The Fearless Highlander (Highland Defender Book 1) (19 page)

Hugh opened the door to his cottage to the click of a flintlock. Diving back inside, the musket fired, splintering the door. “Snuff the lamp,” he barked at Farley. “Charlotte—hide!”

Shoving their bayonets through the doorway, six dragoons filed inside. Hugh drew his pistols and fired. Two men dropped.

Casting the weapons aside, he drew his sword, advancing with a roar.

Farley took up the flank.

The stunned dragoons charged with their bayonets.

With an upward swing, Hugh advanced. “Campbell sent only six to cut me down?” He lunged for the kill. “Thought I’d be abed did you?”

Spinning, he took out the next.

Farley cut one down.

Hugh whipped around, looking for the last. “Where is the bastard?”

“Never thought I’d see the likes of Colonel Hill’s daughter hiding in a rat’s nest,” jeered a red-coated dragoon levering a dagger at Charlotte’s throat.

Hugh lowered his sword. “Let her go. She has nothing to do with this.”

“Is that so?” The man’s gaze shot to Farley as he inched toward the door with Charlotte in a stranglehold. “My guess is she tipped you off.”

“How can you murder these people in cold blood?” Charlotte struggled, unable to break free.

The soldier pushed his knife harder. “Orders.”

Charlotte grimaced with a hiss. “Do you not have a mind of your own?”

“Shut your gob.” The bastard tightened his grip. “I’d like nothing better than to run my blade across your neck and blame your death on MacIain.”

Hugh slid a foot forward, raising his sword a bit. By God he’d kill the louse just for touching his woman. “Why not take me on—just us pair?”
Come, you maggot
.

“You?” the cur smirked. “I’m not planning to die this day.” His feet slid sideways as he continued to inch toward the door.

Staring straight at Hugh, Charlotte’s fingers clamped around the arm holding the dagger.

He tightened his grip around the sword’s hilt. Och aye, she was the daughter of a soldier.

She blinked.

Hugh gave a subtle nod.

Before he drew another breath, she bore down and twisted. The knife fell.

Lunging for the attack, Hugh drove his blade through the bastard’s gullet.

In a blink, he had Charlotte wrapped in his embrace. “I should have kent the daughter of a colonel would be brave. My God, you are amazing.”

Clutching her fists beneath her chin, she shook like a terrified puppy, but Hugh meant what he’d said. Lord, he knew men who wouldn’t have acted with such courage when facing a dagger held at the neck.

“I—I…”

Hugh kissed her temple. “Wheesht, lass. ’Tis over.”

Down below, musket shots continued to fire.

“I’m afraid it has only begun,” said Farley.

Hugh nodded. Lord knew what horrors he’d find in Glencoe. With one last kiss, he nudged Charlotte toward the tracker. “Go with MacGregor.”

Her fingers clung to his waist while a tear slipped from her eye. “Why can you not go with us?”

If only he could spirit her away—but Hugh MacIain MacDonald was no coward. “I give you my word I’ll be with you soon.”

“Take my horse,” said Farley. “He’s already saddled.”

“My thanks.” Shoving his sword back into his scabbard, Hugh sprinted out the door, leapt on the pony, and dug in his heels.

Approaching Glencoe at a gallop, Hugh couldn’t believe his eyes. Yes, he’d raided and had been plundered, but he’d never seen complete annihilation. Every roof was ablaze, and as he neared, his kinsmen and women ran in all directions without aim, some naked, some barely clad while snow fell atop them.

“
A
Meall Mòr
,” he bellowed, digging in his heels. He drove straight toward a dragoon chasing a Mary with a battleaxe. Before Hugh reached them the sick cur cleaved the woman—no older than Charlotte—in the back.

Infused with rage, Hugh barreled on course. Drawing his sword, he roared at the murderer and cut him down.

Surrounded by death and dying, Hugh spun his horse and swung at every red-coated devil in his path. Blood spewed across the snow. As he fought, he steered Farley’s garron toward his parent’s house. In the distance, angry flames leapt from Carnoch. Seeing no clear route to the manse without facing a mob of bloodthirsty dragoons, he headed for the river path. It might take longer, but with luck he wouldn’t be shot for his efforts.

