An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition

by Cartland, Barbara

  “Take care of what you say.”

  Then Captain Moore rose from his seat and stepped out.

  A new voice roared an order and there was the crash of men presenting arms.

  “Allow me to assist you to alight, ma’am,” Captain Moore’s said, his voice now cool and detached.

  Iona gave him her hand and stepped from the carriage.

  She had a quick impression of curious faces and a gaudy predominance of red coats and shining buttons, of a long, uncarpeted passage, and then the door of a room was opened.

  “Miss Ward, sir, from Skaig Castle.”

  Captain Moore’s voice was curt and military and in curious contrast to the man Iona saw facing her. She realised at once that she had been taken to Major Johnstone’s private sitting room. It was a big room with a bright fire burning in the fireplace, and well furnished in a somewhat masculine manner. In a big wing-backed chair Major Johnstone sprawled before the fire. His coat was unbuttoned, showing a stained white shirt. There was a glass of red wine in his hand. His face was crimson, the purple veins predominant on the huge swollen nose. It was the face of a gross liver, a coarse character. His wig was pushed sideways on his head and he still wore his riding-boots, dirty and mud-spattered from the day’s riding.

  He made no effort to rise, but sprawled in his chair regarding Iona from the top of her head downwards. His glance was somehow lewd and indelicate and despite all her resolutions she found herself flushing a little under his scrutiny.

  “Gawd’s truth!” he said at length in a thick voice. “So this is the filly they suspect of being a damned Jacobite. Well, gal what have you to say for yourself?”

  He raised his glass to his lips and took a great gulp of wine, and as he rolled it round his mouth, he waited for Iona to answer. When she did not, he swallowed the wine and shouted,

  “Have you lost your tongue? Answer, can’t you?”

  “Are you speaking to me, sir?”

  “Who the hell else did you think I was addressing?” the Major thundered.

  “As a guest of the Duke of Arkrae,” Iona answered, “I must request that you give me an explanation of why I have been brought here.”

  “You request! Gad, that’s rich!” Major Johnstone said.

  He gave a deep and what purposed to be an ironic laugh but which turned instead into a belch.

  “Let’s get this straight, my girl,” he said. “You may have been the guest of all the bloodstained Scottish Dukes in Christendom, but if you are a Jacobite – and it’s up to me to decide whether you are or not – it’s lucky if you keep your head.”

  “Am I not correct, sir, in believing that by English law a man or woman for that matter is innocent until proved guilty?” Iona asked.

  The Major glared at her, but as he did not answer, she went on,

  “I would but ask you, sir, for proofs of my guilt, for I have no knowledge of them.”

  The Major looked her up and down.

  “You’ve got guts, I’ll say that,” he remarked. “Take that cloak off and let’s have a better look at you.”

  His tone was coarse and the look in his eyes frightening, but Iona thought it best to comply with his request. Besides, the room was very hot and the air almost suffocating with the stench of spirit and stale tobacco. She was relieved to slip the heavy cloak from her shoulders and the hood from her head. Captain Moore stepped forward and took it from her.

  “That’s better,” the Major said approvingly. “And now, Moore, sit down, pour yourself a drink and we’ll have some fun.”

  Captain Moore put down Iona’s cloak on a chair near the fire and hesitated.

  “You heard me you young jackanapes,” roared the Major.

  “The lady, sir, shall I fetch her a chair?”

  The Major glared at him.

  “A chair for a prisoner! Has the sun turned what little brain you had?”

  He glanced at Iona.

  “Ah, ah – now I understand! A pretty face and she becomes a lady. If she was plain as a pikestaff, she’d be just a woman and a prisoner! All men are the same, I know ’em, and all females are the same too, under their airs and graces and their gowns. Sit down, man, and do as you’re told. If you don’t want a glass of wine, then that leaves the more for me.”

  There was nothing for Captain Moore to do but to cross the room to the chair on the other side of the hearthrug. He seated himself while Iona stood between them, her face almost as white as her dress, but her head with its rebellious curls remained high.

