Authors: Heartstorm
Francis
stared into the anxious faces around him, seeing Anne's image receding further
and further from the realm of possibility. He turned to Donald, eyes silently
pleading for some argument in his favor.
"Would
ye see history repeat itself, lad?" Donald asked softly.
A
long look passed between them. With a deep sigh, Francis rose and walked
stiffly to the window. An unspeakable weariness weighed down his limbs,
paralyzing his very thoughts.
"You're
right, of course... all of you," he said finally. "I'll send her on
her way on the morrow. I've been unpardonably foolish, but no real harm's been
done." He stared out into the night. "Donald, see these gentlemen to
bed and attend their needs."
The
noise of chairs scraping across stone filled the room. Heavy footsteps moved
across the floor to halt uncertainly behind him, and a powerful hand, clumsy
with sympathy, descended on his arm.
Francis
gripped Colen's arm, feeling the wordless understanding that passed between
them. In a few moments he heard the door close softly, and he was alone with
the specter of a fair maid with laughing lips and sparkling eyes that gazed
trustingly up at him.
***
Dawn
broke that morning cloaked in a pallid gray that did little to raise Anne's
spirits. At the thought of disobeying her father, a sick feeling of dismay
churned in her stomach. Francis would laugh at her fears and rally her on her
timid disposition, she thought with a smile. But then, he'd not been raised to
fear the earl's slightest displeasure.
Her
thoughts flew back to their words the night before. Though Francis had spoken
no word of it, she was certain he loved her. His look, his touch, the very
tenderness in his voice told her all she needed to know. And if the words of a
minister were unnecessary to him... well, so be it! She was his, even as he had
said the night before.
With
a mind calmed by those reflections, she descended the stairs, turning into the
hall in search of Francis. She hesitated at sight of two strangers seated at
table with Donald. Francis was nowhere in sight.
The
conversation of the men stopped abruptly. Rising to their feet, the two
strangers regarded her with undue interest while Donald hastened to make the
necessary introductions. "Mistress Randall, may I make these gentlemen
known to you? Colen MacKenzie, chief of Clan MacKenzie, and James MacKenzie.
Gentlemen, Mistress Randall."
Anne
gave the men a brilliant smile. She had heard Francis speak of his adventures
with these two, and she felt an instant liking for the great ox of a man who
stood before her, bare knees peeking from beneath the bright tartan of his
kilt. "I'm pleased to make your acquaintance," she said, addressing
her remark to the still tongue-tied Colen. "Sir Francis has spoken of you
often."
Colen
squirmed uncomfortably beneath her friendly look, and the men exchanged
sheepish glances. "Will'y breakfast with us, lass?" he asked, still
staring admiringly.
At
her nod, James drew out the bench and called for more food and ale. As the
servants moved hastily about with steaming platters, Anne turned to Donald.
"When will Francis be joining us?"
He
stared at her nonplussed for a moment, then shifted his gaze unsteadily.
"Have ye not seen him then this morning, lass?" he countered,
carefully evading her question.
"No,
not since last night. We went for a walk on the beach."
"Uh...
I believe he went out earlier. He should be back soon," Donald mumbled
around a piece of bread hastily shoved into his mouth.
"Well,
I hope so," she replied. "I don't relish the idea of meeting my
father alone—especially when he learns I'll not be leaving with him."
Donald
choked on his food, and the MacKenzies were still pounding him on the back when
racing footsteps sounded in the corridor. Moments later Francis threw open the
door.
"The
English have come," he informed them. "They'll be before the gates in
another ten minutes. You men come with me. Anne..." He threw her a brief
glance. "Get upstairs and stay there till you're called."
She
leaped to her feet, quick to obey that tone in his voice without question. She
hurried up the stairs, worrying as she went. The plans to spirit the Camerons
away from Ginahea must have gone awry.
The
men took the stairs two at a time on their way to the castle battlements. All
about the walls, the heavily armed MacLean clansmen leaned over the parapets,
eager to go at the men below. Francis scanned the soldiers drawing up on the
meadow; there were now near four score men covering the grassy plain. He could
make out the Camerons easily, but his searching eyes found no sign of
Glenkennon. "The bastard didn't come," he said bitterly. "I can
see Charles and that fool Kincaid, but the devil himself is not in sight."
"Perhaps
the jackal's afraid ta show his face," Colen suggested. "He might be
dragged into a fight and soil the lace on his sleeve."
Francis
continued his scrutiny of the group below. "Don't be fooled, Colen. Robert
Randall's no coward, and he can account himself far too well to fear setting
foot on my land. No, the devil has some obscure purpose for not showing
himself—you can depend on it."
One
well-dressed rider emerged from the group and advanced purposefully toward the
gates. Francis jerked his head toward Donald. "See to that messenger and
have him brought to me in the laird's room." He glanced back at the
MacKenzies. "I'd be obliged if you two would keep an eye on things from up
here. There's no telling what tricks the bastards may be up to. Bring me word
at once if you see anything suspicious."
***
To
the anxious Anne pacing restlessly in her room, each minute seemed an eternity
while she waited for news. Her straining ears finally caught the sound of
scurrying footsteps outside her door, and she flung it open in the face of a
startled servant. He nodded. The men were ready.
She
followed the hurrying servant down the hall, trying unsuccessfully to still the
trembling that began deep inside her. Pausing before the door, she took a deep
breath. If only she could have had a few minutes with Francis before having to
face Glenkennon. She was afraid of him; she always had been. She was not ready
to withstand his fury. Wiping her sweating palms on her skirt, she reached for
the door, cautiously pushing it open.
