Highland Betrayal Read online

  Morgan seemed to sense her reaction. “Glenheath?” he asked.

  “Aye.”

  “Good. Just to be clear,” he rasped, pulling her closer, “in case I don’t get another chance to tell you. I’m in love with you.”

  She reached up to touch his beloved face, her heart torn in two by the pain and anguish in his blue eyes. “And I love ye, Major Pendray.”

  “Nay,” he whispered. “Morgan.”

  They looked into each other’s eyes, and for a brief moment were indeed just Morgan and Hannah. Then he clenched his jaw and locked his gaze on the approaching riders, once more the disciplined army officer, a brave man who stood alone and unarmed to face the wrath of his enemies.

  She put her thumb to the pistol’s lever, her finger on the trigger.

  “Don’t draw the weapon,” he said softly, as if he knew what was in her mind.

  The Scots reined to a dusty halt short of the bridge. Metal squealed as swords and daggers were drawn.

  Hannah tried to steady her breathing to match Morgan’s.

  Her uncle gentled his horse a little closer and stood in the stirrups. “Hannah?”

  The urge to run into the arms of the man who’d raised her as his own was powerful, but she feared how she might react if he killed Morgan. She swallowed the lump in her dry throat. “Aye. ’Tis me, Uncle Munro.”

  He dismounted and walked towards them. “What’s afoot here, child? Ye look haggard. Who’s this English officer?”

  Morgan tightened his grip on her waist. “Permit me to introduce myself,” he declared, as if they were at a dignified reception in Kilmer Castle. “I’m Morgan Pendray, a major in the Commonwealth army. I’m here to discuss your surrender.”

  She gasped. He might as well have signed his own death warrant—and hers.

  Surprisingly, her frowning uncle smiled. “Ye’re nay an Englishmon,” he said.

  ~~~

  For the first time, the predictable response kindled a spark of hope. Mayhap being Welsh would work to Morgan’s advantage. If he could gather enough saliva he might be able to offer a reply.

  “I’m a Welshman,” he managed.

  Glenheath grunted. “What’s this Welshmon to ye, Hannah?”

  She trembled, but Morgan was confident she would be strong. The conviction in her voice renewed his purpose. “He’s the brave man I plan to wed, uncle,” she replied without hesitation.

  Glenheath chuckled. “Brave indeed. Some might say foolhardy to confront us thus.”

  A menacing murmur of general agreement rose from the hundred or so riders behind him, but Morgan noted several had sheathed their weapons.

  Glenheath spat into the dust. “Has he shamed ye, lass?”

  The Highlanders fell silent.

  Morgan held his breath.

  “Nay,” she replied angrily, shaking her head. “He’s a man of honor and he loves me.”

  Morgan decided to take advantage of the moment of indecision this declaration seemed to have caused among the gaping Scots. “Earl of Glenheath, I seek to discuss with you an honorable surrender so we can work together for the restoration of the monarchy.”

  Hannah gasped, but he kept his eyes on her uncle, hoping he was dealing with a reasonable man who already knew the odds were mounting against him. “Your rebellion is doomed. The English army has…er…encountered a delay…at Beannchar, but they will make their way here soon. They outnumber you ten to one, and they have heavy artillery. You can either surrender and parlay, be blown to pieces, or flee into the mountains and be pursued. The first option will see Charles back on the throne sooner.”

  He could scarce believe he was contemplating supporting the return to power of a monarchy he’d been raised to detest.

  Glenheath clenched his jaw. “And how did they find out about this gathering?” he asked.

  “A musketeer overheard Maggie Campbell pass on the details to Hannah. He reported Maggie and she was imprisoned.”

  The earl frowned. “Campbell? Nah! That cursed clan wouldna lift a finger to help our cause.”

  “But it was she told me of Bouchmorale,” Hannah shouted.

  “And how did ye escape imprisonment?”

  The web was becoming more difficult to untangle and agony throbbed the length of his arm, but Morgan couldn’t allow suspicion to fall on Hannah. “The musketeer had other plans for your niece. He’d already tried to rape her on a previous occasion.”

  “Morgan saved me, then,” she said proudly.

  Glenheath took a step closer. “Ah lassie, the cruel dangers I’ve exposed ye to. I should ne’er hae…”

  “Nay, uncle. I harbor no regrets, but if ye do aught to harm my betrothed…Listen to him. I dinna ken what he has in mind, but he’s a truthful man.”

  Morgan liked the notion of being betrothed to Hannah, but it was proving impossible to hide the toll pain was taking now he had come face to face with the Scot. Hannah was supporting more and more of his weight as he struggled to fend off vertigo.

  “Ye dinna look very weel, Major.”

  “He needs a surgeon, uncle,” Hannah said urgently.

  Deciding it wouldn’t further his cause to retch on his future uncle-by-marriage, Morgan slowly withdrew his bandaged hand from its hiding place. “I lost an argument with a badger,” he explained as his knees buckled and he pitched forward.

