Chapter Thirteen
Kier stood on the pier at the Port of Glasgow while he and Skye waited for the skiff to ferry them to the galleon moored in the Firth of Clyde. They’d waited a fortnight for the ship to undergo repairs for the voyage and had stayed in a guest house on Bridge Street. It wasn’t easy trying to keep a low profile once the news of the massacre filtered down from the Highlands.
Everyone had something to say about it. Kier had burned his army coat. Once they arrived in Glasgow, he’d commissioned a tailor to fashion him a new suit of clothes and three new gowns, undergarments and a cloak for Skye. He’d paid for everything in coin, careful not to let on that he was a Campbell. In fact, he shortened the name to Camp even for the ship’s manifest.
Not far down the pier, a Highland galley dropped anchor and a tall, dapper gentleman alighted with an entourage in tow. All men in his retinue wore kilts and sporrans with dirk and sword. They reminded Kier of MacIains, of Camerons, of MacDonalds and of Campbells. Here in the lowlands, Highlanders looked the same regardless of their politics.
When he looked up, the man stopped dead in his tracks. At first he looked as if he might draw his sword, but then he narrowed his gaze and scratched his chin. “Kier Campbell is it?”
With the tenor of his voice, something rang in Kier’s head while the memory of the Battle of Dunkeld came back full force. He’d met this man on the battlefield, watched him fight valiantly and watched him elude the government troops, leading his men northward back to the MacDonald lands in Skye.
His wife beside him grasped Kier’s arm. “Do you ken this man?”
“Aye.” Squaring his shoulders, he held out his hand. “Donald MacDonald, Baronet of Sleat, it is my pleasure.”
“Chieftain of Clan Donald?” Skye whispered with awe filling her voice. Clan Iain Abrach paid fealty to this man and his infamous kin.
The baronet grinned. “I’ve heard a great deal about you in the past several days.”
Kier glanced toward the galleon, praying the skiff was on its way, but the crew hadn’t yet lowered the boat to the surf. The last thing he needed was for his wife to watch him die fighting off a mob of MacDonalds. “I have no quarrel with you, sir.”
“I should hope not.” MacDonald gave Skye a wink. “It seems your quarrel is with your own clan.”
Kier pursed his lips.
But Skye stepped forward. “He saved me and my family from Glenlyon’s sword.”
MacDonald crossed his arms with a nod. “A wee lad named Malcolm said his family was spared due to Campbell’s heroism as well. We suspect there might be a few dragoons pushing up daisies on account of him come spring.”
Where is that goddamned skiff? Keir shot another look to the galleon.
Skye scurried forward and grasped the baronet’s arm. “Please, sir. Have you word of my family? Are they safe?”
“Aye, safe with Hugh, still up at Meall Mòr. But they’re living like dogs. I reckon it’ll be a cold day in hell afore we bring the culprits to justice.”
“The sooner the better,” Kier mumbled.
Skye turned with a radiant smile. “They’ll be all right. I ken they will.”
The baronet seemed not to notice Skye’s sudden joy and continued to look at Kier as if he posed a quandary. “You studied at University, did you not?”
“Aye. Edinburgh.” Kier pulled Skye behind him and stepped forward. “Why do you ask?”
“I could use a man like you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I’ve a proposition to make. Would you share my coach?”
Kier threw his thumb over his shoulder. “I’m afraid we have a ship to board as soon as the captain sends the skiff.”
Sir Donald looked to the galleon. “Are you certain you want to sail to the Americas and risk your very lives to sickness or worse, a death in Davey Jones’ locker?”
Skye grasped Kier’s hand and squeezed. Could he trust this man? Kier gave MacDonald a somber stare. “What is your proposal, sir? Since you are aware of my actions in Glencoe, there is an army of men who’d sooner see me swinging by the hangman’s noose, including my father.”
“I need a learned man to embark upon a new salt pan operation in Trotternish on the Isle of Skye—lands tended by MacDonald kin. I have two caveats, however.”
“And they would be?”
“We must first give you an alias, but only if you pledge an oath to the cause.”
“The cause, sir?”
Sir Donald pointed to a silk rose on his lapel, one that Kier suspected served as a secret symbol used by the Jacobites.
Pledge an oath to an exiled king?
In a way, he’d already become a Jacobite and he’d already altered his name to Camp. Kier glanced down at the hopeful expression on his wife’s face. “You once told me you wanted to see the Isle of Skye, love.”
“Please,” she tugged his arm. “We might even be able to see my family again.”
Kier faced the baronet and gestured to the street. “Then lead on, Sir Donald. I would, indeed, be interested in your proposition.”