“If they’re Highlanders, sir, I’m as safe as in St. Paul’s. If they know me. And many do. Go on, man! I don’t know what happened to Cole, but we’ve no way of guessing how long that light was warning before—”
There came a sudden commotion from below. A shot fractured the stillness of the night, and shouts and much trampling about followed.
“Out with the lights!” cried Delacourt, racing to the hall. “Prudence? Where in the deuce are you?” She was already at his side, and slipped her hand into his. “Good. Now stay close to your father,” he ordered.
The front doors burst open as they crossed the hall and a mass of struggling figures surged inside. Prudence had a brief impression of shouts and cursing; of her father, running, with Carrie Cairn close at his side; and of Sir Matthew Garry flailing a pistol butt at a burly man in a frieze coat. Then the last candle was extinguished and the uproar was all about her.
A dark figure loomed up. A man roared, “Surrender, or—” She was swept aside and heard the thud of a heavy blow. The dark shape vanished, but more came. Another shot sounded deafeningly. Someone howled. All around her were struggling forms. Also around her was a firm, guiding arm. Shrinking against it, she gave a startled cry as a man caromed into them, sending her sprawling. Hard blows; cursing; a hand groping for her, dragging her up; Delacourt’s voice, panting, “Run, dammit! Your papa’s out. Run!”
She ran.
She was in a blustery darkness, bedlam behind her, confusion before. A deep voice shouted, “Don’t let him get clear! Shoot at anything that moves!” She thought, ‘Heaven help us all!’ and dropped to her knees. Crawling, she heard a yell, and a dark shape zoomed past and went down with a thump. Running feet. Delacourt, hissing, “Prue? Where the deuce are you?”
“Here!” She stood, reaching out. “How did you know?”
“I could smell your perfume. This way!”
He took her hand and they sprinted for the trees.
“Hey!” came a bellow from the rear. “Halt, in the name of the King, or I fire!”
“Christ!” muttered Delacourt, and whipped Prudence ahead of him.
She heard the blast of the shot, followed by an odd little buzzing sound. Then they were in the trees. Dimly, she saw the gleam of water, bowed figures, and a great bulk that would be the Monster.
“Jolly good,” panted Delacourt. “Go on, m’dear. God speed!” And he wheeled and disappeared into the night.
Prudence hesitated. There came a shattering of glass from the house, and a window burst outwards. She ran for the shore and heard MacKie urge, puffing hard, “In wi’ ye … Mrs. Hortense. Miss Clandon—quick now!”
Echoing from inside the Monster, Sir Matthew called, “Come on! Come on! I’ll row wi’ ye, Duncan. Mac—you be guide. Did Prudence go with Delacourt? Aye, so I thought. Sit ye doon, Hortense, ye’re rockin’ our wee boat. Losh, but there’s nae much more room. Come on, Duncan!”
Prudence ran up. “Mr. MacKie!” she gasped, but in that moment Duncan MacKie gave a mighty shove. The Monster, caught in an eddy, swung out onto the loch, MacKie barely managing to drag himself in through the sagging tail.
Prudence cried, “Mr. Mac—” but then heavy footsteps were running towards her. She made a dash for a clump of shrubs and tripped over a shovel one of the gardeners had left stuck in the ground. The footsteps thumped past. A man shouted, “Stop! Come back, or I’ll shoot!”
She thought, ‘Wretched villain! Ye’ll no shoot my papa or my aunt!’ Snatching up the shovel, she swung it high, and ran forward. The man was very big and in a remote way she noted that he wore a most unusual coat of variegated coloured leathers. With both hands he aimed a blunderbuss that must surely blow a great hole in the heavily laden Monster. Enraged by such infamy, Prudence brought her shovel whizzing down. The shock of the blow made her wrists tingle, and the man went down without a sound. Horrified, she dropped the shovel and stared down at him. His legs flopped feebly. With a gasp of relief she looked up again. The Monster was well out on the loch, the arms flailing at a great rate. There was no possible way for her to catch them, and Delacourt was undoubtedly gone also. She turned and ran frantically for the stables.
