One Man's Love (12 page)

“Even if you must kill an old man?”

“Do you think that the only ones affected by war are those who wear a uniform, Leitis?” he asked curtly. “The world is not that easily divided.” He made a slicing motion in the air with one hand. “On that side the battlefield, while here is sanctuary and peace.”

“I know that only too well,” she said bitterly. “And yet you seem to take pride in your position, Colonel. Is there nothing about you that makes you better and more noble? Or are you simply content to kill?”

Instead of answering her, he bowed slightly, forcing a smile to his lips before leaving her.

Her words followed him as he left Gilmuir and crossed to the fort. He nodded as he was greeted, scanning the courtyard with the habit of command even as he climbed the stairs to his quarters.

Entering his room, he removed his coat and hung it on a peg. The jacket, stiff with lining and heavy fabric, was too warm for summer wear.

Walking to the window, he stood staring at the ex
panse of loch before him. This chamber was the only one that boasted a large window. Not necessarily a secure addition to the fort, and one he doubted was in the original architectural plans. But at this moment Alec blessed Sedgewick’s pride of place. He could see a glimmer of Gilmuir from here, and the sight of the old castle connected him in an odd way to Leitis.

She saw him, as most people did, as he had wished to be perceived. A man of single-minded determination whose reputation acted as a barrier to further investigation. His ruse was effective, then. Perhaps too much so.

Is there nothing that makes you better and more noble?
Her question troubled him.

In the past few months he’d discovered that the horror of war didn’t exist solely in battle. Nor did it subsist in the aftermath when women wept and men walked among the carnage to find companions who might be saved. The true horror of war was what it could do to a man’s soul. In Inverness Alec had become adept at recognizing the indifference in the eyes of those men who had learned to kill the wounded, the ill, the imprisoned without a shred of remorse.

He had done what he could in Inverness and must do the same now. Could he ignore the MacRaes any more than Cumberland’s prisoners?

The answer was simple but not easy, if for no other reason than the fact that the logistics would be difficult. Walking to the table aligned against the wall, he pulled out the map of the territory surrounding Gilmuir. By the light of the candles he carefully noted the locations of all the clachans he’d visited today.

He was going to save the MacRaes. Not to be a better man, or more noble, but to aid those people who so desperately needed it. He could not watch wordlessly as old women were left to starve and children grew gaunt and fearful.

Once again he was going to become a traitor.

L
eitis was awakened by the sound of thunder. No, not thunder, she realized groggily, but wagons.

She stood, pulled her dress over her shift, found her hair ribbon, and donned her shoes.

A watery sun lit the clan hall; the archway was shadowed in the faint light. She passed through the shadows into the brighter courtyard, stood staring at the sight before her.

Three rumbling wagons piled high with foodstuffs led the way over the land bridge. Chickens squawked in their cages, boxes and crates and barrels were piled high and tied with rope to secure them.

A column of soldiers followed, crossing to the glen. Leading them was the colonel, his red coat too much color against the blue of a sky barely past dawn. An
other patrol, one more excuse to enforce the English presence on the hapless Scots. Or had he lied and was seeking Hamish again?

He turned his head and stared directly at her as if he’d heard her thoughts. They were too far apart to see each other in detail. But she suspected that on his face was the same studied expression of stillness she’d seen before and in his eyes a watchfulness that no doubt mirrored her own.

What sort of man saves a village and promises death to an old man? Who was he, that he had forced himself upon her yet remembered the loss of her loom? A man of mystery, one who incited both her confusion and curiosity.

A cool morning breeze flattened her skirts against her legs. Grouse, rousted from their nests, flew into the air. An officer called cadence; a horse whinnied in protest at a command from his rider.

But Leitis remained there trapped by his gaze and her own bewilderment. He looked away, giving his horse his head. Horse and rider flew over the land bridge as if they had wings, at one point jumping over the burn that fed into Loch Euliss instead of taking the longer and safer way around.

The MacRaes were the finest riders in Scotland. One of the legends they told was that the first laird had been transformed from a horse for love of a Scottish lass. The Butcher of Inverness could shame them all, she thought, and felt only regret that it should be so.

She turned to find Donald standing there, his face wiped of any expression at all. In his hands he held a tray holding her morning meal and a pitcher filled with water.

“Should I be grateful to be a prisoner?” she asked, annoyed by his reproachful silence. “And never have attempted escape?”

She whirled and walked back into the laird’s chamber, Donald following.

“It’s not much of a prison,” Donald said, glancing around the room. “You’ve got something to eat other than rats, and you have a bed. You’re not naked and cold.”

