Page 19 of To Win a Highlander’s Heart

She studied the twenty men on horses advancing into the courtyard below. Surely they were not here to do battle, for there were far more MacLeods who could fight and overwhelm the small contingent of soldiers. Nay, they were here for another purpose. To find her? To threaten the MacLeods as they had other clans on the isle?

That was when one man separated himself from the others to ride at the head of the group. Lieutenant Collins. He came to a stop in front of the group of fifty MacLeods who had assembled outside and dismounted. Instead of approaching Alastair, Collins stopped and looked up, directly at the window from which she peered down.

Isolde shrank back out of sight as her heart pounded in her ears. She was up at least two storeys in the castle, with no light behind her. It would be impossible, if the lieutenant had truly seen her, to fully identify her. Isolde clenched her fingers, longing to hold her bow and quiver. At least with her weapon in hand, she might be able to defend herself. “Emlyn. Go find Gwendolyn and stay with her.”

“What’s wrong?” the child asked, her eyes wide and frightened once more.

“Please. It is urgent that you do what I say.”

The little girl nodded and left the chamber.

Isolde fought the urge to run. If the English found her leaving Dunvegan, she would only make things worse for the MacLeods. But she wasn’t about to stay in her chamber either.

Retrieving the discarded ribbons near the bedside, Isolde used them to fashion her blanket into a makeshift gown over her sleeping shift. Once that was complete, she headed for the door. It was imperative she find where Orrick and the others had stored her weapon. That, or find some other weapon with which to defend herself and the others in this castle. The MacLeods had taken the girl out of the wilderness, but no one could take the warrior out of this girl.

*

Distant but steadily advancing hoofbeats came towards the castle’s courtyard. Orrick’s hands slowly clenched into fists as he watched the English soldiers. One man broke away from the columns of men to position his horse at the front.

Alastair, Tormod, Orrick, and Graeme Duff, the Dunvegan captain of the guard, all stood together with their swords at their sides while fifty of the castle guards settled behind them, ready to fight should that become necessary.

“I thought the English had retreated for the winter?” Tormod asked of no one in particular.

“Follow my lead,” Alastair said. “Try to act as though everything is normal at this castle. Let me do the talking and see if we can end this with a dialogue. If things get out of hand, watch Graeme for the signal to attack.”

Tormod rose up on the balls of his feet and fisted then relaxed his hands as excitement crossed his features. Orrick had seen that look of exhilaration on his brother’s face many times in the West Indies. No matter the odds or what was at stake, Tormod loved the thrill of battle. And Alastair, he would try diplomacy every time before resorting to the sword.

In the past, Orrick might have played the part of the deceiver and battled the English in a different way. Yet, until he vanquished this thing inside him—the memories of those lives he’d taken—he would avoid battle if at all possible.

“Hold steady,” Graeme said, his gaze intense as the leader of the English troops dismounted and came forward. The man in the scarlet jacket paused and looked up for a moment before returning his gaze to those before him and offering them a rigid bow. “Lieutenant Cornelius Collins of the twenty-ninth regiment.”

“Why are you here?” Alastair asked bluntly without introducing himself.

Collins’s eyes were small and ferret-like, and they flicked over the men standing before him as though trying to discern their secrets. “The commander-in-chief of Scotland asked me to return to follow up on reports of clan unrest. Word has reached us that clan MacQueen raided the village of Orbost five days ago. We passed by on our way here. There doesn’t seem to be much left of the village or anyone who lived there.”

“We brought those who survived back to Dunvegan where we can protect them,” Alastair said.

The lieutenant’s eyes narrowed to slits. “Protect them from your own people? Is this what the Highlands have become? Herders and fishermen attacking their own mothers for sport?” The lieutenant laughed and the men behind him shared a laugh as well. “I’ve heard rumours that the MacLeods are the Guardians of the Isles. What will you do, MacLeod? Shelter everyone in this godforsaken land behind your castle walls?”

“If I must.” Alastair’s voice was a sheet of ice and Orrick knew his brother was having a difficult time finding a diplomatic tone in the face of such accusations.

Orrick watched as the lieutenant’s hand moved towards the pistol in his belt. With a forced laugh, Orrick shifted towards the man and clapped an arm around his shoulders, stopping the lieutenant’s movements. “Where are our manners? We should invite you in for a wee dram and talk about this like civilised men. What say you, brothers?” Deflection. It was one of his tricks. Orrick knew it had worked when he felt the lieutenant’s shoulders relax.

“Do you distil the whisky yourselves?” Lieutenant Collins asked with interest, allowing Orrick to lead him inside.

“We have a small distillery set up on the isle that uses peated malt and grain from Speyside and the Highlands.” Alastair stared at Orrick as though he’d gone daft. Orrick knew what he was doing, bringing the Englishman inside. They’d share some spirits like gentlemen, make polite conversation, then they would send the man and his army on their way. It was the only way to make the MacLeods appear to cooperate with the English and prove they had nothing to hide.

Lieutenant Collins nodded. “I daresay Scottish whisky has been one of the better parts of being dispatched to this country.”

Alastair, Tormod, and Graeme followed behind as Orrick led the Englishman to the great hall. When they entered, Becks, their steward, greeted them. “I heard your conversation below and I’ve set the head table with all that you desire.” Indeed, six bottles of MacLeod whisky and several glasses had been set out for their use.

Only the lieutenant and six of his men sat. The others stood along the walls, watching those seated around the table. Orrick tensed when he heard a startled intake of breath. He traced the sound to a lump of tartan under a table at the back of the room. With luck, these men would be so focused on what was happening at the table that they wouldn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. Acting as though they had meetings such as this every day, Becks opened two of the bottles and poured a generous splash into the glasses before placing them in front of the Englishmen.

Lieutenant Collins was the first to raise his glass and take a sip of the amber liquid. He finished with a smile. “Perfection.”

“Why did you come back to Scotland?” Alastair asked from his seat across from the lieutenant. “I doubt it was concern for the villagers of Orbost.”

Lieutenant Collins took another sip before answering. “Lieutenant General Handasyd was concerned that the Highlanders were going to war.”