Highland Jewel--A Royal Highlander Novel Page 2

  “Maisie?” She approached.

  “Visitors.”

  “I heard the news too. Finally, they’re here. Everyone is relieved. Men we can trust.”

  Men we can trust.

  Her sister Isabella. Niall’s sister Fiona. What Maisie would do for Isabella, Niall would do for Fiona. The reality of their past tumbled and fell like an avalanche all around her. Isabella was free. Fiona was a prisoner.

  Tears brimmed over. His words the last night they were together pushed through her elation and sank at last into her mind. Niall wasn’t here for her.

  I’ve been given a task to accomplish in exchange for my sister’s life.

  His life wasn’t his own. Maisie shook her head in disbelief. “No!”

  With anguish squeezing every bit of air from her chest, Maisie shoved the door open and entered.

  All conversation in the laird’s study halted, and every head swiveled toward her. But Maisie’s eyes were on only one person. Niall. He stood. The blood drained from his face.

  His handsome face was a watery image as her tears fell relentlessly. She loved him, but she had to let him go. He had been her hope, but she would instead have to suffer misery.

  “You can’t do this. I won’t let you.”

  Invisible shackles dragged at her steps. Her heart threatened to spill out of the rend opening in her chest. It was too painful to do this, to do what she must. Maisie forced herself to cross the room and face Niall.

  “I know why you’re here.”

  Words caught in her throat, but she forced them out. She wouldn’t remain silent. She couldn’t.

  “Cinaed Mackintosh is my sister Isabella’s husband. I can’t let you do it. I’ll not let you kill him.”

  “Rise like Lions after slumber

  In unvanquishable number,

  Shake your chains to earth like dew

  Which in sleep had fallen on you—

  Ye are many—they are few.”

  —Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Masque of Anarchy

  Written on the Occasion of the Massacre at Manchester

  CHAPTER 2

  The Grassmarket

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  January 1820

  Eight months earlier

  Ignoring the scowling walls of Edinburgh Castle rising far above them, crowds streamed into the Grassmarket. For days, the weather had been unseasonably warm, and the cobblestone area from Bow Foot to the White Hart Inn was filling quickly. All around Maisie Murray, the voices of the people chanted in unison, calling her to her destiny.

  “Respect the rights of the people!”

  With one hand, Maisie clutched her speech, and with the other, a white flag painted with the word “Liberty.” Moving with the flowing mass of humanity, she pushed toward the hustings, where she could see the gathered speakers already leading the protestors in shouted slogans.

  “Universal suffrage! A voice for all! Liberty, equality, fraternity!”

  Maisie joined in as she drew near. On the platform, her friend Fiona Johnston saw her and motioned to the handlers below to help her up onto the stage. The dozen men atop shifted over, making room for her.

  The view from above caused a fist to form in Maisie’s chest. She and Fiona had started the Edinburgh chapter of the Female Reform Society three months ago, joining in with many protests since then. But this was, by far, the largest gathering she’d seen. The Scottish people were rising. The spirit of reform was swelling.

  These Monday assemblies were occurring regularly now, and as always, the crowd was neatly dressed for the occasion, and more women and children were in attendance. She saw members of their society in the throng. Many wore a green favor or ribbon in their bonnet or cap as a sign of solidarity with those who’d died or been injured at the massacre of protestors in Manchester this past August.

  “I’m so glad you made it in time.” Fiona’s voice was hoarse. “Do you have it?”

  Maisie had a difficult time tearing her attention away from the flags, the banners, and the crowds. Several bands were playing across the way, giving the event as much a feeling of celebration as one of protest.

  “Do you have the speech?” her friend persisted.

  Maisie handed over the paper. “I rephrased it a bit, but it’s essentially the same message that our chapter sisters delivered in Manchester.”

  “Good.” The young woman scanned the page and then handed it back to her. “My throat is raw this morning. I don’t think I’ll be heard. You’ll need to read it.”

