Page 25 of A Hot Scot for Christmas
“Have you considered that I might find my story dull?” His head was back, his chin up, a man at ease. He’d be quite happy for their conversation to stop here.
She wasn’t having it.
“You are a walking, talking example of rugged excitement, Mr. MacLeod.”
He touched his ear, abashed. “Ah, lass…the things you say to me.”
Mr. MacLeod surprised her by loosening his cravat and reaching far into his past. He could be a country squire, settling down for the night.
She listened, mending the seam on her shift as he took her to a village in the Outer Hebrides. To an impoverished but thriving childhood where he played around an ancient standing stone,Clach Mhic Leoid. He was the youngest son with an older sister and three brothers. Poverty didn’t bother little Rory MacLeod. He was loved and happy. The skies dumped rain, the sea gave fish, and the odd sheep supplied the rest.
After his sixth birthday, however, life took a wicked turn. Two brothers were lost at sea. A storm took them. The third brother died in tavern fight. Worst of all, his mother died of a fever. At least that’s what the old woman who looked after the sick on their island said.
But Rory knew the truth—his mother died of a broken heart.
His older sister, Magda, was the only soul between him and desperation. She’d loved him as their mother did. She fed him, mended his clothes, and hugged him when he had a bad fall. When time allowed, she taught him to read and cipher numbers. A good thing she did, because his father was an addled mess. Hardly around and a shell of a man when he was.
It was no surprise that Rory joined the army. A strapping lad, he did the work of three men. He knew how to live off the land, to out shoot, out hunt, out last other soldiers. Hardships never bothered him. And the military’s natural order fit. Even better, he never stayed in one place long.
He’d found his calling.
Magda’s letters also kept him alive. His sister was the rope he grabbed when storms came. Her letters followed him from post to post. He wrote back as often as he could.
“It was all well and good, me seeing the world,” he said “but Magda’s letters saved me. She visited me in Perth. The same day our regiment received orders to march to London.”
Of course, a march from Perth to London. No wonder he wasn’t bothered by walking from Carlisle to London.
“We were told the king…” —a wry twist of his mouth showed here— “…wanted to see a Black Watch regiment, but we all knew the crown wanted us nowhere near the Highlands.”
The 1743 mutiny. She remembered it
“You didn’t want to mutiny with the others?”
“No,” he snorted. “Charles Stuart is a fop.”
A tidy declaration. Mr. MacLeod folded his arms and eyed the fire, pale orange light washing him, washing the crisp brown hair on his forearms. He was constructing what he’d say next. She put her sewing away, prepared for it.
“Idistinguishedmyself with my loyalty to the crown,” he said dryly. “Lord Sempill’s words, the Brigadier I served under said that. The deserters were court-martialed and the Black Watch was sent to Flanders.”
A muscle ticked under burnished whiskers. Anger was simmering under the surface. He pinned her with scathing eyes. The poison wasn’t meant for her. Still, she flinched.
“In Flanders, a new lieutenant joined our regiment. A Lieutenant Crawford.”
Now the pieces were falling into place.
Contempt trimmed Mr. MacLeod’s deep voice. “We called him Lieutenant Spit-Polish and a few other names I dare not repeat. He was long on discipline and short on good sense. Thought he could tighten the ranks.”
“Because the mutiny left a mark on the regiment’s record.”
“Crawford was the wrong man for the job,” he snorted. “He treated us like raw recruits when most of the men were seasoned fighters, loyal to the crown. It didn’t matter. A wrinkled shirt meant an extra hour on the watch. If a soldier stacked an imperfect fire ring, we all drilled for hours. We grumbled and took it.”
Anger was bubbling to the surface.
“Then, our correspondence dried up.” He squinted, dark and menacing.
The past rose up on the small table situated between them. He looked down at his empty plate, seeing Flanders, Crawford, his regiment.
“Crawford was responsible for bundling our letters with dispatches. One night, a young private saw him toss our outbound letters in a fire.” A shake of his head and his eyes rounded, baffled. “The private came to me, his sergeant. I confronted Crawford. He denied it. None of us believed him. Without proof, we knew it would look like enlisted men rising up against a new officer.”
