Amanda Scott (43 page)

While considering his primary dilemma, Rothwell also thought more than once of the real reason he had come to the Highlands. To remember now that he had ever even had an ulterior motive was difficult, but he knew that Ryder was waiting—impatiently, no doubt—to learn all he could tell him about Jacobite activities in the area. In fact, he had nothing to tell. Though the men of Glen Drumin were Jacobite sympathizers and might well be running information along with their whisky, he had seen no sign of it, or indeed of any activity other than whisky-making. Moreover, he was as sure as he could be that even if he did encounter evidence of other activities now, he would not pass it along unless a new uprising appeared imminent.

At last he decided it would behoove him to sit down and write to Ryder to explain that he could not help. He tried to couch his periods in a form that made them sound at least as if he took the matter seriously, but even that much was hard, and in the end, he did not send his letter at all, for before he had arranged for a man to take it to Inverness, from whence it could be carried post to London, a letter arrived from Ryder by special messenger, the contents of which put Highland Jacobites, and even whisky-making, straight out of his head.

Maggie, having learned that a special messenger had arrived, went in search of Rothwell and found him in his bedchamber, letter in hand, looking both solemn and annoyed. He looked up when she entered, and she thought there was a measuring look in his eyes, as if he wondered what he ought to tell her.

“Ian said a messenger had come, sir. Not bad news, I hope, though in my experience, bad news comes more swiftly than good.”

He smiled. “Your experience is apt, sweetheart. There is little you will count as good news in this letter, I think.”

“May I ask who sent it?”

“Sir Dudley Ryder,” he said.

“The attorney general?”

“Yes. He writes, by the way, that Charles Stewart has returned to the Continent, that in fact, he did so less than a week after Lady Primrose’s masquerade. There was no real support to be gained for his cause, I’m afraid.”

Maggie sighed. “I am not surprised to hear that, for I saw as much for myself. Too many people were like your sister, Lydia, thrilled to think themselves part of a secret conspiracy but unwilling to exert themselves to help.”

“The Pretender’s cause would not have prospered in any case,” he said gravely. “For all that some members of the government still leap in alarm whenever Charles makes the slightest move, there is no good reason for them to do so.”

“Are all his supporters so powerless?”

“Not powerless, exactly, but the carnage at Culloden and the brutalities of Cumberland’s raiding parties afterward weakened the ranks here in Scotland, certainly, and what those things did not accomplish, the struggle for economic survival soon will.”

“How can you say that much and still insist that the English government is not to blame for our ills?” Maggie demanded.

“I have never said the government bears no share of the blame,” he said gravely. “The men at Westminster were badly frightened by this last uprising, and they resolved never again to be threatened by supporters of the House of Stewart. I do think they went too far in their political war against the clans and against your ancient way of life here in the Highlands, but Jacobites were especially numerous and strong here. That is why government troops were left in such substantial numbers to man the forts of the Great Glen, to overawe the inhabitants.”

“We are not so easily overawed, sir, as you have seen for yourself.” An unwelcome suspicion leapt to mind as she said the words, and impulsively she said, “Is that why you agreed to come here, to discover for your precious government just what the situation was like? Was that why you agreed to bring me home? I wondered, you know. You changed your mind so quickly.” His silence was answer enough, and the chill that swept through her when she realized she had discovered something she had not wanted to know made her feel a little sick. “Have you been sending letters to Ryder all along, betraying Papa and our people to the English government? For by heaven, Edward, if you have—”

“I have not written before now but only because I lacked the means to get messages to London without anyone knowing,” he replied with devastating candor. “I admit, however, that such a plan was in my mind when I agreed to come. I did not realize then how remote this glen is from the Great Glen, from Fort William and Fort Augustus, and in my ignorance I believed I would be able to arrange for someone in one of those places to carry information back to Ryder. That is certainly what he expected of me, and it is one of the points he makes in this letter, that I have been remiss in my duty. You can read as much for yourself if you like. I have no objection; however, there is something else I must tell you before you do.”

