The Journey Home. Fiona Hood-Stewart
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as she climbed weeping into the small rowing boat that slipped silently away from the shore, the captain anxious to set sail before the day broke.
Rob gazed out to sea, anger and rage battling as his eyes locked with hers for as far as they could reach. As the ship set sail, he watched the vessel head into the wind, carrying aboard his heart and soul, following her trajectory to the open sea, until she was nothing but a dot bobbing on the frothy swell on the horizon.
“’Tis time te’ gang awa’, Rob.” It was only then he realized Jamie was standing next to him, silently sharing his grief. He cast one last look at the choppy gray waters, his soul desolate as he turned on his heel, kilt swinging in the wind, and walked with Jamie to where the horses neighed restlessly, their nostrils flaring. Hamish handed him the bridle.
“Awa’ wi’ ye, Rob, afore German Geordie’s lads awake. ’Tis a lazy lot they are but, nevertheless, ’tis wiser to be on the safe side.”
“Aye, ’twould be foolish te’ die at the end of a rope instead of meeting ma’ maker at the point of a sword,” he answered, hoisting himself into the saddle.
“Och, I’ve nae fear fer ye, Rob. Ye’ll be back anon. Yer time’s not sae nigh as ye think. Are ye sure of what yer doing?” Jamie asked doubtfully.
Rob donned his blue bonnet, the eagle feather placed at a cocky angle, and straightened his shoulders proudly. “As sure as any man can be when his duty and his sovereign are calling,” he replied with a smile.
“Then sae be it. God speed te’ ye both.”
On Tuesday the fifteenth of April, they crossed the Spey River and headed toward Culloden where Murray had set up his camp. Rob arrived with a sinking heart, for all he’d seen for the last few miles were exhausted Highlanders lying strewn by the wayside, their eyes hollow with hunger and despair.
As he stood at the entrance of Murray’s quarters, the war pipes ringing in his ears, and saw the drawn faces of the earl and his men seated glum around the table, his heart sank.
He stopped before entering, filled with sudden foreboding, and gazed up at the heavy clouds of defeat bearing down upon them.
Then, with a heavy heart, he stepped inside and took his seat, the bleak countenances around the table telling their own tragic tales. Each man knew what destiny lay before him. Savage anguish pierced Rob’s heart as the harrowing truth sank in and the hope he’d harbored of one day being reunited with his beloved wife and child withered.
A never-ending death knell would ring throughout the Highlands. Blood would pour as never before in all of Highland history, and Scotland, his beloved homeland, would be changed forever.
1
Midlothian, Scotland
1999
By the time he’d missed his third pheasant, Jack Buchanan was in a foul mood. It did not improve when, instead of falling to the ground with a satisfying thud, the last bird fluttered into the gray Scottish sky, unscathed.
He lowered the shotgun, irritated. Pheasants did not fly away. They fell obediently, just as junior executives and the other members of his entourage jumped into action when they were supposed to.
He entered the glen briskly, realizing he was having a bad day. He knew to expect it, for this particular day was always bad. Each year he thought he’d get the better of the pain that still rose to the surface, as boldly now as it had then, and every year it got the better of him. He cocked the gun in preparation, willing his mind to concentrate fully on the task at hand. The next bird would not escape him.
He didn’t have long to wait before catching sight of his prey, and he aimed carefully before slowly squeezing the trigger.
A split second later he stood frozen to the spot, his gut clenched, cold sweat breaking out under the heavy shooting jacket. He’d just missed a figure who’d walked straight into his line of fire.
Missed, by an inch of fate.
Thank God for the reactions he’d learned years ago that enabled him to deviate the shot, sending it ripping into a tree trunk a few degrees to the right.
“Are you okay?” he shouted anxiously, trying to make out who it was. There was a moment’s silence followed by the echo of his own voice. Horrified, he slung the shotgun through his arm, the dogs following close to heel. Bracken crackled noisily under his boots as he strode quickly toward a tall slender woman standing motionless among the trees, her ashen face surrounded by long chestnut hair.
“Are you all right?” he asked, eyeing her anxiously. Slowly tension gave vent to annoyance as he realized she was unhurt. “Don’t you know it’s not safe to walk in the woods in the middle of the shooting season?” he asked accusingly.
“Hey! Wait just one minute. You nearly killed me,” she exclaimed, suddenly coming to life with a shudder. “Plus, if anyone has no business being here it’s you. This is private land.”
“I’m well aware of that, but I have the owner’s permission to shoot every darn grouse or pheasant that happens to cross my path,” he answered sarcastically, irked by her sudden self-assurance. “I’m sorry I scared you, but you’re to blame for this incident, you know. You should keep your eyes on the ground, not up in the clouds, and be aware of where you’re walking. Sit!” he snapped curtly, for the pointers were still scuffling in the undergrowth, trying to pick up the scent of the bird their master had missed.
“What nerve!” she exclaimed. “This land belongs to the Dunbar estate, and you’re trespassing.” She glared at him, steadying herself against the tree as she spoke. Jack looked at her properly now, suddenly struck by the strange color of her eyes, a grayish-green that reminded him of the North Sea on a windy summer’s day. They also held a very determined look, and he was in no mood to argue.
“See that tree over there?” He pointed to his left. “That is where this property, namely Dalkirk—” he began patiently.
“Rot and rubbish. You’re on my land, and if you don’t leave immediately, I’ll call the authorities,” she said, cutting him short.
“And just how do you plan to do that?” he demanded, his tone as challenging as hers.
“None of your business. If you don’t know how to use a gun properly, you shouldn’t be carrying one. You’re careless.”
He bristled. No one called Jack Buchanan careless. “Look, miss. I’m a houseguest of Sir Peter and Lady Kinnaird. As I’ve already told you, I have their permission to shoot on their property.”
She straightened, drawing her tall, slim figure to its full height, and cast him a withering look.
“Maybe in America being a houseguest gives you the right to invade other people’s property, but let me assure you that in Scotland it doesn’t. Now, I’d like to get past, please.” She took a step forward, then halted. “By the way, for future reference, that fence over there is the boundary between the two estates.”
Jack’s eyes followed her gloved finger over the dogs’ heads to a dilapidated fence, barely visible among the foliage and bracken.
Seeing it only made him more exasperated. He bowed in mock surrender as she strode past him, her head held high, and watched as she started down the incline, her shoulders ramrod straight in an old green jacket worn over a pair of faded jeans.
Feisty, he remarked to himself with a spark of grim amusement, then whistled to the dogs. The incident had unsettled him. He knew he was at fault. Not entirely perhaps, but he should have been paying more attention instead of brooding over the past, as he had done on this day each November for the last twelve years.
He was about to leave when something on the ground caught his eye. He stooped. It was a solitary diamond pendant glistening on the bed of dead leaves and broken twigs. Scooping it up, he called after the woman as she reached the clearing.
“Hold