Chapter 31
They waited. The injured man stifled a groan whenever he tried to move, but the rest crouched in the gloom, warriors used to lying low until the right moment.
The shouting outside escalated. With it came crashes, horses neighing, and the lowing of cows.
“Now!” Mary said.
She led the way to the door, and the men followed, the strongest propping up the hurt man. Mary peered through a crack in the door frame, and saw that outside all was chaos.
Great, shaggy Scottish cattle charged through the camp, frightened out of their wits by the banging behind them. The horses, not happy either, had broken free and bolted with the cows. Tents were falling, and the lone wagon that had carried supplies lay splintered on its side. Everywhere soldiers ran, trying to round up the cattle, to go after the horses, to keep out of the muddy water that gushed everywhere.
No one was paying attention to the barn. Mary opened the door and led the prisoners out.
They slipped around the walls to the back of the barn, preparing to run from there into the darker fields shrouded in mist. Mary was to lead them to the woods and rendezvous with Mal where they’d left the pony.
“Go!” she whispered.
They dashed from the shelter of the wall, the men moving with the silence of hunted animals. Mary struggled to keep up with them, her skirts tangling her legs. She put on a burst of speed when she heard heavy footsteps behind her, and then a large, horny hand landed on her shoulder.
The man who’d caught her was nothing but a bulky shadow in the darkness. He yanked Mary around, and she smelled sweat and rank breath, felt the buzz of whiskers against her face.
“Now, where th’ devil are you going?” he asked in an accent of Norfolk. “Are you the one causing us all this trouble, pretty lass?”
Mary could not see or hear the Highlanders in the dark. They’d run on, perhaps thinking she was directly behind them, or perhaps they’d abandoned her, an Englishwoman, to her fate.
. . . 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.
Malcolm’s words rang in her head. Mary steadied the dirk in her hand and thrust it into the arm that held her.
The man yelped, his hold loosening. “Filthy bitch!” His fist came around, catching Mary in the face. She spun dizzily, sick, but she struck again with the blade.
This time the man grunted, hand clutching his shoulder, blood rapidly staining his clothes. “I’ll kill you!”
Mary wobbled, trying to get her breath. One of the Highlanders, the burly man, had seen, had turned back, coming for her. Unfortunately, so had a few English soldiers from the camp.
A soldier bellowed, sending up the alarm. Mary staggered, found her feet, and ran.
The Highlander who’d returned for her grabbed her and pulled her along with him. At the same time, two British soldiers sprinted around the other side of the barn, muskets in arms.
And then about ten shaggy cows ran between the soldiers and Mary with her rescuer. The soldiers cursed, and the Highlander pulled Mary after him through the open field at an astonishingly swift pace.
A man in a kilt ran out of the dark and caught Mary’s other arm. Mary recognized Malcolm’s touch as he sprinted along beside her, the two men more or less carrying her between them. Mary’s feet scarcely touched the ground as they fled.
Mary couldn’t speak, could barely breathe. They reached the cover of the woods, but Malcolm kept on, weaving through the trees, ignoring branches that reached down to slap them. They caught up to the other Highlanders, who waited, the injured man sagging between them.
“Run,” Malcolm urged them. “Scatter—go where ye must.”
Two nodded and disappeared into the trees. The burly man who’d pulled Mary along stayed with the injured man. “I’ll get him t’ safety.”
“How did you become captured in the first place?” Mary asked them. “Are there battles being fought here now?”
The injured man shook his head. “We were with a convoy to carry French gold to Prince Teàrlach from the coast. We were diversion for the main body t’ get through.” He grinned, then grimaced. “Worked all too well. One of the bastards shot me in the leg. Only winged me, though.”
“Shut it!” the larger man said in alarm.
“Nothing to worry us,” the injured man said easily. “This lad’s one of Kilmorgan’s get. None o’ them have any great love for the English.”
“Too true,” Mal said. “But your sacrifice is done. Now go, before all my hard work is for naught.”
The injured man struggled to his feet, leaning heavily on the burly man. “Let the lass come with us. I need something nice to look at after being so long with these ugly faces.”
Malcolm’s dirk came out, its blade glinting in the starlight. “And I’ll thank ye t’ keep your hands off me wife.”
The man’s face fell. “Damn. Of course, ye Mackenzies always take the prettiest ones. No matter. I won’t forget what ye’ve done, lad. Ye ever need a favor, ye call on Calan Macdonald. Good night to ye.”
He sketched Mal a salute. He and the other man turned away, the larger man supporting Calan, and were soon lost in the darkness.
Malcolm boosted Mary onto the pony. “No rest for us for a time.” He started to pick up the reins, then he came back to the pony, caught Mary around the waist, and kissed her hard on the lips. His mouth was hot, shaking. “Ye did well, love.”
