by LL Muir
She sat upon the bed again and ate quickly, hoping to make up for a long day with an empty stomach. Had it only been that morning the three vagabonds had stolen her sack? It seemed like so much longer.
Gerard appeared at her side with the bottle of wine. He looked meaningfully at the platter.
“Fine,” she said, with a throat packed with food. “I’ll share as well. But I hold the platter.”
“Done.” He hopped onto the bed, landing with a thud. The thud that followed was the bed falling apart beneath them.
She screamed. The pair of them checked both the platter and the bottle, then sighed with relief to find them intact. Then they giggled.
“Well,” he finally said with a sigh. “Now I’m certain they’re convinced.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
He was a fool. Sitting in the dark on a mattress with a lovely spy, floor or not, was a dangerous move. And since the chicken and potatoes had finally landed in his empty stomach, food was no longer his chief temptation.
The bottom half of one lovely calf stuck out from the generous folds of her robe, and he was reminded of all her underthings hanging up to dry downstairs.
In a trice, he was on his feet and headed for the door. But he stopped just as quickly as he’d started. He couldn’t run away from her now. In truth, he was shaking in his boots, frightened he might want more from the woman than just a kiss or two, audience or no.
He chuckled to himself. What a fool he was. Hours away from battle—a day or two at most—and the prospect that frightened him the greatest was the danger aimed at his heart.
He shook the silliness from his head and moved again. Only this time, he closed the door, shoved the chair in front of it, and planted his arse in the seat. The manor was small. There was no back stair, no veranda, no escape. She was at his mercy. He refused to be at hers. And while he held her captive, she would tell him the truth.
Who was she?
Had she singled him out on the road, with or without the help of the deserters?
And just which side of this war was she on?
“The time for patty fingers is over, lass. Ye’ll give me the answers I need, and quickly.”
A mischievous smile spread from her lips up to her eyes and her face lit with glee. “And what if I don’t?”
He shrugged and refused to allow scandalous scenarios to play out in his mind. “Then, I suppose…ye’ll die for the cause.”
The lass laughed outright at the threat—just as she had on the road, when she had suggested to those villains that she would not live long anyway.
“I’ll be dead tomorrow. I might as well go out fighting.”
Heaven help him, he’d cornered a madwoman. And if he wasn’t careful, he might never make it out of Inverness in time to join Charles Stuart’s army!
“First, lass, let’s begin with a simple question. How is it ye ken the name of my father and my younger brother?”
Her smile slipped away. He should have been happy to see her sober so quickly, but he wasn’t. Perhaps it was the sad look that replaced that smile. But he pressed forward.
“Ye know me well, lass. How is that, when I ken ye not at all?”
She winced. “I dinna suppose ye’d wait until after we’ve had a good night’s sleep before we continue the conversation?”
He struck the arms of his chair, his patience gone. “No more of yer wheedling, lass. Give me the truth. The time for games is done.”
She pushed the platter onto the floor, stood, and began pacing before the fireplace. Each time she moved toward the window, his stomach tightened, until finally he had to ask her to stop.
She glanced nervously at the window, then willingly moved to a chair and sat. Speaking over the top of a broken bed was awkward, but his gut relaxed.
“Yes. I know ye a bit,” she finally admitted. “I canna say where, though, and have ye believe me.”
“Please, lass. The truth.”
She shrugged. “All right, then. Some truth. And we’ll see how it rests on yer stomach, aye?”
“Some, then. To start.”
She nodded. “I have come from a future version of Scotland.”
He closed his eyes and shook his head in disappointment. “Ye believe ye’re a witch, then?”
“Nay. I was sent…escorted…no, sent is the right word. Sent by witches.”
“Dinna tell me. Let me guess. Three sisters who all share one eye?”
She narrowed her gaze at him. “I know Shakespeare well enough, damn ye.”
