Highland Jewel E-Book

May McGoldrick

• Herausgeber: Book Duo Creative
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Serie: The Royal Highlander Novels
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 412

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

 The next book in the new lush Scottish historical series from USA Today bestselling author, May McGoldrick.   Scottish danger, destiny, and desire…      Edinburgh, 1820.   Scotland's capital is rocked by angry protests in the wake of the Napoleonic wars, and home to a young woman who will fight passionately for her cause—and her heart's desire.   A REBEL AT HEART  Maisie Murray's sweet, docile exterior masks the courageous spirit of a firebrand determined to champion women's suffrage with like-minded friends. But fighting for her principles has swept her directly into harm's way—and into the arms of a man she cannot resist.       A WARRIOR BY BLOOD   A trained officer with the Royal Highland Regiment, Niall Campbell has spent his life serving the Crown. Battle-weary and searching for peace, he can't help but step in when his sister's activism risks her life—and leads him to Maisie. But unless Niall and Maisie can find a way to stand up to the destructive forces that threaten to divide them, long-buried secrets and political schemes are destined to stand in the way of the glorious love they've found…      "Complicated and enthralling...Highland Jewel has characters who engage the readers' hopes and dreams for a well-deserved, if sometimes rocky, journey to happy-ever-after." - Romance Junkies      "Readers will enjoy Highland Jewel and its intrigue and romance ... Beautifully written, as usual, the McGoldricks are masters of history and romance." - Romance Reviews Today  

Leseprobe

HIGHLAND JEWEL

ROYAL HIGHLANDER SERIES

BOOK II

MAY MCGOLDRICK

withJAN COFFEY

Book Duo Creative

Thank you for choosing Highland Jewel. In the event that you appreciate this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review, or connect with the authors.

Highland Jewel. Copyright © 2022 by Nikoo and James McGoldrick

All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher: Book Duo Creative.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Letter to the Prince Regent

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Letter to the King

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Letter to the King

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Letter to the King

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Letter to the King

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Letter to the King

Chapter 21

Letter to the King

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Letter to the King

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Letter to the King

Edition Note

Author’s Note

About the Author

Also by May McGoldrick, Jan Coffey & Nik James

To Christa Soulé Désir…

For the wit and insight and compassion that make us better writers.

And to Eileen Rothschild…

For helping us to spread our wings.

Prologue

Brunswick Palace

December 1794

Caroline stared down at a carriage that had been brought around from the stables. A driver and groom were cloaked and muffled against the miserable weather. Two trunks had been secured on top; they appeared to be taking someone on a journey.

The time had not yet arrived, but soon a carriage would be waiting to take her as well. From one prison to the next. From Brunswick Palace to St. James’s Palace.

Princess Caroline Amelia Elizabeth of Brunswick-Wolfenbüttel turned her gaze to the town’s red roofs, stretching off into the distance beyond the 326 spiked iron bars of the fence at the end of the palace courtyard. Icy rain had been falling for an eternity, and the Oker River lay like a sluggish grey snake beyond the leafless trees.

Rousseau said that man was born free but was everywhere in chains. This cold, loveless palace was her home. But it was also her prison. From the moment Caroline took her first breath, she’d been bound with gilded chains. Growing up, she was watched. Herded about like a prize sheep. Berated and chastised bitterly if she were to try to speak to a commoner or, God forbid, a man. She’d been educated to please others. Dressed to please others. Persecuted to please others.

Be silent. Submit.

Though she’d struggled to resist, her shackles still weighed her down. Her life wasn’t her own. Her mind wasn’t her own. Her future wasn’t her own. She was living the desperate existence of a convict.

Still, there was no other place she wished to be. Nowhere else she wished to go. It crushed her to think of it. But go she would, when they decided on the date. To England. Married off to her first cousin, a man who already had a wife.

Those details have all been worked out. The woman will be gone and forgotten long before you arrive. Her mother’s cold assertion was a nail raked across slate.

Gone and forgotten. What kind of man simply dismissed and forgot a woman he’d been attached to for years? The knowledge only added to her disgust for the English prince. A drunken whoremonger. A notorious wastrel. Marrying her only because his Parliament promised to pay his debts. And when he had what he wanted, she too would be deserted and forgotten.

Caroline’s fate would be no different from her older sister’s. Poor Augusta, married off to the prince of Wurttemberg. Abandoned in St. Petersburg after giving her husband two children. And then found dead. Most likely murdered.

