Stuart, Elizabeth

A
crackling fire burned warmly behind the grate, its flickering fingers casting a
crimson glow over the opulent richness of oak-paneled walls and furniture
upholstered in costly velvet and brocade. A dozen tall candles burned brightly
on the polished oak table, illuminating the tear-streaked countenance of a
slight, trembling child, cowering against the silk skirts of a slender young
woman at her back.

"But
she's only a child, Robert," the woman pleaded. "She meant no
harm." She half lifted an arm in supplication to the lean, impassive man
standing stiffly erect a few feet across the floor.

"Eight
is old enough to understand the meaning of my words!" the man snapped.
"You've coddled the girl far too long, Mary. It's high time she learned to
accept the consequences of her actions."

He
gazed down in disgust at the squirming spaniel puppy he held firmly beneath one
arm. "Anne was told not to bring this animal above stairs, yet she
deliberately disobeyed me. Now the beast's ruined my best boots. Had she done
as she was bid, this interview need never have taken place."

The
child took one faltering step out from the protection of her mother's skirts,
raising wide, tear-filled blue eyes to the man's dispassionate face.
"Please, Father, Flurry didn't mean to ruin your boots. H... he didn't
understand. I'll take him back to the stable now, and I p... promise not to
bring him up again." Her lower lip trembled as her thin arms reached up
beseechingly. "I'm s... sorry, Father. I promise it'll not happen again.
Please let me take him down."

"I'm
afraid your penitence isn't enough, Anne," he stated softly, a grim smile
curling his thin lips. "You must learn I mean what I say. Your
disobedience will cost the life of your pet. Perhaps that will teach you to
respect my words."

With
a strangled cry, the child launched herself across the floor, but the man
neatly sidestepped her clumsy attack. She stumbled to the floor to lie in a
sobbing heap, her inarticulate cries muffled against the luxurious pile of the
carpet.

The
small, furry dog wriggled impatiently in the man's tightening grip. It gave one
frightened yelp and then was still. The shrill cry tore a shuddering gasp from
the woman. Her eyes dilated in fear, heightening the haunted look on her
too-pale face as she moved across the floor. Kneeling, she drew the child into
her arms. "It's all right, darling," she whispered in a choked voice.
"Everything will be all right."

The
limp head of the lifeless puppy hung at an awkward tilt against the man's
velvet-clad arm. He moved wordlessly toward the door. One powerful hand on the
knob, he paused, turning to study the woman as she clutched the sobbing child
protectively in her arms. "You know full well the cost of disobedience,
Mary," he reminded her, a flicker of impatience in his cold, gray eyes.
"You'd best see your daughter learns it as well. Oh, and Mary, be sure you
keep her out of my way the remainder of this visit. I might decide the loss of
her pet insufficient punishment for the girl."

The
door closed with a resounding clap, and the room was still save for the sound
of the child's muffled sobbing. The woman gently stroked the child's golden
curls back from her heaving shoulders, her own silent tears slipping down her
cheek to mingle with those of her daughter in a bitter pool upon the floor.

Anne
Randall clung wearily to the saddle, too tired even to be frightened as she
gazed across the desolate expanse of Scottish moor in the yellowish light
before the storm. She had been in the saddle more than eight hours already, and
that long ride, coming on the heels of her storm-tossed voyage from London, was
almost more than she could stand. At least the prospect of her future no longer
filled her with dread, she thought darkly. Enduring the present was her only
immediate concern.

Long
strands of honey-gold hair snarled about the pale oval of her face in the
biting April wind. She raised one gloved hand and shoved ineffectually at the
mass, squinting in the dim light to see if her English escort showed any sign
of halting for the night. Pray God they stopped soon. She doubted she could go
on much longer.

Her
narrowed gaze focused on Captain Kincaid's bearded face, and she studied the
man her father had trusted to fetch her from Leith harbor to Ranleigh. Lord
Randall had written that he hadn't the time to come himself. She smiled
bitterly. Was time really the problem, or was it inclination? Was he as loath
to see her as she was him?

As
if in answer to her prayer, Captain Kincaid turned the party off the rocky
trail into the dubious protection of a narrow tree-shadowed glen. Gnarled oaks
and white- barked birches grew thick and tangled along the sides of the sheer
granite cliffs, their gaunt branches twisting in wind-whipped torment, slapping
at the riders as if to prevent their passage into the cleft. Anne's fingers
tightened uneasily on the reins. In the early twilight, the gloomy valley was
distinctly menacing.

