One Man's Love (16 page)

“Rebellion is compelling,” she said. “Or should I confess that?”

“Did tonight meet your expectations, then?”

“I admit there were moments when I was terrified,” she said, tipping her head back and studying the sky. Already the eastern horizon was growing light in preparation for dawn.

“But…?”

“I felt powerful,” she said, looking at the approaching shoreline. “As if I had some control over what would happen to me.”

“The definition of freedom,” he said quietly, stowing the oars in the bottom of the boat. “What Scotland has lost.”

She shook her head. “There’s a difference,” she said,
obviously surprising him, “in the freedom of a country and the freedom of one person.”

He studied her intently. “How so?” he finally asked.

“If a man fights for his country’s freedom,” she said, thinking aloud, “it’s for an idea. A notion. Scotland’s freedom from England wouldn’t have changed my life. But if a man struggles for his own freedom, it’s a personal thing. The way he lives his life. Whether he chooses to be a carpenter or a smith, a fisherman or a farmer.”

He stood, helped her from the boat, and walked with her to the cave opening, still not speaking.

“If you were free, Leitis,” he said finally, lighting the lantern, “what would your life be like?”

The flickering light seemed to grant life to the portrait of Ionis’s love above them. Leitis looked down at the smooth cave floor and spoke what was in her heart. But then, she realized with a start, she always had, with this man.

“I would not be here, for one,” she said abruptly, glancing at the stairs to her left. “I would not be the colonel’s prisoner.”

“Does he treat you well?”

She looked at him, unwittingly amused. “As well as any jailer,” she said. “His aide says my accommodations are luxurious and I should feel myself privileged. But I cannot walk where I will, nor do what I wish.”

“What would that be?”

She walked to the cave entrance, looked out at the sparkling water. The loch was never silent, splashing and rolling with its current.

“What would that be?” she repeated, mulling over the question. “I’m not a famous personage,” she said
quietly. “Nor have I ever wished to be. My family was important to me and I miss them every day. So I would wish for a family, first. I want a simple life, perhaps. And I would wish for a small and cozy place to live, and friends.”

“A modest set of wishes,” he said kindly.

“And you, Raven?” she asked, glancing at him. “What would you wish for?”

“To kiss a woman in moonlight,” he said.

He drew her closer, half expecting her to pull away, to upbraid him for his actions. But she remained silent, the moment rendered so still and extraordinary that Alec knew he would never forget it.

Too much separated them, yet none of it was their doing.

He leaned closer and she placed her hand on his chest. She had ceased speaking and he could not help but wish she felt as bemused as he.

She sighed and he wanted to capture the sound, inhale it. Her lips were soft and sweet, her openmouthed gasp an invitation to continue. But he didn’t deepen the kiss. Instead, he kept it light, teasing them both.

Finally, he pulled back, breathing heavily against her temple. “Leitis,” he murmured. Just that, only her name and nothing more.

In the lantern light her eyes deepened, the soul of her open and revealed as never before. Or the thought could be simply whimsy, the ramblings of a man enchanted by a woman’s loveliness.

He told himself that his only true bond to her was the shadow of the child she had been and the ghost of what he had once known himself to be. But that thought fell like feathers before a greater truth.

She was not simply the Leitis of his childhood. She was a woman touched by moonlight, a woman who incited his laughter as she shushed chickens, or touched him by placing her hand on his arm in wordless compassion and artless friendship. She had escaped from him, insulted him, and stared fixedly at his nakedness. A woman who fascinated him completely.

He extinguished the lantern, picked up the basket, and slowly turned, extending his hand to her. At the top of the staircase, he pushed up the stone carefully so as not to make any noise. He pulled himself up, then reached down for her, helping her to the priory floor.

He handed her the basket of wool, and she took it wordlessly. Together they stood looking at each other, the moment timeless and trembling.

One last kiss. Wordlessly, he bent his head, touched his lips to hers. He had not known until this moment that a kiss could both hold passion and a myriad of other emotions, friendship and compassion, joy and wonder.

He pulled back finally, cupped her cheek with his gloved hand. Moonlight rendered her a monochrome of beauty; shadows clung to her cheeks and dusted her lips. Her hand rested flat on his chest once more as if she could feel beneath his clothing to the man he was, neither colonel nor Butcher nor Raven. Only Alec.