Even as she approached, a horse galloped straight for her. She could not see the rider but, taking a chance, screamed, “Geoffrey!”
Her cry was crowned by a fierce uproar from the house, but the horse saw her waving arms and shied. The man crouched low on his back steadied the animal, and Prudence called again. In a flash Delacourt had dismounted. “Prue?” he cried.
“Yes. The others are away!”
“Here!” His arms were around her. She was swept into the saddle and, taking the reins he handed her, she cried, “What about you?”
For answer he said tersely, “Head southwest down General Wade’s Road.”
“But—”
He slapped the horse on the rump, and the frightened animal took the bit between its teeth and bolted.
It was some moments before Prudence could do anything more than hang on and strive not to be tossed from the saddle. The wind had blown clouds over the waning moon, and the night was very dark so that she could not at first see which horse she rode. That it was a much taller animal than she was accustomed to, she knew, and gradually it was borne in upon her that she must be up on Robbie’s great half-broken Braw Blue. Her frantic attempts to check his headlong flight were ignored as though she had been the merest gnat clinging to his back. Her every fear was not for herself but for Delacourt, and she pulled on the reins, shouted, and even uttered a few of her brother’s wicked oaths, to no avail. Braw Blue continued to thunder along the dimly seen road. It seemed hours later, and Prudence had given up all hope of slowing the brute, when he decided to slacken his pace. She felt bruised and battered from the effort of sitting with her knee hooked over the pommel of the man’s saddle; her hair had been blown about, and she was breathless from the buffets of the wind, but she gave a tentative tug at the reins and Braw Blue pranced to a halt and stood tossing his great head about as though proud of his behaviour.
Remembering some of his less appealing habits, Prudence slipped from the saddle, staggered, and gripped the reins warily. Braw Blue put up his ears and regarded her with placid meekness. He hardly seemed to be blowing. She told him a few home truths, and turned her attention to the road.
She could not see very far, but all was still with no sign of pursuit. She led the horse to some shrubs, tethered him, and walked back, her cloak blowing. Surely Delacourt had escaped? Surely his chivalry in helping her had not brought about his own capture? She closed her eyes and offered up a small prayer for his safety.
The road was still deserted when she looked at it again. The wind was growing colder. She wrapped her cloak tighter about her, sat down on the turf, and waited. Was it only an hour ago that she had been sitting in their graceful withdrawing room? How quickly her relatively ordered world had been plunged into chaos. One thing, with any luck her family and friends would cross the loch safely and be protected by Delacourt’s men. She thought then of the cypher. If he had been taken and they found it on him, he would be doomed; as would many others if the cypher was broken by the soldiers. But she knew somehow that he would have found a way to destroy it. She thought with a pang, ‘Even if they destroyed him!’ and bowed her head, hopelessness rising up to overwhelm her.
Braw Blue stamped a hoof as he grazed; a stamp distantly echoed by other hooves. With a leap of the heart, Prudence stood. The hoofbeats grew louder; she could detect a moving shadow against the night, and then a horse and rider raced up the slope to halt beside her.
“Geoffrey?” she cried.
“Thank God!” he gasped, and came down from the saddle in a rush to lie in the road at her feet.
She gave a little cry of terror, but had the presence of mind to grab the trailing reins before she attended to the fallen man. His mount was Flaxen, one of her father’s fastest horses, and she led the cream-coloured animal to tether it beside Braw Blu
e. She searched the saddlebags but found only an oilskin cloak. Turning her attention to the big stallion she gingerly investigated his saddlebags and was overjoyed to discover a flask and a brace of pistols. Taking the former she ran back to kneel beside Delacourt.
He lay on one side, as he had fallen. For a terrible moment, she thought he was dead, but leaning down she could feel him breathing. She pushed him on to his back, threw open his cloak, and peered with desperate anxiety for the telltale stain of blood. She could see none, and shifting her position, she managed to pull his head and shoulders onto her lap. She uncorked the flask, took a little sip of the potent brandy herself, then tried to coax some between his lips. She was unsuccessful; the brandy trickled from the edges of his mouth and he showed no sign of regaining consciousness. Praying that this was just another of his swoons, she corked the flask again and set it aside. What would she do if someone should come? Delacourt was thin and worn from his long illness, but he was a tall man and too heavy by far for her to drag over to the shelter of the bushes. She was wondering if she could tie something around him and secure it to Flaxen’s saddle so as to pull him to safety when she felt his head stir.