Mary knew by the haunted look in Mal’s eyes that he’d seen the soldier grab her and hit her, that he’d been too far away to help, and that Mal wouldn’t forgive himself for that anytime soon.
“I’m all right.” She gave his hand a caress. “The cattle were a nice touch.”
Mal nodded, but his look remained fierce. “Aye, well. Always game for a bit of fun, is a Scottish coo.”
“Coo?” Mary tried to laugh. “Is that what you call them?”
Malcolm only turned and began leading the horse into the shadows. “Can ye credit it? Me, earning a favor from a Macdonald. Well, miracles sometimes happen.”
The journey to Kilmorgan was both the happiest and the most frightening time in Mary’s life.
They rode at night and hid during the day, Malcolm holding Mary in his arms while they slept. Mal seemed to know absolutely everyone in the lands bordering Kilmorgan’s, and they were given cellars or attics to sleep in, food when they woke, water for washing. The villagers and crofters were delighted when Mal introduced Mary as his wife.
“Bairns be coming then?” One woman with very few teeth grinned at them, with a pointed look at Mary’s abdomen. “Them Mackenzies go at it like rabbits. Lots of bairns, I’m thinking.” She chuckled, her sagging belly shaking.
Mary blushed, but Malcolm didn’t look embarrassed at all.
There were other soldiers moving up and down this part of the Highlands, trying to stamp out any support for Charles Stuart before it arose. Too little too late, Mary thought. She and Mal would hide, watching in silence as the soldiers marched by, often only a few yards away from their hiding place.
These small troops seemed to have the worst luck. Wagons that moved forward after a brief rest might have their axles break for no apparent reason. An entire load of supplies might tumble from a cart down a cliff toward the sea. Tents mysteriously fell in the night, ropes snapped, food disappeared or was trampled by loose cattle.
No one was ever seen, and any Highlanders in the company brought out the tales of mischievous Fair Folk and the brollachan.
Jacobite soldiers did not necessarily fare any better from Mal’s spates of vengeance. One morning he and Mary came upon a small huddle of cottages surrounded by Highlanders attempting to recruit more men to the Jacobite cause. Mary had learned by now that if a clansman didn’t respond to a call to arms, he could be beaten, his houses and crops burned, the men of his family press-ganged into marching.
Six Highlanders surrounded the inhabitants of a group of cottages in a fold of hills, one man with his claymore in hand. A woman and two little boys boiled out of their cottage as a puff of smoke billowed from the thatch.
Mal rose from the ground where he and Mary had been hiding and sprinted toward them in deathly silence. At the last minute, Mal bellowed a berserker cry and launched himself at the Highlander with the sword. The Highlander swung around, but Malcolm was on him before he could recover from his surprise. Malcolm had him disarmed swiftly, raising the claymore in a practiced hand.
The other Highlanders closed on him. Malcolm drew his pistol and pointed it at the head of the Highlander he’d disarmed.
“Put out that fire.”
“What the hell are you doing, boy?” the Highlander Mal held the pistol on said. “Get on with ye, or pick up your sword and fight for your prince. We need men.”
“You’re on Kilmorgan land now,” Mal said. “Or hadn’t ye noticed?” He glared at the others. “Put out that damned fire, or I leave his brains all over the road.”
Two of the men didn’t wait for confirmation. They jumped to the cottage’s roof and started beating out the flames.
“Ye don’t ken what you’re doing, Mackenzie,” the Highlander said.
“I ken that these people are under my protection. If ye can’t get them t’ fight on their own, what hope have ye got?”
The Highlander turned an evil glare on Malcolm. “Oh, ye want King Geordie to slaughter us, do ye?”
“I’d rather have him do it than one of me own.”
The fire died, having been quenched before it could grow out of control. The crofters looked terrified, the little boys huddled in frightened silence.
“May God have mercy on ye,” the Highlander said, Mal’s pistol still at his head. “You’ll die just as easy as we will.”
“Ye seem t’ have little confidence that your Teàrlach will win through,” Mal pointed out.
The Highlander’s mouth was hard. “Ye haven’t heard, have ye? He’s on his way back. The help he needed didn’t come, and he’s turned for home. The English will chase him all the way to the Highlands, and here, we’ll have to stand.”
“How do ye know that?” Mal didn’t move the pistol. “Ye get secret messages from the man?”
The Highlander sneered. “Ask your brother Willie.”
Mal upended the pistol. “Just get off me lands.” He lifted the claymore. “When ye want this back, come and ask me dad.”
The Highlander growled, but he gave an order, and the others fell in with him, moving with a long stride up the far hill.
“Kind of ye, me lord,” one of the crofters said. “But I think ye made an enemy, lad.”
