One Man's Love (17 page)

“It’s neither,” she had said, losing patience with both of them.

Both boys had glanced at her, surprised.

“It’s nothing more than a cloud.”

Fergus pointed to the cloud again. “See the part on the left? Just that, and nothing more? Tell me what you see.”

“Just that?”

He nodded.

She squinted at it, then began to see the shape of it. “A duck,” she announced.

Fergus grinned at her. “There you have it. Sometimes the best way to see something, Leitis,” he’d said, “is to peek at it. Not try to view the whole thing all at once.”

She had the sudden, disturbing thought that the colonel was like that cloud. And another realization occurred to her, one as perplexing. He’d never asked where she’d gotten the wool.

T
here was, Alec thought, only one way to accomplish the exodus of the people of Gilmuir, and it would, unfortunately, involve Leitis’s participation. He doubted if the villagers would listen to him, masked and mysterious. And they would most certainly not believe anything the Butcher of Inverness would say.

As the evening faded into dusk, Alec mounted and rode from the fort.

“Lieutenant?” Harrison said, coming up behind Armstrong. “Is there a reason you’re standing here in the dark?”

Armstrong was half curled around the corner of the courtyard, his gaze fixed on the land bridge.

“No, sir,” he said, moving aside. “I thought I saw something, that’s all.”

“Were you watching the colonel, Armstrong?”

“I was just curious as to where he is going in the dark, sir,” the younger man said.

“Are his movements any of your concern, Lieutenant?” Harrison asked.

“No, sir,” Armstrong conceded.

Troubled by the lieutenant’s behavior, Harrison watched as he walked back to the fort. Something must be done about Armstrong.

Where was the Raven now? He’d left her without a word last night, with no indication that she’d see him again, or when. How did she summon him? By her wishes and her wants?

Leitis stood, pushed the bench neatly under the loom. She stretched, rolled her shoulders, then bent from the waist to ease the ache in her back. She’d worked too long today, but it had been the best way to make the time pass. Occupying herself with the complicated pattern had alleviated both her confusion and her longing.

She left the room, escaping once more to the priory.

A gentle breeze blew through the arches and pulled at her skirts. They danced playfully around her ankles and teased her hair free of its ribbon. It was a night of moon and silver. Her hearing was tuned to the slightest movement, but all she heard was the riff of wind and a splash of waves on the loch below. A night bird sounded, its call echoing her own desperate longing.

The taste of rebellion was heady, but it was not solely for that reason she wished the Raven’s presence. She wanted to speak with him about small thoughts and great wishes, laugh with him about
nonsensical things. She wanted most to feel what she had the night before, that strange and effortless companionship as if she knew him well and deeply. And another reason as well, she confessed to herself. There was that sense of excitement when she was with him, a feeling she wanted to experience again.

She returned to the room, lit a candle, and walked to the window, listening to the sounds from Fort William. Did they never stop marching? In earlier days, Gilmuir fell quiet at night. Enshrouded in a mist from the loch, the castle became a magical place, one of serenity and safety. No more.

She thought of less dour things, the memory of last night when laughter alternated with fear. And the Raven’s kisses. His first kiss had been done quickly, pressing his smiling lips against hers. Then he’d offered her heather in a tender gesture.

He’d seemed so familiar to her, as if she’d known him for a long time.

Her thoughts stuttered to a halt. She began to circle the room in a restless movement, her thoughts on the Raven and last night.

He had known the old laird, the existence of the staircase, the story of Ionis. All secrets he might have known as the laird’s grandson. The clan badge he’d shown her appeared to have been made of gold, not a common practice. But a laird’s grandson might have been presented with such a gift.

Could he be the boy from her childhood? Ian MacRae, with his English father and his Scots mother, who’d left Gilmuir on that long-ago day and never returned?

Was it possible? She sat abruptly.

Surely she would have recognized him. Or would she?

She recalled that moment at his mother’s lyke
wake, his eyes so filled with pain. There had been anger there, too. She recalled it as well as she did her own hurt when he crushed her gift beneath his boot.

But he’d known her, a revelation he’d made when he’d tied the scarf around her hair and spoken of the brightness of it as a child.

Was he Ian?

Leitis remembered that boy’s laughter, the way he and her brothers teased her, the way he had of listening to her so intently that she felt she could tell him anything. And his appearance? A handsome boy with dark hair and eyes that always appeared alight with happiness. But he had been a child when last she saw him, and too many years had passed to be certain.

Was it him? And if it was, why hadn’t he said so? Why hide himself behind a mask and claim it was for her protection?

The soft knock startled her but was not unexpected. It was probably Donald, coming to see if she required anything. She walked to the door, opened it to find the man who’d occupied these past moments of thought.

