Eleven Pipers Piping

By Pamela Hart

She'll never love another soldier ... will she?

Elizabeth MacDonald, made a widow at Waterloo, is determined to keep herself and her son away from anything military. Gavan Sunderland, her husband's captain, is determined to teach her son the bagpipes, so he can be a piper like his father. When two strong-willed people clash at Christmas time, will the result be disaster or lasting happiness?

Revised and updated. Previously published in the 12 Rogues of Christmas anthology

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Dec 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781867247159

Pamela Hart

Pamela Hart is an award-winning, bestselling author of more than 40 books. She writes the Poppy McGowan mystery series as well as historical novels; The Charleston Scandal is her most recent historical story, set in 1920s London. As Pamela Freeman, she is well-known as a beloved children's author and fantasy writer. Her most recent children's book is a non-fiction picture book, Dry to Dry: The Seasons of Kakadu. Her adult fantasy series, the Castings Trilogy, ended with the award-winning Ember and Ash. To be kept up to date about the next Poppy McGowan story, you can subscribe to her newsletter at pamela-hart.com/newsletter; you even get a free story!

Book preview

Chapter 1

Robin jumped up and down on one foot, loudly. ‘Mamma! Look at me!’

Elizabeth repressed a sigh and looked up from her account books. ‘Another ten minutes, lamb, and I’ll take you to the park.’

He sighed, but he trudged out of the room. A moment later Elizabeth heard the piano begin. He’d done his scales this morning—this afternoon it was some pleasant melody he’d probably heard on the street somewhere. After a moment, the melody changed, becoming more complex, more sophisticated. Original. She paused, listening harder. He really was very talented. Like his father.

But she had no time for tears, not if she were going to take Robin to the park. Her brother’s man of business needed these books back in the morning. She bent over them again, and lost herself in amounts receivable and amounts tendered until Robin tugged at her arm.

‘It’s been twenty minutes, Mamma!’

‘So it has.’ She sighed and sat back. ‘All right, run up to Maryann and get your coat and hat.’

He raced off, his boots clattering on the stairs.

Smiling, she went to get her own pelisse and hat from Trimley, her brother Henry’s butler. It was nice to see Robin show a little energy. He’d been too quiet for a little boy since…

‘Will you need Samson to accompany you, madam?’ Trimley said it in the way that meant ‘You should take Samson.’ She did hate being trailed around the streets by a footman, but when in London …

‘Yes, very well, Trimley.’ He smiled approval. Trimley was lean for a butler, and young—he’d been Henry’s valet at Cambridge before their older brother had died and pitchforked Henry into the title.

Poor Henry. He had so loved Cambridge. At least he hadn’t reached the natural limit of Catholics there—able to study but never take their degrees. She touched the rosary in her pocket. It wouldn’t hurt to say a few decades for him.

Robin raced down the stairs and grabbed her hand.

‘Gently, Robin!’ Trimley opened the door and bowed them out as Samson emerged from the kitchen to accompany them, much to Robin’s delight.

Samson, like all footmen, was tall and good looking, and Robin rather hero-worshipped him, especially since he’d fought at Waterloo, just like her Lachlan. If only he, like Samson, had come back.

It was hard to walk sedately along crowded Belgravia streets when Robin kept dodging around, trying to talk to Samson.

‘Did you like being a soldier?’

She caught the brief look of horror on the footman’s face, and intervened.

‘Leave Samson alone, Robin, and walk properly by me. You’re my gentleman escort, and you must stay with me and see that I come to no harm.’

Oh, he loved pretending to be grown up! It made her heart ache, how much he wanted to be a man. She would keep him safe despite himself.

It was a grey day, although not too sharp for so close to Christmas. It had been a cold year, a year without a real summer, with crop failures and storms and dull skies for months.

She wished herself back at the house so she could go over the last report from Meryon Towers. The yields had been so poor this year, without proper management they would have tenants starving by February. Corn prices were ridiculously high, but they could lay in potatoes and swedes. Those, at least, had yielded well.

They reached St James’s Park and Robin tore off across the grass. Too late, she saw that he was headed for the Horse Guard gates. No good to call him back; the boy was soldier-mad, like all the young ones. Who was on duty?

Striding briskly, she kept him in sight, Samson hurrying along behind her. There was a troop in the courtyard, changing the guard.

Not the Scots Greys, she saw with relief. Bay horses. Life Guards, by their helmets.

The Scots were on home duty, she knew, but they were probably billeted at the Windsor barracks. The sharp pain under her breastbone was not homesickness. She had followed the drum for a long while, but that was all behind her. She was a mother to her son, and an estate manager for her brother. That was all.

And if that was a lowering thought, well, that was what life was like as a widow. At least she didn’t have to survive on an Army pension. Her own dowry and what Lachlan had settled on her was more than enough to live well, even if she’d had to house and feed herself and Robin.

Which she didn’t, because she was part of a loving family who needed her, and these megrims were completely unnecessary. Although she did miss Lachlan so. Eighteen months had never gone so slowly.

Along with half a dozen boys, Robin watched the troop file back under the huge Horse Guards arch, back to their stables. But unlike the other boys, Robin’s face was sombre. What was he thinking? Robin had lost, not just his father and uncle, but the whole regiment. He had been something of a mascot for Lachlan’s men, welcome everywhere in camp. Since then, he’d mostly been with her or Maryann or the elderly vicar at home who was tutoring him. Was he missing the company of more robust men?

That was a small price to pay if it kept him out of the army.

‘Robin!’ she called.

As the last horse passed under the arch, he sighed and trudged back to her.

‘When can I learn to ride, Mamma?’

‘You ride already.’ There were groups of soldiers all over the courtyard, and some of them could be Scots Greys. Time to get Robin out of here. ‘Come along.’ They turned to walk back across the park.

‘But not proper riding,’ he said. ‘I need to learn to jump and control my horse without hands!’

So he could wave a sabre around, no doubt. But everyone needed to ride well, and the boy would probably hunt with the local pack one day.

‘We’ll be leaving London after Christmas, I expect. My business here will be done by then. I’ll see about Johnson teaching you a little more then.’

Johnson was the head of the stables at the family’s Northumberland estate, and had taught her and all her brothers to ride.

‘Thank you, Mamma! I shall be the best rider of all time!’

She laughed aloud. A soldier to the right of them broke from his group at the sound, and swivelled around.

‘Mrs MacDonald!’

Damn. And she wouldn’t even apologise to God for swearing, because this situation deserved it.

‘Captain Sunderland.’ And there he was. The man who had written that horrible, terrible message telling her that she would never see Lachlan again.

They had been such friends once. He took her hand