Chapter 15

Leitis waited impatiently until the day passed and she could meet the Raven in the priory. The room was clean, scrubbed until it nearly gleamed. If she had been at home, she would have been occupied with a hundred chores and wondering when she'd have the time to finish all of them. Weeding her small garden, searching for berries and wild onions, caring for her one cow, or washing, taking pride in the way her clothes always looked fresh and clean.

Her cottage was gone, her cow slaughtered by the English, and her only clothing this poor excuse for a dress. She smiled at herself. Here she was, about to be a rebel, and she was concerned with her attire.

She would not, however, as much as she joked about it, offer to mend the garments of the English. Therefore, the inactivity made time pass more slowly.

She should give more thought to Donald. How could she rid herself of him? Claim a female complaint? If he was like her brothers, that would speed him from the room, but he would, no doubt, continue to guard the door. State that she was ill and worried that it might be contagious? She doubted he would believe her. Challenge him to another of his games and hope she won? Too uncertain. She could just as well lose. The afternoon passed, each moment ticking by so slowly that it nearly made her daft, and yet she was no closer to an answer.

She opened the door when Donald knocked, moved aside for him to place the evening meal on the table. One thing she could not fault about her imprisonment: She certainly ate well.

She smiled and thanked him, still no closer to an idea how to banish him and resigning herself to being a prisoner again tonight.

"I need to see to the colonel's clothing, miss," he said, fumbling over the words. "I've other chores that I've been neglecting as well. I can summon another guard, or extract your promise."

"Which is?" she asked cautiously.

"Not to escape," he said earnestly.

She nodded and smiled. She didn't doubt the Butcher's threat to find and hang Hamish if she escaped. But he'd said nothing of being rebellious.

As soon as Donald left the room, she moved to the door and pressed her ear against it. His footsteps faded as he walked through the archway and into the courtyard. Slowly, she opened the door, slipped outside, and ran to the priory.

The storm had passed them the night before, and the late afternoon was streaked with purple clouds heralding fair weather.

She stood in the priory, holding her hands tight in front of her in an effort to slow her breathing. Her heart beat so loudly it echoed like thunder.

All her fears and anxiety and anticipation and excitement made the blood rush fast through her body. Was this how a man felt before he went into battle? Knowing that he faced danger and fearing it so much that his knees wobbled?

She heard a sound and turned, a welcoming smile on her face. But it wasn't him, only the brush of something against the floor. A rodent, or an insect, or even the wind swirling through the debris on the floor. She waited for what felt like an eternity, each moment ticking by with increasing slowness, as if giving her time to realize what she was about to do.

The English could capture her. That would be fearsome enough, but what would happen to Hamish? Was she endangering him by her actions?

A strange sound of brick rubbing against brick made her turn her head. She followed the noise, creeping across the rubble-strewn floor of the priory like one of the mice that lived at Gilmuir now.

She halted, startled, as a stone began to move beneath her feet. Quickly she stepped back. It moved again, then was replaced by a head, then a torso, as a body emerged from the floor.

A cloud of black appeared. A ghost? She took one more step back before realizing that he wasn't a spirit after all, but a man. A man garbed in black, a mask obscuring half his face. She had named him aptly, then. The Raven.

He bent down, placed the stone back into position, then straightened slowly.

"I'm not to know who you are, then?"

He turned toward the sound of her voice. "The mask is for your protection," he said easily. "If you are questioned by the English, you can honestly say that you have never seen me."

"I would say that regardless," she promised.

"And I would keep you safe," he countered. "Do not question me on this," he said softly but resolutely.

She nodded, suspecting that if she did not agree, he would leave without her.

"Did you make me wait on purpose?" she asked. "To make me realize what I was doing?"

"Was it a successful ploy?"

"Nearly," she admitted. "I don't like being afraid."

"No one does," he said calmly. "The trick is to hide it well enough that no one realizes what you're feeling."