“Aye, I tend t’ do that.” Malcolm rubbed his forehead. “Best ye get back inside and be wary. More will come. If they do, get yourself down the road a few miles and hide on Kilmorgan land. They won’t risk the wrath of me da.”
The crofter chuckled, possessing a Highlander’s stoic mettle. “Aye, that they won’t.”
Mal gave them a few more reassurances and returned to Mary.
“You told the soldiers we were on Kilmorgan land already,” she said as they rode on. “But said to the crofters that it was a few miles away. Which is it?”
Mal shrugged in his maddening way. “We’re more or less there. As the crow flies.”
“How about as the pony walks?”
His grin flashed. “A bit longer. By tomorrow morning we’ll see if we have a bed at home or if it’s all ash and dust.”
They rode west until they reached a tiny path that followed the sea. Cliffs dropped alarmingly down to the water, but the land on top was flat and rich. Snow came as they made their way south, thick fat flakes that settled on Mary’s plaids and in Malcolm’s hair.
At one point, Mary looked down through the windblown snow to see what looked like pillars rising from the ocean to march along the rock-strewn beach. She turned and watched the strange formations fade into the fog and snow, until they were lost to sight.
Approaching Kilmorgan from the north took them past the turnoff that led to the overlook where Mary had lain with Malcolm for the first time. She remembered the warm October sun, Malcolm’s weight on her, the incredible fulfillment of becoming one with him.
So much had happened since then. And what was to come flitted like the brollachan, a flicker of dread at the corner of one’s eye.
The dread began to take on life when they reached the foot of Kilmorgan Castle as the moon began to rise.
The place was abandoned. Stones from the walls littered the path to the top. When they reached the huge front door, they found it smashed, and the inside of the castle gutted. Fire had burned the paneling, and the rest of the house had been looted. Ash lay everywhere, wet from the rains and snow that had drifted in through the broken windows.
Mal flashed his lantern around grimly, saying nothing. He’d expected to find this, Mary realized. He’d come here to confirm that it was ruined, not in hope that all would be well.
Mal gazed up at the remains of the gallery, its stairs smashed, one railing hanging crookedly from above. Silence lay over all, broken only by the whisper of wind.
Malcolm turned his back on the mess, squared his shoulders, and strode out of the house without a word.
He was finishing with it, Mary decided as she followed. This was the Kilmorgan of the past. Malcolm Mackenzie was leaving it, never to return.
Mal led Mary back down the path from the castle, then caught the pony and boosted her on again. He struck out across the valley, past the site of the house he so longed to build, moving neither in haste nor hesitation. Down into another dell, chased by nightfall and snow, along a path that hugged a hill, and so to a stone house built against a rock face.
For a few moments, Mary couldn’t see a house at all—it blended so well with the cliffs around it. Then a light flashed in a window, and the outline came to her. Two floors, real windows, chimneys that let out thin streams of smoke.
Malcolm made straight for this house without stopping. He led the pony right up to the front door and pressed the latch.
The door was locked. Mal thumped on it, kicking with his hard boots. “Damn ye, let me in! This is my bloody house!”
After a few moments, the thick door was wrenched open and the tall form of Will Mackenzie filled the opening.
“Malcolm!” Will shouted the word, then he let out a shrill Scots cry and yanked Malcolm off his feet into a crushing hug.
Pounding footsteps sounded on flagstones, and the hall was filled with Mackenzies, including the duke, who was demanding to know what was going on. The Mackenzie retainers rushed after them, including small Ewan, who saw Mary.
“Captain! Sir!” The boy ran at her.
Alec Mackenzie was one step behind him. “Bloody hell, Will, are ye letting Mary sit out in the snow? What’s the matter with ye?”
Alec lifted Mary down before she had time to say a word, and had her and Ewan inside the house. Another man slipped out to see to the pony, leading it off into the dark.
Mary’s feet touched the flagstone floor when Alec put her down, and she started unwinding the plaids, glad to breathe out of the wind.
The house was unusual. Instead of a foyer or a hall with stairs leading to the upper floors, Mary found herself in a large, echoing chamber that was open to the top of the house. The walls ran a long way back, farther than she’d thought they could, until she realized the house had been built into the side of the hill.
“What is this place?” she asked.
Mal came to her, scooping her to his side. “The distillery. We’ll live here on whisky and hops until the battles are done. D’ye mind too much?”
“Well . . .” Alec said.
Mal looked around sharply, taking in a sea of glum faces. “What? What does well mean?”
Will answered. “The Englishers have already been here. Couldn’t burn the house around it, because it’s all stone, but I’m afraid they did burn down one thing.”
Mal stared at him, his face draining of color. Then he uttered a cry of anguish and rushed down the corridor that led straight into the hill.
When Malcolm’s scream of despair reached her, Mary wrenched herself from Alec’s hold and ran after him.