The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3) (24 page)

“You’ve helped me,” he said. “You’re very kind.”

His voice slurred as though he was drunk, and she realised that he was only half conscious. She felt his forehead, expecting it to be hot and fevered, but his skin was cold, too cold, and clammy, and his lips were tinged with blue.

“You must stay awake and eat something,” she said, trying to hide the alarm she felt at the deterioration in his condition since she’d been away.

“I’m not sure it’s a good idea for me to eat,” he said, attempting to smile at her. “You see I…” he stopped with a gasp and his eyes widened, fixing on a point over her shoulder. Then he moved, clawing at her dress with his left hand and fumbling frantically for his sword with his right.

She had unwrapped the blanket, and was unpacking the oatcakes, but looked up at this unexpected movement. Following the direction of his gaze, she turned and looked behind her.

For a split second she saw the two men as the boy must have done, tall, broad and ferocious, half-naked, bristling with weapons, their long hair wild and tangled on their shoulders, bare arms bulging with muscle, their faces fierce and implacable. Then they became simply Alex and Duncan, and she almost fainted, so great was her relief.

“It’s all right, they’re friends,” she said, turning back to the boy and stroking his arm reassuringly, moved beyond measure by the fact that he had been trying, in spite of his pain and the impossibility of the task, to put her behind him and defend her against these savages.

“Have you told him your name? Or ours? Or anything about us?” Alex asked, in Gaelic.

“No,” she replied in the same language. “Of course not. I’m not stupid. I’ve told him nothing at all. His leg is broken, and I don’t know how to set it. Can you help him?”

To her surprise, instead of examining the boy he scrutinised her first, taking in the scarf covering her hair, the grubby dress, the work-reddened hands, and the scuffed shoes. Then he moved forward and squatted down beside the boy. His nostrils flared suddenly, and he grimaced.

“He smells very bad,” she explained, still in Gaelic, but this time to spare the boy’s blushes rather than for any secretive purposes. “He’s been here two days.”

Alex ignored both her and the boy’s leg, instead examining his face. The young soldier remained silent, frozen with fear.

“It’s all right, laddie,” said Alex softly. “I’m here to help ye, like the lady says.” Like Beth, he laid a hand on the boy’s forehead, then nodded to himself, and with great care he removed the cloak she had laid over him and began to unbutton the scarlet coat. Beth retched suddenly, the smell overpowering her control, and Alex waved a hand behind him at his brother.

“Take her,” he said, and Duncan moved forward, grasping Beth by the shoulders and drawing her backwards a short distance, where the air was untainted. She inhaled gratefully, taking several deep breaths.

“I’m all right now,” she said, making an attempt to return to the boy’s side. Duncan kept hold of her shoulders, restraining her gently.

“Wait,” he said. “Let him look to the laddie.”

Alex had shifted position, the breadth of his shoulders completely blocking the boy’s upper body from her view. All she could see were his legs, one encased to the knee in black leather, the other bare, twisted and swollen. They were talking together, the man’s voice deep and musical, gentle and soothing as he asked questions, the boy’s voice higher pitched, still slurring slightly, nervous at first, then slowly relaxing.

She couldn’t hear what they were saying, only the tone. Then the boy began crying softly, and Beth started in Duncan’s grip, trying to move forward to comfort him. Had Alex just told him he would have to amputate the leg? If he had, how did he know? He had given the limb no more than a cursory glance.

“No,” Duncan said, transferring his arm to her waist. “Trust him Beth, he kens what he’s doing.”

The conversation continued for a while, and the youth stopped crying. There was a pause, then Alex’s hand moved to his waist.

Beth saw his arm move back, bent at the elbow, but it was only as he drove it forward again, hard, that she realised what he was doing.

“No!” she screamed, tearing at Duncan’s arm, which tightened round her waist, lifting her off her feet, his other hand clamping over her mouth. He moved backwards, to the edge of the river, and she fought him wildly, kicking back and tearing at his restraining arm with her nails until he released his grip on her waist briefly to capture her hands, pulling her back into him.

It was over very quickly. The boy’s legs jerked convulsively once as Alex drove the dirk into his chest, and then went limp. Alex remained motionless for a moment, then he wiped the blade on the grass before sheathing it, and leaned forward over the body, closing the eyes and crossing himself.