Astonished that he would allow her to read a letter addressed to him—for even in the Highlands men did not generally confide business matters to their women—she said, “Go on then. I am listening.”

“The time has come to return to London, Maggie.”

An unexpected wave of disappointment surged through her, but she managed to maintain her air of composure, saying, “I never thought to hear myself say this, but I shall be very sorry to see you go. I think Papa will miss your company, too.”

He shook his head. “Your father might miss me, but you won’t, sweetheart, for you will go with me.”

“To London? But Glen Drumin is my home, and since you own the land now, there is no reason it should not become our primary residence. I have no wish to live in London.” She realized even as the words tumbled from her lips that she ought to have expected this ever since he had made it plain that he had no intention of ending their union. She was married to him and must by rights live where he lived. It seemed astonishing now that the fact that he would take her away from Glen Drumin had not so much as crossed her mind before this moment.

He was watching her, and she saw by his expression that he had read her feelings in her countenance, for a sad little smile touched his lips. He said quietly, “My life is centered in London. It has been for many years. You must come with me. I hoped you would want to come.”

“I …” His sad smile stirred an instant urge to say what he wanted to hear, but she could not say what she did not feel. Though she had spoken the truth in saying she would miss him, the thought of living permanently in London dismayed her. She had gone there in the first place only to seek help for her people, and if she left now, she would be leaving them in much the same position as they had been before she went. But more than that, she did not want to leave her home. It was unthinkable to put the beauty of the Highlands behind her, and to replace it with the filth and noise of London, or even with the lovely view of the Thames from Rothwell London House. “I cannot go,” she said at last. “I know that must vex you, Edward, but I simply cannot live in London. I would wither away there and die.”

“You are not as fragile as that, sweetheart,” he said, still in that quiet, patient tone, “and I am afraid the choice is not yours to make. Your position as my wife includes certain duties and responsibilities that you must not shirk.”

She had a sudden mental vision of him the way she had first seen him, foppish and languid, dressed in the extreme height of London fashion, drawling at her, apparently only curious to know why James had invaded his library with a bedraggled female in tow. How much, she thought, they both had changed since that fateful day. But one thing had remained the same. Though she knew now that she cared about him—about the man he had become here in the Highlands, at least—and knew, too, that she stirred his masculine passions and he could delight her in bed, she was just as certain that she could never love the man she had known in London, nor he love her. Indeed, Rothwell could not love her at all, or he would understand her dread of leaving Glen Drumin.

“I won’t go,” she said flatly, trying to keep her tone as quiet and patient as his, “and do not think you can force me to go, sir, for you will quickly learn how little your word really counts with our people.” Tears sprang to her eyes, and she knew she was nearly as loath to force him to choose between London and herself as she was to go with him. He would certainly seek an annulment or divorce now, and his English Parliament would grant his wish in the twinkling of an eye. And that was something she no longer wanted in the least.

She expected him to become angry, and his lips and the muscles in his jaw certainly tightened ominously enough to frighten a lesser woman, but all he said was, “I warned you before that I do not take kindly to threats, Maggie. I would dislike very much to have to exert my authority here, but if you force me to do so—you or your father—do not think for a moment that I won’t. I did not intend to leave so soon as this, for I was aware that you would not want to go, but certain matters at home have forced my hand.”

“What matters?” she demanded, trying to ignore the shivers that his icy tone had sent racing up her spine.

“My stepmother and Lydia mean to be in London by Martinmas,” he said, the chill in his voice no longer directed at her.

“So soon?” She calculated swiftly. “That’s less than a fortnight from now.”

“Yes. Fortunately, my stepmother must have chosen to confide her intent to one of her more garrulous bosom bows, and Ryder learned of it in time to send me this message, but although his messenger made excellent time and tells me the road from Edinburgh to London is relatively clear, it is unlikely that even by leaving at once we shall arrive in London before them.”

