Prologue

Farraline, Strathherrick

Inverness-shire, Scotland

May 1746

“Maddie, wake up, wake up!” Glenis pleaded, rushing toward the bed as fast as her old bones would carry her. “‘Tis the redcoats, hinny, come to burn the house! Oh, God, protect us!”

“What are ye saying, Glenis?” Madeleine Fraser said drowsily, jarred from her sleep. Dazed, she sat up, her eyes adjusting to the faint light in her room. It was near dawn, and the murky gray world outside her window was blanketed in thick fog.

“Redcoats, Maddie, comin’ up the road!” Glenis exclaimed. “Angus Ramsay just brought the news. He near scared the life from me, poundin’ on the kitchen door as he did. He’s gone now to wake the villagers in Farraline.” She tugged urgently at Madeleine’s arm. “Hurry, ye must get dressed and flee before they get here. They’ll not want the likes of me, a wrinkled old woman, but ye’re young, lass, and as pretty as they come. Oh, hurry, Maddie, for yer own sake!”

Madeleine did not hesitate. Fully awake now, she threw back the coverlet and vaulted out of bed, wrenching her white nightdress over her head. She shivered, her skin prickling with goosebumps. The early morning air was still chill this time of year in the Highlands. She brushed by her servant and ran across the room to the massive wardrobe.

She flung open one door and grabbed the first gown she touched, a plain frock of blue muslin. She dressed quickly, donning first a chemise and linen drawers, but rejecting her stays. There was no time. She took a brief moment to fasten a light woolen shawl around her shoulders, and then she was flying out the door with Glenis at her heels.

“Yer shoes, Maddie. What about yer shoes?” Glenis cried frantically. “Ye can hardly run barefoot into the mountains.”

“I winna need them,” Madeleine said over her shoulder. She crossed the carpeted hallway to the narrow side stairs near her room and took them two at a time, her hands braced against the whitewashed walls.

“What do ye mean, ye winna need them?” Glenis called shrilly from the top of the stairs.

Madeleine spun around and looked up at her terrified servant. Her deep azure eyes shone with fierce determination. “I’m not leaving my home, Glenis. The devils will have to burn Mhor Manor around me.”

“Maddie!”

Ignoring Glenis’s shocked expression and sputtered protests, Madeleine hurried through the drawing room to the main hallway. She could hear raised male voices growing louder and the nervous neighing of horses. With her heart hammering in her chest, she threw open the front door and stepped outside.

Raw fear cut through her and her knees felt suddenly weak. There were at least two hundred English soldiers advancing along the dirt drive toward the manor house, some marching, some on horseback. Many of them held smoking torches, the bright orange flames like beacons in the swirling fog.

“Courage, lass,” Madeleine whispered under her breath. “Dinna let the bastards see yer fear.”

She took a step forward, planting her feet on the damp flagstones leading to the drive. She pretended not to hear the wolfish whistles and lewd remarks, and she overlooked the leering grins. Her eyes were fixed on the silver-haired officer riding at the head of his men. She guessed he was a colonel from the abundant gold lace which adorned his scarlet coat. Clasping her hands tightly to keep them from shaking, she waited until he drew up on the reins and stopped just twenty feet from the house.

“I know why ye’ve come, and I ask ye to leave us in peace!” she stated loudly, but her words were drowned out by the raucous din. Quelling her apprehension, she tried once more, and again she was shouted down. To her surprise, the commanding officer held up his hand, and the rowdy soldiers gradually fell silent.

Madeleine drew a deep breath, her gaze meeting his narrowed one. “I know why ye’re here, colonel, and ‘tis a dirty business ye’re about,” she said in a clear, strong voice. “I appeal to yer sense of decency and honor, as a gentleman. Spare my home, and the homes in the surrounding villages. Most of our men are gone.” She paused, swallowing against the sudden lump in her throat. “We’re mainly women and children here. We canna fight ye, so we ask for yer mercy.”

“Let me have at her,” a strapping soldier called out, laughing coarsely. “When I’m between her legs, she’ll not cry out for mercy. She’ll cry out for more!”

