One Man's Love Page 14

  She glanced over at the ruin of the arch. Where she had stood a moment earlier was now covered with broken bricks and stone. “I could have been killed,” she said, dazed.

  “Who are you?” she asked, turning to stare at him.

  He smiled, thinking that she had cut to the core of it, asking the most difficult question of them all.

  It was so dark that she couldn’t see him. But she could still feel the imprint of his hands, the impression of his body as he pressed her against the wall. He’d acted so quickly that she’d no time for fear. Even now she wasn’t afraid as much as surprised.

  He didn’t answer her, but something about the way he moved appeared familiar, so much so that she felt her heart leap to her throat.

  “Marcus? Is that you?” she asked, and waited, breathless, for his answer.

  “No,” he said finally. “I am not him, Leitis,” he said, in perfect Gaelic.

  “How do you know my name?”

  “There is little that goes on at Gilmuir that I don’t know,” he said.

  He slipped into the shadows, his form touched only briefly by moonlight.

  “Who are you?” she asked, prudently moving away.

  He hesitated for a moment, removed something from his shirt, and extended his hand to her. There on his gloved palm was a MacRae badge. Lit by a beam of moonlight, it appeared shiny and golden.

  “It is mine by right of my birth,” he said.

  “You’re a MacRae?” she asked incredulously.

  “Yes,” he said simply, tucking the badge away.

  “There are not many of us left,” she said. “Do I know you?”

  “I don’t think you do,” he said somberly, stepping deeper into the shadows.

  She looked toward the corners of the room, straining to see him. But there was only the inky darkness.

  “Did I imagine you?” she asked.

  “I am real enough,” he replied, his voice deep and echoing in the partially roofed structure.

  “What is your name?”

  “Give me one,” he challenged.

  She turned back to look at Donald, but he was still in the chamber. “Shadow,” she suggested.

  “It lacks character and sounds too dour,” he said, his tone amused. Her own lips curved into a reluctant smile.

  “But why do you wear black?”

  “To avoid scrutiny, perhaps,” he offered. “Especially from the English.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Are you always filled with questions?” he asked.

  “Would you not be, to find a Scot among so many English soldiers?”

  “A pigeon among all these cats?” he asked. “Your ability to name me has no poetry, mistress. Are there no heroes you might pull from your memory to call me?”

  “Do heroes skulk in the shadows?”

  “Those who wish to live another day, perhaps.”

  “Raven,” she offered. “Black as night, yet cunning.”

  “It has a ring to it,” he said agreeably.

  “Why are you here, Raven, in an English stronghold?”

  He hesitated, and when he finally spoke, she had the impression it was a reluctant truth he offered her.

  “To save the MacRaes,” he said.

  “Then, Raven,” she said, smiling, “you are as daft as my uncle, who insists on defying the English single-handedly. What can one man do?”

  “The colonel is only one man, Leitis,” he softly said. “As is Cumberland. And the prince.”

  Her cheeks warmed at his words, as if he chastised her. “All of them have followers. And force of arms. Do you?”

  “There is only myself,” he said soberly.

  “Alone in an English fortress? You’re either a brave or a foolhardy man.”

  “Gilmuir is not English,” he said in a clipped tone. “As to being brave or foolhardy, I claim neither.”

  “Modest as well,” she said, smiling.

  “Miss? It’s time,” Donald called out.

  “You’d best leave,” she said to the Raven, unwilling for him to be caught by the earnest sergeant.

  “Why do you protect me?” he whispered.

  “You’re a MacRae.”

  “Are all the MacRaes so virtuous that you can stand in isolation with one and fear nothing?” he asked, his voice once more sounding amused.

  “Yes,” she replied quickly.

  “Then I would be a fool not to claim myself a MacRae,” he said.

  “Miss?” Donald stood at the doorway of the chamber, looking out toward the archway.

  “A minute, Donald, please,” she called out, then turned to the Raven. “Take care. There is a regiment of soldiers not far from here.”

