One Man's Love (27 page)

“He’s also the man who’s put his own life in jeopardy,” she said. “Not for his pride, Uncle,” she said, staring fixedly at the pipes. “But for others.”

“O-ho,” Hamish said, frowning at her. “It’s like that, is it?”

She nodded. “It’s like that,” she said firmly.

“Your grandfather would be spinning in his grave to see you now, Ian MacRae,” Hamish said, turning to him.

Ian took one step closer to the old man. “You dare to talk to me about what my grandfather would have thought?” he asked incredulously. “Your own actions have been nothing but selfish, Hamish. You allowed Leitis to be your hostage, never caring what might happen to her.”

He was so close that he could reach out and pick up the old fool and fling him away like so much rubbish. The fact that he wanted to made Ian clench his hands into fists.

“I don’t intend to allow anyone else to suffer for
your pride, Hamish. Not Leitis, not any of these people.”

He looked out over the crowd. “It’s true I’m half English,” he said, “but those at Fort William would punish me for being half Scot.”

Leitis spoke beside him. “Some of you know him as the Raven,” she said. “He helped you all.”

“You gave me food,” a man said, pushing his way to the front of the crowd.

“And me.” An older woman spoke the words. People parted as she came forward.

“And brought us here in safety,” another woman said. He recognized her as the mother of the boys he’d carried through the storm.

Ian heard a chorus of responses, all of them gratifying and obviously irritating to Hamish, who stood in the same place looking mulish.

“There’s not much time,” Ian said. “You can either trust me or you can stay here. Either way, there’s uncertainty and peril. I’ll not lie to you about that. All I can offer you is freedom.”

“You’re going, then, Leitis?” a young woman asked.

Leitis folded her hand into Ian’s, then looked up at him. “I am,” she said.

An old man stepped forward. His look was as sharp as Hamish’s had been.

“You’re the old laird’s grandson?”

“Yes,” Ian said.

“That’s good enough for me,” he said. “No English blood can dilute a true Scot.” He turned to address the crowd. “We should be going, then,” he said sharply.

One by one the villagers began to nod.

The procession out of the village was a muted one.
There was no time spent in glancing over the structures, whole or burned. And other than a few softly spoken regrets, there was no grief expressed about those possessions that had to be left behind. A lesson in their cheerful acceptance, Ian thought. The people of Gilmuir recognized that memories could be held within and needed no tangible reminders.

The cloudless sky was a whitish blue as they retraced their steps through the forest. The late afternoon sun created long shadows over the landscape. A breeze from the north set the branches of the trees to dancing, as if nature bade them a farewell with a wave of leafy fingers.

Hamish MacRae stood watching them, his pipes on his shoulder. The MacRae Lament was perfect for this moment as he witnessed the loss of his clansmen. Yet he couldn’t play it for fear of endangering them.

He had never before felt as old or as useless as he did now. Worse, he felt shamed. The Butcher’s words had sliced deep. He had endangered Leitis and done so without thought. And he’d lost her for it. She’d walked out of the village without a look in his direction, without even a farewell. As if he’d ceased to exist in her mind.

There was promise in that stony look he’d received from the Butcher. Ian, he corrected. A born leader of men, he thought.

Turning, he looked around him. He had lived his life with each day passing, one into the other, never noticing how much had changed. Until this moment, when he felt the world was not quite the same, but something altogether unfamiliar.

He didn’t feel as if he belonged here anymore. But neither was he glad to be quit of Gilmuir. It was not
an easy thing, after all, to begin a new life when he was almost at the age to be passing from this one.

But he wasn’t about to be left behind.

He walked through the village to Peter’s cottage, rapped hard on the door.

“Who is it?” Peter asked peevishly.

“The English come to call,” Hamish said sarcastically. “Who do you think it is?”

The door flew open; Peter frowned down at him. “Dora, with the meal she promised. Something other than turnips, for a change. Or Mary, come to give me a bit of smelly cream for my knee. Anyone but you.”

“The rest of them are leaving,” Hamish said, pushing back his irritation at Peter for another, more important task.

“Now?” Peter asked.

“We’ll be the only ones here,” Hamish said. “And I’ve no wish to spend the rest of my life with only you as a companion, you old fool.”

