Highland Shadows (Beautiful Darkness Series Book 1) (17 page)

How she wished her papa could have been in the audience that night. She closed her eyes against the ache which pushed to the fore of her emotions. She had been in Paris not even a month when she received word of his death.

“
Merci
, Papa,” she whispered as silent tears coursed down her cheeks. The glory of the evening returned to her, and she relived her debut performance in her mind. When the curtain fell after the final call, she had sunk to her knees and sobbed while applause still thundered from the audience. She had swum in a sea of flowers cast by admirers upon the stage. The dreams of youth had become her reality, and this realization made her heart quake.

She scanned the narrow cobbled streets rife with pedestrians and carriages. It was the strange hour where night and morning collide. Some of the passersby were dragging their tired bodies home after a long night of work. Others, more fortunate souls, were clad as she in fine silks, and were returning home after an evening spent enjoying the pleasures and excesses permitted their station in life. For many, their day had just begun as they tarried with wagons and baskets of goods or were rushing to take up their places in one of the factories. She glimpsed some rag pickers going through the streets looking for scraps of metal, glass, fabric—anything that might fetch a price. Greasy bags hung from their shoulders. They were frail, and hunger flooded their eyes with desperate yearning. She grimaced as she turned away, muttering a prayer of gratitude for her blessings. Her hands smoothed her sapphire blue silk gown over her ruffled petticoat before she stepped toward the coach that waited to bring her to her apartment.

“
Bonjour
,
Mademoiselle
.”

Claudine whirled around to see a tall man step from the shadows into the soft light of the street lamp. His dark eyes, filled with soft warmth, instantly entreated her trust. She felt at ease despite his being a stranger.

“
Pardonnez-moi
,
Mademoiselle
, but do you speak English?” he asked. His deep voice surrounded her. She puzzled over his accent.

“
Oui
,
Monsieur
. A little. But you do not sound English.”

“And for a very good reason. I am Scottish, lass, and you are lovely,” he said before taking her hand. Then he pulled her yellow glove down, sliding the silk off her fingers. His lips grazed her palm, sending currents of warmth drifting through her body.

Bowing over her hand, he said, “My name is Lord James MacKenzie.” He glanced up at her. “You were magnificent tonight,” he whispered.

Lord James MacKenzie was tall and grand, dressed impeccably in a rich velvet coat fitted to his broad shoulders, but it was not his fine attire or obvious wealth that led Claudine to accept his offered arm. His eyes laid his soul bare to her, and she lost herself to the possibility of love she glimpsed in their sterling depths.

Night began its slow retreat while Claudine and James walked along the river Seine. From Pont Neuf they welcomed the new dawn. The cobbles glimmered as the dusky shades of light caught the fine mist, which bathed the roads and bridges.

In the weeks that followed, it became their practice. James would wait for Claudine every night by the theater’s back entrance, and they would stroll the cobbled streets of Paris until the sun rose and the need for sleep could no longer be denied. With words of love on his lips, it was not long before Claudine welcomed James into her bed, and from that moment on, she belonged to him.

~ * ~

Edinburgh, Scotland

February 1784

“Please, I need a bed.
S'il vous plaît, Madame
. I am with child, and my time draws near. Please, take pity on us,” Claudine said, cradling her round belly. “I do not ask for charity. I can pay.” The owner of the common lodging-house, Molly, who was a handsome woman with red hair piled on top of her head, seemed to consider the coin in Claudine’s outstretched palm.

“Please,
Madame
,” Claudine said. A knot comprised of dread and hope filled her throat as she looked up at the woman who with a simple aye or nay could decide the future of Claudine and her unborn child.

“Nay, lass. I cannae let ye in and ye ken why. The lady whose husband gave ye that babe has forbidden it. Lady MacKenzie is a right bitch. I will not invite her vengeance. Not even for a sweet lass like yourself. Find your way home, Claudine Doucet. Ye will not find a bed in Edinburgh, nor will ye find any honest work,” Molly said. “In a few years, when the haughty cow has forgotten all about ye, then I will give ye a bed.”

