Lord of the Highlands (38 page)

“There she is.” The driver pointed to a figure walking along the side of the road. It was a woman, in a lavender gown, scrubbing at her face. “That’s your friend, right?”

“Good Lord, is she carrying a sword?”

“Watch out, dude, looks like she bought a claymore.”

“Out,” Will gritted. He jiggled the door handle. “I must get out.”

“Whoa.” The driver screeched to a halt. “You’ve gotta wait til I stop.”

Will spilled from the car. He shouted for her, ran to her. His Felicity. He couldn’t reach her soon enough.

She saw him, and momentary bewilderment flickered into joy.

He pumped his legs harder, elation swelling in his chest. His body slammed into hers, and he swept her up at once into an embrace. Will swung her around and around, laughing and kissing her all over.

“How . . . ?” She studied him, tears marking thin paths down her dirty cheeks. “And your legs,” she shouted, realizing suddenly.

“I couldn’t be without you,” he told her. His eyes consumed her, so lovely, so right, in her soiled and tattered dress. For the first time in his life, Will knew perfect joy. “And so I came to be with you. If you’ll have me.”

“Oh yes, Will.” She stood on her toes, whispering her words on his lips. “I’ll have you.”

Epilogue

The dew was cool on Felicity’s bare feet. The grass sounded a tiny squeak every time Will spun her before him. His hand was strong and sure at her waist, the other warm and enveloping hers.

Her heart filled to watch him, to watch his smile. These days, a smile lit Will’s features more often than not. He was so handsome in the moonlight, laughing low, twirling her, lifting her.

Her Viking loved to dance.

And they danced now under the stars. Their favorite thing, stealing this time alone together. The children asleep, their only music the rustle and squeak of dewy grass and the faraway bleat of their neighbor’s sheep.

They’d chosen to stay in Scotland, in Perthshire, in a country cottage on land that rolled gently to the banks of the River Tay. Duncrub Castle was only a memory now, but they still loved to sneak away when they could, for a quick tumble along their Roman road.

Felicity loved Scotland, where never before had she felt so truly, deeply at home. At first, she’d worried what Livia would think.

But that was before she’d realized her aunt had long harbored fantasies of finding herself some brawny, gray-bearded blacksmith. And though Livvie had yet to encounter just the right candidate, she seemed to be enjoying the hunt, making her way from isle to isle in the Hebrides.

She thought she heard something. Putting her hand on Will’s shoulder, she stilled him. They locked eyes. Speaking wasn’t necessary; he’d know what she was doing.

Their youngest was just shy of a year old, and Felicity was still getting used to the fact that she no longer needed to be on call all night, through the night.

They paused, and while she listened, Will kissed her. His mouth was warm and soft on her neck, her jaw, her ear. “Baby Olivia sleeps yet, love,” he whispered to her. He unbuttoned her sweater, roving his hand under her shirt. His skin was hot on her cool breast. “But I find myself feeling very awake at present,” Will murmured, nipping at her ear.

“I’m sorry I’m so nervous.” She tangled her fingers in his hair, and it was the only invitation he needed.

“Not too nervous,” Will told her, and he reached a hand around her back. Clutching her bottom, he pulled her closer to him.

He was hard for her, and she giggled, flush with pleasure. He seemed always ready for her.

“You’re perfect with them,” he said, referring to their three sleeping kids. “The greatest mother I could imagine.”

“Your mom didn’t exactly set a stellar example.”

“No indeed,” he said with a low laugh. His kisses stilled. He pulled from her, tracing her hair from her cheek, tucking it behind her ear. “I wonder what came of them.”

Felicity knew he referred to his parents. Though folk like the Campbells and MacDonalds lit the pages of history books like major constellations, there was not so much about Clan Rollo. They’d tried researching, but hadn’t been able to find much beyond dates of birth and death, and some of Will’s own exploits on the battlefield.

They’d found all kinds of stuff about Ewen Cameron, though. Some of the poems written for him had made Felicity roll her eyes. But mostly they made her smile with the memory of him. She was happy he’d lived a good, long life.

