Chapter One
Glencoe, 1st February, 1692
“No mistakes!” Mistress NicGilleasbuig insisted, slapping a measuring ribbon against her palm. “Tamp that row down again. ’Tisn’t sitting smoothly enough.”
“Yes, Mistress.” Skye picked up the tapestry beater and worked it through the strands of wool for the third time. A student of the art of weaving, she was handpicked by the laird’s wife. Though the woman was a hard taskmaster, Skye was fortunate to be learning a trade in the weaver’s shop, an outbuilding in the courtyard of the chieftain’s manor. Glencoe wool was considered the best in the Highlands and the weaving superior. This tartan was destined for Glasgow, and possibly for export to the Americas. No mistakes would be tolerated with this piece, made from first quality wool, spun by Skye herself.
A mighty racket came from the courtyard with whistles and men yelling. Skye tensed as Mistress NicGilleasbuig hastened to the window. “Something’s afoot.”
Skye sprang to her feet and joined the matron. Tavis MacDonald galloped past the weaver’s cottage, jumped down from his garron pony and ran for the enormous oak door of the manse. “Alasdair! Glenlyon and the redcoats are riding in from Ballachulish.”
Skye drew her hand over her mouth to muffle her gasp.
“Lord save us.” Mistress NicGilleasbuig clutched her heart while the look of dread stretched her stalwart features.
With Tavis’s announcement, all work came to an abrupt halt. Even the clang from the smithy’s shack stopped.
Skye had heard tale of Captain Robert Campbell, Laird of Glenlyon. Of all Clan Iain Abrach’s enemies, Glenlyon, black sheep of Clan Campbell, topped the list. He and his thieving clan oft prayed on the Coe, reiving cattle and setting crofts to fire and sword. However, until this day, things had grown quiet for a good two years after the great Glencoe chieftain had led a raid and swiped Glenlyon’s prized stallion. They’d set the captain’s stable ablaze as well. After the dust settled, the chieftain had sought a truce by arranging for his youngest son, Sandy, to marry Glenlyon’s niece, Sarah.
Skye followed the mistress out the door while more clansmen clambered into the courtyard. “Why on earth would the captain be leading his regiment into Glencoe of all places?”
“No good reason, I’ll tell you now,” said Mistress NicGilleasbuig, wringing her hands.
Though the prior sennight’s snow had melted, a chilly wind blew from the northwest and Skye clutched her arisaid tight around her shoulders. Everywhere, the courtyard turned into a flurry of activity while men toting all manner of weapons from muskets to shovels, raced to defend the laird. And now, the clang of the smithy’s shop was replaced by urgent shouts and murmurs.
“Hide your weapons,” boomed Hugh MacIain, heir to the clan seat, shoving his sword into a drift of snow. “Da signed the oath of fealty to William of Orange. Mark me, we shall not engage. They must draw first blood.”
In the distance, Glenlyon rode at the head of his regiment, dressed in a red-coated uniform, just as all the men behind him did. He wore a long, curly periwig powdered gray beneath his tall grenadier hat and looked more Englishman than Highland laird. Carried on the wind, the snare of the drummers kept time with the march.
The older woman grasped Skye by the shoulders. “You’d best go back inside. Hide in the loft. Lord only kens what Glenlyon is up to. If a battle erupts, those soldiers are capable of unthinkable acts. This is no place for a young woman, especially one as bonny as you.”
“But—”
“Do it I say.”
“Yes, Mistress.” Skye curtseyed then hastened inside and climbed the ladder, but she wasn’t about to hide behind the bolts of cloth and wool, not when so much excitement was happening down below. The most notorious Campbell in all of Scotland was paying Glencoe a visit in broad daylight. How could she resist peering out the loft window just for a glimpse at the devil’s face?
Skye drew aside the curtain as Captain Campbell held up his hand and pulled on his horse’s reins and stopped directly below her window. Glenlyon was flanked by a half-dozen dragoons on horseback and behind them, a great many foot soldiers. Clouds of breath swirled above the soldiers’ heads while their muskets remained pointed down, their pikes still—a good sign for certain.
