Cates, Kimberly (33 page)

"Then you shall have the most elegant party my resources can provide, my dearest. The instant the Glen Lyon is dumped into his grave."

Rachel fought back the panic and turned pleading eyes to this man who now repelled her, this man she had understood not at all. The knowledge that she'd mouthed the same lies and platitudes about war and heroism, believed the same heartless theories, sickened her. "No, please. Can't we celebrate tonight? I want to forget what happened, and if we wait until after the execution, that's all anyone will speak of."

Dunstan frowned. "I'm not certain.... Rachel, tell me you're not having any sentimental regrets over the man's death. He's a criminal, a coward, a traitor. He chose his own fate the instant he rebelled against the crown."

"Yes. He chose his own fate," Rachel said.

He chose to remain in Scotland, battered and bloody as it was, instead of fleeing to perfumed salons in Paris or Italy with the rest of Bonnie Prince Charlie's officers.

He chose to turn his back on his own freedom, and gathered up children as tenderly as if they were stars fallen down from heaven, each a unique treasure, irreplaceable.

He chose to love me, even when I did not deserve the hero's heart he offered me.

She implored him. "Please, Dunstan. Let the party be tonight." She tried not to show the dark waters of dread lapping ever higher inside her, the crippling fear that she would fail Gavin, that she would have to watch him die.

Dunstan peered down at her, his lips stretching across his teeth in a tight smile. "You are brilliant as any general, my sweet, ruthless in plying the weapons at your disposal. I surrender. You may have your little fete."

"Thank God... thank you." Rachel fought to keep tears of relief from stinging her eyes.

"I am certain that the men will be eager to welcome you back. This time, you will be the one sharing tales of courage and daring. Of course, when you strike a treaty, there are always conditions, my lady general," Dunstan said, drawing her into what had once been a small salon. Sunshine streamed through torn velvet hangings, dust motes sliding along beams of light.

"Conditions?" Rachel echoed, tensing as he shut the door.

"Do you know, I'm loathe to admit that I had almost forgotten how beautiful you are?" Dunstan murmured.

The confession sent panic spilling in a cold wash down her spine.

"Look at you, Rachel. You're dressed in a harlot's rags, yet you have the bearing of a queen." He stroked the length of her arm. "It has been forever since I saw you last. Show me how much you have missed me, how glad you are to be back in my arms again."

He faced her, the sunlight snagging on the coarse whiteness of his wig, a dusting of powder across his brow. His nostrils flared, a light that was almost predatory darkening his eyes. Rachel swallowed hard, attempted to slip away, but he trapped her, flattening his palms on the wall on either side of her head.

"Kiss me, Rachel," he commanded. "Show me how grateful you are for my surrender."

Rachel's stomach rebelled, and she groped desperately for some way, any way to refuse. But if she raised his suspicions, the cost might be Gavin's life.

Hating herself, she raised her mouth to Dunstan's. But instead of the pleasant warmth she used to feel, she felt a sense of detachment in Dunstan, a subtle desire to dominate her. He didn't allow her to maintain control of the kiss, but took it from her the instant their lips brushed.

He crushed her between the wall and his body with a passion she'd never felt in him before, as if the fact that she'd been the captive of some other man titillated him somehow, made him determined to reassert his claim upon her.

His hands delved into her hair, tearing some of the tangled strands, and his tongue thrust like a rapier into her mouth, a weapon to subdue her, conquer her.

To conquer her...

The sudden awareness streaked through Rachel, answering so many questions. Was that the reason Dunstan Wells had turned his attention to her in the first place? To prove that he could conquer proud, headstrong Rachel de Lacey, the one woman no soldier had ever been able to tame? Had love been the same shallow game to him that it had been to the spoiled general's daughter?

Rachel couldn't stop herself from pulling away.

"Rachel? What the blazes is wrong?"

"I—I've been through so much. I'm so tired and— and hungry. I didn't know how tired I was."

