Moonstruck Masness

by Laurie McBain

  Colonel the Honorable Terence Fletcher stared at the slaughter around him. The dead and dying were beyond his help, but he promised there would be neither looting nor massacre of innocents by his command and called to a stop the torching of the hut by several soldiers as the mournful notes of the piper still sounded from within.

  "Follow those into the hills!" he ordered, waving them away from the hut.

  The sergeant beside him spat as he eyed the colonel speculatively. "What of the chief? They always dress real fine. Pity to let someone else lay claim to his finery, sir."

  "You'll find plenty of others to strip, Sergeant. This one will be buried as is his right. Do I make myself under­stood?"

  "Yes, sir," he answered surlily, "but what of the castle? Must be up here in the hills somewhere. Got orders saying we're to destroy any strongholds, don't we?"

  "Yes, those are our orders, and we will do what is necessary to secure our position, even if it means destroy­ing the castle," the colonel answered to the sergeant's satis­faction.

  Terence Fletcher shook his head as the sergeant hurried off. What did he really expect from these men? Most were riffraff: poor, uneducated hirelings here to obey com­mands, treated like dirt and paid little more than that. He shouldn't be surprised that they wanted to get what they could when they saw riches within their grasp and while their bellies ached with hunger.

  He glanced about him at the inhospitable hills and gray skies above and wished he were back in England. He'd rather be anywhere than here in these desolate, Scottish highlands where time seemed to have stood still and men still fought as their ancestors did three centuries past. Now their way of life faced destruction because of their fool­hardy support of the Young Pretender, Charles Stuart, or as they fondly called him, Bonnie Prince Charlie. As suc­cessor to the long line of Stuart kings who had been driven from power in the seventeenth century, he now had the support of these Jacobite Scots in his vain attempt to over­throw the Hanoverian Georges now ruling Great Britain.

  As he stood staring at the tall pines, hearing the eerie notes of the bagpipe still coming from the hut, he saw again the face of that beautiful child and wondered what would become of her. Her face had, in an instant of time, etched itself in his memory. It was a face he would never forget.

  "Hurry, hurry for God's sake!" Sabrina urged her aunt. "We've got to leave here now."

  "But where is Angus? He really should be here," her aunt replied calmly as she carefully folded a delicate, lace-edged handkerchief. "I do so dislike hurrying," she complained softly.

  "Please, Aunt Margaret. Just this once try to hurry," Sa­brina pleaded with the older woman, who continued to carefully pack'a few personal articles with unhurried ease. Her black hair was sprinkled with silver and neatly cov­ered by a small, white lace cap, the puffed-out crown stiff­ly starched and high on the back of her head.

  Sabrina shrugged in exasperation as Aunt Margaret smiled at her, blue eyes vague and dreamy in her soft, sweet-expressioned face.

  "I never allow Hobbs to touch my sewing. She is quite incapable of packing it correctly—besides, I always have it with me. A lady never just sits and fiddles her fingers, my dear," she explained as she collected the rest of her items and put them in a tapestried bag.

  "Sabrina!" a voice called, followed shortly by a young boy who ran into the room breathlessly. "We're ready. Mary is already belowstairs."

  "Help Aunt Margaret down, I'll see to the rest," Sabrina said, quickly running from the room despite Aunt Mar­garet's disapproving stare.

  Sabrina hurried down the worn stone steps of the large banqueting hall. The shields and arms of the past glory of the clan hung solemnly on the stone walls. There was nei­ther fire in the large, stone hearth, nor food laid upon the long, trestle table. The servants, those who had not fought in the battle, had fled to their families' crofts up in the hills. Hobbs, her aunt's English maid, would be the only one accompanying them on the fishing boat that would carry them to the coast and then to a French ship, waiting to sail with them to safety.

  Behind her Sabrina could hear her brother Richard ca­joling Aunt Margaret down the steps. Below in the hall Mary waited, nervously pacing with tears still wet on her pale face.

  "Oh, here you are at last, Sabrina," she cried thankfully, her light gray eves showing relief as she saw her aunt and Richard just behind. "I thought you'd never come. We must hurry before the English come. Oh, do hurry, Aunt Margaret, please," she urged her aunt as the woman stopped to check her bag for a second time.