The Raven hesitated on the threshold, filling the doorway. He was even more mysterious in the candlelight, a tall, broad-shouldered man dressed in black. His mask framed his face, accentuated the fullness of his lips, the sharp line of chin and jaw.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she cautioned. “It’s not safe. Donald might come at any moment.”

“Still protective,” he said, smiling. He entered the room, closing the door behind him.

“Someone should look out after you,” she said, looking up at him. “You take foolish chances.”

“Perhaps the goal is worth the risk.”

“Is it? It depends on your goal.”

“I might have more than one,” he teased.

“Why are you here?” she asked softly.

He bent closer to her until she could feel his breath on her cheek. “Perhaps I wished to kiss you again,” he teased.

“Oh,” she said, clasping her hands tightly in front of her. She would have been wiser to run from Gilmuir, from the colonel’s touch and the Raven’s. But it appeared that she was to be kissed again today, by another man she barely knew.

Or did she?

She tipped her head back and closed her eyes, telling herself that this kiss would be an antidote to the first. His mouth settled over hers with no more invitation than that.

His lips were warm, his breath hot, the intrusion of his tongue against her mouth an astonishing act. Her body warmed as she unclasped her hands in order to grip his arms.

The material of his shirt was soft and smooth to the touch. A last thought before he deepened the kiss and sent her thoughts flying to the stars in a hungry, openmouthed kiss filled with daring.

She heard a sound, a slight gasp of wonder, then realized it was her own. Should a kiss be this powerful? How strange, that she’d never before equated that word to a simple touch of mouth to mouth.

Her lips fell open as her hands clutched his arms in a talonlike grip. And still he kissed her, as if he’d heard her earlier thought and wished to expunge all other embraces before this one.

Yes. A sigh, a greeting, a prayer. Yes, please. More and more. He’d kissed her before, but it had been calming, soft, and sweet. Not heated and dangerous.

He pulled back finally and she wanted to protest.
Instead, she lay her forehead against his chest, heard the pounding beat of his heart, and knew that her own mimicked it.

Step back, Leitis. Gather your dignity about you and pretend you’ve felt such a thing before.

But her feet didn’t move, and her hands didn’t release him. Her dignity had been lost in that first murmur of surprise. Nor had she ever felt anything as delightfully wondrous. Not with Marcus. Certainly not with the Butcher. Not ever before.

Words tripped from her mind, landed on her tongue, and rooted there.
Why did you kiss me like that? Why am I trembling?

“Should I ask your forgiveness?” he murmured, his breath coming as fast as hers.

A wise woman would have said yes, gathering up the cloak of her pride. She could only shake her head. She lay her cheek against his chest, then placed a kiss on his shirt where his heart beat strong and fast.

Kiss me again.
A demand she did not make aloud. But her hand smoothed the material of his shirtsleeve, a gesture as telling as a request.

He placed his fingers beneath her chin, tilted back her head, and kissed her again. A long, slow, drugging kiss that urged her to wickedness and heat. Colors flew across her closed lids, shades of rainbows and harebells and heather.

He was the one to end the kiss, to pull away. He walked to the table and stood there, his back to her. “I came here for your help,” he said. “Not to accost you.”

“Is that what it was?” she said gently. “Should I be angry, then? Or ashamed?”

He glanced over his shoulder at her.

“For liking it,” she added.

His soft laughter startled her. “I can never anticipate what you will say.”

“A woman should be mysterious, surely,” she teased, feeling absurdly lighthearted at the moment. How strange, that a kiss should have that effect on her.

She approached him, stretched out her hand, and brushed her fingers over his back. A touch as delicate as a butterfly’s wings, but it appeared that he felt it all the same. He stiffened, remaining still. His stance made her smile, as if the power of a kiss had been transferred to her touch. She’d never before felt this way, enchanted in the moment, silent and filled with expectation.

“How can I help you? What can I do?”

Her hand dropped as he turned and surveyed her, the candlelight adding shadows to his features. “You offer so easily,” he said. “Why?”

“You stole a wagon,” she said, smiling. “And fed people because you wished to aid them. How could I do less?”

“I want you to ask the villagers if they wish to leave,” he said abruptly.

She studied him intently in the light of the candles. “Do you think they will?”

“I think they would be foolish not to,” he said candidly. “The English presence here will only get stronger as the months pass. And the conditions will only get worse.”

She moved away, moved to stand beside the loom, staring out the window. “A sad day, when a Scot must leave Scotland.”

“They can create their country wherever they go,” he said, an argument he’d begun last night.

She turned and faced him. “Why do you not ask them?” she asked curiously.

