by Fiona Neal
Apprehended, tried, and convicted, they were transported to London at the king’s command. They were held at Tyburn to be executed as an example to all those who dared defy the law. After the execution, their bodies would be drawn and quartered. Later, their severed limbs and heads would be boiled and smeared with tar, then displayed on poles jutting from buildings in the major cities of Britain.
Amid the raucous spectators, she spied Morag crying.
Deirdre thanked heaven her uncle had not lived to see her disgrace. Mercifully, he had died from shock when she was captured and he discovered that she was The Flame. Nevertheless, her soul would never rest because she had caused his death—and that of Fergus as well.
The cart lurched to a halt and the gallows loomed up before them. Two men seized Fergus, dragged him from the cart, and brutally pushed him up the steps of the gibbet. Mercilessly, the black-hooded hangman slipped the noose around Fergus’ neck.
Suddenly, a rough hand grabbed Deirdre, shoving a scratchy noose over her head and then pulling it snuggly around her throat. Offering a prayer, the somberly robed clergyman stepped back. Side by side with her faithful comrade, she shed tears of remorse. “I beg your forgiveness, Fergus,” she shouted.
But he did not hear her because a sudden ruffle of drums exploded like a canon. Then she felt the rope tighten around her neck. A cheer erupted from the crowd like a clap of thunder.
She could not breathe! Still, the violent hands jostled her writhing body.
“My lady, wake up!”
Deirdre’s lids popped open, and she bolted upright in bed. Gasping for air, she saw Morag standing by the bedstead.
A frown wrinkled the maid’s white brow. “You were screaming, my lady.”
Deirdre put her hand to her neck. No wonder her throat felt so raw. “I’m so sorry. I did not mean to alarm you.” Her body covered with cold sweat, Deirdre shivered and pulled the covers over her.
“I brought your breakfast.” Morag bustled to the table, returning with the tray. “We must be quick. Your uncle wishes to see you.”
Why, Deirdre wondered? She lifted the cup to her lips, grateful for the soothing warmth the brew trailed down her sore throat.
“I’ll arrange your toilet, my lady.” Morag curtsied and moved into the dressing room.
While Deirdre forced down her porridge, she recalled the dream. With annoying frequency, the nightmare returned to haunt her and never failed to jangle her nerves. Setting the tray beside her, she slipped from the covers and stood, pacing to discharge her agitation.
Morag reappeared with a basin of steaming water and helped Deirdre wash and dress.
A quarter hour later, clad in a pale green taffeta morning dress, Deirdre sat at her dressing table while Morag arranged her locks into a psyche knot.
“Thank you, Morag,” she said standing. “I shall attend my uncle. Heaven only knows what he wants.”
“My lady, I think I can shed some light on the subject.”
Deirdre stared at the maid.
“I do not know how to say this.” Morag’s cheeks flamed, and she cast her lids down, the long fringe of light brown lashes forming feathery fans on her delicate cheekbones.
“Just tell me, Morag.”
The maid looked up. “Well, I was passing the dining room this morning when I heard Lord Kilbraeton tell Lord Strathaven that he had misgivings about your marriage.”
Stunned, Deirdre wondered what had caused such a change of heart. Ian had been eager to marry, presenting her with a magnificent ring and lavishing her with kisses that had turned her into a mindless fool. She should be relieved, thrilled, and jubilant! This could mean a reprieve. She would be free to carry on her work for the poor.
But paradoxically, Deirdre felt abysmally disappointed. Against all logic, she wanted Ian to find her attractive, and she had no control over that feeling. Still, she must refuse to let her personal feelings impede her mission.
Suddenly, another thought shattered her peace of mind. Had Ian told her uncle he would not marry her? Dear God! The shock would kill Uncle Robert! Was that why he had called for her?
Get hold of your nerves. If her uncle had taken ill, the servants would have informed her of his condition by now.
Besides, it would be easier for Ian to just proceed with the marriage and then banish her away to a remote estate. That strategy would avoid expensive lawsuits for breach of promise.
