Journey to Enchantment (33 page)

“And had we fought as one … is that what you mean?”

“From what I can gather, the quarrelling, the old festering hatreds and animosities went on even when the Rebellion was at its height. Few of your clans trust the others. Your unfortunate Prince was bedevilled by constantly differing counsel from this or that clan chieftain so that he must have been half mad to know which way to lean.” Delacourt leaned forward and said intensely, “Sir, had your clans truly united for Charles Stuart instead of each feeling its own path was best, by God, you'd have marched into London with half the populace flying before you and the other half cheering you on!”

His eyes alight, the Scot said, “D'ye think so, honestly?”

“I do! We were not ready—as usual! What a' God's name induced Prince Charles to turn back from Derby, I don't pretend to know. But by the Lord Harry, you bare-kneed Scots can fight!”

Sir Ian grinned. “Aye, we can that. You've come to know us well, Delacourt. Much you say is truth. And much good can your hindsight do us now.”

“Hindsight, perhaps, but we don't want the clan wars reenacted in this cavern, do we, sir? It's not Hampton Court, but it's the only safe place we have at this moment, and—” He stopped speaking as Angus came over to sit cross-legged on the floor beside Sir Ian's chair.

“Damned crafty Sassenach,” he said, a grin negating the harsh words. “Ye've got 'em all busy, right enough.”

“And you must keep them so, after I leave.”

Sir Ian said, “You mean to go on, then?”

“I gave Lady Ericson my word, sir.”

Fraser scowled. “You've done enough. Let young Stephens carry the cypher, he's English.”

“And far too ill,” Sir Ian said quietly. “I grant you he can hobble around our cave, but it will be weeks before he can make an extended journey.”

Delacourt nodded, and pointed out that Briley was the only other Englishman in the cavern, and could not hope to win through with one leg incapacitated.

“We could send a Scot, I suppose,” Crowley muttered dubiously. “It would involve a greater risk of detection, but my own accent is not too broad, is it, Delacourt?”

“No, sir. You could do it well enough, save for the fact that you were a Colonel on the Prince's staff, and I fancy many men know you.”

There was a rather heavy silence. Angus, carefully straightening the pleats in his kilts, muttered, “I wish I could take the wee bit message. It seems tae much tae ask o' a mon we fought against and near killed.”

Crowley asked, “Why d'ye do it, Captain? Why hazard your life for your enemies when you might be safely and comfortably home?”

Delacourt hesitated. “Because I saw the horrors wrought by Cumberland's savages. I saw the women and chldren needlessly ravaged and slain, the homes burned, the wanton destruction and brutality. I could scarce believe English troops could do such things. I'll own I was sick. Ashamed of my countrymen—though it was Cumberland's doing and he—”

“Is a German,” Crowley pounced. “The verra thing
we
fought for! You were on our side all the time and never knew it!”

His piercing eyes were full of laughter, and Delacourt smiled. “
Peccavi,
sir!
Peccavi!
I'll not fight that battle again. Suffice it to say I wanted to … in some small way…” He flushed uncomfortably and went on in a rather embarrassed fashion, “Well—to make amends, if you will.”

Angus stood and clapped a hand gently onto his shoulder. “Ye've done a muckle grand job o' that, laddie.”

Delacourt muttered, “And have heard myself named traitor for it.”

“That's fustian!” exclaimed Sir Ian, irked. “You've performed a service to humanity merely. If that's traitorous to your country, you're well rid of't.”

Delacourt's dark eyes flashed. “Never! You love these great proud mountains and raging burns, and your wide straths and glens and lochs. I love my gentle green hills and lush valleys; the great cities, the wide rivers, the drowsing villages—all the endless variety of countryside and people that is England. I am an officer in the service of my King. I had no thought to raise my hand against him. I would die sooner, but—” He stopped, flushing darkly. “My apologies to you both. You think me a properly idealistic young fool to make such a speech, I've no doubt.”

Sir Ian looked at him steadily. He thought Delacourt a hotheaded but fine young fellow, with little chance of surviving the consequences of his humane impulses. But he said only, “You seek to help the one without harming the other. A chancy endeavour. Lord knows, I thank you, and wish you well—we all do.” He glanced through the pushed-back plaids to where Prudence sat beside young Rogers. “You'll be taking Miss MacTavish with you, eh?”

