Wolf, Joan (19 page)

Very slowly Lord Pelham nodded. "Yes. I think you are right." The prime minister closed his fist upon the table. "I shall send Marshal Wade to Newcastle."

"That would block any invasion by way of Edinburgh," Edward agreed.

"Very well." Lord Pelham stretched his shoulders. "I shall get a messenger off to General Guest with that information. It is essential Guest hold Edinburgh Castle."

"You don't need a messenger," Edward said. "I'll go to Edinburgh for you."

The prime minister stared. "You?"

"I have some business to attend to in the city," the earl replied blandly.

Lord Pelham had an idea just what that business was, but didn't dare to ask further. "Very well," he agreed after a moment. "You will stay at the castle, of course. There is not exactly a welcome sign hanging out for Whigs in Edinburgh these days."

Edward laughed ruefully and went home to make preparations for a journey to Scotland.

At the very moment that Edward was speaking to Lord Pelham, Van was having a similar conversation with her father. "What will we do now, Father?" she asked Alasdair as she caught him leaving the house after coming home to change his clothes. They saw very little of her father these days; he was almost always at Holyrood Palace.

"That matter is under almost constant discussion, my daughter," he replied a little grimly.

"What do
you
think we should do?" Van asked.

He looked at her consideringly, then evidently decided to answer, for he sat down on the stiff, uncomfortable parlor sofa and gestured her to a chair opposite him. "The prince is for invading England," he said, "and the chiefs are for staying in Scotland and consolidating our position here. The more successful we are in the north, the more support we will attract. Glen-bucket has come in, and Mackinnon of Mackinnon. And Cluny MacPherson. There will be more if we continue to hold Edinburgh."

"The English will send more armies against you," said Van.

"I know that well. But if we are Scotland against England, I think the French will come to our assistance."

Van looked at her father somberly. He was looking tired these days, she thought. The victory at Prestonpans had not given him the confidence it had given to Alan and to Niall. "Why does the prince wish to invade?" she asked.

"It is his right. His father is King of England as well as of Scotland. Which is true enough, but to invade England we need more than the clans. And your reports, Van, do not lead me to have much hope in the English rising to join us."

"I do not think they will, Father."

He nodded. "So we are better off staying in Scotland and waiting for France."

Van smoothed her skirt. "The war is a long way from being over, isn't it, Father?" she asked in a low voice.

"A long way, my daughter," he agreed. "Prestonpans was but the first step on a weary road."

She raised her head and looked directly at him, light green-gray eyes into darker gray. "Will we win?"

"If I did not think we could win, I would not have gone out," he replied. "But we can do just so much on our own. We need the French."

Van sat on for a long time in the parlor after Alasdair had gone back to the palace, her mind contemplating soberly and chillingly the prospects before them. As her father had said, it all depended on the French. If the Scots invaded England without French aid, the English would never rise to join them. The clans alone could not hold England.

If they stayed in Scotland they had a better chance of success. But if, as Alasdair suggested, they made this a national war—Scotland against England—and the French came in, still there would be no quick resolution. Van had been in England long enough to know that the English would never allow a bastion of French influence to sit peacefully on their northern border. They would fight to the death to keep Scotland.

The gulf between her and Edward had never seemed so great. There would be no quick or easy solution to this war, no peaceful mending of the breach between her country and his. In fact, it was entirely possible that she might never see him again.

She tried, unsuccessfully, to stifle the pain that ripped through her at that thought.

Van sat at Alan's bedside, her eyes on his sleeping face. His wound had become inflamed shortly after his arrival in Edinburgh and he had been very ill with fever. Van and Frances had taken turns sitting with him for the first week of his illness, but for the past few days he had been much better, and Van had become more his companion than his nurse.

Alan's head moved restlessly on its pillow and Van's expression became more alert. After a moment his lashes lifted and his hazel eyes found her. She smiled. "Would you like a drink?" she asked.

"Aye." He pushed himself up on his pillows and accepted the glass she handed him. "You do not need to be spending all your time with me, Van," he said when he had handed the empty glass back to her. "I am much better, thanks to you and to Lady Morar. I feel guilty keeping you from your own activities. Is there not a ball at the palace this night?"

"Aye." She put the glass back on the night table and went to draw the curtains more closely around the windows. She turned back to face him. "I have no wish to be dancing at the palace, Alan," she told him. "Besides, with you ill, whom would I dance with?"

"You would not lack for partners, Van." His green-gold eyes were intent upon her face.

"Perhaps. I don't know. I don't care." She came back to resume her seat at his beside. "Mother is just as happy as I to stay home. Father does nothing but huddle in corners with the chiefs and Lord George Murray, and Niall has no thought for anyone but Jean Cameron, so we are really quite deserted at these affairs. You give us a good excuse not to have to go."