He indicated the loom with a sharp gesture of his chin. “You’ve got occupations other than counting the days until they come and beat you again.” He smiled, but the expression held no humor. “No, miss, it’s not much of a prison.”

“Did that happen to you?” she asked quietly.

He nodded. “A Jacobite prison, miss. In Inverness.”

She sat abruptly on the chair.

“Did you think it was only a Scots thing, to hate?” He smiled again, the corners of his mouth twisted. “We English have reason enough for it. You Scots are good at being jailers, miss. I’ve the scars on my back to prove it.”

She had never considered the point before, never imagined that there would be English prisoners and Scottish prisons. Innocence or naïveté?

“How did you escape?” she asked hesitantly.

He glanced at her. “I didn’t,” he said. “The war ended and I was released to the colonel’s service again.”

“Is it true what they say about the Butcher? Did he kill all those men in Inverness?”

Donald studied her, his face oddly expressionless. But in his eyes was a flicker of irritation. As the moment lengthened, she realized that it might not have been the wisest thing to reveal her curiosity.

“People will think what they wish, miss, whether or not it’s the truth,” he said finally. But he didn’t elaborate.

“I’m sorry,” she said slowly. “Not for escaping, but for your imprisonment. For the cruelty with which you were treated.”

“I don’t fault you for it, miss. I’ve learned that one person cannot be blamed for the whole of a nation.”

She felt warmth bathe her cheeks at his words. A chastisement subtly and effectively uttered.

He walked to the loom and stood staring down at it. “Can you figure this out?” he asked, glancing over his shoulder at her.

She came to stand beside him. “It’s not that difficult,” she said. “I’d show you if I had some wool.” Her fingers stroked the wood of the warp pegs.

“What would you weave?” he asked.

“Something to remind me of better times,” she said truthfully. “Something bright and cheerful.”

He looked around at the room. “Maybe it’s this place that makes you sad,” he said conversationally. “Some of the men think the castle’s haunted.” He smiled suddenly. “It wouldn’t surprise me if the ghosts here would be pleased at the idea of frightening the English.”

“The English have done their share of inducing fear,” she said quietly.

“There we go again,” he said ruefully, “right back to where we were.”

“I don’t hate you for being English, Donald,” she admitted.

“Nor I, you, for being Scot, miss,” he said, grinning at her.

He left the room, closing the door carefully behind him.

Was this a presage of things to come, she wondered, that the loathing she felt for the English was eased one person at a time?

She walked to the center of the room, wondering how to pass the time. She was unaccustomed to inactivity. There had always been chores to be done in her cottage, work that was magnified by the fact that there was only one set of hands to do it. When there was any free time, she occupied herself with her weaving.

But there was no cottage anymore. No home to return to. She pushed the sadness of that thought away as she looked around her.

Donald was no doubt a better aide than he was a chambermaid. Cobwebs still hung from the corners, and the walls looked as though they could do with a good washing. The paper had originally been gold and ivory but appeared mostly gray now.

Doubling over a length of toweling, she wrapped it around her waist to better protect her only dress and, pouring the last of the water into the basin, began to scrub the walls.

When Donald returned, she asked him for a bucket of hot water and soap. He only frowned in mild censure, but brought it and many more after that. By midafternoon, she’d scrubbed the floor, scraped out the fireplace, and had washed all but one of the walls.

The room looked almost as it had in the old laird’s day. The pale gold pattern on the walls looked fresh; the soft red of the fireplace brick was cleaned of its soot. Even the oak floorboards beneath her feet, old and pocked and squeaking in a few places, gleamed almost proudly.

Looking at this one room, it was almost possible to believe that Gilmuir was intact after all.

“I don’t think the colonel would like it if you wore yourself out, miss,” Donald said, bringing her evening
meal. She glanced over her shoulder, but continued scrubbing the last wall. It was true that she ached in places, but no more discomfort than sitting at a loom for most of the day.

“I cannot bear inactivity,” she said, lowering the cloth. “I’ll be doing your mending next.”

He grinned at her. “I’d be taking you up on that, miss. I’m not a good hand with a needle. Still,” he said, regarding her, “I don’t think he’d want you working so hard.”

“And above all,” she said curtly, “we must keep the colonel pleased.”

His glance was softly chiding.

She washed her hands, pushed back her hair, and sat at the table, truly hungry.

“What do you do when the colonel isn’t around?” she asked, taking a plate from him.

He looked startled at her question. “I brush his uniforms, and polish his boots, tend to his horses.” He hesitated a moment before continuing. “But normally,” he said, “I’m always with him.”

“Do you have no spare time, Donald? No sweetheart to write?”