An officer seated on a bay garron pony and wearing a Highlander’s feathered bonnet glanced up. His gaze met Skye’s before she could back away from the pane. He smiled.
Skye slipped out of sight for a moment, her heart racing. Goodness, Mistress NicGilleasbuig had insisted she hide, fearing the worst. Odd. Not only had an officer noticed her, he’d grinned. Though the moment passed as a mere flash in time, his smile had been friendly, his eyes shiny, his face…Skye sighed. Indeed, his face was rather attractive.
After patting her chest and taking a few calming breaths, she dared to again move closer to the window. The smiling officer sat tall in his saddle, broad-shouldered and proud. He wore the red coat of the government, but also a kilt of hunter green and navy blue. The length of tartan came from beneath his coat, draped over his shoulder and was gallantly pinned in the Highland style as if he was quite proud of his kin. Was he a backstabbing Campbell, or did he pay fealty to some other clan? That he paid fealty to William of Orange went without question. Further, by simply donning a coat of red and riding in the company of Glenlyon spoke volumes about his character. No man wearing a government uniform, no matter how amiable his mien, could be a friend of Clan Iain Abrach.
The officer looked ahead expectantly and Skye followed his line of sight. Alasdair MacIain MacDonald, chief of the clan of Glencoe, stood on the stoop of the manse looking every bit the great laird and warrior. A man the clan loved and respected. At a mammoth six-foot seven-inches, the chieftain’s long ginger beard may have turned white, but that only served to make him appear more menacing—just like the spiked moustache, the blue bonnet cockeyed over his thick white tresses pushed back enough to expose the deep scar on his right cheek. His countenance alone was enough to give anyone pause. But that, combined with his enormous stature, left no question as to who was chief of the great and fearsome clan of the Coe.
Hugh, who was nearly as tall and every bit as formidable, marched forward with his chin tilted up in question while Glenlyon sent an officer to meet the MacIain heir with papers in hand—but not the Highlander who had smiled. This officer wore red breeches with black boots to his knees, his face shadowed by his tricorn hat.
Skye turned her ear to the glass to better hear the conversation taking place but paces away from her hiding place.
“Do you come as friends or as enemies?” Hugh asked.
“As friends,” said the redcoat in an English accent, pushing the papers toward him. “We require quarters.”
Skye’s jaw dropped. Glenlyon and his men intended to stay? Before she caught herself, her gaze slipped downward.
As if he sensed her looking, Mr. Bright-eyes caught her yet again.
Pretending not to notice, Skye quickly shifted her attention to Hugh, who was nearly as menacing as his father.
“For how long?” He took the missive and read while mumbles of dissention rumbled through the gathering crowd.
“Until Captain Campbell’s orders come,” said the officer.
Hugh looked past the Englishman to Glenlyon, sitting a shiny and proud-looking Norfolk Trotter. The cur even rode an Englishman’s horse. Hugh waved the missive. “You mean to say your leader is not traveling through the Rannoch Moor path to visit his missus at Meggerine Castle?”
“Ah…” The officer glanced backward to the captain who gave a single shake of his head. “No. Colonel Hill commanded us to await his orders here in Glencoe.”
Hugh rolled the papers and stashed them in his belt. “Well then, may I extend to you the hospitality of the Coe and Clan Iain Abrach. You and your men are welcome.”
Again, Skye’s mouth fell open. Had she heard correctly? A mob of redcoats rode into Glencoe requesting quarters and the laird’s son extends the hand of Highland hospitality? It was February for heaven’s sake. Where on earth would the lot of them sleep?
Stepping down from his stoop, Alasdair MacIain MacDonald, the clan chief himself, strode forward. A grin stretched wide across his face, his arms open wide, his palms turned to the heavens demonstrating a warm greeting. “Captain Robert Campbell of Glenlyon. To what do we owe this honor?”
