Chapter 21
After he’d been recognized outside Dumfries, James and his men had traveled by night, resting as best they could by day.
They had purposefully steered clear of Edinburgh, not far from Falkirk to the east. It was near dawn when they approached what appeared to be a simple crofter’s cottage near Falkirk Moor.
“How can you know they’re friendly?” Rollo asked, reining in to study the cottage. Red light flickered intermittently through a crack under the door.
“I suppose there’s naught I know for sure, is there?” James replied cavalierly, eliciting a scowl from Rollo.
James slid off his horse, and Sibbald, shrugging his shoulders, joined him. While James helped Rollo dismount, the colonel tied off their horses with a long lead. The animals immediately set to grazing.
“I do know,” James said, “that there was a time this particular cottage was a Royalist outpost.”
Rollo eased to the ground, where he began to pound life back into his legs. “Let’s hope the Covenanters haven’t beaten us here.”
“I’ll see who’s keeping the fires burning,” James said. Before his companions could stop him, he was knocking on the door as if for a pleasant afternoon visit, rather than the predawn refuge they sought in a war-torn country.
The door opened, and Rollo and Sibbald at once put their hands to the swords at their sides, wary and alert.
Though he was the same height as James, the man filling the doorway was much wider. Where James was lithe muscle, this man was pure, thick brawn. A small peat fire crackled in the hearth at his back, illuminating him from behind, casting his already dark features into frightening blackness.
“The Graham, is it?” he growled in a thick burr. “James Graham of Montrose? ”
“Indeed,” James replied in a friendly tone. Though his posture remained at ease, James’s right hand was tensed, fingers curled toward the sword hilt at his side. “And whose acquaintance do I have the pleasure of making?”
The man let out a laugh sounding much like a roar, and grabbed James into a bear hug. The man pushed James away and, holding his shoulders, avidly studied his face as if James were his long-lost brother.
"I am Alasdair MacColla Ciotach MacDomhnaill.” He clapped James hard on the shoulder. “Alasdair the son of Colla the left-handed, of the Clan MacDonald.”
"I know my Gaelic, Alasdair MacColla,” James replied, "but you still haven’t told me who you are.”
MacColla roared another laugh, "Aye, Charles warned you were a canny one.”
Grinning broadly, he added, “I’m the man come to help hunt for Campbells.”
MacColla gestured to the room behind him. "Come, come. We’ve much to discuss, and I’d do it proper, with a skalk and porridge.”
"Skalk?” Rollo’s voice came from the darkness.
“The man means to drink whisky for breakfast,” Sibbald said. “I could use a morning dram myself,” he added, striding to the door.
The men passed around the quaich, and by the time the shallow wooden bowl was empty, they were at ease.
“The Campbells took our land. They took my father prisoner. And, when I was forced to seek refuge with the Clan MacDonald in Ireland, they took my country from me.” MacColla polished the empty quaich with a corner of his tartan, his bushy black eyebrows furrowed in thought.
“And now ’tis time for me to take something from the Campbells. ”
He raised his head and looked levelly at James. “I’ve come to fight by your side, and I’ve sixteen hundred Irishmen who stand with me.”
“Good Lord,” Sibbald blurted.
Rollo leaned forward in his chair, intrigued. “And where are all these men?”
MacColla wove his thick fingers together and stretched his arms in front of him, joints popping. Leaning back, he placed his hands atop the crown of his head and said, “I’ve installed my men in Lochaber, where they’re currently enjoying a spot of Cameron hospitality.”
James barked a sudden laugh. “I’m certain the young Lochiel is well pleased by that turn of events.”
"Och,” MacColla dismissed him good-naturedly, "’tis good for the wee Cameron lad.”
“Wee lad,” James mused, looking at the enormous man sitting across from him. “I suppose.” Satisfaction creased his eyes. “I am pleased to hear that Ewen sides with us.”
Sibbald rose. “If you two are going to gossip like milkmaids, I’d settle the horses and be off to bed.”
"Sit, old man.” The humor was gone from MacColla’s voice. “The beasts can bide a wee. I’ve news yet. Campbell’s kept busy since Aberdeen.”
Leaning forward, he locked eyes with James and said, “I’ve word that he took your woman.”
“Impossible,” James said. “Napier, my brother-in-law, took her back with him to Montrose.”
“No, the lass was taken from under his nose. Campbell has her,” MacColla said. "He was given a commission of fire and sword, and he rides south, killing every Royalist in his path. He burnt the House of Airlie to the ground, and last word is that he’s returned to his own castle.”
