Stuart, Elizabeth (11 page)

Anne
felt
a shiver of dread go through her. Her stomach twisted at the thought of her
father beating a helpless child. Surely there was some mistake!

MacLean
raised his head, his voice rising so all in the room might heat.
"Glenkennon will pay. I swear it this night before you all!"

Turning
to Janet, he placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Randall's but
venting his spleen," he explained with forced calmness. "At present,
we have him neatly trapped. He dare not proceed further. We'll have Jamie and
the boys back to you soon now, Janet."

He
called for food and wine, placing it before his sister while they talked
quietly together. Gradually, the buzz of angry voices rose again in the hall.
Anne shrank toward her uncle, longing to flee the hostile room. At MacLean's
command she'd been treated with kindness there. But what now? What if he
withdrew his protection?

Suddenly
Janet's voice rose as if in argument with her brother. She leaped to her feet,
glaring furiously up the table toward Anne. "How dare you seat her at your
table and treat the creature with such courtesy!" she spat. "Do you
think my husband dines so well on Glenkennon's hospitality?"

Anne
glanced quickly from Janet's hostile face to Mac-Lean's. He looked grim, his
dark brows drawn down warningly until they almost met above the bridge of his
nose.

"Sit
down, Janet. Mistress Randall cannot help who she is anymore than you or
I," he said sternly. "At the moment she's a guest in this house and
will be treated accordingly."

"I'll
not sit at table with that bastard's spawn! Get her out of my sight."

Francis
shot a glance at Anne's pale face. He rose to his feet, his eyes blazing
dangerously. "I give the orders in this house, woman, not you!"

He
leaned across the table. "I've said the girl is a guest, and that's
enough. You'd best remember that if you plan to remain." He straightened
and took a deep breath, continuing more gently, "I know you're upset,
Janet, but I'll not have a kinswoman of Ian MacDonnell abused in this
house."

Anne
pushed back from the table and rose to her feet. "It's of no matter,
m'lord. I understand Lady Cameron's feelings. I'm sure my own would be the same
were our situations reversed." She glanced at Janet. "I can't make
excuses for my father. There can be none for his actions..." She
hesitated, then raised her head proudly. "Yet he
is
my father, and
I've no wish to hear him abused. If you'll excuse me now, I'll go
upstairs."

MacLean's
troubled eyes searched her face. "You needn't go, lass."

"I'd
rather, m'lord."

He
nodded in understanding.

Anne
dropped a curtsy in Janet's direction. "Lady Cameron." Turning
without a backward glance, she made the long walk across the hall under the
curious stares of all in the room.

Francis
turned to his friend. "My apologies, Ian. I'd not have had that
happen."

"I
think the lass said it all," Ian said quietly. "We can easily
understand Janet's wrath. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll go to Anne."

"Forgive
me, Ian," Janet said, wearily holding out a hand to her friend. "I
was thinking of Glenkennon only... not of you."

He
took her hand and squeezed it in his own. "I know Janet, but 'tis a
damnable situation we're caught in."

While
Janet finished her meal in stony silence, Mac-Lean frowned thoughtfully at his
slowly warming ale. Anne was probably frightened half out of her wits. He took
a deep draught of ale, hating the idea of her weeping alone in her room. Ian
would comfort her, he told himself firmly; after all, it was a kinsman's place.

When
Janet was done with her meal, MacLean led her to his private hall. Entering the
room, he moved slowly across the floor, bending in silent concentration to stir
up the dying fire.

Janet
threw herself into a chair to one side of the fire, holding out her feet toward
its radiating warmth. "Oh, all right, Francis," she said, breaking
the tension between them. "I know I made a scene. Don't treat me to any
more of your silence. I'd sooner have your temper than those cold looks. I'm
sorry if I offended Ian, truly I am. But you should have warned me before I had
to come face to face with the girl. I spoke without thinking."

MacLean
straightened slowly. "I'd have you apologize to Mistress Randall. She
didn't deserve that tongue-lashing."

Janet
stared at him incredulously. "What! Apologize to Randall's daughter? You
must be mad! Oh, I know none of this is her fault," she put in quickly,
"but at the moment, I'm enjoying hating everyone who bears his name."

Francis
leaned his broad shoulders against the massive oak mantel, the taut muscles in
his face unyielding. "That girl is more innocent in this than all of us,
including your lads, Janet. She's been raised in England knowing naught of this
feud till I dragged her across half of Scotland under the worst circumstances
you can imagine." He turned and shifted a log in the fireplace with his
booted toe. "She's had a hard time of it since arriving... and will have
worse once we return her to Glenkennon. She'll have that apology," he
finished firmly.

***

Anne
sat before the mirror, combing her hair abstractedly as she thought over her
plight. What if her father did harm his prisoners? Her blood ran cold at
thought of what anger could goad him to do. The youth and innocence of the boys
would be no protection.

And
what of her own innocence? Would the angry men downstairs take it into
consideration? Thank God for her uncle! He had promised that MacLean meant her
no harm... and Sir Francis had been quick to defend her, despite his obvious
fury with her father. Surely he'd not use her to take revenge upon Glenkennon.

A
light tap of unfamiliar footsteps caught her ear. A moment later, a soft rap
sounded against the door panel. "Who is it?" she called.

"'Tis
Janet Cameron. May I come in?"

Anne
admitted Lady Cameron into the room warily, bidding the woman be seated in the
chair she drew up before the fire. The two looked each other over. "I've
come to beg your pardon," Janet said coldly. "My brother
insisted."

Anne
gazed into the hostile blue eyes, so like MacLean's in their shape and color.
Sir Francis's sister was a lovely woman, but the weeks of fear were taking
their toll. Tiny lines formed themselves about her wide mouth, and she had a
haunted look that spoke of many anxious, sleepless nights. Anne knew the
helpless fear of losing a loved one, and her heart went out to the woman in
spite of the unpleasant scene earlier.