No questions were asked by the family. Augusta did her duty, Caroline, as you will do yours. Her mother’s words echoed off the walls the day she announced the tragic news.

Her duty. She was nothing more than a pawn in her parents’ game of self-advancement. Caroline’s past and her secret marriage, the death of the only man she’d ever loved, and the well-hidden fact that she had a son had all been buried within the cold, marble halls of Brunswick Palace.

Her marriage to the future king of England was the “brilliant” match the duchess had been scheming for. Augusta Guelph, sister of King George III of England, wanted her claws and influence back on the English throne. And the union of the two houses raised her family’s status to the greatest heights.

Caroline was another sacrifice on the altar of their ambition.

The door opened and closed behind her. Caroline stared out at the gleaming iron bars. She knew who it was, and she didn’t turn to greet her mother. No one else entered without knocking. Only her prison guard.

“It’s time,” the Duchess of Brunswick said curtly. “The English delegation is en route. You must be prepared to go when they arrive.”

“As you wish.”

Caroline turned and faced the duchess, who stood as still and lifeless as a statue. The battles she’d fought, the tears she’d shed, the words she’d pleaded were all behind her. In this very room, she’d been berated, crushed, and silenced.

“I’ll do as you wish,” Caroline repeated, trying to keep her emotions in check. Her voice threatened to break. “But you must live up to your promise. You must take care of my son.”

Her mother’s face showed no change. No hint of what she was thinking or feeling. If she felt anything at all.

“I shall do with him as I see fit.”

“You promised to keep Cinaed at Brunswick Palace. You promised to raise him in a manner befitting his parentage.”

“I said no such thing. All I promised was that the boy will live.”

“Live?” Caroline snapped. “He is no sheep to be slaughtered. He is my son. Mine. And regardless of all the lies you’ve told about my ‘unblemished’ past, I can end this engagement you’ve arranged the moment your visitors arrive. I’ll tell the delegation from England that I was married and I have a son. I’ll tell them that Cinaed is the direct descendent of⁠—”

“You’ll do no such thing.” The duchess’s voice rang through the room, her eyes flashing like red coals in her heavily powdered face. “I own him as I own you. Do you know how easy it is to end a four-year-old’s life?”

She wouldn’t dare, but Caroline’s entire body stiffened. Her hands formed claws to tear out the woman’s eyes.

“A push down the stairs. A plate of food tainted with a drop of poison. A fall from a boat. If you fight me now, Cinaed will meet a far worse fate than the one planned for him. And he wouldn’t be the first, as you well know.”

Caroline could say what she might. She could fight her with words, with her pleas. But the invisible chains she’d had been bound with for her entire life rattled and bit into her flesh. Her shoulders sagged. She knew what her mother was capable of.

“My son will live. You said he’ll live,” she repeated, weighed down with defeat. “You must assure me he’ll be safe.”

Her mother said nothing for a moment. Caroline forced herself to wait. Fighting her only made the older woman lash out more. Her disobedience would only result in more suffering for her sweet child. Finally, the duchess broke the silence.

“I’ll regret these maternal feelings of mine. But I came up here to give you the chance to say goodbye.”

“Goodbye?” She followed the duchess’s gaze to the door into the adjoining room.

The cold panic of understanding washed through her. She knew this time would eventually come. The day when they would be separated. But this was too soon.

Caroline felt the air being squeezed from her body. “Where? Where are you sending him?”

“Scotland.”

Scotland. The land of his father. Caroline moved as if in a dream to the door. Her heart ached so badly that she feared it would stop beating.

In the next room, she found her beloved boy standing beside Anne Mackintosh. They were both wearing traveling cloaks. Anne was a spinster, a friend, a woman of integrity who’d joined her entourage in the days when Caroline was with child, after she’d been torn from her husband’s arms and dragged back to Brunswick Palace.

Anne knew the truth. She knew who’d fathered Cinaed. At least, she was the one taking him away.

Small hands tugged at Caroline’s skirts. “Are you sending me away?”

She crouched and pulled Cinaed into her arms. She couldn’t find the words to explain the curse of her life to her son.

“We both must go.”

“You’ll come with me?”

His large blue eyes were fixed on her face. Tears Caroline would not allow to fall in her mother’s presence now ran freely down her cheeks. Sharp claws clutched at her throat.