“Aye, and I’ll have her next!” another shouted eagerly, shoving his way to the front. “I’ve never had a wench so fine. Just look at ‘er, with that wild mane o’ chestnut curls and those ruby lips!”

Madeleine stepped back as the soldiers shook their torches threateningly. The air resounded with crude laughter and obscenities until the officer commanded their grudging silence once again.

The colonel studied her sharply, his expression grim. “I cannot do that, young lady. I have orders from the Duke of Cumberland that must be followed—”

“Orders!” she blurted, cutting him off. The mere mention of Butcher Cumberland filled her with rage she could barely control. “We’ve already lost our cattle herds, our sheep and our goats, to yer duke’s orders, driven off for slaughter to feed the lot of ye English. And our newly sown crops, our food for next winter,” she emphasized, “were ruined when the soldiers drove the animals over the fields. We’ve only our homes left to shelter us. If ye burn us out, we’ll have nothing left!”

“My orders are plain and cannot be altered,” the officer insisted, shaking his head. “Now, if you have servants in the house, you’d best see that they stand clear—”

“Surely ye have a good wife at home, sir,” Madeleine cried out desperately, trying another tack. “Children of yer own, aye, and grandchildren!” Emboldened, she swept her defiant gaze around the tight line of soldiers. “All of ye! Have ye not wives yerselves—sweethearts, children? What if ‘twas yer loved ones in this miserable plight? Would ye not wish mercy to be shown?”

The hardened faces of the soldiers, faces that had grown immune to death and suffering, stared at her with little pity or remorse. Fighting a wave of despair, Madeleine turned back to the colonel. “Please, sir, I beg of ye. Dinna let yer men loose upon us. If ye do, I swear ‘twill haunt ye to yer grave.”

The officer looked down for a long moment, his fingers worrying at the reins. When he glanced at her again, Madeleine breathed an inner sigh of relief at the flicker of compassion she saw in his eyes.

“Very well, young lady. Your home and those in the surrounding villages will be spared,” he said, ignoring his men’s disgruntled mutterings. “Though I cannot promise you another officer will do the same in the future.”

“Ye have my thanks, sir,” Madeleine said.

“You might wish to save your gratitude,” he replied cryptically. “There is one order I cannot change.” He turned abruptly in his saddle and addressed his soldiers. “Strip everything of value from the house!”

A great cheer went up from the soldiers, and the colonel had to shout above them. “Hear me well, lads. If any of you should take it in your heads to harm this lady or her servants, I’ll hang you this very day. Now get on with it. We have the entire valley to cover before sunset.”

“No!” Madeleine gasped in disbelief as the soldiers dropped their torches and rushed toward the house. Fighting and kicking, she was swept into the house by the human tide until a burly soldier plucked her to safety and deposited her in a dining room chair.

Madeleine tried to stand up, but the soldier held her firmly by the shoulders, forcing her to remain seated. All she could do was stare wide-eyed while the redcoats swarmed into the adjoining rooms and up the center flight of stairs, leaving a path of wanton destruction in their wake.

“No, keep yer filthy hands from that vase!” she heard Glenis scream from the drawing room. There was a crash of china, then a loud wail as the old woman was carried into the dining room and dumped unceremoniously in another chair. Glenis began to cry piteously.

Madeleine had no words of comfort to offer her. She watched in impotent fury as her mother’s sterling silver was snatched from its cabinet, polished furniture was hacked to bits, portraits were slashed and gilt frames were carried off, rugs were soiled by muddy boot prints, and family heirlooms were stolen. She remained silent through it all, unshed tears brimming in her eyes, while her captor’s callused fingers stroked her neck.

Ten minutes later the rampage was over. The soldier released her, but not before he pulled her head back roughly and kissed her full on the lips. His fetid breath made her gag, and she wrenched her mouth away.

“Devil!” she spat and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. He merely grinned at her, his laughter echoing in the hallway as he followed the last of his triumphant companions from the house.