"What is this place?" she asked, stepping closer to the spot where he'd emerged from the stone floor. "A hidden room?"

"A staircase," he answered. "One of the secrets of Gilmuir."

Her head whipped up and she stared at him. "Secrets?"

"Like myself, perhaps," he said, his voice barely more than a whisper. "Are you prepared to learn secrets, Leitis?"

It was a dare he offered her. She smiled and nodded.

"Then promise," he said, "that you'll never tell what I'm about to show you."

She frowned at him. "I promise," she said, wondering exactly what he wished of her.

He turned and looked back toward the archway. "Is your jailer waiting for you?"

"Not tonight," she said. "Perhaps I should be grateful that the Butcher is such a taskmaster."

He said nothing, only knelt and held out his gloved hand to her. The sunlight streamed in through the arches, creating patterns of light and shadow on the far wall. He was part of these; a man who promised to reveal secrets yet remained encased in his own. His eyes, dark and solemn, measured her. His hand did not waver, remaining in the air between them.

Once again, he reminded her of someone, the memory disturbing in a way she could not understand. Pushing aside that thought, Leitis walked toward him.

"You're trembling," he said after she'd placed her hand in his. "It is not too late to change your mind," he said softly.

"I will not be faint of heart," she said, smiling.

He released her hand, swung his legs over the side, before bracing his forearms on either side of the opening. "It's dark," he warned, "and not pleasant-smelling."

"Neither of which bothers me," she said, kneeling on the stone floor.

He descended into the darkness, with her following slowly. After she'd found the first step, he brushed by her, reaching up to slide the stones back into place.

Her breath hitched as he bent his head, his lips close to her ear. "Forgive me," he said, and she had the oddest feeling that it was for more than this unintentional closeness that he asked her pardon.

She nodded, but he didn't move away. The darkness was absolute, the sensation of being so near to him unnerving. Once again he reminded her of someone.

"What is it, Leitis?"

"Nothing," she said, telling herself that she was foolish to think such a thing.

"Don't be afraid of me, Leitis," he said, his voice low, the Gaelic of it a treat to her ears. Forbidden or not, the villagers spoke it together. But she'd been alone these past days, cut off from those she knew well, a captive in an English world.

"I'm not," she said, but her voice quavered.

He hesitated for a moment, then moved away and began to descend the steps.

"It's helpful if you put both hands on either side of you," he said quietly as if the moment had not just occurred. "The walls are slippery, but a handhold is better than falling."

She followed him, stretching out both arms and touching her fingers to the walls, discovering that he was correct. The walls were moist, what she hoped was only lichen growing on their surfaces. An unpleasant experience, going down the staircase.

"Does this go on for much farther?" she asked after several moments.

"Not much more now," he said.

"It would be helpful to have a lantern," she suggested.

"No," he said, his voice amused, "it wouldn't. I doubt you would want to see what you're touching."

She jerked back her hands and frowned at him. A wasted gesture, since they couldn't see each other. For the remainder of the descent, however, she kept her hands at her sides and carefully away from the walls.

"Have you taken these stairs often?" she asked.

"Not often," he said, and didn't speak further. Evidently he wasn't going to say more than that.

"How did you discover it?"

"Two friends showed me," he said.

"Do you object to my questions?" she asked. "Is that why you never answer them?"

"Have you always been this inquisitive?" he countered.

"Yes," she said honestly.

"You must have been a trial to your parents."

"It was my brothers who were that," she admitted. "Although I had my share of adventures."

"Is that why you're here, Leitis? For an adventure?"

"Yes," she said, the truth surprising her. "And to be a rebel for an hour or two."

"To discover what it's like?"

His perception startled her. "I've often wondered," she confessed. "My brothers and I were close. But as we grew up, we grew apart. They became men, and began to live a life different from mine."

"In what way?" he asked. She could tell from his voice that he'd stopped. Waiting for her answer?

