by Anne Greene
Megan pushed her hand through the crook of Cailin’s arm, and they huddled together against the unseasonably cool wind as they walked. She glanced around.
Cailin followed Megan’s gaze and saw no servant, no member of the family, nor any of the remaining guests in sight. Apparently this was Megan’s plan.
“Brody and I ventured out last night and rescued a number of other wounded warriors from the cave where they all hid from the English soldiers tracking them down to kill them.”
Cailin sucked in a breath.
They passed through the portcullis and walked down the faint path that led to the broch.
“Don’t worry. We weren’t seen. We hid the men inside the broch for now, until they recover from their wounds, and then Brody can whisk them to a safer place.”
Cailin planted her boots on the grass. “But it is dangerous for our family to harbor wanted men.”
“Those men are Brody’s close friends. I can’t stand by and let the redcoats find and hang them. Besides, they are badly wounded. They would die if we left them inside that cave.”
“But—”
“Of course, it is dangerous. But Aunty Moira, Fiona, and several of the servants are caring for them.”
“But—”
Megan thrust a chilled finger against Cailin’s lips. “I am well aware of all the buts! This is something we must do. Papa turns a blind eye, though I am certain he knows the men are hidden inside the broch.”
“If Papa knows, then—”
“He does.” Megan gave a saucy smile. “Aunty Moira has taken a fancy to one of them.”
Cailin’s thoughts scrambled. If Papa and Aunty Moira thought their giving a safe haven to wounded Highlanders acceptable, perhaps Brody and Megan were not so addled as they appeared.
She gazed across the cloud-shadowed moor to the three-story round building no longer protected by crumbling rock walls, but tucked against a hill, and barely discernible to a gaze not searching for the ancient fortress. Gaping holes punctured the sagging brick walls, giving the impression the building verged on collapse.
“You condone Fiona nursing wounded men?”
“She’s nursed her brothers for years, and she’s acquainted with the men. They were all neighbors in the Highlands. And they are her brother’s best friends.”
“But she’s a young lady.”
Megan grinned. “Yes, and very mature for her age.” She put a hand on Cailin’s arm. “We should not go to the broch. I think it best that the fewer people who visit the better. There might be an English soldier lurking about, and we don’t want to raise his suspicions.” She turned to face the distant castle. “Let’s go back inside. I just wanted to tell you without any listening ears. One of our English guests might hurry to tell the Duke of Cumberland. Then where would we all land?”
“Inside the Tower of London.” Cailin shuddered and started walking home. “My family is all insane,” she muttered.
****
Barely two weeks had passed since Megan told Cailin of the wounded men hiding inside their broch.
No redcoats had set foot on their land.
“Come up into the attic with me, Cailin,” Aunty Moira urged, tying an apron over her navy day dress.
Cailin knotted the bow on her own apron, and followed her Aunt’s clattering footsteps up the wooden stairs.
“Aunty Moira, why did you lure me into the attic? I know this searching for an old painting of Mums is a pretense.” Cailin dropped to her knees to kneel beside her aunt in front of a dusty chest.
Aunty unfastened the hinge and lifted the lid.
Cailin sneezed.
Aunty put her warm hand over Cailin’s. “I’m in love.”
Cailin’s mouth dropped. “With one of the English gentry?”
Aunty’s cheeks were stained a pretty pink, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “His name is Ian MacDonald. He is one of the men Brody rescued, and he is recovering from his wounds inside the broch. I have been nursing him, and we have fallen in love.”
For a few seconds Cailin couldn’t speak. Then she managed to whisper, “I…I’m so very happy for you.”
“I knew God gave me His blessing when I caught your bridal bouquet. I had only to wait and see who He brought into my life.” Her face glowed. “Ian is one of the finest men I have ever met.”
Cailin gathered her wits. “But he has a price on his head.”
Aunty sighed. “Yes. God does not make life easy for His children.”
“What will you do?”
“I would love for you to attend our wedding.”
