soon.
He put down the glass of poor wine and waved his orderly to answer the knock on the door. Good news. Just what he needed to raise his spirits. He waited for the orderly to pull open one of the big, rough, wooden doors and knew at once that good news was not coming.
Two bedraggled Campbells slunk into the dark room and walked slowly to the table where Colonel York sat, now reading a document in which he had no interest whatsoever.
The two Campbells waited in front of the table, their heads down and their eyes darting left and right, as if they expected someone to suddenly jump out of the shadows.
York put down the document and smiled. “Ah, gentlemen.” The smile switched off. “It’s Duncan and…”
“Donald, my lord,” said one of the men.
“Ah, yes. Duncan and Donald.”
“No, my lord,” said the man. “I am Donald. This is Robert.”
“Right,” said York, looking them over slowly. “I take it from your demeanour that our little… venture was less than wholly successful?”
A bead of sweat ran down Donald’s forehead and into the corner of his eye. He let it be. “No, my lord,” he said quietly. “We were ambushed.” He licked his lips nervously. “By a giant, my lord.”
York nodded slowly, picked up the glass of wine, and looked into it. “That is very unfortunate.” He put the wine down untouched. “I paid you a great deal of money for this rather simple task, did I not?”
The two men nodded but continued to look at the floor.
“But you were…” York frowned as he recalled the term Donald had used. “What was it? Ah, yes. Ambushed.” He nodded. “By a giant, I believe.”
“Aye, my lord,” said Donald very quietly. “And there was another big man.”
Colonel York watched the man through slit eyes and nodded slowly, clearly understanding and sympathising with the poor unfortunates. He stood up, walked round the table, and stood in front of the dejected men. He put his hand on Robert’s shoulder and squeezed gently.
All was well.
“And these… giants defeated you and the other… nine, no, ten men? That is correct?”
“Yes, my lord,” said Robert without looking up. “With the help of the duke.”
“Ah,” said York, releasing his grip. “Then that I can understand.”
The two men looked up and almost began to relax.
Colonel York slid the dirk from Robert’s belt and pushed it into his ribs without taking his eyes off his face. It was effortless. And meant as much as swatting a fly.
Robert sank to his knees without a sound and stared up at the man who had killed him.
“So, Duncan,” said York without even a glance at the dying man at his feet, “the duke remains at large?”
“I am Donald, my lord.” Which was stupid, and he quickly realized it. “Yes, yes, my lord, the duke rode away.”
York put the bloody dirk on the table and stepped over Robert’s body, now sprawled in front of his table. He sat and picked up his wine. “This giant…”
Donald looked up sharply. “Yes, my lord?”
“Did you know him?”
Now right there was a problem. Was the Englishman asking this because he suspected they were somehow in league with the Jacobite scum. Or was it a genuine enquiry. The question bounced around in his mind, along with the image of Robert’s dying look. “No, my lord,” he said before he could think it through. “But he had a sword!”
There was a glimmer of hope. A tiny way out.
The colonel put down his glass. “I see. The giant had a sword.”
“No, my lord.” Donald’s mind was still tumbling in desperate search for something to say that would save his life. It didn’t look promising.
Colonel York raised his eyebrows and waited.
“Well, yes, my lord.” He was going to die. “The giant did have a sword. A very big sword!” That was worth a try. “But the little… giant had a sword like…” He pointed at Colonel York’s sabre lying on a smaller table. “Like that one, my lord, but not curved.”
York looked at the sabre and frowned. “You mean it was not a broadsword?”
“Yes, my lord. Not a claymore or like a sabre.” Hope was blooming slowly. “It had a fine blade. It had a silver crossguard. It had—”
York raised his hand to silence the man. “It had a silver crossguard. And a silver pommel?”
“Yes, my lord. It did. Silver. And dark wood. And perhaps no taller than a man’s waist.” His brain clicked into focus. “A finer one of those we saw when we fought with you in Flanders.”
York nodded. “Will you do something for me, Duncan?”
“Anything, my lord,” said Donald enthusiastically.
“I want you to find the man who owns this sword. Can you do that for me?”
