Although sunlight was climbing the mountain crags beyond the loch, the air that ruffled Fraser’s hair and touched his cheek felt like sharpened ice. But the sight of those two simple, lonely graves might have been more to blame for the shiver that ran through his broad frame than any highland breeze. He kept his head bent and tried to still his mind so that his thoughts were only of them. Of his wife Kirsty and his boy Ewan, who both lay cold beneath this bare, ungrateful soil.
Fraser clenched his fists at his sides as the familiar rush of twin emotions hit him head-on. It was always the same. Heartbreaking sadness came hand in hand with crippling guilt. His punishment for haranguing the English had been the death of these two innocents.
“Sign it.” He could remember the note of boredom in the cultured tones of the English captain who had held the quill out to him. He would never forget the man’s name. Augustus Hendry. It was engraved on Fraser’s heart.
Fraser had remained as straight and unmoving as the bruises inflicted by his captors had allowed. The document before him was an oath of fealty to King George II, and the signature of the proud Laird of Lachlan was something the English commander of the Fort William garrison was determined to secure. To be able to claim the distinction of having paraded such a document before the other Scots barbarians would earn him his place in history. Hendry’s attempts to break Fraser’s will had so far, however, proved tiresomely ineffective.
“Very well. Since it appears you positively thrive on the beatings my men administer, we will try another approach at persuasion. A troop of soldiers has been posted at the entrance to the Great Glen. No provisions or visitors will be allowed into your castle until your signature is on this pledge.”
Fraser had not been unduly concerned at that. Castle Lachlan was fairly self-sufficient, and he knew that the English would not dare keep him imprisoned for too long. To do so would be to risk inflaming all of the chieftains of the Great Glen and provoking an uprising with which, at that time, the garrison had been ill-equipped to deal. Hendry was toying with him. They had both known it.
Over a week later, Fraser, his wrists and ankles manacled, had been brought before the captain again. This time he sensed a change in Hendry’s demeanour. He seemed to be gloating. “The blockade is going well,” the captain told him, in a conversational tone. “But I have some bad news. There has been an outbreak of smallpox in the castle.”
“The physician…” Shock prompted Fraser to break his silence.
“A blockade is a blockade, old fellow. No-one has been allowed to get through.”
Fraser had lunged at him then, but the chains brought him up short so that he stumbled and fell to his knees on the cold stone floor. “I’ll sign,” he said, through lips that were stiff with fear and fury.
“What’s that you say? Oh, you mean you’ll sign the oath of fealty. A wise decision. Now, where did I put the damned thing?” The black-hearted villain had made a great pretence of searching for it. “Do you know, I think we shall have another drawn up? I’ll send for you, old chap, when it’s ready for your signature. Might take a few days…”
There had followed another agonising week of waiting in his cell, alternating between wild bouts of fury and gut-wrenching wretchedness. At last, he had penned his signature on the hated oath, left Fort William and headed on foot across the Great Glen to Lachlan. He had found the castle in mourning and these sad graves all that remained of his family. Immediately, he had turned and left again, heading back to Fort William. Before he killed the captain, Fraser had ripped up the signed oath and made the English bastard swallow it, piece by piece. Since then, he had found it hard to come back here, and he was aware that his absences had been getting longer and more frequent. Lachlan deserved better than a laird who could not bear the sight of his ancestral home.
This time, however, although the feelings and the memories came, they were less powerful and seemed to dissipate quickly, fading from bright shards to pale shadows. For the first time, Fraser felt in control of his grief instead of being a slave to it. He could look at their graves and remember their lives, could even smile slightly at the thought of young Ewan running around this very garden, his laughter echoing as Fraser chased him. For some reason, the memory didn’t hurt as much as it had in the past.
“Thank you for tending their graves and keeping the rose garden in order.” Fraser turned to Rab, who had been standing nearby.
The older man looked embarrassed. “I did’nae. It was the lady.”
“The lady?” Fraser was confused at his servant’s words.
“Aye, the English lady ye brought with ye. She made me bring the lads out here and trim the grass back from the graves. Then she got us to clean the stone of the crosses and tidy the rose garden.” A reminiscent frown touched his forehead. “She’s no the sort of lady who lets ye say her ‘nay’.”
Fraser laughed, acknowledging the truth of this pronouncement. When he went into the great hall, he found Martha deep in conversation with Cora. They didn’t notice him at first.
“The chieftains are all to gather here on the morrow for a grand feast,” Cora said. “Will ye help me decide what to serve them, lass?”
“Of course I will. But first you must set the maids the task of cleaning the brasses in the great hall. They are quite dreadfully dull. Then we need to get the tables scrubbed down and polished. Let us start by drawing up a list…”
Martha looked up and saw Fraser watching her. Her rare smile dawned, and he found himself responding instantly. Perhaps coming home was something he could begin to enjoy, after all.
“It will be the final gathering before the men go into battle,” Cora said, interrupting the pleasant bubble of his thoughts with a stark reminder of reality. He was sworn to fight for the Jacobites. But the truth was, he could no longer be certain the Jacobite cause was the highland cause. The only thing which was certain was that the battle, when it came, would be bloody and life-changing. The feeling of well-being was replaced by one of dread, and turning on his heel, he left Martha to her domestic conversation.
Word was that the Duke of Cumberland viewed the gathering of the Great Glen chieftains at Lachlan as a provocative action, but Fraser was dismissive of English sensitivities.
“’Tis a centuries-old tradition and not one I’ll be changing because some wee Hanoverian schoolboy has a poker up his arse about it.”
Throughout the day, the clans began to arrive and the castle was alive with different coloured tartans and Gaelic greetings. Traditional bagpipes played as the chieftains and their families gathered in the great hall, and Cora’s small army of maids distributed whisky, mead and oatcakes.
“Why are there so many young women here?” Rosie eyed the assembled company in surprise.
“The Laird of Lachlan is a widower.” Jack nodded to where Fraser stood near the fire, talking to another of the chieftains. All of the men were magnificent in their traditional dress, but Fraser stood out among them. His height and powerful frame would make him a commanding figure in any company, but in the setting of his own feudal home, his leonine looks and masculine arrogance drew every eye. “And the time is overdue for him to take himself a new bride. Any of these clansmen would be proud to ally themselves with Fraser through marriage to their daughters.”
Martha was aware of Rosie’s eyes on her face and, determinedly, she maintained a neutral expression. It was a difficult task since Jack’s words had just reached into her chest and ripped out her heart. Lately, however, Rosie had shown signs of suspecting that Martha might not be quite as cold as she would like everyone to believe where Fraser was concerned. A few days earlier, Rosie had noticed and approved of one particular change in Martha’s appearance.