Highland Betrayal Page 21

  There’d been no gunfire, which Hannah took as a hopeful sign, but she stood abruptly, knocking over the stool, when she heard…

  Sheelagh frowned. “Cheerin’?”

  Hannah ran to the door, thrust it open and looked down the hill. “I can see naught but dust,” she complained.

  One of Sheelagh’s bairns tugged at her skirts. “Are they killin’ each other?”

  She inhaled deeply, praying that these times of dire uncertainty for innocent children were nearing an end. “I dinna think so. Sounds more like a celebration.” Giddy with relief, she picked up the little boy and twirled him around, reminded of dancing with Morgan in Solomon’s tent.

  The rebellion for which she’d made immense sacrifices was over, but all was not lost. Thanks to Morgan Pendray and General Abbott of all people, there existed a glimmer of hope for the restoration of the monarchy without further bloodshed—and Scotland’s Honors were safely hidden away until that day.

  She set the giggling lad down and hurried off down the hill, chanting Morgan’s name over and over. A brighter future meant nothing if she couldn’t share it with him.

  AFTERMATH

  Hannah ached to rush headlong into the midst of the confusion at the junction and demand to know if Morgan was safe. Common sense prevailed as she came to a breathless halt at the bridge. He’d done everything in his power not to implicate her in the eyes of his superiors. She mustn’t draw suspicion on herself now.

  Leaning against the stone wall, she steadied her breathing, glad to discover the crofter’s bairns and their dog had run down the hill after her. She hoped they looked like a local family curious about what was going on. She grasped the scruff of the excited dog’s neck to prevent him running across the bridge, otherwise he’d likely end up with a musket ball in his skull.

  From what she could see, it appeared the Highlanders had surrendered their weapons and were being herded into a line flanked by musketeers. Her heart broke. She felt keenly the pain of defeat and could only hope a forced hunger march to some English prison wouldn’t be their fate.

  “Do ye see Major Morgan?” Wee Davie asked.

  She blinked away the tears. In the short time he’d lain in their home, Morgan had endeared himself to these bairns. “Nay,” she replied, wishing the frantic dog would cease its barking. “I dinna see him.”

  Not made privy to the discussions, she nevertheless doubted if even Morgan and her uncle knew what would happen after the surrender. The English army hadn’t done an about turn, so it seemed they intended to march to Bouchmorale. When she’d contemplated walking there, she reckoned it would take at least two hours. Did Morgan have stamina for such a journey? Should she follow?

  She craned her neck to look down the road. There was no sign of any camp followers. Mayhap Solomon and his fellow sutlers had been forced to remain in Beannchar. Morgan had assured her Esther was unharmed, but…

  As the dust settled, she espied her uncle, still mounted and looking dignified, shoulders back, spine rigid. She thanked God he hadn’t been obliged to march on foot with his men.

  A pulse thudded in her ears when she saw Morgan seated on his horse next to the earl, and directly in front of them Abbott and another man. Hope and pride swelled in her heart as the four men led the column away from the junction. Morgan glanced to the bridge. She raised her hand in recognition, knowing he couldn’t return her wave.

  Calling on all the angels and saints to protect him, she let go of the dog, relieved when the animal bounded back to the cottage. The excited bairns followed. Their mother stayed by her side for a few more moments. “He’s strong,” she whispered. “Dinna fret.”

  Hannah was left alone to watch the English army and their prisoners march out of sight.

  When she deemed it safe, she walked to the junction and looked back in the direction of Beannchar. She felt as empty and desolate as the tree-lined road.

