SERIAL A Highland Adventure by Josephine Allen

Jessica had had her taste of freedom. Now it was time to accept the marriage her father had arranged for her . . .

AS the shot whistled over their heads Conall cursed. “Keep down and ride like the wind until I tell you it’s safe to stop.”

Terrified, Jessica obeyed, gripping the reins as best she could as she gave the horse its head. A second shot came. Conall’s body jerked but they rode wildly on, the horses panting and sweating, branches whipping at their clothing.

Shouts came out of the mist behind them. They stumbled into rabbit burrows and splashed through streams.

The cries receded, the trees thinned and the soft forest floor gave way to a hardened mud track, the drover’s road. Conall eased his horse to a walk.

“You can slow down now, Jessica. Are you all right?”

Her fingers felt frozen to the reins, so tightly had she been clinging on. Turning, she saw blood on his arm. “You’re wounded!” He shook his head dismissively.

“Keep going, it’s nothing. A flesh wound.”

“Who were those men?” “Deserters, by the look of them. Seeking food to scavenge, most probably. I doubt they’ll follow.”

“You could have left me behind and saved yourself.”

“Never.” Conall grinned. “Remember, you’re much more use to me alive than dead. Come, we should keep on the move. We are not yet safe.”

Incarceration had addled his brain, Conall thought. When he’d seen those men, his only thought had been for Jessica’s safety.

She was a brave lass, and a bold one, too. Far from the bird in a gilded cage he’d called her. He’d do well to mind she was his life insurance, nothing more.

The drover’s road headed north. They came across a bothy, a simple shepherd’s shelter tucked into the lee of a large rock.

Conall tethered his horse next to a burn.

“We’ll rest here.”

He helped Jessica down from the saddle. As her feet touched the ground she began to shake, reaction to coming under fire setting in. But she was not about to succumb to the vapours.

“Let me tend to your wound.” She peered at the jagged tear in his left arm and paled. “Though I confess, I know not how.”

“Make sure no shot is left inside or the wound will become infected.” Conall handed her his sgian dubh.

“I trust you not to stab me with it,” he added as he sat on the rough shelf built against the wall, the only furniture the bothy boasted.

Jessica gripped the dagger and prodded cautiously at the wound.

“Don’t try to be gentle or worry about hurting me,” he said, wincing. “Just make sure you get it all out.”

There were three pieces of shot. By the time she had finished his arm was bleeding sluggishly.

“There,” she said when she had bound the wound tight with a strip of cloth from her chemise. “Though your shirt is ruined.” “Thank you.”

She had a smear of his blood on her forehead. Tendrils of her hair had escaped, trailing down the elegant line of her neck.

Conall disentangled a twig from her hair. He felt her breath, soft and fragrant on his face. Her jaw was rigid with tension.

“It’s all right,” he said softly, “we’re safe now.”

“I’ve never been shot at before. I thought we were going to die!”

“Come here.”

She stepped into the shelter of his arms and rested her head against his shoulder.

“I’m cold,” she said. “It’s the shock.” He held her as he would a terrified bird. “You’ve been very brave. I think you coped admirably with coming under musket fire.”

“For a tobacco lord’s daughter, you mean?”

“For anyone. I have witnessed many a burly Highlander show less fortitude on the battlefield.” He let her go, smiling. “I think we have had more than enough excitement for one day. Let us rest awhile and then be on our way.”

They travelled on, heading north and west, across heathery moorland and through narrow glens. A majestic stag monitored their progress imperiously from the edge of a forest.

A capercaillie, the largest of the grouse family, flapped comically out from the bracken where they had stopped to feast on the brambles, the berries luscious and juicy.

“Tell me about your brother,” Jessica prompted. “Calumn, you said?”

