Stuart, Elizabeth (49 page)

She
cast a welcoming grin at Donald before pushing past Francis into the center of
the room. "I'd no wish to be caught inside if we'd been discovered,"
she stated calmly. "I'd prefer a cold, hungry spell in the woods any day
to an evening spent with Glenkennon and his men. Besides," she continued,
giving him an impudent grin, "I thought you might need some help."

She
slid the dirk back into her belt with the air of one prepared to use it,
smiling at Donald's incredulous expression. He must have been amazed at the
changes in her, she thought wryly. Gone was the shy, teary-eyed young lady of
the rustling skirts and blushing countenance. A different woman stood before
him.

Francis
threw back his head and laughed at his friend's shocked face. Catching up a
blanket, he tossed it around Anne's shoulders. "What think you of my lass
now, Donald?" he asked, turning to the man. "She's a bit of an
outlaw, I'm afraid, but she might be just the thing for a good-for-nothing
reiver like myself. What say you to adopting another MacLean?"

"I'm
for it, lad, if you think she can be managed," Donald said with a smile.
He patted a spot on the dirt floor beside him. "Here child, sit yourself
down and dry out, else you'll catch your death before we get you back to
Camereigh."

She
squatted beside him, settling herself cross legged before the blazing fire.
"Donald, I always run into you when I'm wet, cold, and dirty," she
stated in an amused voice. "Have you any magic in your bag for me this
time?"

"No
magic, lass, but perhaps a clean shirt and some food and wine will go a ways to
makin' you feel more the thing." He rummaged through his pack, finally
holding up a flask triumphantly. "I brought Camereigh's best for
you." His eyes slid over her teasingly. "Unless you'd prefer a
stronger brew now."

"It'll
take more than wet and cold to make me appreciate that vile stuff," she
declared, making a face at Francis as he nursed the whiskey Donald passed.

She
accepted the wine along with a goodly portion of delicious crusty bread, edging
back into the shadows while she watched the two men talk.

Francis
was glad to see his friend, she thought with a twinge of jealousy. He must have
missed the companionship of his men. He was leaning forward slightly, his face
alive with excitement as he shot Donald eager questions about Camereigh. Their
talk was the foreign tongue of men—words of strategy, clan levies, and
armaments figured largely in the conversation.

A
dull ache began in the pit of her stomach, chilling her heart like the cold wet
outside had chilled her shivering body. She was losing him... losing him to a
world where she could never follow.

She
rose dispiritedly and made her way to the pile of blankets where they had so
recently made love. Turning away from the men, she closed her eyes, scolding
herself miserably for her foolishness.

Hadn't
she warned herself this wouldn't last? Francis would never belong to her, or to
anyone, she reminded herself firmly. He would never be content to sit idly
beside his hearth, counting his herds and planning his harvests. Like the wind
in a high gale, life with him would be wild and stormy, and she would be swept
along on whatever course he determined. He was a man she could never possess,
though he possessed her heart and soul.

"Did
we put you to sleep with our talk, sweet?" Francis called. He moved across
the floor to her side, kneeling to tuck the blanket beneath her chin.

"No.
Donald's wine just made me sleepy." She could not see his expression in
the shadows, yet she knew he was smiling. It was amazing how she no longer
needed to see him to know what he was thinking. The touch of his hand, a change
in the rugged timbre of his voice were enough.

He
bent and brushed her lips with his own. "Then sleep well, for tomorrow we
ride for Camereigh." His hand caressed her forehead, lingering along her
cheek. "I'm sorry to be leaving so soon, lass," he whispered.
"Donald will never know how unwelcome he is."

His
fingers traced the smile on her face. "I promise we'll have more time
together later," he added quietly. "Just the two of us."

She
smiled to herself in the darkness, warm and alive again because of his words.
So Francis was not anxious to return either. She fell asleep to the soothing
sound of rain dripping from the trees and the low-voiced conversation of the
two men.