“Why don’t you go piping in Gilmuir’s courtyard, idiot?” Peter said. “The span of your life is bound to be shortened then.”

“I’m going with them,” Hamish said.

“You’re going with them?” Peter repeated, surprised.

“If you don’t hurry, you’ll be the only one here,” Hamish warned, then gave him back one of his eternal sayings. “A wise man wavers, a fool is fixed.”

“I don’t think so, old man,” Peter said suddenly, squinting at him. “I’ll not be a hermit.” He left the doorway and Hamish walked inside. Peter was busy spreading out a sheet and piling things inside it.

“You would make yourself daft,” Hamish agreed. “Besides, you need someone to point out the errors of your ways.”

Peter stood, tied the sheet into a neat bundle. “My
errors?” he said incredulously. “I’m not a fool with the pipes. You’ve got the pride of a gaggle of clergy, Hamish MacRae.”

Hamish grinned and preceded him out the door.

I
an and Leitis led the way through the forest, the journey a soundless one. Individually each of the Scots crossed the small stretch of glen. Some, like the children, thought it a great game and had to be coaxed to silence. Others walked more slowly, their pace causing Ian to look toward the land bridge and hope that the soldiers’ preparations for night would distract them from looking toward the glen.

“If the children can walk,” Ian said, addressing each of the women, “it would be safer if you did not carry them.” He didn’t add that it was because they would need to keep one hand free for balance along the more difficult parts of the path. Children generally had less fear, probably because they didn’t fully understand the danger.

It was the older people who worried him. As they crossed the glen, he led them gently down to the beginning of the path and paired them with a younger person. That way, they could have the assistance they needed as well as the vocal support to get through the harrowing journey.

Leitis led the way back to Gilmuir, Ian following, the last person on the snakelike procession. He was halfway to the land bridge when he heard muttered whispers behind him.

He glanced around to find Hamish and another man arguing as they made their way across the glen. Hamish carried only his bagpipes, while the other man held a knotted pack.

“Your tongue wags like a lamb’s tail, you old fool.”

Hamish frowned at that insult. “At least I’ve the wit to wag it, you dried-up old acorn.”

“Better half an egg than empty shells,” the other man replied.

Ian stared at them. “If you’re coming with us,” he said in a much quieter voice than they were using, “it would be better to do so without calling attention to ourselves.”

“See what I mean? Keep your tongue within your teeth,” the other man said, glaring at Hamish.

Hamish stepped up to Ian. “I’m coming to keep an eye on my niece,” he said belligerently. “I’ve no wish for her to be shamed.”

“She’ll not be,” he said calmly.

Hamish frowned at him. “Is this the magical path? The secret…” His words trailed to a halt as he stared to his left and viewed the sheer drop to the loch.

It appeared that the cliff path was the one thing that could silence the old man. Ian felt a similar aver
sion, but he wasn’t about to confess it to Hamish MacRae.

A rock fell ahead of them, and for one eternal moment Ian held himself still, waiting for the accompanying scream of terror. But there was no further sound.

It was a journey made in slow, measured steps marked not with fear but an occasional soft murmur or a child’s giggle.

“There was never a height that didn’t have a hole at the bottom of it,” the man behind Hamish muttered.

“Give your tongue a rest, Peter,” Hamish growled. “Or I’ll put it to sleep for you.”

“You and what English army?”

Ian halted, only to have Hamish bump into his back. Bracing his hand on the rock, Ian was determined not to think of Sedgewick once more. “I’ll ask you again to be quiet,” he said, as calmly as he could.

“I’ll be inoffensive,” Peter said curtly. “Not like the fool in front of me.”

“If you’d only shut up,” Hamish answered, “I’d be pleased.”

Ian still didn’t move, wondering why he was saddled with the two of them. They might have white hair, lined faces, and bodies bent with age, but they quarreled like tired children.

Finally, they fell silent and Ian began to walk again, not attempting to catch up with the others.

He wished there were a way to get word to Harrison and Donald as to his plans. The rest of the men who had followed him from Inverness were safe, not having been made conspirators in his acts as the Raven. But the fate of his adjutant and aide disturbed him.

