Marriage By Arrangement (27 page)

Blood dripped down homespun shirts and from the foreheads of several of the men. Some limped. The soldiers were singing, shouting and laughing.

One dragged a young woman by her arm, her gown torn and hanging from one shoulder, the other exposed to the sun and the leering eyes of the soldiers.

Avondale urged his horse forward, and then turned his steed and blocked the narrow road.

“Let us pass, sir.” The face under the tall military hat was almost as scarlet as the man’s uniform.

“Where are you taking these people?” His dry throat sounded a tad weak, so he raised his volume. “Answer me, soldier.”

“Cumberland said round up any Scot sympathizers to the fugitives hiding out in the Lowlands. These men fit the bill.” The soldier stomped his polished boot on the road. “We’re taking them to be sold as slaves and sent to the colonies.”

“The duke promised you could keep any monies you received, so you rounded up these innocent people.” He’d practiced that sneer in his voice and manner all his life. Never had he used it for better service.

The soldier ducked his head. “Yes, sir, he did. He did do that.”

“Do you know who I am?” He let his horse prance close to the embarrassed soldier’s side.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“So, where did you find these prisoners?”

“In yon village.” The man shuffled his feet and jerked a thumb back over his shoulder.

“Blairsville, was it?”

“Don’t know the name, Your Grace,” he mumbled, glancing at his men as if to see if any knew the name of the burgh where they’d captured the peasants.

“Of course, you don’t. If you did, you would know these people are under my protection.” He glanced at the six men and two boys who stood heads down, shoulders heaving as if they’d been running.

The girl looked up, tears streaking her face. She tried to raise her ripped gown to cover her naked shoulder, but the man gripping her arm jerked her so violently she fell at his feet.

“No, Your Grace. We didn’t know. We thought—”

“You didn’t think.” Avondale raised his voice and urged his horse close to the soldier.

The man had to step back. He collided with another of his men.

“I want these people freed.” Avondale put an edge on his voice.

The soldier’s mouth dropped open. “But—”

“Now!”

A sullen expression dropped over the faces of the soldiers, but they turned to slash the ropes binding the men and boys. They muttered and growled low in their throats, but they freed the prisoners.

One of the freed peasants hurried to the girl, helped her to her feet, and thrust an arm around her waist. He balled his fist, veins in his red face all but bursting.

“Look to your right and to your left, soldier, as far as you can see.” Avondale quieted his side-stepping stallion.

All the soldiers gazed around the glen, eyes wide.

“This is my dukedom. None of the people who live here was involved in any way with The Jacobite Rising. Not a single one. Each man, woman and child is loyal to King George. Not a one of them is to be harmed. These are loyal, hard-working crofters and merchants. Not a Jacobite among them.” He rattled his sword. “Now leave my glen and my bailiwick.”

The soldier managed a bow. “As you say, Your Grace.” Looking more eager to be off than to stay and apologize, the squad of soldiers headed down the road in the direction of Castle Drummond.

“Wrong way, soldiers. From here to the Highlands belongs to me.”

The soldiers cursed, but turned and, in a faint-hearted march, headed away from the castle towards the midlands.

Avondale sat his horse and watched them leave, dust and grit from their march settled over his shoulders and in the hair of the people he’d freed.

They bowed in the dust at his horse’s feet. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

The man with his arm around the woman looked up. “Might we know Your Grace’s name?”

He smiled and pulled a banner from the diminishing stock in his saddle bag. “Raise this in the center of your village. I am the Duke of Avondale. This banner will protect you from illegal seizure.”

As he rode away, they still knelt in the dust, their heads bowed, his banner held high in one man’s work-worn hands.

Avondale sighed, lifted his water skin, shook open the lid, and lifted it to his mouth. Nothing. Perhaps he’d find a stream somewhere.

He rode up yet another hillock. Smoke rose just behind the thicket of trees. Shouting and the clash of weapons wafted to his ears. He had no power outside his estates, but he could not let these atrocities continue and do nothing. Not again. Never again.

Ducking his head from low branches and sharp twigs, he urged his mount through the trees, and burst through to the clearing.