The amiable effects of the whisky bled from James’s eyes and voice. He edged forward in his seat, his features chill and focused. “Campbell took her to Inveraray?” he asked sharply.
“No, his other castle, Gloom. The bastard uses the old name.” MacColla shook his head in disgust. "He seeks to intimidate by any means. Despite the men at his back, the Campbell is a soft and weak lump of flesh, and it angers him.
“I am sorry, Graham,” he added. “If she’s lucky, your woman is already dead.”
They were to rest through the day, and travel by night. The sound of snoring filled the small room, but James lay sleepless, fingering the strip of blue cloth once torn from Magda’s dress. They’d shared just two kisses, and yet the thought of her seared him.
“You think of the lass.” Rollo spoke softly in the semidarkness. They’d pulled the shutters tight, but daylight snuck in through cracks, throwing haphazard blades of light around the room.
“No . . .” James hesitated, and could feel his friend’s stern look on his shoulders. “Aye,” he admitted, his voice tight with pain. “I think of the lass.”
The vividness of his memories shocked him. The silk of her heavy hair tangled in his hands, the flush of her wide, just-kissed mouth. Visceral images and sensations that sheared through James with a wanting and regret he hadn’t realized in himself.
“I was a fool,” he said in a tight whisper. “She came like a gift from the Fates, and I foolishly entrusted her safety to another.”
“Napier is not just any other person, James. You cannot blame yourself.”
James’s silent energy vibrated through the room, charging the air like lightning before a storm.
“She must be special indeed to have caught the eye of an inveterate bachelor like yourself,” Rollo attempted lightheartedly.
“Extraordinary,” James replied at once. After a pause, he repeated, “Magda is extraordinary.”
“And what does your family think of her?”
“Och, my family gets along with most. You know my sister. Margaret was thrilled to have another woman’s life with which to meddle.”
“And is Magda much like your sister?”
James laughed, quick and low. “Not that you could say, no. Do you know, the lass plays golf?” James sat up eagerly, tucking the blue strip of cloth into his breast pocket.
“Aye, she truly can play. She gave old Tom Sydserf a thorough trouncing.” He chuckled quietly, a distant look in his eye.
“And shooting from the rough? Magda . . . well, at first you’d think she was a starchy, queenly sort of lass.
Very upright. But she got in it at Montrose.
You ken the gorse near the tenth hole? Well she got into trouble, and damned if the lass didn’t hunker down, waggling her haunches like a wee rabbit, and she took her shot and that ball sprang out like a rousted bird.”
James’s smile went slack. Hands restless, he once again took the cloth from his pocket and rubbed it idly between his fingers.
“I see we’ve a problem then,” Rollo said gravely.
“Aye,” he replied, knowing well what his friend referred to.
To search for Magda now would be to waylay their current plans.
They had a king’s commission, thousands of Irishmen, and the north full of Highlanders ready for battle.
To chase after a woman who might already be dead was a potentially ruinous complication.
And yet it was clear that James would choose no other path. “We’ve a problem indeed.”
They sat silent in the room’s gloomy half-light for some time, then a canny smile slowly spread across James’s face. "Although . . .”
“Tell it, James. What do you have us in for now?”
“Spiriting Magda out from under Campbell’s nose and the war we wage are not necessarily at cross-purposes. A mere minor detour on the way to Perth, aye? Not to mention a pleasant way to provoke the Campbell.”
"MacColla will be pleased, at least,” Rollo said. "We abscond with the lass, and Campbell has no choice but to follow us north.”
“One could even say it’s to our advantage.”
Rollo paused for a moment, then asked somberly, “But what if she’s dead, James?”
“She’s not dead,” he growled. “I feel . . . I feel I’d know it somehow. But if she is . . .” He inhaled sharply. “If he’s harmed Magda in any way, I swear I’ll take his life even if it means my own. Campbell’s house will crumble around him.”
At first Magda was frustrated and angered by Lonan’s unwillingness to discuss his painting, or anything having to do with her time travel.
Her relentless questioning had only been met with amused silence, or the occasional “In time, child.” So she finally decided to just give in to the experience, trusting that the laconic brother really would tell her “in time.”
At first she’d found monastery life startlingly rigorous, but as the weeks passed, Magda grew to find great comfort in the daily routine. So much so, she wondered if that weren’t part of some greater lesson Lonan was teaching her.