Their journey north through Manchester, Glasgow, Fort William and all the places in between had been excruciatingly slow due to the rough terrain. They’d stopped for breaks during the day to change horses and at night to lodge at traveling inns. Despite the terrible roads in Scotland, they had made good time. Even though the Scottish Turnpike Act of 1713 had called for proper turnpike roads in Aberdeenshire and Banffshire, the roads not yet been built, not only that, but further Acts for the rest of Scotland had ceased because of the lack of funds.
Their group had left Hortons lodge the day after Slade kissed her. And she’d kissed him back. He’d made her body quiver, her skin flare, and her blood burn with desire, despite the panicking side of her. She’d been forced to rethink everythingshe ever believed possible. She’d been forced to rethink what she wanted. Mortification even now swirled in her belly when she remembered how she had broken the kiss out of pure panic.
Phoebe opened the coach’s window and breathed in the cool air. The familiar earthy fragrance with traces of drying heather and thistle overpowered the humidity from nearby Loch Shiel. Poppy red and brown rolling bens, peach yellow and apricot-orange dipping glens, lochs the color of blue sapphire and clumps of tall forest green pine, vivid ruddy alder and oak signaled she was in the Highlands.
Bittersweetness swelled and simultaneously crushed her heart and soul. Here at home, she’d experienced it all, euphoric happiness, the darkest dregs of hell, the saddest, coldest misery and everything in between. The first nine years of her young life with her beloved and mischievous Alex by her side had been happy and carefree. But then, the pain of losing her other half, Alex, in a fatal riding accident had been beyond unbearable. Egan had been away fostering with the MacDonell and Alex had missed him so much, especially since Egan said he would be home for Alex’s tenth birthday. He’d sneaked out of Eileanach, heading towards Inbhir Garadh where Egan was fostering. He was thrown from his horse. They found him later halfway between Eileanach and Inbhir Garadh; his neck broken. But Phoebe never blamed Egan. He’d been training, as he would one day have to take over Eileanach.
Then Ross had cracked her world, making her unclean, filthy, and unsafe, letting in sinister nightmares and demons. Unsafe not only because she recognized the possible threat from every single man she’d encountered since then, but unsafe in her own skin, because it didn’t fit right since that terrible day. And there had been anger and frustration at her father, for lavishing all his attention on Egan, and then for forbidding her from joining the rebels.
She’d been heartsick when her childhood friend Slade lost his betrothed, causing him to leave the Highlands. Yes, she’d been jealous of Slade’s betrothed. She shouldn’t have been, but she was. What kind of a friend was she? He’d been lost without his Sylvia, as if his life’s compass had been broken. She’d secretly wished she could mean as much to him as Sylvia had. And somewhere in the deepest, darkest part of her mind and in the blackest recesses of her heart, she’d not grieved for Sylvia’s death, only for Slade’s loss. The honesty and horror with which this now speared her belly was unbearable. She hated herself because of it. But she would do better now, she promised herself.
A flash of wind whipped Phoebe’s cheeks just as she spotted the other Hanbury coach in their traveling party, containing Slade and Peter, moving north, a little up ahead on the same deeply grooved earthen road. The other coach, like theirs, was manned by an experienced and uniformed Hanbury footman and driver.
They should be approaching Glenfinnan about now, and nothing looked out of the ordinary. No visible signs of redcoat armies. There should be time to warn the villagers of the pending attack by Bolingbroke’s men. But if Bolingbroke’s first and second lieutenants were carrying out illegal raids against Jacobite rebel villages, their armies wouldn’t be uniformed, would they? The Indemnity Act lifted further legal penalties for Jacobites, but a little thing like the law never stopped Bolingbroke and his men.
Glenfinnan, a hamlet in the Lochaber area of the Scottish Highlands on the shores of Loch Shiel, was both famed and cursed for being the start of the current rebellion. It was where Prince Charles Edward Stuart, leader of the Movement and rebellion, first raised his standard two years prior due to overwhelming support for his opposition to the Hanoverian monarch, George II.
