The Revelation is Love

by Barbara Cartland

  She would have to make it clear that she, Celina Stirling, would not stand for such behaviour.

  Smiling to herself, as she was sure that Hamish had merely been in a hurry and did not want to upset his always impatient and autocratic father, Celina returned her weapon to the Beaumarche gunroom.

  As she placed it in the rack with the other shotguns, she glanced across the room to where the handguns were kept.

  To her dismay, she saw that several were missing.

  Why should Hamish and his father need to go out armed? With alarm she remembered the news Lady Bruce had brought – that young Lord Fitzalan had arrived.

  Surely they had not gone out to confront him and demand return of the heirloom?

  Tales of the late Lord Fitzalan’s exploits tumbled into Celina’s mind.

  According to her uncle, he had always been willing to take a shot at the MacLeans. The heir was American, no doubt used to fighting Indians in the Wild West!

  Along with his title and the Castle, he would surely have inherited the feuding obsession of the Fitzalans and would almost certainly emulate his grandfather’s habit of using gunfire to get his way.

  Celina sat in the Great Hall waiting for her fiancé and uncle to return.

  *

  As darkness began to fall, she grew more and more apprehensive.

  What had happened?

  Was Hamish lying dead outside Castle Fitzalan?

  And her uncle?

  There had been half a dozen or so riders who set out that morning, surely there had to be at least one person left alive to return and tell what had happened?

  She thought of tall Hamish with his mane of blond hair and riveting blue eyes and choked back a sob.

  Fire smouldered in the huge grate. A log slipped its position, sent up a shower of sparks and then leaped into life.

  Shadows flickered in the vast and ancient Hall.

  Though the major part of Beaumarche Castle had been built in the eighteenth century, the Great Hall with its tattered MacLean standards belonged to medieval times.

  Even with the roaring fire, it was cold in the chilly May evening. Celina pulled her plaid wrap more securely round her shoulders.

  The Steward entered.

  “Will you be a-waitin’ for his Lordship and Master Hamish to return before supping, Miss Celina?”

  Celina nodded, unable to trust herself to speak.

  “They’ll have come across game, I’ll be thinkin’. Out of season, but that’ll no be stoppin’ his Lordship.”

  Celina took a deep breath.

  “I am sure you’re right, Robertson,” she murmured, trying to believe it herself.

  The Steward added two massive logs to the fire.

  Then, suddenly, the Great Hall was full of men.

  There was Lord MacLean striding in, his face alight with satisfaction, surrounded by five hard men, their faces grimly pleased, slapping each other on the back.

  And there was Hamish!

  Celina started towards him, her heart singing with relief, then stopped as she realised that it was not a dead stag he carried over his shoulder – but a man.

  As she stopped, stunned, he threw his burden to the ground.

  The man cried out in pain as he landed, his eyelids fluttered and then opened.

  Celina saw that his hands were bound and that he had suffered a severe blow to the back of his head and his dark hair was matted with blood.

  “Gained consciousness, have you?” Lord MacLean snarled at him.

  Celina ran to Hamish and slipped her hand through his arm.

  “What has happened?” she whispered. “You were away for so long, I was frightened something dreadful had happened.”

  His eyes sparkling, he put his hand on the back of her neck and looked down at her.

  “That – ” he pointed to the half-conscious body on the floor, “is the new Lord Fitzalan.

  “Completely in our power,” he added, purring as if he could imagine nothing more satisfactory.

  Celina gasped and stepped back.

  The wounded man stirred, then levered himself into a sitting position and looked about him with heavy deep-set eyes that Celina saw were a dark grey flecked with silver.

  As they caught sight of her, something flashed in their depths.

  Then with athletic agility, hands still bound behind his back, he somehow managed to stand upright.

  “I regret you should have had to see me in such an ignominious position,” he mumbled to Celina.

  Lord Fitzalan was tall, much taller than Hamish.

  He lacked Hamish’s brawn, but his rangy wiriness suggested an equal strength.

  He had a strong-boned and authoritative face.

  “Why have I been set upon in this way?” he asked, speaking slowly in a firm voice that betrayed only a faint hint of an American drawl.

  Celina felt an odd shiver go down her spine.

  Lord MacLean struck him across the face.

  “You’ll not speak until you’re spoken to, boy.”

  Celina gasped again and brought her hand to her mouth, unable to believe what was happening.

  Lord Fitzalan’s lip curled.

  “That afraid of me, are you?”

  He appeared to be in command of himself now.

  “You are a cur,” sneered Lord MacLean.

  “That does not explain why you have brought me here,” his prisoner stated steadily, looking the older man straight in the eye.

  Despite her deep hatred for everything the Fitzalans stood for, Celina could not help admiring this one.

  “We should clean his wound,” she suggested in a low voice to Hamish. “I’ll fetch some water and a cloth.”

  He grabbed her wrist painfully hard.

  “You will do no such thing,” he barked. “This man deserves nothing.”

  “You have something special that belongs to us,” Lord MacLean flared up. “It is time it was returned.”

  “Something that belongs to you? What would that be?” Rupert asked, his voice calmly questioning.

