Dreamer (Highland Treasure Trilogy) (2 page)

“And the cattle?”

“They took a half dozen of the new
blacks and turned out the rest, before setting the place afire.”

“But what of Wat and his kin?”

“Trussed up like hogs, m’lord. But unhurt. His oldest lad’s below, if you want to talk to him. The barn is ashes, he says, and
Wat’s set out after them.”

“Saddle my horse, and gather the
men.” Outside the window, the rain had turned into a downpour. The steward
disappeared down the corridor.

“John,” the dowager called as he
turned his grim visage toward her. “It’ll be a dark and rainy night, and
they’ve half a day’s start on you, at least.”

“Aye, but Wat’s after them now, and
they have to travel the same as we do.”

“But you know these mountains hold
a thousand hiding places for these brazen thieves.”

He took a step restlessly toward
the open door. “Aye, and I know most of them, Mother.”

The woman began to cough again,
holding up her hand for him to wait. “Let them have the cattle, John,” she said
finally. “Go and meet your bride.”

Athol stared at her with scarcely concealed
disbelief. “I’ve always respected you as the woman who brought me into this
world. But you know that as earl of these lands, I take no direction from
anyone--especially not from--”

“Not from your mother? From a
woman?” The dowager let out a labored breath. “Well, ‘tis pleasant to know that
you at least have enough respect for me on my deathbed to grant me leave to
remain your mother.”

“I
have
to go, m’lady.”

She raised a trembling hand in the
air. “Wait, John. This may be the last...the last...we meet. You are my only
son...”

The set of his firm jaw bespoke his
will. She knew that no matter what affection he held for her, his people’s
needs would always drive his actions. “Please wait. Hear me. I know what lies
behind the actions of this Adam of the Glen.”

Athol’s eyes narrowed, and the old
woman knew she had bought another moment. He stepped toward the bed.

“How do you know anything about
him? And how do you even know his name?”

“Even if my servants failed to keep
me informed, I would know.” She turned her pained gaze from Athol’s face and
stared at the dark ceiling above the window. “I know for a fact what he wants,
for I have known him since he was a bairn.”

Athol loomed over her in an
instant. “No matter how hard I’ve tried, we’ve failed in every attempt to find
the hiding place of the bastard. I’ve questioned every man and woman from here
to Elgin. Not one of them has known a thing about this son of Satan. Not where
he came from or why he suddenly has decided make a hell of the lives of my people.
And now my own mother tells me that she’s known this man all along!” He took
her hand firmly in his. “Very well, Mother. What is it that you know?”

Lady Anne Stewart’s other hand
reached over and gripped her son’s arm. “Listen to me, John, and do what I say.
On the grave of your father, I tell you he would be giving you the same advice
if he were still alive...in spite of the wreckage that Adam has caused.”

“Speak, Mother.”

The dowager knew her son was a man
feared by many, particularly when his people’s welfare was at stake. Now,
feeling his gray eyes boring into hers, feeling the bridled power of the
fingers wrapped around hers, she knew why.

“No matter where you look for the
man, he is certain to escape you. He knows these lands as well as you, John. And he knows your own people better than you would ever imagine.”

“Aye, he knows what to steal from
them.” 

“All the same. I’m telling you the
truth.” Her grip tightened on his wrist. “And no matter what you do, he’ll
continue with this destruction. Adam of the Glen will become bolder with every
passing day. ‘Tis no wonder that you feel him lurking around you.  He won’t
give up...not until...”

A violent fit of coughing again
left her gasping for breath for a few moments. Athol wrapped an arm around her
shoulder and raised her higher in the bed. She shook her head at his offer of a
cup.

“Nay. There...there will be no
rest...no peace until you’re wed. Not until the news of a bairn to succeed you
spreads through your lands.”

Athol stared down at her. “I do not
understand this. I still...”

“Adam believes he has the right to
live off your wealth.” Her fingers trembled as they tightened on his arm. “The
bastard son of a whore he might be, John Stewart, but what you do not know is
that Adam of the Glen is your brother.”

