The Flame on the Moor

by Fiona Neal

  He set Deirdre down, and they ran to the old woman’s chambers where more exclamations filled the air.

  “My lady,” he shouted, “Are you all right? Open the door!”

  In seconds, guests and servants crowded the corridor, gathering in front of his aunt’s door.

  “Oh dear, oh dear,” his aunt continued as she flung open the door. Her nightcap about to fall from her gray head, and her thick chemise billowing about her round body, she began to weave unsteadily around the room. In the dim glow of the firelight, her eyes burned feverishly.

  Ian and Deirdre entered the chamber. Lady Mary MacNeill and Lord Strathaven hurried in behind them.

  “Lady Barbara, what is it?” Ian looked down into her face.

  “The Flame was here!” She waved a paper. “He left this.”

  Ian felt his body tense with fury. “He molested you again? I will see that knave hang yet! He may still be around. Where is Lieutenant Pickering?”

  A servant scurried off to find the officer.

  Clad in his banyan, his face the color of lard, Sir Robert made a hasty entrance. He rushed toward Deirdre, pulling her into his arms. “I just heard. Thank God, you are all right.” He cast a sharp glance at Ian then released her.

  “Please, Uncle Robert, do not upset yourself,” Deirdre pleaded.

  “To think that rogue intruded right into our midst,” Sir Robert growled. “He has proven his point. We are all at his mercy.” He walked to Lady Mary, his countenance strained with concern. “Are you all right, my lady?”

  “I am fine, Sir Robert.” The beautiful blonde moved toward him. Holding her yellow robe tightly around her, she looked at the man, adoration in her eyes. “Thank you for your concern.”

  “My lady,” Ian said, walking to his aunt, “please get back into bed. You look overwrought.”

  “I do not know when I have been more thrilled,” his aunt stated.

  Ian stared at the older woman. “Did you say thrilled, my lady?”

  “Aye,” his aunt replied. “The Flame is such a chivalrous rogue. He brought back my jewels. Can you imagine? He left a note, which said that he could not bear to keep them from me.” She hefted herself onto the mattress, leaning against a heap of pillows. “To think The Flame ventured into my own bedchamber while I slept. It is so exciting!” She held the note to her bounteous breast. “He wrote that I was beautiful. Can you imagine? I feel quite like a girl again.”

  Deirdre tucked the old woman in, and despite Ian’s dismay, his aunt’s elation caused a smile to tug at his lip. He loved her more than he could say. “May I see the note, my lady?” He moved toward her.

  “Of course, you can, dear lad.”

  Just then Lieutenant Pickering entered.

  “You should see this, Lieutenant Pickering.” Ian held up the paper.

  The officer approached, and the two of them perused the message together.

  Ian looked up. “I believe our highwayman is an educated person who wants us to believe he is unschooled.”

  “Oh, that is even more gallant.” Aunt Barbara sighed. “I have a secret admirer who is a noble rogue.”

  His aunt’s admiration could prove dangerous. The Flame may be flattering her to hoodwink and then kidnap her for a huge ransom. In fact, the knave and his conspirators could be planning to capture a great many nobles, his betrothed being just one of them. By God, he had to catch this scoundrel.

  Lord Strathaven walked toward them. “You believe he is a nobleman! Why?”

  Sir Robert frowned. “How do you conclude that, my lord?”

  “Because his penmanship appears quite primitive, but his vocabulary and his use of the language waxes poetically.”

  Pale and likely weak with terror, Deirdre sank into the chair while Sir Robert and Lord Strathaven also inspected the missive.

  “You are right,” Strathaven said. “Do you think the man could be one of the exiled Camerons or Stewarts?”

  “That would be my guess,” Ian answered.

  “Of course, he may be any one of the Highland chieftains who had Jacobite sympathies,” Lady Mary MacNeill suggested.

  “Aye,” Sir Robert agreed. “Most of them have visited Ballanross in the past and would know their way around.”

  “Whoever the man is, he knew the exact location of Lady Glenmuir’s room,” Ian added. “So the rogue may still be lurking about and could be one of the guests.”

  A chorus of gasps arose from the spectators.

