Chapter Four
“Take aim,” Kier shouted, raising his sword above his head.
Kneeling, the musketeers trained their weapons on the straw targets the men had fashioned that morn.
“Fire!”
The flintlocks clicked before blasts of gunfire boomed from a dozen muskets.
“Affix bayonets,” Kier shouted, looking to the targets to gauge who had hit their mark. “Charge!”
Bellowing their war cry, the men attacked the straw rounds with thrusts aimed at the heart.
“Robertson, you not only missed your target with your shot, you’re too low with your thrust.” Kier marched up to the sentinel and relieved him of his weapon. “What in God’s name were you aiming at?”
“The target, sir.”
“I beg your pardon? You’re supposed to aim for the heart. In my estimation, you’ve just emasculated your foe. If you don’t kill him now, he’ll creep into your camp in the dark of night and cut off your cock.”
“Beg your pardon, sir, but that coil of straw doesn’t look anything like the enemy.”
“Have you no imagination? Tell me, where is your heart, Robertson?”
The Englishman pointed to his chest. “Right here, sir.”
Kier addressed the target. “Then where on this round of straw would your opponent’s heart be, given a man the same size?”
Robertson tapped the target with his finger. “’Bout there.” At least he wasn’t a complete unmitigated nincompoop.
“Observe.” Kier bared his teeth, lunged and buried the bayonet deep into the target’s assumed heart. Regaining his composure, he pulled the weapon out and shouldered it with the muzzle pointed upward. “Are there any questions?”
“No, sir.”
“Remember, bayonet thrusts are intended to kill, not to maim. Aim for the heart. For a man stabbed in the leg can still kill you or live to fight you another day. Understood?”
“Yes, sir!” bellowed the musketeers.
“Charge your weapons, men. We’ll go again for the benefit of Mr. Robertson.”
Throughout the practice, Kier kept an eye on Tommy who looked on from behind a sycamore. And after he dismissed the men to fall into ranks for a marching drill, he sauntered toward the tree. “Tell me lad, what have you learned after all you’ve seen this day?”
“You kent I was here the whole time?”
“Aye. Not much escapes me.”
Tommy eyed Kier’s musket with a glint of longing in his eyes. “Would you have a moment to give me a go, sir?”
“Even though I wear a red coat?”
“But you’re not like the others.”
“What say you? Why do you think that?”
The lad kicked a stone. “You don’t say mean things…and at the gathering, you had two sentinels help with turning the spit. I think you’re affable even if Da says I shouldn’t trust you.”
“Do you now?” Kier swallowed his urge to laugh. If the roles were reversed, he’d probably tell his kin to give the MacIains a wide berth. He’d faced them in battle too many times to ever completely let down his guard as far as Clan Iain Abrach was concerned. He removed the musket from his shoulder and took the boy to the firing line. “Let’s see what you know, lad. Tell me how a man handles his musket afore he ever thinks of shooting it.”
Tommy twisted his mouth. “He cleans it?”
“Aye, but afore that, he needs to ken how to take care of the weapon so he doesn’t blow his foot off—or his head or the head of a friend.” Dropping to his knee, Kier gave the lad a lesson in musket safety and only after doing so did he produce a powder horn and a lead ball.
After charging it, the ten-year-old raised the musket to his shoulder and set his sights, the weapon practically dwarfing him.
“Hold the barrel steady and line up with the bullseye,” said Kier.
“Aye, sir. Can I shoot now?”
“Pull the trigger nice and slow.”
Boom!
With Kier’s next blink, Tommy stumbled backward and fell on his arse. Kier crossed his arms and stood over the boy. “Your feet weren’t planted.”
“I did what you said.”
Kier offered his hand. “You may have thought you did what I said, but you weren’t ready for the kick, otherwise you wouldn’t have fallen.”
Tommy took the hand and scrambled to his feet. “Och, I’ll not stumble next time.”
“Very, well. Charge your weapon.”
With a very serious pinch to his brow, the lad went about setting up for another shot. Kier stood a good four paces behind and crossed his arms, looking on with a discerning eye.
Tommy raised the musket and pulled back the hammer.
Movement came from the left.
Kier lunged.
The trigger clicked.
“Sto-o-o-op!”
As the blast erupted, Kier batted the barrel downward.
Tommy skittered backward, tugging the weapon away. “Wha—?”
Ahead, Miss Skye stood, her arms laden with a basket of wool.
“What did I say is the first rule about handling a musket?” Kier yelled, his heart racing. The little imp nearly shot his sister.
Tommy’s mouth dropped open. “But she wasn’t there…I-I didn’t mean…”
“Nay, you didn’t mean, did you?” Kier took the gun from the lad’s grasp. “And that’s exactly why I drilled you on safety in the first instance.”
Skye neared with her basket in tow. “I’m sorry. He looked so happy. It was my fault.”
Kier gave her a look. “It is always the musketeer’s duty to ensure he is firing at something that needs to be shot and that most definitely is not you, miss.”
Tommy’s shoulders sagged as he hung his head. “I’d never hurt my sister.”
Discarding her basket, Miss Skye kneeled and grasped her brother by the shoulders. “I ken you wouldn’t. But Mr. Campbell is right. You must be fully aware of your surroundings afore you shoot. Do you understand?”
The lad kicked a stone, sniffing back tears. “Aye.”
“Very well. Ma needs you at the cottage.” Skye mussed his hair. “Run along then.”
After the lad left, she shot Kier a bitter leer and stood.