“Yes, my lord, I can do that.”
“Thank you, Donald,” said York, finally using the man’s name. “And when you find him—”
“I’ll kill him!” Donald was going to live, and his head buzzed with relief.
York flicked the bloody dirk and spun it absently. “No, Duncan, I do not want you to kill him. I want you to find out all there is to know about him.”
Donald was clearly confused.
“I want you to find out where he lives. Who are his friends. Where his family lives. What is his favourite flower. And if he bathes.” He smiled a smile that would curdle milk. “Then I want you to report this to me. And only me. Do you understand?”
Donald nodded and started to back away, ready for his exit.
“And Duncan,” said York, tossing the dirk onto Robert’s body. “Bring me more men. And better than this gutter-trash you used last time.”
“Aye, my lord, I’ll do that.”
“Thank you, Duncan.”
“Donald,” said Donald under his breath. But at least he had breath under which to say it.
Calum and Big John stopped at the end of the long drive leading to Moy Hall, the country house that was the home of Angus Mackintosh, the head of Clan Mackintosh, to whom Clan Maclean had sworn allegiance.
“D’ya think she’ll remember you?” John asked with a grin. “It’s been three years since you’ve been off gallivanting around Europe, selling your sword.”
Calum stopped and looked from his friend to the imposing stone building on the shores of Loch Moy. There was no doubt Lady Anne would remember him; the real question was, would she still care. It had, as John so helpfully pointed out, been three years.
What the hell, she was just a woman. He strode on. A little slower.
They crossed the wide gravel path and headed for the steps leading up to the imposing double doors. At the last moment, John stopped.
“What?” said Calum, stopping.
“Should we perhaps go around back, just… well… just.”
Calum started up the steps. “We are not servants nor hawkers. We go in through the front.”
“That’s just what I was thinking,” said John, following.
As they reached the top of the steps, the wide wooden doors swung open, and an old man, who should have been dead years before, blocked their entrance.
“Who shall I say is calling,” he said slowly.
Calum smiled and stepped forward. “’Tis me, Frasier, Calum Mclean.”
The old man looked him up and down slowly, with an expression that said he didn’t care much for what he saw. “I’ll see if Lady Anne will see you.” He closed the door.
John chuckled and took a moment to study the fine workmanship on the edge of the door.
Calum looked at the closed door, turned on his heel, and walked back down the steps, but stopped at the bottom when the doors creaked open again and Lady Anne stepped out.
“Going somewhere, are you, Calum?” she asked with a suppressed smile.
“Aye,” said Calum, half-turning. “I’m away to somewhere I’m welcome.”
“That’ll be a long walk, then.”
br /> John laughed loudly and put his hands on his hips, while Calum trudged slowly back up the steps and stood before the stunning tomboy with wild blonde hair.
Lady Anne took his hand in both of hers and squeezed. “Calum, it’s wonderful to see you again.”
“And it’s good to see you, my lady.”
Anne released his hands and stepped back. “My lady?”
“Aye,” said Calum without taking his eyes off hers. “Isn’t that what you’re called these days? Now that you’re married to the clan chief.”
Anne turned on her heel and strode into the house.
John stepped down two steps. “I think she’s gone for a musket.”
Calum shrugged and followed her into the house, ignoring the steely look from the ancient butler.
Lady Anne was in the wood-panelled living room, warming herself by a roaring fire. Just the thing for a September evening in Inverness. She crossed to the sideboard and picked up an elegant glass decanter without looking at Calum. “Would your friend care for a dram?”
Calum was about to speak, but John got in first. “Aye, m’lady, I would that.” He strode quickly across the room and took the glass of whisky before anything endangered the offer. Which was highly likely.
Anne put down the decanter and glared at Calum. “You can get your own.”
Calum smiled, crossed the room, and poured himself a large drink. He took a swallow and topped it up, nodded and lifted the glass, then put it down. “Is that any way to speak to your humble servant, come straight here at your bidding.”
John almost choked on his drink but managed to keep it in his mouth, or he would never be able to return to his village.
