“Aye. ’Twas the Countess of Sutherland who ordered the burnings herself.”
“As far north as it is, I always thought Sutherland was one of the strongest Scottish holdings,” Jillian said.
“’It was. The Gordons and Mackays were loyal Scots. The present countess, though, dinnae even speak Gaelic. She and her husband, the Marquess of Stafford, reside in London and pay Sutherland no mind except to collect rents.”
Jillian furrowed her brows in puzzlement. “Then why would she order anything to be burned?”
Bridget grimaced. “Greed. But they didnae dirty their own hands. They hired two factors—I think ye call them solicitors?—to take care of theproblem, as they called it. Both men hated the Gaels.”
“Two hundred and fifty homes were torched in one day,” Shauna added. “An elderly lady, Margaret Mackay, died in the fire. The rest of the people had nowhere to go.”
“How many people were affected?”
“In all, around fifteen thousand,” Bridget said.
“Fifteen thousand. No wonder Duncan and Broc are still upset. I had no idea,” Jillian replied.
“’Tis only part of the reason they are angry,” Shauna said.
Bridget sent her a warning look. “’Tis nothing to worry Jillian about.”
“I want to know,” Jillian countered.
“Verra well.” Bridget took a deep breath as if deciding how much to say. “The mon who brought Ian’s letter told Duncan the Sutherlands were on their way north for a rare visit. Some of the men have been blethering about…confronting them.”
“What good would that do?”
“It wouldna do any good. ’Twould just make matters worse.”
“I wish Ian were here. He could talk sense into his uncle,” Jillian said.
“Mayhap. Duncan and Broc are hot-headed though.”
“But are they stupid? Surely they can see nothing can be gained by opposing nobility.”
The sisters looked at each other.
Bridget shrugged. “They are men.”
The news still bothered Jillian later that afternoon as she stood inside one of the stable stalls grooming Gunnar. Besides Ian, she was the only person the Andalusian stallion tolerated brushing him. The boy assigned to feed and water the animal had been only too glad to turn over grooming duties after he’d been kicked and nipped. Jillian had tried to explain that Gunnar had been mistreated while being broken to saddle, but the lad had looked skeptical. Since she could not ride this late in her pregnancy, she enjoyed the contact with the horse.
She took a chunk of apple from the sporran she’d borrowed and held it out for Gunnar, about to tell him what a fantastic animal he was when she heard male voices talking in low, conspiratorial tones. Shrinking back against the wall as the men neared her stall, she could tell Duncan was speaking.
“Did ye get the word out?”
“Aye,” Broc answered in a near whisper. “The men will meet ye at midnight at the deserted croft just past the cairn.”
“’Tis a fittin’ place to meet. The old mon who lived there was a fool to believe the damn redcoats about money to be made in Dundee.”
“His widow said he caught his death of cold halfway there.”
Duncan snorted. “The English are the devil’s own spawn.”
“Mayhap the world will be less two of the devils if our plan works.”
“It will work.”
The men moved on to the tack room. Jillian slipped out of the stall and hurried to the house. If Duncan and Broc were gathering men to try to intercept the Countess of Sutherland’s entourage, they needed to be stopped. The English guards would be armed with muskets as well as bayonets and sabers. There probably would be a large retinue from Ft. William as well, since this far north in Scotland was still considered somewhat uncivilized by Prinny’s set. Duncan and his group would be massacred.
