Captured by the Highlander (11 page)

* * *

Later, when Craig went outside to tend to the pony and wagon, Beth looked Amelia in the eye. “Tel me the truth now, lass. He’s not your husband, is he?”

She and Beth sat down at the table. “No.”

Beth’s father, the white-haired MacDonald, was sitting in a chair by the fire with his gnarled fingers folded over the top of his cane, glaring irately at her.

“Don’t mind him,” Beth whispered, leaning forward slightly.

“He can’t hear half of what anyone says anyway.”

“He heard enough to know I was English.”

Beth shrugged. “Aye. He’s cautious, nothing more. So how is it you know this big-boned Scot?” She gestured toward Duncan, resting quietly on the bed.

Amelia turned her gaze toward him and felt a sharp pang of anxiety. What if he did not recover?

“He stole me away from my fiancé,” she careful y replied.

Beth’s blue eyes narrowed with suspicion. “So the two of you are lovers, then?”

Amelia knew Beth did not believe that. She was just trying to draw out an explanation. “No, we are not.”

The old man tapped his cane on the floor three times, as if he wanted something brought to him. Beth held up a finger.

“You can dispense with the secrets, lass,” she whispered.

“I know who this man is, and I know you’re not his beloved.”

Amelia fought to stay calm. “How would you know such a thing?”

She pointed at the round shield
still
strapped to Amelia’s back. “That’s the Butcher’s shield. Everyone knows it holds the stone taken from the weapon of his ancestor—Gil
l
eain na Tuaighe.”

“Gill
ean of the Battle-axe,” Amelia repeated, translating it into words she understood
all
too
well
from the legendary stories about the Butcher, who was descended from a famous warlord. She removed the shield over her head to examine it more closely and touched the polished oval stone in the center of the circle. It was pure white, with swirling veins of gray.

“It’s a Mul
l
agate,” Beth said.

“It’s very beautiful.” But God help her now.

Beth nodded. “My husband noticed it when he
followed
you outside. Then he saw the basket-hilted broadsword your Highlander wore—with the tiny hearts engraved in the steel—along with the impressive black
stallion
you claim he toppled off of, and knew it was true. The man in the glade was the Butcher, and you were trying to save him.”

Trying to save him …
“Yes,” she replied. “Yes, I must ensure that he lives.”

“But you’re not his beloved,” Beth added. “I know that, too.”

“How can you be so sure?” Amelia surprised even herself with the
challenge
behind that question.

Beth’s eyes narrowed shrewdly. “Because his beloved is dead, lass, and from what I’ve heard, the Butcher buried his own heart in the ground with her on the day she died—at least the part of his heart that was capable of love. Now he fights for Scottish freedom. That’s
all
that matters to him.

Freedom and justice. Besides,” she added, glancing at her baby asleep in the basket, “you’re English. The Butcher would never give his heart to an Englishwoman. I mean no offense by it. It’s just the way it is.”

Amelia sat back in her chair, shaken by the depth of knowledge this woman possessed about the infamous Butcher—the specific details she knew about his weapons and ancestry and the grief inside him, which motivated him to fight and
kill
.

“You say he fights for Scottish freedom,” Amelia commented. “But how does
killing
accomplish anything?”

She thought of her dear father, who had tried to negotiate peaceful y with the Scottish nobles and had succeeded with many who were
willing
to lay down their swords and unite with England under one sovereign.

Beth stood up from the table. “Would you like some wine?

I know my father
will
want a wee dram if he hears me talking of the past.”

“Yes, thank you,” she replied.

Beth went to the cupboard, retrieved a heavy stone jug, and poured wine into three goblets. She carried one to her father, who accepted it with a shaky nod, then brought the other two to the table.

Beth sat down. “There are many Scots who believe fighting is the only way to preserve our freedom, because many remember a time when negotiations proved futile. Do you not know of Glencoe?”

Amelia shook her head. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Nay, most of you privileged English ladies wouldn’t be told of such things. I can
tell
by your accent, lass. You’re no kitchen maid. In any case, it happened back in ’92, likely before you were born. Your King—that usurper,
William
of Orange—gave the clansmen an ultimatum to swear loyalty to his Crown or suffer the consequences and forfeit their lands.

Most of them signed the document, but one of the MacDonald chiefs failed to meet the deadline, and not long after, his clan was massacred. They were taken out into the snow at dawn and shot dead. Few Scots have forgiven the English for that injustice, or the
Campbells
for that matter, because they did the dirty work. And now the
Campbells
support the Hanover succession.” She leaned forward. “So natural y, there are more than a few Highlanders who are itchin’ to pick up a sword or musket and fight for the true Scottish Crown.”

“You are referring to the Stuart succession,” Amelia said.