  “You know, damn you.”

  Lord MacLean struck him again across the face.

  Rupert briefly closed his eyes as his head jerked to the side and then opened them to stare again at his captor.

  “It’s our MacLean heirloom, damned Yank,” yelled Hamish, dropping Celina’s wrist and standing beside his father. “Don’t tell me you don’t know what it is.”

  Celina gently massaged her wrist where Hamish’s cruel grip had caused painful bruising.

  She felt bewildered, as she had never seen this side of her fiancé before.

  “An heirloom?” Rupert repeated slowly. “I know nothing about it.”

  “Your grandfather did,” Lord MacLean exclaimed, leaning in towards him and almost spitting in his face.

  “That man was the lowest of low creatures – he did not deserve to crawl upon the earth. He cheated and stole his way through life battening on those whose boots he was not fit to lick. He deprived me and my family of what was rightfully ours and now we want it back.”

  Rupert’s face set in rigid lines and Celina could see his shoulders tighten.

  “And how do you plan to achieve that?” he asked in a voice so cold it sent a shiver of apprehension through her.

  This was not a man to be trifled with.

  She wondered if Hamish and her uncle understood the nature of the man who stood before them.

  “You will take us back to Castle Fitzalan, open its gates and make us free of the place,” said Lord MacLean, a giant sneer on his face.

  “Even if I did know what you were talking about, I would do no such thing, MacLean. I would not allow any member of your family or any servant of yours to so much as step on the threshold of Castle Fitzalan. My grandfather was a most honourable man and I will not hear his name besmirched in such a disgraceful fashion.”

  Celina could not help admiring the way this man, his hands bound and his head badly wounded, facing half a dozen po
werful and armed enemies, could bear himself so calmly and coldly.

  Hamish flushed red.

  “How dare you talk to us like that? It’s our heirloom that the Fitzalan’s have stolen. We demand it back.”

  “And what exactly is this heirloom? When do you claim it was stolen?”

  Hardly had Rupert stopped speaking when Hamish punched him viciously in the stomach and then gave him an uppercut that forced his head back dramatically.

  Rupert fell to the floor and Hamish kicked him, his riding boots giving a sickening blow to his ribs.

  Celina cried out and tried to stop him. Before she could reach him, Lord MacLean dragged Hamish back.

  “Enough, son. You’ll get nowhere this way.”

  Hamish stood breathing heavily, giving the fallen man a look Celina could not recognise. It seemed to be full of hate.

  “Throw him in the dungeon,” yelled Lord MacLean to his retainers. “He must learn that it’s useless to deny a Highlander his rights.”

  Several men picked up the unconscious figure and bore him out.

  Hamish drew a deep breath and turned to Celina.

  “You see what we have to deal with?” he grizzled and held out a hand towards her.

  She retreated, her heart so full of horror she thought it would break.

  “How could you?” she shouted at him.

  “Celina?”

  She pushed him away, fled from the Great Hall and rushed upstairs to her bedroom.

  There she flung herself on the bed in a storm of tears.

  She had seen the man she thought she loved behave in the most despicable manner.

  Celina despised the Fitzalans – but to kidnap a man, to knock him out, then bind his hands behind his back and hit him like that – she could hardly believe her eyes.

  *

  It came time for the evening meal.

  The very thought of sitting and eating with Hamish and her uncle sickened Celina.

  She had to know, however, just what they intended to do with their prisoner.

  At one end of the Great Hall was a gallery. It was said that in medieval times minstrels would play there for the diners below. Access originally had been via a spiral staircase from the floor of the Great Hall. However, when the eighteenth century extension was built, a long corridor running past the bedrooms gave access from the first floor.

  Celina certainly did not approve of eavesdropping, but her need to find out exactly what her uncle and Hamish were going to do was now so strong, she quietly let herself into the gallery and stood in a corner hidden from below.

  Lord MacLean sat at the head of the long refectory table with Hamish on his right.

  As Celina entered the gallery, he was saying testily,

  “Where is the girl?”

  “Let her be, sir. I care not if she joins us or remains sulking in her room,” answered Hamish.

  Celina swallowed hard.

  “Have a care, son! Your fiancée brings a welcome fortune – and is one of the loveliest wenches around. You need to keep her sweet until her thirtieth birthday. God, if only she had control of her money today!”

  “She is mine, sir. I have no doubt of that.”

  The Steward entered and asked if he should send to see if Mistress Stirling was to dine with his Lordship.

  Lord MacLean gave a dismissive wave of his hand.

  “She is indisposed. Start the service, Steward!”

  The Steward respectfully bowed and disappeared behind a carved screen at the other end of the Great Hall.

  Celina then observed Hamish grab a large decanter of red wine and fill both his and his father’s glasses, drink down half and recharge his glass.

  “That’s the way!” cried Lord MacLean.

  “So, what is the plan for that maverick Yank down in the dungeon?” asked Hamish. “Will you allow me to finish him off after dinner?”

  Lord MacLean shook his head.

  “Let him sit on cold stone for a night without bread or water. By morning he will be willing to give us the keys to Castle Fitzalan and I will at last gain my revenge on the old Laird.”

