When she reached the main hall, it was crowded, and Martha hesitated for a moment on the doorstep. This was her worst nightmare. To be forced to enter a room where she knew no-one. To face the prospect of having to make conversation with people she had never met before. Then a tall figure in traditional tartan stepped forward, and her heart leapt as Fraser took her hand and led her forward.
“Come in.” His eyes were warm on her face. “Take a seat at the table and let them fetch you some food. You must’nae think us rude if the talk is all of battle, but we are close now to the prince and that is all that occupies our thoughts this night.”
Before long, Martha was gratefully tucking into a bowl of hearty beef-and-barley stew mopped up with thick chunks of bread. She let the conversation—most of which was conducted in English, with the occasional Gaelic phrase or expletive thrown in—wash over her. She learned that they were just north of Glencoe, scene of the dreadful massacre at the end of the last century. The nearest town lay at the head of Loch Linnhe, amid picturesque mountains, including Scotland’s highest peak, Ben Nevis. This settlement had grown up around a hated garrison built to hold this area against the Jacobites. It was named Fort William, after the very king who had given the order to wipe out the MacDonald clan at Glencoe. Locals could not bring themselves to speak the name William of Orange, and around the table that night, the town was often given its Gaelic name of An Gearasdan.
“The Great Glen is the key to holding this area against Cumberland,” Fraser was saying to a group of men.
“What is the Great Glen?” Martha asked Iona, who was seated between her and Rosie.
“It is mile upon mile of the grandest glens of Scotland, from the edge of Moray Firth in the north, here to Loch Linnhe in the south. The Great Glen is of strategic importance to the English when it comes to controlling the highland Scottish clans. Over the years, English kings have tried to achieve this by building a series of fortified garrisons along the length of the Great Glen. Fort William is here in the south, Fort Augustus sits in the middle of the glen, and Fort George is just to the north of Inverness itself.”
“Aye,” one of the clansmen was responding to Fraser now. “And we have taken Fort Augustus and Fort George. But, despite our best efforts, Fort William would not fall. ’Tis a fearful omen.”
“Two weeks did we shell the place.” Another voice took up the story. “But they withstood the bombardment from our field guns. At the last, they boldly sent a body of men to take our weapons from us. Then the garrison launched their own salvo down upon us, destroying our remaining batteries. The prince gave the order for us to withdraw and the siege was abandoned. The fort remains in the king’s hands.”
There was much gloom and head shaking at this account. “What was the reason for the worsening change in our fortunes?” Fraser asked.
“Too many of the clansmen were dispirited after what happened in Derby.” Iona spoke up, her clear tones cutting across the conversation of the men. “Din’nae forget, the highlanders wanted to consolidate Scotland, to reclaim our own land. ’Twas never part of our plan to march south into England. Bonnie Prince Charlie it was who persuaded our men to follow him. It was he who turned tail and came back when the support he promised did’nae materialise as he thought. A lot of the highlanders went home to their clans once they crossed the border. The Jacobite army has dwindled. The prince can’nae claim the loyalty he once did.”
“But Cumberland will come for all of us. He’ll not just come for the prince,” Fraser said. “The king is after ending our very way of life now. He wants to destroy the clans.”
“We have to stand and fight.” Jack added his voice to the call.
“Aye.” The voices around the table were as one. Goblets were raised in a toast to the prince. He might have proved himself weak in Derby, but he was a Stuart, born of the true line. Scots blood flowed through his veins and—most important of all—he was no Hanoverian.
“Why do you pass your glasses over a bowl of water before you drink a toast?” Martha asked Fraser later.
“’Tis a Jacobite tradition. Before the prince landed, we drank our toasts in secret to acknowledge the ‘king across the water’. We could’nae speak his name aloud back then. The man we believe is King James III is the father of Bonnie Prince Charlie, known to the Hanoverians as the Old Pretender.”
“So that is why the prince is the Young Pretender.”
“And why he does not claim the crown for himself. He is here fighting on his father’s behalf.”
“There is another toast I do not understand,” Martha said. “You also raised your glasses to ‘the wee gentleman in the black velvet waistcoat’. Who is he?”
He laughed. “That is a childish joke in which we allow ourselves to indulge. William of Orange died after falling from his horse when it stumbled on a molehill. We Jacobites raise our glasses and drink a toast to the mole…the wee gentleman in black velvet. He killed the man we highlanders hate more than any other.” He led her to the window. Even in the darkness, she could see white-tipped mountain peaks, decorated with huge, stoic pines pointing into the crisp blue sky. “This is my land, lass. These are my highlands. No lowland plains will do for me.” The words, and the expression on his face, were fierce with pride. She thought there was a deeper message for her in what he was saying. Nothing less than this breathtaking grandeur was good enough for Fraser Lachlan.
They were hidden from the view of the rest of the room, and in that instant, they might just as well have been alone. Martha felt his eyes fasten on the flickering pulse at the base of her throat. As though unable to help himself, Fraser leaned toward her and swiftly circled the tender flesh with his tongue. Martha pulled a startled breath in between her teeth. She made a movement away from him, and he lowered his voice, drawing her back to him with his next words. “Will ye come to me tonight, Martha?”
And, when she raised her eyes to his, it didn’t matter why he wanted her. It only mattered that he did. She nodded.
After the travellers left Cameron House, another day of bone-aching travel followed, broken only by a night spent in another grey Scots mansion. The next afternoon, they took a path that skirted a vast, silver-surfaced loch. This route gave them the best view of the dramatic scenery. A hawk circled high overhead, and the scrubby gold-and-purple heather that covered the hillside steamed in the weak sunlight as the last snows of a harsh Scots winter finally began to melt away. In the afternoon a furious sky turned the lavender clouds to grey haze. Icy, relentless rain drizzled down the backs of their necks and seemed to reach into their very souls. When it eventually ceased, pathetic sunlight made an occasional attempt to sprinkle the new grass with its rays, but a low, obscure mist chased them away.
Martha thought of her parting conversation with Iona. Fraser’s sister had taken her to one side just as she was about to mount her horse.
“The battle lines will soon be drawn. ’Twill be no carnival ye go to up at Lachlan.” She nodded over at where Rosie was looking up Jack, her pretty face shining with love. “I was mistaken when you arrived. I hoped yon lass might be wi’ my brother. Fraser is a fine man, but one who is sore in need of a good woman. Has he told ye about his wife?”
Martha had been unsure how to answer that question. “I know he was married and that his wife and son both died.” It was all she could say…because it was all she knew for sure.
Iona sighed and glanced over at her brother. “’Twas a desperate time for him. I was desperately afeared for him back then. The boy succumbed first to the smallpox and Kirsty soon after. ’Tis doubtful they would have lived anyway, but the English had blockaded the glen to punish Fraser for defying them. The physician was’nae allowed through. They would’nae even allow him to send medicines. Fraser blamed himself, of course. But what could he do? He was half-dead himself from a beating and chained in an English prison cell here in Fort William. By the time they released him, Kirsty and young Ewan had been in the ground a full ten days.”