Parris Afton Bonds

by The Captive

  Glancing around the plank deck, she saw a score or more of common sailors. A handful had scaled one of the sloop’s masts and were hauling down a sail billowed by roguish winds. Others worked the shrouds or coiled heavy ropes. They worked silently, quickly; diligence combined with rapid movement for a purpose. But what?

  The brisk, early-morning breeze felt wonderful on her sticky skin and sweat-snarled hair. How many days had she been locked in the cabin? The closest she could calculate was three.

  The last time Ranald Kincairn had come to her in the cabin was yesterday morning. Since the old officer had let her out this morning she had not seen her abductor.

  Enya turned to the bushy, white-browed officer who had received her that first night. Gone was the old man’s wig, as well as his naval uniform. In its place were breeches and a stained linsey-woolsey shirt beneath an equally stained leather jerkin.

  "Where is Ranald Kincairn?"

  "On Highland soil, me lady.” Beneath thinning white hair, his blue eyes beamed. "Aye, Highland soil and Highland sky. Nowhere the likes of them on all the earth.”

  “You aren’t prejudiced, are you?"

  His bushy white brows waggled. “Captain Knox is me tag. To be sure I’m prejudiced. I’ve yet to see the Indies and the American colonies. Watch yer step now. Yon hawser’ll trip ye sure."

  “My maidservants—and Duncan. Duncan Fraser. Where are they?”

  "Oh, they will be brought topside to join ye shortly, Madam Murdock. Me laird has given his permission to ha’ them wait on ye now.”

  “How gracious.”

  “I thought ye would enjoy yer first sight of the Highlands.” He pointed a gnarled and stubby finger toward the ship's foreward. On the distant opposite shore of the oblong lake appeared to be a town, and perched above it a fortress. "Yon is Fort William."

  Her heart jumped with joyous anticipation. "You are returning me to the English, then?"

  "Ach, no.” The white-fringed eyes looked sorely bedeviled. “Look ye, lass, this is the sealoch Linnhe. We’re putting about to travel up Loch Leven. There, on the leeward side."

  She followed the direction of his jabbing finger and saw, closer, another wide inlet bound by innumerable rifts and crags of steep slopes still laced with a slowly drifting web of mist. Even though late-summer sunlight filtered through the murky mist to warm the morning, she felt a chill. “Exactly where are we going?”

  Beneath the white brows, the eyes shifted. "I’ll leave it to me laird to talk to ye of such matters. There be yer companions, Madam Mudock.”

  "M’lady," Mary Laurie cried out. Tangled brown hair straggled from her mob cap, askew on her head. Her cheeks, normally apple red, were pale, and her bow-shaped mouth trembled. "We’ve been kept—’’

  “Take yer hands off me, ye knave," Elspeth told a startled Captain Knox, "or else ye’ll sing like a choir boy!" Indignant, she tried to straighten shoulders that time would never permit to straighten again. After having been confined in the small cabin, she wobbled.

  Immediately, he dropped the supporting hand he had offered. “A pox on ye, then, hag.”

  Her hooded eyes squinted at her charge's face, as if searching for some sign from heaven. "Ye are unhurt, me bairn?”

  “I am unhurt. And you and Mary Laurie?”

  "It would take more than Highland dolts to do me in. Yer breast knot is torn.”

  She avoided the sharp old eyes. The lace knot had been tom the fourth or fifth time—she couldn’t remember—that the Cameron chieftain had come to her. He had proffered peas to her on his dirk.

  Foolishly, he had cautioned her before her lips had touched its sharp edge.

  Foolishly, she had seized the opportunity to drive the dirk into his chest.

  With the ease of a man swatting a pesky fly, he had deflected the attempted stabbing. In the tussle for the dirk, he had won, and her breast knot had suffered.

  "How close do you think I can come to cutting the knot before I prick your soft skin?" he had taunted.

  She had dared not breathe. Without light to guide him, he might have done just that. The breast knot had yielded on his first attempt. Next, he had drawn off her lace handkerchief, and she had felt the knifepoint feathering the hollow of her throat. She had only to swallow to feel its painful prick.

  She hadn’t, and the seconds strung out into what seemed hours. She had heard his measured breathing. What had he been thinking? At last he had arisen and left the cabin without another word. She had almost welcomed his anger rather than a return to the maddening isolation in which he kept her.

