Chapter 14

Alec stood looking at Loch Euliss. They were on the eastern side of the lake, and rolling hills obscured the view to Gilmuir. But he glanced toward the old fortress as if he could see the ruined walls.

"You look disapproving, Harrison," Alec said, turning to his adjutant. The other man glanced quickly at him and then away.

"It is not my place, sir, to approve or disapprove."

"The right answer," Alec said wryly, "but I'd rather have the truth at the moment."

"I think it's a dangerous thing to do, sir," Harrison said reluctantly. "Your life could be in jeopardy. Inverness was bad enough, but this is even more dangerous."

"It's something I have to do," Alec said, turning. "But I understand if you don't wish to help."

"I do, sir. As does every man from Inverness," Harrison said loyally. "But I worry about Sedgewick's men. Armstrong, especially. He seems no more than Sedgewick's toady."

"Then I will have to ensure that his suspicions are not aroused," Alec said, smiling.

He glanced up at the darkening sky. The moon would be nearly full tonight, but he doubted if it would be visible through the oncoming storm. Gray clouds were being chased across the sky by an angry wind. Even the trees rendered it homage as branches shivered beneath the gusts.

"Another storm, Colonel," Harrison said.

"Scotland is angry at us," Alec said, a whimsical answer unlike him.

He wore one of his best shirts and tan breeches, both dyed black by Donald, the better to be unseen on this mission of exploration.

Every military exercise must be carefully planned, and this adventure in treason no less so. His original plan was to slip away from the encampment at night in order to aid the Scots. But that strategy was too limiting. He couldn't be on patrol endlessly. What he needed was a way to enter and leave Fort William without being seen.

It startled him to realize how easily he was becoming one of the Wild MacRaes again. A curious feeling of freedom to experience at that moment.

After all, they could only hang him once.

"If Armstrong wishes to see me," he said, turning to Harrison, "tell him I've left instructions not to be disturbed."

"Gladly," Harrison said.

"As far as the others," Alec added, "I leave it to your discretion." Which, as they both knew, meant only the men who'd accompanied him from Inverness.

Ian entered the skiff, sat, and tested the knot of the rope that led to the second boat, both Castleton's acquisitions. He had been right to put him in charge of the stores for the fort. The young lieutenant was proving to be adept at procurement.

He lit the lantern only once, as he rowed around the sharp outcropping of rock that led to the hidden cove. But he extinguished the light as soon as he found the opening. The fact that he discovered it on his first attempt was, he hoped, an omen for the rest of this night's investigation.

Beaching the skiff on the rocky shoreline, he untied the second boat and moored it more securely. It was only practical to prepare for any contingency, including a hasty departure from Fort William.

Pebbles crunched beneath his boots as he walked toward the rock face. His memory failed him when it came to finding the cave entrance, before he realized he was using the perspective of a boy of eleven. Consequently, he bent lower, and it was then that he found it. He ducked his head, entered the small opening. Once inside, the ceiling soared and he could stand again. Once more he lit the lantern.

The boy had been fascinated with the colors and the secrecy of this cave, but the man recognized the artist's love for this woman. It shone through so strongly in these portraits that Alec felt like an intruder.

He left the lantern lit at the base of the stairs and began the long climb up to the priory. It was as if time stood still in the intervening years. The sense of danger, coupled with the strong odor of decay, was the same. He pushed up on the two stones guarding the entrance and pulled himself free, slipping into the darkness like a shadow.

"You promise you'll stay within sight, miss?" Donald asked with some degree of trepidation. "And you'll not try to escape?"

Leitis smiled and nodded, stepping into the clan hall, breathing in the slightly dusty air with a feeling of relief.

They had played Donald's game so long and with such equal fervor that night had come. Leitis had been graced with luck, winning finally.

If she peered around the archway to her right, she could see a grassy strip of glen and beyond to where the forest began. At night the trees always appeared larger, silhouetted black against a lighter sky.

She glanced over her shoulder. Donald stood behind her at some distance, as if he knew that his presence was intrusive.

The cool mist against her face, the whipping wind, and the sweet smell that presages rain were all promises of the storm to come.

The thunder was louder at Gilmuir, and the lightning more fierce. Perhaps it was because cliffs encircled the castle and the wind blew with more challenge around the headland.

She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, anticipating the storm. She could almost pretend she was a girl racing with her brothers over the green rolling earth of the glen, laughing at the threat of lightning and thunder.

There was another boy in her memory. Ian, that was his name. His visits promised so many indescribable treats. She'd come to expect his arrival over the years, looked to the heather blooming over the glen and knowing that any day he and his mother would arrive in their fine coach and she would once more be bidden to Gilmuir to be his friend.