Most matches amounted to financial arrangements anyway. They were marriages of convenience—or inconvenience—depending on one’s point of view. A man wed one woman for the wealth she brought to the union then took a comely mistress to warm his bed.
But the thought of Ian with another woman sickened her. Still, she must face reality. Hadn’t she tried to convince Ian to wait so she could devise a scheme to avoid the match altogether?
Suddenly, Deirdre realized she should cease this speculation and hurry to her uncle.
Chapter Six
As Deirdre swept into the room, the rise of her chin and tilt of her head reminded Ian of someone, but he could not remember whom. Besides, he found it damned difficult to concentrate on anything while her white breasts threatened with every breath to spill over the low neckline of her morning dress.
“My lords,” she said.
The men stood, and Ian took her hand, offering her his seat. He took a deep breath of her heather-scented perfume and stood behind Strathaven’s chair, admiring her lovely profile, silhouetted against the sunbeams streaming through the leaded casements and glinting off her hair with fiery brilliance.
“My lady, I shall come right to the point,” Sir Robert said, taking his seat. “You were seen leaving the mews and returning to the manor house at dawn.”
Her nostrils flared, and her turquoise eyes scintillated.
“I asked you on more than one occasion to refrain from leaving the environs of the garden,” Sir Robert continued.
“Which one of your spies informed you?” She glared first at her uncle and then at Ian.
Ian winced inwardly as her gaze seemed to pepper him with hot nails. The girl had pluck.
“Noble lady,” Sir Robert’s tone remained calm, but a warning resonated just below the polite surface. “You gave me your word and then broke it,” he remonstrated, leaning forward on the desk.
“I know, but it is difficult for me to obey arbitrary rules. Besides, I did have an escort.”
“With whom did you go?” Sir Robert’s unblinking eyes never strayed from her face.
“Fergus,” she responded. “He is, after all, my servant.”
“Where did you go?” her uncle continued.
“To Effie MacLean’s cottage,” she answered. An arched eyebrow, betrayed her displeasure, though she kept her voice low and well controlled. Still, the very air around her seemed to crackle with the intensity of a lightning bolt.
“Why?” her uncle asked.
Ian compared her blush to a pink rose.
“It was a personal matter.”
“My lady, you will answer the question.” Sir Robert leveled a determined look at her.
The sparks in her eyes conveyed her intent to even the score, and Ian held his breath, waiting for a sharp reply. He desperately hoped her explanation would disprove his theory that she was consorting with another man because Ian wanted to be the first man, the only man, to teach her to love.
“Since you insist, I shall tell you the exact reason,” she announced through clenched teeth. “As you know, it is the time of the full moon. At such intervals, women suffer from a certain indisposition. I felt the onset of the malady and left the supper table prematurely, if you remember.”
Had she truly felt ill? Perhaps that excuse had been just a ploy.
Deirdre continued. “So before the pain became severe, I left my chamber and asked Fergus to accompany me to Effie’s house. She makes a potion of willow bark. It helps me far more than any of the simples Dr. MacDonald has prescribed for me. If you do not believe me, you may a
sk either Effie or Fergus.”
Ian surmised that questioning them would prove fruitless, for the three of them probably rehearsed an alibi in the event they would need one.
She turned a cold, stately glare on Ian then returned her gaze to her uncle. “Furthermore, that is the reason I remained in my room this morning. Does that answer your question, Uncle Robert?”
“Uh…uh, I suppose,” her uncle replied, his face flushed with embarrassment.
“Your explanation sounds illogical,” Ian commented.
“Indeed, my lord?” Her sneer would have cut the king himself off at the knees. “Pray enlighten me as to where my explanation fails to make perfect sense.”
“Why did you go yourself when you could have sent a servant?”
“Exercise often relieves the discomfort. Besides, I was already awake and saw no reason to rouse a servant who had been working all day and rob him of his badly needed sleep.” She directed her gaze to Robert. “You know that to be my habit, sir.”
Sir Robert nodded in Ian’s direction. “That is true.”
