Sound of the Heart Read online

  The beetle toddled away and Dougal squinted critically at its random wanderings. It should have stayed with him, he thought, away from the stomping of boots.

  Dougal closed his eyes. He had backed himself into a secluded section of the courtyard, where he often did, needing a place to himself. If he were given the freedom to choose his ideal place, it would have consisted of cool, clear water, tonic to his soul, but there was none available at the garrison but the stuff in buckets.

  A wind swept through the yard, lifting Dougal’s hair, ruffling the heavy layers of tartan draped over his bent knees. If there had been water, it would have been frosted white by the wind. The trees nearby would be shushing, making oak leaves dance on their precarious stems. He breathed in another gust and let a smile tickle his expression. The wind was Dougal’s substitute for water.

  A sergeant bellowed at his men across the yard; two soldiers wandered nearby, their conversation bobbing just above the surface of Dougal’s thoughts. Not enough to touch or disturb him. A ragged melody played from faraway bagpipes, a memory fluttering in the wind.

  CHAPTER 29

  A Voice on the Battlefield

  Dougal was a warrior, and he knew he was a good one. He had been born to fight, to follow the hunter’s instinct and chase victory at any cost. When he shouldered his musket and heard the commanding officer’s voice, Dougal fell into the scene, losing all sense of where he was. Everything seemed to slow, the sounds of men and guns fading into a muffled cacophony that served as a background to his slow, steady heartbeats. He felt no fear, only a sense of calm determination. Now he turned toward a telltale red kerchief fluttering in the distance and fired. A hundred yards away an oak splintered, severed by a cannon’s blast. Dougal heard it crack and pop as it fell, followed by cries of men stumbling to get out of the reach of its falling branches.

  “Dougal.”

  The voice hit him between the eyes, the impact leaving him dizzy. He granted himself the luxury of looking away from the fight for a breath, trying to find the voice, but it was gone. In its place, however, he felt a pressure. A push. Dougal wheeled to the right, following the urge, and squinted across the gray field. A brief flash of red under a black tricorne. Good God. The voice was right. Dougal pointed and fired. The man toppled from the lower branch of an old maple, his cry disappearing into the fog. Another shot rang out and Dougal turned toward the source, finding and dispatching it instantly. He felt pressure in his mind again, like a warm hand guiding his own. He raised his rifle, letting the voice lead him to one target, the next, and the next, like a magnet to iron.

  When the battle was done, the 77th lauded as victorious, Dougal walked from the bloodied field on feet that felt light. Everything around him seemed unreal. The voices of men, which always sounded muffled in his ears after artillery fire, were almost silent; his cohorts’ bright uniforms were nothing more than shades of gray. When he inhaled, the cutting smoke that hung in the air didn’t seem as harsh. The world was a different place.

  He knew that voice. And he knew only one man who had been that intuitive about finding hidden targets.

  Andrew. Andrew Adam James MacDonnell.

  Dougal had been on the battlefield, and yet he hadn’t been in charge of his aim. Andrew, his beloved brother, hadn’t been there, and yet he had.

  That night, as Dougal settled into his bedroll, his mind was with his brother. As much as Dougal never questioned the impossible voices running like an unstoppable force through his mind, he didn’t believe in communicating with the dead. He had never heard voices from those no longer alive.

  And that meant Andrew still lived.

  The treasured sound of his voice was rare, and it was nothing more than the simple whisper of Dougal’s name. But the syllables were more precious than gold, more nourishing than any feast. He thought back over the months and years spent on this continent, and realised the frequency and clarity of the whispers had everything to do with geography. In the Carolinas he could almost swear Andrew stood beside him, his voice a familiar deep timbre, not a faraway whisper.

  So Dougal would go to the Carolinas. He would find Andrew. There was no question in his mind. He would have to leave the army, only wondered how soon he could do it. There was talk of their travelling north to Halifax for the winter, and if that happened, Dougal would escape before then. He couldn’t afford to go any farther north. The roads Dougal had worked so hard to build would be off limits to him once he had deserted, but he would have to use them whenever he could, whenever there was no other traffic to avoid. He was well aware of the danger he would face. As a deserter he was committing a capital offense. He would be a criminal in the eyes of just about anyone.

