Journey to Enchantment (31 page)

Before Delacourt could gather his numbed senses, or his friends rally to his aid, the giant was before him. A huge fist flailed out. Swaying dizzily, Delacourt flung up a guarding arm. It was smashed aside. A sledgehammer blow sent him hurtling into a pile of wooden chests, scattering them. He was down and rolling, to lie at last, limp and motionless on the floor of this great cavern that he had been so confident would offer them sanctuary.

XV

“Geoffrey!”
Scarcely knowing that she screamed his name, Prudence ran forward, only to be seized and held by a frowning Cameron.

The great Highlander stood over Delacourt's sprawled figure, his claymore whipping upwards preparatory to the downward sweep that would finish his helpless victim.

As fast as Prudence ran, another was before her; a thin, unkempt man wearing a rumpled red uniform, a pathetic gallantry in the charge he essayed against the young giant who shook him off as though he had been a gnat and, with one backward swipe of his fist, sent the erstwhile butler sailing back and down so that he was unconscious before he hit the floor. Doomed as his effort had been, it had delayed the murderous descent of the claymore. Even as the shouts of acclamation metamorphosed into growls of anger and dismay, Lockerbie, Eldredge, Kirkpatrick, Cole, and Graham plunged at the Highlander. It took all of them to hold him as he fought to be free.

“Fool!” raged Lockerbie. “Damn the black and stupid heart o' ye, Stuart MacLeod!”

“
He's
no Ligun Doone,” bellowed the Highlander, tearing away and facing them all, claymore at the ready. “I fought him, mon tae mon, at Prestonpans! He's a stinkin' English Captain name o' Delavale. That I found oot when the shell got him and I went through his pockets!”

“Aye,” screamed Prudence, her shrill voice striking through the hubbub and creating a small well of silence. “He's Geoffrey Delavale. An English Captain who was sore wounded at Prestonpans. And he is also Ligun Doone!” She turned on the Cameron who held her. “Let me go, you great oaf!”

MacLeod stared at her, the beginnings of unease written on his strong, bronzed features. “Ye're daft, woman.”

“Then ye may call me daft, too, MacLeod,” shouted Lockerbie, mad with rage and grief. “If ye've killed that mon, ye've struck doon the best friend any hunted Scot ever had!”

A tall, powerfully built individual, looking to be no more than fifty, but with a shock of white hair, shoved through the bewildered throng. His brilliant dark gaze flashed from the frantically struggling girl to the grim-faced Scots who held MacLeod's might at bay to the unconscious young man at their feet. Dropping to one knee, he slid an arm under Delacourt and raised his shoulders.

Prudence sank her teeth into the wrist of the Cameron and managed to wrench free. She ran to kneel beside Delacourt. His head sagged back as he was lifted. Blood streaked from the corners of his mouth, and he looked quite dead. She clutched one unresponsive hand and pressed it to her cheek. It was warm still. Blinded by tears, she looked at the older man pleadingly. “Dinna say he's killed. Dinna say it,” she begged.

“Who are ye, lassie?”

“Prudence MacTavish. Daughter of James MacTavish of Inverness. Sir, is he—”

“More to the point. Is this boy Ligun Doone?”

“Yes! Yes!”

A rumbling arose from those gathered around. A tall, shaggy-haired man, with a great black beard and flashing jet eyes, growled, “I dinna believe it! Ligun Doone's no an Englishman! He's—”

“He's an Englishman!” With the aid of a friend, Jock Campbell hobbled through the crowd. “I'm here, thanks tae his wit and courage!”

“And I!” called another man. And throughout the close-packed men came more cries of anger and confirmation, climaxed when Angus Fraser stalked from the rear of the great cavern, a bridle in one hand and curiosity on his dark face. He made his way through to the center of the throng and checked, the breath hissing through his suddenly clenched teeth. “Lord ha' mercy!” He dropped the bridle and ran to bend over the stricken man. “Doone! Great God! What happened?”

MacLeod, his face white and drawn, muttered, “I hit him.”

Fraser's hand darted for the dirk at his belt, and he turned on the big man, his lips drawn back in a snarl of rage. The white-haired individual said sharply, “None of that, Angus. It was a mistake. Let's get him onto a bed.”

Delacourt was lifted tenderly and borne to a crude bed, the occupant having demanded he be moved so that the Englishman might have his place.

