Highland Betrayal Page 11

  She startled when Solomon poked his head into the wagon. “We have water for bathing,” he said with a rare smile before disappearing as quickly as he’d come.

  Willing her stiff limbs to move, she lowered herself from the berth and crawled out of the wagon, astonished to see the elderly Jew beckoning her into the shelter he and Esther more or less lived in. She hesitated. Medusa was nowhere in sight. Did he intend…

  Solomon must have sensed her reluctance. “Come,” he said. “Today we celebrate Shavuot.”

  Hannah feared he may have been drinking, though she’d never known him imbibe liquor. However, there was no lust to the sparkle in his kind eyes. “Shavut?” she asked hesitantly as she entered the shelter, further confused at the sight of several of her shelf companions enjoying bowls of what she assumed was oatmeal. Ensconced on plump silken cushions, Esther sat among them like a queen amid her admiring courtiers. Hannah had heard Crusaders’ tales of the sumptuous tents of infidel princes and feared she’d stepped back in time.

  Still smiling, Solomon escorted her to a curtained off area at the rear of the shelter. It seemed the simple canvas structure had rooms! “Water to bathe,” he explained, “then you join us to celebrate Shavuot.”

  “I still dinna understand,” she managed.

  He nodded benevolently. “Shavuot is a holy feast. We remember Yahweh’s gift to our people. He gave to us the Torah at Mount Sinai after we fled the Pharaoh.”

  “But that was so long ago.”

  Solomon tapped one finger against his temple. “Jews have long memories, and we never forget God’s gifts. At Shavuot we give thanks for the wheat harvest too, and we honor the anniversary of the death of King David.”

  It struck Hannah that mayhap people weren’t very different after all. Wherever she was on the anniversary of King Charles’ execution she always bowed her head in prayer. Her dead mother had been a Robertson, and no member of that clan ever forgot the date of the bloody assassination of James Stewart more than two hundred years before. Honoring dead kings was something she could readily identify with, and harvest festivals were common in every part of Scotland, though not in springtime. “I’m thankful to be included,” she murmured.

  He chuckled, coaxing her gently through the curtain. “Ah, yes, this is not the kind of life you are used to.”

  A cold chill marched across her nape as he withdrew to chat with his guests. Evidently, her disguise hadn’t fooled the wily old Jew. He’d apparently noticed something she’d striven to hide. Yet he’d provided shelter and hadn’t denounced her. Was he biding his time? His business fortunes depended on the Parliamentary army, but perhaps he had no love for the English. She would have to be cautious.

  The well-remembered aroma of Castile soap stole up her nostrils. A fresh white cake of it sat on a small table, along with fine linen cloths neatly folded next to a washbasin with clean water. It was as if she was home in Kilmer. “’Tis a miracle,” she whispered, unable to conceive of how the Jew had managed such luxury in the middle of a war.

  Seizing the opportunity, she flung aside her shawl, eased the shift and chemise off her shoulders and pushed them down to her waist. She dipped a cloth into the water, rubbed soap onto it, inhaled the scent then smoothed the linen over her upper body.

  The water was cold, but she was reminded of the kind way Mrs. Grainger had washed her.

  She closed her eyes and conjured a vision of Morgan soaping her breasts, all the while lavishing special attention on the rigid nipples. The pleasurable prospect caused a peculiar rush of warm moisture between her legs.

