Amanda Scott (4 page)

“You’re angry,” Patrick said, eyeing him warily. “I don’t blame you, and I shudder to think what Argyll will say, not to mention Cumberland. Thank heaven the latter is in London,” he added, referring to the royal duke who had wreaked havoc in the Highlands after the rebellion of 1745.

Keeping his tone flat, Rory said, “Cumberland’s absence from Scotland is of little consolation just now.”

“Well, if the English did not keep pressing us to ferret out the few remaining rebels and punish them, I think the troubles would soon ease, Rory. As it is, pockets of discontent remain to plague us. In Appin, Macleans and Stewarts respond to any pressure to yield by standing their ground more firmly. Ardsheal still rules here as if he were in Scotland, rather than exiled in France with the other rebel lairds.”

“He is able to do so,” Rory said pointedly, “because until recently you have allowed his most active courier to move about wherever and whenever he wishes.”

“That’s not fair,” Patrick said, his tone that of the schoolmate he once he had been, rather than that of a dutiful subordinate. He flushed, adding quickly, “I don’t mean any disrespect—”

“I know you don’t. How did Breck get out of the tower cell?”

“Damned if I know.” When Rory shot him a skeptical look, Patrick shrugged. “Oh, I can tell you he managed to remove two bars from the window and tie a rope to the other two. I can also tell you that he climbed down the rope and probably swam ashore. What I cannot tell you is how he got the rope or dislodged the bars from the window. We found them on the ground, not in the cell. But that window is high in the cell wall. I cannot believe the man simply knocked them out.”

“There was no deterioration in the stonework around the bars?”

Patrick grimaced. “The whole castle is deteriorating, like the rest of our Highland fortresses. The only place in Scotland that has seen improvement these past six years is Inveraray Castle, which I’m told, has become the pride of Argyll’s holdings. That is as it should be, of course, since it is the ducal seat. Still and all, I’m lucky even to get oatmeal to feed my men. But so it has always been, even during the rebellion.” He paused, apparently reflecting on what he had said. Then, with a rueful twinkle, he added, “I ought not to speak so candidly, I know. Doubtless it comes of seeing so little of you these past six years. I feel as if no time has passed, as if we still can speak as schoolmates.”

“We can,” Rory said, smiling at him. “We are not only friends, Patrick. We are loyal members of the same clan.”

“Of which Argyll is chief,” Patrick reminded him soberly.

“Aye, but he would never demand that one Campbell betray another.”

“So long as that policy suits his purpose.”

Rory was silent.

After a moment, Patrick said, “I take full responsibility for Breck’s escape, of course. I’ll send word of it to Argyll at once.”

“You do that,” Rory said. “I shall also write to him. I’ll tell him that, if he wants to keep prisoners here, he must send material to repair the tower properly, because a man seems to have pushed the bars out of his window with his fingertips and climbed to the ground as if he had walked down an outer stairway.”

Patrick’s sigh was audible. “Thank you, my friend. If there is anything I can do to express my gratitude …”

“There is,” Rory said, grinning at him and ignoring the wee voice in his head that wondered more persistently with each passing moment why he did not tell Patrick about the very odd serving wench he had hired, a wench who might well have had a hand in the escape. Instead, he said, “I have been without female company for weeks now, and when you accosted me earlier, my eye had just fallen upon the most winsome creature.”

Patrick looked surprised. “You want a serving wench?”

“Not just any serving wench. I’ve a notion this one is unusual.”

“Oh, aye, I know the one, the dark-haired one with eyes as bright and alert as a sparrow’s. I did not know her before she came here, but she’s a MacKissock, I think she said. When she laughs, her eyes twinkle like stars reflected in the loch.”

“Faith, man, have you an interest in that direction yourself?”

“Lord, no! My wife would whack off my pintle with a claymore. She hasn’t seen the wench yet, but I think she’ll take to her well enough. One of the others left, so when Mab showed up looking for work, I took her on. I’ve had no complaints. The lads like her, and she has a knack for setting them at a distance.
I
like that.”

Again the wee voice spoke, but Rory knew now that he had no intention of describing his first meeting with Mab MacKissock. Not yet. The wench intrigued him and he wanted to confront her himself, to unmask her, and … and then what? He put the question out of his head. First he would see her and talk to her. With that in mind, he said with a laugh to Patrick, “I doubt she will dare keep me at a distance. Will you send her to my chamber?”

