Prologue
Western Highlands of Scotland, April 1802
“I think we’re lost,” Diarmid said, trudging along the narrow path a few feet behind Hamish.
Hamish could hear how hard his eleven-year-old cousin fought to stop his voice trembling with fear. He was frightened, too, and he was only ten, but as was his habit, he hid his disquiet beneath humor. “We can’t be lost. My mother will kill me if I’m not home for breakfast.”
The weak attempt at a joke didn’t do much to lighten Diarmid’s mood. “You said you could guide us by the stars.”
“I could until the moon came up,” Hamish retorted, wrapping his arms around his chest to contain a shiver. The day had been warm for April; the night turned bitterly cold.
“I can’t even see the moon anymore.”
No, damn it, he couldn’t either, and then the blasted mist had risen, as well. Although his mother wouldn’t like him swearing, even if only in his head.
On a bright, clear night, he and his cousin had set out to stargaze. They’d sneaked out of their tower bedroom in the rambling hunting lodge their parents had rented for a few weeks. The trip offered a chance for the two families to get together, for the Macgrath sisters to catch up on gossip, and for the children to play.
The moment he heard about the plan to stay in the hills outside Plockton, Hamish had been ecstatic. His cousin Diarmid, a whole year older, always struck him as the finest fellow in the world. And any masculine company made a nice change from a household shrill with three older sisters, and now the addition of a baby girl in arms.
When he’d climbed out of the high window and down the old oak tree, an excursion in the open air had seemed a great lark. Now thick mist rose about them, the temperature dropped toward freezing, and the slopes were so steep and rocky that if he or Diarmid stumbled on the path, a plunge to the death surely awaited.
“We should wait here,” Hamish said. “It’s too dangerous to go on. I brought a tinderbox to make a fire.”
“I doubt we’ll find any dry kindling,” Diarmid said. Hamish began to find his cousin’s habit of looking on the negative side rather grating.
“We’re still better off stopping.” Hamish turned back to Diarmid who formed an indistinct black shape against the looming rock. “It’s too dark to see our way, and the mist is getting worse.”
“If we stay in one place, we’ll freeze to death.” His cousin stood a few feet away, and Hamish felt him staring back through the murk.
“If we go on, we’ll fall off a cliff.”
“Is that any better?”
Diarmid had a point. But Hamish was tired of fumbling around in the dark, especially as he had a horrid suspicion that for at least the last hour, they’d gone around in circles.
A grim silence descended. Hamish shivered again and curled his toes against the soles of his boots to try to restore the circulation. When he left the hunting lodge, he’d been snug in his thick coat and woolen socks and stout boots. Now he was colder than he’d ever been in his life. His home on the coast at Glen Lyon was much gentler country than these wild northern climes.
“Hullooo!”
At first, the sound seemed a trick of the gusting wind.
“Hullooo, up the brae!”
“Is that…” Hamish asked, turning his head, though mist and darkness prevented him seeing anything.
Diarmid lifted his head and shouted. “We’re up here!”
“Are ye in trouble?” This time there was no mistaking that the sound was human, although it was difficult to tell from which direction it came.
“Yes. We’re lost.”
“Then don’t move.”
“Should we keep shouting so you can find us?” Hamish called out.
“Aye,” came the ghostly reply.
“What shall we shout?” Hamish asked.
Over the last acrimonious hour, Diarmid’s hero status had lost some of its shine, but Hamish had never admired his cousin more than when he broke into a stirring tune.
“Scots, wha hae wi’ Wallace bled,
Scots, wham Bruce has aften led;
Welcome tae yer gory bed,
Or to victory.”
Hamish laughed with a shaming trace of relief and joined in the song. Now that rescue was on the way, their scrape turned back into a grand adventure.
They were into their second reprise before two figures emerged from the mist on the path ahead of him. One was a large, black dog of indeterminate breed. The other was…
“But you’re just a boy, too,” he said, his brief hope of safety vanishing and all his earlier fear rushing up in a choking wave.
“I’m all of fourteen,” the lad said huffily, lifting the lantern he carried to reveal Hamish and Diarmid shivering on the ledge. Under a long leather coat, their rescuer wore a rough linen shirt and a red and black kilt. A brace of dead hares dangled from his wide black leather belt. “I’ll have ye ken I’m u
p to bringing a pair of brainless Sassenach laddies down a brae. You’re lucky I was out chasing some game and heard your voices on the wind.”
“My cousin didn’t mean—” Diarmid said.
“I’m no Sassenach,” Hamish interjected. “I’m as Scots as you are. I’m going to be the Laird of Glen Lyon one day.”
“Och, is that so?” The newcomer sounded skeptical as he peered at Hamish through the flickering light and clearly found nothing noteworthy. “Yet here ye are, sounding like ye live in Mayfair and take tea with King George every afternoon.”
This time, Hamish was grateful for the unreliable light. It hid his blush. His father might be hereditary master of beautiful Glen Lyon, but he’d worked for years at the War Office in London, and Hamish had spent the last two years at Eton.
“I mightn’t sound Scottish, but it’s what’s in your heart that counts,” he muttered.
The tall, thin boy with dark red hair subjected him to a searching regard, then smiled with sudden, surprising charm. “Well said, laddie. I beg your pardon. I’m Fergus Mackinnon, and I am the laird of this glen. I’m guessing you’re staying in the hunting lodge beside the loch.”
“Aye,” Diarmid said, and Hamish noted his cousin made an effort to sound Scots, too, even though he went to Harrow and his school was as much a bastion of the English establishment as Eton was. “I’m Diarmid Mactavish, and this is my cousin Hamish Douglas. We’re devilish glad to see you, Master Mackinnon.”
Mackinnon arched an eyebrow and rested his free hand on the dog’s shaggy head as it sat at his side, observing the conversation with intelligent yellow eyes. The boy’s manner was altogether superior, and Hamish wasn’t sure he liked him, although he was deuced thankful someone had come along to lead them down the mountain. “I suppose you’re a wee laird as well?”
Diarmid pulled himself up to a full height that was impressive for an eleven-year-old, if not equal to Mackinnon’s. “Not yet, but I will be. My father is the Laird of Invertavey, down on the coast by Oban.”
“Then it’s a gey distinguished gathering we have indeed.” More irony. “What I want to ken is why two bairns are out so late, wandering the hillsides of Achnasheen on a dreich night that promised mist.”