One Man's Love (13 page)

“Yes,” she replied quickly.

“Then I would be a fool not to claim myself a MacRae,” he said.

“Miss?” Donald stood at the doorway of the chamber, looking out toward the archway.

“A minute, Donald, please,” she called out, then turned to the Raven. “Take care. There is a regiment of soldiers not far from here.”

“I understood they were on patrol,” he said.

“Most of them, but not everyone, and there are lookouts everywhere.”

“Is he one of them?” he asked, looking at Donald standing in the archway, illuminated by the faint light of the candles.

“My jailer,” she admitted. “The colonel left him behind.”

“Then it’s you who should take care,” he said.

“Let me help you,” she said, surprising herself with the request and the sudden elation that filled her at the prospect. “You want to save the MacRaes and
so do I. There must be something I can do.”

“This is no adventure, Leitis. It is dangerous and if you’re captured by the English they will not be kind simply because you are a woman.”

“They have not been kind now,” she said, tilting her chin up at him. “Or do you think I’m here willingly?”

“There are those who say the colonel is captivated by you. That he is acting in a way unlike himself. You are safer here than in harm’s way.”

Her thoughts about the colonel were her own and not to be shared with anyone, even if he was a MacRae.

“I did not have your protection in this last year, Raven,” she said quietly, “when we nearly starved. We were rousted from our beds at night and made to assemble in a circle in the middle of the village in our nightclothes. We women didn’t know if we were to be raped or left to freeze, and the men were powerless to defend us. Our cattle were slaughtered in front of us, not because the English were hungry but so that we could not eat. But you were never there.”

“All the more reason,” he said, his voice low, “to guard you now.”

“No,” she said, quietly assertive. “It’s not. I can survive, Raven; I’ve proven that.”

“I don’t wish anything to happen to you, Leitis,” he said softly.

“Then you should turn back time itself,” she said gently. “Because it has.”

A moment passed and then another. “Are you faint of heart?” he asked in the silence. “Afraid of horses or shadows or the wind blowing through your hair?”

She smiled, an expression of ridicule for his questions, even as she felt a surge of excitement. She
walked closer to where he stood. “I will be exceptionally brave,” she promised him. “But any MacRae is.”

“Even the women?”

“Especially the women,” she answered. “We have more cause.”

“Then meet me here,” he said. “Tomorrow, just before sunset.”

She stepped away from him, moved toward the open arch. It was lighter here, gray where the shadows of the priory were ebony. He didn’t follow her. Instead, he was rooted to the spot, shielded by darkness.

“Can you lose your jailer? I’ve no wish to have the English following us.”

“I will,” she promised. How, she didn’t know, but she would find a way.

She turned, peering into the shadows, but the Raven had vanished like steam in the wind.

“Miss?” Donald’s voice again, closer now, calling her to captivity.

“I’m coming,” she said, and reluctantly left the priory.

Alec stood in the darkness and watched her. She squared her shoulders, tilted her chin up, and resolutely returned to the laird’s chamber. Her form was only a soft shadow. But his mind made her hair the shade of autumn leaves and her face a soft ivory. And in her lovely eyes he saw the sincerity of pain and the courage she’d forged from grief.

He walked slowly across the floor of the priory until he stood next to the opening of the staircase, removing the stone and then lowering himself to the first step.

His plans would have to be reevaluated. It was all too obvious that he couldn’t use the staircase as a way
to enter and leave Fort William now. The chances of being seen by Leitis were too great.

Perhaps it would be better if he sent her back to the village. But it would attract attention if he did so without also seeking out Hamish. The old man would be found, and when he was, Alec would be forced to execute him. Stubborn, yes; irritating in his hatred, yes again; but Hamish’s acts did not deserve hanging.

It was, perhaps, foolish to allow Leitis to assist him. Yet he knew what it was like to stand and watch as atrocities occurred and be powerless to prevent them. He would have to plan for more safeguards, be even more circumspect. In addition, he would have to speak to Donald, and ensure that his aide was missing when Leitis left and returned. Not a difficult task, since Alec trusted him with the truth.

But above all, Leitis must not be harmed.

There were no inns to speak of in this stark and wild country, a fact that Patricia Landers, Countess of Sherbourne, had learned to accept.

The journey had been difficult. They’d broken two wheels, the second requiring that they seek out a smithy. Storms had accompanied them from England as if to chase them home.

But through it all, David had remained excited and childlike. A blessing, perhaps, to have his nature.

“Will we get there soon?” he asked, his smile broadening as he stared out at the wild and inhospitable countryside.

Brandidge Hall was in Surrey, a land of gently rolling hills that undulated from horizon to horizon. A familiar and soft beauty against the pale blue English sky. As if nature had created the scene so as not to offend the eye.