  Sir Robert clutched his chest as Lady Mary held onto him.

  “My lords, help me get my uncle to his room,” Deirdre cried, rushing toward Sir Robert. “Someone send a servant for Dr. MacDonald.”

  “Nay, do not bother the doctor,” Robert MacLeod countered. “Just get me the potion he left. It is on the table by my bed.”

  Ian and Strathaven helped the stricken man to his room, and Deirdre, wide-eyed and shaken, dosed him while Lady Mary looked on.

  “I am sorry I alarmed you, Sir Robert,” Ian apologized.

  “It was not your fault. The Flame has violated the sanctuary of my home for the second time.” Sir Robert looked at his niece. “My lady, I wish to speak to Lord Kilbraeton and Lord Strathaven alone.”

  “Yes, of course,” she agreed. Worry shone in her large, turquoise eyes.

  Her fear touched Ian’s heart. He knew too well how it felt to lose a loved one.

  “Do as I ask, my lady,” Robert urged. “I wish you to go, too, Lady Mary.”

  Reluctance in her step, Deirdre turned and trudged out. Lady Mary MacNeill’s fine dark eyes narrowed, but she followed.

  “My Lord Kilbraeton, should I die this day, promise me you will proceed with the marriage,” Sir Robert pleaded desperately. “Deirdre remains in mortal peril. Let nothing prevent you. Please!”

  “Have no fear, Robert, I have given my word,” Ian assured the man. “I will protect Deirdre with my life.”

  Lord Strathaven nodded. “We’ll see she remains safe. Please rest, Sir Robert. You must escort her down the aisle later today.”

  “Your promise is the best medicine I can have.” Sir Robert relaxed and he sighed. “And I will give my dear niece away.”

  Leaving his host’s room, Ian met Lieutenant Pickering.

  “Lord Kilbraeton, rest assured we will find this fiend. Fresh troops have arrived from Fort William.”

  “Good, but since The Flame is probably a noble, or someone who is trusted by all of us, I think your men could be put to better use guarding Lady Ballanross and her guests rather than scouring the countryside. I believe the blackguard will soon make a move.”

  “As you wish, my lord,” the officer said. “On the way to the church, I shall supply the coaches with armed escorts. When we return to Ballanross, men will guard each entrance and exit. I shall assign a detail at the foot of the steps and near every sallyport,” Lieutenant Pickering answered. “I will also post guards outside the window of the bridal suite in the event these rogues try to scale the walls. Such things have been known to happen.”

  “Good,” Ian answered.

  “Your servant, my lords,” the officer said. Clicking his heels, he left.

  Saying goodnight to Strathaven, Ian wandered to his room, his thoughts whirling with chaos. He looked out the window, watching the sunrise as he speculated. Because The Flame was probably a man of letters, and most certainly no servant, that eliminated Fergus. Or did it?

  Was the man really a groom? He could be a rogue who was masquerading as a servant while Deirdre played his willing dupe.

  Deirdre! She had been roaming the corridor. Somehow, that seemed too much of a coincidence. The day he had been robbed, she had prowled the hills by night with Fergus. Likely, she knew The Flame and defended him, believing him to be a noble hero as his childlike aunt now did.

  Was that the reason Deirdre wanted to delay this marriage? To think he had almost bedded the woman. At the time, she had seemed so sweet, so vulnerable. Even now, when he thought of her soft body, his se
nses ignited with need. Nevertheless, he must restrain himself until he found the answers to his questions.

  Now Deirdre must prove her innocence beyond any doubt. He would exchange vows with her. He must, but he refused to bed a felon—especially one who conspired with a highwayman.

  The image of his little sister, her white bodice bright with blood, emerged to the forefront of his mind. Ian squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his fist, trying to dispel the sight that all too often stalked his thoughts and haunted his dreams.

  * * * *

  Deirdre lay in bed, trying to control her panic as chills penetrated the marrow of her bones. She had tried to right a wrong, but instead of improving the situation, she had pulled the noose more tightly around her neck.

  Ian remained relentless in his pursuit, correctly deducing everything about The Flame except her sex. How long would he take to guess the reality of the situation? Would he finally succeed in delivering her to the gallows?

