Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,1

Prince Charlie.

“No one compares to His Majesty, King George,” he said expansively. “Though I am sorry for your loss. No doubt your men died heroes.”

Elisabeth merely nodded, praying he’d not ask their names. A list of soldiers killed at Falkirk had circulated round Edinburgh for weeks. The captain might recall that Lord Donald and Andrew Kerr were not named among the royalist casualties. Instead, her handsome husband and his younger brother were counted among the fallen rebels on that stormy January evening.

My sweet Donald. However grievous his sins, however much he’d wounded her, she’d loved him once and mourned him still.

Her courage bolstered by the thought of Donald in his dark blue uniform, Elisabeth squared her shoulders and ignored the rain sluicing down her neck. “My mother-in-law and I are eager to resume our journey. If we are done here—”

“We are not.” Still lingering too near, the captain inclined his head, measuring her. “A shame your husband left such a bonny widow. Though if you fancy another soldier in your bed, one of my men will gladly oblige—”

“Sir!” Marjory protested. “How dare you address a lady in so coarse a manner.”

His dragoons quickly closed ranks. “A lady?” one of them grumbled. “She sounds more like a Highlander to my ear.”

The captain’s expression darkened. “Aye, so she does.” Without warning he grasped the belled cuff of Elisabeth’s sleeve and turned back the fabric. “Where is it, lass? Where is your silk Jacobite rose?”

“You’ve no need to look.” Elisabeth tried to wrest free of him. “I haven’t one.”

Ignoring her objections, he roughly examined the other cuff, nearly tearing apart the seam. “The white rose of Scotland was Prince Charlie’s favorite, was it not? I’ve plucked them off many a Highland rebel.”

“I imagine you have.” Elisabeth freed her sleeve from his grasp. “Are you quite satisfied?”

“Far from it, lass.” The captain eyed the neckline of her gown, his mouth twisting into an ugly sneer. “It seems your flower is well hidden. Nevertheless, I mean to have it.”

Two

The brave find a home

in every land.

OVID

top!” Marjory threw her arm in front of Elisabeth, shielding her from the British dragoon with his ill-mannered words and his insolent gaze. “That is enough, sir.” Her heart pounding, her patience long abandoned on the road south, Marjory practically shouted at the man, “If my daughter-in-law says she has no rose, then she has no rose.”

“I do not own a single one,” Elisabeth said evenly, stepping back.

Marjory lowered her arm but didn’t move, still glaring at the captain. Did the scoundrel think she’d simply stand by and watch while he took liberties with her daughter-in-law? The very idea.

When the captain did not respond at once, his men grew restless, murmuring among themselves. Finally he offered a careless shrug. “Madam, I did not intend—”

“I beg to differ,” Marjory retorted. “Your intentions were abundantly clear and wholly dishonorable. Perhaps I should write General Lord Mark Kerr and inform him of your vile behavior.” She saw the flicker of fear in his eyes and was secretly pleased.

He shifted his stance. “You are … acquainted with his lordship?”

“Very well acquainted.” Marjory kept the rest to herself: Lord Mark was not only Honorary Governor of Edinburgh Castle; he was also a distant cousin of her late husband’s and a heartless military man who’d done her family many a disservice. She would not correspond with General Lord Mark Kerr if he were the last man on earth.

“We’ve been delayed long enough,” she said, then turned toward the carriage, sensing her bravado beginning to flag. Never in her life had she spoken so boldly to a man, let alone to a dragoon, though he certainly deserved it. Perhaps the Almighty had rescued them just as Elisabeth had said he would.

Marjory held out her hand, amazed to find she was not trembling. “Mr. Dewar?”

“Aye, mem.” He guided her into the coach and cast a withering glance over his shoulder. “Weel, Captain, ’twould appear ye’ve met yer match.”

The dragoon backed away. “If these women are not Jacobite rebels, I have no use for them.” He gestured to his men. “Find your mounts, lads. We’re finished here.”

A grin spread across Mr. Dewar’s ruddy face. “So ye are.”

As the dragoons scattered, the coachman helped Elisabeth into her seat, then shut the carriage door with a firm bang. “I’ll have ye hame afore dark, leddies. Though I doubt either o’ ye have onie fear o’ the nicht.” He clambered onto his seat, then called out to his pair of horses, while the