Return of the Highlander (Immortal Warriors) by Sara Mackenzie Page A

light always came on when Bella opened the door fascinated him, and he longed to be able to open it himself. He felt restless, agitated, and frustrated. She knew he was here. She might deny it to herself, but he could tell she was more aware of him now than she had been before.
    But it wasn’t enough. He wanted to touch her, hold her. He wanted to be a man to her.
    As twilight turned to shadows outside, Maclean couldn’t help himself. He came once more to peer over Bella’s shoulder.
    As if she knew the instant he was back, Bella said feverishly, “I know, Culloden Moor! I should start the book there. That’s when things started to go wrong.”
    “I fought,” Maclean retorted. “I fought bravely. Write that down on your wee machine.”
    “The legend says he didn’t fight. He went home again.”
    “I did not!”
    “He made a deal with the English, promising not to fight if he was granted free passage home to Loch Fasail and his people remained unmolested.”
    “No!” Maclean shouted it, furious, and swung out his hand. His fingertips struck the mug on Bella’s desk.
    Bella’s china mug rattled. She eyed it warily. “The fourteenth of April, 1746, and Maclean and his men arrive at Culloden Moor. A Monday night. They line up with the rest of the prince’s exhausted army for their confrontation with the English. They wait until eleven o’clock Tuesday morning, but the Duke of Cumberlanddoesn’t appear, so they stand down again until Wednesday the sixteenth.”
    Bella paused, but there wasn’t a sound. Maybe she’d imagined the mug jumping about. She’d been up all night, after all. “Um…” She cleared her throat. “I could write that Maclean was no fool and what he had seen was enough for him to make up his mind. He went searching for Lord George Murray, one of the more experienced commanders of the Jacobite army, and when he couldn’t find him he sent a letter to his quarters in Culloden House. Where’s the copy I made…?”
    She shuffled more papers around until she found what she was looking for. “It says:
    I have come here at your request, my lord, and now I find that my men will be at a great disadvantage in the front line. They are brave and strong fighters, but they have only broadswords and claymores and will be cut to pieces by the English fire before they can engage the enemy. I ask your permission to move them back.”
    Maclean’s head hurt. Her words were conjuring memories. Brief painful flashes, as if he were once more facing the wrath of the English muskets, though nothing that made any sense.
    “The battle plan had been prepared by John O’Sullivan, and he was a poor choice. The Jacobite line was spread too wide, and Maclean had been ordered to the right wing, which was the closest to the English army. He knew they’d be torn to pieces by roundshot and grapeshot long before the order was given to advance.What Maclean didn’t know was that Lord George Murray had already argued that it would be better to move the battle to softer ground, where the English couldn’t make use of their cavalry. He knew the Highlanders did better when their enemy was less comfortable, less prepared. The men’s wild looks and wild screams were perfect for the sort of blitz attacks that put so many bigger armies to flight. But on Culloden Moor the ground was flat, and most of the Jacobite army was exhausted from their long retreat from England. The Jacobite leaders were quarreling among themselves, and many of the clansmen had been forced to fight against their own inclination by their chiefs, dragged from their beds, threatened with eviction or worse. The English were well seasoned and well armed and outnumbered them. Maclean knew that if he fought, he and his men would die before they’d taken one step forward.
    “And then he got the message he’d been waiting for. One sentence, in a different hand, is scrawled across the bottom of Maclean’s note. Tell him denied. O’Sullivan. The note to