She attempted to concentrate on the wildly rugged beauty around her. The rolling and rocky hillsides were dotted with heather, their purple blooms bright against greens of the moss and short grass. The oak and darker-hued evergreens that had found purchase in the rocky soil reached wide limbs toward the white-clouded blue of the summer sky. The air was fresh with the scent of damp and rich earth.
She watched Marcel’s back, saw the stiff set of his shoulders beneath the dark blue houppeland he wore. And at the same moment she saw the uncertain glance he cast toward his aunt.
Suddenly Genevieve realized that his stiffness was worry. He was not as convinced of the outcome of this day as he appeared. Yet far from making her lose faith in his abilities, that hint of uncertainty made her faith in him all the stronger, brought on a wave of tremendous respect. It also brought an unwanted rush of a softer, even more troubling, emotion.
Marcel was not surprised to arrive at the appointed meeting place and find the others already there. He also would have acted thusly in order to be sure that he did not step headlong into a trap. It had been one of the very reasons they had chosen this spot away from the keep at Glen Rowan.
His aunt’s suggestion of the ancient ruins seemed ideal for their purpose. She felt that the open lands around the crumbling walls would give cause for some sense of security on the part of her enemies.
As they approached the ruins, Marcel could not help agreeing with her. He scanned the area up ahead of them, and saw that there were indeed no vegetation or land formations that could harbor an ambush. Added to this, there was very little of the original structure left. The two stone walls that remained were nearly totally obscured by the trees and shrubs that had grown up around them, offering unconstrained exit.
Several of the sturdy highland ponies had been tied up around the outside of the area. Marcel looked to his aunt, who nodded, and they followed the lead of the others who had arrived before him.
He leaped to the ground and helped his aunt from her horse, hearing the sound of voices from inside the rubble. He was infinitely aware of Genevieve, who had dismounted by herself. He had seen that she had opted to wear her boyish garb but had made no comment on this. Perhaps it made her feel some sense of anonymity. Perhaps she simply preferred dressing as a lad in his presence. Perhaps she had guessed at how deeply her beauty had moved him the previous evening.
Forcefully he turned his thoughts to the matter at hand, preparing himself for the coming confrontation. He could not help wondering if he would feel more secure in this if he was given the same opportunity to keep his identity secret. At his aunt’s directive they had been forthcoming about the fact that her English nephew had arrived at Glen Rowan to aid her in this matter in the messages they had sent. He was not sure how he would be accepted by these folk who might very well resent his Englishness. Cameron’s safety might well rest upon their acceptance of Marcel’s right to be here.
His aunt turned to him, as if sensing his hesitation. “You are ready to go in?”
He nodded, feeling Genevieve’s steady regard as he answered. “I am—I but consider how much is at stake in this.”
His aunt took a deep breath. “I would have my grandson’s well-being in no other hands.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Genevieve reach out to hold the older woman’s shoulder for a brief instant. He turned and their eyes met, hers filled with unshakable faith. As ever, when she looked at him that way a strange feeling of confidence settled over him.
He found himself smiling with gentle gratitude. The smile she returned made his heart throb and it was a moment before he was able to turn and lead them forward.
Once inside he saw that there were many more people present than could be represented by the horses tied without. It seemed that each of the two parties involved had felt that they must bring reinforcements. A group of perhaps twenty men and women stood to one end of the crumbling ruins. Another group of at least equal number stood to the other side.
They had fallen silent the moment he came around the end of the wall with his aunt and Genevieve.
Aunt Finella paused for a moment, giving his arm a gentle squeeze, whether to reassure herself or him, Marcel did not know. But she did not hesitate in her step as she moved to the center of the ruins and said, “I thank you all for coming.” She turned toward a tall red-bearded fellow who stepped to the front of the group to their right. “I hope, McGuire, that I need not waste time in pleasantries this day. You know why we are come. We wish to negotiate for the release of my grandson.”
The man nodded. “Aye, as ye know why we have resorted to such drastic measures to see justice done.”
Another equally large but dark-haired man from the other group, shouted, “See thievery done, more the like.”
Marcel took this as his cue. “I am Marcel Ainsworth. As mentioned in my aunt’s letters, I am her kinsman, come from England. It is to me that you will address your grievances from this point on.”
McGuire looked at him with raised brows. “Ye are an Englishman?”
If it was a question, it was phrased more in the tone of an expletive. Though he cared not for this, Marcel forced himself to remember his aunt’s warnings of this very attitude. He would get no respect for his position as a nobleman here.
Did these men give respect, it would be because they felt it was deserved and for no other reason. Though this did not bode well for his task here, Marcel could understand this kind of thinking.
He, in fact, preferred to be judged by his own merits. That was unless the fate of a small boy hung in the balance. In this instance he would be happy of any purchase his name might have granted him. Unfortunately, it gave him none.
He nodded with deliberate aplomb. “I am English, yes, but that is not something that should be of import here. I am, as I said, kin to your lady. If there is any disagreement with this reasoning, speak now that we might have it settled. For this is no small matter in her eyes and she would move forward with the intent of seeing Cameron returned to her as quickly as possible.”
