Chapter 30
In a small village at the edge of the firth, Malcolm stopped at the house of the minister just after dawn, and hammered on the door.
A severe-looking housekeeper wrenched it open, then gasped and tried to slam it again. Mal caught the door before it could close and pushed his way inside, leading Mary into a small square hall with an equally square staircase. The wind blew the door shut behind him, closing them into this warm, stuffy place. Mal’s skin began to tingle, his body happy to be cut off from the wind.
The housekeeper was shouting, rousing the place. Presently, the minister came down the stairs, a tall Highlander with the prudish sneer of a follower of John Knox. “What is this?” he growled.
“I need ye to marry us,” Malcolm said. “Right away, if ye please.”
The man looked them up and down. Malcolm knew he saw a ragged Highland vagabond with a dirt-smeared face and his equally ragged lady, who was wrapped in several layers of plaid. The dun-colored kilts Rabbie had given them were so faded that the pattern was barely distinguishable.
“No,” the minister said. “Be off with ye.”
He was a big man, with large hands and tight muscles. Malcolm pulled a pistol from the folds of his kilt and pointed it at him. “Now.”
The minister glanced at Mal’s pistol, looked at Mary, and returned his gaze to Mal’s set face. He heaved a long, resigned, Scottish sigh.
“Verra well. Go in there.” He pointed at a door. “And put away that damned shooter before ye hurt someone, lad.”
For the second time, Mary let Malcolm put his heavy ring on her finger and say the words . . . With this ring, I thee wed.
This time, the ceremony was spoken by a minister, witnessed, and recorded. The housekeeper and a solid, squat man who did the minister’s heavier chores stood in the front room with them as Mary and Malcolm were joined.
If the minister was surprised he married Lord Malcolm Mackenzie, son of the Duke of Kilmorgan, to Lady Mary Lennox, daughter of the Earl of Wilfort, he made no indication. He finished, noted the marriage in his register, collected his fee, and bade them both a good day.
Malcolm led Mary outside again, his grip on her hand tight.
She was now Mary Mackenzie—or more properly, Lady Malcolm Mackenzie. Legally wed in Scotland, a place of very liberal marriage laws, so she’d come to understand. Two people could be considered “married” if they claimed, before witnesses, that they were. As simple as that. With so much isolation in the Highlands, Malcolm had said, sometimes it was the only way people could wed. This marriage was more proper than that, he said dryly, which should satisfy Mary’s father, and his.
They rode away from the village, Mary light of heart, but they were very shy with each other the rest of the day. Malcolm would glance at her, then smile and look away. Mary would blush and study the firth as though its wind-rippled surface was the most fascinating thing she’d ever seen.
They continued north along Cromarty Firth for the rest of the day, Mal leading the pony down a narrow road that skirted the shore. They passed clusters of farm buildings and stubbled fields, brown and waiting for the first dusting of snow. Clouds lowered around them, the high hills Malcolm called the Suitors at the mouth of the firth fading into and out of sight.
Darkness fell early, sunset at half past three, but the clouds and mist made it darker more quickly still. Malcolm had told Mary they’d stay the night with trusted friends, but before they could reach the village he made for, Mal veered from the road and struck out over a barren field to woods beyond.
Mary said nothing, having heard the tramp of horses and jingle of bridles. She and Mal reached the shelter of the woods just before the riders came into view, mere smudges in the failing light.
The blue and red of uniforms were easy to discern, however. British soldiers, some mounted, others walking, a mix of cavalry and infantry as had made up the troop Colonel Wheeler commanded. This was not Wheeler’s band however, Mary saw as she studied them. There were fewer, and nowhere did she see the short, rotund Yorkshireman with the loud voice.
The men were passing a deserted farm. The farmhouse, black stone like Rabbie’s, had no roof, its burned beams etched against the mist. Not far from it stood a larger, square building that Mary guessed would have been a barn. A few stone sheds lay around it, most of them falling to bits.
Mary’s pony seemed to know to keep quiet—no snorting or calling a greeting to the horses on the road. But then, they were English horses, and this pony was all Scots. Perhaps the mistrust spread to beasts as well.
Mary’s fanciful thought died as Malcolm stiffened. Near the end of the line of men were four Scotsmen in shackles.
The four were surrounded by guards, but the Highlanders walked with heads high, arrogance in every stride. One of them said something in Erse, and the other three laughed.