Despair drained the last hope from her soul as Molly slowly eased the door shut. The wind picked up, whistling down the alley. Her arms encircled her swollen stomach, shielding her baby from the fierce cold. Black soot covered the stone buildings that lined the narrow street on both sides, making the night appear even darker. Only a strip of starless sky could she see above the rooftops that were six and seven stories high. If she could climb to stand above the filth of the surrounding slums, could she reach her arms toward heaven? And if she could, would the good Lord above save her, or would he, too, fear the wrath of Lady Eleanor MacKenzie?

Snow appeared in the air, drifting through the light of the one lamp that set aglow the far end of the street. She pulled her tattered shawl tighter about her shoulders and scrambled around the side of a nearby stairwell, seeking shelter from the snow, but as she peered beneath the stoop, a huddled mass of ragged children growled up at her, bearing their teeth like feral creatures.

She turned and ran, fleeing the alley, wishing she could flee from the world. Tears choked her breath as she sobbed her misery to the sky. There was no more hope; she had sinned too grievously. She had been foolish to try to possess that which could never be hers. Upon their arrival in Edinburgh, James had confessed that he was, indeed, a married man. She should have turned away from him then and there. She should have cursed his lies, his promises, but love had bidden her stay by his side.

Now, she raced down the street, slipping and stumbling upon the snowy cobbles. She turned onto Cowgate, a street that three months ago she would not have dared to walk down, even in the light of day. The crowded street forced her to slow her pace. She eyed the women she passed with their torn, faded gowns, their dirt-smeared faces, and hungry eyes. And then she froze and looked down at her roughened fingers and the greasy sway of her own threadbare skirt in the icy breeze. She gaped at the surrounding despair and realized the slums mirrored her own pain, her own unhappy end.

When the Lady MacKenzie had discovered her husband’s affair, she had forced James to cast her aside, but it had not ended there. His wife had not been satisfied until she had brought about the ruination of Claudine Doucet. Lady Eleanor had ensured Claudine was barred from every theater. She could not even find work as a seamstress. No inn or lodging house would take her. She was nothing now but one of countless souls who passed each night wondering if they would have to face the dawn or if hunger or cold would at last bring them peace.

“Aren’t ye a pretty bit of skirt,” an old woman said as she shuffled toward Claudine. Claudine eyed the woman warily. Her stooped shoulders were covered with the remnants of a ragged jacket. Creases lined her face, but her eyes were sharp and unwavering.

“Ye need a bed, love?” the woman asked.

Claudine nodded and dropped the last of her coin in the woman’s outstretched hand. Then Claudine followed her inside a nearby door, which opened to a stairway that descended into darkness. The old woman clasped tightly to Claudine’s fingers, leading her through unknown spaces devoid of light.

“Where do you take me?” Claudine asked, though she feared the answer.

“These are the vaults, dearie, tunnels and chambers built into the bridges. ‘Tis dark and foul, but the snow cannae reach ye down here.”

Claudine felt the crushing weight of the city above. Thick, fetid air surrounded them, consuming what little joy she still possessed.

“Here, lass,” the old woman said as she pulled Claudine into a cramped space. Claudine felt what her eyes could not see. It appeared to be a shelf with just enough room to lie down. “Ye shall rest here, and let ol’ Peggy care for ye.”

Claudine surrendered to Peggy’s comfort and laid down upon her stone bed. Steeped in darkness, she fell asleep to the moans and wails of others who slept entombed beneath the city.

That night, she dreamt of glittering light and lilting laughter, softness and perfumed breezes. She felt full and content, swathed in silk with the taste of champagne on her tongue. But then a stirring in her abdomen pulled her from the sweetness of her dreams.

“
Mon Dieu
,” she cried as her womb cramped and pain shot through her back.

Sweat dampened her brow. It seemed the walls were closing in on her, smothering her breath.

