The Fearless Highlander (Highland Defender Book 1) (24 page)

Hugh stood on the battlements, facing Loch Linnhe. He’d told everyone he was watching for Donald MacDonald’s galley, but he needed time alone. He needed a cold wind in his face to clear his mind. He’d nearly convinced himself Charlotte didn’t belong in Glencoe, but after last night, his resolution crumbled.

His soul be damned, he couldn’t give the lass up. His kin would have to accept her. She wasn’t like Sarah—that nasty wench had never done anything to help others like Charlotte had done. As a matter of fact, Hugh never heard the Campbell woman utter a pleasant word about Sandy.

His gut twisted as it had so often in the past sennight. Yes, Hugh mourned the loss of his father and Ma, but Sandy had so much life left to live. A more affable lad Hugh had never known. Sandy had a natural talent for everything, and though he seemed to know it, he never boasted. More than once Hugh had seen him let another man win at archery or cards just to keep things friendly.

Hugh looked up to the sky. “Lord, you’d best put wings on Alexander. He’s the best bloody Highland angel you’ll ever see.”

Charlotte would make a bloody good angel as well. Hugh raised his fist. “But you can’t have her. She’s mine.”

A gust of wind hit him with such force, Hugh took a step back, thrusting his fist higher. “I mean it!”

He leaned into the wind and cast his gaze northward. Where was that damned
birlinn
? Hugh needed to get back to Meall Mòr before his people starved—or froze, and by the looks of the sky, another blizzard was brewing. God, he hated waiting for anything.

Ahead, Robert exited the stairwell, rubbing his shoulders. “Bloody hell, with the wind ’tis colder than a dip in an icy loch up here.”

“Aye. ’Tis at that.” Wearing nothing but his shirt with his plaid draped over his shoulders. Hugh refused to let the cold vex him—dammit, if Robert thought it was miserable atop Castle Stalker, he should spend a couple nights in the mountains with his kin.

Stewart waved his thumb over his shoulder. “You’d never believe who just rowed across from Appin.”

Hugh glanced over his shoulder at the southwestern corner of the keep. He hadn’t visited that side of the wall-walk at all.
Was it Hill?
Lead sank to the pit of his stomach. “Who?”

“The Earl of Breadalbane.”

Ballocks. “I thought you said I would be safe within these walls.” Hugh started toward the stairwell. Hell, he couldn’t risk being arrested and detained in the Inveraray Tolbooth at a time like this. “Where can I hide?”

Robert grabbed his arm. “He came alone.”

Hugh pulled up short. “What say you?”

“Aye, left his retinue waiting in the snow in Appin. Says he only wants to talk. Says he’ll surrender his weapons if necessary.”

“Bloody hell. What the blazes does he want with me?”

“Not sure, aside from a private audience with you.”

Hugh scratched his stubbled chin. Grey John Campbell, the Earl of Breadalbane was close to his age, but much shorter. Nonetheless, Hugh wasn’t about to take any chances. “No weapons?”

“Aye.”

“Very well.” Hugh might leave his sword and dirk behind, but he’d keep his
sgian dubh
hidden inside his sleeve as insurance. He’d never again be able to trust one single Campbell backstabber.

“He’s in my solar. You can meet with him there.” Robert chuckled. “My men have already relieved the earl of his weapons.”

When Hugh stepped into the solar, the earl was warming his hands at the fire, his brown horsehair wig curling well past his shoulders. He turned swiftly, raising his aristocratic nose. “MacIain.” He walked forward and held out his hand. “I cannot tell you how much it pleases me to see you escaped this heinous crime.”

Hugh looked down at the extended palm—white skin, smooth as a bairn’s arse. After a moment’s hesitation, he took it, crushing the bastard’s fingers until Breadalbane’s face turned scarlet. “To what do I owe this
honor
, m’lord?”

Reclaiming his hand, the man rubbed his knuckles and sat at the head of the table. “When news of the massacre reached me in London, I quickly sailed for home.” He gave an exaggerated shake of his head. “’Tis an abomination of the worst sort.”

