Highland Rebel Read online

  “Because they might have done something, Donald. It would have been suicidal. Now I beg you gentlemen, give me leave to rest. I’m feeling poorly and I’ve been through a great ordeal!”

  She made to rise and stumbled, clutching at the table. They hurried to help her to her feet, filled with solicitude and concern—all but Donald, who regarded her with anger, and Jerrod, who watched perplexed. She hurried to her solar, gleeful and giddy and filled with relief, barely able to contain her smile. She’d always disdained feminine tricks such as fainting and weeping, but she may have been wrong. They appeared to work remarkably well. She supposed she owed him a great deal, this sharp-tongued, sarcastic Englishman. He’d saved her from Gervaise’s men and an unhappy fate, and now he’d saved her from an unwanted marriage and set her free!

  Six

  Unaware his wayward mouse was considered a very great prize in the Highlands, Jamie set out in search of his errant bride within hours of finding her gone. A sullen dawn found him skirting the edge of camp, searching for her trail. Picking it up in the sodden earth with little difficulty, he followed it to the forest fringe, and soon found himself climbing, winding ever upward through lower slopes of pine, spruce, and larch, to a summit ridge with a fine view of the surrounding area. Farmland, lush forest, and rolling hills stretched in front of him for miles, kissed here and there by thick bands of Scotch mist, still heavy and dark with rain. He could see the rugged Highlands in the distance, their snowcapped peaks obscured by angry clouds, but there was no sign of his quarry.

  He’d hoped to catch them quickly, before they’d cleared the glen and melted into the high country to the north, but it soon became apparent the adventure was going to be measured in days rather than hours. He looked back over his shoulder at the encampment below. Tiny figures bustled about and wisps of smoke from scattered cooking fires drifted through the camp and up the hill. The smell of field bread, cooked meat, and porridge wafted to him on the morning breeze.

  He debated turning back, eating a hearty breakfast, and finally getting some sleep, but it was much too late for that. It was curious how a man could strive mightily for years, determined to change his life in some small degree, and meet naught but failure. Then suddenly, with his goal in reach, some small, unexamined act could change it irrevocably in ways he’d never imagined, endangering everything he’d labored to build or keep, sending it careening helter-skelter beyond his control. He knew such a moment had come for him and there was no turning back.

  Ah well… there was nothing for it but to soldier on and hope for the best. Sullivan should be able to make his way home with Gervaise, and if he wasn’t too far behind them with his bride in tow, he might salvage the thing yet. Turning his back on breakfast and his bed, he shrugged his shoulders and resigned himself to the north. He’d yet to decide exactly what he’d do when he found the mouse and her rescuers, but he felt certain he’d come up with a plan when the time was right. He only hoped he’d find them soon.

  Luck and nature conspired against him. The steady rain that had saturated the ground, leaving muddy prints a child could follow, turned into snow as he wended his way into the Highlands, making the steep paths slick and treacherous and covering any trail. By the end of the first week, he was deep in the mountains. Several times he had to stop, taking shelter under the lee of giant boulders or making a hole in the snow as the wind howled around him. On such occasions he tended to his mount, did his best to make some tea from Sullivan’s supplies, roasted a plump ptarmigan or two, and cursed the only woman who’d ever run away from him. Well… not counting his mother, of course.

  At first, occupied with staying on the path, staying alive, and keeping track of his quarry, he paid scant attention to the beauty surrounding him, but as the weather lifted and he became accustomed to the rugged terrain, he marveled at the wonders before him even as he cursed the meandering route. When he climbed almost three thousand feet to a grizzled summit of shattered cliffs and bare boulders only to be met by four pathways heading off in different directions, he found himself cursing her again. Deciding it best to wait for morning, he immersed himself in the splendor of his surroundings, sitting on a cliff edge with his feet dangling over the side.

