Hamish (The 93rd Highlanders Book 1) Read online

  Hamish

  The 93rd Highlanders

  by

  Samantha Kane

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  Copyright 2014 by Nancy Kattenfeld

  Cover art by Kim Killion

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without written permission.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Table of Contents

  Hamish

  Table of Contents

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  More From Samantha Kane

  Excerpt - Conall

  Author’s Note

  Dear Readers,

  In HAMISH, a wounded Scottish soldier falls back in love with his childhood friend Finn, who is now a doctor treating the wounded in the Crimean War. During the Christmas season widowed British nurse Edith gives both men a reason to go on. Look for the second book in The 93rd Highlanders, CONALL, available now. You’ll find more information about the series and my other books on my website. For up to date information about these and my other new releases please join my newsletter.

  The Crimean War was fought in 1853–1856 between Russia and a coalition of Great Britain, France, the Ottoman Empire and Sardinia. Most of the fighting took place on the Crimean Peninsula in southern Russia. Russia lost the war.

  Between 300,000–375,000 coalition forces died in the war. There were doctors assigned to military units at the front, but the British sick and wounded were sent to the British hospital in Scutari, a suburb of Constantinople in the Ottoman Empire. Hospital conditions in Scutari were deplorable, which prompted British nurse Florence Nightingale to recruit nurses to go to Scutari to care for the sick. Nightingale is considered the mother of modern nursing, and her nursing corps made a difference in Scutari, improving sanitary conditions and the morale of the sick and wounded.

  I hope you enjoy Hamish, Finn and Edith’s story!

  Happy reading,

  Samantha Kane

  Prologue

  Balaclava, Russia

  October 25, 1854

  Hamish Fletcher leaned on the barrel of his Minié rifle, the butt resting on the ground, and took a puff off his pipe. He watched calmly as the 93rd Highland Regiment scrambled to form two lines at the command of Sir Colin Campbell, commander of the Highland Brigade. They were closing ranks to face the oncoming Russian cavalry assault outside the allied-held port of Balaclava. He shook his head, wondering how in the hell the last line of defense had actually become the last line of defense. The British troops in the valley were supposed to have stopped the Russians long before they reached the 93rd’s position.

  “Ain’t you going to take your position, Captain?” one of his men asked.

  “Aye,” Hamish replied. “When I need to. Might as well get a rest in before then.”

  The men around him laughed and suddenly they were all moving slower, panic erased by easy precision, the result of long practice. Hamish took one last puff and then tamped his pipe out on the ground, grinding his boot on the smoldering tobacco. He pocketed the pipe, and picked up his rifle as he saw the Russian cavalry bearing down on them across the valley. He wondered about his three brothers somewhere down the line. Douglas would be all right, he was a fighter. But the twins, Connie and Brodie, they were lovers, not fighters. Connie was too sweet, and Brodie had more tricks up his sleeve than a jester. Neither was made for fighting. He hoped Dougie could keep an eye on the other two.

  Suddenly thoughts of home and his childhood haunted him. He was a realist for the most part, not given to romantic notions. But there were people he’d walked away from and things he’d left undone. He thought about Finn , one of Dougie’s boyhood friends who’d become his friend as well; and on one cool summer evening, more than a friend. Where was Finn now, he wondered, and did he think of Hamish, too, now and then? Did he regret, as Hamish did, walking away from the awkward passion that had possessed them that night? Finn had left for university, and Hamish had joined the 93rd. Hamish didn’t often bother to question his actions or his motives; life was too short. But Finn had made him question everything he was and everything he had always thought he wanted. There had been many women since Finn, and Hamish enjoyed a good fuck. He’d never wanted another man. But Finn had been different. He shook his head to clear it, bringing his thoughts back to the present. Maundering on about the past wasn’t going to help fight this battle.

  “All right then, boys,” he called out calmly. “All in position?”

  “Aye, Captain,” his men replied.

  “Good, good,” he said, walking over to stand next to Flaherty. The boy was new and nervous as hell, of course. “Flaherty,” he said, looking down at the lad whose face was a sickly green, “you did remember to load your rifle, didn’t you?”

  The men around them laughed and Flaherty blushed, washing away the green. “Aye, Captain,” he said formally. “If you look down the barrel, you’ll get a good shot of it.”

  Hamish laughed loudly. “Good lad,” he said, clapping Flaherty on the back. Several other men followed suit. “I’ll let the Russians have first crack at your shot.”

  The battle, what there was of it, happened so quickly Hamish nearly missed it when he blinked. The Russian cavalry came bearing down on them and Sir Colin ordered the first volley. No harm befell the Russians, they were still too far away. The second volley seemed to confuse the Russians, and their approach slowed as several horses turned about and broke ranks. It was the third volley that caused the Russians to turn about and retreat, much to his amazement. As far as Hamish could tell there’d been almost no casualties on either side. Russian heads would roll for this, he thought with amusement.

  “We scared them off, Captain,” Flaherty cried out in excitement. “Just the sight of the scarlet coats of the 93rd scared them away!” He was spinning around in his jubilation, his rifle still pointed straight out, endangering the men around him.

