Amanda Scott (48 page)

She put an arm out ahead of her, then the other, moving by instinct now, her energy nearly spent. Rolling to her back again, she prayed for strength, but her eyes refused to stay open. The stars vanished, and she smiled, seeing Rory’s face again and thinking that if heaven was what it should be, his was the face of God.

Without warning a hand grabbed her arm, and she felt pain when her knuckles banged hard against wood. Her eyes flew open, and she found herself staring into Black Duncan’s harsh face.

When she tried to scream, she got a mouthful of salt water. Then other hands were reaching for her. As she slipped into darkness, the last face she saw was Rory’s.

“I didn’t think we’d find you,” he said when she opened her eyes again.

He had wrapped her in something soft, but she felt no warmth. She shivered, and her teeth chattered. Snuggling against him, she sought heat, finding it only when she burrowed her face inside his leather jacket, against his wool shirt, through which she could feel the warmth of his body. Only then did she sense the other hands touching her, rubbing her briskly through the wrapping. She glanced back, remembering then that she had seen Duncan’s face first, not Rory’s. Two other men, whom she recognized as Campbells, were rowing the boat.

“You came for me,” she murmured. “I didn’t think anyone would find me.”

“We’re taking you to Stalker,” Rory said. “Dunstaffnage is closer, but we’d have to fight the sea to get there. The tide will carry us swiftly through the Lynn, and Duncan swears he can get us there all in one piece.”

“I’m sure he can,” she said.

“I will,” Duncan growled. “Who threw you in the sea?”

“Allan Breck.”

“That devil has much to answer for. Where is he?”

“He must have got away on the French ship that was waiting for him,” she said. “He and his man, Fergus Gray, put me on the Lady Rock. With the tide coming in, I knew the waves would soon sweep me into the sea, so I decided to choose my time and meet death head on. How did the four of you find me?”

“There are more than four of us,” Rory said gently. “Look about you, lass.”

When she did, the pale moonlight revealed boats everywhere. The sea was alive with them, and she realized that the odd blinking lights she had seen were their torches and lanterns. “Campbells?” she said in disbelief.

“Campbells, Camerons, Stewarts, and Macleans,” Rory said. “Nearly every man in Appin country who could beg, borrow, or steal a boat. And there are just as many riding the roads between Stalker and Oban, sweetheart. We signaled when we found you, and now word will be spreading over the land. There were no enemies tonight, Diana, only caring people who all wanted you to live.”

T
HE HALL FIRE ROARED
on the great hearth, crackling and snapping as new sap and soft pine and fir logs fed its flames. Seated in a large wooden chair, wrapped in thick quilts over a soft wool dressing gown, Diana carefully sipped the hot toddy that Rory had given her. The pewter mug had felt too hot at first, as if it burned her fingers, but now it warmed them, and as the potent whisky heated her from within, she felt her body begin to relax.

Seated as she was near the fire with her back to the huge hall, she could pretend she was alone again, that the murmur of men’s voices behind her was no more than a whispering wind. She had crossed the abyss.

Rory had not failed her, and she had learned something about herself, and about life in general, too. Remembering that she had once lumped all of Argyll’s men together in her mind as fools, she smiled. She would never take any man for granted again. Nor would she put blind faith in anyone again, clan member or not.

The false sense of isolation was oddly comforting, and for a moment the terrifying hours alone on the Lady Rock seemed to have been only a dream.

“Mind you don’t drink that too quickly, lass,” Rory said just as she sensed his presence behind her. “You’ll fall asleep before we get any food in you.”

His voice was low, as if he were taking care not to let it carry to the others. She smiled up at him sleepily, the liquor making her drowsy, chasing the remnants of her terrors away, replacing them with increasing serenity. As he watched her, the look on his face altered perceptibly from concern to amusement.

“Don’t laugh at me,” she said, her words slurring. “If I am growing tipsy, sir, it is your fault for giving me this toddy without food to go with it.”

“I thought you’d prefer meat to porridge,” he said, smiling.

She wrinkled her nose. “Porridge?”

“Aye, Patrick thought that being a wee fragile female you would want pap, but I told him you needed to regain your strength and that he should feed you like he would any man who had been through such an ordeal.”