How could she throw cold water on her aunt’s beautiful dream? She couldn’t. “But, how will you manage?”
“Brody is passing as a Lowland Scot. With the right clothes, so can Ian. And your Mums promised to handle your Papa. She said I should move out of my rooms into an apartment on the third floor where Ian and I shall have privacy.”
Her smile was the happiest Cailin had ever seen.
“And Ian will stay out of sight.”
When had Mums become so tolerant? Of course, her mother wanted her youngest sister to be happy. But marriage to another Highlander? Cailin’s stomach fluttered. Dear Aunty Moira certainly would have no other opportunity to wed. Perhaps she was right to grasp what happiness she could find.
War changed life so drastically. For everyone. Long erected barriers fell. Society’s taboos changed. Perhaps these were the only good results of war.
She leaned over and hugged Aunty Moira. “I love you, and I will so enjoy your wedding. When will you marry?”
“Today. I have but to change my frock. We are meeting Pastor Fergus in our own little chapel.”
“Oh my. Oh my. Oh my. Why so quickly?”
“Ian and I do not know if soldiers will continue to search for him. Or if he will be detected as a Highlander. And neither of us is growing any younger.” Aunty Moira’s broad smile belied her age. She looked no older than a young girl being presented to the Queen. And her lovely gray eyes danced.
Cailin dropped the lid of the chest, creating a cloud of dust. Both sneezed. “Let us hurry. I cannot wait to meet my new uncle.”
Their high-heeled boots clattered on the wooden steps, and then on marble as they sped, each to her room.
“Jenny!”Cailin called.
The rusty-haired Irish maid seemed already to know how the wind blew, and she had Cailin’s pink silk dinner gown spread on the massive bed.
The wedding was lovely. Sunlight glowed through the stained glass windows of the small chapel, bringing peace and joy with its soft rays.
Because Ian was a hunted man, he and Aunty Moira simply clasped hands in the outdated Scottish way and pledged their vows in front of a beaming Pastor Fergus.
And she, Mums, and Megan witnessed their troth.
****
Cailin’s mind drifted like a wisp of smoke, uncertain she had really awakened. She turned on her side in the luxurious bed, and cupped her cheek in her hand. Her dream had recalled Aunty Moira’s and Ian’s sweet expressions as they had gazed into each other’s eyes during their wedding.
She sat bolt upright in the huge, empty bed staring into the darkness. “Aunty Moira and Ian are so very happy that their happiness wraps around each person near them. Their love is palpable.” A sigh worked up from the depths of her chest. “Why cannot I find that happiness?” She caressed the empty sheet where Avondale should be lying. “Love is not just what one feels, it is how one acts,” she whispered. “We’ve been married over three months, and I still know so very little of you, my husband.”
Fumbling noises emerged from their small drawing room. The normally open door was shut, and candlelight gleamed above the threshold. Bumping sounded as though someone dragged a huge chest across the floor.
Oh, Father, not again. Please, not again.
Something crashed to the floor.
She slid out of bed and cringed as her bare feet landed on cold granite. She pulled on her dressing g
own, and the cool fabric against her bare skin drove away the last vestiges of sleep.
Tiptoeing to the door, she placed her hand on the latch, and then hesitated. She wasn’t afraid.
Avondale had never hurtfully laid a hand on her, but occasionally during the last few days his eyes had looked so wild she scarcely recognized him. Caught between his distance and his wildness, he seemed to be two men.
She folded her arms gently across her stomach. Now she had the baby to think of.
In the adjoining room, Avondale’s voice reverberated around the walls. His footsteps paced the length of the chamber and back. He stumbled, and she heard the thud of flesh against iron. A shiver crept up her spine.
Love meant taking care of the loved one. Love decreed taking action when her husband needed her. Love entailed more than feeling warm and cherished. Love gave. And gave. And kept on giving. Even when the giver had no idea how to help.
She pressed her ear against the sitting room door. Silence. Certainly Avondale needed her. She pushed down on the hard iron latch and shoved. The inlaid door opened barely an inch.
