targes, their blue bonnets and white cockades. Highlanders .
Her heart began to thud.
The prince’s men are here. In Edinburgh .
Elisabeth could not move, could hardly breathe. For weeks all had waited for the rebels to come charging through the West Port. Now they stood before her on a dark Tuesday morning, having quietly overtaken the town.
Tears stung her eyes as an ancient pride welled inside her. Think of it! Highland clansmen guarding the capital and a Stuart king returning to the throne. How many Jacobite Risings had there been in years past, with no success? Two? Three? Now it seemed as if there might be a chance.
Emboldened, she drew close enough to hear the soldiers’ voices, rich with Gaelic. To a man they were built for warfare, with broad shoulders and sturdy legs. No wonder the dragoons had galloped off at the sight of them.
Her candle, exposed to the capricious morning breeze, was quickly snuffed out. Still, she could see the men well enough. And they could see her. A gruff voice demanded in English, “State yer business, lass.”
She spoke as boldly as she dared. “I am bound for the tailoring shop of Angus MacPherson.” If they knew of his Jacobite ties, his name alone might keep her safe.
The men consulted one another, eying her as they did. She heard Angus’s name repeated several times along with that of Lochiel, chief of Clan Cameron. These were his men, it seemed, from the western Highlands.
Elisabeth studied their ruddy faces, weathered by years on the mountains and moors. Strong, square jaws set off their prominent features. Untamed hair poked from beneath flat bonnets. And a fierce glower darkened each gaze.
Their spokesman appeared to be an officer, with his greatcoat and tartan trews. When he addressed her again, his voice had lost its rough edge. “Aye, we ken the name MacPherson but canna tell ye whaur to find him.”
Only then did the thought strike her: Simon might be a stone’s throw away. ’Twas unlikely he was part of Lochiel’s contingent. But if he was. Oh, if he was…
She braved a second question. “What of my brother, Simon Ferguson, from Castleton of Braemar. Does he stand with you?”
The officer looked to his men. All were shaking their heads. “Beg pardon, lass. We dinna ken yer brither.”
Disappointment seeped into her soul, chilling as the morning mist. “I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
“Och! A bonny lass is the best sort o’ trouble,” one of the soldiers called out. The others round him laughed.
Elisabeth lifted her chin, a retort on the tip of her tongue. She’d not been addressed in so coarse a manner in many seasons. Her title, however, would not serve her well this morn, nor would her pride. She slipped the cooled candle stub and holder in the hanging pocket round her waist and turned to go.
“Bess!”
Startled, she spun round to find Rob MacPherson heading toward her, a looming mass in dark brown serge with a broadsword strapped to his side. His club foot altered his gait but did not slow his steps.
Elisabeth hurried to meet him. “Mr. MacPherson, did you know—”
“Aye,” he admitted, taking her arm and steering her away from the guardhouse. “An hour ago my faither waited on this side o’ the Nether-bow Port for a detachment o’ the prince’s army approaching from the east. The porter, as daft as they come, opened the gate to let a carriage through.” Rob grinned. “Nae Hielander worthy o’ his plaid would’ve missed such a chance.”
“How many men?” she asked.
“Two dozen at the gate with nine hundred on their heels. Captain Macgregor led them through the port with drawn swords and a fricht-some shout.”
Elisabeth nodded as the pieces fell together. “Their battle cry woke me.”
Rob looked up at the rows of shuttered windows. “Still the toun slumbers.”
“But you’ve not slept.”
He shrugged, his eyes bleary, the shadow of a beard darkening his cheek. “Wha could on such a nich ?”
As they
Her heart began to thud.
The prince’s men are here. In Edinburgh .
Elisabeth could not move, could hardly breathe. For weeks all had waited for the rebels to come charging through the West Port. Now they stood before her on a dark Tuesday morning, having quietly overtaken the town.
Tears stung her eyes as an ancient pride welled inside her. Think of it! Highland clansmen guarding the capital and a Stuart king returning to the throne. How many Jacobite Risings had there been in years past, with no success? Two? Three? Now it seemed as if there might be a chance.
Emboldened, she drew close enough to hear the soldiers’ voices, rich with Gaelic. To a man they were built for warfare, with broad shoulders and sturdy legs. No wonder the dragoons had galloped off at the sight of them.
Her candle, exposed to the capricious morning breeze, was quickly snuffed out. Still, she could see the men well enough. And they could see her. A gruff voice demanded in English, “State yer business, lass.”
She spoke as boldly as she dared. “I am bound for the tailoring shop of Angus MacPherson.” If they knew of his Jacobite ties, his name alone might keep her safe.
The men consulted one another, eying her as they did. She heard Angus’s name repeated several times along with that of Lochiel, chief of Clan Cameron. These were his men, it seemed, from the western Highlands.
Elisabeth studied their ruddy faces, weathered by years on the mountains and moors. Strong, square jaws set off their prominent features. Untamed hair poked from beneath flat bonnets. And a fierce glower darkened each gaze.
Their spokesman appeared to be an officer, with his greatcoat and tartan trews. When he addressed her again, his voice had lost its rough edge. “Aye, we ken the name MacPherson but canna tell ye whaur to find him.”
Only then did the thought strike her: Simon might be a stone’s throw away. ’Twas unlikely he was part of Lochiel’s contingent. But if he was. Oh, if he was…
She braved a second question. “What of my brother, Simon Ferguson, from Castleton of Braemar. Does he stand with you?”
The officer looked to his men. All were shaking their heads. “Beg pardon, lass. We dinna ken yer brither.”
Disappointment seeped into her soul, chilling as the morning mist. “I’m sorry to have troubled you.”
“Och! A bonny lass is the best sort o’ trouble,” one of the soldiers called out. The others round him laughed.
Elisabeth lifted her chin, a retort on the tip of her tongue. She’d not been addressed in so coarse a manner in many seasons. Her title, however, would not serve her well this morn, nor would her pride. She slipped the cooled candle stub and holder in the hanging pocket round her waist and turned to go.
“Bess!”
Startled, she spun round to find Rob MacPherson heading toward her, a looming mass in dark brown serge with a broadsword strapped to his side. His club foot altered his gait but did not slow his steps.
Elisabeth hurried to meet him. “Mr. MacPherson, did you know—”
“Aye,” he admitted, taking her arm and steering her away from the guardhouse. “An hour ago my faither waited on this side o’ the Nether-bow Port for a detachment o’ the prince’s army approaching from the east. The porter, as daft as they come, opened the gate to let a carriage through.” Rob grinned. “Nae Hielander worthy o’ his plaid would’ve missed such a chance.”
“How many men?” she asked.
“Two dozen at the gate with nine hundred on their heels. Captain Macgregor led them through the port with drawn swords and a fricht-some shout.”
Elisabeth nodded as the pieces fell together. “Their battle cry woke me.”
Rob looked up at the rows of shuttered windows. “Still the toun slumbers.”
“But you’ve not slept.”
He shrugged, his eyes bleary, the shadow of a beard darkening his cheek. “Wha could on such a nich ?”
As they
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