The Renegade (The Renegade, Rebel and Rogue) Read online

  The Renegade

  By Christine Dorsey

  First Published by Zebra Books,

  a division of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Copyright 1996 by Christine Dorsey

  Digital Copyright 2013 by Christine Dorsey

  Digitally published by Christine Dorsey, 2013

  Cover Art by Kim Killion

  Digital Design by A Thirsty Mind

  All rights reserved. No part of this book, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews, may be reproduced in any form by any means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without prior written permission from the author.

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  Dedication

  To my daughter-in-law, Ali, with love... another English rose.

  One

  April 16, 1746

  Culloden, Scotland

  The pipe’s haunting tones echoed across the mist-shrouded moor and sang through Keegan MacLeod’s blood. He was a Scot, by God, a Scot. As were his ancestors and the clansmen with whom he stood shoulder to shoulder.

  He’d nearly forgotten. The gaming halls and perfumed boudoirs of London could do that to a man. That life seemed far removed from the icy sleet and chaos of this April morn on Drummossie Moor. Yet it had been only a fortnight ago when he’d cursed the summons of the MacLeod to return to the Highlands... to return home.

  Cursed yet complied.

  For his father wanted all his sons beside him when he fought for his Prince. Charles Edward, grandson of the last Stuart king had returned from exile in France. He’d landed on Eriskay determined to put his father upon the throne of England. The rightful heir, many thought, including the MacLeod.

  Personally Keegan didn’t much care who sat on the throne. At least that was his opinion till now. But generations of Jacobite blood flowed through his veins, and so he’d come.

  His brothers, sons of the MacLeod, were here as well. Angus, the eldest, his red hair plastered to his head beneath his bonnet, to the laird’s right. Duncan, with his soft blue eyes and pleasing voice beside him. Keegan was to his father’s left. And finally William, fresh from his tutor, and restless with anticipation of the battle to come.

  They all wore the white cockade of the Stuarts, five bows of silk in a large knot. Their plaids were kilted, then tied high between their legs. A silver pin bearing the MacLeod crest held the drape free of their sword arms.

  “ ’Tis a fine day for a fight I’m thinkin’.” Angus stomped his feet and flexed his beefy shoulders. He was broader than Keegan, though nearly a head shorter, but he swung his broadsword with an ease Keegan had long admired.

  When his father made no reply Angus continued. “I know you’ve a problem with the field, Da, but—”

  “I’ll not be second guessin’ the Prince... or what happens this day,” the MacLeod countered, clasping his free hand on the shoulder of each son in turn. “Nor shall any of ye. We’ll stand together as MacLeods, and proud we’ll be of it.”

  “When will they be comin’ do ye think? Or will the English bastards turn tail and run at the sight of us?” Arrogant words from William, whose cheeks looked more like the downy underbelly of a lamb, than like those of a full-grown man, Keegan thought.

  But all he said was, “Soon enough we’ll be knowing.”

  As if his words were prophetic a loud chorus of huzzas sounded from the ranks. Across the moor to the northeast, silhouetted against the dark sky, the enemy’s first scarlet and white standard topped the rise. It was followed by another, then another. And then the Duke of Cumberland’s infantry came into view, three columns of blood red uniforms coloring the gloom.

  The shouts and taunts continued, interspersed with the yelled commands to “Close up ranks!” It seemed as if the British troops would do nothing but stand, their numbers stretched across the field, their regimental drums pounding like one giant heartbeat.

  Keegan gripped his broadsword, and stood, waiting for the order to advance. He stood thus when the first volley from the British exploded over the field, striking down William at his side. It was as if part of himself was blown away as he watched in horror when his younger brother crumpled to his knees, then fell face first into the heather.

  “Will?” The collective lament roared around him as Keegan dropped to the ground. He knew before he rolled his brother over that he was dead, but Keegan tried anyway to revive him, calling his name and rubbing his palm over the smooth, whiskerless cheek.

  It was Angus who took charge, wrapping the body in his plaid and charging two of the clan’s humblies to carry the laird’s son to safety.

  But there was no time to mourn.

  “Close up ranks! Close up!” The officers’ shouted orders filtered through the thunder of artillery, the screams of the wounded.

  All around him men were falling, clansmen and fellow Scots, mowed down like so much harvest wheat as they stood waiting for the command to attack. Waiting. When it finally came, Keegan leaped forward, a hoarse cry of “For Will,” rushing from his dry lips. His father and remaining brothers were at his side as he fired his musket, then ignoring the grapeshot hurled his way, yanked one of the claw-handled dags from his belt. But it was the double-edged broadsword he longed to use. To feel the weight of it slash through the faceless soldiers who had killed Will.

  The smoke burned his throat and made it near impossible to see. He guessed he was within twenty yards of the enemy, though only infrequently, when a gust of wind cleared the air could he see the wall of scarlet uniforms. Keegan pushed forward, halting only when he tripped over a body. Falling to his knees Keegan blinked, then found himself staring into Angus’s lifeless eyes.