Obviously McGuire took exception to this, for he cried, “And is it not also a grave matter to me and mine? We have only gone to such ends as were needed to make our unhappiness known to those who seemed to have more important concerns on their minds.”
Marcel felt his hand clench. He wanted to stalk across the clearing and give the blackguard the thrashing he deserved for taking a small boy hostage to see his own ends met. Yet this he could not do. Thus he spoke again, taking even more care to remain calm. “We are not here to go backward but forward. At this moment why you took the child is far less important than that it come to a speedy and equitable end. Again I say, do you agree to my acting as my aunt’s spokesman?” Marcel knew their agreeing was significant. He believed the men would better accept him if they felt that they had been given a choice.
At long last McGuire nodded. “Aye, I agree, but I willna take to any pompous English ways. Ye’re to keep a mindful tongue in yer head and recall that yer Englishness carries no weight here.”
There was a shout of agreement from the other side.
Ah, the one thing they can be in agreement about, Marcel thought with irony.
He gave no outward sign of his inner feelings as he bowed respectfully. “I will abide by that. And I have a request of my own.” His gaze swept the enclosure. “I am to be taken as my own man and my nationality will not be held against me any more than I am to expect it to grant me any privilege.”
There was a long silence and then the nodding of many heads.
“Well done, my lad,” he heard his aunt whisper behind him. Though he did not look around at her, the words buoyed and warmed him. He risked a quick glance at Genevieve and again saw the light of confidence in her eyes.
Determinedly he turned back to McGuire, getting to the point without further delay. “What must I do to gain the boy’s freedom?”
The big man shrugged. “You mun do naught but see that the land that w
as promised to me is given over to me.”
From the opposite end of the ruins a growl of anger erupted from Duggan. “’Tis not your land, McGuire. There’s no power on earth that will see me bow to your thievery. Not even to see the poor innocent lad released from your vile clutches.”
McGuire moved toward him with a hand on his dirk. “Vile clutches, have I? I’ll have ye know that the lad’s bein’ treated with more care than me own grandson.”
Marcel was relieved to hear this revelation, which, because of the fact that it was spoken with such heat, was very likely the truth. Yet he quickly set aside his relief. He could not allow the two men to come to blows here. They must approach the problem of the lands with calmer heads if it was ever to be resolved.
He grasped the hilt of his sword and said with firm command, “The first man who strikes out will find himself answering to my blade. We have given a pledge of safe conduct to all here. No one will be allowed to break it.”
The two men stopped and looked at him, the surprise apparent on their faces. Their surprise quickly dissolved into frowns of displeasure.
He faced them squarely. “Well, it appears that I have been remiss in making my position clear. Though this astounds me, for I felt I had already done so in my invitation to come here. There will be no bloodshed. Has anyone the right to demand blood, it is certainly my aunt. Yet she has chosen the path of negotiation.”
They watched him.
Marcel was determined to make them agree to this. “Well, what say you? For there will be no further talks lest all be assured of safe conduct to and from them.” Another silence ensued. “Do we not want this issue resolved?”
McGuire shrugged. “Aye.” He shrugged even as he cast Duggan a narrow glance.
The other man faced McGuire with equal disregard for a moment before turning to Marcel with a nod. “I will abide the terms, do ye keep that sly clootie to his word.”
“A sly devil am I,” McGuire shouted. “’Tis ye who are sly, Duggan, pretendin’ ye know nothing of the laird’s wishes for the meadow when ye ken full well ’twas to be mine after the ten years were past.”
Duggan growled with outrage. “Ye lyin’ bastard. The laird said na a word to me of it and he wouldna change the holding of the lands without doin’ that.”
Marcel interrupted loudly. “Have you forgotten what you both just agreed to?”
Neither of them even looked his way as they continued to shout curses at each other in not only English but their own language. The two men were, in fact, shouting so loudly that Marcel knew they would not hear a word he said. His lips thinned to a line of exasperation as he felt his own ire rise to churn inside him.
They cared nothing for anyone else, preferring to fight rather than get this settled so Cameron could be freed. Then even as these thoughts passed through his mind the two men rushed toward each other, their intent to do each other bodily harm more than apparent.
Chapter Nine
Genevieve had held her breath with dread as the two men rushed at each other. But before they reached one another, Marcel was there, between them. The fact that he did not draw his weapon but stood with no more than his own commanding presence to protect him made her heartbeat quicken with dread.
He never wavered as the two of them stopped and watched him, their anger still seething. He spoke with quiet authority. “This meeting is at an end. You will both take your folk from this place without further conflict. I will send word when I wish to meet with you again. It will not be together, but separately.”
Duggan cried. “’Tis his doing. He willna speak true.”
McGuire waved an angry hand. “Ye know who is at fault here, Duggan.”
Again Marcel stopped them. “Go from this place. Due to your lack of self-control I see no other course of action at this time.”
When the two men turned and moved off toward their respective groups, Genevieve let out the breath she had been holding in a rush. That Marcel had been able to diffuse the moment was more than slightly amazing.
