The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2)

by Julia Brannan

  I’ve beaten you, you bastard, he shouted in silent triumph to his unknown adversary. She’s mine now, and will never belong to another, while I live. And God help you if I ever find out who you are.

  This surge of fierce possessiveness took him by surprise, accustomed as he was to relieving only his physical need with a woman, before departing cheerfully and forgetfully into the night. The responsibility felt good. It felt terrifying. He curled his arm around her, and she made a small inarticulate sound, before relaxing back into sleep. He would not press her to tell him who the man was. She would, when she was ready. And then he would find him, and kill him.

  She woke in the morning to the dull thud of an axe rhythmically striking wood in the yard below. Voices engaged in friendly banter drifted up, the words muffled by the closed window, the tone unmistakably amicable. Beth smiled lazily, truly happy for the first time in months.

  Alex was still asleep, lying on his side, one arm stretched out across the pillow under her head. Her back was curled into his chest. His other arm rested heavily on her waist. She lifted it gently and turned onto her back, then lowered it back onto her stomach. Turning her head, she watched him for a while as he slept, his face relaxed, mouth curved in a half-smile, long lashes sweeping his cheeks. Asleep he looked younger, and the resemblance to Angus was more pronounced. They had the same eyes, the same high cheekbones, and the same disarming smile.

  She thought again about last night, and smiled. This wonderful, gentle man had laid her worst memories to rest. She would never be haunted by Richard again. If she dreamed of strong hands against her naked flesh in future, the hands would be Alex’s, and the dream would not cause her to wake sweating and shaking with horror as in countless nights before, but at peace and relaxed, as she was now.

  And sore. She had hardly noticed the tearing of her tender flesh the night before, but she did now. And she was thirsty. And it was late; the angle of the sun slanting through the half-open curtains told her that. She shifted position, wincing, and then, turning, started to slide carefully out of bed, so as not to wake him. His arm trailed limply across her stomach for a moment as she moved across the bed, then suddenly wrapped round her waist, halting her progress, and pulling her firmly back against him.

  “Where are you going?” he said, his voice clear, alert. If she resisted, he might let her go. Hmm. She snuggled back into him.

  “I thought you were asleep,” she said. How long had he been awake, aware of her watching him, smiling to herself like an idiot?

  “I was,” he said. “You woke me when you moved.”

  “It’s late,” she said. “We have to get up.”

  “In a minute,” he murmured, his voice drowsy now he knew there was no danger. He always woke clear-headed, ready for instant action if necessary. It was essential for survival. “Five minutes will make no difference. Are ye all right? After last night?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “A bit sore. But you warned me about that. And I daresay it won’t hurt at all in the future.”

  “No’ in the way of last night, no,” he agreed. “But I canna guarantee I’ll always be able to be so gentle as I was last night. I’ll try, mind. But you are verra lovely, mo chridhe, and I’ll confess I nearly lost control more than once.”

  She flipped over to face him.

  “Can I take that as a compliment?” she said, kissing him on the tip of his nose. Something stirred ominously against her thigh. She smiled, delighted that he found her so desirable.

  “Aye, ye can,” he growled. “I’ve changed my mind. Let’s get up. Now. Otherwise we’ll be verra late and you’ll no’ be able to sit down tae breakfast, let alone endure the ride to Dover.”

  He had no wish to turn her slight soreness into a burning agony, which he would not be able to resist doing if she stayed pressed against him any longer. He swung his legs out of bed and got up. Contrary to what she believed, there would be plenty of private moments during the trip to Europe.

  He would make damn certain there were.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Nice, October 1743

  Dear Friends,

  At last I have found the time to write a letter to you, and I am determined I will not allow myself to be distracted until I have told you all my news! I meant to write to you before this, but have really not had a chance. This is because Anthony was most anxious to reach the south of France before the weather becomes too difficult to attempt the sea or alpine crossing to Italy. His intention was to travel with all possible speed to Italy, which we could then explore at some leisure, and to see the sights of France on our return journey. When I pointed out to him that our projected tour is not to exceed some three months or so, in which case a winter crossing of the Alps would be inevitable, returning from Italy to France, he merely stated that one such crossing would be bearable; two would be beyond the ability of mortal man to endure.

