The days had been serene, and the nights … the nights swollen with passion, the room a haze of blue gray darkness, the ceiling speckled with moonbeams that danced like lazy silver sprites as on the bed he took me again and again, caressing me, stroking me, cherishing me, our bodies moving in a dance as lazy, as lovely, as that of the moonbeams. The fierceness, the furor of my demon lover gave way to a new consideration, a gentle concern for my own pleasure, as though I were a treasured instrument and he a master musician bent on drawing forth the sweetest sounds. Strong, skilled, superbly controlled, he gave, where before he had taken, and the splendor of those nights seemed to shred my senses and carry me to new heights of ecstacy. Weight, warmth, sweat, smells, hands exploring my body, lips caressing my skin, manhood probing, probing, deeper, yet deeper, uniting us with each stroke, unleashing waves of sensation that drowned us both in taut, tormenting, unbearable bliss that went on and on and on until, exhausted, entwined, we watched the moonbeams give way to the soft, rosy glow of dawn. He never mentioned love, no, he was too proud, too stubborn, too stoic to let that word pass his lips, but words were not necessary.
Yet underlying all this was the sure knowledge that, come Thursday evening, he would leave the city and join his countrymen in a suicidal mission. It was almost as though he sensed that … that these were the last days we would ever spend together, that, like me, he had a premonition of disaster and wanted to leave me with memories to cherish. How could I savor the splendor, knowing what was to come? How could I welcome the tenderness, the compassion, when it was to be taken from me so soon? Better a thorny, churlish, temperamental Cam who was not going to participate in this wild folly. Better blows and angry words and surly silences than gentle caresses from a man who was going to abandon me and charge headlong toward almost certain disaster.
Calmly, without emotion, he had explained everything to me, and now I understood much better the motives behind the planned assassination. It wasn’t merely for revenge, although that played an important part. Cumberland’s death would, they felt, be a strong political statement, an ultimatum that would make the King reconsider and revise his policies toward Scotland and those Scots who had supported the Bonnie Prince. He would declare a general amnesty, would restore all the properties that had been taken over by the Crown … or else he would meet the same fate as his son. Couldn’t they see that Cumberland’s death would only make matters worse, would strengthen his resolve to totally crush all those involved in the “treason” led by Charles Edward Stuart, the Young Pretender? When I tried to point that out to him, Cam merely replied that I didn’t understand such matters.
I knew now, too, why Lady Arabella Dunston had thrown her lot with the rebels. Unbeknownst to Cumberland, the lovely Arabella had Stuart blood and was, in fact, distantly related to the Bonnie Prince. Though raised and educated in England, she was Scottish by birth and after her husband’s death had returned to Scotland to live with relatives as impoverished as she. One of the few to know of her heritage, and knowing of the Duke’s former interest in her, Cam had gone to Scotland to persuade her to join them. Hating Cumberland already, embittered by what he had done to her countrymen and fiercely loyal to the distant cousin whom she believed to be the rightful king, Lady Arabella had promptly consented to do anything she could to help squash the Hanovers, dreaming like so many others of a day when Prince Charlie would make a victorious return.
While the others might possibly escape undetected, Lady Arabella’s participation in the conspiracy would be obvious to everyone, and there was no way she could remain in England after Cumberland was killed. A closed carriage would be waiting in the woods tonight to take her directly to Dover where at seven in the morning a boat would carry her across the Channel to France, and there she would join the Bonnie Prince in his ignominious exile and wait for that glorious day when Justice was Done. Lady Arabella Dunston would be commemorated in Highland legend and poetry along with Flora MacDonald as one of the heroines of her country … unless her neck was broken by the public hangman.
