The Adventurer (30 page)

In the hall, Isabella watched the flurried activity from the vantage of the window seat. She’d been sitting for hours, trying to dispel the dreadful sense of foreboding that had greeted her upon awakening that morning to find Calum gone from their marriage bed, already preparing to leave. She’d lain for some time, holding his pillow, breathing in the scent of him, remembering the touch of his hands against her skin the night before. It would be all she would have to sustain her after he left.

Though she knew she could never expect him not to go after his foster father, the fear of what could happen to him, to them all, hung on her shoulders like a leaden cape. And now her father and Douglas were involved.

Isabella thought of Elizabeth carrying Douglas’s child. Her sister would never forgive her if something happened to Douglas. Isabella would never forgive herself. But she knew she could no more stop the three grown men from doing what they intended to do than she could stop herself from loving Calum. So she simply closed her eyes, leaned her head gently against the castle’s cold stone wall, and said a silent prayer that they would all be delivered safely back to her.

A sudden cheerful whistling had her turning toward the open doorway where a moment later, the figure of her father appeared.

“Well, my girl, what do you think?”

Isabella felt her mouth fall open. She didn’t even bother to shut it.

It would, after all, only fall open again.

“Father?”

The duke came into the room, only he looked about as far removed from dukedom as he possibly could. Instead of his usual tailored and brocaded waistcoat, he wore the Mackay plaid and a loose saffron shirt with ties that opened at the neck, and full sleeves that billowed about his burly arms. A brace of pistols were belted at crisscrosses over his barrellike chest, and his snowy white hair, always impeccably dressed, was loose and hanging wildly about his neck and shoulders. The most startling feature, however, wasn’t his dress, or the sight of his lanky ashen legs sticking out from beneath the hem of the kilt. It was the fact that to help disguise himself, he had painted his face a rather fearsome shade of blue, complete with the white saltire cross X’d across its middle.

“For St. Andrew,” he said, grinning beneath the paint.

“Scotland’s patron saint. ’Twas Douglas’s idea. I rather like the significance.”

“Well, you needn’t worry anyone will recognize you. No one in their right mind would ever believe you’re the Duke of Sudeleigh now.”

He glanced at himself in a looking glass, grinning. “I know. It’s brilliant, isn’t it?”

Isabella shook her head. “No, Father, it isn’t brilliant. Not at all. It’s dangerous and it’s reckless and you should not be doing this.”

“Nonsense, Bella. I’m a man grown and this is a worthy cause.” He turned to look at her. “Do you think you should be the only one allowed to have an adventure?”

“But what if you get shot?”

“Tosh, dear ... Calum says these things rarely result in any exchange of fire.”

She let go a heavy sigh. “Well, that is certainly a comfort.”

“Really, Bella, there’s naught to worry over. We’ll just cruise down the coast, sweep in unexpected, and be off. It’ll be a snap.”

He snapped his blue-tinged fingers for effect.

Isabella frowned at him, crossing her arms before her. Perhaps if she tried a different tactic, the one that always terrified the duke the most. “Is that what Mother will say when she learns of this?”

The duke’s blue face froze, but only for a moment before he quickly recovered himself. “I’ll contend with your mother after we’ve returned. There’s a man’s life at stake here, Bella, dear.”

Bella couldn’t disagree, just as she couldn’t dispute the yearning for adventure that seemed to run in her family’s blood.

It wasn’t as if she couldn’t understand it. Her father had devoted his life to his duty as the Duke of Sudeleigh. He had married the woman he’d been told to wed, had raised five healthy daughters, and had spent the better part of his life ensuring a quiet, staid,
safe
existence for them all. He’d not fallen into the turbulent trap of politics so many of his contemporaries had, and truth be told, Isabella didn’t honestly know where his loyalties lay—Hanoverian or Jacobite. It just wasn’t a thing talked about in the Drayton breakfast parlor. One thing that was certain, however, was that beneath that cerulean disguise, his eyes were alight with a fire she’d never seen before.

It was the fire of adventure.

At least they finally knew where Elizabeth got it from.

“Have you decided yet what you’re going to do about that stone?” the duke asked, changing the topic quite effortlessly.

In truth, Isabella had been thinking about it throughout most of that morning. Now that she knew of Alec’s existence, it became a matter of which of the two brothers the stone should go to. “I wish I knew. When the Comte de St. Germain—”

“Who?”