Delacourt's gaze did not waver, but he came to his feet and said coolly, “I'd not dare leave her behind, sir.”

Standing also, very well aware that he was being subtly told this interview was over, and marvelling that so young a man had such a presence, Sir Ian pointed out, “She would be safer in the north.”

“Aye,” said Angus. “Safer than with you, I'm thinking.”

Delacourt frowned. “I've seen many a Scots lady lying ravished and slain whose men thought she would be safe. I'd not have a moment's peace.”

“You are a serving English officer,” said Sir Ian. “If you're caught with that cypher they'll visit the whole ghastly traitor's death on you, lad. And her.”

Delacourt stared at him, then sat down again. “Lord God!” he muttered.

XVI

All day the men were busied at the various tasks set them, several working on the nets Delacourt had asked for, these being woven from unravelled plaids and any materials they could lay their hands on. One of the fugitives was a talented whittler and from scraps of wood he had fashioned a set of spillikins. That evening, Delacourt, Crowley, Prudence, and Briley played the simple game, with many problems on their minds at first, but at the end thoroughly enjoying themselves. Quite a crowd gathered to watch, and soon there was some reckless betting under way, the items wagered ranging from valuable commodities such as a more comfortable place to sleep, or a comb, to vast sums of money that none of the participants possessed. Crowley won the last game, but Briley became the richest among them, with a paper ‘fortune' valued at approximately a million Scots pounds.

It had been some time since Prudence had so enjoyed herself. Many eyes were on her laughing little face and shapely figure, and when she agreed to sing for them, an expectant hush fell. She was lifted to the table so that all could see, Jock Eldredge put paper to comb to provide her ‘accompaniment,' and there, with the torches flaring in their brackets and the battle-weary men gathered close about her, she sang the dear songs of memory. No man there that night was ever to forget the scene, and many a fierce heart was so wrung that tears dimmed manly eyes, and throats were choked by nostalgia. When she finished, her gaze was on Delacourt, and he, awe in his thin face, watched her, hoarding his own memories.

There was a long, taut silence. Sir Ian stood and went over to take Prudence's hand and lift it to his lips. “Thank you, dear lady,” he said fervently. “You have brought a sweetly feminine touch of gentleness into our troubled lives.”

The applause rang out then, so loud and so sustained that Delacourt had to caution them lest even the roar of the falls did not quite drown it. When the shouts died down, he turned to Prudence, smiling, then sobered as his gaze moved past her. He had sought out the former butler as soon as he'd been able to get about again, but Sidley had only stared in stony silence when he'd tried to thank him. Now, the man had made his way through the throng and was glaring at him, hatred plainly written in the narrow face. Delacourt said quietly, “Will you talk to me now?”

Sidley stepped closer, and the ever-watchful Lockerbie moved nearer also, one hand dropping to the dirk at his belt.

“You have many names, sir,” said the butler acidly. “Montgomery, Delacourt, Delavale, Ligun Doone. Luckily, I know your real name.” Without warning, he spat in Delacourt's face. “Filthy traitor,” he snarled. And as he was seized and dragged, struggling, into the distant cave, he screamed, “Traitor! Filthy stinking traitor!”

Prudence gripped her hands helplessly, not knowing what to do or say.

His face very white, his eyes blank and expressionless, Delacourt wiped his cheek, then turned and strode quickly to the rear and the dark tunnel that sloped upwards through the rock and where steps had been chiselled so that one could climb to the top of the crag. The men made way for him, a few calling encouragement, but most watching in silence.

Sir Ian said softly, “Go after him, lass. He'll likely need a friend.”

Prudence ran. Cole ran after her, lending a hand as she clambered up the steep, rough steps, but turning back at the summit.

