The Fearless Highlander (Highland Defender Book 1) (10 page)

Sputtering, the old man, white with age, but still with a spine as straight as a plank looked out over the gathering, his blue eyes sparkling with good humor. “Never forget the land of the Coe sprouts the very roots to the MacIain sept of Clan Donald. It was the year of our Lord fifteen hundred when the greedy house of Argyll tried to evict our ancestor John of the Ilis from Glencoe. They viciously set upon us whilst they had the great chief Donald Dubh locked in their rat infested dungeon at Innischonnell…”

A story Hugh could recite in his sleep, Da continued whilst the peat in the hearth crackled and all eyes focused on their fearless chieftain. Indeed, if the day ever came when the stalwart icon of the family perished, Hugh would have very big shoes to fill, both figuratively and literally.

Nonetheless, Hugh loved to listen to his father ramble on about the history of Coe and clan, and how he’d fought to keep their lands from greedy Campbell fingers. Amusing, each time Da told a tale it changed—always in Da’s favor. When he was still wet behind the ears, Hugh resented his father’s boisterous and gregarious manner. But now he’d come into his own as a man, he admired his father. Regardless of how the chieftain relayed a story, Alasdair MacIain MacDonald wasn’t only a descendant of Angus Og, progenitor of the Lords of the Isles—he was a legend in his own time.

Growing up in the shadow of a great man taught Hugh many things and set an example. No, his youth wasn’t particularly comfortable. Da had been a hard task master issuing bruises most days and bloody noses when Hugh erred too far. At the age of five, under threat of birch branches taken to his bare buttocks, Hugh roused before dawn to collect firewood, no matter the time of year, no matter the weather. Och aye, a swatting with a clump of thin birch twigs made welts rise that wouldn’t ease for three days.

Aye, he was Alasdair MacIain’s heir, but Da firmly believed being born to power didn’t mean shite. A lad had to prove himself over and over again—take a beating, then get up and take another. Damn good thing Hugh towered over the other lads his age, because after the wood had been chopped, the lessons learned, the cows milked and put to pasture, the real training began—training to become a man. A Highlander. A warrior. A defender of women and children and protector of the lands acquired by fire and sword centuries past.

Da made sure all his sons could handle a sword, dirk, musket, bow and arrow. He’d say, “To take up the sword pledges your oath to die for your kin, to die for your honor so that our clan will prosper.”

Then he’d make the boys race to the river with buckets and poles, fill them and race back, the poles across their shoulders with a bucket at either end. The winner—the first to arrive with full buckets was rewarded by a sparring lesson with Da himself—not necessarily a reward given the arse-beating Da would dish out, but the losers had it worse. After they sparred for hours, Da gave them the disgusting detail of emptying all the waste buckets for the chieftain’s house as well as the servant’s quarters.

Hugh made a point of receiving his arse-kicking from Da near every eve and left the shite detail to his younger brothers.

Da stopped his story for a moment and took another drink from his silver cup. “I’ve been blessed to reach the ripe age of two and sixty, and over the years I’ve seen my share of battles. I’ve defended my home, I’ve raided my enemies, and I’ve fought for king and country. One of the greatest honors of my life was when my sons Hugh and Og flanked me as we faced the dragoons in the battle of Killiecrankie. Bonnie Dundee may have lost his life, but he died with a sword in his hand, well aware he had Glencoe men beside him, fighting for the right of the Stuart line…”

Hugh’s gaze traveled across the room to Ma’s face. Rosy cheeked, she always sat peacefully listening to her husband while working on embroidery or knitting, her fingers constantly moving, creating something from a skein of wool that would become a piece of art.

Beside her, Sandy held his wife’s hand with a half-cocked smile on his ruddy face, listening to Da expound upon his tale with ale and a wee bit of whisky influencing his heroism. Beside Sandy, Sarah moved not at all. She kept her stare completely expressionless as if the story had no impact on her good or bad. Even her cheeks were pale—white like an unblemished canvas. She looked up for a moment, her gaze connecting with Hugh’s. He hid his face behind his dram of whisky and observed.

Her stare was starker than the paleness of her complexion. Was it the dimly lit room, or were her eyes really cold as grey slate kissed by Glencoe’s mist?

Hugh shuddered.

“What?” Da asked, coming out of his story. “Is the fire not warm enough for you, lad?”

Ma’s fingers paused. “Oh dear, I hope you’re not coming down with the influenza.”

