Chapter 2

Leitis.

His recognition of her was instantaneous, even though he had deliberately not thought of her on the journey from Inverness, telling himself that she would have married and moved away from the village long ago.

Riding to her side, he dismounted quickly. She flinched when he bent and placed his hands on her arms and helped her to rise. He frowned as he noted the swelling on the side of her jaw. Sedgewick's blow would leave a mark.

"Are you all right?" he said softly.

She nodded, averted her head, staring instead at the troops encircling the village.

Her mouth was full, her cheeks pink with color. The years had darkened her hair until it was not bright red as much as a muted auburn, but it still curled around her shoulders, tied back with a ribbon just as she'd worn it as a child. Her eyes, those surprising light blue eyes, marked her as the girl he'd known.

"You will have a bruise," he said gently, studying her face.

She turned her head and looked directly at him. There was no doubt as to her feelings at that instant. Her eyes were filled with hatred and her mouth thinned in anger. "I've known worse, Colonel."

Time had not softened her daring. But perhaps she'd had need of it in the past year. The weak had not survived.

Alec turned, surveyed the soldiers. "Who's in command here?" he demanded.

"I am, sir. Major Matthew Sedgewick," one man said, stepping forward.

"Explain yourself, Major," Alec said, his voice low with fury.

"She is a Scot, sir," Sedgewick said tightly. "One who does not know her place."

"Striking a woman is more the act of a coward than an officer," Alec responded.

The major's face darkened, but he said nothing.

"Is there a reason you've set fire to this village, Major Sedgewick?" Alec asked. "Or did you do so simply because it's Scottish?"

Sedgewick's brows drew together. "These people are guilty of sedition, sir. After numerous warnings, they continue to shield a man known to encourage rebellion. A piper, sir."

Alec glanced over at the huddled villagers. There was not one able-bodied man among them. Mostly women and children in the company of a few old men.

Where were James and Fergus? Had they perished, as well as other members of the clan he'd known as a child?

"Would it not be more worthwhile to find the miscreant, Major?" he asked. He gestured for his adjutant. Harrison dismounted, walked to his side.

"Get those men into a fire brigade and have them find whatever they can to carry water," he said, pointing in the direction of the stream that fed the glen. "I want a trench dug between the cottages that are ablaze and those that have not yet caught fire."

Harrison nodded and left to convey his orders.

"I am charged with controlling the Highlands, sir," Sedgewick said testily. "These barbaric Scots do not deserve any clemency. Cumberland himself decreed that any man who gave aid to the enemy was to be hanged."

"I'm well aware of the duke's words, Sedgewick," Alec said curtly. "Are you presuming to remind me of my duty?"

Sedgewick wisely remained silent.

"I apologize for the actions of this man," Alec said to Leitis. An errant wish made him want to smooth his fingers over her cheek, spare her the pain of the blow.

She looked startled at his words, but she remained silent. So as not to anger him? He felt a surge of anger toward Sedgewick once again.

The men began to form a line from the stream. As they realized what the soldiers were doing, the villagers began to move. They retrieved buckets, bottles, basins, pitchers—anything that could hold water from their own homes in an attempt to save their friends' cottages. Alec watched as Leitis joined the procession, glancing back at him once before looking away.

The lightning flickered across the darkened sky, the thunder drowning out the noise of the flames. It was a curious sensation, Alec thought, to be so aware of the moment that it seemed to slow. Leitis's hand reached up and, in a delicate motion, brushed a tendril of hair from her cheek. Turning, she took a bucket from the man behind her and relayed it to the person ahead of her, the movement swirling her skirt, revealing an ankle and the feminine sway of a hip.

Her eyes, however, were downcast, her attention directed on her chore. He had the feeling that she deliberately didn't look in his direction, and her effortless repudiation stung. He had recognized her easily enough, but she did not look past the crimson of his uniform.

The rain began at that moment, hard and punishing, as if to summon Alec back to himself.

Black smoke from the fire curled into the sky like wet ribbons. The rain-soaked air carried with it the smell of burning thatch, acrid and choking.

Hamish MacRae stood on the crest of the hill and watched the conflagration, feeling a sense of pride so powerful that it nearly knocked him to his knees. Not one person had spoken out to denounce him.

He readjusted the bladder beneath his arm, straightened his sporran. He wore the MacRae plaid, another sin according to the English.

There was no choice, after all. He must surrender himself. Either that or allow the village to be burned to the ground.

He left the knoll, strangely exuberant as he followed the path that wound through the forest. Perhaps he should have been afraid, but he wasn't. And that might have been the most foolish thing of all.

He tucked the bag into place, the plaid sticky with the honey that rendered the bag airtight. Three pipes rested on his shoulder as he blew into the blowstick and fingered the chanter.

The pipes were designed to be played in the open air, with God listening above the bowl of sky. Hamish hoped that God was indeed listening now, and began to play.

The thunder finally eased as if nature had tired of its noisy tantrum. But the air was still white with rain.

In moments her dress was sodden, the hem dragging in the mud. Her hair hung in wet tendrils down her back. Her eyes smarted from the smoke.

It was only too obvious that there was no chance of saving her cottage, but Leitis passed a bucket filled with water to Angus and forced a smile to her face when he glanced over his shoulder at her.

As the blaze grew hotter, glass and pottery began to burst from the heat. Every sound affected Leitis like a cannon shot.

There was, in the end, nothing to be done. It was, perhaps, a lesson in the strength of hope that she did not stop working even long after the others began to slow and step aside.

Finally, Angus touched her shoulder in wordless comfort, his eyes filled with pity. She nodded, moving out of the line. Walking to the ruins of her cottage, she stared inside the doorway. The moss-covered stones still stood; the mortar only grayed by the smoke. But the interior was blackened, every item reduced to ash or a glittering puddle of melted glass. The raindrops hissed as they struck the heated objects, the sounds almost like the whispers of grief.

Her home was gone.

She heard the thought, knew it was true, but for some reason she couldn't feel anything. She stared at the destruction, unable to understand.

A movement to her side made her turn her head. The English officer stood there, his face and hair slick with rain.

His presence, oddly enough, rendered the devastation real. The sudden pain she felt was almost unbearable.

He said nothing to her, still studying her in a way that was unsettling. His face was oddly arresting, as if she recognized it somehow. But she had never before seen him. If she had, she surely would have remembered.

"I will send some men to help you salvage what you can," he said.

She glanced inside the cottage once more. "Will you replace the porcelain that my mother was left from her mother?" she asked, the words coming fast and without thought. "Or the silver bracelet that was my dowry? And my loom? Will you replace that, too?"

For a moment he simply stared at her, giving her time to wonder at the consequences of her words. What could he take from her now? Her life? What was left of it? Sleeping when dreams did not come. Eating when she could find something edible. Everything else of value had been taken from her, and the last of it, those possessions and trinkets that had recalled a more joyous time, were now unrecognizable smoldering lumps.

To make the moment even worse, Hamish began to play the pipes. The tune was not a lament, which might have been more appropriate at this moment, but the MacRae March, used in past years to summon the clan to Gilmuir.

Now she was going to lose her last relative. She glared at her uncle, but Hamish blithely ignored her, piping himself to his death.