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Chapter 1

Hoy Sound,

Off the south coast of Orkney

February 1773

 

Sunlight skipped across the white-tipped waves. Gulls wheeled, and a bracing wind whipped the salt spray up from where the narrow prow of the Caithness Seal cut through the water like a well-honed blade. Anne Gow leaned out across the churning water, the wind mussing her short black hair the way an affectionate father might do. Not that she had a father, of course. Nor even much affection to speak of. She pushed that thought aside and scanned the view.

 

Orkney. It was a sweeping, rocky, green prospect; black rocks stretching up from the deep grey water then giving way abruptly to a rolling green land under a vast, ever-changing sky. On a dry day like this, it was beautiful, and the sound of Hoy was good for sailing. On a stormy day, it would have been deadly.

 

“Sail!” came the shout from high above in the rigging. Anne glanced up at the boy who hung there above the billowing sail. She looked where he was pointing. Sure enough, at the entrance to the bay in which they were approaching, a little single-sailed fishing vessel was turning away from the open water and making its way back into the bay. As she looked over the deck of the ship, she saw that all the crew had seen it too. The village would be warned.

 

Feelings warred within her; while one part of her seethed with irritation that their planning had come to nought, another part of her felt relief that the little village would not be entirely unprepared for her uncle’s wrath. Then, with a roar, he came, storming through the centre of the crowd of his men. Her paternal uncle, her father’s brother, Neil Gow-Sinclair, with his bristly, patchy black beard sticking out in his fury and his face – horribly twisted by the thick mass of scarring down one side – red with his anger. The stump of his wooden leg thumped on the deck as he moved among his men, yelling orders which his first mate leapt to confirm. Sails up, put on speed, damn the landsmen, they would pay. The usual song.

 

Then his single, blood-shot eye found Anne.

 

“You,” he hollered, and there was no question about who he meant, “get back up tae the stern and watch out behind for pursuit. And ready yerself tae fight unless ye desire a whipping! I’ll have no idle hands upon my deck!”

 

Anne bobbed her head and hurried to obey. There was nothing, she knew, to be gained from disobeying her uncle, and she also knew that even in her case, his threats of physical violence were not idle ones.

 

The quarter-deck comprised a raised platform at the back of the ship, broad and well-appointed with gun loops, water casks, and a bolted-down table and chairs for the captain and the first mate to sit at in fine weather. There she found a seaman at the wheel of the ship. He gave her a curt nod of acknowledgment but kept his eyes on his task, holding the great wheel steady as the wind billowed into the sails, driving them forward. Anne clambered, monkey-like, up the thin ladder and onto the stern-deck, the highest point on the ship save the rigging. It was a narrow platform with two small quarter-pounder cannons facing back and was heavily reinforced to handle the recoil of the guns. It was also a prime spot to look out over the water behind them and scan for any pursuit. Anne followed her uncle’s orders, gazing out over the water as she took the sword-belt from her small sea-chest and strapped it on.

 

She was wearing clothes of heavy, dark leather, tight britches, jerkin, and high boots. Standing, she took gloves of leather from her gear chest and pulled them on, and then slipped her leather helmet down over her wild short hair, fixing the strap under her small, strong chin. There was a hide-bound wooden shield leaning against the side of the chest, and she hefted this onto her back then drew her long, light blade, making sure that none of her gear hindered the draw.

 

Anne Gow hated this, but at the same time, she was fiercely proud of her ability to do it and do it well. She was a fighter, and a damned good one at that, her prowess tempered in the fire of the crowd of hard fighting men who had been her family growing up. Having never known her mother, and with little memory of her father who had disappeared, her uncle was all that was left. What possessed Neil Gow-Sinclair to take her in and care for her she could not guess; it was not the impulse of a tender heart, of that she was sure. A less tender-hearted man would be hard to imagine, but for all that, there was sometimes a look of hard pride in the old sinner’s eyes when he saw her fight. And, of course, he had not always been as cruel and as heartless as today.

 

There was still no sign of pursuit, but she stuck to her post. Adrenaline thrummed through her, making her heart race, and behind her on the deck of the Caithness Seal men darted back and forth, making preparations for the fight to come, setting the deck in readiness. The rigging was crawling with figures, and as she watched, the three high masts bloomed into sail, strange flowers all opening at once. The captain, her uncle Neil, roared forth an order, and the sails billowed and caught the wind, driving the great ship forward with more speed than anybody would have thought possible.

 

And then, sudden as a diving gull, they rounded the headland and saw it snuggled small and homely-looking in the green, protecting arms of the small anchorage. A little village. Their prey. Her uncle roared out an animal cry of wicked satisfaction. Anne gritted her teeth and tried to prepare her mind for what must come.

 

***

 

“It’s a ship, Katheryn,” cried Thorvald to his sister. Katheryn pushed her long dark hair back from her face and shielded her eyes against the glare as she peered out over the bay. The day was clear, and warm for February, but a haze lay across the sea which made the boats on the water dance and vanish and return like mirages in a desert. Below them, the little village they called home snuggled between the twin arms of the bay. Peat smoke hazed the air above it and drifted back to their noses, a homely scent.

 

They had hurried back over from the clam beds where they had been that morning to harvest. Their father – they both called him ‘father’, though Thorvald was an orphan – had come around the bay to the clam beds in his little fishing boat and shouted to them to hurry home straight away. Now they stood, rough home-spun clothing flapping in the endless sea-breeze, barefoot, their youthful faces weathered by their long days living on the land by the water. For all that, they were a handsome pair, she, at twenty-one, a little older, and he, approaching the end of his twentieth year, a little taller. Both of them were too old to be running barefoot like children in the Orkney clam beds.

 

Katheryn nodded slowly and looked down into the village.

 

“Aye, it’s a ship, but she’s a big one, and I can’t make out the flag. Whatever can such a vessel want at Skylness? They’re coming in hard.”

 

“There, look there,” she grabbed his arm, and he looked where she pointed.

 

The woman they called ‘Mother’ stood up a little way behind the village. She had been scanning the land, looking for them. There was something of fear in her stance, leaning forward, peering through the haze up toward them. Now she began to wave, gesturing them to come down. Glancing back over her shoulder chilled Thorvald to the bone. On the water beyond, the big ship was lowering two smaller boats from the side. It was hard to tell from this distance, but it looked as if the boats were packed with men.

 

They ran the rest of the way to their mother.