“Prue…?”
“Yes. I’m here. Are you shot?”
He sighed. “No. Are you?”
“Bruised, merely. I could not get the wretched beast to stop.” She peered at him. He seemed so listless. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Oh, yes. Thank you.” He tried to get up, but sank back and said wearily, “I’m sorry, but I seem to be … so very tired.”
She said indignantly, “Well, ye canna sleep here, mon!”
He chuckled but responded in a drowsy murmur, “I cannot think of a … better place.”
She thought that he must be utterly exhausted and, stroking back the curls that the wind blew about his face, asked, “Have you the cypher?”
“If it is still … in my pocket.”
She felt in his waistcoat pocket and took out a small piece of parchment. The moon had slid from behind the cloudbank some moments ago; its light was not bright, but her eyes were accustomed to the dark now and, by tilting the parchment, she was able to read the message it contained:
II
Up and down the hill and vale
Daringly the eagle flies.
I would give my soul to be
Soaring past the wind, as he.
Sorry me.
You be free.
“It’s no verra grand poetry,” she decided. “What does it mean?”
“New life for a great many people. Or death … if it falls into the wrong…” The words faded into silence.
Prudence folded the parchment carefully and tucked it back into his pocket, then pulled the cloak about him. There was no sound of pursuit. She thought, ‘He can rest for just a minute or two.’ And she sat there on the deserted road, the Englishman asleep in her arms, and the two horses munching contentedly nearby.
Her head nodded and woke her. Her legs felt numb. Delacourt was still sleeping, and she had no idea how long they had been here. She shook him gently and saw his eyes blink open. “I think we’d best go on now,” she said.
“Oh, Lord!” He sat up, staring at her, and said in a brisk, sure voice, “What a silly gudgeon I am. You should have made me get up, ma’am!” He clambered to his feet, then reached down to her.
She struggled up, but stumbled. He held her arm, steadying her. “I am a fine protector! Can you manage?”
“Oh, yes,” she said staunchly. “I am quite—tol-lol, you see.”
She had the satisfaction of hearing him laugh, then he was guiding her to the horses. He made her walk up and down for a minute or two before she attempted to mount, and the feeling came back into her legs with an unpleasant tingling that made her flinch. She asked, “What happened when you went back to the stables?”
“A pitched battle. No—not the big fellow, Miss Prue. I’ve brought Flaxen for you.”
She narrowed her eyes. “Oh, and you had my saddle put on her. What a nuisance that must have been for you.”
He cupped his hands and she put her little slippered foot into his grasp and was thrown into the saddle. “No more of a nuisance than for you to ride in my saddle all this way on that blasted great brute.” He stood smiling up at her, the moon lighting his face softly. “And you in your evening gown and dainty slippers. Thank God you do not wear one of your great hoop skirts tonight.”
“Amen to that,” said Prudence.
He chuckled and swung into his own saddle. Braw Blue staged a sudden and violent display of pyrotechnics. Startled, Flaxen shied and danced away. Prudence managed to retain her seat, but watched in alarm as the big grey bucked and spun and snorted fury. She heard Delacourt give an exasperated shout, and suddenly Braw Blue ceased his tantrums and stood quietly.
Irritated, Delacourt panted, “If it isn’t just like Rob to choose such a nonsensical animal! Very well, Miss Prue, we can go along now, I do believe.”
