The Pretender (19 page)

Elizabeth didn’t much care for having her words thrown back in her face. “Yes, well at least in London I
would have diversion. Museums to visit, books to read, gardens in which to walk . . .”

“Come with me.”

Douglas took Elizabeth’s hand and walked out of the byre. Up the slope behind the cottage, he led her through the knee-high sprays of heather and broom. He stopped once, and bent to retrieve a single wild rose, six petals of white. He tucked it behind her ear.

“This entire isle is a garden. Can you no’ see it? Just fill your breast with the air around you. The sweetness of the heather, the spice of the gorse . . .”

Elizabeth just looked at him, stunned by the poetry of his words.

He took her farther up the slope. “What is it you find in a museum? In books? Antiquities? Stories? You can have those things here, lass. All you need do is open your eyes. The very hills around you are more ancient than any sculpture or pretty painting you’ll find in London. If you’ve an ear to listen, their stories surround you. They are not hidden behind vellum and board.”

Douglas spent the afternoon with Elizabeth, walking the hills, showing her ancient stones carved with peculiar symbols, a cairn beneath which a Celtic princess was buried, even a knoll of oddly-shaped hills where faeries were reputed to dance by moonlight. And he was right. Each place, even a seemingly insignificant stone, seemed to tell a story of its own, tales of fierce warriors and beautiful maidens, love lost, honor defended.

They picnicked on bramble and cloudberry, drank water cool and fresh from the burn. The sun shone brightly, and a pleasant breeze drifted in off the coast, sweeping across the hillside like the flutter of a bird’s wing. Elizabeth
gathered wildflowers—bindweed, willowherb, and thistle—to sweeten the cottage inside. And when the stories had been told and the flowers had been gathered, Douglas netted salmon and they shared a lovely supper as the sun went down over the distant Cuillin hills.

It had been a day both of wonder, and of wondering. What was it that had brought her to that isle? To this man? Why should she want to run
from
Douglas when with him she felt happier than she could ever imagine? When he looked at her, deeply, with those eyes of blue, he reached inside to the very center of her, a place no one else had ever dared touch. He made her question everything she had ever believed about herself. She had always thought she knew what it was she was meant to be. But now, somehow, that life no longer tempted her as it had. What she wanted, what she needed, more than anything now, was to be Douglas’s wife.

They had reached the cottage, its stone walls swept a pearly white by the moonlight. The sky above was kissed by stars. The magic of the night embraced them. Elizabeth could think of no better time to tell him that she loved him.

She watched him stoop to kindle the fire in the hearth. “Thank you for today.”

“It was a fine day, lass.”

She turned, searching for the words—and the courage to say them.

“Douglas, I—”

She noticed him taking up his jacket then, his sword, his pistol. “You are leaving?”

“Aye, I’ve business to tend to.”

At this hour of the night?
“For a farmer, you know, you do very little farming.”

Douglas paused in gathering his things to look at her. “I’ve commitments other than this croft.”

“But when will you be back?”

“I’m not certain.”

“Tonight?”

“Nae.”

Elizabeth stared at him. “Tomorrow?”

“Perhaps.” He put on his bonnet and started for the door.

“What am I supposed to do whilst you’re away?”

Douglas never answered.

He was already gone.

The face that answered the door upon Elizabeth’s knocking was fresh and young and clearly confused.

“Seadh?”

She couldn’t have been more than sixteen, although it was difficult to tell from the soot that covered her from nose to her bare big toe.

“How do you do? My name is Lady Elizabeth Dray—” She stopped herself, correcting, “MacKinnon. Is the laird at home?”

Two eyes, wide and white against the grime on her face, blinked curiously back.

“MacKinnon,” Elizabeth tried again slowly, “of Dunakin? Do you speak English?”

The girl simply stared.
“Dé?”

Elizabeth showed her the books she had tucked under her arm. “I am here to return these . . .
books,
” she said, emphasizing the word as if that would somehow make
the girl understand. “They are the laird’s books,” she repeated. “Dunakin? Is he . . . by any chance . . . here?”

