Page 2 of The Wild Rose of Kilgannon (Kilgannon #2)

ONE

R egret is a cold companion and I lived with it for months after Alex left me. It was with me always, but never more than at the end of the day, when I would climb the stairs of the keep and watch the sun go down behind a blue island. Alone.

It kept me company later that autumn, when we women tried to keep Kilgannon alive with the children and the handful of men left behind.

And was with me as we gathered that meager harvest, tried our hand at fishing, rounded up the cattle and moved them to their winter grazing.

At night I tried not to think as I bandaged my blistered hands and laughed with the others at our new skills.

But regret was never far away. It stood with me as I watched the last of the men leave on the brigs to join the others, their sons gleeful, their wives crying.

Regret came into its own as the autumn nights approached winter and I stood at the windows watching icy rain run in streams down the panes.

It was mid-September when Alex left to go to war, four weeks after his birthday and a week before mine.

Regret was the guest of honor at my scanty birthday celebration, organized by Ellen to cheer me.

I did my best to appear merry as I thanked her.

And I was grateful to have her with me, for I could not imagine life without her now.

It was difficult to remember that she had once been a housemaid in my aunt’s London home.

She never complained, though she was suffering the loss of wee Donald, her sweetheart, gone off with Alex.

That regret was also Ellen’s companion did not ease my burden; it only sharpened it.

The long October and November nights passed so slowly.

Sleepless, I roamed the halls of Kilgannon, making speeches in my head, remembering what had happened in each part of the house, staring at the family portraits as though they had something to tell me.

I regretted I had let him go. I regretted that he went.

I regretted that he had not chosen mine above all other claims, that I could not accept his choice with grace.

And that I had let my husband leave knowing my anger and my fear.

I should have told him I had every confidence in him and his people, but I had only wept and told him he would lose.

And I regretted in those long hours that there had been no child of this union, and perhaps never would be.

I stood on that parapet every evening, watching the blue islands and bartering with God for just one more night with my love.

How many women, over the centuries, I wondered, had stood staring off into space and wishing their men home?

I don’t care who is king , I told the stones.

I don’t care who wins the war. Just bring my love home to me .

But the stones kept their silence and eventually I descended and joined the others.

One thing I did not regret was loving Alex nor marrying him and coming to this impossible place.

Meeting Alexander MacGannon that summer night in 1712 had changed my life forever.

He was unlike any man I’d ever known, and I’d been fascinated from the start with the blond giant who strode into my aunt’s ballroom with his Highland clothing, impeccable manners, and enchanting smile.

He was honest and direct, full of humor and disdainful of the conventions London adhered to so slavishly.

And the most handsome man I’d ever seen.

That had not changed with marriage. I still caught my breath when he moved toward me, still was enthralled by his touch and still moved to passion I’d never known could exist. Even after two years of marriage, all he had to do was flash those blue, blue eyes at me and I was his.

And now he was gone to war and with him had gone all my hope for happiness, for it was my own country he fought.

And how I had struggled with that. And with him, begging him not to join the Jacobites, not to commit treason.

For it was treason. And folly. I knew they could not win, could not hope to taunt the might of the English military and win.

No matter how glorious their intentions, no matter how heartfelt their convictions or gallant their warriors, they would lose.

But I would not go home to England. I would stay at Kilgannon, the home for generations of MacGannons, safe for now in this formidable fortress.

His home, and mine, perched atop a hill that overlooked a deep sea loch, was amply buttressed.

Alex’s wife and sons would be well protected.

But for how long? I could not shake my fears.

Alex might never return, might die on some far-off battlefield, might be captured by the English.

My people. The enemy. My heart had made my decision to stay simple.

I was The MacGannon’s wife, and whether he forfeited his title of tenth Earl of Kilgannon, and I my Countess title with it, did not matter.

I wanted him alive and home with me, with his two sons from his first marriage, now my sons .

Politics did not matter to me. Alex did.

