Though no outlawed kilts would be found among them, something about the Campbells— the combination of their proud stance and poor clothing perhaps— proclaimed them Highlanders.
“Good day, Miss.” The soldier had kept my hand this entire time and now raised it to his puckered lips.
I returned his greeting as I tugged my hand away, noting that it was more evening now than day. I guessed the man to be somewhere between my age and Collin’s. Tall, clean shaven, and with his light hair tied back in a queue, he was quite handsome.
“What brings you and your— cousin— to the border road?”
“I’m afraid it is a rather long story.” One, at present, I was still fabricating.
“We have time.” He took my arm leading me several paces from the carriage, but still in its view. “Now, then, you may speak freely here, Miss—”
“Mercer. Perhaps you have heard of my father, William. He was an officer for many years.” Mentioning Father was a risk, but I could think of no other explanation for my travels, other than a tale as close to the truth as possible.
The soldier’s mouth tightened. “If you mean William Mercer, the former lieutenant colonel, I have heard nothing good.”
I waved a hand dismissively and in so doing somehow encouraged a second redcoat to join our conversation. “I expected as much. Father’s last days in the military were not so glorious as those that came before. He was a lieutenant during the uprising of ’45, you see.” I pressed on, not allowing them a chance to agree or not. “Well known for searching out and capturing those who supported the prince.” My own statement gave me pause. This was a history I’d heard many times, yet I had never before connected it to names or people. The MacDonalds? A chill passed through me. Collin despised my father; that much he’d made clear the day we wed. What if his feelings were not without cause?
“Former Lieutenant-Colonel Mercer publicly denounced the king,” the first soldier said.
“Not the king himself,” I corrected. “But his policy.”
“They are one and the same,” the second soldier said gravely. He was shorter than the first, and stockier, his close stance suggesting he was eager for a fight.
I felt quite sober now, though for a different reason than he might have imagined. Collin was a laird, which meant his father had also been a laird— who’d sided with the prince during the war, and who’d had a price on his head afterward. He had given himself up to the Campbells, who in turn had given him to the English. To my father? I pressed a hand to my stomach, feeling ill.
“My father died six months ago, and he was quite unwell for some time before that. But his actions during the previous two decades of service should not be forgotten.” Collin would not be able to forget them— or forgive— if they were as I feared. “He was a hero of the war, a restorer of peace after. And I believe, in his last days, he thought he was doing what was best to try and maintain that peace, to prevent another rebellion.”
“Another?” The second soldier’s brow perked up, and he stepped closer. “What do you know of that?”
“Nothing.” I’d misspoken. One word, terribly misplaced. Clasping my hands together in front of me, I forged ahead. “I was simply trying to explain to you my purpose here today. I gave a promise to my father, upon his death bed, that I would honor his wish that I travel to Scotland. And while he might have been mad with illness when he extracted such a promise from me, I do not wish to trifle with an oath given to one now dead. Tell me, is that something either of you gentlemen would wish to do?” I was banking on them being somewhat church-going, God-fearing, superstitious, or having other-worldly beliefs of some sort. Most folks did, fear being the great enforcer of morals.
“But why send you to Scotland?” the second soldier asked. I could see that he was going to be the harder of the two to persuade.
“That’s simple.” My smile returned. “My mother was Scottish. A Campbell. You’ll recall that the Campbells allied with the English during the rebellion. Their help proved invaluable in defeating the Jacobites.” I wasn’t certain of the amount of truth in my statement, but both men appeared young enough that hopefully their detailed knowledge of recent history was as sketchy as mine.
“You’re Scottish.” The second soldier’s lip curled. From the corner of my eye, I saw Alistair’s hands upon the door, ready to leap from the carriage if need be. And to his death. Easily fifteen redcoats surrounded us, each armed and ready to fire. I had to keep talking.
“And English,” I said, lifting my chin proudly. “Both lines faithful to the crown. I’ve spent my life in England and now journey to Scotland at my father’s request. These kind gentlemen— Campbells, all of them— are my relatives and escort, to see me safely there.” With their scruffy beards, worn clothing, and fierce expressions they hardly looked the part of gentlemen.
“Escort?” The first soldier snorted. “One woman with a dozen men? No proper lady would dream of traveling thus.”
“They are my relatives.” Of course I ought to have had a female escort or a maid or something— if either my mother or Collin had been able to afford such. “They’re honorable men, all of them.”
“Ludicrous.” The second soldier spat on the ground near my feet. “No Scot’s a good Scot.”
“My father disagreed, and as he lived and fought beside them, it would seem he might have been correct.”
“You’ll not mind if we check your trunk and carriage then?” the first soldier asked.
“Of course not.” The carriage. I tried to push the panic from my mind. What would happen when they discovered the weapons?
“Wait here,” they instructed and strode toward our pathetic-looking vehicle. I stood stiffly, watching as my trunk was untied and brought to the ground. While I wasn’t particularly eager to have my belongings rifled through, I was not overly worried either. There was nothing inside that would condemn us.
The carriage, on the other hand...
“Where is your plaid?” The whispered words nearly caused me to jump. But it was Collin’s voice at my ear, not a soldier’s. He’d come out of the forest behind me and stood as close as he’d been in my room two night’s past.
“Safe,” I assured him, my lips hardly moving as I spoke. I treasured both gifts Collin had given me, my wedding ring and the joined square of our clans’ tartans. The cloth I wore tucked inside my bodice over my heart, though it did not ease the ache I felt there or the void of knowing I was not loved or even tole
rated by my husband.
“It’s not in your trunk?” Collin asked.
I gave a slight shake of my head. Did he take me for a fool?
My trunk had been opened now, and my cloak spread on the ground for the other contents to be piled upon as they were removed. I tried not to care as the men callously lifted each worn garment, made derogatory remarks, then tossed them aside. They barely glanced through the sketchbook before adding it to the pile, and I said a silent prayer of gratitude. The last thing I wished— aside from being detained further— was for Collin to see the drawing I’d made of him. It was bad enough that he did not want me for his wife and, in all probability, loved another. I didn’t need him realizing the depth of my yearning, the inexplicable pull I felt toward him, the emotion he so easily roused. To have him believe that I, too, did not care seemed infinitely better.
It did not take long to empty the trunk, and soon the only things left were the canvases I’d placed at the bottom, wrapped carefully in my winter shawls. I’d brought only my two favorite paintings, each with a sky and landscape of my imagination— nothing like the countryside near Alverton. The shawls were removed, thrown atop the pile of petticoats and underclothes laid out for all to see. One of the soldiers held up the first painting, and the others gathered round it, talking amongst themselves, sending furtive glances my direction.
“What is it?” I dared to ask Collin. Were they all critics of art?
“I don’t know.” He sounded worried.
Finally the second soldier, the more callous of the two I’d spoken with, strode over to us. Collin did not abandon me, but stood at my side.
“Have you ever been to Scotland, Miss Mercer?”
“Not since I was a child,” I replied absently, even as I worried over what Collin would think of the soldier’s use of my maiden name.
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