Journey to Enchantment

by Patricia Veryan

  “I had rather you would stay in the little cave. Perhaps that would be best, and we could come back for you—unless we all perish in this attempt.”

  He made as if to check the big grey, and Prudence dug her nails into his wrist. “Do not dare!” she hissed.

  They caught sight of the bounty hunters ten minutes later. The three Scots were riding at an easy trot, quarrelling apparently, for the man called Zeke suddenly leaned over to cuff his companion and earned a furious snarl of curses in response. Their captive staggered along behind, but as the pursuing group drew near, he went down again, and struggled feebly to regain his feet.

  Delacourt swore under his breath.

  MacLeod murmured softly, “What d’ye wish we should do, sir?”

  “We canna shoot, Captain,” warned Lockerbie, eyeing the big Highlander with dislike. “Gunfire will bring redcoats—certain.”

  Cole, who had waited for them, said, “They’ve spotted a farm up ahead, sir. I think they’re deciding to stop and try to find food there.”

  “Good. Let’s tether the cattle and try to get closer.”

  Prudence was told severely to stay with the horses, but as the men crept away, she crept after them.

  The bounty hunters had dismounted and Zeke was bending over the huddled figure of the trooper. “He’s alive,” he growled, “but I doot he’ll gie us any jaw fer a bit.”

  The one they called Jem walked over to join his crony. “Best tie him.”

  Delacourt whispered, “They’re all together. We can move now, though we’d do better with a diversion.”

  “You shall have one,” said Prudence, and before any of them could stay her, she was running down the path in full view of the bounty hunters. “Help!” she screamed. “Oh—help me, please!”

  They reacted as one man, crouching, ready for combat, weapons springing to their hands. Zeke levelled a musket unerringly at Prudence.

  Her heart quailing, she ran on, stretching forth her hands. “Redcoats came tae our croft,” she gasped. “I’m lost the noo. Will ye no help me?”

  They straightened, grins appearing on three savage faces as they took in the youth and beauty of the girl who approached.

  Zeke set down his musket. “Where’d ye get that pretty frock, lassie?”

  “Come ye here,” invited Jem. “We’ll take good care o’ ye.”

  Chuckling, but his eyes hungry, the pallid man slid his dirk back in its scabbard.

  The young redcoat pulled himself to one elbow. “Run, miss,” he croaked weakly. “Run before they—”

  Zeke levelled him with a well-placed kick. “Quiet,” he said redundantly. “We know how tae deal wi’ Sassenachs, as ye can see, lass. Come here.”

  Prudence hesitated and, appearing uncertain, edged back against the cliff and crept along abreast of the three who watched her, gloating. “Ye—ye are all good Scots?” she quavered.

  “Och, awie! We’re awfu’ good,” asserted the pallid man, drawing guffaws from his companions.

  They began to advance on her. From the corner of her eye she could see Delacourt and the others creeping up. The three bounty hunters were coming closer and, as if suddenly taking fright, she ran past them.

  They were after her in a flash, their concerted lunge affording MacLeod, who had climbed to a point above them, the opportunity he needed. The net he had fashioned in response to Delacourt’s orders soared out and down. Three would-be rapists found themselves caught in a clinging, strong, and weighted mesh. Their lustful whoops became shouts of rageful bewilderment. These were not simple fighting men, however, but hardened assassins, seasoned by countless desperate forays. Zeke’s dirk flashed and the net was ripped apart, his sword seeming to leap into his other hand. His own weapon ready, Delacourt sprang to the attack, while Cole drove a fist into the snarling face of the pallid man, and Lockerbie, slight beside the bulk of the bearded Jem, fought with grim ferocity.

  The pallid man staggered, recovered, and drove his club in a savage jab under Cole’s ribs. Cole gasped and doubled up, the pallid man’s dirk darted, and Cole fell, clutching his arm. The pallid man leapt over him to swell the attack on Delacourt. Hard-pressed, Delacourt’s sword sang down Zeke’s blade in a glizade that sent the bounty hunter’s weapon spinning from his hand, but the pallid man sent the heavy cudgel whistling at his head and he had to jump desperately to avoid it. In the same instant, Zeke flung up his dirk and sprang at Delacourt. The descending cudgel caught him fairly on the shoulder. Screaming profanities, he reeled, the pallid man gawking at him in dismay. Simultaneously, Lockerbie was clubbed down. The triumphant Jem looked up to discover a steel blade flashing at him, a grim face beyond it. He jerked away, but Delacourt lunged to the full length of his arm and Jem howled and fell. Disengaging, Delacourt spun, knowing the pallid man was behind him. The flying cudgel that would have brained him struck home glancingly, and he was down, the glen wheeling crazily.

