Wolf, Joan (17 page)

Frances and Alasdair stood together and watched Van move onto the floor with Alan. Then Frances glanced up at her husband's profile. "Has anyone told Alan about the Earl of Linton?" she asked.

"No." Alasdair still did not look at her. "If Van wishes him to know, she can tell him herself."

Frances compressed her lips but did not reply. The music began and the couples on the floor bowed to each other.

"Where
is
Niall?" Frances asked. She had not seen her son since she arrived in Edinburgh early that afternoon.

His voice was impatient. "Edinburgh has many interests for a young man, Frances. He will be here."

Frances' hands closed hard on the delicate fan she was holding. This was how he had been for the last two months. He had shut her out completely. Her own anger had long since given way to bitter hurt. How could he be this way? After all they had been to each other. The love they had shared. It seemed now he could scarcely bear to look at her. She felt tears sting behind her eyes and angrily blinked them back.

"There is Niall now," Alasdair said beside her, and her eyes went to the door.

Her son was standing on the threshold of the gallery. Charles Stuart might be an impressive young man, Frances thought with a surge of maternal pride, but Niall's young male splendor was stunning. Almost every female eye in the room was on him as, poised and arrogant, he stood in the doorway and surveyed the scene before him.

"Cocky young beggar," Alasdair said. He sounded amused.

Frances smiled. "He looks like a youthful sultan inspecting a rather unpromising consignment of harem girls," she said, and her husband laughed.

Niall's eyes stopped suddenly. Then, with scarcely a glance to left or to right, he stared purposefully around the floor. Frances watched with intense curiosity as her son came up beside a small, delicate-looking girl in a pink gown. From halfway across the room it was evident how her small face lit up when he spoke to her.

"Who is that?" Frances asked her husband.

"A cousin of Lochiel's. Jean Cameron. Niall met her at Achnacarry about a month ago."

Frances frowned slightly. "Is he interested?"

"I don't know, Frances. He only saw the girl that once. We've been busy since, as you know." Across the room they saw their son give Jean Cameron his most devastating smile. "He certainly seems interested," Alasdair said dryly. He put a hand on her elbow. "Shall we go meet her?"

"Yes," said Frances, and allowed him to guide her expertly through the crowd.

Niall was pleased to see his mother and immediately introduced her to the girl at his side.

"Are you staying with Lady Lochiel?" Frances asked kindly.

"Yes." Jean's big brown eyes shone. "Isn't it wonderful, Lady Morar?" and she gestured with a small graceful hand toward the prince.

Frances smiled. "It certainly is."

"I see Van is dancing with Alan." Niall's voice held a distinct note of complacence and Frances gave him a sharp look. His attention, however, was no longer on his sister. "May I have the next dance with you, Miss Cameron?" he asked with his most beguiling smile.

"I should be happy to dance with you, Lord MacIan," Jean replied shyly, and Niall took her hand into his.

The present dance was not yet ended and Niall stood with his parents, watching Van dance with Alan, Jean's hand held firmly in his own. Frances saw the girl make one move to withdraw it, but her son's hand only tightened its grip. Faint color stained Jean's cheeks.

Finally the dance was over and couples began forming on the floor for the next set. Frances frowned a little as she watched Niall and Jean take their places. "He could hurt that child badly," she said to Alasdair. "He had better be serious."

"She's a pretty little thing," he returned thoughtfully. "And Lochiel's cousin." He stared at his son for a moment in silence. Then, "It would be wise for Niall to marry." He seemed to be speaking more to himself than to her. "We must make certain Morar has an heir."

Frances felt a cold hand close around her heart. She spoke with great difficulty. "Is there going to be more fighting?"

"General Cope has landed at Dunbar with an army. We are marching to meet him on Saturday."

Frances' hands were icy. An army. So far there had been a series of skirmishes, but the Highlanders had not yet had to face an organized army in battle. Her fingers closed tensely on her husband's arm, feeling its hardness through the softness of velvet and lace. For a moment the room seemed to swim before her eyes.

