Highland Betrayal Page 5

  He sat on his pallet and pulled on his stockings, realizing too late he should have cleaned the muck off his feet, not to mention the dried blood from gouges caused by stones on the steep path. Young Smythe would have had the common sense to do so. Blodwen had been a dutiful wife who met his every need and he’d trained Smythe to do the same.

  He peeled off the hose, then looked about for something to cleanse his feet. “She wants you to fetch bandages and clean water and you can’t even find a rag for yourself,” he lamented aloud. “And what the fyke is comfrey?”

  He grabbed the thin army blanket off the end of the pallet and used it as a towel. No matter, since it provided no warmth or comfort and he often slept in his buffcoat. Sometimes he envied the men in his crew who at least had the body heat of others to warm their tent. He slept alone…though perhaps there was a way to get Hannah Kincaid…

  Twpsyn! He was an idiot.

  He put on a stocking, realizing it was still full of sand from his first attempt. He pulled on his boots, resigned to the discomfort. Time was wasting while a young lad lay in pain, besides which he wanted to impress Hannah Kincaid with…

  “With what?” he scoffed out loud. “You’re a grown man who can barely take care of himself.”

  He wiped the sweat from his arms and chest with the blanket, remembering the way she had looked at him. It should mean nothing that he was the object of a treacherous peasant woman’s lust. Indeed she was worthy of scorn.

  But no woman had ever looked at him exactly that way. He’d been lusted after on many occasions—it was an officer’s lot—but something in Hannah’s gaze was different, though he couldn’t say what. She might be a peasant and a traitor, but at least she’d made her life count for something. She had dared.

  Morgan’s accomplishment had been to join Cromwell’s army after fleeing Wales at the earliest opportunity, aware his older brother was relieved to see him go. Since then he’d hauled cannon all over England and Scotland and blown things to bits.

  “Not much of a legacy, Morgan, my lad,” he admonished.