His cheeks darkened with color as he shook his head. “There are barracks’ occupations, miss, gambling and the like. The colonel has strict rules about it, though, and everyone is careful not to disobey. At least before they know whether or not he’s bluster.”

“I shouldn’t think it would be an easy thing to obey a man like him,” she said.

“You have him all wrong, miss,” he said, then stopped himself.

She eyed him curiously, then concentrated on her meal.

“I’ve a notion on how to spend some time, miss, if you’d like to learn a game.”

“I’m willing to play dice with the devil himself,” she confessed, “if it means having something to do.” And if it kept her from thinking about the Butcher.

He left the room, only to return a few minutes later with a deck of cards and a long, rectangular board. Laying them on the table, he explained the rules of the game. “We usually play for money, but I’m saving mine. We can find something else to wager, if you wish.”

“A walk in the open air,” she said without hesitation.

“I couldn’t do that, miss.”

“A walk in the open air with you guarding me,” she amended. “If I do not leave this room, Donald, I shall scream.”

He looked startled. “You’re only jesting, aren’t you, miss?”

“I’m not,” she said firmly. “I’ll wager you a walk in the glen. If I lose, I’ll shine the Butcher’s boots.”

“I couldn’t, miss,” he said, looking stricken. “The fort is nearly empty, but if word gets back to the colonel, I could lose my position.”

“Is being his aide so important to you?”

“I’d serve Colonel Landers in hell itself, miss. Begging your pardon,” he said.

What kind of man incites such loyalty?
She shook her head, determined to dismiss all thoughts of the Butcher of Inverness.

“Then to the clan hall. And the priory,” she added quickly. “Only there, and no farther.” Just a brush of fresh air across her face and some sight other than these four walls.

“If you promise not to attempt to escape,” he said.

She nodded. Not as much a sacrifice as he would believe. She had no place to go.

“Then a shiny pair of boots against a short walk,” Donald said, and smiled.

She smiled her agreement and they began to play.

A
lec stood looking at Loch Euliss. They were on the eastern side of the lake, and rolling hills obscured the view to Gilmuir. But he glanced toward the old fortress as if he could see the ruined walls.

“You look disapproving, Harrison,” Alec said, turning to his adjutant. The other man glanced quickly at him and then away.

“It is not my place, sir, to approve or disapprove.”

“The right answer,” Alec said wryly, “but I’d rather have the truth at the moment.”

“I think it’s a dangerous thing to do, sir,” Harrison said reluctantly. “Your life could be in jeopardy. Inverness was bad enough, but this is even more dangerous.”

“It’s something I have to do,” Alec said, turning. “But I understand if you don’t wish to help.”

“I do, sir. As does every man from Inverness,” Harrison said loyally. “But I worry about Sedgewick’s men. Armstrong, especially. He seems no more than Sedgewick’s toady.”

“Then I will have to ensure that his suspicions are not aroused,” Alec said, smiling.

He glanced up at the darkening sky. The moon would be nearly full tonight, but he doubted if it would be visible through the oncoming storm. Gray clouds were being chased across the sky by an angry wind. Even the trees rendered it homage as branches shivered beneath the gusts.

“Another storm, Colonel,” Harrison said.

“Scotland is angry at us,” Alec said, a whimsical answer unlike him.

He wore one of his best shirts and tan breeches, both dyed black by Donald, the better to be unseen on this mission of exploration.

Every military exercise must be carefully planned, and this adventure in treason no less so. His original plan was to slip away from the encampment at night in order to aid the Scots. But that strategy was too limiting. He couldn’t be on patrol endlessly. What he needed was a way to enter and leave Fort William without being seen.

It startled him to realize how easily he was becoming one of the Wild MacRaes again. A curious feeling of freedom to experience at that moment.

After all, they could only hang him once.

“If Armstrong wishes to see me,” he said, turning to Harrison, “tell him I’ve left instructions not to be disturbed.”

“Gladly,” Harrison said.

“As far as the others,” Alec added, “I leave it to
your discretion.” Which, as they both knew, meant only the men who’d accompanied him from Inverness.

Ian entered the skiff, sat, and tested the knot of the rope that led to the second boat, both Castleton’s acquisitions. He had been right to put him in charge of the stores for the fort. The young lieutenant was proving to be adept at procurement.

He lit the lantern only once, as he rowed around the sharp outcropping of rock that led to the hidden cove. But he extinguished the light as soon as he found the opening. The fact that he discovered it on his first attempt was, he hoped, an omen for the rest of this night’s investigation.

Beaching the skiff on the rocky shoreline, he untied the second boat and moored it more securely. It was only practical to prepare for any contingency, including a hasty departure from Fort William.