The
fiery dawn was just unfurling its brave banner across the heavens as the
travelers left the shadowy glen. Anne paused on the rocky slope, turning for
one last glimpse of the dark birch thicket and the dancing silver burn winding
like a ribbon through the whispering shadows. She had been happy there, though
she had known the magic could not last.

She
struggled to shake off the strange foreboding that had settled over her at
thought of leaving the glen. A hundred dangers waited outside, not the least
among them Glenkennon and Percy Campbell. Would they snatch away her new life
before it was even begun?

She
had known little security in her nineteen years, and past experience had not
taught her to trust any kind fate to see to the ordering of her life. Yet with
Francis, anything seemed possible. With him she was ready to fight for the
second chance at happiness that life so unexpectedly offered.

The
journey to Camereigh was a long one, the riders traveling back trails and
steep, seldom-used passes through the line of jagged mountains rearing about
them. At night they camped near glassy blue lochs hidden away in the curve of
the hills where nothing moved but the wind, and the only sound was the lonely
cry of an occasional bird. They saw no sign of Glenkennon's men, a circumstance
Donald explained with a sly grin. "The search is concentrated west near
the coast," he said. "The lass has been sighted there once or twice,
so I've heard."

By
the afternoon of the fourth day the soaring stone towers of Camereigh came into
view. Reining in her mount, Anne stared in amazement. Scores of men and horses
milled in confusion on the meadow below the castle, the unfamiliar plaids and
pleated kilts of a half-dozen clans making a dazzling splash of color against
the vivid green of the grass and the brooding gray of stone walls.

At
sight of the MacLean laird, the piper struck up an air, the plaintive wail
sending a chill along Anne's spine. The men pressed forward eagerly. "A
MacLean," they shouted, in the age-old cry of Francis's clan.

Following
Francis, Anne turned into the throng. A rough veteran jogged along on foot
beside her mare. He threw her a wink and shouted hoarsely, "A
MacKinnon."

Another
voice took up his words and then another, until the cry echoed deafeningly from
several hundred throats. Francis leaned toward her. "I can see Conall's
hand in this. The men were waitin' for the sight of you."

She
gazed dubiously at the men, smiling and jostling each other as they crowded
closer to see her. They shouted the rallying cry of her clan, a treasonous cry
forbidden a score of years. Suddenly her heart skipped a beat. She was not one
of the hated English—she was a MacKinnon!

The
wild skirl of the pipes echoed through her blood, sending it racing hotly along
her veins. She rose in her stirrups, jerking the hat from her head and waving
it exuberantly at the surging tide of fighting men around them.

The
roar of approval was deafening. "A MacKinnon... a MacLean! A MacKinnon...
a MacLean," they chanted as the three threaded their way into Camereigh's
narrow gates.

Once
inside the courtyard, Francis caught Anne from her horse, swinging her about in
a dizzying circle. He set her on her feet and gave her a hearty kiss, much to
the shouted approval of his men. Breathless and laughing, she pushed away and
gazed around her.

Conall
vaulted lightly down the stairs. "How did you like your welcome,
lass?"

She
laughed up at him. "It's one I'll not forget... cousin."

His
face split into a wide, delighted grin. "'Tis pleased I am to welcome you
into the family... though it's a different connection I'd be seeking with so
comely a lass." He gave Francis a wink. "When you find yourself
outdone with this lad, you've but to send me word. I'll be happy to show you
the ways of a true gentleman."

"Why,
I thank you sir," she returned. "I'll remember your words, but I find
I've not yet a complaint to make."

"And
that's a kinder answer than any you deserve, Conall MacKinnon," Francis
put in. "Though we may stand condemned for this day's treason, at least
I'll no' be havin' to claim your red head as one of my MacLeans. Tis a thought
that's dear to me indeed."

"And
have you three frightened the pur child to death with yer rough talk?"

Anne
swung toward the door at the sound of Kate's dour voice, pleased beyond measure
at the sight of the smile transforming the woman's sturdy countenance.
"Welcome back, Anne MacKinnon," Kate said softly.

"Thank
you, Kate. It's good to be back."