"I was expected to marry, to raise my children, and to occupy myself in those duties that fall to women. James and Fergus were simply themselves. They hunted as they always had, and fished as they always had, and swam in the loch and behaved like idiots from time to time. Boys, still, but grown."

"While you were expected to become a woman?" he asked.

"There were compensations to my role," she admitted. "They were the ones who marched off to war, and paid the price for it while I remained safe at home."

The darkness was oddly intimate. She'd not meant to tell him those things.

"We're almost there. Hold out your hand," he said. She placed a hand in his and felt his gloved fingers curve around hers. He pulled her toward him and she went unprotesting. Perhaps she was bemused by the darkness or by the fact that she felt as if she knew him.

Two more steps downward, and suddenly they were in a small cave illuminated faintly by sunlight. Shadows flickered on the walls as she turned in a slow circle, enchanted by the paintings above her.

"Another secret?" she asked.

"Have you never heard the story of Ionis?"

She shook her head.

"I'll tell it to you the way I heard it," he said. "Once, in a faraway time, there was a man by the name of Ionis. He was greatly revered for his devoutness and love of God. But the devil stepped in and lured him away from sanctity and into sin."

He smiled at her, a strangely boyish expression for a man attired in a mask.

"A woman, of course," she said, understanding.

"When is it not?" he asked. She frowned at him and he held up his hand as if to ward her off. "But God," he continued, "missed the piety of Ionis. One day Ionis's love sickened and died and he was inconsolable."

"Why are all our tales so dour?" she asked.

He shrugged. "But the angels pitied Ionis and petitioned God to forgive him. God agreed, with one condition. Ionis could be reunited with his love for all eternity, but only after the course of his natural life ended. Until then, Ionis would have only one love, that of God. So he came here and became a hermit, his life spent in contemplation and holy thoughts."

"Ionis didn't spend all his time on holy thoughts," she said wryly.

He smiled. "But he became renowned as a pious man, and the island became a place of pilgrimage. Until, of course," he added, "the first MacRae settled here."

She looked at him quizzically. "How do you know that? I've lived here all my life and never heard that story."

"Perhaps my branch of the MacRaes know their history more completely," he teased.

"What branch is that?" she asked.

He only smiled at her before turning and leaving the cave. She followed him out to the shoreline, frowning in puzzlement at the loch. A ring of tall rocks, arranged in a half circle, stretched before her. She glanced up at Gilmuir, wondering why she'd never seen the cove before, only to realize that the overhang of cliffs hid the fortress from view. She looked from the rocks back to the cliffs, then finally at the Raven.

"It's a secret cove," he said, studying her intently.

"Another thing I never knew," she said in amazement. "But then you promised me secrets."

"I have more," he said, smiling again.

He followed a path on the shoreline, one obviously familiar to him. There, in a tiny inlet, was a skiff bobbing in the current. He grabbed the rope, pulling the boat toward him with one hand while he beckoned her with the other. She stepped into the vessel, moved to the seat in the back. He unwound the rope from a boulder, tossed it into the bow.

He picked up the oars and began to row, the paddles slipping into the water without a sound.

"Your identity need not remain secret," Leitis said. "If you remove your mask and reveal yourself, I promise I will not tell anyone."

"What you do not know, you cannot tell," he said infuriatingly.

"So you will not trust me?"

"It is not a matter of trust, but one of protection."

"And your name? Will you not even tell me that?"

"Raven," he said, smiling.

He didn't appear to notice her irritation, only concentrated on their destination, a series of triangular rocks that formed the outer wall of the cove. Glancing up, she finally saw the shadow of Gilmuir high above them.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

He didn't answer and she felt upbraided by his silence. "Have I been too inquisitive again?" she asked.

He glanced over at her, then away. "I was questioning my own impulse just this moment," he admitted.

"Have you changed your mind?"

"I should," he said, "but I haven't. We're going to the English encampment."

"Why?" It was the only word she could manage.