Catherine Percy listened to the
tinkling laughter of the woman riding behind her.

Ellen Crawford was young, clever,
and certainly beautiful. And she was apparently to be the wife of John Stewart,
earl of Athol. By chance, the two traveling parties had met just north of Stirling Castle, and Catherine had been delighted to be able to travel into the wilds of the Highlands in the company of another woman--especially one who had traveled this route
before.

 Glancing back in the direction of
her traveling companion, Catherine wondered to what extent she could seek the
assistance of the future countess of Athol. Or for that matter, how much she
could reveal to her.

Certainly, Catherine thought, she
was no longer in any immediate danger of being captured by the treacherous
Deputy Lieutenant.  And her sisters, too, were well on their way to safety. Any day now, Laura should be arriving at the Church of St. Duthac, on the eastern sea, and
Adrianne, the youngest, was probably already settled in on an island called Bharra in the Western Isles. 

But still, in order to start the
school that Catherine had dreamed of for so long, she would need the assistance
of people like the earl of Athol and this future bride of his. Indeed, she knew
she would need their strong and open support before any of the locals would
trust a half-English spinster enough to share in what she had to offer. 

Looking about her, Catherine
glanced at the unfamiliar faces of the travelers. Strangers, every one. Even
after months of hiding, she still could not get accustomed to this constant
dependence on others. She wondered if she could ever come to accept that she no
longer had a home to call her own--no longer had a homeland to think about with
pride.

Catherine sighed. She and her
sisters were exiles. Since their father’s death, they--like their mother--had
been pursued and hunted across the windswept moors of Yorkshire, northward into
the hills and river valleys of Northumberland, and finally into Scotland. And all because of the family’s refusal to take King Henry’s Oath of Supremacy. To accept the
king as the head of the church.

Of course, she admitted silently,
there was a lot more to it than that.

But so be it, Catherine thought
stubbornly. Fate had taken them to this new land. To these rugged Highlands that their mother had long ago called home.

Shaking herself from her reverie,
Catherine reminded herself that the time for grieving was long behind her. She
had to look ahead and think of what must be done. Heaven had placed Ellen
Crawford in her company, and it would be foolish to waste the opportunity of
talking to her about the school and recruiting the future countess in her
cause.

Determined on her course of action,
she turned in her saddle and scanned the faces of the travelers who followed
them on this long journey. She pulled her cloak around her as a breeze sprang
up from the west. The sun had been fairly warm most of the day, but now had
disappeared behind a bank of dark clouds moving in from the west.

Not seeing Ellen, her brow
furrowed. As usual, Catherine decided she must have been woolgathering and had
missed Ellen somehow.

The warriors at the head of the
long column of travelers were just starting down the craggy, heather-covered
ridge they’d been crossing for the past hour. Beneath them, in a valley
surrounded by steep rocky hills, Catherine could see a loch--its dark silver
waters as smooth as a looking glass--reflecting the jumble of clouds that where
quickly converging on the weary travelers. 

Catherine searched the passing
faces for any signs of the young woman. Having no luck there, she looked
instead for David Hume, the leader of her own warriors. From what she
remembered, the last time she’d seen Ellen Crawford, the young bride had been
in deep discussion with him.

As the last of the packhorses
carrying Ellen’s trunks, and last of the travelers trailed by her, three of the
kilted warriors who were accompanying Ellen stopped in response to her question
about their lady’s whereabouts.

With a sidelong smirk at his two
companions, one of the three scratched his bearded chin before answering.
“Sometimes Mistress Ellen simply needs to stretch her legs, mistress. If ye get
my meaning.”

“Of course. You mean she’s walking
her horse,” Catherine replied. “And since I cannot find David Hume, my man must
have stayed behind with her.”

“Aye, m’lady.” She watched him
throw another knowing look at his fellows. “Though I should think Mistress
Ellen’s surely riding by now.”

Frowning at the snickers coming
from the two warriors, Catherine nodded curtly and pulled her mare’s head
around, coaxing her along the path after the other travelers.