  “Ve-ry pretty, ve-ry pretty,” the Major drawled, his eyes taking in every detail of the low-cut gown, the curve of breast and waist and the grace of Iona’s bare arms.

  “Now then,” he said sharply, “tell me in your own words, and no lies mark you, I want the truth – what you’re doing in Scotland?”

  “As you have doubtless been informed,” Iona said quietly, “I came here but a short while ago from Paris with papers which sought to prove that I was the Duke’s half sister, the Lady Elspeth MacCraggan.”

  “And did they believe you?” the Major asked. “Not on your life! You damned Jacobites are up to any trick and always ready to pretend to something or other like those rascally Stuarts! We’ve had the Old Pretender, the Young Pretender, and now they have got a Woman Pretender. Who the hell is going to believe you? Not me, at any rate.”

  “It would, of course, be impossible for you, sir, to come to any decision on the matter without seeing the proofs that I brought with me,” Iona said.

  The Major glared at her and his lower lip stuck out in an ugly fashion.

  “Are you being impertinent or trying to teach me my business?” he asked. “I know what I shall believe and what I won’t believe. Now, when did you last see that imposter, Charles Stuart?”

  “Do you mean the Prince?” Iona asked.

  “Prince? He’s no more a Prince than I am,” the Major growled. “I’ll call him the Young Pretender, if you like it better, but Charles Stuart is his name and you know full well of whom I speak. Now then, gal, speak up – when did you last see him?”

  Iona took a deep breath.

  “I think you are making a mistake sir. I have already asked you to give me your reasons for bringing me here and for subjecting me to this examination. Until I receive a satisfactory reply to that request, I cannot acknowledge that you have the right to question me in any matters appertaining to my private life.”

  The Major set down his glass on the table with such violence that the wine was spilled over his hand and on to the floor.

  “Zounds!” he exclaimed. “Dare you defy me and speak to me in such a manner? Do you realise, you cheeky wench that I have the authority to have you taken from this room and thrown into the deepest dungeon in this Fort? Or better still, give you over to my men for their amusement?”

  Iona’s chin, if possible, was raised a little higher.

  “I must ask your pardon, sir, if I was mistaken, but I understood that you represented here in the Highlands the justice of the English throne.”

  The veins seemed to swell on the Major’s face and he grew so crimson that it almost seemed as if he must burst a blood vessel.

  “You Jacobite baggage,” he said, the words coming so forcibly from his lips that he literally spat them out. “I’ll teach you to speak to me in such a manner, I’ll – ”

  The door was suddenly opened. Iona, who had been watching the Major’s horrifying expression of mounting anger, turned her head slowly. Her heart gave a wild leap, for in the doorway, seeming immeasurably taller, broader, and more awe inspiring than ever before, stood the Duke. He was wearing his riding-coat, his boots were spattered with mud, but he moved with his usual unhurried air of innate dignity.

  As he walked slowly into the room, the whole atmosphere seemed to change perceptibly. Captain Moore got to his feet, and with an effort, groaning as he did so, Major Johnstone rose unsteadily to his.

  “Good evening, Major! Good evening, Captain!”

&nb
sp; The Duke’s voice was quiet and authoritative.

  “Good evening, Your Grace.”

  The Duke looked at Iona. His eyes came to rest on her for one brief moment, taking in her pallor and tightly clasped hands, and also the sudden joy and relief in her eyes and the excitement of her parted lips. The Duke put his riding whip down on the table.

  “I have been from home all day,” he said. “When I returned, I learned with some consternation that a guest of mine had been arrested during dinner and brought here for questioning. May I ask, Major, on whose authority this was done?”

  The Major seemed about to answer him gruffly, but changed his mind.

  “I have a paper here,” he said disagreeably. He felt in one pocket and then in the other, and at last brought out a rather crumpled sheet of paper. He unfolded it and glanced at it uncertainly.

  “May I see?”