 

“Oh, God,” she called as they ran towards her, “we do not know who it is, but ye must come down to yer father and the village folk. Yer father is sure that they have come tae plunder, as that has not happened for many a long year.”

 

Her pale face was streaked where tears ran tracks through the dust of her simple morning’s work. Thorvald tried to hug her, but she shook him off.

 

“Go, go, and find yer father and tell him ye have not forgotten how to fight! Katheryn, come with me, we will gather with the other women at the house o’ Francis Harcus, as it’s the biggest and the strongest in the village. Come on now.”

 

Katheryn met her foster brother’s eyes. The child who had picked the clams from their beds to eat was gone, and she saw instead in his dark eyes, the man he would become. She nodded once to him.

 

“Go, brother,” and without another word, he turned and jogged down through the village.

 

“Ah,” his father called, “praise God ye have come. Here, ye have a little time. They are still pulling in their boats tae the shore. The tide hinders them. Come!”

 

Thorvald took in the scene. Fishermen and craftsmen, peat-cutters, mackerel-smokers, the village blacksmith and the village bard. Even his father was a simple fisherman, with the nimble fingers which came from mending nets by the light of a peat fire in the evening, and the strong shoulders and powerful back of a man who rowed and hauled nets for his living. A healthy man, even a strong man, but without the build of a swordsman. And yet, for all that the men of his village seemed to Thorvald to be the least warlike imaginable, here they were, armed and armoured, grim faces turned toward the sea, their fists clenched around the shafts of long axes and the hilts of swords.

 

“Come on, lad,” said his father, “get ready. Ye remember what ye were taught, now?”

 

“Aye, father,” Thorvald added, a little shakily.

 

“Good lad.” His father gave him a hearty clap on the shoulder, then helped him into chainmail, which sat heavy across the young man’s shoulders, and a helmet of the old Norse style pointed at the crown with a figured nose-guard. Greaves for his shins, gauntlets for his wrists and forearms. He was also given an axe, a big two-hander, the curved blade glinting wickedly in the morning sun.

 

“No guns?” asked Thorvald. His father turned from where he had been tightening a strap on his own gear.

 

“No guns,” he confirmed wryly. “No powder, ye see. And few enough men who could shoot them straight even if we had them. No, lad, we will have tae rely on the old way today.”

 

All around them, the men of the village were forming up. There could not have been more than thirty-five all told, Thorvald thought as he fell into line beside his father. He stared past the nose guard toward the small boats, which were hauling toward the shore, the men they carried shouting with every pull of the oars. He made them fifty, at least, maybe more. And almost certainly more back on the ship. Why? The thought flickered through his mind as his little party took up their positions at the front of their village. Why? There was nothing here worth a raider’s time. Oh, there was dry peat, and smoked fish aplenty, and perhaps some odd valuables gathered out of sentiment by the local inhabitants, but none of that was worth the time of a heavily-armed raiding party, which this seemed to be. Another thought crossed his mind, and he nudged his father.

 

“Has a messenger ridden to Kirkwall?”

 

His father did not look at him but spoke low in reply. “Damned bad luck. The only horse in the village took lame the day before yesterday. Francis Harcus could not send anyone to ride the beast on three legs. He has sent his son Harold off in his wee boat toward Stromness, and he will get a horse there. He has sent the blacksmith’s son, young John, overland. On foot.”

 

There seemed nothing to say to this. Neither Harold Harcus in his boat nor young John on foot would be getting help for the village soon. The men of the village were on their own.

 

“Seems like they would have been of more use here,” someone commented. “Young John is handy with that hammer o’ his, and Harold Harcus is no fool either.” Despite the tension, there was a general laugh.

 

As the men of the village prepared for battle, Thorvald thought back, remembering the training which the simple village folk had undergone. Battle-hardened warriors had been sent from Kirkwall, the biggest settlement in Orkney, to train the men of the village in the art of sword, shield, axe and bow. They had drilled the men in simple melee formation and tactics, and put Francis Harcus, the leading man in the village, in charge of the little squad they had created. The women had been trained how to shoot bolts with an arsenal of old Venetian crossbows that had been brought from God-knows-where. Francis Harcus made sure everyone practised at least once a week, and every six weeks or so, the whole community was rousted out, fully equipped, and induced to fight mock battles on the seafront. Perhaps twice a year, men would come again from Kirkwall to inspect the supplies of weaponry, to talk at length with Francis, and sometimes to watch a demonstration of the village’s basic fighting skills.

 

At the time, none of this had seemed unusual to Thorvald. He had accepted it with equanimity, just as he had always accepted that fact that he was an orphan, Tom and Freida Fisher were the people he knew as parents. Now, as he faced for the first time the prospect of actually using his fighting skills in earnest, a fleeting thought passed through his mind: it was good they had been trained for this, but it was also just a little odd…

 

On the beach below them, the first of the Caithness Seal’s transport boats reached the sandbar. Men leapt into the churning surf to drag the boats up above the waterline. Sun glittered on the cold metal of their drawn swords as they turned their faces toward the village.

 

Chapter 2

“Form up!” came the order. Anne was among the raiders, no different from anybody else, her womanhood unidentifiable beneath her leather armour. Slightly smaller than the rest, perhaps somewhat less stocky, but these Caithness pirates and gutter swine from the Americas were not large men. The captain had stayed on board, leaving the command of the raiding party to his first mate, Juarez, a dark-eyed, curly-haired Spaniard who had been sailing with Neil Gow-Sinclair for as long as he could remember. His accent belied his looks, harsh northern Scots through and through, retaining no trace of the warmer climates where his ancestors had grown up.

 

“Remember,” called the mate, “we are here for the boy. He will be fighting as one of the men, but he will be younger and taller than most. His gear may be finer than the rest of them. They will protect him; watch for the man who they cleave tae. We will take multiple prisoners if we have tae, but let’s just try tae get the boy and get out. I don’t want any mistakes and no burning of homes except what’s necessary for the distraction. March!”

 

Anne’s heart pounded, and sweat dampened her brow under her leather helm as she moved forward with the others. They were a big group, outnumbering the men who stood awaiting them at the edge of the village by nearly two to one. All around her, the raiders took up their battle cries, but she kept quiet, knowing that her higher-pitched voice would stick out from the rest and draw attention. Instead, she focussed on scanning the defenders, looking for likely candidates for the boy who they had come to capture. There, she thought, in the middle of the group and slightly to the left, there was a figure who stood taller than most, and his gear looked, even at this distance, to be somewhat finer than the rest of the men around him. Juarez let out a shout, and the raiders broke into a run, clanking and rattling in their mismatched armour, ungainly as they closed the distance.

