1
Cambay, Northern India, Summer 1844
Captain David Cameron entered his bungalow after an afternoon of drilling his men under the brutal sun. With a sigh, he removed his hat so he could wipe his face with one of the small towels hanging on a rack by the door. "If the day was any hotter, my pith helmet would be melting off my head."
His friend, Captain Alan Roberts, who shared the bungalow, lay on a wicker chaise under the huge fan, its fabric-covered vanes slowly turning, powered by a servant stationed on the verandah outside. Eyes closed, he murmured, "I don't mind if I get sent to hell when I die. It can't possibly be hotter than this. By the way, you have a nice fat letter from home."
Pleased, David collected the letter from the tray that held correspondence and sank into a chair that was also under the fan. The letter was from his older brother Ian in Scotland. He accepted a cool glass of lemonade from the house servant with a murmur of thanks, then opened the letter.
Greetings from cool, rainy Scotland! By the time you receive this, it will be high summer in Cambay and only slightly cooler than the hinges of Hades. I think of summer in India whenever I feel inclined to complain of too much rain. Without rain, Scotland wouldn't be so green, after all!
A surge of memory swept away the heat and dust of the day, filling David's mind with mist and cool green dreams. The younger brother of a baron, David's father had become a diplomat so his children had spent years living in exotic desert kingdoms. But they'd been sent back to Britain for schooling and spent long holidays with their uncle, Lord Falkirk, on the eastern coast of Scotland.
All parts of the world held beauty, but Scotland had captured David's heart from his very first visit. His mother said he had a Celtic soul, and she was right. His vague plan for his future, if he didn't die in the meantime, had been to accumulate enough worldly goods to buy a home of his own in Scotland.
The dream had strengthened after his brother Ian unexpectedly inherited the Falkirk title, married, and left the Indian army to return to Scotland. David didn't want the title because that would mean his brother was dead, but he'd envied Ian's return to Scotland. He'd also envied Ian for finding a warm and wonderful wife.
A fierce, unexpected idea seared through David like a lightning bolt. He was almost thirty. Since he wanted Scotland and a family, why wait? He was too much a Scot to live extravagantly, so he'd used his savings to export Indian luxuries like jewels and silks to Britain. Reinvesting his profits over the years had gradually built a comfortable fortune. Enough to leave the army and return to Scotland if he wished.
The realization that he could achieve his dreams now was breathtaking. He began to make mental calculations. It would take some weeks to resign his commission and wind up his affairs here. How long before he could leave for Scotland?
When he came out to India, it had been on a sailing ship around the Cape of Good Hope and the six month journey had been considered a speedy passage. Steamships had changed that. He could take a paddler to Suez, overland to Alexandria, then another steamship to England and be home in two months or so.
A slow smile spread across his face. A rational man would ponder and weigh the pluses and minuses of leaving the army and returning home, but David was a Scot, which meant he was only rational some of the time. The biggest decisions of his life tended to be made in a heartbeat, and he hadn't regretted any of them. This feltright.
He moved to his desk and began a letter to Ian and Laura.
I've decided it's time to sell out and return to Scotland. Barring the unforeseen, I'll be home for Christmas. If you see a nice Scottish lassie you think might suit me, invite her to Falkirk for Hogmanay!
Home for the holidays….
2
Northumberland, December 18th, 1844
Tomorrow he'd be in Scotland. David had been tempted to press on, but the short northern day was almost over and a storm was coming, so he decided to be sensible and stop for the night at this small coaching inn. This far north, inns were scarce, and the George looked like a pleasant place. His journey from India had gone smoothly and he could easily reach Falkirk in time for Christmas. Then Hogmanay since Scots celebrated the ending of the old year and the beginning of the new.
His room was small but clean, so he settled in and washed up and headed downstairs for dinner. He reached the tap room just as the front door opened with a gust of icy wind and snowflakes that blew in three travelers. The storm was worsening because the cloaked figures had snow clinging to their clothing. They were a middle aged couple and a young woman assisted by the older man.
David was thinking they were lucky to have arrived before the storm worsened when he heard a metallic clanking. His gaze sharpened and he realized that under the hooded cloak the young woman was gagged and her wrists were manacled.
As he stopped and stared, the girl broke free of the man and pivoted violently, swinging her chain as a weapon. The man dodged back, swearing as the swinging chain smashed into his upper arm.
Her hood fell back revealing tangled red hair and frantic dark eyes. She looked like a madwoman as she swung at the man again.
David instinctively stepped up behind her and wrapped his arms around her shoulders and waist, trapping her arms and immobilizing her. "Peace," he said softly, "peace…."
Speaking as he would to a frightened animal, he continued, "You're safe now, lassie.Safe. No one will hurt you here. Just relax."
She wasn't short, but she felt delicate as a frantic bird in his arms. She became still, but her slim body trembled. She twisted her head to stare up at him and he saw the wildness in her face. Cautiously he released his hold, alert for another outburst, but she didn't move, just continued to stare at him with huge amber eyes.
"Is it necessary to have her bound and gagged?" he asked with a frown. "It's enough to make anyone frantic."
"Our cousin bites," the female half of the couple said sourly. She held up a bandaged hand. "We're Mr. and Mrs. Dawson. We don't want to hurt Catherine, but she makes that very difficult."
"And she screams vile, filthy curses," Mr. Dawson added. "Not fit for female ears." He glanced toward the innkeeper's young daughter, Sally McKay, who was watching wide-eyed. "We're taking the girl to an asylum and want to get her there safely."
Reluctantly David accepted that. He'd seen madness and knew that even a frail looking female could possess violent strength. "How does she eat?"
