CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Scottish Highlands, 1750
HE STOOD ON the very edge of the cliff, the tips of his boots just over the crusty rim, nothing below them but air. It was quite a long way down—one strong gust of wind would do it.
He wondered how it would feel to fall. Would his body soar like the seabirds that leaped from the edge of the cliffs to glide above the surface of the water? Or would he fall like a rock come loose from the edge? Would he be alive when he crashed into the water? Or would his heart desert him well before that final moment?
No matter how he fell, Rabbie Mackenzie knew he’d be dead the moment he hit the water and was impaled on the rocks that lurked just beneath the froth. Likely, he’d feel nothing. The water would recede and carry his body out to sea like so much detritus.
He watched the waves crashing against the wall of the cliff as the tide rose, spellbound by the violence of them. It was true that he wished himself dead, but it was also true that he’d not found the courage to die. It was the height of irony—what he wished, what he longed for, was the Highlands of his youth, when Highland men were not afraid to die.
And yet, here he stood, afraid to die.
Rabbie wished for the prosperity of those years before the battle between the Scots and the English on the moors near Culloden, for plaids and the armaments of a mighty clan, now all of it outlawed. He wished for the feills, where he once measured his strength against men in rousing contests, and for the bonny lasses who carried ale to quench the men’s thirst. Those Highlands were gone. It was a wasteland now, entire settlements burned by the English, the people either hanged or dispersed to lands across the sea. Farmland stood empty. Cattle and sheep had been rounded up and sold. The land was devoid of color and life.
Even Balhaire, the seat of the Mackenzie clan for centuries, had not gone unscathed. They had kept apart from the Jacobites, the rebels who wanted to restore Charlie Stuart to the throne. The Mackenzies had let it be known to all Highlanders they wanted no part in the rebellion. Even so, after so many Highland clans had seen their men slaughtered on the moors of Culloden by English forces, half the Mackenzie clan had been chased away by fear and false accusations. Rabbie himself had been forced to flee, hiding away in Norway for a little more than two years like a bloody coward.
Aye, he’d been sympathetic to the rebel cause, but he’d not taken up arms. He held no love for the English, no matter that his mother was a foreigner, a Sassenach, and his brother’s wife an English viscountess. Rabbie had agreed with Seona’s family—that Scotland would be drowned under the weight of taxes and excises as long as George ruled them.
He’d agreed with it, but he’d not spoken publicly against the crown. They’d come looking for him all the same, had burned more than half the village about Balhaire before the flames could be doused, had seized their cattle and laid waste to their farms.
Aye, Rabbie longed for the days of his youth.
He also longed to know what had happened to Seona. Was she dead? Was it somehow possible she was still alive? He would never know.
A movement at the entrance of the cove caught his eye. The prow of a ship was emerging, bobbing up and down in the waves as the captain negotiated the granite wall and the rocky entrance to their hidden shelter.
That would be his brother, Aulay, just returned from England.
Rabbie looked down at the water once more, wishing for a gust of wind to make the decision for him. He watched a bit of seaweed ride out from the rocks and into the center of the cove, and then, with the next wave, disappear altogether.
He stepped back from the edge. He’d not jump today. Today, he would meet his intended bride.
* * *
RABBIE TRUDGED WEARILY up the high road of what had once been a bustling village surrounding the fortress of Balhaire. Many of the shop fronts were shuttered, and with the exception of a smithy and an inn that also served somewhat as a dry goods shop, there was hardly any commerce to be had.
He walked through the massive gates and into the bailey of the old castle fortress, Balhaire. No one but a few men were about. Even many of the dogs that had once roamed this bailey had left for places unknown. He carried on, into the old castle, past walls stripped of their historic armaments, save those they’d managed to hide away.
His boots echoed on the stone floor as he made his way to the study where he’d find the laird, his father, the head of what was left of Clan Mackenzie. He was inside, as Rabbie knew he’d be, his brow furrowed as he studied a ledger at his desk. He was still quite robust in spite of a bad leg. His hair had been turned to silver by the events of the last few years.
His father didn’t notice him at the open door. “Feasgar math, Athair. Ciamar a tha thu?” Rabbie said in greeting.
“Rabbie, lad, come in, then,” his father said, waving him in. “I am well, very well.” He removed his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. “We missed you at breakfast this morning.” He repositioned his spectacles and glanced at his youngest son. “Where might you have gone, then?”
Rabbie shrugged. “I walked.”
His father looked as if he wanted to say more, but did not. Rabbie was aware that his family worried about his state of mind. He worried about it, too. He’d tried to hide his restlessness from them, but it was no use—a man could not create a pleasant mien out of thin air, could he?
He walked to the sideboard and poured a dram of whisky, which he tossed back before holding up the container to his
