She peered through the chink in the high wall. No ships on the horizon. Hell, if there had been a ship coming to rescue her it would probably get lost in her mist and crash into a cliff.
“What are you looking for?” a curious female voice demanded behind her.
Marsali turned away from the wall with a sigh. One of the convent school prefects, a tall raven-haired girl named Hannah with an angular face and stormy blue eyes, came bounding across the garden toward her.
“Nothing.”
“Pirates?” the girl, Hannah, asked hopefully, squinting at the chink for a look herself, only to draw away, shaking her head in disappointment. “Not a chance in hell. I’ll never get ravished at this rate.”
Marsali smiled in sympathy. According to convent gossip, the girl was an orphan and had lived here all her life. Someone had whispered that she was distantly related to the Reverend Mother, and because of this association she gave herself arrogant airs. She swore a lot, she had quite a temper, and for those traits alone, Marsali rather liked her.
“I’
m waiting for the chieftain,” she admitted, not understanding why she would confess such a thing to a girl she barely knew.
“The chieftain? Mother Judith’s brother?” Hannah considered this, then gave Marsali a level look. “Well then, I hope you do know magic, because there hasn’t been a decent man on this island for at least a hundred years.”
“The weeds will not come out by themselves, Marsali,” a wry voice remarked behind them.
Marsali sighed and automatically plucked a tender green plantling from the black soil.
“That was a bean sprout, not a weed.” Reverend Mother Judith walked past them, tsking to herself. “Perhaps it’s the mist. There is an unsettling influence in the air today.”
“It’s boredom,” Hannah muttered under her breath.
“Aye,” Marsali whispered in agreement. “Anybody would go mad wearing those hot scratchy habits, running to
and fro to the chapel every time that bell was rung. Hell, it’s because of the bell that I’m paying the penance of picking weeds today.”
“What happened?” Hannah whispered.
“It was my turn to ring the matins. Well, I underestimated my strength and yanked the bell right off its old frayed rope. Before I knew it, I was sailing across the belfry.” Marsali paused, wincing at the memory. “I smashed into a beam and sent the bell crashing down to the bottom of the tower.”
That same bell, dented in many places, began to peal now for complines. Another afternoon was passing, and he hadn’t come.
As Marsali lumbered to her feet, she cast a last yearning look to the mist-shrouded sea that stretched beyond the convent wall.
She hated him. She loved him. She missed him so much it hurt to even picture his face. Even now she couldn’t believe he was cruel enough to abandon her. Even now her stubborn heart clung to the hope of goodness she had glimpsed in him.
Cha
pter
29
H
e was leaving the castle within the hour. Escaping at last.
He ought to be running down the haunted hallways, flaunting his freedom in front of the ghosts. Superficially, at least, his debts were discharged. He’d done his best. The heaviness would lift as soon as he fled the oppressive walls.
He picked up a toy soldier from the solar floor on his way to the door. A strained smile softened his face at the bittersweet memory of losing that battle to Marsali.
Oh, look, they’re dolls. Can I play too, my lord?
“Silly girl,” he mused aloud, gripping the lead figure in his palm. “They aren’t dolls. I wasn’t playing.”
A curt knock sounded at the door. It was Edwina, looking overblown and uncomfortable in the red scarlet coat and plumed hat of her father’s army uniform over her own riding habit. “The horses are ready. Good God. You’re not playing with your toys again, are you, Duncan? I thought you wanted to be off just after dawn.”
Duncan tossed the soldier down onto the desk.
“Aren’t you even going to say goodbye to the clan?” Edwina asked in concern.
“What for?” Duncan frowned. “Where is Abercrombie anyway? He was supposed to hand over the accounts.”
“Cook says he’s run off to the British fortress to beg
asylum. By the way, I gave my coach to Marsali’s nieces and nephews.” She paused for effect, her face taut with disapproval. “It was the least I could do, since their
beloved aunt was so cruelly torn
from the bosom of the family.”