Here in Scotland, everything was harsh. The sun
sets were garish and bold, as if insisting upon attention. Even the eagles that soared from the stark hills greeted the world with a more raucous cry.

“Soon enough,” she said, forcing a smile to her face. Any destination would be acceptable. She felt as if she were permanently affixed to the coach seat.

“Will he remember me?” An expression of worry flitted over David’s face and she hurried to reassure him.

“Of course he will,” she said fondly. “You’re his brother.”

The coachman was making their camp on the side of the road. She had chosen to sleep in the carriage rather than beneath a tree. There were no insects on the narrow bench seat, no buzzing bugs, curious frogs, and small, slithering creatures that so captivated David.

She leaned forward and straightened David’s stock, pushed his hair behind his ears. David rarely noticed his own appearance. He enjoyed the company of kittens and cats, could stare for hours at the paintings in Brandidge Hall, and was fascinated with every creeping, crawling thing that God had unfortunately created.

In addition, he was agreeably entranced with the scenery they passed day after endless day. It was the same stark sky, ringed about with harsh mountains and green hills. It rarely changed, except to rain upon them or send the glaring sun to heat the interior of the coach.

She admonished herself for her own thoughts. It would do no good to complain. It would not ease the journey, nor make it more quickly done.

“I’ll tell him about my cat, shall I?” David asked, stepping down from the carriage. Ralph hunkered down in her basket, ears flattened, her yellow eyes
merely slits. She doubted that Alec would want to hear much about the feline, but Patricia nodded to his question anyway.

Most of David’s conversation centered on topics that might be suitable to the new Earl of Sherbourne. She didn’t know what kind of person Alec had grown to be. A kind one, she hoped, glancing at her son. He stood with Ralph’s basket tucked against his chest, transfixed by the site of the campsite and the brightly blazing fire the coachman had just lit. His eyes were open and kind and eternally trusting.

Please don’t let him be hurt.
A prayer she’d uttered numerous times a day, ever since it was obvious that David could not protect himself.

Ralph made a snarling sound and Patricia suddenly smiled, thinking that she and the cat shared the same feeling about Scotland.

L
eitis waited impatiently until the day passed and she could meet the Raven in the priory. The room was clean, scrubbed until it nearly gleamed. If she had been at home, she would have been occupied with a hundred chores and wondering when she’d have the time to finish all of them. Weeding her small garden, searching for berries and wild onions, caring for her one cow, or washing, taking pride in the way her clothes always looked fresh and clean.

Her cottage was gone, her cow slaughtered by the English, and her only clothing this poor excuse for a dress. She smiled at herself. Here she was, about to be a rebel, and she was concerned with her attire.

She would not, however, as much as she joked
about it, offer to mend the garments of the English. Therefore, the inactivity made time pass more slowly.

She should give more thought to Donald. How could she rid herself of him? Claim a female complaint? If he was like her brothers, that would speed him from the room, but he would, no doubt, continue to guard the door. State that she was ill and worried that it might be contagious? She doubted he would believe her. Challenge him to another of his games and hope she won? Too uncertain. She could just as well lose. The afternoon passed, each moment ticking by so slowly that it nearly made her daft, and yet she was no closer to an answer.

She opened the door when Donald knocked, moved aside for him to place the evening meal on the table. One thing she could not fault about her imprisonment: She certainly ate well.

She smiled and thanked him, still no closer to an idea how to banish him and resigning herself to being a prisoner again tonight.

“I need to see to the colonel’s clothing, miss,” he said, fumbling over the words. “I’ve other chores that I’ve been neglecting as well. I can summon another guard, or extract your promise.”

“Which is?” she asked cautiously.

“Not to escape,” he said earnestly.

She nodded and smiled. She didn’t doubt the Butcher’s threat to find and hang Hamish if she escaped. But he’d said nothing of being rebellious.

As soon as Donald left the room, she moved to the door and pressed her ear against it. His footsteps faded as he walked through the archway and into the courtyard. Slowly, she opened the door, slipped outside, and ran to the priory.

The storm had passed them the night before, and
the late afternoon was streaked with purple clouds heralding fair weather.

She stood in the priory, holding her hands tight in front of her in an effort to slow her breathing. Her heart beat so loudly it echoed like thunder.

All her fears and anxiety and anticipation and excitement made the blood rush fast through her body. Was this how a man felt before he went into battle? Knowing that he faced danger and fearing it so much that his knees wobbled?

She heard a sound and turned, a welcoming smile on her face. But it wasn’t him, only the brush of something against the floor. A rodent, or an insect, or even the wind swirling through the debris on the floor. She waited for what felt like an eternity, each moment ticking by with increasing slowness, as if giving her time to realize what she was about to do.