“My half-brother. His father is my mother’s second husband. The last time I saw him was on the battlefield at Culloden with a claymore in his gut. There was nothing I could do to save him.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her heart aching at the inadequacy of her words. “At least you were at his side when he fell. That must be of some comfort.” Conall looked bleak. “You don’t understand. Calumn was not a Jacobite. He was a captain in the fusiliers, a regular soldier, fighting for the Crown. We were on opposite sides.” Her mouth fell open. “I’m – oh, Conall, I don’t know what to say. I’m so sorry.” Without thinking, she reached for his hand and held it to her cheek between her own. “I can’t imagine how that was.”

“How could you?” he answered gruffly. “We live in the same country, you and I, but we inhabit different worlds.”

Jessica tried to strike a lighter note.

“I have a younger brother, too. George, the apple of my parents’ eye. He can do no wrong, whereas I can do no right. I suspect we would be on opposing sides, too.” She received a smile. “I pity him, then, for I would not bet against you.” Jessica laughed.

“I’m not such a formidable opponent.”

“You’ve been kidnapped by a savage and forced to ride for hours through hostile terrain. You’ve come under fire. You’ve even had to perform field surgery. All without complaint. I’d call that formidable.”

She was gratified.

“My father doesn’t want me to be formidable. He wants me to be compliant.”

“If I may be so bold, I prefer you as you are.” She blushed.

“I’m beginning to think that I do, too.”

A passing drover shared some oatcakes with them some time later. He and Conall conversed in Gaelic while the shaggy, longhorned Highland cows milled idly around.

“This is Cameron country,” Conall told Jessica when they continued on their way. “Jacobites, like me. The drover said Cumberland’s army passed near here some weeks ago.

“They are driving the men south like cattle, burning the villages. Women and bairns are . . . well, it doesn’t bear thinking of.” “And your own people?’ Conall shook his head. “He had no news.” Shortly after, they saw for themselves the evidence of the Butcher’s revenge in the burned-out shell of a village. The walls of the simple crofts were blackened by fire, no traces of the thatched roofs left, nor trace of the villagers.

A spinning wheel lay overturned in a doorway. An empty cradle stood under the shelter of a tree.

Conall could not speak. His eyes blazed fire. Jessica clutched his hand silently, struck dumb with revulsion.

They walked away slowly, leading the horses up the gentle incline of a stony track. Where the way forked they took a last look back at the tragic scene.

Conall spoke softly and viciously in Gaelic.

“What does that mean?” Jessica asked.

“‘May you fall without rising.’ A curse. If only we had not risen, this would not be happening.” His voice was bitter.

They stopped to rest in mid-afternoon, finding a sheltered clearing just off the path, hidden by a bank of gorse and broom. As the horses grazed, Conall and Jessica, exhausted by their travels, dozed.

A noise woke her. She glanced at Conall, who was still fast asleep. Peering through the screen of gorse, Jessica saw four men. Three were in traditional Highland garb armed with claymores as well as muskets.

The fourth she recognised as her servant, John. His face was drawn and tired. Relief to see him alive gave way to guilt. John was a city man, and not young.

Jessica knew this was her chance to escape, to return to the real world under John’s escort. Yet as she sensed Conall stir beside her she put her hand over his mouth, a finger to her lips in silent warning.

It took an age for the men to pass by and for the sound of the horses to fade.

“They’ve gone,” she said finally, without regret.

This was the perfect opportunity for Jessica to escape

“Was it more deserters?” “No. The Duke’s men, searching for me.” “How can you be sure?” “John was with them.” “Which way were they headed?” he asked tersely.

Another chance to save herself, for if she lied, they would meet John again.

“South,” she said truthfully.

“Good. With luck they’ll return to Inveraray Castle.” Conall studied her through narrowed eyes. “I was asleep. You had the perfect opportunity to escape and be returned to your family. Why didn’t you betray me and save yourself?”

She avoided his gaze. “Perhaps I am in no rush to return to my stultifying existence. Maybe I’ve a mind to see this Scalpsay of yours for myself,” Jessica said lightly.