“Don’t start, Edwina. She got what she deserved.”
Duncan brushed past her. He refused to glance back into the room where the phantom of poignant regret lingered in the stillness. His voice tense, he said, “Forget the fond farewells too. We’ll be lucky if we don’t cross the drawbridge without an arrow in the behind as a parting insult.”
P
redictably, he had to bellow to have the portcullis raised, the drawbridge lowered. He needn’t have worried about the arrows, though. No one bothered to see him off. After all, it was still morning.
And he was no longer the chieftain.
He had handed the burden of responsibility to Johnnie the previous evening, although it was doubtful that Johnnie, half asleep at the time, even remembered the fact.
And now he was riding from his crumbling old castle for the last time. London beckoned, with its glittering ladies to fawn over him and lords to flatter. His dukedom awaited. He would return to a superficial world, which would welcome him as a hero.
He was finally free of rebellious little ragamuffins and insubordinate clansm
en. He stared ahead to the sun-
dappled hills, inhaling the perfume of fading heather and unfulfilled hopes.
He said a silent goodbye to his mother as he rode slowly past her grave in the churchyard. In the next breath he cursed Fergus aloud to hell for all eternity.
The heaviness hadn’t lifted. By the time he reached the crag where Marsali had ambushed him, his heart felt as if it were entombed once more behind a stone that emotion would never penetrate again.
Yet, briefly, for one magical summer, a shaft of sunlight had broken through. Marsali, Johnnie, Lachlan, Owen. Even Effie and her piglets had carved out a place in his heart. And left it bleeding.
Edwina glanced up at the crag, her hand hovering above the pistol Marsali had given her as a farewell gift. “If they
strip you naked when you enter, what do you suppose happens when you leave?” she asked worriedly.
“They probably roll a boulder or two down the road after—” His face attentive, Duncan swerved around in the saddle. “My God, do you see what I see?”
T
he thunder of hoofbeats down the hill heralded the approach of a single horseman—actually, a
horsewoman.
With the stamina of a Celtic warrior, Cook galloped straight toward them on Marsali’s mare, waving a rolling pin over her head.
Effie followed on foot, blowing her hunting horn. The piglets trotted at her heels with their plump bellies swaying. A few seconds later Johnnie, Lachlan, and Owen climbed to the rise of the hill on their worn little ponies.
“They’re going to kill us. I told you not to send Marsali away.” Edwina backed her horse into a crevice of the crag. “Don’t just sit there, Duncan. Defend us.”
Duncan gave no indication he had heard. He was too intent on translating the look on Agnes’s face as she drew her heaving horse alongside his. Fear, he would guess, and not vengeance, had sent her charging from the castle.
“What is it?” he asked in concern.
“My lord.” She paused to catch her breath; her mobcap dangled from her ear. “The old MacFay is dead. Jamie’s announced to anyone who’ll listen that his first act as chieftain will be to rescue Marsali from the convent. He’s threatened to cut down anyone who stands in his way. A Sassenach colonel who tried to question him was beaten senseless.”
Duncan released his breath with a soft curse. He thought of his sister, of Marsali and the nuns, defenseless on their secluded island with only their innocent prayers to protect them. He envisioned Jamie and his decadent entourage defiling the sanctity of the little cloister. It was a crime he’d never thought even Jamie would dare.
“How do you know this, Agnes?”
“One of Jamie’s cousins refused to join the attack and was banished from the clan. He rowed all the way here to warn ye and ask for refuge.” Cook’s eyes bored coldly into
his. “Of course, he didna ken ye’d abdicated the chieftainship.”
“They have a day’s travel on ye already,” Effie called down from the hill.
Duncan considered this in silence, calculating the distance to the convent from the castle versus that from the MacFay stronghold. Even with a day’s disadvantage, the odds were that Jamie would reach the island at least several hours before him.
He glanced across the moor, thinking aloud. “It all depends on the weather.”
The others had reached the crag, their faces uplifted in expectant silence. He turned to Edwina. “I can’t let this happen. Not for a dukedom. Not for anything.”
