The Flame on the Moor

by Fiona Neal

  Deirdre had never seen Lady Mary this flustered before, but a woman unhappily in love often behaved irrationally. She could testify to that. “So will you look for another husband in Edinburgh?”

  “I do not think so, and I hope you will pardon me, my lady. I feel much fatigued and wish to retire.”

  “Of course, Lady Mary,” Deirdre said.

  The woman left in a trail of lavender perfume, closing the door.

  Deirdre was surprised Ian had not locked her in her bedroom initially, but these walls could not contain her if she wished to leave. If he believed her so-called motive, no doubt he felt the threat of that was past.

  She already devised an escape plan if he resorted to that, though. She’d descend from the window with the rope she still had hidden. Furthermore, she planned to return to Skye. With the necklace now in her possession, she would have more than enough to book passage and pay restitution.

  But she now faced the problem of delivering the funds to her unwilling benefactors. With Fergus gone, the task would prove difficult unless she could send the funds by post. Of course, she would have to disguise the funds in a way that would elude dishonest people.

  Oh, she wanted this whole unhappy business over before her child was born. She hated the idea of bearing her baby with a soiled conscience and sullied soul.

  The door opened and Ian entered, softly securing it.

  Deirdre glared at him. “So now that Lady Mary’s subtle prying failed, you have decided to interrogate me yourself?”

  He walked toward her. “And you will explain the reason for your rash actions, and please do not insult my intelligence by telling me your motives sprang from your concern for the poor.”

  “I have explained all that I mean to say.”

  He took hold of her shoulders. “You endangered three lives to satisfy a whim, Deirdre. Why?”

  She jerked away. “Why do you blame me for this predicament? It was not I who swore that Fergus is a thief! You did that all by your smug, righteous self, Lord Kilbraeton. You condemned the man because you have always been jealous of my attentions to a poor individual who fell on hard times.”

  “Innocent! The man was condemned as a traitor and should have hanged long before this.”

  Stunned that he recognized the man, she stared at him, and then recovered. “Aye, and you, who accuse me of endangering him, would have sent him to his death. You were the one who sentenced him without mercy or knowledge of his circumstances.”

  His jaw clamped tight, and he stood, arms rigid, his fists clench. “I did nothing wrong. I proceeded according to the law.”

  “Your precious law often does not coincide with true justice or morality. His vile laird had the power of pit and gallows over him. He forced the man into rebellion. Had Fergus not complied, the laird would have meted out any punishment he saw fit. As it was, the loathsome fiend threatened to burn the roof of Fergus’s elderly parents’ home over their heads. Later, the same laird commanded him to surrender and then turned him over to the redcoats.”

  “But Deirdre, the man was given a reprieve and sent to the colonies. I could have told the judge that the man never really paid for his crime, but I did not. Instead, I intended to arrange a pardon.”

  “Crime?” she cried, pounding his chest with her fists. “Fergus committed no crime! If you really wished to punish someone, hang the laird who forced him into his miserable condition.”

  Ian grabbed her wrists. “Stop this immediately! You are evading the issue. Why did you need money so desperately?”

  “Let me reiterate, Ian, I have revealed all I am going to say on the subject.”

  The expression on his face softened, and he released her. “Deirdre, what can be so horrible that you cannot tell your husband?”

  Was he trying a different tact? Well, she refused to be gulled by soft words and gentle caresses. “My lord, you already know all that is necessary.” She walked to the window and looked out.

  “Nay, I do not, but it is obvious that you will never tell me. I shall have to gather my information through other means. But will you answer me one question?”

  Hands on her hips, she whirled around to face him. “That depends.”

  “On what?” he demanded

  “On the question,” she replied

  “How did you escape?”

  “I found a tunnel that leads outside.”

  “Where is it?” His gaze seemed to search her soul.

  “You said one question, and I have answered it.”

  “Deirdre, I am not your enemy.”

  “It is hard to believe that when you interrogate me like a prosecutor.”