“St. Germain. He is an associate of Louis XV’s. ’Twas he who gave me the stone to bring back to Scotland in the first place.”

The duke took a seat beside her. “Bella, there is no Comte de St. Germain.”

“Yes, there is, Father. I met him. At Versailles. In fact, ’twas the king and Madame de Pompadour who introduced us.”

The duke considered this. “Interesting ...”

“What is it, Father?”

“What else do you know of this St. Germain?”

“I know that he is rumored to have lived for many ages, centuries even, without ever growing older. They claim he possesses some sort of strange elixir that will maintain a youthful appearance, and that he can turn ordinary rocks into precious stones. He is an artist—”

“—and he can speak many languages, has traveled the world ...” the duke went on.

“Yes ... yes, that’s him. So you do know him?”

“No, Bella, I don’t know him. Nobody does. Because the man is a phantom. He’s an aberration, a fictional identity created by the king to protect certain individuals who perform, eh,
delicate
services in his interests ...”

“You mean a spy?”

“I didn’t say that.” The duke looked at her. “But you’ll notice I didn’t deny it, either.”

Isabella took a moment to consider what she’d just learned. Suddenly it made perfect sense. “So that is why they claim he never ages? Why he speaks so many languages and has traveled the world over? Because he is not one man, but a succession of many?”

The duke merely looked at her. He didn’t need to answer.

“That does explain a lot,” Isabella said, more to herself than to him. “But it also just adds to the mystery of who he really is and why he gave me the stone. And it doesn’t make the decision about what to do with the stone any easier. This man, whoever this St. Germain really was, told me that when the time was right, I would
know
what to do, that the stone would tell me. But the stone doesn’t seem to be doing much of anything anymore. It hasn’t glowed or so much as showed a spark.”

The duke patted her hand. “Then you must just keep it until somehow, in some way, you do know what to do with it. There is something mystical about the stone, there is no doubt. I spoke with Alec quite a bit during our journey here, he told me much about the history of this clan you’ve just married into. ’Tis a clan that has been divided since the Jacobite rebellions began. Their uncle, the Mackay chief, has no living heir, and since their father has died, the next in line for the chiefship is—

“Either Calum or Alec.” Isabella took a deep breath. “It’s a horrible position in which to be. I love Calum. And now I am his wife. Naturally I should choose him ...”

“Yet something cannot allow you to disregard Alec’s right to the stone as well?”

Isabella nodded slowly.

“Give it time, girl. You might even pay a visit to the Mackay chief. Perhaps he can help you find the answers you seek.”

Isabella sighed. “Perhaps.”

“Perhaps, what?”

Isabella turned just as Calum strode into the room. Her heartbeat quickened just to see him.

Like her father, he wore the Mackay plaid with a pistol brace. His hair was untied, loose but slicked back from his bearded face, and he wore a coat of deep, unfathomable black. His sword was strapped to his waist, and he wore a bonnet the exact same shade of blue as her father’s face. On it was the distinctive white cockade of the Jacobites.

“Your grace,” he said, and handed her father a sword. “You’ve experience with a blade?”

“What? Oh, yes, certainly. Of course.” The duke took the sword with the delight of a mischievous boy, his eyes lighting up as he stared at the polished blade.

Isabella cringed. Her father had never hefted a blade any more menacing than a butter knife.

Her worry must have shown clearly on her face because Calum came before her and touched two fingers beneath her chin, lifting her eyes to his.

“How is my wife this morning?”

“I am already lonely, and you’ve not yet left. ’Tis an unhappy bride who wakes alone on her wedding morning.”

He lowered his voice to a murmur. “When I return, I’ll make it up to you. But until then, perhaps this will help ease your loneliness ...”

He bent his head slowly to kiss her—

Until the quiet was shattered by the sudden clanging of steel against stone.

Calum and Isabella turned as one to see the duke shaking his head as he bent to retrieve his sword from where he’d dropped it on the floor. He looked at them and shrugged. “Whoops...”

Isabella looked at Calum.
“Whoops?”
She closed her eyes in utter dread. “Good God, ’tis a nightmare.”

“Dinna worry, lass. I’ll watch after him.”

