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The Highlanders: A Smitten Historical Romance Collection

By J'nell Ciesielski, Naomi Musch, Jennifer Lamont Leo, Janet Grunst

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A TENDER SIEGE by Naomi Musch

Chapter 1

His Majesty's Forces at Bushy Run, Pennsylvania
August 6, 1763

Lachlan McRae pressed his body face down to the earth behind a fallen chestnut tree. His heart throbbed against the musty leaf litter, sending further pulses of pain into his leg where a musket ball embedded.
He hadn't a true will to live, yet neither did he wish to have his skull laid wide by a tomahawk blade. Sweat trickled into his eyes as he turned his head just enough for a desperate glimpse into the forest while he hovered between two worlds. In the present one his warm flesh still bled. In the future world, where Moira waited with their child, her unfelt touch was all that mattered.
He splayed his hand across his tattered kilt and pressed it to the bleeding wound on his thigh. Wetness leeched through. Lachlan gritted his teeth. How far had the others in his regiment gone? "Nab." His friend's name was a rasp between gasps of agony. "Nab, are ye there?"
Deathly silence answered all around. Lachlan had not seen Jesse Nab since during the ambush yesterday. When their battalion of light infantry charged forward to support the advance guard, the Indians reappeared in another position on the neighboring heights. Soldiers broke off in varying directions seeking cover as the Indians assailed them from over the ridge, first coming from one side of the draw and then another. Many of his comrades had fallen. Lachlan, Nab, and a half dozen others broke off and hunkered in a small depression in the hillside, but later he had been separated during the melee.
Lachlan's Brown Bess lay beside him, powder damp from his tumble into Bushy Run, but the bloody bayonet remained affixed. Small comfort it offered, while his thigh lay torn through the flesh. When the ball from an Indian's musket struck his leg, Lachlan hadn't even discerned the direction the shot had come from, yet he'd manage to stop the sudden appearance of his assailant with his bayonet. This morning, the firing began again, and since then, the last highlander he'd seen lay dead somewhere east or south of his position. Now, as eerie stillness engulfed the land, Lachlan could not be sure whether Bouquet's entire army had been wiped out or if the Indians had been pushed back. He dare not drag himself onto the road toward the smoke rising in the distance to find out. His only recourse was to move to deeper cover.
He gritted his teeth and forced himself upright. The effort stole his breath. He disengaged the bayonet and pulled himself to stand on one foot, using the musket as a crutch. He must get free of this place or bleed out while he tried. If any of Bouquet's army remained—the 60th Royal Americans, the 77th Highlanders, or his own 42nd Highlanders—they would still be headed to relieve the siege at Fort Pitt.
Lachlan staggered forward peering left and right. After twenty rods, he pinched back a groan and fell to a stop. He huffed for breath. A humid breeze fluttered the leaves along a deep swale, the rustling sound able to cover moccasined feet. Lachlan tightened his jaw. Sweat trickled down his temple and stuck the shirt beneath his brick red waist coat to his back.
Blood continued to trickle down his leg, soaking into the red and white criss-cross pattern of his hose. With gory fingers he removed his belt and grimaced as he cinched it at the top of his leg near his groin. His body shook. For a moment he questioned his sanity in not letting himself bleed out. Moira. His lips formed her name. Perhaps if he closed his eyes and lay here a bit longer, she would come to him and take him away.
Go on, Lachlan.
He shook his head. "No, Moira. I want to come to you."
Go on, Lachlan.
He opened his eyes. Blue skies peeked down through the tree tops. Again he pushed to his feet, and this time he did cry out.
"I can't keep going. I've gone on enough."
Go on, Lachlan. The voice in his head was no longer Moira's, but whose? God's?
"I beg ye to take me."
This time, not even a leaf rustled in reply.
He stepped forward and bit his cheek against the fire racing up his leg. Then began the slow, miles-long journey over hill and rock and gully. He ate the bits of jerky he carried in his wallet and chewed on withering berries. Yet, he sensed no fever, only weakness, pain, and hunger. Bushy Station stood abandoned. Moccasin footprints in the mud outside showed frequent visits by the ranging Natives.
As the hours passed, his leg swelled, but the bleeding had hardened to a seeping crust. He suspected infection setting in and smirked. Such a way to finally die.
But in the morning, he awoke. Alive still, he glimpsed toward heaven. "So this is what ye intend, then?" He dragged himself on, step by agonizing step.
Lachlan moved northwest, keeping the main trail within a distance of twenty rods or so. Still, by the third day since the battle began, he sensed he'd not covered more than a handful of miles. The forests lay endless. He collapsed in a thicket. "God! What would ye ha' me do?" He panted and rubbed his torn sleeve across his grizzled chin.