"Frances!" His voice was sharp. Then his hand was on her waist. "Come over here and sit down." She followed, blindly, the pressure of his hand and found herself shortly in a gilt chair along the wall. He was standing in front of her, shielding her from the view of the room.

"For God's sake." His voice was not gentle. "Get hold of yourself. This is no place for the vapors."

"I am all right." She was very pale, however. Her heartbeat was more rapid than usual. A battle, she thought. She looked around the gallery, at all the brilliantly garbed, high-spirited men who thronged the room. In two days' time some, at least, of this vital company would be dead.

Not Alasdair! she thought frantically. Not Niall!

"We can beat Cope, Frances." His voice was quieter, less impatient. "There is no need to be so frightened."

"I'm sorry." She tried valiantly to rally. "It was just so sudden. I did not realize there was an army that close to Edinburgh." She stood up. "I am all right now, Alasdair."

He looked at her searchingly, then nodded. "Come," he said. "I wish to talk to Lord Ogilvy."

She rested her hand lightly on his arm and moved with him in the direction of the prince.

"Is it true there is going to be a battle?" Jean Cameron asked Niall as the dance ended and they walked together in the direction of Lady Lochiel.

"Yes." Niall's light eyes glowed. He grinned at her. "The Sassenach are about to get a taste of how a Highlander fights."

Her eyes were great dark pools of feeling. "I will pray for your safety," she said.

"Will you, m'eudail? That will be nice."

Her eyes dropped at the endearment and a flush, colored the delicate heart-shaped face. She was so small, so fragile-looking. She made him feel he wanted to protect her, take care of her. It was not an emotion he was familiar with. His feelings for all the previous women in his life had been purely carnal.

"I like you in that pink dress," he said, and her eyes flew upward again. They were approaching Lady Lochiel now. He bent to say into her ear, "Wear that dress at the first ball after the battle, and I'll dance with you."

Jean stared up into his face. Once more he gave her his beguiling grin. There was something so confidently godlike in his look, his smile. It was impossible to believe that anything could happen to him. She smiled back, her heart in her eyes. "I will wear the dress, my lord. And hold you to your promise."

His eyes glinted but before he could reply they were at Lady Lochiel's side. "How are you, Niall?" Lochiel's wife greeted him pleasantly. "And how are the MacIans faring these days?"

He answered her politely, but his thoughts remained on the small, quiet girl at his side.

The ball concluded when the orchestra fell silent and a single musician, a harper, moved onto the floor. This was Rory Dall, one of the last great harpers of the Western Highlands. He ran his fingers briefly over the strings of the small Scottish harp he carried and said, in Gaelic, "This is my song for Teàrlaic mhic Sheumais," with a bow to the prince, "and for the raising of the standard at Glenfinnan." He plucked the strings once again and then began to sing in Gaelic:

There is mist on the mountain, and night on the vale

But more dark is the sleep of the sons of the Gael.

A stranger commanded—it sank on the land,

It has frozen each heart, and benumb'd every hand.

The dirk and the target lie sordid with dust,

The bloodless claymore is but redden'd with rust;

On the hill or the glen if a gun should appear,

It is only to war with the heath-cock or deer.

But the dark hours of night and of slumber are past,

The morn on our mountains is dawning at last;

Glenaladale's peaks are illumed with the rays,

And the streams of Glenfinnan leap bright in the blaze.

Ye sons of the strong, when that dawning shall break

Need the harp of the aged remind you to wake?

That dawn never beam'd on your forefathers' eye

But it roused each high chieftain to vanquish or die.

Let the clan of MacIan, whose offspring have given

Such heroes to earth and such martyrs to heaven,

Follow Morar, your chief, with the pipe's mighty swell

Till far Corryarrick resound to the knell!

True son of Sir Evan, undaunted Lochiel,

Place thy targe on thy shoulder and burnish thy steel!

Stern son of Lord Kenneth, high chief of Kintail,

Let the stag in thy standard bound wild in the gale!

Oh, sprung from the kings who in Islay kept state,

Proud chiefs of Clanranald, Glengarry, and Sleat!

