Authors: Heartstorm
"So
I'm to be exchanged for those men instead of gold," she said softly.
"And what happens if my father decides his prisoners are more
important?"
Donald's
lips formed a mirthless smile. "He won't... but in any case, you'll be
treated with courtesy here. You're the kinswoman of Ian MacDonnell, and the
MacDonnells and MacLeans have been allies near a hundred years."
He
finished his wine with a gulp, as though suddenly embarrassed at his wordiness.
"I'd best find out what's takin' that wench so long with yer bath."
He moved across the floor, hesitating at the door with a sharp look back at
her. "I wanted you to know the truth, lass. Now you can judge for yourself
what manner of folk we be."
The
slamming of the door echoed loudly in the silence, and Anne was suddenly alone
with her uncomfortable thoughts. There was always more than one side to a tale,
she reminded herself, yet Donald didn't seem the type to spread falsehoods.
Perhaps MacLean was not so black as she had suspected. Perhaps her father...
Sighing
deeply, she closed her eyes, forcing her mind to emptiness. She was far too
tired to think clearly. For the moment, she would reserve judgment.
She
had scarcely begun to relax when a knock at the door brought her quickly to her
feet. The sound prefaced the arrival of a sturdy, gray-haired woman of
indeterminate age carrying clothing of every description in her arms. The woman
dropped her burden on the bed while four men filed past her lugging buckets of steaming
water for Anne's bath.
Ordering
the men about in a tone obviously used to command, the woman supervised the
filling of the tub with a sharp scolding for the men and their clumsiness. The
grinning men did not seem to mind her harsh words, however. They glanced at
Anne curiously, one even smiling and nodding in a friendly manner as the woman
herded them out.
"They
be great dolts, all of them, but good enough if a body can keep 'em in
hand," the woman said, turning at last to scrutinize Anne with her sharp
gray eyes. Hands on hips, she looked the girl up and down boldly. "Pur
lass, I can guess those lads have no' treated you as they should. I'll speak to
Francis about his rough handlin'. You look fit to drop in exhaustion," she
added with a shake of her graying head. "And I'd no' be blamin' you if you
did, poor child. Now come here to me, and we'll have you in this warm bath
where you can forget yer troubles awhile. My name's Kate, child, and I'll see
no one abuses you further in this household!"
After
the many lonely months without affection, the woman's mothering was like
precious water to Anne's thirsty soul. Gratefully, she moved toward Kate, her
throat tightening at the memory of just that tone of motherly concern in
Philippa's voice for so many years. "My name is Anne," she said, with
a tentative smile directed toward the kindly, wrinkled face before her.
"And
of course it is, sweeting. I've been hearin' your name for some time,"
Kate replied, helping Anne quickly out of her dusty garments and into the
steaming water. "And half mad with worry we've been too... expectin' you
as we did last night and awonderin' what trouble our Francis had gotten himself
into."
Her
charge safely into the tub, Kate turned her attention to the clothing on the
bed, sorting through the stacks of gowns and undergarments, keeping up a stream
of comforting chatter all the while.
Anne
luxuriated in the heaven of the warm water, the aches of travel slowly easing
from her weary body. Even her swirling thoughts began to quiet in response to
the slow relaxation of her tense muscles and the flow of conversation from
Kate.
Her
father would rescue her soon, she assured herself. If Donald's tale were true,
Glenkennon would arrange to trade his prisoners for her and she would be on her
way to Ranleigh in no time.
But
what if MacLean's family were harmed? Her stomach tightened at the thought and
she sank deeper into the comforting warmth of the tub. MacLean was not the man
to suffer her father's treachery—if such it was—without retaliation. And she
was here beneath his hand, an easy tool for revenge.
The
dark image of the Highland chief bloomed in her mind, and she remembered the
angry set of his face and his bruising grip upon her shoulders. Her hands crept
up involuntarily to cover the purplish markings now marring her white skin.