  A Highland war cry roared out, and Stuart MacLeod, charging down the slope, cried, “Ye shouldnae ha’ done that, mon!” The pallid man, his dirk upraised to plunge at Delacourt, was seized from behind, swept up, shrieking, and hurled at the advancing Zeke. They went down like ninepins, but Zeke rolled and was up again. Dizzy but persisting, Delacourt took up a rock and smashed it onto Zeke’s foot. Zeke hopped and howled. MacLeod unleashed a sledgehammer uppercut. Zeke did three fast and fancy backward toe steps and went down like a falling tree. Jem was quite hors de combat, but the pallid man was floundering about feebly. MacLeod silenced him with one chopping blow to the base of the neck.

  Trembling, Prudence flew to kneel beside Delacourt. His temple was red and bruising, but he grinned lopsidedly at her. MacLeod came over, and Delacourt held up one hand and was hoisted to his feet. “Is the enemy … secure, for the … time being?” he asked, swaying rather uncertainly.

  “Verra secure, sir,” said MacLeod with a chuckle.

  Delacourt turned to Prudence. “Thank you, my sturdy Amazon. Would you please see to poor Cole?”

  After another anxious scan of his face, she hurried to do what she might for the groom.

  Delacourt and MacLeod went to Lockerbie, who was sitting up, holding his head and swearing softly. Aside from a large lump above his ear, he did not seem badly hurt, and assured them he would be able to travel “in two shakes o’ a lamb’s tail.” Delacourt set MacLeod to truss up the bounty hunters and bind Jem’s wound, then, retrieving one of the fallen dirks, turned his attention to the young captive. The boy was sitting up looking considerably the worse for wear, but watching him jubilantly.

  “Sir,” he said, as Delacourt dropped to one knee beside him, “I don’t know who you are, but—God bless you! I thought I was finished!”

  “They have not treated you with loving kindness,” Delacourt observed, sawing through the ropes that bound the boy’s hands. “How were they able to detach you from your troop?”

  The light went out of the young face. “I—er, well, I was alone, sir. You’re English, I think?”

  “Yes.” Delacourt unwound the severed rope and introduced himself, omitting his rank, but adding, “We’ll not be able to escort you back to your regiment, I fear.” He saw the betraying rush of colour that stained the battered features, and added quietly, “If you mean to rejoin your regiment, that is.”

  MacLeod came up and stood watching. The boy was silent, his eyes lowered.

  “May we know your name?” asked Delacourt.

  The response was muffled. “Percy Nelson.”

  MacLeod rumbled, “Sir, are ye well? That was a woundy ding ye took fer this ungrateful whelp.”

  “I am not ungrateful!” The fair head lifted, the grey eyes glaring resentment. “Only I think I’ve seen you before, sir. At Prestonpans. And you’re a Captain?”

  “You’re right, by Jove! What a memory.”

  “Why, I saw you in action, sir.” He sighed, then went on in a hopeless voice, “I suppose—if I have to be arrested, I’d as soon you were the one to do it.”r />
  MacLeod gave a contemptuous snort.

  Delacourt said, “A deserter, are you?”

  Meeting his eyes, Nelson said wretchedly, “Not because I was afraid, if that’s what you’re thinking! I served through Prestonpans and that awful massacre at Culloden. I thought it was done then.” His eyes slid away to stare at Prudence, who was washing her hands in a nearby rivulet. “I didn’t realize,” he muttered, half to himself. “I joined up to serve my country. I wasn’t afraid to fight. But—God! I did not join to murder helpless women and babes. Or…” He closed his eyes as though to shut out images too horrible to contemplate. “My God! If I must be shot for deserting Butcher Cumberland, then shoot me now and be done with it!” He looked up at Delacourt with desperate pleading. “Go on, sir! It would be kinder than—than to send me back to disgrace and execution.”

  “Well, MacLeod,” said Delacourt gravely, “what d’you think of that?”