Anne watched Calum through narrowed eyes. “You are neither humble, nor my servant.” She continued to watch him. “Unfortunately, or you would be seeking other employment.”
Calum chuckled, picked up his whisky, and relaxed. “I hear you raised the clan for the Bonnie Prince.”
She nodded, and her eyes betrayed a smile.
“I wish I’d been there,” said Calum, leaning back against the sideboard. “A wee lass riding the glens, bullying, bribing and sweet-talking the men to take up arms.”
“Aye,” said Anne, and the smile revealed itself fully. “But it was mostly bullying, I have to say.”
He thought about it for a moment, smiling too. “But you won’t lead the clan into battle against the English.”
“No,” she said and sighed. “But don’t you think I don’t want to!”
He nodded once. “I have no doubt about that. So why not?”
Her blue eyes flashed remembered anger. “Women don’t lead the clan on the field of battle. You know that.” She took a long breath. “And for good measure, my family, friends, and even the servants said it was not the thing to do.”
Calum nodded. “Aye, they would, or I think you would have ridden into battle anyway.” He shook his head at the thought. “They were right, of course.”
“You too!” The remembered anger returned for real.
“Battle is no place for a woman.” He raised his hands to ward off the tirade that was surely coming his way. “You are just a wee lass—” He looked away quickly before he turned to stone. “And you’re married to the Mackintosh, who, I might remind you, stands with the English.”
“No, you don’t need to remind me!”
Calum stood up and gave her a moment. “And what would you have done if you’d led the clan and there was Angus standing on the line?”
She squinted and set her jaw. “My duty.”
He continued to watch her for several seconds. She was even more beautiful than he remembered. “Aye, Anne, I believe you would.” He stepped closer. “But you did the right thing. It is better that you stay and look after your people.”
She returned his long look. “Perhaps, but it would have been a glorious thing to do.”
He laughed gently at the thought. “It would that.” He turned to John, who was lost in his own world and staring into an empty glass. “John, go see to the horses.”
John looked up, completely confused. “But we don’t have horses—”
Calum glared at him, and he turned, stepped up to the sideboard, and filled his glass before going out to check on the horses they didn’t have.
Calum waited for the door to close, put his hands gently around her waist, and a moment later kissed her. She looped her arms around his neck and kissed him back, hard. Then pulled away.
“Calum, we can’t. We mustn’t.”
He stepped back and nodded. “Aye, you’re right. Angus.” He licked his lips with the tip of his tongue. “And he’s a fine man.”
“Yes,” she said, a little breathlessly. Anger and passion rose in her until it threatened to send her swooning like a little girl. She pulled herself together quickly before she made a fool of herself. She looked into his pale blue eyes, then looked away. “And you made it clear that settling down was not in your future.” She took a long slow breath and relaxed a little. “So what did you want me to do? Wait around for you until I was an old maid?”
Calum looked up from her tartan breeches to her wild hair. An old maid she would never be. He changed the subject quickly. “And what of Angus?”
She looked at him, her face a mix of suspicion and question.
“He’s with the English against the prince,” he continued, with a shrug to underscore the statement.
She stepped forward and raised her hand to slap his face. He made no move to stop her, but she lowered it slowly. “It is not how it appears to be.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I believe you, but how it appears is very bad.”
She glared at him, then softened and nodded. “Aye, but Angus accepted Lord Loudoun’s commission into the Black Watch long before the prince returned.” She looked up at the portrait of her husband over the fireplace. A strong young man with a firm chin and soft eyes. “He’s no royalist.” She turned back at Calum. “And he’s no Jacobite either.”
“M’be not. But he is the Mackintosh clan chief. And his place his here.” He pointed at her. “With you. And with his clan.”
“True,” said Anne, her face reddening, “he is the clan chief. And what he does now, he does for the clan.”
Calum sniffed pointedly. “And how does fighting with the English against the rightful king of Scotland help the clan?”
A voice in his head told him to back off. He didn’t listen. But he never did.
“He is not with the English!” She stepped forward, and Calum stepped back, coming to rest against the sideboard. “Yes, he is with the Black Watch, but he was with them before this all started.” She leaned towards him until their faces were almost close enough for their lips to touch. “What would you have him do? Desert?” She leaned back, the moment passed. “Where is the honour in that?”