He was regarding her warily, as if he was trying to peel back her defenses, see what thoughts were roiling in her mind. "You've never drawn back from me before. Why now? Did that bastard touch you? hurt you? By God, if he did, I'll take the knife to him myself, unman him—"

"No! He didn't hurt me. It's just that I've ridden through the night. I've been kidnapped, held hostage, and have faced the man who held me prisoner. I had to decide who would live and who would die."

"It's a decision a soldier faces every day of his life."

"And does it get easier, the more times you make that choice?"

"They're the enemy."

Rachel paced away from him and went to the window. She stared out, marking where the stable was, the horses in the paddock. Manslayer, that wild, scarred monster of a horse that adored Gavin, was pacing the fence, as if the merest breath from his master would send him crashing joyously into Armageddon.

She closed her eyes, remembering Gavin's desolation in the cottage, his agonized confession about the soldier he had killed to free the women and children from the blazing building.

They won.... For the first time, I can't remember his face....

"Dunstan, do you ever see their faces?"

"What?"

"The faces of the men you've slain in battle."

"They're the enemy. I do what I have to do. Kill them. No. I never see their faces."

"Death made glorious, destruction sanctified," she whispered.

"You know what I stand for: courage and honor, duty to God and country."

There were men who lived thus, believed thus, Rachel knew—any sacrifice for the greater glory. But she'd also known soldiers with old eyes filled with regret and shoulders bowed down from what they had done, seen, battles they'd fought to keep others safe. When soldiers sacrificed their own peace for the sole purpose of protecting others, they were the most noble heroes imaginable, should be honored to the depths of one's heart.

Gavin had fought, but he hadn't lost his soul. Adam was a warrior, with a warrior's strength, but he, too would save life if it were in his power rather than destroy it.

Impatience flashed into Dunstan's face. "What the devil is wrong with you? You've always been thrilled at my triumphs. Elated at victories. I remember you as a girl, more eager for tales of battle than any awestruck recruit I've ever seen."

"I remember," Rachel said. "I'm sorry."
Sorry for being so blind, sorry for not weeping with the wives and children of these faceless enemies you climbed to glory upon. Sorry I never understood the price good soldiers paid—the regrets, the nightmares.

"Go upstairs, Rachel. Rest." There was chill disapproval in his tones, a dismissal that hinted what life would have been like if she had wed this man—a series of battles in which he would have won because he didn't count the cost.

"Before you go, take this." He rummaged in his pocket, drew out an object that glinted between his fingers. The betrothal ring he'd placed on her finger a lifetime ago.

"No," Rachel said, curling her fingers into her palms with a sudden sense of panic. "I can't wear it now. My hands..."

She held out the bruised fingers, and for a moment, she expected Dunstan to insist, but he merely opened one of her hands and placed the ring in her palm.

"This whole unfortunate affair is all behind us now, Rachel. Soon you'll be my bride. I'll make you proud, I vow it. When the Glen Lyon is executed tomorrow, no man will ever dare mock me again."

"Tomorrow?" Rachel asked faintly.

"I'll not rest until he's in hell. And once he is," Dunstan said, smiling, "I will fulfill my destiny. I'll be a man of power, an officer to be reckoned with. And you will be the perfect ornament at my side." He reached up and grasped her chin between thumb and finger, and she fought to suppress a shudder.

"Of one thing you may be certain, Rachel: I will never again let you out of my sight."

Rachel clutched the betrothal ring in her hand and all but fled up the stairs to the bedchamber where Dunstan directed her.

I will never... let you out of my sight...

The words echoed, ominous as any death knell. Her plan tonight depended on escaping not only Dunstan's keen gaze, but those of the men who would be gathered to honor her, men drawn from their guard posts so they would be as far away as possible from the cell where Gavin awaited his execution.

Rachel closed the bedchamber door, her fingers tracing the obscured outline of the pistol hidden beneath her skirts.

The execution was set for tomorrow. That meant tonight was her only hope. She would have only one chance to save Gavin's life.

Her fingers trembled for an instant, then she stilled them, her spine stiffening. No. She had no time for fear. She'd been raised as a general's daughter, weaned on tales of battles against impossible odds, but it had taken a man labeled coward to teach her the one thing worth fighting for.

Love.

