Romance in the misty Highlands...

Chapter 1

Early August 1751, London

 

Marianne Browne clapped excitedly. An opened letter lay before her on her oak writing desk, and her friend Amelia’s familiar scrawl was facing upwards. Marianne sat back, sighing, a grin on her face. “The baby will be here soon!” Marianne moved a few auburn curls from her face that had fallen loose. She looked out of the window of the drawing-room, spying the busy streets of London full with workers going about their daily activities: vendors displaying their wares and maids scurrying by with baskets as they weaved between oncoming carriages.

 

She sat thoughtfully for a moment, her elbow on the desk and her chin in her hand, daydreaming. Her friend Amelia lived in a beautiful, entrancing Scottish castle in the Highlands of Scotland, far away from…here. Marianne frowned and was annoyingly wrested from her beautiful daydream. “Oh, why did I come back?” she grumbled into the air of the empty drawing-room as she slumped back in her desk chair. A gray and white cat meowed at her side, begging to sit on her lap. It placed its white paws on her chair, and Marianne looked down and smiled. The cat jumped into her lap, and Marianne wrapped her arms around him. “Oh, D’Artagnan. That’s right. I came back because of father, and…that kiss.”

 

D’Artagnan turned around once and then snuggled into her lap, blissfully unaware of his owner’s distress. Marianne’s face turned serious as she began to remember what had happened back in the cottage in Scotland, far away from her father’s watchful eye, and far away from any sense. She didn’t think she could ever forgive herself for her one moment of weakness. It would rage against her mind for eternity, she thought. She sighed again, this time in frustration, and D’Artagnan jumped off her lap and onto the floor when Marianne’s sister, Ruth, entered the room.

 

Ruth was the near copy of her older sister, with the same long auburn curls twirled up into a bun, but Marianne’s green eyes had come from her mother, Katherine, while Ruth had received her father’s brown ones. But, while Ruth’s skin was flawless, Marianne had a spattering of freckles across her nose.

 

Ruth was the wild one, while Marianne had been blessed with a rigid sense of morality and decorum, except for that one wild moment in the Scottish Highlands. Ruth had entered with loose curls falling from her coiffure and a slight tear in her riding dress. “Marianne!” Ruth yelled as she entered the room and flopped onto a couch. “The weather is absolutely blissful this morning. You should have come to ride with me!”

 

Marianne made her expression serious, but her eyes laughed. “’Tis indelicate, dear sister, for a woman to ride, and for her to ride in such a state. Look at your torn dress.” She motioned to the small tear at her sister’s neckline.

 

Ruth rolled her eyes, “Oh, sister, do you never tire of such rigid ideas? Where is this William Fraser I’ve heard you grumble about for too long? He seemed to ruffle your feathers sure enough. I could use his help to convince you to relax.”

Marianne winced slightly at the mention of William’s name. She had told her sister about her time in Scotland, even about her time with William, a young and handsome Scotsman, a friend of Amelia’s husband, Jamie Kinnaird, Laird of the Kinnaird clan. But she hadn’t told her everything and knew Ruth would love the detail and would hold it over her head forever.

 

Ruth placed her hand across her forehead and leaned back on the couch with a flourish of drama. “Oh, William Fraser! Please do come and rescue me from my rigid and unrelenting sister. I shall die from an overindulgence of Bible verses and prayers!” Marianne couldn’t help but chuckle and knew William would have loved to guffaw at such a theatrical display.

 

Marianne stood and walked over to her reclining sister and helped her sister stand. Ruth laughing as Marianne wrapped her arms around her sister. “My dear, where would we be without the Bible? Why Father would have nothing to say to us if not for that.”

 

Both girls burst into laughter, letting go of their embrace. After a few moments, Marianne’s smile faltered slightly. “Ruth,” she began, turning her green eyes on her sister, “I have just received another letter from Amelia. She is now seven months pregnant.”

 

Ruth’s smile widened. “Why, that’s wonderful news! The Scottish princess must be blissfully happy!”

 

Marianne smiled at the nickname her sister had given Amelia. “Yes, she is very excited, and everyone is happy to help prepare for the baby. But…but she has requested that I return to her if I have time. She has been feeling too fatigued lately and would love a little company.”

 

She watched as her younger sister’s fierce and wild countenance crumbled slightly at the statement. Ruth sat down on the couch, and Marianne sat down next to her.

Ruth’s voice was quieter now. “How long would you be gone?”

 

The girl’s last sojourn to Scotland had wounded her sister, not for any jealousy, but because Ruth did not want to be left alone as the sole target of their father’s fury and biblical principles. It had not been easy since their mother had died four years prior.

 

Marianne placed a hand upon her sister’s. She worried that her desire to see Amelia was for purely selfish reasons. “It will only be until the baby is born.”

 

“But that is two months away. Two long months alone…with him. You know he won’t let me see anyone unless it is at a sanctioned gathering.” Ruth’s eyes welled up. Her beautiful and powerful sister could still be broken by her father.

 

Marianne had an idea. “Why don’t I ask if you can come with me? Now that Amelia has returned to favor as a “Scottish Princess”, father has no objections to our seeing her.”

 

Ruth’s brows furrowed, “But you know he’ll never let us both go. He can’t bear the thought of having no one to scold.”

 

Setting her mouth in a firm line, Marianne was resolved. “Well, there is no harm in trying. I know Amelia wouldn’t mind. Let me ask him and see what he says. Perhaps he is feeling generous this morning.”

 

Ruth seemed comforted by the prospect and wiped a tear from her cheek. Marianne smiled and stood once again, smoothing her green gown in preparation for the conversation with her father. He was diligent about reminding them that one of their duties as women was to always be dressed impeccably. “A disorganized image speaks of a disorganized and muddled heart.” His words rang in her ears…always.

***

It had taken Marianne a few hours to formulate the words to ask her father if she and her sister could visit Amelia and her family in Scotland. They had spent the afternoon meal in silence. Ruth had looked to Marianne with wide eyes, prodding her sister to ask him as he bent over his plate, not once looking upon his two beautiful daughters at the end of the long table.

 

It had not been the time to ask him. He would have grumbled that his mealtime was being taken up with such nonsense and frivolous chatter. He would much prefer to be approached later, on a full stomach with a cup of tea in hand. That would make him docile enough. So, here she was, pacing outside his study, nearly wearing a hole in the carpet beneath her slippers as her gown rustled back and forth as she walked. She was thinking, worrying, hoping all at once. Clasping and unclasping her hands, she twirled a curl absentmindedly, gripping her bottom lip in her teeth.

 

He would see sense, surely! He would not want to prevent me from going to my friend. And why should he stop Ruth from accompanying me? There was nothing happening in London of interest, no balls, no suitors, no lessons to miss in the two months.

 

The young girl was brought back from her thoughts by the sound of a desk chair moving from inside her father’s study. She took a few deep breaths, moved her lips over the lines she had prepared, and then knocked softly on the door. A grumbling voice called harshly from within. “Come in.”

 

Marianne swung the door open to find her father standing at one of his many heavy-laden shelves, his back to her. His stark white hair was made even whiter next to his black coat, which he wore every day. His pants were also black and led down to a pair of black boots. He turned slightly, and his white and gray beard matched the gray bushy eyebrows that hovered over his brown eyes as he squinted through grey eyelashes. He had not turned to acknowledge his daughter’s arrival.

Walking forward with trepidation, Marianne folded her hands in front of her. Her father loved a subservient woman. She had played this role on many occasions.

“Father…” she began slowly.

 

A “Hmph” was given in reply, and still, without looking at her, Lord Browne brought the volume to his desk and sat down. Marianne paused and looked around at the study. It had been a forbidden place for her and her sister growing up. It always loomed in her mind as a dark and scary place, but now, as an older woman, she found it quite cozy, with its dark wooden shelves, tables of open books, a dark wood desk, a comfy armchair, and a fireplace, which was not lit. It would have been a dream escape for readers like Marianne and Amelia, except for the grumpy old man who sat at its center and swamped the room with his ill-temper.

 

“Father,” Marianne repeated. This time Lord Browne looked up. “What is it, Marianne? I am busy at the moment. A man should never be disturbed in his study, the sacred heart of his home. Men have important work to complete.” Marianne glanced at the book he had been reading. It was a book about famous painters. She almost wanted to smirk. So, her father was not completing an “important” task for the House of Lords. He was simply reading. He had never said as much, but she knew her father enjoyed studying and looking at paintings, and she wondered idly if he had ever attempted to paint himself. It would have most likely been too sinful an indulgence in his mind, for many painters were heathens and reprobates.