A heather-thatched roof smoldered, raising black smoke. The acid scent burned his nostrils.

Three redcoats on horseback, sabers flashing in the setting sun, surrounded a young peasant. One soldier had a noose about the man’s neck, and the other two penned him in with their steeds.

Avondale spurred his horse to block the soldier tightening the noose. “Stop. Release this man.”

The soldier’s mouth dropped.

Avondale wiped dust from his jacket to reveal his coat of arms. “I am the Duke of Avondale, and I demand you free this man.”

The soldier snapped his mouth shut, narrowed his eyes, and stared.

Back stiff, hand on his sword, Avondale returned the glare. “This man had no part in The Rising. He, his people, and his property are under my protection. If you doubt my word take your case to King George.”

Slowly the soldier lowered the rope. The peasant’s hands jerked upward, and he tugged at the loop around his neck. His face slowly lost its purple color, and he drew in great gasps of air.

“You’re the Duke of Avondale?” Disbelief pitched the redcoat’s voice high.

Avondale held out his hand. The powerful ring on his right index finger sparkled in the dusky light. “You disbelieve me? That would be a grave mistake. You will find yourself stripped of rank should you and your men fail to leave this burgh immediately.” He glanced around the small clearing.

Two soldiers, trews around their ankles, knelt over a female, her skirt hiked above her head. A pile of tartans and plaids burned in front of the humble doorway.

Another soldier led a cow away from the byre.

The sound of a whip slashing into bare flesh floated from behind the cottage.

“At once, Captain,” he ordered.

The soldier bowed, slid his sword into his saddle scabbard, put his fingers to his lips, and shrilled a whistle.

All around the clearing soldiers froze.

The woman’s soft crying and the fire crackling through the thatched roof filled the silence.

The soldier leading the cow dropped the rope, and the animal turned and plodded back to the byre.

The two men hitched up their scarlet pants and sauntered over to face their captain.

Three men hurried around the corner from the rear of the cottage, a blood-stained horsewhip in the tallest soldier’s hand.

After they all assembled, Avondale forced every ounce of authority he could muster into his voice. “Do not return to this property or to this burgh.” He waved to the other houses clustered nearby, each surrounded by a small clearing. “These people are crofters. Simple farmers. Lowlanders, faithful to the king. Take the word of the Duke of Avondale. These people did not fight at Culloden. You have no right to trespass.”

“But Milord, they are sympathizers.” The captain waved a weak, uncertain hand, as if to prove he had a right to pillage unarmed villagers.

“And you have proof of this, Captain?” Avondale fought exhaustion creeping over his limbs, numbing his hands and feet; over his voice, making it rasp; over his resolve, making him stiffen until he thought his back would break. He stared the man down.

“No, Your Grace. We shall leave at once.” The red-faced captain bowed.

Avondale nodded.

Slowly the men on foot marched after the mounted officers. As they disappeared into the woods, he slumped in the saddle. He had to rest, but he would not return to the castle until he could protect as many peasants as he was able. He would spend the night here in this burgh and start early tomorrow.

Bloody Billy would not have the freedom to murder, rape, pillage, or take captives of any more innocent people as long as he could bluff his way. He had no power to protect these people so far from his own lands and estates, but he could no longer sit idly by while that evil man emptied the countryside of Scots.

He already owed Cumberland. If the duke discovered these actions, the king’s brother would seek his blood.

But Bloody Billy no longer ruled his soul. He’d given himself to a much Higher Power.

29

Cailin had ticked the minutes off, measured the hours in counting the English guests as they finally left the castle, one by one, to return to their lands to protect their holdings and their crofters from the redcoats.

She’d ticked the days off by the routine of the household and her duties. She and Mums selected the week’s menus, assigned the various household chores and supply purchases, and together they took food and clothes to their own crofters who had need.

The only bright spots in the two weeks since her last night with Avondale arrived as she spent time with the bairns. After they moved into the castle, they’d not wanted separate rooms.

So she, Mums, and Fiona assigned Duncan’s four lads to one room.