  “Me?” A moment of panic stabbed at Maisie’s confidence. She was the writer, the scheduler, the worker who ran back and forth between the printers and their growing group of reformers. When she spoke on behalf of their cause, her audience generally consisted of other women in small assemblies. Speeches at larger gatherings were Fiona’s domain.

  One of the organizers raised his hands for quiet before shouting. “With us today, the ladies of the Edinburgh Female Reform Society are present and determined to address their brothers and sisters.”

  “Now.” One of the other men motioned to them. “Just a few words, mind you.”

  Maisie handed her reticule to Fiona as she felt herself being ushered to the front of the platform. She stared out at the expectant crowd and felt sweat trickle down her back. Her pulse was pounding at her temples. But once she started, the words spilled out. She didn’t need to look at the page. She knew them. She believed in them.

  “Sisters and brothers.” Her voice struggled at first. She paused and then poured all her strength into it. “Dear sisters and brothers. It is with a spirit of peace and respect that we address you. The causes that affect us all compel us to gather together for the sake of our suffering children, our dying parents, and the miserable partners of our woes. We need to be heard.”

  The sound of scattered hisses and hostile jeering budded like noxious weeds across the gathering. Maisie wasn’t surprised. This was the way of things. Women were supposed to be mothers and daughters. Wives and caregivers. They struggled with the same wrongs as the men in this assembly, but many who gathered didn’t welcome a feminine presence on a public stage.

  Maisie focused her attention on a woman her own age, standing two dozen rows away from the platform, and on an old man beside her. She called out to them as if they were the only ones in the audience.

  “So many of us stand bereft of the meager support that nature requires for existence; the balm of sweet repose has long been a stranger to us. Our minds at night are filled with horror and despair, fearful that with each returning morn, the light of heaven will present to us with the corpse of some famished child or neighbor, which the kinder hand of Death has released from the oppressive want of clean water and decent food. We must stand together to oppose the repressive Six Acts passed last month by Parliament. A Parliament in which we Scots have little or no representation. We must stand together to oppose these laws that rob us of our ability to feed ourselves and to voice in open assemblies like this one our opposition to a government that cares not if we live or die. We must—”

  “We applaud the heroism of our city’s ladies.” One of the organizers stepped in front of her, cutting her off.

  Maisie was startled and annoyed by the sudden interruption, but even angrier as she felt herself being pulled back on the platform. Before she could voice a complaint, however, she saw the reason for the interference. Blue-coated militia on horseback had appeared across the Grassmarket. They were forming a line at the far end of the assembly.

  Maisie hadn’t been in Manchester, but she and everyone on the hustings knew what had taken place in St. Peter’s Field. Nearly sixty thousand had gathered to demand the reform of parliamentary representation, reform that would give all men the right to vote for those who could speak for them in the House of Commons. The demonstration was peaceful, at first. But the speakers had no sooner begun when the mounted militia consisting of drunken local yeomanry rode in, trying to force their way through the crowd toward the hustings, wheeling their horses and striking at any who got in their way. When the people reacted, the English Hussars were waiting in the wings. They charged into the assembly, sabres drawn. In the ensuing debacle, more than a dozen were killed and hundreds injured. Men, women, and children. The local newspaper was continuing to call it the “Peterloo Massacre,” an ironic comparison to the Battle of Waterloo, fought only four years ago.

  “We defy no laws here, unjust or no!” the speaker shouted, his words no doubt directed as much at the militia as at the crowd. “We have no wish to engage in conflict with armed men. Brothers and sisters, go now from here in an orderly manner.”

  The crowd stirred and began to push as awareness of the mounted men swept through the assembly. The horrors of the past summer were an indisputable motivator. Murmurs and pushing quickly gave way to shouts and a panicky surge away from the soldiers.

  Maisie felt Fiona tug at her arm. She was pointing at a half-dozen dragoons nudging their steeds through the sea of people toward the platform. “They’re coming to arrest the speakers. We have to go.”