  She opened her eyes, rinsed out the cloth and hoisted up her skirts. The cool linen would feel good on that very private spot.

  ~~~

  Morgan stepped out of the inn feeling more optimistic about life than he had in years. An army officer was no stranger to danger. An artillery captain knew the gut-wrenching fear of being on the receiving end of cannon fire. Morgan had faced enemy guns more than once. But the danger Hannah represented was different. Her life as well as his own depended on the way he handled things.

  He ran his thumb and forefinger over his newly shaved chin, confident it would meet with her approval. His undergarments and shirt were freshly laundered, which he hoped would count in his favor if he persuaded her to move into his room.

  He increased his pace away from the Tolbooth, not wanting to be seen by Abbott or any of the other officers. Even before he reached the outer fringes of the camp, he heard a strident female voice heaping blasphemous imprecations on some unfortunate soul’s head. If he wasn’t mistaken the voice belonged to the prostitute he’d encountered at the burn. Maggie, as he recalled. To his recollection, about the best that could be said of the tart was that she had an impressive set of tits.

  It became clear as he approached that a physical altercation was about to erupt. Maggie and a slew of her cohorts were arguing with a sutler. Apparently the women had paid for water to wash and it had run out. Suddenly grateful for the ice cold water in the inn’s lavatory, he scanned the queue, desperately hoping Hannah hadn’t been forced to waste her money. He didn’t like the notion of her being deprived in any way and was relieved not to find her there. But where was she?

  “Yer doxy’s wi’ the Jew,” Maggie yelled, apparently just noticing him. “Best get o’er there and claim what’s yers.”

  He didn’t know who the Jew was, but Maggie was obviously trying to insinuate the worst. After a few enquiries, he easily located the Jew’s wagon, the same one she slept in, but there was no one about. He put a booted foot up on the spoke of the wheel, pondering where to look next.

  The twang of a mouth harp drifted to his ears. A man was singing in a foreign tongue. Women laughed. If he wasn’t mistaken the festivities were going on in the large canvas shelter attached to the other side of the wagon.

  He carefully opened the flap at the entryway and peeked inside. A foot-tapping elderly man nodded to him without interrupting the tune he played on the mouth harp. Two or three women lounging about on cushions clapped and whooped. They were watching Hannah. She had shed her shawl and was dancing in the style of highlanders, hands on hips, her face aglow, curls bouncing. Every drop of blood in his veins rushed to his tarse.

  He thought mayhap he was still asleep and dreaming, until Hannah espied him and grinned. “Happy Shavuot,” she exclaimed.

  A Gaelic greeting, he supposed.

  He’d never danced in his life. Blodwen frowned on such frivolities and certainly dancing hadn’t been part of the curriculum at Shrewsbury. But when Hannah beckoned him to join her, his feet took on a life of their own and he went willingly. She’d already taught him a great deal about himself, and this would be no different. He linked arms with her, looked into her eyes and followed her lead.

  BRACKEN

  Memories of her childhood in the Highlands danced in Hannah’s head as her feet flew over the carpeted floor of Solomon and Esther’s oasis. The joy on her mother’s face as Da whirled her round was the image she clung to whenever grief threatened to overwhelm her. That’s how she preferred to remember her parents—happy, in love, full of life. Not the stone cold corpses they’d fished out of Loch Tay after the carriage accident at the ford.

  She’d inherited their love of music, but hadn’t danced for many a year. Kilmer was a place of intrigue, bitterness and plotting. This morning had brought delights she hadn’t expected and she intended to take full advantage. A lass never knew when death might snatch away happiness.

  Hesitant at first, Morgan soon got the hang of the movements and followed her lead, no mean feat since she was making it up as she went along. Appearing somewhat surprised at his own prowess, he matched her step for step, whoop for whoop as if they’d danced together before.

  Solomon finally left off playing, excusing himself politely to take refreshments. Out of breath, Hannah collapsed onto a pile of cushions, disappointed when Morgan remained standing, looking once again too much like a stern gunnery captain. “Will
ye nay sit?” she asked, patting the cushion next to her.

  He shook his head, mopping his brow with his kerchief. “I prefer to stand.”

  Had he suddenly realized he was somewhere he shouldn’t be, indulging in a forbidden pastime? “I’m sorry we took ye away from yer duties,” she said, hating the peevish tone of her words.

  He immediately hunkered down beside her. “You know I’d rather be here than anywhere else,” he said softly. “But I can’t be gone too long, and I have something to ask you.”

  She’d misjudged him. The longing in his eyes told her that whatever he was about to ask meant a lot to him, and he was nervous. Was he going to demand an answer about the jewels? Suddenly chilled, she reached for the shawl she’d discarded earlier, praying she wasn’t about to disappoint him. “Aye?”

  He helped her drape the shawl over her shoulders and whispered close to her ear. “I’m billeted in a private room at the inn.”

