Armadale, Isle of Skye, April 18, 1746

Hearing the slow approach of hoofbeats to her stepfather's house, Flora threw her shawl around her shoulders and went out. Donald, the ghillie, was already waiting outside the stable door.

Sea birds called raucously above the Sound of Sleat. To the east the mountainous mainland faded into a pale spring twilight. The horse and man who appeared from the gloaming seemed so worn and weary they might have served as figments of nightmare. It was Allan, Flora saw. She stepped forward and held the bridle as he slid from the saddle with a groan.

There had been talk between their families, distant relations, that they should marry. As yet Flora evaded this notion, thinking Allan a man of great charm but little judgment. Now, though, she took note of the grave sobriety lining his features and raised her hand to his shoulder. "What of the rebellion, Allan? Is it over?"

"Aye," he said, " 'tis over. Six days ago we made the crossing of the River Spey just beyond Ruthven, intending to catch Prince Charles before he gained the sanctuary of Inverness. But he turned, and the Highlanders came down upon us from the heights beyond the river before we'd had the opportunity to form up, let alone bring our artillery to bear."

Flora could see the scene: the flood of screaming men, unbreeked, unwashed, undeterred, armed with swords as tall as themselves. No surprise they overwhelmed soldiers bought by pay, not principle. Soldiers who had only the one shot before their muskets were rendered nothing more than props for bayonets. That tactic had defeated Generals Cope at Prestonpans and Hawley at Falkirk. Now it defeated William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, King George II's third son and a general who had proved himself in the Continental wars.

"If only the prince had delayed his attack until we reached smoother ground near Inverness. If only he had refused in his pride to take the advice of Lord George Murray, who is by far the superior strategist. If only two French ships had not slipped through the blockade and landed money and supplies…" Allan shook his head. "Well, such exercises in supposition are best left to historians."

With that Flora could only agree. "Cumberland and his army are retreating toward England, I suppose."

Allan's laugh was edged with bitterness. "The MacPherson levies denied His Grace the river crossing and the road south. He has fled west into the mountains, running like a rabbit rather than honorably surrender his sword to the victor."

"Perhaps he feared for his life."

"His life is hardly in so much danger as the prince's life would have been, had the situation been reversed. Charles has put a price on Cumberland's head, in a fit of mordant humor, I wager, but still he ordered his men to spare the wounded and release the captives. And so you see me here, at your mercy, cousin."

How have the mighty fallen, Flora told herself, thinking more of her crestfallen cousin than the English duke. Handing the reins of the horse to Donald, she guided Allan inside and sat him down before the aromatic warmth of the peat fire in the parlor. To the maid waiting in the hall she said, "Betty, bring bread, cheese, and porter."

Then Flora took the coat, its brave scarlet stained and torn, from Allan's shoulders. He folded his long, lean limbs into a chair and rested his head against its back. "The Pretender-the Prince Regent, I should say-has entered Edinburgh, to even greater applause than last year's acclamation. Strange, is it not, how many who kept back a welcome then are now flocking forward with one?"

"Is it so strange that few would commit themselves to Charles's rash enterprise until that enterprise became victory?" And rash it was, Flora told herself. Even if during the forty years since the Union England had dealt with Scotland as though it were a backward colony, to go to war seemed far from sensible. "Even supposing Prince Charles to have the right, it might have been very generous for one to support him at every risk, but it was not wise. Not until now."

"And now he has received the surrender of the castle, had his father proclaimed king at the Mercat Cross, and called a parliament. That will not last, he and his kind, they have little use for parliaments. Soon the old days will be back again, tyranny at home and a hostile neighbor assuring our poverty."

Betty brought food and drink. For several minutes Allan refreshed himself, whilst Flora admired the play of the firelight on his unshaven cheeks and the lock of black hair that hung forlorn over his brow. At last he set aside the empty cup, wiped his mouth, and asked, "Where are your mother and her husband?"

"He is commanding the government militia on Uist. She has gone to visit Lady MacDonald at Monkstadt and your mother at Kingsburgh and intends to return tomorrow."

"Ah." Allan summoned a smile, less radiant than his usual one, tense and uncertain.

She let him hold her small, clean hand in his large, rough, dirty one. It seemed the least she could do for a warrior so grievously disappointed.