She waited a moment, thinking, and then rattled off a string of words in rapid and incomprehensible Gaelic.

Then it was Elizabeth’s turn to stare. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I did not understand you.”

The girl said something else, something that in English sounded a bit like “sausage,” shook her head, and turned, leaving Elizabeth standing alone at the open door.

“Excuse me? But what should I . . . ?”

She was gone. With any luck to find someone who could speak English. And not, Elizabeth hoped, to fetch her a sausage.

Elizabeth stood before the open door and waited.

And then she waited more.

She felt like a fool, truly, standing outside an open door which clearly no one was going to come to. She looked around the courtyard, wondering if there might be a stablehand, or a steward, or a cook. But there was no one. No one at all.

She thought to leave, set the books right there at the threshold in a neat little pile, but then decided against it.
It wouldn’t do
, her mother would say,
to return such a kindness without properly acknowledging it. It just wouldn’t do.

So she waited some more.

When another five minutes had passed, Elizabeth decided she would just leave, return another day, perhaps tomorrow. She turned, readying to go . . .

. . . until the clouds that had been gathering all that
morning suddenly broke above her head, letting loose with a downpour.

Shielding the books beneath her arm, Elizabeth ducked inside the doorway, closing the door behind her.

The place was cold, dank, and smelled of dogs and must.

“Is anyone here? Please, is anyone here?”

No one responded, not even the sooty young girl.

From where she stood, Elizabeth could see there was a narrow flight of stairs leading up, at the end of which she saw a hint of pale light. She started up the stairs and arrived at a landing that opened onto a corridor lit with torches. Several doors fed onto the hall, all of them closed. Elizabeth went to the nearest one, knocked softly. When no one answered, she tried its latch, only to discover a storage closet filled with linens and rugs.

The next door was locked.

The third, however, opened quite easily. Elizabeth gently lifted its latch.

“Excuse me? Is anybody here . . . ?”

There was no one to greet her, just a fire roaring in a huge stone hearth, bare stone walls, and books, countless many of them, stuck in shelves that stretched from the floor all the way to the ceiling, and left in piles on the floor.

She’d apparently found the right place.

A large desk, carved walnut and riddled with papers, stood off to one side beneath windows that were no wider than her arm. Rugs covered the pitted wood floor, and armchairs with small side tables were set at random about the room. A bottle of spirits stood open on the sideboard with a glass awaiting beside it.

The laird, it would appear, was at home.

Elizabeth crossed the room and set the books on a table. She skimmed the shelves, the furnishings, the floor, absentmindedly running a fingertip along the desktop. Perhaps if she waited here for the laird, she could thank him for the loan of his books . . . and maybe even entreat him for the loan of a few more.

She took a book from the nearest shelf, flipped a page, and started reading through the lines of Pope’s
Dunciad.

Yet, yet a moment, one dim ray of light

Indulge, dread Chaos, and eternal Night!

Of darkness visible so much be lent,

As half to show, half veil, the deep intent.

Elizabeth quickly became so engrossed that she didn’t hear the approach of the footsteps behind her.

“What’re you doin’ there, lassie?”

Elizabeth spun around, nearly dropping the book in her haste. She opened her mouth to speak, but the moment she saw him, the words died in her throat.

The man who stood behind her was younger, no more than twenty-five, far younger than she would have thought for the laird of such a castle. He was tall, with dark hair that was cut about his face in a manner that looked quite as if he’d used a sword and not a pair of scissors to trim it. He wore a tartan jacket and waistcoat in differing colors from his kilt. His bonnet was pulled low over his brow and adorned with the white Jacobite cockade. But it was his eyes . . . eyes that seemed to laugh even though he wore no smile. There was
something behind them, familiar somehow, that left her standing and staring.

“Get you gone now and see to your duties, lass. Dunakin willna take kindly to anyone intruding in his lib’ry.”

