A Promise of Love (8 page)

Only now had his memories achieved a distance in which he could view them without anguish. His poor, dear Anne whom he had been unable, with all of his skill, to save. His father, the debonair laird, laughing at the thought of death and championing lost causes with riotous disregard for reality. And Ian, his older brother, who stood just an arm's length away as nine thousand well trained, well equipped, and well fed troops of Cumberland's army swarmed across the glen. The fierceness of the Highlanders had counted as nothing that day.

Perhaps that was why he worked so hard to feed his people, to make a way for the crofters to subsist, to prepare them for an uncertain future, to hope in a land where hope had been burned and starved out of its people.

He had not believed.

He had never believed.

He had always despised lost causes.

His voice had been joined with the pitifully small minority who urged caution, who pleaded with Lochiel and the other influential clan chiefs to wait, to negotiate, to investigate the promises of the Bonnie Prince.

Even Ian had not cared that the man who would be king was a twenty-three year old weakling with a penchant for whining.

“He sees nothing wrong with the sacrifice of five thousand ill equipped troops who left home and hearth behind to follow a doomed dream, Ian, yet your prince has not once provided the aid he promised.” Even today, he could recall that conversation. Ian had only smiled at him, patient in the way a man is who does not listen to dissension.

“It will come, Alisdair. You must have faith in the cause.” How like Ian to have believed so readily, to have embraced so avidly something so dangerous, so potentially disastrous.

“He wants silk and satin in his tent instead of coarse linen. He complains of the rough food of the Scots. This is the man you would have as king.”

“His name alone will unite the clans, Alisdair.”

“He whines when no one will plan strategy with him, as if it were a game with toy soldiers. Then, he refuses to listen to his own generals.”

“Then why are you here, brother, if you find him so lacking?” Ian had looked him up and down, as if he had been smaller than his older brother. In truth, Alisdair towered over him, had done so since they were boys. How could he tell Ian of the dread he felt, not only for battle, for killing, but for the future.

“Because you’re my brother. Because I’m a MacLeod.” They had looked at each other then, knowing that a chasm of thought and reason lay between them, but their love for each other would remain a bridge, a greater bond.

So, in the end, Alisdair stood beside Ian and together the sons of the MacLeod marched with their father. Alisdair had stood and faced the charging men and felt terror break out on his skin, heard the pipes which echoed his own trembling wish to scream and run. He had glimpsed the grinning, bone white face of death, but instead of fleeing the scene of carnage, Alisdair had killed in the name of freedom.

The life he lived now was a singular paradise of simple pleasures in comparison to that moment.

Alisdair had begun to find peace.

Until the woman arrived.

What on earth had come over his grandmother? Why did she think that he and that English woman would ever make a match of it? Why had he not shouted her down? Because he respected her. Because, other than his absent mother, she was his only surviving relative. Because, her way was the only chink of light showing in this idiotic situation. Because, honor still mattered.

The same reason Alisdair was not living a life of courtly luxury in Paris, instead of coaxing a living from scrubby soil and persuading his clan to turn their backs on the past, was the same reason he could not pretend this farce of a marriage had not occurred. Honor. A conscience. A heritage which demanded more of him, more from him. The old rules were easy to break, but what would that make of him, if he did? His clan would be as loath as he to take an English woman into their midst, but a man who broke his word, who would lie once would lie twice. Even if he did choose to ignore his country's traditions, he could not ignore his honor. Hope and honor were all he had to call his.

Still, he remembered her start of fright, the paleness of her face, the expression frozen in those deep blue eyes.

He had never frightened a woman in his life.

CHAPTER 8

Sophie Elizabeth Agincourt MacLeod leaned heavily upon the ivory handled cane, her deeply sunk but still brilliant blue eyes watching as Judith climbed the small hillock leading to the crofter’s cottages.

The first part of her plan had been put into action. At least they had agreed to her terms.

The second part had not been accomplished without some difficulty. Judith was surprisingly stubborn. The girl acted as if someone had once told her she was ugly and set about proving them correct. Those glorious auburn curls, as richly colored as a sunset crowning Ben Nevis, were always worn scraped back and fashioned in an frowzy knot at the base of her neck. Sophie had coaxed them free, brushing them loose and finally convincing Judith that a hair ribbon would be as practical as all those gouging pins. If Judith had her way, she would still be clad in the same threadbare blue dress, so deeply dyed it appeared black, hanging so slack around her frame as if purposely designed to conceal any womanly asset.

Alisdair's mother would scream in sheer horror at the thought of her clothing being worn by another, yet Louise's armoire was the first place Sophie had gone in search of serviceable garments that could be altered.. The signs of violation were as visible in Louise’s dressing room as any other section of Tynan. Sophie recalled the thousands of schillins that had been used to purchase the embroidered curtains with their heavy gilt thread, the chaise upholstered in scarlet and gold. Now the furniture was ash and the draperies hung tattered, soot filled, upon the windows. Yet even the looters who had defiled Tynan could not manage the great feat of stealing all of Louise's many gowns.

"Sophie, I do not require a new dress," Judith insisted this morning, clutching the skirt of her blue wool with two determined hands. Ever since she was a child growing up in tight-fisted Squire Cuthbertson's house, Judith’s clothes had been crafted of the coarsest and most sturdy materials, always of a serviceable brown or dark blue so as not to show either wear or soil. Marriage had not varied her wardrobe. Peter's mother grudged any extra coin for her son's bride and what funds could be spared for luxuries from Anthony's pay were more often than not used for his drink or gambling, not his wife's apparel.

Judith had long since given up the notion of pretty dresses, or perky bonnets, or other accessories which would enhance her appearance. Those frivolities were for other women with petite, rounded curves and heart shaped, winsome faces. Nothing would change the shape of her face, or make her less tall and gangly, or transform the color of her hair. Clothing served only a utilitarian purpose - to hide her nakedness, not enhance fictional charms.