“What odd manners these Highlanders
have,” she whispered into the mare’s ear, a bit disconcerted at the conclusions
the men had drawn over what was certainly an innocent stop.  

They were nearly halfway down the
steep, winding path before Catherine saw that Ellen Crawford and David Hume had
once again joined the line of travelers. Looking up the hill at the young
woman, she could see that Ellen’s cheeks were flushed and her clothes somewhat
disheveled.

“‘Tis no business of yours judging
the affairs of others,” she murmured, turning her gaze back to the trail. She
herself had consciously chosen her studies over such behavior in her younger
years, but how Ellen Crawford chose to live her life had nothing to do with
her. Odd though, she thought, for a woman about to be married.

By the time the path widened enough to travel more than single file, the travelers had entered a thickly
forested glen at the base of the ridge. Then the sky opened, and the rain,
coming in on a gust of wind, prevented Catherine from discussing anything with
Ellen Crawford. The rain was still falling hard when, an hour later, she
spotted with weary relief the cone-topped towers of the hunting lodge at
Corgarff. This, she knew, was one of the earl of Athol’s hunting lodges. Less
than a day’s ride remained to Balvenie Castle.

As they rode under the pointed arch
and into the small courtyard of the tower house, the servants of the lodge
bustled about the arriving throng, leading them into a well lit Great Hall, and
laying before them a sumptuous dinner. Catherine, weary from the weeks of
travel, did her best to play the role of agreeable foil to Ellen Crawford’s
youthful gaiety, but halfway through the dinner, she excused herself.

Up the winding stone steps, she was
led to the Ladies’ Chamber, a small and quaint combination of bedchamber and
sitting room, and she eyed with longing the comfortable looking bed.

She hung her heavy cloak on a hook
by the little fire. Placing her leather satchel on a three-legged chair, she
noted with curiosity the three doors to the chamber. Aside from the door she
had entered from the main corridor--where she had seen the traveling gear of a
number of their traveling escort--there was a door at each end of the room.
Opening one, she peered into the Master’s bedchamber. She knew that Ellen would
be sleeping there tonight, and she stared for a moment at the huge
damask-curtained bed that nearly filled one side of the lavishly furnished
chamber.

Backing out and closing the door
quietly, Catherine crossed her bedchamber to the other door. Moving through a
small anteroom where she could see the wet gear of at least one of the
warriors, she opened another door onto a landing and looked down a narrow coil
of stairs. Cautiously, she descended halfway down the stone steps before the
smell of the food and the noise of revelry assured her that she had little to
fear regarding accommodations while under the earl’s roof.

A few moments later, as she lay her
head down on the bed, Catherine was only vaguely aware of the rain outside her
window and the crackling hiss of the water dripping onto the fire.

And then, in the space of a moment,
her dreams overtook her with the suddenness of a Yorkshire mist.

They had already arrested their
father, and now they were coming after them! There were soldiers crowding the
courtyard. The pound of horses’ hooves, the shouts of men, the chaos of a
castle under siege.

Catherine could hear the urgent
cries of her mother, pleading with them to make haste into the fields, to hide
themselves in a haycock. To remain unseen. To be silent!

She could feel the fear
clutching at her throat. She could not cry.  She could not allow her sisters to
sense her fear. Adrianne’s hands were cold, tugging at her arm. Together, they
pushed into the piled hay.

She stretched a hand out toward
Laura, but her sister was not there. She’d been right behind her when they’d
fled the house. Laura! Where was Laura?

A hand clamped onto her arm,
holding her back. Nay, she could not let them take her. Laura!

“
Laura
!” Catherine sat
upright in the bed and looked wildly at the figure retreating a step from the
bed.

“‘Tis I, Catherine. ‘Tis Ellen!”

It took her a long moment before
she could pull herself from the shadows of the recurring nightmare. She felt
her heart pounding ferociously at the walls of her chest, the sweat beading and
dripping along the line of her jaw. “What...what is it?”