The stench of something burning bit into her nostrils.
She shoved her shoulder against the door, but it budged only a few more inches. She squeezed through.
By the light of the silver moon beaming through the many half-curtained windows, she saw her husband sprawled across the Turkish carpet, his head next to the enormous fireplace and irons. An overturned candle burned into the thick fibers of the red carpet not inches from his limp hand.
She rushed to his side, dropped to her knees, and smothered a velvet pillow over the spreading flame. The odor of scorch billowed up with a sooty cloud of smoke, but the fire died.
“Avondale, Geoffrey, speak to me.” She shook his inert shoulder.
Where was the promise of all that strength? He looked so helpless. His jacket was hanging open, his clothes rumpled.
He stirred and turned a lax face in her direction. Opening one dark eye he drawled, “I’m in a bit of a fuzz.” He put a hand to his forehead. “But I see you are the sprite who brings the breath of angel wings.” He grimaced. “Guardian angel. Dash it all. Keep out that bully. Lock the doors against him. He and his horsemen. They’re after me.”
She turned away, unable to bear seeing the fright distorting his face. What did he think he saw?
She glanced around the room. Avondale had blocked the door to the hall with his huge clothing press. He had moved the fainting couch to obstruct the door to their bedchamber. She’d only just been able to force her way inside.
She touched his high, intelligent forehead. Her fingers discovered a large bump growing thicker.
Grabbing her hand, he shakily pulled himself into a sitting position, wound his arms around her, and buried his head in her bosom. For the time being he was quiet.
She must get him into their bed and perhaps give him a small dose of laudanum.
When he woke, mayhap he would have forgotten his nightmare and would become his sweet, gentle self…or the haughty, cold shadow of himself.
She shivered.
Either way, she must help him find refuge from his demons. How did he cope during the day when he disappeared? Did his duties worry him so that he went a little wild at night?
As if Avondale was a small, frightened child, she kissed the angry knot on his forehead and held him against her breast and rocked him, humming a soothing tune.
For a few minutes he was quiet.
Then he freed himself and jumped up. “Billy the Butcher! Look out the window! I’m certain he’s arrived. Twas only a matter of time.” His normally pleasing baritone voice sounded high-pitched…and fearful.
Avondale paced the large chamber, running his strong fingers through his brown hair and leaving the thick mass standing on end. His elegant breeches wore patches of mud, and his waistcoat was half unbuttoned. Limping on one stockinged foot, and one boot, her handsome husband looked wild-eyed and totally unlike his usual debonair self.
Throwing the half-opened curtains all the way back, he pressed his nose to the glass, and then stalked from window to window. The candle sconces lighting the walls wavered, dimmed, and almost blew out from his momentum.
“Avondale, whatever is the matter?” Following him, she gazed out the window he had just left. Nothing to see outside or down below, but empty walks and driving rain. “I’m certain no one has arrived. Neither the dogs nor the servants announced visitors.” She put a hand on his arm. “Please calm down. No one is anywhere nearby.”
“Yes, yes. He’s outside. See the blood dripping from his hands. He’s calling me. Don’t… don’t let him inside.” His brown eyes looked dark and glazed, and Avondale stared through her.
She grasped his strong shoulders. “There’s no one outside, my darling.”
She must discover what haunted him. She’d heard of men returned from battle who suffered still from what they’d experienced. And certainly Avondale looked like a man who’d experienced horror. Had he fought at Culloden?
She took her husband’s clenched hand, but he pulled free and again paced from window to window, staring out of each one.
“Listen! Listen! Can’t you hear Bloody Billy calling me?” He cupped a hand over his ear.
She held her breath and listened. The wind howled almost like an angry voice. She pressed her ear to the thick window glass, but only the hissing sleet driving against the unyielding stones of the castle reached her ears. “There’s no one there. It’s all right. No one is outside.”
Lurching from side to side, her husband continued to pace, his single boot thudding on the thick carpet.
