The Highlander's Secret, page 1
All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be sold, copied, distributed, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical or digital, including photocopying and recording or by any information storage and retrieval system without the prior written permission of both the publisher, Oliver Heber Books and the author, Roma Cordon, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
NO AI TRAINING: Without in any way limiting the author's [and publisher's] exclusive rights under copyright, any use of this publication to "train" generative artificial intelligence (AI) technologies and/or large language models to generate text, or any other medium, is expressly prohibited. The author reserves all rights to license uses of this work for the training and development of any generative Al and/or large language models.
PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Highlander’s Secret 2025 © Roma Cordon
Cover art by Dar Albert at Wicked Smart Designs
Published by Oliver-Heber Books
0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Acknowledgments
Also by Roma Cordon
About the Author
Oliver Heber Books
For Sabitree, thank you for being the best mom.
To Francis, I’m grateful each and every day for the inspiration.
And for Shiva, thank you for giving me the world.
CHAPTER 1
AUTUMN 1747, CAMBERLEY MANOR, SUTTON COLDFIELD, ENGLAND
“Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot that it do singe yourself.”
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, HENRY VIII
A gunshot pierced the air. Phoebe Dunbar, code name Hawk, snapped the gossip column shut. Had General Bolingbroke fired the shot? She turned towards the glass doors of the hothouse, where she’d been taking her teatime break. Her view was obstructed by the sharp morning sun glinting off a plethora of greenery and vivid hothouse blooms. Her nostrils flared in anticipation of what she’d come here to do—find dirty secrets.
Phoebe pushed up from her seat, squared her shoulders and exited the hothouse. She turned left, in the direction of the gunshot, ignoring Camberley Manor on her right. She’d told her employer, Lady Bolingbroke, she would take her teatime break in the hothouse, but no one would think it unusual if she took a stroll outside instead.
She took the path towards the tiny swan pond. The slate pebbles were rough under the soles of her delicate leather half boots. Phoebe slowed her pace when discernable voices grazed her ears from across the water’s surface. She dipped behind a yellow rhododendron almost as tall as she was.
Always hide in plain sight, Falcon had said. Falcon was Phoebe’s spymaster and she’d ended the dictate with, because they’ll never suspect you.
Phoebe’s adrenalin surged as her employer’s husband spoke.
“And why would a Scotsman have interest in outfitting the British Army with muskets? Doesn’t your ilk have great dislike for the English?” asked Sir Henry, baronet and army general of the redcoats. His voice dripping with cynicism.
“Profit bows to no nation, Sir Henry,” came a deep, cultured voice.
The hint of a Scottish brogue sent a fierce shock of homesickness straight to Phoebe’s stomach.
The general gave a low chuckle. “Touché.”
Phoebe leaned out from behind the bush and peeked, wanting to identify the Scot.
At present she had a view of his statuesque back. His thick hair, black as sin, was tied in a neat queue with a black bow.
The general’s typical hard smile turned appreciative as he took the musket from his steward, who’d primed it. Bolingbroke then eyed the Scot. “For what length of time will you be stationed in Burntwood?”
Bolingbroke wasn’t a tall man, but during the few occasions Phoebe had conversed with him, he’d held his head high and managed to look down at her. His beady eyes had a way of chilling the blood, even in a banal conversation. Upon meeting him, she’d decided the moniker of Hangman was well suited.
“For the foreseeable future. With the camp followers including wives and children of the men, as well as cooks, nurses and sutlery services, it’s quite domestic,” the Scot said.
“If your camp followers are lightskirts, as we had when I was stationed in Scotland years ago, they also make the nights go by quicker.” She could hear the lascivious sneer in the general’s voice.
The Scot shifted his stance as if uncomfortable with the comment. His broad-shouldered power stance and uniform were most certainly cavalry. The sheathed rapier hanging off the sword belt on his left hip seemed an integral part of the man himself.
The general aimed and fired at the target, a circular piece of wood about fifty yards away, already bearing a hole from the previous shot. The loud bang resonated in the air echoing through the distant forest. A flock of tiny gray birds dashed into the air from a nearby tree.
“Excellent shot, Sir Henry,” the Scot said.
