A Promise of Love (14 page)

She would be gone soon, Alisdair thought, and this strange link welded between them by Malcolm's words and his grandmother's good intentions would be sundered

He should feel triumphant, should he not?

Instead, he was suddenly irritated beyond belief, and his aggravation had at its center his English wife. Now was not the time to notice that her face softened more often into a smile, to linger upon her full lips, or remember that her eyes darkened at night until they were almost black and reminded him of a storm at sea during the day. He did not want to recall the long line of her magnificent legs outlined in the threadbare cloth of her dress.

Nor did Alisdair wish to remember the night before, when her laughter had stirred his interest and something more, and her smile had lit up her face until she was almost beautiful. He had no wish to encourage the curious protective impulse he felt, that feeling that he alone could banish the look of sadness she unwittingly divulged or the flicker of quickly masked fear in her eyes. It was a foolish thought. As idiotic and nonsensical as the curiosity which made him wonder why she still eyed him with caution as if she were a Highland deer, and he a skilled hunter. It would do no good to open doors not easily closed again.

Yet, he was not a bad prize as husbands go. He was a learned man, a man of principles. And although he might not be Adonis, at least he did not frighten children. Of a certainty, he did not possess the legendary experience of his fallen brother, but at least he knew what pleased a woman. He was getting older, true, but he still had strength in his limbs, was able to work as hard as he had in the past. Other than a tumbler full of brandy now and then, he had no terrible habits. While it was true that the legacy of Tynan was more a millstone around his neck than a blessed inheritance, still, he possessed a castle and not many men could boast of that, could they?

He was not
that
bad a prize.

His nod was curt, dismissive. His look was filled with irritation.

Judith watched him as he walked down the glen, wondering what she had done to spark his displeasure. It was difficult not to notice how his trousers were pulled tight against his legs by his long, firm strides, or that the sun made his hair appear almost blue-black, or his broad back strained the seams of his white shirt.

What manner of man was he, this laird MacLeod, who could tell a tale with such charm one moment, then change to become almost frosty with rudeness.

Who was he, really?

She should not wish to know.

CHAPTER 14

There were fourteen days left when the English came.

Malcolm rushed in from the seaside door, shouting at both women that the English troops under Colonel Harrison were assembling on the moors. The MacLeod followed close behind, scooping up a clean shirt from the wooden hook mounted near the kitchen door.

"They'll be gathering the clan, next," Malcolm warned, ‘to check for contraband.”

“It’s the pipes they’re looking for, Judith,” Sophie said gently, correctly interpreting Judith’s confusion.

"The pipes are outlawed," the MacLeod said shortly.

"Aye, and our weapons," Malcolm added. He held out his arm and helped Sophie rise from her chair.

"And the kilt," Sophie contributed with a smile.

"Why?" It seemed an innocent enough question, but it began a spate of conversation unlike their usual topics of crops and sheep.

"They are symbols of our heritage, Judith," the MacLeod said, as he stood at the bronze doors. Along the horizon, the mounted troops appeared, backlit by the sun. From here, their crimson tunics were almost unrecognizable. "Without our heritage, we are less a threat. We will be assimilated into English society without the blink of an eye. Soon, all of our poets and scientists and men of promise will call themselves English and the heritage of Scotland will be no more than a little finger on the hand that is England."

"Aye," Malcolm said, joining him, "the fist that is England. We're no allowed our pipes, because they stir the blood. We're no allowed our weapons, lass, because we might revolt against tyranny."

"And the men aren't allowed kilts, child," Sophie interrupted, "because there is not a more thrilling sight than a handsome man without his trousers." Her gentle laughter diffused the gloom which had fallen over the men.

Malcolm hugged her tightly. "Sophie, if I were only a few years younger, I would show you handsome."

"But, then think of the scandal we’d cause," Sophie teased, smiling at him.

The MacLeod went first through the bronze door and into the courtyard. Malcolm helped Sophie slowly down the steps. Judith reluctantly followed.

There, on the hillock, where the moors swept down to the track leading to Tynan, stretched a long line of mounted English soldiers, their crimson tunics as bright as blood.

Everyone assembled quickly, not daring to anger the English soldiers by their dawdling. The entire clan was crowded into the courtyard; a hundred people pulled from their daily occupations. Geddes hobbled in on a twisted cane which looked too frail to support him. He was only one of the elders of the clan, the other men followed behind. Hamish, nearly blind from cataracts, was assisted by Alex who glowered at the assorted English with none of his hatred masked. Of the elders, only Geddes seemed prudent, walking heavily to the curved side of the keep and remaining there, resting wearily against the brick. The women from the weaving shed arrived as a group led by Sara, her old wool dress threadbare and worn, but topped with a white, starched apron. The rest of the women of the clan, most clutching children barely old enough to be counted as more than babes followed behind. Grizzelle seemed to draw strength from Meggie, as she leaned heavily against the younger woman. Fiona clutched Douglas to her chest in a frantic effort to soothe the child's wails. Her usual sneer was replaced by the look they all wore on their faces.

Fear.

Judith had been a witness to the Duke of Cumberland's triumphant return to London, had thrilled to the sound of "Hail the Conquering Hero Comes," as the Duke had garnered a riotous welcome from London’s usually cynical inhabitants. Column after column of soldiers, in full military regalia, had marched before the overflowing crowds as the country had celebrated an important victory.

Now, Judith only watched the red coated soldiers with wide eyes, the memory of an English victory submerged beneath anxiety for these vanquished Scots.

In the center of the courtyard was the MacLeod. He stood, calmly donning his shirt, as if the Colonel of the regiment were not marching closer to him, his stallion's shod hooves imperially striking sparks against the stone cobbles of the courtyard.