They finally neared the entrance to the priory,
reaching the other villagers, who patiently waited to be lifted to safety. He glanced up and saw two of the older men helping Leitis and hoped that their strength lasted for a few more people.

He climbed up by gripping one tenacious root. Behind him, Hamish and Peter began to argue again, and he exchanged a look with a surprised Leitis. “They decided to join us,” he explained, “but I’m not sure we’re all that fortunate to have them.”

He helped Hamish up to solid earth.

“I’d have you forgive me for putting you in danger,” Hamish said, addressing Leitis. “For making you my hostage,” he added, before glancing over at Ian. “Although I’m thinking you should thank me for that.”

Ian just shook his head, extended his hand to help the other man.

“Better beyond the fear of danger than in it,” Peter said, finally reaching the top.

“Do you never stop, man?” Hamish asked. “I wish I’d left you behind.”

“Leave me behind?” Peter said, disgruntled. “I had already decided to leave.”

“You’re lying,” Hamish said, frowning at the other man.

“Two cats and one mouse, two mice in one house,” Peter said dolefully.

Hamish threw his hands up in the air. “What does that mean, you old daft idiot?”

“Will you two be quiet?” Ian said, irritated. “We’re in even greater danger here. We don’t need you quarrelling.”

Hamish glanced over at him, surprised. “We’re not quarrelling,” he said. “We’re talking.”

“Then keep your talking to a whisper,” Ian said,
and wished a moment later that he’d not suggested it. Their bickering was annoying at any tone.

Ian strode to the middle of the priory, bent, and pulled up the stone that hid the iron ring from view. Leitis came to his side, the villagers trailing after her, all of them silenced by what he revealed. Evidently, Fergus and James had guarded the secret well all these years.

He stood, leaning closer to Leitis so that the echo of their voices would not carry to the others.

“Will you get them to the ship? There is something I must do before I can follow you.”

She surveyed him in the fading light, as if to measure his intentions. “You’re not going back to the fort, Ian?” she asked in a worried voice.

He cupped his hand around her cheek, smiling down at her. “No,” he said, “I’ve no wish to be a martyr.” He kissed her quickly.

Leitis nodded and sat beside the opening to the staircase, dangling her feet into the darkness. Another difficult journey for the villagers, but it could not be helped.

One by one, he helped them descend to the staircase. “The first step is lower than you expect,” he warned each of them.

A little girl stood against her mother’s skirts, her arms wrapped around one leg. Her mother’s hand was gently pressed against her cheek in wordless reassurance.

The other children seemed to look upon the descent into the staircase like a great and grand adventure, even as the older members of the clan simply looked resolved.

Ian wished he could tell them that it would be easier from this point on, but he wasn’t certain it would
be. The path to freedom was sometimes difficult, but then they already knew that.

The journey down the stairs was laden with both memory and illusion. Leitis could almost hear Fergus as a boy, his excited whispers filling the stairwell. James, always so cautious, would have counseled him to be careful. How odd that it had been James who had been so set on rebellion and Fergus who had argued for calm, wishing to remain at Gilmuir.

What would have happened if they had returned from Culloden? Their presence would not have affected the outcome of Gilmuir. The English were here to stay, even if she was taking their commander with her, a thought that prompted a smile.

Behind her she could hear the muffled groans as a few arthritic knees rebelled at the steep descent. They had all been so brave. The only complaining voices were those of Peter and Hamish, and they were more intent on each other’s failings.

Now, at least, there was some measure of safety that had not been there before. The English knew nothing of the hidden stairwell, and of the ship that waited in the cove.

The journey, however, felt endless as she led the way. Before, Ian had always been with her, comforting her with a jest or simply holding her hand. The responsibility she felt for the people behind her should have taken her mind from another worry, that of his safety. But it didn’t.

What was he doing? What errand was so important that he had to stay behind?

His courage was greater than hers, she realized. He had had so much more to lose by his actions, his position and his rank.

She had already been under suspicion by the En
glish simply because she was Scot. They had burned her home to the ground, killed her family. There was nothing more they could take from her.

She learned a lesson in those moments. Courage was easy when there was nothing remaining to lose. But when she might have to learn to live without Ian, it became incredibly difficult to be brave.

