Journey to Enchantment

by Patricia Veryan

  “Up?” queried Elizabeth, wrapping her handkerchief about the scratch and entertaining a mental image of Mrs. MacTavish wafting heavenwards in a balloon.

  “To the roof. You should not have risked it when her whiskers began to stick straight out in front. That’s always a sure sign of impending attack. Speaking of which, how does our dear Captain go on today?”

  “Better, I think. He had a good rest yesterday, and Lockerbie says he slept well. When we came back from our drive, Prudence stopped in the gardens to pick some flowers for his room.”

  “How kind she is, for she does not like him, really. Him being English. Of course, his lordship is, as well. Do you think he will leave for home directly he gets back here?”

  Elizabeth bit her lip. She said, “He will rest for a day or two, do you not think? I mean—he won’t have to leave right away, surely?”

  Hortense consulted her chart, and muttered, “I pray not. Oh, I do pray not.”

  She was not alone in her prayer.

  * * *

  Lord Thaddeus ran a finger around the collar of his uniform and grumbled, “Damme if I hadn’t forgot how beathtly hot a military coat can become! How far now, Dermott?”

  Alec Dermott, tall and rangy in the saddle, and hating the red coat he wore, answered in broad Scots, “We’ve aboot ten more miles to the rendezvous point, sirrr. Will I bring ye a bit water?”

  ‘Ten more miles!’ thought Briley. “No, I thank you. But you might thee if our Captain”—he winked at Dermott—“needth a drink.”

  The big Scot grinned and spurred ahead. Briley reined in his mount, drew a handkerchief across his face, and waited for the wagon to draw level. “How are you, ladth?” he asked, peering in at the three who lay there.

  They were haggard, unshaven, and obviously in pain, but the responses were cheery and there was little doubt their spirits were high.

  “Nearly there,” said Briley, as cheerfully. “In an hour or two you’ll be with your own people, and—”

  “Riders coming, sir,” said chubby Dennis MacWilliams from the driver’s seat of the wagon.

  Briley jerked around. About a dozen men were galloping down the slope ahead. Men with muskets in their hands and a grim look of determination about them. “Damned ragged,” he muttered, with his beloved Fifty-Second coming to mind. He spurred to join Sidley, who was looking back at him with white-faced anxiety.

  “Is this them?” gasped Sidley, terrified by the thundering charge.

  “One can but hope,” answered Briley, coolly. “Front, man. Front! You’re the offither, do not forget.”

  Sidley’s horse plunged, and the butler clung to the pommel. “God!” he gulped.

  With a thunder of hooves and a few terse shouts, the riders were upon them. Briley saw a musket swing level. “Hey!” he shouted, and his hand flashed to the pistol at his belt.

  Dermott yelled, “Ligun Doone! We’re frae—”

  “Death tae the redcoats!” howled a rider, brandishing a sabre.

  “Devil take it,” groaned Briley. “Wrong lot!”

  “We want ’em alive!” roared a giant of a man, launching himself at Dermott.

  All was confusion then. Men shouted, horses milled and snorted, cudgels whirled, but no one fired until a musket roared shatteringly. Thrown, Sidley started to scramble up, but was flattened as two men descended on him. At the centre of a wild melee, Briley sent one attacker reeling back, and wrenched up his pistol. The Scot with the sabre swung it, and Briley’s pistol was smashed from his hand. His hat and wig already lost, he ducked a whizzing fist, but a cudgel caught him solidly. He crumpled without a sound and sprawled face down and unmoving beside the unconscious butler.

  A shout rang out in the Gaelic and the maelstrom quieted abruptly.

  “Blast and damn ye fer a bunch o’ bluidy dimwits,” raved Dermott, extricating himself from the fray with his uniform torn and a red swelling along his jaw. “Did ye no hear me yell that we were frae Ligun Doone hissel’? Are ye all deef as well as daft?”

  “He’s telling ye the truth o’ it,” confirmed Little Willie, hanging over the side of the wagon. “They’re helping us get clear.”

  Groans of mortification went up, the casualties blisteringly expressing their views of such an ill-handled ambush.

  More riders were appoaching, and Little Willie muttered, “It’s Angus, praise God!”