She kissed her son’s face, speaking only to him. “No, but I’ll come and see you. I’ll come for you.”

“I don’t want to go.” Arms clung to her neck. The child buried his face against her breast. “Please, Mama. Keep me with you. I love you. Keep me. Please!”

Tears turned to sobs. Caroline searched for words. “We don’t have a choice, my love.”

“I want to go with you.” The arms tightened more, the young voice growing louder. “I’ll be good!”

She motioned to Anne, and the Scotswoman pried the child from her arms. Cinaed screamed, fought to get back to her, but Anne handed him to an attendant at the door who quickly left with him.

“I’ll come for you,” Caroline repeated again and again. Hearing her son’s cries move down the hallway, she felt something die inside her. It wasn’t her heart, for that had already been torn from her chest. But she felt something else shrivel and wither away to nothing.

“I have to leave. He’ll be better once we’re on the road.” Anne touched Caroline’s shoulder and moved toward the door.

“Wait!”

From inside her dress, Caroline drew out a chain and ripped it from her neck. A ring dangled from it, and she thrust it into Anne’s hands.

“Keep this for him, please,” she gasped. “Keep him safe. And tell him . . . tell him I’ll come for him.”

ChapterOne

Dalmigavie Castle, the Highlands

August 1820

Far above jagged crags and worn peaks, a hawk soared free, floating on the breeze beneath the pale azure sky. Below, a glistening stream snaked through steep-sided glens, protected by thick stands of tall pine. Above the flowing waters, an impregnable stone fortress sat high on a rocky brae.

Dalmigavie Castle. Built by a warrior clan, its thick grey walls and high towers had struck fear into the hearts of the fiercest enemies for half a millennium. To the south and east, the majestic mountains of the Scottish Highlands rose like an unbroken line of ancient warriors, standing eternal guard. Beyond the forests to the west, endless hills and valleys, impassable rivers, and the great loch that cut the Highlands in two, keeping the enemy at bay. And to the north, a single path led from the sea, half a day distant. Ever since human feet trod this stony soil, it had been a track that no enemy would dare attempt, for no army had blood enough to spill on the rugged hillsides of the Highlands.

Dalmigavie Castle, the perfect place to keep the dream of Scotland alive. A fortress to protect Cinaed Mackintosh, the man called the “son of Scotland.”

Maisie Murray leaned over the edge of the stone parapet of the ancient tower and stared to the south and the range of mountains in the distance and thought of her life as it was now, and the man she’d left behind in Edinburgh. Lieutenant Niall Campbell.

Sadness, like a fist, squeezed her heart. More than four months had passed since she’d last seen him. Maisie would never forget their last day together in his rooms at Milne’s Court. She loved him and believed he loved her too, regardless of what he’d said after. His departing words put a painful end to all of their dreams.

I’ll not be coming back. You are free of the promises we made. You must forget me.

Never. To forget him was to forsake hope, to surrender all belief in tomorrow, to accept that she was to be deprived of love for the rest of her life. He was the first man she’d offered her heart to, and he’d be the last.

Maisie wondered where he was now. She shook with fear, thinking that he hadn’t survived the things he was being forced to do. Not knowing what his mission was or where he had to go was crushing. Tears threatened to fall, and she took a deep breath, filling her lungs with the scent of pine and heather. She wouldn’t give up. No mourning, Maisie told herself. He was only lost. He’d be found again. She was certain of it. She forced herself to believe it.

Her gaze was drawn to a hawk, wheeling in the blue sky far above her.

The sounds of children playing in the courtyard below mingled with the hammering of the smith at his forge and pulled Maisie’s attention back to the life around her. This was her new world. She could now only dream of Niall and her old existence. She’d found her voice on the streets of Edinburgh. She’d marched and protested and spoken out against the unjust treatment of the Scottish people. Against the hated Corn Laws, Parliament’s oppressive response to famine and chronic unemployment. The horrid economic conditions and the lack of universal suffrage in Scotland needed to be fought. The people had risen, and she’d been there on the front lines, speaking at gatherings and spreading the word with her pen.

Here in the Highlands, she was still finding her way, but she was using the sharp, concise power of the written word to fight for her cause. She was writing articles and letters that were finding publishers in Edinburgh and Inverness. She would not let go of her convictions in this new world, no matter how far off her old life seemed.

