Master of the Highlands

Lily was gasping in pain now at the ice -cold water. She embraced the pain, though, using it to intensify her focus for she knew that perhaps more dangerous than the relentless pull of the current was the frigid temperature of the water. She didn’t know how long it took to become hypothermic, but her forearms were already numb. Her feet no longer hurt from the cold and she could feel a paralyzing numbness creeping up her calves.



Lily was slowing. Her body was responding to the cold water and was trying to conserve energy. She disregarded every cue her limbs gave her and slowly counted, forcing a regular pattern to her strokes. She had crossed the midpoint of the river, and there was no going back now. She swam with everything she had. Memories of an eleventh-grade summer spent lifeguarding: swim steadily, across the current, keep your head above water, eyes locked on the victim. John slipped under, spurring Lily to surge forward with even greater strength. She could no longer see him. Taking a deep breath, she went under, her arms flailing in front of her in a desperate attempt to make contact with the boy. Her fingers brushed over a bit of fabric, floating oddly peacefully in the water. She made one last desperate kick and knocked headlong into the boy. Lily grabbed him across his chest, settled him under her left arm, and began to sidestroke frantically back to the riverbank.



Her palms were bloodied and nails shredded from grasping at whatever holds she could find. She had to make her way back across the river and not let the increasingly violent pull of the current sweep them over the edge of the falls. Every time she let go of a rock or stump, they were swept closer to the precipice. She concentrated on the people along the shore. She spied Ewen racing down the hillside, still too far from the riverbank to help. Some men from his hunting party had made it down to the water’s edge and jogged clumsily along, tracking her and John’s progress downriver. A few of the men were trying to fashion a long pole to hold out to her, but the rotted branches would not reach out far enough. They all seemed so small and far away. She could tell they were yelling for her, but the only sound that filled Lily’s head was the thundering crash of water. Someone—Ewen, she was almost certain—was stripping down now, but the layers of clothing and weaponry were too much of a hindrance; he would never make it into the water in time. Lily needed to get John to safety and get some air in his lungs immediately. She too needed to get to safety immediately—her arms were trembling with the effort of paddling while clutching the boy to her side, and it was becoming increasingly possible that they would get carried over the edge of the falls. She felt a deep pang of loss. That Ewen would lose his only son, that maybe there was something she could have done differently. And she was stunned to feel a keen sense of regret that she hadn’t spent more time with Ewen. It suddenly seemed so important to know him, and for him to have a true understanding of who she was.



Her body was almost completely numb now, the rigor of her chilled muscles the only thing keeping John at her side. She thought of the people on the riverbank—how they weren’t of her time. How they wouldn’t miss her if she were to succumb to the seductive pull of the river and careen to the pool below. Her head buzzed and a warm rush coursed through her veins, beckoning her muscles to let go. She thought again of Ewen. The people by the side of the river might mean nothing to her, but she was saving Ewen ’s son, and adrenalin spiked through her exhausted body at the thought. It took all she had to concentrate on those figures standing on the muddy shore to continue her deliberate and measured paddling toward them.



Her respect and love of water served Lily well as she relied on patterns in the rapids—not to mention a calm head—to get back to shore. Rather than fighting each distinct current, Lily swam across them, using their force to propel her and John back to safety.



In moments, her feet made contact with the slick mud of the riverbank. Cradling John in her arms, she raced out of the water and placed him on the ground. She didn’t have much time. The surrounding onlookers were silent.



A couple of the clansmen approached to intervene. Lily hissed, “You will not touch this boy. ” The crowd started to buzz. One man silenced the others. Lily thought it might be Ewen, but she didn ’t give it any thought as she tipped John’s neck in her hand and began mouth -to-mouth resuscitation. Lily hadn ’t thought about the finer points of CPR in years, much less how to resuscitate a ten-year-old, but it came back to her like clockwork—two breaths, fifteen compressions, two breaths, fifteen compressions.



In moments, John began to cough. Lily leaned him onto his side as he spewed foamy water from his lungs and belly. A collective sound of wonder rippled through the crowd as John was immediately surrounded by bodies, wrapping him in blankets, petting his head, cooing, and finally spiriting him up onto a horse where he was carried at full speed back to the Cameron keep.



Lily swayed to her feet. She was aware of numerous pairs of eyes focusing on her. Not with hostility, but with apprehension and a kind of awe. Then Lily’s cheeks flamed as she realized her relative state of undress. She looked down to see her shift was soaked and completely translucent, the thin fabric hugging every curve of her body. She could make out a triangular shadow between her legs and could see the pink of her breasts showing through the linen as two light brown halos. Her nipples were taut with cold, pointing erect under the clingy fabric.