  The very idea would have been unthinkable to Dougal even a few months ago. Then he had been nothing but a soldier. English army or not, Dougal was a soldier, and proud of it. Now he started to play with the idea of leaving the army, making plans. He would finally escape the clutches of the damn English. And he was on his way to finding another who had evaded their grasp.

  Andrew. Just thinking of his brother lightened Dougal’s heart. So much had changed since the last time he’d seen Andrew, almost a decade past. What would Andrew’s life be like? What would he be like as a man, after all he had survived? Dougal knew he himself was no longer the man he’d been before they’d set off to battle. He was hard now, compared to the jolly lad from before. He cared less about people, because he had made it so. After all the losses in his life, Dougal had become convinced that to make a friend was almost to read him—or her—a death sentence.

  But not his brother. Andrew had survived. He wondered if Andrew had any idea Dougal was alive. Oh, what a reunion theirs would be! Dougal ran different scenarios through his head, passing the time, trying to envision the joy of that moment. I’m comin’ for ye, Andrew. We’ll laugh together soon.

  PART 2

  Glenna

  CHAPTER 30

  On Her Own

  If she’d had a choice, Glenna would have chosen death.

  She plodded behind the soldiers, wrists bound, reliving the last time she’d been captured. That had been another lifetime, before her days and nights and heart had filled with Dougal. Now she was Glenna, not Aidan. Everything was different. She was afraid to think of what might await her wherever they were taking her.

  Dougal. They’d killed him. The knowledge was cold and sharp and black in her, something she couldn’t yet touch. She knew that cliff where they’d thrown him, knew the impossible rapids in the river where he would have landed. The bastard had hit him hard from behind and Dougal had fallen to the dirt like a stone. She’d wrestled against the man holding her, screaming, kicking out at him, needing to rush to Dougal’s side, but two of the soldiers dragged his senseless body to the edge before she could do anything. Rolled him over the sharp corner of the cliff, gave him a shove with one foot for good measure. At least he’d never seen it coming. She was glad of that. Being unaware would have made it an easier death.

  Glenna had died in that moment with him. Crumpled on the ground, spared no pain. Maybe he was up in that heaven of his, watching her right now. She couldn’t remember if Christians had any power from beyond the living. Could he take care of her from there?

  No. She was on her own. No one would come for her. No one would care.

  The soldiers hadn’t tried anything yet, but she was ready. They’d taken her dirk, left her quiver of arrows in the early spring mud. Thought she was nothing but a helpless woman. But Glenna knew men and had fought them off plenty of times in the past. She might not have a dirk anymore, but she had teeth. She had nails and elbows and knees. She would manage. And Dougal would be proud of her, wherever he was. He’d taught her there was a weapon in everything. All she had to do was find it. And if she could see nothing, she could still use her mind, her words.

  She didn’t see any sort of sign indicating the name of the place when they arrived, but it was some kind of fort. A large courtyard surrounded by buildi
ngs of different descriptions. Some of them she thought were probably barracks, others would be storage rooms and offices. She was shoved through a small door and briefly saw the profiles of five other people inside before it slammed shut behind her. As the light was snuffed out, her courage went with it, stolen by the familiar terror of a stale and musty cell. Glenna squinted at the outlines of the other prisoners while her eyes adjusted to the lack of light. A small cluster of women sat on the floor, leaning against two of the walls.

  One of them spoke right away. “Who’re you?” she demanded.

  “Lorna, dear. Now, now. That’s no way to say a hello, is it? Come on in, dearie. Have a seat here.”

  Glenna stepped warily into the darkness, running her fingers along one cool wall as she went. Though the floor was probably filthy, Glenna was exhausted, her legs ready to collapse. She slid down the wall beside the others.

  “Glenna,” she said quietly. “I’m Glenna.”

  “Lovely, that. I’m Nessa, and these here—”

  “We don’t get much food, missy. Ye’ll no’ be takin’ any o’ mine.”

  Glenna wasn’t in the mood. “I’ll eat what I need, no more, no less.”