Combine like three streams from one mountain of snow,

And resistless in union rush down on the foe!

May the race of Clan Gillean, the fearless and free,

Remember Glenlivat, Harlaw, and Dundee!

MacNeil of the Islands, and Moy of the Lake,

For honor, for freedom, for vengeance awake!

Tis the summons of heroes for conquest or death,

When the banners are blazing on mountain and heath:

They call to the dirk, the claymore, and the targe,

To the march and the muster, the line and the charge.

Be the sword of each Chieftain like Finn's in his ire!

May the blood through his veins flow like currents of fire!

Burst the base foreign yoke as your sires did of yore,

Or die like your sires, and endure it no more!

The silence in the long gallery was profound. Not for the first time that evening Van felt her blood thrill through her veins. They would beat the Sassenach, she was sure of it. And after they had set the prince firmly on his throne, England would have to acquiesce to an independent Scotland. She looked up at her father's stern profile and her own chin rose with pride.

"Come," her father said to her mother, "it is time to be going."

As the great room slowly emptied, the orchestra played yet another Jacobite song, this one with English words:

An' Charlie he's my darling, my darling, my darling, Charlie he's my darling, the young Chevalier

CHAPTER 14

Edinburgh in 1745 was still very much a medieval city. The main street, the High Street, was built on the ridge of land that ran from the heights of the castle on one end down to the Palace of Holyrood on the other. The distance from castle to palace was approximately one mile, so the street that connected the two—called the Canongate on the east side of the city wall, the High Street on the west—was known as the Royal Mile.

Frances and Van were staying at the house of a cousin of Alasdair's located in one of the narrow wynds that went off from the High Street and on down to the Nor' Loch that lay at the foot of the ridge. Alasdair's cousin was not in residence at present, so Frances and Van had the house to themselves. Alasdair had moved his clothes in, but they were almost the only sign of his residence. Niall did not even keep his clothes there. From Alasdair's short reply to her question, Frances gathered that her son had a mistress in the town.

Frances awoke a few minutes before dawn on Saturday morning to find Alasdair asleep beside her in the bed. He had come in so late she had not even heard him. The window was open, as usual, and the pale light of very early morning was creeping into the room. Frances sat up in bed and looked at her husband.

His back was to her, his head resting on his, arm, his hard, chiseled profile visible in the light from the window. He looked younger as he lay there asleep, but she thought he also looked very tired.

Frances clasped her arms around her knees and laid her head on them, her long brown hair spilling down over the coverlet in a shining, silken fall. Her hands were gripped so tightly the knuckles showed white.

He was going into battle today and the two of them were still at odds. There was nothing more she could do; she had made every overture of reconciliation she could think of. He would not be placated.

She thought it was his own doubts that stood in their way. If he had been truly confident of success, then he would have been able to forgive her her doubt. Then he could have afforded to be magnanimous, generous, forgiving; he would have been right.

He was worried. Even with the victories they had had, the triumphant entry into Edinburgh, he was worried. And he could not share that worry with her. She had declared herself opposed to his cause and so he had put her outside his trust. She was the enemy for him, a living reminder of all his own most private fears. And he was all she had.

He stirred. His lashes lifted and he assessed the time from the light at the window. Then he rolled over onto his back and saw her. For a brief moment something flashed in his eyes; then the shutters came down. "What are you doing awake at this hour, Frances?"

She swallowed. "I don't know. I just woke up."

"You should have awakened me," he said. "It's getting late." And he swung out of bed and went to the wardrobe.

Frances watched him in silence as he stripped and dressed. He would be marching at the head of his clan, not riding, and so he put on the kilt. "We have as many men as Cope," he said as he fastened the brooch that held his plaid on his shoulder. "This battle we should win."

"Where is Niall?" Frances asked.

"He bedded down with the clan last night. They are encamped with the rest of the army in the King's Park." His teeth showed in a quick, hard smile. "I am too old a dog to sleep on the ground when a bed is available."

He was fully dressed now and he came over to stand beside the bed. "Do not worry, Frances. I will see you soon enough."