She chuckled. “He’ll give me raw mutton.” Looking over her shoulder, she added with a reminiscent grimace, “Has he recognized me, do you think?”

“No, nor have any of the others. It would not occur to them that the servant girl who ran away weeks ago could be Mistress Diana Maclean. Even if someone noted a resemblance, he’d think it was no more than a coincidence of ancestry.”

“Then you won’t tell Patrick?”

He grinned. “Never. I’ve told him you are the woman I mean to marry, so I’d as lief not start a clan war by telling him you are the daft and wicked wench who once released the same villainous prisoner who caused all this strife.”

For a moment she could not speak. Not only was the drink making her tongue sluggish but his mention of marriage had stopped the breath in her throat. He had said it before, more than once, but always before she had dismissed the notion as impossible. Now she wanted it to be fact, but she was afraid to believe he really meant it. Telling herself that he had told Patrick he meant to marry her just to stop his questions, she said evenly, “Will they find Allan, do you think?”

He sighed. “I think he’s long gone, lass, and if he’s wise he won’t return. For a time he may think himself safe if he is convinced that you are dead, but word that you survived is bound to reach France eventually. When it does I’ll not be surprised to hear that our Allan has suffered some mysterious but fatal accident. Ardsheal won’t approve of his tactics any more than the Macleans, the Stewarts, or the Campbells approved of them. You are well beloved, sweetheart.”

The orange and gold light from the fire struck sparks in his gray eyes, but his expression showed no warmth, and she hoped Allan had the sense not to return to Scotland. Despite what he had done, she did not want Rory to kill him, and not because of clan loyalty. She simply did not want Allan’s death on Rory’s hands.

A serving wench dragged a small table up beside her and put down a platter of beef and a manchet loaf of bread. “Do ye want ale, mistress?”

Diana smiled at her, glad the girl was not one she knew. “No, thank you,” she said. “This will do nicely.”

“I’ll cut your meat for you,” Rory said when the wench had gone.

“I am not an invalid, sir.”

“Good, then I will allow you to feed yourself,” he said amiably.

She did not argue. Indeed, she enjoyed being cosseted. He cut the slices of beef into bite size pieces and hacked slices of bread from the loaf. She was warmer now, her shivers gone, beginning really to relax. Someone on the far side of the hall was strumming a lute, and some of the men began to sing a ballad. Rory pulled a fat pillow from a box near the hearth and sat on it beside her chair.

The beef and bread tasted as good as anything she had ever eaten. Her strength was returning. She still felt sleepy, but her body no longer threatened to collapse. She could barely remember how she had felt when they set her before the fire, when she had felt colder with coverlets wrapped around her than when she opened them to let the fire warm her. Now she was as cozy as she had ever been.

Rory was humming along with the singers now, staring into the fire.

“Have my people given you all you require, Mistress Diana?”

She had not heard Patrick’s approach because of the singing, and when she looked up at him, she nearly betrayed her fear that he would know her.

He showed no sign of recognition, however, and she smiled at him. “It is all delicious, sir, some of the tastiest food I’ve ever eaten. Thank you for looking after me so well.”

He chuckled. “It is the least we can do after your ordeal, but I daresay anything would taste good to you now. ’Tis the same after a long day’s battle.”

“All the same, sir, I am quite content, I promise you.”

“Excellent. I don’t want Rory complaining that we did not look after his bride-to-be in the fashion he demands. He’s got a fearsome temper, I warn you.”

“I know his temper,” Diana said, adding with a sad sigh, “but I think there is something else you should know even so, sir.”

“Don’t say it, Diana.”

Rory’ s tone was firm. He looked up at Patrick and said, “She thinks we do not suit, that a union between the pair of us would start another clan war.”

“Such a union is more likely to mend things, if you ask me,” Patrick said, smiling at Diana. “That is the true way of things, mistress. Men war until one of them finds a lass from the enemy camp who is willing to wed with him. Then all is peaceful for a time. Both sides here would welcome a period of peace, I’ll wager, particularly after Glenure’s murder.” He grimaced at Rory. “If Argyll approves, he might keep the lads in London out of our hair for a month or two, as well.”