Hugh raised his cup, directing a pointed look to Sarah. “I’ve never felt better. My best times are sitting with kin listening to the old tales of clan and sword. It gives us all a sense of our history. Something to remember with pride.”

Sarah glanced away and shifted in her seat. Och aye, it would be a cold day in hell afore Hugh grew to trust that woman—a shift of the eyes and frown might seem a trifle, but it spoke volumes about her character. Had Sandy not made his Campbell wife happy? Hugh vowed to find out.

Then he grinned at his father. “You were just coming to the best part. Please. Carry on.”

And continue he did.

But Hugh didn’t hear the rest. He stared into his cup as a wicked ache stirred in his loins. Aye, he’d gone too long without bedding a woman. The only problem? Just one woman filled his thoughts—a fair lassie he absolutely must block from his dreams.

God’s bones, he was a rouge. True, he probably shouldn’t have kissed Miss Hill in the window embrasure, but in that moment, temptation had taken ahold of his cods and ignited a raging fire that hadn’t eased since. If only he could make an excuse to see the lass again. One more kiss might quell his lust—as long as she didn’t press those succulent breasts to his chest. Och aye, the woman’s flesh could put a hex on any man. To prove his point, thoughts of her practically made Hugh want to sign on with her da.

Again he shuddered. He could never, not ever, not on his life turn his back on clan and kin. ’Twas exactly why he must push his errant thoughts to the back of his mind and lock them away for good.

Thinking, dreaming, yearning for Charlotte Hill would only see him standing on the gallows with a noose around his neck. The sooner he forgot her honeyed tresses, the sparkle of innocence in her violet eyes and the way an unfettered smile could play across her succulent lips, the better.

***

The next morning, Hugh took his musket and knocked on the door to Sandy’s cottage.

After a bit of rustling, Sarah opened the door, arched an eyebrow, and leaned on her birch-twig broom. “You come to call with your musket in hand?”

Hugh shrugged off the cool welcome. “I thought Sandy might enjoy a wee hunt this morn.”

Said brother appeared behind his wife, red locks disheveled, dimples in his boyish face. “Och aye, I caught sight of an eight-point buck a sennight ago. The whole clan would feast for certain.”

Sarah stepped aside and gestured into the cottage—dirt floor, the air thick with smoke from the peat fire. “You’d best come in out of the cold and eat breakfast with my lazy husband.”

“Pardon me?” Sandy sauntered toward the table while his wife frowned after him.

Her fist moved to her hip. “Look at you, barely out of bed, whilst your brother is up with his boots on.”

Hugh shrugged and sat on the bench. “Aye, but I haven’t yet had a bite.”

“Counting on my hospitality, were you, brother?” Sarah rested the broom against the wall.

“Of course he was,” Sandy said, pulling the simmering kettle from where it hung above the fire. “And I’ll brew up some of that newfangled coffee for us.”

The woman gasped. “Och, I’m saving that for when special guests come to call.”

Sandy pulled the stopper off a stoneware pot, the heady aroma of coffee filling the air. Hugh hadn’t oft had the opportunity to smell it, but the powerful scent made his mouth water. Dumping a cup full of black granules into the pot, Sandy grinned. “If the heir to Clan Iain Abrach is not a special guest, I do not ken who is.”

Sarah slapped a wooden plate of oatcakes on the table without a word. Hugh crossed his arms and ankles while pretending to watch his brother brew the coffee. “My thanks, brother. ’Tis a rare treat, indeed.”

Sarah took a seat on the bench opposite and Sandy placed three cups on the table. Odd state of affairs—not that Sandy shouldn’t help a bit, but his wife seemed none too eager to lift a finger.

“There’s six feet of snow in the hills, if not more. Why would you be hunting when the smokehouse is full of meat?” she asked.

Hugh studied her for a moment before he replied. Her features had softened since he’d entered. Was the lass having a bad morning, or was she as gruff-natured as he’d deemed her to be last eve? “A man cannot remain cooped up in his cottage all winter.” Hugh leaned forward and snatched an oatcake. “Besides, roast venison on the spit will please the old man for certain.”

“Too right it will,” Sandy agreed, pouring the coffee through butter muslin to catch the grounds. “I’ll enjoy the sport and its spoils, too.”

“Suit yourselves. I’ll not be venturing out in the bitter cold to hunt.” Sarah tugged her arisaid closer around her shoulders. “Make sure you watch the sky. I wouldn’t want you men to be caught in those hills in a blizzard.”

