When Fate Dictates Read Free

slumped
sideways against the cold stone wall, too exhausted to stand. The
light was dimming and I realized that nightfall was approaching. I
wondered how I had got into the cave and where the Red Coats were.
I closed my eyes and breathed deeply, filling my lungs with
much-needed air. Slowly I raised my eyelids, squinting to adjust to
the diminishing light.
    I did not see him at first, and then, slowly,
he was in front of me; standing tall and sturdy, his long powerful
legs slightly apart, looking down at my slumped, helpless form on
the floor. Shaking violently, I shuffled backwards. My back jarred
as it hit the cold rock face behind me. I flinched, catching my
breath as I realized my captor was now positioned between me and
the opening to the crevice. My eyes darted from side to side,
frantically seeking safety. I caught a glimmer of the shiny metal
of his dirk. Cautiously I traced my eyes over his fisted right hand
as the full shape of the weapon came into focus. His hold on the
polished mountain ash handle was relaxed, the tip of the blade
facing the floor. Glancing up, above his hand, to the arm by his
side I noticed for the first time that this was a soldier of the
English King. Knowing I must meet his eyes, I raised my head to the
recognition of a Campbell. I recoiled in panic as he lowered
himself in front of me, his lightly tanned face inches from mine,
framed either side by heavy curtains of black wavy hair. I held the
look of his dark staring eyes and screamed.
    “Don’t be afraid, lass, I won’t hurt you.
Mind, there are some that wouldn’t think twice of doing so.” With
his left hand he held out a leather flask and laid it on the floor
next to my trembling hand. I stared at the dark stranger. “You are
hurt,” he said, casting a glance over my face and arms, his eyes
wandering to the bloody stains on the front of my shift. I lifted
my hands gently to my breasts, feeling the crust of the stain. “I
found you in the forest face down in the snow and covered in blood.
I thought you were dead for sure,” he said.
    His hand moved to pick up the flask and he
gulped several large mouthfuls of its contents. I could smell the
musty fumes of the liquid as he sighed, allowing the mixture to
slide comfortingly down the back of his throat. Removing his
jacket, he draped it over my shoulders. “You must be cold,” he
muttered, more to himself than me, and once more offered me the
flask. This time I took it.
    “Who are you?” I inquired, unable to hide the
fear in my voice.
    “Simon Campbell,” he replied,
apologetically.
    “Aye, I see you are a Campbell of Glenlyon,”
I said. “But why are you helping me?” my tone was cynical and
accusing, “or is this more Campbell trickery?”
    “This is no trickery, I mean you no harm”, he
whispered softy, “I’ll tell you, lass, we had our orders, from the
King of England himself, they were. ‘To fall on the MacDonalds of
Glencoe, and put all under seventy to the sword.’ I have no stomach
for such work,” he sighed, and met my eyes. “So I broke my sword
and fouled my rifle and now, like you, I hide like a scared rabbit
in a hole.” He rose to his feet. “I did my best to warn folk what
we were about and told them that the Southern passes were not
guarded.” He stood for some moments, his face turned slightly from
mine but the shadows did not hide the horror behind his dark eyes.
“I am a violent man, and have killed many times in war but I have
never before witnessed butchery such as that.” I watched him,
speechless, an uneasy knot tightening in the pit of my stomach. In
spite of his people’s betrayal I felt the simple human need to
comfort him.
    “You seem an honorable man, Mr. Campbell, and
I am sure you have not killed a man other than in honorable
battle.” Deliberately, he turned to face me, his eyes surveying
mine quizzically. I met his gaze, sensing the agony in his soul. He
must have recognized the same uneasy pain in my eyes because