“Or it might be that by saving myself I would be condemning you to death, and I find I prefer the world with you in it.”

“Whatever, you saved my life. I am in your debt.”

“No, we are equal, for you saved my life this morning,” Jessica replied. He helped her to her feet. “I mean it, Jessica,” Conall said. “I am deeply grateful. Thank you.”

As dusk fell, they came to the head of another loch. An inn was snuggled into the contour of the hill ahead, the scent of peat smoke reaching them.

“We’ll stop there if they have room,” Conall said. “Wait here while I speak to the landlord.”

The rustic interior was basic, used to catering for the needs of hardy cattle men escorting their herds on the long journey to the markets in the south.

Whisky distilled in the cellar and hearty barley broths were what the dour landlord was used to dispensing to his clientele.

He eyed Jessica curiously, placing bowls of fatty mutton stew and a loaf of black bread in front of them without comment. Aware of how uncomfortable her presence was making the other men, she ate quickly.

Alone in their room, Conall poured them both a dram of whisky from a thick glass bottle. Jessica eyed it askance, sniffing cautiously at the amber liquid.

It tasted smoky, like the peat fire which burned downstairs, and was mellow and warm when she swallowed it.

She sat propped up against the headboard of the bed, trying to act as if sharing a chamber with a man was an everyday occurrence, while Conall sat on the only chair.

“If there was another room . . .”

“But there is not, and you assure me that you have no ulterior motives. Beggars cannot be choosers.”

“Talk to me,” he begged. “Tell me about Glasgow. I’ve never been, but I’ve heard it’s quite a sight.”

She described the city she knew so well – the grand new public buildings and town houses in leafy squares with cobbled streets, stark contrast to the slums where the poor lived cheek-by-jowl on the banks of the Clyde.

The routine of morning calls and afternoon tea and evening soirées with her mother’s friends whose daughters were her friends.

The never-discussed but ever-present noise and bustle of the docks and warehouses of the tobacco trade which funded it all. She hated it.

“Dirty. Dull. Predictable. Stifling,” she finished, taking a sip of whisky. Conall topped up his own. “Your parents must be getting anxious.”

“I doubt they will know I’m missing yet. It’s only been a couple of days.” “It feels longer.”

“It does,” Jessica agreed. “I’ve experienced more in the last two days than in the last two years.”

“With luck we will reach Scalpsay by tomorrow.”

“So soon? You will be glad to be rid of me,” she said, trying to keep the dismay from her voice.

“And you will be glad to be returning home.” His tone was odd.

Jessica emptied her glass, gasping as the whisky burned her throat.

“I certainly miss my comfortable bed. And a hot bath. Some nice food and a change of clothes would not go amiss, either.”

Conall took the glass from her, gazing at her as if trying to read her mind in the dim light of the candle on the night stand.

“Will you miss me, Jessica?”

“Jess. My friends call me Jess.” Her throat felt dry. “I’ll never forget you.”

“Nor I you. You are a remarkable woman, and I am proud to count you as a friend. Now, we’ve a long day ahead of us. I’ll make myself comfortable on the chair. Goodnight, Jess.”

The next morning, Jessica eyed the steaming bowl of porridge. Conall poured salt on to his, stirring in some fresh creamy milk and spooning it hungrily. “It’s good, try it.”

She tasted, wrinkling her nose, which made him laugh. He produced a pot of heather honey and called her a heathen. Thus sweetened, the porridge tasted much better.

They left as the morning mist was lifting. Within an hour they had reached the edge of Macleod country, his homeland.

Over a ridge and down into the glen they came upon the first village, which clearly had been untouched by Cumberland’s savagery.

Two men working a plough stopped to stare, jaws dropping even as they touched their forelocks.

“They seem surprised to see us. Though very polite,” Jessica said.

Conall shrugged. “Respectful.”

One of the men was running towards a cottage, shouting something she did not understand.

“Are you sure we’re safe?” Jessica asked.

