Wolf, Joan

by Highland Sunset

  Her mouth was soft as a petal under his. She smelled like flowers. He raised his head and looked down into her wondering eyes and knew that he could never hurt this girl, never do anything that would dishonor her. He picked up her hand and held it to his mouth.

  "Such a cold little hand, m'eudail," he said. "Will you give it to me?"

  "Oh, Niall." It was the first time she had used his given name and he thought it had never sounded sweeter.

  "My little love." Her hand was tight within his own warm grasp. "Will you, Jeannie? Will you marry me?"

  "Yes," she said on a trembling note, and he kissed her again.

  The betrothal of Niall MacIan and Jean Cameron was accorded almost universal approval by all interested family and friends. Alasdair, in particular, was pleased. Jean was by no means a great match for the future Earl of Morar, but she was acceptable and she was at hand. Alasdair wanted the wedding to take place immediately.

  When his father told him this, Niall was more than willing. "I don't know if the women will agree, though," he said ruefully. "I never knew such a fuss could be made about so simple a thing as two people being married."

  "The women will agree," Alasdair said. He looked at his son. "I think we will be marching for England, Niall, and I want you wedded and bedded before we leave."

  Niall's face blazed. "Has the decision finally been made then, Father?"

  "Not finally, no. But the prince, as you know, desires it and now Lord George Murray has been brought to agree."

  "We have delayed too long as it is," Niall said.

  "I agree that we must make a decision. I think we will be marching in a week."

  "Dhé! Can I be married in so short a time?"

  "You can and you will," said Alasdair grimly. "I will speak to the prince about standing up for you. That will get the women moving."

  Niall grinned. "It will that." He looked at his father curiously. "I know why I am anxious, Father, but why are you?"

  Alasdair gazed back at his son for a moment in silence. Unbearable even to contemplate this splendid young manhood going down to the grave. His voice when finally he spoke was harsh. "We are at war, my son. It will be well to make sure Morar has an heir."

  Niall's gray-green eyes never wavered. "Ah," he said on a long note of revelation. "So that is it." He grinned like a schoolboy. "Well, Father, I promise to do my best!"

  Alasdair gripped his son's arm. "I'm sure you will, my son. I'm sure you will."

  CHAPTER 16

  Van was going over her wardrode with Frances, trying to pick out a dress to wear to Niall's wedding, when the message came. At first she was puzzled, wondering who could be writing to her, but when she opened the note and read it, all the color drained from her face.

  "What is it, Van?" Frances asked in quick concern. "Sit down, darling. You have gone quite pale."

  Van did not reply but read the note through again. Her head felt curiously light. Edward. Here in Edinburgh. And he wanted to see her. Dhé! She could not quite take it in.

  "Van!" Dimly, through the sudden pounding of her heart, she heard her mother's voice. She looked up into Frances' worried blue eyes.

  Thank God she was with the one person she could tell. "It's from Edward, Mother," she said. "He's here in Edinburgh and he wants to see me."

  Frances' eyes enlarged noticeably. "Edward?" she said faintly. "Edward Romney?"

  "Yes."

  "Dear heavens."

  "Yes," Van said again. She made an attempt to calm her breathing. "He wants me to reply by the same messenger. I am to name the place." She stared at Frances. "Dhé, Mother, where am I to meet him? Not here, with Father and Niall in and out all the time and Alan in the parlor for most of the day."

  "Do you want to see him, darling?" Frances asked.

  Did she want to see him? There was no point in it, really. No point in going over past arguments, in stirring up the pain once more. No point at all. "Yes," she said. "I want to see him."

  Frances nodded and looked out the window. "He's in the castle, I take it."

  "Yes. He arrived yesterday."

  "It really isn't safe for him to come into the city." But Frances spoke absently, as if her mind were not on her words.

  "No one knows him, Mother," Van said. "And he isn't a soldier. He's not in uniform or anything."

  "Lady Balwhinnie's," said Frances.

  "Yes," Van returned thoughtfully. "But do you think she will agree?"

