“I was fourteen and still in school when my older brother James began speechifying about the Jacobites. The fat German king in England meant little to me, and I hardly saw James enough to be better informed. My father spent his time and money on research in Edinburgh, leaving James to administer the estates in the Highlands belonging to our grandmother.” Rory ran his hand through his drying hair and glared at the lagoon. “James and his cohorts threw in with the royal cause of Bonnie Prince Charlie. When we heard of the troops gathering, we rushed to stop James. Da went to Stagshead, but I took foot to the fields of Culloden. I arrived only to see a generation of Highlanders slaughtered by the bloody butcher, the king’s son, the Duke of Cumberland.” In the magnificent golden sun of this southern island, with hibiscus and bougainvillea swaying in the balmy breeze around them, the snows of Scottish mountains and the tale he told seemed unreal. “James died?” Alyson asked quietly.
