Chapter Three
Invited to a clan gathering, the soldiers congregated on the north side of the bonfire, looking on like a mob of uncomfortable and out of place dragoons. On the other side of the fire, families huddled close together. They, too, appeared a wee bit on edge. For a gathering, there weren’t many smiles. Laughter was every bit as sparse as well.
Kier stood beside Lieutenant Lindsay with a tankard of ale in his hand. “It’s a balmy eve for February.”
The officer harrumphed. “The calm before the storm, I say.”
“I say MacIain is born with a silver spoon. A sennight ago, no one would have been able to find a dry stick of wood for a fire, let alone sit out in a blizzard for a gathering.” Kier took a long pull on his frothy beer. Lindsay was right about the weather to come, of course, not that it was overly warm. It just wasn’t freezing at the moment.
“I wish the young fellas would turn the spit faster. My stomach’s growling,” said Nicoll.
“Your stomach’s always bloody growling.” Kier gestured toward the lads with his tankard. “Why not offer to give them a hand? Tommy looks like he could use a spell.”
Nicoll snorted. “I beg your pardon? I thought we were the guests.”
“We’re the bloody uninvited interlopers.” Kier flicked his fingers toward the spit. “Go on. Nicoll and Robertson, relieve the lads.”
“You’re soft,” Lindsay mumbled.
Kier gripped the ear of his tankard a bit tighter. “Where the hell did that come from? Look at us. We’re enjoying the hospitality of the MacIains and the lot of you are standing around like your shite doesn’t stink.”
“I’d rather be up at Fort William,” said Sentinel Sinclair.
“Aye,” Sergeant Hendrie agreed—he was a miserable Englishman from London. “Why in God’s name did Colonel Hill send us here?”
After three days of listening to the grumblings in the ranks, Kier had heard enough. “A soldier’s place is not to question. We’re here and that’s the end of it.” He moved to the edge of the group of dragoons and stood alone with his tankard.
Nearby, Glenlyon was sitting on a plaid beside his niece, drinking from a flask. Kier didn’t have to guess to know the captain was totting a bit of whisky. As usual, ale was too weak for the likes of the old crow. It was no secret the captain enjoyed his spirit. That’s why, though he was a laird, at the age of sixty he was engaged in the service of King William of Orange rather than retired and warming his toes before home’s hearth.
Across the fire, Alasdair MacIain MacDonald stood and clapped his hands. “Where’s the piper and the fiddler? This gathering is as merry as a funeral procession. Let’s liven it up and show our guests how Clan Iain Abrach celebrates a roasted pig.”
“Here, here,” bellowed Glenlyon, holding up his flask.
Kier raised his tankard aloft as well. He looked across the fire to Miss Skye expectantly. Would she entertain dancing with a Campbell lieutenant? She was sitting on a plaid with her parents. Tommy, who had been relieved of his duty at the spit, pulled his sister’s hand and yanked her toward the musicians. And with the music, clansmen and women lined up for a country dance with Tommy and Skye taking a place at the end.
“Nothing like a reel to raise a soldier’s spirits, is there, Lieutenant?” asked Corporal MacPhail. At least one of the dragoons in the ranks wasn’t full of vinegar.
“Indeed.” Kier saluted with his cup.
“Fancy that, a mob of cutthroats making merry,” said Smith.
Kier eyed the lout with a leer. “Haud yer wheesht.”
The sentinel batted his hand through the air and guffawed. “Christ. You’re a Campbell, sir. You have cause to hate these folk all the more.”
“And you, Smith, are one step shy from spending the entire night on guard duty. Let it be known I’ll not hear another ill word against our hosts.” Kier downed his ale and watched while Tommy tripped over his feet as he swung his sister in a circle. The lad pulled Skye around like he was leading a heifer to market. Kier grumbled under his breath. He shouldn’t care, so why did he? The regiment would be gone soon enough and Miss Skye of Clan Iain Abrach would be but a distant memory. Lasses like her were plentiful enough.