The
party came to a stop just as the first scattered, icy raindrops fell from the
lowering heavens. Anne swung down from her lathered mare, shivering
uncontrollably. All about her, bedraggled soldiers scurried about, some to
picket the horses, others to gather dry wood for cooking fires. In a few
minutes she would be warm, Anne promised herself. Just another few minutes...

Beside
her, a fumbling soldier struggled in vain to light a fire in the gusty wind.
She watched in numbed exhaustion, wishing he would hurry. The man glanced up, a
curse of frustration dying half spoken on his lips as he froze to immobility
beside the pile of sticks at his feet.

Following
the direction of his gaze, Anne forgot her own misery. Some twenty mounted men
ringed the camp, gleaming lances and pistols held threateningly. They had
appeared from nowhere, men and horses seemingly sprung full-blown from the tangle
of trees and dark granite around them. "Dear God!" she breathed,
blinking in disbelief.

She
turned, searching frantically for Kincaid. He had been standing by the horses
when the men appeared. Now he grabbed for his sword, halting mid-reach as the
point of a Highland lance caressed his chest.

"I'd
do no so foolish a thing as to waste me life with a reckless gesture," a
rough voice suggested from out of the gloaming.

A
stocky figure swathed in a dingy Highland plaid nudged his mount from the
circle of raiders. The lower half of the outlaw's face was obscured by a heavy
beard, and a filthy cap sat low on his brow shadowing his eyes. "You be
fair trapped—you and your lads here," he continued, "but there'll be
no blood shed if you do as I say."

Kincaid's
hand moved slowly away from his sword, his taut face a study in impotent rage.

"There's
a good lad," the man said softly. "We'll be relieving you of your
horseflesh, though God knows the nags don't look fit to steal. Mayhap we'll
find better sport with the lass, there." He jerked his head toward Anne.

"Are
you a fool, man?" Kincaid gasped. "Don't you know who we are?"

Ignoring
Kincaid's protest, the man walked his horse deliberately toward Anne, while two
savage-looking clansmen covered the English captain with their pistols.

Anne
stared at the approaching man, her weary mind refusing to make sense of the
situation. This whole scene was ridiculous. In a few minutes she would awaken
from this nightmare back in her own warm bed in Lincolnshire. Just then a large
and piercingly cold raindrop struck her face. God in Heaven, she was awake and
this was real!

Ignoring
the underbrush snarling about her ankles, she stumbled backward a few steps, an
unyielding slab of granite finally blocking her flight. Wide-eyed with fear,
she stared up at the stark figure on horseback. Silhouetted against the
storm-heavy sky, he was a frightening apparition indeed.

Her
lips moved dryly, but the words wouldn't form. No! This couldn't be happening.
She had not survived so long only to be murdered in this godforsaken country!

"Come
lass, would you see the lives of fifteen men shed for your stubbornness?"
the outlaw asked boldly. Leaning toward her, he spoke in a voice barely above a
whisper. "I promise you'll come to no harm with us, lass. You'll be safe
as any bairn in its mother's arms."

Ignoring
his words, Anne cast wildly about in the underbrush for a weapon. A stubby
branch lay half concealed in the heather. Bending quickly, she caught it up and
swung it at the man with all her strength.

He
dodged the club effortlessly. "Nay, lass, that I'll not take."
Catching her arms, he dragged her up across his saddle bow, and her struggle
ended almost before it had begun. Holding her easily with one powerful arm, the
man kicked his horse toward the murky depths of the trees. "Our
compliments to Lord Robert of Glenkennon," he flung over his shoulder.
"He'll be hearin' from us."

The
Highlanders moved quickly, cutting the ropes corralling the horses and
stampeding the animals out of the clearing into the dark, misty woodlands.
Horses and riders melted into the forest as quickly as they had appeared, and
the storm, which had held off all afternoon, suddenly broke with a raging fury.

***

There
was no time for questions as the horses plunged through the dripping gloom of
the forest, racing confidently over the rocky ground into the deepening night.
Wet branches slapped at Anne's sides and tore her sensitive skin as the band
made its way at a dangerous pace through the wild countryside.

Cold
rain streamed in torrents down her face and trickled in an icy rivulet down her
back beneath her sodden cloak. Fear clutched at her heart. It chilled her blood
and cowed her spirits far more effectively than the penetrating rain.