He felt as if he hung over a precipice, the moment both breathless and frightening. Every thought but one had been stripped from his mind. He left her then, without a word of parting, almost desperate to escape before he divulged another secret to her. Not that of his identity, but of these past moments and a realization that stunned him.

He smiled ruefully, thinking that it was a strange and unwelcome time to fall in love.

“You were unable to capture these miscreants, Harrison?” Alec asked at dawn.

Behind him his tent was being dismantled and what looked to be controlled chaos around him was actually a surprisingly efficient decampment.

Years of being on campaign had made him adept at functioning without much sleep. A fact for which he was grateful, since he’d only returned from Gilmuir a few hours ago. He’d been able to slip into his tent and get what rest he could, only to awake at dawn and perform this dressing-down of his lax adjutant.

He frowned at Harrison, a credible imitation of a glower, Alec thought.

His adjutant hung his head, for all the world like a whipped puppy. He made a mental note to tell Harrison that such abject humility was not necessary in the future. But for now he stifled his smile and scowled at the man.

“You sent men after them, I suppose?”

“Yes, sir,” Harrison said, meeting his eyes just for a moment before his gaze slipped past him.

Alec knew from Harrison’s sudden stiffening that they were, indeed, being overheard, exactly the reason for this ruse.

“Why wasn’t I informed immediately?” he demanded.

“You asked not to be disturbed, sir,” Harrison said meekly.

“In the future you will inform me at any time these damn Scots show themselves,” he said tightly.

Harrison saluted, turned on his heel, and left him, head hanging like a severely chastised subordinate. The ploy was necessary for a variety of reasons, not
the least of which was to insulate Harrison from his own actions. Alec didn’t want his men to suffer for the fact that he’d become the Raven.

It wasn’t as easy as he’d thought to assume two identities. The past hours had proven him to be neither colonel nor Raven, but instead an amalgam of both.

Armstrong had been commanded to bring up the rear, to assist Lieutenant Castleton in the guarding of the supplies, the remaining two supply wagons, and their horses.

Englishmen had built the only roads in this barren place, but the colonel had avoided those, choosing instead to follow tracks that meandered through the hills. Almost, Armstrong thought, as if he wanted the journey back to Fort William to be one of difficulty.

Lieutenant Armstrong frowned at the wagons in front of him, slow and ponderous even nearly empty. The drivers were evidently in no hurry to return to Fort William. They appeared, instead, to be enjoying the snail’s pace.

“Can’t you go any faster?” he asked, coming abreast of the second wagon.

“I’m sorry, sir, the wagon is wider than the track and we have to take care. If we fall into one of the ruts we might damage a wheel.”

“Well, do what you can,” Armstrong said, impatient and irritated.

The wagon ahead of him halted. A problem with a wheel? He rode forward, annoyed.

“What is the matter now, private?” he asked the driver.

“There are two women blocking the track, sir,” the man said, pointing ahead to the pair.

“Then tell them to move,” he said.

“They don’t seem to be listening.” Armstrong could see what the man meant; their voices were loud enough to reach Fort William.

He rode forward, stopped beside the two women. One held a cage; the other reached for it.

“It’s mine, I was there when he came.”

“Can I help it if I sleep at night? I’ll not be punished because I didn’t see your phantom.”

“It’s my chicken!”

“And where, Fiona, is your name inscribed on the bird?” the other woman asked, peering into the cage as if to inspect the chicken’s beak. “No, I see nothing there.”

“You’re impeding His Majesty’s troops,” Armstrong said sternly.

One woman turned to the other, an expression of amusement on her face.

“Did you hear that, Mavis? We’re impeding His Majesty’s troops.”

“Impeding, you say?” the second woman said.

“Take your argument and your chicken somewhere else,” Armstrong said, riding closer. “Before I move you myself.”

Both women reluctantly stepped aside.

He waved the wagon on, bent low, and jerked the cage from the woman’s grip. Hefting it to eye level, he and the chicken glared at each other.

“Where did you get this bird?” he asked, remembering the crates tied to the stolen wagon.

Neither woman spoke. “I’ll give the chicken to the first person who tells me,” he said.

“A man came to my cottage with it last night,” one woman said.

“Who was he?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before.”

“He had a name,” the other woman said, stepping forward. “Is that worth the chicken?”

Armstrong eyed the two of them sourly. “What name?”