Pebbles crunched beneath his boots as he walked toward the rock face. His memory failed him when it came to finding the cave entrance, before he realized he was using the perspective of a boy of eleven. Consequently, he bent lower, and it was then that he found it. He ducked his head, entered the small opening. Once inside, the ceiling soared and he could stand again. Once more he lit the lantern.

The boy had been fascinated with the colors and the secrecy of this cave, but the man recognized the artist’s love for this woman. It shone through so strongly in these portraits that Alec felt like an intruder.

He left the lantern lit at the base of the stairs and began the long climb up to the priory. It was as if time stood still in the intervening years. The sense of danger, coupled with the strong odor of decay, was the
same. He pushed up on the two stones guarding the entrance and pulled himself free, slipping into the darkness like a shadow.

“You promise you’ll stay within sight, miss?” Donald asked with some degree of trepidation. “And you’ll not try to escape?”

Leitis smiled and nodded, stepping into the clan hall, breathing in the slightly dusty air with a feeling of relief.

They had played Donald’s game so long and with such equal fervor that night had come. Leitis had been graced with luck, winning finally.

If she peered around the archway to her right, she could see a grassy strip of glen and beyond to where the forest began. At night the trees always appeared larger, silhouetted black against a lighter sky.

She glanced over her shoulder. Donald stood behind her at some distance, as if he knew that his presence was intrusive.

The cool mist against her face, the whipping wind, and the sweet smell that presages rain were all promises of the storm to come.

The thunder was louder at Gilmuir, and the lightning more fierce. Perhaps it was because cliffs encircled the castle and the wind blew with more challenge around the headland.

She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, anticipating the storm. She could almost pretend she was a girl racing with her brothers over the green rolling earth of the glen, laughing at the threat of lightning and thunder.

There was another boy in her memory. Ian, that was his name. His visits promised so many indescribable treats. She’d come to expect his arrival over the
years, looked to the heather blooming over the glen and knowing that any day he and his mother would arrive in their fine coach and she would once more be bidden to Gilmuir to be his friend.

She peered through the gloom, but Donald wasn’t there. Instead, the chamber door was open and his shadow flickered on the wall. She smiled, grateful for his understanding and unexpected kindness.

You laugh prettier than any girl I know.
Ian’s words, a confession made in that last year. How strange that the memory should pain her so much. Perhaps it was the realization that he would be her enemy if she met him today. Yet she had said a prayer for one English boy, that he was not involved in the war.

From the shadows Alec watched her as she walked slowly through the priory. The moon was nearly full, lifting the darkness and painting the night with a gray tinge. The storm was moving away, but the hint of it remained in the wild, soughing wind and the taste of rain in the air.

Her head was bent in concentration as she made her way to one of the arches, her arms folded at her waist. A reflective Leitis, a portrait he’d never before seen. What would her eyes reveal, sadness or the barest flicker of anger? Or would there still be a trace of fear in them, hidden well but visible to someone who cared to look deeply enough?

He wanted to speak to her, but there were no words he could say. Reassurance would only be a ploy—he could not guarantee her safety or solace or even that tomorrow would come. Comfort? She would not accept it from him. Companionship? He smiled at his own sophistry.

It disturbed him to watch her stand beneath one of
the arches and stare out to sea. The pose was a lonely one, her air of composure fading, to be replaced by one of sadness.

He stretched out his hand, wanting to place it on her shoulder, hold her hand, touch her in some way. Instead, he remained motionless, a companion of the shadows and his thoughts.

Ever since he’d stepped onto Scottish soil, it had been more and more difficult to forget the years of his youth and the people he’d once loved and admired. But coming to Gilmuir had freed those memories from behind closed and shuttered doors until he was inundated with them.

You’re not such a bad swimmer, for an English boy.

Come on, Ian! We’ll beat Fergus and James together!

I hate Fergus, truly I do.
She’d confided that to him one day, the sound of tears in her voice making him ache in an odd way. He couldn’t remember exactly why she and her brother had argued, but the disagreement was soon resolved.

Leitis. He spoke her name in his mind, and for a moment thought she’d heard. She came toward him, but then stopped and picked up a glittering piece of stone from the floor, examined it, then gently, almost reverently, lay it back where she’d found it.

Slowly she walked to the arch closest to him, standing motionless in the center of it, her head tipped back, eyes closed as if to savor the wind blowing the storm away. She looked, in that instant, like a figurehead, tall and proud with flowing locks of auburn hair.

He saw the movement out of the corner of his eye, glanced up to see a thin shower of mortar dust raining down from the top of the arch. An instant later a fragment fell from the keystone.