  Hamish poured more wine, then waved the empty decanter at the Steward as he entered with bowls of soup.

  “Bring us more bottles,” he ordered.

  Celina melted away from her corner and returned to her room.

  There she sat and ruminated feverishly.

  There was little doubt in her mind as to what her future should now be.

  More pressing, however, was what should be done about poor Lord Fitzalan.

  An hour later she returned to the hidden corner of the gallery.

  Lord MacLean and Hamish had finished their meal and the table had been cleared.

  The Steward entered with more bottles of wine. As Celina had expected, both were much the worse for drink.

  They were greatly enjoying themselves, toasting their achievement in capturing Lord Fitzalan and drinking to the day when their revenge would be complete.

  Celina had seen enough.

  After a final visit to her room, she walked quietly downstairs and let herself out of the Castle.

  As she expected, the stables were quiet. The horses had been fed and watered and the grooms were elsewhere.

  She could at once see Lord Fitzalan’s stallion as he was the only grey in the stables and he stood out like snow on a dark moor.

  And there, hanging in the tack room, was a brand new saddle and bridle.

  Working swiftly, Celina quickly made friends with the horse and harnessed him. Hoping no one would come along to stop her, she led him out of the stable.

  The stallion followed her obediently as she hurried through the yard to the back drive and finally she tethered him out of sight of the Castle.

  Returning, she came in by the back entrance.

  Sounds of clearing up and bawdy exchanges came from the kitchen. Moving silently past them, she reached the start of the carved screen that divided the Great Hall from the service passage.

  There a flight of stone steps led down to the cellars.

  A lantern hung halfway down, throwing a dim light that enabled Celina to hurry down the steps without fear of falling.

  She had prepared a story should there be a guard on duty outside the Castle dungeon. She would tell him that Lord MacLean had sent her with a message that he was to join the men in the kitchen and drink to the day’s success.

  But there was no need as there was no guard.

  After all, Lord Fitzalan was safely locked up in the ancient dungeon.

  In a niche at the bottom of the stairs were stored a number of candles together with matches, all ready for any servant coming to the cellars.

  Celina felt for a candle.

  Her hand trembled slightly as she lit it and then she chided herself. This was no time to feel nervous.

  She took a deep breath, held up the light and walked steadily along the damp stony passage towards the dungeon.

  She sighed with relief as she saw that the large iron key to the heavy door hung from its usual hook at the side of the small cell.

  With difficulty Celina forced it to turn in the lock.

  The door creaked as she drew it open and holding the candle high, she entered.

  Rupert stood with his back against the stone wall.

  In the flickering light his face looked ghastly but he was fully conscious.

  His jacket was badly ripped and his breeches were splattered with mud, but she was thankful to see no fresh blood had come from his head wound.

  “More blows, is it?” he grunted, “or am I supposed to be so taken with your charms that I will do all you ask?”

  His voice was weaker but steady and again Celina admired his courage.

  Without speaking she poured a little hot wax onto a stone shelf and stood the candle upright.

  “Turn around, please” she asked, forcing herself to speak without emotion.

  “So that you can stab me in the back?” came the sardonic retort as h
is gaze caught sight of the glint of steel she held.

  “So I can release your hands – ”

  Rupert raised his eyebrow and for a moment she thought he would refuse.

  “Quickly. I don’t know how much time we have,” she urged him.

  At that he turned and lifted his hands to her knife.

  The rope was very thick and the knots too tight to be untied.

  Swiftly she sawed through them, grateful for her foresight in keeping her hunting knife sharp and soon the ends fell apart.

  Celina drew in a quick breath as she saw how red and raw both his wrists were.

  He swung round to face her.

  “Who are you?” he asked, looking at her curiously as he massaged his wrists. “And why are you doing this?”

  “I am Celina Stirling, Lord MacLean is my uncle. I have no love for the Fitzalans. I believe your family to be as wicked as my uncle claims, but my honour as both a MacLean and a Stirling will not allow you to be treated as you have been today. Come with me.”

  She prised the candle off its shelf.

  “You are setting me free?”

  Rupert remained without moving.

  “What else do you think I am doing?” she hissed, exasperated by his slow reactions. “Follow me now. Any moment my uncle may decide to check on his prisoner.”

  She waited in the doorway, holding her light high, tapping a foot in nervous frustration.

  “Can I trust you?”

  His light drawl sounded almost amused.

  “For Heaven’s sake – come!”

  Celina hurried off without checking to see if he was following, but almost immediately she heard the quiet click of his riding boots.

  She led the way, not up to the kitchen, but along the corridor in the other direction.

  The air grew colder and damper.

  Behind her she could hear his breathing grow more laboured and as she recalled the punishment he had sustained she slowed her pace a little.

  He said nothing, but she could imagine how, with his failing strength, he was forcing himself to keep close behind her.

  The necessity to spirit him away before her act of disloyalty was discovered combined with her belief that this was a man who would let nothing daunt him, kept her going.

  At last the passage began to rise again until there was no room to stand.

  “I’m sorry, we need to crawl now,” she cautioned.