Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Eight

On the first day of March, Elizabeth had a visitor. Tom Calder’s carriage arrived at Cadzow, and Mr. Burke invited the coach driver into the castle kitchen to warm himself with food and a seat by the fire. He then ushered Calder into the library for his visit with the Duchess of Hamilton.

“I thought I’d come before a March blizzard makes the roads impassable, but I had no idea the duke had returned to London. I was eager to show him the layout plans I’ve designed for the two thousand acres he so generously donated.”

“My husband will most likely return by the end of the month, Tom. I believe he had urgent business with the king. Actually, he considers this more my project than his.” It’s only a small lie. I am the one who considers it my project.

Tom Calder spread the plans across the desk. “Much of the preserve will be left in its natural state, but part of it will be accessible tae the public by means of nature trails. Most Scots are avid hikers, so I’ve incorporated some steep hills that’ll ha’ tae be climbed. Rustic benches will be provided at the summits where folk can sit an’ look out o’er some breathtakin’ vistas.” He pointed to a spot along the trail shaded in blue. “Yer polar bears’ pen is an acre wi’ a natural spring that forms a pond. We’ve stocked it wi’ fish an’ built them a wee cave fer shelter.”

“These are wonderful plans, Tom.” Her finger traced the lettering at the top of the parchment. “Why have you called it Hamilton Park? I think it should be named Calder Park. It was all your idea, and you are the one who will carry it through to completion. You have done the lion’s share of the work, and you should receive the credit.”

He was so flattered he was speechless for a moment. “The committee thought it prudent tae name it after Hamilton.”

“I shall write to the committee and suggest Calder Park. Once it’s a fait accompli, Hamilton will hardly embarrass himself by insisting it be called after him. “You will stay for lunch, Tom?”

Elizabeth excused herself and found her mother. “I believe I can persuade Mr. Calder to give you a ride to Glasgow when he returns. It isn’t London, but after Cadzow’s isolation I warrant it will be a welcome respite to visit the shops and theaters.”

Bridget jumped at the chance, as Elizabeth had anticipated.

“I’m heartily sick and tired of being buried alive in the country.”

Elizabeth hid her smile. Bless you for your visit, Mr. Calder. Let us hope that tomorrow brings snow up to the eaves!

During the next fortnight, Elizabeth did not get her wish, but her days were happily focused on Jamie, getting him used to taking nourishment from a bottle. Taking advice from the women of Clan Douglas who lived at Cadzow, she made a mixture of milk, barley water, and honey that her son drank greedily. He was a happy, roly-poly baby with fat pink cheeks, who seemed to thrive on the attention lavished on him by all the females in the household.

By the end of the fortnight, her milk had decreased. She surveyed her breasts in the mirror. ’Tis untrue that feeding a baby ruins a woman’s figure. Mine look exactly the same as before . . . none will ever know my secret.

Mid-March arrived with suddenly lowered skies, and everyone predicted that the annual March storms were about to descend with a vengeance. Mr. Burke even said he could smell the approaching blizzard. Servants brought in extra wood for the fires, and the shutters were closed across the windows before the household retired for the evening. During the night it began to snow and the wind picked up, but when Elizabeth arose and went downstairs to let Queenie out, she concluded that the brunt of the blizzard had missed them. “Don’t you go far. I heard wolves howling in the night.” She went upstairs to give Jamie his morning bottle then turned him over to Nan in the nursery while she went for her walk.

Elizabeth pulled on her fur-lined boots and donned her sable cape with its warm hood rather than the wool cloak she usually wore to visit the stables. She called Queenie, but the dog did not come. She called again and waited, then she heard some sharp barks coming from the direction of the stables and decided to investigate. Though a path had been cleared from the castle to the outbuildings and stables earlier, the blowing snow was rapidly obscuring it.

When she got closer to the stables she could see Queenie jumping about in agitation, then she heard the braying of a donkey between the dog’s barks. She found the stable door open just wide enough for the female donkey to get her head through. Apparently the latch was broken, and a stableman had rolled a small boulder against it to keep it closed—but unfortunately not closed tight enough. Her heart jumped into her throat as she realized a predator might have gotten inside.