“Aye.” Taking a seat at the other end of the table far enough away so he wouldn’t inadvertently strangle the cur, Hugh arched an eyebrow. “Word surely arrived in London with haste if you’ve had time to sail this far north in our tempestuous weather.”

Breadalbane pursed his lips, stretching his neck out of the cravat knotted tightly at his throat. “There is a faction of us who are concerned with the way the Master of Stair is conducting the king’s affairs during his absence in Flanders.”

“Oh? I have it from a good source the king’s signature was on the orders to put my entire clan under fire and sword.” Hugh drummed his fingers atop the table, watching the earl’s expression. “All those under seventy, I’m told.”

The man blanched. “Your sources are credible then?”

“Very.” Bless Charlotte Hill a million times a million.

Breadalbane sliced his palm through the air. “Be it known I had no hand in this.”

Hugh believed that as much as he believed in fairy shite. “Aye? You were completely unaware—unable to stop it?”

“By the time I uncovered the Master of Stair’s plan, it was too late.”

Hugh shrugged. It no longer mattered if the earl was lying through his teeth or not. “So, why are you here?”

Removing a kerchief from his sleeve, the earl dabbed the sweat beading on his upper lip. “I have a proposition for you.”

Hugh’s gaze trailed to the fire in the hearth. This conversation grew odder and odder. “For me?”

“I want no hand in this affair.” The kerchief disappeared from whence it came. “You are aware I tried to bring about Jacobite loyalty to King William peaceably.”

“Pardon?” Hugh could have hurled his breakfast atop Stewart’s fine walnut table. “Are you as full of shite as you sound? My father waited for days to sign the oath in Inveraray—when finally Campbell of Ardkinglas managed to show his face, Da signed it with as broad a signature as yours I’ll wager—and all while you sat beside your hearth with your countess.”

The earl’s Adam’s apple bobbed.

Hugh leaned further forward—another foot or two, and he’d be able to strangle that neck. By God, he would have his say. “As I recall, you offered payments to buy the highest ranking chieftain’s loyalty.” Hugh pushed back and rapped his knuckles on the table. “Except no compensation was offered to my father, nor were any payments forthcoming from London to compensate those who trusted you,
m’lord
.”

Breadalbane again tugged on his cravat. The codfish should have loosened it a bit before requesting an audience. Hugh had no intention of kissing his pasty arse, earl or no.

“The king’s coffers have been bled by the war in France.”

Hugh didn’t care about that either. The bloody war in France is what had prevented James II and VII from gaining support from King Louis. “Still, I do not see what that has to do with me or the fact that my kin are hiding, freezing. Damnation, most have nothing but a blanket on their backs.”

Sitting back, the earl regarded him down the length of his nose.

Hugh smirked. “Not one cow or sheep, or even a chicken was left in Glencoe. We were murdered by
your
cousin for God’s sake. Is there anything you can do to feed my starving kin? Cause if you cannot, this parley is over.”

“Good God, you’re as arrogant as your father.” The earl gave a woeful shake of his head. Aye, a philanthropist he was not.

But Hugh refused to play the bleeding heart. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Breadalbane placed his palms on the table. “I did not condone Glenlyon’s actions nor would I ever agree to such an abuse of Highland hospitality. Sir, I have come to you with a proposition.”

Bloody oath, how long did Hugh have to sit there before the earl spat it out? He rolled his hand through the air. “I’m listening.”

“If you will swear and write under your hand that I am innocent of the slaughter, then I will use my influence to secure a full pardon and restitution for your clan.”

Hugh’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. “What the blazes do
I
need a pardon for?”

“I-I agree—your father signed the oath, though six days past King William’s deadline.”

“Not for want of trying. Christ, he had the missive from Hill explaining that he’d gone to Fort William first.” Hugh’s nostrils flared as he took in a deep inhale. Devil’s bones, the man had a gargantuan set of cods. “And what could make me believe King William would give Clan Iain Abrach of the Coe a farthing or retract his order to annihilate us all? He hasn’t made good on a one of his promises to pay monies due. Even Colonel Hill has had difficulty securing back pay for his bloody dragoons.”