A bowl of water and rags were brought. With Cole's help, Prudence went to work. Lockerbie disappeared to return with a glass of brandy, which she waved away. “Some water, please,” she begged, and there was a rush to respond.

The white-haired man said, “You know me, Lockerbie?”

“Aye, sir. Ye're Sir Ian Crowley and were on the Prince's staff.”

“Yes. I was cut off from him, and by great good luck your people found me and brought me here.”

Gently folding back Delacourt's lower lip to inspect the cuts his teeth had made, Prudence asked anxiously, “And His Highness, sir? Is he safe away?”

Crowley's mouth tightened. He said curtly, “He's away to the Western Sea. But he'll be back, I've no doot. Now—what of this brave fellow? Is it true he has a mortal wound?”

Lockerbie nodded glumly. “'Tis truth. He grows ever weaker, however he fights it. And”—he slanted a murderous glare at the young giant who stood silently a short distance away, his brown curly head bowed and massive shoulders slumped—“and fight it he does, though his chances are a muckle smaller the noo—or damned well gone, more like—thanks tae the MacLeod!”

A fierce muttering went up, many heads turning in wrath to the big man, but he neither looked up nor spoke.

Sir Ian, who had been watching Delacourt narrowly, murmured, “Lassie—I think perhaps ye waste your efforts. He looks to be—”

“Don't,” sobbed Prudence, distraught, “oh, dinna say it! Tae think one o' the very men he's risked his life for…” She sprang up, turning on MacLeod like a mad thing, the tears streaming unchecked down her cheeks. “Beast,” she raged, her fists clenched. “Horrid savage! God in heaven! What is wrong wi' us? Always fighting! Always killing! If not the English, then our own folk! And now we must turn on the man who has helped more than two score of our lads escape death! Is
this
how you thank him, you wretched … evil brute?” Hysterical, she ran at him, her fists pounding furiously against his muscular chest. And still MacLeod did not move, or make the least attempt to defend himself or to stop her, while the company looked on in a grim silence, even Sir Ian making no move to intervene.

Prudence's fury spent itself. She bowed her face into her throbbing hands and wept, then, looking up, saw that MacLeod's head had lifted. In his face was a stark look of misery. Without a word, he drew the dirk that hung at his belt, and handed it to her, hilt foremost.

She snatched the glittering weapon and drew back her arm, fully prepared to strike. And still no one remonstrated with her.

MacLeod stood unmoving, his eyes lowered and a suspicious brightness on his lashes.

It was that brightness that stopped her; that and the echo of Delacourt's voice: “… there's been too damned much killing…” She lowered her arm, then flung the dirk at the Highlander's feet. “I'll no soil my hands,” she said in a voice that rang with loathing.

A sort of rippling sigh stirred the watching men. Not taking up the dirk, MacLeod moved off towards the mouth of the cavern, only young Jock Eldredge slipping quietly after him.

Sir Ian touched Prudence's elbow, his compassionate gaze on her. He said gently, “You must be very tired, Miss MacTavish. We will contrive a private couch for you, so you can rest.”

“If the Captain is dying,” she answered in a dulled, despairing voice, “I'll no leave his side.” And glancing to where several men bent over Sidley, she asked, “Is he dead, too?”

Graham, one of the group, called, “Just stunned, ma'am. 'Twas a brave thing he did, fer such a scrawny Sassenach.”

The butler was carried back towards the rear, where the cavern, as Prudence was later to discover, branched into several other connecting chambers. Sir Ian called Fraser and went off with him in low-voiced conference. Many willing hands worked to erect a partition formed of plaids hung on strung ropes. A rough bed was fashioned, and more plaids and cloaks were offered to serve in lieu of blankets. Prudence was ushered inside, a pan of hot water was brought, and she washed as best she could. Soon, shy offerings of food were tendered: a mug of pure mountain water laced with whisky, a piece of dried fish, a hunk of dark bread, and some rather questionable cheese. Her heart was heavy because Cole told her that Delacourt had not stirred, but she was not so lost in grief that she was oblivious of the sacrifice these offerings constituted, and she thanked the ragged donors warmly. She fell asleep sitting beside the bed in the crude chair they had brought for her, and it was big Stuart MacLeod who, unknown to the exhausted girl, lifted her and laid her gently on her own makeshift bed.

