Chapter 19

"Are you certain you'll not come in?" Leitis asked, turning to him at the door of Hamish's cottage.

The journey to the glen had been a circuitous one, made necessary by the fact that they couldn't take the chance of slipping across the land bridge and being seen by the sentry. They'd had to row across the cove, then circle back on the Raven's horse.

"No," he said, "but I'll wait for you. There," he said, pointing to a grove of trees.

She nodded and walked to Hamish's cottage, glancing one more time toward the shadows before she knocked on the door. He was gone from view, his ability to slip into the darkness disconcerting.

When there was no answer, Leitis pushed open the door and entered the darkened cottage. After lighting the candle on the table, she looked around the room. There was no sign of her uncle. His bed was made; no dishes had been dirtied. Hamish was a tidy man, so it was difficult to know whether or not he'd been absent for a day or more, or simply gone for the moment.

At first she thought the Butcher had arrested him after all, feeling a spike of fear at the thought. Or perhaps he had been wise enough to hide from sight. In that case she would have to gather the clan herself.

But a few moments later she heard the sound of whistling. A merry tune, one she knew as well as the identity of the whistler. Hamish opened the door, only to freeze at the sight of her.

"You'll not be content, will you, Uncle, until the English have hanged you?" she asked, glancing at the pipes on his shoulder.

"A fine MacRae you are, then," he said, grinning, "to have escaped the Butcher."

Hamish set his pipes on the floor, then hesitated. His gaze rested on the stone wall, then the floor. Finally, he studied the ceiling intensely. "Did he use you, Leitis?" he asked finally.

She felt a flush warm her face at his question, followed by irritation. "No more than you," she said abruptly. "Do you care so little, Uncle, about my being hostage to your good behavior?" She stared at the pipes fixedly.

"That's why you're here, then, Leitis? To grumble at me again?" He placed his fists on his hips, his face contorted into a glower.

"I doubt you'll listen," she said, masking her hurt. Strange, that it was the Butcher who pointed out Hamish's selfishness. She pushed the man out of her mind, annoyed that she'd thought of him at all.

"I've come to speak to the clan, Hamish," she said, moving to the door. "Can we meet here?"

"Why, Leitis?"

"I'll say it only once, Uncle. Will you help me gather them?"

He frowned at her, then nodded. "You take the eastern half and I'll take the west. It'll be faster that way. Sooner started, sooner finished."

They each began to knock on doors, announcing the meeting. One by one the members of the clan filtered into the cottage, mothers with children, old men with canes, matrons with cool and watchful eyes, the young ones who had seen too much for their years.

Each of them greeted her, asked after her health and her presence among them. Every query was followed by a quick and condemning look at Hamish, who pretended to ignore everyone.

Leitis waited until they were all assembled in the cottage before beginning.

"I've come to ask the people of Gilmuir a question," she said hesitantly. "If you had a new place to live, somewhere away from Scotland, would you leave?"

"You want the people of Gilmuir to emigrate?" Hamish narrowed his eyes and glared at her. "Why do you ask such a foolish question?" He sat at his table, arms crossed over his chest, the look on his face one of condemnation.

Leitis stared at him, wondering why she'd never seen his bitterness before. Or the tightness about his mouth as if he were determined never to smile again unless it was at an Englishman's expense. She realized as she studied Hamish that it had not been pride that motivated his acts, nor even stubbornness. But a hatred requiring a single-minded determination and diligent practice to keep it deep and strong.

"Because it's the only way we'll survive," she said softly.

"We'll do well enough here," he said, his tone clipped.

She turned to the clan members. "Will we? It is your decision, after all, not Hamish's."

"How would we leave Scotland, Leitis?" Malcolm asked.

"I don't know," she answered honestly. "I only promised to ask you for another, one who wishes you safe."

"Who would that be?" Dora asked.

She glanced over at the other woman. "A man you all once knew," she said. "Ian MacRae."

"Ian MacRae, is it?" Hamish asked, frowning. "Has he come back to Gilmuir to be laird now? Or doesn't he know there's no clan left?"

"That's why he would do this, uncle," she said, turning away from him and addressing the rest of the clan. "He says that the English presence will only get worse here, and I believe him. We cannot live through another winter like the last."

Dora nodded, but said nothing.

"Where would we go?" Mary asked.

"I don't know," Leitis said, "but a safe place. Perhaps we can all agree where."

"Someplace away from the English, though," Ada said.

"A country where we might be Scots and not punished for it?" another woman asked.