“We’re safe. I promise,” he answered, grinning. “Conall, who are you?” “What do you mean?” “I know you’re not a cattle rustler, and I know that you fought for the Young Pretender, but apart from that I don’t know anything about you.” Jessica frowned.

“Those people back there, and at the village, they recognised you. It was your name they were saying. And how do you come to speak such good English?”

She folded her arms across her chest.

“I’ll wager you don’t live in a humble cottage. Who precisely are you?”

He made a bow. “Conall Macleod, Laird of Scalpsay, at your service. The chieftain, the laird; that’s what they were calling me.”

“You mean you own all this land?”

“I do.”

“So you’re rich?”

“I’m not as rich as your father but I’m not exactly poor, either.”

“You’ve been laughing at me all along.”

“Just teasing.” His smile was contrite. “Come, how could I resist when you looked down your nose at me and called me a common cattle thief?” She smiled reluctantly. “You must think me an idiot. All that talk of spinning and porridge.”

“Far from it. I have never met anyone like you.”

“Nor I you,” Jessica said softly. Between them hung something unspoken, indefinable. It made her nervous, so she broke it by turning away. “We should press on.”

As they approached the next village it was clear people had been forewarned of his arrival. Old women dressed in black, younger ones with their heavy woollen skirts and shawls, men in brogues and trews all lined up by the wayside, smiling, cheering and shouting greetings.

They passed fields of potatoes being dug up, then more villages, some cottages mortared and white-washed, others built in the traditional dry-stone method.

People continued to cheer and point, shouting Conall’s name. Jessica saw relief and emotion on his face.

She could almost see the weight fall from his shoulders as each step brought them nearer to his home and each village showed no trace of pillage. How he must have dreamed of and dreaded this day while caged in a dank prison cell.

She rejoiced for him, though her happiness was tinged with sadness, for now their time was at an end. Conall’s return meant her own was imminent.

She had had her sweet taste of freedom. Now it was time to make peace with her family and accept the marriage her father had arranged for her.

If only it were not quite so soon. But already the scent of peat from the stacks and smoke from the chimneys was giving way to the briny smell of the sea.

Moments later, it seemed, the sparkle of the sea itself glistened in the distance. In the blink of an eye they reached the beach where boats were pulled high on to the shale and lobster creels lay stacked and waiting.

Men stopped working on nets to stare at the mismatched couple and their weary steeds.

Across the stretch of clear turquoise water, nearer than she had expected, Jessica saw Scalpsay itself.

It was large and flat, lush and green, with an imposing castle sturdily constructed from buttressed grey sandstone standing sentinel close to the shore.

Making its way across the sound was a small boat, painted red, her sail emblazoned with the

same symbol Conall had on his arm. At the prow stood a man, anxiously scanning the horizon.

Conall dismounted, and Jessica followed suit. She saw the hopeful look in his face and knew instinctively, even as the younger man bounded on to the shore, leaving the ferryman to haul the boat up, who he was.

“Calumn!” Conall ran towards his brother.

Jessica watched with a lump in her throat as they embraced, laughing, talking and hugging each other at the same time. They made a striking pair.

It was not just their rugged good looks, but the glow of health and vitality, the sheer lust for life which emanated from them.

There was clearly magic in the fresh Highland air.

Temporarily forgotten, feeling abandoned, tears clogged Jessica’s throat.

She ought to be grateful. Conall had proved himself a man of honour. He had kept his word. He had saved her skin when he could have saved his own.

He had shown her the real Jess, and she liked that brave, outspoken woman. What would become of her when she was no longer by Conall’s side?

“We might live in the same country but we inhabit different worlds,” he had said.

Must it be so? Must she really tear herself away from his side so soon?

Stupid girl. They hadn’t so much as kissed. For sure, Conall had said he admired her, but never had he given any indication that his feelings ran any deeper.

“Jessica!” Conall’s voice halted these embarrassing thoughts. “Come and meet my brother. The last time I saw this man here, he was cuddling a Jacobite claymore.”