After closing the distance on his steed, the most notorious enemy of Skye’s clan dismounted. “I’ve come to visit my niece. She wed your son afore I had an opportunity to wish her good cheer.”
MacIain grinned and shook the backstabber’s hand. “I’m certain my new daughter would enjoy your company if you aim to stay for a wee bit.”
“Yes, indeed. I hope our presence here will not cause you undue hardship. But these are difficult times and to impose ourselves upon you in such weather.” The captain pointed his thumb northward. “’Tis most unfortunate that Fort William is full. Have you heard?”
“Nay, word hasn’t yet reached us.” The laird peered around Glenlyon and his officers. “How many men are in your regiment?”
“A small company—myself, my nephew, Lieutenant Kier Campbell, Lieutenant Lindsay, Sergeant Barber, Sergeant Hendrie, Corporals Campbell, MacPhail and Kennedy.” As he spoke, Glenlyon gestured to each man with an upturned palm. “And I’ve fifty-seven foot in my ranks.”
Skye again looked to Mr. Bright-eyes. So, he is a Campbell. A Mr. Kier Campbell.
The clan chief scratched the long whiskers on his chin, his gaze shifting to his eldest son. “Not a problem. Of course ’tis the Highland way to provide bed and comfort to a gentleman and a friend. I have a chamber above stairs I hope will meet with your approval.”
“No, no. I’d rather be a wee bit closer to my niece.” Glenlyon pointed. “I’ll stay with MacDonald of Inverrigan at the bend of the glen. However, I’m sure Lieutenant Lindsay will be quite comfortable with your chamber.”
Skye pressed her palms against the window. Why not Kier Campbell? Will he be rooming with MacDonald of Inverrigan as well?
The MacIain tapped his fingers to his lips, his eyes shifting across the cottages that peppered the glen. “I suppose we’ll have to split up the rest of the troops—two or three to a cottage? Hugh, Og,” he hollered to his sons. “Go spread the word. Every cottage must house at least two soldiers, more if they have the means.”
Hugh’s eyes popped as if in surprise. So did his brother’s.
“Go on now.” The big man flicked his hands at them, then turned to the captain. “I trust you’re ready for your nooning. Bring your officers indoors and I’ll have Cook prepare a meal to melt the frost from your beards.”
Below, Lieutenant Campbell picked up his reins, but before he rode on, his gaze returned to Skye’s window. He tipped his bonnet with a bow of his head—awfully polite for a redcoat.
“Next,” said Lieutenant Kier Campbell, signaling for two dragoons to step forward. He’d been lumbered with the task of assigning the soldiers to their bunks, a duty that wasn’t new to him especially in the Highlands. Forts were sparse and there were never enough bunks. The army had naught but to rely on the kindness of the locals both for food and shelter.
But today’s task didn’t sit well with Kier. He was a Campbell after all, and his family’s lands had been reived by Alasdair MacIain MacDonald and his notorious clansmen just over two years past. Why Colonel Hill had ordered Glenlyon’s regiment to Glencoe, Kier couldn’t fathom. MacIain had pledged fealty to King William and ever since, the western Highlands had been at relative peace. Though set in their ways, the Jacobite loyalists had a way of putting clan and kin before king and country. Kier couldn’t disagree with that, however. He, too, was Highland bred. In fact, as he’d watched the exchange earlier this day, he’d realized the only difference between him and Hugh MacIain was the fact that Kier had been born a son of a laird who paid fealty to Clan Campbell; and on the other side of Rannoch Moor, Hugh had been born to a laird who paid fealty to Clan Donald. Both heirs were tall with muscular builds and were each groomed to assume the burden of clan chieftainship.
As the two soldiers saluted, the next Glencoe farmer stepped forward, his eyes dark and filled with distrust, just like all the others. Kier had grown impervious, however, and addressed the man diplomatically. “How many soldiers are you able to sleep?”
“None if it were up to me.”
“I’ll assign you two, then.”
The blighter scowled. “Bloody backstabbers.”