  He walked up behind her, turning her around. “I do not.”

  She wanted to believe him. The temptation to confess, to relieve her tortured conscience beckoned overwhelmingly, but fear stilled her tongue.

  “Deirdre, I hope someday you will learn to trust me.”

  She wanted nothing more in the world. She had to get away from him before she lost all reason and confessed. “You once told me trust has to be earned, Ian, but the truth is you do not trust me either.”

  “Your strange actions give me little reason to trust you,” he replied softly.

  “Once again I will tell you to keep your trust. The price you ask is much too high.” The light in his eyes died, and he kept silent when he turned and left.

  Deirdre watched the door quietly shut behind him, and a feeling of desolation engulfed her. Tears sprang to her eyes. Oh, if only she had not fallen in love with him! But she had, and an insurmountable barrier now spanned between them.

  * * * *

  Frustration ground Ian’s guts to shreds. Right now, he had no desire to play billiards, but someone had to entertain Strathaven and Lady Mary.

  Ian pointed his cue stick at the ball and shot too hard, sending the balls ricocheting off the rim of the table instead of into the pockets.

  “Goodness, Ian!” Lady Mary commented, eyebrows raised.

  “I am off my game.”

  “I have something that will help you.” She stood. “If my lords will excuse me, I shall bring it to you. We could all use something to soothe us.”

  “Of course,” Ian answered.

  She rose and made an exit that would have rivaled a London actress.

  “You are preoccupied.” Strathaven replaced his cue stick in the holder on the wall.

  Ian did the same. “But the conundrum has no answer. Or more precisely, the woman refuses to answer.”

  Strathaven chuckled. “I thought you would have charmed the information out of the countess by now. Not losing your touch, are you?”

  “You overestimate my abilities.”

  “I think not,” Strathaven contradicted. “You always could bend the lasses to your whims.”

  “So could you. You still can if you have a mind to do so.” Ian walked to a chair and sat.

  “If I am intruding, Ian, just say so. I know you are worried about your wife.”

  “I thought we had reached some closeness, Rory. I know it is not exactly fashionable, but I had hoped for more than a marriage of convenience.”

  “I shall never settle for anything other than a love match, especially now that I have experienced it.” Strathaven’s eyes took on a gaze of such sadness that Ian had to look away.

  Lady Mary reentered, bearing a tray of glasses and a bottle of whisky. “This is from my still in Glen Gloaming.” She set it down on a table near the hearth and poured, handing the glasses around. Lifting hers, the vessel slipped from her fingers, spilling the whisky on her beautiful blue linen frock. “Oh, that is vexing! I must be tired. It is been a trying day. Perhaps I should just say good night. I’ll leave the bottle as a present, my lords.”

  “Goodnight then, Lady Mary,” Ian responded as she took her leave.

  “Getting back to the incident, your wife is safe, you’ve a child on the way, and no crime was committed. Go back to Kilbraeton and enjoy your family,” Lord Strathaven urg
ed.

  “But I am sure she is involved in something desperate.”

  “Like what?” Strathaven stared at him. “Surely, you do not still believe she is involved with The Flame? Everyone thinks he left the country or retired. No one has seen him since he invaded Ballanross to return the jewels to Lady Glenmuir. Come to think of it, that was the night before your wedding.”

  Strathaven’s words sounded a warning bell in Ian’s mind. The memory of a long, red hair flashed in his thoughts. He had tucked the strand away in an envelope in the same chest that held the widows’ pensions.

  “Excuse me, Strathaven. I feel quite tired.”

  “Of course, man. I shall retire as well after I finish my drink.” Strathaven tilted his glass then sputtered out the spirits. “Oh! Lady Mary will be embarrassed. Her brewer gave her a bad batch because that is nauseating.” He set down the glass.

  “I’ll take your word for it.” Ian returned his untouched dram to the table and left.

