of the spirited young woman now asleep only a few rooms farther down the hall?
Ranald opened his eyes and rubbed absently at the welting bruise on his shoulder. An injury not from some sword-wielding Lobsterback, but from a bo wl thrown by Lady Murdock.
In how many ways could he make her pay?
The eerie, mournful sound of bagpipes awoke Mhorag. She bolted upright in the bed. Fairy music, port na bpucai , her Gaelic ancestors called it. A wand of moonlight lay upon the floor. How long had she been asleep?
The bagpipes ’ skirl reached her once more. The piper played a reliquary air with its lilt and drone, tune and countertune. Ian Cameron was being comforted. Ranald Kincairn had returned.
She shivered and snuggled back u nder the coverlet. She could not sleep now. For four years her sleep had been sporadic. Riding with the Jacobite reivers, modern-day Rob Roys, she had slept rough in heather and in bothies. But then, growing up with seven brothers had made the transition to hunted criminal easier.
Hunted, haunted years. Of mounted Redcoats with stinking torches.
Five years before, in ’45, when her brothers supported the Young Pretender, Bonnie Prince Charlie, and his claim to the Scottish throne, the nightmare, and nightmares, began.
With the defeat of Bonnie Prince Charlie, the Duke of Cumberland had ordered the glens to be ravaged, men shot or hanged, women raped, homes burnt, and valuables stolen. Thousands of head of cattle and flocks of goats and sheep were driven south . The castles of those who aided the prince were burned. Forty Jacobite chiefs lost their land.
Those Jacobite chiefs apprehended were beheaded or sent to the West Indies. Two of her brothers bent their head to the ax, another two met death in battle, Robb y was sent to the West Indies, and Davy died in torture.
Her husband had died with a bullet in his back. The Redcoats had bashed her baby, rosy-cheeked Claire, against the wall until it was red. Red. Red like the Redcoats.
The Forty-five Rising had split families. Her childhood friend, Bryan Boyd, fought on the English side, while his father had stood loyally behind the Prince. The Chief of Clan Chisholm had sons fighting on both sides to avoid forfeiture.
In London, Parliament had suggested re-colonizing t he Highlands with “decent God¬fearing people from the South” and sterilization of all Jacobite women. When she would not flee Scotland, Ranald had no choice but to take her with him.
Her thoughts turned to the young woman she had sighted from the gallery. Simon Murdock’s wife. Ranald’s captive. Perhaps there truly was justice in this cold, gray world.
At thirteen, Kathryn had married the man who had captured her father in an interbaronial battle. All these years, she had abetted her daughter’s efforts to delay marriage. She had hoped that Enya would have the opportunity to make a marriage with someone who shared the same values and interests.
Not that Kathryn would erase these twenty-six years of marriage to Malcolm. How could she not help but c ome to love the gruff man who, after an argument, laid a posy of wild flowers on her pillow? What matter they were bruised and wilted? He loved her as fiercely as he loved soldiering.
She knelt at Malcolm ’s bedside. Did her husband realize the anguish he had set in motion the day he had captured her father? Now his own daughter was apparently a captive somewhere.
If not already dead.
This news Kathryn could not share with him. Such information might worsen his condition. Still, he had survived far longer than all the doctors had predicted. “Malcolm, I go below to receive Simon Murdock. It is said he has word of our Enya.”
Which was truth enough.
"The mon should join our daughter. "Tis nae good, this dallying.”
She tried to make light of the statement. “ All dallying isn’t bad, husband of mine.”
Malcolm ’s disfigured hand stole out to caress the thick, black plait of hair draped over her
Ranald opened his eyes and rubbed absently at the welting bruise on his shoulder. An injury not from some sword-wielding Lobsterback, but from a bo wl thrown by Lady Murdock.
In how many ways could he make her pay?
The eerie, mournful sound of bagpipes awoke Mhorag. She bolted upright in the bed. Fairy music, port na bpucai , her Gaelic ancestors called it. A wand of moonlight lay upon the floor. How long had she been asleep?
The bagpipes ’ skirl reached her once more. The piper played a reliquary air with its lilt and drone, tune and countertune. Ian Cameron was being comforted. Ranald Kincairn had returned.
She shivered and snuggled back u nder the coverlet. She could not sleep now. For four years her sleep had been sporadic. Riding with the Jacobite reivers, modern-day Rob Roys, she had slept rough in heather and in bothies. But then, growing up with seven brothers had made the transition to hunted criminal easier.
Hunted, haunted years. Of mounted Redcoats with stinking torches.
Five years before, in ’45, when her brothers supported the Young Pretender, Bonnie Prince Charlie, and his claim to the Scottish throne, the nightmare, and nightmares, began.
With the defeat of Bonnie Prince Charlie, the Duke of Cumberland had ordered the glens to be ravaged, men shot or hanged, women raped, homes burnt, and valuables stolen. Thousands of head of cattle and flocks of goats and sheep were driven south . The castles of those who aided the prince were burned. Forty Jacobite chiefs lost their land.
Those Jacobite chiefs apprehended were beheaded or sent to the West Indies. Two of her brothers bent their head to the ax, another two met death in battle, Robb y was sent to the West Indies, and Davy died in torture.
Her husband had died with a bullet in his back. The Redcoats had bashed her baby, rosy-cheeked Claire, against the wall until it was red. Red. Red like the Redcoats.
The Forty-five Rising had split families. Her childhood friend, Bryan Boyd, fought on the English side, while his father had stood loyally behind the Prince. The Chief of Clan Chisholm had sons fighting on both sides to avoid forfeiture.
In London, Parliament had suggested re-colonizing t he Highlands with “decent God¬fearing people from the South” and sterilization of all Jacobite women. When she would not flee Scotland, Ranald had no choice but to take her with him.
Her thoughts turned to the young woman she had sighted from the gallery. Simon Murdock’s wife. Ranald’s captive. Perhaps there truly was justice in this cold, gray world.
At thirteen, Kathryn had married the man who had captured her father in an interbaronial battle. All these years, she had abetted her daughter’s efforts to delay marriage. She had hoped that Enya would have the opportunity to make a marriage with someone who shared the same values and interests.
Not that Kathryn would erase these twenty-six years of marriage to Malcolm. How could she not help but c ome to love the gruff man who, after an argument, laid a posy of wild flowers on her pillow? What matter they were bruised and wilted? He loved her as fiercely as he loved soldiering.
She knelt at Malcolm ’s bedside. Did her husband realize the anguish he had set in motion the day he had captured her father? Now his own daughter was apparently a captive somewhere.
If not already dead.
This news Kathryn could not share with him. Such information might worsen his condition. Still, he had survived far longer than all the doctors had predicted. “Malcolm, I go below to receive Simon Murdock. It is said he has word of our Enya.”
Which was truth enough.
"The mon should join our daughter. "Tis nae good, this dallying.”
She tried to make light of the statement. “ All dallying isn’t bad, husband of mine.”
Malcolm ’s disfigured hand stole out to caress the thick, black plait of hair draped over her
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