  They looked around for a way to climb down, but frantic protestors were now pressing in around them. Bodies were being squeezed against the platform, and the shouts were getting louder and more frantic. An orderly assembly had quickly become a frenzied mob. There was nowhere for anyone to go, and Maisie saw the mounted soldiers were forcing their way closer to the stage.

  “I can’t be arrested. Catriona and Briana,” Fiona said, her hoarse voice rising in panic. As a widowed mother to two daughters only five and seven years of age, she had too much at stake.

  Maisie grabbed her by the arm and pulled her to the rear of the platform. People were streaming around it, searching for ways to exit the Grassmarket. “Sit
down at the edge.”

  Fiona sat and reached up, grabbing for Maisie’s hand. “We go together.”

  A narrow space beside an elderly woman following two protestors presented a chance. Giving Fiona a push, Maisie watched her friend land on her feet and immediately get swept along in the current of moving bodies.

  Fiona’s shout of protest was lost amidst the other voices as she was carried away from the oncoming troops. Relieved for Fiona’s sake, Maisie searched for another opening for herself. But the crowd pressed harder.

  Cries rang out behind her, and she turned around. The mounted soldiers had nearly reached the hustings. They were coming fiercely, their gleaming swords held high in the air. The once-crowded stage now held only three people.

  Fear chilled her. The reality of her situation was numbing. Months of protests, crusading for her beliefs, and the moment she’d dreaded was upon her. And worse, she’d kept it all secret. Her family would have no way of knowing she’d been arrested. Isabella, her sister, would become alarmed and then frantic with worry, but she wouldn’t know where to look. She’d never imagine Maisie was involved in these protests, never mind leading them.

  The two men remaining on the platform jumped down, one after the other. The soldier in the lead spurred his horse on. His eyes focused on her, the only prize left for the picking. She backed along the edge. Below her, a hatless man passed by. Crimson blood from a gash on his head was running freely down his face and neck, staining his shirt and coat.

  Time had run out. The blue-coated dragoon was upon her. His steed snorted wildly and banged against the platform. Maisie picked up the flag at her feet and thrust it at his chest like a spear. He grabbed hold of it and shoved it furiously to the side. Suddenly, a small gap in the crowd opened beneath her. Dropping the flag, she leaped from the stage.

  Shock and horror struck her like a club when she jerked to a stop in midair. She was suspended from the platform, dangling several feet from the ground. Her dress had caught on a protruding nail.

  Helplessly, she watched the mounted yeoman lift his sabre and rear back with murderous intent. But before he could slash at her, someone reached up and dragged him from his horse.

  Shouts and cries filled the Grassmarket as Maisie tried to free herself. Then, she felt an arm encircle her waist, lifting her off the nail and pulling her roughly away from the stage.

  Pandemonium surrounded her. Her feet had not yet touched the ground, but she was moving with the crowd. She twisted around to see who was carrying her. A man who stood a head above the throng was shoving his way through.

  “Hold on to me,” he barked. “Don’t let go.”

  She was half walking, half floating, and she clutched the arm wrapped around her waist. He was a lifeline in the sea of humanity engulfing them. Dreadful cries pierced the air. She caught glimpses of the soldiers riding amongst the mob, swinging sabres. Whatever control they possessed before, it was gone, and everyone scrambled to get out of their way.

  The pressure of the bodies robbed Maisie of breath. The faces, the voices became jumbled. Her knees were wobbling, her vision blurring. The hold on her rescuer relaxed. “I can’t … I can’t breathe.”

  The man’s arm tightened. “Stay with me.”

  She didn’t know how he managed it, but suddenly they turned a corner into a dark close. Stone walls and arches enclosed them as they descended a few steps into a shadowy passageway.

  He set her down, but Maisie’s legs were not steady enough to keep her upright. She leaned against the wall and sank to the ground. Trying to force air into her lungs, she gathered her knees into her chest.

  They were concealed in the narrow space, but the sounds of shouting and rushing crowds still filled her ears. She couldn’t stop the trembling that continued to sweep through her in waves.

