The Fearless Highlander (Highland Defender Book 1) (25 page)

“My thanks,” said the baronet. “Once a year is not enough.”

Hugh threw up his hands. “Och, first you say ’tis too dangerous, and now an annual fete is not enough?”

Robert bit a bit of crunchy cake. “Quarterly?”

The baronet sipped his ale and eyed Hugh over his tankard’s rim. “Quarterly could work."

Och aye, Hugh would soon have all the Jacobite clans in his palm. “We must meet straight away.”

“Are your men ready to compete?” Robert asked.

Hugh knew they weren’t. Hell,
he’d
been weakened by hunger. “I am. Og, too.”

The baronet leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “Let me think on it—Ewen Cameron will have something to say for certain.”

Oh no, Hugh wasn’t about to let this pass without setting a date. “Duntulm Castle. As soon as the snow melts.”

“April?” suggested Robert.

Donald shook his head. “Beltane.”

“Too late.” Hugh clamped his fingers around his tankard’s handle. “Easter is in early April this year. Tie it in with the holiday.”

“Holy week?” The young lord swirled the drink in his cup, his black eyebrows knitting.

“Why not?” Robert took another oatcake. “We could start the Monday after the ascension.”

“I like it.” Donald’s face lit up. “I do believe we have a plan, gentlemen.”

Hugh polished off his ale. “Hand me a quill and a bit of parchment.”

Robert complied. “Another statement?”

“Something I’ve been thinking of since the Battle of Dunkeld.” Dipping the quill into the inkwell, Hugh drew two dirks, making a square cross. “Any man bearing this sign branded on the underside of his forearm is with us.”

Robert flinched. “Branded?”

Hugh shoved the parchment toward him. “Are you milk-livered, or are you of true Highland stock?”

“A brand will serve to separate men from lads. I’ll have my smithy make the molds—one for each clan.” Raising his tankard, Lord Donald grinned. “We’ll see it done in April.”

Hugh and Robert followed suit, toasting in unison. “
Sláinte
!”

Thank God. Hugh and Charlotte could return to Meall Mòr with supplies from the Stewarts of Appin and news that the Jacobite cause had been rekindled.

Charlotte traveled back to the mountains with Hugh under cover of darkness. He could take no chances, and with the order for his death still fresh with ink, the threat of being killed by government forces was too risky. He had made every effort to be inconspicuous, wearing a dark blue mantle draped across his shoulders and an English three-pointed hat Sir Robert had given him. Through the darkness, Charlotte rode cradled in his arms while he led a milking cow and six pack mules laden with supplies—again due to the kind generosity of Sir Robert and Clan Stewart. Goodness, he’d even insisted on giving Charlotte the violin, saying that with fingers so deft, she should never go a day without making the instrument sing.

How the gentry in London could think so poorly of Highlanders, she would never understand. Ignorance was the only excuse. If only the Master of Stair could spend a sennight in Castle Stalker, he’d realize how mistaken his beliefs.

Still Charlotte could not rationalize Hugh’s plight—a fugitive in the mountains, unable to return to his own lands along the River Coe. The order for his death still hung over his head like a black cloud. Only the good Lord knew when any exiled refugee from Clan Iain Abrach would be free to live in peace again.

As the pack mules ascended the hills toward the shelter, warriors stopped them in a narrow gully with sheer cliffs on each side. Their shadowy figures faced them and in their hands they held branches fashioned into pikes—the weapons might be crude, but would be deadly all the same.

Hugh reined the horse to a stop. “Og has done a good job securing the pass.”

Tavis MacIain’s teeth shone through the darkness. “Both entrances are blocked.” He pointed to the cliffs above. “And we’ve plenty of boulders lined up to drop on the enemy’s heads.”

Charlotte cringed. The enemy could be her father, or any of the other men she knew from the fort.

“How are things?” Hugh asked.

“The same. Og shot a deer, but that used the last of the powder.” Tavis leaned on his pike. “Another half-dozen stragglers came into camp—had been hiding in the caves.”

“Good to hear.” Hugh inclined his head over his shoulder. “The Stewart gave us supplies. It’ll help some.”

The warrior peered around at Charlotte. “I see Miss Hill has returned for more misery.”

“I’d have it no other way,” she said before Hugh could speak for her. “I am a Jacobite now.” She’d never forget Alice’s words. Always the proper young lady, Charlotte never would have thought she’d become a rebel—but she had. Yes, indeed, she’d joined with the most notorious clan in Scotland.

***

Two weeks after the massacre saw the end of February, but no end to the bitter cold and blustery snow. Hugh had become withdrawn again, snapping orders and working like a dog from dusk until dawn. Nearly everyone busied themselves caring for the most basic of human needs. The men had put a new roof on the second shieling.