She stepped to his side and poured herself a whisky. A large one. “Angus believes that the rebellion is a hopeless cause and one for which we will all pay a terrible price.” She took a long drink of the amber spirit she held in trembling fingers. “He stays with his regiment because he believes that the Mackintosh clan will suffer cruelly when the rebellion is crushed, and he will be in a position to prevent it.”
“And he is so sure the rebellion will fail?” Calum was thinking about the kiss and three years come and gone.
Anne poured another whisky and handed it to him, then crossed to the fire and sat down in one of the stuffed chairs. Calum sipped his drink and followed her, leaning his hand on the shelf below the dark portrait of Angus Mackintosh. He glanced up at the picture, smiled a quick smile, and looked back at Lady Anne. He was pleased for her. Angus was a good man.
“But now the prince has an army that will reclaim Scotland for its king and its people.” He tilted his head in a gesture that could have been admiration or question.
“Aye, Calum,” she said, looking up at him, the firelight flickering in her blue eyes. “He has an army, but the English King G
eorge has a nation of soldiers long used to war.” She watched him for a moment. “But what about you, Calum? Do you believe Charles Stuart will be king of Scotland?”
He didn’t answer.
“I see,” she said, closing her eyes for a moment. “But you do see Angus is in an impossible position.”
He nodded.
She stood up and took his hand. “If he deserts his regiment, Clan Mackintosh will suffer. If he does not, then he may face his own clan on the field of battle.”
“There is no doubt that he will face his clan if he stays,” said Calum softly. He smiled a knowing smile that she remembered so well. “So this is why you sent for me?”
“Yes, Calum. I want you to bring Angus back home.” Her lips were dry from excitement and apprehension. So much rested on this man’s next words.
He nodded once. “We will need horses.” He glanced at the door. “Real ones.”
She put her arms around his neck and kissed him, switching from his lips to his cheek at the last moment.
He waited for her to step back and walked slowly to the door and stopped. “You love him dearly, don’t you?”
“More than he knows.”
He was pleased that she had found such love. But the ache in his chest reminded him of what might have been.
Calum and John sat on a fallen log at the side of the road and watched the redcoats struggling with the horses trying to pull the cannon through the churned-up mud. It looked like more rain was due, which was going to make the roads all but impassable. Calum smiled.
Colonel Richard York rode ahead of his dragoons as they tried to push through the confusion on the roads. His mood had not improved since his briefing from the Campbells on their failed mission, but he knew it wouldn’t improve until he got out of this damp wasteland with its skirt-wearing barbarians. Please God that the campaign would not see winter. He looked around at the damp hillside. And saw Calum. He swung his horse and rode through the artillerymen wresting with the wagons and the cannon, his powerful horse shouldering them aside.
“You there.”
Calum looked up slowly.
“What is the meaning of this? What are you doing there?”
Calum watched another rider weaving his way carefully through the men and horses clogging the road. Angus Mackintosh came alongside Colonel York and looked down at the men on the log. He closed his eyes in dismay.
“You!” shouted York. “I asked what you are doing here!”
It was true, he had asked.
Calum looked back at him slowly. “Scouting.”
York began to splutter and turned to Angus. “Captain, I want this man flogged!” He glared at Calum. “And then I want him hanged. Do you hear me?”
Angus looked down at Calum, who grinned back up at him. “Aye, sir. Flogged and hanged.”
York pulled at his horse’s reins angrily and pointed at John. “And hang his surly friend too!”
Calum stood up quickly, his hand moving to the hilt of his sword.
York was about to demand that he be killed immediately, when he saw Calum’s French sword partly drawn from its slim scabbard. He stopped and looked the man over slowly. It was possible. York was a bully and a schemer, but he knew a fighting man when he saw one, and he was looking at one right there. A very good one, or he missed his guess.
“It’s my birthday,” he said, his eyes squinting slyly. “So I will let you live.”
Calum shrugged but relaxed a fraction. He would have drawn