  "Where is your laird?” she demanded of Captain Knox.

  “Gone ashore, he has." Once again the blue eyes twinkled. "Paying an unexpected visit on the English garrison quartered at Fort William."

  Swiftly, her gaze inventoried her chances at escape. The sloop’s seamen were busy enough. No weapons were in evidence. A nearby dinghy would provide the means to reach shore. The canny old captain should give her and Duncan little resistance.

  "My escort, Duncan?"

  "Below, me lady."

  "Bring him to my cabin.” Enya pointed a negligent finger in that direction and turned to her serving ladies. The fretful wind was teasing her skirts, revealing more of her ankles than was proper. For all she knew, the sloop’s sailors could have been a’sea for months and sex-crazed, like their chief. "We’ll repair inside.”

  Such was her habit at giving orders, so sure of her command was she, that Captain Knox almost tugged at his wispy forelock in acknowledgment, before he remembered himself. "The laird has forbidden that, madam."

  She turned back. "Forbidden what?"

  "Forbidden ye to be alone with a man. Any man but himself, that is.”

  She felt her color rising—and felt Elspeth’s obelisk glance.

  Mary Laurie whispered, “Oh, mistress!”

  She collected herself. "Very well. Send Duncan to me here—on deck. Very little can happen before the eyes of these charming . . . gentlemen . . . can it now?" She made a sweeping motion to take in the sailors who looked more like the dregs of a dock impressment.

  Why had she not noticed earlier their untrimmed beards and flowing mustaches? Anyone with two eyes could see that they had not exhibited the spruced appearance of seasoned British seaman.

  Captain Knox rubbed his stubbled chin. "Weel, I don’t see how that could hurt anything."

  Waiting for Duncan, Enya watched the passing countryside closely. She would need to know as much as possible about this far-flung land when the time for escape came. She saw a savage monotony of mountains. They rose steeply from the shores of the reed-rimmed loch and appeared to be crossed only by daredevil single-track roads.

  She found the craggy Highlands disturbing, lacking the harmony and proportion of the rolling, lush hills of the Lowlands. Here in the Highlands, the air was crisper, the light paler.

  The surrounding countryside she viewed was a wild, timeless land where, no matter which direction she turned, she seemed to be lost. She knew that no cities and only a few towns managed to survive in the murderous mountain-shaped Highlands. Words like desolate and inhospitable came to her mind.

  "M’lady, yon is Duncan,” said Mary Laurie.

  "Handcuffing is too lenient for a slick scoundrel like him," Elspeth said.

  He was blinking. A scraggly growth of blond beard stubbled his lantern jaw. If possible, his clothing was even more rumpled and dirty than usual.

  "Duncan,” Enya called.

  He hesitated, then lurched in the women’s direction. Obviously, his quarters of confinement had been even smaller than hers. Two sailors guarding him did nothing to impede his detour, but merely looked on. Apparently, duty called Captain Knox elsewhere.

  Hands held awkwardly before him, Duncan asked, "Ye fare well, Enya?"

  “Aye. And you?" She reached up to touch his high forehead, where a fresh cut was haloed with a prominent purple bruise.

  "Ach, got that from tussling with the crew here, I
did.”

  "Took on all of them, did you now?”

  With a judicious squint, Elspeth intervened to finger the wound. "A compress of lichen, egg, and spider web shouldna hurt ye too much.”

  Enya drew closer. "Duncan, what think you our chances of escape?"

  His eyes, the brown of acorns, narrowed to scan the rifts and crags of the brooding massifs, dominated now by the sight of the hefty humpback of Ben Nevis, the highest mountain of the British Isles. Loch Leven’s sandy shores were empty of human habitation. He looked down at his bound wrists and wiggled their chains. "Swimming is not what I had in me mind."

  She chewed on her lower lip. "The longer we wait, the less chance we may have."

  The warm wind whipped his butter-yellow hair. "The four of us be in no condition for flight. Do ye know if a ransom price has been asked?"

  Enya shook her head, and her straggling hair brushed her shoulders. Doubtlessly, she looked like the slattern that the laird of the Cameron clan wanted her to be. "Not ransom, retribution. It seems that our illustrious captor has a distaste for Lowlanders and English alike, especially Simon Murdock."

