Eyes gleaming, he leaned to her. “Then I will try to—” But at the last instant, with her lips a breath away, he gave a gasp and drew back. “No, by God! This is wrong, Prue.”
She said with a twinkle, “Indeed but you are become something strait-laced, I think.”
He grinned. “Acquit me of that! Only you’ve been swept into an insane existence these past three weeks. You are far from family and friends. Unprotected by your men. I’d be a sorry rogue to capitalize on your helplessness.”
She watched his strong profile silhouetted against the sky. As usual, Lockerbie had brushed his hair severely back, and as usual the unruly curls were creeping into disorder again. Longing to tidy them, she murmured, “I was not far from my family in the shed when first we went to see the Monster. But you gave me a—er, I think you said ’twas a token o’ your esteem.”
“Good gracious, ma’am! I’d fancied you would have forgot that naughty interlude.”
“I think I will never forget it.”
He looked at her for a long silent moment, then turned away. “You heard what Sidley named me,” he said sternly. “Others—many others—would think as he thinks.”
She frowned. “Did you bring me out here to talk of Sidley?”
He smiled at her. “I did not bring you, little rascal. But I’m glad you came, because I must be away, Prue.”
“Are you strong enough?” she said eagerly. “You seem much improved, I’ll own, but if you mean to make for Loch nan Uamh, ’tis a long, hard journey.”
In her excitement her hand had closed on his arm. He put his own hand over hers and said, “I am so much better that I feel no anxiety on that score. It is only—only hard to—say goodbye.”
Stunned and disbelieving, she echoed, “Goodbye? But—but you would not abandon me here? Geoffrey, you would not?”
“But I must, m’dear. Briley and Angus and Sir Ian will care for you. And perchance, someday, when all this is done with—”
Her heart cried out, ‘Do not leave me! Do not leave me!’ But she had her full share of Scottish pride and thus said in a scratchy but controlled voice, “I see. And when do you mean to leave?”
“At dawn.”
“Dawn comes early to the roof of Scotland, Captain.”
“Yes.” He said with less assurance, “I knew you would be angry. I—”
“I am not angry.” She thought, ‘My heart is breaking, is all.’
“I was going to leave and say nothing. But I could not. Prue—” His grip on her hand tightened. “You have been so good. I am very grateful.”
“Thank you.” He was grateful. But not so grateful as to take her with him. She pulled away and started down the path.
He knew he should let her go, but somehow he was running to catch her arm and pull her to him. With his hands on her shoulders, he said, “You know how Ligun Doone is sought—the reward on my head is—”
“There is thirty thousand pounds on Prince Charles’ head,” she interrupted fiercely. “Dead or alive! And no Highlander has made one move tae collect a single groat o’ the filthy blood money!”
“Prince Charles is a Scot, Prue.” He put up a quick hand to stifle her angry response. “No—hear me. I know your people are grateful, though in truth I did precious little. The thing is, six hundred guineas in a poor man’s eyes is almost as vast a sum as thirty thousand. And a Sassenach, however well thought of, is still a Sassenach. Do you not see? The temptation would be so much greater in my case.”
A small corner of her mind whispered that he spoke truly, and another voice urged, ‘Don’t be a fool! He doesn’t want you! Don’t beg!’ But she could not stop herself. “Is it the gold, Captain? You were free with your kisses, but when all’s said and done, I’m just a Scots lassie—not sufficiently well born, I collect for you to—to show off to your Southron friends.” And because she was so bitterly grieved, she added, “I fancy your proud sister would despise me.”
He lowered his hands and stood very still. “I expect,” he said quietly, “you are right at that, m’dear.”
Shocked, she stared at his darkly handsome countenance. His eyes were stern now, his mouth unsmiling. With a muffled sob she turned and sped down the path towards the cavern.
Delacourt walked to the edge and looked blindly northwards. It was, after all, better this way. He sighed heavily, then tensed, staring.
