GLENHEATH
Still shaken by her narrow escape, Hannah trudged the stony pathway back to Dùn Fhoithear, reflecting on the ironies of life. She marched amid an escort of English soldiers, but not as a prisoner—something she’d feared in her worst nightmares.
The men of the gunnery crew were unaware of her role in the rescue of the Honors, but if Morgan suspected, why was he shielding her from arrest? His kiss left no doubt about his desire, and yet he’d sworn not to take advantage. The remark about her being a jewel had been intended as a warning, she was sure, or was that how he saw her?
She’d never been any man’s jewel. The notion made her feel wanted, cherished.
He was risking a great deal by protecting her, exposing himself to charges of treason. She dismissed the possibility he too might be a spy. Invisibility cloaked spies. Morgan was a Welshman in an English army, a relatively unusual circumstance sure to raise eyebrows.
She walked in his wake, her gaze fixed on the long legs and broad shoulders that had attracted her attention in the first place. Captain Morgan Pendray would draw the eye wherever he went.
As they approached the civilian camp, it became clear folk were in an unsettled state. Sutlers were preparing wagons for departure, paying no heed to the laundresses hastily unpegging garments from the drying lines slung between them, cursing when clean clothes fell to ground. Men shouted. Women twittered. Something had happened and Hannah’s common sense told her safety lay in flight, yet she remained where she was, unable to flee when Morgan turned and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.
He called a halt. His men looked to him for guidance. “Baxter, stay here with Mistress Hannah and give her whatever help she needs. It appears the camp is disbanding. The rest of you up the hill to the fortress. March.”
He bowed to her. “Trust me,” he whispered.
Then he was gone, leaving the bewildered-looking young soldier with her. She smiled at the lad. In truth, she was a more seasoned veteran of the bloody struggle for independence than he was, but she accepted Morgan had left Baxter as a reassurance, not to keep watch on her. “Let’s find out what’s going on,” she said. “We can only hope no one has pilfered my belongings.”
~~~
Morgan and his crew arrived within the gates just as the flagpole came crashing down like a felled tree, landing with a bounce perilously close to General Abbott. He’d been barking orders, but now glared, red-faced, at the axe-wielding musketeers who’d brought it down. They hurried away before he had a chance to vent his wrath on them.
He espied Morgan. “Pendray! We leave on the morrow. Prepare your cannon and crew.”
“We’re abandoning the fort, sir?”
Abbott set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the gates. “It’s a ruin, and the regalia is long gone. We’ll leave a token force, but I received dispatches today. Royalist night-walkers are striking targets all over this blessed country. It’s doubtful they’ll waste their efforts retaking this ruined heap.”
Keeping pace, Morgan struggled to understand. “Night-walkers, sir?”
“Marauding bands of Highlanders. Clansmen who strike mostly at night, burning property, stealing cattle, killing folk sympathetic to our cause and extorting unauthorized cess taxes. Swift and deadly, and we’ve little hope of stopping them.”
He turned to point at the tattered red lion. It lay in the dirt, still wrapped around the end of the splintered flagstaff. “They’ve raised the royal standard at Killin and Falkland,” he shouted angrily.
Morgan’s knowledge of Scottish geography was limited, so he kept silent. He didn’t have to wait long.
“Too far apart to be one army and too close to the lowlands for my liking. Separate clans, probably feuding with one another and Glenheath has the good sense to keep them apart.”
“Glenheath, sir?”
“Munro Cunynghame, Earl of Glenheath. A Lowlander if you please,” his commander replied, leaving him none the wiser until Abbott continued. “I’ll never understand these people. Highlanders and Lowlanders hate each other, yet it’s an Earl from Ayrshire who leads the Royalist faction and our intelligence tells us they’re headquartered in the Highlands.”
Inverness suddenly made sense to Morgan, but his thoughts snagged on something else Abbott had said. “Ayrshire, sir?”
“In the west. Kilmer. Glenheath was suspected of involvement in the attempt to rescue King Charles before his execution.”
Morgan had a vague recollection of hearing about the failed rescue, but gooseflesh marched over his nape at the mention of Kilmer. He recalled Hannah biting back the name of the village in Ayrshire from whence she hailed. Was it possible she was somehow connected to this earl? Her occasional lapses out of the peasant brogue had alerted him to the true nature of her background.
Abbott came to an abrupt halt. “I’ll miss this place. It was a tough nut to crack. Just like the Highlanders. They cling stubbornly to their belief in the divine right of kings, though I suspect it’s mainly the clan chiefs who want to hold on to the power they’d forfeit under the Commonwealth.
