SERIAL A Highland Adventure

Jessica had often longed for the chance to escape the boredom of her life . . .

CROUCHING in the cover of the long, damp bracken, Conall Macleod greedily sucked in the sweet Highland air. The prison guards had put up fiercer resistance than he had expected, but at long last he was free.

The sound of hooves alerted him to two horses approaching from the south, without doubt heading for Inveraray Castle in whose dungeons he had been held prisoner.

A mount would allow him to put valuable distance between himself and his pursuers. Two to one was good odds for a Highland warrior like Conall, especially if the men were soft Lowlanders travelling north on some errand.

His brogue-clad feet made barely a sound as he made his way swiftly towards a large oak tree overhanging the rough track. As the two riders neared, he realised that one was a woman, while the other looked to be a servant. Judging by the woman’s riding habit of fine wool, trimmed and braided, she was both moneyed and genteel.

Conall smiled to himself. Child’s play!

****

“I fear nightfall will overtake us before we reach our destination.” Jessica Cunninghame cast a glance at the sky as the weak sun started to slip below the hills skirting the eastern shore of Loch Fyne.

“Then perhaps, mistress, we should have stayed overnight at the inn we passed a few miles back, as I suggested,” her manservant John replied in his customary surly manner. “Tis not proper to be arriving at this hour, and on the Sabbath, too. Your mother will be sore angry if she ever finds out.”

Jessica shrugged impatiently.

“The list of things my mother does not consider right or proper would fill one of my father’s business ledgers. For goodness’ sake, John, do stop looking so thrawn. Does not this vista take your breath away?”

Until now, she had never been permitted to venture beyond the flat lowland plains which separated her parents’ large town house in Glasgow from their country estate to the east of the city.

The girl had been smitten by the rugged grandeur of the wild open spaces and increasingly lofty mountains they had passed on their journey north. Autumn colours blanketed the landscape, a rich tapestry woven in gold, purple and shades of russet.

“Come now,” she coaxed, “even you must admit that this view is spectacular.

Look, over there must be the site of the Duke’s new castle. Father says it will be one of the finest homes in Scotland when it is completed.”

John, however, did not seem to share Jessica’s enthusiasm for the scenery.

City-born, he preferred the bustle of the docks and the warehouses where Jessica’s father, one of Glasgow’s richest tobacco merchants, plied his trade, and he merely harrumphed.

As they neared a huge oak tree, Jessica’s horse whinnied nervously.

Captivated by the reflection of the hills on the glassy waters of the deep loch, Jessica was oblivious of the looming presence in the branches above.

She did not see the man adjust his position so that he was directly above her servant’s horse, until a plaid-clad figure dropped lithely on to the horse’s flanks, enveloping John in a bear-hug and wrestling him to the ground.

One minute Jessica was communing contentedly with nature, the next it was as if some vengeful god had descended from the heavens.

“Utter a word and it may be your last,” the fierce stranger hissed.

Jessica had a fleeting impression of solid bulk and fierce brown eyes under a tangle of dark, goldstreaked hair. Her heart in her throat, escape was her only thought; fear her only emotion.

She dug her spurs into her horse’s flank and prepared to flee for the sanctuary of the castle.

But it was too late. Her horse reared, a strong hand grabbed the bit and the animal was brought to a whinnying standstill. The reins were wrested from her.

Jessica clung to the pommel, breathing hard. Her hat, with its jaunty little feather, was gone. Her hair had come loose from its pins to fall heavily down her back. Shaking uncontrollably, she was hauled unceremoniously from the saddle.

As she took a deep breath and prepared to scream for assistance the ruffian let out a curse in what, no doubt, was his native Gaelic. A hand was clamped over her mouth.

“The warning I gave to your servant applies equally to you, miss. I am no savage but my situation is desperate and my actions must follow suit.”

She found herself pressed hard against him. She could feel his heart beating, maddeningly slow and steady through the thin cambric of his open-necked shirt, while hers was pounding fast enough to make her feel faint.

This was no time for a fit of the vapours, Jessica scolded herself.

Struggling to breathe through his muffling hand, she looked up, meeting eyes that were not simply brown but as vivid as the colours of the autumn moorland.

She was frightened, but instinct told her not to be intimidated. She met his gaze unflinchingly.

****

Faced with wide-spaced green eyes that were obviously terrified and equally determined not to show it, Conall took stock of his captive.

It had been a long time since he had caught sight of any woman, far less such a pretty one.

For five months he had been incarcerated in the dank squalor of the Campbell dungeons. He had been a month or more following Prince Charlie into battle before that.