  “I understood they were on patrol,” he said.

  “Most of them, but not everyone, and there are lookouts everywhere.”

  “Is he one of them?” he asked, looking at Donald standing in the archway, illuminated by the faint light of the candles.

  “My jailer,” she admitted. “The colonel left him behind.”

  “Then it’s you who should take care,” he said.

  “Let me help you,” she said, surprising herself with the request and the sudden elation that filled her at the prospect. “You want to save the MacRaes and so do I. There must be something I can do.”

  “This is no adventure, Leitis. It is dangerous and if you’re captured by the English they will not be kind simply because you are a woman.”

  “They have not been kind now,” she said, tilting her chin up at him. “Or do you think I’m here willingly?”

  “There are those who say the colonel is captivated by you. That he is acting in a way unlike himself. You are safer here than in harm’s way.”

  Her thoughts about the colonel were her own and not to be shared with anyone, even if he was a MacRae.

  “I did not have your protection in this last year, Raven,” she said quietly, “when we nearly starved. We were rousted from our beds at night and made to assemble in a circle in the middle of the village in our nightclothes. We women didn’t know if we were to be raped or left to freeze, and the men were powerless to defend us. Our cattle were slaughtered in front of us, not because the English were hungry but so that we could not eat. But you were never there.”

  “All the more reason,” he said, his voice low, “to guard you now.”

  “No,” she said, quietly assertive. “It’s not. I can survive, Raven; I’ve proven that.”

  “I don’t wish anything to happen to you, Leitis,” he said softly.

  “Then you should turn back time itself,” she said gently. “Because it has.”

  A moment passed and then another. “Are you faint of heart?” he asked in the silence. “Afraid of horses or shadows or the wind blowing through your hair?”

  She smiled, an expression of ridicule for his questions, even as she felt a surge of excitement. She walked closer to where he stood. “I will be exceptionally brave,” she promised him. “But any MacRae is.”

  “Even the women?”

  “Especially the women,” she answered. “We have more cause.”

  “Then meet me here,” he said. “Tomorrow, just before sunset.”

  She stepped away from him, moved toward the open arch. It was lighter here, gray where the shadows of the priory were ebony. He didn’t follow her. Instead, he was rooted to the spot, shielded by darkness.

  “Can you lose your jailer? I’ve no wish to have the English following us.”

  “I will,” she promised. How, she didn’t know, but she would find a way.

  She turned, peering into the shadows, but the Raven had vanished like steam in the wind.

  “Miss?” Donald’s voice again, closer now, calling her to captivity.

  “I’m coming,” she said, and reluctantly left the priory.

  Alec stood in the darkness and watched her. She squared her shoulders, tilted her chin up, and resolutely returned to the laird’s chamber. Her form was only a soft shadow. But
his mind made her hair the shade of autumn leaves and her face a soft ivory. And in her lovely eyes he saw the sincerity of pain and the courage she’d forged from grief.

  He walked slowly across the floor of the priory until he stood next to the opening of the staircase, removing the stone and then lowering himself to the first step.

  His plans would have to be reevaluated. It was all too obvious that he couldn’t use the staircase as a way to enter and leave Fort William now. The chances of being seen by Leitis were too great.

  Perhaps it would be better if he sent her back to the village. But it would attract attention if he did so without also seeking out Hamish. The old man would be found, and when he was, Alec would be forced to execute him. Stubborn, yes; irritating in his hatred, yes again; but Hamish’s acts did not deserve hanging.

  It was, perhaps, foolish to allow Leitis to assist him. Yet he knew what it was like to stand and watch as atrocities occurred and be powerless to prevent them. He would have to plan for more safeguards, be even more circumspect. In addition, he would have to speak to Donald, and ensure that his aide was missing when Leitis left and returned. Not a difficult task, since Alec trusted him with the truth.

  But above all, Leitis must not be harmed.

