Finally, last to be announced, Lord North himself entered to the call of trumpets.
Selena had never seen him before, and had not known what to expect. A prime minister of England, certainly, would be a man of great dignity and presence. But she was surprised to see a tired, dyspeptic-looking man shamble to the dais, his little eyes tough and shrewd under the powdered wig. There was considerable applause and, looking around, Selena saw one man clapping harder than most. She shuddered with recognition and a terrible foreboding. The thin, cruel mouth and hooked nose, the gloomy, saturnine, unyielding expression…Darius McGrover.
Her father was speaking to Brian and Sean. The applause was dying, and she caught a phrase…after the banquet, when the women retire…”
Brian looked stunned, Sean tense.
“What’s going on after…?” she started, but felt her father’s hand on her arm, saw the warning glance, and she felt a shrinking inside her body. Agreeing to marry Sean would solve nothing anymore.
“Come now,” her father said, “we must eat.” And there was something almost premonitory in his concern. “And,” he cautioned Brian, who had been known to empty many a bottle of wine, “when the stomach is drunk, so is the head.”
Selena knew it then, for certain. Something was going to happen, but whatever it was, she could not know it yet. She ate. There was no lack of food.
First, there was a rich lamb soup, spiced with Spanish pepper and served with white bread, fluffy as clouds and on which wedges of golden butter melted. Then fillet of salmon, basted in sauce, and surrounded by parsley, watercress, and slices of lemon brought from the Mediterranean during the summer and stored in special icehouses. Next, upon a bed of brown rice, there were hundreds of tiny birds, each one of them stuffed with raisins and sugar, glistening with sweet gravy. Finally, tender lamb, marbled beef, succulent pork, and rivers of wine.
The atmosphere was merry, even ribald, when Lord North rose to speak. He spoke well, but Selena did not like the self-satisfied manner with which he said “um, um,” at the end of every couple of sentences, as if congratulating himself. After speaking of the glory that had come to Scotland since the Act of Union, glory which would never have been attained without the masterly guidance of London, he seemed to reach his main point: “The situation in the Empire is, by and large, peaceful and prosperous. We are having, as you may have heard, a little trouble from bands of the rabble in the American colonies, but a whiff of grapeshot or a taste of the lash ought to cure that soon enough. Um, um. We shall resolve to tax them in accordance with their natural wealth, treat them as grown members of the Empire rather than seditious children. Um, um. But have no fear, for they will do their duty in the end.” Here he paused and brought his hand down heavily upon the table. “Rebellion and treason will never be tolerated anywhere in the Empire. Wherever treason raises its ugly head, we shall sever that head from the vile body upon which it feeds, that both head and body succumb to law, to order, to the grace of our beloved King.”
Once again, the crowd rose to its feet, applauding, but the sound seemed empty to Selena, lusterless, bereft of happy emotion.
When the speech ended, with the guests and dignitaries rising, her father tensed. “Go directly to the ladies’ afterdinner chamber,” he told her harshly. “Don’t wait to be shown there. Forget about protocol. When you reach it, you will find, just to the left, behind the tapestries, a door. Inside there will be a small parlor. Go inside and do exactly, exactly, as you are told. Do you understand?”
There was no questioning his tone. She started toward the door, then glanced back at Sean and Brian. They were both gone. She stole one last look, too, at the head table. Royce Campbell was out of sight in the crowd, but she saw Veronica Blakemore listening to, and displaying her charms for, Lord North. The contrast was galling: Selena was in danger, on the run, and that cold Jamaican beauty let her tongue run over her lips, laughed, and bent forward to give the lecherous old Briton just a little peek.
No time for thinking about that now. Someday I’ll wipe that smirk off her face, Selena thought angrily, then she was out in the corridors of Edinburgh Castle again.
A few maids, busy with trays and tea, looked up as Selena entered, then returned to their work. Quickly, just as she’d been instructed, Selena hurried across the room and opened the small door next to the tapestry that portrayed the battles of Robert the Bruce. Inside, two candles flickered on a polished table. She saw nothing else. Then a strong arm seized her from behind, a hard hand closed over her mouth. Too surprised even to try a scream, she tried to struggle.
“Easy, Selena,” a voice said, holding her firmly without hurting her. She could not believe it. The voice was Royce Campbell’s.