Leitis nodded, grateful for the women's support. Were women different because they nurtured the young and cared for the sick? Did it give them an ability to understand bitter truths more quickly? How many women would have counseled for rebellion, if the decision had been left to them? A foolish question to ask, simply because the answer didn't matter.

"It's a sad house where the hen crows louder than the cock," Peter said.

Dora stepped up to him, her hands on her hips. "Better to hide with the rabbits than be eaten by the hounds," she said cuttingly. "Or have you noticed how many of the clan aren't here anymore, Peter?"

"Well, I'm no hen," Malcolm said, "but I agree with the women. We should leave here."

"I'd never thought to hear you speak those words," Hamish said angrily, staring at Malcolm. "It's treason."

"Who am I being a traitor to, Hamish?" Malcolm asked. "Our leaders? They've emigrated to France, sworn allegiance to England, or have died. Our country? Where is Scotland now? It's been swallowed up by England."

"We'll rise up again. We'll be free once more," Hamish said stubbornly.

"Thoughts are free," Alisdair said, stepping forward. "And I'll say them now. I'd leave this place, Hamish, if only to escape the sadness of it." He glanced behind him, where more than one clansman was nodding his head.

"Better fed than dead?" Peter asked mockingly.

"The English won't rest until they've killed us all," Angus said. "It'll get worse now that the Butcher is in command."

"Are you all daft?" Hamish asked incredulously.

"You don't have to come, Uncle," Leitis said quietly. "The English will think it a game to hunt you until you're dead. Then you can haunt them for eternity. It's the only way you'll be at peace."

He stared at her as if amazed at her effrontery. But something had changed within her when she'd seen his pipes tonight. He'd not cared that he endangered her. The hurt of that was so great that she wanted to weep.

"She has you there, Hamish," Peter said, grinning. "I can see you now, merely a shade, marching in front of the English fort with your pipes and daring them to capture you." He wiggled his hands beside his ears and made a ghostly sound.

"You're an old fool," Hamish said, annoyed.

"Who are you calling old?" Peter asked, narrowing his eyes. "I'm two years younger than you and ten years smarter."

Leitis moved to the center of the clan. Everything that they decided, from the election of their laird to this most important decision, was put to the vote. It was time for it and an end to the blather.

"How many are for leaving?" she asked. She counted the hands, realizing that most of the people in this room were prepared to leave Gilmuir. "And for staying?" Hamish and Peter, that was all.

"I'll let you know more when the plans have been made," she told them.

"And where will you be until then? And how did the Butcher let you escape him so easily, Leitis?" Hamish asked bitingly.

The members of the clan stilled, anticipating the answer as well as Hamish.

"Do you begrudge me my momentary freedom, Uncle? I'll be back there soon enough, a guarantee for your obedience. But it's evident that you care little for my being your hostage," she said quietly, staring at the instrument on the floor next to him. "I wonder if the bagpipes will keep you company when we're all gone."

"When you're all seeking to be fools, you mean," Hamish said fiercely, picking up his pipes. He glared at all of them before leaving his cottage.

"I've a sister on the other side of the loch," Mary said, coming forward. "Can she come, too?"

"And my daughter?" Dora asked unexpectedly. "She married a MacLeasch, as you know."

A dozen more names were tossed to her.

"I don't know if we can bring them all," she said helplessly. "But I'll ask."

The reaction from the villagers had surprised her. But perhaps they had already recognized what she was just now realizing. Hope must be nourished by fortune and freedom. There had not been any good fortune in Scotland for years, and there was no longer any freedom.

Are you one of the soldiers at the fort, then?She'd asked him that. His answer had been sliced so finely that Alec could see the outline of the truth behind it. No, he was not one of the soldiers. He commanded them.

She had stunned him. Rendered him speechless and filled with both admiration and trepidation.

The clues were there all along.

Perhaps he had deliberately let her know one identity so as to hide a greater secret. He vowed, as he waited, to tell her that the boy she'd known as Ian was also the colonel who commanded Fort William.

He watched from the cover of trees as the people entered Hamish's cottage. The discussion was fierce, as was the passion of the people who spoke. Leitis's voice appeared to be a cooling influence.

A few minutes later, Hamish left, his bagpipes tucked under his arm. Gradually the rest of the villagers departed. The candles were extinguished and darkness shadowed her as Leitis stepped from the door and headed toward him.

The sound of bagpipes was alluring in the summer night. She stopped and listened for a moment before continuing.

He reached out his arm for her and pulled her close to him. "A fool, your uncle," he said softly. "Doesn't he know that his actions could endanger you?"

