Ravished by the Redcoats
Be good, Sorcha.
These were probably the first words ever spoken to me and the words most frequently said to me when I was growing up. Maybe it was my head of fiery red hair. Maybe it was the worse-than-ordinary Scots temper of lasses in my family. Whatever it was, my father assumed from the start I was destined for trouble. And I suppose I proved him right when I fell in love with Ewan McPherson, a rugged young Highland warrior who was, I knew, planning with my brothers to rise up against the English.
Though Ewan’s rippling muscles sent me all aquiver, I never surrendered my virtue. Not even when he covered my neck in kisses, promising to love me if I surrendered my maidenhead. I won’t say my heart didn’t thunder in my ears at the thought of peeking beneath his plaid. And I can’t deny his touch made me slick with desire. I wanted to spread my legs for Ewan MacPherson—wanted to be trapped beneath the sweaty, strong muscles of his chest and legs. He was a big lad, and I was just a wee lass. I wanted to feel overwhelmed, overcome, without any choice but to give up my virtue without so much as a hand fasting.
But… be good, Sorcha .
The echo of my Da’s warning in my ears was even louder than my desire. So I insisted that I must have a wedding. Thereby making the biggest mistake of my life…because my father forbade it.
“The son of a laird to marry the daughter of a tavern keeper?” he shouted in Ewan’s face. “Not bloody likely! It’s not enough you’ve got my sons ready to follow you into this folly of rebellion on behalf of Bonny Prince Charlie? No. Now you want my daughter as well? Well, you can’t have her. I’ll need at least one of my children to care for me in my dotage. So don’t darken my doorstep again, or you’ll bring with you the wrath of the English.”
That was the last time I saw Ewan McPherson.
He gave me up. He went off like a kicked dog and left me working in my father’s kitchen at the Groggy Bottom Tavern & Inn , which served as a veritable barracks for English officers. I was heartbroken, but meek as a lamb, convinced that I must do as I was bid, and be a respectable, virtuous girl.
At least until I heard the English soldiers discussing a list of names—suspected traitors, all.
While filling their cups, I caught snippets of conversation and watched as Major Anderson scribbled notes into a little leather bound book at the table. A little book that I needed to examine more closely, to see if my brothers names were upon it. And I worried for Ewan, too.
Though he’d given me up, my heart still beat for Ewan. And that’s what finally cracked open the good girl inside me—it was love , not lust, that unleashed my wickedness.
But of course, how a thing begins, is seldom how it ends, is it?
I became obsessed with that little book and seeing its contents.
Which is how, the next night, I came to be in Major Anderson’s bedroom.
Having left the men below stairs to their dice games and bawdy songs, I slipped into the empty chamber and began my search. I hastily ran my hands under the pillow, reached beneath the mattress, then rifled through the chest at the foot of the Major’s bed. All to no avail.
Where was that book?
Then the memory struck me. A few days before, I’d laundered some of the men’s small clothes, and was set to put them into the Major’s drawer when he wryly informed me that he was capable of tending to his own wardrobe. Had he hoped to keep me from finding the book hidden away there?
Inspired by the thought, I stepped quietly upon the floorboards, glad of the noise downstairs to hide every creak, then pulled open the drawer and began to rifle through it.
The truth is, I never heard the door open behind me. I didn’t hear him come in. I don’t even know how long it was that he watched me search his belongings. I only know that I gave a start at the sound of his precise English accent, when he said,
Be good, Sorcha.
These were probably the first words ever spoken to me and the words most frequently said to me when I was growing up. Maybe it was my head of fiery red hair. Maybe it was the worse-than-ordinary Scots temper of lasses in my family. Whatever it was, my father assumed from the start I was destined for trouble. And I suppose I proved him right when I fell in love with Ewan McPherson, a rugged young Highland warrior who was, I knew, planning with my brothers to rise up against the English.
Though Ewan’s rippling muscles sent me all aquiver, I never surrendered my virtue. Not even when he covered my neck in kisses, promising to love me if I surrendered my maidenhead. I won’t say my heart didn’t thunder in my ears at the thought of peeking beneath his plaid. And I can’t deny his touch made me slick with desire. I wanted to spread my legs for Ewan MacPherson—wanted to be trapped beneath the sweaty, strong muscles of his chest and legs. He was a big lad, and I was just a wee lass. I wanted to feel overwhelmed, overcome, without any choice but to give up my virtue without so much as a hand fasting.
But… be good, Sorcha .
The echo of my Da’s warning in my ears was even louder than my desire. So I insisted that I must have a wedding. Thereby making the biggest mistake of my life…because my father forbade it.
“The son of a laird to marry the daughter of a tavern keeper?” he shouted in Ewan’s face. “Not bloody likely! It’s not enough you’ve got my sons ready to follow you into this folly of rebellion on behalf of Bonny Prince Charlie? No. Now you want my daughter as well? Well, you can’t have her. I’ll need at least one of my children to care for me in my dotage. So don’t darken my doorstep again, or you’ll bring with you the wrath of the English.”
That was the last time I saw Ewan McPherson.
He gave me up. He went off like a kicked dog and left me working in my father’s kitchen at the Groggy Bottom Tavern & Inn , which served as a veritable barracks for English officers. I was heartbroken, but meek as a lamb, convinced that I must do as I was bid, and be a respectable, virtuous girl.
At least until I heard the English soldiers discussing a list of names—suspected traitors, all.
While filling their cups, I caught snippets of conversation and watched as Major Anderson scribbled notes into a little leather bound book at the table. A little book that I needed to examine more closely, to see if my brothers names were upon it. And I worried for Ewan, too.
Though he’d given me up, my heart still beat for Ewan. And that’s what finally cracked open the good girl inside me—it was love , not lust, that unleashed my wickedness.
But of course, how a thing begins, is seldom how it ends, is it?
I became obsessed with that little book and seeing its contents.
Which is how, the next night, I came to be in Major Anderson’s bedroom.
Having left the men below stairs to their dice games and bawdy songs, I slipped into the empty chamber and began my search. I hastily ran my hands under the pillow, reached beneath the mattress, then rifled through the chest at the foot of the Major’s bed. All to no avail.
Where was that book?
Then the memory struck me. A few days before, I’d laundered some of the men’s small clothes, and was set to put them into the Major’s drawer when he wryly informed me that he was capable of tending to his own wardrobe. Had he hoped to keep me from finding the book hidden away there?
Inspired by the thought, I stepped quietly upon the floorboards, glad of the noise downstairs to hide every creak, then pulled open the drawer and began to rifle through it.
The truth is, I never heard the door open behind me. I didn’t hear him come in. I don’t even know how long it was that he watched me search his belongings. I only know that I gave a start at the sound of his precise English accent, when he said,
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