 

“Well, Father, I would like to inform you that Amelia is now 7 months pregnant, so her baby will be coming soon.” Marianne paused, taking her time.

 

Lord Browne nodded. “Ah, yes, well she was is a lucky woman, your friend. She was saved by a man’s money, though why he wanted to pick up the scraps is beyond me.” Marianne could feel herself beginning to get angry, but tried to stamp down the fire that was growing within her. Getting mad at her father never worked. He treated a woman’s anger like the tantrums of a young child and would pay no heed. He would simply push her out of his study and be done with it. She wished she could scream into his face that Amelia had actually been able to pay Jamie’s contribution back with the money she earned from her writing, but her father would either feign disinterest or disbelief.

 

“Yes, well,” Marianne’s voice was surprisingly calm, masking the rage that filled her. “Father, Amelia has requested that I join her to assist with preparations for the new baby if at all possible. She is not feeling well of late and would like the company. Since I have made the journey before, and you know the family are well-connected, the mother of the laird is the daughter of an English viscount, I thought you might be inclined to allow me to visit again.”

Lord Browne hmphed again. She waited impatiently for his reply, hoping it wouldn’t be one that would make her want to kick and scream.

“You are an old maid, my daughter, at the ripe old age of 27. You might want to turn your mind to marriage prospects and babies of your own, rather than frittering your good years away in the god-forsaken land of the Scots, depraved, beastly men that they are.” He set his chin in defiance, and Marianne knew what was about to come.

“From the book of Proverbs, Every wise woman buildeth her house: but the foolish plucketh it down with her hands.” Lord Browne shook a finger at his daughter, whose face had turned pink, hinting at the anger that was inside of her. “You should be wise, my dear and do what a woman is meant to do.”

Marianne balled her hands into fists until her knuckles turned white, but she was well practiced at hiding her feelings from her father. “It will only be two months, Father. I can resume my search for a husband when I return.” She hoped he wouldn’t notice the sarcasm that was dripping from her words, or else he definitely would not let her go.

 

He leaned back in his chair, savoring any moment to flex his power over his daughters. He folded his hands across his ample belly and scrutinized his daughter. The pause seemed interminable.

“If you will promise to return as soon as the baby is born, then I will agree to let you go.”

Marianne’s heart soared, but then it sank once again. As soon as the baby is born? That’s too soon! She knew she mustn’t argue, or else she would lose even this. Now was the time to mention Ruth.

“Oh, thank you, Father! Yes, yes, of course I shall return promptly. I will keep you informed as to the baby’s arrival.” Lord Browne nodded wordlessly and started to return to his book, as she cleared her throat, knowing this was her only chance.

“Oh, Father?” He paused and looked up once again. “May Ruth accompany me? She has naught to do here at home and will miss me greatly when I leave. Would it be too much trouble to ask if she may come along?”

As soon as the question exited her mouth, she knew she had pushed too far.

His response came as a low grumble of a storm far in the distance. It threatened to come closer. Her father’s mouth was set into a firm line, and his cheeks flushed pink slightly. She knew he was displeased.

He burst forth, “Two women out alone, away from their family to do Lord knows what? Two women? Are you not satisfied with permission to go yourself, Marianne, that you must push me to the edge of reason and request the company of your sister as well?”

He stayed seated, but his voice had risen to fill the small room. The image of a laughing William came to her mind, and she thought how nice it must be to be in a man’s presence who was constantly merry. Too bad she detested his impertinence, cocky demeanor, and lack of religion and gentlemanly manners. And yet, his ability to laugh was something she found endearing, albeit sometimes annoying when it was at her expense.

Marianne held her breath until her father’s tirade was over, hoping that he would still let her go to Amelia. “ ‘Tis bad enough you are asking to go, shunning your duties as a future wife and mother; but to drag along your sister, who is too young and impressionable to be away from her father, is outrageous! Your sister is far too wild in her manners to know the difference between good behavior and bad. She must stay close to me, or she will bring this family into scandal! You, at least, can be expected to act with decorum and morality.”

He waved his hand towards her as if he was begrudgingly sending a half compliment. Once he had finished his bitter rebuke and was leaning again into his seat, Marianne paused, picking over her words carefully to smooth over the delicate situation.

She nodded in faux agreement. “I understand, Father. You are correct. Perhaps it was too much of me to ask for both of us to go when you have been so generous as to allow me to go. I will take my lady’s maid to give you some comfort while I am gone.”

Lord Browne sighed, adding gruffly, “Yes, yes. All in order. You may take the other carriage as well, but the Kinnairds will have to house the coachman and horses themselves, you know. There will no extra expense made on my part for this inconvenience.”

Marianne smiled. “Thank you, Father. I shall write to Amelia directly, and I will leave within the next few days.”

Lord Browne waved her off and returned to his book, as Marianne walked out of the study and shut the door behind her. The silence surrounded her in the hallway, and she took a few deep breaths, calming herself after such an ordeal. In her mind she kept repeating, He said yes. He said yes. Hurry to leave before he changes his mind! But, her heart fell at the prospect of having to tell Ruth her father’s decision. How could she make it up to her sister? She needed to go to Amelia; she must go! For this could be her last chance for a small taste of freedom before her father forced her into marriage. But she was still sorry for her younger sister who would have to endure their father’s rages and reprimands all on her own.

Brushing her hair out of her face, she walked determinedly to Ruth’s room, rehearsing the words she would say to her sister.

 

Chapter 2

William Fraser sat in front of the fireplace at his homestead, only a few miles south of Kinnaird Castle, his tall, strong frame too large for the armchair. It had been a cold day out at work with Laird Jamie, helping to secure new sheep for the flock, as well as assisting with the care and maintenance of the current flock. The Kinnaird clan, despite England’s takeover of Scotland and the destruction of Scottish life, was still going strong, financially powerful and successful. They needed to give a portion of their wealth to the crown, but a few months ago, Jamie had helped create a system that allowed all of the remaining clan members to stay on their land as farmers, instead of taking up all the free land for sheep farming to serve his own and the crown’s needs.

 

While other clansmen and workers had been forced to flee Scotland or flee to the coastal areas to work in industry, William was proud of his friend’s efforts to try and retain their old way of life and protect those on his land, despite the Highland Clearances.

William was grateful to Jamie for his kindness and welcome. Since the Battle of Culloden 5 years ago, William was left alone in the world. His mother had died long ago, but both his brother and father had died in battle, and his former fiancé had perished in an illness. Jamie had taken William in as friend and brother, and William could very well call the Laird’s mother, Fiona, his own. He sat, entranced by the fire, drinking a glass of whiskey after the long, cold day, feeling the emptiness of his home.

William spent most of his time at Kinnaird Castle. He preferred it so, for here, ghosts lingered, and the pain of the past did not dissipate. He felt guilty, betrayed, angry and sad. It was an annoying mix of emotions which he would prefer to laugh away. He was 27 when the Battle of Culloden raged, and had been lying unconscious, injured from a previous battle, and was unable to partake in the battle that had taken his brother’s and father’s lives. Perhaps, if he had been there, his father and brother would still be alive? He would have gladly traded his life for theirs because this fate of dark loneliness was far worse.

The firelight shone against William’s curly hair and rough beard, making it seem redder by its glow. His light green eyes stared into the flames, and his mind wandered from the battle to Jamie, to Amelia’s impending labor, and then to…Lady Browne, or Marianne. He found his mind often turning to her when he felt as though the ghosts would take him in, their icy tendrils wrapping around his thoughts, threatening to block out all rays of hope and happiness.

In his mind, he saw Marianne’s curly auburn hair and green eyes, the freckles across her pale nose, and her expression screwed up in frustration at him. The image always made him smile. He had loved to fluster her, for it brought an attractive color to her cheeks, and her tongue, customarily reserved for kind words to Amelia and the rest of the family, was filled with witty, yet vitriolic phrases just for him. But, she’d gone months ago, and while he was sure she had long forgotten him, he was still flicking through moments with her when he was alone. He wondered if she ever thought of that time in the cottage. It had been puzzling to him, and his inner voice wondered if Marianne would like his home and if her presence would send away the ghosts that haunted its halls. But, he chided himself for such a romantic notion. It bothered him that she continued to plague his mind so many months since last seeing her. No, he must remain alone. Women were not to be trusted.

Rubbing his face he tried to banish the picture from his mind. “Och, lass, ye fill me mind constantly. Perhaps it’s time I take a trip tae Brechin’s brothel,” he whispered to the empty room. Drinking the last of his whiskey, he stood, seeming even taller in the small, desolate space, the room that had been left unused for so long. He had employed a housekeeper and groundskeeper to keep an eye on the place, but he was never really there, so he had no need for the usual comforts of home and had gotten rid of many things that had once filled it.