“Yet, you did not feel disinclined to wake Fergus,” Ian stated.
“When I got to the stable, Fergus had not yet retired. The man suffers from insomnia. He refused to allow me to venture out alone. He said my uncle would be upset.”
“I see,” Ian replied. He empathized with the servant. Since Janet’s murder, he rarely slept the night through either.
But why couldn’t the servant sleep? Did lust, provoked by a redheaded beauty, burn his loins and disturb his rest? Had the man been waiting impatiently for her kisses and caresses?
Deirdre would not be the first noblewoman to share her favors with a servant. The thought made Ian’s gut roil.
She stood, body rigid, fists balled at her sides. “If you do not mind, I should like to return to my chamber. I feel somewhat listless.”
Listless! She looked like Boudicca about to drive the Romans from London.
“Of course, my lady,” Sir Robert answered. “But please do not venture forth.”
“I shall not, but you have never explained the reason for that strange request.”
“Need I remind you The Flame is on the loose in the vicinity, my lady?” her uncle asked.
“Aye, The Flame,” she said. Deirdre’s fingers plucked at the lace flouncing from her sleeve.
Ian wondered why she remained unconcerned about the rogue. Was she sure he constituted no threat to her?
“Now, if you will excuse me, I wish to retire,” Deirdre declared, dabbing her glowing brow with a dainty handkerchief.
“Of course, my lady,” Sir Robert answered. “Rest yourself.”
Deirdre swept from the room in a swirl of pale green and white.
Damnation! Why did Robert neglect to tell her the whole truth now that the opportunity presented itself? Her life could depend on knowing that she remained the object of a Jacobite plot.
“Do her ladyship’s reasons satisfy you, my lords?” Sir Robert asked.
“Thank you for clarifying the matter, Sir Robert,” Ian replied.
“Marry her quickly, Lord Kilbraeton,” Robert suggested. “The lady needs bairns to settle her restless spirit.”
“She also needs to know about the plot,” Ian responded.
“I agree, but tell her at Kilbraeton,” Sir Robert urged. “She will feel safer there, and you will have the means to protect her, my lord.”
That much Ian vowed to do. He refused to have another woman exposed to danger and possibly killed because of his negligence.
Ian and Strathaven exited, ambling down the long corridor.
Strathaven grinned. “Your countess has a fiery nature. With all that heat in your bed, the two of you will fill the nursery with heirs if you decide to consummate the marriage, that is.”
Ian stifled a groan. Keeping aloof from Deirdre would test the restraint of a saint.
* * * *
Ian approached the stables in search of Fergus. He had the opportunity to get a fairly good look at the fellow through his spyglass this morning, so he would easily recognize him.
When he walked into the big barn, he heard a squeal of laughter. Wheeling toward the laughter, he found Fergus and the woman he recognized as Deirdre’s maid seated on a haystack in the corner. Her white ear cap at her feet, the girl’s fair tresses shone like a cascade of gold despite the dim light as Fergus kissed her soundly.
Ian exited, not wishing to embarrass the couple. He coughed and began to whistle as he entered again. Fergus stood. The man did not wear his coal-black hair queued as he had last night. Today, his locks hung loosely except for the narrow braids of a Highland warrior plaited on either side of his face.
Ian felt there was something vaguely familiar about the man. He rarely forgot a face. Where had he seen this individual?
Morag quickly fashioned her hair into a bun then scrambled to retrieve her ear cap, hastily donning it.
Was Fergus toying with Deirdre and her lady’s maid? But if he were deceiving them, wouldn’t he proceed with more caution? He and the pretty blonde had kissed where anyone could come upon them.
“Will you wish to ride, my lord?” Fergus asked.
“Aye, but before I go, I should like a private word with you, Fergus.”
Morag took the cue. The beautiful blonde curtsied and made her exit.
Ian decided to use a subtle approach, hoping Fergus would drop his guard and give up some information. He felt somewhat ashamed of himself, spying on Deirdre this way. Still, he had to know if she had told the truth.
“I wish to thank you, Fergus, for the protection you offered her ladyship last night on her journey to Effie MacLean’s cottage.”