  What he had actually said was that traversing the Alps in December would give Beth a taste of winter life in the Highlands of Scotland, as, although the alpine mountains were higher than those of Scotland, the horrendous weather was comparable. Added to that was the fact that the Spanish were currently at war with the Duchy of Savoy, and were occupying the main pass between France and Italy, which ran over Mount Cenis. When Beth asked if a meeting with the Spanish army would give her a taste of Highland warfare, Alex had replied that nothing on earth would prepare her for that, as the Highland charge was both a glorious and unique sight to see.

  The joyous gleam in Alex’s eyes as he had revealed this rendered Beth both curious and apprehensive. She had seen that gleam in both his and his brother’s eyes several times in the weeks they had spent travelling the length of France, usually when they were laughingly describing some highly dangerous and illegal raid they had participated in around the shores of Loch Lomond, in the days before he had become Sir Anthony.

  From what she gathered, the chief purpose of the brother Duncan’s current sojourn in Scotland was to spearhead as many such raids as possible, in order to provide the clan with sufficient food to keep the wolf from the door until spring. The fact that neither Alex nor Angus seemed unduly concerned about their brother’s welfare led her to believe that he was very capable in his profession. Neither would they divulge any details about Duncan’s appearance, saying only that she would see him soon enough for herself. She wondered if he was deformed in some way, although if he was, his infirmity presumably didn’t stop him careering madly round the hills and glens.

  As you will no doubt have gathered from the date of this letter, things have not exactly gone according to plan. The journey to Dover was uneventful, although the quality of the inns along the way gave me a good foretaste of what I was to encounter in France (more of this later). We took the packet to Calais, which Anthony assured me would take between three and five hours to reach, whereas in actual fact we were on ship for over ten hours, tossed about most alarmingly on rough seas. Both Anthony and myself felt a little queasy, but our poor servant Jim was violently sick from the moment he stepped on board, and has vowed that he will either swim back to England or remain in France for the rest of his life, rather than endure such an experience again. We were all most relieved to see the coast of France come into view, but then discovered that due to the rough seas, the ship could not enter the harbour, and we had to be rowed ashore in tiny rowing boats by sailors who charged the exorbitant price of two guineas for doing so. When Anthony engaged in vigorous negotiations to try to reduce this sum, Jim, whose yearly wage is only four times this amount, interrupted to say that he would willingly pay ten guineas if only they would get him ashore without any further delay. He was somewhat impertinent, but Anthony desisted from rebuking him, due to the pity aroused by his sickly green pallor.

  Beth paused for a minute, smiling at the ‘impertinence’ which had taken the form of Angus hissing into his brother’s ear that if he did not stop penny-pinching and get them on dry land within ten minutes, he would personally, and with t
he maximum of pain and blood make a eunuch of the baronet forthwith. The baronet in question, incapable of restraining his merriment at his servant’s plight, had laughed out loud, remembering just in time to affect the high trill of Sir Anthony, at which Angus, hand on knife, had prepared quite seriously to carry out his threat.

  Interposing herself hastily between them, Beth had shrewishly demanded, in a voice that carried across half the ship, to be put ashore now, as she was extremely hungry, and wanted nothing more than to sit down to a good meal of eggs and bacon fried in butter. As she had hoped, this mention of food sent Angus retching weakly over the side of the ship, during which respite from hostilities she rapidly brought the negotiations to a close and was assisted into the rowing boat by her husband before Angus could transfer his murderous intentions to her. That she hated fried eggs was well known to him.

