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

Chapter

Two

S cottish Highlands

The nib scratched against the parchment as William traced the contours of Loch Katrine, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

Candlelight flickered across the rough-hewn table, casting shadows over the map that had consumed his attention for the past four hours.

Outside, rain lashed against the stone walls, the distant rumble of thunder echoing through the highlands like the drums of approaching war.

“More light,” he murmured, not looking up as Callum silently placed another candle near the corner of the parchment where the mountains met the water.

The golden glow illuminated William’s face, strong-jawed and stern, with eyes the color of a winter loch, deep blue and fathomless.

A lock of dark hair had escaped its leather tie, falling across his forehead as he bent over his work.

The hall of the MacGregor stronghold in Glengyle hummed with quiet activity despite the late hour.

Men gathered around the massive hearth, their voices low as they discussed the rumors sweeping through the glens like wildfire.

The prince was coming. The Stuart heir would soon land on Scottish soil, and every loyal Jacobite heart beat faster at the thought.

William dipped his quill again, carefully shading the steep incline where the English patrol had been ambushed three months prior.

His large, calloused hands moved with surprising delicacy over the parchment, belying their strength.

The same hands that could wield a claymore with deadly precision now captured the highland terrain with remarkable accuracy.

“That’s bonny work, lad,” came a gruff voice over his shoulder. Angus MacGregor leaned in to inspect the map, his breath heavy with the scent of whisky. “Ye’ve a gift few can match.”

William nodded once, acknowledging the compliment without breaking his concentration. “The southeast ridge needs correction. Campbell’s scout was wrong about the approach.”

“Aye, and it cost Douglas his life.” Angus stroked his chin. “If they’d had your maps instead...”

“They didn’t,” William said flatly, cutting off the familiar refrain. He carefully added a small stream that had been missing from earlier surveys, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly.

Across the hall, laughter erupted as men shared tales over their cups.

William remained apart from their camaraderie, an island unto himself.

Respect he commanded in abundance, fear, even, from those who had seen him in battle, but the easy companionship enjoyed by others seemed to flow around him like water around stone.

“Your brother would be proud of what you’ve become,” Angus said quietly, placing a heavy hand on William’s shoulder. “Hamish always said you’d?—”

“Dinna speak of him.” The words came sharp as a blade, though barely above a whisper. William’s knuckles whitened around the quill, threatening to snap the delicate instrument. “Not here. Not now.”

Angus stepped back, his face softening with understanding. “As ye wish. I meant no harm.”

A commotion at the hall’s entrance drew their attention as the heavy oak door burst open, admitting a gust of rain-laden wind and a soaking messenger. The young man’s plaid clung to his frame, water streaming from his hair and beard as he staggered forward, exhaustion evident in every movement.

“I bring news!” he called, scanning the faces of the gathered men until they found William. “News from the south!”

The hall fell silent as William strode forward, his tall frame commanding immediate attention.

Standing a head above most men present, with shoulders broad from years of wielding a sword and climbing treacherous peaks for his surveys, he cut an imposing figure.

The candlelight caught the silver sgian dubh handle at his belt and the faint scar that traced his right jawline, a memento from an English bayonet.

“Speak,” William ordered, his voice deep and steady.

“English troops,” the messenger gasped, accepting a dram of whisky from someone nearby. “Two regiments moving north from Stirling. They’re burning steadings and arresting any suspected of Jacobite sympathies.”

A muscle worked in William’s jaw as he absorbed this news, his eyes darkening dangerously. Those who knew him well recognized the controlled fury building behind that calm exterior. When he spoke, his voice remained even, though ice had crept into his tone.

“Names of the commanders?”

“Colonel Barrington leads them,” the messenger said, watching William’s face carefully. “And Captain Edward Mercer.”

The reaction was subtle but unmistakable. Something flared in William’s eyes, a hatred so pure and cold it seemed to lower the temperature in the hall. His right hand moved unconsciously to the hilt of his dirk, fingers flexing once before relaxing with deliberate control.

“Mercer,” he repeated, the name falling from his lips like a curse. “Ye’re certain?”

“Aye. The butcher himself.”

Murmurs spread through the gathering. Everyone present knew the story, how three years earlier, Captain Mercer had led the raid that slaughtered William’s parents and eldest brother while William was away scouting.

The same raid that had put a price on William’s head and driven the surviving MacGregors deeper into the highlands.

“The laird will want to hear this,” William said, his composure regained though a dangerous energy now radiated from him. “Bring him the news. I’ll attend shortly.”

