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.
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 m
ight 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.