“Quiet now. I’m going to take my hand away. You’ll be calm?”
She nodded, and he released her. She turned and saw him there, the candles outlining the planes of his face. Her mind whirled, overcome by too many impulses and impressions.
“Here. Out on this balcony,” he commanded, and for just the shred of an ecstatic second she thought they were going to relive last year, that she would have another chance, but then the part of herself that reasoned logically, and that she counted on to keep her from doing yet another foolish thing, said, No, Father told you to come here. Royce Campbell took her by the hand and swung aside the doors. Out on the balcony it was very dark. They were in the wing of the castle set back, away from the city. It would ensure privacy, but was very cold. From his pocket, Royce took a cloth of white silk, waved it several times over the side of the balcony, then waited a moment. Horses’ hooves glinted on the stones below, and in a moment the knotted edge of a stout rope snaked over the railing. He grabbed it and secured it to a stone pillar, his hands flashing deftly with his seaman’s skill.
“Get behind me,” he ordered quietly. “Put your arms around my neck.”
“What for? Why are we…?” Now she was no longer certain that Royce Campbell meant her well. Perhaps her father had been tricked in some way, or…
“Do as I say. It’s your neck if you don’t.”
Numbly, she obeyed, and he climbed over the railing and then the two of them were out over emptiness. Selena clung to him desperately. Royce slid down the rope and came to rest on the cobblestones. Two black horses stamped there, tossing their heads skittishly. A rider sat upon one of the horses, in black cape and hood.
“All’s well, Sir Royce?” A man’s voice.
“’Tis wi’ the wench, here. I do na ken aboot t’others.”
She had not heard him speak with the common accent before, and it surprised her.
“Why are we doing this?” she asked. Too loudly, because Royce immediately grabbed her and clapped a hand over her mouth.
“Easy,” he said. “Nothing’s happening except that I’m giving McGrover a bit of a run tonight. There now,” he said, releasing her. “Mind you, beware.”
“Royce, we’d best be off,” urged the horseman.
“Aye, Gil,” he said to the rider, then, very quickly, he embraced Selena, a true embrace that put her protectively inside his arms, his great strength. Just as suddenly, he released her.
“Ye may understand someday,” he said, with a kind of wry tenderness. “Now, get aboard.” With that, he boosted her up and onto the saddle of the second horse.
“When…when will we meet again?” she managed to whisper.
“Soon, if all goes well.”
“Until that time.”
“Sir Royce!” the man urged.
“Aye, you go.” Then, to Selena, “You mayn’t like it much when I see you next, as it will be beyond your ken. Prepare for that.”
She reached out and tried to find his hand in the darkness, but failed.
“Ye’re a good man, Gil. Now do yer best an’ we’ll see ye at t’ ship, if we’ve the luck.”
“My vow,” Gil responded, and already his hand was on the bridle of Selena’s horse, turning it down a long stone ramp that led away from Edinburg
h Castle.
“An’ you, milady. Do na call back a farewell. Nary a word out o’ ye, do ya ken?”
It was too dark to see her nod in dull acquiescence, but he took the silence for assent. The horses were moving slowly, picking their way carefully over the rough stones. Dazed, Selena turned to look back at the castle. Royce Campbell was climbing back up to the balcony. She saw the flash of his white shirt cuffs as he went hand over hand up the rope. The door swung open for an instant. She saw the warm flicker of candlelight for an instant, like the last warm spark of a lost hearth. Then the door closed.
“Where are you taking me?” she asked, after they had ridden awhile.
“Shut yer mouth,” came the coarse reply. So she did. They rode steadily through the darkness and Gil handed her a heavy horse blanket against the cold. The smell was overpowering—liniment, leather, and sweat—and the harsh fabric scraped her skin as the horse moved, but she was glad of the protection. After a time they left the sleeping city behind and she sensed Gil relax a little. Now, with the sense of urgency somewhat dispelled, with the heavy blanket around her and the powerful warmth of the horse between her thighs, she tried again.
“Please, could you tell me…?”
He grunted, cutting her off. Then after a minute: “We’ve ’ad a bit o’ luck. I ’ope ’tis the same wi’ t’others.”
“What others?”
