Page 6 of Highland Fire

The journey from Perth had been a long one, but far from boring.

A man would have to be a philistine, Rand was thinking, if the Highlands of Scotland did not make some impression on him.

And whatever else one might say about Scotland, and he could say plenty, it had the finest vistas of any he had seen in his life.

The moors, the snow-capped mountains, the ancient forests in all the glory of their autumn colors, the lakes and rivers with waters so pure, so clear that one could see right down to their rocky beds, from Dunkeld over the pass to the Braes o’ Mar—no one who had not seen it would credit that such stark beauty existed.

Uncivilized was the word he wanted, but he did not mean it in a bad sense.

Man had not made much of a mark on the Highlands and that was all to the good.

The weather had been fine, of course, and that had added to his pleasure. If it had rained, it would have been a different story. When it really rained in Scotland, one either packed one’s bags and made tracks for England, or one built an ark.

He’d cracked that little joke with his good friend and host, John Murray of Inverey, with whom he’d planned to stay for a few days.

John’s face had not evinced a trace of amusement.

That was the trouble with the Scots. They had no sense of humor.

Dour. It was a Scots word but he comprehended its meaning to a nicety.

The Scots would be all right if only they would take themselves a little less seriously, enjoy life more.

This last thought led to another. David.

Now, when it was too late, he wished he had taken the time to get to know his cousin better.

After Waterloo, when he was back in England, he had paid a visit to David’s father, hoping to find some answers.

It was too soon. The old boy was immersed in grief.

Rand had taken his leave knowing no more about his cousin than he had ever known.

God, he hated regrets. They were such a waste.

This time, there would be no regrets. The girl had mattered to David, and he had given David his word.

The thing was, he wasn’t quite sure what had been on David’s mind.

A hundred times since, he had retraced that last conversation on the eve of battle.

The girl. Scotland. He didn’t know what to make of it all.

He knew one thing. David had wanted him here, and for the present, that knowledge must suffice.

It was unfortunate that the girl was a Randal of Glenshiel.

The feud would not be circumvented easily, though Rand was not overly pessimistic about bringing Glenshiel to heel, not when he had set his mind to it.

According to his mother, the feud was something which Glenshiel, alone, perpetuated.

Over the years, there had been overtures of friendship on his family’s part, which the old boy had spurned with unbridled disdain.

His family had not grieved overmuch at the loss of that friendship.

In England, the Randals were great landowners, each successive English bride adding to the family’s estates and coffers.

As he had told David, only the name and title were Scottish.

In all other respects, they were English to the bone.

Yet, David had demonstrated a clear attachment to all things Scottish. That must be the girl’s influence.

Suddenly, a small herd of red deer came leaping from the crags to cross the road, almost within touching distance.

The startled horses plunged and reared, unhorsing two of the riders.

Men cursed as they strained to bring their mounts under control.

One horse got the bit between its teeth and bolted in the direction from which they had just come.

“Stupid beasts!” yelled one of the unhorsed troopers, shaking his fist at the tails of the departing deer.

By the time they had righted themselves, Rand’s coach had disappeared into the gloom cast by the tall stands of pines flanking the road. Before long, they would have only the light of the moon to guide them.

“Let’s push on,” said Rand. “My coach has outstripped us.” What he was thinking was that something must have startled those deer.

As if answering the question in his mind, the blast of a hunting horn pierced the silence. Almost simultaneously, up ahead, shots were fired and an unholy din broke out as though the hounds of hell had been let loose.

“Ambush!” yelled the captain of the dragoons, and men reached for their pistols and dug in their spurs, urging their mounts forward.

When they came out of the trees, they saw them—a dozen Highlanders, some on horseback, some on foot, milling around the coach. Rand was immediately struck with the impression that they were young men all, like a crowd of rowdy schoolboys up to some deviltry and enjoying themselves immensely.

“Redcoats!” The man on the box cried out the warning, and his comrade cracked the whip. The coach lurched, then took off like a rocket.

Before the dragoons could check their charge, a volley of shots whizzed over their heads. The thing was over before they could get their bearings. Highlanders leaped away over stone dikes and crags or were swallowed up in the trees. The troopers fired at random. Nothing moved. No one cried out.

“After the carriage!” On command, the dragoons rallied and went thundering off in pursuit.

Before long, Rand fell back. A moment later, he turned aside and, using the trees for cover, retraced his steps toward the Feardar Bridge. At length, in the shadow of two tall pines, he halted.

He was almost sure that no harm would come to his coachmen or the sole occupant of his carriage, who happened to be his valet.

If the Highlanders had really wanted to hurt them, they would have made their shots count.

This was mere mischief-making and on a par with the sport young bucks got up to when they were at a loose end, as he should know.

Still, it was a dangerous game when firing pieces were involved, and if he was their target, as he presumed he must be, he meant to nip it in the bud.

His patience was rewarded. First, he saw shadows flitting across the road, then he heard laughter, subdued but recognizable for all that.

Men were on the move, converging on the bridge.

Keeping well out of sight, Rand closed the distance between them.

It was no surprise to him when ponies were led out.

They were in the middle of nowhere. Men must have some means of getting back to their homes.

More shots, this time coming from the direction of the river, then moments later the hunting horn sounded. The men on the ponies were jubilant.

“Right lads, it’s done. Let’s get the hell o’ here,” said one.

As the riders dispersed, Rand chose his quarry.

He was in luck. The last to leave was a mere boy.

He wasn’t going to hurt him, not in any way that counted.

If it proved necessary, however, he would box the lad’s ears.

That ought to loosen his tongue. And he aimed to do more than that.

A boy of such tender years had no business meddling in men’s affairs.

When he was finished with him, the stripling would be glad to go back to playing with his toys.

Once she reached the open moor, Caitlin allowed her pony to have its head.

Morder was Highland bred, sure-footed and agile, which more than compensated for a lack of speed in this treacherous terrain.

Even without the moon to light their steps, the mare could find her way to the shieling blindfolded.

All Caitlin had to do was point her in the right direction.

It was only natural that her thoughts would dwell on David.

According to Jamie MacGregor, the young major had saved his cousin’s life at the cost of his own.

She was not surprised at the manner of his death, and tried to take comfort from the conviction that there was no one David revered more than his cousin Rand.

She missed David. There were no words to describe her grief. He was the only person to whom she had dared unburden herself. They were both odd “men” out, David had once told her, preserving their little secrets from the world. It was this, more than anything, which had drawn them to each other.

So lost in thought was she, she grew careless.

She was more than halfway home before she became conscious of being followed.

She wasn’t afraid, not at first. She’d half expected something of the sort.

MacGregor was curious about her, or at least he was curious about the lad he knew as “Dirk Gordon.” The trouble with Jamie MacGregor was he was getting too big for his own boots.

He had seen a bit of the world; he’d served with the Gordon Highlanders at Waterloo, and thought himself a cut above the lads who had never been out of the glen.

He wasn’t very good at taking orders and she wondered if it was because he was a MacGregor or because he’d risen to the rank of corporal in the British army.

She reined in the mare, turning in a half-circle.

On the open moor, there was no cover to conceal her pursuer.

Her first impression was that she was right.

The rider the moon picked out was a big man, as MacGregor was big.

She tsked under her breath and was opening her mouth to warn him off when she noticed something else.

It was no Highland pony he was riding, but a great charger worthy of the proverbial young Lochinvar.