“Aye, if you like. I don’t recall your having a taste for maidservants,” he added with a twinkle. “I do remember a lass in Edinburgh when we returned from school, but she was more buxom than young Mab, and a saucy creature besides.”

Rory chuckled. “I’ll thank you to leave ancient history in the past where it belongs, old friend. That was years ago, when we both were young and foolish.”

“I’ll warrant there have been a few since then, however.”

“Perhaps, but you will also recall that there was a war of sorts and that I have shouldered duties since then that keep me far too busy for dalliance.”

“Oh, yes, your august position.” Patrick was relaxing more, reverting again to irreverent school chum. “How long do you mean to stay here, by the bye?”

“Not long. I stopped only to bring messages from Inveraray, and to see how you are getting on. It’s been years since I’ve come this far west, and I promised to visit my uncle Balcardane on Loch Leven. I stayed with him for six weeks, you’ll remember, when I was eleven. I sent word ahead, and I expect to put up there for perhaps a month or so.”

“Business?”

“Aye. There was trouble last year over a few of the factors in Appin country, one in particular, because Cumberland and others of his ilk in London think Highland-bred factors have shown undue favoritism to the Highland rebels.”

“But the Barons confirmed the factors, did they not? I’d have heard else.”

“We did confirm them. Argyll just wants to be certain we did right. He is still Lord Justice General of Scotland, you know, and thus a member of the Barons’ Court, though he rarely sits with us. The factor in question is a Campbell.”

“Aren’t they all?” Patrick said with a wry smile.

“Not all.”

“Oh, aye, some do not bear the Campbell name, but would you have me believe any of them are outsiders, Rory?”

“There are, in fact, two Stewarts. Although the Campbells are the only clan any Englishman trusts, you must know that does not mean a prick’s worth in the present political climate. There are many who do not trust any Scotsman at all.”

“So you have come to pull a few chestnuts out of the fire for his grace.”

Rory shrugged. “I have come to test the heat of the coals, perhaps. I do not yet know if there are any chestnuts to rescue. But I must tell you, my friend, the escape of Allan Breck will not make my task any easier.”

Patrick shifted uneasily but met Rory’s steady gaze without flinching. “Damn but I wish you would roar at a fellow instead of sticking pins in him,” he said. “You’ve been like that since childhood, you know, and it’s damned irritating. I know I mucked this up for you. Didn’t do my own career much good either, and I own that I hope nothing brings Argyll within spitting distance of this place for the next six months at least. Receiving the next letter will be bad enough. I don’t want to hear him bellow what he thinks of my character for all and sundry to hear.”

“His judgment is sound, I think.”

“If that’s your tender way of telling me I deserve to hear whatever he chooses to bellow at me, I don’t deny it,” Patrick said. “But he is attached solely to his own interest, you know. One rarely hears anyone praise his honor or his principles.”

“I trust you do not speak so freely to anyone else,” Rory said.

Patrick grinned. “I do not, and unless you have changed considerably, my friend, I take no risk in speaking my mind to you.”

“I am Argyll’s man.”

“So you are, and so you have always been, but you were once a lad who thought for himself, Rory. Some moments ago you said I could still treat you like a schoolmate. I trusted you then, you know. Have you altered so much over the years that you would advise me to trust you no longer?”

Guilt nibbled at his conscience when an image of Mab MacKissock leapt to his mind’s eye, but Rory smiled and shook his head. “I still think for myself,” he said, “and you can still trust me to hear your thoughts without prejudice. I might wonder about your judgment, however, if I had not already seen from the moment of my arrival how well in hand you have everything else here.”

“Thank you for that. It means a lot just now.”

A companionable silence fell as both men sipped their brandy and stared into the fire, although Rory was uncomfortably aware that he had equivocated. Not that Patrick could not trust him where Argyll was concerned. He had never been one to carry tales of others to the duke, nor did Argyll expect that of him. But he had been careful not to assure Patrick that he could simply trust him. He could not do that unless he meant to open the budget about Mab MacKissock. Considering that Patrick was very likely housing a Jacobite traitor, the least he might expect was that Rory would warn him of what he knew. Yet he was oddly reluctant to do so, and oddly eager to meet the wicked wench face to face again.