 

There was though, one thing that he hadn’t been able to get rid of it, and with it, the whispers of the past were forever locked. On a side table lay a silhouette encased in a brass frame. His eyes wandered over the familiar outline. “Mairi,” he whispered, his mouth remembering the feel of her name, for he had said it many times, both when she was alive, and in tears after she had passed.

 

Perhaps he should have destroyed the image of his former love before she died, and before she made him hate her, but in truth, her death had subdued his anger at her, and he was only left with fear, emptiness, and regret.

 

***

 

Marianne finally found Ruth in her bedroom, sitting at a small desk by the window, poring over a map of England and Scotland in a book. Ruth was always in search of adventure, and exploring maps had been one of her favorite youthful pastimes, and one she hadn’t lost. She watched quietly as her sister’s finger followed a trail along the path from London to the coast of Scotland, to Brechin.

 

Marianne knew that the response from their father would hurt Ruth deeply, even more now that she was planning the trip in her mind, dreaming about Scottish castles and misty moors. Marianne cleared her throat to announce her presence.

 

Ruth turned abruptly, her eyes wide with fright until she saw it was her sister, and let out a sigh of relief. “My goodness, you’re one for sneaking around. Come, look at the journey! I know you’ve done it before, but just look at how long it is. It’s amazing how much ground we will cover in just a carriage and horses!”

 

Marianne moved closer and sat near the desk. She laid her hand on her sister’s arm, and Ruth’s smile faded, seeing her older sister’s sad expression. “Ruth, Father has allowed me to go. I have asked him for permission for you to go as well, but there was no convincing him. He does not want you out of his sight. He still believes you to be too young to do so.” Marianne bowed her head in apology and a plea for forgiveness.

 

Ruth was silent for a moment, and then she stood, pulling her arm away from Marianne’s grasp. “I told you, Marianne, did I not? It was cruel of you to have given me so much hope that he would acquiesce. He is still our father, our king, our prison warden, forever and ever it would seem! Me, too young? I am 21 years old, and I’ve barely seen the world! Is there not a crime in that? We women must be banished to the drawing rooms and bedrooms of our homes with the strappings of corsets and gowns upon us!” Ruth’s face was pink with anger, and her arms flailed as she yelled the words.

 

Marianne was quiet. “I know…I…I am sorry. I desperately wanted you to go. Amelia would have loved to see you.”

 

“But, now you must go alone and revel in your good fortune. You are old enough to take care of yourself, I suppose.” She folded her arms, but then unfolded them, and sat down harshly on her bed, a hopeless expression on her face. Her voice faltered, and then it quieted, “Am I never to be free?”

 

Marianne rushed to her sister, kneeling before the girl and taking her hands. She thought for the first time that maybe it would have been better if they both had been born men, to fully taste the sweet flavor of freedom. “You will, my dear. We will both be free one day. This tyranny cannot last forever. I promise you that. One day, we will be free. But, now I must go to my friend who needs my help. Father has made me promise to return as soon as the baby is born, and I will do that. In only two months, I will be back at your side. Does that not bring you some comfort?”

 

The heat of anger had slightly left Ruth’s eyes, and she gripped Marianne tightly. “For once, I agree with Father and am glad he has made you promise to return. There is no running away. At least not without me.” She smiled, and they both giggled. Running away had always been a joke between them. It seemed like an idea from a book that was unreal; it could never really be accomplished.

 

“I will return, Ruth. I will give your love to Amelia and the new baby.”

Marianne went directly to her writing desk and wrote back to Amelia, excitedly about her arrival. The next few days were spent packing and purchasing a few small gifts for everyone since she wanted to make sure her letter arrived before her. On the morning of her departure, Marianne stood in the hallway, gripping her small purse in her hand, her trunks waiting to be loaded into the carriage. Margrete, her lady’s maid, had left to inform the coachman that she was ready to depart.

 

Her teeth gripped her lip as her excitement mounted, but she also felt a deep concern for her sister. Ruth entered the room to say goodbye, and looked cheerful enough, and Marianne was comforted. “Goodbye, Marianne. Have a safe journey, and do not forget any details! You will tell me everything that has happened and provide any details on the infamous Mr. Fraser.” She whispered his name in Marianne’s ear so that she wouldn’t invite her father’s rage on hearing a man’s name mentioned by his daughters in his home.

 

Marianne tsked at her sister’s impertinence and smiled, “I shall, Ruth. I shall write to you as often as I can! Do not worry; all details will be given.” Except for the details of that one event that has already happened, and definitely would not happen again.

 

Ruth gave her a quick hug. “Now, I must leave you before the coach takes your trunks. It will be hard enough to hear the movement of wheels taking you away from me, but I don’t want to see it as well!”

 

Marianne clasped her sister’s hand. “I understand, Ruth. Goodbye! Best of luck with Father. I will see you soon!”

The coachman entered the house and began moving the trunks to the carriage with the help of a footman and the instruction of Margrete. Marianne watched them and felt her excitement build. Behind her, Lord Browne entered the room, a document in his hands. He grumbled behind her, and she turned towards him.

 

“Marianne, daughter, here is a letter of instruction for you that I do not want you to open until you are safely in the carriage. I wish you good travels to your destination. Be virtuous and upright, and do not disgrace me.”

 

Marianne nodded wordlessly and reached out her hand to take the letter. “Thank you, Father. I shall write to you with updates about Amelia’s condition.”

 

“Good. Now take your leave. Do not cry, for tears are a woman’s weakness.”

 

“Yes, Father.” She turned to go and walked out the door, feeling the clutches of restriction slowly loosen with each step, and as soon as she entered the carriage with Margrete, they would tear away completely, and she could breathe again. Marianne hadn’t realized the beauty of this feeling until she was allowed to go to Kinnaird Castle alone without her father the first time. It had been a dream.

 

Margrete waited for her to enter the carriage, as the footman held the door open, and followed soon after. Once the wheels began moving from her London home, Marianne breathed a sigh of relief, like she had been holding her breath for too long. Her maid smiled, noting her mistress’ enjoyment as Marianne clutched the ring that hung from her necklace, her mother’s old wedding ring. It had been a sort of talisman to help keep her mother’s memory alive, as well as fill her with strength and joy when needed.

 

Marianne smiled back briefly, but there were more pressing matters. Quickly she tore open the letter from her father, assuming it would be a lesson on morality and biblical principles, for which she understood and therefore were unnecessary for her to hear once again. However, as her eyes glided across the page, the words she read were much, much worse.

---

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Chapter 1

North Sea,
East of Widow’s Bay,
Scotland,
July 1767

Tara Bright lifted her face to the sea spray and gasped with delight. Her hands clasped the rail of the rising and plunging ship, and the brisk wind whipped her long, light brown hair out of its braid and wrapped it luxuriantly about her. Colour rose in her cheeks as she faced the wind. She felt better than she ever had in her life.

“Oh, father, this is wonderful!” she called back over her shoulder. Her accent was an odd one, not immediately recognisable. There was a hint of her parent’s Irish accent, more than a hint of Yorkshire, where she had done most of her growing up and all of her schooling, and an undercurrent of something harder to pin down.

Behind her, her father was moving across the deck toward her. He smiled to himself as he did so, pleased that his feisty, impetuous daughter was approaching her upcoming marriage with such relish and enthusiasm. It was a match made for business advantage, not for love, and well did he know how such arrangements were often met with horror by their participants. But no fear showed in his daughter’s stance; as she stood at the rail, her head raised, her back straight, and the snap of excitement and anticipation plain to see in her sparkling, dark eyes.

“Yes, it is, isn’t it?” he said. He was a solid, respectable-looking Irishman and his accent was pure Dublin Irish; there was no trace of the Yorkshire where he had lived and worked for the last fifteen years.

“I am so glad you are happy, my dear,” he went on. “I feared that this might not be congenial to you, but I see that you are more than a match for the challenge.”

Her laugh was carefree and bold, a beautiful sound amid the creak of timbers and sails and the swoosh of the waves.

“Of course I am, father!” She laughed. “You raised me to be a brave and competent young woman, and it is not likely that I should be intimidated by this marriage. Anyway, Ranald Carlisle is a handsome, intelligent, well-educated and wealthy young man. What more could a woman want?”

It was her father’s turn to laugh.

