Authors: Heartstorm
The
sound of the door halted Kate's frantic packing. The woman rose to her feet, a
frown of concern on her wrinkled face.
"No,"
Anne said distinctly, stopping Kate with one outstretched hand. She regained a
measure of control. "Cease your packing. I'll take nothing from here save
what I wore when I came."
Holding
herself tightly in an unthinking void, Anne left the rose-colored room. If she
didn't think, she might just make it...
Descending
the central stair, she found Donald awaiting her. He stepped forward and touched
her shoulder, his gray eyes warm with sympathy. "Life's no' so easy a
thing at times, lass," he said softly. "I doubt you'll understand
now, but this be for the best."
She
jerked away from him. Donald must have known Francis was lying all along. It
must have been a good joke. How they must have laughed at her ignorance!
At
thought of his betrayal, black fury surged up inside her and she drew back her
hand to strike him. He faced her unflinchingly, returning her glare with
compassion. The tight knot of anger in her chest slowly dissolved, leaving only
pain and bewilderment in its wake. Not Donald. She would believe it of them
all—but not Donald.
Her
fist dropped to her side and she ventured a slight smile that went painfully
awry. "I... I think you'd best get me to horse, Donald, else I might
embarrass us both."
He
nodded in understanding. Flinging open the door, he followed her out to the
waiting horses.
In
the courtyard several waiting clansmen milled about, one holding Cassie's reins
and those of a dark, liver chestnut she did not recognize. Nigel Douglas helped
her into the saddle, then mounted the chestnut beside her.
She
gathered up her reins mechanically. He was not going to come. The thought was
an icy needle of cold despair threading her heart. The wild hope that Francis
would prevent her departure at the last moment—that this was all a trick to
best her father—shriveled and died a painful death in her breast.
The
castle walls teemed with armed MacLeans—nearly three score pairs of eyes
gleamed down at her curiously. The thought stiffened her backbone. She squared
her shoulders and lifted her head.
"Give
my love to my uncle," she said, leaning toward Donald, "and thank
Janet and the others for all their kindnesses." She wrinkled her brow in
concentration, struggling to resist the urge to gaze once more at the window
fronting the laird's room. "I can't remember taking leave of Kate. Thank
her again..."
"Aye,
lass, I'll give everyone your regards," Donald said, one hand on her
stirrup as if loath to let her go. "Don't be frettin' yerself now... and
take care."
She
nodded, swallowing hard. Turning Cassie's head toward the gate, she put her
heels to the mare's sides.
"God
go with you, lass," Donald muttered under his breath as Douglas swung out
after the girl.
Anne
paid no heed to the scores of burly soldiers they rode through, nor did she
notice the four horsemen who galloped past her into the gates of Camereigh amid
the cheers of the exultant MacLeans. Charles spurred to her side, and she found
herself making mechanical answers to his anxious inquiries, thankful his
questions were mercifully few due to the need to get the army around them on
the move. Ignoring the host of curious stares, she concentrated on keeping
herself in the saddle and holding back the tears that threatened her feigned
calm.
She
was leaving—actually riding away from Camereigh. She'd not be seeing Francis
again. She'd never again see the quick laughter that gleamed in his eyes long
before it reached his lips or ride beside him across a windswept moor. She was
leaving. The words spun around and around in her mind as if by repetition they
might become believable.
Francis
had used her, her mind cried accusingly. He had been lying to her all the time.
She closed her eyes tightly against the pain, trying hard to understand. How
could she have been such a fool; how could she have been so terribly wrong?
She
longed to be alone, to give up the battle for self-control that cost so dearly.
Her stomach churned, and she wondered vaguely if she were going to be ill.
Content
to let Cassie pick her way, she rode blindly along the trail after her father's
men. As the miles slipped by, she began to achieve some order to her spinning
thoughts. Francis had tired of her quickly enough—perhaps he had already found
another woman to share his days. He had stopped short of taking her
virginity—perhaps he feared the consequences had he sent her back to Glenkennon
carrying a bastard of his making. Her face burned—or perhaps she had been so
easy the night before that he had lost even the slightest interest in her.
