Eire, December 1566
Hugh Campbell grasped the lantern as he strode across the dark courtyard of O’Grady’s manor towards the stables. The rain lashed at him, chilling him to the very marrow of his bones, but he scarcely felt the discomfort anymore.
It was hard to recall how life had once been, a mere eight months ago, before the Earl of Argyll had ordered him to join the redshanks assigned to defend the chieftain O’Grady’s land against the damn sassenach.
It had been eight months since he’d last set foot on his homeland or heard from any of his friends. But the earl’s order had been absolute.
Hugh needed to forsake his former life, inveigle himself with MacGregor redshanks, and discover what the hell his missing older brother Douglas was planning.
He wiped his drenched hair from his eyes as he reached the stables and pushed open the door. The familiar scent of horse and hay eased his weary senses and for a few precious moments he imagined he was back at Balfour Castle, his childhood home. With the horses at least he didn’t need to keep up any pretense of having turned his back on his own kinsmen or feign loyalty to Clan MacGregor.
Sometimes he wondered if he’d ever be able to wipe the stain from the last eight months of pretending to be someone he wasn’t from his soul.
And sometimes the fear gripped him that he’d never be permitted to return to his former life at all.
“Hugh.” Symon MacGregor emerged from the shadows, and Hugh’s anticipation of a welcome respite fled. He forced a smile. Symon was barely a year younger than himself, and the two of them had arrived at O’Grady’s the same day. It was hardly a recommendation to become friends, but Symon apparently believed it was and so here he was, reluctantly forging a friendship with a man from Clan MacGregor, the Campbells sworn enemies.
“I thought ye’d turned in for the night.” Hugh hung the lantern on a hook and shook his head in a vain effort to dry his hair.
“No, man. The manor walls stifle me.” With a grin, Symon produced a jug of ale and two tankards. “I’ve been waiting here for ye to celebrate yer promotion. Sargeant.”
Hugh grunted, and despite himself a flicker of pride heated him. He’d not expected the promotion. The life of a mercenary wasn’t, after all, one he’d chosen for himself. But it was gratifying that their captain had acknowledged his efforts.
He took a tankard, and Symon filled it with ale. “Don’t let it go to yer head, Hugh,” he said. “I’d still best ye in a fight.”
“The hell ye would.” Hugh downed the ale and for a fleeting moment peace flowed through him, as though he shared a drink with a real friend, and not one in whom he could never confide the truth. The sense of peace shattered, and he exhaled a long sigh.
“The extra coin will come in handy,” Symon remarked as he refilled their tankards. “See, I told ye ’twas in our best interests to stay with O’Grady throughout the winter.”
Hugh eyed him. “I believe I told ye that.”
Since he’d received no word from the earl to return to Argyll after his three-month contract in Eire had ended, he’d remained with O’Grady, and the chieftain had been appreciative. Extra men were always needed to defend against the intermittent raids of the sassenach queen’s men. Three months had turned into six, and when winter approached, he’d been glad to accept the chieftain’s invitation to remain until the following spring.
After all, what awaited him if he returned to Argyll? Although he’d sent regular reports to the earl he’d been unable to discover the whereabouts of Douglas, and without a direct order to return home, he doubted the earl would be pleased to see him.
“Aye,” Symon said agreeably. “Maybe ye did. I’ll drink to it either way. And since ye’re set for a handsome pay rise, ye can buy us another jug of ale.”
“I’m not going out in this weather to get more ale.”
“Tomorrow, then.”
Hugh shook his head but couldn’t help laughing before a thread of regret inched through him. If only Symon wasn’t a MacGregor, there could be true camaraderie between them instead of this uneasy twilight alliance. Yet if the other man ever discovered he wasn’t merely a Campbell, but one from a high-ranking family, even that would shatter.
“All right,” he conceded.
“And now ye can write to yer lady love and let her know when ye return, ye’ll be able to afford a wife.”
And just like that, his laughter died. What a damn fool he’d been, within weeks of arriving in Eire, to make the mistake of telling Symon there was a lass back home waiting for him.
There was no lass waiting for him in Argyll. Or anywhere else.
But Symon and the other redshanks had been talking about their families and their sweethearts, and when Symon had turned to him and asked him outright, his heart, aided no doubt by the ale they’d all consumed, had overruled his head. And his deeply buried dream had found a voice.
“There’s a bonny lass at home waiting. One day I hope to make her mine.”
But Lady Roisin MacDonald of Sgur Castle on the Isle of Eigg wasn’t his lass, and she wasn’t waiting for him. For all he knew, she could be wed by now.
A dull ache wrapped around his heart, and he finished his ale in one long swallow as Symon ambled on about his own sweetheart who waited for his return.
It wasn’t until much later, when he and Symon had returned to the manor and were in the small chamber the chieftain had allocated to them for the harsh winter months, that he allowed his mind to once again recall Lady Roisin’s gentle smile when they had talked together at Sgur.
A year ago, this week.
The sound of Symon’s snores filled the chamber, and in the soft glow from the lantern that stood upon a stool between their pallets, Hugh opened a leather pouch that hung from his belt and pulled out its precious contents.
Tenderly, he traced the delicate square of lace where she had embroidered Roisin MacDonald in the corner, encircling a tiny, exquisite rose. She’d given him her handkerchief the day they’d sailed from Eigg and he’d all but promised that one day soon he’d return.
God, how he wanted to. But even if he earned a small fortune from his time in Eire, unless the earl called him back, he was little more than an outcast from his clan and no noblewoman of Lady Roisin’s impeccable lineage would wish to associate themselves with such a dubious character.
It didn’t matter that it was Douglas who’d somehow offended the earl. Douglas was his brother, and it was only the earl’s sense of honor that had prevented him from venting his displeasure upon all of Hugh’s family.
In return for finding Douglas and befriending men of Clan MacGregor, the earl would ensure Hugh’s frail father, and his two young sisters were taken care of.
The earl had framed Hugh’s assistance as a request, but in truth there had been no choice. Because the alternative to taking up arms for O’Grady had been the loss of his sisters’ future security. When they came of age, they deserved good men and advantageous marriages, but that could only happen if the earl looked favorably upon the Campbells of Balfour Castle.
He pressed the lace that Lady Roisin had spent untold hours creating against his lips and inhaled deeply. But although the last lingering hints of her scent had long since faded, the ethereal aroma of crushed rose petals still filled his mind with a bittersweet longing for what once might have been.
© 2025 Christina Phillips