Then he stood, slowly, as though it cost him great effort, and turned to where his wife and his brother were still struggling.

She froze immediately as he advanced towards her. Her chest was heaving, her eyes huge and horrified above Duncan’s muffling hand. Duncan removed the hand, and setting her back on her feet, let her go.

Beth and Alex stared at each other for a moment. An expression of unbearable distress flitted across his features too quickly for her to make sense of it, then it was gone and his face became neutral and cold.

“Ye ken what to do,” he said to Duncan. “I’ll send Angus to help ye. Come on.”

He seized Beth’s arm and set off, picking his way over the rocks with ease and then striding off across the heather at such a pace that Beth was forced to run to keep up with him. Several times she stumbled, and once she fell. He stopped then and picked her up, gently. Then he set off again before she could get enough breath back to speak, keeping hold of her arm.

He strode across the clearing, opened the door of the house and drew her inside. She clung to the wall, fighting for breath, and Angus, who was sitting by the hearth, MacGregor curled cosily on his knee, looked up in surprise.

“Duncan needs help,” said Alex shortly. Angus lifted the cat off his lap and stood, looking from Alex to Beth.

“Ye’ll need a spade,” Alex added. “There’s a burying to be done. Down by the burn, near the twisted oak. Now,” he said brusquely, as Angus hesitated.

He nodded his head, cast a concerned look in Beth’s direction and left, closing the door carefully behind him.

Alex turned his attention to his wife, who had almost regained her breath. He reached out to touch her and she drew away from him, taking several steps backwards. He made no move to follow her.

“Does anyone else ken about the dragoon?” he asked.

She stared at him as though he’d spoken to her in Greek.

“Ye came back to get food for him,” he said. “Did ye tell anyone what ye were doing?”

“He was fifteen,” she said, her face white.

“Answer me, Beth,” he said, still softly. “Did ye tell anyone about him?”

“He was fifteen,” she repeated. “Just two weeks ago.”

“Beth, did ye tell any of the clan ye were going to help a dragoon?” he said, slowly and clearly.

“He didn’t even want to be a soldier,” she said, as if to herself. “He was…”

“Answer me!” he roared.

She jumped violently and flinched backwards, as though she expected him to hit her.

“No!” she shouted. “No, I didn’t tell anyone! I found him, and he was a child, and hurting, and I couldn’t help him, and I came back to get you because I thought you would know what to do! But you weren’t here, and William said you’d gone for a walk. I didn’t know what time you’d be back and I couldn’t leave him alone, so I went back to him.” The words rushed from her mouth, falling over each other as they came out, so he could only just understand what she was saying. “I thought you’d help him!” she cried, her eyes filling with tears. “Jesus Christ, Alex, I thought you’d help him!” Her voice rose hysterically, and she stopped and turned her head away, swallowing hard, trying to fight back the tears and bring herself under control.

“Beth, d’ye ken what ye almost did?” he said to her softly. “Ye almost undid everything ye’ve worked so hard for over the last two months. Duncan and I saw ye sneaking off through the trees. We followed you because you looked furtive. If it had been any of the other clansmen who’d followed you instead and seen what ye were doing, ye’d have had to start all over again to win their trust.”

“Is that why you killed him?” she cried. “So the clan wouldn’t think I was a government spy? Well to hell with the clan, if they think that helping a terrified, injured child makes me a traitor!”

“Beth,” he said, moving towards her, “I killed him because…”

“Keep away from me!” she screamed. He stopped, his hand raised towards her, his face unreadable. “Don’t tell me you killed him for me,” she continued, her voice ragged, harsh. “Don’t you dare tell me that. You told me before that the first solution that comes to you when you’re faced with a problem is usually a violent one, didn’t you? ‘We’re a violent clan.’ That’s what you said. Well you’ve excelled yourself this time, killing a young frightened boy who couldn’t fight back. I hope you’re proud of yourself. To hell with you, too.”

“Beth,” he tried again, “I didna kill him because he was English, or a dragoon, or for you. He was dying.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “No. He had a broken leg. Maybe it could have been set or maybe you’d have had to amputate it, I don’t know. But people don’t die of a broken leg.”