Malcolm remained silent. Mary watched as one English soldier smacked the butt of his musket between the shoulder blades of the Highlander who’d spoken. The Highlander stumbled, fell, then groaned as he tried to gain his feet.
“Sir!” the soldier who’d struck the Highlander called to the nearest officer. “This one’s down.”
A man in a red coat came riding back. “Damn it.” The commander looked up and down the trail, then whistled through his fingers. The lead riders circled around, and the line of men ground to a halt.
“Find out if anyone’s in those outbuildings,” the commander said, waving his hand at the barn and sheds. He was more quiet voiced than Wheeler, the flattening of his vowels putting him from somewhere in Berkshire. “We’ll put up for the night here.”
“What about the prisoners, sir?” the man who’d jabbed the Highlander asked.
The commander looked around again, uneasy with the growing darkness. “We’ll get settled in for tonight. In the morning, stand them against a wall and shoot them. They’re marauders and Jacobites, and they’re slowing us down. Sergeant, give the orders.”
A sergeant with a powerful voice shouted for the men to fall out and make camp, and to check the barn and sheds.
Malcolm took Mary’s hand and led her soundlessly back into the woods. “I’m sorry, love,” he said, his voice quiet. “I’ve got to stay here a bit. I can’t let them execute those men.”
“Well, of course not,” Mary answered indignantly. “I never thought you would.”
Malcolm didn’t answer, head bowed in thought. When he looked up, his eyes gleamed in a chance bit of moonlight. “I’m not sending you off alone either. What do ye know about slow matches?”
Mary wet her lips. “Not much.”
Malcolm opened the small bag he carried. He drew out a few narrow metal tubes with a short length of cord attached to each. More loose cord lay coiled inside the pack.
“I found these at your captors’ camp. Slow matches aren’t much used anymore, but they can be handy.”
Mary stared at them, mystified. “I’ve never seen any before. What do you do with them?”
“Light it here.” Malcolm pointed to the bit of cord that protruded from the metal tube. “And let it burn. The cord smolders, taking a long time. So ye can light things without worrying about sparks or a high flame. Good for setting off cannon—used to be used in muskets too. Or ye can set one down near a cask of gunpowder and be well away before the cask explodes.”
“Is that what you did at Colonel Wheeler’s camp?”
“Aye. That and a few other tricks. Want to learn them?”
Mary felt herself smiling. “Oh, yes.”
“Good, lass.” Malcolm chuckled. “I knew ye had it in ye. Come on, love. I’ll show ye what we’ll do.”
Over the next several hours, Malcolm taught Mary enough to make her dangerous. He’d always known she was brave, but he was surprised at her resourcefulness and her willingness to bend her hand to tough labor.
The first thing Mal did was lead her to a narrow stream that cut a deep path through the woods then wended down into the field where the soldiers had made camp. He found a loose limb that was stout enough for his purpose and began digging to alter the stream’s channel. Mary watched him for a time, then tucked her skirts into her waistband, waded in, and began to help.
Mal stopped digging to lift loose stones from the banks and place them into the stream’s bed. “We don’t want to dam it up completely,” he explained. “Just to divert it so it will overflow into the field where the company is settling in for the night. The water will come up right under their tents. Be an ice-cold bed for them.”
“Oh, the poor things,” Mary said, but she kept piling the stones where he indicated.
Mal decided this was a good place to leave the pony and their few belongings. He loaded one pistol, though he didn’t prime it, and left one empty, which he gave to Mary to carry. Strapping the pistol’s holster around her torso led to some deep kisses, but Mal didn’t let himself pause long in his task.
Hand in hand, Mal and Mary crept quietly to the edge of the farm, which was now shrouded in darkness. A light flashed in the camp—the men weren’t worried about their lanterns being seen.
They’d set sentries, though, aware that Highlanders in this area could be hostile. Mal wondered what the Highland captives had done to earn the soldiers’ wrath. Might have been anything from taunting them to trying to murder the entire troop.
Mal pressed the handle of one of his dirks into Mary’s hand. “Use this t’ cut the men free. Start with the biggest one, and he’ll help you with the others. If ye get into trouble, if one of the English soldiers grabs ye, jab this into him, hard as ye can, and run like the devil. Don’t be squeamish or hesitate, because he’ll do much worse to you.”
Mary nodded, her eyes grave. “I understand.”
She did, the little love. Mal pretended to shiver. “Now I know why Englishmen don’t let their ladies fight alongside them. The women would take over in a heartbeat.”
Mary squeezed his arm in the darkness. “Don’t be silly.”