“I trust you’ll find Sentinels MacCallum and Nicoll trustworthy men. Put them to work. Not a one of us should discount your generous hospitality.”
The MacIain man didn’t look pleased. “Come along, then. I’ve wasted enough time this day.”
After Kier had assigned all the soldiers to quarters, there was but one MacIain man remaining who had yet to take in borders. Kier held out his gloved hand. “I’m Lieutenant Campbell, sir.”
“Jimmy MacDonald here.” The man glowered at Kier’s hand and opted not to shake it.
Splaying his fingers, Kier glanced around to see if he may have missed another, more accommodating clansman. Unfortunately, they were the only two left standing in the chieftain’s courtyard. “It appears I’ve nay choice but to billet myself with you.”
“Aye, that would be right. But make no bones about it, you’ll be earning your keep if you darken my door.”
Kier offered a reluctant bow. “I’d expect no less, sir.”
Jimmy looked Kier from head to toe. “Well, follow me, then. But I’ll not be granting any special accommodations just because you’re an officer. And by the size of you, you ought to be good for some heavy lifting.”
Kier gestured for the man to lead onward. “Of course, sir.”
“We live simple lives. Not a one of us puts on airs.”
“Good to hear, sir.”
Jimmy harrumphed and continued on his way until they arrived at a stone cottage with a thatched roof not far from Alasdair’s manse.
“Are you kin with the chief?” Kier asked.
“Aye, second cousin.” Jimmy opened the door. “’Tis why we enjoy luxuries such as a cast-iron hob for cooking.”
Many of Kier’s tenants on the other side of Rannoch Moor would be proud of a hob as well. Some lived in shielings with but a fire pit over which to cook their meals. He ducked his head below the lintel, stepped inside, removed his musket from his shoulder and set it beside the door as a gentleman ought.
“Sineag,” Jimmy barked, sounding like a curmudgeon in a foul mood. “We’ve another mouth to feed for Lord kens how long.”
Kier’s gaze swept to the woman standing beside the hearth, but quickly passed her by. Any red-blooded man would be helpless not to shift his stare a wee bit further. His breath caught when he met the lass’s striking blue eyes for the third time that day. Removing his bonnet, he couldn’t help his grin. Devil’s fire, she was bonny with mahogany hair that shone in the lamplight and an oval face like a doll with round doe-eyes.
Jimmy slapped him on the back. “Well, do not just stand there, come in and meet the family.” He introduced Kier, then gestured across the room. “My wife, Sineag, my daughter, Miss Skye, and in the corner is the youngest, Tommy.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance.” Kier bowed. “I trust I’ll not be too much of a burden.”
Everyone stared. Tommy dashed across the dirt floor and stood in front of his mother with his arms crossed and his eyebrows drawn together in a hostile expression. It was like a standoff. MacIain against Campbell, Jacobite against the government and there he stood with orders not to cause a stir. Kier scraped his teeth over his bottom lip as his gaze shifted back to the lass.
She glanced between her parents before a nervous giggle played on her lips. “Only one dragoon, Da?”
“The lieutenant was the last.”
Skye moved forward and nodded to a bench at the table. “Please have a seat whilst we finish preparing the evening meal.” She was much smaller than she’d appeared from the upstairs window of the weaver’s shop.
Kier bowed. “My thanks.”
She gave her brother’s mop of brown locks a tussle. “Come, Tommy. It looks as if he’s not planning to bite anyone.”
The lad lowered his hands and continued to stare, his expression growing curious.
Jimmy took a seat in a wooden chair across the room. It was a typical cottage with hearth and hob on one end and a box bed on the other. In the middle stood a rectangular table, and along the walls were shelves stacked with dishes and cookware. Nearer the bed were two large trunks, used to stow clothing, no doubt.
“How long do you reckon the regiment will be in Glencoe?” asked Mistress Sineag.
Kier stretched his legs under the table and crossed his ankles. “Not long, I hope. We’re to wait for the colonel’s orders.”