  ~~~

  Hannah had little strength left to prevent Morgan’s collapse, but her uncle made a valiant attempt to catch him as he crumpled. His size proved too much for their combined efforts, though they managed to ease him to the ground. Several Highlanders appeared at the run.

  His forehead beaded with sweat, her uncle went down on one knee next to Morgan. “I’m getting too old for this,” he lamented. “But I hafta say I ne’er met a Welshmon with a sense o’ humor afore. What ails the mon?”

  Clinging to Morgan’s good hand, relieved to feel he was still warm, Hannah recounted the events that had led up to his injuries. “His finger is nigh on severed.”

  “Badgers. Nasty creatures. So he wasna jesting. The mon must be daft. His superior officer willna be pleased he’s here.”

  She hesitated to mention the hated name, knowing the reaction it would provoke, but the general must have something to do with Morgan’s plans for a surrender. “He has a proposal that I’m certain Abbott has…”

  To a man, the Highlanders cursed and spat in the dirt. Glenheath scowled. “Abbott? The mon’s nay to be trusted.”

  “Please, uncle, we must help him recover then he can explain.”

  Glenheath pierced her with his gaze. “Ye truly love him?”

  She refused to look away. “Aye,” she replied.

  He spoke to one of his men. “Robbie, fetch Murtagh.”

  Her hopes rose as Robbie hurried back to the men still on horseback. “Is he a doctor?”

  “Nay, lass, he’s our cook.”

  WHISKY

  Morgan had a sense of being lifted and put down onto a hard surface. He tried to sit up, fighting the drowsiness that threatened to swamp him. “It’s…it’s im…imper…ative I explain to Glenheath,” he stammered.

  Strong hands pressed on his shoulders, easing him down. “Lie still, laddie. I’m listening.”

  Hands gripped his injured arm…surely they weren’t going to touch…“Shite,” he yelled though gritted teeth as pain exploded. “Stop that.”

  Something blessedly cool soothed his forehead, followed by the caress of warm lips. He tried to swallow but had no saliva. “Hannah? Where am I? What’s happening?”

  “’Tis a crofter’s cottage in the hills above the Gairn. Bouchmorale is too far away. He has to look at your fingers, Morgan, my love.”

  The cool air on his hand came as a relief—for ten seconds. “Is he a doctor? Where did you find a doctor? In Gairn?” A terrifying thought rattled him. “It’s not Peabody, is it? Don’t let that butcher near me. He’ll insist on taking off my whole arm.”

  She cradled his face and kissed him,
on the lips this time. “Hush, it’s nay Peabody. Murtagh has tended many a warrior wounded in battle.”

  Some gigantic insect buried its stinger into his throbbing finger. He tried to turn his head to get a better look, but she held firm. “What the fyke is he doing?”

  Hannah lifted his head and touched a bottle to his lips. Water at last. He took a long gulp that nigh on choked him. “Whisky?” he croaked.

  “Aye,” Hannah said, bringing the bottle to his lips again. “Ye must drink a lot.”

  “But I don’t—like—whisky,” he spluttered as more of the vile stuff trickled down his throat. “What is going on?” he roared hoarsely.

  Glenheath’s bearded face loomed over him. “Hannah doesna wish to tell ye, so I will. Yon finger has to come off, lest it putrefy and ye lose the hand, or yer life. Now lie still and drink.”

  He’d known in his heart it would come to this, but the reality sobered him and suddenly he wanted to be dead drunk. He guzzled obediently when the bottle was offered again…and again…and again.