“’Tis true, and the English bastards know it. That’s why they write laws t’ keep their women tamed. And why I keep having to rescue ye.”
“You mean abducting me.”
Mal heaved a mock sigh. “Well, we’re never going to see eye to eye on that. Are ye ready?”
Mary gave him another squeeze, then quickly kissed his cheek. “On your orders, Colonel.”
Mal explained to her in detail what both of them would do, and had her repeat the plan to him. Then they crept forward at a low crouch.
Mal knew from long experience how to take advantage of a patch of mist, of the changing direction of the wind as it blew in from the sea and became caught in the firth. He and Mary circled the camp to approach from the north. Mal could hear the soldiers speaking together in tight groups, the men both tired and wary.
The Highlanders had been put into the barn, which was empty, the cattle gone. No farmers had been found anywhere—they might have abandoned the land for fear of Englishmen or the Jacobites, or had gone to the cities to look for work. So many Highlanders had begun doing so as an alternative to starving.
Before they drew too close, Malcolm turned his back to the camp, took the unloaded pistol from Mary, and used its flint to create a spark. He cupped his hands around the sparking flint until one caught a slow match.
He lit a second slow match and handed it to Mary. “Keep it out of sight, but don’t set yourself on fire.”
She nodded in their circle of light. Mal kissed her, and then they separated to carry out their mission.
Mary moved noiselessly toward the barn as Malcolm melted out of sight. Her heart beat swiftly, more awareness than she’d ever experienced tingling through her body. This was very dangerous, and she could die, but at the same time, she was exhilarated, filled with a sharp sense of purpose.
One guard patrolled the barn’s door, a young lad. Mary wondered why only the single guard, but perhaps the commander felt his prisoners were secure.
Mary waited in the darkness beyond the barn, as Malcolm had instructed. The small building, built of local stone, was a rectangle of walls that leaned slightly together. The door, a slab of wood, looked rickety.
A sudden light flared in the field a little way from the camp. The young guard came alert.
Bang! Bang! Bang! A series of brief explosions, like fireworks, sounded in the middle of the camp. Men were shouting, running. The guard, nervously cradling his musket, started toward them.
As if on cue, the trickle of water from the diverted stream that had been quietly filling the field grew into a flood. A tent folded in on itself, and the men who ran toward it slipped and slid.
The guard at the barn hurried to see what was going on. As soon as he left the door clear, Mary moved from the shadows of the wall and slipped inside the dark building.
She could see nothing—the soldiers had not left their prisoners any light. She heard Highlanders muttering together, questioning in their own language, somewhere in the middle of the room.
Mary made her way toward them, touching her slow match to a candle. The darkness was so complete that the single candle gave her plenty of light.
The men broke off, eyes glittering as they swiveled to look at her. One barked a question to the others, keeping to Erse, but she knew he was saying something like, Who’s that?
The men were standing with their backs together, hands bound behind them to a pole in the center of the room. One man could barely stand—the one who’d been pushed down. He favored his left knee, and his face was drawn in pain.
Mary decided to free him first. Malcolm had told her to cut the biggest man loose, but her compassion made her move to the hurt man. She jammed the candle between rocks on the floor, then pressed the dirk to the injured man’s ropes.
He grinned down at her. “Ah, things are looking better,” he said in English, voice scraping. “Who are ye, lassie?”
“Shh,” Mary said severely.
The others chuckled, very pleased with themselves for men who’d be shot in the morning.
It took longer than Mary had guessed to cut ropes, even with the sharp dirk, but at last the man was free. She caught him as he fell, his large body taking her down with him to the stones on the floor. He smelled of sweat, blood, and fear.
“I think I’ve lost me heart,” the man said as Mary struggled out from under him.
“Be still,” she whispered. Mary went to the burliest man and sawed his ropes loose, then started to work on the remaining two. The second man she’d freed rubbed his wrists, then helped her pull the ropes from the others.
“What now, lass?” the injured man asked from the floor. “There’s one door out o’ this place and an entire camp on the other side of it. Not much of a plan is it?”
“Ma—my friend will give us a signal,” Mary said. She strove to make her voice not shake. Malcolm would be as cheerful as these men, but Mary was impatient and terrified.
“She’s English, and not working alone,” the injured man confided to his fellows. “Verra suspicious.” They agreed with various comments in Erse.
Mary blew out the candle. “And you must be quiet.”
She heard laughter in the darkness, but at least, mercifully, they ceased talking.