The
misery swept over her in waves, but she steeled herself against each new surge,
determined to show a mask of cool composure to the curious men who rode all
around her. She would be able later to think about it rationally, she reasoned.
She would be able to understand it all— later. Somehow she would survive this
blow, as she had survived the other blows life had dealt her, and she would
work to see Sir Francis MacLean hurt as he had hurt her. Somehow, she would see
him brought low.
Beneath
Anne's anguish, the first stirrings of hatred began. Hate was as strong an
emotion as love, she reasoned. Perhaps even stronger. For the moment her mind
still reeled in confusion and disbelief, but tomorrow, she told herself,
tomorrow she would begin to lay her plans.
A
brisk wind drove the scattered clouds across the sky, whipping Francis's hair
into his eyes as he strained for one final glimpse of Anne's blue habit among
the trees. Leaning against the stone parapet, he watched the last of the
English soldiers disappear into the forest.
An overwhelming feeling of
loss swept through him, submerging for a moment even the deep hatred he felt
for Glenkennon.
The
colorful banners atop the wall fluttered in the sea breeze, snapping loudly
through the quiet. The men about him exchanged glances and shifted uneasily. He
turned away from the empty meadow, his bleak face a study in rigidity.
"Dugall, bring in your men and choose a score to man the walls. The rest
may take their ease, but keep them ready. I want three score up here
tonight."
"D'ye
expect a trick then, sir?" Dugall asked, brown eyes narrowing beneath
heavy, graying brows.
Francis
shrugged. "I expect anything from Randall." Turning, he made for the
stairs, scarcely hearing the victorious shouts of his men welcoming the
Camerons and Sir Allan MacGregor in the courtyard. He would go below soon,
Francis told himself, but for the time being he needed a moment alone.
Reaching
the seclusion of the empty laird's room, he poured himself a stiff draught of
whiskey, tossing it off in a gulp that burned its way to the pit of his
stomach. It steadied him, easing the constricting band across his chest. God,
but that scene with Anne had been hell! He rubbed his eyes tiredly, wishing he
could erase the image of her white face and tear-filled eyes. He had done his
job well —she would hate him now for sure. With a heavy sigh, he turned toward
the door.
Upon
reaching the hall, Francis was met by an exuberant shriek from a small
whirlwind that launched itself across the floor and into his arms. "Uncle
Francis, I knew you'd save us—I knew it! I told them so all along," young
Evan shouted triumphantly.
Francis
gazed down into a pair of worshipful blue eyes and tried not to remember
another pair that had stared up at him so trustingly. "Of course,
lad." He smiled fondly at the grimy face of the boy. "You didn't
think we'd leave you there to become good Englishmen, did you?"
"Evan
would have it you'd tear down our cell stone by stone," William Cameron
stated with an affectionate grin at his younger brother.
Francis
tousled Evan's dark hair. "That would have made a magnificent rescue, boy,
but only think how fatiguing. This way I didn't stir from my door. I let
Glenkennon deliver you straight to my gates."
Francis
held out a hand to Will, carefully searching his nephew's tired face. The boy
looked different in a way that had nothing to do with the dirt matting his
raven-black hair or the dark circles ringing his vivid blue eyes. The fourteen-year-old
Will had lost the last vestiges of childhood in the festering dungeons of the
Tolbooth. "And how does it feel to be a man, lad?" Francis asked
softly.
"To
tell the truth sir, 'tis a bit painful."
Francis's
grip tightened on the boy's hand and the smile left his face. "Glenkennon
will answer for every stripe he laid on your back, son. That I promise."
