Page 30 of The Scot Who Loved Me (A Scots Through Time #3)

Chapter

Twenty-One

T he embers in the small hearth had long since turned to ash, leaving the room cold in the predawn darkness.

Harper sat at the window seat, William’s plaid wrapped around her shoulders as she watched the first hint of gray lighten the eastern sky.

Sleep had proven impossible after his proposal the night before.

The words echoed in her head, beautiful and terrifying.

She’d managed only a promise to answer after Prestonpans, buying precious time she didn’t know how to use.

How could she bind herself to him, no matter how much she’d come to love him, and to this time, knowing what waited on the horizon?

The slaughter at Culloden. The systematic destruction of Highland culture.

The brutal English reprisals that would follow.

If he was killed at Culloden, she wouldn’t want to stay in the past without him.

Behind her, William stirred in the narrow bed they’d shared, though they’d done nothing but sleep in each other’s arms. His dark hair was tousled across the pillow, his face softened in slumber, looking younger than his twenty-six years.

“Harper?” His voice was rough with sleep as he reached for the empty space beside him. “What troubles ye so early?”

She turned from the window, forcing a smile. “Just thinking.”

He sat up, the blanket falling to his waist, revealing the linen shirt he’d slept in. In the dim light, she could make out the strong lines of his shoulders, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. “About my question?”

“Among other things.” She drew his plaid tighter. The tartan smelled of wood smoke, heather, and him, a scent that had become inexplicably home to her. “The prince will march soon, won’t he?”

William nodded, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Aye. There’s word Cope’s army has been spotted near Prestonpans.” He ran a hand through his hair, his expression turning serious. “We’ll likely move out today to position ourselves for battle.”

Her stomach clenched. History was marching forward, relentless and unstoppable.

“Come here,” he said softly, holding out his hand.

She crossed the small space to him, allowing herself to be pulled onto his lap, his arms circling her waist. “I ken ye’re frightened,” he murmured against her hair. “But ye needn’t be. I’ll keep ye safe.”

The tenderness in his voice nearly broke her. “It’s not me I’m worried about.”

His hands came up to frame her face, tilting it toward his. “Then what, mo chridhe ? Tell me what weighs on ye so heavily.”

The Gaelic endearment— my heart —made her throat tighten. How could she explain that she feared for him? For all of them? That she carried the terrible burden of knowing their fates?

Instead, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to his, pouring all her conflicted emotions into the kiss. His response was immediate, arms tightening around her, drawing her closer as if he could absorb her fears through touch alone.

When they finally broke apart, his blue eyes were dark with desire and concern. “That felt suspiciously like a farewell,” he said quietly.

“Never that,” she whispered, resting her forehead against his. “I just?—”

A sharp knock at the door interrupted them. “William.” Callum’s voice called. “The prince has summoned all officers. We’re to prepare to march within the hour.”

He sighed, his breath warm against her cheek. “Tell him I’ll be there directly,” he called back.

She reluctantly stood so he could rise and gather his belongings. She watched as he changed from the tender man who’d held her into the Highland warrior, strapping on his sword belt and musket, securing his dirk, pulling his hair back and settling his bonnet on his head.

“Will ye be ready to travel?” he asked, glancing at her as he shrugged into his jacket.

“Yes.” Harper nodded, pushing aside her personal turmoil. “I’ll pack our things and find whatever provisions I can.”

He paused in his preparations, studying her face. “We’ll speak more of this, of us, when there’s time.” He stepped close again, pressing a swift, hard kiss to her lips. “Keep your spirits up, lass. The battle may come swiftly, but we Highlanders know how to win.”

After he left, she sank back onto the bed, fingers pressed against her mouth where the warmth of his kiss lingered. How many more kisses would they have before history tore them apart?

By midday, Edinburgh had receded behind them as the Jacobite army marched eastward toward Prestonpans. The mood among the men was electric, a strange mixture of excitement and dread that manifested in raucous songs, nervous laughter, and the occasional burst of competitive bravado.

She walked beside the cart carrying medical supplies, having volunteered to help the few physicians and lone healer accompanying the army.

The rolling farmland spread around them, the rich volcanic soil supporting fields, now harvested for the coming winter.

