The Fearless Highlander (Highland Defender Book 1) (20 page)

Not long after Farley took his leave, Alasdair Og had killed one of the horses for meat. Charlotte watched while a half-dozen more stragglers arrived at the cottage nearly frozen to death and hungry. How many more MacIain’s were out there who hadn’t found shelter? The snow and the driving wind hadn’t let up all day—not a soul would be able to survive for long in such weather.

A scratch and a whimper came at the door. One of the men opened it to a scraggly-looking deerhound.

“Cuddy?” Hugh asked.

The dog whined and sauntered inside. First he went to Hugh and stood for a scratch behind the ears. “I cannot believe you survived, old fella.”

“Another mouth to feed,” grumbled Og.

“Wheesht.” Hugh gave the dog another pat, then Cuddy sauntered around the shieling, sniffing everyone.

When the dog stopped at Charlotte, he whined. She let him smell her hand before she petted him—his coat felt softer than it looked.

Then the dog lay down, pressing his body against her.

Across the fire, Hugh’s brother looked at Charlotte with hateful eyes, so dark he left no doubt he’d rather be roasting her over a spit than horse meat. She tried to block the uneasy feelings from her mind, but she knew everyone in the cottage focused their anger on her.

And why should they not?

To them she was the daughter of the devil, and trying to tell them any differently would only worsen their contempt. Even Charlotte couldn’t rationalize her father’s actions. Papa could have walked away—though in doing so, he would be seen as a traitor of the very government he served. Still—one man’s death over hundreds?

The mere thought turns my stomach
.

She shuddered while she dipped her petticoat in the kettle of warm water and wrung it out. It was the only piece of cloth available. Lifting Mrs. MacIain’s blanket ever so slightly, she reapplied the flannel to the wound—though Hugh couldn’t utter it, the vile beasts who served Captain Glenlyon had taken a dagger to the poor woman’s womb. ’Twas an abomination. ’Twas unforgiveable.

“I think the bleeding has stopped,” Charlotte said, pressing the back of her hand to the woman’s head. Hugh’s mother shivered, though a fever had set in. The woman endured her pain, never saying a word. Her eyes vacant, she stared at the rafters while tear after tear dribbled into the dirt.

Hugh kneeled beside Charlotte and held out a bit of meat. “Eat.”

She hadn’t allowed him to send her away with Farley. Since, his words had been sparse, as if he were sinking deeper into his own world of terror and flames.

Though she’d lost her appetite, Charlotte rocked back on her haunches and took the meat. She bit down and tore it with her teeth—tough as leather, the bite landed in her stomach and sat there like one of her father’s lead musket balls.

She cast her gaze through the dim light to the faces of the clansmen and women who sat on the dirt floor and lined the walls. They were stunned, freezing and silent, staring into the fire as if their very souls were lost. Aside from an occasional outburst from the baby, it was too quiet—eerie—as if they were all frozen.

“Is there anywhere we can take your mother for help?” Charlotte whispered.

Hugh shook his head. “I reckon the redcoats have infiltrated every byway in a twenty-mile radius of Glencoe.” At least he’d strung an entire sentence together.

Charlotte’s back straightened. “But the soldiers are cold, too. No one can make it far in this storm.”

Hugh’s eyes were as dark and vacant as the others’. “How many men did your father amass at Fort William afore they set out to annihilate us?”

Charlotte’s cheeks burned. Was he, too, now blaming her? “The fort was bursting at the seams with a thousand men. That’s why Glenlyon’s grenadiers were sent to Glencoe.” She hung her head. “At least that’s what everyone was led to believe.”

“And Captain Campbell kent about it all along—accepting our hospitality, eating with us, playing cards.” Alasdair Og slammed his fist into the dirt. “And we let them—brought the slithering Campbell snake in like he was kin.”

“He was kin,” grumbled Hugh. “Until that black-hearted bitch drew her knife across Sandy’s throat.”