“Do you think Ewen did it?” she asked abruptly. “Went back and saved Robert, I mean?”

“Well,” he mused, “the labyrinth is certainly there, as we both well know.” Resting his elbows on her shoulders, he stretched his arms around her, hands clasped thoughtfully. “Aye, lass. If I know the laird Cameron, I think he’d have found a way to save his foster brother. The man did live til the age of ninety, so whatever he did, he managed to survive it.”

“And with well over a dozen kids too.” Felicity shook her head, exaggerated dismay on her face. “God, Lily . . . That poor woman.”

They shared a laugh, and she watched her husband, watched as those chiseled features softened, his hazel eyes looking to someplace faraway.

“Do you miss it?” she asked quietly. “Old Scotland, I mean?”

“Och,” he smiled. His eyes scanned around them, taking in the world they’d built together. A cottage, land, trees. She traveled twice a week into Perth, where she was studying to be a veterinarian. They had a paddock full of horses, and Will had a rich life as a horse breeder, and, she believed, the best kids’ riding instructor in the Highlands. “I love our life,” he told her.

Cupping her chin, he added, “You forget what gifts your modern age gives. Here, where the water runs, but the blood does not. So, no, lass.” He smiled. “I don’t miss it one wee bit.”

He spun her suddenly, and she yelped in surprise. Will reeled her to him, dipped her, and stole a quick kiss.

He pulled Felicity back up, keeping her tucked close. “My life is where you are. You, my delight. And besides, love,” he said, giving Felicity a loving little swat to her rump. “I find you to be a very bonny dancer.”

They laughed, and kissed, and Will and Felicity walked arm in arm back inside, to peek at the kids one last time for the night.

Author’s Note

Compared to the histories of my previous heroes, there is next to nothing written about William Rollo. We do know that he was “lame,” though I haven’t been able to uncover how or why. We also know that he was a gifted cavalry soldier who fought closely with his friend James Graham.

He had an older brother, James Rollo, who truly did go from James Graham’s sister to Campbell’s. I couldn’t find many facts about the eldest Rollo son beyond that, but you can imagine just how irresistible I found that nugget alone.

Perthshire does indeed bear traces of the ancient Romans, including a road and marching camps. And a monument to Maggie Wall still stands outside the village of Dunning.

In fact, it’s estimated that at least fifteen hundred people were executed for witchcraft in Scotland during three peak periods: the 1590s, 1640s, and 1660s. A young, zealous minister named Alexander Robertson was responsible for many accusations, though his heyday was in the early 1660s, postdating my story by a few years.

The Sealed Knot society did exist, plotting in secret for the restoration of the King. Though we don’t know for sure if James Butler, the Marquis of Ormonde, was a member, he did conspire on a number of occasions with Royalist agitators. Though he wasn’t in the Tower in 1658, that year found him narrowly escaping capture by Cromwell’s agents.

Edward Massey was indeed a trusted ally of Charles II, and he also escaped imprisonment at least twice: once from the Tower of London by climbing from a chimney and then from the Gloucester militia who’d discovered him plotting an insurrection.

I blurred my timing by a few months. The fact is, there was no single dramatic event that precipitated Charles’s return to the throne. And you can imagine how we authors hate not having Dramatic Events! This is how I came to incorporate Massey’s story.

As for the Parliamentarians, in what was a surprising turn, Richard Cromwell took over as Lord Protector after his father, the infamous Oliver Cromwell, died in 1658. Richard was indeed known as “Tumbledown Dick,” or “Queen Dick.” Under pressure from an army that despised him, he resigned in May 1659. This predates the real Massey’s capture and escape, which took place in July of that same year.

And finally, Dear Reader, you’ll please forgive me the following. As a result of Will’s relative obscurity, I didn’t have a full picture of his life when I began writing. I managed to unearth tidbits as I went along, discovering to my dismay that I inadvertently changed some pretty big elements in history from the start.

First and foremost, I was well into the book before I discovered that it was Rollo’s brother who bore the title of Lord. And moreover, Will had been captured on the field at Philiphaugh, fighting with Graham. (Readers of
Sword of the Highlands
will recall a critical moment for Rollo in this very battle.) He was later hanged, his charge that he refused to betray his friend, warning Graham of imminent danger instead of assassinating him as he’d been ordered.

