The Fearless Highlander (Highland Defender Book 1) (4 page)

When a trumpet sounded, Charlotte set aside her embroidery. A blast from a trumpeter after dark could only mean something terrible was a foot. Clutching her hands against her abdomen she stood and listened.

The door burst open. “Miss Charlotte, did you hear?” Emma, Charlotte’s chambermaid bustled inside. “A prisoner has escaped!”

Her stomach dropped all the way to her toes. “Oh dear heaven, do you know who it was?” Charlotte needn’t ask. A prisoner hadn’t escaped the pit since her father had carved out the hole and dropped the first man inside.
Mr. MacLeod
.

“I’ve no idea, but there’s commotion afoot for certain.” Emma wore a linen coif atop her head and an apron to match. Married to Papa’s most trusted Highland tracker, Farley MacGregor, she’d been Charlotte’s only friend at this lonely outpost.

Drawing her hand to her head, Charlotte fought to hide her panic. Hells bells, she’d thought seriously about returning to the surgery with a key. But somehow Mr. MacLeod had managed to free himself. Worse, if the poor man was caught, her father would want to punish him severely.

She moved her hand to her mouth and gasped.

Emma gaped. “What is it?”

“I think it could only be the man they brought into the surgery yesterday. He was terribly ill, but...”

“But?”

“I think he was feeling a bit better this morn.”

Emma covered her lips with her fingers. “Oh, my heavens.”

Loud footsteps clomped through the corridor. Oh dear, such a bold stride could only come from one person. Colonel John Hill pushed through the door and stopped in the middle of the chamber with fists on his hips. “Doctor Munro tells me you were the last to see the prisoner.” Father wasn’t one to mince words when riled. Though of an average height, Papa embodied the ideal of Colonel. His grey wig never had a hair out of place; his starched uniform never showed a wrinkle, and his face was stoic and battle weary.

Her guess had been right. Wringing her hands, Charlotte faced him. “Was I?”

“You tell me. Munro rode out with my company before the noon hour. Said he left you with a prisoner, God forbid. That pea-brained physician left my daughter with a
murderer
.”

Charlotte cast a panicked glance toward Emma who was cowering beside the vanity, clutching her fists beneath her chin. A lot of support she’d give, but Charlotte had to come up with something intelligible and fast. “Mr. MacLeod isn’t a murderer, Papa.”

Father slapped palms, making a deafening crack. “Well if he wasn’t before today, he is now.”

Her mind raced. Mr. MacLeod had appeared so genteel. “’Tis dreadful.”

Father threw up his hands and paced. “First of all, I cannot believe the physician had the poor judgement to leave you alone with that vile beast. But I’ll deal with Munro later. I now have a fugitive to track down and send to the gallows.”

Hanged?
Charlotte’s head swooned. “I cannot believe he…did he kill a guard?”

“Nearly bludgeoned one of my dragoons to death.”

“Nearly?” Was there a thread of hope?

“The soldier’s fighting for his life—Doctor Munro is with him now.”

Clasping her hands over her heart, Charlotte fought to steady her sudden dizziness. “The news grows worse.”

Father stopped with his fists on his hips. “What I want to know is how did he manage to free himself from his leg irons?”

“I have absolutely no idea.” She took in a deep breath and looked up—anywhere but directly at her father’s angered stare. “When I left, Mr. MacLeod was still chained to the bed.”

Papa shook his head, the powder from his wig making a faint cloud. “Did he touch you? Could he have taken one of your hairpins?”

She cast her mind back to the curious morning she’d spent in the surgery. “N-nooooo.” Charlotte absently rubbed the back of her hand—the one Mr. MacLeod had kissed. Yes, he’d touched her hand twice, but never tried anything ungentlemanly. Of course he did take liberties by kissing the back of her hand, but that wasn’t too excessively distasteful. The experience had been rather pleasant. She snapped her hands to her cheeks. At a time like this, she was thinking about Mr. MacLeod kissing her hand? “I fluffed the pillows for him and I did order some food.”

“Oh, my dear girl, fluffing pillows for a criminal?” Then Papa clapped his hands again and pointed as if he had an idea. “What kind of food?”

“Sausages and eggs.” She held up her finger. “But I fed him and promptly removed the tray when he was done.”

“My word, your generosity extends all bounds of reason. That food is for the soldiers and we scarcely have enough to feed
them
.”

She chewed her bottom lip. “The poor man was starving. Goodness. I’ll go without the morning meal for a sennight if that will help replenish supplies.”

