The Pretender (22 page)

“You’ve put her in your hellhole, haven’t you, Maclean?”

“Aye, she’s in the pit, MacKinnon,” he said. “What’s left o’ her, that is. But you’ll hae to get through me to get to her.”

Douglas wanted to kill the man. Now.

He lunged.

Maclean lifted his blade, slicing it crossways with both hands. The swords connected, the impact
resounding with a deafening clang. They jerked apart, facing each other. The only light was the moon and the heat of their rage.

Douglas charged, slashed, charged and slashed again with such force that there were sparks in the dim light from the clashing blades.

Douglas swung a wide arc, just missing his mark. Maclean lunged, ripping Douglas’s jacket and cutting into his shoulder.

Douglas grunted, brought up his arm and tightened his fingers around the hilt of his sword.

Slow down,
he told himself.
You will tire too quickly. Focus. Precision.

Douglas came to Maclean’s left side, sword ready.

He charged.

Twice Douglas sliced his sword into Maclean’s arm. He felt him weakening. They fought like warriors of old, swinging and wielding the steel of their swords in a battle dance more ancient than time. Douglas aimed his strikes with purpose, determined to prevail. They clashed again, and Douglas twisted his arm around, shoving Maclean hard against the wall. Maclean tried to break free. The end was near now. But Maclean suddenly pulled his dirk from his stocking, dropping his sword as he aimed for Douglas’s heart.

Douglas jerked back, nearly tripping on the fallen sword. Dirk raised, Maclean rushed at him. Douglas dropped to his knees, the blade of his sword pointed upward toward the charging Maclean. They met, and collided. The dirk came within inches of Douglas’s face. Douglas’s sword stuck a foot out of Maclean’s back.

Douglas yanked his sword free, yelling, “Iain, come.
She’s in the dungeon. It is in one of the towers. But I dinna know which one.”

“I’ll check the north,” Iain said, running.

Douglas headed for the west.

It was in the second tower, down a narrow, winding flight of steps that Douglas finally found the locked door. He charged with his shoulder despite his wound. The door splintered inward.

In the center of the floor was a yawning opening, looking like the mouth of hell.

“Elizabeth?”

There was no answer.

“Elizabeth!” he cried, kneeling at the side of it. Oh, God, he was too late.

“What are you yelling about, my lord?”

Douglas turned to see Elizabeth sitting high above him in the moonlight, tucked into a place where the stone wall of the tower had fallen to ruin. In her lap she held a sizeable stone. Four more of equal size were lined up beside her.

She smiled at him in the moonlight. “ ’Tis about time you got here. I had begun to think I was going to have to rescue myself.” She pointed to the stones. “I’ve been waiting for Maclean. I was going to clout him when he returned.”

Douglas dropped his sword, still slick with Maclean’s blood. It clattered to the floor as he reached to take her by the waist at the same time she slid down.

He grunted when she glanced his wounded arm.

“You’re hurt.”

“ ’Tis nothing.” He pressed his face into her hair.

“But how did you get out?”

Elizabeth stepped away, kneeling beside the dungeon’s hole. She reached inside and pulled out a rope—a rope fashioned out of petticoats.

“I was able to hook this around the jagged end of that rock and pull myself out.”

Douglas could only shake his head and laugh as he gathered her more tightly in his arms.

Early autumn, 1747

They were standing at the boat jetty when the ferryman’s sloop glided to meet them. The wind was brisk, tugging at the fringed ends of Elizabeth’s tartan shawl and teasing her hair from its pins. She scarcely noticed. She was standing on her toes, anxiously awaiting the boat’s arrival.

Not a moment after the mooring ropes had been secured, three figures disembarked and were racing up the pathway to meet them.

“Bess! We’re here!”

Elizabeth took Caroline in a joyous embrace.

“Caroline? It can’t be. Oh, look how you’ve grown. It has been little more than a year since I’ve gone. What happened to you?”

Gone were the pudgy cheeks, the rounded nose. In the time since Elizabeth had come to Skye, Caroline had grown up. Until she smiled, and the familiar twin
dimples dented her cheeks, making her appear once again like the child Elizabeth had left behind.