"Your
brother is kind," she said softly, "but a forced apology means
nothing. However, before you go, there's something I'd like you to know."

She
turned to the fire, absently poking at a block of peat, searching for words of
explanation. Strangely enough, she wanted Janet Cameron to understand; she
didn't want this woman thinking she was like her father.

"You
probably know Glenkennon as well as or better than I," she began. "He
visited us so seldom I scarcely knew him as my father until I was six or seven
years of age. And he was so cold even then. I remember as a child how badly I
wanted to please him, yet the harder I tried, the more distant he became."

She
paused, watching the shifting flames engulf the block of peat. "Things
were... uncomfortable whenever he was at Rosewood. My mother and I were always
relieved when he'd finish his business and go away again. He and Mother were
not... were not close," she said, faltering. "She was afraid of him—and
so were my brother and I."

She
glanced down at Janet. "I've heard from him only a half-dozen times in the
last three years. He didn't even come when my mother lay dying. I believe he
cares little for me, despite the fact that his blood is my own." She
smiled bitterly and gazed into the fire. "I've been here less than a
fortnight, yet I've felt more warmth from my uncle than my father will ever
show."

She
stared at her clenched hands, suddenly feeling foolish baring her soul to a
woman she had just met. Lady Cameron would never understand. She had a husband,
sons, and a brother who loved her. How could she understand how terrifying it
was to be so alone? She swallowed the lump slowly forming in her throat.
"I'm sorry for you and your family, but I doubt you've anything to fear.
Your brother will get them back; I'm sure Sir Francis can do anything he sets
his mind to." She glanced up with a twisted smile. "And then I shall
return to Ranleigh."

The
hostility drained slowly from Janet's face. Why, the girl was naught but a
child—a lonely, frightened child. Taking Anne's clenched hand she squeezed it
comfortingly. "Forgive me, mistress," she said softly. "I'd no
right to speak as I did. My fear has made me act the fool."

***

MacLean's
guests began arriving well before noon the following day. From the vantage
point of her window, Anne watched the ladies and gentlemen dismounting amid the
general confusion of arrival. With nothing to do, she paced restlessly about
her room—from the chair to the fireplace, then back again to the window.

She
was bored with the needlework Kate had found, but she did not feel like reading
either. She hated shutting herself away, yet dreaded the possibility of another
hostile confrontation such as the one the night before.

A
vague depression settled over her. The unpleasant scene had burst the happy
bubble she had been living in those last few days. It reminded her of the
reason for her sojourn at Camereigh. She was there as a hostage—and only
temporarily. She would soon be returning to her father.

From
the window, she stared at the sky, drumming her fingers restlessly on the stone
casement. Longing for a companionable talk with her uncle or Donald—even more
for a fast gallop over the moor with Sir Francis MacLean—she watched the gray clouds
scudding rapidly before the wind. Somehow her worries fell away when she was
with MacLean. He had a way of obtaining the best from each moment, of
distilling the very essence of life so that he lived it to the fullest in a way
Anne greatly envied.

Turning
from the window, she sighed aloud. Perhaps a visit to the stable and a chat
with Cassie would restore her spirits. Anything was better than remaining in
her chamber. She slipped out the door and down the hall to the servants' stair.
Making her way carefully down its narrow spiral, she came out in an open area
where a maze of corridors intersected in front of the kitchen. She was
surprised by the frantic bustle of activity taking place. Harried servants
dashed this way and that, making rooms ready for arriving guests and preparing
the feast for the evening.

Above
the babble of noise, Anne heard her own name sounded. Turning, she caught sight
of Janet Cameron carefully dodging servants who carried baggage and great
silver trays of wine and ale.

"Anne,
praise God I've found you!" Janet said, making her way determinedly
through the press. "Francis has dropped this whole affair in my lap and is
down at the stable now getting up a hunt. A hunt! With a dinner and guests to
see to. I could strangle the man!"

Anne
choked down the laugh that bubbled up in her throat. How like Francis MacLean
to stir up this tempest and saunter off about his own business. She stared at
Janet uncertainly. "Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked,
fulling expecting the woman to repulse her offer.

"Do
you know enough to organize the kitchen? Francis failed to mention his plans to
Cook until yesterday. I fear the staff may wash their hands of the affair any
minute." At Anne's nod, she smiled. "Good! I'll get the rest of the
guests to the rooms we've prepared. I'll send Kate to you if I can free her
from upstairs."

In
less than a half hour, Anne had the frantic activity in the kitchen organized
and running smoothly. She reminded the rattled servants that they had only to
prepare one meal at a time and set them to their tasks accordingly. One group
prepared refreshments for the arriving guests while the remainder concentrated
on preparations for the evening meal. By the time Kate finally arrived, it
looked as if a dinner might yet be served.

With
the kitchen in Kate's capable hands, Anne slipped out into the courtyard,
grateful to escape the stifling heat of the numerous fires. She leaned against
the wall, the cool wind whipping her skirts as she watched the final
preparations for the hunt. Some twenty horses stood stamping in impatience,
their riders giving final checks to saddle girths and weapons. The panting
hounds strained at their leashes, adding to the din by barking excitedly and
attempting to wrap themselves around one another and their keepers.

How
she longed to ride out with the men! To feel the wind in her face and a good
horse beneath her stretching his muscles in a reckless race over the moors. She
searched the crowd, finally sighting MacLean, his head thrown back in ready
laughter as he made the rounds among his guests.

Their
eyes met across the crowded space. MacLean nudged Leven over beside her.
"How go the preparations indoors?"