She had never been up here, and she was elated by the smell of fresh air before they came to the open. When Cole left her, she was in darkness, but with the lighter glow of the sky ahead. She walked cautiously to the narrow opening in the rock and slipped through. She stood on a broad natural path and she went on, edging around the shrubs and boulders that helped conceal the entrance, emerging into a faerie world where a quarter-moon shed a gentle silvery light over the glen far below, softening the sharp contours of the wild land and making of the distant loch a great mirror.

She did not see Delacourt at first, but a powerfully built Highlander greeted her, warned her to stay back from the edge, and gestured along the path with a faint, knowing grin.

Prudence went on, staying close against the side of the crag. The path wound around, narrowing, and littered with rocks and boulders from the upthrust of granite that soared beside it. Picking her way cautiously, she saw him then, standing with one hand on a giant boulder that blocked further progress, and staring out at the loch. She bit her lip, then moved to his side.

The wild country was more clearly seen here, the burns threading like streaks of silver through deep ravines and tumbling down ragged crags to their rendezvous with the loch. To the north and east rose high peaks, black against the luminous blue-purple of the night sky. Looking that way, Prudence sighed.

Delacourt said, “I am very sure they are safe.”

She turned to him, smiling. “How did you know I was here?”

“How could I not know?” He leaned back against the boulder and faced her, then touched the silk of a stray curl with one slim finger. “Prue—have you any idea of how splendid you are?”

“Why? I have done nothing. You are the one who has—”

“To thank you for your unselfish care, your endless kindness, your unfailing lack of complaint. Do you know how much your presence here has meant to these poor devils?”

“Why, I suppose—”

“To me, especially?”

Experiencing a singular difficulty in the simple business of drawing a breath, she stammered, “I—if I was able to—to help, it was only—”

He turned her chin. She looked up into eyes that were soft wells of tenderness. “Foolish child,” he murmured. And kissed her.

It was a long kiss, gentle at first. But then he felt her responding to him, her soft little body pressing closer, and the longing became a flame that swept away all his resolution. He was gasping when he put her from him, and Prudence sagged weakly, convinced that her bones had melted and drained from her body.

“By … heaven!” he exclaimed. “Had you forgot we're on a mountain path with a clear drop to the strath, ma'am?”

She laughed unsteadily. “Ye'll mind it was no my doing, sir.”

“True. Well, then”—he clasped his hands behind him—“we must be sensible. You have my humblest apologies, Miss MacTavish. I'd not the right to take advantage of you.”

“Again,” she said demurely.

“Yes. Oh, Prue—if you did but know how I have—er, I mean—yes.”

“For a convalescent, you've a remarkable pair of arms, Captain. Faith, but I think I've one or two ribs not crushed.”

Eyes gleaming, he leaned to her. “Then I will try to—” But at the last instant, with her lips a breath away, he gave a gasp and drew back. “No, by God! This is wrong, Prue.”

She said with a twinkle, “Indeed but you are become something strait-laced, I think.”

He grinned. “Acquit me of that! Only you've been swept into an insane existence these past three weeks. You are far from family and friends. Unprotected by your men. I'd be a sorry rogue to capitalize on your helplessness.”

She watched his strong profile silhouetted against the sky. As usual, Lockerbie had brushed his hair severely back, and as usual the unruly curls were creeping into disorder again. Longing to tidy them, she murmured, “I was not far from my family in the shed when first we went to see the Monster. But you gave me a—er, I think you said 'twas a token o' your esteem.”

“Good gracious, ma'am! I'd fancied you would have forgot that naughty interlude.”

“I think I will never forget it.”

He looked at her for a long silent moment, then turned away. “You heard what Sidley named me,” he said sternly. “Others—many others—would think as he thinks.”

She frowned. “Did you bring me out here to talk of Sidley?”

He smiled at her. “I did not bring you, little rascal. But I'm glad you came, because I must be away, Prue.”

“Are you strong enough?” she said eagerly. “You seem much improved, I'll own, but if you mean to make for Loch nan Uamh, 'tis a long, hard journey.”

In her excitement her hand had closed on his arm. He put his own hand over hers and said, “I am so much better that I feel no anxiety on that score. It is only—only hard to—say goodbye.”

Stunned and disbelieving, she echoed, “Goodbye? But—but you would not abandon me here? Geoffrey, you
would
not?”