“If I take my hand away do I have your word you’ll not scream?” he asked, gentling his tone.

The young woman nodded. Conall turned his attention to the servant who was watching on anxiously, holding the reins of the other horse.

To the man’s credit, he had been loyal and brave enough not to have deserted his mistress, and thankfully neither stupid nor reckless enough to attempt to take on Conall. Yet . . .

“I very much fear I’m going to have to tie you up for your own good, my man,” Conall said, suiting actions to words. “I don’t want you to do anything silly. Don’t worry, you’ll be found and released soon enough.”

“By whom?” the servant growled.

Conall shrugged.

“By the people who are searching for me as we speak.”

“So you are a wanted man? Cattle rustling, I have no doubt,” the young woman interjected scornfully.

Conall laughed bitterly. “You take me for a common thief? What would you know of such things? You, who no doubt spends her life sewing pretty tapestries and gossiping over tea in drawing-rooms.

“A pretty wee bird in a gilded cage. Cosseted, contented, complacent.” She glared at him. “You know nothing of my true situation.”

“Nor you mine,” Conall pointed out. “It does not pay to make assumptions, lady.”

“Since you freely admit to being pursued by the authorities it is a perfectly reasonable assumption that you have committed a felony,” she spat.

“You would be wise not to add to your list of crimes. I am kin to the Duchess of Argyll. She is expecting me forthwith.” “You’re a Campbell?” “If you must know, my name is Jessica Cunninghame. The Duchess is my mother’s cousin; I am no kin of the Duke.”

“Perhaps not directly related,” Conall said slowly, an idea forming in his head. “Nevertheless her husband certainly will not wish any harm to befall you.”

“Exactly. So you’ll see sense and let me go?” Conall shook his head. “On the contrary. You are coming with me.”

Her eyes widened in horror, yet still she glared at him.

“Don’t be ridiculous. You can’t have considered the consequences. I don’t know who you are or why you’re here, but I . . .”

“Conall Macleod, of the Isle of Scalpsay, and more lately accommodated in the dungeons of your fine cousin’s castle, where I’ve been held captive since April.”

“Since April? You fought at Culloden! You’re a Jacobite, one of the

“You’re a Jacobite, one of the Pretender’s men”

Pretender’s men.”

“Aye, and proud of it. My felony, as you refer to it, was to rally behind Charlie’s call to arms to re-establish the Stuart dynasty to its rightful place on the throne.

“Nigh on five months I’ve been festering in that dank hole awaiting my fate, after our defeat in that final bloody battle. Gracious knows what carnage I’ll find when I return to the lands of my kinfolk.

“I’ve overheard talk among the guards of savage reprisals. God willing, my people have been spared that.

“To get there and find out I must cross some dangerous and hostile country. Campbell country. You, Miss Jessica Cunninghame, will make my chances of success rather more certain.”

“You would travel much faster alone.”

It grieved him to be the cause of the fear in her eyes, but he steeled himself.

“True enough, but it’s worth the risk for the security you’ll give me. If I am unlucky enough to encounter your mother’s kin, they will think twice about trying to stop me, since you might get caught in the crossfire.”

Conall busied himself adjusting the girths of both horses before manoeuvring John over to the side of the road.

“You are a loyal servant and no coward. Feel free to tell the Duke’s men you fought tooth and nail,

but I was just too strong for you. I don’t want your actions questioned.

“You may tell them that I won’t hesitate to cut your mistress’s pretty throat if I’m approached. Nay,” he added with a twisted smile, “no need to look so horrified, man. That’s for their benefit. I won’t hurt a hair on the lass’s head.”

****

Jessica watched as Conall Macleod, clearly anxious to be on his way, pinned his

filleadh mór back into place over his shoulder.

“Please don’t do this,” she begged, though it did not come easy to her.

“You need not fear for your life. I’m a Macleod, not a Campbell,” he answered scornfully. “As I told your servant, you’ll take no hurt from me.”

“If you let me go now, I’ll take no hurt at all.”

He hesitated, but the threat of capture, and the hanging which would most certainly follow, set his countenance firm and sealed her fate.

“I promise to have you returned safe once I am home.”

“Oh, well, and why did you not say so before?” Jessica said scornfully. “I need have no fear, with the word of a thieving traitor to rely on.”

She had gone too far, she realised, as the steely grip of his hands tightened again around her arms. Fury set his eyes ablaze like the yellow broom on the moor.

