Highland Betrayal Page 8

  There was a long pause. “My men will be returning shortly,” he warned.

  “How can I be certain ye’ll nay peek?”

  “I swear it on my Welsh grandmother’s grave.”

  She’s probably turning over in it as we speak.

  Next thing he knew, she’d scrambled out of the ditch and he’d enfolded her trembling body in the plaid. The vulnerability of her slender form stood in sharp contrast to the strength and courage that had enabled her to carry out the theft of the jewels. Shivering, she leaned into him. He reached to wring the water from the ends of her hair, lest he be tempted to run his hands elsewhere.

  “I didna intend to flee. I had need of the latrine,” she murmured into his chest. “And ye dinna have latrines for ladies in your camp, and this is the day the women walk to the burn to bathe and usually it’s safe and a chance to be clean and wash my hair, and…”

  He tightened his embrace when she ran out of breath and choked on a sob. “Thank you. He would have raped me if you hadn’t come along,” she said, without a trace of a brogue.

  ~~~

  Hannah chewed her bottom lip. Making off with the crown jewels had been a frightening ordeal. Coming close to being raped while a gang of vicious women watched was much more terrifying. A combination of utter relief and the reassuring presence of the man who’d saved her caused a lapse in the carefully cultivated brogue.

  She hoped he hadn’t noticed, but doubted it. Morgan was an intelligent man, different from most military officers of her acquaintance, Royalist or Parliamentarian. It was dangerous to stay in his embrace, yet she did, needing his warmth and solid strength to keep the terror at bay.

  He’d promised his protection and had been true to his word, but what did his patronage mean? She sensed he wanted to do more than just wring out her hair, but he held himself slightly aloof. It was foolish to expect more, but she wanted him to pull her even closer to his body, craved to be held in his embrace.

  Perhaps he was married. “Are ye wed?” spilled out of her mouth.

  Fear had clearly turned her into a lackwit.

  He took hold of her shoulders and held her away. “Nay. My wife died.”

  Clutching the shawl at her throat, she stared at his lips as he spoke the words, unable to discern any deep sorrow in his voice, though he’d narrowed his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she murmured.

  She should have left it at that, but couldn’t. “Bairns?” she asked.

  He made no reply, but his gaze seemed fixated on her mouth. Without warning he lifted her to his body and kissed her on the lips.

  During her career as a Royalist spy, tipsy soldiers had tried to kiss her, but she’d always managed to turn away, receiving many a wet smooch on her cheek. Her uncle occasionally pecked affectionate “petits baisers” on her nose.

  Never had she imagined a man’s kiss could be so passionate, so lusty, so demanding, so wonderful.

  Her bare feet dangled in air. It was as if the earth had moved.

  Something inside her moved too. A delicious warmth spiralled into intimate places when he coaxed her lips open and twirled his tongue around hers. The cheap wool of the shawl felt strangely rough against her tingling nipples, yet it wasn’t an unpleasant sensation. She tasted oatmeal and inhaled the clean, manly smell of his skin.

  She lifted her arms, put them around his neck and allowed her wet body to melt into his. He groaned at the very moment the hard male flesh pressed to her mons set off alarm bells in her head.

  He let go of her as if she were a hot ember. She nigh on stumbled, struggling to keep the shawl from slipping off when her feet touched ground.

  He quickly took hold of her elbow to prevent her fall. “I apologise,” he rasped. “It’s not my intention to take advantage of you.”

  She looked into sapphire eyes full of longing. “So why do ye wish to be my protector?”

  He put his palm against her cheek. “Because you are a many-faceted, precious jewel.”

  ~~~

  Morgan hoped he hadn’t said too much. He still wasn’t sure what had come over him. For certes he’d never kissed Blodwen with such passion. His head filled with explanations—he was bored and restless after months of doing nothing but destroy people and things; he’d been without a woman for too long; what man wouldn’t want to kiss a maiden clad in naught but a plaid—but he knew in his heart he was drawn to Hannah Kincaid like a moth to the flame.

