Alexander MacGregor strode through the muck and the mud, past canvas tents and men who scrambled to get out of his way as he made his way to the officers’ pavilion.

He threw back the flap and entered the gloom, then straightened. Four officers looked his way, as did his superior, the only man seated. There was something in their expression, pity mayhap? And he took it all in, in an instant, before quickly saluting. “Ye called for me, Colonel Windham?”

His superior, an English lord a few years older than himself, seemed to hesitate, not something he did often as he ran the place like his very own kingdom. Alexander couldn’t help but wonder what was going on.

He gestured at the chair across from the travel desk he sat behind. “Captain. Have a seat, won’t you?”

Another first. Colonel Windham usually gave him his orders, and expected him to leave to carry them out posthaste. He’d never once offered him a seat.

Alexander gently settled, glanced at his fellow officers once more, noted none of them met his gaze, and straightened his spine. “Sir?”

Colonel Windham picked up a letter in front of him, and when he bent back the flap, Alexander noted it sported his father’s seal.

He stifled the compulsion to rip the letter out of the other man’s hands.

“Captain MacGregor, you’re a decent military strategist. The best I have, actually. Strict but fair with your men. You’re young, but not an idiot, and I appreciate that. It won’t be easy to replace you.”

A chill ran up his neck. “Replace me, sir?”

“It is my sad duty to inform you that your father has died.”

Grief struck him hard, his stomach clenching. He glanced at Colonel Windham, at the other officers in the room, and though he knew the men weren’t playing some sort of cruel practical joke, he took a moment to consider, as he swallowed hard. “But … but how? My father is a relatively young man. What happened?”

Colonel Windham slid the letter across the desk and Alexander quickly scanned the contents, dated two weeks back. His father had been thrown from a horse and broken his neck. Feeling on the verge of strangling, he read the letter several more times as if with a new reading, the words might change, or at least make some sort of sense to him.

“You must return home, of course. Your mother and sisters will need you, and you’ve your duties to see to as the new Laird of Inverdeem.”

He swallowed hard. “Nae. Nae, I’ll not leave.”

“I’m afraid I will have to insist upon it, Captain. As an only son, your duty is to your family and your lands. As of today, you’ve been retired with full honors. There is a supply ship leaving this afternoon, and you will be on it.”

“But, my men—” He couldn’t seem to think straight with his eyes burning and him willing the tears not to fall.

“Lieutenant Ellis will take over for you, and is most anxious to purchase your commission.”

Ah. So this was somewhat political. The man’s nephew desired a rise in rank and one needed to be made available. 

“It’s time he was given an advancement, anyway,” Colonel Windham continued. “He doesn’t have the sort of experience that you do, yet, but there is no other way he’ll get it, is there? He’ll do a good job. You are excused, Captain MacGregor.”

Clutching the letter in his hand, he slowly stood and made his way out of the tent, and toward his own, hardly aware of it.

“Can I help you in anyway?”

He realized Lieutenant Bartlett had followed and stopped. “Thank ye, but nae. I doonae have many possessions to pack.”

None of them did, so, of course, the other man knew this, but Alexander wasn’t thinking straight.

The other man nodded, his blond hair lifting in the March breeze. “All right, then. Just let me know if you need anything, and I’ll be glad to lend a hand.”

Alexander gave him a short nod, and continued to his tent. Once inside, he looked around at his meager possessions, and then stoically started to pack.

His father was gone.

Not something he was prepared to accept, yet he didn’t have a choice in the matter.

His death thrust Alexander into a new phase of his life, one he hadn’t planned to start for a few years yet.

As always, news spread like wildfire, and several more officers came by to give their condolences.

He packed his possessions within his kit, moving aside the stack of letters he kept there, most of them from Lizzie.

In his grief, he found something to smile about. The letters were proof that she was still a handful. Eight years on, and he couldn’t wait to see her again.

He still remembered the lecture his father had given him that fateful day when he’d wanted naught to do with the scrawny little thing.

“She’ll be a beauty, mark my words, son. Ye’ve only tae look to her mother to see it.”

He was anxious to see it.

He couldn’t remember what she looked like, but he did feel possessive of her. She belonged to him; she had since the day she was born.

Grateful for something else to think about, he mentally focused on her much-read letters.

He’d go home to mourn with his family. Eventually, he’d travel to London to retrieve Lizzie and post the banns.

They could be married in Scotland and he’d begin his tenure with his bride at his side.