  ~~~

  Morgan fisted his hand in the edges of the shawl and refused to look away from Hannah’s startled gaze. He hoped to see what was in her heart, but the emotions swirling in those green eyes confused him.

  He’d expected the initial surprise. Anger and a clenched jaw replaced it. He’d expected that too, but held on to the shawl like a condemned man clings to the hope of reprieve. What he hadn’t expected was a softening, a longing that mirrored his own.

  “’Twould be safer there,” she conceded.

  “It would.”

  She gestured to the other folk sharing food and conversation on the opposite side of the shelter. “And ’twould confirm the rumor I’m yer whore.”

  “But you and I know that’s not true.”

  Was that a glimmer of disappointment in her beautiful eyes? She wanted him. However, she’d as likely bolt if she thought she was being forced into agreeing. He needed her to come to him. “Wouldn’t you like to sleep in a real bed?” he coaxed.

  She nibbled her bottom lip. “And ye’ll be a gentlemon?”

  He controlled the urge to crow like a rooster. “I’ll be as gentle as you want me to be,” he replied, already wondering how he was going to get through the nights with Hannah’s body tucked beside his own in the tiny bed.

  He got to his feet and proffered his hand when she tried to extricate herself from the cushions. The enticing blush that had been receding after the dance, flared again on her lovely face as she stood to look up at him. “Will ye send for me later, then?”

  Now he had her consent, he realized he hadn’t thought out the details. “Come to the gunnery tents at dusk. If you’re challenged, tell them you have my permission to check on Smythe’s ankle. I’ll meet you there.”

  Apparently content with the suggestion, she accepted his arm as he escorted her from the shelter. Solomon stood outside to bid them farewell as they exited. He bowed to Hannah, a trace of a knowing smile on his face. “Will you still need the shelf, Mistress Kincaid?”

  She glanced at Morgan, her blush deepening even further and murmured. “Not until we begin the journey along the Causey Mounth. Is that all right?”

  His eyes widened. “You intend to follow the camp to Aberdeen?”

  For some reason she hesitated before answering. “Aye,” she confirmed finally, “and thence to Inverness.”

  “Then I give you this for good luck,” he said, bending to pluck a leaf from a clump of ferns half crushed by the wheel of the wagon.

  She stared at the greenery for long moments before accepting it, then murmured her thanks and took Morgan’s arm again.

  As they walked through the camp she twirled the leaf by the stem, seemingly preoccupied with it.

  “Is something wrong?” he asked.

  She glanced up at him sharply. “Nay, ’tis just a piece o’ bracken.”

