Traitor Or Temptress

by Helen Dickson

  But Kilpatrick was also capable of brutality and dealt without mercy with anyone who dared to cross him. It was agreed that he was not to be allowed too much liberty with Lorne, and her brothers would be out of sight but close enough to help should things not go to plan.

  It was a prospect that would have daunted many women, but there was no room for faint hearts. Lorne’s thoughts turned to Iain. She knew how enraged he would be by what she was about to do and it almost tore her in two, but she would never see him again and without him she no longer had anything to live for. Her father’s fate was like a leaden weight in her mind and the sacrifice would be worth it if they succeeded in freeing him from his prison. Whatever he was guilty of, he was still her father. The bond of kinship was strong and she had no wish to see him hang.

  Lorne and her brothers set off alone for Inveraray. Duncan should have been riding with them, but had decided against it at the last minute, leaving instead for Kinlochalen, much to Robert’s fury. As a means of strengthening themselves against the attack of rivals, generations earlier the McBrydes and the Galbraiths had entered into a friendly coalition. It was an alliance that had worked well over the years, but since the deaths of Duncan’s older brothers, making him Laird of Kinlochalen, Robert had become uneasy about his neighbour.

  Duncan had plenty of bluster, but unlike his brothers he was too contemptibly weak and lacked backbone when it came to the fight. In a recent skirmish with a neighbouring clan, Duncan had seemed nervous and had kept to the edge of the fray.

  The native courage that Highlanders had inherited from their Celtic ancestors was preserved unimpaired, but on rare occasions Robert had come upon those who had shown traits of cowardice. Their punishment by the clan chief was always severe and exemplary, often in the form of banishment from the bounds of the clan. Robert could not defend such behaviour, and he hoped he was wrong about Duncan, more so because he was to marry Lorne, but his gut feeling told him his suspicions were justified, and if this proved to be the case, then he could look elsewhere for a wife.

  The plan to free Edgar McBryde was daring and desperate, and thankfully they succeeded, mostly due to Lorne. But how she had hated her part in it. She had almost recoiled from Kilpatrick’s touch, but had forced herself not to shudder with revulsion. The feel of his mouth on hers and the smell of ale had revolted her and she’d almost gagged, a spasm of pure disgust wrenching through her when he thrust his tongue into her mouth and explored with bold familiarity. She had tried to disengage her mind from what he was doing to her, things no other man but Iain had done. Immediately she had cast such thoughts away. Iain Monroe was lost to her. What was the point of resurrecting his image?

  Supporting their father, Lorne and her brothers left the snoring Captain Kilpatrick in the Tollbooth and, like shadows, slipped through the dark alleyways. It was imperative that they left Inveraray quickly, for when Kilpatrick came round and found his prisoner gone, all the gates of hell would burst open. Pride would come into it, for, having captured Edgar McBryde, he would not be thwarted and accept it.

  James, Lorne and their father would ride east to the port at Leith, nigh on a hundred miles. Weakened as he was, Lorne thought it would be a miracle if their father survived such an arduous journey. From Leith they would take a ship for France.

  Fearing for the safety of his wife, Robert was to ride to Drumgow to be with her. It was inevitable that the soldiers would go there. In the King’s name they would arrest anyone with the ill blood of the McBrydes in their veins. But clever as Kilpatrick might be, he would trace no possible links. There were others loyal to the family who could have plotted to free Edgar McBryde. As for Lorne, every redcoat would have been issued with her description. If Kilpatrick captured her and delivered her into Argyll’s hands, he would demand the full penalties of the law. For her own safety she must go with her father to France.

  The sun was invisible when Captain Kilpatrick emerged from the Tollbooth to set off in pursuit of his prisoner. A rolling dark storm filled the western sky, clogging up the mountain passes and bubbling over the lofty crags like sea foam. The rising wind moaned as it went searching the crevices, and a distant rumble of thunder shook the ground.