So he wasn’t the laird, after all. And he thought she was a servant, so Elizabeth decided to leave him with that. It was easier than trying to explain why she was standing uninvited in the midst of the laird’s study, a stranger looking through his belongings.

She set down the book as the man crossed the room and began pouring himself a drink from the open bottle on the sideboard.

“Tha’s a good lass. Off wit’ ye now.”

Elizabeth was so intent upon slipping away that she took a wrong turn out the door and found herself wandering down a corridor that only took her farther into the castle. She realized her error when the stairs she’d thought would lead her to the courtyard instead took her to a bedchamber. Thankfully, it was empty, in fact, it looked as if it had been for at least the past century.

Elizabeth retraced her steps, down the hall, past the study door, slipping silently through the shadows. And she’d almost made it, until she heard a voice that stopped her in her tracks.

“I believe we’re all assembled now, gentlemen.”

She recognized that voice.

It was Douglas’s.

Douglas walked into his study, nodding to his uncle, Iain Dubh, who sat before the fire. In the chair next to him sat MacLeod of Raasay. The two men were kin since
the MacKinnon chief had married the MacLeod’s daughter, Janet; they had been friends even longer than that.

Roderick stood at the sideboard, pouring a glass of claret. He offered it to Douglas, who took it as he crossed the room to his desk. In the shadows farthest from the door, lurked the figure of Douglas’s younger brother, Iain.

It had been nearly a year since they’d seen each other, but the memory of their last meeting, and the bitter look even now in his eyes, kept Douglas from going to his brother. He gave Iain a brief nod that was quickly returned. It was not the sort of reunion he would have hoped for.

“I believe we’re all assembled now, gentlemen.” Then he said to no one in particular, “What is the news of the prince?”

“A moment, Dunakin,” cut in old MacLeod, looking around the room. “Should we not speak in the
Gaidhlig?
”

“Nae,” Douglas assured him. “I’ve sent everyone from the castle except for a simple lass who does not understand the king’s tongue. I’ve set her to brushing out the roasting hearth in the kitchen. She’ll no doubt be at it for hours. We’ll be safe enough.”

“Aye, I saw the lass when I arrived,” Iain broke in. “Though in truth I thought her mute. Looked at me as if she expected I’d take a bite from her.”

“Saraid is a sweet lass,” Douglas said, “attentive to her duties in the kitchen, but simple-minded. We needn’t worry she’ll cause us any trouble. So what news of the prince?”

“He is on Raasay,” answered MacLeod. “I received
word that the prince needed to be placed under my protection. My son, John, and two of our kinsman have taken him to a bothy near the shore. But they cannot stay there. He would be captured for certain.”

Iain Dubh spoke up. “Aye, the prince must be moved. I have sent Roderick onto the mainland at Applecross to scout for a landing place, but he reports it is not safe to attempt it. There are too many of the government’s troops skulking about. They would be certain to see a sloop attempting a landing. So our only alternative is to bring the prince back here to Skye and then conduct him to the mainland further south. I have sent some of my clansmen out to Mallaig and Knoydart to assess where might be the best place to land him. Time, however, is of the essence. I received word just today that the two boatmen who rowed the prince and the MacDonald lass over from Uist have been detained and have told everything they know. Even now this Captain Fergusson is on his way to Monkstadt to question Kingsburgh and Lady MacDonald for their part in helping the prince.”

“I would say that has already been done,” Douglas cut in. He held up a folded parchment. “I received a missive from Campbell of Mamore just this morning. He is coming to Dunakin aboard the
Furnace
.”

At the outbreak of the rebellion, General John Campbell of Mamore had been put in command of all government forces on the west coast of Scotland. A fair man, he was not generally thought to be unscrupulous like his captains. He was a gentleman and conducted himself in a manner fitting that distinction. Douglas had attended university with his son, John the younger, and on Mamore’s advice had sought the counsel of the Duke of
Argyll in his attempts to regain Dunakin. Though many Highlanders resented the Campbells for their power and loyalty to the Hanoverian regime, Douglas had been able to put aside political differences and had maintained an amiable relationship with the clan.

