Authors: Heartstorm
Charles
watched the intimate smile Anne exchanged with the tall MacLean chief, feeling
the cold clutch of loneliness about his heart. By the look of things his half
sister had a husband who pleased her, but what had he save a shameful legacy of
murder and deceit? MacLean was an honorable man; deep down Charles always had known
that. But merciful God, what was he?
Charles
slept poorly, and morning found him as troubled as when he had gone to bed. He
had no intention of challenging Francis. He should by rights have been begging
the man's pardon instead. And now that he knew the story of the MacKinnons, the
sight of Edmund and Conall shamed him past bearing. It was their land he called
his own— land they had been hounded from by his father.
During
breakfast he announced his intention of riding for Ranleigh. Anne begged him to
stay, but he was adamant. "Don't fret over me," he said at the sight
of her worried look. "I've a desire to see England again. Scotland's not
such a pleasant place for me now." He smiled slightly. "I won't be
gone long, though. I'll send you word when I return, Anne."
Francis
sent for the horses to be brought around, and the little group trailed
forlornly into the courtyard. Charles swung onto his fretting bay. "Take
care of my sister, MacLean," he said, directing a hard look at Francis.
"Aye,
with pleasure, lad," Francis returned. "You may not choose to take
advantage of the offer, but you're welcome at Camereigh any time."
Charles
stared down at him. "My thanks, MacLean." Transferring his reins into
his left hand, he carefully extended his right toward Francis. "As you
said, it's time for the bloodshed to be ended. Here's my hand, if you're not
ashamed to take it."
Francis
stepped forward and grasped Charles's hand firmly. "Godspeed, lad. Come
back to us soon."
***
Anne
sat alone on the sun-warmed beach. Autumn was upon the land. The chill rains
fell more often, and heavy mists appeared each morning and sometimes lingered
throughout the day. There had already been one hard frost, but the warmth of
the sun that day belied the proximity to the season of snow.
Anne
watched in drowsy contentment as gentle waves rolled up the narrow crescent of
sand, greedily gobbling up what they could of the loose grains only to
redeposit them upon the coast with each new movement of the waters. She removed
her shoes and stockings, enjoying the feel of warm sand sliding between her
toes and the radiant glow of the sun's powerful rays upon her upturned face.
Life was so sweet, she thought dreamily. She no longer feared she might bear
Campbell's child, for her time had come upon her soon after Charles's visit.
She
drew up her knees, leaning her chin upon her arms, staring out over the
tranquil expanse of glittering blue water. If only the news from England would
be good...
Without
warning, an osprey descended from the clear arc of blue above, scarcely
breaking the surface of the water as it swooped with blinding speed upon its
unwary prey. Clutching a gleaming fish in its curved talons, the great bird
flapped triumphantly away.
Anne
shifted uncomfortably, her contentment in the day's beauty suddenly fled. Could
the wrath of King James descend unexpectedly from England with equally
devastating results? Would soldiers come upon them in the dead of night as they
had her father twenty years earlier?
Why
had there been no news, she wondered fearfully. It had been a month since
Glenkennon's death, ample time for action, yet still they knew nothing of how
the matter was viewed at court. Francis remained outwardly calm, telling her
the long silence was a good sign, but she knew he was worried. She often awoke
in the night to find his place beside her in the great bed empty. Upon arising,
she would find him standing motionless beside the window, gazing silently out
into the night.
The
crunch of boots upon sand brought her back to the present. She turned. Francis
stood a half-dozen paces behind her, his leather jack thrown open to the warmth
of the day, his raven-black hair tossing fitfully in the wind.
He
stared at her a moment without speaking. "I've news from England,
lass," he said at last. "A messenger just arrived with letters."
His
face was a mask, telling her nothing. She scrambled to her feet, her anxious
eyes never leaving his.
"It's
good," he added hastily at her expression. "So damnably good I can
scarce believe it!"
With
a strangled cry, she flung herself across the sand into his arms. He swung her
about, then set her down, keeping one arm about her.
"I've
a letter from Nigel Douglas here," he said, lifting the paper, "writ
with the full knowledge of the king. I'm to be pardoned," he went on
slowly. "And not only that... Camereigh's to be created a barony."
"A
barony!" she gasped. "And we thought we might be fleeing for our
lives. Oh, Francis..."
He
nodded. "Douglas must be a golden-tongued devil to have so neatly turned
the situation to my benefit! Edmund was right. Douglas was sent here to
investigate. Glenkennon's handling of his duties. What he found made it obvious
the earl was unfit to administer the king's justice. The Randalls have been
stripped of their lands in England and must pay a heavy fine to the crown for
Glenkennon's traitorous dealings."
"But...
Glenkennon's dead," Anne said haltingly.
Francis
frowned and gazed darkly out to sea. "Charles is a Randall. The lad won't
succeed to his father's earldom, but he'll retain his property here in Scotland
save Ranleigh and the lands immediately surrounding it."
At
her stricken look, he drew her into his arms. "From what I understand, the
lad preferred Scotland to England anyway And he'll be close enough he can visit
us often."
She
buried her face against his shoulder, wondering at the swift pain his words had
brought. Life was never perfect. It seemed with each pleasure there must be
pain to balance the measure. "Yes, of course, but it isn't fair, Francis.
Charles was so proud to be a Randall!" She closed her eyes, letting the
comfort of his encircling arms bring her ease.
"Douglas
writes that a new man will be appointed any day now to succeed to Glenkennon's
duties at Ranleigh," Francis said, changing the subject. "The two
under consideration are fair men and should be well respected here, as he says,
'in spite of being good Englishmen.'"
He
brushed his lips against her hair. "We owe Nigel Douglas a great deal, I'm
afraid," he murmured softly. "I hate to think how matters might have
gone without his intervention. He writes he'll be returning to Scotland to help
govern in the interval until James's new representative arrives. He's even
looking into the old MacKinnon case. He writes that the whole thing stinks to
heaven of Glenkennon's greed."
Placing
a finger beneath her chin, he tilted it until she gazed up into his puzzled
eyes. "Was the man in love with you, sweet?" he asked, half laughing
and half serious. "I swear I know of no other reason to make him busy
himself so on behalf of our families."
"Of
course not," she responded with a slight smile, "though he was a
friend I held dear those bleak days at Ranleigh."
"Just
how dear?" Francis questioned politely, raising one intimidating eyebrow.
His powerful hands moved down to embrace her waist, drawing her unresisting
body close against his own. "Have I any cause for jealousy?"
Without
answering, Anne slid her fingers caressingly over his broad chest to the back
of his neck where the thick hair curled softly against the leather of his jack.
She drew his dark head down to hers, whispering something in his ear that made
him throw back his head in delight, his white teeth flashing against the bronze
of his face as his rich laugh floated out across the tiny bay.
"And
it is for me also, Anne MacKinnon MacLean... and will be for all time,"
Francis said softly, the amused expression on his face fading into tenderness
while the sound of his laugh echoed from the towering granite cliffs behind
them. His mouth lowered to hers in a message as ageless as the windswept rocks
around them, while far above the unconquerable Highland winds whispered
laughingly across the meadows of Camereigh.