Go along they did and, as they rode, he told her what had transpired in the stables. It appeared that he’d had the foresight to instruct the servants on what to do in the event of just such an invasion as they’d suffered tonight. The moment the attack had begun all the females had been rushed out of the main house and had taken refuge in the buildings where dwelt the outside servants. The grooms, gardeners, lackeys, footmen, and even their formidable chef had banded together to repulse the invaders, prepared to explain later that they’d supposed they were being attacked by thieves. To a man they’d sworn to do all in their power to delay the aggressors for as long as possible. Delacourt had found a fierce battle still under way in the house, and the grooms defending the stables from a threatened seizure of the horses. By pure luck he’d come without interference to Flaxen’s stall, a groom had assisted him to saddle the horse, and only as he was prepared to mount had he been accosted. Between them, he and the groom had overpowered the attacker. Delacourt had ridden down another determined assailant, and had walked the cream-coloured Thoroughbred quietly around the mêlée and into the night.
Reaching this point in his account, he was silent for a moment, then said, “I’m afraid we must ride on for as long as we can. Are you very tired?”
“Oh, no,” she lied bravely. “It’s yourself I am worrying over. Did ye take no hurt in all that brawling?”
“Very little, I assure you. I am only sorry I had to frighten you just now. I wish I could tell you I’ll not commit such a folly again, but I might.”
“It is not folly. You’re doing splendidly. I only hope I may not hold you back.”
A laugh in his voice, he responded that he hoped she didn’t hold him back either, although he promised her there would not be the need.
“I am sure,” said Prudence thoughtfully, “that my papa is aware of that, Captain Delacourt.”
The Captain said nothing.
XIV
The clouds soon began to drift into a more solid mass. Within an hour they had obliterated the moon, and the night became so dark that Delacourt was obliged to slow their pace. In another hour it began to rain, the wind, cold now, blowing icy drops into their faces. Delacourt stopped long enough to wrap his oilskin cape around Prudence. Chilled through, she kept an anxious eye on him. At first he had ridden with the easy grace of the born horseman, but as time went along he began to droop wearily in the saddle.
When a particularly strong gust sent her hood flying, she called, “Captain, might we stop for a little while?”
He pulled back his shoulders and turned to her. “Of course.” He led the way from the road and dismounted, coming quickly to help her from the saddle.
“Dare we stop?” she asked, making no attempt to restrain her teeth from chattering.
“We shall stop. Poor girl, you must be frozen.”
He found a scraggly clump of trees, and they took shelter under the branches. It was cold and damp and smelled of rotting vegetation, but the wind did not blow with such penetrating f
orce here, nor the rain drip so heavily. Prudence sank onto the gnarled root Delacourt found for her, and watched him obliquely. He had appeared close to collapse on the road, but now that she was showing every sign of exhaustion, he was bustling about cheerily, maintaining a steady flow of chatter about how well she had done, and how fine were the horses, and that they would come up with some of his people from Cavern Craigalder so soon as it was light.
When he had unsaddled and hobbled the horses, he stood looking down at her and muttered, “Lord, but I wish I’d something to offer you.”
“You have,” she told him. “I put it back in Braw Blue’s saddlebags. Not that I’m by way of being a drinking woman, you understand, sir.”
He brightened and knelt to rummage in the saddlebags. The flask was unearthed, unstoppered, and offered with a flourish. Prudence sipped, coughed, and pulled a face. “Ugh, but it’s horrid. How can you men stand the stuff?”
“With a good deal of difficulty,” he said, his grin as unseen as her grimace. “But you’ll find it warms you.” He sat beside her, took a healthy mouthful of the brandy, and gasped. “Hey! I see what you mean. I wonder where Lockerbie found this.”
“He likely rescued it from my father’s cellars. The MacTavish prides himself upon his knowledge of fine wines.” She was indeed beginning to feel less chilled and when he offered her another sip she did not protest, but took a good swallow, finding it not nearly so objectionable this time.
Following her example, he pointed out that she was still shivering.
“I know.” She pulled the cloak tighter around her, but it was wet and clammy.
“That won’t warm you.” He edged closer, and slipped his arm about her.
She sank her head against his chest. Soon the warmth that swept over her was more than satisfying.
Delacourt murmured, “I wonder what the deuce happened to ol’ Cole. He was supposed to be keeping watch for any signals.”
“He didn’t warn you,” she said, adding, “Do you think my family were able to get away?”
Journey to Enchantment Page 21