The sound of footsteps running up the stone steps behind her drew Maisie to the top of the stairwell. It was Morrigan. The two of them had arrived at Dalmigavie together. Sisters, not by blood, but by choice and by family relations.

“They’re here.” Morrigan’s long, dark hair glinted in the sunlight.

“Who’s here?”

Breathless, she pushed by Maisie and moved to the parapet. “The men coming from the Borders. The ones who everyone has been waiting for.”

Maisie stood beside Morrigan as she leaned out, scanning the courtyard. For days, the air had been crackling with a mixture of threat and expectation. British forces were after the son of Scotland. The threat of an attack on the castle or the possibility of an assassination attempt on Cinaed’s life had kept everyone on edge. At the same time, a delegation was coming from the Borders. Maisie had no idea what the arrival of those people meant, or what they were to bring with them. But the Mackintosh clan folk were talking about the messengers as if they were messiahs.

“Look.” Morrigan pointed.

Maisie leaned over the edge and saw the group approaching the entry to the Great Hall.

Beneath her, Cinaed stepped out into the courtyard, and Blair Mackintosh crossed the open space to take his usual protective place beside him. Searc Mackintosh, a cousin to the laird, led the three visitors, and the clan chief was speaking with one of them, a burly, well-dressed gentleman.

Maisie’s gaze was instantly drawn to one of the other newcomers. The wide brim of his hat shadowed his face, but there was something about the confident steps, the motion of his hand as he talked. The broad shoulders. His impressive height. Awareness flashed through her, and Maisie’s heart skipped a beat.

It couldn’t be. She walked along the edge of the tower, following the men’s steps below. Morrigan’s voice was silenced by the loud drumming of Maisie’s heart. She stared, afraid to blink. Afraid he would disappear. It couldn’t be.

The men stopped before entering the keep. The visitor pulled off his hat, and Maisie forgot to breathe.

“What’s wrong?” Morrigan clutched her arm. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but no words emerged.

Niall was here.

Recognition triggered a rush of emotion. He was no ghost. He’d come. She laughed and threw her arms around Morrigan and whirled her around wildly.

“What are you doing?”

There was no time to explain. She had to get to him. Spinning on her heel, Maisie raced across the top of the tower, leaving Morrigan calling after her. In an instant, she was running down the dark stone stairwell, made even darker by the bright sunlight she’d left behind.

Niall was here. That meant his sister Fiona must be free. He’d come for her. Their promises to each other were still alive. He loved her.

At the foot of the steps, Maisie ran along the corridors to the Great Hall, searching for them. Her doubts and fears were gone. She was again the same woman who’d run through the streets of Edinburgh that winter day, a lifetime ago, wearing no boots or coat, holding her heart in her hand, offering herself to him body and soul.

They weren’t in the Great Hall.

“The visitors? Where are they?” she asked a Mackintosh fighter she’d seen shadowing the group.

“The laird’s study, miss.”

She hurried to the closed door. Voices drifted through. Niall’s deep voice was as familiar as the wind through the leaves, as the rolling thunder of an approaching summer storm. The last of her doubts disappeared. Nearly unfathomable joy bathed her with its warmth. She raised her fist, ready to knock.

“Maisie. What’s wrong?”

She jumped at the sound of her sister’s voice. Isabella stood a few steps away, silhouetted by the light coming from the courtyard. Maisie blinked, realizing she’d been standing in a cloak of fog. The air thinned. The mist lifted and a chill prickled down her back. A dark reality reemerged, choking her. Her sister, the physician. The woman who’d sacrificed so much on all of their behalves. Her family. Maisie’s eyes burned. Her throat closed. Isabella, who finally for the first time was living as she chose to live, and not acting because of what she saw as her duty. Isabella, who was newly married to a man whom she deeply loved and was worthy of her.

“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

ChapterTwo

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 and had 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.

Nervousness bordering on fear washed through her like a chill wind. Standing there alone, she had no protection now, and the last thing she wanted was to attract the attention of the yeomanry. Turning on her heel, Maisie hurried past a closed shop door and turned up a dark, narrow wynd.

The alleyway twisted and turned between the jumble of tall tenement buildings. Above her, wash hung like dingy flags on wooden poles, and the frightened eyes of a woman stared down at her from an open window. Ragged children edged out of her way as she passed. It was cold and damp here in these alleys where sunlight never penetrated. These were precisely the people she was fighting for, she told herself.

