Page 3 of The Wild Rose of Kilgannon (Kilgannon #2)
I detested my brother-in-law. I always had, from our first meeting through all the revelations that had come out about his perfidy, about his murderous attempts to hurt Alex.
Malcolm had poisoned Alex to prevent him from discovering that Malcolm and a sea captain had plotted to fake a sinking of one of Alex’s ships, then kept the proceeds of the “sale” of the Diana to the captain.
The ship had been recovered, but I had never forgiven him for it, nor for the two attacks in London, which I believed had been orchestrated by Malcolm.
I’d almost lost my life in one; Alex his in the other.
No, I would never forgive Malcolm. A liar and a thief, he had tried every ruse to sneak back into Alex’s good graces.
And it had worked. For a while. But when Malcolm had beaten his wife, after she’d discovered he was unfaithful, and then threatened me, it was too much for even Alex, who had banished him from Kilgannon for good.
Even then Malcolm had persisted and had written to Alex begging his help when the Earl of Mar threatened to burn him out if Malcolm did not join the rebellion.
Malcolm lived at Clonmor, on the lands Alex had given to him, lands their mother had brought to the MacGannons as her dowry.
And Clonmor, as well as the area around it, was under the control of John Erskine, the Earl of Mar, who had it within his power to demand that Malcolm raise troops to back him, whether Malcolm agreed or not.
I didn’t trust Malcolm nor had I been moved by his plea for help.
Where was Malcolm now? I wondered uneasily.
No news came for a while. Shortly after the men had left, we’d heard that Louis XIV of France had died.
With his death came the possible demise of the assistance, and gold, that France had pledged to the Jacobite rebellion.
France, now ruled by a youngster, was said to be at best a faint ally.
Now, however, the rumors said all manner of things.
France had sent ten thousand troops. Or none.
James Stewart had landed with French troops and gold.
The French had joined the English. Spain was at war with England.
Spain was at war with France. Spain had allied with England. We waited for the truth.
I wrote to my aunt Louisa, my mother’s sister, and her husband, my uncle Randolph, in London, and my brother Will and his wife, Betty, of what had happened, telling them not to come for their usual visit at Christmas.
No letters came in reply and I had no assurance that they had ever received mine.
The post, always uncertain, was not usable now.
We had in the past relied on the brigs’ travels to bring us news, but now the Mary Rose and the Katrine sat idle in the loch, and the Margaret and Gannon’s Lady were gone with the men.
I had not expected to miss receiving letters as much as I did.
Louisa always relayed the most recent news and gossip circulating in London, while Randolph kept me abreast of the political affairs, often throwing in some tidbit for Alex, a new thought on raising horses or the latest changes in carriage design.
That his items rarely interested Alex was beside the point.
Randolph’s thoughtfulness had been much appreciated by both of us.
My brother wrote of my childhood home, Mountgarden, of its inhabitants and the rhythm of the seasons in that lovely place, which always made me nostalgic for what I’d left behind in Warwickshire.
And he wrote of his life with the frivolous but beautiful Betty.
My brother’s marriage was very happy. The letters from my best friend, Rebecca Washburton Pearson, though much more infrequent since they must cross the Atlantic, told me of her everyday life in the Carolinas, and of her adjustments not only to married life, but, like me, to an entirely different people.
She wrote also of her daughter, and sometimes of her boredom with the unvarying order of her life.
The boredom was something I envied her almost as much as I did her daughter.
I had realized long ago that I would never be bored while I was married to Alex MacGannon.
I had treasured her letters, reading them over and over, sometimes even reciting parts aloud to Alex.
How different our present lives were from what we’d imagined when we were little girls.
Becca had married Lawrence and had gone to his plantation in the colonies; and I had married my Scotsman and come to his castle in the Highlands.
We had always assumed that we’d grow up as our mothers had, neighbors and friends for life.
But, I reflected, my mother had died at an early age, leaving her sister Louisa and her best friend, Eloise, now the Duchess of Fenster, to go on without her.