  Duncan’s straw-colored brows lowered in a scowl. "If not already, then soon, Simon Murdock will have discovered his escort, guards, and sailors were replaced by brigands. Help will be on the way. Better to wait it out.”

  He was right. But how long could she postpone what Ranald Kincairn had in mind for her? As if she could do anything about it!

  As the day wore on, the sloop traveled farther up Leven, one of many glacier-gouged lochs. The capricious wind lapped the cold and haunted waters. Below the mountain peaks, capped in mist, was spread a rugged, heather-splashed glen. It was here that the sloop put in.

  The dinghy was lowered, and Duncan was put ashore with half a dozen of the scruffy-looking crew. She didn’t like being separated from him. As it turned out, she, Elspeth, and Mary Laurie were next rowed ashore, along with Captain Knox and three more of Ranald Kincarn’s Highlanders.

  Skirts lifted over the reeds, she picked her way to drier land. Beyond, an expanse of bog and dark pools and ocher grass stretched into the wildest of empty moorlands. “My trunks and baggage, Captain Knox?’’

  His expression was one of regret. “To be forwarded later, madam. If you will accompany me. . .”

  Armed with dirks, matchlocks, and swords, her escort didn’t appear likely to grant her leave. She nodded, as if this was but the anticipated last stretch of her bridal journey. "Of course.”

  The sun seemed about to break through the clouds between the distant peaks as her bridal party set out. It had traveled no farther than a short distance over the soggy moors when a group of mounted men could be seen cantering toward them.

  Hope took light within her. Even if it wasn't Simon Murdock and his men, the riders might be someone she could appeal to for help.

  Closer, she could see the lead rider wore a kilt and tartan, the symbol of Scots pride. She felt like sobbing. These had to be more of the Cameron clan.

  The man in the lead swung down from his bay mare and approached her captors. About her age, he was tall and handsome, with long, glossy auburn locks. Fear leaped anew in her heart. Was this her tormentor, Ranald?

  He stopped to confer with Captain Knox. Almost immediately, she could see that this kilted man was not as brawny as the one who had come to her in the dark of the sloop’s cabin. That man had to weigh close to twenty stone. Twenty stone of might and muscle.

  This slighter man advanced toward her, his intelligent, dark blue eyes surveying her with minute curiosity. "Lady Murdock?”

  Her gaze ran the length of him with the accustomed ease of a mistress to a minion. Closer, she could detect his plaid and kilt colors, interwoven red and hunter’s green, with narrow yellow bands. She surmised the colors blended well for hiding in the heather. "Aye?”

  He surprised her with a bow. "I am Jamie Cameron, here to welcome you." He waved a careless hand behind him. "I have brought mounts for you and your—"

  "Fellow prisoners?" she suggested caustically.

  He grinned. “—traveling companions. The trek to the village of Lochaber is a rather rough one. Much of the countryside is penetrable only on foot."

  Her glance took in the indicated mounts. "Ponies?"

  "They are sturdier, Lady Murdock. Bred for carrying deer off the hill after a successful kill in the stalking season. You’ll be quite safe in traversing the narrow mountain paths.”

  She eyed the little animals. "I think I trust my own footing more."

  "The mountain's quick weather changes bring sudden hill mists and strong, chilling winds or heavy snows.” He nodded toward the peak. "Buachaille Etive can be dangerous and the cause of many accidents, and warrants the use of Highland-bred horses.”

  There was little of the Scottish brogue to his accent, but definitely a foreign lilt colored it. His eyes looked as if they revealed hurt easily. Nevertheless, she was prepared to dislike him. "My traveling companions and I are extremely grateful for your concern.”

  At her acerbic tone, his bird-bright blue eyes crinkled. "Then we’d best start. The eve promises a drizzle at best."

  Gallantly, he helped her mount one of the little, shaggy white ponies. From behind, Duncan watched sullenly. His lanky legs dangled from his own mount.

  Captain Knox bade her farewell. "Me bones belong on a boat, lass."

  "Come snowmelt,” Jamie Cameron told the peppery old man, "anchor in the loch again. By then Ranald will be ready to move out the reivers.”

  She was sorry to see Captain Knox go. He was her last link with civilization.

