Mask of Duplicity (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 1) (2 page)

The young man knew that even though his right hand was still in plain view to anyone who cared to look down, any movement he made at this point would attract the notice of even an untrained eye, so he left it where it was, nestling in a clump of heather. His heart was banging hard against his ribs, but he forced his breathing to slow, his chest hardly moving.

The redcoats were chatting as they approached, clearly in high good humour. There were four, no, five distinct voices. Too many for him to take on, fully armed as they would be, unless he was discovered, in which case he would run, or kill as many as he could before they finished him off.

“Bloody hell, how anyone can live in this godforsaken hole is beyond me,” one man was saying. “The sooner we’re called back to England the better.”

“We’ll be lucky if we’re recalled before spring, now,” came a younger, higher-pitched voice. “We’ll be at Inversnaid till April at least, unless the Frenchies attack.”

“No chance of that, not this year,” replied the first man. They were right next to him now, no more than two feet from where he was lying, and had paused for a moment. Why had they stopped? There was nothing here to divert them; the top of the hill where they were consisted of a fairly level stretch of uninteresting scrub, followed by a reasonably steep descent to the valley below. The hill was not even high enough for there to be an interesting view from the top. Perhaps they had seen him. He felt the adrenaline roar through his blood, listened for the sound of swords being drawn, felt his body tense ready for action.

“There’s still some fun to be had, though,” another voice said. This man was older, with the flat vowels of the northern Englishman. “Less chance of getting the pox than with the city whores, too.” The tone was relaxed. They had still not noticed him, then.

The feet moved closer, a pair of muddy black leather boots coming into the view of the hidden man, whose face was turned slightly to the side.

“I still think we should have buried her, though, afterwards,” said the young soldier.

“Why? Do you think her ghost’ll come back to haunt you?” the older man teased.

“No, course not, it’s just...well, it seemed wrong to just leave her there, for the animals and crows to have a go at.”

“Suffering from a guilty conscience now, are you? Still took your turn, though,” another voice said, laughing. Six of them, then, at least. “I’m sure her husband’ll find her when he gets back from whatever thieving he was up to. He’ll bury her. Save us the trouble.”

“Are you coming, then, or are you staying to admire the scenery all day?” the first man said.

The other voices were receding, but the northerner was still standing next to the prostrate Highlander. He spoke again now.

“No, I need a piss. You go on, I’ll catch up in a minute.” The soldier stepped forward, onto the hidden man’s hand, the heel of his boot grinding into the fingers. The Scot caught his breath, commanded his brain to ignore the excruciating pain, forced his body to remain still. He listened, hard. The other men were moving on, eastwards, their voices growing fainter. In less than a minute they would be negotiating the descent, out of sight of the man now fumbling with his breeches. He was clearly having some trouble. Was he drunk? His voice had been steady enough, but that did not necessarily signify much, if he was a regular tippler.

After a time there came the sound of water pattering on the earth, and then the Scot felt the stream of urine hit his back, soaking warmly through his plaid and shirt, in contrast to the icy water beneath him. He gritted his teeth and counted silently and slowly to thirty. The soldiers’ voices could not be heard at all now. Enough time had passed for them to be well out of sight.

The soldier grunted, and although he could still see no more than the black leather boots, the young man knew the redcoat was shaking the last drops of urine off before tucking himself away. As he started to button his fly, he took a step back, releasing the Highlander’s hand. That was the moment he had been waiting for.

Exploding from the heather and drawing his dirk left-handed as he rose, he drove the razor-sharp blade up under the redcoat’s chin, through his tongue and on into his brain. The force of his attack carried them both over onto the grass and as they hit the ground the Scotsman felt the tip of his dirk strike the inside of the man’s skull. The redcoat, although mortally wounded and unable to cry out for help, was not yet dead and flailed weakly at the attacker now straddling him, his hands pushing against the big man’s chest. The Highlander twisted the blade viciously, watching with satisfaction as the soldier’s eyes widened, then slowly glazed over. Carefully he withdrew the dirk, wiping it on the scarlet coat before sheathing it. He rose to his feet, looking around him, preparing to flee if the others doubled back, but there was no sound other than the wind murmuring gently through the heather and sparse grass. With his foot, he rolled the body roughly into the depression from which he had just so spectacularly materialised, and then cleared his throat, spitting accurately and copiously onto the corpse’s back.