  Her spirits lifted when she thought she heard the sound of distant wagon wheels and the jingle of harness.

  ~~~

  After two hours in the saddle, Morgan dismounted in the grassy field in front of the hunting lodge, but couldn’t let go of the pommel. For the first time since the amputation, he felt feverish and doubted his legs would sustain him. He should have brought some of Sheelagh’s tonic with him, or mayhap another swig of whisky would do the trick.

  What he really needed was Hannah. Five minutes with her in his arms and he’d feel better, just knowing she was safe. He’d fretted more about her than the ramifications of what had transpired at the Gairn.

  Hartlock barked orders. Men armed with muskets and pistols ran here and there, some into the lodge.

  Glenheath dismounted and was escorted away.

  Morgan clung to the pommel with his uninjured hand, which by now had cramped after holding the reins tightly for too long. He shuddered when Abbott slapped him heartily on the back. “I don’t know how you managed it, but the Commonwealth owes you a debt of gratitude, Pendray. Your bravery won’t go unrewarded.”

  He was tempted to claim the only reward he wanted right then and there, but a salute was required; if he let go of the pommel…

  The general steadied him as he faltered. “Let’s get you inside and I’ll send for Peabody.”

  “Nay,” Morgan blurted out. “I prefer the doctor who carried out the operation.” No point revealing his life had been saved by a blacksmith. “Murtagh’s his name. He’s among the prisoners.”

  Abbott gaped. “A Scot?”

  “Aye,” he replied.

  The general arched a brow. “Very well, I’ll see he’s located and sent to you. We’ll talk when you’re recovered.”

  Thirst raged in Morgan’s throat. His head throbbed. He breathed more easily when Smythe and Atherton appeared to assist him into the lodge.

  ~~~

  When the first donkeys came in sight, Hannah hid in the trees, hoping the badgers’ sett wasn’t nearby. The lack of a dust cloud led her to believe the civilian contingent following the army had dwindled in size. There was no guarantee Solomon and Esther would be among them. Few wagons were suited to mountain terrain.

  Six heavily laden donkeys passed by, goaded by a man mounted on a seventh who held a long whip. He’d been with the camp at Dùn Fhoithear.

  Five minutes later, bedraggled women on foot followed, carrying or chivvying mucky-faced bairns. Lizzie and her brood were among them. She was tempted to hurry out of hiding and mingle with the army wives, but thought better of it. Lizzie wasn’t necessarily to be trusted. But then who was? These people had no knowledge of what had transpired at the bridge.

  Half a dozen bleating sheep came next, shepherded by a lad she didn’t know. Was he part of the convoy or just tagging along for safety?

  A bevy of sullen women trudged by, burdened with heavy knapsacks—fellow laundresses and some of the whores who’d been at the burn when Pritchard threatened her, but she didn’t see Maggie among them. She knew the hardships of that life and was thankful she could now be free of it, unlike these women fated to follow other armies, endure other campaigns.

  She wanted to jump up and down like a wee girl when Solomon’s wagon came in sight last of all. As he approached, she remained hidden, but he slowed almost to a stop, as if he knew she was there. He nodded when she emerged from the trees, but didn’t look at her.

  She climbed aboard the back of the wagon. Swallowing tears of relief, she went down on all fours, gasping for breath, digging her fingernails into the planked floor as Solomon set his horse in motion.

  It came to her when she could breathe again that she wasn’t alone. She tumbled to a sitting position and stared at a sneering Maggie Campbell who sat cross-legged not two feet away. One eye glared. The other was completely swollen shut and of a color Hannah couldn’t quite describe.

  “Ye’ve been beaten,” she whispered.

  “Was it the bruises gave it away,” Maggie snarled, her voice loaded with sarcasm, “or mayhap the missing teeth?”

>   “How did ye escape?” Hannah asked.

  Maggie hesitated, but then replied, “Dinna fash, I didna betray ye, though ’tis yer fault…”

  Hannah was about to protest, but another voice interjected. “Enough. We’ve no choice but to travel together.”

  The stern voice was familiar, but the person who’d spoken was a scowling bald woman.

  “Esther?”

  Solomon’s wife ran a hand over the dark stubble. “The explosion scorched every hair on my head. Had to shave it off.”

  Hannah could only imagine how terrifying Medusa must have looked with her monstrous hair afire. “I’m sorry,” she said, biting her bottom lip.

  “Do ye nay think it improves her looks?” Maggie asked with a sly grin, avoiding Esther’s stony glare.

  Hannah declined to answer. “The rebels have surrendered,” she announced instead.

  “Good,” Maggie hissed.

  “Hush,” Esther demanded. “Guard your tongue, hussy, lest I cut it out.”

  Maggie scowled but didn’t retort.

