Chapter Thirteen
Jillian awakened to bright sunlight shining through the expensive glass window Ian had installed in her bedchamber.
She had overslept again. With less than a month before the babe was due, Bridget had given strict orders to the household to allow Jillian this small luxury.
“Ye will have yer hands full enough once the bairn arrives,” she told Jillian more than once.
Jillian suspected, however, that her presence at the morning fast-breaking was still not appreciated by either Duncan or Broc, and Bridget thought to prevent any unpleasantness that might have an effect on the babe.
Superstitions prevailed in the Highlands, with most Highlanders firmly believing that if the máthair were happy while carrying the child, the bairn would be less fussy.
And who knew? Perhaps they did have a point.
Still. It seemed she was tarrying later and later in greeting the day, perhaps because Ian had been gone nearly three weeks and she missed him constantly. Only two missives had arrived, the last just several days ago saying he would be going to London to see Jamie before returning to Glenfinnan.
Jillian swung her legs over the side of the bed and pushed herself into a sitting position, patting the great bulk of her stomach. “Soon,” she said as the babe gave her a good-morning kick. “Soon.”
As she entered the dining hall a short time later, Bridget and Shauna, Ian’s middle sister, were deep in conversation at the table. Helping herself to the still-warm pot of porridge on the sideboard, she joined them.
“You two look gloomy for such a nice day.”
“’Tis our uncle and his brother,” Shauna said.
“Nothing for ye to worry about,” Bridget interjected.
Jillian looked from one sister to the other. “Are they upset with me? Taking me to task for being a slovenly sleep-in?”
“Nae,” Bridget answered. “’Tis just spoutin’ off they are doing.”
“But they are not happy with me.”
“’Tis nae ye in particular,” Shauna replied. “They just hate the English in general.”
“Culloden was a long time ago.” Jillian sighed. “Scotland is part of the English Crown. Can they truly not accept that?”
“Och, they can. They like to blether on about it though,” Shauna said, “but this has to do with the burnings last year.”
Jillian frowned. “Burnings?”
“Nothing for ye to fret about,” Bridget said firmly.
“I want to know. I promise not to let it upset me.”
Shauna looked at Bridget. “Jillian is Ian’s wife. She has a right to know.”
Bridget grimaced. “I suppose ye are right.”
“Ye have heard of the Scottish Clearances?” Shauna asked.
“Yes, to some extent. The lands were cleared for sheep-grazing and people moved to the coast to work in the kelp industry.”
Shauna gave her a skeptical look. “That is the English version?”
“Is that not what happened?”
“Aye, it did. Yer version leaves out the fact most crofters were burned out of their homes and forced to leave by the lairds themselves.”
Jillian felt her eyes widen in shock. “How terrible. Why would their own clansmen do that?”
“They had little choice. After the defeat at Culloden, the English imposed high rents. To keep their lands, the lairds had to raise the money. Sheep were the answer, but they need grass and crofters used the ground for planting. Land means everything to a Highlander.”
Jillian knew that. Ian had accepted the English title of earl for that very reason—to be able to support and hold his Scottish land near Loch Shiel. “But did this not happen a long time ago?”
“The first stage did,” Shauna answered, “but the second stage took place just last year.”
“Last year?”
“Aye. ’Twas the Countess of Sutherland who ordered the burnings herself.”
“As far north as it is, I always thought Sutherland was one of the strongest Scottish holdings,” Jillian said.
“’It was. The Gordons and Mackays were loyal Scots. The present countess, though, dinnae even speak Gaelic. She and her husband, the Marquess of Stafford, reside in London and pay Sutherland no mind except to collect rents.”
Jillian furrowed her brows in puzzlement. “Then why would she order anything to be burned?”
Bridget grimaced. “Greed. But they didnae dirty their own hands. They hired two factors—I think ye call them solicitors?—to take care of the problem, as they called it. Both men hated the Gaels.”
“Two hundred and fifty homes were torched in one day,” Shauna added. “An elderly lady, Margaret Mackay, died in the fire. The rest of the people had nowhere to go.”
“How many people were affected?”
“In all, around fifteen thousand,” Bridget said.
“Fifteen thousand. No wonder Duncan and Broc are still upset. I had no idea,” Jillian replied.
“’Tis only part of the reason they are angry,” Shauna said.
Bridget sent her a warning look. “’Tis nothing to worry Jillian about.”
“I want to know,” Jillian countered.
“Verra well.” Bridget took a deep breath as if deciding how much to say. “The mon who brought Ian’s letter told Duncan the Sutherlands were on their way north for a rare visit. Some of the men have been blethering about…confronting them.”
“What good would that do?”
“It wouldna do any good. ’Twould just make matters worse.”
“I wish Ian were here. He could talk sense into his uncle,” Jillian said.
“Mayhap. Duncan and Broc are hot-headed though.”
“But are they stupid? Surely they can see nothing can be gained by opposing nobility.”
The sisters looked at each other.
Bridget shrugged. “They are men.”
The news still bothered Jillian later that afternoon as she stood inside one of the stable stalls grooming Gunnar.
Besides Ian, she was the only person the Andalusian stallion tolerated brushing him.
The boy assigned to feed and water the animal had been only too glad to turn over grooming duties after he’d been kicked and nipped.
Jillian had tried to explain that Gunnar had been mistreated while being broken to saddle, but the lad had looked skeptical.
Since she could not ride this late in her pregnancy, she enjoyed the contact with the horse.
