safe.”
She drew back in horror. “We’ve had uprisings before,” she argued. “Why is this different?”
For a man at the end of his strength, his grip on her wrist was amazingly strong. “Do as I say, Katrine. Promise me.”
She stared down into the face that was as familiar to her as her own father’s. Slowly she nodded. “I promise.”
“Good girl,” he rasped and turned toward the wall.
Gillie MacBean leaned forward and placed his fingers against the wounded man’s throat. He shook his head.
Tears rolled down Katrine’s cheeks. She dropped her head into her hands and sobbed.
“He waited for you, lass. I’m sure it was a great comfort to him to have you here.”
She opened her mouth to speak when a noise outside the barn stopped her. Gillie held his finger against his lips, picked up his broadsword, and flattened himself against the barn wall. The door burst open, and a dozen horses filled the entrance. There were a dozen more behind them.
“What have we here?” A large heavy-set man with a long nose and double chin stared first at Katrine and then at the lifeless body of Ewan Douglas. He frowned. Katrine’s face, in the dark shadows of the barn, was unrecognizable. Gesturing toward one of his men, he ordered, “Bring her outside.”
She lifted her chin. “That won’t be necessary,” she said and walked between the sweating horses into the dim light of an April day.
“Who are you?” asked the duke of Cumberland.
Smiling disdainfully, she spread her bloodstained skirts in a mocking curtsey. “Don’t you recognize me, Your Grace? I am Katrine Wolfe.”
His eyes narrowed. “May I ask why you are here giving aid to a rebel?”
“Ewan Douglas is my uncle,” she said shortly. “I could not refuse him.”
He toyed with the black rosette on his hat. “George Murray is your father, is he not?”
“He is.”
“Have you Jacobite sympathies, Lady Wolfe?”
Across the distance that separated them, he could see the flashing silver of her eyes. “I do, Your Grace.”
“Are you aware that the penalty for treason is death?”
Something clicked in the back of her mind. This scene had been played out before. She closed her eyes, and the memory of another woman and another time flooded her consciousness. Words, clear and proud, resounded in her head. Katrine’s eyes opened, and her faintness cleared. Her voice was strong with purpose. “I am no traitor,” she said, “for I did not betray my king.”
Cumberland could not mistake her meaning. His face turned a dark purple. “In that case, m’lady,” he said, “you shall join your fellow Jacobites. ’Tis a pity we have no gallows, but I’ve heard death by sword is far more merciful.” He turned to the men mounted beside him. “Seize her,” he ordered.
In unison they moved forward. Gillie MacBean, brandishing his broadsword at the duke, stepped out from inside the barn. “Touch her and I’ll spear you through the heart.”
Cumberland’s face twisted in fury. “Kill him,” he shouted.
Two dragoons positioned themselves beside Katrine. The rest moved forward. She closed her eyes, praying for a miracle. The odds against Gillie were twenty to one. The minutes seemed like hours, but finally it was silent again. Katrine opened her eyes and gasped. Thirteen government soldiers lay dead and with them the trampled and dismembered body of Gillie MacBean. Tears pricked her eyes. If there had only been more men like Gillie, yesterday would have turned out quite differently for the duke of Cumberland. His attention had returned to Katrine.
“Save your tears for yourself, Lady Wolfe,” he said. “You shall join him shortly.” Dismounting, the duke pulled out his sword and advanced toward her.
“What in bloody hell are you doing?” A voice, ice cold and deadly with rage, froze Cumberland in his tracks.
Slowly he turned around and looked across the clearing into Major Richard Wolfe’s forbidding blue eyes. He was alone and on horseback. Somehow, during the fray, he had come unnoticed upon the duke and his men.
“Your wife is guilty of giving aid to the enemy,” Cumberland announced. “She is also an admitted Jacobite. The penalty is death.”
“She is my wife,” said Richard through gritted teeth. “As the countess of Ashton, she is an English peer. That entitles her to a trial.”
“Not in time of war.”
“This isn’t a war,” replied Richard scathingly. “’Tis a bloodbath. You’ll be remembered throughout history as a butcher.”
Both of Cumberland’s large chins quivered with anger. “Major Richard Wolfe, you will be placed under arrest for insubordination.”
Richard’s eyes challenged him. “I’ll not allow you to harm my wife.”