  Suddenly, an idea sparked. Perhaps she should seduce him away from the truth. He wanted her; of that she was sure. Besides, she would merely be fulfilling her wifely duty, Deirdre concluded smugly. If he fell in love with her, he would never suspect because love was blind, wasn’t it?

  Unfortunately, her triumph quickly died. Deirdre hated adding to the mountain of deceptions she had already created. But she would jeopardize Fergus’ life as well as her own, along with her uncle’s health, if she failed to prevent Ian from discovering that she was the Flame. She saw few options but to proceed.

  * * * *

  An icy shower poured down on the procession of coaches as mounted redcoats accompanied them to the small stone church in the village. Were the soldiers protecting them from the Flame, or did their presence have something to do with the secret her uncle and Ian shared?

  She’d made a logical conclusion because her uncle had said she would be frightened by the revelation. Yet not knowing terrified her more. You could devise a plan to defeat an enemy—if you knew who he was.

  Seated opposite Uncle Robert in the conveyance, Deirdre pondered the mystery and looked out the rain-splashed windows, waving to the throngs of spectators who lined the route, braving the weather.

  “They love you, Deirdre.” Her uncle smiled at her.

  “And I love them.”

  Her heart a tumult of emotions, she smiled bravely at her people. For her and them, this day marked a beginning and an end, a birth and a death, and her existence would be altered forever.

  A new life and new duties as Lady Kilbraeton awaited her. Could she fulfill them? She shuddered to think of her future. Looking into her heart, Deirdre saw the deceit she must bear for the rest of her days. Guilt and shame assailed her because, for as much as she tried to guard her emotions, she had begun to care for Ian. He’d been so sweet to her last night after they collided in the corridor.

  How would she live with this great lie? She pictured the deception as a huge snake, coiling about her soul and constricting the grace and joy from her life. Still, the truth meant death for Fergus, for her—and possibly her uncle.

  How could her uncle, whom she loved, who loved her, compel her to marry? Knowing him as she did, there had to be a good reason. Oh, how she wished Strathaven had not interrupted her when she had eavesdropped outside the library.

  “Deirdre,” her uncle said and gave her a puzzled look. “You’re not wearing a bride’s smile. Do you still resist this match?” His face looked tense and pale with anxiety.

  She forced herself to smile. “Nay,” she lied. She had no wish to upset him. He had had quite a spell this morning, and he could not afford another one.

  Furthermore, she could not deny that she wanted Ian, longed for him in fact. Perhaps the marriage bed would provide the one pleasure she had in life, but guilt and fear would mar that joy. Ian would see her swing if he knew the truth, so she must continue to lie…until the day she died.

  “I shall miss you, my dear child.” He reached forward and gently squeezed her hand. “You are the joy of my life.” His eyes brightened with tears. “You know, I remember your mother wearing that same gown and pearl tiara. She looked like a princess in it, just as you do, although her hair was a soft brown, not flaming red as ours is.”

  Though her heart was brimming with emotion and tears threatened, Deirdre forced herself to focus sharply. “It is strange you should speak of her, Uncle. You so rarely do.” His eyes looked even more wistful. “I suppose that is because it saddens me you lost her so early in your life. You cried for her for months, you know.”

  She nodded. “I remember.” The old wound still pained her.

  He sighed. “But now a new life will open to you, and you will be very happy again, so let us put all of our sad thoughts out of our minds.”

  Drat! She had hoped to learn more about her parents, but as usual, her uncle terminated that line of conversation as irrevocably as she did when she snipped an embroidery thread.

  “But I shall worry about you, Uncle. You will not take care of yourself if there is no one here to tend to you.”

  “I promise I will, Deirdre.” He smiled. “After all, I do want to see my grandnieces and nephews.”

  He was anxious for her to give them an heir for Ballanross and Kilbraeton. Dare she ask him one more time why he never married?

  “Perhaps when I am gone, you will at last take a wife. It is plain Lady Mary is more than fond of you. Then I shall not fret about you being alone.”

  “Lady Mary is fond of me?” His eyes widened.