 

Then they got a shock. From the houses behind the line of defending men, there came a whistling rain of projectiles; around her, men cried out in pain and alarm as the short, stubby crossbow bolts found their marks. Juarez was quick to respond.

 

“Shields up!” he shouted, and the raiders formed a ragged protective formation while trying to keep up their pace. Anne peered up beneath her shield and saw what she had missed a moment ago – a group of people among the shadows of the low houses. They were unarmoured – the women of the village, she realised – and even as she watched, they raised up crossbows again and loosed a second volley. This time two raiders fell and did not get back up again. Anne felt heavy thuds as two bolts struck her shield and lodged there.

 

“On, on!” cried Juarez, and the men obeyed. Anne could see the tall youth better now – the sun shone on his high helm, and the figuring on his nose-guard seemed more elaborate than the others. Foolish, that. If you want to hide someone, you should not pick them out by giving them better gear than everyone else. Foolish. He was younger than the rest of them too, for sure. A handsome face, she thought; strong jaw, a long, straight nose, high cheekbones. She hoped they could take him quickly. For a moment, something strange happened. She could have sworn that he met her eyes. It was the most fleeting impression, but there it was. He saw her. Their eyes met. Then the defenders roared and charged down the slope toward the raiders, and the glimpse was gone.

 

They met with a mighty clash and roar, and almost immediately, Anne was aware of the shock within her party at the sheer ferocity of the defence. Nobody had expected this. The village of Skylness should have been populated with fearful fishermen who would run or drop to their knees begging for mercy at the sight of Neil Gow-Sinclair’s ferocious raiding party. Instead, they met steel with steel, and with volley after volley of crossbow fire. Men tumbled and crumpled in the sand, and the raiders fell back, their first charge repulsed. The defenders roared in fierce victory, and sure enough, Anne saw them gather around the handsome youth with the figured armour. Their leader was a big, brawny man armed with a huge, old-fashioned axe which he wielded single-handed, his round shield in the other. He raised both axe and shield up and roared out an order which she didn’t hear.

 

Juarez shouted “hold, hold! Remember the target!” and then another volley of crossbow bolts hit them, dropping more men. The raiders reformed around their leader, but the defenders did the same, and they had the advantage of high ground. Anne pushed forward with the rest of her group, flinging her small weight against the back of the man in front as their line braced to bear the brunt of the defenders’ counter-attack. Then, as they met and clashed once again, she squeezed backwards, away from the shoving, shouting press that was the front of the battle. The women with the crossbows were holding their fire, afraid to shoot into the melee. Anne moved to the edge of the group, glanced around, and found her target.

 

He looked like he was itching to get into the fray but could not. As she had done, he was pushing toward the edge of his group, trying to get to a place where he would have room to swing his axe. One of the men seemed to be shouting to him, trying to get his attention, but he was paying no heed. His eyes were fixed on Juarez, who was trying to keep order. The push of the last charge had run them back down the beach toward the boats – it was not far. As she watched, the handsome youth broke free of his group and ran toward the side of the raiding party. His axe was raised, and the raider he met fell with surprise in his eyes, his sword useless at his side.

 

The handsome youth roared out his victory and raised his axe to strike again, but Anne hit him a ringing blow on his helmet with the flat of her sword. His axe faltered, as he swayed, trying to turn, but she leapt full upon his back, dropping her shield, her fingers seeking the front of the fancy helmet that had given him away. She found the edge and hauled upward, wrenching it loose as he ineffectually batted her with his fists. Twisting around, he grabbed at her helmet, pulling it free and giving her a solid punch to her jaw. Dropping her sword, she hit him in on the side of the head with his own helmet, using every ounce of adrenaline-fuelled strength she could muster. He went down like a felled tree.

 

“Prisoner!” she yelled, “Prisoner!” Around her, her compatriots realised that their goal had been achieved. Three men leapt to her aid, and together they dragged the unconscious young man down the beach, his heels leaving a long trail in the wet sand.

 

“Fall back!” Juarez roared, as the defenders looked on in amazement. “They got him! They got Thorvald!” came the shout. Now was the critical moment. They would try to regain the prisoner. With the others, Anne put her strength into dragging the mail-clad youth over the lip of the boat. Retreating raiders piled in around them, the last few pushing the boat out, and then they were off, the sudden surf catching the fat-bottomed boat and hefting it upward as men fell to at their oars.

On the beach, she saw the last of the raiders fleeing full-tilt toward the other boat. The defenders were giving chase, but the invaders had what they wanted, and they were not going to hang about to argue. As the other boat beat off from the shore and got underway, Anne looked down at the unconscious young man who lay pinned in the bottom of the boat. She was still holding his fancy helmet, but she had lost her own, her shield and sword, too. The left-hand side of his head where she had hit him was swelling, and his left eye was puffy and swollen shut, but his right eye opened. It roved for a moment, then found her and held her in its gaze.

 

Anne realised that she was smiling.

 

***

 

“Grapples!” shouted the crew in warning from the deck of the Caithness Seal.

 

Ropes with grappling hooks fell splashing into the choppy water, eager hands reaching out from the small transport boats to grab them and hook them into the anchor points at either end.

 

“Grapples on!” went up the shout and “Haul up!” came the reply. Strong, practised shoulders were set to the winch wheels high above, the ropes snapped tautly, and the little boats began to rise, seawater sluicing from their shallow hulls as the sea gave them up. Thorvald lay on his belly in the bottom of the boat, glowering, as two men pinned his arms and another sat on his legs. The sides of the raiding vessel soared up like the sides of a cliff, dwarfing the smaller boat. The sailors cried aloud a rhythmic sea-song as they hauled the winch wheels in unison.

 

Thorvald struggled into a sitting position. His guards, two ugly men on each side, helped by hauling him painfully upward with their hands on his wrists and shoulders. Unwilling to show them his fear, he tried a smile through his swollen face.

 

“Well, lads,” he mumbled, “looks like ye’ve got me fair and square. I just wish I knew what this is all about, and why ye have taken me so!”

 

“Hah, he’s got pluck, this one!” guffawed one of his guards, a big, red-haired Scot with a face disfigured by old pox-scars.