As the messenger moved toward the laird’s study, William returned to his table. With movements precise and controlled, he carefully rolled the map he’d been working on, securing it with a leather tie as the murmurs of conversation rose and fell around them.

“Will ye go after the wee bastard?” Angus asked quietly, knowing the question that burned in William’s heart.

“My duty is to the clan and the cause,” William replied, his voice like gravel, though his eyes told a different story. “Personal vendettas must wait.”

“A noble sentiment,” came a new voice, “though I wonder if ye truly believe it.”

The MacGregor approached, his limp more pronounced in the damp weather. Despite his sixty years, he carried himself with the dignity of a man half his age, his shrewd eyes missing nothing as they assessed William.

“We must speak,” the laird said. “There’s a matter that requires your particular skills.”

William inclined his head respectfully. “I’m at your service, as always.”

The laird gestured toward his study. “Come. We have much to discuss.”

The laird’s chamber was warmer than the hall, with a peat fire burning steadily in the hearth.

Maps lined the walls, many of William’s creation, marking the territories of allied clans, English strongholds, and potential battlefields.

A large oak table dominated the center of the room, upon which lay an ancient, yellowed map of the Outer Hebrides.

“The prince is coming,” the laird said without preamble once the door closed behind them. “Word has reached us that he is making preparations to sail from France.”

William’s pulse quickened despite his outward calm. After years of planning and waiting, the moment approached at last. “Where will he land?”

“That,” said the laird, tapping a finger on the map, “is what concerns us. His French advisors favor Eriskay. Small, remote, with none of the bleedin’ English about.” His finger circled the tiny island. “But our information about its coastal approaches is woefully outdated.”

William leaned over the map, immediately spotting the inaccuracies. The coastline was crude, the depths unmarked, and potential landing sites poorly indicated.

“This is worse than useless,” he said, tracing a finger along the western shore. “Any captain relying on this would run aground before reaching shore.”

“Precisely why you must go,” his laird replied. “We need accurate maps of Eriskay’s approaches before the prince arrives. Safe landing places, depths, currents, everything a ship’s captain would require.”

William straightened, taking the measure of this assignment. “When do I leave?”

“Tomorrow. Take Angus and Callum, they’ve served you well before. Travel quietly, we cannot risk drawing attention.”

“And Mercer’s forces?”

The laird’s eyes sharpened. “Are not your concern at present. The prince’s safe arrival takes precedence over all else, including personal scores to be settled.”

William’s expression remained impassive, though something dangerous flickered behind his eyes. “As ye say.”

“I know what burns in your heart, lad,” the laird said, his voice softening slightly. “I knew your father well. But vengeance can wait. Scotland cannot.”

With a curt nod, William accepted both the mission and the rebuke. “I’ll prepare to leave at first light.”

Later, in the small chamber he stayed in whenever he was here, William assembled his surveying tools by lamplight.

The brass sextant his father had given him on his eighteenth birthday.

The compass that had never failed him, even in the worst highland storms. Measuring chains.

Drafting instruments. All carefully packed alongside his weapons, for in these troubled times, a mapmaker was first and foremost, a warrior.

As he worked, his fingers brushed against a small, folded scrap of parchment tucked into his wooden case.

He hesitated, then slowly withdrew it, unfolding the crude map drawn in a child’s unsteady hand.

Mountains like triangles, a loch like a puddle, stick figures labeled “Will” and “Hamish” standing before a simple house.

“See, Will? I can make maps too!” Hamish had said, his nine-year-old face alight with pride as he presented his creation. “One day we will travel the world and make maps together.”

The memory cut sharper than any blade. William’s fingers traced the drawing, his stern expression softening for the first time that day. Something ached behind his ribs, a hollow space that never seemed to fill.

“Aye, my brother,” he whispered to the empty room. “We would have.”

Careful not to tear the worn paper, he refolded the map and returned it to its hiding place.

The moment of vulnerability passed, replaced by the iron resolve that had carried him through the years since losing everything to English bayonets.

Tomorrow he would journey to Eriskay. He would create the maps needed to bring Prince Charlie safely to Scottish shores, deliver them to the French.

And then, perhaps, he would finally have his reckoning with Captain Mercer.

William extinguished the lamp and moved to the narrow window, gazing out at the rain-swept mountains. In the distance, lightning illuminated the peaks, wild, untamed, and defiant, just like the highland heart beating in his chest.