They did, but now was not the time to quibble about medical details. Alex sighed. At least she had managed to control her own incipient hysteria. That was something.

“He was dying, Beth. Did ye no’ smell him? Of course ye did, it nearly made you sick.”

“You’d have smelt, if you’d been lying in one place for two days,” she said. “He’d soiled himself. He couldn’t help that.”

“Yes he had, but it was more than that, ye must have smelt it. That sweetish sort of stink? That’s corruption, Beth. He’d been…”

“No,” she interrupted, her face set. “I washed his leg myself. It was a mess, but it hadn’t gone bad. You can’t use that as an excuse.”

Besieged as he’d been in the last two hours by strong emotions; suspicion, concern, horror and grief, he fought now to remain calm, not to lose his temper with this woman who would not listen to him, and he succeeded only partly. He leaned forward, gripped her arm and ignoring her protests, dragged her outside again and over to the stables.

The sturdy Highland ponies or garrons were not stabled, as they were able to fend for themselves, but the more highly bred horses that Alex and the others had arrived on needed more care. One of the stalls was already empty. Alex threw a halter over the chestnut mare’s head and led her out of her stall. Then he threw his wife unceremoniously onto its back and mounted behind her.

“Where are we going?” she asked after a moment, having abandoned the idea of trying to leap off the horse mid-gallop.

“Ye’ll not believe me until I show ye,” he said icily.

They rode without speaking, the hostility between them palpable. She would never believe the boy’s leg was infected. It had been clean, the flesh pink and healthy, no ominous red streaks or blackened flesh, in spite of the swelling.

By the time they arrived the sun was setting, but the light was still good enough to easily make out Angus, covered in dirt and standing by a speedily but efficiently dug grave. A hobbled horse grazed contentedly nearby. Duncan was crouched over the boy’s body, folding his arms respectfully on his chest. Both men looked up surprised as Alex dismounted, helped Beth down, and led her over to them.

“I’ve put his effects to one side,” said Duncan, gesturing to a pitifully small pile nearby. Beth could see a brightly coloured pebble, some silver coins, a horse chestnut on a string. A child’s toy. Her eyes brimmed.

“She doesna believe me,” Alex said coldly. “She needs to see for herself.”

Duncan looked at Beth’s defiant white face and tear-filled eyes, and nodded curtly. He stood and backed away.

Alex bent down over the corpse and unbuttoned the coat, as he had done on first meeting the boy.

“Come here,” he commanded, gesturing to her. “Look.”

She came, and looked, and turned away, green-faced.

The lead ball had entered the young soldier low in the abdomen, lodging somewhere in the soft tissue. The wound was small and had not bled a great deal. But the smell, which was indeed overlaid with a sweetish sickening odour, was intense, and was emanating from the wound she had known nothing about.

“He was gut-shot, Beth. His sergeant shot him as he was galloping away,” explained Alex emotionlessly. “You wouldna let me tell ye. He would have died anyway, in time. And in agony.”

She looked at her husband’s face as he tidied the boy’s disarranged clothing, folding the arms back in place with infinite care, and was aware that she had done him a terrible, unforgivable injustice.

“I…I didn’t know,” she faltered, her voice hardly more than a whisper. “He didn’t tell me…”

“That was what the smell was,” Alex continued matter-of-factly. “I recognised it straight away. I thought you had, too, but of course ye wouldna. Ye’ve had no experience of battle, how could you know? Even so, I thought ye trusted me enough to ken I wouldna kill a bairn without need, enemy or no.”

She looked away from his face, which was cold and set. She felt sick again, but not because of the smell.

“Well,” Alex said to his brothers, standing. “I’ll leave ye to it.” He jerked his head at his wife. “Are ye coming?”

He sounded as though he didn’t care whether she came or not. She went over to the horse, and they mounted in silence. She had no idea what to say to him, and thought to use the time travelling home to think. But her mind refused to focus, and when they got back she had no more idea of what she could possibly say to repair the damage than she had when she had knelt by the corpse and realised what she had done.

“Are ye hungry?” he asked, once the door was closed behind them.

She shook her head, and he moved towards the kitchen.

“Thirsty, then?” he said. The politeness of his voice was chilling.