“My word, Charlotte that is not the point! When this is over, you and I will have a discussion about consorting with prisoners.” He threw up his hands. “Something must have happened when you were there. I am sure of it. And now we’ve one guard down and a prisoner on the loose. No one for miles will be able to sleep until we track the varlet down.”

Charlotte couldn’t speak. Truly, she was concerned for the guard and would pray for his recovery, but more than anything, she prayed with all her heart that Mr. MacLeod would run free. By the saints, the man was on death’s door only one day past, and though he was sitting up this morn, he was still fevered. It was night, March and
cold
in the Highlands. If Mr. MacLeod didn’t find help, he wouldn’t make it alive. No one could endure the flux and suffer the elements and survive.

Papa sauntered forward. “Did he tell you anything about his family?”

Charlotte wanted to be sick. She couldn’t lie—could she? Her shoulder ticked up. “He said his name was Hugh MacLeod. I asked him if he was married and he said no. I asked him where he was from and he said Dun—” She couldn’t bring herself to utter the word. “Um, Dun-something. Up north. Didn’t specify where exactly.”

“Dunvegan perchance?”

Curses!
Charlotte chewed her lip. She couldn’t withhold information from her father if she had a barrel over her head.

The colonel drummed his fingers against his chin. “That’s odd. The MacLeods are loyal to the crown. But this man is a Jacobite prisoner. Hmm. I suppose this is a war that pits son against father.” He marched to the door. “Keep yourself locked within. I’ll post a guard at the door. Emma—you’d best stay with Charlotte until my return. She could be in danger.”

The maid stepped out of the shadows and curtsied. “Yes, sir, as you wish.”

“Do you think the fugitive is still inside the fort?” Charlotte asked.

Papa regarded her over his shoulder. “Lord only knows.”

Once the colonel left, Emma shook her head. “I didn’t think it was a good idea for you to volunteer in the surgery, miss.”

“Oh please, at no time did I consider myself in danger.”

“That’s even worse.” Emma pattered to the bed. “I think you’d best retire early, Miss Char—”

“I have no intention of seeking my bed with a man fighting for his life.”
Which somehow seems to be my fault
.

Emma wrung her hands. “You cannot be serious. Colonel Hill told me to stay with you until he returns.”

Charlotte collected her cloak from the wardrobe. “Then you’ll have to come along.”

“Oh, my heavens. You’re always so restrained, Miss Charlotte. What is it about this escapee that has your petticoats in a twist?”

Charlotte wasn’t about to answer. “Make haste, Emma.”

After they arrived at the surgery door, she couldn’t recall ever being so relieved. The guard the Highlander had bludgeoned was sitting up on the same cot which had been occupied by Mr. MacLeod earlier in the day. Aside from being a bit pale, and a bandage wrapped around his head, he appeared to be in good health.

“Oh, praises be.” Charlotte led Emma inside. “To hear my father tell it, I feared this man would not survive.”

Doctor Munro stood from his seat at the table. “Miss Hill, whatever are you doing here this late—and with a fugitive about?”

“I couldn’t live with myself knowing one of Father’s guards had been injured.”

“Miss Hill is a tad over-curious if you ask me,” Emma mumbled from the rear. Charlotte could have ribbed the woman with her elbow.

“I assure you, I have everything in hand,” said the physician as he bowed and grasped Charlotte’s palm.

She tried to pull away, but Doctor Munro held firm, and clapped another sweaty palm over the top. “As you can see, Sentinel Blair has come to, and I do believe he will make a full recovery.”

“Aye, thank you for your concern, Miss Hill,” said the soldier on the cot. His teeth were stained brown as if he’d never cleaned them.

With a firm tug, Charlotte pulled her hand away and hastened toward the guard. “Pray tell, when did Mr. MacLeod—ah—accost you?” Her mind raced.
Where is he?

“Not long after dusk.” He pointed. “I heard that chair scrape across the floor and came in with my musket at the ready, but the mongrel attacked me from the side.”

She wrung her hands. “My heavens, and him being so terribly ill with fever.”
He could not have gone far
.

“Must have been of solid Highland stock, that one,” said Emma with a hint of admiration in her voice.

Charlotte had no doubt Mr. MacLeod had been bred in the mountains. Even though he’d suffered through the ravages of incarceration in that horrible pit, he still had an impressive physique—and proved it by overcoming one of her father’s dragoons.

“Miss Hill, please allow me to see you back to the Colonel’s house.” The physician stepped beside her and clutched her elbow. “’Tis not safe for you to be about.”

