The Pretender (13 page)

No doubt Douglas sought to explain the situation and her father’s odd stipulation of the next two months. Elizabeth really had no wish to hear it again. She nodded. “Good night then, gentlemen.”

When she had retired to their room, Roderick motioned to a table in the far corner of the inn’s taproom where they could speak more freely. It was then Douglas heard the first true details of the fall of the Jacobites at Culloden.

“From what I have heard, they never stood any chance of victory. The battle, if you can call it that, was over within the hour. Thousands dead, or left to die on that bloody moor. Others taken prisoner or simply shot on the spot. I heard tell of dozens they locked in a barn
and simply set it afire. ’Tis a bloody, dirty business, this rebellion.”

“How many dead?”

“The rebels? To hear it told, all of them. But that isna possible. The prince escaped, as did others, although most of those who were in the thick of the fighting did fall, or were cut down as they fled. The only consolation is there weren’t that many who made it there to fight as it was. After Stirling, some had gone home to the Highlands to check on their families. They received the call to battle too late. Others simply deserted because they realized the cause was lost after the retreat from Derby.”

Douglas nodded. He had heard the reports himself while in London. In early December, the Scottish forces had made it into England, taking the town of Derby just one hundred and twenty-five miles from London. They had been on the very brink of victory; George II had given orders for his household to be removed from Kensington Palace—until a messenger had arrived bringing news to the prince’s camp that Cumberland and an army of nine thousand was fast on their heels. On the advice of his advisors, and against his better judgment, Charles had ordered the retreat. It would prove the turning point in the rebellion, and the beginning of the end for the Jacobites. It would also prove to be a grievous mistake—particularly when the report of Cumberland and his nine thousand men turned out to be fictitious.

“Whoever made it off that battlefield alive will be taken prisoner when they’re found,” Douglas said.

“Or killed.” Roderick took a swig of ale, grimacing more from the bitterness of his words than the drink. “The king’s son, that butcher, is giving no quarter to
those they find afterward. He’s a bloody fiend. He’s put a price of thirty thousand pounds on the prince’s head, aye, but it might as well be a hundred thousand. No one will betray him.”

Roderick looked at Douglas, then, realizing he was scarcely even listening to him. “Ye’re thinking of young Iain, aye?”

Douglas nodded on a frown.

“Dinna take the news of his death to heart, Douglas. Tha’ brither of yours, he widna be one to fall on a field o’ battle. You can be sure of that. He’s a survivor, that one. Always has been. Likely he’ll be there to greet you at Dunakin when you arrive, that idiotic grin pasted on his face and a story or two to tell over a dram.”

“I still hold out hope, Roderick. He’s all I have left now.”

They fell silent, taking swallows from their tankards as they each lost themselves to their thoughts. The fire behind them cracked and popped as someone tossed on a fresh peat. The ale flowed. From the shadows, a serving girl giggled.

Finally, it was Roderick who spoke.

“Well, I’ve been waitin’ for you to say it on your own, but it looks like I’ll have to ask. D’you wish to tell me what the de’il you’re doin’ married to a Sassenach lady when ye’re already promised to Muirne MacLean of Carsaig?”

Douglas looked across the table. “ ’Tis a long story, Roderick.”

“Aye, the best ones are. I’m for hearing it, too, afore you even think of going off to your bed.”

Douglas knew he would have to tell Roderick
everything. Truth be told, he wanted to tell someone, and there was no one he trusted better than this man. Taking a deep draw from his ale, Douglas swallowed it down, and began.

“It started when I came across a coach mired on the side of the road . . .”

When he finished the tale fully three quarters of an hour later, Roderick leaned back in his chair with a sorry shake of his head.

“Och, but you have a certain predilection for finding yourself a mess of trouble, Douglas MacKinnon. And that’s what that one sleeping abovestairs is.
Trouble.
You’ve just to take one look at the lass to know that.”

“Aye. I don’t plan to keep her long enough to get myself into any trouble. Two months. That’s all.”

“And what’ll you do if the MacLeans find her out? ’Tis bad enough the MacKinnons and the MacLeans have been feuding for all these years now. With your taking Muirne to wife agreed upon long ago, Malcolm MacLean will certainly not look kindly on your already having one wife when he brings his daughter to you to wed.”