He drew his horse next to hers, and snorted in surprise. “The Rob Roys, milady. I thought ye knew.”
“Are you one of them?”
“Ye’re damn right, pardonin’ my speech. An’ by dawn it may be that I’ll be one o’ t’ few. McGrover, the bloody skull, was set t’ get the lot o’ us. Ye’re t’ be thankin’ God an’ yer father fer gettin’ ye out lak they did.”
“But wasn’t that Royce Campbell who got me out?”
Gil snorted and said yes.
“But…but McGrover can’t do this. Lord North can’t do this. We’re MacPhersons! My father…”
She could not go on. Tears welled up in her eyes, and her throat was dry and burning. She slumped a little in the saddle, and Gil, gentle for the first time, took her reins and led the horses into a slightly protected grove beneath gray, stripped trees.
“Now, girl,” he tried, “got t’ face it. Ye’re father’s as fine a man as Scotland e’er knew, but they’ve branded ’im a traitor now, an’ ’tis the daughter of a traitor that ye be. Ye’ve just begun t’ run now, an’ the way lies long ahead o’ ye. There’s no man got out o’ the castle this eve who knows where ’e’s t’ wind up, but there’s no man who got out who’d druther be in the dungeon wi’ the likes o’ Darius McGrover a’beatin’ on his manhood wi’ a wooden club…”
For the first time, she thought of Sean Bloodwell. Tonight their engagement was to have been announced, her future sealed, her life determined. Fate had prevented it, true, but as an alternative fate had left her adrift, with no perceptible anchor to reach for.
“Do you know if Sean Bloodwell was a Rob Roy?”
Gil shook his head. “But won’t be doin’ ’im much good, lest he convinces McGrover. ’E was too close to you Mac…” Gil changed his mind and said instead: “… too close to some o’ the Rob Roys.”
Selena was silent.
“Let’s go,” Gil said at last. “’Tis many a mile to Portobello.”
Portobello? she wondered. That was east of Edinburgh, along the coast. Wouldn’t it be better to flee north, into the Highlands?
Hours later Gil reined in along the side of the roadway, passed down a steep, icy ditch, and called to her to follow. They rode slowly down a long, rocky inclination, and in the distance she heard the booming of the surf. She guessed that it was about three or four o’clock in the morning. Nothing was visible save the great irregular shapes of rocks along the coastline, outlined in the eerie light of roiling water. Wind burned along the shore, biting deeply into horses and riders, so that even the blanket offered little protection now. Then there was a break in the rocks, and through it a small cove. She saw a wooden boathouse, light shining through chinks in the rough planking. And on the lee side of the building stood several winded horses, heads down, sides heaving. Gil helped her from the horse and she staggered on stiff, unsteady legs to the boathouse door. The door slammed open in the wind. There they were, her father and Brian huddled around a small fire.
“Selena! Thank God!” cried her father, embracing her. Brian’s face was contorted, half smiling, half crying. Danger had drained it of rage. Gil drew the door shut and made for the fire. “Thank God,” her father said again, holding her close.
Her body, her very spirit, sagged, begged for rest now, after the ordeal of the midnight ride. The knowledge that they had come safely this far, but that they must go much farther, with no end in sight, crashed down upon her like a wave of pure sorrow, but she realized that to accept defeat would be defeat. Then the thought came to her: There is no defeat unless you believe it.
“I won’t believe it,” she whispered fiercely.
“What?” her father asked. His face was haggard. She’d never seen him so discouraged. Even Brian looked different, as if robbed of a portion of his manhood.
“I said we’re not finished,” Selena declared. “I said we’re not beaten. We’re the MacPhersons, after all.”
The ratty boathouse, the cold swirling outside, the fatigue of being hunted: these things contradicted her. Yet she spoke with a fire, a spirit, that made them all feel a little better.
“That ye be, darlin’,” Gil said. “Ye’re a MacPherson, all right.” They all sat down around the fire, and drank some’ whiskey and ate some black bread and cheese that Gil produced from a knapsack.
“It was a good stroke, anyway,” Lord Seamus said. “This coming here to Portobello. He’d heard that McGrover expected those of us who got away to flee immediately to the north. Not go east of Edinburgh, as we have. Otherwise, we’d have been trapped on the outskirts of the city. Now, if the boat can only get in close enough to shore in this heavy sea, he’ll be able to take us across the Firth.”