The English could capture her. That would be fearsome enough, but what would happen to Hamish? Was she endangering him by her actions?

A strange sound of brick rubbing against brick made her turn her head. She followed the noise, creeping across the rubble-strewn floor of the priory like one of the mice that lived at Gilmuir now.

She halted, startled, as a stone began to move beneath her feet. Quickly she stepped back. It moved again, then was replaced by a head, then a torso, as a body emerged from the floor.

A cloud of black appeared. A ghost? She took one more step back before realizing that he wasn’t a spirit after all, but a man. A man garbed in black, a mask obscuring half his face. She had named him aptly, then. The Raven.

He bent down, placed the stone back into position, then straightened slowly.

“I’m not to know who you are, then?”

He turned toward the sound of her voice. “The mask is for your protection,” he said easily. “If you are questioned by the English, you can honestly say that you have never seen me.”

“I would say that regardless,” she promised.

“And I would keep you safe,” he countered. “Do not question me on this,” he said softly but resolutely.

She nodded, suspecting that if she did not agree, he would leave without her.

“Did you make me wait on purpose?” she asked. “To make me realize what I was doing?”

“Was it a successful ploy?”

“Nearly,” she admitted. “I don’t like being afraid.”

“No one does,” he said calmly. “The trick is to hide it well enough that no one realizes what you’re feeling.”

“What is this place?” she asked, stepping closer to the spot where he’d emerged from the stone floor. “A hidden room?”

“A staircase,” he answered. “One of the secrets of Gilmuir.”

Her head whipped up and she stared at him. “Secrets?”

“Like myself, perhaps,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Are you prepared to learn secrets, Leitis?”

It was a dare he offered her. She smiled and nodded.

“Then promise,” he said, “that you’ll never tell what I’m about to show you.”

She frowned at him. “I promise,” she said, wondering exactly what he wished of her.

He turned and looked back toward the archway. “Is your jailer waiting for you?”

“Not tonight,” she said. “Perhaps I should be grateful that the Butcher is such a taskmaster.”

He said nothing, only knelt and held out his gloved hand to her. The sunlight streamed in through the arches, creating patterns of light and shadow on the far wall. He was part of these; a man who promised to reveal secrets yet remained encased in his own. His eyes, dark and solemn, measured her. His hand did not waver, remaining in the air between them.

Once again, he reminded her of someone, the memory disturbing in a way she could not understand. Pushing aside that thought, Leitis walked toward him.

“You’re trembling,” he said after she’d placed her hand in his. “It is not too late to change your mind,” he said softly.

“I will not be faint of heart,” she said, smiling.

He released her hand, swung his legs over the side, before bracing his forearms on either side of the opening. “It’s dark,” he warned, “and not pleasant-smelling.”

“Neither of which bothers me,” she said, kneeling on the stone floor.

He descended into the darkness, with her following slowly. After she’d found the first step, he brushed by her, reaching up to slide the stones back into place.

Her breath hitched as he bent his head, his lips close to her ear. “Forgive me,” he said, and she had the oddest feeling that it was for more than this unintentional closeness that he asked her pardon.

She nodded, but he didn’t move away. The darkness was absolute, the sensation of being so near to him unnerving. Once again he reminded her of someone.

“What is it, Leitis?”

“Nothing,” she said, telling herself that she was foolish to think such a thing.

“Don’t be afraid of me, Leitis,” he said, his voice low, the Gaelic of it a treat to her ears. Forbidden or not, the villagers spoke it together. But she’d been alone these past days, cut off from those she knew well, a captive in an English world.

“I’m not,” she said, but her voice quavered.

He hesitated for a moment, then moved away and began to descend the steps.

“It’s helpful if you put both hands on either side of you,” he said quietly as if the moment had not just occurred. “The walls are slippery, but a handhold is better than falling.”

She followed him, stretching out both arms and touching her fingers to the walls, discovering that he was correct. The walls were moist, what she hoped was only lichen growing on their surfaces. An unpleasant experience, going down the staircase.

“Does this go on for much farther?” she asked after several moments.

“Not much more now,” he said.

“It would be helpful to have a lantern,” she suggested.

“No,” he said, his voice amused, “it wouldn’t. I doubt you would want to see what you’re touching.”

She jerked back her hands and frowned at him. A wasted gesture, since they couldn’t see each other. For the remainder of the descent, however, she kept her hands at her sides and carefully away from the walls.

“Have you taken these stairs often?” she asked.

“Not often,” he said, and didn’t speak further. Evidently he wasn’t going to say more than that.

“How did you discover it?”

“Two friends showed me,” he said.