She sighed heavily and shook her head. He realized then that she was crying. Leitis MacRae, weeping. Another shock, one that made him wrap his arms around her, pull her close to him.

"What is it, Leitis?" he whispered. "Tell me."

He would make it better, ease her mind. Protect her. He fumbled for words. "It didn't go well?" he asked.

She nodded against his chest. Placing his hand against her cheek, he felt the startling heat of her tears.

"Oh, Leitis," he said, perplexed and frustrated, "tell me."

She sighed again, a gusty sign of exasperation or temper or some other emotion he could not understand at the moment. She shook her head, then pulled back, wiping at her cheeks with the backs of her hands. "They want to leave," she said. "All but Hamish and Peter. They'll stay."

"And you're crying for Hamish?" he asked, trying to comprehend.

She shook her head. "I'm crying for a foolish reason," she admitted. "I don't want to leave," she said. "I understand why I must, but this is my home. And Hamish, however foolish he is, is my last relative."

She looked around her. "Gilmuir has always been free. Whatever happened in Scotland didn't touch us here. Now we'll never be able to avoid it."

He couldn't say the words to ease her, in whatever guise he wore. The truth, stark and bitter, was that life would never again be the same for the Scots.

"You can be free if you find a place that will allow it," he said, feeling inept and unsure. He placed his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him.

"There are others who might wish to come," she said, surprising him. "Mary's sister and Dora's daughter and two sons. There's Malcolm's brother's children, and a few others." She hesitated for a moment. "Well, more than a few," she confessed.

"I'll hire a ship. The logistics will be difficult," he admitted, "but a few more people won't matter."

It would be easy enough to afford such a venture. He'd used his paternal grandmother's legacy to purchase his commission, but had never touched the rest of the funds.

"The only difficulty I see," he said, thinking aloud, "is in arranging the exodus. It will have to be done as quickly as possible once the ship arrives."

"Or just the opposite," she offered, smiling up at him. "A ship is more likely to be noticed than the Highlanders are to be missed. What if you moved them into one place?"

"Where do you suggest we hide a few dozen Scots?"

"What better place to hide a lamb than in a flock?" she asked. "Use the empty cottages here in the village."

"On the assumption that the English won't notice the cottages being filled?" he asked. "One Scot looks just like another?"

She nodded.

"Are they so uncaring?" he asked carefully.

"Is it easier being Scot than English?" she asked abruptly, a question so surprising that he pulled back and stared at her.

"It's not easy being either," he said honestly.

"Yet you've lived most of your life as an Englishman."

"Yes," he said simply.

"And now you've become a Scot. What made you change?"

He thought about the question. A series of incidents. Culloden and Inverness, the desperation of the Scots, Cumberland's barbarous decrees. And the most important reason of all, perhaps, the discovery that his mother had been killed by the English. "I never liked a bully," he said finally. "And it occurred to me that Scotland needed a hand up."

"My brothers would have approved of you," she said, startling him.

"Tell me what they were like," he said. They began to walk through the trees, following the upward slope.

"Not that much different from when you knew them. Except in appearance, perhaps. Fergus grew to be a mountain of a man; one my mother swore could not be her son, he was so huge. He had a red beard that he was very fond of, and was forever bragging that the lassies liked it, too."

He could hear the smile in her voice and was grateful for it. "And James?" he asked.

"Less fierce, but then he always was. He grew tall and thin and serious, of course. But it was Fergus who voted not to rebel. His was the lone voice of contention about the war with the English."

"He didn't want to go?" he asked, surprised.

"No, but he did, of course, because of Father and James. And you, Ian?" She glanced up at him. "What was life like for you?"

He smiled, wondering how to condense it into a few sentences. "I went back to England," he said. "My father married again—too soon, I thought—and had another son. I grew, I learned, I became an adult." Beyond that he couldn't tell her. He'd become a soldier, a man decorated for courage, and yet he was too cowardly to reveal himself wholly to her.

"And have you no wife nor sweetheart?" she asked casually.

He smiled, not convinced of her nonchalant manner.

"Not until now," he said.

Her head jerked up as she stared over at him. The moonlight filtered through the trees, touching upon a curve of her cheek, the curve of her smile.

"There shouldn't be a moon," he said suddenly. "Even one waning."

She said nothing, only continued to smile at him, bemused.

"Because," he said, reaching out and turning her, brushing his lips against hers, "you are even more beautiful in the moonlight."

She sighed into his kiss and he was enchanted.