Doors creaked open in the upstairs hall.
She could imagine guests, nightcaps askew, peeking out.
Again she tried to calm him. “Come to bed, my dearest.”
He shook off her hand and strode to the doorway to the hall. “He shall not get you. You must hide. I shall lead him away.” Shoving aside the heavy furniture as if each piece was a toy, he flung the door open, clattered out, sped down the long hall, and took the stairs at a run. Soon, the back castle door slammed open and shut.
She rushed to the window. He dashed through the downpour and slopped through puddles on the path to the stables. Would he injure himself? Already his soaked jacket and bedraggled shirt clung to his body.
Soon a horse galloped out the stable door. Avondale rode bareback in a line to the open moor, his wet clothes clinging to his body. He would catch his death of consumption.
Someone coughed behind her.
She turned. “Hennings?”
Avondale’s muscular valet stood just inside the open door.
She pulled her robe closed. Her hand trembled. “Please send someone to fetch His Grace back to the castle.”
“Yes, Milady.” Hennings backed out the door. “I shall go myself.” He rushed down the hall, his nightclothes flapping about his bare ankles.
She followed.
Heads were indeed peeking from bedchamber doors.
“I’m so sorry, we awakened you. Everything is fine. His Grace had to see to an emergency. Please go return to your beds.”
Yawns, nods, and a few curious looks met her gaze. Then one by one, each returned to his room and closed his door.
Mums bustled down the hall. “Is everything well?”
“I don’t know.” She tried to smile.
Mums looked so worried.
“However, I believe I shall entail Rafe to accompany Avondale, should he be called out again in the middle of the night.”
“Rafe?”
“The brawny Scot who shoes the horses.”
“Whatever for?”
“To keep my dear husband safe.”
Mums eyes widened. Her mouth thinned. “To be his guard, you mean.” She frowned. “Isn’t his valet enough?”
So Mums had not missed Avondale’s valet’s real mission. How many others understood as well? If only the too long lingering wedding guests would return
to court or to their own homes. Perhaps they enjoyed the Scottish country air more than the more polluted atmosphere of London. Certainly the hunting here was superior to that in England.
Or perhaps Mums’s fine cook kept them too happy.
And Papa would never be rude to such high born gentry by asking them when they planned to return to their homes.
Cailin shook her head. “Apparently Avondale’s valet sleeps at night. I must see that Rafe does not.”
“Oh my dear, whatever can be wrong with His Grace?” Tears glistened in Mums aqua eyes.
“I wish I knew. I’ll call for his royal mother. Perhaps she’ll know what to do.”
“Oh, heavens.”
“I wouldn’t send for her if I was not just a bit desperate.” Cailin bit her lip.
9
Cailin watched Avondale stir, open his dark chocolate eyes, and stretch. Her heart ached at the loving expression in their warm depth.
“Ah, my dearest wife. I’ve just enjoyed the soundest sleep. I say, what time is it?”
“Almost daylight. Are you still feeling ill?”
“Ill?” Avondale’s face puckered into a puzzled expression. “I’m quite refreshed.” He opened his arms, and smiled. “Come in to bed, dear Cailin.”
She hesitated. Did he have no memory of last night? Had the laudanum his valet administered after Avondale entered the castle following his wild midnight ride erased the terror from her husband’s mind? What awful nightmare haunted him? Who was Billy the Butcher? If she questioned Avondale, would she cause him to slip into another spell? She must be cautious with what she said.
“I sent word to Stirling to invite your royal mother to visit us again.”
“Smashing. But whatever for?” He patted the silk sheets lying smoothly next to him. “Come to me.”
“I…I thought she might like to be among the first to know that we are expecting a baby.” She could not bring herself to tell him the real reason she’d summoned his mother.
His eyes widened and sparkled. A huge boyish grin transformed his handsome face. His broad, bare shoulders straightened. “Fine! Fine!” He caressed her arm. “And how are you feeling?”