My aunt and the Duchess had remained fast friends with each other, and with Becca’s mother, Sarah, and I was determined that no matter the circumstances, Rebecca and I would do the same.
But how? I wondered in the depths of my loneliness and fear. How would we remain friends?
It was a glum household that upheld the traditions of the season. Christmas was somber and although we celebrated New Year’s with as much tradition as we could muster, none of us was in a rejoicing mood. I think we breathed a collective sigh of relief when we could stop the charade.
In the early hours of January first I wrapped Alex’s old plaid around me and gave in to the tears that were never far away.
I sobbed as I remembered last year’s holidays.
“Je suis content,” Matthew had said, and risked the teasing that had followed.
I had agreed. I was content. And now, twelve months later, my life was in tatters, my husband far away with his men, defeated rebels running for their lives.
I slept at last, but my dreams were so vivid that I woke with the sound of Alex’s voice still in the room.
I had been remembering the day he’d first called me Mary Rose.
We’d visited Duncan of the Glen’s home and as we left one of his sons had handed me a beautiful white rose, diminutive and very fragrant.
A wild rose, Thomas had told me. “It is small and easily bruised, but it will grow back again and again. Once it has taken root, ye cannot budge it for all the effort ye’d give,” he’d said.
And Alex, laughing, his eyes very blue, had asked the men, “Who is small and verra beautiful and easily bruised?” When they had all turned to see my reaction, Alex had grinned and said, “We’ll call it the Mary Rose.
” Later that night he’d said the name suited me, and he’d called me that ever since.
I woke to hear the echo of his voice still lingering.
“Yer body is verra tender, Mary Rose,” he’d said.
I closed my eyes again, hoping to summon him close for just another moment.
But he was gone and the night stretched long before me.
1716 was upon us, the weather cold and brutal.
Ellen and I spent our evenings in the library with the boys or in the hall, where more and more often the women of the clan would gather with the children.
It was one such evening, with the snow falling outside and the wind wailing at the windows, that the first of the Kilgannon men came home.
We heard a cry from the courtyard and one of the boys, for that’s all who was left for such tasks, burst through the door shouting, “Lady Mary, riders approaching the glen, Kilgannon men, about twenty of them. They’ll be here shortly.
” I had risen when he burst in, and I nodded, my heart beginning to pound.
Dear God , I prayed, let it be Alex , but even as the thought was formed, I knew that if only twenty were coming home, Alex would not be among them. Unless the others were all dead.
We spilled out onto the steps as the men entered the courtyard.
Around me women called joyously as they saw their men, running to them with sobs and delighted greetings.
Ellen and I stood with Thomas MacNeill’s wife Murreal and watched the reunions, then exchanged somber looks and turned to go into the hall.
Alex’s cousin Dougall, his arm still around his wife Moira, struggled through the people, calling my name.
The huge man looked twice his age, his face gray with fatigue, his cheek scarred with a wound that still looked fresh even though Sherrifmuir had been weeks ago.
“He’s no’ with us, Mary,” Dougall said, his voice cracking with emotion.
“But he’s alive.” Dougall enveloped me in an embrace while I struggled with my emotions, unable to speak.
Dougall did not notice my state as he stepped back and fumbled in his plaid, pulling out a tattered letter that he handed to me.
“It’s from Alex,” he said unnecessarily as I looked at the familiar writing and tore the letter open.
Ellen ushered me inside the hall and the rest of the clan poured in behind us.
I stood to the side and read my husband’s letter while the people surged around me.
Mary Rose , Alex wrote. I’m sending this home with Dougall.
He’ll tell you of Sherrifmuir and its aftermath.
This rebellion is a worse nightmare than anything I could have imagined.
We have no responsible leadership and half our force is fled.
We wait while the English re-arm and reinforcements from the Continent arrive daily.
If we could not win when we outnumbered them, what will happen when the forces are equal?