  “No, ye’ll—”

  “Lorna! Enough!” It was another voice chipping in. “Pay her no mind, Glenna. Ye’ll need to get yer rest now.”

  Glenna closed her eyes and hung her head onto her chest, feeling the chill of the cell wheedle into her bones, feeling the darkness tighten around her chest. Oh, Dougal. If only I had been there for you. If only I hadn’t downed that deer. If only . . . Her throat was thick with sobs now that she had the time to sit, to think, to understand. But she didn’t cry. Her head already ached, and crying would do it no good.

  She was startled when a couple of cool fingers pressed something against her hand. Bread?

  “Here ye are,” said a kind voice.

  Glenna had forgotten how hungry she was. She’d been starving before they’d gone hunting, then had nothing over the past three or four hours. Every step had lulled her further into a trance of disbelief, and her body’s physical messages didn’t seem to matter after a while. But now that she held the woman’s meagre offering, her whole body began to shake. She bit into the edge of the bread’s sharp crust, cutting her gum, but she didn’t care. The morsel melted in her mouth and travelled down to the pit of her stomach, soothing the cramping within. It was just a little bit, but it was something.

  “Thank ye, Nessa,” she whispered. “I havena eaten in a while.”

  “I’ll wager ye’ve no’ slept, either. Lay yer head, lass. There’s nothin’ here for ye to stay awake for.”

  Glenna let Nessa guide her cheek onto her lap, then closed her eyes under the woman’s soft touch. A mother, Glenna guessed. The woman knew how to care for someone in pain. And Glenna hurt all over, inside and out. She gave in to the tears, though she kept them quiet under the woman’s caresses, and fell asleep.

  In the morning the latch on the door was thrown open, sunlight flooded the room, and a guard entered, waving them all to their feet. Glenna battled her heavy eyelids, forcing them open while the other women shuffled past her.

  “That’s it,” the guard said. “Move along now. Right. Ah. You’d be the new girl then.” Glenna kept her eyes on her feet and followed the women toward the outside. The guard grabbed her arm and jerked her toward him, forcing her eyes to meet his. He was a small man and carried a belligerence that could only come from someone holding power in the form of a gun. She said nothing, and his grip tightened. “That’s right.” His voice oozed and his eyes wandered over her face, then farther down. He pulled her closer, until they were practically nose to nose, and spoke through teeth so rotted the smell almost choked her. “You’ll remember who’s boss here, will you?”

  “Leave her, Sergeant,” one of the women said, tugging Glenna’s arm from his grasp.

  The man’s smile never changed, but a slight frown darkened his small, close-set eyes. “For now,” he said. He gave Glenna a wink, and she knew what he was.

  The pebbles in the yard crunched under Glenna’s feet, and she shielded her eyes with her hand, slightly chilled by the cool sweat that had bubbled up on her when the guard’s fingers bruised her arm. His grip had been nothing special, but a threat nonetheless. Her reaction to it had been different from when she’d been grabbed the day before—God, was it only yesterday?—because then she’d been consumed by what was happening to Dougal. She hadn’t cared what they did to her. If only they’d get off him, leave him be. She and Dougal had done nothing wrong but need food for their bellies. But the bloody English soldiers hadn’t cared what she’d wanted. They’d killed the man she loved, then dragged her away without a look back, as if they were simply returning to work after dumping the refuse in the filthy streets of London.

  But she knew the look in this guard’s eyes, and now had no one to focus on but herself, since she need not worry about poor, dead Dougal. She blinked away the thought, taking care not to envision his body at the bottom of that cliff. Now she was on her own and realised she couldn’t remember a time when she hadn’t had someone to look after her. First dear Joseph, then Dougal. Things would be different now. She knew how to fight and could be tougher than anyone expected, but she was still small and most likely couldn’t manage this one guard on her own. Avoidance would have to be key.