“Ach, it looked a lot worse than it was.” Calumn turned towards Jessica, smiling. “Conall, aren’t you going to introduce me to your lovely companion?”

“This is Jessica Cunninghame from Glasgow. She’s been of great assistance getting me safely back,” Conall said.

Bowing low, Calumn took Jessica’s hand.

“Then it’s an honour to meet you, Jessica Cunninghame from Glasgow. I am very much obliged to you for bringing my brother home safe to us.”

“I had little to do with it. Your brother escaped from the dungeons with no help at all from me.”

Calumn’s countenance darkened.

“That the very men on whose side I fought should have kept you imprisoned all these months . . .!”

Conall gripped his brother’s shoulder.

“What is done is done. We are both alive, that is what matters. And it looks like Scalpsay has been spared, which I take it is largely thanks to you?”

“I used what little influence I had,” Calumn responded grimly. “I could not convince Cumberland to release you, but at least I made him promise immunity for your lands, and a pardon, too, if we ever did get you back in one piece.

“An advantage of fighting on the winning side, though there are no real winners.”

“I am grateful. I was not sure if I’d have a home to return to.” Conall released his hold on his brother. “It turns out I have,” he continued on a determinedly lighter tone, “and so does Jess, now she’s finished playing my hostage. I gave her my word I’d get her safely back to Glasgow and her family.”

“Let me make good on your promise for you,” Calumn said. “I will take Miss Cunninghame home. You have spent six months languishing in a dungeon.

“Go over to Scalpsay, rest, eat some decent food, and by the time I return you’ll be fit for us to catch up properly.”

He turned to Jessica. “There’s a decent inn no more than two hours from here; we can stop there for the night.”

“Start now?” Jessica exclaimed. “I didn’t think – that is, having come all this way I hoped at least to visit Scalpsay.”

Conall shook his head. “Calumn is right. Best to make a start while there’s still some light. This way you spare your parents another night of worry.”

He would not meet her eyes. So he couldn’t wait to be rid of her? Tears stung her eyes, but she bit her lip, determined not to let him see how much he had hurt her, though she could not keep the sorrow from her voice.

“So this is goodbye.” “Keep safe, Jess.” Conall took a step towards her, cupping her cheek. She thought he would kiss her, but then he let her go.

“Bioch àis a-chaoidh tamh a-staigh mo chrìdh,” he

whispered.

He strode towards the little boat, leaping in without looking back.

“What did he say? What does it mean?” she asked Calumn beseechingly.

“There’s no exact translation. In essence it means you will always have a place in my heart. It’s his way of saying thank you.”

“You will always have a place in my heart,” Jessica repeated softly to herself.

Jessica and her mother sat in the parlour on matching chairs set on either side of the marble fireplace, embroidering the borders of lace handkerchiefs in companionable silence.

Jessica had come to enjoy these precious private times with her mama. Times that would be denied her all too soon. Mr Alasdair Muir, her father’s selected suitor for her hand, was very persistent.

Since her dramatic return from the Highlands two months ago, he had been doggedly attentive.

He was also blissfully unaware of the circumstances surrounding her escapade.

Her father, having satisfied himself that no impropriety or reputational damage had taken place, had decided to draw a veil over the entire affair.

“You are my only daughter and I care deeply for you. I also trust you implicitly, so if you tell me that Laird Macleod acted with the utmost decorum then I will believe you.

“He certainly returned you to us without so much as a scratch on you, for which I am eternally grateful.

“I made enquiries,” he had added with a tight smile. “You will be pleased to hear the charges against him have been dropped by the powers that be.”

Tempted though she was to ask her father to tell her more, Jessica was forced to keep her curiosity to herself, for fear of betraying her feelings.

“How did your stroll in the park with Mr Muir go, dear?” Her mother’s hopeful question interrupted Jessica’s musings. “If the number of his visits is anything to go by, he is quite smitten.