“I am assured that he is indeed handsome and strong, and fine athlete and fighter,” he replied, “though I have never actually seen the fellow, you understand. And, of course, Edinburgh is one of the best universities, and one of the oldest, so his education cannot be doubted. I have only words in his father’s hand to attest to this, but if a man can be judged by his handwriting, then Ranald Carlisle’s father is, at least, a very sound man. And as the father, so the son, as is often said.”

She was looking thoughtfully out over the horizon as he spoke. They had been sailing north up the coast for two days. In another day they would make port, and then a journey by road would take them to Balmore, Lord Carlisle’s estate. There, they would meet the suitor and his father, and, assuming all was well, Tara and Ranald would be married then and there at Balmore. Then Tara’s father and Ranald’s father would be family, and they would enter into a long-lasting and mutually beneficial trading relationship.

Tara’s father was a sheep-breeder and a wool-merchant, and he owned a significant amount of the wool production and supply infrastructure in Yorkshire. With his overseas contacts, he could both supply sheep to fill Lord Carlisle’s lands, and then take, process, and distribute the final product. In the 20 years since the end of the rebellion in the Highlands of Scotland, wool production had become a big part of the economy. Tara’s father expected that the long-term trading relationship secured by his daughter’s marriage would make both him and Lord Carlisle very, very rich men.

The ship pitched and rolled into another wave. Tara pointed out over the grey water, north, and east, away from the land which lay to their left.

“See there, father,” she called to him over the rising wind. “There’s rain there, or I’ve learned nothing on this voyage!”

He looked where she pointed. Sure enough, a bank of dense black cloud had piled itself up across the horizon. From this vantage point, they could see the whole length of it. It looked, thought Tara’s father uncomfortably, as big as an English county, and it was approaching fast. Even as they watched, the sea’s mood seemed to change, the waves becoming less choppy and erratic, more prolonged and slow. The troughs between the waves appeared to deepen, and Tara and her father could hear the sound of the wind, which was blowing the storm directly toward them. It sounded like a thousand deep voices, all roaring in angry unison. The first drops of rain began to fall.

Around them, the mood on the ship changed. They could hear the mate bellowing orders and the crew running about the deck, lashing things down with ropes and pulling in the bigger sails. They moved quickly and efficiently, but Tara’s father thought there was a masked air of panic to their actions. Tara seemed unaware of this. She looked toward the broken shore of the land which lay not far off to the west. The captain was hurrying toward them.

“Mr Bright, Miss Bright,” said the captain, acknowledging Tara and then speaking to her father. “I fear I must ask ye both tae take yersels away below decks tae yer cabin. As ye no doubt see, there’s a storm blowing up out o’ the northeast. These unexpected gales are not unheard o’ on this part o’ the coast, but this is a big one, and I didn’t predict it. They can be fierce.”

The captain, a small, sun-burnt man with a black beard and one blind eye, stared out fixedly from the rail, first at the approaching cloud bank and then at the land.

“I wouldn’t be so concerned, ye see,” he went on, “but for the fact that there is a nasty band o’ reef between us and the shore here. Ye see those breakers?”

Tara and her father were both paying close attention to him now. There was nothing feigned about the concern in the captain’s voice. They looked where he was pointing and saw a long, nearly unbroken stretch of churning white water.

“Yonder is the reef,” said the captain. “The white water is caused by a long line o’ deadly sharp rocks which sit just below the line o’ the water there. There’s no way through them that I know, and it’s damned bad luck – begging yer pardon, miss – for us tae have been caught by the storm here tae the side o’ them. I plan tae get us as far away from them as I can before that storm hits us. Port Anderson isn’t all that far away and if we can get within spitting distance o’ that then perhaps we can put in there until it passes…”

The mate shouted to the captain, and there was an unmistakable note of urgency in his tone.

The Captain turned and hurried over to where the mate was standing, looking at him anxiously,

“Excuse me, but if ye would oblige me by taking yersels below…”

“Of course, captain,” said Tara, and, taking her father’s arm, the two of them walked carefully across the pitching deck toward the hatch which would take them down to their small cabin.

They were not the only passengers. There was a priest, Father Callahan, who was travelling to Aberdeen, and two middle-aged ladies who were going to the same destination. There was also a dark, ill-favoured looking fellow with a greasy, pencil-thin moustache who went by the name of Mr Jones.

Mr Jones, it was rumoured, had a cargo onboard of great value, and was going to Aberdeen to sell it. Most of these people were already below decks, but Mr Jones was walking leisurely toward the hatch. He saw Tara and went so far as to give her a lecherous wink. Tara gritted her teeth and ignored him. Mr Jones gave off the unpleasant impression of being a man whose principles would quickly give way to his pleasures. He had made no secret of his attraction to her and took every opportunity to show it. She would not give him the satisfaction of reacting to his provocation.

In the cabin, the pitching and tossing of the boat became frighteningly evident. Tara and her father sat side-by-side on her bunk, not saying much. The rain hammered on the timbers of the ship outside, and the deep boom that reverberated throughout the ship every time a wave smashed up against the side of it was frightening.

A sudden rending crash and thud made them both glance up. Tara stood and moved to look out of the little round window. She found herself staring down through the pounding rain into what seemed like an immense black chasm of water, immeasurably deep and profoundly terrifying. One hand found the back of a chair which was bolted to the floor next to the window, the other steadied her against the wooden wall. The ship was plummeting down into the chasm.

Then the view changed, and they were being borne up again. Cresting the next wave, she caught a glimpse of the skyline looking toward the land. Far away, it seemed that she could see daylight on the green earth, but overhead the sky was black. There was something white near at hand, but she could not make it out. Then a blinding flash of lightning cut the air and lit up the whole view in terrifying detail. It was the reef. Not far away at all from where she looked out, the dark water was churned to a boiling froth. She could see cruel, jagged rocks like merciless teeth among the waves.

“Father,  look! We are being driven onto the reef!”

He leapt from the bunk and crossed the short distance in two strides.

“Good God…” he breathed in fear, and his hand found Tara’s shoulder. They could hear shouting and running feet overhead.

At that moment, there was a hammering on the door, and it was pushed open. The second mate stood in the doorway, drenched to the skin, his hair plastered across his forehead and his eyes wide.

“Captain says, dress warm and get on deck as quick as ye can, please!” he shouted, before dashing off to the next cabin to deliver the same message. Tara met her father’s eyes, and the two of them immediately moved to follow the order. They had brought plenty of warm clothing, which they pulled on as best they could in the rolling and tossing of the cabin. When they were done, they linked arms and hurried out of the cabin and to the deck.

The scene was one of mayhem. A torn and tattered sail lay across the deck, wrapped up with ropes and splintered pieces of wood. As Tara’s eyes made sense of the scene, she realised that it was the remains of one of the smaller masts. The wind had sheared the whole thing off and felled it like a tree, and now it lay smashed across the deck, hindering the passage of the sailors who were trying to haul the ship’s small boat across the deck and launch it into the seething waves. This, she realised, was the noise they had heard from the cabin below. Was it possible to navigate while missing a mast? She did not know.

The rain was blinding, and the ship pitched wildly. The howl of the wind was so loud that the captain, yelling orders, could not make himself heard. Tara glanced at her father. He was white with fear, and the other passengers were no better. The priest was praying, his hands raised to the sky in a passionate plea. Mr Jones was trying to look nonchalant and failing. The two middle-aged ladies were holding onto each other and weeping. Tara let go of her father’s arm and moved to the landward side of the ship. She looked over the side.

Leaning over the rail, she had a quick impression of churning white water and jagged rocks, and then the ship connected with the reef with a tooth-rattling thud and a stomach-clenching scream of breaking timber. A voice wailed, “she’s struck!” and at the same moment, Tara was flung into the air by the impact. The ship gave a massive lurch, dropping back down, hooked on the rocks like a fish on a line.

The deck rose to meet her, and Tara landed with a bang which knocked the wind clean out of her and left her head reeling. She lay stunned for a moment before the freezing rain lashing her face shocked her back into consciousness. Where was her father? She pulled herself up into a sitting position and found that she was leaning against the ship’s rail. The deck rose up above her at a crazy angle. Dark figures rushed about, but she could not make anyone out. Her head swam, and her chest hurt. Where was he?

Tara was just about to stand and call out when the deck to her right cracked under the weight of the battering waves. The whole brig – masts, deck, and the heavy wooden hull – snapped into two pieces like a child’s toy. Tara watched, frozen in horror, as the entire front portion of the ship crashed away into the sea and was swallowed up by the dark water. She looked around desperately, but there was nobody nearby and nothing to hold of except the rail. She grabbed for that, but before she could make firm her grip, the angry sea picked up what remained of the ship and flung it with mighty force back down onto the reef.