  He stood, shrugged on the same undershirt he’d worn before, then a clean shirt he managed to find in his trunk after some searching. Seaweed had left red and green blotches on his knee breeches. Ordinarily he would have changed, but he’d wasted enough time. No doubt Abbott would raise his eyebrows if he caught sight of him, but he couldn’t worry about that now. He retrieved the shirt he’d removed earlier and held it up, trying to ascertain if he should use his knife or simply tear it into strips for bandages.

  ~~~

  Hannah covered the shivering lad with a blanket.

  “Will he be all right?” another of Morgan’s soldiers asked.

  “The shock has taken hold,” she replied. “He must be kept warm. Pass me another blanket.”

  She smiled inwardly when two of the youths almost fell over each other in a rush to comply.

  “We need to keep his ankle raised,” she explained as she rolled up the second blanket and tucked it under the injured foot. She noticed several blankets neatly folded atop pallets. It was a confined space, but they kept it organised. “Ye’re tidy for a bunch o’ lads,” she remarked.

  “Have to,” one replied, cocking his head, “our captin’s a stickler for keepin’ things neat ’n’ tidy.”

  There was murmured agreement from the others, but she detected no resentment. She got the feeling they liked and respected their commanding officer.

  But where had he got to? “Your captain went off to search for water and bandages,” she said impatiently, worried about the rapidly discoloring ankle.

  One youth rolled his eyes. “He won’t know where to find anything,” he said. “He’s an officer. Leave it with us.”

  With that they disappeared, and she was alone with Smythe. Left with no means of tending the injured boy until supplies arrived, she pulled the blanket back up to his chin, sat down on the groundsheet, held his hand and hummed a lullaby her mother had sung to her as a babe.

  The well-loved tune freed her anxious spirit to contemplate the information she had overheard. Why was the cannon being sent to Inverness? Her uncle was in the Highlands, mustering the clan army, preparing to strengthen the rebellion. Mayhap a spy in the Glenheath camp was keeping the English apprised of the progress. Her uncle might be riding into a trap, but she was helpless to warn him.

  She startled when the tent flap was thrust open. Captain Pendray strode in and she was tempted to giggle. Without his buffcoat he looked more like a pirate than an English officer, his upper body clad in only a fine linen shirt, his feet and legs encased in bucket-top boots.

  He thrust pieces of fabric at her, then clasped his hands behind his back, directing his gaze to the boy. “That’s the only thing I could find for bandages, but Carr assures me he will bring more from the civilian camp.”

  She fingered the costly material in her hands. He seemed ill-at-ease and appeared unconcerned about the lad, yet he’d torn up his own shirt for bandages. She suspected few officers would have done so. “Were ye able to find water?” she asked.

  For a moment their eyes met. The endearing glimpse of panic she espied in his gaze caused her body to heat.

  He held up a finger. “I forgot.”

  It seemed his men were right that he relied on them to find the things she needed. He exited the tent but was back a few seconds later with a small, long-necked earthenware bottle. “My bellarmine,” he explained, handing it to her. Their fingertips touched as she took the bottle. His were warm, as was the pottery where he’d held it.

  “It will have to suffice in the meanwhile,” he explained in reply to her curious frown. “The men will haul water from the camp below.”

  He was sacrificing his own drinking water for a subordinate. The gesture and the tentative look in his eyes reminded her of a small boy anxious to please.

  But his next words chilled her. “The well in the fortress is bone dry.”

  She shivered. Many of the brave defenders had likely died of thirst. There was no doubt she was drawn to this English officer in a way she’d never experienced. However, he was her enemy, and it was possible he’d figured out her role in the theft of the regalia, though why he hadn’t exposed her was a mystery.

  She eased the wooden stopper out of the bottle and carefully poured water on the strips of cloth. When she set the bottle down she noticed an ugly face carved into base of the neck.

  “You’ve not seen one before?” Pendray asked, hunkering down next to her to replace the stopper.

  She shook her head, inhaling the scent of his clean shirt and the lingering aroma of dulse that clung to him. “Nay. Can ye lift his ankle for me?”

  Smythe slowly opened his eyes when his captain slid one hand under his heel and raised his foot. “Don’t worry, boy. You won’t lose your limb. This lass will see to that.”

  Again he seemed to be crediting her with more skill than she had, yet this time he sounded confident of the truth of his words.

  The lad flinched when the first wet bandage touched his skin, but relaxed as she wound the cloth around his ankle.

  “Bellarmino was a Roman Catholic cardinal,” Pendray said.

  She risked a glance at his face, fearing she’d perhaps missed something important. “I dinna…”

  “The effigy on the bottle. Bellarmino was famous for his…”

  She stared, unable to tear her eyes away from his full mouth as he expounded on the Jesuit’s dealings with Galileo, his theories about the movement of the sun around the earth, his debates with King James about Calvinism, finally ending with, “and I don’t know how his effigy came to be on almost every bottle issued to officers in Cromwell’s army, but I suppose it amuses the Protestant Protector to have a Catholic full of wine or ale.”

  “Miss,” Smythe whispered, jolting her out of the trance.

  Gooseflesh marched across her nape when she looked back at her patient and realized she’d only half finished the task of wrapping the injured ankl
e. She clenched her jaw and continued her ministrations, ripping the end of a strip neatly in two and tying a tight knot. “There,” she declared. “We’ll change the bandages when we get more water.”

  She doubted Pendray would have a clue where to find the herb she’d requested, but his lads might. “And perhaps comfrey?”

  He blinked, as if just remembering something. “Er, Atherton reckons seaweed will do just as well. Claims he’s seen it used for wounds and the like. They’ve gone down to the beach to gather some.”

  She jumped when he stood abruptly. “The beach,” he rasped, his eyes boring into hers as she looked up at him. “You’d been collecting seaweed there, hadn’t you, the day I first saw you?”

  Gooseflesh chilled her whole body. She wasn’t sure if he’d made a statement or asked a question. The stern set of his jaw told her it was a trap. The longing in his blue eyes begged her to lie.

  ~~~

  For Morgan, the sorrow in Hannah’s green eyes offered some consolation. She regretted the lie she was about to tell.

  “Aye, sir,” she replied. “Dulse.”