“Och,” Hugh said. “Sandy and I were raised in the Coe. Not many men could survive in her hills in the thick of winter, but I reckon the pair of us would manage.” He gave his brother a wink as he took a swallow of coffee. Lord in heaven, the brew was bitter enough to make his hair curl. He raised his cup and grinned. “A man could grow accustomed to this.”

Sarah picked up the stoneware pot containing the unused grounds and replaced it on the shelf. “This came all the way from London—a gift from my Uncle Robert.”

Hugh hid his displeasure with another sip of coffee. He needn’t ask. Her uncle Robert was a government-loving, arse-kissing Campbell for certain. Hell, it didn’t matter if he and Sandy bagged their buck. He’d spend a carefree day with his little brother and spirit him away from this stuffy, smoke-filled cottage. He’d seen and heard enough. Sarah was as smug and pompous as her Campbell relatives. Och aye, Sandy would need to show his new bride her place sooner than later.

Ma says I need a wife? Bugger that idea.

A sennight later Hugh didn’t take his own advice and dismiss Charlotte Hill from his thoughts. Oh no, that would have been too easy. He didn’t care to be in such close proximity to red-coated dragoons, but his reason for letting a discrete chamber in a guesthouse in Inverlochy far outweighed the risks. And across the road was an alehouse where he was certain to find an old friend.

He’d seen Farley MacGregor on his visit to Fort William with Da. The Highlander might have proffered his tracking services to Colonel Hill, but secretly he remained a Jacobite to his very bones. With the times, a man didn’t speak much about his political allegiances—especially after Hugh had watched his father grovel to the sheriff. The unspoken truth? Unless a Highlander’s name was Campbell, he remained true to kin and king, even if that king was living on the continent in exile. Hugh didn’t blame Farley for working for the government. He had a family. Eking out a living was difficult, and if you were lucky enough to be born in the Highlands, times were even tougher.

Once inside the alehouse, Hugh chose a table in a darkened corner and sat with a tankard of ale before him. Every time the door opened, he looked up expectantly, praying to the Almighty the MacGregor tracker wasn’t away on some harebrained task for the governor.

Drinking slowly wasn’t Hugh’s style, and moreover, sitting idle nearly drove him to the edge of madness. Beneath the table his impatient leg never stopped moving. Above it, his eyes shifted at every sound. He should have brought his men, but that would have caused more suspicion to his precarious circumstances.

Not long after the midday bell rang, the door opened and in strode Farley MacGregor, dressed in green plaid swathed around his waist and draped over his shoulders. On his feet he wore a pair of brogues, laced atop plaid woolen hose and secured below the knee with bright red flashes. Puffs of frigid air swirled around the blue bonnet covering his mop of unruly brown hair. Holy mother, the man’s unkempt beard came to the center of his chest.

Hugh pushed back his chair and stood. “Bloody oath MacGregor, are you part bear?”

The tracker squinted through the alehouse as he ran his fingers down his beard. “Och, what the bleeding hell brought you off your dung pile Mac—”

“Donald,” Hugh finished. True, he was Hugh MacIain MacDonald, but nary a friend tacked on the MacDonald bit. That part was understood—moreover, the MacIain name instilled fear in the hearts of his enemies. No point in causing a stir when trying to lay low.

Farley’s eyes shifted before he grinned. “You’re wise to use your clan name around these parts.”

“I reckon so.” Hugh gestured to the chair opposite. “Would you have an ale with me, old friend?”

“What’s this? Alasdair’s son giving rather than taking?”

Hugh clutched at his heart in jest. “You wound my pride.” He caught the barmaid’s attention and held up two fingers.

Farley snorted. “It would take a lot more than a wee rib to cut through that thick skin of yours.”

“My skin?” Hugh asked with feigned exasperation. “I reckon your skin is tougher than hog’s leather.”

That drew a hearty laugh from the burly tracker. “Och aye, just like any Highlander hailing from the Gallows Herd.”

Hugh grinned. “’Tis good to see the redcoats haven’t addled your brain.”

“Bloody hell.” Lowering his voice, the man threw a look over his shoulder. “Not for want of trying. With every lot of new troops, there’re more bastards who come thinking we’re a mob of useless savages. If you ask me, there’s not a hospitable dragoon in the lot.”