In
her usual brusque manner, Kate took charge of the situation at once.
"You'll be comin' along with me now. I've a hot bath steamin' upstairs and
some fresh...," she cast a disparaging glance at Anne, "... and more
seemly clothing laid out."

She
hustled Anne inside. "You'll be havin' yer same room. Oh, and I saved the
gowns we'd made for you. 'Twas not beyond reason we'd have you back again, I
was thinkin'."

The
three men watched as the women disappeared. Conall put a hand on Francis's arm.
"I've ale drawn inside. You can wash the dust from your throat while I
give you an account of what's gone forward here."

"I
recognized Glengarry's men and near three score MacPhearsons. Is Robbie
arrived?"

"Aye,
the MacPhearson's here, but he rode out this morning with Sir Allan
MacGregor," Conall replied. They entered the hall, and he poured three
tankards of ale. "Walter MacLeod and his men are camped two miles from
here and Euan Grant with his clansmen at Cairndonagh. Oh, and Colen's sent
word. He's organizing the northern clans and will be here in a few days."
He took a deep drink, gazing at Francis mischievously. "'Tis such a
gathering as hasn't been seen in many a year... and I've been hard pressed to
give an excuse for your continued absence, lad."

Francis
smiled ruefully. "I didn't mean to leave it in your hands so long, Conall,
but all's in order. Now if I can discover a man of the Kirk, all will be done."
He frowned. "I'd have Anne well married before Glenkennon arrives. We
could prove Bruce MacKinnon as her sire, but I fear she'd be made Glenkennon's
ward should he lay hands on her."

"I'm
ahead of you there, Francis," Conall put in with a grin. "Anticipating
the need, I've nosed out a churchman and sent riders. He should be here in
another day or two. After all, I must see to my cousin's welfare now."

Francis
laughed and shook his head. "God's foot, Conall! How will I survive with
you for a kinsman?"

"Very
well, God willing."

"When
do we ride for Dunbarton, Francis?" Donald asked bluntly.

Francis
sobered at once, the laughter dying from his eyes. "The day after my
wedding." He put down his empty tankard. "Conall, I'll have you see
to things a few more days. Donald and I must ride to Dunbarton. We've a score
to settle with Campbell."

Conall
emptied his tankard and set it carefully on the table beside the others.
"Well, you'll not find the bastard this side of hell." His eyes
lifted to Francis's face, meeting his friend's questioning stare evenly.
"Someone's been before you with a debt to settle."

"What?"

"Charles
Randall picked a fight with the dog and slew him in Campbell's own hall. Word
reached us here two days ago." Conall dropped his eyes discreetly. "No
one's certain the nature of the quarrel. Some say 'twas cards, others that a
lady was involved." Steady gray eyes lifted to smoldering blue ones.
"I, for one, favor the cards—'tis well known the man cheated like a
knave."

"Damn
that hot-tempered fool! He couldn't leave it to me..." Francis drew a deep
breath, clenching one fist against the table. "Aye, 'twas most likely the
cards," he said heavily after a moment. He glanced up. "Was Charles
hurt?"

"Not
seriously in any event. He rode back to Ranleigh and kicked up the devil's own
rumpus with the earl."

A
mocking smile twisted Francis's lips. "It sounds as if Glenkennon's empire
is crumbling around him—Anne gone, Charles in open rebellion, Campbell dead.
Faith, the man must be beside himself. What I wouldn't give to see his
face!"

"You'll
see it soon enough," Donald reminded him. "And though young Charles
cheated you of a grudge match, Ian for one will be glad his nephew has a bit of
proper feeling to his credit."

"Aye,
the lad's a game one," Francis remarked. "Ian has no need to blush
for the boy."

***

Anne
did not see Francis again until dinner brought them together that evening. As
servants passed the steaming platters of food, he drew her to stand beside him,
casually announcing their plans to wed. The resulting shouts of approval were
deafening, and so many toasts had to be acknowledged, Anne feared she would be
drunk before she could manage any dinner.