And in my more honest moments with myself I even admitted a grudging respect for his decision.

I knew he loved me, but I also knew he would always put duty and loyalty, as he saw it, first. I did not regret that in him, only that I had ever let the MacKinnons and MacDonalds through the door.

When they’d come to ask Alex to raise the clan in James Stewart’s defense, I should have been ruthlessly rude and driven them away.

But I might as well have tried to stop the tide as prevent Alex from joining.

Regret was with me, of course, on that cold and windy evening when the news came that the battle of Sherrifmuir had been fought on November thirteenth. The runner, a MacDonald, shivered as he stood before us.

“Five Kilgannon men killed,” he said. “Andrew, Earvan, and Cian MacGannon, Fergus MacManus, and Sim of Glendevin. Angus hasna a scratch, nor Matthew. Had any other Kilgannon men died, I would have been told.” Ellen breathed a sigh of relief. “Yer laird is well, Lady Mary, but he was wounded.”

The boys exclaimed and I rose from my chair, Ian with me. “Alex was wounded? How is he?”

“I’m told it was not a bad wound. He’s much better the now.”

I nodded and sat down, pulling Ian with me, while the weary man told his tale. The women and children gathered around, and when he talked about the battle, I watched my sons’ eyes light up.

“It was a big battle,” he said. “The Jacobites under Mar were twelve thousand strong. The English had many fewer, and Campbells”—he spat the name out—“among them.” Robert , I thought, recalling the Campbell family member who had courted me in London, as the runner continued.

“Yer men were with us MacDonalds and with the Macleans in the right wing, under General Gordon.”

He sipped his whisky while I envisioned the scene.

Alex, and the men of Kilgannon I knew so well, fighting alongside the MacDonalds and Macleans.

Murdoch Maclean would be delighted, I reflected, remembering Alex’s closest friend outside the clan doing his best to persuade Alex to join the rebellion.

Murdoch, a huge man, always passionate, was better suited to laughter than slaughter.

Despite his best efforts, he’d been unable to convince Alex to join him in the uprising.

It had been Sir Donald MacDonald, leader of the MacDonalds of Skye, who had known what would sway Alex, and Donald who had used that knowledge. And I’d never forgive him for it.

Ian spoke into the pause. “Who won?”

The man looked at him without expression. “No one.”

“No one?” I could not keep still. “No one?”

“No.” The runner looked uncomfortable. “Both sides withdrew. Mar has gone to Perth. Yer laird wanted to press their advantage, so did many of the others, and he was verra loud about being ignored, but then word came of the loss at Preston.…”

“Preston?”

“Aye. In England. Have ye no’ heard? Part of Mar’s force went south and joined the English Jacobites. They fought at Preston and were defeated. Lords Kenmure and Derwentwater were captured. Many left Mar after that.”

“What is happening now?”

“I hear now that troops are coming from the Netherlands to aid the English. Mar is in Perth. Argyll is leading the English troops and he can only hope Mar doesna press his advantage now. But when the Dutch troops arrive…” His words drifted into silence.

If Argyll led the English, I thought, then Robert, never far from his cousin, was also at the battle. Opposing Alex.

“How can no one win a battle?” Ian asked.

The runner glanced at me, then at Ian. “I dinna ken, lad, but that’s what I’m told.” Ian nodded, accepting it for now.

Unhappy as the news was, at least we knew they were still alive. But Alex had been wounded, and regret filled the room.

I visited the families of the men who had died and we held a memorial for them, but I had no words to soothe the pain and I don’t know that I helped.

On my visit to Glendevin I learned that Lorna’s husband, Seamus MacDonald, had been killed in the battle, and that Lorna had come from Skye to stay with her mother.

I held Lorna’s son Gannon while she told me, thinking of their wedding such a short time ago, the same summer that Malcolm, Alex’s younger brother, had wed Sibeal MacDonald. And where was Malcolm now? I wondered.