Page 50 of In the Highlander's Bed

Gordon couldn’t remember a time when he’d been so frustrated. As he suspected, the men hadn’t been drilling while he was gone, and they were listless today, ever since word went out that Malcolm McDowell had deserted. Malcolm had been involved in the Cause long before even he had, and now he was gone, sneaking away like a thief in the night.

The men were losing heart, and Gordon feared that not even the Sword of the MacKenna could raise morale. He’d had to break up three fights today because tempers were short and nerves stretched thin.

The irony wasn’t lost on him. These men could be so headstrong when battling among themselves, but act completely cowed by the English. There had to be a way to switch their attitude around.

His only recourse was to work them doubly hard, but tired men didn’t fight—

“Do you smell that?” Thomas asked, interrupting Gordon’s thoughts.

“What?” Gordon asked, just before he caught a whiff of freshly baked bread.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve smelled anything that good,” Robbie said.

“And there’s meat cooking too,” Thomas agreed. “Smells like heaven. I wonder whose fire it is?”

At that moment, Anna and Madge, Willie MacKenna’s daughters, came around the bend in the road from the camp carrying a bucket filled with cold, clear water to drink. The men were surprised. The women had never done this before. Usually the men had to fetch their own.

“Is that bread we smell?” Robbie asked.

“Aye,” Anna answered. “Supper is almost ready and we’ve come to invite you to join us.”

“Us?” Robbie wondered.

“Yes, all the women have joined together to cook one meal for everyone this night,” Anna answered. “And a fine meal it is. Roast hares and bread and those turnips Father brought last week.”

Thomas didn’t wait for an order but started walking the quarter mile back to camp. The others quickly followed on his heels, Gordon among them.

The smell in the air was uncommonly delicious. He couldn’t remember when he’d had a meal that wasn’t some stew boiled to blandness.

They were met at the edge of the camp by two of the wives, Jane MacKenna and Rosie Dumbarton, who informed them there would be no eating until they had washed. The men did as ordered, some albeit grudgingly. Those were the ones who merely dipped their hands in water, while others willingly sought out the mush of soap.

Walking up to the camp from the loch, Gordon found many of the tents and makeshift dwellings relocated. And the livestock had all been headed to the far side of the camp.

Everyone, including Mad Maggie, was gathered around three huge fires that had been situated together in the middle of the camp. Black kettles bubbled with supper. Meat was being turned on a spit by several lads, while loaves of bread cooled on some wooden planks.

For a second Gordon was overwhelmed with thankfulness at seeing, finally, a show of organization. This was wise. It was as it should be.

However, his pleasure turned sour when he caught sight of Constance testing the contents of one pot with a wooden spoon. She had changed into a serviceable brown dress, an apron tied around her waist. After announcing the stew good, she happily spouted orders that his clansmen hurried to obey with far more enthusiasm than they had shown for anything he’d said in weeks—and an unreasonable anger settled upon his shoulders.

Twelve

Silence fell upon the camp as Gordon made his way toward the campfire, although those close to the food continued to help themselves.

Only Constance seemed unaware of his approach. She was too busy taking Peter MacKenna and Jamie Allen, two eleven-year-old lads, to task. The boys were constant troublemakers. The other women, including their mothers, had given up disciplining them, often expecting Gordon to see to the chore.

But not Constance.

“I told you exactly where I wanted those ashes, and you’ll not eat until you put them there,” she said.

“But that means we’ll have to scoop themallup,” Jamie answered.

“Yes, you will,” Constance replied without sympathy. “You should have put them in the bucket I told you to use in the beginning. Then, you’d be eating by now.”

Jamie opened his mouth to protest, then caught sight of Gordon. Angry defiance evaporated from his face and he bowed his head as contrite as a choirboy. “We’ll do it.”

Shocked by Jamie’s easy agreement, Peter glanced up and saw Gordon, too. His head lowered. “We will, miss.”

“Thank you,” Constance said with great satisfaction. “And hurry. There might not be any supper left if you dally.”