"Where else to find a supply wagon?" he asked, smiling.

"We're going to steal food from the English?" she asked, dazed.

"Do you know a more fitting way to exact revenge?" he asked. "It was the English, after all, who brought starvation to the Highlands."

"It is not even fully dark yet," she said, stunned at his daring.

"If we waited until dark, Leitis," he said with a smile, "the horses would be out of harness and we'd have to carry the wagon on our backs."

She only shook her head, speechless.

He rowed easily around the last tall stone, and it was only then that Leitis realized the chain of rocks wasn't a solid barrier after all.

"It truly is a secret, isn't it?" she asked in amazement. "You can't see the cove from Gilmuir and you can't see the opening unless you know where to look."

He smiled at her as if pleased at her discovery but said nothing in response.

He headed for an embankment, and jumped out to secure the rope before holding out his hand for her.

The grassy bank sloped gently upward. At the top of it stood a horse equipped with a black leather saddle adorned with two silver shields.

She stared, once more surprised at his effrontery. "You've stolen an English horse," she said in amazement.

"They have so many," he said calmly. "They'll never miss the one." He studied the horse carefully, then glanced at her. "What gave him away as English?" he asked.

She slowly mounted the bank and stood beside the animal, pointing at the silver shields. "The symbol of the 11th Regiment," she said.

"You'd studied their insignia?" he asked, surprised.

"They parade in front of the window day and night," she explained. "I can't very well ignore them."

"Then we shall pretend that he is no longer an English horse," the Raven said.

He mounted easily and held out his hand for her. She placed her hand in his, expecting him to help her settle behind him. Instead, she found herself seated crosswise in front of him, his arms around her as if to protect her from falling.

She was so close to him that she could feel his breath on her cheek. His arm seemed too close to her breasts; her knees rested against one of his thighs. But she didn't move, daring herself to remain where she was. A strange excitement seemed to flow through her, partly because of the adventure they were on, and partly because of him.

His eyes were the color of Gilmuir earth, his hair as dark as a moonless night. And his mouth appeared to be made for humor just as his square jaw was formed for a stubborn nature. A man who looked to have his way, create his own destiny. Not something easily accomplished by a Scot in these past years.

"Where have you been all this time?" she asked.

"Too many places to mention," he answered cryptically.

"Yet you survived," she said quietly.

"Do you fault me for that?" he asked.

"No," she said, looking away. "And yes," she added a moment later.

He remained silent, waiting.

"I wish everyone had come back."

"Including this Marcus you spoke of?" he asked softly.

She nodded. "And my brothers, my father, and so many others."

"You loved Marcus very much, didn't you?"

She loved Marcus with sweetness and innocence and friendship. Although she'd never asked, it being a subject not easily ventured to another person, she felt that there should be something more to love. Something elemental and powerful, like the feeling she had when watching the sun set over Loch Euliss. At those times, or when the clouds parted during a rainstorm and thunder shook the hills, she felt a surge of joy and wonder. Love should be like that, spearing your heart like lightning.

She'd not felt that with Marcus, and that secret would remain hers.

The Raven urged his horse onward, following the shoreline of the loch. The horse lengthened its stride until they were racing toward the west. She had never heard the wind's voice before, but the faster they traveled, the louder it whispered in her ears. Not a caution, low and resonant, but a breathless gasp that seemed to praise her sudden and unexpected wildness. Her hair was pulled from its ribbon, tossed against her cheeks.

She'd not been daring for years, nor wild for what felt like a lifetime. She had been sober and responsible, and mired in a grief that had stolen happiness from her. But now, in this moment, with the streaks of cloud tinted orange and pink and gray lingering on the horizon, she felt exhilarated and alive in a way she had not felt for a very long time. She wanted to laugh with sheer joy.

They raced on, the horse's hooves a drumbeat of sound as if to rouse nature itself to their passage.