Trees had been felled, and lean-to’s hastily erected to give families much needed accommodation. The supplies of grain from the Stewarts quickly dwindled, and they lived mostly on broth made from rabbit meat simmering in the big cast iron pot suspended over the fire in the man cottage. Thank heavens for the small varmints, as most had fashioned rabbit pelts for shoes. Lord, Charlotte felt grimy, cold and downright miserable, yet she refused to complain.

The days droned on with little privacy and little compassion. Charlotte tried to work as hard as Hugh, tending the sick, hauling in snow to be melted, taking her turn cooking, serving, cleaning, mending, gathering firewood—the list of chores seemed endless as one short winter day blended into the next.

The clansmen and women ignored her, mostly. Hugh did, too, during the daylight hours. At night she’d sit beside him as they told stories around the fire in the main cottage. Hugh spoke of times of old, of their clan’s roots and Highland pride. And though the initial shock of what had happened to them had ebbed, there was never any laughter. The people sat quietly staring into the fire with hopelessness in their eyes, and Charlotte couldn’t do a blasted thing to help them.

To add to her frustration, every night she lay beside her man, his body spooning hers for warmth—spooning, but not really touching. The epitome of frustration. Since they’d returned from Castle Stalker, Charlotte and Hugh had not spent a single moment alone together.

In the witching hours when snores pealed through the cottage, his hand would slip over her waist, or tickle her neck while he fingered her hair. Oh, how she wanted him to kiss her, to hold her hand, and heaven help her, to again show her the depths of his love whilst joining with her in the throes of passion.

Charlotte could only hope for such blissful intimacy to return.

Darkness came so early in winter. It seemed they were always huddling on the dirt floor, waiting for a new dawn. This evening, after Hugh told the story of his capture at the Battle of Dunkeld and the horrors of living in the pit prison, he turned to Charlotte. “And because of this lassie, I’m sitting here today. If it hadn’t been for her spiriting me out of the sea gate, I would have succumbed to the bloody flux for certain.”

She looked down to hide her smile. Over a year had passed since she’d helped him.

Hugh nudged her. “Does anyone ken she can make a fiddle sing prettier than a meadow lark?”

“Didn’t I see a fiddle come with the stores from Clan Stewart?” asked Og.

“Aye.” Hugh brushed his fingers over the back of her hand—a simple gesture, but it made gooseflesh rise across her skin. “I reckon my kin would appreciate a wee tune.”

She looked up with a cringe. “’Tis not too early?” She’d wanted to play for them, but feared some would be resentful, and curse her for making merry.

A few grumbles rolled from the crowd. Then Gavyn stood. “I’ll fetch it.”

“Are you sure?” Charlotte whispered.

Hugh turned his lips to her ear, his warm breath caressing her—Lord, his whisper made all her trepidation ease away. “Play a ballad—something soulful.”

Charlotte knew exactly the song. When Gavyn returned, she swiftly tuned the violin and began a Celtic air she’d learned from her Irish instructor in London. She’d never heard the song sung—never heard it played aside from her playing, but it was expressive and perfect. Closing her eyes, she let the bow take over, drawing out each note as the tune swirled and danced through the air. Gooseflesh again sprang up across her skin as she threw everything she had into her performance. Her love for Hugh, her growing love for this sorrowful group of outcasts, the violin sang for her father—a pawn used by the king to carry out something he knew was morally wrong. Heaven help her, she could express so much with her music—say things from the deepest recesses in her heart that she could never utter or form into words.

When the last note faded and curled with the smoke, winding its way up through the small hole between the thatch, Charlotte lowered her bow and panned her gaze across the faces. Earie and Tavis wiped their eyes. So did Alasdair Og. Not a soul clapped, but she’d expected that. It was still too soon.

Beside her, Cait tugged Charlotte’s skirt. “Thank you.”

Blessed be music. She’d found a way to touch them at last.

***

It was mid-March when Hugh wielded a rusty old axe, trying to carve out a hole in the frozen ground to sink another pole for the lean-to. Yet another family with four children wandered into their camp a day ago. He had no way of knowing how many clansmen and women had survived, but he knew of a hundred and three. Some had found refuge with friends or relatives outside the clan, and had sent messages of support up through the narrow pass guarded by his men. In the foothills of Meall Mòr, two and seventy souls were now under his protection.

If only goddamned spring would come.

He swung the axe again. His arms jarred like he’d slammed into a wall of iron. The axe handle shattered in his palms. Devil’s fire, if it wasn’t one thing, it was the next. Could nothing be easy?

