Hatred between Clan MacDonald and Clan Campbell. That helped narrow down the possible year. Especially this close to Glencoe. The two clans had feuded for decades, but the bad blood between them reached a boiling point during the Glencoe Massacre on February 13, 1692. Archibald Campbell, the tenth Earl of Argyll, had led the treacherous slaughter of the MacDonalds ordered by King William, even though Lord Dalrymple ended up taking the blame for the heinous act.
The attack was particularly cowardly. After enjoying the MacDonalds’ hospitality and shelter from the brutal Highland winter for two weeks, Campbell’s troops struck while everyone slept, killing the MacDonald chief in his bed. Thirty-three men, two women, and two children were also slaughtered. Many more died from exposure after their homes were burned, and they found themselves ousted into the deep snow with no shelter.
Mila eyed the seven men making up their group of captors. Two with the wagon, the rest on horseback. Belted kilts, all the same color and pattern. Wide bands of muted greens and reds crossed with narrow bands of blue. The MacDonald tartan, she assumed. Some wore waistcoats with the first few buttons undone at the top to reveal their linen tunics or léines. Others didn’t bother with the waistcoat or neckcloth at all. They simply wore the tunic alone. Chieftain MacDonald wore his waistcoat buttoned, a knotted neckcloth, and a black leather coat, long and impressive, with wide cuffs and brass buttons. The date had to be sometime in the eighteenth century.
The pair of good-sized Highlanders on the wagon’s seat hopped down. They weren’t as large as their chief, but were brawny enough in their own right. The one with dirty blonde hair held out a hand to help her up into the back of the wagon. He smiled and dipped a mock bow. “Yer chariot awaits, Mistress Abernathy.”
She didn’t comment. Instead, she backed up to the wagon and vaulted herself upward with a hearty push.
“Ha! Reckon she showed you, Bhric!” The other brute crouched, laced his fingers together, then nodded for Robbie to step into his hands. “Come on, lad. Up there with yer mam.” This one wore a drab gray tam that sagged over his right ear. Tufts of curly brown hair cascaded down well past his shoulders. “I be Calder MacDonald. Brother to the chief. Take care where ye sit lest those barrels shift, ye ken? We dinna want ye crushed.”
Mila shot a tight-jawed frown at the boy, then nodded at the spot beside her as she slid back against them. Robbie wrinkled his nose, receiving the unspoken message that she was not pleased with his behavior. He dropped beside her and propped his arms on his knees.
The wagon took off with a hard lurch. Two of their captors followed on horseback, to guard their goods, watch for Campbells, or make sure she and Robbie didn’t jump. Mila didn’t know which and really didn’t care. Under the cover of the loud, creaking rattle of the rough trip, it was time to have a stern discussion with her godson.
“Why on earth would ye give these men yer name? And play up to them as if ye wish to be their friend?”
“What better way to get us some protection?” He shot her a disbelieving frown. “When Mr. Teague told his men not to kill us, I took that as a good sign. Did ye not?”
“And now we are captives.”
“We wouldha been captives either way, Mi.” His hurt tone jabbed at her. “Sorry if I didna do as ye wished.”
The lad was right, and taking out her fears on him was not fair. She wrapped an arm around his shoulders and hugged him hard. “No, my sweet brat. I am the one who is sorry. Forgive me for being ratty.”
“I know ye are scairt.” He twitched a halfhearted shrug while easing free of her motherly hold. “I am too. But at least they dinna seem all that bad.” He held up his wrists. “They didna bind us or get rough. It couldha been worse.”
“True. Things could be worse.”
The rain came down harder, as if the Highlands themselves were determined to add to her misery. Even though it was May, or had been in the year they left, Mila felt chilled to the bone.
“Lend me some warmth.” She scooted closer to Robbie, and this time, he didn’t move away. “Thank ye.” She balled up tighter, closing her eyes and ducking her head against the downpour.
“Hold!”
Chieftain MacDonald’s bellow caused her to straighten with a snap. She skittered sideways and pulled Robbie with her as the man brought his mount closer to the wagon.
He scowled down at her in silence, looking almost insulted. “I mean ye no harm, Mistress Abernathy.” He twisted around and untied the blanket roll from behind his saddle. With a nod to the man in the gray tam, he held it up. “Calder. Yer blanket for the lad, aye?”
“Aye.” Calder removed his blanket roll and tossed it to the chief.
The dark-eyed leader smiled as he held them both out. “They are a mite damp, but they’ll keep the worst of the weather off ye.”
“Thank ye, sir.” Robbie grabbed them, draping one around her shoulders before wrapping up in his. He offered the MacDonald an appreciative nod. “She’s been shivering something fierce.”
The man reached inside his coat and pulled out a silver flask. Even though he handed it to Robbie, he directed his focus to her. “Whisky. For the cold, aye?”
Trembling deeper into the folds of the wool blanket, she shook her head. “No thank ye. I will be fine with just the blanket.”
“Mi, come on. He’s just trying to be nice.” Robbie pushed the flask closer. “It’ll do ye good.”
“Listen to the boy, mistress. He makes good sense.” With a curt nod, the surprisingly thoughtful chief waved for the trip to continue and spurred his mount forward.
Robbie shoved it into her hands and hooded his blanket over his head. “What is that old saying ye always nag me with? Something about cutting off yer own nose to spite yer face?”
“Dinna sass me. I am not in the mood.” She unscrewed the cap, sniffed the contents, then hazarded a swig. It burned all the way down, then settled into a cozy pool of warmth in her stomach. She screwed the lid back on. One sip was enough for now.
They rode for what felt like forever, especially since every bump bounced her hard against the boards of the wagon. As they slowed to a stop, she pulled herself to her feet and rubbed her sore arse. “This is it?”