“I am a Macleod of Scalpsay,” her captor said proudly through gritted teeth. “You have my word. It is my bond and I shall not break it. I will not tie your wrists on the understanding that you do not attempt to escape.” Jessica glowered. “You have my word that you can trust me as much as I can trust you.”

To her surprise, the Highlander grinned.

“Then there is naught to worry about.”

Conall lifted Jessica on to the saddle, forcing her to balance astride.

“I assume you know how to ride a horse in this manner?”

“I am thought a most accomplished horsewoman,” she replied haughtily. “My father keeps a string of horses in the stables of his country estate.”

“Does he indeed? You may pass on my thanks for his foresight.”

Checking his belt for the long thin knife he always kept there, Conall cursed when he remembered that it had been confiscated at the castle.

He reached into his left stocking for his sgian dubh, the little black knife he’d kept hidden during captivity, and placed it in his belt instead.

Looking anxious, he checked the position of the sun over the still waters of the loch, and leaped on to the other horse before taking up the reins of his unexpected travelling companion’s horse.

A travelling companion whose absence would be noticed sooner rather than later . . .

Digging his heels into the horse’s flanks, Conall urged his steed into a fast canter, the other horse obediently allowing itself to be led.

He hoped that the feisty Miss Cunninghame would prove to be as biddable as her mount, but something in her demeanour made him doubt that very much.

The quickest way to the Isle of Scalpsay was by water across the many sea lochs, Conall explained to Jessica, but all the ferrymen hereabouts were in the pay of the Campbells.

So they headed inland, making a wide detour to avoid the Duke of Argyll’s embryonic town of Inveraray, which she knew from her aunt was being built to replace the original fishing village, now the site of the new castle.

For the rest of the day and into the evening they travelled, avoiding the white-washed crofts and hamlets strung out along the loch, stopping only to rest and water the horses.

Jessica’s thoughts travelled apace with the journey. She realised that, as his hostage, it was in the man’s interest to keep her safe.

His promise to do so and the vehemence with which he had made it reassured her.

Perhaps because he had so little else, his honour was obviously a valued possession. He said he would not hurt her and her instincts told her to believe him.

Which was just as well, since she was utterly dependent upon him for her safety. Even were she to escape, she would be lost in this hostile landscape.

Worse, she could fall into the hands of men less scrupulous than her captor – other Jacobites on the run, or the Duke of Cumberland’s army. All equally savage, if the rumours circulating Glasgow were to be believed.

Her only option, she reluctantly concluded, would be to make the best of her hopefully very temporary role as Conall Macleod’s captive. Better the devil you know, as John would say.

Poor John. She could only pray that Conall Macleod’s confidence that he would be found quickly was not misplaced.

In an effort to keep fear at bay, Jessica reminded herself of the times without number she had longed for the chance to escape the stifling boredom of the close-knit coterie of rich merchants over which her father presided and her mother queened. Well, here was that chance.

How envious her brother George would be when she told him she’d encountered a real Highland warrior. Her friends would be horrified when they heard her dramatic tale of being taken captive.

The thought of her mother’s reaction to the fact of her daughter’s keeping such close company with a felon actually made Jessica smile.

She had, this afternoon, been most unexpectedly thrust into a different world.

A starker contrast with the one to which she must eventually return could not be imagined.

As the sun began to sink behind the purple hills and the horses finally slowed, wending their way through the cover of a majestic forest of Caledonian pine, Jessica determined to extract every ounce of colour the experience had to offer.

****

Conall Macleod dismounted to lead them through the carpet of soft pine needles which muffled the horses’ hooves, coming to rest at a spot where a waterfall gushed over rocks into the head of the loch.

The high pines hid them from the drover’s track they had been following.

A dark slash in the rock revealed a shallow cave.

“We’ll stop here for the night,” he said brusquely, helping her down.

In the fading light of the gloaming Jessica watched as he efficiently removed the tack from the horses and led the sweating animals over to the waterfall to drink the clear, sparkling water.

She forced her stiff limbs upright and joined him. Trying unsuccessfully to maintain her balance and drink at the same time, she felt her boot slip and saw the water loom.

A strong hand pulled her back to safety in the nick of time. The Highlander stooped over the stream, balancing on the rocks.

“Here.” He proffered his cupped hands.

He did not smile, but she knew he was laughing at her. Briefly, Jessica nursed the idea of rushing at him, pushing him hard backwards into the water, but thirst and common sense prevailed.

The water was cool and reviving. She drank and smiled uncertain thanks, nodding when his raised brows asked if she wanted more.

