His breathing was harsh now, and his chest felt like fire. I’m bleeding, he told himself. And there’s nowhere to go for help.

He didn’t want to think about Fiona. She belonged to Hamish. She always would. . . .

He found a chair and half fell, half slumped in it.

Hamish had been yelling at him, roaring in his ear. Or was it the sound of his own blood?

He couldn’t tell.

From somewhere he could hear the sounds of the pipes. They were faint, and then stronger. Coming toward him.

Rutledge knew what they were playing. He’d heard it too many times not to recognize it at once.

It was “The Flowers of the Forest.” The lament for the dead. He had heard it played for every dead Scot under his command. He’d heard the pipes skirling into battle, he’d heard them grieve. This was a dirge for the dying.

He was dying.

Hamish was like a trumpet in his head. “You will no’ die. Do you hear me? You willna’ die!”

“You’re already dead, Corporal. You can’t stop me.” Rutledge was finding it hard to concentrate.

“You willna’ die! I willna’ let you die!”

The sound of the pipes had begun to fade. Rutledge thought, The funeral is over—they’ve buried Hamish. Hamish is dead, and I’m to blame—I’ve killed him. But where had this chair come from? They didn’t have chairs at the Front—

The fire in his chest was smothering him.

He could feel Hamish taking hold of him.

It was what Rutledge had feared for such a long time that now he was grateful for the dark so that he didn’t have to look up and see the dreaded face bending over him. He said to Hamish, “It’s too late. I’m dead. You can’t touch me now. I’m free of you—”

“YOU SHALL NOT DIE!”

Chapter 30

30

IN THE LAMPLIT DRUMMOND PARLOR, THE TICKING OF the mantel clock competed with the soft patter of rain beyond the lacy curtains and glass panes that shut out the night. The soothing quiet was broken only by the dry rustle of the Edinburgh paper Drummond was reading and the regular click of his sister’s ivory knitting needles. It was late, the child already asleep, the clock’s hands nearly touching half past the hour of eleven.

A sound, heavily muffled but unmistakable, brought Drummond to his feet, the newspaper flying in all directions.

A shot—

He waited, but only for an instant. The image in his mind sent him headlong out into the small hallway. Brushing past the mirrored hat stand, he flung open the outer door and plunged into the rain, running hard.

His sister, calling his name, reached the door he’d left standing wide and leaned out, demanding to know what he thought he was doing.

Over his shoulder he shouted, “Go back inside, woman!”