His ears pricked. Footsteps? He crouched lower. No. Not footsteps but the trickle of moving water. Lachlan moved his parched tongue across cracked lips. He had not passed a creek since yesterday, and his canteen was empty. Now the hope of quenching his thirst nearly put away caution. He slung back his head with a gasp, then leaned forward and pushed to his feet again. Perhaps, at the water, he would loosen the belt and lay his leg in the shallows. Mayhap the coolness would numb the pain. Mayhap, he'd lie there until Moira came again.
He was out of breath and strength when he discovered the stream a little further on. Breaking through the trees, it flowed along over shale and rock. His watch flicked about, seeking danger, but as he'd not come across another human being, either red or white, he shuffled to the water and stepped into the black mud along its edge. He laid aside his musket and withdrew his sword, setting them on a flat stone. Gently, he eased himself down. Stripping off his shoes and hose, he set his feet into the water. He leaned back on his arms with teeth clenched and gasped as the water washed over his wound. It did not numb but, rather, enlivened the pain. He struck the water with both fists. Gritting against the burning, he stripped off the belt and let his circulation flow. After some moments of nearly blinding pain, it began to ease. An ugly redness stitched lines around the hole making a ragged opening in the meat of his thigh. Surely, it was a good thing to clean out the debris embedded in the wound.
For what seemed nearly an hour he laid there. His leg soaked to white, shriveled flesh, and his kilt too was sodden. A stream of red thinned to nearly clear water again. He'd removed his coat, but left his waistcoat and shirt in place. If he could find a rock touched by the sun, perhaps he would lie there and sleep while he dried and dreamed.
He'd only considered the idea when a new sound, like a mourning dove's notes, reached his ears. His heart punched inside his chest, for he knew 'twas no bird. He scrambled for his sword and gun, jerking his leg from the water in a manner that brought new agony. Clasping the items against his chest, he scooted backwards toward the trees.
Ah! His shoes and hose. There was nothing for it. They would have to remain in the open, and hopefully whoever it was who came would take no notice of them
The red of the stockings seemed like flares to Lachlan's eyes, however. As the sound of humming drew closer, he willed blindness on the intruder. With a narrow oak to his back, Lachlan peered behind, over his shoulder. A movement on the opposite bank of the creek captured his attention. A flit of deerskin. A shine of dark hair. He held his breath and froze, his hand on the hilt of his sword.
The humming ceased abruptly. A bird warbled in the treetops and another answered. Lachlan glanced at his bare leg where a pink ooze issued from the wound. Did someone creep close? Were these to be his final moments? Would his scalp be lifted while his feet yet kicked the earth? He adjusted his grip on the sword and turned his head enough to see the water flowing and that no one crept up behind him. He turned another inch, then two, and then he saw her. A woman stared at him from across the stream, her eyes fixed and bright. She crouched at the water's edge, a string in her hands, and on one end, lifted from the water, a fish wriggled.
He ducked back and clenched his eyelids shut. Memories of the clearances at home in Scotland threatened. Of Moira's suffering. He didn't want to kill a woman, but if she thought to attack him... God. Do not force my hand.
He peered once more, and she was gone. Lachlan's heartbeat quickened as he slid his gaze through the forest around him. There was no sign of her. But for how long, and would she return with a war party?
He glanced to the place he had seen her with the fish, and his stomach tightened. Perhaps she dropped it, and it lay there still on its string. Would he be able to cross the slippery rocks in the stream and find out? In answer, his belly groaned. He maneuvered out of the woods and retrieved his stockings and shoes. He rinsed one of the stockings and used it to wrap his wound. He would try the stream without covering his feet.
Inches turned to a journey over the rocks, slick with wet moss. Sharp stones poked the tender flesh of his soles. The rushing water made him wobble. Then, just when he was within feet of the embankment, his stronger leg slid out on a stone and he tumbled. His hip crashed into rock, and Lachlan flipped over. He dropped the Bess, and as he clamored to retrieve it, he slid on another rock and fell, bashing his skull.
Moira stood there on the shore, holding out her hand. Oblivion crept around the edges of his vision, narrowing his view of her. "Don't go." He moved his mouth, but whether or not he spoke aloud, he didn't know. Perhaps it didn't matter, for she tilted her head as if she listened. His mouth urged words, but they were mist. Ye must come get me, darlin', for I canna' come on my own.

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