  Looking out over a forest of towering pinnacles and jagged rocks to the rolling hills and forested glen below, he imagined he was sitting on top of the world. The sun was setting in glorious hues of purple, fire red, and gold, and an eagle soared in the distance, its great wings spread wide as it caught an updraft, wheeling and spinning above the earth. He watched in childlike wonder until it was too dark to see, then crawled under his blankets and into his heather bed, amusing himself for a time observing the glittering sky and trying to recall his constellations. They seemed so close he might have been among them. When he tired of that, he closed his eyes and entertained himself imagining what form of revenge he’d take on his ungrateful wife, once he’d managed to reclaim her.

  It took him two more days to descend from the mountains, and he was soon a day behind her, then two, then three. He might have been in an alien world and the spectacle never ceased to amaze him. He made his way through a pinewood forest that opened into rolling hills dotted with standing stones and ancient Pictish carvings, and a superstitious chill crawled up his spine. He looked back over his shoulder several times in dread and delight, remembering childhood tales of giants and trolls told by servants late at night. Further north, descending still, he crossed a narrow bridge over a gorge carved by raging torrents of cascading water, and entered a land of cliffs, strange rock formations, and cheerful burns that fed into a giant peat bog. He laughed out loud, amazed and delighted to find a series of natural stepping-stones that took him most of the way across.

  The civilized English countryside was tamed and domesticated, fenced and hemmed into pleasant farmlands, or shaped and styled into elegant, manicured woods and gardens, ref lecting the English love of order and penchant to master the natural world. This land was a glorious wilderness, wildly beautiful, oddly whimsical, untamed and free. An admirer of the philosopher John Locke, the only heaven Jamie believed in was the one he experienced through his senses, but as he traveled through the Highlands he found himself wanting to believe in magic and fairies and almost believing in God.

  “If you’re anywhere, you’re here,” he mused out loud. He envied them, these Highlanders. How could a man—or a woman, he thought with a grin—be anything less than proud, independent, and free, raised in these lands. Well… the mouse might be proud and independent, but she was married now and no longer free.

  Each day he fell more in love with the Highlands, and further behind his prey, but somehow, through divine providence or blind luck, he never lost the trail. “My true love guides me. The little mouse leaves crumbs for me to follow,” he told his indifferent mount, a surefooted, dependable creature he’d found wandering the field after the battle. He’d left his own blooded stallion with Sullivan. It was a high-strung beast, ill-suited to climbing mountains, and far too valuable to risk.

  He finally came to the edge of a great valley dotted with lochs, rivers, and barley fields stretching as far as the eye could see. It had to be the Great Glen, and as he urged his stolid mount along the steep trail skirting its rim, he knew he was approaching Inverness and civilization. He could smell the ocean now and see it from the higher elevations. Wary and alert for trouble, he encountered no one on the trail, but when he came to a network of castle paths and a bustling market town, he knew it was time for a plan.

  Jamie had a talent for mimicry and languages he’d discovered as a child and honed in service to King Charles on clandestine missions in France, Spain, Holland, and His Majesty’s own court. As a boy, he’d made the happy discovery that the high and mighty took little notice of the poor and meek. Those who were lowly and useful, those who served, were invisible, everywhere given entry, and everywhere ignored. By changing his manner, clothing, and speech, he could disappear among them, hiding in plain sight, a privilege
d observer who switched back and forth between one world and another as circumstances dictated or his mood and curiosity allowed. In London, he’d often stood unnoticed, a mean and humble servant, bowing and scraping and tugging his cap as courtiers he’d played cards with the night before played at sedition, oblivious to his presence just feet away.

  He decided on a tinker. The making and mending of domestic metalware was a common occupation, and a tinker had skills that made him welcome in any residence or keep. Selling useful items like pins, needles, hooks, and scissors, and fripperies such as perfume, ribbons, and combs, would put him in the presence of any women of a household. The masquerade had served him well in the past, and he’d gone so far as to acquire a basic level of competence as a coppersmith and some rudimentary skills as a gun and locksmith. To effect a convincing disguise, however, he’d need suitable clothing and supplies.

  He found a small cottage on the outskirts of the settlement and filched some ragged, loose-fitting clothes from a line, leaving his saddle and bridle behind. There was a slight risk the inhabitants might report this strange event in the village, but he was willing to wager they’d keep it to themselves, preferring to keep what was clearly an expensive saddle, rather than risk having it claimed by someone in town.

