Page 31 of The Scot Who Loved Me (A Scots Through Time #3)
The woman patted her arm. “The first battle is always the worst for watching and waiting.” Then she shrugged.
“That’s the price we Highland women pay for loving warriors.
But we endure.” She nodded toward a group of officers gathering near a larger tent.
“Your William will want to see ye before the battle. Men always do. They need something sweet to remember when the blood starts flowing.”
Harper followed her gaze and saw William deep in conversation with Lord George Murray, his profile serious in the fading light.
As if sensing her attention, he glanced up, their eyes meeting across the busy camp.
Even at a distance, she could see his expression soften momentarily before he returned to his discussion.
“Go on,” Fiona urged, giving her a gentle push. “I’ll finish here.”
She made her way through the camp, navigating between groups of men preparing weapons or sharing drams of whisky from tarnished flasks. The air hummed with nervous energy, punctuated by bursts of laughter that seemed too loud, too forced.
Before she could reach him, a messenger intercepted him, and he followed the man toward the command tent where the prince and his advisors were gathering. William glanced back at her, raising a hand in acknowledgment before disappearing inside.
Disappointed but understanding the demands on him, she turned back toward her tent.
As she walked, the sound of bagpipes started somewhere in the camp, a low, mournful tune that raised goosebumps on her arms. Men paused in their preparations, faces turning toward the music with expressions ranging from pride to wistfulness to grim determination.
“The Prince’s Lament,” said a quiet voice beside her. Callum had appeared at her elbow, his dark curls escaping from beneath his bonnet. “An old tune, but fitting tonight.”
“It’s beautiful,” she pressed her lips together, feeling the haunting melody resonate in her chest.
“Aye.” He nodded, his young face solemn in the gathering darkness.
“My father played it the night before they took him to Fort William.” He glanced at her, fingers absently tracing the worn leather strap of his map case, the tools of his trade that had given him purpose after his family’s loss.
“William asked me to tell ye he’ll come find ye when the war council has finished. ”
“Thank you.” She studied the young Highlander, noticing for the first time the shadows beneath his eyes, the tension in his jaw. “Are you afraid?”
He straightened, pride overcoming honesty for a moment, then his shoulders slumped slightly.
“Only a fool feels no fear before battle.” He twisted the leather strap of his powder horn between his fingers.
“But I fear disappointing my clan more than I fear English guns. After losing my parents to the fever last winter, the clan is all I have left.”
Her heart ached at his matter-of-fact acceptance of his orphaned status, something she’d learned from William weeks ago but Callum himself had never mentioned.
“Your clan is fortunate to have you,” she said gently. “Your maps are works of art as much as tools.”
His cheeks colored at the praise. “William says ye’ve been writing in a journal. Recording our journey for posterity.” He hesitated. “If I don’t return tomorrow?—”
“You will,” she interrupted, not wanting to hear his request.
“But if I don’t,” he persisted, “would ye add a few words about me? So someone remembers I was here?”
The request pierced her heart. This young man, for he was hardly more than that, wanted assurance that his brief life had meaning, that someone would remember his name when he was gone.
“I promise,” she said, her voice thick. “But you’ll return, Callum. Tomorrow will be a victory for the Jacobites.”
A commotion near the command tent drew their attention. The prince had emerged, surrounded by his officers, his face animated as he gestured toward the distant English camp.
“I’m glad ye have the sight.” He gave her a small smile. “I should go,” he said, straightening his jacket. “They’ll be finalizing positions for the morning.”
Harper watched him hurry away, his slender figure soon lost among the gathering of men. The bagpipes continued their lament, joined now by a fiddle somewhere in the darkness, weaving harmony through the ancient melody.
She wandered to the edge of the camp, finding a small rise that overlooked the marshy ground stretching toward the English position.
In the distance, campfires twinkled like earthbound stars, marking where Sir John Cope’s men prepared for what they assumed would be an easy victory against the Highland rabble.
They were wrong. By this time tomorrow, Cope’s army would be shattered, his professional soldiers routed by the ferocity of the Highland charge.
The history books Harper had studied described the battle as brutally efficient, over in less than fifteen minutes, with devastating casualties for the English forces.