A testament to the lack of hard facts about Rollo can be gleaned from the following. He is a minor character in a love story entitled
And No Quarter: Being the Chronicle of the Wars of Montrose As Seen by Martin Somers, Adjutant of Women in O’Cahan’s Regiment
, written by Maurice Walsh and published in 1937. The Dunning Parish Historical Society tells me that this book, though fiction, was used as a standard history textbook in Scottish schools for many years.

The Historical Society has one more book on hand. Dating from the nineteenth century, it refers to William Rollo as a “man of excellent parts and unblemished reputation.” And that’s truth enough for this author.

You’ll find additional details, images, and more strapping Highland heroes at my Web site,
VeronicaWolff.com
.

Marjorie skittered down the steep path, purposely descending too quickly to think. The specter of Dunnottar Castle felt heavy over her shoulder, looming in near-ruin high atop Dunnottar Rock, a massive stone plinth that punched free of Scotland’s northeastern coast like a gargantuan fist. Waves roiled and licked at its base far below. Chilled, she clambered even faster, skidding and galloping downhill, unsure whether she was fleeing closer to or farther from that grim mountain of rubble the MacAlpins called home.

She shook her head. She’d sworn not to think on it.

She’d done entirely too much thinking already. Much to her uncle’s consternation, she’d chosen her gray mare, not his carriage, for her ride from Aberdeen. She’d realized too late that the daylong ride offered her altogether too much time to brood over what felt like a lifetime of missteps. And she hoped she wasn’t about to make the grandest, most humiliating one of all.

She was going to see Cormac.

Whenever she’d thought of it—and she’d thought of little else on her interminable ride—she’d turn her horse around and head straight back to home. But then those same thoughts of him would have her spinning that mare right around again, until her horse tossed its head, surly from the constant tugging and turning.

She reached the bottom of the hill, where the knotted grass turned rocky, its greens and browns giving way to the reds and grays of the pebbled shore. The beach curved like a thin scimitar around the bay, its far side concealed from view by the ragged hillocks and blades of rock that limned the shore as though the land only reluctantly surrendered to the sea.

Marjorie slid the leather slippers from her feet and set them carefully down. She wriggled her toes, leaning against the swell of land by her side. The pebbles blanketing the shore were large and rounded, and looked warmed by the late afternoon sun. She stepped forward, moving slowly now. The water between the stones was cold, but their smooth tops were not, and they sounded a soothing clack with each step.

She was close. She could feel it.

Cormac
. He
was close. Amidst the gentle slapping of the waves and the sultry brine in the air, she sensed him.

She’d not needed to stop in at Dunnottar to ask his siblings where to find him. She and Cormac had known each other since birth, and Marjorie had spent every one of her twenty-three years feeling as though she were tied to him in some mysterious and inextricable way. Though they hadn’t spoken in what felt like a lifetime, she’d spared not a penny nor her pride to glean word of him, writing to his sisters for news, aching for rare glimpses of him through the years.

She’d offered up the prayers of a wretched soul when he’d gone off to war, and then prayers of thanks when he returned home whole. And God help her the relief she felt knowing he’d never married. She couldn’t have borne the thought of another woman in Cormac’s arms.

No, Marjorie knew. Alone by the sea was exactly where she’d find him.

She screwed her face, shutting her eyes tight. There were many things she knew.

She knew that Cormac blamed her. To this day, he blamed her, just as she blamed herself for the foolish, girlish dare that had ripped Aidan from their lives. Because of her silliness, the MacAlpin family had lost a son and brother that day. And Marjorie had lost more still than that: She’d also lost Cormac.

She froze again. What was she thinking? She couldn’t do this. She couldn’t bear to see him.

But she couldn’t bear not to.

The draw was too powerful to resist. Her feet stepped inexorably forward before her mind had a chance to stop them. She told herself she had no other choice. Events in her life had led her just there. She needed help, and Cormac was the only man with skills enough to come to her aid.