Knowing all this, he forced himself to sit quietly with Patrick until they had both finished their brandy. Not until the captain offered to refill his glass did he shake his head and say, “I’m for bed, my friend.”

Patrick chuckled. “In that case, I shall order a warming pan taken to your chamber at once, sir.”

“An excellent notion,” he said, his loins stirring at the thought.

“Unless …” Patrick’s eyes were twinkling. “Will your Thomas already have thought of a warming pan? I could order hot milk instead.”

“Hot milk! You deserve that I should ruin you with Argyll for making such a suggestion. Not only will Thomas not have ordered a warming pan, he will call me a mollycoddle if he thinks I have sent for one. As for a composer, he mixes the finest toddy this side of heaven. Warm milk, indeed.”

Patrick was still chuckling when they left the chamber. Parting from him at the narrow, twisting stone stairway that connected the several floors of the castle, Rory made his way to the chamber allotted to himself.

There he found that Thomas had turned down his bed, a service he believed due to Rory’s rank. Thomas himself sat cleaning Rory’s leathers before the small fire he had built in the arched stone fireplace to take the damp from the chamber.

“It’s damned smoky in here,” Rory said.

“Aye, it is,” Thomas agreed. Shooting a look at his master, he said, “Make your complaints tae Patrick Campbell if ye dinna like it. I canna blow it up yon chimney, and if I open yon shutter, it only makes it worse.”

“Did they give you a chamber of your own?” Rory asked him.

“Nay, then, this isna Inveraray. I’m tae sleep in the hall wi’ the lads, but I’ll no die of it. There’ll be less smoke there at least. Are ye for bed the noo?”

“I am, so finish with those things or take them away. I’ve a visitor coming.”

“Have ye now?”

“I have, and I’ll thank you to keep that look off your face, Thomas MacKellar. Remember who is master here unless you want to seek a new position.”

“Aye, and who will clean your leathers then, me laddie?” Thomas rolled his eyes, adding piously, “If the old laird could but hear ye, talking tae the most loyal man in your service as if he were nae more tae ye than a carking carfuffle.”

“A
what?”

Thomas appeared to have gone suddenly deaf as he busied himself with dignified dispatch, picking up the leathers and his tools.

“You mind your tongue, Thomas MacKellar, and help me off with these boots before you go,” Rory said, trying to speak firmly while fighting his amusement. He sat on a stool near the bed and put out one foot expectantly.

Thomas looked at him. Then, with a sigh, he put down the things he had gathered and knelt at Rory’s feet. Catching the heel of the proffered foot in one hand and the instep with the other, he tugged, muttering, “Nae doot ye’ll dizzy yourself if ye tug them off yourself, or mayhap ye’ve et too much and canna bend in the middle. Or ha’ ye wearied yourself wi’ our long day’s journey, and all?”

“That will do, Thomas.”

“Aye, sure.” Pulling off the second boot without another word, Thomas picked up both of them. Awkwardly collecting the other gear, he moved toward the door. When he reached it, he looked back to say with grave dignity, “If ye’ve any further need of me, my lord, ye have only tae shout.”

“Be sure I will,” Rory retorted, “but I shall wait until you are sound asleep before I do. ’Tis what you deserve for treating me as if I were still the eight-year-old lad I was when you first came to me.”

Thomas winked. “I’ll bid ye a good nicht then, my lord.”

“Good night, you old fraud.”

When Thomas had gone, Rory knelt to stir up the fire, adding peat from the basket near the hearth in the hope that if it burned fiercely it would smoke less. When he stood, he saw for the first time that Thomas had put a flagon of wine and a pewter goblet on the bench in the window aperture. Picking up the flagon, he saw that it was the same excellent brandy he and Patrick had shared, and feeling much more in charity with his manservant, he filled the goblet half full. Then he opened the shutter that Thomas had closed and bolted before his arrival.

Pale moonlight glinted along the dark waters of Loch Linnhe from a quarter moon rising at the upper end of the loch. On its west coast, the mountains of Morven rose black and solid looking, except for a single light that glowed from a cottage or house. He could hear the water below lapping at the rocky shore of the islet, and looking down, he thought of Allan Breck and wondered where the villain was just then, and what mischief he was brewing. A chilly breeze drifted into the room, its salty tang mixing with smoke that persisted in eluding the chimney.