  He opened his mouth to reassure her, but the lads came over the rise, elbowing each other with arms full of kindling and tree limbs. Doing his best to ignore the insistent need pulsing at his groin, he fell back into his role as their captain. “Build it in the shelter of the rise,” he shouted.

  “Sir,” they yelled back, returning to the other side of the hillock.

  “They’re good men,” she said softly. “Ye’ve trained them well and they respect ye. Most soldiers hate their superiors, but ’tis obvious this bunch likes ye.”

  “Sometimes,” he replied, elated to hear such praise from her lips—lips swollen by his kiss, lips he wanted to kiss again. Her sweet taste lingered in his mouth. His heart stumbled when he found himself wondering if her nether lips would taste the same.

  Blodwen would have denounced him as the devil incarnate if he’d voiced such a desire.

  “I’m dry now,” Hannah said, jolting him from his reverie.

  “Aye,” he replied.

  He blinked. The typical Scottish response had come out of his mouth too readily. Judging by Hannah’s wide-eyed grin she was just as surprised as he was. He cleared his throat. “Take your raiment over to the fire. The lads and I will make ourselves scarce while you dress.”

  She saluted and gave him an impudent wink. “Aye, sir.”

  He beat a hasty retreat as she gathered up her clothes. Hannah had seen right through his carefully cultivated unflappable demeanor, but at least she no longer feared him.

  Now all he had to figure out was how to get her to Inverness.

  GLENHEATH

  Still shaken by her narrow escape, Hannah trudged the stony pathway back to Dùn Fhoithear, reflecting on the ironies of life. She marched amid an escort of English soldiers, but not as a prisoner—something she’d feared in her worst nightmares.

  The men of the gunnery crew were unaware of her role in the rescue of the Honors, but if Morgan suspected, why was he shielding her from arrest? His kiss left no doubt about his desire, and yet he’d sworn not to take advantage. The remark about her being a jewel had been intended as a warning, she was sure, or was that how he saw her?

  She’d never been any man’s jewel. The notion made her feel wanted, cherished.

  He was risking a great deal by protecting her, exposing himself to charges of treason. She dismissed the possibility he too might be a spy. Invisibility cloaked spies. Morgan was a Welshman in an English army, a relatively unusual circumstance sure to raise eyebrows.

  She walked in his wake, her gaze fixed on the long legs and broad shoulders that had attracted her attention in the first place. Captain Morgan Pendray would draw the eye wherever he went.

  As they approached the civilian camp, it became clear folk were in an unsettled state. Sutlers were preparing wagons for departure, paying no heed to the laundresses hastily unpegging garments from the drying lines slung between them, cursing when clean clothes fell to ground. Men shouted. Women twittered. Something had happened and Hannah’s common sense told her safety lay in flight, yet she remained where she was, unable to flee when Morgan turned and gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

  He called a halt. His men looked to him for guidance. “Baxter, stay here with Mistress Hannah and give her whatever help she needs. It appears the camp is disbanding. The rest of you up the hill to the fortress. March.”

  He bowed to her. “Trust me,” he whispered.

