Page 22 of The Scot Who Loved Me (A Scots Through Time #3)

“For my clan,” he corrected softly. “The prince is but a means. With a Stuart on the throne, perhaps the price on my head will be removed. Perhaps the MacGregors reclaim our lands.” His blue eyes found hers in the darkness.

“But aye, that’s why I fight. And why I canna turn back, no matter what comes. ”

“And Ian? Was that justice or vengeance?”

William’s expression hardened. “It was necessity. In war, betrayal costs lives.”

“He was trying to save his brother.”

“And would have sacrificed us all to do it. Ye as well.” William sighed. “I take no pleasure in such matters. But it had to be done to protect what matters.”

The ship rolled gently beneath them, pushing them closer together. Harper became acutely aware of him, the scent of heather and peat smoke that clung to his clothes, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the slight roughness of his calloused fingers as they brushed against the railing near hers.

“I’m afraid,” she whispered, the confession slipping out unbidden.

“Of what?”

“Of what’s coming. Of failing. Of...” Losing you , she couldn’t say.

The shadows hid them from prying eyes as he turned to face her fully, one hand rising to brush a tear from her cheek with surprising gentleness. “We all walk into darkness, lass. The only courage that matters is continuing forward, anyway.”

His touch lingered, fingers tracing the line of her jaw.

Her breath caught as the world narrowed to this moment, this man.

When his lips found hers, the kiss was tentative at first, a question rather than a demand.

She answered by leaning into him, her hands finding purchase in the rough wool of his plaid, coming up to grip his arms, the muscles shifting under her hands.

The kiss deepened, becoming something urgent and needful. His arms encircled her, strong and sure, as if he could shield her from the coming storm. For one suspended moment, there was no rebellion, no doomed cause, no centuries separating them, only this connection, this warmth against the wind.

When they finally broke apart, breathing heavily, Harper rested her forehead against his chest. The steady thrum of his heartbeat grounded her, even as her thoughts raced with implications and warnings she couldn’t voice.

“William,” she began hesitantly, “I need to tell you something. About what’s ahead.”

He waited, patient but wary.

“This rebellion...” She struggled to find words that wouldn’t reveal too much. “The prince doesn’t understand Scotland. He doesn’t know what he’s asking of you all. The English will—” She stopped, swallowing hard. “Be careful who you trust. Even him.”

William’s expression grew troubled. “Ye speak as if ye’ve seen the future, lass.”

If you only knew. “I... have a feeling. A strong one.”

“None of us can know what comes.” His hand moved to cup her face. “Even if ye have the sight and are right, what choice do I have? The English already name me outlaw. They’ve taken my lands, my family. This is the only road left open to men like me.”

The terrible weight of history pressed down on her.

She knew exactly how this would end. The slaughter at Culloden, the brutal repression that would follow, the destruction of the Highland way of life.

Yet here he stood, fierce and determined, believing victory possible, and she couldn’t bring herself to crush that hope.

“Then promise me you’ll be careful,” she said instead. “Promise me you’ll survive.”

Something flashed in his eyes. Understanding perhaps that she knew more than she was saying. “I promise to try,” he answered solemnly. “That’s all any man can do.”

He kissed her again, more gently this time, before they reluctantly returned below deck.

He waited until she’d bolted the door before going back up on deck to sleep in a hammock.

Harper lay awake long after, thinking of the men who would soon face fire, sword, and musket for a cause that history had already judged and found wanting.

Two days later, dawn broke clear and chilly as they approached the mainland.

The rugged coastline of Arisaig emerged from the morning mist, its mountains rising sharp and forbidding against the pale sky.

As they disembarked, the scale of the camp struck Harper as it sprawled along the shore, dozens of fires and men in various clan tartans moving with purpose, horses and wagons being unloaded from larger vessels.

“More have joined than I expected,” William observed, surveying the scene with cautious optimism. His hand rested on the small of her back, guiding her through the bustling activity.

Angus nodded, scratching his beard. “Aye, but look closer. Not nearly enough for what the prince plans.”

Harper noticed it as well. The clusters of men keeping to themselves, the wary glances exchanged between different clans, the undercurrent of tension beneath the surface activity.

Camerons in their distinctive red tartans kept apart from the MacDonalds in their greens and blues.

Men with the same plaid patterns as William gathered in small groups, receiving looks that ranged from respect to outright suspicion.

“They fear the name MacGregor even here,” Harper observed quietly.

“With good reason,” William replied. “Our clan has a bloody history. Some call us wolves.”