  She imagined the laughter that would resound around the kitchen in Didsbury, were she able to include this anecdote in her letter, and sighed. Whilst she had no qualms about deceiving the English aristocracy as to the identity of her husband, she was far less happy about lying to her friends, although she understood the necessity for it.

  We then had all our baggage searched by the customs men, who would not release our goods until they were in possession of half a crown each. Luckily, Anthony has been in France before, and knew to have our trunks marked with a lead stamp, so that we would not have a similar experience at every garrison town between there and Paris. This did not, however, ensure us a speedy passage through France, as Anthony had hoped.

  We have brought our own carriage, and decided to go by the post-route, in the hopes that there would be ample fresh horses, and that the roads would be good. We were wrong on both counts; due to the ongoing war, couriers have first claim on the post horses. On several occasions we were delayed by the fact that there were no horses to be had at any price. Add to that that the French roads are in general in no better a state of repair than English ones, coupled with the fact that the French postillion we hired seemed to think it his duty that our carriage achieve a speed of no more than four miles an hour and you will understand why it has taken us a full month to reach Nice! Anthony was beside himself at times, but all his threats and entreaties carried no weight with the postillion, who slouched over the horse in his enormous boots and greasy hat and continued resolutely at walking pace.

  This really had been a problem. On previous trips to the continent, her husband had always travelled as Alex MacGregor, haring across the countryside on the fastest horses he could obtain, sleeping under hedges when necessary, and eating as he rode. The average journey time for Alex from Dover to Paris was three days or less. It had taken Sir Anthony Peters over a week to cover the same distance, and a further three weeks to reach Marseilles. He had to keep up his image, feigning exhaustion at the rigours of travel and accepting invitations to dine with various of his acquaintance along the way, staying sometimes for a couple of days. They had announced to all their intention to bypass Paris and visit it on their return, which was eccentric enough; they could not avoid all the sights along the way without causing comment. So in public Sir Anthony, his wife and footman had pursued their leisurely, powdered, flouncy way through France, and in the uncertain privacy of their rooms in various inns Alex had railed quietly but intensely at the fact that they would not reach Rome before Christmas, at this rate.

  When Beth had asked him what the great hurry was, he had said that he was under an obligation to visit Rome and the Stuarts, and report back to Sir Horace Mann on his findings, but was reluctant to be away from his various enterprises in England for too long. Intercepting her questioning look, he had hurriedly taken her off for an evening stroll through the ancient town of Amiens, pointing out the beauties of the Gothic cathedral, and warning her in his piping voice to be careful that the glories of the churches in France did not mislead her as to the iniquities of the Catholic faith practised within. This, as intended, had elicited approving smiles from the group of English tourists they had been passing at the time, and Sir Anthony had continued his pompous expounding all the way down to the banks of the River Somme, where they had managed to find a private spot where there was no danger of them being overheard.

  He had then acquainted her with his visit to the duke of Newcastle and his new role as double agent. Beth had at first been appalled at the added danger this would entail, but Alex, with many disarming smiles and a very persuasive turn of phrase had managed to convince her that it would be lunacy to turn down the God-given opportunity of seriously misleading the rabid anti-Jacobite Mann as to the intentions of the Stuarts. Besides, he found it very amusing that the Hanoverians were covering much of the cost of the trip, and were therefore unknowingly paying for a Jacobite spy to report to his monarch.

  She was well aware that her husband’s powers of persuasion, coupled with her growing affection for him and her inclusion into the bantering, loving relationship he enjoyed with his brother, was clouding her judgement. She was in danger of being persuaded into any venture, because she now felt as relaxed and happy in the company of the MacGregor brothers as she did with the people she was attempting to write to.

  Turning back to her task, she determined not to be distracted again. She must finish this long overdue letter tonight.

  The countryside between Calais and Amiens consists mainly of open country, with many cornfields and some woodland, but further south there are vineyards and occasionally noblemen’s chateaux to be seen, with landscaped gardens. Graeme would not enjoy working here; the French seem inordinately fond of topiary and very rigid neatly trimmed borders and paths. He would be clipping the whole day! At Chantilly we visited the Palace of Condé, where the gardens contrive to be more natural, with woods, fountains and canals. But it is still too formal for my taste.

