Ord, Isle of Skye, April 20, 1746

The chill morning seemed as uncertain as the night, the light of the rising sun masked by cloud and murk. Flora leaned forward, half dozing in her saddle, then jerked awake at the sudden call of a flock of oyster catchers flying up from a field beside the road.

Several people dressed in their best walked by, no doubt on their way to Sunday services. "Good morning," said the patriarch with a tip of his hat.

Flora returned the greeting. Her maid, walking beside her as was the custom, did not.

Several steps farther on the man murmured, "Upon my word, that's the ugliest lass I have ever seen." His wife shushed him.

Flora tried not to smile. William Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, was not particularly handsome as a man. As a woman, his face would sink a thousand ships. It had not abandoned its scowl since they left Armadale. Now it creased even deeper, his constant complaints of a sore head from the previous night's intake of liquor and lack of sleep overwhelmed by mutterings of dignity denied and position perverted. Flora pretended not to hear.

She, Betty, and Marion had sewed an extra length of cloth onto the lower hem of Betty's old calico gown and added a quilted petticoat on top, to camouflage the change from one sprigged flowery pattern to another. A large cloak and hood after the Irish fashion helped to conceal the Duke's petulant features. Nothing could disguise his stride. His legs and feet, clothed in stockings, garters, and suitable shoes, moved in long ponderous steps, as though he wanted to proclaim to the world that he was not actually a woman.

If they were stopped and searched the pistols beneath his dress would give the game away. But he had refused to leave the house without them, coming so close to an inconvenient fit of rage that Flora at last acceded to his demand. She could only suppose that if he were searched thoroughly enough to reveal the pistols the fraud would be revealed in any event. She glanced around, her saddle creaking.

Campbell and Scott walked several paces behind, wearing Donald's and her stepfather's cast-off clothes covered by loose plaids. She had told them more than once to walk proudly, as members of the clan, not humbly, prepared at any moment to knuckle their foreheads. Still the young men slouched along in the manner that they no doubt expected of their own tenants.

Flora looked ahead. There, the Cuillins were appearing through the murk. Their dark stone seemed more storm cloud than rock, save for the line of razor-edged peaks which etched the sullen sky.

Below the mountains lay Loch Eishort. And yes, thank the Good Lord, an English ship rose and fell to slow leaden surge of the waves. From a mast fluttered the Union Jack, the emblem created by combining England's flag with those of Wales, Scotland, and Ireland-the latter as much a thorn in the English side as Scotland itself. Now, Flora wondered, would the Scottish saltire be removed from the brave red, white, and blue banner?

The party made its way down a steep, muddy slope to a rocky beach. The horse slipped and scrambled. So did Cumberland. At one sloppy patch he went sprawling, his skirts riding up to his plump, breeks-clad thighs. Cursing, he gained the beach, splashed through a tidal pool, and clambered upon a rock. His emphatic gestures earned no response from the ship's crew, although Flora caught the dull gleam of a telescope trained upon them from the quarterdeck.

Campbell and Scott waved their plaids up and down. Cumberland hitched up cloak and dress, produced a pistol, and fired it into the air.

Flora's horse started at the sudden report. She reined him in and peered toward the ship, hoping that the men's actions would not be interpreted as provincial insolence and thereby attract a cannonade.

Many men were now gazing over the ship's gunwales. Officers gestured. Sailors lowered a boat. Others pointed weapons toward the shore.

"You have returned to your own," Flora told the duke. "I shall take my leave."

Captain Campbell stepped forward with a bow. "Please make our compliments to all those to whom we have given trouble."

"Indeed," added Lieutenant Scott, with a bow of his own.

Cumberland laid his meaty hand on Flora's knee. His wig had been left behind, and his hair hung lank around his face. His eyes, half concealed in folds of flesh, gleamed up at her. "If you should happen to find yourself in London, Miss MacDonald, I should provide you with a small establishment of your own and as fine an assortment of gowns as any female could wish."

She opened her mouth to offer a polite response, realized just what he was offering, and shut it again. A tug on the reins and she was free of his presumptuous hand, with the bonus that her horse's hoof pressed Cumberland's foot into the sand-not, alas, against a rock. He jerked back with a vicious oath.

"You are very welcome," she said to the other officers, and to the Duke of Cumberland she said, "I hope, Your Grace, that you will never find cause to appear in this part of the world again."

"God forbid, woman, God forbid."

Amen, Flora added to herself.

He turned toward the approaching boat, favoring his foot, but shook away Campbell's supportive hand. Ripping off his outer clothing, the duke stamped them in disgust into the sand and seaweed. No hope of returning the dress to Betty, then.

Flora urged her horse toward the path. Behind her she heard the boat's keel scrape against the sand, and the voices of Campbell and Scott identifying themselves and their superior. In return came the greetings of the ship's officer, and then something she had not expected to hear at all, laughter, quickly shouted down.

She gained the top of the hill, prodded her horse into a trot, and did not look back.

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