The Journey Home

Chapter 17 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 18 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 19 (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter 20 (#litres_trial_promo)

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,” she whispered, then gazed up at him, eyes pleading. “Come wi’ us, Robby, there is still time fer ye te’ come awa’ wi’ us. Dinna’ return te’ that godforsaken lot. Have ye not seen yersel’ that ’tis a fruitless venture?” She grabbed his face between her hands, supplicating.

“Ye ken that a’ canna’ gae wi’ ye, Mhairie. Ma’ duty lies wi’ the Prince. A’ canna’ let him doon. A’ wouldna’ be able te’ face ma’ ain sel’ if a’ did.”

She sighed, resigned, knowing full well he would return, just as her father and brothers had done.

“I have something te’ tell ye afore a’ gae awa’, Robby.”

“Speak te’ me, ma’ Mhairie, open yer heart while there is still time,” he begged, holding her close, his heart ready to break.

Tears filled her eyes and she clung to him, burying her head into the front of his vest. “A’m wi’ child, Rob. A’m carrying yer bairn.”

Wonder and joy overwhelmed him and he drew back, gazing down at her in awe, his hand moving to her belly, happiness piercing his misery like a shaft of bright light. But this was quickly replaced by the realization of his double loss.

“Och, ma’ darling, ma’ very ain Mhairie. When all this is fore’ by and better days come, ye’ll return to me and take up yer place as ma’ lady, and our bairn as ma’ rightful heir. But Mhairie—” His voice took on a sudden urgency as he glanced through the rising mist at the tiny boat reaching the shore and saw Captain MacPherson alight. With a sigh he faced bleak reality and opened his sporran, taking out a folded letter. “If a’ canna’ reach ye…If when ye return a’ should be in hiding, or worse. Ye must gae te’ Jamie and read what’s in this letter. A’ve told him what te’ do, and ye can trust him as ye would yer ain brother. And, ma’ beloved wife, tell our bairn—” The words caught in his throat. “Tell the bairn how close a’ hold ye both within ma’ heart. Keep the marriage papers and this letter safe and close te’ ye. They are the proof that ma’ son is ma’ rightful heir.” He handed her the letter carefully.

“Yer son?” She took it, slipping it silently into her bosom, then gazed up at him, a tremulous smile on her tearstained face.

“Aye, ye’ll see. ’Twill be a boy, as old Granny Bissett predicted our first born would be. And a fine one at that.” He held her close, his lips lingering on hers, his hand caressing her belly as he etched her in his heart forever.

Then it was time. He kissed her, bidding his love a last long farewell, tears welling in his eyes as she climbed weeping into the small rowing boat that slipped silently away from the shore, the captain anxious to set sail before the day broke.

Rob gazed out to sea, anger and rage battling as his eyes locked with hers for as far as they could reach. As the ship set sail, he watched the vessel head into the wind, carrying aboard his heart and soul, following her trajectory to the open sea, until she was nothing but a dot bobbing on the frothy swell on the horizon.

“’Tis time te’ gang awa’, Rob.” It was only then he realized Jamie was standing next to him, silently sharing his grief. He cast one last look at the choppy gray waters, his soul desolate as he turned on his heel, kilt swinging in the wind, and walked with Jamie to where the horses neighed restlessly, their nostrils flaring. Hamish handed him the bridle.

“Awa’ wi’ ye, Rob, afore German Geordie’s lads awake. ’Tis a lazy lot they are but, nevertheless, ’tis wiser to be on the safe side.”

“Aye, ’twould be foolish te’ die at the end of a rope instead of meeting ma’ maker at the point of a sword,” he answered, hoisting himself into the saddle.

“Och, I’ve nae fear fer ye, Rob. Ye’ll be back anon. Yer time’s not sae nigh as ye think. Are ye sure of what yer doing?” Jamie asked doubtfully.

Rob donned his blue bonnet, the eagle feather placed at a cocky angle, and straightened his shoulders proudly. “As sure as any man can be when his duty and his sovereign are calling,” he replied with a smile.

“Then sae be it. God speed te’ ye both.”

On Tuesday the fifteenth of April, they crossed the Spey River and headed toward Culloden where Murray had set up his camp. Rob arrived with a sinking heart, for all he’d seen for the last few miles were exhausted Highlanders lying strewn by the wayside, their eyes hollow with hunger and despair.

As he stood at the entrance of Murray’s quarters, the war pipes ringing in his ears, and saw the drawn faces of the earl and his men seated glum around the table, his heart sank.

He stopped before entering, filled with sudden foreboding, and gazed up at the heavy clouds of defeat bearing down upon them.

Then, with a heavy heart, he stepped inside and took his seat, the bleak countenances around the table telling their own tragic tales. Each man knew what destiny lay before him. Savage anguish pierced Rob’s heart as the harrowing truth sank in and the hope he’d harbored of one day being reunited with his beloved wife and child withered.

A never-ending death knell would ring throughout the Highlands. Blood would pour as never before in all of Highland history, and Scotland, his beloved homeland, would be changed forever.

1

Midlothian, Scotland

1999

By the time he’d missed his third pheasant, Jack Buchanan was in a foul mood. It did not improve when, instead of falling to the ground with a satisfying thud, the last bird fluttered into the gray Scottish sky, unscathed.

He lowered the shotgun, irritated. Pheasants did not fly away. They fell obediently, just as junior executives and the other members of his entourage jumped into action when they were supposed to.

He entered the glen briskly, realizing he was having a bad day. He knew to expect it, for this particular day was always bad. Each year he thought he’d get the better of the pain that still rose to the surface, as boldly now as it had then, and every year it got the better of him. He cocked the gun in preparation, willing his mind to concentrate fully on the task at hand. The next bird would not escape him.

He didn’t have long to wait before catching sight of his prey, and he aimed carefully before slowly squeezing the trigger.