A victory that would propel the Jacobites forward on their doomed campaign.
The night air grew colder as darkness fell completely, the autumn chill seeping through her dress. Still, she remained, watching the enemy fires and trying to reconcile the academic knowledge of history with the living, breathing reality around her.
“Ye’ll catch your death out here,” William’s voice came from behind her, accompanied by the warm weight of a plaid being draped around her shoulders.
She turned to find him standing close, his expression difficult to read in the darkness. “I needed some air. The camp feels... crowded with anticipation.”
“Aye, men prepare for battle in different ways.” He moved to stand beside her, his gaze fixed on the distant English position.
“Some pray, some drink, some wench, some seek the comfort of memory or hope.” He glanced at her.
“The war council is concluded. We attack at dawn, crossing the marsh they believe will protect their flank.”
She nodded, unsurprised. “A good strategy.”
He studied her curiously. “Ye don’t seem concerned about our chances.”
“Should I be?” She met his eyes steadily.
A small smile touched his lips. “Perhaps not. Your confidence is heartening, though unusual in one who’s never seen battle.”
Harper turned back toward the English camp, weighing her words carefully. “William, if I knew something, something important about what’s going to happen, would you want me to tell you, even if it seemed impossible?”
He was silent for a long moment. “Does this have to do with your answer to my proposal?”
“In a way.” Harper drew a deep breath. “It has to do with everything since I arrived on Eriskay.”
His hand found hers in the darkness, his calloused fingers warm against her chilled skin. “Come,” he said quietly. “There’s somewhere we can talk, away from curious ears.”
He led her away from the camp, following a narrow path through gorse bushes toward a small stand of trees. The branches formed a natural canopy, sheltering a tiny clearing where a flat stone gleamed pale in the moonlight.
“My grandfather once told me this was a faerie stone,” William explained, his voice low.
“He claimed if ye stood upon it at midnight and spoke yer deepest wish, the fair folk might grant it.” A rueful smile touched his lips.
“Childish fancy, I ken, but tonight of all nights, I find myself wanting to believe in such things.”
Harper stared at the stone, noting its smooth surface, likely shaped by glacial action thousands of years ago. Her scientific mind automatically cataloged everything about it while her heart ached at the simple faith in his eyes.
“What would you wish for?” she asked softly.
William’s blue eyes held hers. “Freedom. For my clan, for Scotland.” His thumb brushed across her knuckles. “And for us to have a future together, wheresoever that might lead.”
Something broke inside her. The careful walls she’d built, the secrets she’d guarded, the truths she’d hidden — all crumbling beneath the weight of his honesty and hope.
“I can’t keep doing this,” she blurted, pulling her hand from his. “Pretending everything will be fine when I know it won’t.”
Confusion clouded his expression. “What are ye saying, lass?”
She took a deep breath and let everything come tumbling out. “Tomorrow you’ll win. Sir John Cope’s army will break before yours like water on rocks.”
The words came faster now, unstoppable. “The Highland charge will overwhelm them in minutes. It will be glorious and terrible and exactly as history records it.”
William’s brow furrowed. “Ye speak as if it’s already happened.”
“For me, it has.” Harper pressed her palms against her eyes, trying to stem the tears threatening to fall.
“I’ve read about it in books. I’ve seen the battlefield on guided tours. I’ve studied the artifacts recovered from the dead.”
Silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant murmur of the camp and the soft rustle of wind through the trees.
“Ye’re not making any sense.” William’s voice had hardened, uncertainty giving way to suspicion. “Have ye been speaking with enemy spies? Is that how ye know their positions?”
“No!” She dropped her hands, forcing herself to meet his gaze. “I’m trying to tell you the truth. I’m not from here. Not just from another place, but another time. I’m from the future, from nearly three hundred years from now.”
The moonlight caught the flash of disbelief in his eyes. “Ye’ve gone mad.”
“I know how it sounds.” She reached out for him, but he stepped back out of her reach. “That day at Prince Charlie’s Bay when you found me. I’d just fallen through time. The storm, the cairn, the map case... I don’t understand it myself. But I’m from the year 2025.”
William’s face had gone completely still, unreadable in the dappled moonlight. “And ye expect me to believe such nonsense?”