“Is that why the Jacobites rose up in rebel ion? Because of what happened at Glencoe? I thought it was because they wanted a Catholic on the throne.”

Beth set down her goblet. “Ah, it’s complicated, lass. Too much Scottish blood has been
spilled
over the centuries, and that blood
still
flows as thick as ever in the rivers and streams of this country. We
need
to fight,” she explained. “We cannot help it. Our proud Highland men are brave and bold. They have warrior instincts coursing through their blood, and they don’t like to
roll
over for a tyrant.”

“King George is hardly a tyrant,” Amelia argued.

“But your parliament can be,” Beth countered. “I’m not even going to mention Cromwel ,” she whispered, “because if my father hears that name in this house, he
’ll
be kicking over his chair and swinging his cane, and wanting to
follow
your Butcher out the door in the morning to
kill
a few redcoats for himself.”

Amelia glanced at the weathered old Highlander, then back at Duncan, who had not yet moved. “Pray God he does wake by morning.”

“Pray God indeed,” Beth said. “Because if he does not, I promise you the clans
will
rise up like you never imagined and your precious German king
will
wish he’d never been born.”

Amelia uneasily sipped her wine and pondered
all
that she had just heard. She had not known of the terrible massacre at Glencoe. Clearly, her father had kept that information from her.

To protect her, of course. Because in her world delicate young ladies of a certain sensibility were to be sheltered from such horrors.

She turned her tired eyes toward Duncan and realized yet again that there was much she did not know about this country. Its history and politics were far more complicated than she’d ever imagined, and getting more complicated by the hour.

“Do you know the Butcher’s true identity?” she asked, sitting forward,
still
watching him. She was more curious now than ever about his life and upbringing. Had he been at Glencoe? Did he have family? Brothers or sisters? What kind of childhood had he known? Had he gone to school?

Learned to read? Or had he only ever known how to fight and
kill
?

“No one knows where he comes from,” Beth said. “Some say he’s a ghost. But rumors abound that one of the rebels who fights at his side is a MacDonald who survived the Glencoe massacre. He was just a wee lad at the time, and his mother stuffed him into a trunk to hide him from the
Campbells
. He crawled out after it was over and watched her bleed to death in the snow.”

Was it Angus she spoke of?

Beth tossed her head toward her father, who was quietly drinking his wine by the fire, and lowered her voice. “My father’s nephews perished there, too.”

Amelia’s stomach turned at the thought of
all
those people dying so violently on that cold winter morning.

“What about the woman who was to be the Butcher’s wife?” she asked suddenly. “Does anyone know who she was?”

Beth shook her head. “It’s a
well
-guarded secret. But I reckon many young Scottish lassies would like a chance to help heal that damaged heart of his. The lads like to talk about his axe and his sword and the mystical powers in that ancient stone, but the lassies like to gossip about the power of what he keeps
under
his kilt.” Thankful y, Beth changed the subject. “So you say the Butcher stole you away from your fiancé?”

“Yes.”

Just then, the door burst open with a terrible crash. Beth screamed, and her father dropped his goblet on the floor and rose out of his chair with a threatening war cry.

In a blinding flash of tartan, Duncan, too, was off the bed and onto his feet, sweeping Amelia behind him with one arm while he drew his pistol from his belt and aimed it at the intruder.

The hammer cocked under Duncan’s thumb. The whole world seemed to stand
still
as Amelia stared across the room at Beth’s husband, Craig—trapped in a stranglehold with a knife to his throat.

Duncan, evidently, had recovered. Amelia, however, thought it might be her turn to take to the bed, for she was certain she was about to faint dead away at his feet.

“What’s happening here?” he asked in a deep and threatening voice. He
still
held the pistol aimed at Craig, and his gaze flicked from Beth to the old man, then settled darkly on Angus, who kept Craig under control with the sharp point of his dagger. “Who are these people?”

Angus spoke to him in a clear voice. “I saw your horse outside, but this one I’m holding by the neck told me he never saw you, that he had no visitors. I knew he was lying to me, so I thought I’d take a look for myself.”

“Of course I was lying,” Craig ground out. “This man and woman are under my protection. I didn’t know who the
hell
you were, and I
still
don’t, you bluidy bastard. So until I do, you can rot in
hell
.”

Duncan turned his head slightly, as if to ascertain that Amelia was safe behind him.

“I’m fine,” she said. “These people gave us care. Truly.

You have my word.”

He reached up and fingered the pasty salve on his head, then sniffed the concoction.

“They helped the
Englishwoman,
” Angus corrected in his usual antagonistic tone. “And I wouldn’t be surprised to see a troop of redcoats
galloping
into the stable yard any minute now.”

Duncan had not yet lowered his pistol. She noticed his long fingers close around the handle of his axe.