“Damn me?” He got to his feet, his emotions near to boiling if he didn’t make more room for them. “Damn me?” He glanced at the window and lowered his voice. “Nay, lassie. Damn ye. Damn ye for distracting me as long as ye have. No doubt that was yer duty, to keep me from rejoining my army. No doubt ye’re in cahoots with Sergeant Colville. Perhaps he waits now to ensure I stay put.”
A flash of guilt crossed her face and he groaned with the painful strike to his heart. She jumped to her feet and hurried to him, but he turned away from her.
“Nay, lass. Leave me be. Yer confession stole my breath for a moment is all.”
“Gerard,” she gasped. “I’ve confessed nothing. Dinna leave me.”
He tried to reconcile the two women in the room. The first, a spy for the enemy. The second, the lass who softened his heart with the very tone of her voice.
“Ye are a witch,” he whispered, and headed for the door. “Mullens will come for ye, in the morning, and make certain ye’re safe. If ye’ve any heart at all, ye’ll not hand the man to his enemies.”
“Wait!”
He shook his head and reached for the knob.
“Gerard, wait! I’ve come to save ye! Please, listen to me. I’ll tell ye all, I swear it. Only, dinna go.”
He turned back, one hand still on the door. “So ye do mean to keep me here?”
“Only to keep ye alive, my love.”
It took great effort to swallow those words, but Heaven help him, they’d been the only words, all day, that felt good to him. Time might prove him a fool, but he couldn’t help savor the sound and the sincerity on her face. No doubt she’d say something to ruin the moment.
“How do I not ken ye, lass? And ye ken me well enough to love me?”
The smile on her lips might have been the first honest one since they’d met. “I’ve watched ye from afar, laddie, for a long, long while. From half a mile away, I would recognize yer walk, the way yer arms move, the habit ye have for petting yer beard, aye?” She demonstrated and laughed.
“Ye’re from Rosemarkie, then?”
She shook her head. “Close by, though.”
He nodded, satisfied with that, at least. “And ye ken my family?”
“I know of them. I’ve never met them. But I imagine yer father is a great deal like ye.”
He laughed. “Aye. He was.”
“Was?”
“Aye. My fither died some years back.”
She nodded. “Ah, that’s right. I’d forgotten.”
He couldn’t help feeling his disappointment was about to return. But first, he wanted to hear her call him my love again.
As if sensing his need, she strode to him, wrapped her arms around his chest as though she’d done it a hundred times before, and pulled herself into him. “I’m verra sorry for yer fither.”
His arms fell naturally around her and held. But there was no time for pretending. Not that night. Any other, perhaps, but he had only an hour before he had to sneak to the barn, and hopefully, find a horse waiting. He wished there was a way to warn Mullens that the house was being watched, but if he or the lass went looking for the man, it would expose him as a Jacobite sympathizer, and Gerard wouldn’t risk that. The man had better luck on his own. Besides, a canny man like Mullens would already know who watched. At least Gerard had to believe it or sicken with worry.
“Tell me,” he said, still holding the woman. “Is yer name truly Assa Campbell, as ye said?”
S
he pulled away and gave him a withering stare. “Me? A Campbell? Are ye mad?” She turned her head and spit on the floor.
He’d seen that sort of reaction to the Campbell name enough to believe her sentiment was true in spite of her convincing act in front of the Red Coat earlier. A practiced spy couldn’t have been so convincing.
“I dinna understand, then, why ye wish to keep me from my duty, if ye’re not a spy for Cumberland.”
She tipped her head back and closed her eyes as if she were praying for guidance. When she opened them again, she looked tired as the ages, but her face seemed to clear of all pretenses. She looked straight into his eyes.
“Gerard Ross,” she said. “Tomorrow, at one in the afternoon, the final battle will take place between the Jacobites and the Hanoverians.”
He opened his mouth to speak but she lifted a hand to silence him.