Edwina nodded in agreement. “I know that. Don’t worry—I’ll make up a delicious excuse in your defense for the prime minister.”
“Anything but the truth,” Duncan said, with a grim smile at the thought of what might be his final battle being fought to defend a nunnery.
And Marsali.
Duncan felt a rush of gratitude for his old friend as she touched her crop to her horse. “Edwina.”
The Englishwoman drew back on the reins, her enormous pearl earrings glistening in the sunlight. “You want me to come with you?” she asked hopefully.
“No.” Duncan grinned. “I want you to pull a few more strings and have the banns proclaimed for my wedding. Something tells me this is going to be a rushed ceremony. Go back to the castle first and have Martin ride to the fort to arrange an escort for you. I think Major Darling would jump at the chance to win your favor.”
Edwina dug in her heels, eager to be of help. “I’ll have Colum conjure up good traveling weather for us both,” she called over her shoulder as she set off back across the moor at a canter.
Lachlan and Owen, having dismounted from their ponies, stared at each other in surprise. “Ye’re getting married, my lord?” Owen asked the chieftain.
“Yes.”
Lachlan frowned. “Before or after we rescue Marsali?”
“After. I can’t get married in a convent, can I?”
“I dinna realize the chieftain had a sweetheart in the convent,” Owen whispered.
Lachlan shrugged. “Perhaps she’s made friends wi’ Marsali. We’ll have to rescue them both.”
Johnnie shook his head. “Heaven knows what mischief Marsali has cooked up in that convent by now. I suspect Jamie is abducting her as much to defy ye, my lord, as to claim a bride.”
Duncan beat down the panic that rose at the thought, threatening the cool logic he needed to rely on. “I’ll need your help, Johnnie. I want you with me.”
Johnnie nodded.
“Aye, we’ll all be fightin’ at yer side just like in the old days,” Owen added, although he’d never used his sword to stab anything except a loaf of bread in his life.
Effie whipped off her apron and surrendered it to Cook. “The twins and I would like to enlist too, my lord.”
Duncan swallowed. How absurd he should feel affection for his incorrigible clan. “Effie, I appreciate the offer, but I’d prefer having you and the pigs stay to protect the castle. Agnes, I’m leaving you in command. Johnnie, you and the men will ride with me to the cove. We’re setting sail immediately.”
Johnnie flashed him an approving grin. “Aye, my lord. Ye’re the chieftain.”
“So I am,” Duncan said wryly. Then, spurring his heavy stallion toward the hill, he pulled off his hat and coat and tossed them over his shoulder into the tarn in recognition of the woman who had given him back his life.
H
e rode past the lonely memorial cairn on the moor where Andrew Hay had been buried. He didn’t intend to stop; his entire being pulsed with an urgency to intercept Jamie before it was too late.
It was the white roses that caught his eye, placed on Andrew’s grave in loving memory by a mourning clansman. The MacElgins were a loyal bunch of idiots, if nothing else.
He slowed his horse, urging the stallion up the hillside, its heavy body shuddering with impatience. War had been bred
into its very blood, like the man it had carried through so many violent battles.
Duncan stared down at the simple cairn, gripping the reins in his gloved hands. A warm breeze teased the wilted petals of the white roses, carrying their scent into the air. It seemed hard to believe that Andrew’s passionate spirit lay forever stilled under these stones.
“I’m sorry, Andrew,” he said, swallowing hard as the horse shifted restlessly beneath him, eager to be gone. “All I can tell you is that I love her. I won’t let anything hurt her, but I want her for my wife. I hope you will forgive me again.”
The horse tossed its heavy head, snorting, pawing the ground. Duncan crossed himself and touched his spurs to his mount’s flanks. As he rode back toward the road, he thought he heard a burst of disturbingly familiar laughter and a gruff voice that aroused an ache of nostalgic affection.
Aye, and it took you long enough, lad. What have you been waiting for?