“Ye’ll no’ be murdering any more women, ye bastard,” he said softly.

He examined his injured right hand, watching the scar that bisected the back of it from wrist to knuckle writhe snakelike as he flexed his fingers. Nothing broken, only bruises, although it hurt like hell.

He splashed some mud over the bright coat of the soldier, and then began to move rapidly southward, where his brothers would be waiting for him. In a while the redcoat’s companions would come looking for the northerner no doubt, but the Highlander would be well away by then. His nose wrinkled in disgust at the acrid smell of urine emanating from him. He would rinse his shirt and plaid in the river before rejoining his brothers. He’d never live it down if they found out he’d been pissed on by a redcoat. He grinned to himself, then jogged south across the plateau and down the rocky slope, his long legs eating up the distance effortlessly.

By the time he neared his companions, he’d changed his mind, decided to tell them what had happened after all. He could take a joke, and they needed cheering up. They had no more desire than he did to undertake this new venture. Its failure would result in torture and the worst death imaginable. But its success would result in the freedom, after a hundred and forty years, for his clan to use their own name again, and for him to legally carry the weapon he had just employed so effectively. Their stolen lands would be restored to them, and they would no longer be known as ‘Children of the Mist,’ an appellation that sounded romantic, but was only really another term for outlaw. Yes, the risk was worth taking. Well worth it.

He waved to his brothers as he came in sight of them, and paused for a moment, turning his face westward, towards France and Italy, where lay salvation.

He would come, with an army, when the time was right. Until then, all the Highlander could do was use his particular and remarkable skills to the best effect, and then, once fully prepared, be patient, and wait.

For a man of action, waiting would be the hardest part. The rest would be easy, by comparison. At least, that was what he prayed.

Chapter One

 Didsbury, near Manchester, October 1742

The stables were immaculate. Fresh straw had been laid, and the soiled straw was in a neat pile outside. The two people responsible for this order were now engaged in friendly dispute. The young woman held the bridle of a black mare loosely in one hand, and absently stroked the horse’s long nose with the other. The young man, who was really hardly more than a boy, thin and coltish, but with the promise of bulk to come in his wide shoulders, stood at the stable door, peering up dubiously at the cloud-covered sky with troubled brown eyes.

“I don’t think it’s such a good idea,” he observed sensibly. “It looks like rain.”

The young woman was in no mood to hear sense, however, and letting go of the bridle, moved across to stand beside him in the doorway.

“Nonsense!” she snorted. She had just spent two hours mucking out the stables, and now she wanted a little fun, by way of a reward. “Come on, John, let yourself go for once. It’s not as though there’s anyone here to see, after all.”

There was a fair on in the nearby town of Manchester, and all the servants had been allowed the day off to go to it. Only John, who preferred the company of animals to people, and detested crowds, had opted to stay, along with Beth, who hated dressing formally and relished the rare peace of being alone in the house. She had spent the morning slouching around in a dressing gown reading a book, and then, finally tired of sitting still, had gone to help John at his work.

“Besides,” she added persuasively, “there isn’t another person in the county who can ride as well as you – except for me, of course. Go on, just up to the top field and back. We’ll only be half an hour at the most. It won’t rain in that time.”

“You want to race cross-country? Bareback? No, it’s too dangerous, Beth.”

