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‘Hold there. Don’t shoot. I am friend, not foe,’ came a calm voice.
It was a redcoat towering over her on a huge horse. Panic closed Orla’s throat as she remembered her father’s words. ‘Life in the English army is a daily lesson in brutality,’ he had once said. ‘Its regiments are populated with the lowest of society – thieves, cutthroats, rapists, the dregs of English prisons.’
This man looked none of those foul things as he dismounted and held out his hands to her in supplication. ‘Be not alarmed, Miss. I mean you no harm. You appear to be in some distress, and I seek only to assist you, I swear. Lower the musket if you please, as I prefer my head attached to my body. Your hands are shaking a little too much for comfort.’
‘I will not lower it, and you will stay back,’ replied Orla.
The man gave her a weak smile. ‘The beast is injured, and I would take a look with your leave. You may keep the musket on me if you wish, just not pointed at my head.’
There was nothing to be done. Orla had to accept the man’s help. ‘Alright, you may look, but do not try anything, for I am an excellent shot,’ said Orla. ‘Are you alone? Are there more of you rascals?’
‘I am the only rascal foolish enough to be caught out by this mist.’ The man smiled again as he dismounted and stooped to inspect Midnight’s leg, lifting it most gently. Orla was surprised her horse would let him and could only watch helplessly as he ran his hands down Midnight’s hock and along his fetlock.
She found the man pleasant looking, in a gentle way, with a pale, rather gaunt face. His dark blonde hair was darkened by the mist settling on it, and his scarlet tunic was splendid, with black flashing down the front and gold buttons. The collar was stiff, and as he bent to inspect Midnight, it dug into his neck. He was well-spoken, too, with the smooth tones of an English gentleman.
‘Ah, is it not so bad, Miss,’ he said. ‘A sprain to the fetlock, I believe. No break that I can feel. It should heal well with rest but you’ll have to walk the beast home. He cannot be ridden.’ He stood and ran a hand over his hair, keeping his distance. ‘I trust there is no need to shoot me now that I have given you good news.’
Orla lowered the musket, though she gripped it tightly by her side.
‘May I take the liberty of introducing myself, Miss.’ The redcoat bowed stiffly, and the collar dug in again. ‘Captain Giles Nash, at your service.’
Goodness, what a serious expression he had, as though the burdens of the world rested on his young shoulders. His courteous manner hinted at kindness, but he wore the scarlet tunic of an English soldier, and they were anything but kind. Orla had heard stories of how brutally they stomped out any embers of rebellion still smouldering after the ill-fated Jacobite rebellion just five years earlier.
‘May I beg your name,’ he said.
‘That is not important, nor any of your concern. You have helped me, and for that, you have my thanks. But you should be on your way now. This is Munro land, and they deal with spies most harshly.’
He laughed. ‘Oh, I am no spy, merely a great admirer of Scottish scenery. I am from Hertfordshire, you see, and there we have gentle, green hills, not mountains towering up almost to the sky. I was on patrol a while back, newly arrived at the garrison at Fort George, and we strayed into these hills one day. I must confess I am amazed at the country hereabouts.’ He held her gaze. ‘It assuages my homesickness to come here and be alone with the beauty of Scotland, as I am doing at present.’
His eyes were grey and curious, holding a spark of admiration. Was the fool actually trying to flirt? He could not be, surely?
‘Well, if you are missing your home, maybe you should return to it, you and all your comrades, and leave Scotland to the Scots,’ Orla replied.
‘Ah, but then you would get up to all sorts of mischief, like trying to depose our good King George in favour of that indolent usurper James - a man who cowers at the Pope’s feet as though he were his dog. Forgive my ardour on the subject, but it is my duty and honour to serve my country.’
‘As it is for a Scot to serve hers.’ Orla waved her musket at him again, and he held out his hands.
‘You would make a fine soldier indeed, Miss, for you are fearless. Excuse my rough words and my patriotic fervour for England, and I beg you, do not shoot me for my insolence. You will need help getting home with that injury to your mount, for you cannot ride him in that state. Honour compels me to offer my assistance.’
Captain Nash was right. She was lost, the weather was turning, and she did not know her way home. ‘What kind of help?’ said Orla warily.
‘We will walk our mounts out of these trees, and I am certain we will soon happen upon a familiar path, where I will set you safely on your way.’
Orla bit her lip and looked up at the heavens. The sky was slate grey, and the mist thickening to drizzle. If she could find the path, she could be delivered from the weather and this infernal English fool.
‘Very well. I will accept your offer,’ said Orla.
Captain Giles Nash gave a stiff bow and swept out a hand. ‘If you will allow, I will lead, and you can follow with your mount.’
He set off, and Orla followed, leading Midnight with one hand and tucking the musket into her pocket with the other. She kept her fingers clenched around it. After some time walking in silence, the trees thinned, and they could walk shoulder to shoulder, at which point he insisted on talking again.
‘I must say it is pleasant to be in civilised company after the rough fellows in the barracks. And you do not run on so like the young ladies of my acquaintance in Hertfordshire. Might I would beg your name?’
‘I think it would be best if we did not converse more than is necessary,’ said Orla.
‘Pray, do not disappoint me with silence. If we talk, it might divert us from the rain and the cold.’
‘You must be delicate to notice it, Captain. This is but a warm summer’s day in Scotland.’
