Page 12 of The Scot Who Loved Me
Anne’s eyes sought his, but the wall was safer while she unwrapped his kilt. “I’d say that’s a story meant to keep rebel hope alive.”
“It is alive.”
He dared to look into her eyes. What glittered there was bright, expectant, and hard as any gemstone.
“Anne,” he said with all the patience he could muster. “The only gold to reach Scotland was thirteen thousand gold livres. Gold lost to the English.”
Gold they’d desperately needed with two hundred soldiers in tow to help the fight. Gold that could’ve turned the tide of their scrabbly rebellion.
“A spoil of war lost in March before the Uprising ended. But I am talking about a greater treasure.” She paused unwinding his kilt. “A treasure brought to the west coast in May...afterthe war ended.”
He knew of the French ships,La BellonaandLe Mars,coming with promised aid. Every rebeldid. The Uprising had been gasping its last breath when those ships ran a gauntlet of English warships, trying to deliver supplies. The promised guns, ammunition, and brandy he could believe—Frogs were always good for a tipple. But the French king giving up that much gold after the first shipment was taken by the English? For ragged highlanders who couldn’t unite? It defied reason. His own clan chief had stood with the Government while the chief’s son and heir had fought for the Bonnie Prince.
They’d been doomed from the start.
“I know of the ships.” His voice was gruff and tired. “But the gold? A fevered tale, best forgotten.”
“It’s not a fevered tale.”
The last yard of wool fell from his body. He was naked save his boots and a draft nipping his arse. This would be laughable, except he smelled worse than a gutter. Anne turned and folded his ruined tartan in silence, her back an unflagging line. He knew that posture. The subject of Jacobite gold was far from over. Toeing off his boots, he released a gusty sigh. The leather, like him, was well-worn, the shaft on both boots slumping badly. He nudged them aside and climbed into hot water.
“Tell me,” he hissed between clamped teeth. “If the French delivered that much gold, why hasna the Government taken it?”
Anne set his kilt on the table. “That Butcher, Cumberland, and his men were looking for it. The gold had to be moved.”
“Never to see the light of day... the same as all treasure that doesna exist.”
He slid under the water’s surface and sprang up fast. Heat prickled his limbs, sinking in muscle deep. Cleansing wetness sprang from his pores. He grabbed the soap and began scrubbing off the odor of prison and bad decisions.
“It did see daylight,” she said. “The MacPherson of Cluny started spending it.”
He dunked for a rinse, counted to five, and came up sputtering, “A highland chief spending money? That doesna prove a thing.”
“It was enough for the Bonnie Prince. He sent Dr. Cameron to the highlands to retrieve the gold.”
“And the poor mon was executed for his loyalty.” Eyelids heavy, he settled back in the tub. “Yet, no one has found this fabled treasure.”
Sadly, Dr. Archibald Cameron’s death was not a fable. As a rebel of high status returned to Scottish soil, he’d become a hunted man. TheLondon Daily Advisorhad reported English soldiers chased the good doctor in the vicinity of Loch Arkaig. The same newspaper later trumpeted his grisly end in June. Disemboweledandhung because the Government couldn’t resist making a point—all the more reason to knock sense into Anne’s league.
“As to Dr. Cameron,” Anne said quietly. “There was nothing we could do.”
He sank deeper in hot water. “Don’t fash yourself. I heard the Government had him locked up tighter than a vicar’s virgin daughter. No visitors.”
Suds trickled down his cheek. His beard would smell of Anne tomorrow, a twice-widowed woman with treason on her lips who owned a warehouseand had enough funds to pay a costly bribe, yet her house was a step or two above ramshackle. A woman he should leave to his past.
“Oh, Dr. Cameron had a visitor,” she said over her shoulder. “A woman who claimed she was kin of the MacDonald chief of Clanranald.”
He opened one eyelid. “Was it you?”
“No.”
His vision narrowed on uncombed curls spilling down Anne’s back. “How can you be sure of what this woman said?”
“Because my source of information has never disappointed.” She turned around, a confident hand on her hip. “Of course, any sapscull would know what Dr. Cameron’s visitor was after.”
“Jacobite gold?” Reluctant words were thick on his tongue. His mind refused complete surrender, not until he saw the gold and touched it.
“The league found some of it.” Anne crouched beside him, zeal bright in her eyes. “Will... it’s here. In London.”