  “I’m nae a gert thinker, sir. Whatever ye say is enough fer me. Now and hence.” His colour heightened as Delacourt darted a surprised glance at him, but he said doggedly, “Sae long as I do live, sir.”

  “What’s all this?” said Delacourt. “Here, give me a hand up, will you?”

  At once MacLeod’s strong arm was hoisting him to his feet. His head ached and he was dizzied for an instant.

  Watching him as she secured the knot of the makeshift bandage about Cole’s arm, Prudence called, “Ye’ve done too much! You’re not well enough to—”

  “Well enough? Little lass, I am so well I scarce can believe it!” He gripped the brawny hand on his arm and said intensely, “Stuart MacLeod, if you are still remorseful because you knocked me down, pray know that wallop you gave me saved my life. No, man! I am not mad—I mean it. Truly, I do not know how to thank you.”

  MacLeod glanced at Prudence and stammered, “Nay, sir. I ken ye’re kindly seekin’ tae ease me mind, but—”

  “The devil I am! It is so, I tell you. I always knew my wound was not healing properly. It became more and more of a nuisance, with the feeling that something tight and sharp was bound through my chest. My doctor had implied I would not—well, that it was only a matter of time. When I came round after you grassed me, it took a few days to realize the tightness was gone. Now, Lord, if you could but know how grand it is to feel well! To feel my strength coming back. You’ve given me back my health, you great looby! Now will you believe me?” He put out his hand and said rather unsteadily, “And allow me to thank you.”

  MacLeod hesitated, then shyly he took Delacourt’s hand. “If ’tis as ye say, I couldnae be more grateful. But were it not for Ligun Doone, I’d ha’ lost me whole family, I dinna doot. There’s no way ye can be rid o’ me, lest—”

  “Ligun … Doone…?” gasped Nelson, who had managed to get to his knees and had been watching this exchange with growing excitement. “Sir? Captain, never say you are Ligun Doone?”

  MacLeod groaned and clapped a hand over his unguarded lips.

  “Oh, dear,” sighed Delacourt.

  Lockerbie came up, a fierce scowl on his pale face and his musket aimed at the young trooper. “Great loose-mouthed gowk,” he snarled, glaring at MacLeod. “Now we’ve tae kill the lad!”

  “Absolutely not!” said Delacourt sharply.

  “If ’tis a matter o’ the Sassenach’s life or yours, sir,” said MacLeod, “ye must stop and think there’s the reward, y’ken.”

  “As if I would touch it,” said Nelson, indignant. “And how could I claim it? I’m a deserter.”

  Worried, Prudence interjected, “You could send your kinfolks to claim it when the Captain let you go.”

  “Well, you may be sure I would not!” Nelson struggled to his feet only to hop painfully, and sink down again. “Sir,” he said desperately, “I give you my oath! You cannot know how glad I am. To think Ligun Doone is English and has done so much of good. I’ll never betray you!”

  “Easy said.” Cole came up to join them, his face haggard and Prudence’s impromptu bandage already showing a red stain. “Your ugly friends are stirring about, sir. ’Tis past time we was on our way.”

  Delacourt turned to survey the vanquished. “What in the deuce are we to do with the clods?”

  Nelson said, “Sir, if you’d seen what I have, you’d do the world a favour and shoot them out of hand.”

  The other men voiced their approval of these sentiments, but Delacourt shook his head. “Likely you’re right, but I do not fancy the role of executioner. I wish to God I could hand ’em over to a military tribunal.”

  “One of Cumberland’s appointing?” Prudence said a mocking, “Hah!”

  The end of it was that Delacourt ordered Stuart MacLeod to strip the bounty hunters of all weapons and valuables, gag them, and dump them in the hollow. And with a thought to his own sore heels, he added, “And remove their shoes!”

  It was dusk as they resumed their interrupted journey, MacLeod far out in front; Nelson, mounted on one of their appropriated horses, behind him; Delacourt and Prudence following; and Lockerbie and Cole bringing up the rear.