Kier groaned again. Och, lasses like Miss Skye were but jewels only found after a lifetime of searching. He knew it and he suspected every male in the Coe knew it as well. Worse, she’d most likely end up marrying some ne’er-do-well cattle reiver from the Gallows Herd. In fact, Skye’s future husband could very well prey on Kier’s own cattle. Lord knew the MacIains had certainly raided his family’s lands at Loch Dochart often enough. ’Twas why the army was paying a kindly visit—at least that’s the only reason he could fathom for their extended stay.
Kier paced until the music ended, at which time he found himself standing directly behind the lass whose future husband would become a thorn in his side and an outlaw of the Highlands.
“May I help you, Lieutenant?” asked Hugh MacIain, sauntering up with his hand gripping the pommel of his sword.
“Ah…” Kier cleared his throat and looked to Miss Skye. “I thought I’d ask the lass for a turn. After all, her father has been kind enough to provide me with a berth.”
“You’d best rejoin your ranks. The bleaters mightn’t ken what to do when their shepherd is kicking up his heels with a local lass.”
“He’s a Campbell,” said a woman seated a few paces away. “Watch out for daggers hidden up his sleeves.”
Kier pulled back his cuffs for all to see. “I beg your pardon, but I was under the impression this was a friendly gathering.”
“Bloody oath it is!” shouted the laird, roughhewn as he was. “Hugh, stand down. The lieutenant is welcome to dance as are any other dragoons who have a notion to take a turn with one of our Highland maids. Blast it all, I said we would show hospitality and I meant every word.”
Kier turned away from Hugh and bowed to Skye. The poor lass was redder than a rose in full bloom. He offered his hand. “Forgive me for making you uncomfortable. I just felt it time to ease tensions a bit.”
Her eyes twinkled as she rested her fingers in his palm. “If anything, tensions have risen higher, sir.”
And she was right. Not a single couple joined them. In fact, it had grown so quiet, the crackling of the fire and the creak from the spit were the only sounds.
“Come wife.” The clan chief lumbered to his feet. “Let us kick up our heels with the lieutenant.”
Kier bit the inside of his cheek. If nothing else, MacIain was making a herculean effort to ensure angst between government and Jacobite was kept to a minimum. Though Kier only knew Alasdair MacIain MacDonald by reputation, his effort to be accommodating surprised him. A year ago, if anyone had told him he’d be in the MacIain camp dancing a reel, he’d have laughed so hard he would have spit out his teeth.
Not to be shown up by his father, Hugh pulled his sister-in-law into line just as the music began. Kier bowed as Miss Skye curtseyed, though she kept her gaze lowered. When they turned and he offered her his palm, the swish of her skirts brushed his ankles, heightening his awareness. Tingles fired up the back of his calves as they joined elbows and skipped in a circle. She’d pulled her hair up and framed her face with ringlets. Clearly, the lass had made an effort with her appearance this eve. Did she have an eye for one of the MacIain men?
Kier’s stomach tightened into a knot as he returned to the line and watched her face—watched to see if she was searching for another.
As if she could hear his thoughts, she raised her lids and met his gaze. Then she quickly glanced back to her feet as if she didn’t want him to know she’d looked.
Kier’s heart thumped rapidly and when they again met for a circle, he inclined his lips toward her ear. “You look radiant this eve.”
Another blush flooded her cheeks. “Thank you.”
“You did something special with your hair.”
She smiled. Dear Lord, a radiant, blossoming smile that tickled his insides. “Ma put it up in rags this morn afore I went to the weaver’s shop.”
Och, aye. Kier’s sisters had worn rags to bed many a night, though they’d had servants to style their tresses come morn.
The reel ended all too soon. Kier reached for Skye’s hand and dipped into a bow, hovering over it. “I thank you, miss.” The fingers caressing the rough pads of his palm were so soft and delicate, he hadn’t a mind to release them. Inhaling the fragrance of roses, he licked his lips and closed his eyes, hankering to kiss her.