She took a chunk of apple from the sporran she’d borrowed and held it out for Gunnar, about to tell him what a fantastic animal he was when she heard male voices talking in low, conspiratorial tones. Shrinking back against the wall as the men neared her stall, she could tell Duncan was speaking.
“Did ye get the word out?”
“Aye,” Broc answered in a near whisper. “The men will meet ye at midnight at the deserted croft just past the cairn.”
“’Tis a fittin’ place to meet. The old mon who lived there was a fool to believe the damn redcoats about money to be made in Dundee.”
“His widow said he caught his death of cold halfway there.”
Duncan snorted. “The English are the devil’s own spawn.”
“Mayhap the world will be less two of the devils if our plan works.”
“It will work.”
The men moved on to the tack room. Jillian slipped out of the stall and hurried to the house.
If Duncan and Broc were gathering men to try to intercept the Countess of Sutherland’s entourage, they needed to be stopped.
The English guards would be armed with muskets as well as bayonets and sabers.
There probably would be a large retinue from Ft.
William as well, since this far north in Scotland was still considered somewhat uncivilized by Prinny’s set.
Duncan and his group would be massacred.
Should they happen to kill—or even injure—the countess or her husband, there would be hell to pay. Retribution would be swift. Jillian had no doubt the Prince Regent would raise the rents at Loch Shiel to astronomical numbers and probably revoke the titles to both Cantford and Newburn as well.
Jillian had to tell someone, but whom? With Jamie gone and Shane not back from his trip to Ireland, Duncan was in charge. She could hardly go to him. Even if she thought he would listen to reason, there was no way he would listen to her. She was one of the hated Sassenachs.
Should she go to Bridget? Unfortunately, Bridget’s husband had gone to Arisaig the day before to deliver a pair of breeding mares. Brodie would not be back until tomorrow.
Perhaps it would be better if she followed Duncan and Broc herself to find out what the details of the plan were before she involved anyone else.
She knew where the cairn of stones marked a crossroad, and she thought she remembered an abandoned croft when she had been out riding.
It was not far from the castle, and the walk would do her good.
Everyone fussed over Jillian’s need to rest, but what she really wanted was to move about.
She would be back well before dawn with no one the wiser. When Brodie returned tomorrow she would tell him she overheard everything in the barn. A little white lie, but better than being lectured by well-meaning MacLeods about leaving the castle unescorted.
Much later that night, Jillian was sure she had made the right decision.
Duncan and Broc had been unusually quiet at the evening meal, but she had noticed the looks they exchanged.
Now, near midnight, she huddled behind some bushes close to the postern gate.
She doubted Duncan would try to leave by the main entrance since the old portcullis that Ian maintained in working order was down for the night with guards posted on the battlements above.
She wrapped the dark blue and green MacLeod tartan more closely around her, glad the dark wool plaid both hid her and held in her body’s warmth.
Thankfully, Jillian did not have long to wait.
She heard stealthy footsteps approach, then the turn of a key in the iron lock.
She held her breath, listening for the sound of the key being turned from the other side, but since there was no real danger of attack, they left it unlocked.
She counted to ten and then slipped through the hedge that hid the door.
The path was steep and uneven with only a sliver of new moon to light the way, but she had explored this area when she’d first arrived, thrilled to live in an actual medieval castle.
With her unwieldy stomach affecting her balance, Jillian made her way carefully down, sometimes holding on to the long, grassy weeds to avoid slipping.
The ground leveled as she neared the road. Up ahead, she could just make out the forms of Duncan and Broc in the near-total darkness. If they were speaking, she could not hear them.
Once they passed the cairn, the road narrowed to little more than a deer trail, nearly hidden by bracken, and edged its way along a ravine that served as a gully wash when the snows melted in the spring.
Now only bramble bushes stuck out from its sloping sides, the bottom littered with broken branches and rocks from downstream.
Careful not to loosen a stone on the rutted path that might give her presence away, Jillian exhaled a relieved breath when she saw the small cottage with its thatched roof gone.
Inside, she could hear male voices. She paused, waiting for Duncan and Broc to enter.
A little lean-to shed looked like it might offer a good place of concealment.
Cautiously, she crept closer and then slipped inside, hoping she was not sharing a rat or badger’s home.
The tiny room cut the chill of the air, and light from an oil lamp flickered through a crack in the mud-and-wattle wall, allowing sound to filter through as well.
The conversation was muted though, and Jillian only heard bits of phrases like “Sutherland bitch”, “spotted nearing Ft. William” “need to…” The speaker’s voice lowered and Jillian brushed cobwebs away, stepping closer to the wall to hear.
Her ankle turned on a jagged rock and she reached out, catching herself on the sharp edge of a hand plough stashed against the wall.
The tin slashed her hand, and she stifled a scream.
Talking ceased inside the cottage.
Jillian dashed outside the shed, running clumsily for the cover of the bracken.
She heard cursing and the sound of heavy boots behind her.
Not daring to slow down, she followed the winding, twisting path, praying there would be some spot where she could turn off the trail and hide.
Her side was beginning to ache, and she clutched her stomach to keep the baby from kicking.
She had to get off the path and glancedin both directions.
The brush seemed denser and better to hide in to her left.
She turned, pushing though—and stepped into open space.
The ravine rose up to meet her as she landed with a hard thump on her side, rolling and tumbling down the craggy side until she landed in a huddled heap atop dead branches.
Above her, she heard the men continue on.