“And are you?” she asked, studying his profile.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Only to our enemies.”

As they made their way through the camp, Harper caught fragments of Gaelic conversations, recognizing enough words to understand the doubts being voiced.

“...no army, just a handful of Frenchmen...”

“...speaks like a foreigner, not a true Scot...”

“...madness to challenge the English without more men...”

William’s jaw tightened as he heard the same, but he said nothing. A messenger approached, breathless, his young face flushed with importance.

“MacGregor! The prince requests yer presence at the war council immediately.”

William squeezed Harper’s hand briefly. “I must go. Angus, see Mistress Ross settled.”

As he strode away, Harper felt exposed without him. The camp seemed to close in around her, foreign and hostile. She hunched her shoulders against the curious and occasionally suspicious stares of passing Highlanders.

“Dinna fash, lass,” Angus said kindly, noticing her discomfort. He’d been nicer to her ever since the hanging. “They’re just wary of strangers. It will pass.”

Callum appeared with news of where they would camp, leading them to a small clearing where their meager belongings waited. Harper busied herself helping to set up camp, grateful for the distraction.

“Will the other clans support the prince?” she asked Callum as they worked.

He glanced around before answering, his voice low. “Some will. The Camerons are nearly certain, and some of the MacDonalds. Others wait to see which way the wind blows.”

“And the MacGregors?”

“We follow William,” he said simply. “What the others do is their choice.”

After stowing her one extra chemise and dress in her tent, she ventured to a nearby stream for water. There she overheard two women speaking rapidly in Gaelic. They fell silent as she approached, their expressions cooling.

“Good morning,” Harper offered in halting Gaelic, attempting a friendly smile.

The older woman responded with a curt nod, while the younger one whispered something that made her companion frown disapprovingly.

“English,” the younger one said in accented English, looking directly at Harper. “Ye speak like them.”

“I’m not English,” Harper replied, feeling her cheeks flush. “I’m...” The lie about being a widow suddenly stuck in her throat.

“It doesna matter,” the older woman interrupted in English. “These are dangerous times for those without clan protection. Mind yer business and keep yer head down, aye?”

They departed with their water, leaving her feeling once again like an imposter, a fraud who didn’t belong. The confidence she’d built over weeks on Eriskay seemed to evaporate in the face of this larger gathering, where her differences were more pronounced.

By evening, the camp had grown further. Messengers arrived throughout the day, some bringing news of clans pledging support, others bearing regrets and cautions. The prince held court in the largest tent, his charm and determination on full display as he attempted to rally wavering allies.

From a distance, she watched clan chiefs arrive for an audience, proud men in fine tartans, each accompanied by advisors and guards.

Some emerged looking inspired, others troubled or skeptical.

The pattern was clear, those who had suffered most under English rule were quickest to join, while those with more to lose hesitated.

William emerged from one such meeting, his face drawn with concern. He spotted her and made his way over, dropping onto a log beside her with uncharacteristic weariness.

“The council did not go well,” she guessed, offering him a cup of broth.

He accepted the cup, his fingers brushing hers. “The prince expects thousands to flock to his banner. The chiefs try to tell him the clans are divided, that many fear English reprisals.” William sighed heavily. “He believes his very presence is enough to overcome all obstacles.”

“And you? What do you believe?”

William stared into the fire, flames reflecting in his blue eyes. “I believe in our cause. I believe the Stuarts are our rightful kings.” He paused, conflict evident in his expression. “But I also believe in being prepared for what may come.”

Around them, the camp settled into evening routines.

Men cleaned weapons, women tended fires, sentries took their positions.

Songs in Gaelic rose from various fires, some mournful, others defiant.

Despite the activity, isolation surrounded her, leaving her feeling caught between two worlds, between times, between loyalties.

“They don’t trust me,” she said quietly. “I don’t blame them.”

William’s hand found hers in the gathering darkness. “They will learn to trust ye as I have.” His voice dropped lower. “As I do.”

The simple declaration warmed her more than the fire ever could.

Yet beneath the warmth lay a growing dread.

She was in love with a man whose world was about to burn, a man who might soon march to his death.

And she, with all her knowledge of what was to come, remained powerless to change the course of history without risking even greater harm.

Across the fire, Angus watched them with knowing eyes, a slight smile beneath his red beard. “The prince wants to raise the standard at Glenfinnan in two weeks’ time,” he said, breaking the moment. “He expects the clans will rally once they see it flying.”

“And if they don’t?” Harper asked.

“Then we fight with what we have,” William replied firmly. “Or we die trying.”