  “God no!” Keegan scrambled to his feet, wiping his eyes and searching through the mist and smoke till he spotted his father’s grizzled head. The older man had lost his bonnet in the foray, yet he still stood, as did Malcolm. But the Rebel losses were devastating. Dead and dying covered the field, winnowing from the clans their best young men.

  Fury swelled in Keegan’s breast. He hurled himself forward, swinging the broadsword like a man possessed. For Will. For Angus. For his fellow Scots littering the moor.

  He fought and slashed and somehow avoided the deadly stab of the bayonet, but there was no penetrating the solid wall of the English battalion.

  The retreat was called, then called again, and still Keegan ignored it. It was as if another man had possession of his movements... of his soul. Not until he felt Malcolm’s hand grabbing his arm did Keegan hold the relentless swing of his broadsword.

  “The laird,” Malcolm screamed at him, and Keegan barely heard above the din of battle, though his brother’s muddy, blood-spattered face was nearly touching his own. “Da’s wounded.”

  Swinging about, Keegan reached for his father, catching him beneath the arm as the laird’s knees crumpled. “Take this,” Keegan screamed, shoving the bloody broadsword toward his brother. Angered because of Malcolm’s hesitation, Keegan opened his mouth to repeat the order. That’s when he noticed the glistening fluted tip of a bayonet protruding from Malcolm’s chest. Blood gurgled slowly from his brother’s mouth before the English footsoldier jerked forward, forcing Malcolm’s body to the ground with the heel of his boot.

  Keegan had no more time to mourn the passing of this brother than he had the others.
He was the only one left. He who had not wished to fight—had not wished to interrupt his life of fun and debauchery. He who had counseled against supporting Prince Charles more on selfish than patriotic grounds.

  These thoughts flitted through Keegan’s mind in that briefest of moments when his brother crashed to the ground. Dipping low, Keegan grabbed up his father, tossing the laird over his shoulder, then stumbling away from the English line.

  Bodies were everywhere, the dead and dying. Keegan tried to close his mind to the carnage. This was not the time to think on what had happened. He must get his father to safety. Yet two days with little sleep and but a few oatcakes to fill his belly were taking their toll. As the sounds of artillery exploded around him, Keegan could not stop the faces of his dead brothers from flashing before him.

  Hot pain tore through the arm that dragged his broadsword and Keegan knew without looking that he’d been hit. Yet he pushed on. He would carry his father to Castle MacLeod if he had to. He would.

  Yet it was a dry-stone fence that caught his eye. Bordering a sunken road, the fence held momentary shelter. After he caught his breath he’d take his father to the bothy on the rise to the right of the road. This was Cullen land if memory served him, and they’d be proud to treat the laird’s wounds. Then they’d be off for the hills of home.

  Home.

  Though in the years since he’d been grown he’d done his best to stay away, the word rang, a litany through his heart, as he plodded on over the body-littered moor. As gently as he could, Keegan lowered his father, resting his back against the limestones. It wasn’t till he straightened that Keegan noticed another using the stone wall as a refuge. It was a soldier dressed in the uniform of an English dragoon. Despite the chill air, sweat poured down his back when Keegan saw the pistol pointed his way.

  Lifting his broadsword Keegan ignored as best he could the pains shooting through his arm. The two men, one wearing a scarlet surtout, the other garbed in plaid, stared at each other without moving. The English soldier was the first to speak and when he did his words were colored by an Irish brogue.

  “Be off with ye,” he said before letting his head fall back against the rocks. The pistol’s muzzle dipped toward the ground.

  “I’ll be resting my Da if it’s all the same to ye.” Keegan lowered the broadsword, then dropped to his knees beside his father. The laird’s wounds were numerous, but none appeared mortal. At least that was Keegan’s uninformed opinion. But it wasn’t safe to stay here, even if the soldier to his right hadn’t the strength or inclination to shoot.

  “Come on now, Da, we’ll be heading home. Give me your—”

  At that moment a great huzza came from the direction of the English. Keegan realized the artillery had stopped, but he could still hear cannons from the ships in the bay echoing off the mountains.

  “They’ll be coming now,” the wounded man to his right said. “They’re claiming the field as their own.”

  Keegan stared at the Irishman, then back toward the line of dragoons. As predicted, amid shouts and cheers the soldiers began marching across the moor. Then they were running, bayonets fixed, stabbing at any of the Scots that moved.

  Keegan grabbed for his father, but in that instant knew it was too late. The wound on his arm dripped blood as Keegan lifted his broadsword, placing himself squarely in front of his father. He thought he heard a mumbled, “Save yourself, lad,” but ignored it.

  Then he could hear nothing but the clang of tempered steel as he swung the broadsword, fighting off the first three soldiers who came at him. One, then another, dropped to the ground at his feet. But the third soldier had moved to flank him. Even amid the chaos, the click of the pistol hammer sounded frighteningly loud... the report almost anticlimactic.

  Keegan waited for the pain to consume him, for it was the wounded Irishman’s gun, he was sure. But there was nothing. Jerking around, Keegan saw the third soldier crumble to his knees, then slump forward, blood blossoming from the front of his jacket.

  “What...”