Elizabeth’s hands stuck to the icy boulder, peeling off bits of skin as she moved it aside, and she regretted leaving off her gloves. When she opened the door to go inside, Queenie immediately herded the donkey back to her box stall. It was dim inside so Elizabeth called out to see if anyone was there. When she received no answer she lit a lamp and cautiously searched the large building to see if a predator had slunk inside for a quick meal.

She returned to the box stall and gasped aloud when she saw that the baby donkey was missing. She raised her lantern to search for Thistle, but her sinking heart told her that the little donkey’s mother had been trying to follow her baby outside.

She was furious at the stablemen’s carelessness and annoyed that the stables were deserted. Then she acknowledged that anyone with any sense would be inside near a warm fire on such a dreadful day.

She blew out the lantern and headed for the door. “Come, Queenie. We must find Thistle!” This time she used her boots to roll the boulder against the door, making sure it was shut tight.

When she turned around, the sight that met hers eyes was hard to believe. The thick snow was blowing sideways, obliterating not only the castle but even the closer outbuildings. Any tracks the little donkey had made were long gone, along with her own prints, but Queenie loped across the snowdrifts as if she was tracking an animal, so Elizabeth pulled her hood closer against the biting wind and took a calculated risk, trusting the dog’s instincts.

She walked with her head down against the blowing winds and thick, wet flakes that clung to her fur cape, turning her into a snow-woman. Each time Queenie became invisible, she called her name and the dog returned to her. It was slow going because the drifts seemed to be getting deeper by the minute. At first she thought she knew which direction she was heading, but when she stopped and tried to pinpoint her location, it was impossible. The entire world had turned white.

As she struggled along, she heard ear-splitting cracks from the towering Douglas firs and realized that some of the frozen tree limbs were breaking off as they became weighted with heavy snow. At length Elizabeth knew she must give up her search. Common sense told her that she must turn about and try to find her way back through her own tracks, which were quickly being erased.

“Queenie! Queenie! Come, girl. We must go home!”

This time the dog refused to return. Though Elizabeth could not see her through the blinding blizzard, she heard her exited barks, as if she had found something. Again, Elizabeth weighed the odds and decided to trust the Border collie’s instincts. By the time she slowly plowed her way through the drifts to where Queenie was going berserk, she felt exhausted and lay down on the snow to catch her breath. She was freezing cold, but her lungs were afire.

After a minute’s rest she crawled on hands and knees beneath the tree where Queenie was frenziedly digging. She looked down into the hole and saw Thistle’s huge soft brown eyes, fringed with long ice-caked lashes, staring up at her in stark terror. Elizabeth knew if she didn’t free him, the little donkey would be eaten by wolves, dead or alive. Frantically, she began scooping away handfuls of snow with fingers that were blood raw.

A crack as sharp as a gunshot made Elizabeth stop digging and look upward. To her horror she saw a huge limb, packed with heavy snow, come hurtling down upon her. Then everything went dark. Her world instantly turned from blinding white to obliterating black.

John Campbell awoke, threw back the thick eiderdown, swung his long legs from the bed, and padded naked to the window. When he saw that visibility was nonexistent, he gave a low grunt of satisfaction that his Highlander instincts about the approaching blizzard had been right on the mark.

He thought about the recruits he’d sent to London. If they managed to avoid bad weather, they should have arrived by now. Then he thought of the confidential letter he’d received in Glasgow from the Duke of Cumberland asking that he bring any and all Scottish recruits without delay, as the king was on the brink of declaring war. My first duty was to let my father know that war with France was imminent. Campbell had dispatched his Highland recruits with his officers then ridden back to Argyll with the pressing news. He’d left Inveraray almost immediately, hoping to catch up with his men, but just south of Glasgow the ominous pewter clouds moving in from the Atlantic had told him a March blizzard was inevitable.

Since it was late afternoon and the light was fast disappearing, he’d known he must seek refuge. He’d thought of Cadzow Castle but dismissed it immediately. Seeing Elizabeth was dangerous. He’d never be able to control himself, especially if Hamilton was absent. Then he remembered Chatelherault Hunting Lodge and knew he’d solved his dilemma.