Occasionally Leitis had accompanied her mother on an errand to another clachan, to trade patterns or dyes. But her travels had never taken her so far from Gilmuir. She could no longer recognize any landmark.

Shadows followed them. In less than an hour, the sun would be behind Loch Euliss and the sky would darken into night.

A rash and audacious adventure, surely, to venture to an English encampment with the intent of thievery. She should be worried, or concerned as to her safety. At the very least, she should be concerned that she felt safe with the Raven despite the fact that she didn't know his name, nor had never seen his face. Instead, he was her accomplice and mentor. Even masked and gloved against recognition, it felt as though she knew him.

Or even more important, she thought, facing the truth, he intrigued her—fascinated her in a way she'd never before been affected. A part of her, young and unafraid and undaunted by the fears that sometimes limited the woman, urged her to tighten her arms around him, lay her cheek against his chest, and glory in this moment without question.

He slowed the horse, riding behind a copse of trees before dismounting and holding out his arms for her. She slid into them easily, and was set on the ground as softly as if she were a priceless parcel. He moved to the saddle, untied a leather pouch, and pulled a scarf from it. Holding the material by opposite corners, he wrapped it around her hair, then tied the scarf at the nape of her neck.

"The color of your hair is very distinctive, Leitis," he said quietly. "The English must not wonder how their hostage escaped."

She patted the kerchief into place, nodding.

"Although," he said, tipping his head and studying her, "your hair is not as bright as when you were a child."

Time abruptly slowed in an odd and disturbing way. Their gaze met and locked before he looked away.

"When did you see me as a child?" she asked, her throat tight and the words themselves barely voiced. There had once been hundreds of MacRaes in the Highlands. His answer might explain, however, why she felt as if she knew him.

"Who could forget even one glimpse of Leitis MacRae, with her bright hair and equally bright laugh?" he said, turning and ducking beneath the horse's head, and winding the reins loosely around a sapling.

He had a habit of reticence that was irritating, but she doubted she could convince him to say more.

In front of them a pit was being dug, and wood lay on the ground beside it. The English had evidently not learned how to use peat. It made for a longer-lasting fire, one that burned steadier.

The encampment was not a quiet place. A man was singing, a rowdy tune that incited laughter and warmed her cheeks upon hearing the words. Not far away, fires were being lit as men stripped the saddles from their horses. Others sat and began to ready their gear for the next day.

She wanted to ask what his plan was, but the Raven turned and placed his finger over his lips. Curiosity, however, was not so easily quelled. What were they going to do now?

Three wagons, each piled high with barrels, wooden boxes, and crates, stood in front of them, and as the Raven had predicted, their horses had not yet been released from their harness.

He crept back to where she stood. "You can't be serious," she whispered. "There must be a hundred men here."

"Not that many," he said calmly. "Whatever their numbers, it gives them a false sense of security. It's best to do something when people are not expecting it."

She only nodded, thinking it was something Fergus might have said. But then, her brother had often been unwise and daring, a disturbing combination of traits. Fergus, she suddenly realized with some humor, would have approved of both his plan and her presence here.

The Raven began to circle the copse, his gaze darting from the men readying for night to the cooks stirring a large cauldron. Just when she thought he might have reconsidered his actions, he untied the reins of his horse until they dangled free.

She looked curiously at him, but he didn't explain.

"Are you a fast runner?" he asked, his grin revealing white, even teeth.

She nodded, thinking of all those races through the glen.

He grabbed her hand then and led her around the copse, toward the cook fires. They began to run, and just when she was certain they would be spotted, he bent over, pulling her down until they were below the side of one wagon.

The chickens began squawking furiously. It sounded as if they realized they were about to be commandeered and loudly objected.

"Hush," she whispered, glaring up at the wagon bed. The Raven glanced back at her, smiling.

"I doubt that works," he said softly. "Chickens are notoriously insubordinate."