  Turning, Keegan’s gaze met that of the man with the pistol. Their mutual stare held, and for just a moment Keegan could swear there was some sort of link between them, though he was equally sure they’d never met or crossed paths before. Still, there it was, a feeling almost akin to friendship. Shaking his head, Keegan again reached for his father. For whatever reason the Irishman had saved his life, now it was up to him to get his father away.

  But there was no escape. More soldiers were bearing down on him, laughing and killing any survivors as they came. Keegan was soon surrounded. His father and the fence to his rear. Scarlet-coated soldiers blocking the front.

  Damnation, he would fight to the death.

  Keegan raised his broadsword, sweeping it in a giant arc, daring the footsoldiers to come at him. Fury raged through him, drowning out the fear. This was to be his death then.

  “Halt!”

  The shouted command caught the attention of the English soldiers as well as Keegan. He looked up to see an officer, astride a magnificent chestnut horse. Beneath a gold-trimmed hat, the officer’s face contorted in anger. The tip of his saber pointed toward Keegan but it was to his men he spoke.

  “I’ll have no more senseless killings.”

  “This thieving rebel is the murderer,” one of the chastised soldiers countered. “We be just tidyin’ up the field a bit.”

  “You’ll be doing no such thing while I’m about.” Now the officer turned his attention toward Keegan. “Surrender your sword.”

  “And be cut down like a cur? I think not.”

  “Foolish words from one just seconds away from that very fate.”

  “I’ll die a free man, protectin’ my father from the likes of ye.”

  For the first time the officer shifted his focus to the old man slumped against the stones. “You’ll do him no good with your defiance.”

  “I’ll do him no good by surrenderin’.”

  The stallion sidestepped, obviously anxious to be on his way. The officer seemed to share his mount’s feelings. “Hand over your sword and I’ll see that no harm comes to your father.”

  “And I’ve an Englishman’s word upon that,” Keegan spat, his voice full of contempt.

  “Aye, you’ve Lord Foxworth Morgan’s word upon it.”

  ~ ~ ~

  A word he should have never taken.

  With but a few steps Keegan paced the length of his cell, then back, slamming his fist against the heavy wooden door. This is what believing Lord Foxworth Morgan had earned him. A spot in New Gaol; a date with the hangman.

  And the memory of watching, helpless, as the soldiers tortured and killed his father.

  Keegan shut his eyes against the pain. Four soldiers had grabbed Keegan, pinning his arms to his body, the instant he handed over his broadsword. Their laughter still rang in his head. They’d used their bayonets on the laird, stabbing and slashing till naught but the bloody plaid remained recognizable.

  “Nay.” Keegan sucked in his breath on a sob. He would not cry again. Better he go to his death cursing the man he’d cursed as the British had their sport with his father.

  Lord Foxworth Morgan.

  Keegan slid to the floor, burying his face in the lee of his bent knees. How much better it would have been to die on the battlefield. For his father. For himself.

  Keegan spit into the vermin-infested straw on the floor. In the months since Culloden, Keegan had railed against God, against the Fates, against himself and even his father who championed a cause destined to failure. During those long, lonely days he’d made peace with himself as best he could, with his father’s memory and the God who watched over him.

  Forgiveness and acceptance. With one exception. Lord Foxworth Morgan. He should have used his broadsword on the English officer rather than taken his word on anything. His last regret in a life filled with them was that he couldn’t take the British lord to hell with him.

  And if he ever had the chance again, by God, he w
ould.

  Keegan’s laughter was harsh. He had no more chances. No more options. He’d been judged guilty by the English courts and as soon as the sun rose over the Thames he’d—

  The metallic rattle of key against lock interrupted Keegan’s morbid thoughts. He pushed to his feet. So it was time.

  “Can’t even wait for the dawn, eh?” he said as the thick-lipped jailor motioned him from the cell. The man carried a lantern in one hand, a pistol in the other. He said nothing as they walked the corridor, past the spot where a sentry with his fixed bayonet usually stood. Keegan’s cell was on the third of four stories. He led the way down the stairs into the darkness.

  At the bottom he was nudged to the left, down another corridor. Keegan kept walking till he came to the door that marked the end. The silent jailor motioned Keegan aside, then slipped a key ring from his belt and unlocked it. The portal swung open to the blackness of night. And just as quickly Keegan was shoved through the doorway.

  “What the hell...?”

  The door slammed shut, the jailor disappearing behind it.

  With Keegan on the outside.

  Slowly he turned, trying to focus in the darkness.

  “Hurry, Monsieur Keegan. I have paid the jailor well, but he’s obviously not a loyal sort, so we can’t count on—”

  “François?” Keegan could hardly believe his ears.

  “Oui,” came the little Frenchman’s response. “Now we must—”

  “But how? Why?”

  “I am your valet, am I not? It is my duty to save you. Here.” He thrust first a pistol, then a sword toward Keegan. “We should leave now. I’ve arranged for a boat to take us to France.”

  “France?” Keegan who had been following his rescuer came to a halt. “I’m bound for Scotland.”

  “Non, non.” Keegan could see his valet’s hands fluttering. “That is not a good idea.”

  “But my clan is there.”

  “Non, non, you must go to France.” His voice, high-pitched in tranquil times, became even more so.