“It will be over in minutes, not hours. If ye go, ye will die, as my brother and cousins will die. I ken them well enough to know I cannot dissuade them. I have already tried. They will not listen. But ye…” She reached for him, but pulled her hand back to her side. “Ye, I can save. If ye’ll but heed my warning.
“I cannot say it any plainer. I can tell ye that the wounded will not be spared. Cumberland will butcher any and all he can get his hands on—and for months to come. Scotland will never be the same. The clans…” Emotion choked her, but she fought through the tears in her throat. “The clans will be no more. Scots will be scattered to the ends of the earth, and those who doona flee will be starved out.”
She faltered and he grabbed her arms and helped her into the chair by the door.
When she didn’t speak again, he tried to lighten the mood a bit.
“A dire prophecy indeed, lassie. How have ye come by such a frightening prediction? No wonder ye set out on yer own to try and stop it from coming to pass. I would have done the same myself, if I believed such a tale.”
She sat forward and groped for his hand. “Would you? Would you do anything to change that history before it could happen?”
He shrugged. “What Scot would not, aye?”
“Then you do understand!”
He shook his head. “I understand why ye’ve done what ye’ve done. Why ye seem to be mad at times, and not so mad at others. But lass, I do not believe yer prophecy.”
“But ye must! It is true!”
He shook his head. “There is no way to know that.”
She nodded emphatically. “There is!”
“Oh? And how?”
“Gerard. Love. I was there. I saw it with my own two eyes. I was cut down by shot, then finished off with a sword. I fought to yer left, with Keppoch. Ye fought with Clanranald.”
He backed away from her. As surely as the sun would rise, there was danger in believing her. “How do ye ken which regiment I mean to fight with?” He’d never said it aloud, to anyone.
“As I said, I have already watched the battle, in my past, and in yer future. Nothing matters now but this—I was allowed to come back. And why would I be allowed to come back if not to save someone from the massacre? And if ye haven’t been listening, I’ve decided that someone is to be Gerard Ross. The last time, I hounded my brother all the way to the front line and still he wouldn’t change his mind.”
He shook his head. “Ye would rather he’d been a deserter?”
“I would have rather he’d never enlisted!”
After the echo of her words died, the pair of them fell silent. The lass’s chest rose and fell rapidly, but silently, and he couldn’t help thinking of her as a cornered wee beastie. He would have to tread lightly.
“I suggest, Mr. Ross, that ye stretch out on the bed and rest.” She pulled a blade from inside the folds of her robe and held it across her knee. “Because ye will not be going anywhere until noon tomorrow. After that, my time will be spent, and ye’ll have a head start. I strongly suggest ye set out for Canada. Nova Scotia would be wise.”
“Flee? When we are so close to winning the throne again? When we are so close to getting our country back, ye would have me throw it all over for New Scotland?”
She nodded, sober as the dead. Mad as the devil. And there was nothing for it but laughter.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
How dare he laugh at her?
There she was, spending her precious two days trying to save his life and the son of a… She couldn’t believe he was laughing!
Her bit of Irish blood rose to the fore and she very nearly did something she would, no doubt, regret. But there was something else in her blood running along side her temper—something that bubbled up in her heart at the sight and sound of Gerard Ross laughing himself silly.
Damn him anyway.
She sucked on her teeth while he wore himself out, and by the time he was finished, he was on his backside, on the mattress. That little tableau also did funny things to her blood and she suddenly felt the stifling heat rising through the floor from the kitchen. But she wasn’t about to start fanning herself like some simpering courtesan. All she really needed was to look away, which she did.
The clock on the mantle chimed. The sound echoed in her mind and she lost track.
“Ten?” she whispered.
“Eleven.” The word was like the strike of a gong. He intended to leave her soon.
She found him staring at her, and she was glad the room was dark so he couldn’t read her every thought.
Suddenly, the drapes over the front window lit up. Though she was anxious to see what was happening outside, she dared not surrender her position by the door.
Gerard crept to the window and peeked around the left edge, then moved to the right and tried again.