  Whatever Edgar McBryde had once been in the Highlands, he was still a broken man, a prisoner of the Crown, and he, Kilpatrick, had run him to ground. McBryde was still his charge, his responsibility, and his escape was not to be borne. Once again McBryde would have taken to the heather, free to follow the paths of the red deer. It was his duty to pursue and recapture the Highlander, but as Kilpatrick left Inveraray with a troop of dragoons, it became more than a matter of duty. It was also a matter of honour and pride. There was a rage in him, too, dark and violent, and he was determined to track his quarry down every path in order to lay hands on him.

  Edgar McBryde’s body slipped quietly beneath the icy waters of the North Sea with a small bundle of soil and heather from his beloved Highlands tucked close to his heart. At the limit of his endurance, he had boarded the ship, only to die after one day at sea. Bravely Lorne swallowed down the hard, choking lump in her throat. The blood tie that had bedevilled her for so long was there in her, though latent all these years.

  Standing on the deck of the ship, she raised her eyes and looked towards the hazy English coastline in the far-off distance. The sky was hard and bright, and there was a cold clarity in the day she had not seen in a long time. Drawing her cloak tightly about her slender frame, only then did she speak to James, whose arm was about her waist.

  ‘I have no wish to go to France. Ask the captain to put in at Whitby, will you, James? There are people I know in the town I can stay with. They are friends of our grandmother and will see I am taken to Astley Priory.’

  James glanced at her sharply. ‘I’m no at all certain that yer decision is for the best. I strongly advise ye to go to France until the trouble’s died down.’

  ‘I should be safe at Astley for the time being—until I have spoken to Grandmother. If she thinks it best that I go, then I shall.’

  ‘Kilpatrick will know who ye are by now, that’s for sure, and being the kind o’ man he is, he wilna rest until he finds ye. Dinna think that when ye’re at Astley he’ll not reach ye. An investigation will have ensued following Father’s escape, and yer true identity will have been uncovered. That alone is sufficient to warrant sending the King’s men ta Astley ta ask questions. If it becomes known that ye are there, they’ll be inside in a moment to seize ye.’

  Lorne’s frown faded to be replaced by a sad introspection. She wandered listlessly to the rail and stood gazing at the sea. They stood in companionable silence for quite some time, and at length she said. ‘That’s a chance I will take, James. I will not go to France.’

  James’s expression was one of deep concern. ‘I wonder if ye have really considered the full depth of yer predicament. If ye wilna think of yerself, then consider what yer family—our grandmother—will have to suffer if ye’re taken,’ he argued fiercely.

  ‘I have,’ she replied firmly. ‘I will not be a burden to my grandmother, and if she wants me to then I shall go away.’

  James ground his teeth and jerked away from her, combing his fingers through his tousled hair in frustration. ‘Dear Lord! We shouldna have involved ye in this. It was too much to ask of ye. We should have sent ye to Drumgow with Duncan.’

  Lorne looked at him sharply. ‘I’m glad you didn’t. I’m glad I was able to play a part in freeing our father from that awful place—and to spare him the pain and indignity of being hanged,’ she said quietly. ‘Whatever happens now, I have no regrets—and I am free of Duncan Galbraith. Robert has released me from that, thank God.’ She glanced up at her brother. ‘What will you do now?’

  James sighed, resigning himself to her decision. ‘When I’ve delivered ye into our grandmother’s safekeeping, I’ll return to Drumgow. Robert may have need of me.’

  Iain Monroe, who had savoured the moment of Edgar McBryde’s capture for so long, uttered
a terrible oath of outrage when news of his escape reached Castle Norwood, and that a lass by the name of Molly Blair with hair the colour of ripe corn had aided his escape, outwitting that tough professional soldier, Captain Kilpatrick. It was Lorne. Iain was convinced of it. No doubt her brothers had contrived the scheme and used her to achieve success. She had carried it off admirably, and he cursed her for it.

  He lived from day to day in a silent, barely controlled private rage, rage at himself for having emotions he could not control. He cursed her and yet he missed her, and wondered at the cruelty of her abrupt removal from his life. But what was done was done. It was better this way. She was back where she belonged—until Kilpatrick got his hands on her, and then he didn’t reckon much for that pretty neck of hers.

