Simon di Rollo, for his Scottish legal expertise. Special thanks to Heather Graham Pozzessere, Sally Fairchild and Joan Johnston, whose encouragement and faith in me have been so precious. Thanks also to the lovely ladies at MIRA: Dianne Moggy, Amy Moore-Benson and Martha Keenan. Last but not least, my deepest thanks to Jean Marie Grimsley, for her tireless assistance, and Sondra Schneider for helping me see more clearly.
Contents
Prologue
The Lowlands, Scotland
1746
Rob Dunbar held his young bride, Mhairie, close. They huddled by the smoking peat fire, hungry and exhausted after their harrowing journey from the Highlands. The small band consisting of Rob, his gillie, Hamish, and Mhairie and her mother had made their way south, disguised as drovers driving their cattle to market in Falkirk. They had avoided the Redcoats, and the only stops taken were in smoky bothies of other loyal Jacobite supporters, or outside, in the clachans, where Rob had tenderly laid his plaid on the heather and bracken for them to lie upon.
He gazed longingly at his lovely young bride, his heart full. Words seemed pointless now that so little time remained, and he raged at destiny for tearing them so cruelly apart when all they wanted was each other. How fortunate that they had married despite their parents’ opposition. Not that they had disapproved the match, but as Struan, her father, had remarked in his dour Highland manner, “What use is there te’ take a wife ye’ll nae have by yer side nor in yer bed, ma’ boy? Better fer both of ye te’ wait till all this warring is behind us.”
A sad smile touched Rob’s lips and he straightened the dirk stuck firmly in the heavy leather belt that secured his twelve-foot kilt and plaid. Wistfully he realized that those nights of love among the heather would be their only comfort in the dark days of separation to come.
He gazed at the fire and thought of the Colonies. They seemed so very far. Rob sighed and covered Mhairie tenderly with her plaid, wondering if she would ever return. Enemy troops were everywhere. Edinburgh Castle was in the hands of the Hanoverians, and many Lowlanders had turned traitor and joined German Geordie’s men. Even if Bonnie Prince Charlie won the battle that was brewing, hope of Mhairie’s return was faint. And if he lost, their fate would be a dismal one. The Prince’s followers would be vanquished men, stripped of their weapons, their estates forfeited to the English crown, and the whole uprising would have been for naught. Things had changed considerably since the uprising in 1715. Now Highland lairds were finding it hard to rally their men, and only the crois tara, the cross made of two charred sticks covered in blood which demanded on pain of death that a man follow his chieftain into battle, succeeded in persuading them.
Rob stroked his beloved Mhairie’s locks. He’d faced the agonizing choice of going home to his lands in the south or rejoining the Prince. But even as he hugged his wife, he knew a man could not shirk his duties. His loyalty lay with his sovereign. Whatever the outcome, he must head back North and fight the last fight.
Still, the thought of Mhairie’s departure in a few hours was devastating. He saw her shiver and held her closer. “Are ye cold, ma’ beloved?” he asked tenderly.
“’Tis not the cold in ma’ body but the chill in ma’ heart that ails me, Rob,” she whispered, shuddering.
He placed more peat on the fire before seating himself down beside her once more and cradling her head gently in his lap. He caressed the soft auburn curls that flowed, long and thick, about her heart-shaped face, wondering when, if ever, he would see them again.
Jamie, his dear and faithful friend, entered the low-beamed room, silently handing him a tumbler of pungent whiskey. They sat, Rob embracing Mhairie, Jamie brooding before the fire, the hours passing all too quickly. Rob’s heart ached as dawn drew nigh and separation ever closer.
Soon they had mounted and were on their way to Leith where the ship lay at anchor, the seashore and brine sharp reminders of what little time remained. Rob whispered in Gaelic to his gillie, sending him ahead through the thick damp haar with the prearranged signals.
They stood, a silent group of ravished souls, listening with heavy hearts as the waves lapped the hull of the tiny craft, coming silently across the water to take them to the vessel, her sails rigged and ready to sail.
“That must be Captain MacPherson himsel”’ Jamie whispered. “I’ll gae’ ahead and have a wee word wi’ him.” He disappeared into the early-dawn mist, leaving the young couple a few precious moments for their last farewell.
“Och, ma’ Mhairie. Never forget how deeply I love ye.”
“Nor ye, ma’ beloved,”