From a high place not too far distant, a little light winked.…
* * *
Love, thought Prudence, was a horrid emotion. Before she had laid eyes on the sensitive, fine-boned face of Geoffrey Delacourt, she had been a happy girl. She sniffed, and wiped the heel of a grubby hand across her tearful eyes. Since she had met that high-in-the-instep, inflexible, cruel (adored) Sassenach, she seemed to spend more time weeping than she ever had done in her entire life. She blinked around her small ‘room.’ How ineffably lonely and cold it seemed now. Geoffrey, Lockerbie, and Cole were gone this hour and more. Thaddeus Briley had been very kind, comforting the sorrow she had fancied she was concealing, trying to make her laugh with droll tales of his adventures with Cumberland in Holland before he had been wounded and sent home. And, because she knew his own heart was heavy, she had appreciated his efforts the more.
It had all happened so fast. The lookouts had reported a large troop of dragoons moving in this direction. Sir Ian had said worriedly that they were likely heading for the Western Sea because Prince Charles was now widely believed to have taken that route. Once the soldiers passed, there would be little chance of getting through, for if Loch nan Uamh was their destination, the approaches would be sealed off tighter than a drum and, with Fort William a deadly menace at the head of Loch Linnhe and troops spread thick as fleas on a fox from Loch Eil to Glenfinnan, Delacourt would have no hope of escape to the south.
Three of the sturdy little Highland ponies they called garrons had been saddled; Delacourt had primed and loaded his pistols and buckled on his sword; his two servants had armed themselves to the teeth, and the other fugitives, glum and silent to see their ‘luck’ depart, had watched them mount up.
Delacourt had turned briefly towards Prudence. Despite the knife in her breast, she had somehow managed a smile. It had not been returned. His face expressionless, he had guided his mount on. Just before he disappeared around the bend of the tunnel, he had reined up and turned back. Sitting very straight in the saddle, he’d called, “God be with you all,” then swung up his arm in salute. Angus Fraser had shouted, “Highlanders—up!” and every man capable of it had stood at stiff attention. Someone had cried, “Gie him a yell, lads!” The response had been immediate, the Scots cry rising from upwards of fifty throats. Delacourt had waved and ridden off without so much as another glance at Prudence.
She pushed back her plaids and stood. It was no use lying there with the miseries. She knew from experience that unless she got up and busied herself with something, her thoughts would churn around for hours and, however she might try to direct them into cheerful channels, the chances were that she would merely become deeper sunk in gloom. She walked to her ‘curtain’ and pulled the plaids aside.
Most of the men had already composed themselves to slumber, but a drowsy discussion was still under way by the fire. She recognized Angus Fraser and was starting towards him when she saw that a man lay practically at her feet. She drew back, shocked to discover that it was Stuart MacLeod, his claymore unsheathed beside him.
When he knew she had seen him he stood, moving with grace despite his size. He said nothing, standing with eyes downcast, waiting.
Prudence said haughtily, “I would prefer that you sought another resting place.”
He shook his head.
“Then I shall ask Mr. Fraser to see to it.”
“No use. Hissel’ told me tae guard ye. I’ll guard ye.”
Her heartbeat quickening, she said, “Do you mean Captain Delacourt?” And when he nodded, she asked, “Why should you obey his commands when you all but killed him?”
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br /> The shaggy head ducked lower. He said, his voice muffled, “D’ye think I wouldnae ha’ struck off me right hand sooner than cause him grief?” Anguished blue eyes lifted to meet her cold stare. “Lady—I’d gie him me life did he but ask.”
“Why?”
He looked down again, and said slowly, “Me brother fell at Falkirk, and me father was sore wounded at Prestonpans. He’s no a well man, even now. After Culloden Moor, with Butcher Cumberland’s animals burning and killing, I feared fer me mother and sisters, wi’ only me father tae guard ’em. I went back. I got home so quick as I could, but—” He shrugged. “It was done. Our croft—burned tae the ground and the stock shot. Even those they’d nae use fer, they slaughtered.”
“And your family?”