Mattie and Catherine besieged her next on each side, exchanging kisses and hugs and excited chatter.

“But where is Isabella? And Mother?” She looked to Caroline.

“ ’Tis Mother . . .”

“Has something happened to them?”

Elizabeth turned just as the duke came to join them. He took her in his arms and kissed her gently on her forehead.

“Father, what has happened to Mother? Has she been injured? Is she unwell?”

“Well, she has been complaining of a queasiness of late in her belly.” At Elizabeth’s worried look, he smiled. “Odd thing is, it only seems to bother her in the mornings.”

It took Elizabeth less than a moment. “Mother . . . is with child? Oh, good heavens!”

Her father beamed. “Aye, and she assures me that this time it is a son. Says only a miniature version of me could be causing her such distress. She wasn’t up to the journey, I’m afraid. Isabella stayed with her.”

The girls all started to chatter as the duke made his way to where Douglas stood, watching.

“We would have been here yesterday, MacKinnon, but we had to put in somewhere first along the way.” He grinned. “He said his wife would have his head if he didn’t go to see her first.”

Douglas simply looked at the duke. “Iain Dubh?”

“Aye, son, your uncle has come home.”

“Oh, Douglas!” Elizabeth threw her arms around his neck. “It is finally over.”

It had been a very long year.

After the MacKinnon party had landed Prince Charles safely on the mainland, Iain Dubh had sent his nephew Iain back to the isle, while he and Roderick stayed on. For a fortnight they had skulked about the Highlands. Several times they were within moments of capture, and at one time surely would have been, if not for the heroic Roderick MacKenzie.

One day, as they were hiding out in a cave near Glenmoriston, they found themselves surrounded by a company of government troops. The prince could see no means of escape. It was over . . .

. . . or so it had seemed.

Roderick, who was of similar appearance and build to the prince, would have none of it. Taking to his feet, he ran out of the cave alone, drawing the soldiers’ attention. There was no possible chance of escape, and one of the soldiers shot him. As the English surrounded him, he managed to say, “Alas, you have killed your prince. . . .”

The soldiers, unwilling to drag the man’s body all the way to Cumberland’s headquarters at Fort Augustus, simply cut off the dead man’s head as proof to collect their promised reward.

Roderick’s quick thinking had saved a prince’s life.

It wasn’t until weeks later that the Hanoverian general learned the truth, that he’d been duped into looking the ultimate fool, as well as letting the true prince escape to France.

Douglas had been devastated. It had been Eithne who had come to him, taking his hands in hers.

“I knew this would happen,” she said, reminding him of the vision she had seen that day at the burn. “I was prepared for it. My son died with honor and courage in the truest sense of the words. He has changed the course of history. Remember him for that, Douglas. Tell your children and their children his story, but do not lament his passing.”

It was but a week after Roderick’s death that Iain Dubh himself was captured by the British. He was put on board the
Furnace
under the command of the reprehensible Captain Fergusson, taken to London, and imprisoned in the Tower.

It had taken the Duke of Sudeleigh over a year to secure his pardon. As he was leaving the court bound for his home on Skye, the judge asked him what he would do if the Stuart were once again in his power, to which Iain Dubh dryly replied, “I would do to him as you have this day done to me; I would send him back to
his own
country.”

“I thank you for your efforts in securing my uncle’s pardon,” Douglas said to the duke. “If not for you, they would surely have hanged him.”

Two nights later, the great hall at Dunakin was aglow with brilliant candlelight, echoing with music from a fiddle and whistle as a great celebration, the likes of which hadn’t been seen since the previous century, was held.

At the table that stretched through the middle of the room, Douglas and Elizabeth sat with their son Roderick, born just the month before. Beside them was
Eithne, who had recently agreed to take rooms in the castle to help Elizabeth with the wee one’s care. They looked on, laughing and cheering, as Iain Dubh and his wife danced a lively jig and MacLeod of Raasay sat clapping his hands in time to the music. Elizabeth’s father and her three sisters were all sampling the haggis and whisky; even little Caroline had been given a taste, though she declared it quite nasty and pulled a funny face.