For what seemed like a very long time, all was blackness and rushing water. There was no up, no down, no light, no air. In a distant, uncaring way, Tara wondered if she was dead. But when she bobbed to the surface again, she found that she was not, and the cold, salty, damp air rushing into her lungs stung her to awareness. She choked and coughed, flailing her arms and retching up seawater. There was something solid and rough under her hands. The lightning flashed again, and she saw what it was – wet wood, hoary and barnacled. She was clinging to a curved section of the hull of the boat, smashed free and floating. The barnacles, built up over its years at sea, cut her hands and knees as she hauled herself up on all fours to rest on the wreckage.

She looked around, gasping. The view was not encouraging. Wreckage and broken timbers floated and bobbed in the rolling water, and her stinging eyes could not make out any other human form. She was alone.

Tara thought she must have lost consciousness for a time. Thunder boomed, and slowly she realised that it was getting lighter. Not much, and not quickly, but it was definitely getting lighter, and the rain was easing off, too. She was shivering with the cold. Behind her, the churning reef was growing further away; in a moment of panic, she thought she was being swept out to sea, but no – she was drifting toward the land. Peering through the gloom, she saw a bright strip of beach ahead, bounded by high cliffs which stretched away unbroken on either side. It occurred to her that if she were washed up to the cliffs, she would undoubtedly be smashed against them and killed, and even if not, she would hardly be able to climb up. The beach was her only hope of survival.

The thought of her father flashed into her mind. Pushing down the grief and horror which threatened to rise up and choke her, she focused on the now. Manoeuvring herself to the edge of the barnacled raft, she slipped off the side. Her soaked clothes weighed her down, but she did not give up. Clinging with her arms and using the wood as a float, she kicked her legs out behind her. The current was working in her favour, and all she had to do was aim and kick. With a little bit of luck, she would make it onto the sandbar.

Tara had always been a strong swimmer, but this was her biggest challenge yet. Into her mind came the words of a governess, who had been full of advice which might have seemed strange to a young girl not as adventurous as Tara. The lesson had been about falling into cold water.

“It’s the shock that will kill you, the shock and the cold. Give into these things, and you will not be able to swim. Control your breath, that’s the first thing. If you can control your breath, you can get control of your body and swim for shore.”

The memory flooded into her brain with all the vividness of a fever, but she took the advice. As the cold seawater soaked greedily into her clothes, she forced herself to breathe slowly and deeply, filling her lungs with the same deliberate attention as aiming for the beach and kicking, and trying not to think of her father, who lay behind her, probably, in the cold water. He could not swim. He had been at all athletic and would not stand a chance. No! Don’t think of it! She pushed the thought back down.

Breathe. Aim. Kick. she thought. Breathe. Aim. Kick. And that was all. Like a prayer, she repeated these three words over and over again in her head. When the sun, at last, broke through the clouds she saw not a narrow sandbar,  but a broad, long, curving beach, creating a deep natural inlet between the high cliffs. She kicked and kicked until satisfied she had escaped the current which threatened to smash her up against the merciless cliffs. Then, aware that the tide would pull her in, she used the last of her strength to haul herself onto her floating piece of wreckage. Rolling over, she lay down on her back. The cloud-tattered blue sky swam and turned above her. She glanced out over the water, hoping for a glimpse of her father, of anyone, but she could see no one and nothing. The beach ahead looked empty of life. Even if she reached it, what would she do? She wondered to herself what hope there was. Looking out at the water, she thought of her dear father, but in her heart had little hope for him. The thought of her future swam around her. A moment ago, she had been happy and prosperous, sailing toward a bright future. Now she had no idea what would become of her. She would be friendless and alone, in a hostile country.

The waves pulled her toward the unknown shore.

 

Chapter 2

“Callan, I know ye do not feel well disposed toward the girl, but for the love o’ heaven will ye not at least try tae show a pleasant countenance tae her? For my sake? For yer mother’s sake? Well do ye know the efforts that we have put into this, and how important it is for our two clans, MacPhersons and Grants, tae bind ourselves by marriage. Just… och, man, will ye not at least try tae charm the lassie? I know ye could if ye only tried.”

Callan MacPherson looked up into his father’s earnest eyes and sighed inwardly. He had been stubborn, sullen, and impolite, and he knew it. When eighteen-year-old Flora, Iain Grant’s pretty eldest daughter, had tried to engage him in conversation over the dinner table, all eyes were turned on them.

“So,” her eyes had sparkled with hopeful anticipation, “my father tells me that ye are very interested in the smith’s trade, and have even made yer own sword?” Her eyes fluttered at the potential innuendo which hung around the word ‘sword’. “I’d like tae see it if I might?”

Callan had risen from his place with all the dignity he could muster.

“Yer pardon, miss, but I must visit the privy.”

The slight was so evident that he regretted it immediately. He had made his own sword and was very proud of it. He had learned the skill from the castle smith, old Donal McGraw, who had come to live with the MacPhersons in the years following the agreement of the truce. He liked Donal because the old man did not treat him like a princeling, or an heir, or anything other than an interested lad. Callan, an intelligent, practical, physical young man, had no taste for the polite political games which his role as heir to the clan obliged him to participate in.

And so, Flora Grant’s request to see the sword he had forged for himself touched a sore spot. He viewed his journey through learning the smithing skill from old Donal as a deeply personal thing, and the thought of using it as a playing piece in this ridiculous game of courtship for the sake of alliance appalled him. In truth, he had needed to visit the privy, but there was no need to use that to get out of the conversation in such a blunt way. He was just no good at this.

Callan, stood in the corridor, facing his father, who had followed and cornered him as he exited from the privy. In his mid-forties, Murdo MacPherson was still a big, powerful man, though his hair was streaked with grey and his face was lined with the cares that came with twenty years of managing his clan’s affairs. Callan had inherited his father’s build and stood almost as tall as the older man. The boy knew that if he drew himself up to his full height, he could have towered over his father, whose shoulders were now a little stooped, but he did not wish to do so. Instead, he bowed his head and said what he knew he needed to say.

“Och, I’m sorry, father, I’m just no good at this kind o’ thing, and the question caught me off guard. I’m sorry. I’ll try harder, and I’ll show her the blade if she wishes it.”

Sheepishly, he added, “I did truly need tae visit the privy…”

His father put his head back and laughed loudly, then swung a brawny arm around his son’s broad shoulders.

“Aye, I ken that this kind o’ thing does not appeal tae ye,” Murdo added kindly, as father and son walked back up the corridor to the dining room. “Tae tell the truth it has only come tae me through long practice. When I was your age, it was all swords, scouting, fighting, and risk, and much as I wouldn’t have us back at war, there were times when that was an easier and more honest task than the diplomatic dancing we must do so much o’ these days.”

“But come on, son, let’s away back in and do our best, eh? She’s a bonnie wee lassie! Give her a smile and talk tae her about yer smithing, there’s a good lad.”

Heat and the smells of rich food hit them as they swung the door to the dining room open and re-entered together. Callan smiled at everyone. His mother, Emily, looked strained and worried. His tall, red-haired twin sister Alice sat on his mother’s right-hand side, and she looked as if she was trying not to laugh. Iain Grant, Flora’s father, sat with a face like thunder, gripping his knife as if he fancied taking a chunk out of Callan with it rather than eating his dinner. Poor, pretty, young Flora Grant looked hurt.

Callan made an effort. He smiled around at everyone and took his seat beside Flora. Flora’s two younger sisters whispered behind their hands and giggled together. Murdo murmured something in Emily’s ear as he took his place beside her, and she nodded, looking relieved. Iain Grant continued to glare at Callan, who ignored everyone and focused his attention on Flora.

“I do beg yer pardon, mistress,” he spoke gallantly, and loud enough for everyone to hear. “Ye were asking a question about my smithing, I believe?” Her eyes lit up like the sun breaking through a cloud.

The meal passed slowly for Callan, and, hard as he worked to attend to the eager young lady beside him, he simply could not muster a romantic interest in her. She was, no doubt, an attractive, personable young woman. There was nothing wrong with her that he could pin down, but there was just no spark. She was too eager, too keen to please him. She hung on his every word and wriggled like a praised puppy every time he asked her a question in return. Really, he thought, she was not much more than a child, dressed up in the clothes of an adult and set to play a part. Well, it was a part he was able to play, too, but he could not muster any enthusiasm for it. He felt like a fraud, and by the time he had come to the end of the meal, he felt exhausted.