“Gone. I didnae dare tae think what had become o’ the women. I sought and sought, and at last I heard. Doone had been oot one night—which he shouldnae ha done, ye’ll mind—and he’d seen a wee hoose burning and the women ravished and murdered. The soldiers, drunk, were riding towards our croft. Doone sent the man wi’ him tae warn my father while he drew the redcoats off. It meant leaving hissel’ wi’ none fer protection, but he did it, wi’ all the redcoats howling after him. His mon got tae me pa in time, and me family’s safe away where they’ll no be harmed. But for—but for hissel’ I’d hae lost them all, y’ken. I hate all redcoats. I’d fought Delavale, or Delacourt as he calls hissel’, at Prestonpans. When I saw him here … I thought…” He groaned. “God forgive me! If I’d but known, but I was sae sure he was a spy.”
Prudence asked after a minute, “Does Captain Delacourt know this?”
He shook his head. “I tried tae tell him, but when he looks at me and—and I see the bruises I put on him.…” He finished brokenly, “och—I canna say—a worrud.”
Touched, she could not find it in her heart to continue to blame him, and said kindly, “Even so, he must know, else he’d no have asked ye to guard me. I suppose you were the one gave us the extra food.” He did not answer, but his broad face flamed. In view of his great size, Prudence could only marvel at his resolution. “You must be nigh starved,” she said.
He made a swift, impatient gesture. “’Twas naught. Naught! He shouldnae hae made me bide. He’ll get hissel’ killed, sure as sure.”
Prudence said uneasily, “Lockerbie brought him all the way up here from Prestonpans, when he was very ill. He’s much better now, and they’ve a very short way to go, by comparison. I do not see—”
“Lockerbie had tae deal wi’ angry Scots, I’ll no deny. But no wi’ the like as follow the Captain the noo.” He glowered at the little worn slipper that peeped from under Prudence’s frayed gown, and muttered, “He should’ve let me be wi’ him.”
She regarded him frowningly, then bade him come into her tiny chamber and sit down. When she had seated herself on the bed, he perched on the edge of the chair with shy reluctance, twisting his bonnet nervously between his great hands.
“Who follows Captain Delacourt?” she asked. “Cunningham’s men? The lookouts will warn him if that is so.”
“Not Cunningham’s men, lady. The Butcher’s, maybe.”
Her heart jumped. “You frighten me. What do you mean? Who are they?”
“I dinna ken. I tried tae tell hissel’, but all he’d say was that I was tae let nothing happen tae ye.” He glanced at her scared, lovely face, and muttered a bashful, “Not as I blame him fer that, whatever. But the lookouts will nae be able tae warn him once he’s past these hills.”
“How do you know they follow him? Why did you not tell Sir Ian or Lord Briley, if that was so?”
“I heard that there was an ugly lot hanging aboot Castle Court, and that they’d been asking fer a dark-haired Englishman who’d been staying wi’ the lady. I dinna connect an Englishman wi’ Ligun Doone, and thought nae more aboot it. But one o’ them was described tae me verrra close, because he wore a strange sort of tunic ’stead o’ a coat. I passed him wi’ several others i’ the Great Glen. They dinna see me, y’ken, fer I heard ’em coming, but I’ll tell ye, mistress, I’d nae care tae tangle wi’ ’em!”
Her eyes wide and terrified, she whispered, “What d’ye mean? What kind of tunic? Was it of leather and like patchwork?”
“Aye! Ye’ve seen him, also?”
“The night our home was attacked there was a man like that in the stables. Oh! We must tell Angus and Sir Ian.”
“I tried tae tell ’em,” he said glumly. “But they’ll no listen. They said Captain Delacourt had his mon and his groom, and that he’d get through.”
She wrung her hands. If she went to Angus or Sir Ian and told them that her aunt’s ‘stars’ had warned of the man in the leathern tunic, they’d likely think her ripe for Bedlam. She said, “Then you must go after him.”
He shook his head. “I canna do that, lady. Hissel’ charged me tae guard ye. I’ll no break me given worrud.”
“Och, ye great looby,” she cried, springing up and stamping her little foot at him. “Would ye see him murdered because o’ yer stupid oath?”
He blinked and stood also. “Dinna fash ye’sel’. I’m likely borrowing trouble as they said.”
“You’re not! I tell ye, you’re not!” She tried to think of a way to convince him, but nothing sensible came to mind. In desperation she cried, “My aunt is very learned in—in the stars. She was warned of a man in a multi-coloured leathern tunic who brought death tae one o’ our hoosehold.”