“You only know that because I told you.”

“I’ve a right to the chicken, same as you.”

“No one gets it,” Armstrong said, his exasperation mounting, “until I have his name.”

“Raven,” the two women said at once.

“Raven? What sort of name is that?”

“That’s what she called him.”

“She? A woman was with him?”

The two of them nodded. “But that’s all we know. He came in the night and left as soon as he gave us the food.”

Armstrong dropped the crate, uncaring which woman ended up with the stolen chicken.

He removed his journal and made careful notations of the women’s words. He’d promised Major Sedgewick to keep him informed of everything that transpired in his absence.

Armstrong folded the book and tucked it into his coat.

It wasn’t fair, he thought, that Major Sedgewick had been so summarily exiled. But then, it had not been right that Colonel Landers had assumed command of the fort. A post no doubt due to the identity of his mentor. The man was indeed privileged to have the Duke of Cumberland interested in his career.

Raven? He frowned and rode ahead, catching up with the wagons.

A
lec rode across the land bridge, pleased to see the changes already occurring at Fort William. Nowhere was there a sign of sloth or inactivity. Several men were bathing, the acrid smell of vinegar and soap wafting over the courtyard. Troops not engaged in polishing their insignia or belt buckles were marching on the southern end of the courtyard. Not all of the men at Fort William were cavalry. Most were infantrymen and destined to remain at this post for the length of their military service.

He made a mental note to speak to Harrison about inviting wives to Fort William. The women who would come would be seasoned campaigners, accustomed to the Spartan conditions the fortress offered.

He nodded to a few of the men he passed. Over
the weeks they would grow accustomed to his way of doing things until it became second nature. When not occupied with war and survival, often the only commonality among men was a shared hatred sometimes directed at a commander. Alec was determined, in this case, that the element that bound them together as soldiers would be pride in belonging to the 11th Regiment.

An irony, that he reinforced his position as colonel of Fort William at the same time that he engaged in treason.

Last night had been filled with surprises. An unwise adventure, perhaps, but one that proved that Leitis had not essentially changed. She was like a thistle that bloomed triumphantly in cracks and crannies, its stem filled with spikes, but its flower lovely. He smiled at his own whimsy and the thought that Leitis wouldn’t be pleased to be likened to a thistle.

He’d erred with his horse. He’d never realized how observant Leitis was, or that she would note the regimental insignia. A flaw in his masquerade. He would have to ensure that that mistake was not repeated.

Alec dismounted, walked through the courtyard, and strode up the stairs to his quarters.

He entered his chamber, removed his coat, and stood staring out at the courtyard. Leitis was close enough that he could almost feel her. So near that he could be at her side in moments. Touch her if he wished, kiss her, but not as himself, only as the Raven.

A knock announced Harrison. Alec opened the door to find not his adjutant but Lieutenant Armstrong standing smartly at attention. His uniform was resplendent, rows of lace adorning his shirt and cuffs, his lapels large and pinned back with gold buttons.
There were no uniform regulations for officers, and the lieutenant had evidently taken advantage of that fact.

“I believe I have something of importance to report, sir,” Armstrong said.

Alec stood aside, sighing inwardly. Armstrong would have been an invaluable reconnaissance officer in battle, but he was proving to be a nuisance now.

“I know the identity of the man who stole the wagonload of provisions, sir,” he said.

For a moment Alec couldn’t speak. An uncomfortable feeling, to have his heart resting between his ankles. But Armstrong’s look was one of eagerness, not accusation.

“And he is…?” Alec said, releasing his death grip on the edge of the door.

“They call him the Raven.”

Even that bit of information was disturbing. How in blazes had Armstrong learned it so quickly?

“Raven?” The young man nodded. “And you think this Raven is responsible for stealing the wagon, Armstrong?”

“I have proof, sir, that he’s also distributed the food to the Scots.”

“A fearsome act of sedition,” Alec said dryly, then smiled at the young man to negate his sarcasm. “You were very observant, Armstrong.”

“Thank you, sir,” Armstrong said, looking pleased. “I would like to volunteer for the patrol to capture him, sir.”

“If, indeed, he exists and is not simply a jest of the Scots, then I’ll arrest him, Lieutenant. But in my time. And in my way.”

Armstrong had the good sense to look abashed.