  And perhaps Nessa. In the sunlight Glenna could finally make out the faces of the other women, also dirty but less bruised than she was, moving confidently into the yard as if they had spent some time getting used to the routine. Nessa wasn’t the oldest and looked to be maybe in her forties, her hair almost pure white, her eyes, though tired, still stubbornly alive with intelligence and heart. The mother hen, Glenna thought, though there was an older lady there as well. Glenna couldn’t remember most of the other names, but she spotted Lorna right off. Scrawny, weathered, her dry yellow hair pulled back from what might once have been a pretty face. Now it was twisted with suspicion and animosity. Like a dog beaten too often, quick to snap.

  “Come along, Glenna,” Nessa called cheerfully. “We’ll walk a bit then take breakfast.” She gave Glenna a wry smile. “Maybe we’ll get a bucket an’ wash ye a bit, shall we?”

  She had been right in her initial impression of Nessa Drummond. Her new friend opened up right away, as if she felt it important to get the truth out in the open. She was a mother of five daughters and three sons. She thought maybe a couple of her daughters still lived, but she had no idea. Her husband was gone as well. She assumed he and their sons had all died at Culloden.

  “They didna all die there,” Glenna said quietly, hardly knowing how to answer a woman who braved such unthinkable grief. “I was there as well. So many dead, so much . . .” She stopped for a moment, unable to bear either the pain in herself or in the older woman’s expression. “But there were thousands of us kept alive for whatever reason, kept in prison. I lived among them. Maybe they’re still there.”

  Nessa smiled sadly and nodded, but never asked if Glenna had known anyone in particular. That, to Glenna, meant Nessa had given up. It was natural for Glenna to want to offer words of hope, but she didn’t after that. The woman’s nod indicated she neither expected nor wanted platitudes from anyone.

  “That is Bonnie,” said Nessa, indicating a quiet, mousy woman with a pinched expression. “She doesna speak much, but means well enough. Lost a husband and two sons at Prestonpans and Culloden, then was taken from her farm along wi’ her daughters, but she hasna seen them since.”

  Nessa tilted her head slightly to the right. “Beside her is my friend Aline. She’ll no’ talk of what brings her here, so I dinna ask. She’s a good woman, is Aline. Hates the English wi’ every breath, but smart enough no’ to show it. Aline kens her way around the healin’ arts, she does. She helps here when she can, ministerin’ to the injured an’ even to the sick sometimes.”

  Nessa strode purposefully toward a particular guard, smiling as if the man were a ne
ighbour, no less. Her silver curls, which Glenna could now see were darkened slightly by the occasional patch of stubborn brown, were swept back from her face, falling in a full tail down her neck and back. She calmly asked the man for something with which she could help Glenna wash, then followed the guard to a small room where the two women were left alone with a bucket of water and cloths. The water was lukewarm and far from clean, but it was water. Glenna took off her trousers and shirt, gratefully wiping the grime from her face and body.

  “They’re bringin’ ye a gown,” Nessa said. She went to the door, peered outside, and nodded, thanking the guard. She returned, carrying a folded dress. “This should fit ye fine.”

  Glenna had no argument with pulling the dress on. Her old clothes were so dirty they made her itch. The gown was loose around her waist and chest, but relatively clean.

  “Thank ye, Nessa, for tendin’ me so well.”

  Nessa smiled. “I’m glad to do it, child. We’re all of us here together, aye?” She frowned. “Oh, speakin’ o’ which, think nothin’ of Lorna. She’s a cranky ol’ sow, but more talk than bite. I’ve no idea of her story, but she seems the type to have been angry her whole life. I advise ye to keep yer distance just to avoid her spite. Ye canna make Lorna smile. It’s no’ possible.”

  “Nessa?” The voice was quiet, tentative, and yet Glenna whirled around, immediately defensive.

  “Oh, Brenda, my love. Come in, dearie.” Nessa shot Glenna an unreadable glance and Glenna decided to wait and see what it meant. A pretty, dark-haired girl, not yet in her twenties from what Glenna could guess, stepped like a mouse into the room, eyes wide.

  “I couldna find ye,” she said quietly.

  “I’m only here, hen. Come an’ say hallo to Glenna, aye?”

  Brenda glanced around, as if expecting the walls to jump out at her, then slid quickly to Nessa’s side. Her smile was wary. “Hallo, Glenna. I hope ye slept fine last night.”