  Unexpectedly, she kept her gaze locked with his. Liars looked away. The tension in his jaw slackened. Perhaps there was truth to her words. He breathed more easily. His suspicions were unfounded.

  He proffered his hand to help her rise. “No need to address me thus,” he said softly. “My name is Morgan.”

  “Morgan,” she whispered shyly as she accepted his help to stand. The warmth of her skin, the pretty blush that crept into her cheeks, his name spoken in a sultry way he’d never heard before: all served to arouse his male interest, prompting him to lift her hand to his lips and brush a kiss on her knuckles as if she were lady and not a peasant wench. “Hannah,” he said.

  His brain recognised it was folly, but his cock refused to listen. Still holding her hand, he smiled, only slightly unsettled by a trace of hesitation in her eyes.

  His relief was short-lived when Atherton and Carr hurried into the tent, their grinning faces flushed. Both had water-skins slung across their bodies, wads of cloth stuffed into the front of their uniforms. Baxter and Wilcock followed, each laden with armfuls of seaweed.

  Syddall came last, a sodden length of rope looped over his shoulder. “I brung this up from the beach, sir,” the wide-eyed youth explained, “seein’ as how you had to leave it behind when you carried Smythe.”

  TURMOIL

  Hannah pulled her hand from Morgan’s firm grip, shaken by his deep frown.

  The young man who’d hauled in the evidence of her guilt looked crestfallen when his captain didn’t commend his initiative as he’d obviously hoped. He eased the rope from his shoulders then stood with it in both hands, clearly uncertain.

  The rest of Morgan’s men shuffled their feet, looking to their captain for instructions.

  Hannah quickly decided the best course of action was to ignore the rope and pretend all was well. She plucked the linens from the folds of the uniforms. “Weel done,” she declared, nodding to the wall of the tent. “Set the water and the dulse yonder.”

  “Dulse?” Carr asked.

  “Aye,” she replied, kneeling to unwind the bandage from Smythe’s ankle, “’tis the name we give to the red seaweed that grows on the rocks hereabouts. I collect it to sell to nearby farmers.”

  Lie upon lie.

  “Sheep farms to the south,” she added, aware Morgan had watched her go off in that direction.

  “Wot do they use it for, miss?” Syddall asked, still clutching the rope.

  Once the bandage was removed, Hannah crumpled together the wet strips of what had been Morgan’s shirt, wishing she could use it to cool the fever burning her neck. “They feed the mash to their animals. Fetch some here.”

  One of the seedpods popped when Atherton squeezed it. “’Ew. Yer not goin’ to make him eat this stuff, are you?” he asked, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

  Hannah was relieved to see a hint of a smile tug at the corners of Morgan’s mouth. “Of course not,” he explained. “Mrs. Kincaid will use it as a poultice. Look sharp now. Do as she tells you.”

  “It’s Mistress,” Hannah replied for some reason beyond her comprehension. “Mistress Kincaid. I’m nay wed.”

  Prickly heat marched up and down her spine as she worked. She must have instructed the young soldiers to keep the linens off the soiled groundsheet while they tore them into strips. For certain she explained how to pick the tiny snail shells off the dulse and hold the slippery plant on Smythe’s ankle while she rebandaged it. She supposed she handed the bottle with the carved face back to Morgan with mumbled thanks.

  All of this must have occurred under Morgan’s intense gaze while she struggled to ignore the fear constricting her throat. Suddenly, all was quiet, the lads were gone. Only her dozing patient and the captain remained.