She leaned away from him, not yet satisfied with the information she’d gathered. “Do you think Mr. MacLeod is still nearby?”

“He could very well still be within the walls of Fort William. Aside from Sentinel Blair, nary a sentry heard or saw a thing.”

“Goodness, this whole situation is ever so frightening.”
Is Mr. Macleod still here?

Doctor Munro smirked. “Not to worry. As ill as that blighter was, he won’t make it far.”

“And if I know your father, he’ll bring him in afore the sun rises,” said Mr. Blair from the cot.

That’s exactly what Charlotte feared the most. If Mr. MacLeod fell into her father’s hands, he’d be better off succumbing to the flux. Papa generally had an affable nature, but he was an ardent soldier of the crown. If anyone raised a hand against one of the king’s men, Colonel Hill would ensure the man would pay a severe penalty.

Doctor Munro again grasped Charlotte’s elbow. “Come now.”

Her back stiffened and she drew her arm away. “I shall pray for your swift recovery, Mr. Blair.”

The man grinned. “Thank you, miss.”

Bowing her head, Charlotte glanced from the physician to Emma.
Curses. How do I slip away from two of them?
With a fugitive on the loose, there would be no talking the persistent doctor out of accompanying her back to the governor’s house. She feigned a deep yawn. “Goodness, all this excitement has made me ever so tired. I suppose if I am not needed here, I shall retire for the evening.”

Dragoons shoving their bayonets into every crevice, Hugh found himself moving through the shadows at the top of the surgery stairs. Wracked by fever and body aches, he had no chance of fighting his way out, and even less of a chance of running. Already exhausted, he crept behind a wood stack and curled into a ball. God, he was chilled. If only he had one of Miss Hill’s blankets, he might survive the night.

Ballocks to my miserable luck—I escape, only to succumb to the fever afore I can scale Fort William’s walls.

When the surgery door slammed closed, Hugh peered through a gap in the wood. Doctor Munro climbed the stairs, leading the dragoon he’d bludgeoned. Shivering, Hugh’s mouth watered at the thought of the cot and blanket he’d used—but camping in the surgery would get him caught for certain. He’d better make a move soon—give it an hour or two and he’d regain enough strength to attempt another escape.

The noise from shouting dragoons faded on the wind. With luck, they wouldn’t come back around this way. What bloody fool would hide outside the door where he’d escaped? Hugh wasn’t only chilled; fatigue seeped through his limbs like they’d been wrung out with the washing. His eyelids refused to stay open. No matter how much he fought, they kept sliding down. He had no recourse but to wait until past the witching hour when most of the bloody bastards would be asleep—save he could manage to stay alive.

Curling tighter, he gave in to the fight to stay awake.
Only for a wee while—until ’tis safe
.

But sleep on a night like this didn’t last.

Hugh’s eyes flew open when a light footstep tapped beside him. Power pulsed through his veins as he steeled himself for a fight.

Another step.

The bastard wants to take me on himself?
Hugh splayed his fingers.
Come just a bit closer.

With his next breath, Hugh sprang up, grabbed the sneak by the throat and threw him to the ground. Scurrying on top of the blighter, Hugh jerked his fist back.

“Stop,” a high-pitched voice peeped.

Hugh blinked. “Devil’s fire!” His fist froze midair. “Miss Hill?” his whisper cracked. “What in God’s name did you think you were doing sneaking up on a man without so much as a word?” Christ, he’d almost slammed his fist across her bonny face.

She stared at him, her eyes stunned, her breath coming in short gasps.

“Och.” Rocking back on his heels, the chills resumed. “I could have killed you.”

She sat up, brushing the outsides of her arms. “I whispered your name, but if I’d spoken any louder, I might have raised an alarm.”

Hugh stared at his open palms. She must think him a monster. “Forgive me.”

The lady nodded. “I thought you were too weak to flee.”

“I am—though I figured I had them all fooled by now.” He cringed.
She hasn’t screamed yet—what’s stopping her?
“Are you planning to turn me over to your father? Cause if you are, I might have to find a gag and a bit of rope.”

Her eyes flashed wide. “You’d do that?”

“I want to go home, miss.” He pushed to his feet and took a step back. “Is one uncomfortable night bound and gagged a fair exchange for nineteen months in the pit?”

“Please.” She raised her palm to him. Though Hugh should look for a bit of rope and leave her there to take his chances leaping from the fifty-foot walls, he ground his back molars and pulled her up. “I came to help, you boar-brained Highlander. But by the strength with which you slung me to the ground, I’m not entirely sure you need my assistance.”