  Then he was gone, leaving the bewildered-looking young soldier with her. She smiled at the lad. In truth, she was a more seasoned veteran of the bloody struggle for
independence than he was, but she accepted Morgan had left Baxter as a reassurance, not to keep watch on her. “Let’s find out what’s going on,” she said. “We can only hope no one has pilfered my belongings.”

  ~~~

  Morgan and his crew arrived within the gates just as the flagpole came crashing down like a felled tree, landing with a bounce perilously close to General Abbott. He’d been barking orders, but now glared, red-faced, at the axe-wielding musketeers who’d brought it down. They hurried away before he had a chance to vent his wrath on them.

  He espied Morgan. “Pendray! We leave on the morrow. Prepare your cannon and crew.”

  “We’re abandoning the fort, sir?”

  Abbott set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the gates. “It’s a ruin, and the regalia is long gone. We’ll leave a token force, but I received dispatches today. Royalist night-walkers are striking targets all over this blessed country. It’s doubtful they’ll waste their efforts retaking this ruined heap.”

  Keeping pace, Morgan struggled to understand. “Night-walkers, sir?”

  “Marauding bands of Highlanders. Clansmen who strike mostly at night, burning property, stealing cattle, killing folk sympathetic to our cause and extorting unauthorized cess taxes. Swift and deadly, and we’ve little hope of stopping them.”

  He turned to point at the tattered red lion. It lay in the dirt, still wrapped around the end of the splintered flagstaff. “They’ve raised the royal standard at Killin and Falkland,” he shouted angrily.

  Morgan’s knowledge of Scottish geography was limited, so he kept silent. He didn’t have to wait long.

  “Too far apart to be one army and too close to the lowlands for my liking. Separate clans, probably feuding with one another and Glenheath has the good sense to keep them apart.”

  “Glenheath, sir?”

  “Munro Cunynghame, Earl of Glenheath. A Lowlander if you please,” his commander replied, leaving him none the wiser until Abbott continued. “I’ll never understand these people. Highlanders and Lowlanders hate each other, yet it’s an Earl from Ayrshire who leads the Royalist faction and our intelligence tells us they’re headquartered in the Highlands.”

  Inverness suddenly made sense to Morgan, but his thoughts snagged on something else Abbott had said. “Ayrshire, sir?”

  “In the west. Kilmer. Glenheath was suspected of involvement in the attempt to rescue King Charles before his execution.”

  Morgan had a vague recollection of hearing about the failed rescue, but gooseflesh marched over his nape at the mention of Kilmer. He recalled Hannah biting back the name of the village in Ayrshire from whence she hailed. Was it possible she was somehow connected to this earl? Her occasional lapses out of the peasant brogue had alerted him to the true nature of her background.

  Abbott came to an abrupt halt. “I’ll miss this place. It was a tough nut to crack. Just like the Highlanders. They cling stubbornly to their belief in the divine right of kings, though I suspect it’s mainly the clan chiefs who want to hold on to the power they’d forfeit under the Commonwealth.

  “We cannot allow them to spread their influence into the lowlands—too close to England. You’ll bring the cannon to Inverness. We’ll set up our headquarters in the Highlands and hunt them down. Map briefing in an hour in my tent.”

  “Sir.” Morgan came to attention as he watched the general stride away, hoping an hour would be sufficient time to prepare his crew and speak with Hannah.

  ~~~

  “Here comes the captain,” a ruddy-faced Baxter said, glancing nervously at the bundle of women’s clothing he was clearly embarrassed to be holding in both hands.

  Hannah’s relief at finding the spare shift and her one pair of goatskin shoes still in the hide-y-hole turned to surprise when she espied Morgan hurrying down the hill from the fort. Her belly clenched. Something was amiss.

  She waved so he’d be sure to see them amid the crowd. Most men would look uncomfortable running down a steep hill, but Morgan’s long legs carried him like a sleek greyhound. He barely broke his stride when he acknowledged her wave with a nod of his head.

  “Never seen him come down here to the camp before,” Baxter observed, compounding her anxiety. “Come to think on it, ain’t never seen him run before.”

  The young soldier shoved the clothing at her, came to attention and saluted when his captain reached them. “Sir.”

  “Back up to the camp, if you please, Baxter,” Morgan said, showing no signs of being out of breath. “The lads have set about cleaning and readying the equipment for departure on the morrow.”

  The youth glanced at Hannah.

  “I’ll take care of Mistress Kincaid,” Morgan assured him.

  Despite Hannah’s trepidation, his promise calmed her. She clutched her belongings to her breast and waited for his news.

  He took her by the elbow and escorted her to a more private spot behind a wagon. “There’s word of Royalist Highland clans attacking near the Lowlands.”

  Heart racing, she averted her eyes from his intense gaze, but he took hold of her chin and forced her to look at him. “The rebellion is gaining momentum.”

  She shrugged. “I hear there’s many a clan in the Highlands still loyal to the king.”

  It wasn’t untrue. The unwavering blue eyes would detect a lie.

  “Yet the leader is reported to be a Lowlander,” he replied. “An earl from Ayrshire. Surely you know him since you are from those parts? Glenheath.”