A sudden storm had blown up outside, and the servants rushed to close shutters and add more wood to the fire as the wind boomed and howled in the chimney. Iain Grant relaxed a little after seeing Callan’s efforts to make up for the slight to his daughter, struck up a conversation with Emily and Murdo about the weather. It was rare, he told them, but not unheard of for a summer storm to blow up so quickly, though nobody in his household had predicted this one.

“And a rare thing that is, too,” he said, “for there are many here in the castle and down in the town who watch the weather all day long. Fishermen and sailors who hae been on the sea all their lives. Nobody kens the sea and the weather as they do, but every now and then a storm blows up that even they don’t see coming. Woe betide any o’ my folk out caught out on the water in that storm, or anybody else for that matter!”

“Is that likely?” asked Emily. Her native English accent, which had hardly lessened despite the twenty years of living in the Highlands, rang oddly in the hall full of rich Scottish brogues.

“Oh, aye,” Iain warmed to his subject. “There’s a busy sea route not far from our wee bay here. The ships travel back and forth all year from the Queensferry at Edinburgh, north tae Aberdeen and even further afield. It’s July now, and there will be busy traffic back and forth at this time. It would be a dark day for any who were caught near the bay in such a storm.”

Callan was interested. “Why would it be worse here than anywhere else?” he asked. It was not Iain, but Flora who answered this time.

“Because o’ the reef,” she spoke in a sombre voice very different from her girlish tones of a moment ago.

“The reef?” asked Callan.

“Aye, not far from the bay there is a jagged reef o’ sharp rocks that cut up the water. Even on a calm day, ye can see the white water over the rocks if ye stand on the cliffs and look out tae the sea. Any ship that got caught in a hard easterly would be blown onto those rocks. Many have lost their lives there, so many that the folk hae named it Widow’s Bay, for the many widows have been made by the reef. Well is it named.”

Iain Grant frowned at his daughter, and her dark words and melancholy tone cast a chill over the group. Emily shivered.

Callan’s twin sister Alice spoke for the first time. Her voice was bright and hearty as if she tried to fill in for Flora’s lapse.

“That’s rare bad luck! If it were not for that reef, ye would have a valuable little bay there, and could develop it into a trading port.”

“Ah,” said Iain, “but it has been a rare defence over the years, too. No ship may pass the bay tae attack the castle here. There is a way through, but we keep it secret. Also, the reef makes the bay calm, and the fisherfolk o’ the village does well in the deepwater there. No, we wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Thunder boomed outside.

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Chapter I

The Son of the Laird

 

Andrew Cameron was breathless. He had run for several miles through the forest that morning, enjoying the peace and tranquillity of the beautiful place. Above him the sun cast its light through the canopy, a dappled shade spread across the forest floor covered by ferns and mosses, a carpet of greenery stretching out before him. Soon he was deep into the forest, running along a path which was often used by the deer. At length, he came upon them quite suddenly, startling them from their grazing and causing them to scatter. As he watched the young creatures disappear into the woods, a magnificent stag appeared into the glade, taking little notice of Andrew who posed no threat to this monarch of the glen.

 

The young man watched as the stag grazed, it’s majestic appearance an astonishing sight to behold. Turning its head, the animal looked at Andrew for a moment and instinctively bowed its head, as though recognising Andrew for who he was: the rightful heir and Laird of all he surveyed. Andrew stood motionless as the stag turned and ambled off into the forest after its herd. A sight so spectacular that it took the young man’s breath away. Such views were the reward of solitude and Andrew would have gladly resided in the forest his whole life, the peace and tranquillity of that place as much a home to him as the crofts from which he had just descended.

 

He had left home as the dawn broke, the first crofters emerging with him to see to the animals, the sun rising over the moorlands. His mother and stepfather, Rhona and Stewart, had still been asleep as Andrew left the croft quietly, running off across the heathers towards the forest.

 

Rhona and Stewart had lived a happy life together, though one which was always fraught with danger. At any time, they could expect a raid by Murdoch’s men, though the pretender himself never dared to face his brother. Stewart and Rhona had raised Andrew to always honour the memory of his father, Iain Cameron, taking every opportunity to remind the young boy of the brave deeds and great acts of heroism that the Laird had achieved.

 

“Ye are very like yer father in so many ways,” Rhona smiled. Her son was growing quickly, and the young laddie loved to think about his father and what he might have been like.

 

“What was he like, mother?”

 

“A brave and noble man, my son,” Rhona looked wistfully into the distance as memories of her dear husband returned to her

 

The crofters lived a simple life, tending to their cattle and making a living from the land. As a child Andrew had learnt to hunt and catch fish and following in his father’s footsteps he had learned to fight. He was taught by his stepfather Stewart and uncle Duncan, the brother of Rhona.

 

“We must always be ready for a Mackintosh attack, laddie, ye must be ready to defend yerself and yer dear mother tae.”

 

Andrew was as capable with the sword as he was with the tools of a crofter, and as he grew, came to be liked and respected by all. He was a handsome young man, with the strength of his father and the gentle good looks of his mother. A crop of blonde hair and green eyes gave him an attraction which many a young lassie had noticed over the years. But Andrew found little interest in such things, at least he had done until now, the lassies on the crofts were all the same, simple folk and the daughters of peasants, he knew himself to be the son of the Laird and could not merely chase after any lassie who took a fancy to him.

 

Besides, it was not the excitement of the battlefield or the work of the croft which interested Andrew Cameron. As often as he could, he would go off by himself into the forest. There he would run through the trees and feel the rush of fresh air around him. The scents and sights of the forest a familiar home to him. Ever since he could remember, he had loved to be alone in the forest. Solitude gave him time to think, and often he would ponder on the future and his destiny to be Laird of the glen, it was this inheritance which often troubled him, a sense of unworthiness hanging like a rain cloud. Could he ever emulate his father’s deeds? Or be strong like his uncle and stepfather? Andrew was still a boy and had much to learn, but in the forest, he was master of all he surveyed.

 

He knew every part of it, from the waterfalls which cascaded down from the high mountains to the glades where deep pools and gushing streams flowed through the trees, and where it was said that the faery folk lived. He knew the paths which the animals took and the best places to watch the deer grazing and the wildcats at play. Often, he spent the night there, kindling a fire and sleeping beneath the stars, the ways and moods of the forest as much a part of him as they were of themselves.

 

It was this solitude which Andrew Cameron longed for that morning as he set off across the heathers and down into the forest below. He took his familiar route, one walked a thousand times before, following a path which led him deep into the woods.

 

As a child, his mother had warned him not to stray too far, and to always keep an eye on where he was going. Evil men lay at the other end of the forest, and she recounted the tale of his father’s death and the capture of the Cameron castle all those years ago when Andrew was but a bairn in arms. Occasionally he had dared himself to walk deeper into the forest, seeking out new paths and edging closer to the mysterious castle which held so much fear for them all.

 

“Tis’ Murdoch Mackintosh who now resides there,” Rhona furrowed her brow “and no more wicked man can be found than he. Ye know the tales of what he did tae me and tae yer father. How he murdered him upon the battlefield and would gladly have murdered us all if given a chance. Long has he sought an opportunity to be rid of ye, my son.”

 

Stewart nodded in agreement. “Stay away from that castle my laddie tis’ a dark place and ye do not want tae encounter my brother Murdoch. If I never see him again, then I shall be glad of it.”

 

“Keep yer wits about ye at all times, nephew,” his uncle added, “the woods are full of Mackintosh spies if ye are intent upon walking there so often then be prepared tae use yer sword and dagger upon any stranger.”

 

At these words, Andrew remained silent, secretly wondering just what the castle was like and whether every Mackintosh was truly as bad his relatives made them out to be. Once he had gone almost too far to the walls of the castle, following a track that seemed to lead directly there. He had caught sight of one of the castle banners in the distance, just as a party of Mackintosh men had appeared on the road ahead, patrolling for Cameron insurgents, their swords drawn and murderous looks upon their faces. Andrew fled quickly back into the forest, running with all his might in terror at the sight of such wicked men.

 

Ever since then, he had kept his distance, the vast forests big enough to ensure that he need to go nowhere near that evil place again. Now, as he walked into the trees, he breathed in the fresh scent of pine and smiled to himself as above him the birds sang, a cuckoo echoing its song in the distance, as the first dawn rays broke through the canopy.