  “Oh, Uncle Robert, how blind can you be? She has loved you for years. She told me so.”

  “But she married someone else.”

  “Because you did not return her feelings, but she never forgot you. When her husband died, she returned to Skye, hoping for another chance to win your heart.”

  “I am sorry,” he muttered as the conveyance rocked to a halt.

  Fortunately, the rain had stopped. The gown of ice-blue silk, embroidered with silver roses and ivy leaves, would be spared from becoming drenched, and a carpet covered the walkway to protect her satin shoes from the mud.

  With the help of a footman, her uncle stepped down first. Then, amid the rustle of her petticoats, she descended. A cheer from the village folk rose in a deafening chorus.

  Tears stung behind her eyes, but she blinked them back, giving everyone a well-deserved smile and a wave, as the crowd threw showers of flower petals.

  Holding her uncle’s arm, Deirdre marched down the aisle of the small, centuries-old kirk. The sandstone walls and hammered-beam ceiling soared upward. Gaily-dressed guests filled the pews in the sober sanctuary with welcomed splashes of color. Wigs of every style topped the heads of all the present. Jewels flashed with brilliant fire from the necklaces, earrings, bracelets, rings, and brooches.

  Catching sight of Ian at the altar, Deirdre forgot everything and almost dropped her nosegay of white violets that had been gathered from the conservatory greenhouse. In the dim light of the austere kirk, her betrothed’s chiseled features wore a serious expression.

  The sea green brocade of his coat, breeches, and waistcoat fit over his tall, muscular body to perfection. The white silk stockings accentuated the length of his muscular calves, and the silver buckles on his shoes and buttons on his coat caught the light and gleamed.

  As she arrived at Ian’s side, her uncle stepped aside, and her betrothed took her cold hand in his big, warm palm. His touch set off a glow of heat through Deirdre’s whole body.

  The Reverend Mr. MacPherson presided, looking stern as usual in his black robe and white stock. Beneath his bushy, gray eyebrows, his small dark eyes burned with fervor. No wonder Connor feared him.

  Ian spoke his vows with assurance, but Deirdre’s heart beat so furiously she could barely speak above a whisper, realizing that before God she must engage in a vile deception, one that would ominously hover over them like a black cloud.

  The feeling abated somewhat as Ian took her cold fingers in his
warm hands for a second time and slipped the wedding ring on her finger.

  When Mr. MacPherson pronounced them husband and wife, Ian leaned forward and placed a rather perfunctory kiss on her lips. They turned and, her hand in his, recessed up the aisle and onto the steps of the church.

  “Oh, Ian, look!” Deirdre turned to smile at him as a rainbow arched in the sky. The harbinger of good fortune gave her some much-needed hope.

  “It is a good omen,” he replied.

  Gazing into her new husband’s unsmiling face, Deirdre hoped with all her heart that the symbol proved fortuitous for her and Ian. She needed all the luck she could find.

  Connor came forth, holding a pillow on which rested a silver horseshoe. “Health, wealth, and happiness to you,” he said.

  “Thank you, Connor, and we wish you the same.” Deirdre replied.

  Honoring the ancient custom, Ian took up the horseshoe.

  “Kiss the bonnie bride,” the crowd began to chant.

  Ian obliged, but his lips did not part. Why did he suddenly turn cold to her?

  Again, the crowd cheered raucously as she and her new husband stepped into the coach, taking seats opposite each other.

  Still, Ian did not smile and remained silent for quite some time as he continued to wave at the crowd. What had happened between last night, when he behaved with such warmth and affection, and now to account for this change?

  “Is something amiss, Ian?”

  “Nay,” he replied.

  She leaned toward him. “You seem uncommonly quiet.”

  “Marriage is a serious business.”

  “But last night…”

  “I acted, shall we say, impetuously?” His scrutinizing gaze bore into her.

  Saints preserve her! What did he mean?

  “Do you still have misgivings about our marriage?” He arched a brow.

  “Don’t you think it is a bit late to ask me that question, Ian?”

  “Not necessarily,” he replied, his eyes looking as cold and as hard as jade.