“Hard to tell,” he said quietly. “With the pub and the trees in the way, I cannot see the river clearly, but it seems there is a fire on the far shore.”
“Not an accident, I’m certain,” she said. “Not this night.”
He nodded and watched for a long time, out one side, then the other. Out the side window, then the front again. She knew he was looking for Colville and Semphill. They couldn’t trust that the little play they’d put on in the drawing room had been convincing. When the sergeant called him Gerard, at the door, it had been more than a test. It was a message.
“If they’re out there, I canna see them.”
If two Red Coats were keeping watch on the house, and the barn, it would be nearly impossible for Gerard to leave whether or not she guarded the door. If, by some miracle, she and Gerard had been left alone, she was the only thing standing in his way.
If the enemy were still standing guard, it would create an entirely new set of problems on the morrow. When news of Cumberland’s victory arrived, if not before, there would be nothing stopping the soldiers from entering the house and cutting them down.
Nothing stopping them but Gerard Ross, of course. And considering the way he’d taken down five men on his own, at Culloden, two shouldn’t be such a challenge, especially if he was expecting their attack.
Ross pushed the edge of the curtain back in place and dropped his hand. Then he just stood there, staring into the darkness. She wished she could read his mind.
“Gerard? What are ye thinking?”
He turned his head and smiled sadly. “I have to go soon.”
That’s what she was afraid of. But the man had sadly underestimated her.
She lifted her chin. “I do have a blade, sir, that says differently.”
He ignored her outright, still deep in thought.
She gasped to get his attention. “I mean to keep ye hear, laddie. Make no mistake.”
He nodded. “And I mean not to hurt ye when I take yer weapon.”
She chuckled, grateful for the jest. In truth, the tension in the room was stifling as a thick, knotted scarf. “I’ll have ye know I stood my ground at Culloden longer than ye might think.”
He pushed away from the window like a weary old man. “Give it up, lass. I dinna believe yer wild tale.”
> “I dinna give a damn what ye believe. Tomorrow, when it proves true, it’ll be too late to thank me.”
“Too late? Because I’ll be dead?”
“Nay, but I will…be gone.” The certainty of it struck her in the gut and she shrunk against the back of the chair again. She had truly seen the last of her family, and the next 12 hours would be the last she would see of the man before her.
It would be the last she would taste of chicken or chips. The last she would taste of Gerard Ross. But at least she could go on to what God had waiting for her with the knowledge that she’d saved the one man she’d loved…once upon a battlefield.
He was suddenly there, standing before her, though she couldn’t see his face clearly through tears and shadows.
“None of this now.” He took hold of her wrists, paying no mind to the blade she held tight. He moved her around him, sat, then pulled her into his lap. “Dinna greet, lass. Tell me why ye believe ye will die come the morrow.”
She bit her lips, determined not to tell him anything about Culloden’s 79. Because, if she was very careful, there would only be 78, and Gerard Ross would be high-tailing it for Canada.
“I would know who threatens ye, lass.” He leveled a stern scowl at her.
She laughed. “My…life will change tomorrow. As with that of every Scot, aye? ‘Tis all.”
His brow lifted. “Nothing more?”
“Nothing more.”
“Vow it?”
She nodded once. “I vow it.” An easy promise to make—she would change mortal life for the afterlife.
“Good. Now. I would have a kiss from ye before I go.”
She carefully wrapped her arms around his neck, still holding the small knife. “Ye will not go, but I agree to the kiss.”
His smile was brief, smothered as it was against her lips. And she learned that a passionate, intense kiss that bruised her lips could still be pleasant. In fact, she wondered why they hadn’t kissed that way from the beginning.
By the time he pulled his head back, she was breathing heavily. And, embarrassed, she turned her head against her own shoulder. Something slid against her palm, and too late, she realized he’d relieved her of the weapon. She had nothing else with which to sway him but her words.