  Galloping up on a sturdy little grey horse, the leader, a husky, black-haired, black-browed man, snapped, “Yon musket shot has likely raised a patrol at the verra least! I dinna ken what ye’re messin’ aboot at, but there’s nae time fer a friendly cuppa tea. Are ye well, Alec?”

  “As could be expected, Angus,” answered Dermott, wiping blood from his lips. “That one”—he indicated Briley’s still form—“must be taken back tae Inverness. Quick.”

  Angus dismounted, dropped to one knee, and turned his lordship. Briley was deathly pale save for the crimson that streamed from a deep gash in his scalp. “Who wants him?”

  “Doone. And it’s verra important. Verra!”

  “My regrets tae Mr. Doone,” said Angus, standing. “But wi’ a broken head like that, his mon willnae be riding anywhere fer some time.”

  “Angus!” cried one of the casualties sharply, staring up at the slope.

  Angus jerked his head around. A horseman near the summit was waving a forbidden plaid wth unmistakeable urgency. “Hell!” grunted Angus. “They’re after us already! Intae the wagon wi’ anyone not able tae ride!”

  The man with the sabre said urgently, “We caused this, mon. We’ll be away and try tae lead the redcoats off.”

  Angus scowled, but nodded. “We’d be obliged.”

  The disastrous group of riders mounted up and in seconds were galloping back the way they had come. With a wave of his arm, Angus led the remaining men and the wagon due north.

  Within minutes the little glen was as quiet and peaceful as before, only a crumpled wig remaining to indicate that a British peer would be unable to return to Inverness as promised.

  XIII

  “I think you are very reckless,” said Prudence severely, watching Delacourt quiet his mettlesome horse.

  He turned a laughing face to her. “Oh, no. I must be up and about a bit, you know, or Cunningham will suspect I do not try to get better.”

  She was inwardly elated both by his horsemanship and by the fact that he felt well enough to attempt a ride, but, she said, “You could have chosen a calmer mount, sir.”

  “What? That awful old slug Cole had saddled for me? A pretty figure I would have cut whilst you galloped circles around me.”

  “I do not mean to gallop at all. If you wish to stay beside me, you shall have to go along very sedately.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said meekly, but with a telltale quirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

  They left the stableyard and started off, by tacit agreement turning to the southwest. The afternoon was cool and windy, with clouds gathering over the mountains. Prudence thought, ‘I must not let him stay out too long; it may rain.’ And she wondered if this afternoon ride had been inspired by a simple desire to be with her, or whether he was worrying. Lord Thaddeus should have returned yesterday. When there had been no sign of him by this morning, Delacourt had sent Lockerbie off in search of news, and the man had not yet come back. She glanced at the Captain covertly. His hand was firm on the reins, holding in the big grey he’d chosen over Cole’s shocked—but, she suspected, prideful—objections. His riding coat was dull gold and fitted him so well that she thought it must be a recent acquisition. There was a little more colour in his cheeks today, and he rode easily, his free hand resting on his thigh, his intense gaze upon General Wade’s Road, his entire demeanour one of energy restrained.

  He turned so abruptly that she had no chance to look away. “Glorious, isn’t it?”

  “I’m glad you think so.” Her gaze drifted across the wide panorama of loch, the jutting might of distant Urquhart Castle, the craggy
hills, and the cloud-adorned sky. “I love it dearly, but I once heard an Englishman refer to it as ‘an empty, stark, and savage land.’”

  “Poor fellow. I hope you gave him a good funeral.”

  She laughed. “No, just a goodbye. It is sad, though, that some cannot appreciate beauty if it is different from that which they know.”

  “And it is, after all, to be found in … many forms.…” His eyes locked with hers and were captive. The horses drifted closer so that they sat with her skirts brushing his knee. Clouds, loch, and hills faded and were forgotten, while eyes of brown held fast to eyes of blue in an embrace no less intense because it was without the touch of hands.

  The grey horse snorted and danced his impatience, and the mood was broken.

  Delacourt drew a steadying breath. “He wants to run, poor fellow. He likely thinks this stranger a real marplot. Come—let us indulge him.”

  “Certainly not,” replied Prudence, gathering her reeling senses. “A fine scold I would get from my papa if you should be set back again.”