The MacLeod’s bronzed features paled. Behind his back, he crooked the first two fingers of his right hand. “Is—is y’r aunty a witch, mistress?”
With a mental apology to Hortense, Prudence confirmed this. “But a very kind witch, you understand,” she qualified.
Logic might fail with Stuart MacLeod, but witches he understood, having been overlooked by one in his youth and having suffered the measles as a result. “Maybe I can persuade the Fraser,” he muttered, turning to take up his great claymore.
“There is no need to persuade him,” said Prudence. “Simply tell him you must leave. Do you know this country? Can you come up with Captain Delacourt, do you think?”
“I know it like the back o’ me hand. But I canna leave ye.”
“You’ll not leave me. I shall travel with you.”
His jaw dropped. “Ye canna be seerious? ’Tis hard country for a mon, fer all I ken every track and shortcut frae here tae Loch nan Uamh.”
“Can we ride?”
“By my roads, lady, we could ride a wee bit, but there are places we’d need tae lead even a garron.”
“And you have your own garron?”
“Aye. But I canna take two, ye ken.”
“Go and get it saddled. There’s no reason you cannot leave here if you wish to.”
He said mulishly, “I’ll nae leave ye here wi’ this wild pack, when hissel’ ordered me tae guard ye; and Angus wouldnae let ye go wi’ me, anyway.”
Clenching her small hands with frustration, she gritted, “I’m well aware. So get your things, and I’ll meet you in the tunnel. They’re almost all asleep. Oh, hurry, hurry! Every minute we waste may be vital!”
MacLeod shook his head determinedly. He was doomed, of course, and in the end, did as she bade him.
* * *
Prudence clung to the stirrup of the little pony and trudged on mechanically, looking only at the path beneath her feet, for long ago she had learned that to see their way was to invite paralyzing terror.
The journey had gone on endlessly, MacLeod leading the way with his long tireless stride, and the path often becoming so steep that—as was now the case—she was obliged to walk also. Her feet felt swollen to twice their size, and she could only be grateful for the brogues he had provided her. They were so much too large that she’d been able to slip her feet into them complete with slippers, but she knew that without them what was left of those dainty evening slippers would have been in rags by this time.
It had been dark when they’d left the cavern. She ha
d drifted into the tunnel, unobserved, and MacLeod had come very soon. None had attempted to stay them. The guards at the waterfall had accepted his statement that they were going to try to get through to Moidart, where friends would shelter them, but had cautioned against soldiers who were now a scant mile or so to the east. MacLeod had set off at once, and it seemed to Prudence that he had scarcely stopped since, only once or twice leaving her in the shelter of some tree or outcropping while he clambered up to where he could search for patrols.
She had no idea of how many hours they had travelled, nor of how far they had come. The going was incredibly difficult, for MacLeod’s way was dangerous and almost impossible at times, and few travellers would have attempted it. At the end of the first hour she was convinced she could take not another step, only the thought of Delacourt enabling her to go on. At last, MacLeod said she could ride again, and carefully lifted her into the saddle. She rode astride, her full skirts enabling her to do so, and she wasted not a second upon qualms for such improper behaviour. In this way she was enabled to lean forward against the garron’s mane and at times to doze off. When MacLeod woke her from one of these slumbers she could have wept, but she allowed him to help her dismount and forced her poor feet to tread bravely, reminding herself that she had insisted upon coming and that, whatever else, she must not prove a hindrance to their coming up with Geoffrey. The way levelled off at last and she could ride again. She was somewhere between sleep and waking when she heard MacLeod swear and lifted her head wearily.
Where they were she did not know, but they journeyed along a high ridge and far below a croft was burning. It seemed to her that she heard a shot and then a woman screaming. She had seen many burned-out dwellings since Culloden but this was the first time she had actually seen the flames and been so close to suffering and terror and death. She felt faint with horror and threw her hands over her eyes. “God help them,” she whispered.
MacLeod growled, “Amen tae that, mistress,” and led the pony on.
All too soon the way became steep again. MacLeod lifted Prudence down and peered anxiously into her tired little face. “Be ye all right, mistress? We’ve come a far piece, but there’s a’many long miles yet.”
Journey to Enchantment Page 26