The Colonel did not have to push his way towards the MacLeod, the group parted automatically, pressing back from his presence as if fearing to be soiled.

Only the MacLeod remained fixed and still, his eyes scanning the horizon now filled with mounted troops. His eyes dropped, and then lifted again, to meet the Colonel's sharp stare.

"MacLeod."

"Colonel."

Neither man smiled in greeting. Judith could feel the tension in the people around her as each man intently eyed the other.

"Have you anything to report, MacLeod? " the Colonel asked, his eyes sweeping down the tall, muscular frame of the MacLeod.

Harrison was damned tired of playing nursemaid to this group of misfits, having to ride the interminable length of the lonely moors from Fort George specifically to act as father confessor to a bunch of defeated Scots. Rumors spread like a grass fire from one glen to another, but he didn’t have to like his assignment of ferreting out each tale told by a traitor. Yet, he knew only full well that Alisdair MacLeod had been at Culloden, had marched with his own Highland brigade into England itself. The terms of his surrender must have been particularly onerous to a man whose male relatives had perished at English hands.

"We have been but good subjects of the Crown, Colonel." Alisdair was not unduly impressed by Colonel Harrison's show of force. His clan would be, though, and he could feel the frisson of fear which swept through them. The Colonel was not like the Butcher's men, who had looted, burned, and raped their way through the Highlands. But the Colonel was a stickler for orders, and his instructions were to continue to monitor and subdue the clans under his command, especially those headed by men under the confines of a conditional pardon.

Alisdair had long since decided they could have fared worse.

“Yes, MacLeod, but are you obedient subjects of the Crown?”

"We are a small and puny bunch here," Alisdair said calmly, "not apt to make much trouble. I doubt any of our clan have the strength to disobey the Disarming Act, let alone the wherewithal to do so.“

"And your pipes have been destroyed, and your tartans burned?” The Colonel scanned the group surrounding him. They were poorly dressed, the strain of constant hunger only recently eradicated from their faces. The children looked at him wide-eyed, and their mothers stared at him in fear. What did they think he would do, he thought irately, seize babies to serve the King?

Judith edged to the rear of the crowd, each tiny movement a study in restraint. Her face was bleached white, her lips clamped together, her stomach boiled with a sickness too deep and vile to call simple nausea. The fist made by her left hand pressed against her mouth so hard that the edges of her teeth tore her inner lip. Her right hand bunched up her skirts, preparatory for flight. Still, she barely moved, trapped by the feral smile from across the courtyard, the gleam in eyes she had not seen for over two years.

Judith would have greeted Hell with more welcome than the sight of Bennett Henderson among Colonel Harrison’s cadre of officers.

Only he noticed when she backed up to the ruined tower, following the curve of it until she broke free, circling it in a desperate and futile bid for freedom. Bennett Henderson nearly laughed aloud. Of all the presents this pit of earth could have delivered to him, this was the most delicious. The smile that lanced his face was anticipatory, sharpening its long, lean lines, a perfect counterpart to pale blue eyes, as cold and as hard as shards of ice.

He edged his horse away from the knot of people surrounding his commanding officer and the intractable leader of this dung filled courtyard and circled around the keep.

Dear God, Judith thought, why him? Of all the people in the world who might ride into the courtyard of Tynan, why did it have to be him? It was a face which evoked anguished memory, nightmares too horrible to recall.

It did not enter Judith’s mind to seek safety inside Tynan. She could not bear the thought of being trapped inside four sturdy walls, while outside he would be waiting, cunning, savage, patient. Instead, she bolted for the open countryside, racing across the moor, feet flying across the grass, her heart straining in her chest, her breath exhaled in short, choppy gasps. She was silhouetted against the hillock for just a second, but it was all the man on horseback needed. Moments later, he effortlessly overcame her and would have run her down had she not turned at the last second.

Bennett was tempted to see how long she would last. The chase could be lengthened pleasurably, the sight of her attempting to out race his stallion almost comical in the extreme. His mount was bred for speed, his stallion’s achievements had lined Bennett’s pockets more than once in the Officer’s Mess. Still, there was his commanding officer to remember. Yet, he was beyond the rise of earth, too far away to hear a woman scream.

Bennett cornered her again, leaned down, gripped Judith’s flailing wrist, twisting it cruelly, but she whirled on him, sinking her teeth into the back of his hand. Her reward was a muffled oath and temporary freedom. She changed directions, racing down the track towards Tynan.

"Bitch." A mocking smile curved his lips as Bennett sucked on the blood she’d drawn. No wonder he’d missed her. What an enjoyment it would be to tame her again.

Bennett raced toward her again, overcoming her easily. Still, Judith fought him, her battle no less intense for its silence. The skittish horse reared, disliking Judith’s flailing limbs. The stallion was high strung, volatile, tamed only by the centaur grace of its rider. Judith took advantage of the moment by flinging herself near the rear legs of the black beast and kicking out with one foot.

It was a suicidal move. Bennett had more concern for his stallion than his victim; he was off the back of the horse before she could flee again, throwing her to the ground with such force that Judith hit the earth hard on her stomach, the breath escaping from her lungs, her mouth tasting dirt.

A guttural sound escaped her lips as Bennett turned her over, flattening her to the ground with his body. Even her rage and fear were no match for his tensile strength. He laughed, deeply aroused by her struggles and memories of other occasions when she had shown as much spirit.

"Anthony's bitch," he said softly, his bright smile at odds with the cruel look of his blazing blue eyes. The only sign of his exertion was his flushed face, otherwise, he could have been a country gentleman out on a stroll. Except of course, that the object of his affections was pinned effectively between his outstretched thighs, her thrashing legs attempting to dislodge him from her body.