“MacLean need never know.” Douglas looked at Roderick closely, and repeated, “He need never know. ’Twas Maclean who stipulated I must secure Dunakin afore he’d grant me Muirne’s hand to end the feud. Keeping this Sassenach lass for the next two months is the only way I am going to get Dunakin back. It will work. All I need do is keep her out of sight till her da comes for her. She doesna know I am laird at Dunakin, so I’ll set her up in the croft, away from the castle, and put Eithne to the task of looking after her. Set her to weaving or beating
the dust from the rugs. The life of a crofter’s wife is no life for a Sassenach noble lady. By the time these next two months are past, she’ll be begging to return to her da. I’ll make certain of it. I’ll get the annulment and, more important, I’ll get Dunakin. The marriage to Muirne will just have to wait a bit longer. I’ve no choice in the matter.”

It took a week’s time, shelter in a dank cave when they’d met with a sudden storm, constant itching from the midges, and a detour around a rain-swollen river, but they made it at last across the rugged Highlands to Scotland’s western coast.

With the exception of the one squalling storm, the weather had held uncharacteristically fine, skies dappled with sunlight, and the occasional mist, showering only at night, as if Mother Nature herself was making every effort to assure their swift passage. The scenery was breath-stealing. Elizabeth often found herself stopping to indulge in one view after another, awed by the stark beauty of the austere mountains, humbled by the still peace of a woodland glade kissed by an overnight rain shower. Sylvan lochs glistened beneath an onyx night sky, set to twinkling by the milky light of the Highland moon. The unspoiled solitude, the untamed beauty, it
was easy to understand why Douglas felt so fiercely proud of his homeland.

As he had since the beginning of their journey, Douglas had led them on a route away from the main roads, through tiny crofting settlements and thickly wooded passes that only someone closely familiar with the landscape could ever possibly navigate. Since inns were scarce they’d stayed at the homes of strangers and acquaintances alike, wherever they happened to find the glow of candlelight beckoning through the windows.

It was awkward at first for Elizabeth, this arriving unexpected upon the doorsteps of strangers, but according to Douglas, it was a custom longstanding for the Scots that hospitality should be extended to anyone in need. Questions were not asked of the visitor until after he had been offered food and drink, even an enemy was safe while beneath the protection of his host’s roof. It was a matter of tradition. A matter of honor.

Twice during the journey they had come within firing distance of the English soldiers, but Douglas had quickly found them shelter until it was safe to proceed. Sometime along the way, Douglas had learned that the prince had been chased to the outer Hebrides, and thus the focus of the search for him had shifted to the sea, making it far easier for them to travel from glen to glen unnoticed.

But grim evidence of the devastation that had been wrought on the Scots by the English government had been left in the soldiers’ wake. They saw carcasses of cattle and sheep, hundreds of them, had been killed not for their meat, but to prevent their ever being of use to feed the Scottish peasantry. They littered the stark fields,
rotting in the sunlight. In quiet glens far removed from the main towns, cottages had been raided and burned at random. Crops were destroyed, trampled or put to the torch, and any who protested were often shot on the spot. Yet despite the ruthless tactics, English to Scot, no one they encountered ever treated Elizabeth with anything but kindness and hospitality. They had every reason to be wary of her, but she was Douglas’s wife . . . at least in name. Thus she fell under their protection.

Not since that first night at the border inn had they again shared a bedchamber. Elizabeth had no notion of where Douglas slept, or if he slept at all. He always stayed awake when she went off to bed, chatting in Gaelic with their hosts by the light of the peat fire; when she emerged the next morn, he was dressed and waiting for her to leave.

Elizabeth wondered how he managed to keep from nodding off in the saddle as she so often found herself doing, lulled by the forest birdsong, the gentle sway of the horse, and the empty, endless track that seemed to stretch forever in front of them.

It had seemed as if they might never make it to Skye, until finally they stood upon the last rise, looking down on the misty Hebrides.

“Look there, the closest isle,” Douglas said as he pointed out Skye in the distance. His voice was thick with the pride she often heard in the voice of her father when he spoke of Drayton Hall.

Douglas was anxious to be home, back among his own people. For this last night, however, they would have to stay on the mainland, in a tiny seaside village called Glenelg.

They had just taken the lone road that gave access to the remote glen and its village when they were met with a patrol of British soldiers guarding the pass before them. They came out onto the path as Douglas and Elizabeth approached, their red coats conspicuous against the dusk sky.

