Authors: Heartstorm
Anne
stared at the man in stunned surprise, robbed of the power of speech by his
unexpected words. Silently, she studied his lean form, from the top of his
gray-streaked, russet hair to the stirrup-worn leather of his boots. Ian
MacDonnell—she could not believe it!
MacDonnell
released her hand, leaning back against the oak lintel with an appearance of
nonchalance. Only the intensity of his regard and a slight twitch in the muscle
along his tanned cheek betrayed his anxiety as he waited for her to speak.
"I'm...
I'm pleased to meet you... sit," she stammered, still struggling to calm
the swirl of unreasoning emotion that engulfed her at the sound of his name.
"My mother seldom mentioned Scotland or any family here... but she spoke
of you with the greatest affection. It was her dearest hope you and I might meet."
The
sudden image of her mother's loneliness those last weeks rose to choke off her
words. Tears flooded her eyes, but she blinked them back determinedly.
"Did you know she died six months ago?" she asked accusingly.
"We were alone when it happened. No one came."
"I
know, Anne, though I didn't hear of it till near two months ago,"
MacDonnell replied, his blue eyes narrowing as at some internal pain. "I'd
have come if I'd known. Believe me, lass, I'd give all I own to have seen her
one last time." He cleared his throat roughly and looked away, but not
before Anne noted the suspicious brilliance of his eyes.
Why,
she wanted to ask, why hadn't he come? It would have taken so little. Even an
occasional letter would have meant so much. Questions crowded her mind. She
longed to ask them, but it wasn't the time. "Mother spoke of you... at...
at the last," she said, stumbling. "I think she'd be pleased by our
meeting now."
At
her words, MacDonnell swiveled back. "Aye, lass, she'd be pleased."
He measured her with his eyes. "You've much the look of her, you know. I'd
have known you for her daughter anywhere, though I'm afraid I'd have been
looking for a wee lass about so high," he admitted, with a hand raised to
his waist. "Let's see... you must be a good eighteen or nineteen summers
by now."
"Nineteen
come July," she replied. "I'm afraid I'm grown quite old."
"Old
enough to give Francis a run for his money, I'll be bound," Ian said, with
a quick wink. "That's the MacDonnell in you, lass! A hearty set down once
in a while is good for the lad, lest he think too much of himself... especially
where the lassies are concerned."
Sir
Francis MacLean! She had forgotten him in the excitement of meeting her uncle.
She turned toward the window where MacLean and Donald had withdrawn. "Oh,
really? I can't imagine he should have cause for conceit, especially in that
respect."
Ian
MacDonnell cackled in delight, and MacLean's eyes gleamed appreciatively as he
recognized the rebuke. He swept her a practiced bow, as gracefully correct as
if he addressed the royal court. "Now that I have you here safe, mistress,
I shall endeavor to show you the hospitality of my house. My MacLeans and I
shall see if we can't make you recant your slur upon our honor."
Feeling
a great deal braver in the presence of her uncle, Anne smiled sweetly.
"Oh?" She raised an arched brow in polite disbelief. "I didn't
know you had any honor to protect."
MacLean
rolled his eyes at Ian. "Gad, but she's a sharp-tongued shrew, Ian. I fear
those years in proximity to Glenkennon may have made her unreclaimable. You'd
not believe the trouble she gave me on the trail."
"Sir
Francis is an old friend of mine, Anne," Ian explained with a grin.
"Don't provoke him beyond his temper lest I be forced to call him out in
your defense. I'd hate to come up against his sword arm now, though I fenced
with him often when he was naught but a clumsy lad."
Reminded
of the bond between her uncle and her abductor, Anne turned to her uncle.
"You're a friend to this man?" Somehow she couldn't blend the shining
image she had held of him all these years with this new picture as friend to a
rebel chief.
"Aye,
lass, I admit I am." Ian looked sharply toward MacLean. "Though what
he's done to make you believe he's such a devil, I suppose I'd best be
asking."
"Nothing
that can't be easily explained once the lady is rested," MacLean put in
quickly. "We've a room prepared for you, mistress, and Donald will find
you fresh clothing." He nodded toward Donald, and the man obligingly
opened the door.