The sound of low voices woke her some hours later. For an instant she was bewildered by strangeness; the mattress was excessive lumpy, she was cold, and something was tickling her cheek. She blinked at the muted light of the torches and memory rushed in. She was up in a flash and pulling back the plaid curtain. Lockerbie was bending over the pallet. Delacourt was awake, and saw her at once. A smile quivered on his lips. He tried to speak, coughed, and doubled up, jerking his head away so that she could not see his face.

Lockerbie came to her and whispered, “Belike his wound was torn by that fall. It never has healed right. Best ye go, miss. He'd no wish that ye see him like—like this.”

She drew back reluctantly. Sir Ian came through the plaids that now enclosed Delacourt's small area. He had brought a flask, and urged him to try to drink. Prudence intervened hurriedly. “Not if it is spirits, sir. You are very kind, but it will make him cough, and that pains him so.”

Delacourt's dark head turned on the cloak Lockerbie had rolled up for a pillow. His face shone with sweat, and there was a frantic look in his eyes. His lips were clamped shut, and he made no further effort to speak, but she could feel his suffering and she knelt to stroke the damp hair back from his forehead.

“I hae nursed my papa and my brother many's the time, Captain,” she murmured, “and I will think no less o' ye do ye feel the need tae swear or to cry oot.”

She took up the hand that was tight-clenched on the plaid. Briefly, his fingers relaxed, then clamped over her own so that she was hard put to it not to whimper. Delacourt closed his eyes and lay rigid, but after a moment the paroxysm appeared to ease, for his hold relaxed again. He whispered in broken little gasps, “Fought him … Prestonpans.” Incredibly, a twinkle came into the dark eyes. “Beat him, too!” His mouth twisted, he jerked his head away again, and his grip was bruising her.

She took his other hand and held both strongly and, seeing blood creep down his chin, blinked in anguish, but said, “Do not dare to bite your lip, Geoffrey Delacourt! Trouble enough I've had, tending your cuts.”

He shuddered, and peered around as though he could not see her. “I'll not have them say … the English … whine.” The heavy lids drooped, the grip on her hands eased and became limp.

Terrified, she bent closer and was inexpressibly relieved to find that he was still breathing. Lockerbie leaned to her ear. “Belike he'll sleep the noo. Ye need rest yersel', miss. I'll call ye if he wakes.”

She nodded, but when she made to slip her hand away, Delacourt's fingers tightened about it. She glanced up, smiling. Lockerbie smiled back, brought in some plaids, and did all he might to make her comfortable.

Prudence leaned back in the chair, thinking drearily that only two nights since, she had been in a gracious home with servants to do her bidding, and a warm bed with a soft feather mattress awaiting her. She closed her eyes, listening drowsily to the snores of the men who slept all around her, and to an occasional smothered moan from the wounded. She dozed briefly, and her fingers slid from Delacourt's grasp. He groaned in his sleep, and his hand groped about, his head beginning to toss agitatedly. Prudence was awake at once and clasped his thin fingers again, and he was quiet.

She smiled into the darkness and dismissed all thought of her feather bed.

All the next day and night she scarcely left her vigil. Delacourt kept his head turned from her, but she knew when he was conscious, for then would come the spasmodic clutch at the covers, and the breaths he drew would become spaced and shallow or, sometimes in his worst moments, a harsh, painful panting. At these times she would hold his hands, praying silently that he would not die, and he would cling to her until the attack eased. She bathed his wet face and murmured to him that it was better now and he must try to go back to sleep. He watched her then, his eyes narrowed and dulled, but not a word passed his compressed lips. Occasionally, he would cry out or moan in his sleep, but always he would jerk awake and peer anxiously to see if she had heard, and to spare his pride she would feign sleep.

Lockerbie and Cole stayed close by, providing their own care of the sick man, and bringing Prudence food, though they had given up trying to persuade her to go to her own bed. Always, beyond the plaid curtain she could see a great shadow lurking, and she knew Stuart MacLeod waited there. She sensed something of his remorse, but she could not forgive him, and she hoped bitterly that he heard when Delacourt's implacable hold on himself was broken and faint sounds of pain would escape him.

On the third day she whispered to Lockerbie that nothing had passed the invalid's lips save for a few drops of water she'd managed to coax him to swallow from time to time. “He must have nourishment,” she whispered. “Only see how thin he grows. Ask if someone can make gruel.”