  There were no inns to speak of in this stark and wild country, a fact that Patricia Landers, Countess of Sherbourne, had learned to accept.

  The journey had been difficult. They’d broken two wheels, the second requiring that they seek out a smithy. Storms had accompanied them from England as if to chase them home.

  But through it all, David had remained excited and childlike. A blessing, perhaps, to have his nature.

  “Will we get there soon?” he asked, his smile broadening as he stared out at the wild and inhospitable countryside.

  Brandidge Hall was in Surrey, a land of gently rolling hills that undulated from horizon to horizon. A familiar and soft beauty against the pale blue English sky. As if nature had created the scene so as not to offend the eye.

  Here in Scotland, everything was harsh. The sunsets were garish and bold, as if insisting upon attention. Even the eagles that soared from the stark hills greeted the world with a more raucous cry.

  “Soon enough,” she said, forcing a smile to her face. Any destination would be acceptable. She felt as if she were permanently affixed to the coach seat.

  “Will he remember me?” An expression of worry flitted over David’s face and she hurried to reassure him.

  “Of course he will,” she said fondly. “You’re his brother.”

  The coachman was making their camp on the side of the road. She had chosen to sleep in the carriage rather than beneath a tree. There were no insects on the narrow bench seat, no buzzing bugs, curious frogs, and small, slithering creatures that so captivated David.

  She leaned forward and straightened David’s stock, pushed his hair behind his ears. David rarely noticed his own appearance. He enjoyed the company of kittens and cats, could stare for hours at the paintings in Brandidge Hall, and was fascinated with every creeping, crawling thing that God had unfortunately created.

  In addition, he was agreeably entranced with the scenery they passed day after endless day. It was the same stark sky, ringed about with harsh mountains and green hills. It rarely changed, except to rain upon them or send the glaring sun to heat the interior of the coach.

  She admonished herself for her own thoughts. It would do no good to complain. It would not ease the journey, nor make it more quickly done.

  “I’ll tell him about my cat, shall I?” David asked, stepping down from the carriage. Ralph hunkered down in her basket, ears flattened, her yellow eyes merely slits. She doubted that Alec would want to hear much about the feline, but Patricia nodded to his question anyway.

  Most of David’s conversation centered on topics that might be suitable to the new Earl of Sherbourne. She didn’t know what kind of person Alec had grown to be. A kind one, she hoped, glancing at her son. He stood with Ralph’s basket tucked against his chest, transfixed by the site of the campsite and the brightly blazing fire the coachman had just lit. His eyes were open and kind and eternally trusting.

  Please don’t let him be hurt. A prayer she’d uttered numerous times a day, ever since it was obvious that David could not protect himself.

  Ralph made a snarling sound and Patricia suddenly smiled, thinking that she and the cat shared the same feeling about Scotland.

  Chapter 15

  L eitis waited impatiently until the day passed and she could meet the Raven in the priory. The room was clean, scrubbed until it nearly gleamed. If she had been at home, she would have been occupied with a hundred chores and wondering when she’d have the time to finish all of them. Weeding her small garden, searching for berries and wild onions, caring for her one cow, or washing, taking pride in the way her clothes always looked fresh and clean.

  Her cottage was gone, her cow slaughtered by the English, and her only clothing this poor excuse for a dress. She smiled at herself. Here she was, about to be a rebel, and she was concerned with her attire.

  She would not, however, as much as she joked about it, offer to mend the garments of the English. Therefore, the inactivity made time pass more slowly.

  She should give more thought to Donald. How could she rid herself of him? Claim a female complaint? If he was like her brothers, that would speed him from the room, but he would, no doubt, continue to guard the door. State that she was ill and worried that it might be contagious? She doubted he would believe her. Challenge him to another of his games and hope she won? Too uncertain. She could just as well lose. The afternoon passed, each moment ticking by so slowly that it nearly made her daft, and yet she was no closer to an answer.