“There are other duties just as important,” Alec said. “Perhaps even more so than capturing your
mythical Raven. I have not yet assigned a man to be in charge of the ordnance, Lieutenant. I think you’re a capable man for the position.”

“The ordnance, sir?” Armstrong asked, his voice sounding choked.

“See Lieutenant Castleton,” Alec said. “He’ll give you the particulars.”

Armstrong wisely remained silent. At that age, Alec remembered, thoughts flowed like water from the mind to the mouth. It was better to keep some kind of plug in place. That is, if Armstrong wished to have a career in the military.

The lieutenant saluted him, executed a perfect about face, and walked down the hallway with his boot heels nearly sparking fire on the floorboards.

“An angry and dangerous young man.”

Alec turned at Harrison’s approach.

“I intend to keep him fully occupied,” Alec said, “so that he’ll have less time to observe.”

Leitis slept fitfully despite her fatigue, her dreams frightening yet so amorphous that she wasn’t able to make sense of them. When she awoke it was as if she’d not slept at all. Rising from the bed, she splashed cold water on her face, kept the toweling over her eyes until they were less swollen. It felt, oddly, as if tears lay just beneath the surface.

Last night she’d been too tired to do more than hang her dress on a peg, and now stared at it in dismay. She picked it up, noticed the scarf, and pulled it free. Pressing it against her cheek, she marveled at the softness of it. It summoned memories of the night before when she’d been a reiver’s accomplice. When she’d been kissed in the moonlight and left speechless by the power of it.

She cleaned her dress as well as she was able, wishing that she had something, anything, else to wear.

Once dressed, she peered outside the door. Donald had not, blessedly, been standing guard when she’d returned last night, nor had he appeared yet this morning. Curious, she walked into the archway that connected Gilmuir to the priory.

The archway was tinted a tawny color by the dawn, the early morning sunlight streaming through the latticework of brick and stone and forming a pattern on the opposite wall. The shadows in the corners of the clan hall were darker, as if night were a guest who did not know when to leave.

Leitis returned to the room, leaving the door ajar to savor the early morning breeze. She spent the next few minutes occupied in mundane tasks, straightening the sheets on the bed, dusting the dresser, and rearranging the items on the table before turning to the basket of wool.

She lifted the lid, pulled out the first few skeins. It took time to spin wool and dye it. When she and her mother worked together, one of them would begin sorting the next batch of wool the moment the first threads were laid. There was enough wool in the basket, however, to make several garments or a blanket.

The colors, too, surprised her. She marveled at the delicacy of the shades and the skill of the woman who’d dyed this wool. There was a pale blue, the hue of heather as it began to bloom. And a pink so delicately tinted that it resembled the blush on a baby’s cheek. But in the bottom of the basket were several other shades as well, some of which interested her the most—crimson, black, and white, the colors of the MacRae plaid.

It was as if the pattern lay before her, needing only
her fingers to coax it into reality. She took the wool and sat on the bench inspecting the loom. It was well worn and not as intricately designed as her mother’s had been, but someone had loved it and cared for it well. Only one of the small pegs of wood around the frame needed to be wedged back into its hole. The wool would be tied to these and then tightened until there was tension in the threads, the warp serving as the foundation for the pattern.

If she were simply weaving an article such as a blanket with a solid color, the work would go swiftly. There wouldn’t be a need to pick the threads with such precision. But the MacRae tartan was a complicated pattern and the first few rows were crucial.

Weaving had always been a source of joy to her, a way to envision in wool a creation of beauty. She wondered if God felt the same way upon viewing a flower.

Once her fingers became accustomed to the lay of the threads, and her hands adept at the pattern, she could lose herself in thought. It had been a way to escape the cacophony of her home as a child, and cope with grief as a woman. In the confines of the colonel’s chamber, the loom became a way to shorten the passage of time.

The sound of boots on the wooden floor alerted her to his presence. Tensing, she kept at her weaving, pretending the Butcher was not in the room. But he was not content with that, coming to stand at the side of the loom until she raised her eyes to his.

Wordlessly, they stared at each other. He had been gone only a few days and in that time she’d become a rebel.

His gaze alighted on the basket on the floor beside her. She felt a sense of sick horror at his discovery. She should have hidden it.

“You have your wool, I see,” he said after bending
and looking inside. “The color of the MacRae plaid,” he said softly. “Will you engage in sedition, Leitis, and weave it before my eyes?”