“He?” Selena asked, barely daring to believe.
“Royce Campbell,” Brian muttered, his face expressionless.
“See! You were wrong about him, weren’t you?” Selena exclaimed, triumphant. Royce had said that, next time they met, she might not understand things, but this rescue was simple enough to accept.
“Selena, there have been—” her father began, but from far away out over the water came the sound of a hollow booming, just as the first dull light of dawn passed through the chinks in the planking of the shack.
“That’ll be the signal cannon aboard the Highlander,” Gil said, leaping to his feet. He raced out the door and clambered up on the rocks at the edge of the water. Then he yanked his hat off and waved it vigorously.
“’E’s ’ere,” he cried, his voice exuberant in spite of the frigid night. “’Tis Campbell. An’ ’e made it, just lak ’e said.”
How could there have been any doubt? Selena thought and she felt a chill rush through her body that had nothing whatever to do with the cold.
“’Tis the Highlander, all right,” Gil affirmed, coming down from the rocks.
“I’ll say one thing about that damn Campbell,” Brian groused, “when you buy him he’s as good as his word.”
“Anybody else could na ’ave brung the ship in ’ere in seas lak this!” Gil declared admiringly. “Why, ’ere’s na a man else ’o’d a done it.”
He needed to say no more. They all peered into the early morning mist and there, out over the breakers, the mighty ship came into view. Only a few of its countless sails were unfurled, just enough for a shrewd sailor to bring the vessel in close to the shore. The Highlander looked black and enormous out there on the empty sea, powerful and premonitory, like the strange, portentous vehicles that appear sometimes in dreams. Slowly, it swung to starboard, and they were faced with three long rows of black cannon, tiers of weaponry unmatched by any king’s
navy in the world. Dimly, Selena thought she was beginning to understand Royce Campbell and his ways. To have such power might make a man different, even if he were not a Campbell to begin with.
Now they could see a small dinghy being lowered into the sea from the Highlander’s main deck. The small craft bobbed helplessly for a moment, then began to move toward the shore, and in a few more minutes they saw cowled sailors bending to the oars. The boat rose on the high riders, then dropped between troughs, and rose again, the bent men working feverishly. In close now, oars were feathered and the craft skimmed in on the rock-strewn shore, making an angry, grating sound.
“Lord MacPherson?” asked a man who seemed to be in charge. He had a dark, brindly beard, and the savage, intimidating look of a brawler.
Lord Seamus nodded.
“Lieutenant Fligh, sir. Lord Campbell’s second in command. ’Tis a privilege to meet you, sir. Long live Scotland.”
“Let us hope,” Lord Seamus said, and they climbed into the small boat.
“Gil,” he ordered, turning, “you make your way back to Edinburgh and contact Sean Bloodwell, if you can. Tell him where we’ll be.”
“Bend to it, men,” shouted Lieutenant Fligh, above the sound of the surf, and he pushed the boat off as the men dipped oars against the swell. The boat escaped the pounding ribbon of water along the shore, then skimmed out into a gentler area of rolling swells. Selena watched the Highlander, which seemed farther away now, and tried to see if • she could spot Royce on the deck. Many men were there, waiting for the dinghy’s return, but try as she might, she was unable to pick him out. Then she felt uncomfortable, glanced quickly around, and saw Fligh’s hard eyes on her. The horse blanket, which she still had wrapped around her, was little help against the cold of the wind and sea, but she pulled it tighter to shut out his eyes. He saw her do so, and his gaze moved lazily from her breasts up to her eyes. He smiled, utterly without warmth, and looked her over slowly once more before he got back to business. She was grateful for the blanket, at least. Beneath it was only the gown she had worn for the ball on the night now ended, low-cut, pale ivory in color, with a silver sash that ran beneath her breasts. The gown was already ruined from the night’s ride, and now she realized that, except for the horse blanket, it was all she had for clothes. She felt terribly sad for a moment—all those beautiful gowns, made especially for the holidays—but then the dinghy came up next to the Highlander, and Royce Campbell, elegant and unperturbed in his captain’s greatcoat, stood above them on deck, his feet braced against the ocean’s roll.
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