This time she drank more slowly, savouring the sweet brackish taste of mountain rain.

As she drained the last drops from the cup formed by his fingers,

her lips inadvertently touched the palm of his hand.

She jerked away, shocked by the intimate contact. Conall drew her an unfathomable look before turning his back.

Pulling off his brogues and untying the long garters which held up his hose, he left her to pick his way over the rocks to a pool beneath a waterfall, where the salt water of the loch met the fresh snowmelt of the mountains.

For what seemed like an age, he simply stood motionless gazing down intently at the water. Then he stooped, cupping his hands, and a large brown trout flew over his shoulder to land, flapping and gasping, at her feet.

Jessica leaped back, and the fish would have floundered back into the water if Conall hadn’t caught and dispatched it.

“I’m going for a dip in the loch,” he told her. “You’ll freeze.” “Such concern for my welfare?” His smile faded. “I reek of the dungeons. ’Tis the smell of incarceration and defeat, and I’d rather freeze than have it on me for another second.”

The bitterness in his voice gave her an inkling of what he must have suffered. So struck was she by this that she did not think to look away as he tugged his shirt over his head.

A strange marking, a symbol of some sort in the shape of a shield, stood out starkly on the skin of his upper right arm.

Quickly, she averted her eyes, keeping them modestly turned away until a loud splash confirmed that he was in the water and it was safe to turn round.

Jessica scanned the black surface of the loch in the ghostly light of the rising moon, holding her breath until Conall’s head emerged.

He swam fluidly, scything through the water as sleekly as an otter, holding a steady path parallel to the shore.

What memories of captivity was he sluicing away, she wondered.

In the deep, ancient waters of the loch, below the steep slopes of the looming mountains, breathing the fresh, sharp smell of autumn, he must be relishing his new-found freedom.

He did not swim for long, and when he turned towards the shore, Jessica placed herself at a distance, her back to the loch.

Still dripping wet, but with his plaid wrapped modestly around his body, he joined her, holding the trout by its tail.

Striking the blade of his knife on a rock, Conall coaxed a small fire into life before preparing the fish with an expertise that made Jessica feel useless.

“We’ll have to wait until the flames die down a bit,” he said, spearing their meal on to two sharpened twigs in readiness. “Not what you’re used to, I’ll wager, but you’ll find it tastes delicious all the same.”

The water had turned Conall’s hair dark brown. He brushed it impatiently from his face as he spoke, and their gazes snagged.

Why was he looking at her like that? Did he know she’d been watching him swim? Why was she finding it suddenly so hard to breathe, as if her corsets were laced too tight?

“You are aware that your Prince has fled to France?” Jessica said abruptly to break this strange silence. “Dressed as a woman, so they say.”

To her surprise, Conall gave a hoot of laughter.

“Appropriate. He was ever one for the ladies.”

“If that is your opinion of him, I am surprised you fought on his side. You should have stayed at home instead of embroiling us all in your petty little clan feuds.”

She had not meant to sound quite so abrasive, and as soon as the words fled her mouth she knew she had once more overstepped the mark.

Still, Jessica made herself hold his scorching gaze. This man was a traitor to his King and had betrayed his country, when all was said and done.

“Is that what you think it was about?” he demanded, his voice a low, angry growl. “Settling scores between clans?”

“Was it not?”

In truth, Jessica knew little of the matter save what she had garnered from her father and the newspapers.

“Tell me, then, if I am wrong. What was it about?”

“Where shall I start? With the slaughter and terrible suffering and bloodshed?” Conall snarled.

“Families torn asunder. Good men wrenched from home and hearth to be butchered on the battlefield. Calumn, my own brother, among them! All that human sacrifice, for an ultimately futile cause.

“Cumberland ordered his men to show no quarter,” he added. “Do you have any idea what that means?”

Emotions, dark and horrible memories, flitted across Conall’s face.

It made Jessica shiver. Her own stupid, insensitive, ignorant remarks appalled her.

“No,” she admitted, dropping her head in shame. “How could I?”

“Then let me enlighten you, Jessica Cunninghame,” Conall said grimly.

“It means making sure there are no survivors. It means showing no mercy. Not even to those who beg for their lives.”

With an exclamation of contempt mingled with pain he strode off, away from the eerie light of the shallow cave into the cold dark night with its glittering pincushion of stars. And for the second time that night, Conall Macleod plunged into the cold, healing waters of the loch.

****

Sitting alone by the fire, Jessica struggled to comprehend what had just occurred.