 

Today all he desired was to be alone. He walked more slowly through the forest, but decided against visiting his Godmother Cairstine and her husband Alistair as he often did, who resided in a cottage deep in the woods, instead he took the hidden paths, known only to the animals, pausing to collect berries which he ate and drinking from one of the streams. The cold, icy water refreshed him, and he was soon running through the trees intent upon reaching the waterfalls which flowed down from Cornevis, the mountain towering high above the glen, and even in summer had wisps of snow about its top.

 

As he ran, Andrew thought once more of his destiny. Ever since he could remember his mother and stepfather had impressed upon him the fact that he would be Laird and that when he was of age, it would be his responsibility to lead the Cameron Clan to revenge Murdoch Mackintosh, the man who had murdered his father and left them in exile.

 

“Ye are the rightful Laird of this glen, my son,” Rhona instilled in the boy, “ye are the one who will lead the Cameron’s home and vanquish that wicked man from the castle.”

 

Duncan remembered the past only too well. “Aye, the honour of our clan is yers tae defend, ye are the one who will lead us intae battle.”

 

“We have suffered tae much at the hands of the Mackintosh’s, the years since ye were a bairn have been long and hard. Many a good man has been lost in their raids, and in the battles we have fought. Now is the time for us tae emerge as victors,” Stewart could never forgive or forget the treachery of his brother.

 

It was a well-rehearsed narrative and one which Andrew knew all too well, yet the thought of such responsibility unnerved him. He was as accomplished a swordsman as any of his fellow clansmen, but the idea of facing his father’s killer in battle terrified him. He had known nothing different to life amongst the crofters, and he had no real desire to reside in a castle which had been described to him as a place of such wickedness. But the time was approaching, and already his stepfather and uncle had begun to rally those forces friendly to their cause in preparation for an assault upon the Mackintosh clan. For too long the Cameron’s had been on the offensive, protected only by the stoutness of their men and the geography of their crofts which, lying high up in the mountains, made an all-out assault impossible. Occasional raids still decimated the lands and caused much hardship to the Cameron’s, and they knew that the time was coming when they must fight on their own terms.

 

“A foolish quest,” Andrew thought to himself, pausing to catch his breath beneath the shady trees. It was then that he heard a sound, not of birdsong, or the noise of animals in the forest, nor the movement of the trees, but rather the sweet sound of someone singing. Startled, he stood still and listened. The sound coming from just a little way away.

 

“I left my baby lying here,
Lying here, lying here
I left my baby lying here
To go and gather blaeberries.

 

I found the wee brown otter’s track
Otter’s track, otter’s track
I found the wee brown otter’s track
But ne’er a trace o’ my baby, O!”

 

The words sounded sweet and gentle upon the air and Andrew stood transfixed as he listened to the song, wondering as to who might be singing. Rarely did he come upon anyone in the woods and rarer still to hear such a beautiful song. It was one he had heard his mother hum occasionally, and he crept forward to see who was singing.

 

The foliage was thick and lush, the perfect camouflage as he approached the sound of the voice. He had been there several times before and came to it on a side which he knew to be well covered by ferns, following a path used by animals who went there to drink.

 

The chorus was now repeated, the distinctive sound of a lassie singing. Andrew wanted to call out in response but worried lest he should scare away the singer he crept forward as quietly as he could, his heart beating faster as the source of such beauty came into view.

 

Chapter II

The Lassie in the Glade

 

A little further down the path, it opened into a glade where a stream flowed merrily into a great pool. The water was deep and blue, invitingly clear, the current swirling a little as the water cascaded white and foaming into its depths. There, swimming across, was a lassie, as beautiful a one as Andrew had ever seen.

 

He stooped behind the ferns which bordered the glade, watching her in fascination. She had a face so fair and lovely that he was instantly captivated by her and as she swam her long hair flowed out upon the water, her body gliding effortlessly as though she had swum there every day of her life.

 

Her singing continued, the words echoing around the glade. More folk songs of the glen, which told of faerys and mythical beasts, of love and loss, of great battles and glorious deeds. She was a songbook of words and Andrew was enchanted, unable to take his eyes from her.

 

The lassie swam for around an hour, back and forth across the pool, gliding through the water and occasionally diving into its depths and emerging with a great splash, shaking her head in refreshment. Finally, she emerged from the pool, the sight of her naked body, causing Andrew to blush and look away. He desperately wished to speak with her. He had never seen a lassie more beautiful than her, and as she finished dressing, he made the decision to boldly step forward.

 

Across the water, Andrew could hear her humming another ditty, straightening her dress and tying back the wet hair. She was shivering a little, for despite the summer sun breaking through the canopy the water must still be icy. The day was drawing on, and with the sun at its height, it was clear to Andrew that she was preparing to go home. Realising this might be the only chance to speak with her, he took a deep breath and stepped forward.

 

Andrew Cameron emerged from the ferns, stepping upon a dry branch as he did so and causing it to crack. The sound of the splitting wood caused the lassie to turn in shock as she saw Andrew across the water. Letting out a scream, she ran off into the forest, taking a path which Andrew did not know, her figure disappearing rapidly before him into the trees.

 

“Wait, I just …” Andrew Cameron began, but his words were lost, as the lassie fled into the forest.

 

Andrew ran downstream a little, forging the water just below the pool and running to the place where she had stood just a few moments before. There, beneath the trees, lay a woven shawl, left by her in her haste to run away. Andrew stooped and picked it up, holding it to his chest and breathing in the sweet perfumed scent. Turning towards the forest, he looked down the path, but there was no sign of the lassie whose name he did not know, but whose looks had so enchanted.

 

He began to run down the path, thinking that perhaps he might catch her and apologize for startling her, intent upon returning the shawl, but there was no sign of her. Walking deeper into the forest, he had no idea where he was going and stopped, catching his breath and looked around at the unfamiliar trees.

 

“I shall not find the lassie now,” Andrew called out loud, the trees seeming close, as overhead the sky became overcast, the sun disappearing behind a cloud.

 

Reluctantly he turned, retracing his steps to the forest glade and sat beside the pool a little while. Staring into the water he clutched the lassie’s shawl and began to sing snatches of a song he remembered from his childhood.

 

“With careless step I onward stray’d,
My heart rejoic’d in nature’s joy,
When, musing in a lonely glade,
A maiden fair I chanc’d to spy.

 

Her look was like the morning’s eye,
Her air like nature’s vernal smile,
Perfection whisper’d, passing by: –
‘Behold the lass o’ Ballochmyle!”

 

Andrew sat for an hour or so by the pool, singing stanches of songs he knew and thinking of the young lassie. What an unexpected encounter it had been. She was beautiful, and her image was clearly imprinted upon his mind, the thought of her emerging from the pool a sight he would never forget. He felt guilty for startling her, she had seemed so frightened, as though she feared any person she might meet in the woods.

 

Idly skimming a stone across the water, it bounced along the smooth surface. It was not easy for Andrew to meet women. There were the daughters of the other crofters of course, but he was to be Laird, and they were just ordinary folk. He could not just court any lassie he desired, a fact his mother often reminded him of.

 

“Ye are of noble blood, Andrew and it must be tae noble blood that ye marry,” Andrew spoke aloud, repeating his mother’s words.

 

This lassie had appeared different. She looked as though she had never worked a day in her life. Her skin was soft, her hands gentle and delicate. The dress she wore and the way her hair was smooth and long suggested a woman of noble means. Such thoughts made him even more curious. Had he seen one of the faery folks? Unlike many of his fellow kin, Andrew was not easily given to superstition, but there were tales of woodland creatures enticing men to their doom, beautiful faerys in the glen who would assume the form of a maiden only to lead a man to his death.

 

Andrew looked around him as though a host of faerys would leap out upon him or a spirit of the trees descend upon him in a cloud. There was nothing though, only the gentle breeze blowing through the forest which now rippled across the water. He skimmed another stone and stood up, tying the shawl around his waist as he walked through the forest towards home.

 

Andrew had not realised how far he had walked, and it took several hours of walking along seldom used paths and deer runs before he emerged onto the moorland path. A steep climb brought him onto the heathers, high on the mountainside and he turned, looking down onto the glen below. There in the far distance was his father’s castle, the banners of the Mackintosh’s fluttering on the turrets.

 

Andrew wondered if perhaps the lassie had come from there, yet she seemed far too beautiful to be associated with such fiends. Further above him were the crofts and coming towards was his uncle, Duncan, striding through the heathers to meet him.

 

“So, this is where ye have been all day? I was expecting ye tae assist me with the cattle, several of them have lamed themselves upon the rocks, and it has taken us most of the day tae make things right.”

 

“I am sorry, uncle. I had need of time alone. I will assist ye tomorrow, I promise,” Yet all he could think of was the beautiful lassie.