 

“Kind of ye tae say so!”  Thorvald replied gallantly, “though it would have been even kinder tae leave me at home. If ye’ve kidnapped me for ransom, I’m sorry tae disappoint ye; I’m just the poor son of a fisherman, and in the whole village there’s barely enough coin tae pay a ransom.”

 

The transport boat bumped against the side of the Caithness Seal as it creaked up toward the deck, and without really intending to, Thorvald had caught the interest of the rough men with his banter.

 

“What does the Captain want with him, then?” called one sitting at the end of the boat. “Anne, he’ll whip the hide off ye if it turns out ye’ve taken the wrong man!”

 

Anne. Thorvald had a strange feeling when he heard the name. Anne? He glanced about and saw her. She was sitting in the boat a little way away, looking at him levelly. She hauled the leather helmet from her head, and the sweat and heat made her short hair stick up crazily around her pale face. She had dark eyes, a small, delicate nose, and red lips cracked with the sea salt in the air and long exposure to the sun. She was breathing deeply and looking straight at him.

 

What did he see in that gaze? Interest. Excitement. Perhaps a little weariness, sitting in the boat with her back bent and her elbows on her knees, her leather helmet dangling from her long fingers. What on earth, he wondered, was she – a woman clearly a few years younger than him – fighting with this gang of thieves and cutthroats. The surprise and shock must have shown on his face because one of his handlers leaned down and spoke near to his ear.

 

“Aye, that’s right,” he said. “Ye were captured by a girl!” The men all around him roared with laughter, and a smile flickered around the corners of Anne’s mouth.

 

Before he could reply, the boat bumped hard against the side as it reached the gunwale, then rocked as the men began leaping in twos and threes onto the deck of the Caithness Seal.  Thorvald watched Anne as she clambered competently from the transport to the deck. She was strong, he saw, lean and well-trained, economical in her movements, but still feminine despite her evident toughness. Strong, he thought again, wincing at the memory of the stinging blow she had dealt him with his own helmet. Where was the helmet now? Did she still have it?

 

She preoccupied his thoughts as his guards manhandled him onto the ship.

 

“Easy, lads,” he cried jovially, though his tone belied the tension he felt. He caught a flash of pale sunlight on metal. She did still have his helmet. He saw her slip it into a hessian sack as she disappeared toward the back of the ship. Anne, he thought. Her name is Anne. My captor.

 

“There’s the scum!” came a loud voice, harsh as a crow. Thorvald had to work hard not to recoil as he saw the sneering anticipation on the disfigured face of the man who clumped across the deck toward him. The man was ugly beyond the scarring on his face. He was ugly in a more profound way than just the physical. An ugly soul thought Thorvald.

 

“That him, Captain?” said one of the men holding Thorvald.

 

“Aye, that’s him alright,” sneered the captain. “Just as described. He give ye any trouble?”

 

“No, sir.”

 

“Ahh, I thought not. Just as well for him. Looks like a weak, whimpering boy to me.”

 

Thorvald drew himself up to his full height, and Neil’s face darkened, realising he would have to look up into his prisoner’s face. He drew back his knotty fist as if to hit Thorvald in his midsection, then registered the chainmail and changed his mind. Taking a step back, he surveyed the young man. All around them, men were moving about, sailors hauling the transport boats back over the side, and soldiers clapping each other on the back, pulling off gear and moving aft toward their quarters, where they could be out of the way of the crew on duty.

 

Neil spat on the deck at Thorvald’s feet, then gave one of the men holding him the smallest nod. The man kicked Thorvald’s legs out from under him, driving him to his knees, and Neil looked down on him with cold satisfaction.

 

“Strip the mail from him but leave him his clothes and boots for now. Lash him tae the mainmast. I want him where we can see him. Juarez, set sail for home and then come with me tae the quarter-deck tae report.”

 

He turned on his heel and stalked away, muttering.

 

Neil’s orders were ruthlessly carried out; his chainmail and an undercoat of good leather were removed, and he was lashed to the main mast with a great coil of rope, his hands bound separately at his sides, and even his ankles immobilised. As Neil had ordered, Thorvald’s elegant boots were left upon his feet – for now. Not knowing what else to do, the lad tried to keep up a merry stream of banter with his captors, but the sight of Anne watching quietly from the bow of the ship unsettled him. He could not read her eyes.

---

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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.

Chapter 1

Early November 1750, London, England

 

Amelia Parker rose with the sun shining through the large bay windows of her bedroom. Her blue eyes squinted at the light. Even though the maid would always close the bed curtains every night, Amelia would open them up just a crack after she’d left. She liked to see the beautiful morning light stream in, and it gave her enough light to read. She loved to feel the morning warmth on her face and savor those few moments of peace before she experienced the busy movements of the day.

 

Her lady’s maid, Beth Smith, entered quietly.

 

“Good morning, Miss” Beth said with a curtsy. “Let me assist you to dress.”

 

“Thank you, Beth.” Amelia removed the covers and touched her toes on the cold floor. She shivered, since she was just in a white, linen shift. While Beth was busy at the closet, Amelia asked. “Beth, will my father be joining us this morning for breakfast?”

 

Beth looked uncomfortable and kept her head down. “No, miss. No one has seen Lord Parker since he left last evening.”

 

Amelia’s face scrunched up in concern. She sighed, “I suppose he’s making quite a habit of it lately, coming in reeking of whiskey and smoke.” Where could he be again? And why every night? What was so important about drinking and smoking in dark clubs with other old men?

 

Beth’s eyes widened in surprise at her mistress’ confidence. She simply nodded and replied, “Yes, Miss.”

 

Amelia’s mind snapped back to reality. “Oh, forgive me. I’m ready now.” She stood in front of the long mirror and held out her arms.

 

“Pardon me, miss, for my delay. Let me get your stays and gown.”

 

Amelia stood in front of the mirror while Beth gathered the pieces of clothing. Her father’s continual nightly adventures continued to prey upon her mind.

 

Beth began to lace up her stays tightly. Amelia had to hold onto the cabinet next to her as the corset kept getting tighter and tighter. Thankfully, she didn’t need her corset to be laced as tightly as some women, as her breasts were already quite large and the tops of them peeked out coquettishly from the brim of her stays.

 

Her blond braid fell over her shoulder as Beth did her work. But, then a smile crossed Amelia’s face.

 

“I forgot! Today is the day Mother and I will search for my wedding trousseau! Oh, I have been waiting for this day for so long! Beth, I must look my best today. We can’t forget a single detail!”