  * * * *

  Back in his room, Ian hurried to the hearth and lit the candles. Satisfied he had enough light for his task, he moved to the desk. Opening the small chest atop it, he removed the envelope lying on its cedar bottom. He overturned it so that the red strand of hair inside fell onto the desktop. In the candlelight, the coppery filament glowed with the radiance of flames, looking exactly like Deirdre’s hair when she sat by the fire.

  But it could not be from her head! She had sworn she did not know The Flame, and she certainly had not been the man’s lover. She had been a virgin when Ian made love to her.

  He carefully picked up the strand and candle and crept into Deirdre’s room, feeling like a sneaking thief. Still fully clothed in her black frock, she lay asleep.

  Nerves jangling, he placed the strand on her pillow next to her tresses. The strand matched perfectly! His stomach lurched, and he felt ill as the truth struck him like a punch in the jaw. How could he have been so stupid, so gullible?

  Deirdre was The Flame!

  She had lied to him, betrayed him, and made a huge fool of him! All the pieces of the puzzle had been right in front of him, but he had been too blind to see them—perhaps he really did not wish to see them. He had been too dazzled by her beauty and his own lust.

  But the truth was all too obvious. Deirdre defended The Flame, was left-handed, her hair was the same color, and she’d been in the corridor the night the scoundrel returned the jewels. Even the strange pitch of The Flame’s voice now made sense. She had been trying to imitate a man’s voice.

  And she had robbed him and dear Aunt Barbara! Why? Worst of all, she had even had the gall to suggest he might be The Flame.

  He picked up the loose strand of hair, replacing it in his handkerchief.

  Suddenly, Deirdre stirred. Bolting up, she cried out, “Ian!”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Deirdre stared at him. “What do you have in your hand?”

  “As you can see, it’s my handkerchief.” He loosened his grasp and opened the piece of linen.

  She saw the single gleaming strand of hair. Her breath caught as terror settled over her like a tight shroud. She gazed into his eyes, searching for mercy instead of cold, blind justice. In the dim light, she saw little to comfort her. His expression told her the charade was over. “For how long have you known, Ian?”

  “I am embarrassed to say I just put the pieces of the puzzle together.”

  Panic burst from her in a torrent of tears. “I wanted to tell you. I tried, but each time I always remembered that you swore to hang The Flame. I do not expect you to believe this, but that is why I took the jewels. I wanted to pay restitution. Instead, I almost brought Fergus to his death.”

  “So that is the reason you wanted to sell them, and the reason he refused to say anything to save himself.” He grabbed her wrist.

  She nodded, not resisting his grip. “I felt so guilty about the robberies. That is why I returned Aunt Barbara’s pieces. I could not keep them. I always intended to pay back all my victims when I came into my inheritance or had possession of my jewels.”

  “You lied to me and perjured yourself, Deirdre.” He released her abruptly. “You swore on the Bible that you did not know The Flame.”

  She shook her head. “I said I knew no man called The Flame.”

  “You used a cheap ploy, a play on words. Then you employed all your feminine wiles to pull the wool over my eyes.”

  “I had to survive.”

  “Now I know the bond that shackles you to Fergus. I wish to God I did not! You used me and married me to get possession of your jewels.”

  “I asked you to wait.”

  “You never cared a wit for me,” he accused softly, and his eyes reflected such pain that Deirdre could not bear to hold his gaze.

  “That is not true. I fell in love with you.”

  “Please!” He stepped back from her. “Do not make the situation worse with more lies.”

  She stood, reaching out to him. “Oh, Ian, do not go. Please try to understand why I remained silent.”

  “I comprehend the situation exactly,” he stated coldly. “I am a judge. I have seen many like you who do not want to hang.”

  She saw that he refused to understand. “But I wanted to pay back the money. Meanwhile, the crofters were starving. Women and children were dying. That is the reason I resorted to robbery. Those from whom I took hardly missed the funds. None of them, including your illustrious uncle, the Duke of Argyll, suffered very much of a loss.”

  Suddenly, she no longer felt fear as outrage coursed through her at his indifference to the suffering of the poor. “What is worse, taking a few pounds from someone who can afford it or allowing innocent people to starve?”

