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April 18, 1746
“We’ll go southwest from here until we reach Loch Arkaig, ’tis no’ much farther,” Coll summed up the plan. “Follow the northern shore then overland to the west. Angus MacEachine has a wee sheal house south of Loch Morar near Meoble. We can rest there.”
Burke nodded, his expression grim. “’Twill be rough going. Nae roads, aye? No’ even a footpath to follow.”
“Aye, but given the locations of the royalist outposts, we hivnae much choice in the matter,” Coll told him and looked to Charles Edward. “That’s it then. Yer highness?”
The prince inclined his head. “If Miss Hughes has nothing to add?”
Coll turned to Ginny, where she sat near the fireplace, knees drawn up to her chest and huddled in the folds of her cloak. She appeared mesmerized by the flames. Lost. Something was amiss. He’d gone to retrieve her after observing the “moment” she required only to have her run to him from the opposite direction. Not only run to him but fling her arms around him as if she....
Och, he didn’t have the slightest idea why she’d clung to him the way a wee bairn clasped a treasured doll to their chest when awakened from a troubling dream. An embrace both desperate and endearing. As if he were the anchor in the storm. That sudden change of mood from one minute to the next made no sense.
Nor had there been time to have her explain it to him. Not that he would have expected an honest answer. That would be as absurd as him admitting how he feared for her safety when he’d been unable to locate her that morning. An admission of the jeopardy that surrounded them.
“Ginny? Lass?” He put a hand on her shoulder to recall her from her thoughts and frowned when she flinched under his touch. “Charles Edward would like to ken if ye’ve anything to add?”
She shook her head but before she could speak, the door of the cottage opened with a bang. For a moment, he feared the redcoats had caught up with them but it was Aeneas MacDonald. A surprise, since they’d left him behind at Invergarry.
He bowed to the prince. “A message arrived for ye, yer highness. From Lord Murray.”
With a scowl, Charles Edward took the missive and opened it. For an instant, he brightened. “Huzzah, Lord Lochiel has survived, though I’d feared he’d perished. His clansmen carried him off the battlefield and hid in a crofter’s cottage. It was only by the grace of God that troops searching for them were called away before they entered and discovered them.” A frown descended then. “He writes that Cumberland seeks all fugitives from the battle, allowing no quarter and no mercy to those they encounter. He has become a butcher of the Highlanders.”
The prince lowered the letter and stared at Ginny with wonder, as did they all, though she was lost to her thoughts and paid them no mind. “He wrote that word?” Coll clarified. “Butcher?”
Charles Edward wasn’t listening. His eyes were glued to the missive, his finger tracing the words. “How could I have foreseen this slaughter? Such devastation.”
“Sire?” O’Sullivan prompted. “What else does he say?”
Recalled to the moment, the prince scanned the rest of the message, his countenance cloudier by the moment. “Lord Murray accuses me of bad faith.” His eyes skimmed downward. “Bad faith for what seems my every action since stepping foot in this land! Had I met him at Ruthven, I would have no doubt led Cumberland right to them all.”
“He colors ye as the betrayer when it is he who has betrayed ye, yer highness,” O’Sullivan assured him. “Who is to say royalist agents are not tracking this missive? He could be leading them straight to ye as the Scots once betrayed Charles I to the enemy.”
The Irishman never ceased to feed Charles Edward’s paranoia and turn the prince against his own countrymen. “Enough of yer poison,” Coll growled. “Ye ken nothing of the true Jacobites, those who would lay down their lives for Charles Edward. And those who have.” He turned to the prince. “Sir, ye ken Murray is ever yer devoted servant. He shares yer greatest desire, ye ken this. ’Tis nothing more than the rantings of a broken heart in those pages.”
“His is not the only heart broken,” the prince sniffed. “Have we not dallied until all hope of rallying our forces is gone?”
“Ye need to make him aware of yer intentions,” Coll told him, unwilling to address the question directly. “Yer plans for the future.”
O’Sullivan started to talk, however Coll cut him off with a dark look.
The prince conceded the point and called for a quill and parchment. “I will compose such a letter, then we will continue our journey.”