 

“Yes, Miss,” said Beth as she pulled the gown over Amelia’s head and adjusted the fit. “I’m so excited!” Amelia started dreaming of her wonderful fiancé.

 

“Lord Charles Devereaux is a viscount, you know, Beth. I can’t believe I will be marrying him!” She clapped her hands in front of her. Charles was tall, young, and deliciously handsome, with a swirl of thick blond hair and dark green eyes that put a spell on every young woman, even the old ones too. Amelia and Charles had met at a ball recently; her father had introduced them. The viscount was known to be quite a lady charmer, but as soon as Amelia saw his face and danced with him, she was in love, and knew that she could change him. She knew then from his winning smile and clever wit as they danced, that she had found the one.

 

Last week, he had proposed marriage!

“You are going to be a beautiful bride, Miss.” Beth smiled at Amelia in the mirror while continuing to smooth her dress.

“Thank you, Beth. I was surprised at so quick a proposal, but I can’t say I’m not blissfully happy!” He and her father had talked long in the study after their union, and she could barely contain her excitement. Me and the most eligible bachelor in all of London society–to be married! And he loves me, and I love him!

Before Amelia could continue with her daydreams, Beth said, “Please, sit, Miss. Let me make your coiffure.”

 

After an hour or so, Amelia glided down to breakfast with her hair curled atop her head just so, and a smile on her face. Her blue eyes matched the lovely blue gown Beth had chosen.

 

But her face fell slightly as she watched her mother sitting alone at the breakfast table once again. “Hello, Mother. Good morning. How are you feeling today? I see Father has decided not to join us once again.”

 

“Good morning, my dear,” said Amelia’s mother Henrietta with a slight, almost imperceptible sigh. Amelia was about to inquire further, but then Henrietta looked up and smiled at her beautiful daughter.

 

“Don’t you look absolutely lovely? You’ll be a sight to see on our shopping trip. Are you excited for today? But, first, have some breakfast.”

 

Amelia went to the sideboard to make her selections of toast, jam, sausages, and eggs, before returning to her seat. The butler poured her a cup of steaming tea, and she began to eat quickly. “Mother, I don’t think I’ve ever been so excited! What do you think Charles, I mean Viscount Devereaux, would like most? What colors, what fabrics?”

 

“I don’t know, my dear, but we’ll be sure to make the best selections.”

 

From a side door, the butler quietly entered with a silver tray which held a solitary envelope and opener, and he paused in front of Henrietta.

 

“The post has just come, my lady.” The butler bowed his head as Henrietta took the letter.

 

“Thank you, Stevens.” She turned the envelope over in her hands. “Hmm…no sender’s address, and it’s a very plain envelope. I wonder who it could be from?”

 

She smiled at Amelia next to her who was still eating happily and cut open the envelope. Suddenly, Amelia was jolted out of her wedding reverie by her mother crying out and slumping over in her chair.

 

“Mother!” She yelled. Stevens rushed into the room once again. “Please! Send for the doctor! I believe Mother has just fainted!” Stevens nodded and hurried off to send a boy for the doctor. Henrietta awoke with a groan and tears were in her eyes.

 

“What is it mother? Are you all right?” Amelia’s face was poised in concern as she took her mother’s hands and felt her forehead gently.

 

“Look. Look at the letter,” Henrietta whispered, and her body wracked with sobs. Amelia decided to first help her mother over to the couch in the sitting room next door before hurrying back to the dining room for the letter. I wonder what could cause her to faint so?

 

She picked up the letter, written in a hurried hand on rough, grayish paper.

 

My dears,

It is time I admitted the truth. You must have noticed my nightly disappearances and my recent absences from the breakfast table. The authorities have taken me in from the gambling hall last night. I’m afraid I’ve gotten a taste for the wretched habit in recent months, and my dear Henrietta and dearest Amelia, I’ve gambled it all away. There is nothing left. The creditors will be at the house by morning to organize and evaluate all furniture and other belongings to be sold for repayment. There will be nothing left for a dowry. I am so sorry. I have arranged for you to go live in a small cottage in Brechin, Scotland tomorrow morning by carriage. The carriage will arrive at dawn and knows where to take you. Take whatever money you have saved. Send all the servants away. Please do not come by the prison. I cannot bear the shame.

I love you, but I am not worthy of you.

Be well,
Jonathan Parker
1750

 

Amelia sank to her knees to the ground, a few stray curls falling from her coiffure. She could not cry; she could not even speak. The letter fell to her side, and the only question in her mind as she stared at the carpeted floor was What are we going to do?

 

Chapter 2

Early December, Brechin, Scotland, Kinnaird Castle

 

“Och, ye dinnae need a companion, ma,” said James Kinnaird to his mother, Fiona, as they sat in front of a roaring fire in the main hall. James had a pint of ale in his hand, and he turned to his mother with concern.

 

“And why not? Ever since your father died, I’ve been so lonely. We haven’t been to any social functions or had any balls, and it’s far too cold for me to travel for visiting.” She stared into the flames, and discretely wiped a tear from the corner of one eye.

 

“But ye have me, dinnae ye? Am I not companion enough?” James moved to kneel by his mother, and he took her hands in his, looking into her soft brown eyes.

 

Fiona smiled and squeezed his rough hands. “Ach, Jamie, you are a wonderful son, of course! But it’s time I had a little female company. Women need other women, you know, my dear. I would love a young girl with a good education to come and read to me and discuss the gossip of the day. I’ve already sent out an advertisement in the newspaper.”

 

Jamie sat back down, sipping his ale again. Fiona chuckled.

“Now, why do you look so concerned?”

“‘Twill be a stranger, ma, in our house! I don’t very much like the idea of leaving ye alone with someone we don’t know while I’m away on business.”

 

Fiona lifted her chin stubbornly. “I’m left all alone with no one to speak to while you’re away. Think of the danger of that in such a cold and lonely place!”

 

Jamie said, “Aye”, and he stared into the flames.

 

Fiona sighed next to him, “When your father was here, every hall of this old place was filled with laughter. He was always so kind to everyone, from the kitchen cook to your angry cousin Donald.” She laughed slightly to herself, remembering. “He was the love of my life.” She turned and placed her hand on Jamie’s. “I wish as much for you, my dear.”