  As his pride pulled him back to earth, Iain gave up trying to imagine what might have been had he arrived back at Norwood in time to prevent her from leaving. If he had linked her fate to his, her past and her McBryde blood would have mocked his foolish need to possess her. It would have haunted his mind like a still-living arena in which he could still see David’s death.

  Leaving Norwood, he rode south with his friend Hugh Glover, glad to put Scotland and the past few weeks behind him. But still he simmered, still he struggled to stem the tide of anger and frustration as he went through his days with ice-cold determination to cut her from his life as if she had never been, trying to hate her for having given birth to the instability in him.

  But as a result of those few short weeks when she had been his captive, when no promises had been made or asked, he knew there would never be another woman like her for him, that not even distance would have any effect on the scorching fires of their emotions, and that was the cruellest irony of all.

  Ever since Mrs Shelley had returned to Astley Priory with the dreadful news of Lorne’s abduction by the Earl of Norwood and the reason for it, everyone had existed in a state of shock. Their proposed visit to London was cancelled. Lady Barton immediately sent a letter to her grandsons at Drumgow, insisting that she was to be kept informed of all that transpired. She also sent letters to influential ministers in his Majesty’s government, demanding that something was done to ensure the immediate release of her granddaughter from the Earl of Norwood’s Scottish stronghold, and that she was to be returned to her family. With that there was nothing much they could do but wait.

  When she suddenly arrived on the doorstep with James, having travelled overland from Whitby on horses acquired from friends of Lady Barton’s in that coastal town, there was profound relief, tears and laughter that she had returned safe and well. Looking at her with joyous, tear-brimmed eyes, Lady Barton took her hands lightly, then her grip strengthened and she drew her granddaughter into her arms in a rare show of emotion, giving Lorne the feeling of warmth, and a sense of belonging.

  Lady Barton, her daughter Pauline and Agnes, who refused to let Lorne out of her sight for a moment now she was restored to them, listened without comment as James explained everything that had transpired in the Highlands, the death of his father and the reason for his appearance at Astley Priory with his sister. However, he considered it prudent not to mention one or two things. There were certain details that might offend and shock the delicate female ears listening attentively to what he had to say, and Lorne’s seduction of Captain Kilpatrick was one of them.

  It was with a heavy heart that Lorne said farewell to James when the time came for him to return to Drumgow. There was just one thing she asked of him before they parted—that there were to be no reprisals against Iain Monroe—no retaliation.

  James promised. They would have too much on saving their necks than to go seeking more trouble.

  They embraced and Lorne watched him go. Motionless, she gazed at the doors through which he had gone, her hands held loosely below her waist, her gown falling in a circlet around her feet. The moment was one of extreme solemnity. A gnawing emptiness filled the centre of her entire being where her brothers had been—where Iain had been, swelling larger by the second—and nothing in the world would ever fill that gap.

  Lorne’s return to Astley Priory brought her relief, but little comfort. In a way it was more terrifying than anything she had known since leaving Norwood four weeks ago, because she now had time to think and to feel. She felt like a fox that has outrun the hounds and found temporary sanctuary in its earth, a respite, for she knew her torment would begin again when the King’s men came to Astley Priory and questions were asked.

  As yet she had not spoken of her imprisonment or Duncan Galbraith. She didn’t want to talk about that just now, and she was glad everyone seemed to sense this, for they kept quiet about it. But when she could no longer ignore the changes in her healthy young body, or the exhaustion and the nausea that racked her body every morning—which in itself was a diagnosis—she knew questions of a different kind could not be avoided.

  Initially, the revelation that a new life was growing within her, one in which Iain had equal share, brought her a feeling of fierce joy, a triumphant exultation, as if the child could wipe out all her unhappiness and the sins of the McBrydes. It gave her an amazing joy to think that Iain’s blood was at work deep inside her. No matter what happened now, he was tied to her by flesh and blood, and not even the stigma attached to the word ‘illegitimate’ could destroy her happiness that she bore his child. But when a fresh wave of nausea swamped her, leaving her spent, this harsh reminder of her position struck her like a hammer blow.