“I know that you will.” She blinked. “But who will watch after you?”

He gathered her into his arms and kissed her, kissed her deeply. It was the only answer he could offer her.

Within another hour, they were readying to leave.

They were all assembled. Fergus, Lachlann, Mungo, and Hugh stood with Calum, the duke and Douglas in the hall, going over the last-minute details. The rest of the forty-man crew were standing by awaiting instruction. M’Cuick had been in the kitchen since dawn packing up the food stores and skins of fresh water they would need. There was but one face missing amongst the crowd.

But when Alec came into the hall, he looked neither ready nor planning to go.

He went to Calum. “We’ve a complication. St. Clive has gotten away.”

“What?”

“It must have been in all the chaos of everyone running about this morning. He slipped away when no one was watching. And he’s managed to steal the stallion, which means there’s a good chance he’s headed straight for the authorities.”

“Well, he’ll have a difficult time of it explaining how he came to be riding Cumberland’s lost horse.”

Alec’s worry, however, showed on his face. “There is a Hanoverian detachment eight miles away at Durness, Calum. If St. Clive can manage to find his way there, they could be here within a day’s time. And if you’re gone, it will all but prove any accusations of piracy St. Clive may make against you.” Alec went on. “But I’m thinking ’twill be difficult to charge a man with high-seas piracy if they find him here at home, snuggled in with his new wife.”

Calum shook his head “I must go—”

Alec cut him off. “It occurs to me they’ve no way of knowing which Mackay I actually am.”

It was a brilliant plan.

Calum looked at him. “You would do that?”

“What was it his grace said last night? ‘Family looks after family ...’ ” Alec looked at Calum. “Just come home safe. I’ve no wish to try to replace you in your wife’s heart.”

“Laird!”

Hamish came suddenly running into the room. “Come quick! There’s a ship coming in just off Kervaig.”

Calum turned to Alec. “St. Clive?”

“Nae, it cudna be. Not so soon. Even riding he would take at least a day.”

Alec was right.

The ship that had appeared was a Welsh trawler. And that trawler had netted a rather exceptional catch.

“Da?” It was Fergus who first recognized Uilliam, and even he wasn’t certain.

The man who sat waving weakly from the small oared skiff was a near-ghost of the burly Scot who had raised the three young men already breaking forward, crashing through the surf to meet him. His hair and beard, once a vibrant reddish blond, were now nearly white and so badly matted as to resemble the stringy, yarnlike wool of the mountain sheep. His cheeks were hollowed, and his eyes were sunk deeply into his skull. When they reached the boat and pulled it onto the shore beneath the castle cliffs, they saw, too, that he could not walk on his own. His leg had been removed below one knee, the result, no doubt, of the injuries he’d sustained on the battlefield at Culloden.

But he was home.

Fergus and Calum each took him, draping his spindly arms around their shoulders as they hefted him onto the shore.

One of the Welsh fishermen who had brought him handed him a crude crutch that had been fashioned out of a tree limb. He patted Fergus on the arm, nodded to Uilliam, and said
“Hwyl fawr!”
before climbing back inside the skiff and rowing back to the trawler that had anchored in the bay.

“What’d he say?” Lachlann asked him.

Uilliam looked at his youngest son and blinked wearily. “I dinna have the slightest notion. ’Tis been that way since we left Carlisle. Cudna understand two words they said. Nice lads though. Good ale.”

Fergus asked, “How the de’il did you escape, Da?”

“I dinna have to. Haen’t you heard? The Crown has issued an Act of Indemnity. They’ve granted amnesty to those who took part in the rebellion.”

Calum stared at him. “You were freed?”

“Aye. One day I think I’m headed for the Colonies. The next they just drag us all out of that stinking hold and toss us on the jetty at Carlisle to find our way home, and me with my one leg. The local kirk took me in, fashioned me that crutch, and then found those Welsh lads who were headed for Amsterdam. They agreed to sail me home.” He closed his eyes, took a deep and labored breath. “ ’Tis good to be home. I ne’er thought I’d smell the heather or see those hills again.”

They took Uilliam to the castle and installed him in the chamber off the kitchen just as they had Kettie a handful of days earlier. M’Cuick set about immediately preparing his possets, while Fergus and Lachlann helped their da into the washtub and fresh clothes.