 

Jamie thought back to when his father, Laird James, had died four years prior in The Battle of Culloden. He saw his father, pride in his eyes, fall victim to an English bullet and release his lifeblood into the grassy hills. Since Jamie returned home alone limping from the battle, released from prison and spared his life, a light had gone from his mother’s eyes, and no matter how hard he tried, he hadn’t been able to replace it.

 

Fiona’s hand upon his shoulder roused Jamie from his dismal reverie. “All will be well, my dear. We shall hear a response from someone, I hope, in the next few weeks. But, I must retire to bed. Good night, my son.” Fiona bent down to kiss him on the cheek and placed her hand on his brown hair.

 

“Good night,” Jamie replied with a weak smile.

 

After his mother left, Jamie went to lean against the mantle, his muscled shoulders stretching as they angled upwards, and he stared at the flames. He began to pace the floor in front of the fire.  He disturbed the sleep of his dog, Prince Charlie, and the dog began the pacing rhythm with him. “Charlie, I hope ma is making the right choice. It has been so long since I’ve seen her smile. But will this bring her the happiness she so desires?” He couldn’t bear the thought of his mother being disappointed after so many years of sorrow.

 

Feeling hot from the pacing and the proximity to the fire, James removed his dark green wool coat and the linen stock from his throat. His white shirt was damp with sweat, and it hung loosely on his body. His brown hair was hanging below his shoulders, and its ragged look matched the multiple emotions he felt swirling around in his belly. It wasn’t only his mother. Something else was tugging at his mind…

 

***

 

Late November, journey to Brechin

 

Amelia felt her mother squeeze her hand as they bounced along roughly in the carriage. Amelia turned her head from the window and smiled weakly at her. Henrietta looked tired with heavy circles etched under eyes, but she was all out of tears for now. Amelia and her mother had left their London home the morning after receiving her father’s letter, early enough to avoid being seen, and it had been several days since. She assumed the creditors were finished their work, having picked over each and every one of their belongings, evaluating it for sale.

 

Her throat thickened with impending tears, but there was also another feeling that reared its head: disgust. Her father, a man she had so trusted and depended on, turned out to be utterly flawed. How could he have treated his family with such callousness? He is weak to have let his base urges ruin his entire family. I hope we never see him again.

“How could father have done this? Leave his family to starve?” Amelia said aloud to the air. But, Henrietta grabbed her wrist, a fresh batch of tears making their way down her face.

“Please dear. I can’t bear it. I don’t know how we’ll survive.”

 

Henrietta was a beauty, with her blond hair still full of color and pale skin with full, red lips. Amelia had inherited her mother’s beauty in full, but that was the farthest thing from her mind.

Her mother’s whole body seemed diminished somehow, as if it lost the confident countenance of a wealthy English lady, and she was practically curled up on the seat next to Amelia. Once she spoke to Amelia, she swallowed and turned her head to the window, her gray eyes looking unfocused.

 

Amelia touched her mother’s hand and attempted to make her voice sound as strong as possible. “Mother, I will take care of us. Please, don’t worry.” Henrietta turned back to her daughter, her eyes wide, and she spoke in a loud whisper, “Amelia, please, we must see if we can bring your father back! Oh, I can’t even imagine how he’s faring in such a horrible place. We must try!” Seeing the desperation, fear, and fatigue in her mother’s eyes, Amelia knew that she would have to do whatever it took to get him out of prison and restore her mother to her original good spirits, and she turned her face forward, resolve formulating in her mind.

 

 

Along with the morning carriage another letter had come, bearing the seal of Devereaux. Amelia had thought perhaps Charles would offer his assistance in such a time. But, in the world of the English aristocracy, word traveled fast, especially about calamity, and saving face was everything. It was two lines:

Amelia, We can no longer be wed. My family’s reputation is at stake.
Best of luck in your endeavors. C.D.

 

And with one swipe of the pen, Amelia had not only lost her home and father and possessions, but also her fiancé. Over the past few days, Amelia and Henrietta had had to stay in filthy little inns to rest and take their meals and take care of their needs. Amelia had been saving a bit of money she’d received as an allowance, and so they were able to pay for scant meals and dirt-covered rooms. It had been their first time in such places, and they clung to each other tightly in the bed they shared, fearing who or what might be next door to them.

 

The journey was over 800 kilometers, and while she brought a few books and her poetry journal to keep her mind focused on something other than the painful carriage ride. Her eyes wandered down to the small, thin volume in her hands. It was a book of Thomas Gray’s poems, one of her and her father’s favorites. Her father had gotten her this volume as a gift a few years ago, and she’d been attached to it and poetry ever since. Just the thought of her father made a solitary tear slide down her cheek.

 

She thought of her leather journal in her bag, filled to the brim with her few whimsical rhymes, hoping to mold them into finely crafted poems one day, worthy of publication. There weren’t many female poets, but she hoped to become one of them. These two items were the only possessions she had in the world now. Were they tainted with her father’s betrayal?

 

Despite her mind being busy enough swirling with thoughts and questions and plans, Amelia was tired of travel. It would take over a week to get to Brechin, and each bump of the carriage reminded her of their new fate. She held onto the note she was to give to the cottage landlord; it kept her focused on their goal.

 

“Shall we stop soon for the night, mother? You need to rest with some warm food in you.”

 

“No, dear, I can make it for a few more hours. We need to try to cover as much distance as we can each day.” Henrietta laid her head against Amelia’s shoulder and soon fell asleep.

 

After 12 days of monotonous travel, in and out of inns, barely able to get enough food or a proper bath, Amelia and her mother were riding through the Scottish countryside on a cloudy afternoon, and Amelia spotted a small cottage coming into view as the horse’s hooves made their tattooed rhythm on the soft ground. The cottage was made of gray stone, with ivy climbing the walls, twisting and turning around the corners, and it covered the whole left side of the house with its little green fans.

 

Looking around her at the surrounding Scottish wilds, she was overwhelmed with a vision of green. It covered the hills for as far as she could see. Other than the river, and a small cemetery a little farther to her left, closer to the river’s far bank, the land was the cottage’s only companion. To Amelia, this seemed like the loneliest place in the world. And suddenly, the carriage stopped right in front of the stone cottage.

 

 

Chapter 3

Early December, Brechin, Scotland, Kinnaird land

 

Once they alighted from the carriage, Amelia and her mother stood motionless in front of the cottage, a little unsure of their next move. The carriage driver dropped off one bag from the back of the carriage, and without a word, continued, the sound of hooves growing fainter and fainter with each passing moment.