  “If you are afraid I may go off into one of my stupid fainting fits—”

  “I have very good reason to fear that, sir,” she said, a twinkle lurking. “I was alone with you once before when you were stricken.”

  “Ah, yes.” His glance lowered. “What a sweet awakening.”

  She felt her cheeks burn. “It is naughty to speak so of your wickedness.”

  “I shall never do so to anyone but you,” he murmured. She glanced at him, startled, and he added at once, “Speak of it, I mean. Indeed it would be most ungallant, for I fancy you’ve many local admirers—no?”

  She thought of Richard Ahearn with his mischievous green eyes and carefree ways; of dark young Billy MacKie, who’d been among the first of the local youths to pledge their allegiance to Prince Charles; of Malcolm Hendricks, at this very moment held prisoner somewhere in England, and she said sadly, “There were more—such a wee while ago.”

  He sobered at once. “I’m sorry.” They rode on in silence for a moment, then he said angrily, “What a damnable thing that political caperings can bring about wars, separate families, and come between people who might, otherwise, be the very best of friends.” His frowning gaze came around to her wistful little face. Before he could stop himself, he said, “Well, we’ll not let such nonsense come between us, will we? I, er, I mean, we can be friends?”

  She looked at him and thought, ‘No, that is not what you meant at all, foolish boy.’ But she said, “Of course.”

  “Good. Then catch me if you can!”

  He was away like the wind, bowing over the pommel, guiding the big grey with an unerring hand up hill and down, with Prudence dashing in pursuit until he reined up atop a sharp hill and swung his mount, laughing breathlessly as he watched her come up.

  She was windblown and her cheeks flushed, and she could not restrain an exhilarated laugh as she drew rein beside him. “That was foolish beyond permission! Are you all right?”

  “Oh, yes, thank you. But”—he turned to the southwest—“thwarted, alas.”

  She followed his gaze. Smoke spiralled up from a distant, unseen blaze to be soon whipped away by the wind, but there was no sign of any living creature for as far as the eye could see.

  Delacourt said rather grittily, “Something has gone amiss. Would that I knew what it was.”

  “But you have Lockerbie out. When shall he return, do you think?”

  “Tonight, I hope. But if he’s not come back by tomorrow morning—”

  He checked, and Prudence turned in sudden alarm to the pound of onrushing hooves.

  Mounted on a fine little bay mare, Cole galloped to them, his face one large scowl. “You never learn, Master Geoff!” He flung an arm in the direction of Inverness. “Is nine months of misery not enough? D’ye see that?”

  “Clouds.” Delacourt nodded, repentantly. “But—”

  “Clouds! And rain, belike. And if you get soaked on top of the rest, we’ll be burying you!”

  Delacourt sagged pathetically in the saddle. “You would not rail at a poor invalid whose condition is only tol-lol, at best?”

  Cole grinned reluctantly, and Prudence had to struggle to maintain a stern demeanour. “Any poor invalid who rides ventre á terre through the Scottish hills,” she scolded, “deserves exactly what he gets.”

  “And this poor invalid got to ride with you, ma’am,” he riposted, smiling at her in the way that made her heart jolt. “Very well, Cole. Take me to my cell. It’s bread and water for me”—he glanced at Prudence, his eyes glinting—“withoot a doot!”

  * * *

  “Without a doot, indeed,” said Prudence exasperatedly, walking with Elizabeth into the drawing room after dinner that night. “By the time we got back, he was exhausted but would not admit it, of course. I can well sympathize with you. What a time he must have caused you! He’s as fearless as he can stare, but with not the sense of a newborn!”

  Elizabeth smiled. “He frets against his weakness, which does not help his recovery, I fancy. In truth, I canna blame him. It’s been a waeful long convalescence, but he’s no a whiner for all he acts the part sae well.”

  They made themselves comfortable in the pleasant room, and Mrs. Cairn came in with her maids and the tea tray. As Prudence poured, Elizabeth asked what had become of Hortense.

  “I expect she’s up to the roof. You take sugar, I think?”

  “Aye. Two, if ye please. Your aunt is looking at her stars, I fancy? She’s been fretting over them, I know. Is she … very often right wi’ her predictions? She told me there was—was blood near us.”