“There, there, lass,” Peggy said, suddenly at her side. “Do not panic. ‘Twill be done soon.”

“
Non
,
non
,” Claudine screamed. “Please, I cannot give birth to my child down here in this hell.”

“Hush now, lass. Save your strength. It makes little difference whether your child draws its first breath here or up on the streets. Either way the air is foul.”

Claudine gripped her abdomen as another pain twisted inside of her. “Either way my baby is damned,” she whispered. “Just as I am damned.”

Hours of toil passed when at last her baby’s first cry echoed through the tunnels.

“She is strong,” Peggy said. “Listen to her cry.”

Claudine strained in the darkness to see the face of her newborn babe, but she could not. “
Oui
, he is a strong boy,” Claudine cooed as she pressed kisses to her baby’s cheeks.

“Nay, Claudine. ‘Tis a lass. Feel for yourself. Ye have a daughter,” Peggy said.

“Listen to me, Peggy. Had I a daughter I would show her the mercy God has refused me, and I would slit her throat right here and end her suffering. The slums would feast on her and make her a whore before her body even had time to ripen. This child is a boy. Do you understand, Peggy? His name is Robbie, Robbie MacKenzie. And he will rise from this hell.” She held her child to her bosom, and whispered, “Robbie
,
you must fight. Fight to breathe. Fight to live. You are fated for happiness—this I do not doubt,
mon bijou
.”
My jewel.

Chapter One

Scotland

1802

The might of the Highland wind struggled to compel Conall MacKay back from whence he had come. It whipped his long hair into a frenzy, obscuring the path before him and tempted his senses with the perfume of the sea and the heady scent of the damp earth. Still, he fought against the wind’s power and kept his southerly course, a course that would lead him away from the Highlands and everything good and green, toward land now marked by the black stain of industry and greed.

Too soon, the earth around him began to change. Rugged, wild moors, carved into pieces by jutting rocks, gave way to smooth fields and bustling villages. It was the land he had once described to his Aunt Agnes, who never strayed but a mile or two from home, as being tame. He shook his head in disgust as mining posts and iron mills rose up before him. This land was no longer tame. It was beaten.

The wind could not follow. Billowing black clouds of soot and smoke wrapped their fingers around the currents of clean air, smothering its magic. His hair now lay unmoving down his back. The wind had retreated. He would go on alone without the rush of air from the sea or the familiar scents of home.

For at least the tenth time that hour, Conall cursed his younger brother, Davis, for having left Cape Wrath in the first place. Conall would never understand his brother’s desire to flee their home on the north westerly tip of the Scottish mainland. He closed his eyes for a moment and pictured the rocky hills that gradually sloped down to the coast where beaches of white sand shone in the sun. Further down the coast, cliffs rose up from the waves, towering above the water.

His croft was nestled in a small valley between two steep bluffs. From the south, his house was hidden by the hills, but to the north, his land stretched out until a narrow cliff marked its abrupt end. In the evening, it was his practice to watch the sunset. He would leave his door and walk straight until his toes teetered on the edge of the cliff, and then he would wait patiently for the spectacle to begin. As the day drew to a close, the world would be dipped in gold and coated with jewels of light cast by the sun’s glow. He could not summon dreams of greater treasure or beauty than what awaited him just outside his door; however, the same could not be said of Davis.

Davis gathered impossible dreams like cherished keepsakes. He rejected the quiet beauty of the land to which he belonged and hungered instead for material abundance. Conall reminded Davis that such riches were possessed by only a few who lorded their wealth over many, but Davis remained unswayed. The life of a farmer was no life at all, he would say. Much to Conall’s dismay, Davis longed to trade the towering cliffs and storm-tossed seas of Cape Wrath for the stone buildings and bridges of Edinburgh, dirt roads for cobbled streets, space and air for the crowded and tainted. Only in a city where excess and depravity ruled could Davis have his heart’s desire: money, fine suits, cigars, and, of course, women.