“There are reasons,” he said enigmatically.

“Because you don’t wish them to know you’re Ian MacRae?”

He stared at her, obviously stunned.

“Did you think I couldn’t tell?” she asked, amused. “The clues were there all along.”

Still he said nothing.

“You’ll deny it now,” she said, sighing.

“No,” he said, and that one simple word sent her heart soaring.

The reason, then, that he had been so familiar to her, that he felt as much a friend as a man capable of making her heart stutter with a kiss. She wanted to turn and disappear with him into darkness, find a soft and safe place and ask him about all the years in between.

She took one step away from him, suddenly stunned by a thought. He’d lived his life in England, the heir to an English nob.

“You’re one of them, aren’t you, Ian?” She glanced in the direction of Fort William. “You’re one of the soldiers there.”

“Would a soldier have stolen an English wagon, Leitis?” he asked, coming to her side. “Would a soldier have cared about feeding hungry Scots?”

She shook her head. “Then come with me and talk to the villagers yourself.”

“They’ll listen to you,” he said reasonably. “They’ll not remember me, nor do they have a reason to trust me.”

“Do I?” she asked. “Take off your mask.”

“When I can,” he answered.

She felt buffeted by too many emotions. Happiness, confusion, curiosity, and a curious sense of warning that could not be dismissed. But she dis
missed it, pushing it away. At the moment, she simply didn’t care.

“Then shall we go?” she asked, extending her hand to him. She smiled brightly, then let him lead her to the priory and the staircase. To rebellion and further.

“A
re you certain you’ll not come in?” Leitis asked, turning to him at the door of Hamish’s cottage.

The journey to the glen had been a circuitous one, made necessary by the fact that they couldn’t take the chance of slipping across the land bridge and being seen by the sentry. They’d had to row across the cove, then circle back on the Raven’s horse.

“No,” he said, “but I’ll wait for you. There,” he said, pointing to a grove of trees.

She nodded and walked to Hamish’s cottage, glancing one more time toward the shadows before she knocked on the door. He was gone from view, his ability to slip into the darkness disconcerting.

When there was no answer, Leitis pushed open the
door and entered the darkened cottage. After lighting the candle on the table, she looked around the room. There was no sign of her uncle. His bed was made; no dishes had been dirtied. Hamish was a tidy man, so it was difficult to know whether or not he’d been absent for a day or more, or simply gone for the moment.

At first she thought the Butcher had arrested him after all, feeling a spike of fear at the thought. Or perhaps he had been wise enough to hide from sight. In that case she would have to gather the clan herself.

But a few moments later she heard the sound of whistling. A merry tune, one she knew as well as the identity of the whistler. Hamish opened the door, only to freeze at the sight of her.

“You’ll not be content, will you, Uncle, until the English have hanged you?” she asked, glancing at the pipes on his shoulder.

“A fine MacRae you are, then,” he said, grinning, “to have escaped the Butcher.”

Hamish set his pipes on the floor, then hesitated. His gaze rested on the stone wall, then the floor. Finally, he studied the ceiling intensely. “Did he use you, Leitis?” he asked finally.

She felt a flush warm her face at his question, followed by irritation. “No more than you,” she said abruptly. “Do you care so little, Uncle, about my being hostage to your good behavior?” She stared at the pipes fixedly.

“That’s why you’re here, then, Leitis? To grumble at me again?” He placed his fists on his hips, his face contorted into a glower.

“I doubt you’ll listen,” she said, masking her hurt. Strange, that it was the Butcher who pointed out Hamish’s selfishness. She pushed the man out of her mind, annoyed that she’d thought of him at all.

“I’ve come to speak to the clan, Hamish,” she said, moving to the door. “Can we meet here?”

“Why, Leitis?”

“I’ll say it only once, Uncle. Will you help me gather them?”

He frowned at her, then nodded. “You take the eastern half and I’ll take the west. It’ll be faster that way. Sooner started, sooner finished.”

They each began to knock on doors, announcing the meeting. One by one the members of the clan filtered into the cottage, mothers with children, old men with canes, matrons with cool and watchful eyes, the young ones who had seen too much for their years.

Each of them greeted her, asked after her health and her presence among them. Every query was followed by a quick and condemning look at Hamish, who pretended to ignore everyone.

Leitis waited until they were all assembled in the cottage before beginning.

“I’ve come to ask the people of Gilmuir a question,” she said hesitantly. “If you had a new place to live, somewhere away from Scotland, would you leave?”

“You want the people of Gilmuir to emigrate?” Hamish narrowed his eyes and glared at her. “Why do you ask such a foolish question?” He sat at his table, arms crossed over his chest, the look on his face one of condemnation.