Madeleine started when the colonel suddenly strode through the open door. He glanced first in the drawing room, then where she and Glenis sat in the dining room, as if to ensure his orders had been carried out. He did not meet her eyes. Then he was gone, his horse’s hooves pounding along the drive as he rode away. She listened dully as the soldiers withdrew, the sound of their marching feet fading into the distance.

A hush like the silence in a tomb settled over the house. Madeleine could not find the strength to rise for a long time. She felt numb, but Glenis’s sobbing finally spurred her into action. She had to escape it or crumble herself.

She stood up and walked slowly into the entryway, stepping over bits of furniture and a smashed mantel clock, and shut the front door. Then she made her way in a daze to the drawing room.

She needed to be alone. She would survey the damage later, but not now. Not now.

Madeleine closed the door behind her, righted an overturned armchair, and slumped down on the soiled brocade. Her thoughts began to roil and pitch, heated outrage gradually sweeping away the numbness.

Why had this happened? Why? Had the Highlands not suffered enough? Would the horrors that had begun a month ago never cease?

She leaned her head back on the padded cushion, recalling Glenis’s sorrowful words that wretched day in April.

“Come away from the window, hinny. Ye know yer da winna be comin’ home. Come away, Maddie. ‘Tis a hopeless thing ye’re doin’.”

Yer da winna be comin’ home … Her father…

Madeleine’s hands clenched into tight fists as fresh pain assaulted her, a jagged ache centered just over her heart. Her palms stung where her nails bit into the smooth flesh. Tears glistened from spiky dark lashes and spilled down her cheeks, staining the bodice of her gown.

She didn’t care. She surrendered to the grief, anger and frustration tormenting her, in this silent room where no one would see her cry.

Yer da winna be comin’ home …

The haunting words were so vivid, it could have been yesterday when Glenis bid her to stand away from the tall window. But today was the sixteenth of May, one month to the day since the Battle of Culloden was fought on rain-swept Drummossie Moor, a scarce twenty miles from the valley of Strathherrick. One month since she had learned from a kinsman that her father had fallen in the bloody mire, never to rise again. One month since she had run to the window in anguished disbelief, searching the muddy road that wound past the estate for any sign of her father among the retreating Highlanders.

Madeleine sighed raggedly, her blurred gaze staring straight ahead. Out of the many bold, strong lads who had rallied to the Jacobite cause, fewer than half of her kinsmen had survived the merciless slaughter at Culloden.

The fiery cross—the ancient signal to rally clansmen for battle, formed by two yew branches that were first set alight, then doused in goat’s blood—had been carried to Strathherrick on a gray, misty morning last autumn. It was the call of Simon Fraser, Lord Lovat and the chief of Clan Fraser. He had finally decided to come out for Bonnie Prince Charlie in the young Stuart’s bid to regain the throne of England, Scotland, and Ireland for his father, the exiled King James III.

Her father, baronet Sir Hugh Fraser of Farraline and cousin to Lord Lovat, had immediately taken up the call, summoning his tacksmen and tenants from their warm hearth fires. The entire valley had participated in a frenzied flurry of activity as the clansmen wholeheartedly prepared to join the Jacobite prince and his burgeoning forces.

Madeleine smiled faintly and wiped the hot tears from her face, tasting salt on her lips. She recalled the brave sight of the Frasers of Strathherrick as they readied to march, wearing the clan badge of freshly cut sprigs of yew in their bonnets. Her handsome father had been resplendent in his kilt and tartan plaid of red and forest green, a bonnet sporting a white cockade, the symbol of the Jacobite cause, atop his shining auburn hair.

How proud her dear mother, the bonnie Lady Jean, would have been if she had lived to see that day. How fervently Madeleine had wished at that moment that she had been born a son. She had cursed her sex and the skirts she wore which forced her to remain behind in Farraline with the rest of the women, instead of riding into battle at her father’s side. Only his last words to her had helped soothe her angry frustration.