  She opened the door when Donald knocked, moved aside for him to place the evening meal on the table. One thing she could not fault about her imprisonment: She certainly ate well.

  She smiled and thanked him, still no closer to an idea how to banish him and resigning herself to being a prisoner again tonight.

  “I need to see to the colonel’s clothing, miss,” he said, fumbling over the words. “I’ve other chores that I’ve been neglecting as well. I can summon another guard, or extract your promise.”

  “Which is?” she asked cautiously.

  “Not to escape,” he said earnestly.

  She nodded and smiled. She didn’t doubt the Butcher’s threat to find and hang Hamish if she escaped. But he’d said nothing of being rebellious.

  As soon as Donald left the room, she moved to the door and pressed her ear against it. His footsteps faded as he walked through the archway and into the courtyard. Slowly, she opened the door, slipped outside, and ran to the priory.

  The storm had passed them the night before, and the late afternoon was streaked with purple clouds heralding fair weather.

  She stood in the priory, holding her hands tight in front of her in an effort to slow her breathing. Her heart beat so loudly it echoed like thunder.

  All her fears and anxiety and anticipation and excitement made the blood rush fast through her body. Was this how a man felt before he went into battle? Knowing that he faced danger and fearing it so much that his knees wobbled?

  She heard a sound and turned, a welcoming smile on her face. But it wasn’t him, only the brush of something against the floor. A rodent, or an insect, or even the wind swirling through the debris on the floor. She waited for what felt like an eternity, each moment ticking by with increasing slowness, as if giving her time to realize what she was about to do.

  The English could capture her. That would be fearsome enough, but what would happen to Hamish? Was she endangering him by her actions?

  A strange sound of brick rubbing against brick made her turn her head. She followed the noise, creeping across the rubble-strewn floor of the priory like one of the mice that lived at Gilmuir now.

  She halted, startled, as a stone began to move beneath her feet. Quickly she stepped back. It moved again, then was
replaced by a head, then a torso, as a body emerged from the floor.

  A cloud of black appeared. A ghost? She took one more step back before realizing that he wasn’t a spirit after all, but a man. A man garbed in black, a mask obscuring half his face. She had named him aptly, then. The Raven.

  He bent down, placed the stone back into position, then straightened slowly.

  “I’m not to know who you are, then?”

  He turned toward the sound of her voice. “The mask is for your protection,” he said easily. “If you are questioned by the English, you can honestly say that you have never seen me.”

  “I would say that regardless,” she promised.

  “And I would keep you safe,” he countered. “Do not question me on this,” he said softly but resolutely.

  She nodded, suspecting that if she did not agree, he would leave without her.

  “Did you make me wait on purpose?” she asked. “To make me realize what I was doing?”

  “Was it a successful ploy?”

  “Nearly,” she admitted. “I don’t like being afraid.”

  “No one does,” he said calmly. “The trick is to hide it well enough that no one realizes what you’re feeling.”

  “What is this place?” she asked, stepping closer to the spot where he’d emerged from the stone floor. “A hidden room?”

  “A staircase,” he answered. “One of the secrets of Gilmuir.”

  Her head whipped up and she stared at him. “Secrets?”

  “Like myself, perhaps,” he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Are you prepared to learn secrets, Leitis?”

  It was a dare he offered her. She smiled and nodded.

  “Then promise,” he said, “that you’ll never tell what I’m about to show you.”

  She frowned at him. “I promise,” she said, wondering exactly what he wished of her.

  He turned and looked back toward the archway. “Is your jailer waiting for you?”

  “Not tonight,” she said. “Perhaps I should be grateful that the Butcher is such a taskmaster.”

  He said nothing, only knelt and held out his gloved hand to her. The sunlight streamed in through the arches, creating patterns of light and shadow on the far wall. He was part of these; a man who promised to reveal secrets yet remained encased in his own. His eyes, dark and solemn, measured her. His hand did not waver, remaining in the air between them.