  We did not spend any time in Paris, and pressed straight on to Chalon, where we took a two day trip down the Saône to Lyons in a large boat holding about fifty people, and towed by two horses. Jim was very apprehensive about leaving dry land, but admitted later that he had not felt the slightest qualm, and indeed, by the amount of mutton he ate at dinner, I have no reason to doubt his assertion. It was a great relief to be away from the jolting of the carriage, and the views as we approached Lyons were breathtaking, mountains covered with chateaux and gardens, and the town itself very grand, with a huge square dominated by a statue of Louis XIV on his horse. We stayed a few days here, as Anthony met yet another friend, Sir William Craddock. My husband has friends everywhere, and it seems that most of them are touring France at the moment! We visited a silk factory, where we watched as some patterned silk cloth was woven. The women seem to merely tangle a pile of coloured threads indiscriminately on a loom, which then moves back and forth, and transforms itself into an intricate pattern. They are very talented. It was really interesting, and Anthony was beside himself with joy, insisting on ordering some lengths of bright purple silk covered with crimson butterflies, which he intends to have made up into a suit at the earliest opportunity.

  It was some relief to discover that Anthony does not intend to battle either with the Alps or the Spanish, and has opted for the safer option of sailing from Nice to Genoa. Yesterday we crossed into Sardinia, arriving in Nice at lunchtime, and hoped to take a felucca immediately to Genoa, as the weather seemed to us quite mild, and the sea relatively calm. However, the sailors have informed us that the weather is far too dangerous to attempt a sailing, to the annoyance of my husband, and the great joy of Jim.

  We have now taken an apartment, as the weather has freshened, and it seems we may be here for some days. The rooms are clean and comfortable; a refreshing change from some of the filthy, vermin-infested hovels we have stayed in en route. After I had been eaten alive for five days, getting no more than an hour of sleep a night, and too busy scratching by day to enjoy the scenery, Anthony purchased some travel mattresses, which you can roll up and secure to the carriage, and I bought a large quantity of lavender oil,
with which I douse the beds each night to deter visitors, and we have slept peacefully ever since. Anthony has also abandoned his horrible violet cologne, thank God, as he says he smells so strongly of lavender from the bed, he has no need to go to the expense of wearing additional perfume.

  Beth paused, setting down her pen and flexing her fingers to ease the incipient writer’s cramp. She stretched her arms, and looked around the green and gold room. Clean and comfortable were hardly fit adjectives to describe her opulent surroundings. They had taken a suite of rooms with fine views across the countryside, with its groves of orange and lemon trees, to the olive-shrouded hills beyond. The apartment consisted of a large sitting room in which Beth, in a loose dressing gown, was now writing, and two bedrooms, the smaller of which Angus had appropriated. Having eased her muscles, and carefully loosened a strand of hair which was pulling at her scalp from the pins which held her elaborate confection of a hairstyle in place, she dipped her pen again. Lord Basingstoke, who had taken a house in Nice for the summer, had invited them to a ball that evening. They had to leave in less than an hour, and she wanted to finish this letter and dress before then.

  The rooms are all green and gold. In fact, there is a little too much gold for my liking. It does look pleasant now as I sit here at dusk writing by candlelight, which mutes the glare of the gold. In daylight, with the sun streaming in at the windows, it can be dazzling, to say the least! As we arrived only yesterday, and spent today visiting several of Anthony’s friends, we have as yet had no time to explore the town and I will have to describe that in my next letter. However, from the ramparts the streets appear narrow, and the buildings are of stone, many of the windows fitted with waxed paper instead of glass. As I write to you, Anthony is standing on the balcony, watching night descend over the mountains. The sea air is very clean and refreshing.