  "I'll invite her here for dinner and cards. You can wait in her house while she is gone. She needn't know why."

  Lady Balwhinnie was an elderly Lowland widow whom Frances had known for years. "I'll think of some excuse for leaving you there," Frances continued. "Her house is rather near the Netherbow Port, but it can't be helped. I really cannot think of any other location, darling."

  "Lady Balwhinnie's will be fine," Van replied a little breathlessly, and went to write a reply for the messenger.

  It was early evening when Van sat in the small back parlor of Lady Balwhinnie's house and waited for Edward to arrive. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap and her mind was filled with conflicting thoughts. It was foolish of her to have agreed to see him, she knew. What had been between them before was over now. It had been over the moment Charles Edward Stuart landed in Scotland. Surely he understood that. Surely he was not hoping that she had changed her mind.... There was a soft knock at the front door and Van raced into the hall. She opened the door quickly and almost pulled him inside the house.

  "You can get that hunted look off your face, Van," he said with slow amusement. "No one is following me."

  She had not been prepared for what the sight of him, what the sound of his voice, would do to her. He towered over her in the hallway; she had forgotten just how big he was. "Come into the parlor," she said abruptly, and led the way into the small back room. As she went to close the door behind him, he took off his hat and tossed it onto a chair. The sight of that bright head, suddenly revealed, hit her like a blow in the stomach. She could feel herself beginning to shake. She forced her voice to calmness and asked, "What are you doing in Edinburgh, Edward?"

  He looked at her. How could she have forgotten how blue his eyes were? "Officially," he answered, "I brought messages to General Guest at the castle. Unofficially"—his eyes held hers captive—"I came to see you."

  She held her own eyes steady. "If you came to take me back with you, then you have made a trip for nothing."

  "I did not come to take you back." He sounded impatient, even annoyed. "I came to assure myself that you were all right."

  Van frowned in bewilderment and then realized what it was he meant. Color flushed into her cheeks. "I am all right," she said. "You told me to get word to you if I were not." She was not quite meeting his eyes. "I understood you."

  "You may have understood me," he said grimly, "but I was not so certain you would heed me."

  Van looked at the ground. "The occasion did not arise."

  "I am relieved to hear it." He watched her downcast face. "I did it to hold you, you know, but not in that way. Conceited of me, wasn't it, to think you'd stay just because I took you to bed?"

  Van's hair was gathered high into a knot on the back of her head, from which a few long curls had been allowed to fall. The line of her cheek and jaw were clear to him and he saw distinctly the quiver that flickered along both. She did not answer, could not answer. This was torture, she thought. She should never have agreed to meet him, should have kept him as a memory. The living flesh and blood of him was playing havoc with her heart. There was a long silence and she finally raised her eyes to his face. She could see pain in the lines of his mouth. "Edward," she said. Then, "You almost succeeded."

  She was not quite sure who made the first move, but quite suddenly she was in his arms, her own arms locked about his waist, her cheek pressed against his heart. She could hear it thudding through his coat.

  "I should have known that nothing could bind you against your will." His v
oice was muffled by her hair. "My God, Van, I have been so afraid. I had visions of you being pregnant and forced to marry someone else."

  "No," she said. "No."

  "Van." His hand was under her chin, pushing it upward. She obeyed the pressure of his fingers and their mouths met. His kiss was hard and fierce and demanding and she answered it involuntarily, all her senses responding to the remembered power of his touch. After a moment he began to move her toward the sofa. Her feet were swinging off the ground and she did not care. She made a soft sound, deep in her throat. It was that small, infinitely sensual sound that brought Edward to his senses.

  "Christ, Van. This won't do at all." His voice was deep and profoundly shaken. He set her on her feet, not on the sofa as he had intended, and backed away. "I came to make sure you were safe," he said, "not to put you in jeopardy again."

  Van sat abruptly on the sofa and watched as he crossed to the window. She was as shaken as he had sounded. If he had not put a halt to it, she would have... She closed her eyes. Dhé. She should never have come here. She opened her eyes and saw him outlined against the window.