“Apologies.” He wiped the cold sweat from his brow. “Merely standing makes my legs tremble, but when faced with life and death, I suppose power surges through a man, no matter how fevered.”

She folded her arms tight across her body and inclined her head westward. “Follow me.”

He didn’t budge. “To see your father?”

“No.”

Hugh motioned for her to proceed, peering every which way as they stepped from behind the wood stack. “Keep to the shadows.”

She flashed a challenging smile over her shoulder, her teeth sparkling in the moonlight. “I’m quite adept at slipping through Papa’s garrison. Now stay close behind.”

His head pounding with fever, chills firing across his skin, Hugh was in no condition to argue with the lass. He only prayed Miss Hill knew what she was doing with his life.

Taking his hand, she tiptoed between the buildings and skirted along the western wall where one lone guard had his back to them, watching out over Loch Linnhe. Hugh squeezed her hand and threw his thumb over his shoulder. “The gate is that way,” he whispered.

“Did you expect to walk through the main gate? You’d end up with a noose around your neck before dawn.” She mightn’t have a clue where they were going, but Hugh liked her mettle. She tugged him onward until she pulled him down slippery stone steps, right into the bowels of the fort, stopping at an iron gate.

Water slapped beyond.

Hugh gestured toward the enormous padlock. “How the—”

“Sh.” Charlotte pulled a key from around her neck, slipped it into the lock and turned it. The click reverberated like a strike from a smithy’s hammer. No wonder she’d silenced him. They were standing in an echo chamber.

Pulling him through the gate, she pointed. “There’s a skiff at the end of the pier. If I were you, I’d row straight out from the fort, and by all means do not let the guard see you.”

Colonel Hill’s daughter had led him to a boat? Hugh grasped her hand between his palms. “Your kindness exceeds anything I could have thought possible from a Sassenach lassie. How can I ever thank you?”

She squeezed his fingers. “Go. You must never come back.”

Hugh licked his lips, gazing into the most enticing violet-blue eyes, made more iridescent by the moon reflecting off the water. “Most men I know have not an iota of your bravery.”

“You deserve a second chance on life…ah…Papa knows you’re from Dunvegan—you mustn’t return there.” Those lovely eyes turned liquid. Miss Hill cared enough to shed a tear for him?

Hugh’s heart swelled, his blood thrummed beneath his skin. Before he had another rational thought, he pulled her into his arms and stole a kiss. He’d only meant to give her a peck and be off, but a feminine curl brushed his cheek. His eyes closed and her intoxicating scent showered him with the essence of a million rose petals. “Lord, I wish I could stay.”

The lady took a step back and drew her hand to her lips. “Please—leave before someone happens past.”

Yes. He had no other choice. With a bow, Hugh blew her a final kiss. “I’ll never forget this.”

***

After Hugh took up the oar, low clouds hung above, making Loch Linnhe inky black, and even better, Hugh’s escape smooth and soundless. Thank God Colonel Hill thought him from Dunvegan. Not a soul in Fort William knew him as MacIain of Clan Iain Abrach, the most powerful sept of Clan Donald. His clan suffered enough scrutiny on account of their everlasting feud and power struggles with the Campbells. His father didn’t need a host of dragoons befalling Glencoe. None of his kin did.

The icy gale across the loch blew cold enough to freeze his cods, and worse, the damned fever hadn’t left him, but, by God, he couldn’t allow himself to succumb to it. He’d been given a gift by an angel and he’d pull through this. His head throbbed with the force of a mallet pummeling his brain with his every movement as he rowed through the loch’s choppy waves. Sick and chilled to the point of retching heaves, his teeth refused to cease their chattering. No matter how much he wanted to curl into the hull and hide from the frigid wind, he refused to stop. He’d face the gallows before going back to Colonel Hill’s rat-infested pit, no matter how much he wanted to see Charlotte again. Bloody oath, he’d force that woman’s bonny face from his mind, regardless if she’d helped him.

All night he rowed, growing numb to the agony in his shoulders. Raw blisters stung his palms, but Hugh continued on, forcing himself to endure the tears to his flesh. He must sail into Loch Leven and past the government lookout before dawn. If the regiment spotted Hugh, Colonel Hill would be alerted within hours.

The good news? Once past Captain Drummond’s lookout, Hugh only needed to row the skiff around the bend and across to the mouth of the River Coe and he’d be on his family’s lands. The mere thought infused him with strength. Though a son of the snowcapped Highlands, Hugh knew the waters of Loch Linnhe and Loch Leven as well as he knew
Gleann-leac-na-muidhe
, the mountainous site of Clan Iain Abrach’s summer house.