  “I treat the people on my estates well.”

  “What about the rest of Scotland, Ian? Do not deny that you behave with indifference toward them. You are so busy adhering to the letter of the law you forget its spirit. I pity you, Ian Campbell.”

  “You pity me?” He gave her an astonished look. “I am not a felon.”

  “Nay, nor have you a heart to love or feel compassion for your fellow man.”

  He stared at her for a long moment, and then turned on his heel and left.

  * * * *

  Hours later, Deirdre sat in her room, still clothed in her widow’s disguise, her weapons hidden on her person. Her tired eyes burned as she watched the candles gutter in the branches of the candelabra, causing deep shadows to flicker on the walls.

  She should undress and retire, but she was afraid to fall asleep, fearing the recurring nightmare would terrorize her again. Instead, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine what life would be like if The Flame never existed to create a gulf as wide as the Sound of Sleat between Ian and her.

  For months, she had longed to cleanse her soul of the black secret. But her confession had failed to bring the peace, the freedom, and the intimacy for which she had so yearned.

  At this moment, her husband was probably lying awake, deciding how to punish her crimes. Likely, the shame of her indiscretion would force him from the bench. Would everyone think Ian was implicated? Nay, her activities had ceased upon marriage.

  But Fergus was still in grave peril. Though she had not confessed it, Ian had guessed that her groom served as her accomplice. Thank God, the man had departed.

  Furthermore, Ian must wait for his revenge. She carried his child. While she did so, she remained safe. The law forbade the death sentence for expectant mothers.

  But what would Ian do after the babe arrived? Would he let her hang, or would he take the child from her and send her to the colonies as a bond slave?

  Deirdre could not bear that prospect. She already loved the baby, and she loved Ian with her whole heart and soul.

  She stood. Walking silently over the carpet to the window, she looked down into the darkened road. The street lamps had gone out, like her hope, and the city lay before her as bleak and as unfathomable as her future. Her soul desolate, she qui
etly wept.

  Suddenly, she felt something rough and foul smelling clasped over her mouth and nose, stopping her breath, as a vice seemed to close around her waist. Terror pounced on her.

  “Do not struggle, lady, else we’ll be forced to shoot you and anyone who comes to help you,” a voice rasped from behind her.

  Her captor swung her around from the window to face another huge man. In the dim candlelight, she saw that the knave confronting her bore a large scar cutting through his eyebrow and straight down his cheek. The lout was aiming a pistol at her.

  With two other pistols stuffed in his belt and a claymore at his side, Deirdre felt certain he had enough gall and ammunition to carry out the murders. She obeyed, near to fainting from lack of air. Besides, if she fought them, they could deliver a blow to her abdomen, causing a miscarriage.

  “Quick, Finlay, tie her,” the man holding her whispered, uncovering her nose.

  “Aye, Jamie,” Finlay replied.

  Deirdre inhaled deep breaths as the scarred man withdrew a rag from his jerkin and roughly gagged her, as Jamie took his hand from her mouth. Then he pulled out a leather thong from the same place and lashed her wrists in front of her as Jamie released her.

  Finlay grabbed her upper arm while Jamie moved to the door. He opened it carefully and peered out. Turning toward them, he beckoned.

  Deirdre noticed he was a bit shorter than Finlay, and his nose looked crooked, as if its bridge had been broken.

  The two men flanking her, they all left the room, moving slowly and silently along the corridor and down the stairs. They finally arrived at the front door where a servant was seated in a chair and seemed to be sleeping soundly. No wonder the intruders entered so easily.

  Once outside, Deirdre noticed her captors had wrapped their boots with rags to muffle their footsteps. They hurried across the deserted street and down a narrow wynd where a cart, full of hay, waited.

  Ironically, she heard the town crier far in the distance calling out that all was well, and she wanted to laugh hysterically. Instead, she fought for control. If a chance for escape presented itself, she must remain alert and quick-witted enough to take it.