Douglas had expected this and turned to look at Elizabeth behind him, his eyes dark with unease. “Put up the hood of your cloak, lass, and stay well behind me. Say nothing. I will do the talking.”

Elizabeth did as he’d bid, trying to ignore the way her heart was hammering in her throat as she followed him to where the soldiers awaited.

“Halt you there,” called the first of them, a squat, beefy man who narrowed his eyes from beneath a forlorn excuse for a powdered wig. “Where d’ya think ye’re going now?”

Douglas pulled his horse to a slow halt. “Och, we’re for Skye on the morrow, my gude mon, on the ferry fro’ Glenelg.”

He’d assumed a thick brogue, rolling his R’s and punctuating his words in the way of the country folk.

The second soldier came forward, taller than his companion, but no less belligerent. His nose seemed to wrinkle in distaste as he took in Douglas’s simple Scottish clothing and travel-worn appearance. Neither man gave Elizabeth more than a cursory glance as she sat atop her horse, her face shielded by the hood of her cloak.

“Skye, eh?” The tall one scowled. “And what business would ye be having on that filthy bit o’ rock? ’Tis a place fit for naught but thieves and rabble.” The soldier
looked directly at Douglas as he spat in the dirt at the horses’ hooves, trying to provoke a response.

Elizabeth saw Douglas stiffen in the saddle. Her fingers tightened nervously on the reins.

“I make my hame an’ my living on Skye, and I mean to return there,” he said.

Douglas had moved his horse in front of her so that she couldn’t clearly see, so Elizabeth nudged her horse closer, moving to the side. It was then she noticed the taller of the two soldiers studying the pistol and sword that hung at Douglas’s side. He glanced at his comrade, gesturing with his eyes. The other nodded and slowly edged his way back as they started grilling Douglas with questions to divert him. They meant to overtake him, she realized, perhaps provoke him into a confrontation so they would have just cause to fire.

Elizabeth looked at Douglas, trying to get his attention, but his back was to her. She had to do
something,
and quickly. So she did the only thing she could think of to distract the two men from making any further move.

“Kind sirs,” she said suddenly, urging her horse forward as she shrugged back her hood, “we understand the need for your vigilance in patrolling the area after the recent uprising, but we have only just traveled into Scotland. We are newly wedded and seek only to arrive home as swiftly as possible.”

Douglas turned to look at Elizabeth, but said nothing. Nothing at all. What could he say? If he had anything handy at that moment—a glove, a stocking even—he’d stuff it into her mouth and gag her with it. He’d been afraid of this. Curse her! Why couldn’t she have just listened to him?

If the soldiers had seen them simply as the Scottish farmer and wife he presented them to be, he had hoped they would allow them to pass without much questioning. And he’d almost succeeded in doing it, but now, with her proper speech and genteel accent, Elizabeth had just earned them a second, closer look.

The shorter of the two, and the one who seemed to be the more in charge, turned to Douglas then. “What be your name, Highlander?”

Douglas sat straighter in the saddle. “Douglas MacKinnon.”

The soldiers glanced at one another. “We’ve been informed of an Iain MacKinnon from these parts, son of the traitor Lachlan MacKinnon of Dunakin, who is wanted for treason against His Majesty King George. Perhaps you would have knowledge of their whereabouts?”

“I’m told my brother is dead.” Douglas chose his words carefully. “As is my father.”

“Is that so? It is reported they were both at Culloden leading a charge of MacKinnons against the king’s forces.”

“That is impossible,” Douglas replied. “My father has been in France some five-and-twenty years past.”

“Your father and your brother are known traitors to the Crown. What does that make you?”

Douglas’s voice lowered. “I did not take part in the rebellion. I have been in London. I then traveled to Northumberland to retrieve my wife before making my way here.”

“And what would a Scotsman be about in London?
Hoping for a chance to cut the king’s throat with your
skian dhu
?”

It was a serious charge, and one that could easily be pressed just for the fact that Douglas had been in London and had had the opportunity. Fear ran rampant in the rebellion. The authorities had detained men in the Tower for simply the suspicion of treason, sometimes for years. The fact that Douglas was Scottish was suspicion enough.

“I think perhaps we should take you both in to speak with our commanding officer.” The squat soldier shrugged, adding, “ ’Course, Colonel Lyon doesn’t care much for talking to Scottish rabble on Tuesdays, so you’ll have to wait till he can see you. You needn’t worry, though. We’ve accommodation good enough for you in yon Bernera Barracks.”