Now, just as their coach made a right on a sharp turn in the road, Phoebe’s pulse elevated as her shoulders tightened and chills ran down her spine. A line of smoke rose above the tops of dry trees and disappeared into the sky. No. No. No! She’d hoped to get here in time to warn the villagers before the redcoats arrived. Her heart slammed against her chest, fear and adrenaline alike surging inside her. She pulled her head in and shut the coach’s window.
Her first thoughts were of Slade and her friends, and how she didn’t want them getting hurt. And then there was the fact that the Movement operated in total secrecy. She could never reveal her mission to anyone. She had to quietly slip away unnoticed, so that they may continue on without her.
Phoebe grabbed the David Hume volume from the seat beside her and used it to hit the roof of the coach, signaling the driver to stop.
Martha, who was half asleep on the seat across from her, blinked slowly, her kind motherly face lined with somnolence and tiredness from travel. “Is aught amiss, Mistress Dunbar? Are we stopping?”
“Nothing amiss, Martha. We will be at the inn in about an hour or two, I imagine. I just require a brief stop to retrieve another book from my trunk. No need to wake Lucia,” Phoebe answered in a soft whisper, hating herself for lying. She had to let their group continue on their journey while she took a detour. She didn’t want them anywhere near Glenfinnan. She didn’t want anyone getting hurt.
Martha nodded in acquiescence as Phoebe grabbed her unusually heavy reticule.
When the big-boned footman pulled opened the coach’s door, Phoebe alighted and closed the door. She handed her oversized reticule to the footman, who’d been attentive and solicitous throughout their journey. She made her way to theback of the coach and untied one of two bridled and saddled bay geldings they had in tow.
“Mistress Dunbar?” The footman said, his brows raised in question.
Phoebe hoisted herself onto the horse’s back and reached down for her reticule from the footman, who eyed her in stark confusion.
“I am meeting a friend in a nearby Glenfinnan village. I’ll come straight to the Black Hog’s Tavern right after. That’s where we’re stopping for the night, isn’t it?” Phoebe asked.
For the first time since the commencement of their journey, abject horror carved itself into their footman’s features. His brown eyes bulged above a narrow, well-kept gray moustache. “Yes, our destination is the Black Hog’s. But I really must protest, Mistress Dunbar. It is quite unorthodox, imprudent, and unsafe for you to leave our traveling party alone and unescorted.”
“Keep your voice down, least you wake your mistress,” Phoebe whispered sharply.
“But … but …” the footman stammered, seeming at a loss for words.
Phoebe hardened her expression and stared him straight in the eye. “Do you value the life of your mistress?”
Both his brows shot up in a stunned and slightly insulted expression. “Yes, of course I do.”
“Then you will get her as far away from here as you can, as fast as you can, and say nothing of this to Slade or Peter. Do you understand?” Phoebe said.
The footman’s mouth slammed shut, and his throat muscles worked as he bobbed a nod, eyes as wide as plates.
CHAPTER 30
Phoebe guided the bay gelding into a perfect turning transition then dug her heels into its sides, directing the beast off the road and in the direction of the smoke. She urged the horse to move faster and faster. Her black twill travel dress with wide skirts and her sweeping black cloak billowed behind her. Propriety must be sacrificed during missions, since riding sidesaddle, the more respectable option, was nothing but an encumbrance.
She easily circumvented trees and their almost bare branches as she furtively neared the black rising smoke as it grew higher, mingling with crackling orangish-yellow flames. The heat from the burning village, with about twenty wattle and daub cottages, most of them on fire, hit her as if approaching the very bowels of hell.
Horror and fear clenched her stomach at the highly trained men shooting unarmed villagers with army-issued bayoneted flintlock muskets. They were attacking mostly frightened farmers. Cries for mercy in Scottish brogues fell on deaf ears. Seven or eight of them shot in the back for their resistance. The armed attackers bellowing with sharp English accents were fewer in number, but they were fast, aggressive, andruthless. Most prefer flintlock pistols over rapiers. They slapped away wailing children and caught screaming women. At least five of them being dragged back from fleeing by their hair. Why weren’t these poor souls more prepared? Hadn’t Falcon’s missive reached them? Could the messenger have been waylaid or captured by the English?