The old man glared petulantly at Angus. He raised his cane off the floor and pointed it at him. “Who are you, to break down this door and accuse this family of English sympathies?”

“I’m this man’s friend,” Angus replied, tossing a glance in Duncan’s direction, “and he needs me to watch his back because he has more than a few enemies lurking about. Like this one here.” He gestured toward Amelia.

“I brought him here to save his life,” she argued. “He
collapsed
in the woods.”

“It’s no wonder,” Angus said. “You clubbed him in the head with a rock.”

Al eyes turned to her. She met Beth’s disappointed gaze, and her heart sank.

“Is that true, Amelia?” Beth asked. “Did you strike him down? Are you his enemy?”

She struggled to find the best way to explain herself. “Not exactly.”

“Aye,” Angus said, sounding
all
too satisfied with the convenient unfolding of events. “Did you hear that? She said
‘not exactly.’ Perhaps you should also know that she’s the future bride of Richard Bennett, England’s first and foremost executioner of Scots.”

Wonderful.

“He is not an executioner,” she tried to explain, needing to defend him. Or perhaps it was herself, and her choice of a husband, that she needed to defend. Either way, it did not matter. She’d just implicated herself and confirmed Angus’s accusations—that she was an enemy of Scotland, and the Butcher’s enemy as
well
.

“You didn’t know that, did you?” Angus added, wrenching Craig roughly in his stranglehold.

“This woman is engaged to that swine?” Craig asked in a dry, gurgling voice.

Meanwhile, Beth said nothing.

Angus immediately released Craig, and he
fell
to his knees, gasping for breath.

“Aye,” Angus said. “It’s good to know which side of the border your sword
fall
s on, crofter. What’s your name?”

“Craig MacKenzie,” he replied, rising unsteadily to his feet.

Beth’s father relaxed and spoke in a more welcoming tone. “You’re the MacDonald, aren’t you? The one who survived Glencoe?”

Angus glanced dispassionately at Amelia and nodded.

The old man shared a long, meaningful look with him. “Get this brave lad a drink, Beth, and make it the best we have.

Get the bottle of Moncrieffe whisky out of the mahogany chest.”

Angus raised a smug eyebrow at Duncan, who at last lowered his pistol, released the hammer, and slipped it into his belt.

Amelia backed up in uneasy silence while Beth hurried into the back room. She returned with a bottle, retrieved four crystal glasses from her cupboard, and poured a drink for each kilted man. No one said a word. They strode forward, converging together around the table, picked up their drinks, and flicked them back in a single gulp.
all
four glasses hit the table at once.

“Another, Beth,” Craig said.

She poured seconds, and the ritual was repeated; then each man slowly backed away to his respective corner.

Before he sat back down on the bed, however, Duncan paused a moment to stare questioningly at Amelia. Their gazes locked and held until he took a seat and rested his elbows on his knees.

Angus moved to the fire and warmed his hands while Craig rubbed at his neck,
rolling
his shoulders to work out the tension.

Beth’s father sat down in his chair, nodding with pride and satisfaction. He was pleased to have the Butcher and one of his rebels in his home. “If you lads need supplies for your travels,” he said, “whatever we have is yours for the taking.”

Stil
l
standing over the fire, Angus acknowledged the offer with gratitude.

Duncan turned his questioning eyes toward Amelia again.

She quickly shook her head at him, hoping to communicate that none of it was true. She was English, yes, and she was engaged to Richard Bennett, but she had brought him here to save his life—and for reasons she was not yet ready to explore, she needed him to know that.

“How’d you find this place?” he asked her.

“I heard farm animals and ran through the woods. You
collapsed
in the glade where we stopped. Do you remember? I didn’t know what else to do.”

“So you ran here, fetched help, then came back for me?”

“Yes. Mr. MacKenzie hitched up his wagon and I showed him where you were.”

They
all
looked at Craig, who confirmed her story with a nod.

She noticed Angus looking over his shoulder at her, glaring with deep, smoldering hatred. He
still
did not trust her, and she did not believe it was possible to ever change that.

“It’s the truth,” Beth said. “That’s what happened. And there are no English soldiers on their way, at least not that we know of.
all
she wanted was help in tending to her Highlander.”

“I told them you were my husband,” she explained to Duncan.

Again he touched the salve that was packed on his head and winced slightly. “I am indebted to you,” he said to the MacKenzies.

“It was the least we could do,” Craig replied. “And you owe us no debt, friend. If anything, we are beholden to you, for what you do for Scotland.”

Amelia observed that Duncan, in typical fashion, gave no response, and from that she surmised that fame and adulation meant nothing to him. He had his reasons for doing what he did—they were personal and private—and judging by what she’d seen of him these past few days, she was growing more and more certain that he took no pleasure in the
kill
ing. There was no joy, nor was it a simple, mindless frenzy of butchery.