  “Are the soldiers still attacking? Is this another Peterloo?”

  A foolish question, she realized. He gave no answer. She’d seen the militia charging through. But how many people would be injured … or killed?

  He stood beneath the arched entrance of the passageway, nearly filling the opening with his height and broad shoulders. His back was to her. She didn’t know if he was guarding her or preparing to go back into the Grassmarket to rescue someone else. But the way he’d acted on her behalf—his courage and chivalry in the face of the armed yeomanry—was magnificent.

  “Thank you for saving me.”

  He said nothing and continued to look out.

  Maisie pushed to her feet. Her heart still pounded, but she couldn’t stay here. The skirt of her dress was torn near her waist where the nail had caught the fabric. Her cap was missing. Her white spencer jacket was stained with what she feared was blood.

  She needed to get back to her house on Infirmary Street. Some of the injured could be taken to Isabella and her husband, Archibald Drummond, at their surgery. Both were doctors, and even though she herself had no medical training, Maisie feared she would be needed there on a day like today.

  Her exit was still blocked. Her rescuer had not moved. His powerful frame was silhouetted in the dim light beyond. He wore no hat. His light brown hair was long, falling below his collar. His dark grey coat looked fairly new, the cut conservative, and it fit him well. She assumed he’d been in the crowd, one of the protestors. Perhaps, like her, he wanted change.

  “I need to go out there,” she said softly.

  “Why?” His tone was sharp, and he glared as he wheeled about and faced her. Maisie took an involuntary step backward. “To get yourself arrested?”

  His face was largely in shadow.

  “I need to get back to my family. They’ll be worried.”

  “Worried? You think of them now?” he scoffed. “Were you thinking of them when you went up on that platform and exposed yourself to every kind of danger?”

  Surprised by the directness of his verbal assault, Maisie said nothing. Her relationship with her family was none of his business. The Drummonds had their life, and Maisie had hers. Her only true family was Isabella, a Drummond by marriage. Maisie was unwilling to bare her soul to a stranger, even if he had rescued her from a dire predicament.

  “You could have been cut to pieces by that yeoman’s sword. Trampled beneath the mob’s feet. Do you realize what your punishment would be if you were arrested? Do you know what they do to women like you, who—”

  “Please stop,” she interrupted, holding up one hand. “A father or a husband or a brother might take such a reprimanding tone, but you are none of those to me.”

  She returned his gaze. His eyes had thinned to slits, and they were spitting fire.

  “You saved me. I am deeply grateful to you.” She paused, remembering she’d handed her reticule to Fiona. She had no money, but Maisie guessed an offer of that kind would have offended him, anyway. “But the danger is passed, and I need to be on my way.”

  “First, you must give me your word that you will never put yourself in a situation like that again.”

  She stared at him, perplexed. She did not know this man. She’d never seen him before. And what he asked was impossible as well as impertinent. But there was no point in arguing.

  “I’ll be going now,” she said instead, taking a step toward him.

  For a moment, she thought he wasn’t going to let her pass. Finally, with a shake of his head, he backed out of the close, and she moved past him.

  It was unlikely that they’d meet again. He’d not introduced himself, and she wasn’t going to offer her name. Still, she owed him a great deal. Certainly, her freedom. And quite possibly, her life.

  She spun around, intending to thank him, but the words caught in her throat. The man was certainly tall and broad, but his entire demeanor was that of some war god. His longish hair, thrown straight back, revealed a face that had surely seen battle. A thin scar ran along the line of one cheekbone, and his nose had the slight bend of one that had been broken. The injuries did nothing to diminish his beauty, however, and only heightened the effect of his intensely blue eyes and full, sensuous lips.

  “Thank you,” she managed to utter again.

  Turning away, Maisie retraced her steps and looked out across the cobblestones. The Grassmarket now sat nearly empty. Whatever injuries had been inflicted, whatever arrests had been made, the victims had been taken away. The only remaining presence consisted of several small clusters of dragoons.