  “Flaherty!” Hamish barked, taking two quick steps to grab the rifle from his hands. At his call, however, Flaherty spun hard to face him and the rifle barrel slammed into Hamish’s forearm. He heard the crack and then the pain drove him to his knees. As soon as his arm hit the ground he watched as it bent at a strange angle. Shooting pain had him yanking his arm up and rolling to his back. His head slammed against something that felt like a boulder and then his vision started to go black around the edges. The last thing he saw was Flaherty’s horrified expression.

  Chapter 1

  Hamish hopped down off the wagon that was carrying wounded to the hospital. They were in Scutari after days of disorganization and travel. It was already November and noticeably colder than it had been over a week ago at Balaclava. Scutari was small, dirty and crowded and the so-called hospital looked worse. His arm was throbbing but he still turned to help his younger brother Conall off the wagon. They looked like bookends, Hamish with his right arm in a sling and Connie with his left arm in the same state. The resemblance between them probably made the comparison more striking. They both had the Fletcher coloring—bright red hair and full red beards—as well as thick chests and broad shoulders, and neither of them below six feet. The Russians had at least shot Connie. Hamish had taken a grea
t deal of good-natured ribbing over his broken arm and aching head.

  “I can get off the damn wagon by myself,” Connie grumbled as he slapped away Hamish’s outstretched hand. “Help some of the more seriously wounded, you ninny.”

  Hamish looked around at the chaos surrounding them. Casualties from the Light Brigade were pouring in from Balaclava. Their brave but disastrous charge against the Russian guns in the valley had decimated the troops. He turned toward an officious looking woman in a black dress and starched white apron with a paper she was making tallies on as she directed orderlies and wounded about. He headed toward her and pulled off his cap. “Good afternoon, madam,” he said. “Might I be of assistance?” He held out the elbow of his broken arm. “Just a wee break. I’m hale and hearty otherwise.”

  “Good,” she said without sympathy. “Start helping to unload the stretchers. You there!” she called to Connie. “The two of you can manage to help carry them with one good arm apiece. When the grievously injured have been administered to, I’m sure Dr. Hadley or Dr. Harper will see to you.”

  Hamish grabbed her arm, his head reeling. “Dr. Phineus Harper?” he asked, hope like a vise around his chest, unable to believe the twist of fate that had delivered Finn to him like this.

  “Yes, of course,” the nurse said impatiently. “Dr. Phineus Harper. Is there a problem?”

  “I’ll be damned,” Connie said in amazement next to him. “Begging your pardon, ma’am,” he said humbly, apologizing for his outburst. “Finn is here, Ham. Did you know?”

  Hamish shook his head, his mind a jumble. “I didn’t,” he said.

  “It’ll be good to see the old sod,” Connie said jovially. “Like old times, eh?”

  Hamish looked up at the decrepit old building they were using as a makeshift hospital. “Sure it will,” he lied to Connie, hoping it wasn’t like old times. He wanted more from Finn than he’d gotten back in the day. He’d never thought he’d have the chance. It was now or never. Hamish chose now. That is, if Finn wanted the same thing.

  Chapter 2

  Phineus Harper, he thought to himself, if you don’t get some sleep you’re going to fall face first into some festering stomach wound.

  He was always surprised when his internal voice sounded like his grandmother. “I’m done,” he said. He threw the bloody saw down next to the leg he’d removed. He wrapped the stump tightly. “Have the nurse keep an eye on him tonight. Make sure we have a fresh bandage for him in the morning.”

  “Yes, sir,” the orderly said. He was young and a little pale, although whether it was from helping with his first amputation or from lack of sleep, Finn wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure of much right now, actually. He needed a drink, but he was going to settle for a smoke. Then, hopefully, sleep.

  As he left the ward he looked around, supposedly checking on the patients, but he was really looking for Mrs. Lambeth. When the pretty little blonde nurse had arrived about a month ago he’d given her two weeks in the hellhole of Scutari. He’d underestimated her. She was a damned fine nurse, one of the best here, and a strong, determined woman. The men adored her, but she brushed off their adoration and flirtation. Rumor was she was recently widowed—a soldier, of course. He was surprised she’d managed to get Miss Nightingale’s approval. The Lady-in-Chief usually picked younger girls, unattached and from the lower classes. Mrs. Lambeth was neither. Well, he supposed she was unattached now, but hopefully not for long. They’d been dancing around their attraction to one another for over a month.

  With a sigh he pushed open the door, reaching for his cheroots. The smell outside wasn’t much better than in. The damned hospital—and he used the term loosely—was situated too close to a cesspool. You’d think no one on the administrative end had read the more recent studies connecting unsanitary conditions to disease. It wasn’t mysterious vapors causing cholera and typhus. It was shit, plain and simple.

  At least Miss Nightingale and her nurses had cleaned the place up considerably since their arrival. Before that, the men had been lying in their own filth on tattered blankets covering the cold, hard floor. They’d been discouraged, depressed, dying. Now the wards were lined with rows of simple cots, the men clean, the floors spotless. Clean bandages were in abundance, and despair no longer ruled those brought here. If only Miss Nightingale and her ladies had the cure for cholera and typhus, now that would make his job easier.