  "Edward!" she said sharply. "Get away from that window. Someone may see you."

  He shrugged but moved obediently to stand against the wall. Van tried to regain some semblance of composure. "What messages did you bring to General Guest?" she asked. "Or is that privileged information?"

  "It's information your people will have shortly enough," he replied. His face was in the shadow; she could not read his expression. "General Guest, of course, is not to surrender the castle." He took a few steps toward her. "Field Marshal Wade is at Newcastle with a newly raised force of fourteen thousand men." Van forbade her face to change expression. "And four thousand cavalry," he added.

  The Highland army, at its full strength, would not number more than seven thousand. Van felt fear clutch her throat. She scanned his face, visible now in the light of the fire. "Have you recalled all your troops from France?" she asked.

  "Not yet." His eyes were very grave. "The Duke of Cumberland is returning with that army. He will be in England shortly."

  God in heaven. Van swallowed and said bravely, "We smashed General Cope at Prestonpans. My brother said your troops could not stand against Highlanders."

  "Perhaps not, if the numbers are even." His reply was gentle but implacable. "But the numbers will not be even the next time, Van. And you won't always have the advantage of a surprise attack."

  She would not let him see how frightened she was. She jumped to her feet and went to poke at the fire. "You're making excuses," she said defiantly. "The fact of the matter is that we have taken Scotland. We broke your army at Prestonpans." She gave the logs a vicious jab. "If your English army invades the Lowlands, it will produce the same effect on Scots as you are always telling me a French army would produce on the English. The Lowlands have not forgotten Flodden and Pinkie, Edward. The Act of Union is new. England was Scotland's enemy for centuries, remember."

  "And is the prince planning to remain in Scotland, then?" His voice was uninflected but Van turned to look at him through suddenly narrowed eyes.

  "Surely you don't expect me to answer that question," she said after a moment.

  "No, I suppose not." He lifted an ironic golden eyebrow. "But I'll tell you this, sweetheart. Charles Stuart is not going to be satisfied with just the crown of Scotland. I would bet you anything on that."

  Van's narrow nostrils quivered. "Charles Stuart is my prince," she said in a hard voice, "and I don't like the way you talk about him."

  "All right." He put his hands into the pockets of his coat and bent his head a little. There was little doubt in his mind as to the outcome of this rebellion, but he could not tell her what he thought. She would not listen. She was afraid to listen, he realized, because in her heart of hearts, she knew too.

  "All right," he repeated. "Let's not talk about politics. Let's talk about us."

  "There is no 'us' to talk about," she replied steadily. "You are a Whig and I am a Jacobite, and that is a gulf we cannot bridge."

  "Not now, perhaps," he began, but she interrupted.

  "Not ever! You must understand that, Edward. You must..." She swallowed, then continued with determination, "You must forget about me." She made an effort to smile. "You know how anxious Cousin Katherine is for you to marry and to have a son. You must do that. Don't let me hold you back."

  "Ah." His eyes were intensely blue. "You are releasing me from any... er... obligations I might have toward you. Is that it?"

  "Yes," she said. "That is it."

  "And you? Do you wish me to release you in like fashion? Is there perhaps some fine Highland lad whom you wish to wed?"

  Van thought of Alan and his merry grin and his tender green-gold eyes. "No," she said. "There is not." But she could not quite meet Edward's eyes.

  There was a pause. Then he said very softly, "There had better not be." Her eyes jerked up to his face. She had never heard that note in his voice before. She stared at him warily, but the dangerous undercurrent that had been in his voice was not apparent on his face. Suddenly he smiled. "I don't mind waiting for you, sweetheart," he said, and now his voice was very tender. "Who knows, perhaps someday you will be a subject of King James of Scotland and I of King George of England and we can be wed with the blessing of both our monarchs and all our relatives."

  Van said nothing and he reached out and took her hands into his. "I must go," he said, and raised her palms to his mouth.

