Chapter 32
Malcolm gazed at the ruins of the room and clutched his head, digging at his mud-streaked hair.
Everything he’d worked for, built, and accumulated over the last four years was gone. In place of the vats and pipes was a charred ruin, the walls around him black with soot.
He heard his brothers and his wife run in after him, Mary joining him to look around in perplexity.
“They blew up my still!” Malcolm shouted. “Those bloody English bastards blew up my still!”
Will came to stand at Mal’s side, folding his arms. “The rest of us are fine, thanks very much for askin’.”
“Burning down a man’s house is one thing,” Mal said, ignoring him. “But taking his livelihood . . .” He turned to his father. The duke looked older than he had even a week or so before, when Mal had run out of here after Mary. “What about the rest of it?” Mal asked, his heart a cold lump.
“They found the casks, and stole those,” the duke said. Then his face cracked with a smile. “But not all of them.”
Mal didn’t relax. “How many are left?”
“About twenty.” His father’s amused look grew. “Ye didn’t get your cunning from your mother, runt.”
Mal blew out his breath. “Well, that’s something. We can call them special, special reserve, and sell the bottles for a very high price to snobby Londoners.”
“We might not have the chance for that,” Will said.
The fact that Will was here, not off roaming the countryside, pushed Mal’s immediate worries aside but brought forth others. Alec was here too, not sailing off with Gair or waiting in the smuggler’s ship, as Mal had told him to do.
Mary, who stood like a warm pillar on his right, voiced the question. “What has happened, Will? Some Highlanders on the road told us the prince was on his way back.”
Will looked unhappy. “Aye, that he is. And the Duke of Cumberland, King George’s own son, is following him with a very large and well-experienced army.”
The days and weeks that followed were filled with uncertainty, which Mal didn’t like. He’d never been indecisive in his life—he’d always known what he wanted then done what he needed to do to get it.
Now he had to wait. Will kept them apprised of all events outside Kilmorgan. He was a superb gatherer of information; his primary source—women.
He’d explained to Malcolm many a time that soldiers, even commanders, spilled their secrets to women. They underestimated them. A woman couldn’t possibly understand or care about what they said, they believed, and they used their power and knowledge to impress them. So had been true down the ages.
“A woman wants to know you’ll listen to her,” Will would say. “That ye take her seriously. Many men of power use them and discard them, and they’re happy to vent their spleen and give up all the commanders’ secrets.”
Through Will, they knew exactly what was happening. Charles and his army had crossed back into Scotland, leaving troops in Carlisle and making for Glasgow. The Duke of Cumberland, as young as Charles and fresh from bloody battles on the Continent, marched straight to Carlisle and took it back.
Charles and his forces departed Glasgow rather quickly and made for Stirling, setting siege to it. Stirling Castle, Edinburgh Castle, Inverness, and all the military forts were still in the hands of the English, and those would have to be taken before Charles could have a strong hold of Scotland.
Already the Highlanders were disgruntled, wanting to return home to see to their lands over the winter. They weren’t professional soldiers, but farmers and landholders who worked the land and looked after their tenants. The duke was pleased at the turn of events, because his sons Duncan and Angus might come home.
Scotland was tense, and none more so than the inhabitants of the Kilmorgan distillery. Malcolm knew Mary was uneasy, though she looked surprised if Malcolm mentioned it.
She’d written a letter to her father, which Malcolm had sent via messengers he trusted, and it should have reached Lincolnshire by now. Wilfort never returned to Kilmorgan, so Mal could only assume he and Lord Halsey had been shunted back to England.
“Mary, love, if ye want to go home, ye can,” Mal said to her one night as they lay together in their bed.
The upper floors of one half of the distillery held chambers they’d turned into bedrooms. The castle’s servants had remained with the duke—t’look after Himself, they said—which meant a pile of people lived together in one small place. The chamber Mal had commandeered was miniscule, with room only for a wide bed, a dressing table for Mary, and a fireplace to warm them.
Mary, with determination seen only in the feminine half of the human race, had set about to make the distillery habitable. Thanks to her, they had soft blankets on the beds, makeshift curtains at the windows, and plates to set on the table at supper—plates that matched. Mary had ransacked both the distillery and the castle, had sorted and organized, and had bits of furniture hauled hither and yon, until all the Mackenzie men learned to disappear when she said, “I need someone to help me with . . .”
Mary rose on her elbow and traced a line on Mal’s chest. “I am home,” she said.