He'd not really hurt her, she reminded herself—not even in his anger. She shook
her head and reached for the bar of soap Kate had brought.
She
dropped the soap into the water. The heady fragrance of flowers wafted to her,
and her thoughts immediately took another course. So Sir Francis MacLean had
plenty of women eager for his attentions....
She
retrieved the costly bar and rubbed it over her body, indolently watching the
water slide from her silken limbs. Sniffing the scent suspiciously, she
wondered if it, too, had been a favorite of the last Lady MacLean, or if there
had been some more recent female who had voiced a preference for that very
seductive scent.
It
did Anne little good to wonder about MacLean, for it was three days before she
spoke with him again. During that time she was kept locked in her room, where
she longed to be out in the warm spring sunshine that beckoned brightly from
her narrow window.
To
keep Anne entertained, Ian MacDonnell spent hours regaling her with tales of
her mother's childhood. She hung on his words, listening with rapt attention
while she learned more of her MacDonnell kin than her mother ever had told her.
In
turn Anne spoke of her life in England, wisely dwelling on those happy times
when her father was away. She could tell her words eased a heavy burden from
MacDonnell's shoulders. "We were happy at Rosewood," she said softly,
"though Mother was often homesick." She paused, remembering how as a
child she had often awakened in the night to the sounds of her mother's crying.
"Why didn't you come?" she asked abruptly. "There was never so
much as a letter."
Ian's
lips tightened and his lined face suddenly seemed far older than his years.
"It wasn't my choice, lass," he said, returning her look.
"Glenkennon forced Mary to break all contact with us after he took her off
to England. For a time I wrote. I even tried to see her once and almost lost my
head for my troubles. The bastard threatened..."
He
broke off, gazing at Anne strangely. "Ah, well, it's all over and done
now, lass, and I doubt your mother'd be thankin' me for stirring up troublesome
history." He studied his hands as if the past might be read there.
"Believe me, Mary knew the silence was not of my choice."
Anne
stared at him wordlessly, feeling a deep pity for the man and her mother and
the many unhappy years behind them. Why had her mother married Robert Randall
and abandoned her family? The marriage was no love match, of that Anne was
certain. She longed to ask, but some nameless dread held her silent. Perhaps
some things were best left unmentioned, as Ian had said.
When
her uncle could not be with her, Donald or Kate kept Anne company, and from
them she learned much about the current chief of Clan MacLean. Francis had
inherited the title early in life when his father failed to return from a
fierce clan skirmish. At the tender age of eighteen, he had been pitchforked
into leadership of a powerful clan in one of the most turbulent times in
Highland history. Now, some eight years later, he had successfully led his clan
through political upheavals and border wars and was revered by many of the
clans with a near worshipful awe.
He
was known in nearby parts as a loyal and honest friend but a dangerous enemy
for any man to have. A powerful and canny fighter, he was as sharp of wit as he
was quick with his sword. No one who asked his aid met with disappointment—or
so his loyal followers protested. The more Anne heard, the more confused her
feelings became.
From
her window, she had watched him come and go with his men a handful of times
since the morning of her arrival. She had also heard his firm tread in the
hallway and did not know whether to be relieved or sorry when it always passed
her door without stopping.
Finally,
just when she thought she would go daft from her forced inactivity, the
footsteps halted outside and an impatient knock sounded. At her word, MacLean
strode in, his restless personality filling the large room, which seemed far
too small to hold him.
"Well,
Mistress Randall, if you've recovered from your ill temper, I've come to take
you riding," he announced, tapping his whip impatiently against his boot.
Damn
the man for being so provoking just when she was most disposed to think well of
him. "I've ridden with you once, sir, and I've no mind to endure the
ordeal again," she said coolly.
He
smiled so engagingly the room seemed to brighten. "Come, lass. A short
ride about the moor will do you good. 'Tis a lovely day, and I took pity on
you, locked away indoors. You need a bit of sunshine and wind to blow away your
ill humor." He paused. "Of course, if you're afraid to go, we can
forget the whole idea."