“I am sorry that Lady Rothwell has displeased you, Edward,” she said calmly, “but it can be no great thing, after all. You were concerned lest the news of Lydia’s presence at the masquerade become public, but that cannot matter now, and though I know that it displeases you when the women in your life fail to obey your commands, surely it is not necessary for you to rush to London only to express your displeasure.”

He grimaced. “The danger to Lydia now is as great as it ever was,” he said, “perhaps greater. I have told you how frightened certain people in Westminster become when any Jacobite stirs. Those men know that the Pretender escaped again after strolling around London as if there were not even a threat to detain him, and Ryder writes that many are so upset there is even talk in Parliament of hanging all Jacobite sympathizers outright. While I do not believe widespread hangings will result, cases will be brought to court for the sole purpose of making examples of a few to suppress overt displays of sympathy by many more. I don’t want my sister to become a victim of such an action merely because a few idiots are terrified of another Jacobite uprising.”

“Then I do understand that you must go, sir, but I shall not, for I can think of no good reason to do so.”

“There is every reason. That I have been in Scotland will be no secret. That I have acquired a Scottish wife may also be known. Certainly, Mr. Goodall had heard as much. If I leave you here, that action alone may be enough to make doubly suspect any action I make on Lydia’s behalf if she encounters trouble.”

“But won’t there be danger to me as well?” Maggie asked.

“The fact that you are my wife will protect you, and that same fact is reason—” He broke off to say as MacDrumin strode into the little room, “I was just going to send for you, sir.”

“Aye, and so I thought myself when I heard that a messenger had come, so I came to find you. Bad news, lad?”

“Personal business but serious enough to recall me to London,” Rothwell said.

“We’ll be saddened to see you go, and just when you were just beginning to appreciate the glen.”

There was enough of a twinkle in his eyes to convince Maggie that he was not really sorry to see Rothwell go, and not wanting the earl to notice, she said quickly, “He wants me to go with him, Papa, but I will stay here, of course.”

MacDrumin shifted his attention to her. “What’s that you say? Nonsense, lass. A woman goes where her husband goes.”

“But I don’t want to live in London,” Maggie cried, feeling suddenly as if the floor beneath her had begun to tilt beneath her feet. “I thought you of all people would understand!”

“I do, but you’ll go with your husband, lass, and that’s all there is about it. I’ll take her away and talk to her, Ned,” he added with a nod. “You’ll have things you want to see to.”

“I do,” Rothwell agreed, “but there is one other matter that I want to discuss with you before I depart, MacDrumin, that has to do with the future of Glen Drumin.”

Hearing a note of finality in his voice, Maggie looked quickly at MacDrumin, but the old man was regarding Rothwell with nothing more than simple curiosity.

“What exactly do you want to discuss?” he asked.

“I’ve given the situation here a great deal of thought,” Rothwell said, “and I’ve come to realize how important it is for the people of your clan to stay together if it can be made possible for them to do so. I believe I can do just that, and in such a way that they can get out of the illegal whisky business and make even more money quite legally.”

“And just how can you do that?”

“We are going to run sheep in the glen.”

T
HOUGH MAGGIE WAS CERTAIN
that MacDrumin must be as appalled as she was at the notion of running sheep for profit in Glen Drumin, and would have been only too willing to list for the earl’s edification all the reasons that such a plan was doomed to failure, he said only, “It might take more time than you think to develop a herd large enough to support the entire clan, lad.”

Rothwell said, “The hill country here seems well suited to them, however. You simply haven’t run enough sheep yet to produce an acceptable profit, but I can change that, and I mean to do so. There are excellent markets for wool and mutton.”

Still maintaining what Maggie was certain must be an unnatural hold over his temper, MacDrumin said, “We can discuss it a bit more, I suppose, lad. How soon do you mean to depart?”

“We’ll leave first thing in the morning.”