  "It's all right, Mary, we'll make it safely," Sabrina reas­sured her older sister calmly.

  "Grandfather thought so too," Mary reminded Sabrina worriedly, a look of fear on her pretty face.

  "I know. I was there, remember?" Sabrina looked around them regretfully. What would happen to the castle? Would the English burn it down, destroying it as they had so many other Highlanders' homes since the fighting had begun? The numbness that had paralyzed her feelings was beginning to fade as she took a last look at the an­cient hall. Her grandfather's face would only be a memory now, along with so many other memories of this day and their life in the Highlands.

  "Sabrina!" Mary called from beyond the doors. They had climbed into a small cart pulled by two shelties and were waiting impatiently. Their trunks had already been sent on before them, and now they would follow the nar­row, rocky road winding through the glen to the loch. From there they would travel through the night on the river that would let them slip into the North Sea and onto the ship waiting for their signal.

  Beware, as long as you live, of judging

  people by appearances.

  Jean de La Fontaine

  England, 1751

  Chapter 1

  A shaft of yellow light reached its thin finger of brightness into the black night, a night otherwise de­void of habitation. The parting between the thick, velvet hangings through which the recalcitrant beam had escaped revealed within a warmly lit tableau, isolated in apparent unconcern from the bleakness of the world existing be­yond the exclusive and impenetrable barriers of those four gilt walls.

  Exotic birds, flowers and cherubs gazed down from the high, plaster ceiling on the gentlemen below who sat laughing and drinking about the cluttered dining table, their glasses well filled with port and rum, and their appe­tites well satisfied from the meal they'd heartily eaten ear­lier.

  "It's treason, I say!" Lord Malton blustered loudly. "No respect for tradition. Bunch of bantam-cocks, the whole lot of them!"

  "What's treason? Not those Jacobite Scots again? Lud, I thought we'd finished off those heathens once and for all?"

  "No, no, not the Scots. Wigs! Wigs, man, wigs. Those young jackanapes have the effrontery to forswear wigs. Going about bareheaded." Lord Malton choked, his face flushed pink under the mass of powdered curls that fell to his shoulders.

  "Not wearing wigs? I say, how barbaric. Do give me their names so I don't mistakenly invite them to dine," sniffed another bewigged diner.

  "I'd ask the. Duke to have a word with 'em, but look at that wig he's wearing. Hardly one at all, it's so simple. No, don't think he'd do it. Doesn't even shave his head," Lord Malton confided in a loud whisper to half his end of the table. "Personally, I do. Get a much snugger fit, and not half as much trouble with fleas."

  "Wish he'd take them in hand. I've seen the Duke deal with loose fish before." He glanced slyly at the object of his words before adding quietly behind his hand, "How do you think he got that scar, eh?"

  They chuckled at the thought of a confrontation be­tween the parties concerned and went on to discuss in de­tail the possible fate of the upstarts at the hands of the Duke.

  "This is an absolute honor, you know," Malton added to his neighbor, "to have the Duke visit. He's never down this way much, but I've some land I'm selling and he wanted to see it first. Handles all these things himself, you know." Lord Malton smiled smugly as he looked at the Duke.

  The Duke of Camareigh was oblivio
us to the specula­tions of his powers of persuasion as he stared in boredom into the dregs of his glass, wondering why he had accepted Malton's invitation rather than putting up at an inn. How quickly he'd forgotten how outrageously dull these rustic supper parties were. He smiled cynically as he remem­bered that Malton was, after all, his host.

  "What is so amusing, Your Grace?" Lord Newley de­manded, a sour look on his dissipated face.

  "A mere thought at my own expense, Newley, nothing more," the Duke commented, the smile momentarily widening over his aquiline features, touching just briefly the thin scar that etched its way across the left side of his face, from the edge of his high cheekbone to the corner of his mouth. It added an almost sinister cast to his fea­tures, his expression masked in heavy-lidded, thickly lashed eyes that gave nothing away in a mocking glance.

  "I hope you remember about our engagement for Fri­day? I intend to win back that pair of dueling pistols I lost to you. Finest pair I had, too. German-made by Kolbe, you know. Shouldn't play against you, you're too damned good, or maybe lucky," Lord Newley grumbled, putting up a thin hand to straighten his wig, which was slightly askew above his sunken cheeks.