  Prudence’s hand shook a little as she handed Elizabeth the teacup. “She is sometimes fairly near the mark, but she tends to get the details muddled. Let us hope she has done so this time.” Elizabeth made no response, her eyes fixed rather blankly upon her cup, and Prudence waited, then asked gently, “Are you quite sure you will not have him?”

  Elizabeth sighed. “No. I’ll not have him. But—oh, I wish I wasnae sae fashed fer the laddie.”

  They both started as the door burst open. Her wisps flying and her mantilla at half-mast, Hortense darted into the room, scanned the occupants, gasped out something about “… shooting!” and was out again at unprecedented speed with Señorita leaping after her, making mad swipes at various trailing scarves.

  The two girls exchanged a shocked glance and followed.

  Hortense had already flung open the dining room door. “Come quick!” she exhorted, her voice loud and clear. “It’s shooting!”

  The gentlemen all stood at once. Delacourt dropped one hand to the great pocket of his coat wherein reposed a small but efficient pistol. “Who is, ma’am?” he asked sharply.

  “Star!” she gasped, one hand to her heaving bosom.

  “By Jupiter!” Sir Matthew hurried to take her arm and beam down at her. “A shooting star, is it? Lead the way, ma’am.”

  “It will be gone by now,” said James MacTavish. “They’re only visible for a second or two, at most.”

  “No, no,” argued Hortense, retrieving a scarf, only to find Señorita attached to the other end. “I’ve been watching it for at least three minutes. Oh, do please get her off, someone! It winks and winks. Most—”

  “Does it, by God,” muttered Delacourt under his breath, and was at the terrace doors in three swift strides and flinging them open.

  Prudence ran to join him. His keen eyes flashed to the northeast, but the trees were in the way, and with a frustrated exclamation, he sprinted back into the parlour and across to the hall, the rest trailing after him and Hortense wailing pleas that he have a care. He was up the stairs, two at a time. Prudence abandoned decorum and ran also, managing to stay close behind him. “My sewing room,” she cried breathlessly. He plunged into the small chamber and threw open the casement, Prudence coming up with him to peer where he peered as the others crowded in.

  Señorita shot past, sprang onto the window sill, and walked daintily
along it, her upheld tail drifting under Delacourt’s nose. He lowered the obstruction, then cried, “There!”

  They all saw the tiny, winking light.

  “That’s no star,” said Mr. MacKie.

  MacTavish asked, “Can you make it out, Geoff?”

  “A moment, sir. Two. That means riders. Five.… They’re coming from Inverness.” He frowned as the light ceased. “Dammit! Cole must have been asleep not to warn me! Ah, here we go.…” They all counted softly. “Six!” Delacourt spun around. “Sir, I must leave! We all must leave!”

  Hortense gave a frightened squeak.

  MacTavish demanded, “What does six mean?”

  “Death! And that means they’ve rumbled me, belike. Which would also mean you stand at risk, unless you can convince ’em you didn’t know about me, which I think unlikely!” He gripped Prudence by the arms. “Stay for nothing save your cloak, ma’am. Hurry! Mrs. Hortense—Elizabeth—run! There’s not a second to lose!”

  Pale with fright, the ladies fled.

  MacTavish asked tautly, “What should we do?”

  “If Sir Matthew and Mr. MacKie will help, get your ladies to the Monster, sir. Your best hope will be to take them to the other side of the loch. If you head in the direction of the light we saw, you’ll find men waiting for you.”

  They all started into the hall.

  Sir Matthew asked worriedly, “And what o’ yourself, lad?”

  MacTavish gave a gasp of horror. “The cypher! My God! What aboot the cypher?”

  “I have it. I shall ride west and try to come up with Lockerbie or Thad.” He ran into his room and snatched for a cloak, his pistols, and a sword-belt, which he proceeded to buckle about his middle. MacTavish joined him as he was sprinting for the door again, and he said tersely, “If I’m taken, I’ll destroy the cypher, somehow. You’ll have to get word to Lady Ericson.”

  Running to keep pace with him, MacTavish groaned, “You’ll no have a chance! If Jacobites see you they’ll likely take you for a Sassenach and your life won’t be worth—”