The Wild Rose of Kilgannon Read Free

we were little girls. Becca had married Lawrence and had gone to his plantation in the colonies; and I had married my Scotsman and come to his castle in the Highlands. We had always assumed that we'd grow up as our mothers had, neighbors and friends for life. But, I reflected, my mother had died at an early age, leaving her sister Louisa and her best friend, Eloise, now the Duchess of Fenster, to go on without her. My aunt and the Duchess had remained fast friends with each other, and with Becca's mother, Sarah, and I was determined that no matter the circumstances, Rebecca and I would do the same. But how? I wondered in the depths of my loneliness and fear. How would we remain friends?
    It was a glum household that upheld the traditions of the season. Christmas was sombre and although we celebrated New Year's with as much tradition as we could muster, none of us was in a rejoicing mood. I think we breathed a collective sigh of relief when we could stop the charade.
    In the early hours of January first I wrapped Alex's old plaid around me and gave in to the tears that were never far away. I sobbed as I remembered last year's holidays. "Je suis content; Matthew had said, and risked the teasing that had followed. I had agreed. I was content. And now, twelve months later, my life was in tatters, my husband far away with his men, defeated rebels running for their lives.
    I slept at last, but my dreams were so vivid that I woke with the sound of Alex's voice still in the room. I had been remembering the day he'd first called me Mary Rose. We'd visited Duncan of the Glen's home and as we left one of his sons had handed me a beautiful white rose, diminutive and very fragrant. A wild rose, Thomas had told me. "It is small and easily bruised, but it will grow back again and again. Once it has taken root, ye cannot budge it for all the effort ye'd give," he'd said. And Alex, laughing, his eyes very blue, had asked the men, "Who is small and verra beautiful and easily bruised?" When they had all turned to see my reaction, Alex had grinned and said, "We'll call it the Mary Rose." Later that night he'd said the name suited me, and he'd called me that ever since. I woke to hear the echo of his voice still lingering. "Yer body is verra tender, Mary Rose," he'd said. I closed my eyes again, hoping to summon him close for just another moment. But he was gone and the night stretched long before me.
    1716 was upon us, the weather cold and brutal. Ellen and I spent our evenings in the library with the boys or in the hall, where more and more often the women of the clan would gather with the children. It was one such evening, with the snow falling outside and the wind wailing at the windows, that the first of the Kilgannon men came home.
    We heard a cry from the courtyard and one of the boys, for that's all who was left for such tasks, burst through the door shouting, "Lady Mary, riders approaching the glen, Kilgannon men, about twenty of them. They'll be here shortly ." I had risen when he burst in, and I nodded, my heart beginning to pound. Dear God, I prayed, let It be Alex, but even as the thought was formed,
    I knew that if only twenty were coming home, Alex would not be among them. Unless the others were all dead.
    We spilled out onto the steps as the men entered the courtyard. Around me women called joyously as they saw their men, running to them with sobs and delighted greetings. Ellen and I stood with Thomas Mac-Neill's wife Murreal and watched the reunions, then exchanged sombre looks and turned to go into the hall. Alex's cousin Dougall, his arm still around his wife Moira, struggled through the people, calling my name. The huge man looked twice his age, his face grey with fatigue, his cheek scarred with a wound that still looked fresh even though Sherrifmuir had been weeks ago.
    "He's no' with us, Mary," Dougall said, his voice cracking with emotion. "But he's alive." Dougall enveloped me in an embrace while I struggled with my