She peered through the gloom, but Donald wasn't there. Instead, the chamber door was open and his shadow flickered on the wall. She smiled, grateful for his understanding and unexpected kindness.

You laugh prettier than any girl I know.Ian's words, a confession made in that last year. How strange that the memory should pain her so much. Perhaps it was the realization that he would be her enemy if she met him today. Yet she had said a prayer for one English boy, that he was not involved in the war.

From the shadows Alec watched her as she walked slowly through the priory. The moon was nearly full, lifting the darkness and painting the night with a gray tinge. The storm was moving away, but the hint of it remained in the wild, soughing wind and the taste of rain in the air.

Her head was bent in concentration as she made her way to one of the arches, her arms folded at her waist. A reflective Leitis, a portrait he'd never before seen. What would her eyes reveal, sadness or the barest flicker of anger? Or would there still be a trace of fear in them, hidden well but visible to someone who cared to look deeply enough?

He wanted to speak to her, but there were no words he could say. Reassurance would only be a ploy—he could not guarantee her safety or solace or even that tomorrow would come. Comfort? She would not accept it from him. Companionship? He smiled at his own sophistry.

It disturbed him to watch her stand beneath one of the arches and stare out to sea. The pose was a lonely one, her air of composure fading, to be replaced by one of sadness.

He stretched out his hand, wanting to place it on her shoulder, hold her hand, touch her in some way. Instead, he remained motionless, a companion of the shadows and his thoughts.

Ever since he'd stepped onto Scottish soil, it had been more and more difficult to forget the years of his youth and the people he'd once loved and admired. But coming to Gilmuir had freed those memories from behind closed and shuttered doors until he was inundated with them.

You're not such a bad swimmer, for an English boy.

Come on, Ian! We'll beat Fergus and James together!

I hate Fergus, truly I do.She'd confided that to him one day, the sound of tears in her voice making him ache in an odd way. He couldn't remember exactly why she and her brother had argued, but the disagreement was soon resolved.

Leitis. He spoke her name in his mind, and for a moment thought she'd heard. She came toward him, but then stopped and picked up a glittering piece of stone from the floor, examined it, then gently, almost reverently, lay it back where she'd found it.

Slowly she walked to the arch closest to him, standing motionless in the center of it, her head tipped back, eyes closed as if to savor the wind blowing the storm away. She looked, in that instant, like a figurehead, tall and proud with flowing locks of auburn hair.

He saw the movement out of the corner of his eye, glanced up to see a thin shower of mortar dust raining down from the top of the arch. An instant later a fragment fell from the keystone.

He reached Leitis, jerked her out of the way, pushing her against the west wall. Her arms covered her head and he shielded her back as the arch disintegrated.

The floor vibrated beneath their feet. He bent, his face close to hers, their breaths in concert as a cloud of dust whirled around them. The rumbling sound of bricks tumbling to the loch below sounded almost like a growl of protest from the old structure.

When Alec looked up a few moments later, he was surprised to find that the destruction had been limited to one end of the chain of arches. Three brick pillars had crumbled, leaving a jagged hole. The priory had weathered the elements for centuries, only to be weakened by a cannon's bombardment.

He released her slowly, his withdrawal done in an odd kind of precision. Remove his hand from the brick as her head came up. Stand straight, distancing himself even though he could still feel the curve of her body against his chest. She turned slowly until they stood close enough for him to hear her ragged breathing.

A moment suspended in time, rendered mysterious by the darkness.

"Are you all right?" he asked, his fingers cupping the curve of her shoulders.

"Yes," she said breathlessly.

"Miss?" Donald called out anxiously.

She moved cautiously away from Alec, away from the shadows and into the gray light. "I'm fine, Donald," she replied, raising her voice so that she might be heard.

She glanced over at the ruin of the arch. Where she had stood a moment earlier was now covered with broken bricks and stone. "I could have been killed," she said, dazed.

"Who are you?" she asked, turning to stare at him.

He smiled, thinking that she had cut to the core of it, asking the most difficult question of them all.

It was so dark that she couldn't see him. But she could still feel the imprint of his hands, the impression of his body as he pressed her against the wall. He'd acted so quickly that she'd no time for fear. Even now she wasn't afraid as much as surprised.

He didn't answer her, but something about the way he moved appeared familiar, so much so that she felt her heart leap to her throat.

"Marcus? Is that you?" she asked, and waited, breathless, for his answer.

"No," he said finally. "I am not him, Leitis," he said, in perfect Gaelic.

"How do you know my name?"

"There is little that goes on at Gilmuir that I don't know," he said.