 

“Ye can assist me now, Andrew. Ye are not Laird yet remember, there is work to be done. Idle hands receive idle portions at the dinner table, just ye remember that.” Duncan shook his head at his nephew’s tardiness, “we lost three of our finest beasts in the last Mackintosh raid, and must ensure the young calves grow intae strong animals for the winter, do ye hear me?’

 

‘Aye uncle, I hear ye,’ Andrew sighed.

 

Reluctantly he followed his uncle towards the crofts, casting one final look back towards the glen he had seen a sight so beautiful it would enchant his heart for a lifetime.

 

~

 

The lassie swimming in the pool that day was Nairne Mackintosh, who hailed from the castle of Andrew’s long-dead father Iain, now inhabited by the murderous Murdoch Mackintosh and his clansmen She too had been warned about walking in the woods, yet often she failed to heed the warning. Nairne was beautiful, but she also was headstrong, and not one for heeding the instructions of her family.

 

That day she had left the Cameron castle early, running off into the forest, a place of solitude and peace for her. She knew the paths well but was always wary of the dangers she might encounter. Despite her headstrong nature, she had been raised on tales of the evils which lay high above the forest, of the wicked crofters, amongst whom resided her uncle, the man who had betrayed his own clan for a Cameron

 

Occasionally Nairne had caught glimpses of the Cameron’s in the forest, she knew that some lived amongst the trees and was always wary of straying too far towards the edge of the woods. That day she had walked to her favourite swimming spot. The deep pool with its gushing waterfall was the most beautiful place, and she delighted in swimming there, diving into the crystal-clear waters, a place of refreshment and peace.

 

When Andrew Cameron had emerged from the ferns, she had been terrified of the mysterious man before her. He was well built and looked of noble kin, his red tunic and blonde hair standing out starkly amidst the greenery of the forest. The sight of him had terrified her, and she had rushed forth from the pool, leaving her shawl behind her as she fled.

 

Having run for several miles without stopping, she now came to the path leading towards the castle and surrounding village, breathless and scared lest she had been followed. Several watchmen were stationed along the road, and who saluted as she passed. As a noble daughter of the clan, she could come and go as she pleased, her beauty a source of constant fascination to the men tasked to guard the lands of the self-styled Laird, Murdoch Mackintosh. As she emerged breathless from the forest, they wondered what had happened to make her run so fast.

 

“Are ye alright, lassie?” one asked, as Nairne looked behind her, relieved to see she had not been followed.

 

“Aye … I … saw a man in the trees, he startled me. It was a man I dinnae recognize, and he took me by surprise. I have run ever since,” she stood breathing heavily, still catching her breath.

 

The men looked worried, two of them drawing their swords and proceeding to the path from which Nairne had emerged.

 

“A man ye say, what did he look like?”

 

“He had a red tunic and blonde hair, I took him for one of the forest dwellers,” Nairne responded truthfully.

 

“Aye, or a Cameron fiend,” the guards spat on the ground at the name of their sworn enemy, “do not worry though lassie, ye are safe now and we shall guard this way so that ye have nothing tae fear. Shall I inform the Laird about this?”

 

“No,” Nairne turned to the guard beseechingly, “if he knew then I should never be allowed tae walk in the forests by myself again. Please, dinnae tell the Laird, my time in the forest is such a consolation for me, and if I did not have that, then I should be truly sorrowful.”

 

“Aye, very well lassie, but ye must be careful in the forests, many a fiendish man walks there, many a Cameron devil. Never forget that our enemies are everywhere and seek only tae destroy us.” At that, the guard led his men down the forest track, searching for any sign of the mysterious young man.

 

Nairne now walked more slowly, catching her breath. A breeze blew gently through the trees causing her to shiver, and it was then that she realized she had lost her shawl. It was one which her mother had woven for her, and she was upset at having lost it.

 

“I must have left it by the pool,” Nairne realized, emerging from the forest and walking along the track towards the castle.

 

The Cameron castle was a dark place. Once it had rung with happiness and laughter, when Iain Cameron had been Laird and his wife Rhona had been its mistress. Now the place appeared foreboding, even in the summer sun, its ramparts patrolled by guards, the gates closed against would-be intruders. Nairne was let in by two of the Laird’s henchmen and made her way into the keep where she found her mother, Una, in the Great Hall spinning wool upon a wheel.

 

“Ye have been gone all day, Nairne. The Laird has been searching for ye,” Una laid down her wool and smiled at her daughter.

 

“He knows I would have been in the forest. I went tae swim in the pool and in my haste to return I have left the shawl ye made me behind,” Nairne smiled sadly, coming to sit beside her.

 

Nairne loved her mother dearly and hated how Murdoch Mackintosh so cruelly treated them.

 

“I shall make ye another one, Nairne dear. Dinnae fret, by the time winter comes again ye shall have an even warmer shawl to place about yer shoulders and keep out the cold.” Una patting her daughter’s hand as she told her not to worry.

 

“What is all this about lost shawls, and where have ye been lassie?” Murdoch Mackintosh strode into the Great Hall, standing before Una and Nairne.

 

“I have been tae swim in the pool. Just as I often do. Sadly, I left my shawl there, but mother says she will make me a new one,” Nairne spoke quickly, trying to avoid Murdoch’s eyes.

 

She could hardly bear looking at him, his face disfigured by the injury suffered long ago when his right ear was cut off during a fight. It was not just his physical looks that repulsed her, the most disfigured of men can be beautiful if the person who bears the scars is beautiful, but Murdoch was not. He was cruel, a cruelty which had only become more pronounced in the years following his brother’s betrayal and the loss of Rhona. He seethed with anger, and his soul had become bitter and twisted. There was no love in Murdoch’s heart for Una or for Nairne. Or indeed anyone.

 

“She is idle enough yer mother. I am sure by winter ye shall have several shawls, all she does is sit and spin all day,” Murdoch laughed, giving Una a contemptible look.

 

The two women ignored him, Una returning to her spinning and Nairne stroking her mother’s hair.

 

“Ye will not go intae the forests so freely from now on,” Murdoch continued, “the paths and ways of that place are not safe for a lassie. Not when Cameron fiends stalk them seeking to snatch our bairns and make mischief for our people.”

 

“Murdoch, when was the last time a Cameron even came near this castle?” Una was not afraid of Murdoch since there was little more he could do to hurt her given the life which he forced her to lead, and the misery forced upon her daughter.

 

“The Cameron’s are our enemy, Una. Dinnae forget that, and they will stop at nothing before they have this castle returned tae themselves. Mark my words, that laddie, the pretender in the hills, is just waiting for the chance tae invade us.”

 

“Ye have said that these many years past,” Una stood her ground, “and never has it come true. Ye keep yer iron grip upon this glen, Murdoch.”

 

“Enough woman, go back tae yer spinning and Nairne, mark my words and stay out of the forest, ye hear,” and with that, Murdoch stormed from the Great Hall.

 

“I will still walk in the woods,” Nairne spoke defiantly.

 

“Aye, of course ye shall, and very soon ye shall have a pretty new shawl made by yer mother in which tae do so,” Una patted her daughter on the shoulder and returned to her spinning.

 

Nairne went to the window from which she could see across the castle walls and up into the forests beyond. It was the same view which over twenty years ago Rhona Cameron had looked upon, wishing she could escape the clutches of the vile and despicable Murdoch Mackintosh. Now, as Nairne stood there, she too completed one day escaping and wondered at the people who lived far out above the forests and up upon the moorlands. The Cameron’s, home she had inhabited her whole life, and of whose reputation had heard many horrific tales.

 

She thought too of the mysterious man by the poolside, had she been too swift in running from him? It had seemed a natural reaction, though he had appeared to mean her no harm. It was a thought which came back to her often in the days which followed, and far from being frightened, had every intention of returning to the pool. Whether Murdoch liked it or not.

 

As she watched from the window, she saw the guards upon the road hurrying into the courtyard. Murdoch was there too, shouting orders at the stablemen as they brought out his prized steed. Approaching theLaird, the guard spoke to him, at which point Nairne’s face fell. She knew exactly what the man was saying to Murdoch, despite his promise not to tell the Laird about the man who had followed her in the woods.

 

A moment later, Murdoch turned and looked up at the window where Nairne was watching, mouthed something indiscernible and spat upon the floor. Nairne sighed, perhaps it really would be impossible for her to walk in the woods. But she could not rid herself of the image of the strange man, and the desire to swim again in the beautiful pool. The only place she could escape from the life she was forced to lead at the hands of Murdoch and his men.