Sarah Gabriel (19 page)

She frowned, feeling somber suddenly, dreading what awaited her in Edinburgh. “Jack, what do you know about Spanish weapons and some recent arrests of Highlanders?”

He no longer looked in a teasing mood. “What I know is that you must tell our friend Alexander whatever you know before men lose their lives.”

She drew breath to speak, sitting up quickly. Alec stirred beside her, rolled over, a hand over his brow.

“Still talking?” he asked groggily.

“Aye, listing all your fine points,” Jack said. “But the
lady still thinks you are descended of a water beast, and she will have none of it.”

“Go to the devil,” Alec grunted, and rolled over.

Jack stood and bowed his head to Kate. “I’d best take my leave of you now, Katie MacCarran, for it is late. And I will give you a little time to decide what you most want.”

He smiled ruefully at her, took up his hat and went to the door, opening it, then closing it with a quiet click.

He did not lock it behind him.

S
he walked steadily, stubbornly through rain, now and then wiping away the tears that kept coming. Slipping on a muddy hill, gasping, she lifted the red dress, its hem sopping and filthy in the time since she had left the inn. Jean’s lovely gift, ruined—perhaps that was what made her cry, she told herself.

Surely she would not cry over leaving Alec Fraser asleep on that bed, would not cry over the dreadful feeling that she was betraying him, that she was losing him, that she would never see him again. None of that should matter a whit to her.

She was free, and that was most important. No one could have expected her to stay when the door was open and Alec lay snoring softly, his back to her as she
slipped out of the room. Her brother and kinsmen would be worried for her sake, and they needed word of Ian Cameron and his message about the missing weapons. Had she been able to explain that to Alec, she might not have left him as she did.

But she had slipped away without a word, pausing to gaze at him before leaving. All had gone well this time. She had traversed the long moor and was nearing the foothills already, and still she had seen no one behind her.

She sniffled and told herself to ease up, as Alec would have said himself, had he been there to support her choice instead of adding to the clash between his purpose and hers.

Turning, she felt an odd flicker of disappointment that she did not see him behind her. Yet when he found her gone, he could easily follow. He knew her name and could find her clan—and she felt sure he would follow her. But she would reach Duncrieff first with her message, and she could send her kinsmen away.

And then she did not know what might happen. For the moment, reaching home would have to be enough.

She hurried on through cold, drizzling rain and pockets of thick fog, the morning so beastly that she kept her plaid drawn snug about her head and shoulders and slowed her progress over the challenging terrain. Ahead, she saw the mist-covered mountains that shielded her family’s small glen. Every step took her closer to her goal—so long as she did not think about the man she had left behind at the inn.

She plodded on, the pattering rain soaking her. Jack had urged her to trust Alec Fraser, and her own feelings did as well—much more so than before—but she could not remain in military custody. No matter how trustworthy Alec might be, he could not protect her from what might come.

And she realized, suddenly, that she did not want to put him in any situation that might endanger him. If she escaped, simply got away from him, he would be in less jeopardy than if he tried to help her.

In that moment, her feelings crystallized, in a way, like the little pendant she wore at her throat—she realized that she was running to protect Alec as much as herself and her kinsmen.

If he did follow her, she would have to send him away for his own well-being. She had walked away with memories and secrets that would warm her always, and for her own and Alec’s sake, it was best if they stayed apart. She dashed at another tear.

Feeling a stitch in her side, she stopped, breathing hard, and worked her fingers under the trappings of her dress to loosen the laces of her stays a little for comfort. Looking back, she saw only the empty moorland stretching behind her toward the military road, though much of the view was lost in gathering fog.

Topping the next low hill, she discovered a worn earthen track that dipped and wound its way between slopes and peaks. This was the drover’s track she had hoped to find, knowing that it would lead her westward through the hills.

Mist turned the rain-shrouded hills dismal and dark,
and she realized that Alec could not easily follow her through the maze of hills. Sooner or later, though, he would find out which glen belonged to the MacCarrans.

Duncrieff Castle in Glen Carran was no more than a full day’s walk, she guessed, heading northwest through the Perthshire hills. Kate had only a little bread in her pocket, saved from supper the night before, and only her plaid shawl for protection from the elements. But once she reached the hills that edged Glen Carran, she would be able to find Highland homes where she could stop and rest, or ask for shelter for the night if necessary.