As Hugh clambered over the icy bank, bedraggled MacIains huddled and shivered. “
A
Meall Mòr
,” he repeated over and over as he dug his heels deeper into the horse’s barrel.

At the path to Carnoch, Hugh reined his mount to a stop. Dragoons ran through the snowy paddocks, firing their muskets at livestock. Piles of black hide lay in contrast with the white ground.

Hugh dismounted and crouched in the foliage, creeping toward the burning manse.

His mother’s wail shrieked on the wind.

The rear door swung open and creaked as if hanging from a derelict shack.

Sword at the ready, Hugh stepped inside the kitchen. Smoke oozed through the air like ghostly spirits, but there was nary a soul in sight.

Ma’s wail came again.

Hugh sprinted for his parent’s bedchamber.

Finding the door kicked in, nothing could have prepared him for the horror beyond its splintered timbers. Completely naked with blood streaming between her legs, Ma crouched over Da’s lifeless body, weeping out of control. Beneath the old man’s head, dark blood seeped, spreading into the plaid rug. By the gaping wound in Da’s skull, he’d been shot in the head—there’d be no chance for him now.

“Ma.” Hugh dashed to his mother, wrapping his arms around her, shielding her from her nakedness.

“The captain b-burst in here and s-shot him,” Ma shrieked in a staccato wail.

Tears stung Hugh’s eyes.

Curling into a ball, every muscle in her body tensed. “And they took a d-dagger to me.”

“Jesus Christ.” Hugh jumped up and snatched a plaid from the bed. “They were here a fortnight.” He draped the blanket around his weeping mother. “Stayed under our rooves as guests under trust.”

“I’ll kill them all,” a husky voice growled from the doorway.

“Og.” Hugh protectively placed his palm on Ma’s shoulder while his brother stepped inside, blood dripping from his sword.

“Sandy’s dead. Sarah ran a dirk across his throat whilst he slept.”

“Nooooooooo,” Ma wailed, clutching her fists. “Not. My. Bairn!”

Hugh kneeled beside her, tears blurring his vision as he tucked the blanket around her. “Glenlyon, Hill, William, Stair…they’ve all declared war.”

Og leaned on his sword, taking deep breaths. “When I saw six of them ride up the hill, I thought you’d be dead, too.”

“Not likely.” Hugh ground his teeth. “We must move Ma to safety afore they double back to bayonet the survivors.” Hugh hefted his mother into his arms. “Campbell has orders to put all under seventy under the sword.”

“They’re doing a bloody good job of it.” Og sidled toward the window and peered out. “If it weren’t for the creak of the floorboards, I’d have been murdered in my bed by my backstabbing
houseguest
.”

“’Tis an abomination,” Ma cried with a shudder.

“Come, brother, take our mother to the cottages behind Meall Mòr.”

“Why not up the pass—we might be able to make it to the summer houses?”

“That route’s blocked. Hamilton’s marching his men up the Devil’s Staircase.”

Og blinked and strode back to the center of the room. “How do you know?”

“Miss Hill arrived with Farley MacGregor moments afore the shooting started.”

“Hill?”

“I reckon she saved my life—and now she’s fleeing for hers. Headed to Meall Mòr like the rest of us.” Hugh placed his palm on Og’s shoulder. “I’ve a horse tethered by the river. Take Ma. I’ll stay and fight.”

Mother grasped his arm and squeezed. “No. No more fighting.”

“Are you mad, brother?” Og glared. “Those who haven’t fled are dead.”

Burning timbers crashed down, blocking the doorway.

Hugh raced for the window and levered it open. “Hurry, else we’ll be burned alive.”

Together, the brothers spirited their mother outside while tongues of flames chased them out the window.