As I stood there in the sitting room, listening to the poodles yapping merrily as they romped about the court, the premonition I had felt for so long grew stronger still. They had worked everything out down to the finest detail, yes, but something was going to happen … something unexpected, unforeseen. They were all going to be killed or captured. Something was going to happen. I was certain of it. The premonition grew, taking shape like a huge black cloud that swelled overhead, blotting out the sunlight, shadowing my soul. I couldn’t let him leave. I couldn’t. There was nothing I could do to help Lady Arabella or Robbie or any of the others, but I had to save Cam. Somehow I had to keep him from leaving. I couldn’t persuade him with words. He was much too strong for me to be able to overpower him. I could hit him over the head with something, perhaps, but what if I hurt him, what if I cracked his skull? There had to be some way … there had to be.
I heard Marcelon calling after the dogs, scolding them, and I suddenly remembered something … what was it? It was there, just at the edge of my memory. We had been talking about sleeping and … Lady Arabella was going to give the soldiers wine laced with a drug that would put them to sleep immediately. Mrs. Wooden sometimes had trouble getting to sleep, she had confessed, it was one of the signs of age, alas, loath though she was to admit it, she used to drop right off, but now.… The pharmacist was so dear, so adorable, so understanding, and he gave her this marvelous drug. Three or four drops in a glass of wine and she slept like a baby. Three or four drops in a glass of wine.… I knew then what I had to do.
Marcelon was quite surprised by my visit. She had brought the dogs in and was feeding them, chopped liver for Sarge and Pepe, chicken bits for Brandy, who had grown remarkably these past months, three times the size he had been when he first came begging for carrots, though still considerably smaller than his brothers. They barked and pranced, Brandy devouring his food and trying to eat Pepe’s as well, Sarge growling ominously when the prissy upstart approached his bowl. I ignored their antics, trying to control my pounding heartbeat, trying to appear casual and offhand. Marcelon chattered vivaciously, leading me into the study, telling me about the latest spat with Major Barnaby, and it was a good ten minutes before I could bring up the drug. I was having a little trouble getting to sleep, I explained—there’d been so much on my mind recently, I had been so busy—I would like to try her potion.
She looked worried. She looked dubious. I was far too young to need to rely on any kind of drug, she informed me in a stern voice, and then she launched into a lecture and I was almost in tears before she finally cut herself short and peered at me closely and left the room abruptly, returning with a small bottle of inky-looking fluid. No more than three or four drops, she warned me, and I was to return the bottle first thing in the morning. She took my hand and squeezed it and said she hoped I knew I could come to her any time, no matter what problem I might have. I was like a daughter to her and would never know the lift I had given her these past months. She had been so low, and.… I hugged her quickly, assured her that I would be fine and hurried back home.
Cam returned half an hour later. He looked weary, distracted. He gave me a light, perfunctory kiss and went on upstairs. I took out the last of the bottles of wine Sheppard had sent, fine French wine, the best—thank goodness there was one left. I hesitated a moment, listened to make certain that Cam was still upstairs and then uncorked the bottle. Three or four drops in a glass. How many in a bottle? I didn’t dare wait until I poured the wine to put the drops in. He might see me. I would drug the whole bottle and then only pretend to drink the glass I poured for myself. How many drops? I removed the stopper from the tiny bottle and dumped a third of the fluid into the wine. It made blurry gray-black streaks in the light rose. I recorked the bottle and shook it and the streaks gradually disappeared, blending with the rose. The wine looked slightly darker now, but I felt sure he wouldn’t notice.
A final glass of wine, I would say. A final gla
ss of wine before you go. It will relax you. My hand trembled as I hid the tiny bottle behind the ginger jar and put the bottle of wine back where it belonged. What if I had added too much? Dear God, what if I poisoned him? No, no, that was absurd. He was only going to have one glass. I took several deep breaths, pulling myself together. I had to remain calm. I couldn’t let him suspect. I stepped over to the mirror and brushed back my thick auburn hair. My eyes were a dark, worried blue, my cheeks flushed a faint, soft pink, and the corners of my mouth were drooping sadly. I mustn’t let him know what I was feeling. I must put on a brave front and smile and … and pretend I understood.