 

Both of them had lost weight in the past 12 days and looked drawn and tired. They were dirty and in much need of bathing and rest. Amelia took her mother’s hand, and with a voice as confident as she could muster, said, “Come, Mother, we will bear it as best we can.” Henrietta smiled weakly and nodded her head.

 

She moved to open the door of the cottage. A cry of “Ahoy!” made Amelia turn her head towards the sound. She saw a ruddy-faced man waving as he walked towards them over the lush green grass.

 

He approached them smilingly and breathlessly greeted them, his hat and head tipped in politeness.

 

“Welcome, ladies. Welcome tae Brechin. Well, I suppose yer outside of the town a wee bit, but Kinnaird land it is. I was informed yer arrival would be around this time, so I’ve been comin’ tae the cottage every day to see if ye had arrived and checking that everythin’ was in order for ye.”

 

Amelia and Henrietta were both so tired that they couldn’t find the words right away to make in reply.

 

Amelia cleared her throat and began. “Hello, Sir. Forgive us. We have had a very long journey. You must be the landlord. Here is the paperwork we were told to give you?”

 

“Aye, I am Laird Kinnaird’s land agent. Fletcher’s me name. I tend to the cottages and farms on the estate.” He peered quickly at the paper Amelia had handed him. “Well, everything’ is in order. Let’s see ye young lasses comfortable.”

 

Mr. Fletcher pulled out a key to open the door to a darkened hallway. He led the way to a side table where he lit a candle and held it up to his face. “Aye, this cottage is a bit drafty this time of year, but I will make ye ladies a fire ye won’t forget!”

 

Amelia almost groaned with pleasure at the thought of being warm and comfortable and not being jolted about a carriage over the rough Scottish terrain. She touched her mother’s hand and led her along the hallway until Mr. Fletcher illuminated the armchair by the fire.

 

“Sit, Mother,” Amelia helped her mother ease into an armchair, and then she felt a curiosity to see the rest of their new home.

 

Mr. Fletcher busied himself with making a fire and making pleasant conversation with Henrietta. “And so, tell me all yer about yer journey, milady.”

 

Henrietta replied, “Thank you, good Sir, for your kindness. Well, we’re a long way from home in London, but the journey was pleasant enough.” Amelia’s mother would always have the politeness of an English lady and would never complain to a stranger. “The scenery is quite breathtaking here,” Henrietta continued while Amelia found another candle, lit it, and took off on her own to explore the cottage.

 

Besides the main room area, she found a small kitchen, pantry, a tiny drawing room, and one bedroom. Furniture was scant, but the necessities were there. A bed was set in the center of the bedroom with fresh sheets. On her search, Amelia had also found a small writing desk and vanity, with only one cupboard for clothing. She spied a small privy around the back of the cottage. Was this it? Just these few rooms? Amelia held back the tears that threatened to course down her cheeks as she took in their new home. Just 12 days ago I was about to buy my wedding trousseau, and now… How will we live? What will we eat? My mother, Lady Henrietta Parker, should never have been subjected to this. I will do whatever I must do to make her comfortable.

 

Amelia took a few deep breaths while alone in the bedroom and steeled her resolve. If her father was to be a weak man with no conscience, no feeling of responsibility or care for those under his care, then it must be totally upon her shoulders. For her mother only, she would find work, she would save, and she would pay the debts. Her father could come back, and her mother would be happy.

 

Amelia pushed her shoulders back and walked back towards the main room. But her reflection in a cracked mirror on the wall made her pause. She approached the mirror. Could this really be me? Her blond hair was darkened with dirt and grime, and it hadn’t been brushed. A rough braid lay down her shoulder, and stray pieces fell by her ears. Her face was covered in dirt and dust from the journey, and her eyes looked heavy with worry and fatigue. She wore a plain gray dress that she was able to buy from the last inn, and she wore no corset. She had sold her last pair of stays to buy food. Once she had been a young lady of tall stature, with elegant gowns and finery, being asked to dance at every ball during the Season, and now, she looked like no more than a pauper’s daughter. She remembered the first day she’d met Charles Devereaux, and how he’d looked at her–hungrily. A sharp pain in her chest made her remember his hurried note and callous tone. All men were self-centered bastards. But, she’d spent her tears already for Charles on the rough pillows along the journey. Now, this is what she was. It made her think of a line from her favorite poem: “Thy sun is set; thy spring is gone—”

 

Amelia turned her face away, not wanting to see any more. She must make the best of what she could. And now, with a fire, she could have a bath! She smiled to herself. That was one small pleasure in this sea of troubles.

 

Amelia heard laughter, if her hearing was correct, coming from the main room. As she entered, the fire was in full blaze, crackling merrily as it filled the small stone room with delicious heat. Her mother was chuckling.

 

“Oh, Amelia! You must hear Mr. Fletcher’s story. I say it was quite restorative after such a dreary journey.”

 

Mr. Fletcher smiled.

 

“Oh, another time, Mother. I believe you need some tea, food, and rest.” Amelia touched her mother on the shoulder.

 

“Oh! I almost forgot to tell ye. Me wife will be comin’ by with a basket full of treats for ye. She’s a lovely woman, and having no children of her own, likes to spoil those on the estate if she can. She should be by shortly.”

 

He stood from kneeling at the grate and dusted off his knees. “Well, now that yer settled, I’ll be takin’ my leave. The rent is due on the first of next month, and I’ve brought ye a newspaper from Brechin, as I’ve been told that,” he cleared his throat and shifted awkwardly before them, “that ye are ladies of good breedin’ and would enjoy a bit o’ readin’.”

 

They thanked Mr. Fletcher heartily for his kindness and help, and then Amelia took a seat in the wooden chair by the fire next to her mother.

 

Her stomach growled fiercely, and she wished for Mrs. Fletcher to make her arrival soon.

 

***

 

Jamie awoke the next morning, feeling more rested but still anxious about the worries of last evening. It had been a late night by the fire with Prince Charlie, and he had resolved to be comfortable with his mother ‘s decision to have a companion. He knew it was not his decision to make.

 

Jamie dressed in his shirt, waistcoat, and thick tartan coat for warmth. The stone walls of the castle were no form of insulation, and as soon as his feet hit the floor out of bed every morning in the winter, a chill would run through his body. His hair was tied back in a bun, following the English style. He hated it this way, but it made his mother happy and feel more like she was back at home in England.