With Ma hunched over the horse’s withers, Hugh and Alasdair crept along game trails to the pass of Meall Mòr, the flat-topped mountain with its steep slopes. He prayed the government troops had discounted this route—treacherous, it was one he’d taken only when hunting mule deer in summer.

In the distance, the roof of his cottage was now afire. Hugh swore he could see Glenlyon’s outline against the blaze, mounted on a horse, his sword raised, bellowing orders, no doubt.

His orders were to kill the old fox and his sons? I’ll see to it he’ll fail by half, and then I’ll have my vengeance
.

With daylight came more horror. Given the luxury of horseback, Charlotte and Farley arrived first at the two broken down hovels—one with its roof caving in due to rot and the weight of snow.

Charlotte had no idea how the horses made it through the rugged pass. Her mount had foundered thrice. There had to be at least three feet of snow on the ground and snow was still falling. She prayed they’d blazed a trail for those poor souls on foot.

Farley levered open the door to the shieling with a roof. Stepping inside, it was too dim to see anything, but Charlotte’s overshoes skimmed atop dirt. “We’d best start a fire.”

“I’ll set to it.”

She nodded. “Leave the door ajar to cast some light.”

Once her eyes adjusted, she’d wished they hadn’t. The place was a shambles. Broken pots and timbers, a single chair missing one leg, a moth-eaten blanket, so filled with holes and infused with dust it would provide no warmth whatsoever. Thatch from the roof piled everywhere, and rather than a hearth, there were rocks in a circle with an iron hook hanging down from the rafters for cooking.

At least they could use some of the timber for the fire.

Charlotte picked up the chair to move it aside when a rat scurried out from beneath a heap of thatch.

Squealing, she dropped the chair and skittered backward. Staring at the heap of debris, it moved as if there were a whole nest of rats under the rubbish. Wringing her hands, she slid back until she bumped into the open door. Nearly jumping out of her skin, Charlotte dashed outside. “Farley!”

The big man was nowhere to be seen.
Curses
.

Charlotte hated rats. The filthy vermin made her skin crawl. She set off through the thigh-deep snow, heading toward the hovel with half its roof missing, when an eagle called overhead. Heaven’s stars, Hugh’s people would soon be here. She could not look the coward in their eyes—and those damnable rats had to go.

Clenching her fists, she forced herself back inside. With rapid blinks, her eyes again adjusted as she glared at the pile of debris. “’Tis you or me, and I’m a great deal larger.”

Carefully stepping nearer, she picked up a pole like those holding the thatch above. She gripped the weapon for dear life while her face stretched in a grimace. Levering under the pile, she flung the rushes aside. Rats scurried in every direction. With a yelp, Charlotte ran after the nearest, slamming the pole to the ground. “Be gone you vile beasts!”

Around and around the cottage she darted, bashing her stick down on anything that moved. “I hate rats!” She clobbered one before it escaped under the sod walls. “I hate them, I hate them, I. Hate. Rats!”

“Miss Charlotte?” Farley’s voice droned behind her.

With a gasp, she stopped and turned, gripping the pole against her chest. “Rats,” she said inclining her head.

The big tracker grinned. “I’ll wager you put the fear of God in them beasties.” Moving inside, he waved his hand.

Two scantily clad people stepped into the doorway—a man with a bare chest and a plaid tucked around his waist—a woman in nothing but a shift. And Lord, she had a babe in her arms. Neither the man nor the woman wore shoes, their feet bloodied and blue from cold.

The man looked to Farley, his eyes filled with fear. “
Sassenach?
”

The tracker gestured inside. “
Tha i Hugh’s bean
.”

Gaelic?
“Do you speak English?” Charlotte asked.

The couple crept forward, giving her a wide berth.

Goodness, how on earth was she to communicate with these people?

Farley dropped his armload beside the fire pit. “Most in these parts do—a bit.”

Charlotte rubbed the outside of her arms. “I think there’s enough wood here. Will you start a fire?”

“Aye.” Farley pulled a flint from his sporran. “I’ve set some snares as well.”

Still clutching her pole, she looked over each shoulder. “I think the rats have scattered.”