Just a few short hours ago she had been so full of naïve glee at the prospect of this unexpected adventure. A hiatus from the life of dutiful sacrifice her family expected of her.

Now, she felt deeply ashamed. She inhabited a privileged, cosseted world and had no idea of the harsh reality of life for people like Conall.

His only crime was to fight for a cause he believed in, and he’d paid a heavy price for doing so.

When he returned, sitting down near the fire to warm himself, he was shivering.

“I should not have allowed my emotions to get the better of me. I apologise for my harsh words,” he said curtly. Jessica blushed. “There is no need. It was incredibly thoughtless of me. I provoked you to it, and deserved every word.”

“Your understanding and your co-operation are more than I deserve, Miss Cunninghame.” Conall took her hand, pressing a fleeting kiss before instantly releasing her. “Thank you.”

His touch brought a lump to her throat. It had been a very long day. Her jumbled emotions were too near the surface.

Determined not to cry, Jessica shook her head, instead forcing a weak smile.

“We should eat, before the fish is ruined.”

And so, sitting at the mouth of the cave, they ate the delicate, deliciously smoky fish.

“Do you have someone waiting at home for you?” Conall asked when they were done.

“I am not betrothed, if that is what you mean,” Jessica replied. “Although I will be soon enough, if my parents get their way,” she added with a sigh.

“My father wishes me to marry the son of his business partner. The young man in question is wellmannered, earnest and of equitable disposition, but I find I cannot warm to him.

“From my father’s perspective it is an opportunity to cement a commercial alliance. I would be swapping one comfortable life for another. He cannot fathom my lack of enthusiasm.”

“They can’t force you to accept, surely?”

“No, but they can make

the alternatives, well, unattractive,” she replied with a shudder.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” she added resolutely. “That life seems so very far away at this moment. What about you? Is there someone special waiting anxiously on Scalpsay for your return?” He shook his head.

“I have never met anyone I cared enough for.”

“Is it that simple? I suppose it is, when there’s nothing else at stake. You’re lucky.”

Conall burst into hearty laughter.

“Yes, as long as my wife can make porridge and spin and weave, I can take my pick.”

“I wasn’t making fun of you.” Jessica plucked at a long strand of grass, tying it into a complicated knot. “I meant it. You’re lucky. My affections, or lack of them, are of no consideration to my family.”

He shrugged. “Affection is what marriage should be about. And respect, of course. It would seem that we uncouth Highlanders are considerably more civilised than you lowlanders in some ways, after all.”

She deserved that remark, and acknowledged it with a rueful smile.

“Perhaps I should learn how to spin and make porridge.”

“I don’t think so. You are no more suited to life in a croft than I am to life in a city.”

Quite unaware that this casual dismissal had hurt her, Conall threw the fish bones on to the fire.

“We’ll need to make an early start. Give me your word that you won’t be so foolish as to attempt to escape.

“This wilderness has a stark beauty, but it is also teeming with soldiers and deserters as well as wolves. Believe me, you don’t want to get too close to a wolf.”

Thinking to herself that she already had, Jessica struggled to suppress a yawn as a wave of exhaustion washed over her. Too tired to protest, she meekly allowed herself to be enfolded in Conall’s filleadh mór in lieu of a blanket.

Rolling her jacket up to form a makeshift pillow, her eyes drooped. She fell asleep almost immediately, comforted by the sight of him standing guard over her by the flickering embers of the dying fire.

****

“Wake up.”

Jessica hauled herself up from the depths of a sound slumber to find Conall’s face disconcertingly close.

“Wake up!” he said more urgently. “Get dressed. There are men coming.”

She scrabbled to her feet, handing him his filleadh

mór, throwing on her jacket as Conall saddled the horses.

“Are they searching for us?” she asked breathlessly, unsure whether to be excited or afraid as she struggled to do up the buttons of her jacket with trembling fingers.

“I don’t think so. The Duke’s men wouldn’t expect me to travel in this direction, but I can’t be sure. I’m not planning on hanging around to find out, though.”

Conall helped her on to her horse before leaping lithely on to his own mount. They picked their way cautiously through the swirling morning mist in tense silence.

Jessica caught the sound of a man’s voice, but could not tell which direction it came from. Her heart banged in her chest.

Behind her, Conall cursed softly, his strained nerves communicating themselves to the horses. A pheasant flapped out from the undergrowth and her horse started with a loud whinny.

She heard a shout and, turning round, caught a glimpse of scarlet coat.

The shot whistled over her head before she heard the report.

To be concluded.