  His optimism faded. She still felt it necessary to lie to him.

  ~~~

  Hannah savored the kiss Morgan pecked on her lips before he strode off to attend his duties, but she sensed an aloofness in the gesture, as if he tasted the lie on her lips.

  Sweat trickled down her spine as she tucked the fern into her girdle, and not from the exertion of the dance, nor the wanton excitement of Morgan’s proposition.

  Solomon was a Jew. How could he know bracken was the Kincaid clan’s floral emblem—unless someone had told him.

  The fern was a signal, or mayhap a trap? The Jew was more likely one of Cromwell’s agents. It was a test. Could Solomon and Esther Jacobs be Royalist sympathizers? It boggled the mind. She’d spent weeks in their company and never suspected.

  She clutched the knot of the shawl at her breast. The possibility of capture was something she’d pondered and accepted as her eventual fate. But her heart broke at the prospect she might unwittingly have led Morgan to the hangman’s noose. She refused to consider that men judged traitors suffered a punishment worse than simple hanging. Such a fate could not be permitted to befall her Welsh captain. He’d shown her nothing but kindness—and love.

  She scanned the crowds milling about the camp, seeking anyone with a similar piece of bracken. It was foolish. Many ordinary folk tucked bits of greenery into bonnets and pinned it to tunics.

  A tinker with heather on the buckles of his shoes plied his trade; Lizzie flounced by with her nose in the air, a daisy chain perched atop her head, no doubt fashioned by one of her bairns; Maggie Campbell stalked towards her, skirts fisted in both hands, breasts bulging over the low neckline of her shift, fury contorting her fat face, and—oh God—a fiddlehead fern leaf threaded in her tangled hair.

  REVELATIONS

  Morgan spent the day behind the Tolbooth tending to the gun and the equipment necessary for it to function properly.

  He’d accumulated a stockpile of sheepskins during the siege and supervised the cutting and attachment of new skins to the two long poles used as rammers, reminding his men that wool was an ideal sponge for scouring the barrel.

  He checked the wad-screws, making sure they were still firmly attached to their wooden poles. If the gun had to be unloaded quickly and the wadding removed, a loose screw could prove disastrous.

  His hands were busy, but his thoughts were on the night to come. Time dragged by so he decided to fill it by drilling his men on the proper terminology, though they could likely recite it in their sleep. Still, it was a way to involve Smythe who sat resting his ankle while the others toiled.

  “And what’s the botefeux used for, Syddall?” he asked.

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but you’ve already asked me that one,” came the reply.

  Morgan clenched his fists. The lads must be wondering what had become of his usual concentration. “Nevertheless, it never hurts to repeat these things.”

  Syddall eyed Atherton before replying, “Sir. The botefeux is the long stick, split at the end to hold the match.”

  “Right! And how much powder must be in the primer?” He scanned their amused faces. Obviously, he’d already posed that question too. “Let’s have it then…Smythe.”

  “At least a pound, sir.”

  After a quick round of bread and cheese for luncheon, he had them strip to the waist and take off their boots so they could remove the wheels from the gun carriage and grease the axle. This took most of the afternoon and resulted in his men having filthy hands, feet, faces and, inexplicably, teeth. It evoked a memory of the urchins who labored in his family’s drift mines in Wales. The recollection wasn’t a pleasant one. His father treated the miners like slaves, and Aneurin cared nothing for the welfare of others. Mayhap it was disgust for his father’s cruelty that had made Morgan a more tolerant man.

  His crew had worked well together and approached the dirty task with gusto. “Well done,” he said when everything was put back to rights. “You’ve earned a dip in the sea.”

  They cheered. “Sir.”

  “And off to the cook tent once you’re clean.”

  “Sir.”

  “Can we take Smythe to the beach with us, sir?” Wilcock a
sked. “We’ll ’elp him and I promise no malarkey this time.”

  His batman sent him a pleading look, but Hannah was on her way ostensibly to check on the injured ankle. “Too soon,” he replied. “We don’t want to overdo the exercise. On the morrow, mayhap. We’ll see what Mistress Kincaid has to say.”

  Smythe’s frown disappeared. “She’s coming to see me, sir?”

  “Aye,” he replied, scratching his head after another lapse into the local brogue.

  The men went off in the direction of the beach. Smythe watched them for a while then hobbled to his tent.

  Suddenly aware of his own sweaty body and dirty hands, Morgan wondered if he had time to order a bath be brought up to his room, though where they’d put it, he wasn’t sure. He scooped up a few of the sheepskin remnants and decided on a quick scrub in the sea instead.

  ~~~

  As Maggie strode towards her, Hannah’s instincts told her to run. Campbells weren’t to be trusted, particularly this one. But she’d never seen Maggie wear anything in her hair—and why a fern of all things on this day?

  Too many strange events were happening all at once. She was a decisive person, but now stood rooted to the spot, wishing Morgan was still within hailing distance.

  The whore grabbed her elbow and hurried her along. “Mistress Kincaid, as I live and breathe. Didna see ye in the queue for water. Doubtless ye’ve no need to wash. Too clean by far.”

  Hannah opened her mouth to protest, but Maggie plucked the fern from her hair and twirled the fiddlehead under her nose. “Keep walkin’,” she hissed, shoving Hannah behind a wagon.

  She used all her weight to press her victim against the wood and grinned. “Dinna fash,” she growled with a glint in her eye. “Look scared. That’s it. With the army on its way to Inverness, Glenheath has called a meeting o’ the clans at the hunting lodge at Bouchmorale. Yer uncle is pleased wi’ ye. Now ye must keep yer pretty captain and his gun away from the pass in the Grampians.”