  "It's not luck, but expertise. What else is a gentleman of leisure to do but refine his talents at gambling?" the Duke replied lazily.

  "And with les jeunes files, eh?" Lord Newley snickered, giving a broad wink at the others.

  "Wish you'd put me wise to that refinement, Your Grace," someone guffawed loudly.

  "Ah, donn-ezmoi I'amour," another added dramatically, kissing his fingers to his lips for effect.

  "Better not let your wife in the next room hear that," Lord Malton bellowed from the other end of the table, "or she'll teach you how to play the game!"

  No one noticed the velvet hangings move imperceptibly as if a draught had disturbed them, and none thought any­thing amiss until a masked figure emerged silently from behind their concealment.

  "Please, gentlemen, no sudden moves. If you will just keep your hands upon the table like good lads, I'll not be forced to kill you," the masked figure warned as he mo­tioned menacingly with the barrel of a pistol in one hand and a thin sword held deftly in the other. He stood defi­antly before them, dressed in a black frock coat trimmed with silver braid, a silver brocade waistcoat and black vel­vet breeches. A tartan sash in vivid reds and blues stretched across his chest and was pinned by a cairngorm brooch to his pure white stock. Heavy jackboots reached above his knees, with spurs that jingled above the square, massive heels. On his head he wore a cocked hat with an eagle's feather stuck into its high brim. The upper half of his face was covered by a black crepe mask, the thin silk gauze covering his features except for the two holes where his eyes stared malevolently at the assembled guests.

  Lord Malton jerked upright in his chair, an incredulous look of surprise spreading across his broad features. A murmur of shock passed through the room as the other gentlemen reacted similarly, dismay mixed with outrage showing in their expressions, except for one who remained casually at ease in his chair, the only visible sign of his an­ger the scar whitening along his cheek.

  "Very wise of you gentlemen," the highwayman com­mented as they remained motionless as ordered. He laughed softly. "Now who was it who said that aristocratic gentlemen were shallow-brained half-wits? My apologies, gentlemen, for you are certainly showing a degree of intel­ligence tonight."

  "Why you—" Lord Malton began speaking, rising in outraged dignity from his seat, only to be silenced as a gi­ant of a man slipped from behind another curtained win­dow, two cocked pistols held firmly in his fists, while another equally large man stepped out from behind the first highwayman, dwarfing him in contrast. They were also masked, but dressed in leather breeches and waistcoats, covered by black frock coats while their legs were encased in enormous jackboots.

  "Yes, my good lord, you were saying?" the masked man asked softly, then laughed with amusement as Lord Mal­ton slumped back onto his seat.

  "You'll pay for this, Bonnie Charlie, you'll hang from the gibbets for this deed," Lord Malton sputtered angrily, a gasp of surprise coming from the diners as their assailant was named.

  "You have to catch me first, and the English are better with words than deeds."

  "You swine! This is an outrage!" Lord Newley snarled, his face turning a mottled color in his rage.

  "No . . . this is a robbery, and I intend to relieve you gentlemen of some of your pretty trinkets. And unless you wish me to disturb your ladies, who are busily gossiping in the Blue Salon, I believe you call it, then you will keep quiet and allow me to get to my work." He grinned devil­ishly. "No comment? Excellent. Obviously you find no fault with my reasoning."

  The large bandit standing behind Bonnie Charlie stepped forward and held out a leather bag.

  "The small gold ring, I think, and possibly the watch," Bonnie Charlie directed. "Ummm, yes, definitely the watch. A bit too ostentatious I should think, Lord Newley. Try an enameled one next time. These rubies and dia­monds are much too large."

  Lord Newley clenched his hands as if he held the high­wayman's neck between his fingers, and glared impotently up at the robbers as they made their way down the table, selectively picking only one or two items from each gentle­man, leaving the rest untouched. As Bonnie Charlie came abreast of the long side table still laid with food he sampled a pastry off one of the china plates.

  "A bit too sweet for my tastes," he commented as he dusted the fine sugar from his coat sleeve, picking up his sword where he had carelessly placed it on the buffet. "Now, what have we here? No jewels or pretties for the poor?" Bonnie Charlie demanded as they halted beside the Duke.