Hugh rubbed his hand over his wrist—where his manacles had worn him raw during his time in the pit. “My experience is the same.” Farley might be a friend, but he saw no use in telling him about being a prisoner of war. The only person in the fort who knew he’d been their guest was Charlotte and Hugh wanted to keep it that way.

The barmaid placed two tankards frothing with ale in front of them. “That will be two pennies.”

Hugh reached into his sporran and placed the coins on the table. “Ta.” Once the wench was out of earshot, he held up his drink. “What news of Fort William?” He’d test the waters for a wee bit longer before he mentioned the true reason for his visit.

A thick eyebrow arched. “Our winters are too cold for the English, that’s for certain. The milk-livered dragoons huddle by their braziers until Lieutenant Colonel Hamilton cracks his whip.”

Hugh ran his finger down the tankard’s handle. “I’ve heard of this Hamilton—sent here to take Hill’s spot once he’s retired. True?”

“That’s what they say.” Farley again lowered his voice. The man was jittery for certain. “I reckon he’s been sent here by the Master of Stair to make a stir.”

“With the governor?”

“Aye, and with the locals. Hamilton’s a supremacist and a hater if you ask me. I loathe tracking for the blighter—don’t trust him either.”

“No?”

Farley took a long look behind, then leaned forward. “I swear he’d stab me in the back if no one was looking.”

“Bastard.”

“Too right.” The big man sipped his ale. “So, why in God’s name are you in Inverlochy, and where the hell are your men? ’Tisn’t safe for a Highland gentleman to be alone—especially when his allegiances are so, uh,
well known
.”

Hugh leaned back and crossed his arms. “I’ve a matter of a more delicate nature to attend.”

“I see.” Farley’s dark brown beard split as he grinned, revealing a mouth of crooked teeth. “Come to meet a woman have you?”

“A tracker you are.” Hugh laughed. “Tell me, if a man were to pay a visit to Miss Hill, how would he best go about it?”

Farley slammed his fist on the table. “For the love of God, do not tell me you’ve come all the way from Glencoe to call on the governor’s daughter.”

Hugh scratched his chin. “Guess I’m a glutton for punishment.”

“Did you ken Doctor Munro has been courting her?”

Thick skin or not, Farley’s comment set Hugh’s blood to boiling. “That pasty codfish? How on earth can she put up with the likes of him?”

“I reckon he’s a mite better than Hamilton.” Farley scratched his beard. “Have you even met the lass?”

“Aye.” The corner of Hugh’s mouth ticked up. “Kissed her once.”
The first didn’t count—not really.

“Truth?” Farley rocked back and thwacked his chest. “Did she kiss you back?”

“Why in God’s name would I be sitting here in the midst of a mob of government troops?” Hugh probably shouldn’t have mentioned the kiss.

The tracker took a good swig of his ale, then reached across the table and swatted Hugh on the arm. “Don’t know what a cultured Sassenach lassie would see in a Highland scrapper like you.”

God’s bones, Farley needed a long turn in the mountains. “I beg your pardon? Mayhap the redcoats have addled your mind after all. Does my inheritance count for nothing with this lot of Williamite zealots?”

“Och, unless you have ‘earl’ attached to your name like Breadalbane, the redcoats would still consider you a scoundrel—especially hailing from the Coe.” Farley stared at the wall for a long moment. “You’d risk your neck for the lass?”

“Aye—already have, I suppose.” Ballocks, this conversation made his leg under the table jittery. For centuries the MacDonald septs had been at odds with the Campbells, and now the Earl of Argyll and the Earl of Breadalbane sat on the Privy Council, deliberately passing laws to destroy Clan Iain Abrach’s reputation—just has they had the MacGregors not so long ago. “Nothing like being treated like a criminal in a man’s own country,” Hugh spat out.

Farley guzzled his remaining ale, then looked Hugh in the eye. “You ken I’m your mate. But bloody hell, you have to be daft to come here seeking an audience with the colonel’s daughter.”

“Probably am, but that doesn’t change things.” Hugh planted his palms on the table. “Can you slip me inside?”

“If there’s no talking you out of it…” Farley glanced over his shoulder. “My lady wife happens to be Miss Hill’s chambermaid.”

Hugh nearly fell off his chair. He hoped Farley might help him steal into the fort—mayhap arrange a meeting, but his wife was the lady’s chambermaid? Hugh grasped Farley’s plaid and crushed it in his fist. “I must see her. Please.”

With a squint to his eye, Farley glanced down. “Holy Mary, you do have a hankering for the lass.”