“Do you object to my questions?” she asked. “Is that why you never answer them?”

“Have you always been this inquisitive?” he countered.

“Yes,” she said honestly.

“You must have been a trial to your parents.”

“It was my brothers who were that,” she admitted. “Although I had my share of adventures.”

“Is that why you’re here, Leitis? For an adventure?”

“Yes,” she said, the truth surprising her. “And to be a rebel for an hour or two.”

“To discover what it’s like?”

His perception startled her. “I’ve often wondered,” she confessed. “My brothers and I were close. But as we grew up, we grew apart. They became men, and began to live a life different from mine.”

“In what way?” he asked. She could tell from his voice that he’d stopped. Waiting for her answer?

“I was expected to marry, to raise my children, and to occupy myself in those duties that fall to women. James and Fergus were simply themselves. They hunted as they always had, and fished as they always had, and swam in the loch and behaved like idiots from time to time. Boys, still, but grown.”

“While you were expected to become a woman?” he asked.

“There were compensations to my role,” she admitted. “They were the ones who marched off to war, and paid the price for it while I remained safe at home.”

The darkness was oddly intimate. She’d not meant to tell him those things.

“We’re almost there. Hold out your hand,” he said. She placed a hand in his and felt his gloved fingers curve around hers. He pulled her toward him and she
went unprotesting. Perhaps she was bemused by the darkness or by the fact that she felt as if she knew him.

Two more steps downward, and suddenly they were in a small cave illuminated faintly by sunlight. Shadows flickered on the walls as she turned in a slow circle, enchanted by the paintings above her.

“Another secret?” she asked.

“Have you never heard the story of Ionis?”

She shook her head.

“I’ll tell it to you the way I heard it,” he said. “Once, in a faraway time, there was a man by the name of Ionis. He was greatly revered for his devoutness and love of God. But the devil stepped in and lured him away from sanctity and into sin.”

He smiled at her, a strangely boyish expression for a man attired in a mask.

“A woman, of course,” she said, understanding.

“When is it not?” he asked. She frowned at him and he held up his hand as if to ward her off. “But God,” he continued, “missed the piety of Ionis. One day Ionis’s love sickened and died and he was inconsolable.”

“Why are all our tales so dour?” she asked.

He shrugged. “But the angels pitied Ionis and petitioned God to forgive him. God agreed, with one condition. Ionis could be reunited with his love for all eternity, but only after the course of his natural life ended. Until then, Ionis would have only one love, that of God. So he came here and became a hermit, his life spent in contemplation and holy thoughts.”

“Ionis didn’t spend all his time on holy thoughts,” she said wryly.

He smiled. “But he became renowned as a pious man, and the island became a place of pilgrimage. Until, of course,” he added, “the first MacRae settled here.”

She looked at him quizzically. “How do you know that? I’ve lived here all my life and never heard that story.”

“Perhaps my branch of the MacRaes know their history more completely,” he teased.

“What branch is that?” she asked.

He only smiled at her before turning and leaving the cave. She followed him out to the shoreline, frowning in puzzlement at the loch. A ring of tall rocks, arranged in a half circle, stretched before her. She glanced up at Gilmuir, wondering why she’d never seen the cove before, only to realize that the overhang of cliffs hid the fortress from view. She looked from the rocks back to the cliffs, then finally at the Raven.

“It’s a secret cove,” he said, studying her intently.

“Another thing I never knew,” she said in amazement. “But then you promised me secrets.”

“I have more,” he said, smiling again.

He followed a path on the shoreline, one obviously familiar to him. There, in a tiny inlet, was a skiff bobbing in the current. He grabbed the rope, pulling the boat toward him with one hand while he beckoned her with the other. She stepped into the vessel, moved to the seat in the back. He unwound the rope from a boulder, tossed it into the bow.

He picked up the oars and began to row, the paddles slipping into the water without a sound.

“Your identity need not remain secret,” Leitis said. “If you remove your mask and reveal yourself, I promise I will not tell anyone.”

“What you do not know, you cannot tell,” he said infuriatingly.

“So you will not trust me?”

“It is not a matter of trust, but one of protection.”

“And your name? Will you not even tell me that?”

“Raven,” he said, smiling.

He didn’t appear to notice her irritation, only concentrated on their destination, a series of triangular rocks that formed the outer wall of the cove. Glancing up, she finally saw the shadow of Gilmuir high above them.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

He didn’t answer and she felt upbraided by his silence. “Have I been too inquisitive again?” she asked.

He glanced over at her, then away. “I was questioning my own impulse just this moment,” he admitted.

“Have you changed your mind?”

“I should,” he said, “but I haven’t. We’re going to the English encampment.”