  XVIII

  For several miles the little band travelled in silence, every ear stretched for sounds of other riders. When it became necessary that they lead the horses, they were a sorry lot, Lockerbie’s broken head causing him to become so dizzied at times that Cole, himself weakened, would have to steady him, and MacLeod more or less carrying young Nelson, whose right leg was so badly bruised he could scarcely endure to set foot to ground. Delacourt’s head pounded unremittingly, but it was so trifling a discomfort compared with the misery he had now escaped that he scarcely heeded it. His main concern was for Prudence. She struggled on gamely, but with each mile the way seemed to become more difficult, and for all of them fatigue was a daunting enemy. His arm about Prudence, Delacourt glanced up at the fearsome pass they must ascend and paused, dreading to subject the girl to such a climb.

  Nelson saw his face and peered upward also. “Holy Christ!” he gasped. “Sir—you’re never bound for Loch nan Uamh?”

  “We are. Do you know the area?”

  “I know it well, and I know also that it fairly bristles with troops. They think the Young Pretender—”

  “D’ye mean Prince Charles Edward Stuart?” demanded MacLeod, angrily.

  “Well, of course that’s who I mean! Who else could—”

  “Never mind,” said Delacourt. “What do they think about the Prince?”

  “That he sailed for the Isles, but is coming back with another army and will land at Loch nan Uamh. Sir, if you go there, your life will not be worth a groat! If those bounty hunters knew who you were—”

  “They knew me?” asked Delacourt, coming level with MacLeod and halting, his arm still supporting the wilting Prudence. “Do you mean they knew I was Ligun Doone?”

  “Well, they must have, sir. I heard them speaking of ‘settling the Englishman’ several times, though I’d no notion then it was you they meant.”

  MacLeod growled, “We daren’t go there, then.”

  Delacourt said nothing for a moment, then, “You could get through, though, and put Miss MacTavish on a boat, perchance?”

  “I’ll nae creep off alone,” declared Prudence, anger returning the spark to her eyes.

  “Be still,” said Delacourt. “Well, MacLeod?”

  “I hae me doots, sir. If the loch is swarming wi’ redcoats, every ship will likely be guarded.”

  “And there is not the need,” Nelson put in. “Captain, my aunt married a Scottish gentleman. They’ve a neat little croft on the coast, not ten miles from here, and my uncle—a very good sort of man—fishes the Sea of the Hebrides, and sometimes sails as far as Ireland. I spent many summers up here. I was trying to reach the croft, in fact, when the bounty hunters got me.”

  “Whisht,” exclaimed Lockerbie, elated. “Does y’r uncle hae his own boat, laddie?”

  “Yes. He and my cousins built it themselves, and a right good boat it is. Sturdy, and rigged for
ocean travel.”

  “What a piece of luck we found you, Percy,” said Delacourt. “Lead us, then.”

  * * *

  Afterwards, Prudence could never summon a clear recollection of that last phase of their ride. She remembered that it was interminable, miserable, and yet holding a very deep and special joy because it seemed her love was reprieved and would, with God’s mercy, live after all. She remembered cold and wind and a freezing drizzle; her feet slipping in the mud, or being bruised by rocks, and when she thought she could take not another step, MacLeod suggesting they might better rest for a wee bit, “for ’tis a touch rough up ahead, sir.” After that, only a blur of effort through which Geoffrey’s voice came to encourage and sustain her, until even that faded into darkness.

  Her clear memory began with a neat little wooden bed in a small bare room with a washstand on one wall, and on the other a small press and a battered old chest of drawers. A particularly dreadful painting of a despondent-looking horse graced the space between two narrow windows, and a tall, angular woman was pulling back the skimpy curtains to reveal wind-tossed trees and stormy grey skies.

  “You must be Percy’s aunt,” said Prudence.

  The woman spun around. She had fading fair hair drawn back into so tight a bun that her eyebrows seemed stretched upwards. Her features were sharp and unattractive, and her complexion colourless, but her mouth was curved into a warm smile, and her hazel eyes beamed so welcomingly that Prudence thought her very comely indeed.

  “Aye, my poor dearie,” she said, hurrying to the bed. “I’m Mrs. Nutthall, and more proud than I can say to have you here, though ’tis little enough I can offer in the way of the luxuries to which yourself is accustomed. Or himself, either. So fine a gentleman, and doing very much better this morning.”

  Alarmed by this ominous statement, Prudence started to throw back the bedclothes, but pulled them up again as a knock sounded and MacLeod came in, with an anxious expression and a cup and saucer in one great hand and a plate of buttered bannocks in the other. “Ah, ye’re awake at last, little mistress,” he said, grinning at her.