Her stomach fluttered at his question.

“What would you do,” she asked curiously, looking up at him, “if you discovered that I had been guilty of it?”

Slowly, he traced his fingers over the first few rows of weaving. Instead of answering her, he asked a question of his own.

“Did you know that the Scots were forced to take an oath swearing that they would be loyal subjects? Do you know it?” he asked somberly.

He didn’t need her answer, apparently, because he continued, “‘I swear as I shall answer to God at the great Day of Judgment, I have not, nor shall have in my possession, any gun, sword, pistol, or arm whatsoever, and never to use tartan plaid, or any part of the Highland garb. I promise that I shall not take up arms against the English, or engage in acts of insurrection against the same. If I do so, may I be cursed in my undertakings, family, and property.’”

“You know it well,” she replied, the words difficult to say.

“I heard it enough times,” he said.

What was she to say to that revelation? Or the fact that it was uttered in a voice lacking any emotion at all?

He glanced at her, his eyes shuttered as if, once again, he meant to be more a mystery than a man. Or perhaps the look she witnessed was a revelation after all. Perhaps the colonel was as tired of war as she was of subjugation.

“I came to see how you were faring,” he said softly.

“I am fine,” she said. Two people expressing polite sentiments across a gorge of nationalities.

She stood, uncomfortable with his nearness. Walking to the table, she pretended an interest in the grain of the wood beneath her stroking fingers. It was easier than the sight of him standing there, perfectly handsome in his uniform. The crimson hue of his coat seemed to accentuate his sun-bronzed face. His cuffs of lace were perfectly laundered, the boots he wore polished to a sheen. Even his gloves were oiled black leather.

A peculiarity, those gloves. She’d not recalled him wearing them when he’d first come to Gilmuir, and now he was never without them. Another oddity, that she should be so curious about him.

“Have you everything you need?” he asked from beside her.

“Yes, thank you,” she said, wishing he would move away.

He stretched out one gloved finger and stroked her cheek. Her lashes shielded her eyes as she gazed at the floor. Her breath was painfully tight.
Please, move away.

Instead, he took one step closer until his boots slid against her shoes.

He hadn’t touched her since that one night. But now he did, so softly that it might have been only a whisper. He bent and pressed his lips to her forehead. Before she could object, before she could step away, he turned her, cupping her face with his hands and then slowly bent his head and kissed her mouth.

Her hand reached up instinctively to push him away.

“Please,” he murmured against her lips. Both a soft plea and gentle invitation whispered in a harsh voice. She felt the warmth of his lips, allowed her eyelids to flutter shut. If there was a world beyond her closed
lids in those next moments, she was unaware of it. But she felt the racing, booming rhythm of his heart beneath her palm, and knew that hers felt the same. But it was the sensation of being filled with something sweet and intoxicating that startled her. As if the most potent heather ale flowed through her body, luring her to drunkenness.

He was the first to pull away, his breathing harsh as he pressed his lips to her temple. She kept her eyes closed even as her fingers splayed against his coated chest. Even beneath the fabric she could feel the warmth of him, the strength of muscles quiescent and waiting.

His lips pressed against her eyelids, then the bridge of her nose, a gesture rooted in tenderness. She was adrift in confusion and sweetness, and the sudden wish to weep.

Resolutely she stepped away from him, placing her fingers against her lips.

“Do I taste English, Leitis?” he asked softly.

She shook her head, suddenly mute as if the ability to speak had been kissed from her.

He remained motionless, a handsome man with somber brown eyes and a military bearing. He didn’t smile, did nothing but watch her, his gaze lingering on her hair, then her features, as if he wished to imprint the sight of her on his mind.

Then, without another word, he turned and left her.

No, she thought, staring at the closed door, he didn’t taste English. Instead, he tasted familiar. Known. But he had kissed her once in the throes of a dream. That was all it was. There was no mystery to the colonel.

Yet he had treated her as a cherished guest instead of a hostage. His men were deeply loyal even though
he was a strict commander. He was the Butcher of Inverness, but for the first time she wondered if the stories were, indeed, true.

Once when they were children, she and her brothers lay flat on their backs in the middle of the glen, staring up at the pattern of clouds.

“It’s a bird,” Fergus said, pointing to a fluffy white shape.

“It’s not,” James countered. “It’s a claymore,” he added, pointing out all the various angles.