Silence again cast a pall throughout the cottage. The smoke burned Charlotte’s eyes, but venturing outside for air was no longer possible. She might push through the door and walk about three feet before being completely stopped by a wall of icy snow.

Hugh’s jaw twitched as he sat silently and stared at the fire. The howling wind made the cottage shudder. Even the flames flickered with the force of the storm outside.

Charlotte wanted to say so many things—the soldiers will have to turn back because of the weather—she hoped the storm would soon pass—was there no one to whom they could turn for help? How long did Hugh intend to keep these people in this insufficient cottage? What was next? But she held her tongue. Her every suggestion or question had been met with a wall of rebuttal—especially from Alasdair Og.

No. This was not the eve to solve problems. Tonight they would lick their wounds, but with six and thirty human beings to feed, the horse meat wouldn’t last.

Ever so quietly, Charlotte slid beside Hugh and under his arm. Together they sat in silence, an island among a homeless crowd with nowhere to turn for help, their future as precarious as a ship at sea with a broken mast.

***

Hugh kept watch throughout the night. The storm made it impossible to post a guard outside the cottage, but he couldn’t sleep anyway. Charlotte was right. No one could survive in this weather—even the soulless dragoons would be huddled beside someone’s hearth—hopefully not a family they planned to butcher. Unfortunately, the fact that everyone must seek shelter gave him no comfort. How many of his clansmen and women were suffering in the cold? How many more would end up dead because of God’s wrath?

Her head resting in his lap, Charlotte had given in to her fatigue—more unconscious from exhaustion than asleep. The lass should have gone with Farley, but bless her, she’d resigned herself to stay. She’d tended Ma until she could hold her head up no longer. Hugh peered around the cottage. Not even Og had managed to stay awake through the wee hours. ’Twas probably for the best. His brother’s rage needed tamping, else he’d soon do something that would get them all killed.

Of the men, Breac, Tavis, Kenny and Gavyn were all stealthy warriors. Though they had not but a plaid wrapped around their waists, Hugh was glad to have them at his back. They’d make pikes from tree branches if forced. They, too, slept huddled with their wives.

Hugh needed the quiet to think and having his kin stare at him, waiting for him to pull a miracle out of his arse only muddled with his mind all the more. He’d spent the entire night trying to make sense of this mess. How could he have prevented the whole sordid butchering? He’d known Glenlyon to be a snake—a turncoat of the basest order.

Christ, Hugh had relieved the bastard of his prized stallion only three years past. Was that why Captain Campbell ordered an entire battalion to open fire on a clan who’d shown him nothing but affability for a fortnight? Not to mention a chieftain who’d treated the blackguard like kin?

An entire clan for a miserable, sterile stallion?

No matter which way Hugh reasoned, his hatred burned a hole in his chest. Glenlyon broke the Highland code of hospitality.

The man’s soul will wander through hell and burn for all eternity.

It didn’t matter that Glenlyon’s orders had come down to him all the way from King William and his deranged minister, Viscount Dalrymple, Master of Stair. Captain Campbell had a mind of his own, and he acted on his orders with all the black-heartedness of his kin. Not a Campbell was to be trusted…ever.

Hugh should have insisted that Da’s men watch them—regardless. How blind Clan Iain Abrach was to welcome backstabbing redcoats onto their lands with open arms and open larders. Christ, the men Hugh had played shinty with were the same murderers who attacked his cottage.

At least those miscreants met their end
.

Charlotte took a deep, stuttering breath.

Devil’s fire, he’d be dead without her. He needed to keep reminding himself of that fact. Hate was ugly. Hate played irrational tricks on his mind, and if he let her, hate would eat him alive. The bitch of hate had already started eating away his heart.

Hugh pressed his palm against his head and closed his eyes.

How was he going to rescue his kin from this mess? When would the goddamned snow let up? Where were the redcoats now? Did they have every pass to Glencoe shut off? The horse meat might last two more days, and then what? A handful of rabbits wouldn’t feed six and thirty lost souls.