  She might never see him again. The ache in her chest was unbearable. "Don't do anything rash," he said sternly, and bent to kiss her, quick and hard, on the mouth. He dropped her hands and picked up his hat.

  Van's hands clenched and she hid them in the folds of her skirt. She was very pale. "I won't say goodbye." He was at the parlor door. "Think of me sometimes," he said, and gave her the ghost of his old smile. Then he was gone. She could hear the front door close firmly behind him. She was alone.

  She sat down and stared blindly into the fire. An acute and anguished sense of loss engulfed her. This was worse than the last time, she thought. She did not think that she could bear it.

  Frances got her home with a minimum of fuss. She was not required to talk or to explain, for which she was vaguely grateful. Once home, she went right to her room and got into bed. She lay awake the whole night, dry-eyed, staring sightlessly at the crack in the ceiling over her head.

  It was Frances, remembering the desolate look in her daughter's eyes, who cried.

  Two days later, Niall MacIan was married in the Episcopalian church on the High Street. The prince stood up for him and Van was maid of honor for Jean. The wedding had turned into a major occasion in the capital's social life and the church was crowded as Jean, on the arm of Lochiel, came down the aisle to join Niall at the altar.

  Van listened to her brother's voice as he made his responses, and tried desperately to keep her composure. This might have been she and Edward, she thought. If only...

  It had made it so much worse, seeing him again, and yet she was not sorry she had done it. That one brief moment in his arms, the sight of him... It had been worth it.

  Niall was putting the ring on Jean's finger now. Her small face gazed up at him adoringly.

  Van had laughed at Jean once, she thought, for looking at Niall as if he were a god. She must look at Edward in the same way. The thought brought the faintest of smiles to her mouth. Her feeling for Edward had not changed, nor, apparently, had his for her.

  Don't do anything rash, he had said. Like what? Like marry Alan? Her eyes went to the stalwart redheaded figure who was seated just across from her. She could not marry Alan, not when she felt as she did about another man. Next to her she saw her mother suddenly bow her head, and she reached over to put a comforting hand over Frances' as it lay on the front of the bench.

  Frances sat on the front bench between Alasdair and Van and remembered her own wedding so many years ago. They had been married in her parish ch
urch. It was the first and the only time Alasdair had ever set foot in England, that time when he came south to wed her and take her away. Her parents, having given in, had tried to put a good face on it, but it was clear they did not like either Alasdair or the marriage.

  "You have chosen him, Frances." Her mother's words to her on the eve of her wedding came back to her now over the years. "You have gone against everyone who loves you, who is concerned for you, and have chosen this man. Remember that when things are hard. He is what you wanted."

  At the altar Niall was putting a ring on Jean's finger.

  Some things had been hard for her, Frances thought as she watched her son at the altar. It had not been easy adjusting to life in the Highlands. She had grieved that she could bear only two children. But through it all, there had always been Alasdair's love to help and to support her.

  She had lived so much more intensely, so much more passionately than ever she had dreamed possible. Her family had thought her buried in the Highlands, but her life had been so much richer than most. It was because of Alasdair, because of the bright flame in him, that her own life had been so vital. She looked at his hand, resting lightly on the bench in front of him. Alasdair... proud, courageous, generous, ruthless, obstinate, passionate. Alasdair.

  Pain caught suddenly at her heart and she bowed her head to hide her face. Next to her Van reached out and put a comforting hand over hers.

  CHAPTER 17

  All the MacIans went to spend the evening at Lochiel's, tactfully leaving the newly married couple alone. There was no time for a traditional honeymoon. In two days' time they were leaving for England.

  It was a strange feeling for Niall as he went up the stairs toward the bedroom where his young wife was waiting for him. Niall had had his first sexual experience when he was even younger than Jean, sixteen in fact. He had come to Edinburgh with his father, but Alasdair had been busy and had left his son to entertain himself. Niall had been looking at the gravestones in Greyfriars churchyard when he met Alison Scott. She was fifteen years older than he, a widow, and she had taken him home with her that afternoon.