Jimmy filled his clay pipe with tobacco. “But why here? Why not in Appin or at Dunollie with the MacDougalls?”
Kier shrugged. “I’m merely an officer of the crown. My place is not to ask why. But if I’d ventured to guess, I reckon it’s on account of Glenlyon’s niece.”
“I kent that marriage would lead to no good,” said Jimmy, lighting his pipe with a twig from the fire.
Kier kept his mouth shut, but had to agree. He’d grown up with Sarah Campbell and she’d always been a bit of a shrew. It hadn’t surprised him when her father arranged the marriage to Sandy. It was a way of making a truce with an untrustworthy adversary without paying too high a price.
Tommy wandered over and sat beside Kier. “What do you do for the army?”
“I’m the lieutenant in charge of the regiment’s musketeers, among other things.”
The lad pointed to Kier’s musket. “Are you a good shot?”
“Good enough for the army.” In truth, Kier was a sharpshooter, but there was no point in boasting about it.
“Would you teach me how to shoot?” the lad asked.
“Tommy, you mustn’t burden our guest,” scolded his mother.
Jimmy blew smoke out his nose. “I don’t reckon the lieutenant will be around long enough to give lessons to ten-year-old lads, not when he has a regiment of men to train.”
Kier gave the boy a wink. “If there’s time and your parents approve, I’d be happy to give you a wee lesson.”
The lad grinned. At least Kier had won over one of his hosts.
Miss Skye placed a spoon in front of him. “Are you fond of lamb stew, Mr. Campbell?”
“I am.” Kier inhaled the scent of rose. It was the midst of winter. How did the lass manage to smell of roses rather than wood smoke and peat?
He watched as she prepared the table with bread and bowls filled to the brim with stew. After her parents took their places, Skye sat across the table from Kier. He reached for his spoon but quickly drew his hand away when Mistress Sineag cleared her throat. “We shall pray.”
Tommy grabbed Kier’s right hand while Miss Skye reached over and offered her palm. He took it with a grin. His heart fluttered when she smiled back. But then she shuttered her eyes as Jimmy commenced the prayer. If Kier had been quizzed on what had been said, he would have failed miserably. He was transfixed and focused on the beauty seated before him with her hand in his—petite, warm, soft and as delicate as a bird.
“Amen,” Jimmy said, echoed by the others.
Miss Skye raised her long lashes and met Kier’s gaze. A bit of mischief flickered in those luminous eyes while her tongue slipped to the corner of her mouth. “Ah…” she tugged her hand away.
Kier cleared his throat. “Pardon me. Amen.”
“Do you not pray, Lieutenant?” asked Mistress Sineag.
“I am fond of praying, Matron. I must admit, my tongue twisted for a moment. As an army man, it’s not oft I have the pleasure of dining with such a bonny maid as Miss Skye.”
“You’d best not grow accustomed to it,” said Jimmy. “My daughter is working in the weaver’s shop until she marries.”
Kier dabbed his lips with his fingers. “Are you promised, Miss Skye?”
The lass blushed clear up to her hairline.
Mistress Sineag shoveled a scoop of stew with her spoon. “She’s too particular, this one. If she’s not careful, she’ll end up a spinster.”
With a wave if his hand, Kier batted away the mother’s concern. “Surely there are many years yet to come afore such a moniker is pinned on one so bonny.”
A flash of anger flashed through Miss Skye’s expressive blues. “Why is it my marriage prospects always command the conversation at the evening meal? I’m but nineteen years of age and I’ve only rejected one suitor. And that was because he slobbered all over me in a drunken stupor. Please, with Glenlyon riding into Glencoe this very day, there are far more interesting topics.” She picked up her cup of ale, her hand trembling. “Tommy, I saw you playing shinty with the lads in the courtyard. How did your side fare?”
Kier reached for his ale as well. Picking it up, he gave the lass a nod in silent toast. Miss Skye had gumption for certain. He liked a woman would could speak for herself. He liked it a great deal.