  Soon the pain eased and he resolved to impart his plan before he passed out. “Abbott's a bastard.”

  Glenheath laughed. “Aye. We ken.”

  No, that wasn’t what…

  He tried again. “Abbott promoted me to major.”

  Hell’s teeth!

  He took a deep breath, belched and started over. “Abbott thinks Cromwell can’t govern.”

  “I doot he spoke against Oliver Cromwell,” the earl scoffed. “They’re as thick as thieves.”

  Sighing with frustration, Morgan accepted another swig. Mayhap whisky wasn’t so bad after all. “No, the other one. What’s his name?”

  “His son, Richard?”

  “Aye.”

  Chuckling ensued, though he couldn’t grasp what was amusing. “Charles and Abbott have corres…corr…Charles wrote to Abbott.”

  There was a long silence. Had he died?

  “So what ye’re sayin’ is Abbott is of the opinion the Commonwealth will come to an end when Cromwell dies and our king will be restored to the throne?”

  Morgan hiccuped, thankful he still lived and had got the message across. “’Xackly.”

  His limbs already felt heavy, so he didn’t appreciate having his arms and legs pinned down. “Is it time?” he asked Hannah.

  “Aye,” she replied hoarsely.

  “Don’t weep for me,” he rasped. “Is there more whisky?”

  “Nay, Morgan,” she whispered. “They need the last wee bit.”

  He couldn’t think what else they might need whisky for except drinking. Then his hand finally went up in flames.

  “Bluidy hell,” he shouted before the darkness took him.

  ~~~

  Hannah had witnessed amputations before, but it was a struggle to hold on to the meager contents of her belly as Murtagh—cook, blacksmith, barber and surgeon to the rebellion—used his smithing pincers to snip Morgan’s mangled finger. “Cleaner than yon saw,” he explained gruffly.

  She told herself over and over it was just a finger, and not his hand, or his arm. Murtagh assured her there was no putrefaction, thanks to the yarrow. “We mun watch fer fever,” he warned as he poured the last of the whisky on the wound and cauterized the stump with a poker heated in the hearth.

  Morgan twitched and let out a pitiful cry. It was a blessing he had passed out, but he’d have a fearful headache when he awoke, not to mention the pain of his loss.

  Watching Murtagh swathe her lover’s elegant hand with linens the crofter’s wife had sacrificed, she considered what she’d learned about Abbott. Could it be the hateful man truly foresaw the restoration of the monarchy? And how had Morgan known of this? The general must have taken him into his confidence. But why?

  Her uncle put an arm around her shoulders. “Get some rest, lass,” he urged. “He’ll sleep for a while.”

  Reluctant to leave Morgan, but acknowledging utter fatigue, she allowed him to lead her outside. To her surprise, dusk was stealing into the camp her uncle’s troops had set up. “Ye willna ride to Bouchmorale this night?” she asked.

  He turned her to face him. “Can we trust what yer mon claims?”

  She clung to his wrists. “He’s intelligent and he’s nay a liar. He’s had many an opportunity to betray me, but he hasna.”

  “So he’s a traitor to his own cause.”

  “Nay. If ye choose to stand and fight, he’ll obey Abbott's orders to shoot ye down. He’s an artillery man. ’Twill be a massacre.”

  She didn’t want to contemplate what such a tragedy might mean for her and Morgan, if they survived.

  Glenheath grunted. “If we flee into yon mountains, they’ll pursue us. ’Twill take months to regroup and rebuild our strength. Is he right about the size of the English army?”

  “Aye. Hartlock and Abbott combined forces in Stonehyve.”

  Glenheath looked to the dark Grampians. “The notion of surrender sticks in my craw.”

  She grieved for him. “I dinna envy ye the decision, but Morgan may be right that ’tis the best choice.”

  He kissed her forehead. “We’ve set up yon tent for ye, lass. Go. Rest a wee while.”

  She hugged him and did as he bade.

  ~~~

  Arianrhod appeared in Morgan’s confused dream. He recognized the Moon-Mother goddess from his grannie’s tales. “You’ve come to carry me to the land of death on your silver-wheeled chariot,” he acknowledged.

  He tried to hide his fear while he awaited her confirmation, but she changed into an all-seeing owl and peered into his very soul. She knew he’d been drinking.