He reached Leitis, jerked her out of the way, pushing her against the west wall. Her arms covered her head and he shielded her back as the arch disintegrated.

The floor vibrated beneath their feet. He bent, his face close to hers, their breaths in concert as a cloud of dust whirled around them. The rumbling sound of bricks tumbling to the loch below sounded almost like a growl of protest from the old structure.

When Alec looked up a few moments later, he was surprised to find that the destruction had been limited to one end of the chain of arches. Three brick pillars had crumbled, leaving a jagged hole. The priory had weathered the elements for centuries, only to be weakened by a cannon’s bombardment.

He released her slowly, his withdrawal done in an odd kind of precision. Remove his hand from the brick as her head came up. Stand straight, distancing himself even though he could still feel the curve of her body against his chest. She turned slowly until they stood close enough for him to hear her ragged breathing.

A moment suspended in time, rendered mysterious by the darkness.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his fingers cupping the curve of her shoulders.

“Yes,” she said breathlessly.

“Miss?” Donald called out anxiously.

She moved cautiously away from Alec, away from the shadows and into the gray light. “I’m fine, Donald,” she replied, raising her voice so that she might be heard.

She glanced over at the ruin of the arch. Where she had stood a moment earlier was now covered with broken bricks and stone. “I could have been killed,” she said, dazed.

“Who are you?” she asked, turning to stare at him.

He smiled, thinking that she had cut to the core of it, asking the most difficult question of them all.

It was so dark that she couldn’t see him. But she could still feel the imprint of his hands, the impression of his body as he pressed her against the wall. He’d acted so quickly that she’d no time for fear. Even now she wasn’t afraid as much as surprised.

He didn’t answer her, but something about the way he moved appeared familiar, so much so that she felt her heart leap to her throat.

“Marcus? Is that you?” she asked, and waited, breathless, for his answer.

“No,” he said finally. “I am not him, Leitis,” he said, in perfect Gaelic.

“How do you know my name?”

“There is little that goes on at Gilmuir that I don’t know,” he said.

He slipped into the shadows, his form touched only briefly by moonlight.

“Who are you?” she asked, prudently moving away.

He hesitated for a moment, removed something from his shirt, and extended his hand to her. There on his gloved palm was a MacRae badge. Lit by a beam of moonlight, it appeared shiny and golden.

“It is mine by right of my birth,” he said.

“You’re a MacRae?” she asked incredulously.

“Yes,” he said simply, tucking the badge away.

“There are not many of us left,” she said. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t think you do,” he said somberly, stepping deeper into the shadows.

She looked toward the corners of the room, straining to see him. But there was only the inky darkness.

“Did I imagine you?” she asked.

“I am real enough,” he replied, his voice deep and echoing in the partially roofed structure.

“What is your name?”

“Give me one,” he challenged.

She turned back to look at Donald, but he was still in the chamber. “Shadow,” she suggested.

“It lacks character and sounds too dour,” he said, his tone amused. Her own lips curved into a reluctant smile.

“But why do you wear black?”

“To avoid scrutiny, perhaps,” he offered. “Especially from the English.”

“For what purpose?”

“Are you always filled with questions?” he asked.

“Would you not be, to find a Scot among so many English soldiers?”

“A pigeon among all these cats?” he asked. “Your ability to name me has no poetry, mistress. Are there no heroes you might pull from your memory to call me?”

“Do heroes skulk in the shadows?”

“Those who wish to live another day, perhaps.”

“Raven,” she offered. “Black as night, yet cunning.”

“It has a ring to it,” he said agreeably.

“Why are you here, Raven, in an English stronghold?”

He hesitated, and when he finally spoke, she had the impression it was a reluctant truth he offered her.

“To save the MacRaes,” he said.

“Then, Raven,” she said, smiling, “you are as daft as my uncle, who insists on defying the English single-handedly. What can one man do?”

“The colonel is only one man, Leitis,” he softly said. “As is Cumberland. And the prince.”

Her cheeks warmed at his words, as if he chastised
her. “All of them have followers. And force of arms. Do you?”

“There is only myself,” he said soberly.

“Alone in an English fortress? You’re either a brave or a foolhardy man.”

“Gilmuir is not English,” he said in a clipped tone. “As to being brave or foolhardy, I claim neither.”

“Modest as well,” she said, smiling.

“Miss? It’s time,” Donald called out.

“You’d best leave,” she said to the Raven, unwilling for him to be caught by the earnest sergeant.

“Why do you protect me?” he whispered.

“You’re a MacRae.”

“Are all the MacRaes so virtuous that you can stand in isolation with one and fear nothing?” he asked, his voice once more sounding amused.