“That’s enough of that,” said Jimmy, pulling Miss Skye away by the elbow. “I reckon the pork’s ready.”
As Kier straightened, he let her fingers slip from his grasp. His palm feeling cold and empty, he stared after her dumbly as she left with her father.
Then he blinked.
He’d nearly kissed a MacIain lassie’s bonny hand.
What in God’s name has come over me?
Though sitting with her family, Skye felt utterly alone while she picked at the succulent shreds of roast pork. Why had the lieutenant asked her to dance? And now what did the clan think of her? She couldn’t allow herself to look anywhere aside from her plate. Everyone was staring like she had leprosy. Worse, her heart had nearly thundered out of her chest while she was dancing with Mr. Campbell.
Campbell!
For the love of everything holy, why couldn’t that man, with such an unnerving and commanding presence, be a MacIain or a Stewart from Appin or a Cameron? Why did that man, with eyes more beautiful than a glassy loch on a summer’s day, have to be the son of a Campbell laird, no less? And why the devil had he set his sights on her this eve? She was but a lowly maid, generations removed from being a chieftain’s heir. Though they were presently occupying the same soil, they were separated by a divide wider than the Highlands. Mr. Campbell was not only a member of a clan that had spent centuries praying on MacDonalds and MacIains alike, he was a soldier of William of Orange. Kier Campbell was most likely a Protestant as well.
Skye made the mistake of looking up and nearly died. Holy Moses, the lieutenant was staring at her from across the bonfire. With darting glimpses from the corners of her eyes, she glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed. Thank heavens the pork had been cooked to perfection and the clansmen and women had reverted to eating and laughing as if a Campbell hadn’t taken her hand after the dance and nearly kissed it.
Good Lord, what would she have done if he had?
Melted into a heap of nerves, for certain.
Skye shifted a bit so the next time she looked up, she’d see her scruffy brother rather than the rugged warrior wearing a red coat. A dragoon. A man who was an enemy to all she held dear.
“I reckon we need a song!” bellowed the great clan chief.
Under most circumstances, Skye would have beamed with such an announcement, but presently, she curved her spine and shrank lower. Please pick someone else.
“Miss Skye, I can still see you, lass. Do not be bashful. Come up here and give us a tune.” The laird clapped his hands. “I’m certain Glenlyon will appreciate a lark’s voice such as yours.”
Ma gave her a nudge. “Go on, lass.”
Groaning, Skye stood and moved beside the fiddler.
“Mo Ghile Mear,” said Mistress NicGilleasbuig, asking for “My Gallant Hero”. Of course, the chieftain’s wife wouldn’t ask for a Gaelic fighting song or the one about the lovely flowers or another ditty wishing the men well with their fishing.
Skye gulped. Most of the Gaelic songs she knew were love songs of sorts—definitely nothing she wanted to sing in the company of a regiment of dragoons.
After the fiddler played an introduction, just as Skye opened her mouth to sing, Lieutenant Campbell stepped directly into her line of sight. Her throat constricted and she couldn’t make a single sound.
Blast him.
She covered her mouth and shook her head.
The fiddler lowered his instrument. “Och, let us start again, shall we?”
Skye gave him a nod and kept her gaze lowered. This time, the first verse came out fine, but she was staring at dirt, definitely not the posture Mistress NicGilleasbuig would expect from her. Clenching her fists, Skye raised her chin. Blast it all, the lieutenant stood there like he’d never heard a Gaelic ballad in his life. But she wasn’t going to humiliate herself yet again. She took in a deep breath and watched the officer as she sang the last refrain:
He’s my champion, my gallant hero
He’s my king, a gallant hero
I’ve found neither rest nor fortune
Since my hero sailed far, far away
Alas, I will always love my hero, my bonny beau.
As the final note faded on the breeze, the soldiers offered the loudest applause. Skye looked to the laird who applauded, nodding his approval. Gulping back a sigh of relief, she returned to her plaid.