“Hugh,” Og strode across the clearing. “You’ll never believe who’s here.”

Glenlyon? The Master of Stair? Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton? William of Orange?
Hugh could think of a hundred enemies who would fall upon him at any given moment—kick him at his weakest. Wasn’t that the art of war? Weaken your opponent and then attack? Hugh looked at the shattered handle in his palm, opting to ignore his brother. “I’ll need to fashion a new shaft afore I can set this post.”

“’Tis Colonel Hill.”

He let the handle drop to the ground.
Miserable, bleeding, bloody hell
. Hugh reached for his sword, but it wasn’t belted to his hip. “With a full regiment?”

“We stopped him and only Farley at the pass. Hill says he wants to talk. Alone.”

Charlotte stepped out of the cottage.

Hugh beckoned her. “Did you hear?”

“Yes.”

“Can I trust him?”

“He’s the only man in the entire Williamite Army I would trust.” Aye, those violet eyes were as steady and assured as he’d ever seen them. Still true to his first impression—Miss Charlotte could never lie.

Hugh turned to Og. “Did he state the nature of his business?”

“He asked if you wanted your lands back.”

“Holy Mary.” Hugh removed his bonnet and combed his fingers through his hair. Could he dare to hope?

Charlotte placed her palm on his arm. “Let me go with you.”

“The colonel said he’d meet with me alone?” Hugh planted his fists on his hips. “Is he willing to come up here?”

Og scratched his beard. “I reckon he would if we offer the hand of hospitality.”

Hugh almost laughed. Almost. He turned to the others and raised his voice. “Governor Hill from Fort William is visiting us. We will grant him safe passage and listen to what he has to say.” With that, he nodded to Og. “Bring him and make ready the shieling. I’ll meet with the colonel in there.”

By the time the governor was ushered into the cottage, Hugh and Charlotte sat on the dirt floor as they had been doing for a month. Across the fire they’d placed a blanket for the colonel to sit upon. Though they could have dragged in a log for the old man’s arse, Hugh refused to make any accommodations.

Charlotte gasped when the door opened and her father stepped inside. The man had dropped at least a stone since Hugh had last seen him, and his face was grey and gaunt.

Hugh stood and bowed. “Colonel. I wish I could offer you more comfort, but as you see, we have nothing but a plaid for you to sit upon.”

The man’s eyes shifted to his daughter. “I thank you for inviting me in. I know it must be difficult.” He stooped, his old bones creaking as he dropped to his knee. “’Tis pleasing to see my daughter in good health—though you do resemble a guttersnipe, dear.”

“Forgive me,” Charlotte quipped. “There are few opportunities to bathe here in exile.”

“But your exile is self-imposed.” The old man chose to remain on one knee, crossing one arm atop the other.

“Tell me.” Hugh tossed a log onto the fire. “Why are you here?”

“Aside from taking Charlotte home?” The colonel arched a brow at his daughter. “I’ve a proposition for you.”

Hugh threw back his head and laughed. “Aye? Do you want me to exonerate you from responsibility for the murder of my father, my clan? Cause that’s exactly what Breadalbane did, tooting a song of restitution out of his arse.”

The colonel took in a deep breath and watched the smoke curl up to the roof. “I understand the earl has not a history of being forthright.”

“Aye.”

Charlotte placed a gentle hand on Hugh’s arm. “I trust Papa’s word.”

Hugh’s da had always trusted the colonel, too. But the old governor had a hand in the killing. Waiting a bit before he spoke, Hugh scratched the beard that had grown in since their return from Appin. “How can I trust you after you betrayed my father?”

“My actions for king and country are misdeeds that will haunt me the rest of my days.”

“We have nothing. We’re cold and starving. I cannot even return to my lands for fear of reprisal. I have no livestock, no grain to plant come spring. Our homes are but empty stone shells with walls blackened by fire. All of this was due to
your
command, sir.”

“True.” The colonel stood and paced with his hands behind his back. “The Master of Stair has offered you and your kin free passage on a ship to America. There you could work the plantations, mayhap come into some land of your own.”

Ma’s final words rang loud and clear in Hugh’s head. “
You will raise your bairns in Glencoe. Never let them forget. Always remind them they are descended from Alasdair Ruadh MacIain MacDonald—a direct descendant of the Lords of the Isles…Never be ashamed of who you are.
”

“No.” Hugh’s entire body shook with the strength of his conviction. “No, no, no. My people have been wronged, and I will not rest until I see them set to rights. I will not compromise land which for hundreds of years my people have tilled with their own hands, their own sweat and blood. By God, I was raised in the Coe. My father was raised in the Coe, and his father and his on and on down the line. No!”