There
was little Anne could do; she had obviously been dismissed. She started to
protest, but the idea of fresh clothing and some privacy sounded too good.
Following Donald to the door, she paused, looking back uncertainly at her
uncle. "You'll not be leaving yet? I will see you again?"
His
face split into a wide, reassuring smile. "Aye, you'll see me again, Anne;
I plan to stay a while. We've years of catching up to do."
MacLean
watched the gentle sway of Anne's skirts as she disappeared through the open
doorway, unexpectedly recalling the stirring feel of her slender thighs pressed
against him. She was a lovely piece, he thought with a grin. A lass like that
could lead a man quite a dance.
"Just
what in God's name are your plans, lad?" Ian asked, interrupting his
pleasant musing. "You're playing with fire to annoy so powerful an enemy
as Glenkennon, may God rot his soul."
MacLean's
face hardened and all trace of good humor vanished. "Glenkennon needs the
girl, not only for the gold she can bring, but for the alliance he can contract
with Campbell or Howard should she marry one of those devils. He might feel
those concerns more pressing than toying with my kinsmen."
"I
see the bent of your thoughts, Francis. A fair exchange that: the girl for
MacGregor, Cameron, and the two lads with them. It's the only way we'll spring
them from that hellhole in Edinburgh." Ian paused, staring into the
dancing flames reflectively. "I hate to see the child given back to that
bastard though. Damn, but the sight of her brings back memories! I'd not
expected her to be so like Mary."
Francis's
eyes narrowed, and the ghost of a smile flickered in their depths. "Aye,
she's an engaging lass when she's not trying to stir my temper. She deserves
better than what Glenkennon has planned." He shoved a hand through his
hair. "Nothing's decided yet, Ian. We'll play this hand as the cards
fall."
***
Upstairs,
Anne stared in amazement at the most luxurious bedchamber she had ever seen.
Even the rooms at the court of King James couldn't be more richly appointed than
this, she thought wildly. Silk tapestries covered the rough stone walls and a
carpet of a warm rose color lay upon the floor. The color was repeated in the
satin and lace coverlet thrown over the massive tester bed and in the velvet
curtains gathered back from the windows with cream-colored satin cords—and
everywhere the MacLean crest was vividly embroidered in rich gold thread.
Off
to one side of the room, a large brass tub stood behind a woven screen with
linen towels laid out in readiness for a bath. Wordlessly Anne looked about,
her regard finally resting on the carved stone fireplace where a small fire
crackled behind the grate. The bright flames added a welcoming warmth to the
elegant room.
"Francis's
mother loved beautiful things," Donald said unexpectedly. "It's
mostly her taste you'll see in the bedchambers of Camereigh." He shook his
head, remembering. "She was a fine one, the last Lady MacLean."
"And
what of the present lady of the house?"
"There
isn't one."
"Oh..."
Anne stared at the bed, her finger carefully tracing the MacLean crest
embroidered on the cool satin. Her heart lurched unexpectedly and began to
pound uncomfortably in her chest. "And where is your chief's chamber,
Donald?"
"Down
the hall some three or four doors and to the right," he answered in
surprise. "Why d'ye ask?"
She
moved away from the bed uneasily, refusing to meet his gaze. She could think of
no proper way to ask the question that disturbed her. "I see there's no
inside bolt..."
"You've
no need to fear Francis—that's no' his way," Donald answered in immediate
understanding. "I won't say the lad doesna have an eye for the lassies,
but he'll no' go where he's no' asked—he doesna have to," he added, gray
eyes twinkling beneath scraggly brows. "We're more like to bar the gates of
Camereigh against too many husband-seeking females for his protection."
He
turned and made for the door, his long stride taking him quickly across the
floor. "Make yourself easy now, lass. It's food you're needin' to dispel
these wild fancies. I'll be back with a good meal. Then we'll see if you're no'
feelin' more the thing."
The
door closed behind him, and Anne gazed about her luxurious prison with a sigh.