“That was lovely, Miss Skye.” Good Lord, didn’t the lieutenant realize he ought to stay on the far side of the blaze?
She gave Mr. Campbell a reticent smile. “Thank you.”
He, in turn, grinned broadly. It wasn’t a silly grin, but a masculine grin that made the raging bonfire pale in comparison. “Would you care to take a stroll around the grounds with me?”
“I beg your pardon, young pup,” said Da. “Have you been dipping into the whisky with Glenlyon?”
Mr. Campbell shook his head. “No, sir. Just thought I might stretch my legs a bit.”
“My daughter can walk with you if Tommy chaperones,” said Ma.
Skye shook her head. “Och, Tommy doesn’t want to stroll with the likes of us.”
The lad hopped to his feet. “Sure I do. And I’ll be looking for a seilie fairy. Malcolm told me his ma saw one by the river two nights ago.”
“And Malcolm breathes fire out both sides of his mouth,” said Skye.
“I reckon tonight’s a good night for a fairy spotting,” said Mr. Campbell, taking her elbow. “Tell me, what are the signs there are fairies about?”
Skye followed, rolling her eyes to the heavens. “Don’t get him started.”
“Ice crystals,” said Tommy.
It seemed no one was interested in listening to a word Skye had to say. And as she expected, her brother ran ahead and paid them no mind while Mr. Campbell strolled along like he hadn’t a care in the world, leading her away from the security of the crowd.
“Your song was moving,” he said, his voice soft and deep, making gooseflesh rise across her skin.
Skye shrugged. “I’ve been singing since I was a wee one, I suppose.”
“Did you have lessons?”
“None.”
“Well then, you are a rare and natural talent.”
“My thanks.” Skye stopped and looked up to his face made shadowy by the moonlight above. “We shouldn’t be here, you ken.”
He chuckled with a nod. “You are most likely right.”
“Then why ask me to take a stroll, and in front of clan and kin?”
“Don’t ken, honestly.” His mouth twisted. “After you finished singing, my legs took over and there I was, asking for a harmless promenade around the grounds. Not to worry, lass. With the moonlight, we can be seen well enough.”
“That almost makes it worse. I wouldn’t want Mistress Fiona spreading gossip about…ah…” Skye swiped a hand across her mouth. “With luck, everyone will forget about it by the morrow.”
Mr. Campbell reached for her hand. “I shan’t forget. That’s for certain.”
Her palms grew suddenly moist, her mouth dry. Skye doubted she’d ever forget how she felt when his deep voice had made such a simple request—a mere stroll, though it was certainly not a declaration of intent to court. Nonetheless, in an instant, her skin had tingled combined with a fluttering low in her belly. No man she’d ever met had such an effect on her insides.
Why this man?
But her thoughts went completely blank and her breath caught when Mr. Campbell bowed over her hand, his warm breath caressing the back of it. Gradually, he closed the distance and pressed his lips to her flesh—warm, deliciously soft lips touched her skin with hot fervor as if he were branding a lasting impression into the back of her hand.
Her knees turned to utter mush while the same heat from her hand rushed through her body and pooled in her most sacred nether parts. In disbelief, she stared as he straightened and grinned, his white teeth glowing, making her insides swarm all the more.
Blast him.
Skye drew her hand over her heart, wanting to extend the sensation, wanting her skin to tingle like that forever. “How did you do that?”
“I beg your pardon? How did I do what, exactly?”
“How…how did you make me feel like that?”
He stepped nearer and again took her hand. But this time, he pressed her palm against his chest—a very hard, very broad chest. “Is your heart racing like mine?”
Indeed, his heart was thumping just as fervently as hers. “Aye,” she whispered, forcing herself to pull her hand away. “But it cannot be. You and I might as well be dog and cat. Nothing good can come of this, this…whatever you want to call it.”
“I think—”
“No!” Skye skittered from him, thrusting out her palm. “I’m going back now afore you make my heart thump clear out of my chest. ’Tis just not natural.”