“Oh, pooh!” she replied. “Riding bareback is more interesting. Besides, by the time we’ve saddled the horses up, it probably
will
be raining. And where’s the fun in racing along the road? And if I’m going to fall off – which I won’t,” she added, blithely tempting fate, “I’d rather do it on soft grass than on the hard roadway. Anyway, there’s more chance of someone seeing us if we’re on the road rather than in the fields.” She impatiently brushed a tendril of yellow hair off her face, tucking it back under her kerchief, and inadvertently leaving a streak of dirt on her forehead, transferred from her none-too-clean hands.

“I don’t know...” John’s voice was still uncertain, but she detected the wavering in it and pounced.

“Very well, if you won’t come with me, I’ll go on my own, although it’ll hardly be a race then.”

That decided him, and two minutes later they galloped out of the yard, Beth astride the black, and John on a chestnut gelding. Once mounted, he lost all his inhibitions, and they charged across the field side by side as though all the devils of hell were after them, their shouts of youthful laughter carried back on the sudden breeze, heavy with the scent of the rain soon to come.

* * *

The man cantered along the lane, turning left into the cobbled driveway and gradually slowing as the house came into view through the trees, until by the time he arrived in front of it his horse was travelling at no more than a sedate walk. He came to a halt and looked up at the house with a mixture of eagerness and apprehension. It was much as he remembered it
;
a compact three-storey red brick Palladian cube, with square-paned sash windows. Two stone columns flanked the front door, which was reached by mounting four stone steps. Although small, it was still impressive, except that now the whole effect was somewhat dilapidated, as if reflecting the gradual decline of its previous owner’s health and fortune. One of the small panes of glass in an upstairs window was broken and had not been replaced, he noticed; instead the hole had been patched with a piece of wood. The green paint on the front door was flaking, as was the cream paint on the window frames, and grass was growing between the cobbles of the drive in places.

The man’s forehead creased with impatience. He had expected that someone would come out immediately to find out who this stranger was, but there was no sign of any interest from the occupants. He was reluctant to dismount at this stage. He knew what a fine figure he cut when mounted and in the splendid uniform of his dragoon regiment. His scarlet coat with its decoration of white lace at lapel, sleeves and pockets was a bright splash of colour against the greys and browns of the dull English day, and his black boots were polished to a mirrored shine below immaculate buff breeches. He was of athletic build, although his legs bowed slightly, and he was only of average height. But these deficiencies were not apparent when he was astride a horse.

“Hallo, the house!” he called, hoping that someone would now appear and call out the rest of the household to view this fine stranger astride the magnificent grey stallion. From his elevated position he could then identify himself as the master of the house, come to claim his inheritance.

No response came from the building.

Surely the whole household could not be out, even if the mistress was not at home? He rode around the side of the house. Perhaps the servants were all at the back. He remembered that the kitchen and laundry were in an annexe built on to the back, and it was possible they had not heard him call out. His attention was caught by the open door of the stable, which was moving slightly in the wind. Surely no one would go out for the day without closing the door behind them? The stable was clean but bare; clearly the mistress was not at home. The man was disappointed at the failure of his plan for a grand entrance. Nevertheless, he would get some satisfaction out of rousing the obviously lazy servants from their stupor, and by the time the lady of the house returned he would be well ensconced in his new position as master.

He had just released his feet from the stirrups, preparing to dismount, when the two riders tore into the yard, the woman slightly ahead of the man, and looking back as she skidded to a halt with a most unfeminine yodel of triumph at her victory. Although John rode in behind her, he was the first to see the stranger, who was now struggling to bring his startled horse under control without the aid of stirrups. By the time he had done, he was incensed.

He glared at the young woman, who was still mounted and was watching him through cornflower-blue eyes whose expression registered a mixture of curiosity and amusement at his undignified efforts. Even through his anger he could not fail to recognise that she was beautiful. His eyes travelled up her body, taking in her small feet, her well-shaped legs, exposed almost to the knee due to her position astride the horse, and her delicate, slender figure. Her kerchief had disappeared somewhere in the fields and her hair hung in untidy straggles around her face, but nevertheless it was the most beautiful shade of pale gold.