“Aye.” Hugh released his grip and forced himself to sit back while his foot tapped beneath the table. “Can you help me?”

“Don’t ken. I refuse to put the colonel’s daughter in a compromising situation. No, no. Emma would lose her position for such a misstep.” The tracker drummed his fingers against his tankard.

Hugh’s entire leg rattled the table. “There must be some way I can see her without causing a stir.”

“Tell you what, I’ll ask Emma to mention your presence in Inverlochy to the lass. Then we’ll see if she even cares to see your ugly face.” Farley shook his head. “I cannot believe it. The prince of the Gallows Herd kisses the princess of the Fort William Dragoons. Now I ken why bloody wars are fought.”

***

Huddled under her cloak, her hands warm in a fur muff, Charlotte sat beside Emma in the coach. Though the snow was packed down, they ambled slowly to the chapel tucked away in the wood. She still couldn’t believe Hugh was in Inverlochy—and Emma had been the one to tell her about it.

How devilishly exciting. Though Emma had repeated a hundred times Charlotte needn’t bother herself with the likes of Hugh MacIain MacDonald, Charlotte would hear none of it. Emma said that Hugh was a loyal friend of her husband’s, but the chambermaid thought Doctor Munro to be a better match. Charlotte had tried to tell Emma how utterly dull she found the physician. Though her words fell on deaf ears, Emma still arranged the meeting, bless her. Charlotte’s insides danced as if she were soaring like a bird, or being introduced at court for the very first time. She patted her velvet hood. “Do I have any flyaway locks?”

“You look lovely as always,” said Emma. “Though I should have taken a bit of coal and drawn a wart on your chin.”

Charlotte nudged the chambermaid with her elbow. “You would do no such thing.”

“No? I still do not have an inkling as to why I’m going along with this charade.”

“Because you are a kindly and loyal servant.” Charlotte gave the woman a pointed stare. “And I’ve sworn you to secrecy.”

Mr. MacGregor pulled the horse to a stop outside the chapel, sitting alone in the midst of overarching trees. Only the narrow path just wide enough for the wagon was bereft of trees—some fir, but mostly sycamore and birch that had lost their leaves for the winter.

Charlotte’s breath billowed in the cold. Her hands trembled. Goodness, her entire body trembled.

After tying the reins, Mr. MacGregor helped her alight. “You mustn’t worry, Miss Hill. We shall be waiting for you right here.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Are you sure you don’t wish for me to accompany you?” Emma asked. “I would feel so much better about this.”

“Oh please.” Charlotte held up a gloved palm. “’Tis God’s house in which we’ll be meeting. I’m sure Mr. MacIain will behave the perfect gentleman.”

Emma took Farley’s hand and hopped down from the cart. “I cannot believe I am going along with this. Your father will take it out of my hide if we’re found out.”

Mr. MacGregor gave his wife a pat. “Not to worry, my dear. Hugh’s a good man. I trust when the time comes, Colonel Hill will see it.”

Emma looked skyward. “Afore we’re both dismissed, let us pray.”

Thus far, they had proceeded in utmost secrecy. Charlotte had even been so bold as to tell her father she planned to pray at the chapel in the wood, though she hadn’t mentioned anything about Hugh. A girl was entitled to a secret or two, was she not?

A twinge of guilt tightened her chest.

Mr. MacGregor offered his elbow. “I’ll see you inside.”

“Thank you.”

Together they proceeded to the thick double doors, studded with blackened iron nails.

“Do you think he’s here?” Charlotte asked, looking for a horse.

“If he’s not, he’d be a greater fool than I thought possible.” Mr. MacGregor pulled on the latch. “I’ll be right outside. If I hear one squeak, I’ll be upon MacIain in the blink of an eye.”

Charlotte patted the kindhearted man’s arm. “I’m sure that will not be necessary.” Stepping inside, she blinked in rapid succession to enable her eyes to adjust to the dim light.

His head bent in prayer, Hugh kneeled before the altar. A ray of light streaming from the stained glass above made him look like the archangel of war. Enormous, broad shouldered, dark hair cropped to his nape, the man could be none other than Hugh MacIain.

The door clicked shut behind her.

Charlotte’s mouth went dry.

She took a step forward, her skirts rustling.
Should I interrupt his worship or wait?

Her question was answered when he crossed himself, stood and faced her, his eyes more intense and hungry than she’d remembered. “You came.” His white-toothed grin brightened the entire sanctuary.