He felt like a heel. “It was important to stress the severity of his mistake.” Why should he feel badly? He’d just kept the lass from being shot, especially if Tommy’s aim hadn’t been spot on to the target.
Her fingers brushed the basket handle. “Was it?”
Kier pulled it from her grasp. “It was. I would have reacted the same if Tommy had been my own kin.”
With a haughty turn of her head, she started toward the chieftain’s manor. “So, you’re not discerning as to whose children at whom you’re shouting?”
“Of course I am…I mean, I’m not. Had the lad misfired, you could be flat on your back with a lead ball in your skull.”
“Charming.”
“Muskets are not toys.”
“I’ll say. If man hadn’t invented the musket, Dugal MacIain might still be alive.”
A flash of hot ire spread across the back of Kier’s neck. “Who is Dugal MacIain?”
“Not anyone I’d expect you to know.”
Kier grumbled under his breath and followed the woman into the weaver’s shop. Who the devil was this man? Someone who’d spoken for Skye’s hand? Good God, now his innards were twisting into knots. He set the basket down on the table with more force than necessary.
“I beg your pardon, but I’ll need to use that again. There’s no point in taking out your ire on a wee basket.”
Kier drew in a deep breath, his gaze sweeping across the shop. Thank heavens they were alone and no one else had heard the lass’s chiding. “The bloody basket may not have deserved to be manhandled, but Tommy needed a firm warning.”
Skye pursed her lips and nodded. “I suppose I should thank you.”
“Not necessary.”
“If there is nothing else, I’ve work to do.”
“Forgive me for intruding.” He moved toward her, his fingers brushing her woolen skirts. “But before I leave, tell me, who was Dugal MacIain?”
“Were you present during the Battle of Dunkeld?”
“Aye, I carried the standard for my father. I was but one and twenty at the time.”
“I was sixteen.”
“And Dugal?”
“Nineteen.” She sighed, drawing a hand to her forehead.
“And you cared for him?”
She nodded. “But Da didn’t ken.”
“What happened?”
“I’m sure you’re aware of the MacIain raid on Glenlyon’s lands.”
“Aye.” Kier rolled his hand encouraging her to continue.
“After the battle was lost, the laird sought vengeance.”
“And he stole Glenlyon’s prized stallion.”
“The stallion is sterile.”
“I’d heard.”
Miss Skye crossed her arms and tilted up her chin. “Alasdair set Glenlyon’s stable afire on account of his merciless murder of Dugal.”
Kier knit his brows. “But the lad rode into battle, did he not?”
“He did, and he was captured. But as the Campbells were mustering the prisoners into the wagon, Glenlyon stopped Dugal…and…”
A clammy chill coursed across Kier’s skin while the memory hit him between the eyes like a brick. Dear God. He’d been there. He’s seen the barbarous act. “Glenlyon…”
“Slit his throat.”
“And hence the raid.”
“Aye,” Skye’s whispered reply was barely audible. A tear slipped from her eye.
“Jesu.” Kier pulled the lass into his arms and cradled her head against his heart. “In this moment, all the centuries of feuding between our clans amounts to nothing more than madness.” It made no sense to tell her he’d lost kin in that raid as well. Christ. It all seemed so senseless.
She took in a stuttered breath as she trembled in his arms. “I fear it will never end.”
“I ken, lass.” Aye, Kier knew she was right. Rumors were rife among the ranks of King William and the Master of Stair’s maniacal desire to bring the Highlands into compliance. Jacobitism would no longer be tolerated. True, Colonel Hill had talked about leading a peaceful transition, but tensions at Fort William were higher than Kier had ever seen them. Alasdair MacIain MacDonald might have signed the oath of fealty to the king, but other than ink on a bit of parchment, nothing had changed.
“And what are you doing here?” Miss Skye asked. “Why is Glenlyon sleeping less than a mile from the laird’s door?”
“We’re awaiting orders. That is all.”
“But what if something bad happens? What if the soldiers have too much to drink and a feud breaks out?”
“I won’t let that happen.”
“What if it does?”
“Then I will protect you.” Kier pressed his lips against her crown and closed his eyes. “I swear on my life, I’ll not let harm befall you or your family. You’ve taken me in. You’ve shown me kindness and for that I am in your debt.”
“If only Glenlyon’s orders would come then we would be rid of him. But…” Her hands slipped around his waist and pulled him tight, looking him in the eye. “But I want you to stay.”
Gasping, his heart thumped like the beat of a snare drum. With those words, something burst in Kier’s chest, something wonderful, sending the brilliance of sunshine beaming through his entire body. His fingers slipped up and threaded through her silken tresses while his lips caressed her temple, her cheek. He hovered there for a moment, inhaling her scent, willing her to raise her chin. When she did, his entire body turned molten. He needed no more encouragement. As he slid his fingers along her jaw, he met those delicate lips with a kiss. Connecting with a burst of energy, it was as if their very souls merged. Never in his life had he been knocked into fervent passion by the mere joining of lips. And with the lass’s wee moan came an involuntary tightening low in his gut.
Backing her toward the wall, he deepened the kiss, craving friction, wild with the need to feel the softness of her breasts mold into his chest, the need to do far more than that—to touch her, to thrust his hips forward and brush his loins against the folds of her skirts.
A door opening registered faintly, though Kier paid it no mind.
“Lieutenant Campbell, I must bid you release Miss Skye this very instant!”
The lass jumped from his arms, her hand covering her mouth. “Mistress NicGilleasbuig.”