A point which Sophie calmly, and stubbornly, refuted.

"It is one thing for me to wear dark colors, dear child," Sophie said calmly, marking a line on the cloth. "I am old, my life is behind me. But you should wear vibrant colors to enhance your looks. Did you know," she asked, with a twinkle in her eye, "that you have the coloring of a lovely Scottish lass?"

Judith's look was a mixture of incredulity over Sophie's statement and tenderness towards the frail woman who was kind enough to utter such a falsehood. She’d learned how generous Sophie’s nature had been these past weeks. The older woman had turned over the keys of the castle to her, had taught her the workings of the massive fireplace, praised her efforts at cooking. At no time did she scold or criticize, and Judith treasured their many conversations, but for the constant references to the MacLeod’s innumerable virtues.

"Another man might be measured by his words, Judith. Alisdair should be judged by his deeds. He does not speak of duty, yet the weight of responsibility hangs heavy on his shoulders. He does not speak of fairness, but he strives, above all, to be just. You could do worse for a husband,” she finished, reasoning that she had rambled on long enough. She squinted down at the garment in her hands. The hem would need to be let down, but that minor chore was less difficult than obtaining a length of cloth for a new dress.

“While I salute your efforts at Tynan, my dear, there are not that many days of sunshine in the Highlands that you can afford to shun them. There’s a storm brewing, Judith, see the sun while you may.” Such had been her banishment from Tynan - gentle words spoken with a soft smile and an implacable nature.

Now, Judith stood at the crest of the hill, her hair brushed until it shone, lifted by the wind riffling from the west. Her dress, one found in Louise’s wardrobe, had been altered with tiny stitches, her cheeks had been touched with red flannel dipped in hot water.

Judith watched the horizon and the clouds boiling black and dangerous a few miles away. Did it rain forever in the Highlands? The air was heavy with the hint of storm, the wind combed through the moor grasses and soughed through the pines.

Beside the sheltered cove was a narrow footpath curling up to the top of the moor, its serpentine trail finally culminating in a flat grassy site about five feet wide. From here, Judith could see the blue finger of the cove stretching out to the ocean, or turn her head slightly and view the glen sweeping down to the village. Straight ahead, the path branched off in three directions, the center track leading to broad, cultivated fields.

Judith glanced at the line of cottages arrayed along a twisting path and the unsmiling women standing in front of each one, their dresses identical in style and shade of black, crows perched upon a tree limb. Their mid-day meal had evidently been supplanted by curiosity about the woman who strode through their village.

Malcolm watched her for a long time before approaching, slipping away from the others when he saw her stop and study the horizon. She smiled as he fell into step beside her as together they walked through the clachan. He’d brought her this way on her first day at Tynan, had stopped in the doorway of a few of these cottages, introduced her as the laird’s new wife. The mood was more amiable now than on that day, when Judith had wished to bind her hand over Malcolm’s volubleness and prevent his words from being spoken.

Three weeks in the Highlands and she’d come to no harm. Still, Judith knew how deceptive peace was, even in this place of rolling storms and silver mist.

"I’ve been inspected by the women of your clan,” Judith said softly, glancing at the women who nodded curtly as they passed, “Sophie has had visitors who come less to see her, I suspect, than to view the oddity in their midst." Being raised in a family with four sisters had made Judith familiar with being around groups of women - not necessarily comfortable. She disliked being the subject of their speculation. Only two women had seemed genuinely friendly, the sisters, Meggie and Janet. Janet was in the advanced stages of pregnancy and relied on Meggie to assist her in both standing and sitting. She took it with good grace and not a little pride, as she smoothed her hands over the firm mound of her belly.

"He'll be big like his da," Janet said proudly, and it was only later that Judith learned her husband had been drowned two months earlier. Meggie had tentatively offered a smile and an invitation to come and visit, such a welcome and rare overture that Judith almost hugged her for it.

"And why not?" Malcolm asked her impatiently "Yer married to their laird, an’ English for all that. Do ye not think that there might be some fear in the glen? Ye must change their minds, Judith."

"I cannot help that I was born English, Malcolm," she said, “and the subject of my marriage is one not quite decided, if you recall.”

"Still, they canna help fearing ye. 'Twere the English who burned the castle an’ stripped the land. 'Twere the English who killed their men an’ let their bairns starve. Do ye ken the Butcher's rule, Judith?"

She glanced over at Malcolm, but he wouldn't meet her eyes.

"None of his men could give aid to the enemy. The Scot." His mouth twisted. "If they gave food ta anyone, Judith, even a babe in swaddlin', they could be flogged or hanged. So they sat, an’ they ate, an’ they filled their fat bellies, while mothers begged for their children ta be able ta drink the blood of the animals the English had slaughtered." His eyes met Judith's finally, and it was her turn to look away. "So, if they look on ye with suspicion, an’ aye, a little fear, it's kinder than yer own countrymen did for them. The clan used ta number over seven hundred strong, Judith. Barely a hundred are left."

"Why, Malcolm, knowing that, did you see fit to wed me to the MacLeod?"

"Because, lass, ye didn't strike me as English. Don't go an’ disappoint me now. Ye've ignored the MacLeod like a skitterin’ crab. Leavin' a room when he was enterin' it, hidin' in yer room as if feared he would touch ye. Ye've gone an’ gotten all ninny-like lass, an’ it's no a good change. Ye've no reason ta fear the MacLeod.”,

Easy words. Softly spoken. But many was the night Judith had heard the MacLeod pacing in the room above hers, his footfalls a metronome which seemed to measure each breath she took. When they halted, her breath stopped, only to resume when the footsteps began again.

Yet, he had not once attempted liberties.