In spite of Donald's assurances, she remained unconvinced. The clansman had not
seen the look in MacLean's eyes on that lonely moor.
True
to his word, Donald returned shortly with a steaming bowl of savory stew and a
loaf of freshly baked bread. Balancing a decanter of claret precariously on the
tray, he made his way carefully to the polished oak table at one end of the
room. Pouring them both a glass of wine, he set one down on the table beside
the stew and drew up a velvet cushioned chair for Anne.
The
succulent aroma of the food drew her attention immediately. She could barely
remember her last meal. There had been no breakfast that morning and little
food the night before. Her fear and weariness forgotten, she fell ravenously on
the meal.
The
stew was delicious, and Anne ate as fast as she could chew and swallow the hot
meal. Belatedly recalling Donald's presence, she glanced up to find him
regarding her curiously. At his expression, she almost choked on the large
chunk of meat she had plopped into her mouth. "Forgive my manners,"
she mumbled in embarrassment. "I'm afraid I was hungry. Have you eaten yet?"
"Aye,
lass, I caught a bite in the kitchen just now." Donald smiled in a
preoccupied manner and moved to stand beside the narrow window. Leaning against
the wall, he stared out thoughtfully, his half-empty glass forgotten in his
hand.
"Did...
did you have something to discuss with me?"
He
turned toward her, scratching his beard in indecision. "Aye, lass, that I
do, though I don't know Francis'd wish it."
Her
curiosity fully aroused, Anne leaned back, waiting for him to continue.
"I'll
not have you thinkin' so ill of the Laird," Donald finally said with a
dark scowl. "He doesna traffic in kidnapping and intrigues of this nature.
Nor does he plan to ransom you back to your father in spite of his angry words
earlier. As you can see, we're in no' so great a need here." He threw out
an arm, encompassing the richness of the room.
Anne
held her tongue, biting back the words that sprang to her lips. Her pride still
suffered from MacLean's treatment the last two days. If Donald had not been so
kind, she would have told him what she thought of his precious chief.
"The
truth of the matter's this, if you be wantin' to know," Donald growled.
"A fortnight ago Francis's brother-in-law, Jamie Cameron, got a message
from Glenkennon. It stated records had appeared casting doubt on grants made to
the Cameron family near a hundred years ago. Glenkennon insisted Jamie come to
Edinburgh to clear the matter up, claiming he wanted no clan warfare over
boundary lines.
"Jamie
went, the trusting fool, taking his two sons of ten and fourteen years, and a
friend, Sir Allan MacGregor, who was visiting at the time. They'd no inkling
then of the treachery your father planned."
Donald
studied his hands silently for a few moments, then went on. "They'd scarce
crossed the border of Cameron lands when Glenkennon's lackeys jumped them. Six
of the villains were slain, but Jamie's party was finally overcome by the
greater number of English troops.
"Five
Cameron clansmen died in the fight," he added, taking an angry turn about
the room, "but one escaped, wounded, to carry the sorry tale back to us.
MacGregor and the Camerons were marched off to Edinburgh on the false charge
they'd ambushed Glenkennon's men. 'Tis a damned lie, but the lads have been in
prison ever since."
Donald
paused, overcome by his own anger. "Some say Glenkennon plans to execute
them... others that he simply plans to hold them as surety against Francis's
good behavior. The MacLeans have never taken to English orders and of late the
tension's grown."
He
brought his fist down sharply upon the table, making the dishes rattle on the
tray. "Glenkennon dares no' strike at Francis openly, for the lad's too
popular a chief in these Highlands. Every clan'd unite and Glenkennon'd have an
uprising on his hands that'd make the Catholic risings a few years back look
like child's play." He gave a harsh laugh. "He thinks to hold Francis
by threatening the Camerons, but we've neatly scotched the bastard's plans
now."
Anne
stared at Donald in dismay. No wonder her words had provoked such an outburst
from MacLean on the trail. If Donald's tale were true, the Highlander had good
reason to hate her father. She felt a sudden flush of shame for the name she
bore and the treachery in which her father seemed to be involved. She had known
him to be a cold, hard man but had never expected villainy such as this.