His gut twisting in a million knots, Breadalbane’s proposal scraped against every nerve in Hugh’s body. Would he sell his soul to give his people the money they needed to start anew? Hell, yes! But he would
not
sign his name to aid a known backstabber with a history of making empty promises.

Hugh stood and opened the door. “You want exoneration from my father’s blood on your hands?” He made an exaggerated bow. “Then I suggest you seek one of your Protestant priests.”

Looming in the hallway beside Sir Robert, Lord Donald MacDonald removed his feathered bonnet. “Lord Breadalbane, what a surprise.”

The earl brushed past him with a scowl. “It was the Master of Stair and my worthless, wayward cousin. I had nothing to do with it. I told him this would come to no good!”

Hugh grinned for what felt like the first time in a decade as he watched the man stomp through the passageway to the stairwell.

The baronet held out his hand. “It looks like you made Breadalbane a wee bit hot under the collar.”

“Bloody oath I did.” Hugh gestured to the table. “Thank you for coming, cousin. We have much to discuss.”

When Hugh looked at the two faces staring at him across the table, he felt like a grandfather. Bless it, the Baronet of Sleat was only three and twenty—a year or two older than Charlotte. But these two young men had plenty of clout not only with the Jacobite cause, but with the Privy Council in Edinburgh. Taking his seat, Hugh told them about Breadalbane’s offer and his refusal.

Lord Donald ran his fingers through his thick, black tresses. “I understand your reasons, though it would have been good to sway him to our side.”

Robert snorted. “He’s a king’s man no matter who’s sitting on the throne. Bloody oath, after his uncle was beheaded by Cromwell, he’s afraid to piss without asking the king’s permission first.”

“Well then, we’ve more important matters to discuss.” The baronet flicked his wrist at Stewart. “Robert, have some ale sent up.”

“’Tis on its way.”

“Very well.” Eying Hugh, Lord Donald shook his head. “The western clans are infused with rage over this abomination. Hell, the Camerons are ready to take up arms and march on Fort William.”

“As am I,” said Hugh.

“But not while they’re expecting our retaliation.” The baronet looked between them, his hawk-like gaze emitting maturity well beyond his years. “While you were chatting with the earl, Robert showed me your account of Glenlyon’s heinous act. We need to ensure copies are made and they fall into the right hands.”

“Absolutely,” agreed Sir Robert. “This is news—the story needs to be told in every gazette across Europe—expose William for who he really is.”

Hugh nodded. “Fair enough. I say we send an original to King James in France.”

“Agreed,” said Donald. “And our allies in Edinburgh will see to it a copy is placed before the Privy Council. Not a Jacobite will rest until we gain restitution.”

Hugh pursed his lips. Breadalbane had just used the same word. Could there be hope? The clamminess spreading across his shoulders told him no. The government had declared war. “We must unite the clans. If we cannot gain support from the French, we have to build our forces within.”

Lord Donald slid his hand down his chin. “’Tis tricky, especially now William has made allies with Spain.”

A servant entered with a tray and Robert gestured to the table. “Leave it.” He reached for the ewer. “We must prepare. Be ready at all times.”

Hugh took a tankard and held it up for Robert to pour. “We have to meet—I want every clan chief to know what happened after my father traveled seventy miles in a blizzard to sign the bastard’s bloody oath.”

“Nay.” The baronet shook his head. “’Tis too dangerous to bring us all together at once.”

After he’d taken a swig, Hugh slowly placed his tankard on the table, his eyes narrowing. “How about under the guise of competition?”

“You look like you have an idea.” Lord Donald leaned forward on his elbow.

“For centuries clans have met to compete in Highland games. Why not hold an annual fete bringing all the western clans together?”

“At least those who support James.” Robert held up a tray of oatcakes, offering them to Lord Donald.