  He applied a little mud and grease to face and hair, attached his handkerchief jauntily around his neck, and became a gypsy. He knew he should bury his sword, hide it, or trade it for something less valuable. It was far too fine a weapon for the role he played, but he’d grown attached to it over the years and couldn’t bring himself to leave it behind. Using his blanket as a cloak to hide it, he wandered into town, hunched over to disguise his height, leading his horse by the halter, with his own fashionable coat, boots, and clothes slung across its withers. After some spirited haggling he was able to trade the lot for a sturdy pony, suitable clothing, all the supplies a successful tinker might need, and supper and a bed.

  A couple of rounds of whiskey and some convivial conversation at the local inn led to the happy discovery that a party of horsemen from clan Drummond had passed through just three days past, headed for their stronghold some twenty miles to the east.

  Despite his humble disguise and modest clothes, Jamie still managed to attract a fair bit of attention from the local ladies, no doubt due to his easy manner, charming grin, and enticing sack of goods. A raven-haired doxy, whose breasts kept escaping her bodice despite its heroic attempt to contain them, came over to sit beside him.

  “Well now, you’re a fine looking laddie, aren’t ya? What’s your Ma been feeding you?” she asked, pawing drunkenly at his coat and tugging at his trousers.

  “I’m almost in my dotage, sweetheart. It’s clean living and a pure heart that’s kept me looking so young.” He took his would-be inamorata’s hand from the bulge in his breeches and raised it to his lips.

  “How about I sample your wares, tinker, and you sample mine?”

  Jamie shifted and grinned. He’d wager she hadn’t bathed in several months, and her whiskers were nearly as long as Granny O’Sullivan’s. “I’d love to, my darling, but I’m off to rescue my own true love. Kidnapped she was, by wooly-headed giants who carried her off in the dead of night.”

  “Is that so? And you’re just stopping to do a little business along the way?”

  “A man has to feed himself, sweetheart.” He motioned the innkeeper over for a round of drinks. Three other women had joined them, pressing against his back and shoulders and watching with a delighted chorus of ooohs and ahhhs as he spread a collection of gaudy rings, colorful ribbons, and perfumes and mirrors across the table. “Some of these be magic, my darlings,” he said, raising a mirror for them all to admire. “I look in this whenever I lose my sweetheart’s trail, and wherever she is, I can see what she’s doing as clear as day.”

  “Wouldn’t want my old man getting hold of one of those!” a stout goodwife shouted to gales of laughter.

  “What does this one do, dearie?” an older woman asked, holding up a ring.

  “Why this one protects the bearer’s heart, my love. It’s both a blessing and a curse. Whilst she wears it no man can steal her heart, and no man can wound it.” A crowd had gathered at the table by now and he leaned in closer, almost whispering, “But neither can she give her heart away.”

  “I’ll buy it!” a blowsy blonde declared, reaching for it eagerly. “I’ve no use for the bastards anyway—excepting yourself,” she added with a cheeky grin.

  The table was soon surrounded by women, young and old, respectable and not, and Jamie charmed and entertained them with f lashing eyes and teasing grin, spinning tall tales and stories that turned the garish and mundane into something enchanted and unique. Within an hour, his store of magical ladies’ fripperies was completely depleted. He was enjoying himself immensely, but when the busty blonde plopped herself in his lap and f lung her arms around his neck, causing the more respectable ladies to snort and purse their lips, ruff led and annoyed, he realized he was attracting too much attention and it was past time to go. He squeezed his well-rounded companion appreciatively, enjoying her plump curves, and rose to his feet with her tight in his arms, kissing her lustily before placing her on her feet and pointing to the slight bump and bruising near his nose.

  “Alas, my beauties, you’re as lovely and tempting a group of ladies as any I’ve encountered, but my mistress is fearsome, jealous, and cruel. In truth, it’s not the wooly-headed giants I fear, but the wrath of my coldhearted witch of a wife. If I stray she beats me unmercifully!” There were guffaws and laughter from all around, and in the general merriment Jamie managed to slip the clutches of his admirer and retire to his room.

