Page 20 of The Scot Who Loved Me (A Scots Through Time #3)
Chapter
Fourteen
T he sky hung heavy and low, the dawn mist rolling over the rough hills above their small camp.
Dew clung to the sparse heather, glittering like tiny crystals in the feeble early morning light.
Harper stirred the embers of their small cooking fire, absently listening to the hushed voices around her, wishing Moira was still with them, but after the MacDonald’s displeasure with the prince arriving, she said it was time for her to go.
She’d hugged Harper and told her to make sure to eat.
To thank her for her kindness, Harper gave her a fossil she’d found washed up on the beach, bearing a partial imprint of a fern. She watched William speak quietly with Angus and Callum, his expression unusually tense, his broad shoulders rigid beneath his faded plaid.
Something was wrong. She, who relied on logic, felt it in her bones. A prickling, uneasy sensation that made her stomach churn. Ever since the prince had landed, the air was thick with more than moisture. It carried dread and anticipation in equal measure.
A sharp sound broke the morning silence with the hurried crunch of boots across gravel.
One of the French sailors who had brought the prince ashore appeared suddenly, his usually composed face flushed and taut with urgency.
He spoke quickly to William in heavily accented English, gesturing toward the southern shore.
William’s jaw tightened, his eyes going icy with fury as he listened. Harper watched him carefully, her heartbeat quickening in her chest.
“What is it?” she asked softly, approaching his side. “What’s happened?”
He turned to her, his blue eyes piercing, colder than she’d ever seen them. “They caught Ian trying to signal a boat offshore late last night,” he said quietly, his voice tight with controlled anger. “Lantern signals from the cliffs. One of the Frenchmen spotted him and followed.”
A hard lump formed in her throat. So, they had caught him.
“They took him to the old oak,” he continued grimly. “The prince awaits us there.”
She swallowed painfully, nodding her understanding. “I’m coming with you.”
He hesitated a heartbeat, his gaze searching her face. She could see the internal struggle, but his shoulders finally dipped slightly in acceptance. “Stay close to me. Ye dinna have to watch if it becomes too much.”
She didn’t respond, only fell into step beside him. The walk to the old tree felt interminable. Her breath fogged slightly in the chill morning air, the world around her strangely muted, as if holding its breath in anticipation. Her feet were heavy in her boots, reluctant with each step.
When they crested the rise, Harper stopped short, her stomach tightening painfully.
The oak stood gnarled and ancient, its branches clawing at the blue sky.
Beneath it, Ian knelt on the damp ground, his wrists bound roughly behind his back.
He wore no jacket, and his thin linen shirt clung to his shaking shoulders.
Mud stained his knees, and sweat and tears streaked through grime on his pale face.
His dark hair hung limp, plastered to his forehead, and his eyes darted frantically between his captors.
He looked impossibly young, impossibly lost.
The prince stood apart from the others, his face a mask of weary disappointment, more sorrowful than angry. Angus and two Frenchmen flanked Ian, their expressions grim and unforgiving. The grim reality of the scene gripped her chest, squeezing the breath from her lungs.
As they approached, Ian’s gaze whipped toward her, eyes pleading. Harper felt the weight of that pleading look like a physical blow.
William stared down at Ian, his voice low and steely. “Who was yer contact?”
“Just a soldier.” Ian shook his head desperately. “I didn’t have a choice. Lieutenant Foster in Fort William, he promised my brother’s life. They have him locked away. He said, he’d hang unless I helped.”
The prince’s voice was quiet, yet it carried authority like ice beneath silk. “How long have you betrayed us?”
Ian’s shoulders sagged. “Six months, Your Highness. I dinna wish to hurt anyone. Just a few messages. Positions, times. I told him about Mistress Ross and her knowledge of maps. That’s all. I wanted to save my brother.”
The prince’s expression softened, but his voice remained resolute. “Yet those messages might cost hundreds of lives, including my own. You understand the penalty.”
Ian’s breathing grew ragged, panic choking his words. “Please. I’m sorry. Spare me, I swear it, I’ll never betray ye again.”
The prince looked away, signaling with a subtle nod toward one of the men. “Prepare the rope quickly. We must depart for the mainland.”
Harper’s heartbeat surged, drowning out all sound. Her vision narrowed, focusing helplessly on Ian as the men quickly looped a thick rope around a sturdy branch overhead.
“No,” she whispered hoarsely, instinctively stepping toward Ian. William’s hand shot out, gripping her arm firmly, though gently.
“Do not,” he murmured, his voice strained. “Ye canna stop this.”
Ian turned toward her, his eyes brimming with hopeless tears. “Mistress Ross. Forgive me, please. It was never personal. I wished only to save my brother.”
Her throat seized. “I’m sorry, Ian,” she choked out, voice trembling.
He nodded faintly, a flicker of relief crossing his face at her words. “Ye were kind to me,” he whispered. “Remember me that way, aye?”
“I will,” she promised, blinking back tears that threatened to spill over. “I swear it.”
The noose settled roughly around Ian’s neck, and two Frenchmen made him stand on his tiptoes upon a rickety wooden crate.
His entire body shuddered violently, his breathing quick and erratic, tears cutting tracks down his dirty cheeks.
William stepped forward, his voice steady, though Harper saw the tightness in his jaw, the way his throat moved as he spoke.
“Any last prayers, lad?”
Ian closed his eyes tightly, whispering in Gaelic, his whole body trembling. Harper felt herself sway, nausea churning in her gut. William’s hand tightened around hers, grounding her.
Ian opened his eyes, nodding weakly. “I’m ready.”
In a swift movement, the soldier kicked the crate from beneath Ian’s feet. Harper flinched at the sickening sound of the rope going taut, the gasp Ian made, a horrible, strangled noise that clawed into her very soul. Her legs buckled, and she staggered, bile rising in her throat.
Ian’s body contorted, his hands twisting desperately behind him, his feet kicking spasmodically.
Harper watched, frozen, unable to tear her eyes away.
The slow strangulation, the awful dawning stillness that followed.
It was nothing like she’d imagined. No clinical description or history book could have prepared her.
William pulled her close, his arm around her shoulders, holding her up as trembling overtook her body. “Breathe,” he whispered roughly into her hair.
She clutched at his plaid, watching through blurred vision as Ian’s movements finally ceased, his body swaying slowly beneath the oak branch. A profound silence seemed to swallow the world.
She looked up to William, haunted. “I did this. I suspected him and told all of you. It was my fault.”
William shook his head firmly, his voice raw with emotion. “Nay, lass. The soldiers caught him in the act. Ian made his choice long before ye came.”
Her knees gave way, and William guided her gently down to the damp ground. She felt Angus’ warm, calloused hand press a small flask into hers. “Drink, lass,” he murmured. “It will ease the shock.”
Harper obeyed, the whisky burning fiercely down her throat. She stared at Ian’s still form, his shoes dangling inches above the muddy earth, the rope creaking softly as it twisted.
The prince approached solemnly. “We must go. Time waits for no man.”
William nodded, his voice tight. “Aye, Your Highness.”
As the prince and the others moved away, William knelt before her, holding her gaze firmly. “Remember this day,” he said softly. “Remember Ian MacPhail and the cost of trust broken. But do not bear the weight as your own.”
Harper nodded numbly, tears spilling freely now. They mingled with the mist and the rising breeze, her grief forever woven into the fabric of this world she had chosen.
She would never forget.