  "Come now, don't be shy," Bonnie Charlie requested ge­nially. The Duke's eyes stared like burning coals in his face as he shrugged and handed over a gold snuffbox and gold watch from his fob pocket.

  "Our scar-faced gentleman is very wise," Bonnie Charlie said tauntingly, "for he fears having his other cheek marred as well."

  The Duke's jaw visibly hardened as he looked up into the highwayman's eyes, shadowed by the mask, and drawled, "I look forward to meeting you again, Bonnie Charlie, when my sword shall feel more than your cheek beneath its point." His voice was low and quiet, yet held a definite threat in it to all that heard it.

  But the highwayman only laughed in the same husky whisper as his voice. "Indeed?" he replied doubtfully. "Most of you exquisites wouldn't know which end of a sword to pick up, much less how to wield it."

  "Of all the impudence! I'll have your head for this," Lord Newley threatened.

  "Will you really, my lord? So bloodthirsty over a few trinkets that you can well afford? Be glad I don't take it all and leave you impaled against the back of that satin chair. But now I think I must give you more reason for desiring my head. I rather fancy that diamond stock buckle," he jeered as he snipped it from Lord Newley's chest with the point of his sword.

  "And, Lord Malton, as my host, I'll relieve you of that charming silver salt cellar."

  The silver salt cellar was added to the bag of loot by the Duke, whose lips twitched slightly as he also added Lord Newley's stock buckle.

  "You smile, my scar-faced friend," the highwayman ob­served dryly, "but I think I like yours as well . . . if you'd be so generous?"

  "By all means." The Duke's grin widened. "I compli­ment you on your good taste. But you have it on loan, for I shall redeem it in due time."

  "I look forward to the transaction with pleasure," the highwayman grinned, revealing even, white teeth, not in the least cowed by the obvious challenge of the scar-faced gentleman's words.

  With a slight bow Bonnie Charlie backed toward the window, his henchmen's pistols still trained on the captive audience. "I bid you adieu, gentlemen, and my compli­ments to your ladies."

  With that final insult he disappeared from sight through the windows, followed quickly by the other two robbers. For an instant all was still, then Lord Newley cursed vio­lently and made to rise, Lord Malton fo
llowing, when a flash of silver sped past their startled faces and a knife embedded itself with a thud in the middle of the table.

  "Good God!" Malton mumbled, searching for his pocket handkerchief carefully, lest another knife should find its way into his chest.

  "I wonder what the fellow does for an encore?" the Duke commented sarcastically as he slowly stood up and stretched lazily, feeling oddly refreshed by the strange in­cident.

  The others stared at the Duke, mesmerized for a mo­ment, and then in relief broke into confused conversation with no one voice being heard.

  The Duke stood silently looking out of the window, a speculative look in his eyes and a slight smile on his lips.

  "An outrage! The insolence of that blackguard. I'd have run him through if I'd my sword." Lord Malton blus­tered, pouring himself a drink with shaking hands.

  "The Jacobite cur. Flaunting his plaid before us. He's an agent of that rogue Stuart, I'll wager. I say call out the militia on him. They'll run him to earth soon enough."

  "Haven't caught him yet," someone commented, "nor would I care to cross swords with those two great hulking henchmen of his, either."

  The Duke turned from his contemplation of the night, listening with interest to the gossip. "What was that name again of this highwayman that seems to elude capture so effortlessly?"

  "Bonnie Charlie they call him because of the blasted plaid sash he wears across his chest and the eagle's feather in his hat. Mocks us all, damn his eyes if he doesn't, the highland savage."

  The Duke smiled thoughtfully. "And yet he talks and acts like the perfect gentleman. Quite a puzzle, wouldn't you say? How long has he been about?"

  "Three, maybe four years, I suppose," Lord Newley an­swered. "Cursed nuisance. Third watch he's had off me."

  "And yet no one has any idea who he really is? Never seen his face, or even tracked him down? How odd," the Duke murmured, "that he only takes a few items at a time. Certainly not greedy, is he?"

  "That's just it! Damned impertinence. Makes me feel overdressed half the time."