James
Cameron stepped forward and caught his brother-in-law's arm. "Don't leave
me out of your plans, Francis. I've a few scores to settle with Glenkennon and
will take ill if you keep the fun for yourself."
"Count
me in," MacGregor threw in from his chair beside the fire. His over-wide
girth had narrowed considerably since Francis had last seen him, and his usual
plump, good-humored face was stiff and hard. "The MacGregors will be happy
to extend some hospitality to the earl and his cutthroats. Just give the word,
MacLean."
"Aye,
I'd a hunch you'd both be eager," Francis said, "but we must pick our
time carefully lest we find ourselves fighting a royal army instead of
Glenkennon's rabble. I've no wish to be hanged for treason for defending my
land."
James
Cameron nodded in agreement, then glanced around questioningly. "Where's
Janet?"
"I
sent a messenger to her with orders not to set out till morning. I didn't want
her here if things turned ugly today." A slight smile lightened Francis's
harsh expression. "If I know my sister, she'll start out tonight, calling
it morning, and be here by early afternoon tomorrow."
"It'll
be good to see her," Cameron said simply.
***
The
afternoon passed quietly as the newly released prisoners accustomed themselves
to freedom. They bathed, ate, slept, and rose to eat again with many a humorous
comment regarding the not-so-humorous conditions of the prison they had just
left.
Because
Francis half expected a raid, supper was a quiet celebration. The men consumed
their ale temperately, then retired to rest or take their turn upon the walls.
Francis and his guests withdrew to the laird's room to talk privately of
Glenkennon's treachery and the king's indifference. The boys listened avidly to
the talk until shortly before midnight, when young Evan's heavy lids and
drooping chin betrayed him.
"Off
to bed with you, lad. You're three parts asleep already," Francis said
with a smile, leaning over to give the boy a shake.
Evan
sat up with a jerk. "I wasn't asleep," he denied hotly. "I was
just... leaning my head on my arm to rest."
Jamie
Cameron gazed at his youngest son fondly, trying hard to suppress a smile.
"It's long past time you were abed, boy. That's the third time I've seen
you nod off."
"But
Will doesn't have to go yet. Please, sir, can't I stay up until he has to
go—he's not so much older than me."
"We'll
all be turning in soon," Francis assured him. "I, for one, will be seeking
my bed in no short order. Besides, I don't relish listening to your mother if
she sees those circles under your eyes." He stood up. "Come along,
and I'll see you upstairs."
The
fresh linen sheets on the bed were turned back invitingly when Francis and Evan
entered the boy's chamber. A small nightshirt of approximately the right size
lay across the pillow. Silently blessing the efficiency of his resourceful
staff, Francis helped the boy out of his clothing and into the great bed.
Extinguishing
the candles, he hesitated beside the bed while his eyes became accustomed to
the faint light spilling into the window. In another hour it would be shining
directly in the boy's eyes. He reached up to draw the curtain.
"Please,
sir... don't... don't close it."
"The
light will be in your eyes in another hour, son," Francis said softly.
"Tis like to keep you awake."
"No,
it won't. I'll turn on my side, like this," Evan said, demonstrating.
"I... I like the light."
Francis
nodded and started toward the door.
"Sir..."
The voice was even smaller now, and a sob trembled behind that short syllable.
"How does a man learn..." he sniffed, "t... to be a man?"
Francis
stopped short, the question and the sob catching him completely by surprise.
"Well, 'tis a thing that comes upon a man so gradual like, it's hard to
say how it happens." He moved to the edge of the bed, seating himself
beside the small, huddled figure. "A man's shaped by what he sees, what
he's taught, and the experiences life brings him. It's not something that's
done in a day."
"But
I'm not brave enough," Evan confessed miserably. There was a long pause.
"I was scared, Francis. I was scared the whole time. Father and Sir Allan
weren't. And Will wasn't scared... leastways not till the soldiers dragged them
out." He sniffed. "We thought they'd be h... hanged. Even then Will
didn't say a word."