“Ye’re the mistress of Farraline now, Maddie, whilst I’m gone to war. Tend to the needs of yer people in my stead. The women, wee bairns, and men too old for battle depend upon yer care and good judgment. Now give me a kiss and one of yer bonnie smiles, lass. We’re off to fight for the Stuarts!”

Enveloped in her father’s fierce embrace, Madeleine had never felt so honored or so trusted. Mistress of Farraline! Aye, she would make her father proud, and more than live up to his faith in her.

Her slim shoulders were squared, her back was straight, and her chin was held high as Sir Hugh Fraser walked proudly to the head of his men and mounted his fine roan gelding. The skirl of bagpipes soared on the whistling wind and resounded from the Monadhliath Mountains flanking the broad valley, stirring the blood of all who heard it, as the men of Clan Fraser began their long march toward Edinburgh.

With a rampant pounding in her breast, Madeleine had stared after the heroic parade of clansmen until their tartans faded into the distant slopes. She would never have believed it would be the last time she would see her father.

During the months that followed, news was carried often to Strathherrick on the progress of the Highland army under the command of Prince Charles Edward Stuart. Madeleine hung on to every word.

There was the long victorious march into England as far south as Derby, the cities of Carlisle, Preston, and Manchester falling under the Jacobite standard. But instead of pressing on to London, the army decided to retire to Scotland due to the massing of Hanoverian forces under the Duke of Cumberland, William Augustus, the corpulent third son of King George II. There the Jacobites would make a stand on home ground.

Upon returning to Scotland, the army’s hopes were raised once again after the victory at the Battle of Falkirk in January and the successful routs of English forts scattered throughout the Highlands. Then no more was heard until news was brought that Bonnie Prince Charlie and his forces were quartered at Inverness until spring, while the Duke of Cumberland remained in Aberdeen.

All seemed quiet until early April, when a large company of men from Clan Cameron passed through Farraline on their way north to Inverness and a rendezvous with the prince. Madeleine’s excited inquiries discovered nothing more than that Cumberland and his troops were on the move toward Drummossie Moor, a barren, soggy plain to the west of the River Nairn.

Drummossie Moor . Why Madeleine felt a sudden chill seize her at that news she would only understand a few days later, when word arrived that the Battle of Culloden, from beginning to end lasting only an hour, had been lost to the government forces.

“Damn them, damn them,” Madeleine whispered. She had only to think of the bastards who had mowed down the Highlands’ finest sons with their cannon, bayonets, and grapeshot, and she was filled with rage.

How she hated them. Englishmen. Redcoats. The devil’s own spawn. Murderers!

Since that bloody day Butcher Cumberland and his men had wreaked their revenge on the Highlands, their brand of “justice” to right the treasonous wrongs perpetrated against the Crown by the rebellious clans. It was a reign of terror that still showed no signs of abating.

It had begun when the Butcher granted the fallen clansmen no quarter on the battlefield. Both the wounded and the dead were stripped where they lay, then those still alive were bayoneted or shot or clubbed to death. Only a few were reserved for public punishment. A barn filled with wounded that had dragged themselves from the field was locked and set on fire, the unfortunate men inside suffering a grisly death.

It was several days before the dead were finally buried in mass unmarked graves, denied the dignity of being laid to rest in their own lands. How true Glenis’s words had been. Her father would never come home again.

Fleeing clansmen were pursued by dragoons all the way to Inverness, the fearsome horsemen cutting down Jacobite soldiers as well as innocent bystanders who chanced in their way, including women and children. Only the Highlanders who fled in the opposite direction, south toward Strathherrick and beyond into Badenoch, lived to become fugitives in their own land, and they were hunted like wild beasts among the craggy hills.

Dougald Fraser was one of these desperate fugitives. A distant cousin and childhood friend, he was the man her father had intended for her to marry when the war had been won. Now there would be no wedding for a long time, if at all. If Dougald or any other fugitives, including their Lord Lovat, were caught, they faced imprisonment, deportation to the Colonies, or hanging.