  A chill raced up her spine. Clearly, Morgan suspected who she was. Though her beloved uncle had prepared long and hard for the rebellion, she worried for his safety. He was the closest thing to a father she’d had for many a year. “I know of him,” she admitted hoarsely, but the tear trickling unbidden down her cheek gave her away.

  She expected censure. Instead Morgan took her into his embrace and stroked her hair. “Abbott is leaving a token force here, but we depart for Inverness on the morrow. Promise me you’ll join the camp following us. Do not remain here, and don’t flee to Kilmer. They’ve probably assigned Roundheads to watch it.”

  She pulled away and glanced up. “Ye’re a Roundhead,” she whimpered, heartsick that she craved this man though he was an enemy.

  Rolling his eyes, he slipped the strap from under his chin and removed the lobster-tailed helmet. “And I’m not going to turn traitor any more than you are. I won’t aid you, but I won’t betray you either. Just promise my trust in you won’t lead me to the gallows—or worse.”

  “Why are ye doing this?” she asked, though the answer was clear to see in the blue depths of his eyes.

  He put his hands on her hips and bent his head to nibble her bottom lip. “We may find ourselves on opposite sides of this conflict,” he breathed, “but I’m a man and you’re a woman, and I think you need me as much as I need you.”

  Too stunned to utter a protest, she touched her fingers to her mouth as she watched him stride back up the hill. The fleeting contact held as much warmth and promise as the passionate exchange they’d shared at the burn, but the gentle pressure of his teeth had been intended to ensure she understood he meant what he said.

  It was folly to go to Inverness, but evidently the Roundheads were aware Royalist support was strongest amongst the Highland clans. If she followed Cromwell’s army she might become privy to information vital to the success of the rebellion and the safety of her uncle.

  She fished in the toe of one shoe and pulled out the drawstring purse that held a few coins, the meager fruits of her laundering duties. She stuffed her spare clothing into a gunny sack and nestled the purse down the front of her shift.

  Hauling a cannon through the Grampians would be next to impossible. It was likely the army would take the route north from Stonehyve along the Causey Mounth to Aberdeen and thence to Inverness. She resolved to seek out her uncle’s man in Stonehyve to advise him of her plan. By the time she got there mayhap she’d have solved the problem of how to aid the rebellion without betraying Morga
n.

  Yawning at the prospect of a pre-dawn march, she went off to seek the relative safety of the sleeping shelf she rented in a sutler’s wagon.

  DEPARTURE

  It took some doing, but Morgan convinced Abbott that any attempt to have the cannon hauled downhill in the dark might result in injury or death for his crew. His final warning—that the horses might not survive to pull the artillery along the ancient drovers’ road to Aberdeen—carried the argument. Evidently, horses were deemed more important than men. The general huffed as he folded away his maps, but agreed to a mid-morning departure.

  Morgan checked on Smythe before retiring to his tent, intending to tell him he’d have to stay at Dùn Fhoithear. The boy was limping about with the aid of Syddall and Wilcock. He sent a pleading look Morgan’s way as he tried to salute and almost fell over. “Don’t worry, sir,” he said, hopping on one foot, “I’ll be able to walk on the morrow. Honest. You’ll see.”

  Morgan hesitated. He doubted the lad could walk down the hill, never mind all the way to Inverness. However, the contingent left behind to secure the fortress consisted mainly of musketeers Abbott had described as “riff raff”—perpetually drunken thugs he considered a liability and useless to the war effort. They were a mean bunch, and likely none too happy at being assigned to guard a ruined fort where they’d been stuck for eight months. Morgan didn’t like the prospect of leaving Smythe to their mercy.

  He stood nose to nose with the lad. “You’ll have to put on a good show for the general,” he said sternly. Then he smiled. “Once we’re out of his sight, we’ll think of something.”

  His batman’s eyes went wide as he swayed towards Morgan. Surely the boy wasn’t going to embrace him? But he did, blubbering his thanks into Morgan’s chest, clutching the sleeves of his buffcoat like a shipwreck survivor clinging to driftwood. It was a significant breach of military discipline. The other youths studied their boots, probably convinced Smythe was about to be ordered court-martialled for touching an officer.