He strode from the bedchamber he was occupying to the lounge, which boasted comfortable, masculine furniture and a huge granite hearth. He built up the dying fire, thankful he’d had the foresight to chop wood before the blizzard hit. Then he dressed and put on his fur-lined doublet so he could beard the storm and tend his horse, Demon, the lone occupant of the stables.

When he opened the front door, the wind almost tore it from his grip. He fought to close it then lowered his head and struggled through the deep snow to the stables, which were attached to the lodge. There was plenty of oats and hay and even horse blankets.

“Sorry you have to wear a blanket of Douglas plaid, old man, but you know the sailors’ addage: Any port in a storm.”

Demon whickered in reply.

John waited until a bucket of snow melted, then gave the horse a drink. “Think I’ll steal a few oats. Porridge will keep my guts from growling if there’s no other food about.” He rubbed Demon’s nose. “Looks like we’re stuck here for at least the next twenty-four hours.”

Outside, before he returned to the lodge, he trudged through the snow to the edge of the trees where he’d set a couple of snares. The first was empty, but he’d caught a coney with the second. Back inside he removed his doublet but kept on his boots as he made his way to the kitchen to look for food. He found dried peas, lentils, and barley in a cupboard, alongside some flour and yeast. On the spot he decided to spit and roast the rabbit legs and make stew with the rest of it. He’d also bake some flat bread. John unsheathed his knife and began to skin and gut the rabbit.

He had just set an iron cauldron on the fire to simmer the ingredients for his stew when he heard scratching at the front door. Curious, he strode over and stood listening. When he heard what sounded like a dog’s whine, he opened the door.

“Hello, where the devil did you come from? Smart girl! You smelled the chimney smoke and knew there was someone here.” When the Border collie bounded inside, he quickly shut the door. John was puzzled that the dog did not make itself at home but, instead, began barking and bounded back to the closed door. “Leaving so soon, lass? We’re having rabbit stew for dinner.”

The dog stared into his eyes and barked insistently, communicating her message the only way she could.

It was obvious to John that the Border collie wanted to take him out into the storm to show him something or someone the dog had left behind but refused to abandon. He shrugged into his coat. “Okay, lass, show me what’s so bloody important.” He pulled the lodge door tight against the wind and followed the dog, who was now out of sight. He caught a glimpse of her as she circled back then battled his way through the blizzard again. Defeat was not in Campbell’s nature. When she reached the tall firs, he cautioned himself about forest wolves and cursed because he’d left his knife behind in the kitchen. Then he saw the downed limb and, by the way the dog was acting, knew there was something or someone beneath it.

At first he saw nothing. The eight-foot limb’s evergreen branches were encased in thick ice and snow, and it took all his strength to lift it and throw it aside. When he saw the body, he realized it was a woman. The dark sable fur was white with snow, and he pulled aside the hood to see if she was alive. “Mother of God!” Elizabeth’s eyes were closed, her lashes encrusted with snowflakes. Then, weak with relief, he saw that her shallow breaths were visible in the freezing air.

The dog tried to distract him, barking and digging frantically. John took a second glance and saw the head of a small coltlike creature whose body was buried in the deep snowdrift. “First things first,” he muttered as he knelt down and lifted Elizabeth into his arms. With his precious burden clutched tightly, he struggled to stand, then slowly, resolutely, battling to put one foot in front of the other, he fought his way through the blizzard to the haven of the lodge.

John laid Elizabeth down before the fire. He removed the sodden fur then ran to the bedchamber for an eiderdown. He covered her ice-cold body and tried to revive her by patting her cheeks and calling her name. She opened her eyes, gave him a ghost of a smile, then closed them. The dog was driving him mad with her distracted barking. He knew what the collie wanted, but the dilemma almost tore him in half. “All right, damn you!” He ran to the kitchen for his knife. The animal in the snow was wolf bait, so he might need a weapon; if it was injured, he would put it out of its misery.

The dog struggled alongside him, clearly near exhaustion herself. The collie pinpointed the spot, then John, down on his knees, dug the snow away from the small animal with his bare hands. Deeper in the woods he glimpsed a dark shadow slinking through the trees. The thought of Elizabeth at the mercy of wolves knotted his gut and almost froze his heart. As he lifted the wooly creature it gave a pathetic little bray and he realized it was a baby donkey. When he saw no sign of blood, he hoisted it up in his arms and staggered to his feet. It took grim determination to carry it through the deep snow and biting wind back to the lodge.