  The ever-present overcast sky lent little beauty to a glen carpeted with tall, dark-purple Scottish thistle. "We go by way of the Hidden Valley Trail," Jamie said in a most conversational voice. "A glen near there is famous. In '92 Campbell clansmen massacred the MacDonalds."

  She knew he was trying to distract her. "How very interesting,” she said dryly.

  That charming grin again.

  She ignored it and turned her attention toward maintaining her seat. She was a proficient horsewoman, but the pony’s gait was uneven. Eventually, she adjusted to its peculiar rhythm.

  The torturous climb through the mountains proved to be a dizzying experience. Spiraling pine with their high red limbs contrasted with the plummeting depths of granite glens. Thickets of birch and fir began to close in on the single-file party. At times, sheer walls of granite narrowed the pass. The air grew cooler.

  Always, the jagged peak of Buachaille Etive spied upon them.

  Nearer, a silvery stream tumbled over rocks and misted the area. Wild salmon leaped in the rushing water. Water, like whisky, flowed freely in the Highlands.

  The cascade’s thunderous echo made normal talk impossible. Not that anyone was talking by late afternoon. She hadn’t eaten since the wee hours of the morning, the last time Ranald Kincairn had come to the cabin to feed her. Her stomach rumbled almost as loudly as the falls.

  "How much longer?" she shouted to the leader, Jamie Cameron.

  He dropped back to ride beside her. “Not that much longer. We enter Lochaber by the back way, up from the loch. One of the attractive features of the village—’tis hard for an enemy of any size to get to in winter. Leastways with cannon."

  "Any longer wait," Elspeth grumbled, “and I will have calluses on me backside."

  As hungry and tired as Enya was, she realized that the longer their journey took, the better. Duncan, Elspeth, Mary Laurie—they had been treated humanely enough and expected the treatment to continue.

  For her, arrival could only mean further misfortune.

  The steep, pinecone-strewn path entered into a dark forest, dripping with lichen-covered pines. The place had a melancholy air. At her side, Jamie said, “The romance of the road is enhanced by tales of a hidden hoard of Jacobite gold.” She slid him a sidewise glance. "You are my appointed entertainment for the journey?”

  In the sunlight-siphoned gloom, his eyes
twinkled like distant blue stars. “My cousin would never forgive me for being boorish.”

  "Your cousin?”

  "Ranald. Ranald Kincairn.”

  "Him? That—that blackguard."

  "He really isn’t so bad. He’s a good shot, a master of the claymore, and an accomplished golfer.”

  She sniffed. "He’s inhuman."

  Jamie grinned. "I assure you, he’s mortal. As boys, we hunted and fished and studied together, whenever I came home from school on holidays.”

  "Where were you educated?"

  "In London—at Winchester. From the time I was four, I spent more time in England than I did in Scotland. Ranald, now, is—”

  “—is an ignorant lout."

  “True, Ranald didn’t finish examinations, but he is intelligent, I assure you. Clan chiefs are cosmopolitan. Most of our Jacobite leaders were polished men.”

  "I’d hardly call Ranald Kincairn polished."

  "You have to understand that Ranald’s the eighth child of a feckless father and was tutored by the village dominie."

  “Oh, then Ranald Kincairn is most truly cosmopolitan." Her praise was quenched with a sneer.

  "Well, he did attend Winchester in London with me for a year. I continued my studies alone at the University of Aberdeen. Without him, it wasn’t the same."

  That explained Jamie’s accent. Several centuries earlier, Flemish wool merchants had settled Scotland’s east coast near Aberdeen, which was within as easy traveling distance of Norway and Sweden as it was London. The resulting new nobility spoke French. In France, the Scots aristocrats were accepted as equals.

  Except the Cameron chieftain could hardly be called aristocratic. His manner was coarse and threatening. She recalled his volley of hot Gaelic oaths when she had literally bit the hand that had fed her. He was hardly comparable to his courtly cousin.

  “You speak French?" she asked.

  "Aye, French comes easily for me. As a randy young man, I loved my way through France, but grew bored and returned to the Cameron clan. What was left of it."

  As they rode past crofts, Enya reviewed the surroundings. Small tenant farms were bordered by stone fences and hedges, and closer to the village were clusters of pink half-timbered houses, roofed with bluish slates and latticed by gardens and arbors. Smoke eddied from the chimney of a quaint tile-roofed, conical kiln.