I went upstairs. Cam was in the bedroom, taking clothes from the wardrobe, putting them into a long, fat leather bag with handles that fastened in the middle. It was as large as a small trunk but would be much easier to handle. Why was he packing? Did he plan to flee the country after it was all over? Did he plan to desert me? I caught my breath. He turned, saw me standing in the doorway, saw my expression, and, putting down the waistcoat he had been folding, came over to me and placed his hands on my shoulders.
“It’s merely a precaution, Miranda. I need to be prepared for a hasty departure in case—in case something goes wrong.”
“But—”
“Nothing is going to go wrong, but I’ll carry the bag with me just the same. All of us are. It’s just good sense.”
“Where—where would you go?”
“I’d go to France, with Arabella. The boat will be waiting for her, and if something should happen, the rest of us—those of us who can make it—will sail with her.”
“Cam, I’m so worried. I—”
“Nothing is going to happen,” he assured me. “Arabella will be driven to Dover and the rest of us will separate and return to our respective homes and no one will be any the wiser. We’ve spent months working this out.”
“I don’t care. I feel—”
“Are you going to fall to pieces on me now?” he asked quietly.
I looked into his eyes. They were stern yet tender, hard yet full of concern. His fingers gently kneaded the flesh of my shoulders. I could feel his warmth, his strength. I wanted to melt into his arms and cling to him and sob, but I didn’t. I looked into his eyes for several long moments and held back my tears and, finally, shook my head.
“I—I’m not going to fall to pieces,” I said.
Cam squeezed my shoulders. “Good girl,” he said, and then he released me and went back to his packing.
“You’re making a dreadful job of that,” I told him. “Look, everything’s all crumpled, jammed in any which way. Let me do it.”
Cam looked relieved and stood back and watched with that particular look of male helplessness while I emptied the bag, refolded the clothes, put them back in. Shirts, breeches, waistcoats, frock coats, a heavy cloak, two pairs of boots. Neckcloths, shaving equipment, brush and comb. I was finished in twenty minutes, everything neat and tidy, the bag completely full. Cam took out a flat leather purse thick with money, put it on top of the clothes, then shut the bag and snapped the clasp.
“I went to the bank today,” he said, “had a talk with Bancroft, withdrew all my money.”
“Oh?”
“I opened an account in your name, Miranda, transferred some funds into it to—” He hesitated, frowning. “I wanted you to be provided for in case something—merely another precaution.”
“You didn’t have to—”
“Let’s not discuss it,” he said sharply. “It’s five-thirty. I suppose I’d better start getting ready.”
“Cam—let’s—there’s no hurry. Let’s have a—a glass of wine together first.”
He seemed pleased. He smiled an indulgent smile and then slung his arms around me, glad that I was taking it so well, glad that I wasn’t going to make a scene. He tilted my head and gave me a long, lazy kiss that turned into something more than he had planned. I could feel his erection swelling as he held me against him. He had a voracious appetite, my Scot, greedy as could be. A veritable stallion, he was.
“Damn,” he said, holding me away from him. “I didn’t plan on that. You bewitch me.”
“Is it—”
“It’s throbbing for you. There’s no time. I’ll just have to suffer. Tonight, though, when I get back—” He paused and grinned an evil grin. “You’d better eat a hearty dinner. You’re going to need a lot of energy.”
“I hate for you to go—”
“Go on. Get out of here. Your beguiling presence only makes it harder—to bear, that is. Go get the wine ready. I’ll change and join you downstairs in a few minutes.”
I was extremely nervous as I brought the wine and two crystal glasses into the sitting room. The sunlight that had been splashing through the windows streamed in lazily now, thin yellow-white rays aswirl with infinitesimal motes of dust. The sky was a darker blue-gray, and hazy purple-blue shadows were beginning to gather in the court. The tray rattled as I set it down on a table. The wine looked terribly dark. Would he notice? The room seemed warmer than usual, although the windows were open and a gentle breeze stirred the pale lime draperies. My cheeks were flushed. My hair felt damp. I adjusted the bodice of my rust and cream striped dress and smoothed down the skirt with hands that fluttered like butterflies.