He chuckled. “If we weren’t in the midst of this mess, I would have had a good laugh watching you swing that stick of wood around.”

Charlotte propped the branch by the door. “I think I clanked on an iron kettle. It’ll come in handy for melting snow to cleanse wounds—and to drink.” Thank goodness she’d been working in Doctor Munro’s surgery. Her training might come to some use.

The couple still stood in the middle of the cottage looking dumbstruck.

Charlotte touched the woman’s arm.

She yanked away, shielding her child.

“Forgive me.” Charlotte drew her fist to her chest, nodding to a place by the fire pit. “Please sit. We’ll have fire lit in no time.”

The pair exchanged bewildered glances, then did as Charlotte asked.

As soon as they settled, the baby cried and the woman opened her shift, offering the wee one a teat. Turning its head, the infant suckled as its mother rocked in place, her face devoid of emotion.

“My word, we need food,” Charlotte uttered.

“And there’s more coming, mark me.” Farley struck the flint against a pile of dried rushes. “You’d best pray my snares trap something—else we’ll be praying to be shot—’tis a much faster death than starvation.”

Her head spinning from her own hunger and fatigue from riding an entire night without a wink of sleep, she leaned against the door jamb—with a steeply pitched roof extending down to all but three foot, there wasn’t a wall tall enough to lean against.

Please, God, bring us food—and please, please, please help Hugh arrive safely
.

***

When Hugh and Og made it to the cottage with their mother, a fire was crackling. A cast iron pot dangled above it, a shroud of smoke hung in the air, making it appear as if he’d stepped into a dream. In fact, a hollow chasm expanded in his chest as if he’d spent the entire day in the worst nightmare imaginable.

The walls were lined with crouching refugees who’d escaped the massacre—his kin who the day before were vibrant and filled with life, playing shinty with Glenlyon’s grenadiers. Not an eye looked his way, not a face registered anything but utter defeat.

“Hugh.” Charlotte stood from where she’d been kneeling beside the fire. Strands of hair hung in her face, and she wore naught but her gown.

“Where is your cloak?” He blinked, hardly recognizing her. She seemed so out of place amongst his destitute, homeless kin. “Your plaid? ’Tis freezing.”

She spread her palms. “There are many who are in far more need that I.”

Lord, she’d given her cloak and her blanket to others.

“Come in and close the door.” She beckoned. “It has only begun to warm in here.”

“A moment.” He turned to Alasdair Og. “Take Ma inside.”

“We heard Glenlyon shot the chieftain,” Gavyn said, using his Gaelic.

Hugh looked to Charlotte. Och, the Sassenach had no idea what they were saying—he’d use English—most everyone else could do the same. “’Tis true, Da’s dead, and the miscreant Campbell fired the shot.”

“You’re the chief of the Coe now.” Graham, the elder said, his weathered face looking like death.

Hugh didn’t want to hear it. “There’s nothing left. They’ve burned all the glen and killed all our livestock.”

“I’m hungry, Ma,” said a little lad—Lachlan, huddling with his parents.

As the clansmen and women made room for Og to lay their mother on the dirt floor, Hugh looked at the forlorn faces staring at him, all expecting him to make a miracle happen.

Christ, I’m fresh out of miracles
.

He squinted to the dark corners. There were people everywhere. “How many are here?”

“There are a score and ten,” Charlotte replied.

His tongue ran across dry, chapped lips. “Any supplies?”

“I’ve set snares.” Farley stepped forward. “But we’ll need more than a few rabbits.”

“How many horses do we have?”

Farley scratched his beard. “Miss Charlotte and I rode in—hers and the one I rode—that’s it.”

Hugh threw his thumb over his shoulder. “And there’s mine.”

“You mean mine,” said Farley. “And he’s my ticket home. Now Miss Charlotte is safe, I’m aiming to return to my lady wife.”

Hugh nodded. This wasn’t the tracker’s fight. He’d already done far more than he’d expect from someone outside his own. “And you’d best take Charlotte with you. The midst of a bloodbath is no place for a lady.”