  The Duke’s hand was on the paper and had taken it from the Major before he was aware of what was happening.

  His Grace read it aloud,

  “On behalf of the Most Noble, the Marquis of Severn, and in the name of His Most Gracious Majesty King George I authorise you to arrest Iona Ward, Jacobite, who is staying at Skaig Castle.

  Signed, Beatrice Wrexham.”

  The Duke folded the paper and handed it back to the Major.

  “I am astonished, Major,” he said, “that the English Army should take orders from a strumpet, however influential her protector.”

  The Major looked uncomfortable.

  “It is signed with the Marquis’s own seal,” he snarled. The Duke gave a little laugh.

  “How often are gentlemen’s rings purloined from them by such women in moments of weakness!” he said ironically and then added in a sharper tone, “Is this the only evidence you have of this lady’s guilt?”

  “Lord Niall sent word that he would bring the proofs of the woman’s infamy over to me tomorrow morning,” the Major snapped.

  “I fear, Major, that you have been hoaxed,” the Duke said lightly. “This lady, who is under my protection and a guest at my castle, has been brought here on a charge which can very easily be proved both false and ridiculous. I must regret that you have been inconvenienced in such a way. You will, I am sure, permit me to escort her back to the castle?”

  Iona gave a little gasp of relief and without thinking of what she was doing stepped forward until she stood beside the Duke, her eyes glowing as she looked up at him. The Major had hesitated and seemed about to accede to the Duke’s wishes, but now his expression hardened.

  “On the contrary, Duke,” he said, “This woman has been arrested and must stay here the night until his Lordship’s appearance in the morning. The seal of the Marquis of Severn is, I assure you, enough authority for me to act on and to act correctly in my position as Commander of the Fort.”

  The Major’s voice was truculent and as the Duke did not answer for the moment, he added,

  “You may be the Duke of Arkrae and own a slice of this damned country, but here in this Fort I’m the boss and you’re on English soil. Good night to you, my lord Duke, you can leave the woman behind.”

  “I think not!”

  The Duke’s voice was very quiet. He continued,

  “You were authorised, Major, to arrest Iona Ward. Is that not correct?”

  “You have seen the paper,” the Major snarled.

  “But you have in fact arrested somebody very different,” the Duke said. “It has, it is true, been a secret until now, so that you are not entirely at fault. This lady is not Iona Ward, but my wife – the Duchess of Arkrae.”

  Iona gave a little gasp as she felt the Duke take her hand and set it on his arm. She was conscious of the pressure of his fingers, and then of the Major’s bloodshot eyes staring into hers and his raw and angry voice, which sounded like an animal deprived of his prey, asking,

  “Is this the truth?”

  Again Iona felt the Duke’s fingers press hers.

  “Yes – yes,” she faltered.

  “You’re his wife?”

  “Yes.”

  The Duke turned towards the chair by the door. He took up Iona’s cloak and set it round her shoulders.

  “We will bid you good night, Major,” he said.

  His hand was on the latch when the Major stopped him.

  “Blister it,” he swore. “But how the hell am I to know this is true? If you are wed, as you say, where were you married and when?”

  “Surely that is immaterial,” the Duke queried. He looked down at Iona and drew her a little nearer to the door. “Besides, Major, with your vast knowledge of English law you must not forget our Scottish ones.”

  “What the deuce do you mean by that?”

  “I mean,” the Duke replied and his voice was light, “that if this lady were not already my wife, she would in fact be so from this very moment. Marriage by declaration before witnesses is in Scotland, as you well know, entirely valid and absolutely binding. Good night to you, Major.”

  He drew Iona through the door and closed it behind him. There was the thunder of fearsome, resounding oaths and the crash of glass, but Iona was conscious of only one thing – of the Duke’s hand on hers, of his fingers, strong, warm and resolute, taking her swiftly to freedom.