  The dizziness returned when she realized the rope had also disappeared.

  ~~~

  Morgan’s emotions were all at sea, but one thing was for sure—life was no longer boring. A comely Scottish lass had unintentionally thrown his well-ordered routine into turmoil.

  He smiled inwardly. He’d wallowed in a morass of self-pity and regret for too long. The challenges presented by Hannah Kincaid had at least ignited a fire in his belly—and his groin.

  The choice was clear. Accuse or protect.

  He had no alternative but to bring the rope to Abbott's attention. The crew would deem it strange if he didn’t. Indeed he’d already sent it to the general with Carr and Atherton, though he suspected Hannah had been too distracted to notice when that happened.

  He wouldn’t report seeing her atop the cliff with the basket. Abbott was no fool and would soon realize Morgan had let her get away. Being tortured to death wasn’t a just reward for heroic patriotism and Morgan wouldn’t be the one to condemn her to that. Not for the sake of a crown and sceptre she obviously hadn’t stolen to enrich herself.

  But he couldn’t simply allow her to escape. This probably wasn’t her first rebellious act and likely wouldn’t be the last. A chill raced across his nape. If she was captured and questioned she might reveal…

  He sat down on one of the low pallets, clasped his arms around his bent legs and studied her, admitting inwardly that his desire to keep her close had more to do with carnal lust than fear for his life. Hannah Kincaid wasn’t a woman to betray others.

  “I thank you for taking care of him,” he whispered, not wishing to wake the boy.

  She glanced up, her eyes widening as they moved from his face to his cramped legs. “Ye dinna appear to be verra comfortable,” she murmured.

  He chuckled as the truth struck him squarely in the heart. “Actually, I’m very comfortable with you, Hannah.”

  Her face reddened considerably and she returned her gaze to Smythe. “I dinna think he’s asleep yet.”

  Morgan cursed his lack of finesse. She was worried the boy may have overheard, though strangely the notion didn’t bother him. A more disturbing thought penetrated his perusal of her elegant neck. Perhaps she feared he intended to misuse the knowledge of her guilt.

  “Why don’t you sing to him again?” he suggested in an effort to reassure her. “You’ve a lovely voice. A lullaby, wasn’t it?”

  FOOD FOR THOUGHT

  Morgan closed his eyes and let the sweet sound of Hannah’s voice seep into his veins. In reality the low pallet wasn’t comfortable, but sitting with his knees tucked to his chest reminded him of times spent rapt in the tales his grannie loved to tell. Of an evening they’d sit by the hearth in her bower as she recounted the deeds of heroic Welsh patriots, great men like Llywelyn ap Gruffydd and Rhodri ap Owain, Prince of Powwydd.

  She claimed her family was descended from the legendary prince, but Morgan doubted that was true. Heroes didn’t run in the family. His father was a drunkard who’d almost reduced the estate to ruin, and he doubted his self-righteous brother would fare much better.

  And there was nothing heroic about firing a cannon
.

  But at least on this day he could sit for a few quiet minutes with a real heroine.

  He became aware the singing had stopped. He opened his eyes, startled to find Hannah staring at him, her eyes heavy with sleep. A fierce longing shook him; in his mind’s eye he lifted her onto the pallet and curled his body around hers.

  Heartsick at the impossibility, he got to his feet. “I can see you’re tired.”

  She averted her gaze. “Aye,” she replied with a yawn. “I walked a long way today.”

  “From the farms,” he tried, fanning the small ember of hope that she wasn’t guilty of the treason he suspected.

  Her face reddened, but she didn’t look at him. “Aye,” she murmured in reply. “Easterside and Thornyhive.”

  Frustratingly unfamiliar with the area, he had no way of knowing if she spoke the truth, but no coin jingled in her pockets. He wanted to believe she’d mayhap spent the money she’d earned, or hidden it away.

  “I’d best get back to the camp,” she said hoarsely.

  “No,” he replied too quickly, afraid she would disappear if he let her go. “That is, I think you should remain here. Keep watch on the boy.”

  She looked around. “But your men sleep here, and I’ve not eaten since midday.”

  His worries eased. She hadn’t rejected the idea out of hand. The problem required organisation and that was one thing he was good at. “My men can bed down in my tent for a few days. I’ll get them to move most of the pallets. And I’ll send food.”

  He hurried away to carry out his plan before she had a chance to protest.

  ~~~

  Hannah struggled to her feet, her legs numbed after kneeling for too long. Her instinct was to flee, but Morgan’s tent was close by and she doubted she could outrun him. He seemed determined she should stay nearby. There was no hope of reaching Stonehyve before nightfall in any event.