She would find a way to reach Gavin tonight. They would find a new future together, or she would be condemned as a traitor herself and mount the new-made gallows at his side.

CHAPTER 19

How many gallons of brandy did it take to toast a traitor through the gates of hell? Gavin was certain if it took every last drop at Sir Dunstan's disposal, the man would drain it in a frenzy of triumph this night. The soldier who had brought Gavin a greasy knuckle of mutton for dinner had taken great delight in informing the prisoner of the festivities that would take place at Furley House that night.

In celebration of Sir Dunstan's ultimate triumph over the Glen Lyon, he had summoned every officer within twenty miles. And they had come, eager to honor the courageous Mistress de Lacey who had escaped the traitor's clutches, and greedy to witness the spectacle of the Glen Lyon's destruction.

Gavin stalked the length of his cell, the savage scraping of manacles against the raw flesh of his wrists not half so painful as the images that spilled across his mind: Rachel, trapped in a chamber full of posturing fools who were gloating over the fact that he would die when dawn came; Rachel, suffering the torment of the damned, knowing that it was her word that had tightened the noose about his neck.

Gavin knew the frozen moment she had identified him as the Glen Lyon would haunt her forever. Unanswerable questions would plague her in nightmares—had there been some way to save him, something she could have done, something she could have said...?

Gavin shoved the hair back from his brow, the manacles rubbing his cheekbone, the chains rattling, cold against his face. God, he'd gladly make any bargain to be able to see her one last time, to tell her not to grieve for him. Because of her, he would mount the gallows knowing that he could never be alone again. Rachel was buried so deep in his soul that even death could never part them.

If only his final gift to her could have been something beautiful, instead of regrets and grief and nightmares... nightmares that would force her to choose again and again and again, sending him to an eternal line of gallows.

If only there was some way she could forget... Philosophers said that time healed all wounds. He hoped that they were right, that his lady would one day find peace. If he somehow managed to reach heaven, he'd risk being banished forever if he could steal down and wipe the pain, the memories from her mind.

A muffled sound of voices outside the cell door shook Gavin from his musings. Gavin heard the young sentry's chuckle. Changing of the guard? Gavin wondered. After all, Sir Dunstan wouldn't want any of his men to miss the opportunity of paying homage to him.

Gavin stalked to the filthy mattress and sank down on it, burying his face in his hands. He had known from the first moment he had ridden away from his dying father's bedside, his grandfather's sword in his hand, that he'd surrendered all thoughts of a future. He'd known with painful clarity what the outcome of the rebellion would be. And from the instant he'd donned the mantle of the Glen Lyon, he'd been certain of his own fate—death, from a pistol shot or sword thrust, or upon a gallows.

There had even been times he'd thought he'd meet his fate with something akin to relief. It would be over, finished at last.

But that was before Rachel had been dragged, kicking and shouting, into his life. Now, with the memory of Rachel's sighs of passion, her gasps of pleasure, her hands eager on his skin, a thousand possibilities more wondrous than anything he'd ever imagined reached out to taunt him, shades of a future that could never be.
I
want to live.
The fierce need welled up inside him.

No.
Gavin fought it grimly.
It is better to end it this way, quick and clean.
Rachel would heal after a time. She would find another man to give her all the things Gavin could not—a house full of love and children, an honorable name. Rachel would survive. She was too valiant a lady not to. He had to cling to that certainty, or he would go mad.

"Damn it, you should be rejoicing," Gavin muttered. "Rachel will never wed that cur Sir Dunstan. She'll find another man to love her someday. Adam will be safe. Even if Wells tried to ambush him, Adam will manage to get away. Mama Fee will guard the babies, and they'll shield her from her grief. Things turned out better than you had any right to hope for. You should be thanking God, not railing at the fates."

A trill of feminine laughter rippled out, muffled through the heavy door, and Gavin froze, the familiarity of that laugh piercing him like a shard of ice.
No. It couldn't be...
But the thought had barely formed when he heard a soft thud, followed by the scraping of a key in the lock. It grated in protest, then the door opened. Gavin's heart slammed to a halt.