  15

  The Duke’s horse, a magnificent black stallion, was waiting, held by a soldier, in the courtyard. It was obvious from the animal’s demeanour and its mud-splashed, sweating flanks that it had been ridden hard and long, and the fiery spirit which had made it temperamental and difficult to handle earlier in the day was now subdued into a peaceful docility.

  The Duke and Iona walked quickly across the courtyard. As they reached the stallion, the Duke looked down at Iona with one of his rare smiles and said quietly,

  “I can offer you speed but not much comfort, I am afraid.”

  “All I ask, Your Grace, is to be taken from here with all possible speed,” Iona replied in a low voice.

  The Duke put his hands on her waist and lifted her on to the saddle. She was conscious of his great strength, of the ease with which he swung her on the horses back as if she in truth weighed no more than the proverbial feather, and then before she had time to do more than steady herself the Duke had sprung into the saddle behind her.

  She felt his left arm go round her and found herself held securely and closely against him, while he gathered up the reins in his right hand.

  The solider let go of the horse’s bridle and at a sharp trot they rode from the yard. The soldiers who were on sentry duty or wandering around with little to occupy them stared with curious eyes but did nothing to delay their departure.

  Outside the Fort the stallion moved forward with a quicker gait. Instinctively Iona put out her hand and found herself laying it on the Duke’s shoulder just below his neck. His arm tightened about her and she was cradled against him, her head pillowed against his broad chest. There was a faint fragrance about his riding coat, a perfume to which she could not put a name but it had the sweetness of the heather-laden wind blowing over the moors. She fancied she could hear the beating of his heart, and her own began to thump madly. There was an ecstasy in this close proximity, a joy beyond anything she had ever known before.

  Iona shut her eyes. If only, she thought, she need never open them again and the future could hold only this wonderful contentment at finding herself in the Duke’s arms and knowing that for the moment at any rate his strength and protection afforded her a harbour of security.

  Never, she thought to herself, had she known such happiness as this. Then with a sudden pang of misery she remembered that it must end.

  She opened her eyes to glance upwards at the Duke’s face. He was staring ahead, his chin square and set, his expression stem, his lips pressed together in a firm line.

  A tiny sigh escaped Iona and he must have heard it, for swiftly he looked down at her cradled against him.

  “You are uncomfortable?” he questioned.

  “No indeed, Your G
race,” Iona replied, and the Duke urged the stallion forward.

  They were climbing uphill all the way, riding along the familiar road that led to the castle. But before they reached the summit, the Duke turned along a bridle track and after a little while, when the village of Fort Augustus was out of sight he reined in the stallion to a standstill.

  The moon was rising and it had not come to its fullness but beneath the great stretch of open sky Iona could see the Duke’s face clearly as he looked down at her. But his eyes were dark and fathomless, and she was uncertain what expression they held in their steel-grey depths.

  The Duke stared at her. His eyes seemed to be searching the exquisite oval of her face, lingering on the sensitive curve of her parted lips and on the red curls pressed forward in sweet confusion beneath the fur that edged her hood.

  Suddenly Iona felt a shyness which swept her long dark lashes against her cheeks, and then, compelled by a wordless command, she raised them again, her eyes meeting the Duke’s and being held compellingly while something within her trembled with a strange, unaccountable sweetness. For a long, long moment they looked at one another and Iona became aware that her whole body was quivering within his hold.

  At last the Duke spoke, his voice very low and deep.

  “And now, m’eudail, we can talk together”

  To cover her embarrassment, both afraid and ashamed that he might notice it, Iona replied,

  “What does that mean, that word you have just used?”

  “It is Gaelic,” he replied. “It means ‘my darling’.”

  For a moment she was utterly still. She was astonished by his reply as if the very stars had fallen from the heavens, then she felt his other arm go round her, knew that he lifted her a little higher against his breast and his lips came down to meet hers.

  The world stood still and Iona was conscious only of a flame rising within her body till it seemed as if it must utterly consume her, the Duke’s mouth on hers was both tender and possessive. It demanded the utter surrender of herself, and yet at the same time he asked rather than compelled her subservience.