Leitis stared at him, wondering why she’d never seen his bitterness before. Or the tightness about his mouth as if he were determined never to smile again unless it was at an Englishman’s expense. She realized as she studied Hamish that it had not been pride that motivated his acts, nor even stubbornness. But a
hatred requiring a single-minded determination and diligent practice to keep it deep and strong.

“Because it’s the only way we’ll survive,” she said softly.

“We’ll do well enough here,” he said, his tone clipped.

She turned to the clan members. “Will we? It is your decision, after all, not Hamish’s.”

“How would we leave Scotland, Leitis?” Malcolm asked.

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “I only promised to ask you for another, one who wishes you safe.”

“Who would that be?” Dora asked.

She glanced over at the other woman. “A man you all once knew,” she said. “Ian MacRae.”

“Ian MacRae, is it?” Hamish asked, frowning. “Has he come back to Gilmuir to be laird now? Or doesn’t he know there’s no clan left?”

“That’s why he would do this, uncle,” she said, turning away from him and addressing the rest of the clan. “He says that the English presence will only get worse here, and I believe him. We cannot live through another winter like the last.”

Dora nodded, but said nothing.

“Where would we go?” Mary asked.

“I don’t know,” Leitis said, “but a safe place. Perhaps we can all agree where.”

“Someplace away from the English, though,” Ada said.

“A country where we might be Scots and not punished for it?” another woman asked.

Leitis nodded, grateful for the women’s support. Were women different because they nurtured the young and cared for the sick? Did it give them an
ability to understand bitter truths more quickly? How many women would have counseled for rebellion, if the decision had been left to them? A foolish question to ask, simply because the answer didn’t matter.

“It’s a sad house where the hen crows louder than the cock,” Peter said.

Dora stepped up to him, her hands on her hips. “Better to hide with the rabbits than be eaten by the hounds,” she said cuttingly. “Or have you noticed how many of the clan aren’t here anymore, Peter?”

“Well, I’m no hen,” Malcolm said, “but I agree with the women. We should leave here.”

“I’d never thought to hear you speak those words,” Hamish said angrily, staring at Malcolm. “It’s treason.”

“Who am I being a traitor to, Hamish?” Malcolm asked. “Our leaders? They’ve emigrated to France, sworn allegiance to England, or have died. Our country? Where is Scotland now? It’s been swallowed up by England.”

“We’ll rise up again. We’ll be free once more,” Hamish said stubbornly.

“Thoughts are free,” Alisdair said, stepping forward. “And I’ll say them now. I’d leave this place, Hamish, if only to escape the sadness of it.” He glanced behind him, where more than one clansman was nodding his head.

“Better fed than dead?” Peter asked mockingly.

“The English won’t rest until they’ve killed us all,” Angus said. “It’ll get worse now that the Butcher is in command.”

“Are you all daft?” Hamish asked incredulously.

“You don’t have to come, Uncle,” Leitis said quietly. “The English will think it a game to hunt you until you’re dead. Then you can haunt them for eternity. It’s the only way you’ll be at peace.”

He stared at her as if amazed at her effrontery. But something had changed within her when she’d seen his pipes tonight. He’d not cared that he endangered her. The hurt of that was so great that she wanted to weep.

“She has you there, Hamish,” Peter said, grinning. “I can see you now, merely a shade, marching in front of the English fort with your pipes and daring them to capture you.” He wiggled his hands beside his ears and made a ghostly sound.

“You’re an old fool,” Hamish said, annoyed.

“Who are you calling old?” Peter asked, narrowing his eyes. “I’m two years younger than you and ten years smarter.”

Leitis moved to the center of the clan. Everything that they decided, from the election of their laird to this most important decision, was put to the vote. It was time for it and an end to the blather.

“How many are for leaving?” she asked. She counted the hands, realizing that most of the people in this room were prepared to leave Gilmuir. “And for staying?” Hamish and Peter, that was all.

“I’ll let you know more when the plans have been made,” she told them.

“And where will you be until then? And how did the Butcher let you escape him so easily, Leitis?” Hamish asked bitingly.

The members of the clan stilled, anticipating the answer as well as Hamish.

“Do you begrudge me my momentary freedom, Uncle? I’ll be back there soon enough, a guarantee for your obedience. But it’s evident that you care little for my being your hostage,” she said quietly, staring at the instrument on the floor next to him. “I wonder if the bagpipes will keep you company when we’re all gone.”

“When you’re all seeking to be fools, you mean,” Hamish said fiercely, picking up his pipes. He glared at all of them before leaving his cottage.

