Susan Johnson (17 page)

“You need a doctor,” she whispered.

“I can’t put someone at risk. And there’s not much a doctor can do for this, anyway. Get me to the loch at Leithope Glen”—he smiled faintly—“and roll me into the water.”

She took the reins of his horse and he didn’t dispute her actions, which frightened her even more. For the next few hours they rode in silence except when he’d quietly say “left” or “right” at a crossroad, or point out a landmark—“in case you need it later,” he’d say. An ominous foreboding would overtake her as she’d glance at the distinctive feature, but with their journey taking them through uninhabited country, she paid heed to his words.

Twice they saw shepherds, but from a distance, and the only village they came to they bypassed without incident.
“The alarm hasn’t reached this far yet,” Robbie murmured, his voice tight with pain. “The government troops aren’t out.”

“How much farther?”

“A quarter mile closer than when you asked me last time.” His low chuckle ended in a suffocated groan and he didn’t talk again until her exclamation, “There’s the outcropping!” brought his head up.

“Brandy.” His voice was no more than a whisper.

Unbuckling her saddlebag, she pulled out the last flask, drew their horses to a halt, and helped him put the flask to his mouth. He slowly swallowed the last two inches in the container.

“Let me get you some help,” she pleaded. He was burning with fever, his shirt and coat drenched with sweat, his face ashen.

“Almost there….” And with gritted teeth, he kicked his mount forward.

Quickly following, she rode closely behind. The path narrowed as they climbed the hill, low-hanging branches and brambles tearing at them. It was another half hour more through dense undergrowth, and she wondered at the brave spirit that kept him conscious and moving.

His fingers were white-knuckled on his pommel, sheer will keeping him upright in the saddle. The small fishing lodge in the valley of the Cheviots would offer not only sanctuary, but a plentiful supply of liquor, he knew, the thought sustaining him through the excruciating agony racking his body.

When they finally reached the small hidden valley, the lodge barely visible through the dense plantation
of silver fir that had been planted by an “improving” laird decades ago, she realized she’d just been witness to a miraculous act of courage.

He rode directly to the small mountain lake framed by alpine flowers, and fell from the saddle before she could help him dismount. He was unconscious before he hit the ground, landing on the soft, green, flower-strewn verge without a sound.

Taking advantage of his insensibility, she gripped his booted feet and literally dragged his body an inch at a time toward the water. Cutting his coat and shirt away with her dirk, she undressed him to his breeches, a lengthy ordeal made more difficult by his inertness. Once he was partially unclothed, she pulled his feverish body into the shallows. Her boots sank into the soft sand as she struggled to bring him to a depth that would cover his wounded arm. Making a rough pillow of their jackets to keep his face above the water, she crouched beside him. He stirred at last, moaning as the cold water seeped into the fetid, mutilated flesh of his damaged arm, but his eyes only flickered briefly before he sank back into unconsciousness.

She didn’t know how long she sat beside him, watching him breathe, regularly surveying the purulent wound as if she could will the damage to heal with keen enough surveillance. But as the sun set and the temperature dropped, she began shivering uncontrollably. She didn’t dare leave Robbie, and it was out of the question to build a fire in the open with possible pursuers behind them. Rising to her feet, she ran in place on shore to warm herself. Uncertain, confused, she began to question whether chilling Robbie’s body was appropriate treatment.

Was it worse for him to be feverish, or was she killing him by doing his bidding? Helpless to move his large frame save by inches at a time, she wondered: How was she going to get him to the distant lodge if need be?

As the first stars began to appear, she decided she had to bring him inside, or they would both freeze in the chill temperatures of the high altitude. She couldn’t drag him now that he was half-nude, nor would their few remaining garments withstand the pressure of hauling his weight.

Utterly frustrated, she swore into the twilight.

“Need some help?”

At the blessed sound of his voice, however faint, she broke into tears.

He tried to move when he heard her sobs, half rising on his uninjured arm, but the movement brought such excruciating pain he fell back into the water.

Splashing toward him, she dropped to her knees and repeatedly kissed his face in exultation. “Thank God, thank God,” she murmured, her mouth warm on his cool skin.

“I’m cold,” he whispered, not daring to move, raw agony still vibrating through his senses from his impulsive movement.

“That’s wonderful,” she breathed, placing her hand on his forehead. “That means your fever is down. Now we have to get you inside.”

“I’m going to need liquor to walk. It’s in the lodge.”

“Dare Heave you?”

“Why don’t I wait here?” he murmured, his mouth lifting in a whimsical smile.

Leaping to her feet, she ran across the small
meadow, raced up the gentle rise, and took the stairs to the entrance porch in two bounds. Wrenching the door wide, she left it open, allowing the moonlight in.

For a moment she stood in the center of the entrance hall, wondering where the liquor was kept. Candles and flint lay in a row on a porter’s table convenient to the door, and after lighting a candle, she began her search. Reaching the dining room, she smiled as her gaze fell on the sideboard, well stocked with aqua vitae.

In moments, she was back at the lake, holding a bottle to Robbie’s mouth. And fifteen minutes later, anesthetized by a goodly portion of brandy, Robbie slowly came to his knees in the water. Leaning against Roxane, he rested until his breathing slowed to a more normal rhythm, until he was able to separate the general agony from the more specific areas of pain.

“When I count to three, help me to my feet,” he whispered, “and don’t stop lifting even if I scream.”

It took another few moments to brace his sensibilities to the impending torture, and as he began counting, he drew on his last reserves of strength. At the count of three, with heroic effort, he shakily rose to his feet and, swaying, clutched hard at Roxane.