“We cannot allow them to spread their influence into the lowlands—too close to England. You’ll bring the cannon to Inverness. We’ll set up our headquarters in the Highlands and hunt them down. Map briefing in an hour in my tent.”
“Sir.” Morgan came to attention as he watched the general stride away, hoping an hour would be sufficient time to prepare his crew and speak with Hannah.
~~~
“Here comes the captain,” a ruddy-faced Baxter said, glancing nervously at the bundle of women’s clothing he was clearly embarrassed to be holding in both hands.
Hannah’s relief at finding the spare shift and her one pair of goatskin shoes still in the hide-y-hole turned to surprise when she espied Morgan hurrying down the hill from the fort. Her belly clenched. Something was amiss.
She waved so he’d be sure to see them amid the crowd. Most men would look uncomfortable running down a steep hill, but Morgan’s long legs carried him like a sleek greyhound. He barely broke his stride when he acknowledged her wave with a nod of his head.
“Never seen him come down here to the camp before,” Baxter observed, compounding her anxiety. “Come to think on it, ain’t never seen him run before.”
The young soldier shoved the clothing at her, came to attention and saluted when his captain reached them. “Sir.”
“Back up to the camp, if you please, Baxter,” Morgan said, showing no signs of being out of breath. “The lads have set about cleaning and readying the equipment for departure on the morrow.”
The youth glanced at Hannah.
“I’ll take care of Mistress Kincaid,” Morgan assured him.
Despite Hannah’s trepidation, his promise calmed her. She clutched her belongings to her breast and waited for his news.
He took her by the elbow and escorted her to a more private spot behind a wagon. “There’s word of Royalist Highland clans attacking near the Lowlands.”
Heart racing, she averted her eyes from his intense gaze, but he took hold of her chin and forced her to look at him. “The rebellion is gaining momentum.”
She shrugged. “I hear there’s many a clan in the Highlands still loyal to the king.”
It wasn’t untrue. The unwavering blue eyes would detect a lie.
“Yet the leader is reported to be a Lowlander,” he replied. “An earl from Ayrshire. Surely you know him since you are from those parts? Glenheath.”
A chill raced up her spine. Clearly, Morgan suspected who she was. Though her beloved uncle had prepared long and hard for the rebellion, she worried for his safety. He was the closest thing to a father she’d had for many a year. “I know of him,” she admitted hoarsely, but the tear trickling unbidden down her cheek gave her away.
She expected censure. Instead Morgan took her into his embrace and stroked her hair. “Abbott is leaving a token force here, but we depart for Inverness on the morrow. Promise me you’ll join the camp following us. Do not remain here, and don’t flee to Kilmer. They’ve probably assigned Roundheads to watch it.”
She pulled away and glanced up. “Ye’re a Roundhead,” she whimpered, heartsick that she craved this man though he was an enemy.
Rolling his eyes, he slipped the strap from under his chin and removed the lobster-tailed helmet. “And I’m not going to turn traitor any more than you are. I won’t aid you, but I won’t betray you either. Just promise my trust in you won’t lead me to the gallows—or worse.”
“Why are ye doing this?” she asked, though the answer was clear to see in the blue depths of his eyes.
He put his hands on her hips and bent his head to nibble her bottom lip. “We may find ourselves on opposite sides of this conflict,” he breathed, “but I’m a man and you’re a woman, and I think you need me as much as I need you.”
Too stunned to utter a protest, she touched her fingers to her mouth as she watched him stride back up the hill. The fleeting contact held as much warmth and promise as the passionate exchange they’d shared at the burn, but the gentle pressure of his teeth had been intended to ensure she understood he meant what he said.
It was folly to go to Inverness, but evidently the Roundheads were aware Royalist support was strongest amongst the Highland clans. If she followed Cromwell’s army she might become privy to information vital to the success of the rebellion and the safety of her uncle.
She fished in the toe of one shoe and pulled out the drawstring purse that held a few coins, the meager fruits of her laundering duties. She stuffed her spare clothing into a gunny sack and nestled the purse down the front of her shift.
Hauling a cannon through the Grampians would be next to impossible. It was likely the army would take the route north from Stonehyve along the Causey Mounth to Aberdeen and thence to Inverness. She resolved to seek out her uncle’s man in Stonehyve to advise him of her plan. By the time she got there mayhap she’d have solved the problem of how to aid the rebellion without betraying Morgan.
Yawning at the prospect of a pre-dawn march, she went off to seek the relative safety of the sleeping shelf she rented in a sutler’s wagon.