Finally, she reached the bottom of the steps. In the faint light she lifted the lantern and lit it with the tinderbox Ian had left behind. She moved back into the staircase and removed the lantern’s four shields, holding it high to illuminate the blackness.

It was just as Ian had predicted, better to take the stairs in the darkness. The walls were coated with pale green algae that glistened in the lantern’s light. More than one person jerked his hand back, green being cited by superstition as the color of calamity and sorrow.

The steps themselves were shiny black stone, the chisel marks still visible. Leitis couldn’t help but wonder how long the stairs had been here. Had Ionis the Saint carved them in all those years he’d lived on the island? Or did they predate him?

One by one, the villagers emerged into the cave, expressions of relief being silenced by awe as they gazed up at the ceiling. Another unexpected surprise, that of Ionis’s lady faintly illuminated by the light from the lantern.

The villagers huddled together, the hardship of the past hour etched into their faces. Leitis wished there was time to rest, but it was important to get them to the ship.

She moved into the cave, glanced back once more at the staircase.
Please hurry,
she whispered in her mind and her heart. Another prayer to God would not be amiss, either.

She pushed her way through the crowd to the cave entrance and out to the rocky shoreline. She was surprised by the size of the merchant ship; it dwarfed the cove. Holding the lantern aloft, she moved it into an arc above her head, hoping to be seen by someone on board.

Immediately a boat was lowered and two seamen began to row to the shore.

“Can you forgive me, Leitis?” Hamish asked from behind her. “You’ve not spoken yet.”

She faced her uncle determinedly. “I have nothing to say to you, Uncle,” she said calmly. “Perhaps in time I will.”

“Was it easier to forgive the Butcher his deeds?” Hamish asked curtly.

She began to smile, amused that even now he would be arrogant.

“He was never unkind to me,” she said.

“I should have protected you better, Niece,” Hamish admitted.

She said nothing in response.

“So, you’ll make me pay for my foolishness until my dying day.” He frowned at her and she wondered if he was going to choose this moment to lecture her. The boat approached, nudged the shoreline, and the two seamen got out, began to hand the passengers in one by one.

“Can you row a boat, Uncle?” she asked.

He nodded curtly.

She gestured to Ian’s skiff tied not far away. “If we send two boats at a time to the ship,” she said, “it will make the ferrying faster.”

“So that’s to be my punishment, then, to be a beast of burden for the villagers of Gilmuir.”

His irritation startled a laugh from her. She em
braced him swiftly, the gesture unexpected, from the surprised look on his face.

“You’ll never change, Uncle,” she said, certain of it. “Yes,” she added, smiling at him, “that’s your punishment.”

He didn’t say a word, but he began to smile, an expression she didn’t often see on his lined face.

“Fair enough,” he said. He turned to Peter, smiling tightly. “You’ll be my first passenger, then, you old goat.”

“He’s a wise man that can take care of himself,” Peter answered.

“Are you going to swim, then? How wise is that?”

The two of them walked to the boat and stood aside as Martha and her daughter climbed in to sit in the bow.

Leitis would remember this exodus for the rest of her life. The sky was marked by long, thin wisps of clouds lit from beneath by an orange glow. The necklace of rocks appeared almost amber in the fading sunlight. She heard the sound of the water lapping up against the rocks of the shoreline, the sighs of those who did not wish to leave Gilmuir but realized only too well the futility of remaining behind. The excited questions from the braver children reminded her of Fergus and James and Ian and herself, feckless and daring.

The breeze blew her hair back from her face, carrying with it a faint chill. A hint of winter, a promise of seasons changing.

She wanted to be with Ian in winter, when ice formed on the branches of the trees and the wind grew wild and harsh. She wanted a fire in a cozy cottage, and to have him enter, slapping his arms against his chest and grinning, red-faced, at her. He’d scrape
his shoes at the door and tell her what he’d done that day. She would feed him well and listen intently and show him the plaid she’d woven. A new pattern, an amalgam of the MacRae tartan and something new. When it was time for bed, they would hold each other and gift each other with laughter or passion or fierce need.

Please, God, let it happen.