Epilogue 2
Edinburgh
1689
Late Autumn
The cobblestones gleamed like wet river stones in the thin drizzle, reflecting the amber glow of newly lit street lanterns. Brodie MacLeod pulled his borrowed cloak tighter against the chill, the hood concealing his face as he wove through the crowded streets of Edinburgh.
At seventeen, he moved with the wary grace of someone much older. The boy who had left Skye almost a year ago, full of romantic notions and defiance, had been burned away like morning mist. What remained was leaner, harder, his blue eyes shadowed beneath a furrowed brow and dark hair that had been shorn close to his scalp.
The White Hart Inn loomed ahead, its weathered sign creaking in the wind. Brodie’s hand instinctively checked the dirk hidden at his waist before he pushed through the door into the wall of noise and heat.
The common room reeked of wet wool, spilled ale, and unwashed bodies. Smoke hung in layers beneath the low beams. In the farthest corner, half-hidden in shadow, sat Anne McKinnon.
His chest tightened at the sight of her. The copper hair tucked beneath a plain cap, the proud tilt of her chin, the fingers that nervously traced the rim of her pewter cup. For her, he had defied his brothers, abandoned his clan, and forsaken his name. For her, he would do it all again.
“Ye shouldna be here,” she whispered as he slid onto the bench opposite her. Her Gaelic was soft, meant only for his ears. “They’re watching the ports now.”
“Let them watch,” Brodie replied, reaching across to take her trembling hand. “The ship leaves at dawn. By this time tomorrow, we’ll be bound for the Colonies.”
Anne wouldn’t meet his eyes. Her fingers were ice cold despite the fire roaring in the hearth.
“What troubles ye, lass?” Brodie asked, ducking his head to catch her gaze. “Is it the journey? I swear to ye, I’ll work my hands to the bone in Virginia. We’ll have land of our own within five years.”
A tear slipped down her cheek. “Brodie, I?—”
The door to the inn crashed open. Five men in the king’s colors filled the frame, rain dripping from their cloaks onto the threshold. The tavern fell silent.
“I’m sorry,” Anne whispered, finally looking up. The anguish in her eyes told him everything.
Cold understanding washed over him. “What have ye done?”
“My laird knows about us,” she said, her voice breaking. “He threatened to banish my family. I had no choice.”
The soldiers moved through the room with purpose, straight toward their table. Brodie’s hand flew to his dirk.
“Don’t,” Anne pleaded. “They promised ye wouldn’t be harmed if ye didn’t resist.”
Betrayal tasted like ash in his mouth. “And ye believed them? Christ, Anne, do ye ken what they do to Highland rebels?”
The captain of the guard reached their table, his face impassive beneath his rain-soaked hat. “Brodie MacLeod? You’re to come with us.”
Brodie stood slowly, his muscles coiled tight. Five against one. No chance of winning, but perhaps a chance of escape if he timed it right.
“They said they’d only hold ye until the troubles pass,” Anne said desperately. “A few months at most. Then ye can go home.”
Brodie laughed, a harsh sound with no humor. “Aye, and the English king loves the Scots like brothers.” His voice dropped lower. “I would have died for ye, Anne McKinnon. Remember that in the cold nights ahead.”
As they bound his wrists with rough rope, Brodie caught a glimpse of something passing between the captain and Anne. A small pouch that clinked with the unmistakable sound of coins.
“Thirty pieces of silver,” he spat. “At least Judas got a kiss with his betrayal.”
They dragged him out into the rain, past the curious eyes of Edinburgh’s citizens. None would interfere. None would remember the face of yet another Highland lad being hauled away to an uncertain fate.
Three weeks later, Brodie lay in the fetid darkness of a ship’s hold, the taste of blood and seawater sharp on his tongue. The vessel pitched and groaned around him, timbers creaking like tortured souls. The chains at his wrists had rubbed his skin raw, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the hollow ache in his chest.
“Where d’ye think they’re taking us?” whispered the man chained beside him, a blacksmith from Perth who’d been caught with Jacobite pamphlets.
“Does it matter?” Brodie replied, staring into the darkness. “Hell’s hell, no matter which shore it’s on.”
The ship lurched violently, sending several men sliding across the wet planks. Something had changed in the motion of the waves. They were no longer in calm waters.
“I heard the guards say Jamaica,” another voice offered. “Sugar plantations. Men don’t last two years there.”
A sudden commotion above deck pulled Brodie from his thoughts. Men shouted. Something heavy crashed. The unmistakable sound of steel on steel rang out.
“What’s happening?” the blacksmith hissed.
Before anyone could answer, the hatch flew open. Rain and sea spray poured in, along with the silhouette of a man.
“How many down there?” called a voice with a thick French accent.
“Twenty, maybe more,” answered someone above.
“Get them up. Quickly now. The Royal Navy won’t be far behind.”
As Brodie was hauled up into the storm-tossed night, he saw the British crew lined up against the gunwale, hands bound. A ship with unfamiliar colors flew alongside them, grappling hooks binding the vessels together.
“Pirates?” he asked the man, removing his chains.
The man grinned, teeth flashing white in his dark face. “Privateers, lad. Flying under French colors.” He nodded toward a tall figure giving orders near the helm. “Captain has no love for the English or their slave ships. You’ve a choice now. Join us or take your chances in the longboat.”
Brodie looked out at the heaving black sea, then back at the captain. The man stood like a warrior, unbowed by the tempest around him. Something about his stance reminded Brodie of Connor.
“What’s your name, boy?” the captain called, striding over.
“Brodie MacLeod of Skye,” he answered, straightening to his full height despite his weakened state.
A strange expression crossed the captain’s weathered face. “MacLeod, you say? I once knew a MacLeod who saved my life in a tavern brawl in Inverness.” He studied Brodie for a long moment. “Can you fight?”
“Aye. And I learn fast.”
The captain nodded once. “We’ll see. My ship’s no place for vengeance or self-pity. Leave those chains behind with your past.”
As dawn broke over a steel-gray horizon, Brodie stood at the rail of the privateer ship, watching the slave vessel shrink into the distance. The salt air stung his cracked lips, but he breathed it in deeply, tasting freedom and possibility.
Anne’s betrayal would always be a scar across his heart. But for the first time since that rainy night in Edinburgh, Brodie felt something other than despair stirring in his blood.
The wind changed, filling the sails with a sudden snap. The ship surged forward, cutting through the waves toward whatever fate awaited beyond the horizon.
Behind him, unnoticed in the chaos of the night, a black feather drifted across the deck, spiraling upward into the lightening sky.
* * *
Thank you so much for reading!
I hope you enjoyed A Scot for All Time. Next up is, The Scot Who Loved Me , where you’ll meet an awkward geologist and a Jacobite spy. I hope you love it.