John of Mamore’s sudden visit to Dunakin now, however, couldn’t have come at a more inopportune time.

As expected, Douglas’s announcement brought heated comments from the others. MacLeod suggested they put off the plan to move the prince. Iain called him a coward for even considering it. Doing so would guarantee the royal fugitive’s capture.

It was Iain Dubh who finally stood, silencing them all.

“The plan will go on as arranged. We will bring the prince here to Skye and then we will conduct him to the mainland. ’Tis good, this news of Campbell, because whilst we can engage the attentions of the general and his captain here at Dunakin, others of us can slip the prince away to the mainland from Kilmarie.”

“It is a good plan,” Douglas said. “A sound plan, and—”

The door behind them suddenly swung open and every man present took to his feet, pulling pistols and swords.

The young clansman who stood guard for Iain Dubh came into the room, dragging Elizabeth by the arm behind him.

Douglas swallowed a curse.

“I found this spy lurking outside the door,” the guardsman said, propelling her to the rug.

“I am not a spy, you—”

Elizabeth turned, her words dying in her throat as she faced one man after another. She finally settled her gaze on Douglas.

It was Iain who spoke first. “I thought you said she couldn’t speak English.”

“Who?”

“Your maid.”

“She’s not the maid.”

“Well, she is the same one who was here, in this room earlier, when I arrived.”

What the devil was she doing here?

Douglas glanced again at Elizabeth, who sat on the floor, eyes wide, mouth surprisingly shut.

Finally Iain Dubh spoke up. “If she isn’t your maid, Douglas, then who is she?”

Douglas glanced to Roderick. Roderick looked blindly back. Elizabeth was staring at Douglas, her eyes beseeching him to free her from the numerous sword points and pistols that were aimed at her head.

Douglas did the only thing he could. He reached out his hand and helped her to her feet. “Gentlemen, allow me to introduce my wife, Lady Elizabeth MacKinnon of Dunakin.”

“Your wife?”

Iain nearly choked on his claret. “But what about Mac—”

“It is a complicated tale, brother,” Douglas said, cutting him off. “Let us discuss it later.”

His brother wisely took the hint and fell silent.

Douglas turned to his uncle. The expression on the elder chief’s face was unlike anything he’d ever before
seen. It wasn’t anger. Nor was it shock. It was disappointment.

“I will explain everything to you. All I ask is that you listen first before passing any judgment.”

The chief simply gave a nod.

It took nearly an hour for Douglas to relate the circumstances of his unexpected marriage. Blessedly no one said anything about his betrothal to Muirne Maclean. They had other more pressing matters to consider.

“She’s obviously overheard everything we said,” Young Iain muttered as he paced the floor. “Her father is a Sassenach duke. She will betray us all. Unless . . .” He stopped pacing then, an idea dawning. “We could take her to St. Kilda, like they did that Grange woman.”

“Who is the Grange woman?” Elizabeth asked. Whoever she was, she didn’t like the sound of his suggestion.

“She was the wife of the Lord Justice Clerk of Edinburgh,” Douglas said. “She and her husband had a turbulent marriage, sparked by public quarrels and a good deal of broken glass. Matters culminated in her threat to expose him for a Jacobite and see him arrested and hanged for treason. Fearing a loss of his position—as well as his head—her husband had her secretly abducted, carried bodily from Edinburgh to the distant isle of Heisker, where she was held before later being moved to the more distant isle of St. Kilda. Back in Edinburgh, her husband staged her mock funeral, playing the grieving spouse in order to conceal his shameful deed. No one thought to consider that the casket buried in the kirkyard might be empty. The lady was left a prisoner thus for some fifteen years, eventually being transported here to
Skye, where she eventually died, just before the onset of the ’45, a madwoman wandering the beaches of Waternish.”