  “Are they taking them to Bouchmorale?” Esther asked Hannah.

  “Aye,” she whispered, uncertain as to whether she was among friends or enemies.

  WAR WOUNDS

  Hannah resisted sleep for as long as she could, but the slow, steady rhythm of the journey eventually won out over caution. She’d need her wits about her when they arrived in Bouchmorale.

  She jolted awake when the wagon came to a stop, disoriented by the darkness. It should have taken only an hour to get to the hunting lodge. “Where are we?” she whispered.

  There was no reply, but the wagon swayed as someone climbed down from the front-board, then the horse was unhitched.

  She’d expected Bouchmorale to be noisy, but an eerie silence prevailed.

  The blinding light of a lantern flooded the back of the wagon, preventing her from seeing who held it aloft. “Come on out.”

  “Esther?” she murmured, clutching her shawl. “Where are we?”

  “Braemar. Took us a mite longer than usual to get here. Had to avoid Bouchmorale.”

  Shivering, Hannah climbed out of the wagon. “I dinna understand. I thought that’s where we were going.”

  Solomon appeared. “So did we, till you told us of the surrender. Now we’re headed for Edinburgh.”

  Hannah curled her fingernails into her palms, sure this must be a nightmare. “Cromwell controls Edinburgh. Why go there if ye wanted to avoid English troops?”

  “Did Maggie speak true?” Esther suddenly asked. “Is Glenheath your uncle?”

  The question took her aback, and she realized for the first time Maggie was nowhere about. “Aye, but…”

  “Abbott will take Glenheath to Edinburgh. That’s where the future of Scotland will be decided.”

  None of this made sense. “But where is Maggie?”

  “Gone,” Solomon replied. “We can’t trust a spy who plays both sides.”

