Authors: Heartstorm
Francis
bowed to the impossibility of talking reasonably with her then. "Very
well. Despise me if you will, Anne, but step carefully where Percy Campbell's
concerned. He's no' so patient as I, lass, and I'd not see you hurt."
Anne
hesitated. She'd not forgotten the look on Percy's face that afternoon.
"And
what have we here?" a soft voice called from the rocks above. "Is
this a private conversation, or may anyone join?"
Anne
stifled a groan. Was there anything else that could go wrong that wretched day?
How long had Edmund Blake been standing there, and how much had he seen? Surely
not even Blake would have stood by and watched her struggling in Francis's
arms—but then, he was such a strange little man.
The
stones rattled beneath Blake's feet as he made his way down to the two standing
guiltily below. "I suggest you get back inside as fast as possible,
mistress," he said coldly. "Your father has arrived and will soon be
calling for you. And as for you, sir," he swung toward Francis, "I
shall be pleased to accompany you back to Ranleigh—now, if you don't
mind."
Francis
put on a brave show of innocence. "I was but taking a walk when I came
upon this lady unattended," he began. "I was attempting to persuade
her to accompany me back when you arrived. Allow me to suggest you provide her
escort. Then I'll continue my walk in peace."
Blake
smiled thinly. "I'd not dream of leaving so important a guest unattended.
We'll not have you thinking our hospitality so lacking, m'lord. And as it will
do the lady no good to be seen in your company, I suggest we abide by my
suggestion." He turned toward Anne. "Be gone now, mistress," he
said impatiently.
She
threw one last look over her shoulder at the two standing stubbornly face to
face in the twilight, then fled up the path, leaving Francis to handle his
predicament as best he might. Had he deliberately set out to make as much
trouble as possible for her, he could not have succeeded any better, she
thought bitterly. What her father would do when he heard she had slipped away
with Francis MacLean, she shuddered even to think.
***
Francis
threw himself into a sturdy chair in the sparsely furnished room he and Conall
shared, cursing himself aloud for the opportunity he had bungled that evening.
If he had spent his time explaining things to Anne instead of trying to kiss
her, she might even then have been in his arms.
It
had been a close-run thing, he mused as he tugged off his heavy boots. A few
minutes one way or the other and he would have been found out. Several lives
might hinge on his actions—not the least of which were his own and Conall's and
possibly even Anne's if he didn't succeed in convincing her that Campbell was
not what he showed himself to her.
He
frowned darkly, recalling the ugly rumors surrounding the death of Campbell's
first wife. It was said he had murdered her in a fit of rage and then contrived
to make the death appear an accident. Francis did not doubt it—it was in
keeping with Percy Campbell's personality. His lips drew back into a soundless
snarl—he'd kill the bastard before he would let him get his filthy hands on
Anne!
Francis
flexed the muscles of his shoulders and sighed wearily. It was not going to be
as easy as he had anticipated. Time was passing swiftly, and he had not yet
told Anne why he had sent her away. And he had ruined his best chance so far to
speak to her alone.
The
sound of light footsteps outside heralded someone's approach. He swung
expectantly toward the door, dirk in hand. Relaxing at the sound of Conall's
special knock, he crossed the floor to admit his friend.
"I've
everything arranged for our escape," Conall said, moving into the circle
of candlelight. "But we have to act within the next evening or two, else
the guard will be changed."
"Aye,"
Francis acknowledged. "I'd not give a ha'penny for our chances should we
be inside these walls at the end of the week. Don't concern yourself lad—we'll
be gone."
Conall
left, and Francis wearily finished preparing for bed. Snuffing the candle, he
stared grimly into the darkness. He had to find another way to talk to Anne
alone. Though her cold response that morning had surprised him, he refused to
believe she was as indifferent as she claimed.
An
uneasy wind keened about the walls of Ranleigh that night, like so many
homeless spirits loosed upon the moor. Exhausted as she was, Anne tossed and
turned uncomfortably, listening to the eerie wail of the wind in the turrets
until sleep finally claimed her.
Even
in sleep, troubled thoughts pursued one another across her consciousness, and
she dreamed she stood beside her father in a circle of stern-faced soldiers in
the courtyard. Everything about her was dark and dreary. A gray mist fell from
the gray sky, sifting down to wet the slippery cobbles beneath her feet and the
somber cloak she had pulled about her as protection from the damp.
The
heavy, scarred door of the guardhouse swung open and a dark figure swathed in a
hooded cloak stumbled out. She knew it was the figure of a man, though she
could tell little more. The wretch's hands were bound, and he walked with the
stooped, halting gait of one too long without hope. She held her breath as he
shuffled along before his guards—something about the figure was hauntingly
familiar.
A
bitter wind knifed through her, flinging damp tendrils of hair across her mouth
and tugging the man's hood back from his face. Though the features were pale
and altered by exhaustion, she recognized Francis MacLean.
Numb
with disbelief, she watched him stagger past, his attention riveted upon
something behind her. Slowly she turned, following the line of his gaze. A
gibbet reared its gaunt head high above them, its hangman's noose swinging menacingly
in the wind. Her father began to laugh roughly beside her, and the words of Sir
Percy Campbell echoed through her mind.
"If you want to hang him for
the fun of it... for the fun of it...for the fun of it..."
She
struggled to go to Francis, to call his name, but she could not move or make a
sound. She watched helplessly while the rope was placed about his neck.
Glenkennon lifted his hand in signal to the guards, and a door dropped beneath
Francis's feet, his weight jerking the rope taut with a sickening thud.
Anne
opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came forth. She was fighting to go to
him, fighting to breathe. Sitting up with a gasp, she peered frantically about
but found nothing save darkness and the empty lament of the wind outside her
window.