  This spot behind the hospital was usually deserted. Too far out of the way for most, who were more inclined to grab a quick breath of fresher air out front. There was no view out here either. No more than a little alcove in the building, surrounded on three sides by brick walls, it was the perfect place to forget about the day he’d just had and the lads he’d lost on the surgical table. The Pidgeon boy had been only eighteen. He lit a cheroot with a shaking hand, puffing at it until it burned brightly and acrid, fragrant smoke surrounded his head. There now, that almost got rid of the stench. He leaned back against the brick wall and waited for Mrs. Lambeth’s arrival. She’d been “accidentally” interrupting his evening smoke for weeks.

  The approaching winter should help with the stench outside, if not in. The weather was growing colder with each passing day. Wistfully Finn thought of his family in Scotland and the preparations that were most likely already underway for the coming Christmas season. He’d miss the Yule log and the wassailing and kissing pretty girls under the mistletoe. Did they have mistletoe in Scutari? He could find some and hang it over Mrs. Lambeth’s head. That ought to finally get things started. As if he’d conjured her, the door opened and her pretty face appeared around it.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” She sounded flustered. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. But Miss Nightingale sent me to fetch you. There are a few patients with broken arms and the like that she was hoping you’d be able to see before you left.”

  Finn pushed away from the wall. “Did she?” he asked with a suggestive grin.

  “I do apologize for interrupting your smoke, Dr. Harper,” Mrs. Lambeth said primly, then she turned and opened the door to go back inside.

  “No, wait,” he called out. “Don’t leave. Don’t be like that.”

  She slowly turned to face him, holding the door open just a crack. She chewed her lip anxiously as she turned back and peeked in the door, then turned to him again. She was the picture of indecision.

  “I wouldn’t mind the company,” he said with a weary smile, leaning back against the wall. She looked as tired and worn out as he felt. “Come.” He waved her over. “I was just thinking of Christmas back home.”

  She took a deep breath and stood a little taller, firmly closing the door. “Of course,” she said. “I’d love to join you. I need some fresh air.”

  “Well, then, you’re out of luck,” he said wryly. “You won’t find it out here.”

  She laughed and he wasn’t surprised at the bolt of pure unadulterated lust that shot straight from his ears to his prick at the sound of it. It was rough, husky, seductive. He’d heard it a thousand times in the last month and it still stirred him. “True enough,” she agreed. “Then perhaps I should say what I mean, which is I need some privacy and some quiet.”

  “And I’m giving you neither,” he said ruefully. “It’s my turn to apologize. And I shall compound my sin by not offering to go inside and leave you alone here.” He held up his cheroot. “At least not until I’m done with this.”

  “Good.” She leaned on the wall a few feet away from him. “The smoke covers up the other smells nicely.”

  He watched her as he took a long pull on the cheroot. She watched him back. Was she flirting? He held out the cheroot with a sly grin. “Be my guest.”

  She grinned back and after taking another surreptitious peek around, reached over and took it from him. She took a dainty pull, as she always did. He’d been shocked the first time she accepted his offer. She blew out the smoke with a satisfied sigh and gave him a dreamy smile that made his loins tighten uncomfortably. “Thank you.” She passed it back
and their fingers briefly touched. It was like lightning to a brush fire.

  “You’re welcome.” His voice was low and rough. She looked surprised for a moment and then looked away.

  “The colder weather does bring the holidays to mind, doesn’t it?” she mused, sounding rather melancholy.

  “Indeed,” Finn said, having no desire to discuss the weather or Christmas. “Rumor has it you’re a widow.” He changed the topic, his tone mild. “An officer?” He’d steered clear of personal questions so far, their late night chats focused on the hospital and the patients. He deliberately looked away from her and up to the nearly dark skies. Dusk on another hellish day.

  “An enlisted man.” Her answer shocked him. “My parents did not approve of my nursing or my husband. I have not seen them since before my marriage. Upon his death, I petitioned Mrs. Herbert to be allowed to join the nurses here. She passed along my request to Miss Nightingale with her personal recommendation.”

  “A personal recommendation from the wife of the Secretary at War? I’m impressed. Now I know why someone like you is here.”

  She regarded him quizzically. “Someone like me?”

  “A well bred widow,” he explained. “You must admit, you don’t fit the profile of most of the nurses here.”

  “True,” she agreed. “I am neither young, nor a nun.”

  “Amen,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Why are you here?” she asked.

  “Because I have family and friends here,” he said. He stared at the burning end of his cheroot, thinking of the cousin he’d lost at Alma. Somewhere out there were the Fletcher brothers, his childhood friends. He knew the 93rd had been at Balaclava—the wards were buzzing with news of their brave stand that drove the Russians back—but so far he’d seen no casualties from the regiment. News of the Fletchers would have been welcome today. “I wasn’t going to leave them to the incompetent ministrations of the British doctors, was I?” Too late he realized he’d probably offended her.