“I’ve a sister on the other side of the loch,” Mary said, coming forward. “Can she come, too?”

“And my daughter?” Dora asked unexpectedly. “She married a MacLeasch, as you know.”

A dozen more names were tossed to her.

“I don’t know if we can bring them all,” she said helplessly. “But I’ll ask.”

The reaction from the villagers had surprised her. But perhaps they had already recognized what she was just now realizing. Hope must be nourished by fortune and freedom. There had not been any good fortune in Scotland for years, and there was no longer any freedom.

Are you one of the soldiers at the fort, then?
She’d asked him that. His answer had been sliced so finely that Alec could see the outline of the truth behind it. No, he was not one of the soldiers. He commanded them.

She had stunned him. Rendered him speechless and filled with both admiration and trepidation.

The clues were there all along.

Perhaps he had deliberately let her know one identity so as to hide a greater secret. He vowed, as he waited, to tell her that the boy she’d known as Ian was also the colonel who commanded Fort William.

He watched from the cover of trees as the people entered Hamish’s cottage. The discussion was fierce, as was the passion of the people who spoke. Leitis’s voice appeared to be a cooling influence.

A few minutes later, Hamish left, his bagpipes tucked under his arm. Gradually the rest of the villagers departed. The candles were extinguished and
darkness shadowed her as Leitis stepped from the door and headed toward him.

The sound of bagpipes was alluring in the summer night. She stopped and listened for a moment before continuing.

He reached out his arm for her and pulled her close to him. “A fool, your uncle,” he said softly. “Doesn’t he know that his actions could endanger you?”

She sighed heavily and shook her head. He realized then that she was crying. Leitis MacRae, weeping. Another shock, one that made him wrap his arms around her, pull her close to him.

“What is it, Leitis?” he whispered. “Tell me.”

He would make it better, ease her mind. Protect her. He fumbled for words. “It didn’t go well?” he asked.

She nodded against his chest. Placing his hand against her cheek, he felt the startling heat of her tears.

“Oh, Leitis,” he said, perplexed and frustrated, “tell me.”

She sighed again, a gusty sign of exasperation or temper or some other emotion he could not understand at the moment. She shook her head, then pulled back, wiping at her cheeks with the backs of her hands. “They want to leave,” she said. “All but Hamish and Peter. They’ll stay.”

“And you’re crying for Hamish?” he asked, trying to comprehend.

She shook her head. “I’m crying for a foolish reason,” she admitted. “I don’t want to leave,” she said. “I understand why I must, but this is my home. And Hamish, however foolish he is, is my last relative.”

She looked around her. “Gilmuir has always been free. Whatever happened in Scotland didn’t touch us here. Now we’ll never be able to avoid it.”

He couldn’t say the words to ease her, in whatever
guise he wore. The truth, stark and bitter, was that life would never again be the same for the Scots.

“You can be free if you find a place that will allow it,” he said, feeling inept and unsure. He placed his arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him.

“There are others who might wish to come,” she said, surprising him. “Mary’s sister and Dora’s daughter and two sons. There’s Malcolm’s brother’s children, and a few others.” She hesitated for a moment. “Well, more than a few,” she confessed.

“I’ll hire a ship. The logistics will be difficult,” he admitted, “but a few more people won’t matter.”

It would be easy enough to afford such a venture. He’d used his paternal grandmother’s legacy to purchase his commission, but had never touched the rest of the funds.

“The only difficulty I see,” he said, thinking aloud, “is in arranging the exodus. It will have to be done as quickly as possible once the ship arrives.”

“Or just the opposite,” she offered, smiling up at him. “A ship is more likely to be noticed than the Highlanders are to be missed. What if you moved them into one place?”

“Where do you suggest we hide a few dozen Scots?”

“What better place to hide a lamb than in a flock?” she asked. “Use the empty cottages here in the village.”

“On the assumption that the English won’t notice the cottages being filled?” he asked. “One Scot looks just like another?”

She nodded.

“Are they so uncaring?” he asked carefully.

“Is it easier being Scot than English?” she asked abruptly, a question so surprising that he pulled back and stared at her.

“It’s not easy being either,” he said honestly.

“Yet you’ve lived most of your life as an Englishman.”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“And now you’ve become a Scot. What made you change?”

He thought about the question. A series of incidents. Culloden and Inverness, the desperation of the Scots, Cumberland’s barbarous decrees. And the most important reason of all, perhaps, the discovery that his mother had been killed by the English. “I never liked a bully,” he said finally. “And it occurred to me that Scotland needed a hand up.”

“My brothers would have approved of you,” she said, startling him.

“Tell me what they were like,” he said. They began to walk through the trees, following the upward slope.