No protest in Edinburgh had been broken up this way before. She knew that the government was cracking down. Just from observing the activities of Isabella’s husband and his friends, Maisie knew the authorities were regularly arresting and interrogating reform leaders. When they were released and brought to the surgery on Infirmary Street, she saw how brutal the questioning could be. But today, the militia had turned its violence on ordinary citizens who’d gathered peacefully to raise their voices.

She shuddered, thinking how close she’d come to arrest, injury, death. She was not out of danger yet. But a stranger had endangered his own life to save her.

The filthy passageway and flights of slippery stone stairs eventually ended at Bow Head, where the street leading down from the castle became High Street. This was the place where she and Fiona had agreed to meet if a problem at an assembly ever caused them to become separated.

Carters and vendors and a multitude of pedestrians filled the street. Protestors jammed the cobblestones as well, moving away from dragoons riding in small groups back toward the castle. By the old stone pump at the intersection, she was relieved to see Fiona standing beside a hackney carriage. Her friend waved at her before scrambling into the vehicle. Maisie waited until a pair of blue-coated yeomen passed, and then she hurried toward the carriage.

“Thank you for waiting for me,” Maisie said as she climbed in. “That was terrible, down there. I can’t believe the militia attacked.”

“The dragoons have been riding past, looking for organizers.”

“We should go,” she said, reaching over to close the door. “How did you manage to get a hackney cab?”

Before Maisie could pull it shut, a hand appeared on the door.

Her alarm turned immediately to relief when she realized it belonged to the man who rescued her. He’d followed her, and she had no doubt he’d done so to make sure she was safe.

Feelings of gratitude flowed through her, but before she could say or do anything, he climbed in and slammed the door shut behind him. Maisie stared, momentarily stunned.

Her friend, however, was not surprised at all. “I’m so glad you two found each other.”

“We found each other,” he said curtly. “But we had no chance for introductions.”

Fiona looked from one to the other. “Then, if I may, Miss Maisie Murray, this is my brother, Lieutenant Niall Campbell, recently retired from the 42nd Royal Highlanders. He’s just returned to Edinburgh.”

ChapterThree

Niall Campbell’s command to the hackney driver to move was sharper and louder than he’d intended. Both women flinched.

The carriage jerked into motion, but it was only able to proceed at a crawl, stopping often as they descended toward St. Gile’s Cathedral and Canongate. Outside the window, hordes of men and women were walking along, using High Street to escape the senseless, undisciplined actions of the yeomanry in the Grassmarket.

“Thank you.” Fiona leaned forward and laid her hand on his. “Thank you for going after my friend.”

Maisie Murray sat beside his sister. Her cheeks were aflame, and she’d avoided looking at him from the moment he climbed in after her. He knew she hadn’t been hurt, but her bloodstained and torn clothing gave her the look of someone who’d been badly handled by the mob. Her hair matched the disorder of her clothing; loose golden ringlets danced in every direction. He studied her face. She was young, much younger than his sister, Niall guessed. The perfect, symmetrical arrangement of her blue eyes, pert nose, and full lips suggested she’d have a line of suitors at her door, regardless of her rank in society.

Arriving just before the dragoons decided to get involved, he’d seen and heard her on the stage. It was rare for a woman to speak publicly but, in spite of a few hecklers, she commanded attention. Dressed all in white, she was a striking figure. She was beautiful, to be sure, but she also had a passion and a presence that came across strongly. For the few moments that she spoke, he’d stood at the edge of the crowd, entranced by her.

He shook off those thoughts and scowled at his sister. He knew of her interest in the reform movement. Fiona had a fierce dedication to causes. But today, she’d been a target of the authorities.

“What you’re doing is irresponsible. Reckless. Foolhardy. You are a mother, Fiona. You have a sacred responsibility. Did you give any thought whatsoever to what would happen to your children if you were arrested?”

“Speaking there today should not have presented any danger. That protest had been announced ahead of time and permissions were obtained. It’s not our fault that some half-witted rogues in uniform decided to interfere with a peaceful assembly.”

“Who granted these permissions?” Niall asked, feeling his anger grow. “Give me the name of the blackguard. Everyone knows that Parliament has made this kind of protest illegal.”