 

He hurried down to the main hall for breakfast and was surprised and pleased to see his friend, William Fraser already helping himself to sausages at the wooden dining table with a large fire crackling at the hearth.

 

“Good morning!” yelled William heartily with a mouth full of sausage. “I didnae think you’d mind if I, uh, began early. I’ve had a busy night and need a bit of sustenance to put me back in order.” William winked.

 

Jamie laughed and clapped his red-headed friend on the back. “Of course not, lad! My friend, ye are most welcome, and yer coming is very fortuitous. I have a few issues tae discuss with ye.”

 

William rolled his eyes as he took a sip of morning ale. “Och, it’s about that dim-witted, jealous, power-hungry cousin of yers, ‘tis not?”

 

Jamie sat down across from him but didn’t yet grab for any food. “Aye, unfortunately. He’s been giving me a lot of trouble, lately. He’s spreading rumors that his father was the firstborn and shoulda been the true laird, making him the heir insteada me. What do ye think I should do?”

 

“Well, the only thing I’ve seen the idiot do is visit a few of yer relatives to blather on about his ideas. I donnae think they pay him much mind. I wouldnae worry about it, lad! And if he needs a bit of straightening out, well, ye know we can handle him.” William pounded his fist into his hand and laughed. But then, he paused and cocked his head to the side to look at his friend. “What’s really troubling ye?”

 

“What if me da kept this secret from me all these years? Did he know and willingly steal the lairdship for himself? If that’s true, then I can’t rightly take it from the true heir. And now that he’s gone, I cannae tell for sure.”

 

“Och, ye know that’s ridiculous! Yer father was a good man, a true lord, and he wouldnae taken what wasn’t rightfully his tae take. Ye know that’s true. And ye were left alive after the battle because of yer ma’s English heritage, and the real ownership belongs tae the English crown anyway. So, what could Donald want? Hmm…perhaps we ought tae make a visit tae your cousin, lad?”

 

Jamie laughed and grabbed a plate of sausages and bread. “Aye, perhaps yer right. Now, tell me about this busy night of yers…”

 

“Och, lad, yer going to enjoy this one. See, I’m not one for names, but ye know me, I remember faces. Unfortunately, the faces I remember don’t match with all the names I’ve got in me head. These two lush lassies approach me card table, greet me by name, and ask for another tup like the last time.”

 

“Aye, so you’ve made a big impression on the one whorehouse down in Brechin.”

 

William laughed, “Aye, but I got their names mixed up and called one the other one’s name, and instead of ending up in bed, I ended up with the pint over me head. Ah women…” William leaned back confidently. “Guess they just can’t get enougha me! It’s been a lot easier to get them tae notice me since ye haven’t been there stealing all their gazes.” He winked. “I’ll probably regret this, but why don’t we go taegether one night soon? It’s been a long while.”

 

Jamie clinked his cup of ale with William. “Agreed. Guess I’ll need to be there tae protect ye, anyway.”

 

Then, William began another tale that had Jamie laughing so hard that he forgot his troubles with Donald, for a time.

 

***

 

Soon enough, as if hurried by Amelia wishing it with all her might, Mrs. Fletcher finally arrived. The three ladies were sat around the fire together chatting pleasantly over freshly made cups of tea. “Aye, it does get a bit cold around this time of year, but ye both have each other tae keep warm, and ye must always keep the fire going! Was your journey very difficult?”

 

Amelia and Henrietta glanced at each other briefly before replying politely, “It was as good as can be expected, thank you. It was quite the long journey.”

 

Mrs. Fletcher looked off into the distance with a smile. “My goodness, all the way from London. I’ve never been there meself. My Lord, it must be a sight tae see.”

 

Mrs. Fletcher turned to open her basket. “Now, I’ve brought a few things for ye here tae eat yer evening and morning meals. A bit o’ bread and jam and meat. I’ve also picked out a young girl tae help ye both and tend tae yer needs. She will be by in the mornin’. Ye can give her two shillings a week.”

 

Amelia looked at Mrs. Fletcher’s round face and thought of her as their angel of mercy. Perhaps there was some hope after all?

 

“Ah, yes, Mrs. Fletcher, that was something I wished to speak to you about.” Amelia gripped her tea cup tightly. “Thank you so much for all you’ve done, but is there anywhere I could find work? You see, my mother and I are no longer supported by my father, and we will of course need to have income. It would be of great use to me if you could make any suggestions.” She sipped her tea to appear calm and collected, not starving and desperate.

 

Mrs. Fletcher touched Amelia’s knee and smiled at Henrietta. Amelia was grateful for the small kindness. “Aye, there is something!” Mrs. Fletcher clapped her hands. “Lady Kinnaird up at Kinnaird Castle. Ye can almost see it in the distance there on a misty day. She needs a lovely young companion for conversation and company. She’s told me herself she gets quite lonely up there in the long cold winters, especially while Laird Jamie is away. I think this would be suitable for ye.”

 

Amelia’s whole body tensed with excitement at the hopeful prospect of a job, but she didn’t want to appear rude or indelicate and encouraged Mrs. Fletcher to tell her the details. “Laird Jamie? Is that her husband?”

 

Mrs. Fletcher looked down and shook her head. “Och, no, sadly. The older Laird James died in a final battle for Scottish independence four years back now. This is her son, the new laird, quite young and handsome, but a wee brash at times. He hasnae the manners of his late father. But he’s a good boy, I can tell ye that.”

 

“Well, may I write a letter to Lady Kinnaird, expressing my interest in the position? Would you be able to give it to her for me?” Amelia almost cracked her tea cup as she gripped it tightly waiting for an answer.

 

“Aye, of course! Why donnae ye write yer letter, and I’ll help yer lovely mother tae get some food for the evening.” And Mrs. Fletcher took her basket into the kitchen.

 

Amelia hurried away to find something, anything, to write on to send her letter. She had butterflies in her stomach. This could be it! Then, we won’t have to starve, and we can help ourselves out of this mess. Perhaps my mother will gain some comfort. And I’ll be able to save for my father’s return! She eventually spied the small bag her and her mother brought with them from England–their only possessions. Her notebook of poems was inside as well as her ink and a pen. She tore out a page and thought about how to proceed with dignity and respect. She was to be a working woman, but she wanted it to be clear that she would be a well-educated companion for Lady Kinnaird.

 

Dear Lady Kinnaird,
I am writing in response to your advertisement for a companion…