God’s bones, his head throbbed. Every time Hugh tried to think about the future, he saw Da dead on the floor. He saw the blood streaming down the inside of Ma’s thighs—mindless dragoons shooting cattle and stabbing sheep with their bayonets. He saw the roof of his own cottage going up in flames, burning everything he’d worked to save over the course of his life.

Aye, he’d been born a Highland reiver, just like every other proud clansman in the Gallows Herd—proved his manhood preying on the Campbells. They preyed on his kin, too. But never like this. No one ever broke the trust of hospitality. No one was ever left to starve—murdered in cold blood with no place to run—naked, running on bare feet in a blizzard.

The black chasm of hate spread from Hugh’s chest through every fiber of his body.

“Son,” Ma called weakly from her bed on the dirt floor.

Hugh gently rested Charlotte’s head on the ground, then kneeled beside his mother.

Ma reached for his hand, her fingers ice cold, her grip feeble. Nothing about his mother had ever been feeble. Never.

She smiled at him, just as weakly. “’Tis time for me to join your father.”

A lump the size of a walnut stuck in Hugh’s throat as prickles swarmed down the outside of his arms. “What are you saying? You are the matriarch of the family. We all look to you for wisdom.”

“’Tis your time now, son.”

“No—”

“I’ll have my say.” She gulped, her lips parched.

Hugh held up a chipped clay cup he’d filled with water. “Here. Drink.”

“No.” She closed her eyes. “Promise me you will never abandon your home. Promise me you will build a manse grander than Carnoch.” She gripped his hand—much tighter this time. “Swear it.”

“I promise, Ma…but—”

She opened her eyes and caught his gaze, beckoning him closer. “You will raise your bairns in Glencoe.” Her breath quickened like she was running. “Never let them forget. Always remind them they are descended from Alasdair Ruadh MacIain MacDonald—a direct descendant of the Lords of the Isles…” She swallowed again, then pulled his ear down to her lips. “Never be ashamed of who you are.”

Hugh drew in a sharp inhale. Her voice was haunting, her breath warm against his ear. Grasping her hand to his heart he regarded Ma’s face. Oh, how her words rang true. The cold, hungry and destitute people huddled in this wee cottage were his kin. They were driven from their lands, but by God, he would find a way to take them home. No matter if it took him the rest of his life, he would see justice—demand it.

“Promise,” Ma’s voice grew reedy.

“I swear. With God as my witness, I swear.”

A long exhale wheezed through Ma’s throat, and then she lay still. The soul left her eyes as they stared at nothing, her mouth agape.

Hugh’s heart stopped as he pressed his fingers to her throat.

Nothing.

“Ma?”

A cry caught in his mouth. “Please, Ma.”

But she was gone—left to be with Da as she’d said. Life slipped away with her last exhale. His hands trembling, he closed her lids, then took her into his arms and rocked. God, he wanted to burst into tears and wail like a wee bairn.

No.

No.

No.

Clenching his teeth, his head shook as he fought back his anger, his tears, his rage. How much more death would he witness before this was over?

Og slid across and kneeled beside him. “I’ll never forgive the government for this. They wanted to quash the Jacobites? Well, King William just declared war.”

“Amen,” said Gavyn behind them.

Glancing over each shoulder, it seemed everyone had roused and witnessed Hugh’s promise to his mother.

“’Tis all her fault,” said Nessa, pointing at Charlotte.

Without time to rub the sleep from her eyes, Colonel Hill’s daughter scooted closer to Hugh.

Earie stepped forward, squinting at Charlotte like she was the devil incarnate. “We should run a dirk across her throat.”

Nessa, with her babe in arms, nodded. “Aye, it would be one less mouth to feed.”

Og pulled his
sgian dubh
from his sleeve. “You cannot trust her, brother. Look at what Sarah did to Sandy.”

“Put her under the knife!” The taunts grew louder, as the lost souls took out their ire on the poor lass who had done nothing but try to help.

Hugh stood, taking Charlotte with him, clutching her fast to his body. “Sheathe your goddamned dagger!”