Without ceremony he deposited the donkey on the floor by the hearth, and the dog dropped down beside it, tongue lolling out, panting as if she was ready to expire from shortness of breath. Immediately they ceased to exist for John as he flung off his coat and boots and turned his full attention upon Elizabeth. Her eyes were still closed and her body limp, though she was breathing evenly.

The fur cape had prevented her clothing from becoming soaked, but her garments were damp and cold. He removed her boots and found her small feet icy. As he took off her gown he noticed her hands. “Judas, your hands are raw . . . perhaps even frostbitten!” He hurried to the bedchamber and from his saddlebags took a small pot of ointment, made from alkanet and hops grown on his Kent estate. He removed her petticoat and tore it into strips. Then he coated her hands with the healing ointment and bandaged them.

Without opening her eyes, Elizabeth began to murmur. The only word he could understand was thistle. He assumed she was telling him what had taken the skin from her fingers. “Why the devil would you be picking thistles? They have few medicinal properties.” He peeled off her damp stockings and vigorously rubbed her icy feet to restore their circulation. Then he lifted the eiderdown from her and removed her busk and drawers. Her icy skin was as pale as alabaster. As he gazed down at her naked form he could hardly believe that less than four months ago she had given birth. She had the same lovely, delicate, tantalizing figure as before.

“Whiskey! Any place Hamilton owns must have liquor.” He glanced about and saw a carved oak cabinet against the wall. He hurried over and found it well stocked with Scotch whiskey. He took a flacon back to the fire and knelt beside her inert body.

John took a quick swallow then trickled some on her belly, thighs, and breasts. With long, smooth strokes he rubbed warmth back into her icy-cold flesh. He tried to rid his mind of lustful thoughts as his powerful hands circled her breasts and belly, massaging in a steady rhythm. Then he rolled her over and, after pouring some of the fiery liquor on her back and buttocks, set to work stroking firmly down her back and down her long, slim legs.

Soon he could tell by the feel of her skin that her body temperature was returning to normal. He propped her up with one muscled arm about her back and lifted the whiskey to her lips. She gasped and coughed as a few sips went down, and she opened her eyes.

She smiled sleepily. “Not real . . . just a dream.” Before the whisper left her lips, her heavy eyelids descended.

John picked up Elizabeth and the eiderdown and carried her to the bed he had slept in. He tucked her in, tenderly brushing back the tousled curls from her brow. “Just a dream. Go back to sleep.”

With difficulty he forced himself to leave her side and went back into the other room. His amused glance swept over the odd pair of animals stretched out side by side, sound asleep. He stirred the rabbit stew, poured in some whiskey, and covered it with an iron lid. He removed the pot from the direct heat, set it on the hearth where it would slowly simmer, then banked the fire with logs.

John removed his own wet garments and set them by the hearth to dry. He shook out Elizabeth’s wool gown, hung it over a chair along with her hose and drawers and moved the chair closer to the fire.

Naked, he stretched his arms wide, then rubbed his aching shoulder muscles. “Thank God, I don’t have to carry many donkeys.”

He was tired, but he felt joy in the very blood that was singing through his veins. Despite the threat of war, despite the blizzard, he admitted that there was nowhere on earth he would rather be than snowed in with his beloved at Chatelherault Hunting Lodge.

Elizabeth drew him like a lodestone, and he saw no reason on earth to resist her magnetic pull. He padded into the bedchamber and stood gazing down at her for long drawn-out moments. He felt as if they were still attached by an invisible golden thread that had never been severed. No matter how many separations they endured, the power of their attraction for each other was so compelling that he believed their lives would touch again and again. Why else had the Fates delivered her up to him? Finally, he drew back the covers and slipped in beside her.

John lay against her back, one arm across her waist, her head tucked beneath his chin. He felt her sigh of contentment. In spite of the fact that she was another man’s wife, lying in bed together with his body curved about hers felt right. She was his woman. Always had been. Always would be.