It was six o’clock when he finally came downstairs, carrying the heavy bag with him. He set it down in the hall beside the old grandfather clock and came on into the sitting room. I was standing by the secretary, composed now, calm as could be on the surface. He was wearing his oldest black breeches and frock coat, nap shiny and worn, an aged waistcoat with steel gray and black satin stripes. A large black silk neckcloth was knotted loosely around his neck, hanging in an uneven triangle. He gave me a fierce look and pulled the cloth up over the lower part of his face, only his eyes, brow and hair visible. Pulling out his pistol, he looked exactly like a savage bandit, blue eyes menacing above the black silk.
“Effective?” he inquired.
“Extremely,” I said. “You—you look quite sinister.”
He jerked the neckcloth down and smiled. “Good. All of us will have our faces covered when we enter the house. The four servants will take us for bandits, won’t be able to identify us. No need to kill them. We’ll simply overpower them, tie them up good and tight and dump them out in the woods, then go on about our business.”
“I—I’m relieved. Your cousin—”
“Ian’s a mite too bloodthirsty even for me,” he admitted. “He has a distinct taste for violence, as, indeed, do I, but I’m able to sublimate my darker urges with my charming epics. Ian has no such outlet. He’d gladly garotte all four of them himself and relish every minute of it.”
“He frightens me, Cam.”
“After this is all over, the rest of us are going to have to do something about Cousin Ian. Ship him off to the colonies, I imagine, unless severer measures are called for. He’s too hotheaded, too impetuous. He represents a danger we can do without. I’ll be glad to see the last of him.”
“Are all Scots so violent?” I asked.
“Not a bit,” he replied. “As a whole we’re the most lovable race on the face of the earth, gracious, outgoing, friendly to a fault with our bagpipes and kilts and our quaint old customs. It’s only rarely you find bad apples like Ian and me.”
There was an almost jaunty air about him as he moved over to the mantel, a sense of suppressed excitement, of barely contained energy. He was a man about to prove his manhood in a bold, reckless act of derring-do, and that gave him a curious elation that was purely male and as old as time. After months and months of vicarious adventure spun out at his worktable, he was going to experience the real thing. It was serious business, true, deadly serious, yet there remained a certain thrill that gave him that jaunty air and made him restless, impatient to be off. The crusaders must have felt that elation when they set off to reclaim the Holy Land, I thought. Soldiers certainly felt it when they went off to war with such swaggering aplomb. It was
only later that the glow vanished and grim reality intruded.
“It’s almost time,” he said.
“We have nearly an hour, Cam. Re—relax. Here, let me pour you a glass of wine.”
“You’re being very good about this, Miranda.”
“I’m trying,” I said.
I poured the wine. My hand wasn’t shaking at all. I handed the glass to him with lowered eyes, demure, resigned.
“I know how worried you’ve been about all this,” he continued, “and I understand. It’s something I have to do.”
“Of course.”
“I’ll make it up to you. When this is over, I intend to—to show you how much I appreciate you.”
He took a sip of wine, looking at me with thoughtful eyes. He took another sip, apparently finding nothing unusual about the taste.
“I realize I’m not the easiest man in the world to live with,” he told me, “but you’ve been extremely patient. You’ve been supportive and helpful and I’m afraid I haven’t always seemed grateful.”
“You—you don’t have to say these things, Cam. Finish your wine.”
“There’ve been times, it’s true, when I’ve longed to throttle you, but over all it’s been—it’s been the best year of my life. There, I’ve said it. I may be a writer, but I’m not very good when it comes to expressing my feelings.”
“I’ve noticed that.”
“I guess what I’m trying to say is that you’re the only woman I’ve known who has never bored me.”
Once More, Miranda Page 48