Shaking, Lily looked around until she spotted her clothes in a trail toward the water’s edge. She tried to conceal her body as best she could with her hands. As she turned to gather her clothes someone rushed up from behind and covered her with a thick tartan. She looked up to see the hard edges of Ewen’s face looking down on her. Her knees buckled but his grip around her only tightened . The world began to buzz. Lily mused for a brief moment how odd it was that she wasn’t surprised to see Ewen by her side. Everything went dark as she collapsed.



When he was certain that his son would be all right, Ewen ’s eyes sought out Lily. She was still in the same spot on the riverbank, knees dripping black mud, staring blankly after the horse and rider who were rushing John back to the Cameron estate. A fierce sense of protection overcame him, seeing her trembling and forgotten amidst the crowd of people. He ran to her and wrapped her in the warmth of his tartan, sweeping her into his arms as she began to fall to the mud.



Ewen had never seen such a courageous act from a woman. Many men had lost their lives in this water. He knew hardened fishermen who would face down a field of redcoats before braving these rain -swollen rapids.



Fury roiled through him. Someone would be held responsible for putting his son in harm’s way, and he thought he knew who that someone was. Ever since her arrival, Rowena had been sneaking about the keep with a wicked gleam in her eyes that belied her coquettish façade. Picnicking beneath storm- darkened skies wasn’t merely the frivolous notion she ’d have everyone believe. The woman was up to something. In the beginning, Ewen had thought she meant only to win his affections—it was no secret that she would have herself as the next mistress of his household. To put his son in mortal peril, though, spoke to a more insidious scheme.



He had left the day before, ostensibly with a hunting party, but only a fool would stalk deer on rain -soaked paths. The true errand had been to shed light on rumors of a redcoat incursion near Cameron lands. And curse it, but the talk was true. Ewen hadn ’t accepted Monk’s overtures and the popinjay had responded by digging his heels into Lochaber and was already at work cutting Cameron timber to build himself a wee fort. Rather than being discouraged, though, Ewen thought he’d enjoy teaching Monk a lesson. He’d show the general that establishing himself on Cameron lands was no light matter.



When he returned that day and spied John in the water, Ewen was too far away to save him. It was Lily alone who took action. He had no idea what she was doing at first, stripping off all her clothes like that.



He remembered the sight of her, racing down the ravine in her sheer shift. She had put some more meat on her bones in her time under his roof, a fact that gave him a rush of satisfaction. Her body, though still lean, now had more rounded edges. The shift had clung to her body as she entered the water, outlining the curve of her hips and the graceful power of her legs. Most women he knew were shorter, but Lily was long, lithe. Strong, but undeniably feminine.



All the greatest warriors could swim, but with her powerful, sure strokes, he was certain she could keep up with the best of them. The strangest part for him was, once he was sure that John was fine, he was stricken with fear that Lily would die from the chill. Although the air was warmed by the early summer that was just around the corner, both the lochs and the rivers were icier than ever. The laird had seen seasoned men die from less exposure.



Ewen put his lips to her ear and whispered, “Hang on, lass, ” but Lily had already slipped into unconsciousness. He lifted her seemingly weightless body high into his arms and raced up the cliffside ravine to get back to Ares and to the castle.



Gormshuil rubbed her hands together over the boiling water. The dried wood sorrel scratched and crumbled against her palms, releasing a smell like hay into the chill night air. The plant was a simple sour clover, but its tea always helped to soothe her stomach and nerves.



The kindling popped and settled, and the old witch used her walking stick to adjust the pot more steadily over the fire. She scowled. The cast-iron cauldron was a cruel mockery of her beloved china. Though small, it was a heavy thing, its bottom scorched deep black from decades of standing three-legged, directly in the cook fire. Gormshuil had left her home in the night, carrying the pot hung from a stick at her back, the other side counterweighted with a satchel of those belongings she ’d need to survive in the woods for she knew not how long. She ’d brought blankets thick enough to shield old bones from the relentless cold of the forest floor, her herbs, dried oats, clay pipe, a small roll of tobacco.



And her charts. She turned and spread them on the ground in front of her, relishing the warmth of the fire at her back. Red embers escaped from the crackling wood to spiral frantically heavenward before winking out. She dare not let the ancient papers get too close.