  He set out for the stronghold of clan Drummond early the next morning, still pure of heart, stopping at the market to replenish his supplies. He’d made good money at the inn, and he grinned as he entertained the notion of chucking king, country, and ambition, and making a life in the magnificent Highlands, traveling the road, roaming hill and dale, seducing the ladies into sampling his wares.

  It was a complete mystery to him what these remote Highland Scots had been doing on the banks of the River Clyde, who the little mouse was, and what she’d been doing there with them. He’d heard stories that the Scots army that marched on Newcastle during the Civil War had included female soldiers, but frankly, he’d never believed it. He wondered now if it might be true. Running his forefinger along the bridge of his nose, he chuckled at the thought. She might prove useful yet. She was certainly more adept than Sullivan was when it came to using her fists and wielding a weapon. In any case, he supposed he’d have some answers soon.

  The busy little town f lanking Drummond Castle rose in a series of terraced streets above a snug harbor full of fishing boats and merchant ships, and as he climbed the hill, pulling his pony and his wares behind him, he could see a long spit of golden sand stretching far to the north and south. He was making slow progress, pausing every few minutes to trade with the locals, selling needles and combs and kitchen utensils with a wink and a grin and a convincing Scot’s brogue. Halfway to the top, he heard a commotion and looked up to see a large, colorfully dressed fellow in a saffron shirt barreling toward him with an excited crowd chasing behind.

  “Hold up, Cormac!” a red-haired, full-bearded Highlander was shouting. “You don’t have to leave, man! What about our alliance? I promise you we can come to some kind of arrangement.”

  A big man himself, but not today, Jamie pressed against a stone wall, trying to be unobtrusive and get out of their way, but the street was crowded and the f lorid-faced giant was the kind of fellow who claimed a lot of space.

  “You can take your bloody alliance, Donald Drummond, and shove it up your arse! I was promised land and whiskey! I was promised coin! I was promised the girl!” the giant bellowed, shoving people rudely aside and bashing into Jamie, knocking him sideways and almost to the ground. Keeping his temper, Jamie bowed his head and mumbled apologies, but the man was looking for a fight
, or at least someone on whom to vent his anger.

  “Watch your step, you poxy bastard, or I’ll give you a good thrashing!” he snarled, grabbing Jamie by his tattered cloak and shoving him hard against the wall.

  There was a moment of dead silence, followed by a swell of excited shouting as a gleaming silver sword glinted in the sun.

  “What manner of tinker is this?” Donald roared. “Who are you, ya bastard, to be sneaking about my town hiding a weapon? You’re not one of mine and you’re not the O’Connor’s!”

  Cursing, Jamie pulled out his sword and looked to the left and the right, calculating his odds and assessing his chances for escape. He should never have kept the weapon. By far the most crucial element of disguise was absolute commitment, and neglecting it might well have cost him his life. The harbor seemed the best chance. He might be able to hide in the warren of fishing boats and dockside shacks; he might even manage a dinghy. He grinned, giving friends Donald and Cormac a rude gesture before leaping onto the lower wall and vaulting to the street below. Landing on his hands and the balls of his feet, he was startled to find himself looking at long legs and a shapely derriere encased in leather breeches. Rising in an instant, he found himself staring straight into a pair of very surprised, amber, cat-like eyes.

  Well, I’ll be damned! he thought, a second before a club caught him from behind and sent him crumpling to the ground.

  Seven

  He came to, coughing and spitting as a bucket of icy water hit him in the face. He appeared to be in a courtyard adjoining the stables. He was lying on a scaffold, soaking wet, stripped of everything but his breeches. Several men held him down as his hands were tied together and pulled over his head by a rope they passed through a ring. He was yanked to his feet and hauled up until he dangled in the air, his toes barely touching the ground. The courtyard was crowded. There were women, children, and even old ladies. It seemed he was to be the day’s entertainment. These Drummonds were a bloodthirsty lot—though to be fair, public torture and execution drew a festive crowd in London as well. Damn the wench! She was ill-fated! She brought bad luck and it seemed she was going to be the death of him.