Читать книгу The Highlander's Redemption - Marguerite Kaye - Страница 8

The wind ripped mercilessly across the bleak, rolling moorland, driving the icy sleet straight into the grimly set faces of the Jacobite forces ranged opposite. Calumn peered through the haze of smoke at the ragged Highland line in a desperate attempt to make out the Macleod colours, but it was useless. There was no doubt Rory was among them somewhere. Best not to know exactly where.

The big three-inch guns pounded across the narrow gap which constituted no-man’s land. The air was acrid with the stink of gunpowder. Calumn’s ears rang with the noise—the tumultuous blast of artillery, the drums, the snorting and whinnying of the Dragoons’ horses stationed on the left flank. And above it all the eerie banshee wail of the wind.

He readied his company of fusiliers for battle, rousing the men, straightening the line, barking lastminute orders. His heart was pounding so hard he could hear it even above the thud, thud, thud of the guns. He was afraid, but not of death. He cared not a jot for his own life, but he was terrified none the less. Terrified that he would look up in the heat of battle and come face to face with his brother.

A spine-tingling roar, starting low and rising to a crescendo, as if from the maw of a thousand lions, carried across the moor from the Jacobites. A fearsome, chaotic line of Highlanders, standards flying, began to charge. Calumn automatically checked the fixing on his bayonet. Saw Cumberland give the signal. Gave his own company the nod. And slowly, inexorably, moved forward into the hellish fray.

A shot whistled past his ear. Traitor, traitor, the voice in his head sang out, yet onwards he went, step after disciplined step, towards the heaving mass of wild-eyed clansmen in their plaids. His feet sank into the brackish water of a burn. The wounded screamed, crumpling beside and in front of him. The ferrous smell of fresh blood rent the air, mingling with the heart-wrenchingly familiar scent of sodden wool coming from the filleadh begs worn by the Highlanders. With leaden arms, he raised his musket, aimed and fired. High. Mutinously high. Far above the heads of the men who were his kin.

A riderless horse bolted, the high-pitched whinny like the scream of a frightened child. He saw the Macleod colours directly in front of him and paused, frantically searching, seeking Rory’s distinctive mane of gold hair, the exact same colour as his own. A hissing noise, which he thought at first was the wind changing direction, made him look up just in time to see the murderous glint of metal arc through the air towards him. In time to turn away from its fatal path, but not in time to avoid it completely. The heavy, double-bladed claymore sliced into the flesh of his belly, the force of the impact sending him flying backwards into his own line. Finally, he saw Rory. As he cried out his brother’s name, his legs gave way beneath him and he felt himself falling, falling, falling …

Calumn woke with a start as he always did, sweating profusely. The dryness of his mouth told him he had been shouting in his sleep. Trembling, like a man with the ague, he reached for the decanter of whisky he had taken to keeping on the nightstand by his bed, gulping down a generous dram of the fiery golden liquid. He touched the large scar, which weaved a jagged path across the taut muscles of his abdomen. The physical wound had long since healed, but on nights like this the scar felt burning hot, inflamed and aching, as though he had been branded by an iron.

Eventually the vivid memory of the nightmare faded. Calumn slumped back against the damp pillows, clutching his glass. The furious beating of his heart slowed. The sheen of sweat on his chest dried.

But other, less visible scars still burned, deep in his psyche. The all-pervading sense of desolation. And the heavy blanket of guilt which enveloped his soul.