“I’m staying.” Charlotte planted her fists on her hips.

“Pardon?” Hugh looked from Og to Farley receiving not an inkling of support from either man. He took Charlotte by the elbow and led her outside—snow still falling sideways with hard driving wind. “Bless it, woman. Do you know what you’re saying? If your
father’s
men figure out where we’re hiding, we could have every dragoon on the west coast of Scotland bear down upon us. And this time, Stair’s goddamned orders to exterminate the entire clan just might come to completion.”

Charlotte rubbed her outer arms. “The people in there are suffering. Most have nothing on their feet. They fled with a few threads on their backs if they were lucky. Most are in such a state of shock they cannot string two coherent words together—even if I could understand what they were saying.” She folded her arms and tilted up her chin. “That’s the end of it. I’m staying. With Doctor Munro’s training, I can be of more use to you than you realize.”

“Aye, if my clansmen don’t slit your throat whilst you’re sleeping.”

“I beg your pardon?” She stamped her foot in the powdery snow. “I am trying to help. Why would anyone want to do that?”

“Because you’re the spawn of Colonel Hill—the man who ordered this madness.”

“My father did no such thing!”

“You cannot tell me he didn’t have a hand in it.”

She clutched her abdomen and turned her back. “He tried to stop it.”

“But he couldn’t.”

“No. And the Master of Stair copied James Hamilton on his missives to ensure Papa obeyed his orders.”

Hugh reached out his hand, but couldn’t bring himself to place it on her shoulder. The haunting screams of the dying echoed in his head. Bringing his cold fist to his mouth, he blew warm air on it. “You ken I’ll protect you. When you helped me escape the bowels of Fort William, I swore I would give my life for you, but I cannot remain by your side at all times. You heard them. I’m chieftain now, and only God kens what’s in store. Do you realize they’ve annihilated Glencoe? Every home, every lean-to…Christ, even fence posts were burned. Glenlyon left not one sheep, not one cow or chicken for us to survive. If—I said
if
we pull together and steer clear of those red-coated vermin infesting Glencoe’s hills, it will be a long and painful road.”

“I understand the risk.” She turned and placed her hand on Hugh’s arm. It burned through his shirt like she’d branded him. “I want to stay with you.”

God bless it, Charlotte was not the reason for their plight. Hell, if not for her, Hugh would most likely be lying in a pool of his own blood, burning to cinders in his cottage. Clenching his teeth, he gathered her into his arms and pressed his cheek atop her head. If only he could allow himself a moment’s respite, she felt so damn good—felt like home to a man who’d just watched his go up in flames. But keeping her there was too selfish, even for a rogue like him. “I want you beside me more than anything. You must know that. Go with Farley. After this is over, I’ll find you and if you’ll wait for me, we can start anew.”

She pushed away. “What do you mean,
if
I’ll wait? Do you think so little of my love for you? For goodness sakes, I rode all night though a blizzard.”

Hugh’s gut twisted—his mind flashing with the sight of flames licking his father’s lifeless body. Would he ever rest until he had his revenge? How could he hold Charlotte in his arms while his clan stood by and watched? No. He must stand his ground with her. The lady’s presence would only serve to make things worse. “Your father is the goddamned Governor of Fort William. His name must have been on the order to put my clan under fire and sword.” He pointed a finger shaking with rage—not for Charlotte but for the atrocities he’d just witnessed. “I am responsible for the lost souls in there. My father has just been murdered. My own mother has had a knife taken to her—” He couldn’t say it. The ghastly terror stretched across Charlotte’s face silenced him. Hugh dropped his chin with his shoulders. “I fear she’ll bleed to death, and I’ve all but a woolen blanket to bring her comfort.”

Colonel Hill’s daughter moved closer and took up his hand, her fingers cold like ice. Looking up into his eyes, she kissed his knuckles as a tear spilled down her cheek. “There are no words to describe how horrific this day has been. But I swear on my mother’s grave, I will not walk away. Not now. Not ever.”