In the distance, the glittering waters of the Firth of Forth caught the autumn sunlight, deceptively peaceful beneath the gathering clouds.

“You’ve a keen eye, lass,” remarked Dr. Stewart, an elderly physician who’d joined the cause despite his advanced years.

His gnarled fingers, stained with decades of herbs and tinctures, gestured toward the rock formation she’d been studying.

“Most women wouldna notice the layers in the rock outcroppings.”

Harper realized she’d been automatically cataloging the geological features visible in a nearby cutting. Basalt and sedimentary layers that told the ancient story of Scotland’s volcanic past. “Force of habit,” she said with a small smile. “I’ve always been fascinated by what the earth can tell us.”

“A strange interest for a woman,” he commented, though his eyes held respect rather than judgment.

He adjusted the leather satchel of medical supplies slung across his shoulder, the contents clinking softly with each step.

“But useful, I’d wager. Knowing which soils grow the best herbs, which waters have healing properties. ”

“Something like that.” She didn’t correct his assumption.

How could she explain modern geology to a man whose medical knowledge still included bloodletting and humoral theory?

A man who, despite his outdated practices, had shown more kindness to her than many of the men still suspicious of her presence.

“I treated William’s father once, many years ago,” Dr. Stewart said unexpectedly, his voice dropping to avoid being overheard. “After a skirmish with Campbell men. Proud as the devil, just like his son.” His rheumy eyes studied her face.

Ahead, William rode with the other officers, his broad shoulders straight and proud beneath his dark blue jacket. She hadn’t spoken to him since that morning, both of them caught up in the frantic preparations for departure. Now he seemed a world away, focused entirely on the coming conflict.

“Your man will do well,” Dr. Stewart said, following her gaze. “MacGregors have warrior blood.”

“He’s not my—” Harper began automatically, then stopped herself. After last night, what was William to her? Not yet her fiancé, but certainly more than a protector. “I worry for him,” she admitted instead.

The old doctor nodded sagely. “As do all women who love men who fight. But take heart. Our cause is just, and the prince has God’s favor.”

Harper bit her tongue to keep from arguing. History would prove otherwise, but this kind man’s faith didn’t deserve her cynicism.

“September 20th,” Harper murmured to herself as they crested a small rise.

Below them stretched the coastal plain near Prestonpans, the Firth of Forth glimmering in the distance.

To their right stood Preston House, its stone walls gleaming in the afternoon sun, while beyond it lay the small village that would soon lend its name to a historic battle.

Between their position and the distant English camp stretched a seemingly impassable bog, the very marsh that General Cope believed would protect his flank.

She knew this landscape, having walked it on a historical tour during her undergraduate years when she and her roommate took a trip overseas for a few weeks during summer break.

But seeing it now, untouched by centuries of development, without the memorial cairn or informational plaques, made her breath catch.

Tomorrow these peaceful fields would be transformed by the blood of men who didn’t yet know their fate.

“Cope’s army is encamped near Prestonpans, just as we thought,” Angus reported, finding her among the medical carts. His cheeks were red from the wind, his eyes bright with anticipation. “We’ll make camp tonight within sight of them, and likely fight at dawn.”

Harper’s hands stilled on the bandage rolls she’d been organizing. “Tomorrow, then.”

“Aye.” Angus studied her face. “William asked me to tell ye we’ll be camping near the old Preston House. He says ye’re to stay with Fiona and the other women, well behind the lines.”

“Of course.” She nodded, though her thoughts were already racing ahead. Tomorrow would bring victory for the Jacobites. A stunning, decisive win that would bolster their confidence and convince many that the Stuart restoration was inevitable.

Later that day, as the army established camp for the night, she helped Fiona set up their small tent among the other camp followers. The older woman worked efficiently, her weathered hands tying knots and securing pegs with practiced ease.

“Ye look like ye’ve seen a ghost, lass,” Fiona commented, straightening from her work. “Is it the coming battle that frightens ye?”

She shook her head. “Not exactly.” She glanced around at the bustling camp, where men sharpened weapons and checked ammunition, where priests moved among the Catholic Highlanders offering blessings, where young boys too small to fight ran messages between commanders.

All of them part of a doomed cause, though they couldn’t know it.