  He held her up when fear buckled her knees. Had he murdered the woman? She longed for Morgan’s reassuring embrace, but he was in Bouchmorale and she was bound for Edinburgh. She might never see him again. Her heart broke in two as she wept into the Jew’s rough woollen coat.

  ~~~

  Morgan woke to sunlight streaming through a small window above his head. From the rough planked walls, he assumed he was still in the hunting lodge at Bouchmorale. The beam cast its light on a girl dozing in a chair in the corner. He narrowed his eyes and peered through the dust motes, hoping it was Hannah, but knowing in his heart it wasn’t.

  He groaned, startling her awake. She scrambled out of the chair, eyes wide, staring at him like a deer with its gaze fixed on the hunter. Her peasant garb indicated she was a maidservant, a child of ten or twelve summers.

  “GeneralAbbottwishedtobetold,” she babbled before hurrying out the door.

  He sat up on the side of the high bed, legs dangling. He vaguely recalled Murtagh tending him. An examination of his injured hand revealed new bandages had been applied. Whatever the blacksmith had given him, he felt better. The fever was gone, and the throbbing pain had eased to a dull ache.

  But where was Hannah?

  “Good to see you awake,” Abbott declared as he strode into the small chamber.

  Morgan stood, but had to keep his thighs pressed to the mattress. Without thinking, he saluted with his right hand, regretting it immediately. Curious how a finger he no longer possessed could still hurt like the devil.

  “Sit, sit,” Abbott insisted with a smile.

  Morgan obeyed, noticing for the first time he was clad in a nightshirt—his own. Abbott apparently made note of his preoccupation with the sleeves. “First rate batman you have, Pendray. That young man has taken excellent care of you.”

  Smythe, not Hannah.

  “How long have I lain here, sir?” he asked.

  “Three days. Your doctor tells me it will be a few more days before you can travel.”

  Three days!

  “Travel?” he parroted.

  “Glenheath and I have hammered out an agreement. His men will be taken to prison in Aberdeen.”

  Morgan estimated the Highlanders faced a journey of mayhap fifty miles. He’d heard reports of prisoners of war dying of starvation en route to English prisons, and knew them to be true. He still had no idea of Lord Ogilvy’s fate. His belly churned whenever he thought of Lady Ogilvy. Abbott had promised him a reward. “I’d like an assurance it won’t be a hunger march, sir.”

  The general narrowed his eyes. “That’s what I like about you, Major. You’re forthright. I’ve guaranteed all the earl’s men will arrive in Aberdeen in good health and will be treated humanely when they get there.”

  Morgan breathed a little easier. It seemed he was still a major, so he soldiered on. “And the earl himself, sir?”

  “He and his commanders will accompany us to Edinburgh to await Cromwell’s judgement.”

  “Us, sir?”

  Abbott sat down in the chair vacated by the maid, tapping the end of his nose with steepled fingers. “Hartlock will be taking the army on to Inverness to secure the Highlands. Whether you like it or not, your war wound renders you unfit to continue serving in your current capacity.”

  Morgan almost laughed out loud. The wound inflicted by the warrior badger was going to cost him his career. “Sir,” he mumbled.

  “When I reach Edinburgh, I’ll be invested as Governor of Scotland. I’ll need an adjutant I can trust implicitly. How does Colonel Pendray sound?”

  Morgan had a lunatic notion to retrieve the badger’s body in order to have it stuffed and mounted. “I’m speechless, sir,” he rasped.

  “Few officers in the English army can claim to have earned the trust of a Scotsman, yet Glenheath speaks highly of you. I think your being Welsh will be a great asset as we seek to restore peace to this land.”

  Morgan could almost hear his grannie cheering from the grave.

  Abbott got to his feet. “I won’t shake your hand just yet, and I’ll leave you to rest.”

  Morgan lay back against the bolster after the general left. He should be elated, but the honor bestowed on him meant nothing if he couldn’t share it with Hannah, and he had no inkling where she was.

  Smythe popped his head in the door. “Shave, sir?”

  Morgan scratched his itchy beard. “Definitely.”

  The lad grinned, obviously relieved, and set about preparing the shaving equipment he’d brought. Then he stilled. “I took the liberty, sir, of unpacking your knapsack.”

  Morgan knew what he’d found there.

  “I didn’t mean to pry, sir, but I came across Mistress Kincaid’s shawl.”

  A wave of longing threatened to swamp Morgan.

  “I thought you’d want to know her whereabouts,” Smythe went on, “so I made enquiries, discreetly mind you. No one has seen her since we arrived.”

  Morgan grasped at a straw. Mayhap the Jew was hiding her. “What about Solomon Jacobs? Is his wago
n here?”

  Smythe shook his head. “No, sir. I think he stayed in Beannchar.”

  She was gone. It was better she disappear, safe from Cromwell’s wrath. “Fetch me the shawl,” he rasped.

  EDINBURGH

  After three long days on the road, Hannah directed Solomon to the Edinburgh home of her late father’s cousin. She’d stayed there before and was afforded a joyous welcome. Hiram Donaldson was a wealthy cloth merchant who hated the English. He had secretly funnelled financial support to Glenheath’s campaigns for years. While unaware of the exact nature of Hannah’s involvement, and not reticent about his disapproval of women involving themselves in politics, he nevertheless expressed grudging admiration for her efforts.

  Hiram’s home was a five-story mansion—smaller than many of its neighbors. It provided a safe haven, a place to do nothing but bathe, sleep and play with boisterous bairns, and for a sennight Hannah did exactly that. But every time she stepped into the bath, she was reminded of the laundry tub in the tiny room at the inn. She slept in a feather bed, and wept herself to sleep at night, remembering Morgan’s promise. She dreamt of twirling arm in arm with Morgan to the lilting twang of a mouth harp. Her belly would never swell with Morgan’s child. Arianrhod had foretold wrongly.

  She and Hiram’s wife were of a similar size, and Sorcha was generous with clothing from her own wardrobe. After months of peasant garb, Hannah found the sober, high-neck velvets heavy, and the stays confining. She admitted as much to her benefactress. “I agree,” Sorcha replied in a whisper, “I prefer brighter colors and frivolous fabrics, but until our king returns, we must conform to Puritan standards.”

  She’d become accustomed to wearing her hair loose, but Sorcha insisted it be plaited and hidden under a coif, even in the presence of servants. “I wore my hair braided for years,” Hannah confided, “but now ’tis a torment.”