As he wrote, Coll joined the rest of the men for a simple meal of milk and curds. Filling another bowl, he took it to Ginny who looked down at it and wrinkled her nose.
“No, thank you.”
“Ye need sustenance, lass. We’ve a long trek ahead of us.”
“I’m fine.” She summoned a tight smile. “Thank you though.”
By the time the horses were readied, the prince had finished his letter. He handed it off to MacDonald with the instruction to return to Invergarry and see that Strickland deliver it into Lord Murray’s hands.
“Have him carry this message to the men as well,” he instructed. “Let every man seek his safety in the best way he can.”
* * *
Coll had constructed a makeshift pillion of blankets and her cloak for Ginny to ride behind him rather than bear the torment of her nestled against his groin through another protracted night in the saddle, teased for hours by the scent of her hair and the more erotic fragrance of woman. It never crossed his mind that her brittle posture of the previous two nights would be anything but. Nor that she would melt against him thus. Arms looped around his midsection, her cheek rested against his shoulder. Worse, her bountiful breasts pressed against his back, soft and warm.
Combined with her intermittent sighs, he would have been driven to distraction if not for the encumbrance of his troubled thoughts.
“You’re as stiff as a board this morning,” she said. “What’s bothering you?”
Had he been as obvious as she? “One might ask the same of ye.”
“Me? I’m a ray of sunshine. How could I not be? It’s a gorgeous day. The skies are blue, the hills rolling, and the scent of heather fills the air.”
However honest the assessment of their surroundings—how often he’d failed to appreciate what was outside his own doorstep himself—her tone bore an underlying bitterness even a fool could discern.
“Yer mood is ever buoyant, lass,” he teased in effort to lighten her mood.
“So glad you finally noticed.” Though he sensed a smile in the words, they were punctuated by another sigh. “My troubles revolve around the million things that could go wrong here. But that’s not what’s bothering you.”
“Nay, it isnae.” The need to unburden himself was undeniable. While he’d never imagined hers as a ready ear, he wasn’t quite prepared to bare his soul to her. “How did ye ken Cumberland’s butchery?”
“Back to that, are we?” She sighed yet again. “To be honest, I was there at Culloden before I made my way to Urquhart Castle. I saw most of the battle. Highlanders who retreated on the road to Inverness were run down and skewered. More were slain while they slept. Others were burned alive in the cottages they hid in.”
“I dinnae ken.” Nor did Charles Edward. He couldn’t imagine how she could. Even so, he believed her. There was a solemn veracity in her confession, even if her description seemed a tad detached, as if she were reading it from a newssheet. Had anyone been witness to such a bloodbath, he supposed they would do whatever they could to distance themselves from the memory. Even those without a memory as powerful as hers. As he had. He wished he could see her face and gauge for himself if she were as haunted as he by the events of that day. “Lass, I—”
“Enough about me. Tell me what’s really bothering you.”
Coll stunned himself by doing as she asked. “It’s Prince Charles Edward.”
“Not surprising. I can tell you dislike him.”
“I dinnae dislike him,” he denied. In truth, he didn’t know the prince well enough to form a personal opinion on the man. “I’m disappointed by the outcome of our venture.”
“To clarify, that being the treasonous rebellion against England?”
A smile lifted his lips at her teasing then faded under the weight of his frustration. “Nay, ’tis this message he sent instructing those who fought under his banner to seek their own safety. Every man for himself.” He shook his head. “I can only imagine what they will think when they hear it. That he abandoned them? Left them to Cumberland’s mercy? Och, and so he has.”
Her arms tightened around him. “Disillusioned by someone they admired and trusted completely? I know exactly how that feels.”
Ginny wasn’t referring to the Jacobite alone. Coll could feel it.
“Why would he do it?” he wondered aloud. “Leave them all behind to save his own skin?”
“Sounds like you no longer think he’s God’s chosen servant.”
“I never did,” he admitted the almost heretical opinion aloud for the first time. And to her of all people rather than those closest to him! “There are many who fought because they believe the prince and his father have been denied their divine right to the throne. Many more fought to see a Catholic Stuart in power.”
“What motivated you then?”