She frowned at him, even as the racket increased. "That's because they're English chickens," she whispered, disgusted. He placed his arm around her shoulders and she could feel his silent laughter.

He reached the front of the wagon, pulled himself up to the seat and reached down for her just before releasing the brake. Picking up the whip, he snapped it above the hindquarters of the horses. She was nearly jolted off the seat by the sudden forward movement, but he reached out and wrapped one arm around her.

Someone began to shout, but the Raven didn't look the least worried. They raced down the hill in the lumbering wagon to the accompaniment of angry cries, screeching chickens, and the Raven's laughter.

She glanced behind her. The chicken cages were loosely tied together and bouncing with each rotation of the wheels over the rocky ground. Following them at a canter was the Raven's stolen English horse, reins trailing.

Behind them a man stood staring after them, one of the Butcher's men. He was, she was shocked to see, almost as suffused with merriment as the Raven. He stood in the middle of the track, his hand on his lips, and his head tipped back in laughter.

When she turned and faced forward, the Raven pulled her to him so suddenly that she was startled. And just as quickly bent his head to kiss her.

She pulled back and looked at him in astonishment. "Was that another instance of doing something when it's not expected?"

"Perhaps. If I'm going to be condemned for my actions today, it might as well be for following all my impulses," he said enigmatically.

He drew her to him again, this time so slowly that she could have easily pulled away.

The chickens squawked in dismay, their strident clamor an odd accompaniment to a tender kiss.

A moment later she sat back, putting a few inches between them.

"Forgive me," he said, his voice low. "It was an impulse I should have ignored."

She nodded as if in agreement, but in actuality she was still nonplussed. Her lips tingled. He'd kissed her so sweetly and tenderly that her heart felt as if it tumbled end over end in her chest.

"What are we going to do?" she asked, hoping that her voice didn't sound as tremulous as she felt.

"At the moment," he said with a smile, "we're going to elude the soldiers following us."

She turned, horrified, only to discover that there was nothing behind them but the Raven's horse.

"They'll be coming," he said, and snapped the reins.

"Shall I go after them, sir?" Lieutenant Armstrong asked, his face a stiff mask of disapproval.

Harrison sobered and turned, nodding to the two captains on his right. "That's been taken care of, Lieutenant," he said. He watched as Monroe and Wilmot pursued the thieves. As soon as they were out of sight, the men would slow. They might even find a place to rest for a few moments before returning, unsuccessful, to the encampment.

A pity to lose a whole wagon filled with supplies.

"I would be more than happy to join them, sir," Lieutenant Armstrong said.

A most formidable young man, Harrison thought. Why was it that the older he became, the more he grew intolerant of youth? Armstrong's puppylike eagerness was tiring.

"You're needed here, Lieutenant," he said sharply.

Armstrong nodded and stepped back, his salute formally and perfectly executed.

Harrison waited until Armstrong moved away before glancing back in the direction Colonel Landers had taken. It was a dangerous choice to be a rebel, but the role oddly suited him. Harrison doubted, however, that the colonel would have succeeded without some collusion. The two of them, and the chickens, had made enough noise to alert the men on the other side of camp.

The two of them had looked pleased with themselves. The colonel's hostage was a lovely woman, but not attractive as his Alison.

Her face came before him as it did a hundred times a day. Alison Fulton, a woman as beautiful as any he'd seen. He was too ugly for her, and had made the mistake of telling her that one day. She'd not spoken to him for days, she'd been so angry.

"I'll not be loved for my beauty, Thomas," she'd said. "Because if that's all you care about, you've no real knowing of me at all."

He smiled, the memory of her, as it always was, painful and sharp. They'd met one day at the provost's office, an accidental encounter. She'd brought her father his noon meal and he'd stood like a fool, staring at her openmouthed.

Thinking of Alison was painful when there was no hope for them.

He turned away, resolute. Instead of remembering her, he should be concentrating on allaying Lieutenant Armstrong's suspicions.