Her
breathing gradually steadied as she realized the images had been naught but a
dreadful nightmare. She could still feel the smothered scream choking in her
throat, still see Francis's lifeless form dangling limply from the gibbet as
her father stood laughing beside her. Tears slipped unheeded down her cheeks,
and she leaned weakly against the bedpost, whimpering like a frightened child
for her mother.
Fingers
trembling, she lit the candle beside her bed. Its wan, flickering light was as
welcome as the golden sunlight of a summer's day. The shifting flame cast long,
changing shadows about the room, and even her well-known possessions suddenly
took on a sinister cast. Yes, it was a dream, but one that she knew might
easily come true.
She
struggled to shake off the feeling of horror and loss that still enveloped her.
Francis might be in danger even then—but what did she care, anyway?
Her
feigned indifference did not help. Pulling the blankets closely about her
shoulders, she called to mind those times she had been frightened as a child.
Then her mother would come to her, and together they would read aloud from a
great, gilt-edged Bible. She remembered the comfort of her mother's soft voice
and warm arms, a comfort she associated with the sound of the Biblical words
long before she had been patiently taught their meaning.
An
overwhelming urge to read those same soothing passages rose inside her. She
could dimly recall seeing a dusty Bible and several prayer books upon an unused
shelf in one corner of Glenkennon's large library. It was ridiculous to leave
her warm bed to wander about the dark corridors in search of a Bible, yet even
as she chided herself for her foolishness, she was donning robe and slippers,
preparing to venture forth.
Candle
in hand, she let herself out the door into the dark hallway. Shielding the
dancing flame with one hand, she moved quietly along the passageway,
negotiating the dozen stairs and making a sharp right turn into the hallway
where her father's offices and library were housed. A cold draught of air
slipped beneath her robe and she shivered, more certain than ever of the folly
of her errand.
She
squinted down the long passageway, attempting to pierce the darkness beyond the
dim circle of light she moved within. A narrow ribbon of light spilled out
along the doorway of Glenkennon's office.
Abruptly
extinguishing her candle, she remained motionless in the heavy blackness that
immediately enshrouded the hallway. If Blake had found the opportunity to
describe her meeting with Francis, Glenkennon would be furious. She did not
feel up to facing his wrath on the heels of that terrible nightmare.
As
she turned to go, a faint murmur of voices rose from the room ahead. She cocked
her head toward the sound. Who did her father find it expedient to meet in the
dark stillness after midnight when all others had sought their beds?
Surprised
at her own audacity, she crept forward until she was near enough to recognize
the voices. It was Edmund Blake's soft tones she heard, though she could not
make out his words. She edged closer shamelessly, resting her face against the
smooth, oak panel of the door.
There
was a long moment of silence, then her father's voice carried easily. "I
want to take him alive, Blake. I've waited years to get my hands on the man and
I'd like to savor the victory now." He laughed harshly. "It'd be such
a pleasure to force a confession of treason from MacLean before I hang
him!"
Anne
closed her eyes, holding her breath against the sudden wave of nausea that
assailed her. Blake was speaking again, but though she strained her ears
desperately, she could understand little of his reply.
"You've
said all this before, Blake," Glenkennon interrupted. "I know James
is growing tired of the unrest, and he's like to become suspicious of us before
long." There was a short pause. "Oh, all right then," he said
irritably. "I'll agree to the hunting accident, since we've not proof
enough to take him with these witless fools about. This man of yours is good, I
know, but he'd best keep his mouth shut. He's been well paid in the past. Just
remind him what he's got in store if a word of this leaks out. And mind... not
a penny till MacLean's cold in his grave."
Anne
drew back from the doorway and leaned weakly against the wall. Her father was
planning to have Francis murdered in cold blood! She drew a steadying breath,
then edged carefully back down the corridor into the protection of another
doorway. Seconds later, the earl's office door opened, spilling a shaft of
light into the passage and illuminating the very spot where she had been.
For
an instant, Blake stood outlined against the light. Then he closed the door,
plunging the hall into a deep, oppressive blackness. Anne pressed herself into
the doorway, holding her breath. She strained for any indication of movement,
but all was silent.
Seconds
ticked by like hours. Her straining ears caught the muffled tread of Blake's
shoes when he passed, so close she felt the wind stirred by his passage.
Slowly, she fought down her terror of the darkness, of Blake, and the sickening
plot she had overheard. She forced herself to concentrate on one thought: she
had to warn Francis.
Pushing
away from the doorway, she gazed into the yawning darkness of the corridor.
Glenkennon might leave his office at any moment, and she doubted that he would
be so obliging as to travel without a light. If he caught her there, he might
guess that she had overheard his plan.
Placing
a hand against the cool roughness of the stone wall, she stepped forward
bravely into the blackness. She forced herself to move quickly, desperately
trying to ignore the thought of running into Blake in a dark passageway ahead.
The
comforting solidity of the wall ended abruptly. Anne stopped, her fingers
groping in midair. She had reached the open waiting area before the stairway,
she told herself, edging forward blindly, hands outstretched. She did not
remember its being so wide; it seemed forever before her searching fingers were
rewarded by the smooth feel of the polished stair railing.
Edging
her way carefully up the stairs, she hurried along the hall, her fingers raw
and burning from their constant contact with rough stone. She counted the
doorways from the stairs. Blessed Lord! Was hers the seventh or the eighth? She
had never counted before.
Holding
her breath, she lifted the latch and entered the eighth door. The faint
starlight spilling into the room illuminated a familiar table and chair and a
length of embroidery she had carelessly left out that afternoon. With shaking
hands, she slid the lock in place.