The insightful question seized something in the region of his heart. If only his father had asked such questions rather than condemning Coll’s choices without seeking to understand him. The past year might have passed with more than the rare letter from his mother relaying his father’s dissatisfaction.
“I supported the Jacobite ideology from a more nationalist perspective. Wi’out Charles Edward, there is nae hope of Scotland retaining even the smallest measure of sovereignty. That is an intolerable outcome after all his countrymen have sacrificed in his service. And to abandon them at the midnight hour?” He shook his head. “I cannae understand it.”
“You could ask him.”
A bark of incredulous laughter escaped him. “Interrogate the prince for his motives?”
“Why not?” She shifted and he felt her chin on his shoulder. He turned his head to look at her. “Can you imagine the burden of being Bonny Prince Charlie? He’s probably on the verge of an existential crisis, if he’s not already in the middle of one. Five minutes ago, he thought himself invincible. Now he’s responsible for every life and every death. Who would blame him for questioning the role he’s played in it all? He basically willed the destruction of thousands of men, and I bet he knows it. Do you think he’d want to face those remaining and count heads?”
Coll took a moment to digest her observations. “Mayhap, but to believe any of those men betrayed him and our cause is madness.”
“Or, doing so lets him shed some of the responsibility for it,” she said. “At least in his own mind, it takes the end result out of his control, right? It’s easier to believe he was betrayed or to blame his lower numbers in soldiers or gunnery, the terrain, the weather, or poor morale....”
“Rather than his own incompetence?” he added wryly.
“I would say, rather than admit he failed as a leader.”
He shook off the idea “It cannae be as simple as that. I would wager he does not regret our loss so much as he does his failure in Cumberland’s eyes.”
“That’s a ruthless assessment.” He felt her shrug. “If you don’t like my rationale, ask for his. He might appreciate a little honesty.”
Another burst of amusement welled up in him. He patted her hands clasped around him. “I dinnae think honesty is what he wants, lass.”
“Thank you for that figurative pat on the head. Should I return to the kitchen next?” She turned her hand and caught his, twisting his thumb back just enough for him to feel the pinch before she released him.
“I dinnae mean to belittle ye. Ye’re a canny lass indeed,” he assured her. “Nevertheless, in my experience, royals tend to prefer the counsel of men like O’Sullivan there. The prince may claim to dislike sycophants, yet he surrounds himself with them. ’Tis pure clatty.”
“Yes, I heard enough of their conversation to get a pretty clear picture. Some of the stuff he says is ridiculous. It’s obvious the prince isn’t stupid. I can’t believe he doesn’t see right through O’Sullivan’s bullshit.”
Coll huffed at the curious word. “Bullshit?”
“Nonsense,” she corrected. “We have a lot of interesting euphemisms in the Colonies.” She eased away from him and Coll looked over his shoulder to see mischief dancing in the eyes that met his. “Your use of sycophant, for example. Where I come from we have another word for people like him.”
“Aye, and what’s that?”
“Ass kissers.”
Ginny smiled then, impish and engaging. The first full blown gesture of genuine humor Coll had yet to witness from her. The power of it lifted his own spirits until they shared the smile together.
“Ye’re off yer heid, ye ken that?”
She shook her head with an impish purse of her lips. “Of course, I don’t know it. A cracked person is always the last one to know they’re cracked. Look at Bonny Prince Charlie. Why, I doubt he has any idea at all.”
They dissolved into mutual good humor that swept away the remainder of his worries. Again, she squeezed his waist...no, hugged him as her shoulders shook with laughter.
“Why do ye refer to him as such?” he asked after their amusement eventually waned. “He is Prince Charles Edward Stuart, no’ Prince Charlie,” his voice rose to feminine mimicry. “There were some women who referred to him as such when he first arrived in Edinburgh. They dropped their handkerchiefs at his feet, giggled and swooned. ’Twas nae more than a lark.”
“I think it’s going to have a bit more longevity than you think.” This time her hand turned to embrace his. Her touch was warm, exhilarating. “You’ll have to trust me on that.”
“Because ye’re a seer?” he asked with no hint of mockery in the allegation.
“Yes, Ginny knows all.”
He couldn’t help but note the gravity in the teasing words.