Their bonnie prince was also a hunted man, with a price of thirty thousand pounds on his head. Madeleine knew in her heart that no Highlander would betray him, even for such an outrageous sum. Although a proclamation had been issued that anyone caught aiding the royal fugitive faced certain death, tales abounded of those who had risked their lives harboring the prince and his companions during the past four weeks.

All the atrocities had done little to curb the Butcher’s insatiable thirst for blood. He turned next on the Highland people who had been left at home while their men fought the war. Operating from his newly regained headquarters at Fort Augustus, south of Loch Ness, he ordered his soldiers to strike out across the countryside and harry the glens.

Madeleine had heard horrible tales from fugitives passing by night through Farraline; tales of cold-blooded killings and the rape of young and old. Chieftains’ houses were plundered and burned to the ground; Lord Lovat’s beloved Dounie Castle in Beauly was one of the first to be laid waste. Even the rough, one-room cottages of the peasants were rarely spared the torch.

Madeleine’s gaze swept the scattered wreckage in the room. After the senseless ferocity she had witnessed this morning, it was a miracle that Mhor Manor had not been burned. She could only hope the colonel would keep his word and spare the neighboring villages.

Bitter tears scalded her eyes, and she rose from the chair to pace angrily.

As if this day’s injustice and devastation were not enough, what of the news that had come to Strathherrick only last week? The estates of chieftains who had participated in the uprising were being confiscated for the Crown, and Lord Lovat’s lands were already forfeited and being administered by a royal commissioner. It seemed the English were wasting no time in their efforts to subdue the Highlands.

Worst of all, every Highland male was being forced to swear an oath that he would never again wear the belted plaid, tartan or any Highland garment—unless in a king’s regiment—and never possess a weapon, not even a dirk, or play the bagpipes, now considered an instrument of war by the government.

“If I were a man, I’d die before I’d swear that cursed oath,” Madeleine whispered vehemently. “And I’d wear the kilt to my grave!”

She pulled aside a slashed curtain and looked out across the weed-strewn lawn and disheveled garden. The fog had lifted, revealing a pale blue sky streaked with shafts of golden sunlight. The beauty of it did little to soothe her aching heart.

An unsettling thought struck her. Would the English seize Mhor Manor as well?

The estate in Strathherrick had been in her family for over a hundred years, deeded to the Frasers of Farraline by the tenth Lord Lovat, the father of old Simon the Fox, their chief. Though he was the heritable head of Clan Fraser, the land belonged not to him but to her father.

Madeleine sighed heavily. No, the land now belonged to her. She was the mistress of Farraline.

Her attention was suddenly drawn to a mother and three little boys, their heads bent, their clothing dirty and bedraggled, who hurried along a footpath that cut across the estate. She recognized the woman as Flora Chrystie, the wife of one of her father’s tacksmen who had died at Culloden. She guessed the young widow, who was seven months gone with child, had been alerted to the soldiers’ approach and was fleeing for the safety of the mountains.

She watched as Flora turned her face, pinched and pale, toward the manor house. The woman bowed her head slightly in respect, then urged her children onward. Instead of scampering down the path, the boys clung listlessly to their mother’s skirts, lacking the energy to run. They suffered, like so many others, because the plundering of their cattle and the destruction of their crops left little food to appease the gnawing hunger in their bellies.

Madeleine’s throat constricted painfully at the pathetic sight, and defiant indignation seized her.

If something wasn’t done soon, her people would starve! Even if their homes were spared, what good were roofs over their heads if they had no food to sustain life?

Her father’s last words came back to her in a rush, reviving her flagging spirit and giving her strength:

Ye’re the mistress of Farraline now, Maddie…. Tend to the needs of yer people…. They depend upon yer care and good judgment .

Madeleine let the curtain drop, her tears drying on her cheeks. A determined resolve flared brightly within her breast, and a bold plan took shape in her mind.

“Aye, something has to be done, Maddie Fraser, and ye’re the one to do it,” she vowed fiercely.

God help her, somehow she would see that the Frasers of Strathherrick would survive these awful times and live to prosper once again in the Highlands they loved so dearly!