He slipped into the shadows, his form touched only briefly by moonlight.

"Who are you?" she asked, prudently moving away.

He hesitated for a moment, removed something from his shirt, and extended his hand to her. There on his gloved palm was a MacRae badge. Lit by a beam of moonlight, it appeared shiny and golden.

"It is mine by right of my birth," he said.

"You're a MacRae?" she asked incredulously.

"Yes," he said simply, tucking the badge away.

"There are not many of us left," she said. "Do I know you?"

"I don't think you do," he said somberly, stepping deeper into the shadows.

She looked toward the corners of the room, straining to see him. But there was only the inky darkness.

"Did I imagine you?" she asked.

"I am real enough," he replied, his voice deep and echoing in the partially roofed structure.

"What is your name?"

"Give me one," he challenged.

She turned back to look at Donald, but he was still in the chamber. "Shadow," she suggested.

"It lacks character and sounds too dour," he said, his tone amused. Her own lips curved into a reluctant smile.

"But why do you wear black?"

"To avoid scrutiny, perhaps," he offered. "Especially from the English."

"For what purpose?"

"Are you always filled with questions?" he asked.

"Would you not be, to find a Scot among so many English soldiers?"

"A pigeon among all these cats?" he asked. "Your ability to name me has no poetry, mistress. Are there no heroes you might pull from your memory to call me?"

"Do heroes skulk in the shadows?"

"Those who wish to live another day, perhaps."

"Raven," she offered. "Black as night, yet cunning."

"It has a ring to it," he said agreeably.

"Why are you here, Raven, in an English stronghold?"

He hesitated, and when he finally spoke, she had the impression it was a reluctant truth he offered her.

"To save the MacRaes," he said.

"Then, Raven," she said, smiling, "you are as daft as my uncle, who insists on defying the English single-handedly. What can one man do?"

"The colonel is only one man, Leitis," he softly said. "As is Cumberland. And the prince."

Her cheeks warmed at his words, as if he chastised her. "All of them have followers. And force of arms. Do you?"

"There is only myself," he said soberly.

"Alone in an English fortress? You're either a brave or a foolhardy man."

"Gilmuir is not English," he said in a clipped tone. "As to being brave or foolhardy, I claim neither."

"Modest as well," she said, smiling.

"Miss? It's time," Donald called out.

"You'd best leave," she said to the Raven, unwilling for him to be caught by the earnest sergeant.

"Why do you protect me?" he whispered.

"You're a MacRae."

"Are all the MacRaes so virtuous that you can stand in isolation with one and fear nothing?" he asked, his voice once more sounding amused.

"Yes," she replied quickly.

"Then I would be a fool not to claim myself a MacRae," he said.

"Miss?" Donald stood at the doorway of the chamber, looking out toward the archway.

"A minute, Donald, please," she called out, then turned to the Raven. "Take care. There is a regiment of soldiers not far from here."

"I understood they were on patrol," he said.

"Most of them, but not everyone, and there are lookouts everywhere."

"Is he one of them?" he asked, looking at Donald standing in the archway, illuminated by the faint light of the candles.

"My jailer," she admitted. "The colonel left him behind."

"Then it's you who should take care," he said.

"Let me help you," she said, surprising herself with the request and the sudden elation that filled her at the prospect. "You want to save the MacRaes and so do I. There must be something I can do."

"This is no adventure, Leitis. It is dangerous and if you're captured by the English they will not be kind simply because you are a woman."

"They have not been kind now," she said, tilting her chin up at him. "Or do you think I'm here willingly?"

"There are those who say the colonel is captivated by you. That he is acting in a way unlike himself. You are safer here than in harm's way."

Her thoughts about the colonel were her own and not to be shared with anyone, even if he was a MacRae.

"I did not have your protection in this last year, Raven," she said quietly, "when we nearly starved. We were rousted from our beds at night and made to assemble in a circle in the middle of the village in our nightclothes. We women didn't know if we were to be raped or left to freeze, and the men were powerless to defend us. Our cattle were slaughtered in front of us, not because the English were hungry but so that we could not eat. But you were never there."

"All the more reason," he said, his voice low, "to guard you now."

"No," she said, quietly assertive. "It's not. I can survive, Raven; I've proven that."

"I don't wish anything to happen to you, Leitis," he said softly.

"Then you should turn back time itself," she said gently. "Because it has."

A moment passed and then another. "Are you faint of heart?" he asked in the silence. "Afraid of horses or shadows or the wind blowing through your hair?"

She smiled, an expression of ridicule for his questions, even as she felt a surge of excitement. She walked closer to where he stood. "I will be exceptionally brave," she promised him. "But any MacRae is."