She heard Aunt Finella’s soft sigh of relief and realized that she too had been beset with fear. Her heart went out to the noble lady who had stood so solemnly yet bravely as they discussed the fate of her grandson. She had the sense that Aunt Finella would not wish to display any hint of weakness before these folk, no matter how disturbed she was, and Genevieve could not help admiring the strength that sustained her.
As for herself, no one seemed to pay her any heed and she was glad of the impulse to wear her boy’s garments. Doing so had given her an anonymity that was a comfort in the circumstances.
As the two Scotsmen moved to their respective parties, Genevieve’s gaze swept the area. The faces of those gathered registered a degree of disquiet and bewilderment that was similar to her own. This could not be easy for the families involved, for they were neighbors to one another as those who lived in the vicinity of Brackenmoore were.
She noted a most particular expression of sadness on the faces of a young man and woman who suddenly appeared around the end of the longest remaining wall some distance from the gathered groups. The two parted and moved off, one joining each party.
Even as she saw this, Genevieve dismissed the incident. There were more important concerns brewing. Surely the poor outcome of this meeting would have a negative influence on how quickly Cameron could be released.
If only they had settled down and discussed their differences calmly. Only when they were able to do so would Cameron be released. She knew that there would be no rest for any at Glen Rowan, and likely not for the other families involved, either, until that occurred.
Again her gaze swept the tense and angry faces. How Marcel was to see this through she had no idea.
As the two groups began to exit the ruins, Marcel spoke again. “There is one more thing I must ask. Nay, demand.”
McGuire looked back and ran an assessing gaze over him. “What would that be, Englishman?”
There was no wavering in Marcel’s gaze as he faced him. “We have no way of knowing the condition of the boy. He has been held for weeks now with no sight of him.”
The large man’s head rose. “Ye have my word that he is being treated well.”
Marcel smiled though Genevieve could see there was no humor in that smile. “The word of the very man who holds him captive.”
McGuire seemed to see the reason of this statement for he nodded. “Very well. I have no objection to showing him to one of ye. And one only.”
Marcel took a step closer. “I shall accompany you immediately.”
McGuire halted him with a raised hand. “Nay, not you.” His gaze scanned the three of them where they stood together, apart from the others. His eyes came to rest upon Genevieve. “I will take the lad.”
Genevieve felt her heart rise up in her throat as all turned to her. Her gaze fair flew to Marcel’s face.
He cast her a glance of reassurance, then addressed McGuire. “Why should we entrust the lad to you? You have already shown that you are not above using a mere boy to gain your aims.”
McGuire laughed, and shrugged. “It is ye who wishes to see how the young lad gets on, not I. Have it as ye will, Englishman. I have no need of yer English brat. I hold the one I need.”
Marcel spoke calmly. “I swear to you that I will not attempt to free my cousin. I but wish to see that he is indeed well.”
McGuire shook his head with stubborn resolve. “I willna allow ye near him till my rights are secure.”
Heaven help us all, Genevieve thought as she realized that he would not be swayed. She did not wish to go with the wild-looking Scot, but could not see this opportunity slip away from them. Taking a deep breath for courage, Genevieve spoke up in a deliberately husky voice. “I will go, Marcel, I am not afraid.”
Marcel turned and looked at her, studying her for a moment before shaking his head and turning back to the other man. “You do not understand, McGuire. Gen—”
“Is not afraid,” she interrup
ted him forcefully, though Aunt Finella cried, “Nay. I am the one who should go.”
Genevieve looked at the older woman, only reaching out to gently squeeze her slight shoulder. “We could not risk their taking you as well. I would be of little value to them.” She turned to watch Marcel, pleading with him to remain silent. In his eyes, she saw indecision. She knew he was thinking that he could not allow her do this for him, not even for his aunt and cousin.
He moved to look down at her, his voice so low only Genevieve and his aunt could hear. “What will happen if they discover that you are not a lad?”
At this she grinned with true amusement. “I think they will not. I have grown quite adept at playing the lad for those who make no effort to look past the surface.” Her gaze skimmed McGuire briefly. “Me-thinks the fellow will not see beyond the end of his nose.”
Aunt Finella spoke up, though she too kept her tone low. “I cannot allow this. It will not serve us to have two of our own in McGuire’s clutches.”
Genevieve was moved by the older woman’s referring to her as “one of our own.” Deliberately she smiled and said, “Have no fear. I believe the man when he says I would be of no value to him. On the other hand my going would be of great value to our cause. I will see the boy, reassure him, tell him that we are bargaining for his release. He must be terrified and my presence will surely ease him.”
She met Marcel’s penetrating gaze. “Do not prevent me from doing what little I can in this. I am truly not afraid. Should the worst occur, I know you would not rest until I was free.”
The words fell into a deep and searching silence in which she continued to face him directly. She whispered, “Please, Marcel, allow me to do my part. You know how much it means to me to be one of you. You say that I do not need to take the name Ainsworth to be family, I only ask to give what any family member might.”
A look of understanding passed between them as she said this, and she was aware of a strange regret in those Ainsworth blue eyes. What might cause him regret she could not fathom. Finally Marcel took a deep breath and nodded, his gaze holding her. He then turned back to McGuire. “We agree to your terms.”
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