The man’s face betrayed nothing and his gaze remained direct. “A self-respecting man would never allow a lady to go alone. It is a good distance and the terrain can be dangerous. She could have met with a wildcat. They roam these hills and their claws do a serious damage for being such wee beasties.”
“Weren’t you concerned about The Flame?” Ian closely watched the man’s eyes.
“I thought he would have fled far from here, my lord. Else I never should have allowed her ladyship to go abroad.”
Was the servant telling the truth, or was he a consummate liar? Furthermore, the man’s familiarity nagged at him.
“Do you want me to bring your mount around, my lord?”
“Aye,” Ian replied.
While Fergus went to tack up the mount, Ian turned and walked into the cobblestone yard. His mind tortured by doubts, he kicked a small pebble, sending it flying to the nearby turf. Had Deirdre played him false, or was he indulging his jealousy? Her story seemed plausible, but he couldn’t rest until he had more proof.
A few minutes later, Fergus led out the fine bay gelding.
Ian mounted. “Direct me to Effie MacLean’s cottage, Fergus.”
The servant’s whisky colored gaze met his, and Ian saw an almost imperceptible flicker of caution in their depths.
“Follow the path down the hill, my lord.” He pointed the way. “When you reach the glen, follow the burn for a mile or so. You’ll come to a stand of rowans near a stone bridge. Go over the bridge and cross the meadow. She lives in the cottage there, but not for long. She will leave the area soon.”
Ian wheeled the gelding around. Perhaps a good ride and Effie’s testimony would dispel the nagging doubt sticking like a thistle in Ian’s craw.
* * * *
Later that morning, Deirdre paced before the library window, waiting for Connor. She had a great deal to do. Wedding guests were arriving almost hourly, but she found focusing her thoughts too difficult a task.
The interrogation her uncle conducted had taken its toll on her. Although she told a plausible story, she doubted Lord Kilbraeton believed it. His questions had come rapidly, and she expected him to interrogate both Fergus and Effie the first chance he got. She had to admit Ian’s skepticism was well founded. Perhaps that was the reason he expressed dou
bts about their upcoming marriage.
Deirdre heard footsteps. Turning, she saw Connor standing in the doorway.
“Good morrow, my lady,” he said in Gaelic and bowed with a smile.
“Good morning to you, too, Connor. But you promised to speak only English for a month. If you want to study medicine in Edinburgh, you must learn to speak the new language. They speak no Gaelic there.”
The boy blushed. “Aye, my lady,” he enunciated slowly.
“That was good, Connor.” She sat at the table by the window and gestured for the boy to do the same. “I trust Sine has given you breakfast.”
“She gave me six bannocks with butter and jam, and I ate every one of them.” Again, he spoke slowly as his scrubbed face beamed.
Deirdre laughed. The boy’s appetite had become enormous in the time he had lived at Ballanross. He had gained weight, his color had improved, and he had grown much taller.
She took up a history book, handing it to him. “Today we will read about James IV, a good Stewart king.”
The lad opened the book and haltingly began to read in English. Deirdre tried to focus on the lesson, but her mind meandered back to Lord Kilbraeton.
She heard he had gone riding, and again she surmised he would question Effie and Fergus. She worried about Effie. The midwife had not developed the art of guile and deception, and Ian knew how to phrase questions to trick an unwitting witness.
If the woman revealed something, all three of them would take up residence in the tolbooth. They would swing and her uncle would die of shock.
Deirdre pulled her black woolen shawl about her as gooseflesh erupted all over her body. She must concentrate on keeping at least one step ahead of The Avenger of Scotland.
Deirdre suddenly realized that Connor had closed the book, and his dark eyes focused on her.
“Uh, that was very good, Connor.” She smiled encouragingly, though she’d not heard a word the lad read. “You will be a wonderful scholar in no time.”
“How will that happen, my lady? You’ll be leaving soon. Nobody here can teach me because they are so busy, and the kirk school is closed now. Most of the bairns cannot go anymore.”