If his luck had taken a turn for the better or if God had blessed him with good fortune, Hugh didn’t know. He muscled through until just before dawn when, with his last shreds of strength, he rowed the skiff onto the sandy bottom of the River Coe outlet.

The bandages wrapped around his feet soaked clean through as soon as he stumbled over the side and tugged the wooden hull into a copse of trees and concealed it beneath the foliage.

Hugh was so close, he could smell the peat burning in the hearth. As dawn shed light upon the glen, the outline of Carnoch, Da’s grand stone manse appeared through the mist like a dream. Bloody hell, his head swam as perspiration dribbled down his forehead. He reached out his hands as if he could touch home. Forcing his legs to continue, jagged rocks ripped through his bandages and punished his feet with their unyielding razor-sharp ridges. Hugh only had mere paces before he’d be sitting before the fires of Glencoe, sipping a pint of warm cider with Da and his brothers, Alasdair Og and Sandy.

The bottom of his foot sliced open on a rock. Grunting, Hugh stumbled and crashed to the ground. His head hit hard—another jagged rock cut his temple. Trying to push himself up, everything spun out of control. He eased himself back to the rocky ground and closed his eyes.
I’ll be up in a moment
.

***

Hugh shuddered awake when a dog licked his face. Christ, he’d nearly frozen to death lying on the soggy earth with water seeping through his threadbare plaid. An enormous, shaggy deerhound hovered over him. Then Hugh’s heart stuttered. He reached up with all the effort he could muster and gave the dog’s shoulder a pat. “Och, Cuddy, do not tell me you’re still alive, old fella.”

The dog whimpered and sat beside him.

Footsteps slapped the mud. “What have you found you worthless hound?”

Hugh would recognize Da’s gravelly voice anywhere. He tried to sit up, but a volley of shivers coursed across his skin and his teeth chattered so relentlessly, he could utter not a word.

“Lord in heaven.” Da dropped to his knees beside him. “My son has returned!” Da’s big arms surrounded him.

“D-d-d-da,” Hugh managed to utter. Devil’s breath, unable to focus, the relentless pounding in Hugh’s skull refused to ease.

“You’re burning up—hotter than a pot over the cooking fire.”

As consciousness slipped from Hugh’s grasp, Da had hoisted him over his shoulder. “Come Cuddy, we’d best take this lad to his mother straight away.”

***

Hugh stirred to a soft cloth brushing across his forehead. “Och, you’re a bonny lass, Miss Hill,” he mumbled.

“Hill? And who might that be?” came a voice decidedly like Ma’s.

He must have been lying atop a feather mattress, because he couldn’t remember ever being so utterly warm and comfortable. He hadn’t a mind to open his eyes, but he did so all the same. “Ma?”

The careworn face he’d adored all his life smiled. Blue eyes twinkled beneath a ruffled linen coif. “You’ve come back to us, laddie.”

“Aye.” His voice rasped. “I finally found a rabbit hole out of Fort William.”

“By the looks of you, I’d reckon the escape nearly sent you to an early grave.” She smoothed her hand over his forehead.

Hugh choked down a sticky gulp. “I came down with the bloody flux whilst inside—did a turn in the infirmary—escaped from there.”

Ma patted her chest rapidly. “Oh, merciful father. I hope we won’t have a mob of dragoons beating down our doors.”

“Nay, Ma. They all think I’m a MacLeod.”

She laughed out loud—the same laugh that had always filled the rooms at the chieftain’s manse in Glencoe—had always made him feel loved.

When her laughter ceased, Ma cupped Hugh’s cheek. Her fingers weren’t silken like Miss Hill’s. Ma’s skin was rough and calloused. Aye, Clan Iain Abrach of Glencoe mightn’t have a motte and bailey fortress, but their wealth came through the tilling of the land and the raising of cattle. Their walls were three thousand feet high, walls only rugged Highland stock could navigate. Nay, Ma need not lift a finger to work, but she forever busied herself doing something—spinning, embroidery, weaving—Ma even rolled up her sleeves and kneaded bread when she felt the leavening could use an extra bit of muscle.

Her expression took on a troubled frown. “What happened at Dunkeld? Your father never speaks of it—just says if it hadn’t been for you, all of Clan Iain Abrach would be rotting in Fort William’s pit prison.”

Hugh took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “That’s about the gist of it, I’d reckon. At least I got off five good shots afore they cornered me.”