Rory shot a wary look at Diana.

“Is that why you want me?” she asked.

“It is not.” He got to his feet, and in a voice that abruptly stopped the singing, he said, “Lads, listen to me. I have asked Mistress Diana Maclean to do me the honor of accepting my hand in marriage. What think you all?”

Silence fell for a long moment before a lusty cheer broke out.

Rory grinned, then shouted over the din, “She fears that our clans will not approve. Can you put those fears to rest, lads?”

The cheers grew louder, punctuated by clan cries, as men leapt to their feet and began clanging their mugs together, and banging dishes and pots on the tables.

Rory drew Diana to her feet, coverlets and all, and put an arm around her. Bending to speak right into her ear, he murmured, “I think they approve, lassie.”

Flushing deeply, Diana moistened her dry lips. She wanted to cry and to laugh all at the same time. She wanted him to hold her forever, to take her away from the din. When the cheers faded enough for Patrick to make himself heard, he bellowed, “The lass thinks he only wants her in the hope of mending fences between us all. Do you think that is his only reason?”

A roar of laughter erupted in the hall, and men began filling their cups and shouting out toasts and ribald suggestions to the lucky groom. Rory handed Diana her mug. “You must drink to every toast, lass. You’ll soon be unconscious, I fear.”

“I am not so fragile as that, sir.” But although she lifted the cup to her lips, she barely tasted the sweet whisky, knowing she had already had enough. Toast followed upon toast, and she soon began to suspect that they intended to make her drunk, but if she was intoxicated, it was not from the whisky. As her gaze moved about the great hall, she saw Campbells arm in arm with Macleans, Camerons, and Stewarts, a sight she had never expected to see. Although the apparent truce might be short-lived, it was heady stuff now, nearly as potent as Highland whisky.

Rory raised his hands, and when the din had died away, he said with a chuckle, “Having made my declaration, lads, I’ll bid you all a good night.”

Before she knew what he intended, Diana found herself swept up into his arms, and as he carried her from the hall, a symphony of cheers, more laughter, ribald comments, and equally ribald advice sped them on their way.

Though she was not averse to leaving the hall filled with men, Diana wondered where he was taking her. “Do you know where my chamber is, sir? I don’t think this is the way we came when you first brought me in from the sea.”

“We’re going to my chamber,” he said.

“But—”

“Don’t argue, sweetheart. This time I mean to consummate matters before you can change your mind, and before those louts downstairs can start a new war.”

“But you can’t!”

“I can. Before this night is over, we’ll be properly married by Scottish law.”

“But—”

He bent his head and kissed her, cutting off her protests, and she decided to wait until she could regain her dignity before she renewed her arguments. When they reached his room, he managed to open the door without putting her down, then kicked it shut again behind them. Someone had already lighted a small fire on the grate, but the shutters were open, and a light wind whistled past the open window. He put her down and moved to close and fasten the shutters.

Next he knelt by the fire, adding logs. Then he moved to draw the bed curtains. He closed the ones on the window side first, pausing when he reached the foot of the bed, which faced the hooded fireplace. Smiling, he said, “We’ll leave this part open, I think. I don’t want you to catch a chill.”

A rush of desire swept over her, but she said firmly, “Do I have no say in this matter, sir? I do not recall being properly asked, you know, or do you merely fancy yourself a victor, carrying off the spoils of war?”

Still smiling, he shook his head and moved toward her. “Can you deny your feelings for me, sweetheart? I have made no secret of mine for you.”

She held her breath, uncertain whether she wanted him to sweep her into his arms again or to reassure her that they were not making a mistake that they would regret for the rest of their lives. He stopped within a hand’s breadth of her, and although she wanted him to put his arms around her, he did not.

“Well, Diana?”

“Well, what, Rory?”

“Do you love me?”

“You know I do.” She looked into his eyes. “But what if—”

“We cannot live our lives according to
what if
or by other people’s expectations, sweetheart. The only thing that counts is now and what we feel for each other. I want you, you want me, and that is enough. In Perthshire, where my home lies, there are few Macleans and even fewer Stewarts. At present I think we can count that as a blessing.”