  She had a sudden vision of her father’s proud face set against the misty Highland hills, and the younger features of her brothers and her forebears. She saw them as clearly as if they had risen out of the shadows, all those who had borne the name of McBryde, who had fought and suffered and perished to preserve intact their ancient name and honour. Surely her brothers would be justified in riding to Castle Norwood and tearing down that mighty stronghold stone by stone, and slaying its proud and powerful owner for what he had done, before turning their backs with fury on the sister who could not accept the sacrifices that family and honour demanded.

  Observant of Lorne’s pallor and the deep lilac circles beneath her eyes, and her melancholy mood, despite everyone’s attempts to draw her out of it, Lady Barton was troubled. She had no idea what was wrong, but it must be something serious, something that went deeper than the trauma of her recent ordeal and the death of her father. On seeing her leave the house one morning to walk alone in the gardens, she followed, finding her seated on a bench hidden behind some conifers, staring at the black water of a lily pond. She glanced up at her briefly, then back to the water, her face set in unhappy lines.

  Consternation grew in Lady Barton as she sat beside her. Taking Lorne’s hand in hers, she gave it a little squeeze, looking with earnest eyes at the young woman and searching her face. ‘What’s wrong, Lorne? Please tell me what bothers you. You have been in such low spirits since your return to Astley. Is it what happened to you in Scotland? Your father’s death, perhaps?’

  Lorne shook her head slowly, a tear running down her cheek. ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘It’s nothing like that.’

  ‘Lorne, listen to me. What concerns you concerns me. Now, tell me.’

  Swallowing hard, Lorne looked directly into her grandmother’s eyes, feeling an obligation to tell her the truth. ‘I am with child.’

  The silence that followed was thick between them.

  Lady Barton’s features tightened slightly, and although the words were softly spoken, they hit her with the blow of a pugilist. At length she said, ‘I see. And who would the father be?’

  ‘Iain. Iain Monroe.’ At this revelation, Lady Barton’s composure slipped, and Lorne was conscious of her dismay.

  ‘I see. Did he—force himself on you?’

  ‘No—he would never do that. I—was not unwilling, Grandmother,’ she replied, having the grace to lower her eyes as she confessed quietly to the sin she had committed with Iain.

  Lorne’s innocent face betrayed a sensu
al and wanton longing she was completely unaware of, and her grandmother saw an intimacy beyond anything she had ever witnessed, that made her long to shatter that private, impure world Lorne had shared with Iain Monroe.

  ‘So—you had a choice.’

  The echo of her grandmother’s sharp words lingered between them. At last Lorne raised her tear-bright eyes and looked at her, and she shivered at the unhappiness she saw. She was all too familiar with her grandmother’s rigid moral principles and private code of honour, and she knew the disappointment and pain her confession had brought her.

  ‘You are telling me that you gave your virginity to your father’s enemy, a man whose hatred for your family is renowned,’ Lady Barton went on, her voice trembling with a quiet anger, ‘who kidnapped you, abused you and imprisoned you, refusing to consider releasing you until some age-old feud had been settled and your father surrendered himself to the hangman. How could you do it?’ She noted Lorne took her criticism with apparent meekness, lowering her eyes in acquiescence and flushing—not totally without shame. ‘From what you have just told me, it’s obvious to me he seduced you with solid gold charm,’ she remarked with irony. ‘The man is a Lowlander, so I assume he must be civilised—if an unprincipled libertine. His behaviour towards you was contemptible.’

  ‘I don’t know what to do. Will you help me?’

  ‘How could I not? You unhappy girl—more foolish that wretched,’ Lady Barton murmured, smiling softly. ‘You are my granddaughter, the child of my heart. But I cannot condone what you have done. To do so would go against everything I believe to be right. Did you tell James about the child?’