Though Baby Fiona spent cheerful hours in the nursery, she demanded to sleep in the same room as her three older brothers, so Collin’s four bairns received an adjoining room. Mums placed a small bed beneath the biggest, brightest window for Baby Fiona.

The bairns big eyes took in every nook of their rooms and grew larger when they discovered each would have their own bed.

Already they had woven their way into Cailin’s heart. She felt a special fondness for Baby Fiona, who liked to climb up into her lap when she took a minute or two to rest in one of the white rockers Mums had the servants bring to the bairns’ rooms from the nursery.

Cailin scarcely recognized the energetic, warm, smiling woman who supervised the servants, telling them where to place the clean sheets, comfortable chairs, desks, toys, and throw pillows. Mums had never seemed happier.

She and Mums no longer had any emotional barriers distancing them. She’d never before felt so completely comfortable around Mums. And Mums obviously felt the same way. The looks, hand clasping, and smiles they shared drew them into a new closeness.

Cailin painted the plaster in the two rooms by grinding color pigments in oil until it became a stiff paste. She used bright yellow for the walls and royal blue for the trim. Some of the servants brushed the paste on the wall. The exuberant bairns helped as well. Baby Fiona came for a cuddle with yellow paint dotting her face.

Cailin laughed for the first time that week. She distributed cushions and tacked up oil paintings to accent and add warmth and welcome to the rooms. For Baby Fiona’s new bed she used all sweetly girlish, bright and pastel pinks.

When they viewed the finished rooms, the boys clapped and grinned.

Baby Fiona, cleaned of her paint and resembling a fairy in her long peach gown, her almost iridescent blonde hair floating to her waist, danced around the room like a will-o-wisp.

Liam, the oldest by six months, appeared to be looked upon by the other bairns as leader and spokesman. So after they calmed, Cailin turned to the sturdy blond whose face seemed covered with light freckles. “Is there something more I can bring to make this room home for you?”

Liam shuffled a foot on the polished granite. He tucked his hands behind his back and raised his chin to look her in the eyes with his brilliant blue gaze. “Aye, ma’am.” He swallowed. He straightened his shoulders and took a deep breath. “We’d verra much like to have some books.”

Cailin grinned. Delight spiraled from the roots of her hair to her toes. “I’m so pleased to hear that!” She reached a tentative hand to weave her fingers through his springy, red hair. She wanted to hug him, but, though he was only about seven, he stood almost to her shoulder and she was not at all certain how he would react to being hugged. “We shall take a carriage to the book store in Kirkmichael and you shall each select some books that appeal to you.”

Oh, how she missed Megan. Her sister would so have loved the upcoming outing. But, as days passed and the castle received no word of Megan and Brody’s capture, her worried heart lightened for them. Though she prayed for them often during the days since they’d escaped, her prayers became more and more optimistic. But her sister would have loved spending time with these bairns. Cailin could only pray to one day receive a letter.

“And,” Cailin turned to the task at hand, “Mums and I shall see that a suitable tutor is brought to begin you on your studies.”

The lads clapped.

Baby Fiona wrinkled her nose. “What is too-too?”

Cailin knelt beside the lass and explained. Then she turned to the boys. “But Liam, Dougal, Gavin, and Tevish, you four brothers and Ewan, Angus, Kameron, and Baby Fiona must all begin calling me Aunty Cailin. And we shall begin today teaching you to speak in the English manner. Though you live here in the castle under Lord Avondale’s protection, there might come a time when you are away and redcoats might question you. You cannot let your Scottish brogue betray you.” She looked long at each one of the eight serious faces turned up to her. “Will you do that for me?”

“Aye, Aunty Cailin.” Liam grinned. Already his sturdy body had begun to fill out, so different from the skinny, dirty, lad with the large, frightened eyes whom she’d brought to the broch.

She snatched a moment during the bairns’ rest time to take her quill in hand and pen a note to Pastor Fergus.

Dear Pastor,

I plan to start an orphanage for the bairns of deceased Culloden warriors. Do you know of any proper and sizable facility I can purchase to renovate for the yet-to-be-rescued orphans? I know of one qualified couple who will live full-time with the little ones. Do you know of any others? Thank you for any advice you can offer.