Mal caught her fingers and raised them to his lips. “Sweet of ye t’ say, but I wager your father’s house is more comfortable than this.”
“I like Kilmorgan,” Mary said stubbornly. “Besides, Scotland is crawling with armies moving every which way. Though they’re too busy to come up here to annoy you, I’d never get through them to return to Lincolnshire.” She looked triumphant when she said it, as though challenging him to argue with her. Mary was no docile creature.
“I can send you around in a ship,” Malcolm said. “Sail you right past all the trouble, land you only a few miles from home.”
Mary’s brows drew together. “I’m not going, Malcolm. What happens if all those English armies do overrun Scotland and drive Charles out? How would I know what happened to you? I am staying until the end.”
Malcolm kissed her fingers again and brushed her hair back from her face. “Ye think there is an end, then?”
“I mean until the fate of Charles is decided. He might win through.”
“I only want ye safe,” Mal said. He thought of his father, clutching the portrait of his wife to his chest and weeping. If Mal lost Mary, the grief would be endless.
Mal rolled Mary into the blankets and made love to her like a man starving.
Will Mackenzie disappeared again in frosty January, sending messages back to Malcolm through many sources—smugglers, itinerant blacksmiths, camp followers, even English soldiers whose loyalties were fickle.
They learned of the battle at Falkirk, outside Edinburgh, where the British were marginally defeated, but both armies dispersed in the heavy weather. Duncan had been there, and you’d think he’d won the battle himself, Mal thought when they received his letter through Will.
The Duke of Cumberland was coming, so Will said, heading to Stirling to relieve the British besieged there. Prince Charles retreated deeper into the Highlands, and reached Inverness.
After fighting there, Fort George fell, blown apart by Duncan, Angus, and his men. Will shook his head as he related this, but the duke looked proud.
As the weather began, gradually, to warm, and snow changed to rain, Duncan himself returned home, with Angus, explaining that they were pursuing the armies commanded by Lord Loudon, who’d been routed and chased west and north.
A small celebration was held at Kilmorgan, welcoming the two. It was a celebration with tension underlying it—Will reported that Cumberland was in Aberdeen, waiting for the weather to change while he amassed men and supplies for a final blow to the Highlanders.
“Oh, and, runt,” Duncan said as they gathered near the warm fire in the chamber Mary had made into their drawing room. “Everywhere I go, I hear tell of the brollachan who makes mischief with the British soldiers on the march. Concentrates in this area of the Highlands, I’m told, and is never seen, never caught.” He took a sip of whisky. “Wouldn’t know anything about that, would ye?”
Malcolm, who had more than once enjoyed himself making the life of British soldiers in the area hell, shook his head. “No idea. How could I? I’m busy putting my business back together. Besides, I have a wife now. I’ve settled down.” He sent Mary a wink.
Mary serenely took a sip of tea, which she’d asked for rather than the whisky. “Malcolm has been rather busy here,” she said, keeping her expression deadpan. “He has been helping me go through the wallpaper samples Will brought from Edinburgh.”
Duncan gave Malcolm an incredulous look, then roared with laughter. “Wallpaper samples! Malcolm the mighty warrior, a dead shot and fearsome with a claymore. Wallpaper samples!”
“’Tis a tricky decision,” Malcolm said, rolling his whisky glass between his palms. “I’m thinking the salmon and gold fleur-de-lis, but alas, Mary favors the blue.”
Duncan was off in laughter again, and Malcolm glanced over at Mary. They shared a look.
In that moment, Malcolm knew she was his. He’d pursued her, wooed her, seduced her, all the while hoping to make her fall in love with him. He’d done it because he was selfish, he knew. Mal had wanted Mary, and decided he would have her.
In the tiny joke they’d made against Duncan, without rehearsing, Malcolm realized that Mary knew his heart. She was truly his, and he hers.
Only one thing more would make his life with her complete. Mal hoped, as February became March, and spring eased life into the ground, that she’d tell him his fond wish was coming true.
But Mary said nothing, and Mal began to fear, with a cold touch of worry, that maybe it would never happen. With some women it didn’t. He and Mary had been lovers for months now, but time passed, and she never spoke.
On a blustery March day, Duncan returned from the north, his exuberance gone. He rode with his head bowed to his chest, his plaids fluttering in the wind. Across the saddle of the horse he led was the body of Angus Mackenzie, Alec’s twin, dead, shot through the heart.