It
was a lovely day, and Anne could not stand the thought of another minute spent
indoors. Besides, she'd not have him thinking she was a coward. "Of course
I'm not afraid. If you'll take yourself off, I'll be ready in fifteen
minutes," she stated, dismissing him by walking to the press for her
habit.
Ten
minutes later, MacLean was hurrying her down the steps and out into the
courtyard while she struggled to finish buttoning her sleeve. The horses were
saddled and waiting; he had been sure of her all along.
She
was glad to see he had chosen the same bonny mare she had ridden into
Camereigh. He must at least have trusted her horsemanship if she was to ride
Cassie again.
Stroking
the mare's glistening neck, Anne watched in fascination while MacLean's nervous
black stallion quieted quickly beneath his hands. A horsewoman herself since
she had been old enough to toddle about and demand a pony, Anne spoke in
unthinking admiration, forgetting she was still angry with the man.
"Donald isn't the only one who works magic here. You've a way with horses,
sir."
"Oh,
Leven's not a mean sort," Francis said, running his hand appreciatively
along the stallion's muscular shoulder. "He just needs a firm hand on the
reins now and again."
He
assisted Anne in mounting, then swung onto the stallion's back, nudging the
impatient animal through the gate and down the road leading from Camereigh.
Avoiding the trail they had taken on the day of Anne's arrival, they swung
instead along a narrow track leading down toward the sea.
Anne
rode silently beside MacLean, content, for the moment, to soak up the rich
beauty of the day. Gone were all feelings of anger and fear. The cool wind blew
against her face and whipped her cloak from her shoulders like a proud, dark
banner. The sun shone with a clear, golden light, shimmering over the greening
forest, gilding everything it touched with a special brilliance. Even the air
smelled sweet and cool. She breathed in great lungfuls, conscious of a
reasonless happiness spreading within her chest.
The
lazy murmur of the sea beyond them grew nearer with each step the horses took.
Rounding a bend in the trail, they passed through a stand of scrubby ash to
find the brilliant blue sea stretching endlessly before them.
MacLean
reined in, gazing calmly out at the glittering panorama. The white-crested
waves rolled gently up the rocky beach, dropping tiny shells and pebbles as
they retreated along the shore. Urging Cassie past him, Anne rode to the sea's
edge, mesmerized by the rhythmic rise and fall of the breakers and the graceful
dance of the gulls, swooping and climbing in the eternal pattern of their
lives.
"It
makes you realize how small and unimportant you really are, doesn't it?"
Francis asked softly, still gazing at the shimmering face of the ocean. "I
come here sometimes... it helps me to sort things out."
Anne
nodded, longing to freeze this moment in time like a jewel she could hold in
her hand and enjoy forever. She closed her eyes, feeling the warm sun on her
face, hearing the murmur of the sea, smelling the sweet tang of the air. She
committed each sensation to memory, knowing instinctively that she might have
need of this peace in the days to come.
Opening
her eyes, she found MacLean watching her lazily, his own eyes as blue and calm
as the sky above them. "I knew you'd like it," he said smiling.
"I've another place to show you. Come."
They
rode slowly along the coarse sand, the tracks of the horses quickly
disappearing as the surging waters erased all signs of their passage. Following
a narrow, rocky trail, they wound precariously up a steep hillside. To the
right a solid granite cliff crowded over the path while to the left, the trail
fell away—a sheer drop of several hundred feet led to churning waters beneath.
Great slabs of gray stone lay piled and broken at the foot of the cliff,
dislodged by some turbulent occurrence in the earth's history thousands of
years before. The green waters tumbled about the rocks in a white froth while
the ocean lifted and fell in lazy billows.
Reaching
the crest at last, MacLean dismounted. He led the horses over the rocks,
pushing aside the scrubby bushes clinging tenaciously to the clefts in the
buffeting wind. Pausing in the shelter of a large jumble of boulders, he tied
the horses to a stubby tree.