That fact would come as a surprise to many people, no doubt. Most of the English population believed him to be a bloodthirsty savage, who attacked and slaughtered for the pure amusement of the
kill
. She had thought so herself.

Before today.

“So is it true,” the weathered old Highlander said to Amelia, “that you laid the great Butcher out, flat on his back, with naught but a rock in your hand? A delicate, wee lass like yourself?” He raised his wine goblet in a playful salute. “I’d wager more than a few Englishmen would be impressed by that feat.”

Everyone chuckled, with the exception of Angus.

“This one is no delicate, wee lass,” Duncan told them, keeping his eyes locked on hers. “And I promise you, I
’ll
think twice about rubbing up against her again, especial y in the dark. And I’d give the same advice to any man here who dares to try. She
’ll
not yield to what she does not want, so you best keep your hands to yourselves, lads, or she
’ll
be bashing your brains out before you can blink twice.”

Everyone laughed, but a hush
fell
over the room when Angus interjected, “There’s nothing funny about it. She was trying to reach the English camp at Loch Fannich, and she told them where we were. She’d just as soon see us
all
locked up in the Tolbooth as sit here and drink our fine Scottish whisky.”

Everyone looked at her.

“That was
before,
” she tried to explain. “Before I knew the kinds of men I had chanced upon.”

She was
still
so very disturbed and shaken by the idea that everything she had previously believed about Scottish savages and English soldiers had been turned upside down.

Why hadn’t her father prepared her for any of this? How could he have raised her to believe that the world was black and white? That there was good and there was evil and England was incontestably good?

“Aye,” Craig said, seeming to understand the deeper undercurrent of her words. “A red jacket with brass buttons and a pair of shiny black boots does not make a man worthy of your trust, nor does it give him honor.”

“I know that now,” she replied, dropping her gaze to her lap. “And I won’t forget what I learned.”

“That’s wise of you,” Beth added helpful y. “You can’t judge a man’s honor by the uniform he wears. That’s just linen and wool. But to be fair, I’ve come upon my fair share of decent Englishmen in the past, as
well
as dishonest Highlanders who would rob you blind the minute you turned your back.

The tide moves both ways, and don’t you forget it.” She reached for her goblet of wine and took a sip.

“So what are you doing with this haughty English lass?”

the old man asked Duncan. “Is it safe to assume you mean to use her to get to Bennett?”

“Aye,” Duncan answered. “And I’d be grateful if you spread the word. I want him to know I have his woman, and that I’m stalking him straight to
hell
, to ensure justice is served.”

Amelia trembled at Duncan’s choice of words and could not help but think of Richard, whom she’d always believed was simply doing his duty in this rebel ion. She’d always imagined him taking part in organized battles on an open field, but clearly—after what happened tonight—she had to accept that not
all
English soldiers were as noble as she’d imagined and it was quite possible that Richard had done some terrible things.

Craig lounged back in his chair and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “He already knows you’re stalking him, which is why you haven’t been able to catch him. He does his best to hide from you.”

“He’s a bluidy coward,” Angus said in a low, bitter voice.

“You
’ll
get no argument about that in this house,” the old man said. “And you should both know that Bennett passed through Invershiel yesterday and he was on his way to Moncrieffe Castle to talk to the earl.”

“The earl?” Amelia asked, feeling her hopes rekindle. “Are we on Moncrieffe lands now?”

It was difficult to imagine a lavish palace anywhere in the vicinity, with manicured gardens and servants and a fine
collection
of rare books and Italian art. Surely if she could reach the castle, the earl would remember her father and reunite her with her uncle.

“No, lass,” Duncan said in a firm voice. “The earl is a MacLean, and we’re on MacKenzie lands now.”

“And thank God for that,” Beth’s father said. “That dirty MacLean is a bastard son of a whore and a traitor to Scotland. His father would
roll
over in his grave if he knew what his son had become. Mark my words, that faithless Scot
will
get what’s coming to him.”

“But what has he done to earn such an
appalling
reputation?” Amelia asked. Everyone shot angry looks at her, so she hastened to say more. “My father met him once, and he believed him to be a man of honor. He believed the earl desired peace with England.”

Beth’s father scoffed. “He
’ll
give Bennett anything he asks for, if it means he
’ll
have the ear of the King.
all
he wants is more land and more riches. He
’ll
likely hand over the entire Moncrieffe militia to Bennett, to help him hunt down our Butcher and deliver his head on a spike to the Tower of London.”

Angus paced in front of the fire. “The only head that
’ll
see a spike any time soon
will
be Bennett’s.”