Phoebe ducked back into her hiding space. She twisted the folded copy of the Daily Courant in her hands. The gossip column’s ink blackened her palms. News of the Crown’s latest Jacobite hangings for high treason wasn’t forgotten. Her mission: to report weapons technology, and tactical information advantageous in the event of a Jacobite resurgence, while exposing and thwarting corruption in the British Army. But if she were caught spying on General Bolingbroke, she would end up the same, with a rough noose around her tender neck, snapping it in two.
Just then Phoebe saw the slow approach of the kindly old footman Ludlow from the Manor. He was taking the same footpath she’d come by a few minutes ago. She adopted what she hoped was an innocent posture, of one simply perusing the gardens.
But through her peripheral vision she took in the Scotsman’s uniform. Dark colored breeches hugged athletic thighs and lean calves, which were clad in tall cavalry boots. He wore a striking gray surtout coat with gilded facings on the cuffs and coat tails used by the Royal Scots Greys, 2nd Dragoons’ Cavalry.
The Scot turned around and she caught sight of his face for the first time. Phoebe gasped in shocked surprise and nearly dropped the gossip column.
Slade MacLean still caused her heart to lurch, to squeeze and twist in her chest. To make want and regret bump each other in her belly. To make her wish she’d been more outspoken and confident as a child. To make her sorry she wasn’t as pretty as a dead woman. It had been years, but the subject of her childhood anguish and desires still brought heat to her cheeks.
Phoebe took in Slade’s features. The first time she’d met him, his gorgeous dark good looks had made her gawk, for he was perfect, like those tall strong beautiful knights she’d dreamt about as a nine-year-old girl. He’d done the same thing to her little heart a sinful scoop of syllabub or a decadent dollop of plum pudding did. Made it forget to beat.
Her brother Egan had brought him home and introduced him to their family. She had believed in knights then; she had believed in the innate goodness of others when he’d saved her life. But then, seven years ago, she’d outgrown such silly childhood notions as her world had spun out of control and ceased to make sense on the moors.
A loud shot rang out, pushing her recollections aside. The shot was followed by a muffled thump and a weak cry. Phoebe’s gaze darted across the pond. The steward held the musket, which was still being primed. But why was there smoke at the tip of his
“You incompetent fool!” Slade’s growl resonated across the surface of the water.
Phoebe swiveled back to Ludlow. He was lying on the footpath, gripping his chest.
“Oh no!” she cried.
Fear sliced through her as she dashed toward the fallen footman, the forgotten gossip column flopping to the ground. A chill ran up her spine as she knelt down beside him. She ignored the sharp slate cutting into her knees through the material of her skirts. His polite, wrinkled face was twisted in pain. Her hands grabbed his as he clutched his chest.
“How … what can I do?” She could barely get the words out.
Too much air left her lungs with the constriction of her chest. Phoebe’s eyes fell to the red-stained gloved hands she clutched. Red, the color of her nightmares. Recollections came flooding back. A seven-year-old memory of the malevolent fair-haired, Romanesque-featured Faye Ross dressed in his red uniform, the pain as he struck her in the face. Now, the sticky wetness of the blood registered on her palms. Her body swayed. Ludlow’s taut features unfocused in her vision.
Black spots danced in her eyes. The sickening metallic smell of the blood hit her like a punch to the gut. The black spots melted into each other like hot wax. They engulfed her and pulled a black shroud over her world.
CHAPTER 2
“Utter imbecile. Why is he in the gardens while we’re conducting a musket demonstration?” The general’s sharp voice cut the air as he approached. “And what in damnation is Lady Bolingbroke’s companion doing here?”
Colonel Slade MacLean of the Royal Scots Greys, 2nd Dragoons, division of the Scots Guards, knelt before the fallen lass as his lips pressed together in concern. The irate and capricious general stopped his verbal rampage two steps away as his panic-stricken, incompetent steward stood further back. Slade was not surprised at the general’s lack of empathy or the man’s poor behavioral control. These were traits of an autocratic and dictatorial murderer, after all. The man was more put out at the stalled musket demonstration and less concerned over his footman’s injury or the fainted lass.
Slade eyed her, slumped over the bleeding footman. There’d been one wild shot, and he was confident it was lodged in the footman’s chest. With care, Slade took hold of the lass’s shoulder and waist and turned her limp body over. He hooked one arm under her shoulders and another under her knees and lifted her. The strangest sense of déjà vu slammed into Slade’s chest as the lass’s head fell back. Slade pushed the feeling aside and carried her over to a nearby long-chair and laid her down gently, wishing it were made of something softer than cast iron.