Stopping beside a narrow burn, she dipped her hand into the fast-flowing, cold water to sip her fill, drying her chilled fingers on her plaid before moving on. The overgrown drover’s track was marked well enough, and she easily found her way.

After a while, she heard cracking and rustling somewhere behind her. She whirled. The sound came again, echoing in the foggy hillsides so that she could not locate it. Again the rustling sounded—footsteps touching rock, crushing wet grass.

Alarmed, not knowing who else might be roaming these hills—cattle thieves or kinsmen, brigands or government soldiers—she gathered her skirts in her hands and hurried up another incline.

The higher she went, the thicker the fog became. Near the crest of the hill, it was white and dense as a bank of clouds. Kate climbed upward steadily, but more cautiously. Her red gown was damp and muddy, and she ached with weariness, but she moved on.

A nagging awareness lingered, for she grew more sure that someone was nearby, perhaps deliberately following her. She did not think it was Alec, for she had that much start on him. Glancing around, she could see little, for she stood in a trough between two slopes that formed a deep bowl of fog.

“
Kate!
”

She gasped, her heart jumped. She was sure the voice belonged to Alec—she knew the tone and timbre of it. He called again, and she thought the distorted echo came from far below where she stood.

He had indeed followed her.

“
Kate!
” His voice was faint, and nowhere close, and she had no idea which direction it came from. And suddenly she wanted to answer though she knew she should not.

She turned, hurried onward, stopped again. What if he was lost, what if he worried that she was lost? Rather than angry or impatient, he sounded concerned—and determined.

She would be foolish to run back to her captor, she told herself. She had gotten clear away and needed that advantage, for eventually he would find Duncrieff, and her.

At the crest of the next slope, the swirling mist thinned enough to reveal the drover’s track and the raw shapes of gray rock and mossy turf. And she heard another sound, beyond the patter of rain and the eerie whoosh of the wind—footsteps crushing grass, and the low murmur of male voices. And they were much closer than Alec Fraser.

“Where in blazes is she,” Alec muttered as he walked up yet another steep incline. “Damn it, Kate, where the devil have you gone this time?”

He had spread a much more colorful string of curses all the way up this latest set of slopes as he stuck doggedly to the trail. Once or twice he had glimpsed that red gown far ahead through the mist, so he knew she had found and followed the drover’s track that he was now taking.

He called out again, his voice echoing, strange and lonely, in the misty hills.

His red woolen coat was heavy with dampness, its snug tailoring a hindrance as he climbed, but he was at least glad of his Highland kilt, which allowed him to make more rapid progress as he strode and leaped.

Though it might prove futile to follow Kate directly in this indecent soup, and though he knew he could find her family’s castle through dogged inquiry, he went onward nonetheless. He stopped, peering around, seeing only bleak rock and muddy turf cloaked in fog. No flash of red satin, no bright golden head visibile anywhere. Had she turned off the drover’s track already?

He swore again, under his breath, and climbed ahead.

After waking to a cold and empty bed and rushing furiously through the tavern room, snatching a biscuit out of Jack’s hand as he went past—he had left the fellow gaping and without his breakfast biscuit, holding his swaddled babe and unable to follow, which only served Jack right, to Alec’s mind—he had then made decent time in crossing the moor on horseback.

At that point, he had seen Kate’s red gown far ahead through the rain, and though encouraged, he knew she was at least an hour ahead of him. Once he reached the foothills, he had left the horse at a small hut, where he discovered a withered old shepherd staying home out of the rain. The old man was glad to show the horse some hospitality in exchange for a coin. Alec had continued on foot, asking directions to the home of the MacCarrans.

Duncrieff is through those hills, the man had said, and on the other side, in a long glen. Take the old drover’s track, he had advised.

Since then, Alec had seen enough glimpses of Kate’s bright skirts that he had blessed his luck for red satin again. He followed the earthen path but lost sight of her somewhere amid a long stretch of rumpled foothills. The little wildcat was fleet and nimble in this territory. Though he was long-legged and fast, and not hindered by the drag of a damp gown, he did not know these hills as she did.