But there was one missing among the many gathered. He soon emerged from the shadows, bringing another with him.

“Iain,” said Douglas, “we were wondering where you’d run off to.”

“I am sorry for being late. I hope you won’t mind that I invited another guest.”

A dark-haired young girl stood beside him, peering meekly at Douglas from behind his brother’s shoulder.

“Muirne?”

Elizabeth spoke up then, answering her husband’s unspoken question. “Iain and I have offered Muirne the use of the croft cottage, Douglas.”

Douglas looked at her, unable to believe that both his wife and his former betrothed were standing together in front of him.

“Aye,” added Iain. “Mull has proven to be too far away for planning a wedding.”

“Wedding?” Douglas looked from his wife to his brother. “You?”

Iain didn’t even have to answer. He just looked at Muirne and his eyes went soft with emotion. “I have asked and Muirne has agreed to become my wife.”

Elizabeth leaned her head against her husband’s shoulder. “He wasn’t sure how you would feel about it, so he came to me first, to ask what I would think if he asked for Muirne’s hand. I told him I thought it simply wonderful.”

Douglas took his wife into his arms, whirling her around until she was giggling out loud.

He couldn’t have agreed with her more.

Dear Reader:

I hope you have enjoyed reading Douglas and Elizabeth’s adventure as much as I have enjoyed writing it. While the story itself is purely the work of my overactive imagination, a good deal of the events around which it is set are factual.

While Douglas Dubh MacKinnon is a character of my creation, the place where he made his home, now in ruins, can be seen to this day. Caisteal Maol, once known as Dunakin, sits on a lonely promontory near the present day village of Kyleakin on the eastern shore of Skye. Built by a Norse princess and her MacKinnon husband, it has stood looking out on the Scottish mainland for more than one thousand years. It is the only MacKinnon possession still in clan hands.

There was indeed a MacKinnon chief named Iain Dubh who lived on the isle of Skye during those turbulent times. Although he didn’t, to my knowledge, have a nephew named Douglas, he did take a substantial role in the Jacobite rebellion of 1745. His actions, as they
affected the events of history, have been portrayed in this story as true to life as I have been able to determine. From all accounts I have found of him, he was a great and honorable man.

In the aftermath of the Jacobite rebellion, the MacKinnon clan was vital in helping the prince, Charles Edward Stuart, escape to the mainland and eventually back to France. There is a legend surrounding these events which contends that the prince did indeed give Lady MacKinnon the gift of a recipe for a special blend of whisky. That drink, the Drambuie liqueur, is still bottled today by descendants of the MacKinnon clan, and each bottle bears the inscription,
Cuimhnich an tabhartas Prionnsa
—Remember the gift of the prince.

When traveling through Scotland it is almost impossible to miss the many monuments and historical markers that record the various events of that fateful final rebellion. One such marker, found on a lonely stretch of roadway, lies deep in the Highlands where the prince hid for his life that long ago summer. At the edge of the Beinneun Forest near Glenmoriston, a cairn was erected in honor of a fallen Jacobite hero who gave his life to save a bonnie prince. The inscription upon it reads:

At this spot in 1746 died Roderick MacKenzie an Officer in the Army of Prince Charles Edward Stuart of the same size and similar resemblance to his Royal Prince when surrounded and overpowered by the troops of the Duke of Cumberland gallantly died in attempting to save his fugitive leader from further pursuit.

Across the roadway, nearly hidden in the trees, an unadorned cross marks his place of final rest. On it is simply carved
R
.
M
. 1746.

In concluding this story, I wish to thank first and foremost my editor, Hilary Ross, whose patience and understanding while I created this tale never once wavered. To Susan King, with whom I traversed the Highlands of Scotland on a journey during which this story first took root. Thanks for the wonderful memories and your constant friendship. And lastly, to my readers. Thank you for your letters and e-mails. They are a treasure to me. I hope you’ll watch for my next story, in which Elizabeth’s younger sister Isabella finds herself swept up in a whirlwind adventure that takes her straight into the arms of another handsome Highland hero.

Until then . . .

J.R.