As Slade returned to kneel beside the bleeding footman, a second footman came sprinting towards them from the manor.
“Send for a sawbones or healer—better yet both—and I need linens for the blood,” Slade said, eying the second footman. The man, with bulging eyes and mouth agape, nodded and darted back towards the manor, almost tripping in his haste.
Slade lifted the blood-soaked lapels of the injured footman to find the bullet hole. The footman’s breathing was weak, and he was out cold. Just as well, for the pain would be unbearable if he were awake. Slade pulled his trident dagger from its sheath at his waist and sliced open the footman’s shirt to get a better look at the wound.
“I say, is all this necessary? Leave him for the healer. Let’s carry on with the demonstration,” the general said with a wave of his hand.
Slade looked up at the general and refrained from curling his lips in disgust. Bolingbroke’s callousness was astounding. Slade took on a placid expression.
“I’ve seen enough battlefield medicine to be of help until the healer arrives.” Slade kept his voice level.
The general eyed him with some distaste. He didn’t appear the least bit interested in getting blood stains on his pristine attire.
“Oh well, if you must,” the general scowled, tapping his feet. “I’ll be in my study. Come and see me when you are finished. I’d like to discuss a possible contract with Hortons. After I’ve taken a look at the American longrifle musket of course.”
“Of course, Sir Henry.” Slade gave the man a crisp nod as Bolingbroke made a swift turn towards his manor. Satisfaction warmed Slade’s chest. It appeared the general was taking the bait of securing an arms deal despite the proposition coming from a Scotsman. But then, Peter’s exquisitely crafted muskets were most convincing.
Slade glanced at the steward who stood in a hunched posture, wringing his own wrists. He deserved to be throttled for his incompetence. Regardless of the man’s ineptitude, however, he appeared not only remorseful, but Slade guessed he’d never shot anyone.
“You. Come here,” Slade ordered. “Keep his head and shoulders steady, should he come to. Movement will exacerbate the bleeding.”
The small-boned steward, who carried himself like anything but a military man, nodded and approached, his eyes widening in a frog-like face, to do Slade’s bidding. Slade inspected the bloodied chest. A sucking chest wound. He’d seen countless such as this on the front lines. He placed his gloved hands over the injury and applied the right amount of pressure. He had to stop the escape of air, and at the same time curtail the bleeding. There was nothing else he could do for the man except keep his hands in place until the healer arrived.
Slade raised his head to face the direction the general had gone. What an astonishing lack of responsibility and concern for his own staff. But then, such lack of concern paled in comparison to the perverse morality he’d demonstrated in the Scottish Highlands during the Jacobite rebellions. Thousands of innocents murdered as a result of his orders. A muscle in Slade’s jaw spasmed. Slade was here because of one death in particular. And Slade would have his revenge.
His neck muscles stiffened. It had taken a visit from his former savior and his sometimes tormentor, Bullfinch, for Slade to finally settle on the perfect plan of revenge on Bolingbroke. Slade was always patient, methodical, and calculating in everything he did. Well, the truth was the first five years after he’d lost her, and his reason for breathing, Slade hadn’t cared whether he lived or died. In fact, many times he’d prayed for the latter. Then there’d been days where he’d danced with the idea of sticking a blade through the general’s heart. His own father and brother would have loved to follow suit, like Brutus and the senators eliminating the egocentric Julius Caesar. The simplicity of such a brutal act had seemed poetic at the time.
He’d failed Sylvia, but Bolingbroke was the one who might as well have handed her the hemlock. Or at least that’s what he’d been telling himself over the years, but now he wasn’t sure. He’d seen soldiers come back from the war and go on to live prosaic lives as if they hadn’t done horrendous things. Maybe he was one of those who had to forget the horrendous things to have a normal life, but he didn’t have a normal life, did he? The heavy weight of guilt and self-loathing had a way of slowing a man down.
He’d pictured Bolingbroke’s death in a hundred different ways over the years. There’d been countless whisky-filled days and opium-induced stupors when the pain had been so unbearable, he’d almost unhinged into complete madness. Bolingbroke’s death was the only thing that kept him alive after it had happened.