“I don’t know the name.” Fiona shot a hasty look at her friend. “The Safety Committee of the Weavers arranged it.”

“We were not the organizers.” For the first time, Maisie Murray lifted her face and looked him in the eye. “We were invited to speak. We assumed⁠—”

“Assumed?” Niall leaned forward, pointing a finger at her. “You’ll not put my sister’s safety at risk based on an assumption.”

“Maisie is not at fault,” Fiona snapped. “Leave her be.”

Regardless of who was at fault, he wasn’t done with his reproaches. He’d have plenty to say to Fiona later. But Maisie, Niall didn’t know at all. He had no idea who her people were. Looking at her now, he doubted if they had any inkling of what she was involved in.

“Are you prepared to be a martyr, Miss Murray?”

“I am no martyr, but I believe in the cause we fight for.”

“Do you know what happens to people who get arrested for activities such as this?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “To begin with, they’re beaten and clubbed unmercifully. Tortured by the interrogators looking for evidence of conspiracies against the Crown. The fact that you are a woman will give you no protection. Actually, because you are a woman, the treatment you’ll take at the hands of brutish guards will be far more severe. Far more horrific.”

“I am well aware of it.” Her hands fisted in her lap, but she refused to cringe at his words.

“Do you know what the inside of a prison looks like?”

“I don’t.”

“They are foul places. In the best of them, rats run in and out of dank, dark cells. The air is unbreathable. The water tainted. Prisoners hold contests to count the number of maggots in their food. And women who are unfortunate enough to be incarcerated . . .” Niall paused and leaned forward. “Women are denied the most basic need for privacy. Denied any vestige of human dignity.”

Before he could continue, Fiona took his hand, forcing his attention back to her. Niall understood. In her own silent way, she was admonishing him for his harshness.

“I’m having a conversation with Miss Murray.”

“You’re lecturing, Lieutenant Campbell,” Fiona said. “And you’ve succeeded. I’m frightened enough for both of us.”

“I only wish that were true.”

Niall loved his sister, and she knew it. He was worried about her, and she knew that too. He wanted her to give up her radical ways. But she’d told him many times that as long as the value of a woman in their society was based on the amount of hard usage she could endure, she would continue to fight.

“To be honest, I was so surprised and pleased to find you attending the protest.” Fiona put on a cheerful tone. “Imagine that, Maisie. An officer of the 42nd Royal Highlander Regiment, a decorated war hero, joining the radicals⁠—”

“No longer a commissioned officer,” he interrupted. “And before you indulge in any more flights of fancy, I wasn’t there of my own free will. I was sent by your mother-in-law.”

Fiona’s face immediately grew pale. “Is anything wrong with Catriona and Briana?”

Niall fought the inclination to hesitate. He couldn’t torture his sister. He knew full well that those two children were the most precious things in Fiona’s life.

“Your daughters are fine. Some gossiping friend of Mrs. Johnston has a relative in the constabulary. The woman had heard the authorities were planning something today. As soon as I arrived to pay a call on my nieces, she begged me to come and get you.”

Niall hadn’t needed any convincing. He already knew there was trouble in the wind. Dining with a former commander in the officers’ mess last night, he’d heard a militia captain at the next table crowing that they’d all been too soft with “these blasted, treasonous radicals,” but that was about to end. He didn’t know Fiona was going to be at the center of it, however.

Hurrying toward the Grassmarket, he’d seen the lines of cavalry filing down from the castle. They wore the expressions of fresh recruits itching for a fight. That was the reason he’d hired a hackney carriage and had it waiting. In the end, luckily, Fiona hadn’t needed saving. She was already safely off the platform and on her way out of the Grassmarket when he caught up to her. But she’d pleaded with him to go back for her friend.

He turned his attention to Maisie. She was staring out the carriage window, pretending she wasn’t part of the conversation.

“Is it possible someone could be searching for you now, Miss Murray?”

Her blue eyes flitted toward Fiona before returning to him. “My family has little involvement with my activities, Lieutenant.”

“Activities?” he repeated. “Shopping for a ribbon for your hat is an activity. Taking a stroll in the park is an activity. Browsing for a novel in a bookshop is also an activity. Do you actually consider speaking at a protest rally such as this one simply another activity?”

Two red spots blossomed on her cheeks, and she jerked her head toward the window. “I’d be grateful if you’d ask the driver to stop. I need to get out here.”