  “No, Morgan Pendray,” the bird replied, spreading its wings over him, “I bring solace.”

  “I’ll live then?” he ventured.

  The owl flew away and he despaired, but then Hannah appeared out of the mist, holding the hand of a boy with raven-black hair.

  “Our son?” he said hoarsely.

  “Aye,” she whispered. “Our firstborn.”

  He smiled, content to drift into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  RECOVERY

  Hannah woke at dawn and went immediately to the cottage, delighted to find Morgan sitting up, bolstered by pillows. He looked pale, but that wasn’t surprising. She stifled a smile. It was a wonder the crofters’ wee bed hadn’t collapsed under his giant frame.

  The farmwife was spooning porridge into his mouth. An unreasonable pang of jealousy tightened her throat. “I can do that, Sheelagh,” she declared, taking the bowl from the woman’s hands. “Ye’ve bairns to tend to.”

  She sat down on the edge of the mattress and stole a glance at Morgan’s bandaged hand, relieved to see no sign of bloodstains.

  He forced a smile and gingerly moved his remaining fingers. “I’ve still got most of them, thanks to you,” he said hoarsely. “However, I’ll never touch a drop of strong liquor again.”

  She grinned and offered another spoonful of oatmeal, but he shook his head. “A kiss will make me feel better.”

  She put the bowl on the floor and leaned forward to nibble his lower lip, tasting whisky. “I’m glad to see ye looking hale this morn,” she whispered.

  His tongue traced her upper lip, sending tendrils of peaceful longing trickling through her body. “Hale is mayhap not quite the right word, but I think I’ll live.”

  She touched the back of her hand to his forehead. “No fever. ’Tis a good sign.”

  “Aye,” Sheelagh called from the other end of the cottage. “He’s a strong mon.”

  Hannah resented the appreciative glint in the farmwife’s eyes as she raked her gaze over Morgan.

  He chuckled, seemingly sensing her irritation. “What is it you Scots say?” he asked as he took her hand. “Dinna fash? Don’t worry. You’re the only woman for me.”

  Appeased, she lay her head on his thighs. “Did ye sleep at all?”

  He sifted the fingers of his uninjured hand through her tangled hair. “Not at first, but then I had a dream.”

&
nbsp; “A good dream?” she asked, content to feel his warmth through the linens.

  He made a growling sound deep in his throat and stretched. His manhood stirred beneath her cheek. “Did ye dream o’ me?” she teased, nuzzling her nose against the bulge at his groin after a cautionary glance at the busy farmwife.

  “Of course. I foresaw the future,” he replied sleepily. “Too bad this bed is so small.”

  She laughed. “No smaller than the one at the inn.”

  His thighs flexed again. “True.” Then he gently coaxed her head up so she was looking into his eyes. “I hope you have no regrets.”

  “None,” she replied without hesitation. “Though I’m nay so hopeful as ye seem to be about the future.”

  “Everything will fall into place,” he answered. “Your uncle will surrender.”

  “I’m surprised ye even remember the conversation. He’s still in his tent arguing with the others about what ye said. How can ye be so sure?”

  He cupped her chin in his warm hand and smoothed a thumb across her lips. “The goddess Arianrhod told me.”

  His eyelids drooped and he drifted off. Sleep was what he needed to aid his recovery, but she worried the whisky had addled his brain.

  ~~~

  Morgan hadn’t intended to sleep for long, but dusk was stealing into the cottage when he woke. The pain in his hand had lessened, and his headache was gone. Mayhap the vile tonic the farmwife had forced down his throat earlier had done the trick after all. The aroma of simple, home-cooked food filled his nostrils, reminding him of his childhood in Wales—before he was shipped off to Shrewsbury. He considered his hunger a good omen.

  His backside was numb, but he didn’t want to move. Hannah slept with her head nestled at his groin. His body didn’t react in the usual way. Instead, contentment filled him. For too long he’d allowed no one to penetrate the wall carefully constructed around his heart. Caring for others led inevitably to the grief of loss.

  Hannah had not only breached his defenses, she’d torn them down completely—without even trying. As a result he found himself minus a finger, and possibly facing charges of desertion and horse theft, and he regretted none of it.