"Even the women?"

"Especially the women," she answered. "We have more cause."

"Then meet me here," he said. "Tomorrow, just before sunset."

She stepped away from him, moved toward the open arch. It was lighter here, gray where the shadows of the priory were ebony. He didn't follow her. Instead, he was rooted to the spot, shielded by darkness.

"Can you lose your jailer? I've no wish to have the English following us."

"I will," she promised. How, she didn't know, but she would find a way.

She turned, peering into the shadows, but the Raven had vanished like steam in the wind.

"Miss?" Donald's voice again, closer now, calling her to captivity.

"I'm coming," she said, and reluctantly left the priory.

Alec stood in the darkness and watched her. She squared her shoulders, tilted her chin up, and resolutely returned to the laird's chamber. Her form was only a soft shadow. But his mind made her hair the shade of autumn leaves and her face a soft ivory. And in her lovely eyes he saw the sincerity of pain and the courage she'd forged from grief.

He walked slowly across the floor of the priory until he stood next to the opening of the staircase, removing the stone and then lowering himself to the first step.

His plans would have to be reevaluated. It was all too obvious that he couldn't use the staircase as a way to enter and leave Fort William now. The chances of being seen by Leitis were too great.

Perhaps it would be better if he sent her back to the village. But it would attract attention if he did so without also seeking out Hamish. The old man would be found, and when he was, Alec would be forced to execute him. Stubborn, yes; irritating in his hatred, yes again; but Hamish's acts did not deserve hanging.

It was, perhaps, foolish to allow Leitis to assist him. Yet he knew what it was like to stand and watch as atrocities occurred and be powerless to prevent them. He would have to plan for more safeguards, be even more circumspect. In addition, he would have to speak to Donald, and ensure that his aide was missing when Leitis left and returned. Not a difficult task, since Alec trusted him with the truth.

But above all, Leitis must not be harmed.

There were no inns to speak of in this stark and wild country, a fact that Patricia Landers, Countess of Sherbourne, had learned to accept.

The journey had been difficult. They'd broken two wheels, the second requiring that they seek out a smithy. Storms had accompanied them from England as if to chase them home.

But through it all, David had remained excited and childlike. A blessing, perhaps, to have his nature.

"Will we get there soon?" he asked, his smile broadening as he stared out at the wild and inhospitable countryside.

Brandidge Hall was in Surrey, a land of gently rolling hills that undulated from horizon to horizon. A familiar and soft beauty against the pale blue English sky. As if nature had created the scene so as not to offend the eye.

Here in Scotland, everything was harsh. The sunsets were garish and bold, as if insisting upon attention. Even the eagles that soared from the stark hills greeted the world with a more raucous cry.

"Soon enough," she said, forcing a smile to her face. Any destination would be acceptable. She felt as if she were permanently affixed to the coach seat.

"Will he remember me?" An expression of worry flitted over David's face and she hurried to reassure him.

"Of course he will," she said fondly. "You're his brother."

The coachman was making their camp on the side of the road. She had chosen to sleep in the carriage rather than beneath a tree. There were no insects on the narrow bench seat, no buzzing bugs, curious frogs, and small, slithering creatures that so captivated David.

She leaned forward and straightened David's stock, pushed his hair behind his ears. David rarely noticed his own appearance. He enjoyed the company of kittens and cats, could stare for hours at the paintings in Brandidge Hall, and was fascinated with every creeping, crawling thing that God had unfortunately created.

In addition, he was agreeably entranced with the scenery they passed day after endless day. It was the same stark sky, ringed about with harsh mountains and green hills. It rarely changed, except to rain upon them or send the glaring sun to heat the interior of the coach.

She admonished herself for her own thoughts. It would do no good to complain. It would not ease the journey, nor make it more quickly done.

"I'll tell him about my cat, shall I?" David asked, stepping down from the carriage. Ralph hunkered down in her basket, ears flattened, her yellow eyes merely slits. She doubted that Alec would want to hear much about the feline, but Patricia nodded to his question anyway.

Most of David's conversation centered on topics that might be suitable to the new Earl of Sherbourne. She didn't know what kind of person Alec had grown to be. A kind one, she hoped, glancing at her son. He stood with Ralph's basket tucked against his chest, transfixed by the site of the campsite and the brightly blazing fire the coachman had just lit. His eyes were open and kind and eternally trusting.

Please don't let him be hurt.A prayer she'd uttered numerous times a day, ever since it was obvious that David could not protect himself.

Ralph made a snarling sound and Patricia suddenly smiled, thinking that she and the cat shared the same feeling about Scotland.