Leaning into her, teeth gritted, panting, shaken by a cold sweat, he doggedly braced his legs to remain upright. Taking a moment to gather his strength again, he rested his weight heavily on Roxane and forced himself to take a step, then another and another, moving in a halting, slow progress through the crushing pain that threatened to smother him, keeping the lodge in sight as his salvation. Light-headed, nauseated by the time he reached the stairs, he sank to his knees,
crawled up what seemed an endless mountain of steps, at last crossed over the threshold, and, having reached his goal, collapsed into unconsciousness.

Unable to wake him, Roxane made him a bed on the floor of the entrance hall, dragging down a feather mattress from the floor above, piling it high with quilts. Then, with the technique she’d perfected in bringing him into the lake, she tugged and pulled him by the feet into his bed. He was shivering in his sleep, so she covered him and, knowing the smoke wouldn’t be visible at night, she made a fire in the huge fireplace that dominated the entrance hall.

While Robbie slept, she brought the temperature of the room up, and once he’d stopped shivering, she quickly saw to their horses. Leading the animals into the stable, she readied them for the night. She was reminded of her childhood in the country when she’d cared for her ponies, the sweet-smelling scent of hay pleasant, the buckets of water she carried for them like those she’d carried as a child. Before long, their mounts were settled in for the night, munching oats in their stalls.

A brief time later, after carrying their gear into the lodge, she was able to contemplate their situation with a small degree of satisfaction. They were safe—temporarily. Stripping off her damp clothes, she changed into the gown she’d brought along. The brushed twill of the serviceable garment felt smooth on her skin, familiar. Padding barefoot over the floorboards warmed from the fire, she knelt beside Robbie and touched his forehead with her fingers. Better, she thought. Not hot, not cold, and for the moment he seemed to be sleeping peacefully.

While he rested, she searched the kitchen for food. To her delight, she discovered a treasure trove—shelves of preserved and dried fruits, pickled fish and eggs, several containers of dried oatcakes scented with cardamom and cinnamon. Putting together a tray of edibles, she brought up a bottle of wine for herself, and some more brandy for Robbie. Carrying their supper
a deux
back to the entrance hall, she decided their circumstances had considerably improved from an hour ago.

Familiar with country living, she settled comfortably on the floor beside Robbie and, nibbling on her supper, waited for him to wake. The pungent aroma of spiced vinegar struck his nostrils, and he half opened his eyes. “I need a drink,” he murmured, his voice stronger.

“You should eat something, too.” Putting the bottle to his lips, she raised his head on her arm.

“Later.” He winced as she lowered his head back onto the pillows.

“I have dates, preserved apricots, and orange marmalade on oatcakes.”

“And pickled eggs,” he added, the acrid scent stinging his nostrils.

“Would you prefer herring?”

“Not now,” he said. “I’m not quite sure I’m alive yet.”

“The lake brought your fever down.”

“I’ll take another soaking later. Holmes taught me the merits of water therapy. He has more wounds than an Italian duelist.”

“I do want you to eat.”

“Yes, Mama.” His smile flashed in the firelight.

“I mean it. And don’t remind me how young you are,” she murmured with a raised brow.

He grinned. “Old enough to love you. Old enough to love you well and good.”

“Don’t remind me. If you hadn’t, none of this would have happened.”

“How could I be in Scotland and not make love to you? And if not for Agnes, no one would have known.”

“Unfortunately, most of the population is now informed.”

“We’ll have to invite them to our wedding, then.”

“You
are
feverish.”

“Probably. But I’m marrying you, so you might as well get used to the idea.”

“Maybe I don’t wish to marry again,” she lightly retorted. “Have you considered that?”

“Not for a second. I have a Covenanter’s aversion to living in sin.”
⁹

“Obviously a recent conversion,” she sardonically observed.

“Very.” His smile dazzled for a moment. “And I have every intention of changing your mind.”

“That might not be possible.”

“Give me a half hour for this liquor to take hold, and once I dare move again”—he grinned—“I’ll convince you”.

She cast him a warning glance. “Don’t even consider it.”

“Give me another drink,” he ordered. “I like a challenge.”

But even with liquor, his pain was too intense to do
more than lift his head so she could feed him. Later that night, when his fever rose again, they struggled down to the lake and sank into the cold, healing water. Twice more they made the round trip before morning, when at last they fell into an exhausted sleep, their hands entwined.

O
NCE ARGYLL HAD BEEN DELIVERED TO THE OUTSKIRTS
of Edinburgh, his Carre guards abandoned him, wheeling and galloping away without a word. Immediately making for Holyrood Palace, he was in a foul temper when he strode into his office. He shouted for every member of his staff, his voice roaring down the halls and corridors like a daunting wave of terror. And once his subordinates were assembled, he set about seeing that the Countess of Kilmarnock came under his control with all due speed. His instructions were rapid, brusque, systematic, sending aides and clerks scurrying in all directions to see that his wishes were carried out. Roxane’s brother, Colter, was to be fetched from London. Once he arrived, he was to bring his niece and nephews back to Edinburgh. In the meantime, the countess’s servants were to be placed under house arrest. “And bring me Queensberry’s best spies. I want to compare reports on the number of men the Carres can bring into the field.”

Later that day, he met with the agents who were the eyes and ears of the English ministry in Scotland. Queensberry’s men were cautious at first, not knowing why they’d been summoned by their employer’s rival. But the commissioner’s bluntness quickly reassured
them; he wished only information unrelated to Queensberry. At which point, they willingly added their knowledge to that of Argyll’s spies.

“The Carres hold the loyalty of most of the Border counties,” the Queensberry man assigned to the south noted.

“While the counties near Edinburgh are sympathetic to the young Earl of Greenlaw,” another said.