He gestured in the distance behind him to where a series of bleak gray stone buildings were huddled in a position of some authority over the whole of the village below. Once they were inside the Hanoverian post, Douglas knew they would never be released alive. He had only one option left.

He moved his left hand slowly for his pistol and had almost gotten to it when Elizabeth, damn her, urged her horse forward, deliberately placing herself between him and the two soldiers.

“Elizabeth . . .”

She ignored him. “Did I hear you mention a Colonel Lyon, Corporal?” she asked the taller soldier. “Would that perchance be Colonel Emery Lyon? Of Lyon’s Foot Regiment?”

What in bloody hell was she doing? Was she daft?

The soldier turned his full attention to her. “Aye, it would.”

“Indeed. Well, then, yes, please do take us to see him at once. In fact, we would be most obliged to you if you would.”

Apparently she
was
daft. And completely out of her mind as well.

She glanced at Douglas. Their eyes locked for a single moment, hazel on blue, as he searched for some explanation of what she was doing.

Trust me,
her eyes seemed to say.

And for some inexplicable reason, he did.

Douglas lowered his hand to his side again.

The soldier glared at Elizabeth. “And just who might you be, that you think you’re due the honor of the colonel’s company?”

Elizabeth sat up straighter in the saddle, lifting her chin in a gesture reminiscent of her father. The stare she fixed on the man was filled with every measure of noble arrogance she could muster. When next she spoke, it was with the voice of the daughter of the Duke of Sudeleigh.

“Please tell Colonel Lyon that Lady Elizabeth Drayton would like to see him.” And then she added with the slightest of smiles. “His goddaughter.”

Colonel Lord Emery Lyon came striding out of his offices not two moments after his aide-de-camp had gone to tell him that Elizabeth awaited him.

“Elizabeth, my dear child, what in the name of heaven are you doing here in the Highlands of all places? Good God, has something happened at Drayton Hall? Is your father unwell?”

At two-and-fifty, he was a vast bear of a man, standing a good six feet in height and surely half that in breadth across his shoulders. His hair, once golden blond but now faded to the color of tarnished silver, was impeccably dressed, pulled back in a trim queue. His clothing was neat, his manner faultless. He had known the Duke of Sudeleigh since their days at Eton, had spent summers at Drayton Hall, and had taken the grand tour on the Continent with Elizabeth’s father. For as long as Elizabeth could remember, he had always been a great jolly “uncle” to her, the one who had fostered her love of poetry and who had taught her to ride almost as soon as she had been out of leading strings. But it was his military prowess that had gained him his highest distinction, earning him the command of his own regiment, one whose reputation for valor and honor were unmatched among the English army.

The colonel took Elizabeth in a warm embrace as she kissed him once on each cheek.

“It seems ages since I’ve seen you,” he said, taking in her every feature with the skillful observation of a lifelong soldier. “How old are you now? Nineteen? Twenty?”

“I’m four-and-twenty,” she said, grinning, “and you know that perfectly well for you sat and listened as my father bemoaned my likely path to spinsterhood the last time he was in London.” She looked him direct in the eye. “Am I correct in saying that?”

The colonel nodded. “Aye, that you are.” He took her hand and turned to where Douglas stood watching the exchange. “But I see now that all his bemoaning was for naught. Here you appear from out of nowhere . . . and with a husband in tow.”

Elizabeth made the introductions, “My lord, allow me to introduce to you my husband, Douglas Dubh MacKinnon of Skye.”

The expression on the British colonel’s face went from one of genuine pleasure to one of mixed confusion and disbelief. Douglas could easily imagine the direction of his thoughts—the goddaughter he’d thought never to wed, suddenly appearing with a husband, untitled and Scottish at that.

But the colonel recovered soon enough to offer Douglas the appropriate response. “Mr. MacKinnon,” he said on a nod, offering his hand. “A pleasure.”

Douglas returned the greeting.

“So tell me, Elizabeth,” the colonel asked, trying to be casual, “when did all this happen? And why wasn’t I invited to the wedding? I admit I’ve been a bit occupied, what with quelling the rebellion and all, but surely you could have at least sent me a piece of the cake.”

Douglas stood back and listened quietly as Elizabeth spun the colonel quite a tale of their meeting and subsequent marriage, one with but a grain of truth amidst a wilderness of falsehood.