“Your father has hopes that matters may soon progress to a new stage, if you take my meaning?” Jessica sighed.

“Only too well, Mama.” “I have to confess to being as perplexed as he is by your lack of enthusiasm. Any young lady in Glasgow society would leap at the chance to become Mrs Muir, yet you remain indifferent. May I ask why he is so unpalatable to you?”

“Because he is not Conall!” Jessica said silently before banishing it from her mind.

Her future was laid out in front of her and it was her duty to embrace it, as she’d promised herself she would. To do otherwise would be both churlish and futile.

She attempted a diversion.

“Have you corresponded with your cousin, the Duchess of Argyll, recently? What news of John? Is he enjoying his new position as the Duke’s butler?”

Her mother smiled. “A most unexpected development. The position became vacant and John has much more experience of polite society than the local staff, though according to my cousin it was more to do with him taking a shine to a local lass.

“John! Who’d have thought it? There must

be some magic in the Highland air, right enough.”

“I can vouch for that.” ‘What did you say, dear?” To her chagrin, Jessica realised she had spoken aloud.

“I said, John can vouch for that.”

Her mother eyed her. “I must say that you have recovered remarkably well from your ordeal. I know,” she said, raising her hands to pre-empt Jessica’s protest, “you are adamant that your abductor was a perfect gentleman and a laird to boot, but there is no avoiding the fact that you were kidnapped and held captive.

“Any well-bred young lady would find such an experience traumatic. Yet you seem – I don’t how to put it – different. Changed. One might almost go so far as to say invigorated.”

Her mother was no fool, and knew her daughter inside out, so Jessica was mightily relieved when any further awkward questions were sidestepped by a timely knock on the door heralding the entrance of a maidservant.

“Beg pardon, madam, the master requires the presence of Miss Jessica in his study.”

****

“Jessica, come in. I trust I find you well this morning?”

Her father sat behind a large walnut desk, his expression impassive.

“I am well, Papa,” she said, making her curtsey.

“There has been a significant development with regard to your marriage prospects.

“Following an interview this morning, I am delighted to confirm that I fully endorse the proposal as suitable and advantageous for both you and the Cunninghame family. I strongly recommend it to you. The young man awaits your response in the drawing-room.”

Her heart sank. So all her attempts to put Mr Muir off had been in vain.

Straightening her shoulders, she braced herself to meet her fate.

“Very well, Papa. I will go and hear him out.”

The drawing-room was large and decorated in the latest style. Standing gazing out of the tall French windows at the end of the room was a male figure.

As he turned round, Jessica inhaled sharply.

“Conall! But what on earth . . .?”

“That’s not much of a welcome. I thought you’d be pleased to see me.”

Her heart began to pound. She daren’t allow herself to hope as he crossed the room to join her.

“I don’t understand.” He took her hand. “Do you remember when we parted on the beach?”

“You said you will always have a place in my heart.”

“

Bioch àis a-chaoidh tamh a-staigh mo chrìdh.

You are here, Jess,” Conall said, putting her hand over his heart. “Right here.”

“But you didn’t kiss me,” she said foolishly. “I thought you would kiss me goodbye.”

“I couldn’t, because I didn’t want to say goodbye, Jess. Not ever. I realised that after you left. Will you marry me? Will you come and live with me on Scalpsay as my wife?”

“Oh, Conall, nothing would make me happier. But it cannot be. For my father . . .”

“. . . has been persuaded by me that an alliance with one of the most ancient and noble clans in Scotland is every bit as advantageous as one with a Glasgow merchant,” Conall said, grinning.

Jessica laughed.

“You appealed to his vanity!”

“What does it matter, provided he gives his consent? So, what do you say, my darling?”

“I say yes, with all my heart,” she replied, feeling as if that very heart might burst with happiness. “Now you will never have to kiss me goodbye.”

“And I no longer need an excuse to kiss you.”

He swept her into his arms.

The End.