Glancing about as he hurried, Alec followed instinct more than logic through the fog. Time was running short for Kate’s Highland Jacobites, he thought, and for any involved in a plot to conceal those Spanish weapons from the authority of the British government—including himself.

More than once, he had wanted to trust her enough, before she had taken off like this, to tell her about his covert interest in helping the Jacobites find and use that cache of weapons. Ever since he had met the girl, he had begun to feel differences within, slight cracks and
chinks in the armor that he needed to lose—its constraints, he now realized, had protected him at first, and did him no good whatsoever now.

But if he lost Kate, if he never saw her again, he might just slide back into the shell in which he had existed for so long. He pursued her more for himself, he knew, than for his obligation to the government. Any questions he had for her were for the sake of his heart, not for the sake of military orders.

Like her, he was a spy, and like her, part of him felt rebellious indeed—but in his case, he realized now that he no longer wanted to be the man he was so accustomed to being—lonely, bitter, resistant to love. True, he had been getting along in life capably that way, until Kate had begun to work her magic on him.

Kate was not the only one who wanted to be free.

But his changing feelings had nothing to do with the fact that Kate MacCarran was his prisoner, and he was her military guardian. And both of them had best show up in Edinburgh soon, or their heads would share a price.

And he had best find those Spanish weapons before Ian Cameron or one of the recently arrested men—one of Kate’s kinsmen, judging by the report Alec had heard—was coerced into revealing that information to the crown.

He trudged onward, distracted. He saw the need to make changes within himself, and a little struggle might be part of any rebirth, but the girl roiled and ruffled and bestirred him in every way. He would never be out here, lost in fog, but for her.

“Kate!” he called again.

He paused for breath. No wonder Highlanders were often braw and powerful men, he thought, looking at the hilltops in front of him. Regular sword practice kept him strong and limber, but this steep upward trek was still a challenge. Military duties that included riding between city and encampments, and otherwise sitting to study legal documents for General Wade and others, had made him a little lazy.

Nonetheless, he strode onward. “Kate! Katie!” he shouted, though he heard only echoes in answer.

After a while, he stopped near the feathery edge of the mist, staring into what looked like a magical realm: deep fog crowned a slope of turf and rugged rock, like a portal to another world where legends thrived and where those who entered might vanish within.

Kate had disappeared somewhere in those blanketed heights. For a moment, he could well believe she had fair magic in her.

“Where are you?” he called, voice echoing. “Kate!”

Kate…Kate
, the sound returned to him.

If Kate had climbed this way, she could be lost, or hurt, or both. He felt as if he could not give up the search until he knew for certain that she was safe.

Searching for the best route into the fog, he heard sounds then—faint and distorted but real. And then he heard the unmistakable sound of steel sliding out of leather.

The sound sent chills down his spine.

He set his left hand on his dagger, his right on his sword. He had brought his weaponry with him, not
sure what he might encounter if he, as a solitary soldier, ventured deep into Highland territory, where rebels and brigands roamed.

Waving his dirk in his left hand, his sword in his right, he turned warily. If he called out for Kate, the men would know where he stood. Bending, he grabbed up a few loose stones and scattered them down the hill.

He heard hissing whispers, and footsteps off to his left. He waited, still and scarcely breathing, then moved up the incline.

They leaped at him then, bursting out of the mist and over the rocks, three wild men waving wicked steel and looking for blood. Alec whipped his sword upward, ready for the assault. The first opponent came at him, and the sudden slam of steel jarred him to the shoulder, for the man, the older of the three, wielded a heavy broadsword.

They came at him all at once then, the older man and two younger. At first Alec thought he was seeing double in the mist, for the lads were identical. One was here, one was there, then they switched places, while the old man weaved between them, his blade smacking into Alec’s, then the lads to right and left brought their swords to meet his. Alec spun, blocking and parrying as he defended himself to the best of his ability.

The younger Highlanders, who appeared to be twins, were quick, though not as skilled as the older man. Alec soon found that two at a leaping game, with the third man coming through the middle, was more than enough challenge in fog, on a slippery, rocky slope.

The oldest Highlander was grizzled, stocky, fierce as a bear. Lacking grace or finesse, he was a strong swordsman, using an older-style sword, a plain and brutal instrument. But what counted most at every turn was whether a blade struck, missed, or swept past only to return again.