The
sight was not what she had expected. Only three men stood within the room. One,
obviously an English courtier by his rich dress, conferred quietly with Donald,
while Francis stood behind the desk, his dark face impenetrable as he studied a
series of papers the Englishman had brought.
A
wave of relief surged through her. She'd not have to confront her father after
all.
The
tall Englishman turned at the sound of her entry, his brown eyes widening with
pleasure in his squared, tanned face. "Mistress Randall?"
She
nodded. He bowed his dark head with practiced grace. "Nigel Douglas at
your service, m'lady. I'm come from your father to escort you from this place.
He's most anxious for your return."
She
acknowledged his speech with a polite smile, waiting expectantly for some word
from Francis. The silence stretched interminably in the room. She glanced
toward Francis. He seemed completely absorbed in the study of his pen, his
expression aloof and unapproachable as she had seen it only twice before during
his coldest moods.
She
turned to Donald. His grizzled face was impassive, but the pitying look in his
eyes made her heart miss a beat. Her eyes widened in a look of desperate
inquiry. He gave a slight shake of his head.
"Well,"
Douglas said, breaking the awkward silence, "I suppose there's nothing
more to be said. I'll give the word for the Camerons to be brought to the
gates, and the lady and I will be on our way." He looked warningly at
Francis. "MacLean, I need not remind you any tricks will be dealt with
most harshly."
"I've
given my word, Douglas. You'll find that's a binding agreement in the
Highlands, though it may not be where you come from."
The
Englishman swallowed the insult with good grace and turned to Anne. "I'll
be waiting for you below, m'lady," he said kindly, "unless you wish
me to remain with you now." His dark eyes flickered questioningly toward
Francis.
"That
won't be necessary," Anne murmured. "I... I'll be along."
"Very
well, then. I'll expect you to join me in the courtyard." Douglas made a
half bow in MacLean's direction and turned toward the door.
"Donald,
see Kate has Anne's things packed... then get to the stables and bring around
her horse."
"Aye,
Francis." With a quick glance at Anne, Donald, too, was gone.
In
the hollow silence after the slamming of the door, the two stared warily at
each other. Francis would have an explanation, Anne told herself desperately.
This was all part of a trick for the Englishman's benefit. In a moment he would
explain, and they would laugh together over how easily Douglas had been taken
in.
"Well,"
Francis began after a moment, "so ends a pleasant month. Between the two
of us we've managed to beguile the days." His eyes lowered to the pen in
his hand. "I trust you've not spent your time altogether unpleasantly."
Anne
stared at him incredulously, unable to make sense of his words. "I'm
afraid I don't understand, Francis," she whispered. "What do you
mean?"
He
laughed harshly then, his words deliberately cruel. "Come, Anne, don't be
such an innocent. We've had an agreeable time of it together, you and I, but
it's time you returned to your world and I to mine. We're enemies, you know.
I've reminded you of that once already, as I recall. Surely you've not
forgotten."
"But...
I don't understand," she repeated. "Last night you said..." Her
words trailed off beneath the cold contempt of his gaze. It chilled her heart,
slowly freezing the blood in her veins, paralyzing not only her limbs but her
tongue as well. She could think of nothing to say to this tall, cold stranger
who looked so like her Francis.
"A
man says many things when he walks in the moonlight with a willing lass,"
Francis said indifferently. "We've had an agreeable flirtation, but now
it's at an end. You were sweet, lass, sweeter than most. But I've time for
nothing more."
Her
heart pounded so loudly in her ears she could scarcely think. "Was that
all it was to you? A flirtation?" she whispered dazedly. She swallowed
around the lump in her throat, clasping her hands tightly together to keep from
flinging herself into his arms. Her throat ached violently with the strain of
swallowing back tears. She dared say nothing more.
Francis
stared down into the pale face before him, the stricken eyes she raised to his,
bright with unshed tears. Involuntarily his hand went out to touch her, but he
jerked it back with a silent curse. "Yes, that's all it was," he said
harshly, "and when you've seen more of the world, you'll understand the
games men and women play."
His
eyes shifted from hers to focus unseeingly on the square of blue outside the
window. "In a few months you'll have half the men in Scotland dancing to
any tune you name. You'll be glad I sent you on your way," he added,
unable to suppress the bitterness that crept into his voice.
She
shook her head wordlessly, fighting the threatening tears and the pain in her
throat that kept her dumb.
A
mocking smile suffused his face. "I've had a bit more experience than you,
sweet. I know the truth of what I say."
"For
God's sake, Francis, tell me what's happened! Why are you doing this?"
He
turned from her impatiently and flung open the door. Damn it, another minute of
this and he would break. He could not stand the anguish in her voice or the
look of hurt disbelief on her face—yet he could not tell her the truth! He
could not send her back to Glenkennon nursing any partiality for him. The earl
would not hesitate to abuse her to get to his enemy—and Francis was one who
knew to what lengths Glenkennon might go.
Leaning
against the door facing, he looked determinedly down the hall, refusing to look
at her again. "Kate should have your things packed," he said stiffly,
ignoring the anguished cry that still quivered in the air between them.
"Have a pleasant journey. Perhaps we'll meet again."
Anne
studied him wordlessly. She wanted to say so many things, but there was no
softening anywhere in his hard face to encourage her to linger. She gazed
across the floor to the waiting hallway, knowing she must walk through that
doorway alone, fearing her legs would not carry her there. So this was how it
ended.
Nothing
was left her now save a shred of pride. Raising her head, she pulled herself
together and stumbled through the door. One step and then another. Don't look
back. One step and then another...
Dear God
...
Somehow
she made it through the door and up the stairs. She turned blindly into her
chamber, slamming the door behind her and leaning back against it, trembling
hands held tightly to her mouth as if she might hold in the long scream that
was building inside her.