"I am glad, then, I was not wounded in vain," he retorted. Their eyes met and they both laughed.

He settled himself against his pillows. "Tell me about Niall and Jean Cameron."

Van, however, was beginning to frown. Alan had the redhead's fair skin, but right now she thought he looked as white as his pillow cover. She hoped his fever had not come back. She got up and put a competent hand on his forehead. He was cool. He smiled at her in faint amusement as she sat down again. "Well, he certainly seems to be pursuing her," she said, continuing the conversation impeturbably. "At least I imagine that's where he's spending his time. We don't see much of him here."

"Niall has always had a flirt," Alan said comfortably. "I wouldn't refine too much upon it. Although Jean is not just in his usual style."

"Oh?" Van leaned a little forward. "And what
is
his usual style, Alan?"

But he only grinned and shook his head. "I'm telling nothing."

"Never mind." Van's voice was dry. "I can imagine. I've met his current mistress, and to judge by her, he likes an older, fleshier type than Jean."

Alan sat up so abruptly he jarred his wound. "How the devil did you meet Alison?" he asked, wincing.

"I saw them by chance in the Grassmarket the other day." Her eyes glinted wickedly. "I made Niall introduce me. He was furious."

"I can imagine," Alan replied feelingly.

"She's almost as old as Mother. And not as pretty."

"Niall's known Alison for a long time," Alan said defensively. "She's more a good friend than anything else."

Van's fine lips curled. "I'm sure she is."

Alan looked around the room and his eye fell on the book of plays they had been reading. "Aren't you going to finish reading
Tamburlaine
to me?" he asked hastily. "It was just getting interesting."

"Not as interesting as this conversation," she replied. Then, as he set his jaw and looked stubborn, she laughed. "All right," and she picked up the red leather-bound volume, took out the marker, gave one more amused glance at Alan, and began to read.

The course of Niall's love affair with Jean Cameron was not running as smoothly as he was accustomed to. He complained of this fact to Alan and Van when he came the following day to make a brief visit to his friend.

"Lady Lochiel is as good as a prison guard," he told them resentfully when Alan asked him how Jean was doing. "It's fine that Lochiel became Jean's guardian when her father died last year, but Lady Lochiel is overdoing her role as chaperon."

"How is she overdoing it?" Van asked curiously.

"I asked Jean to go on a picnic with me to Arthur's Seat," he said indignantly, "and she acted as if I were not to be trusted with a gently reared young lady."

Van was beginning to find him funny. "Well, brother dear, you must admit you don't have the world's finest reputation when it comes to the ladies."

He looked at her as if he could not believe his ears. "What is wrong with my reputation?" he demanded. "I'll have you know, I've never raped anyone in my life."

"Niall!" Alan was slightly scandalized by the way Niall was talking to his sister, but Van never blinked.

"Congratulations," she said cordially.

"I'd never hurt a hair of Jeannie's head," Niall said.

"I'm sure you wouldn't. But look at it from Lady Lochiel's point of view, Niall. Here you are, fresh from your Paris conquests"—she raised a hand as he started to protest, and continued ruthlessly—"living with your Edinburgh mistress, and courting innocent little Jean Cameron. Of course Lady Lochiel doesn't trust you. She assumes the first thing you'll do when you get Jean alone is kiss her."

It was, of course, exactly what he was planning to do.

Van and Alan looked at him, looked at each other, and began to laugh.

Niall stared at his brogues, frowning thoughtfully and ignoring their mirth. "I think I'll move back home," he said after they had fallen quiet.

Van and Alan looked at each other once more.

"Good idea," Alan said in an unsteady voice.

Niall rose to his feet. "I have been thinking of it anyway," he told them loftily. Then, to their disbelieving faces, "Be damned to you both." He grinned good-naturedly. "See you tomorrow, Alan."

He was in the hall when Van caught up with him. "Are you really going to move back home?" she asked.

"Aye." He looked at her in the light of the open door and said impulsively, "Why don't you ride out with me this afternoon, Van? You are looking rather peaked. Do you good to get some fresh air for a change."

She gave him a grateful smile. "I'd love to."

"Good. Change your clothes and I'll be back in an hour with the horses."

They rode out past the army encampment and along toward Arthur's Seat, both of them dressed in trews and plaids, both of them glad to be away from the city.

Niall spoke first. "Alan is looking that much better," he said.

Van smiled faintly. "Aye. Mother says he may even get up tomorrow."

"Good. That means he should be ready to join us when we march for England."

Van stared. "March for England?" she echoed. "When was it decided to march for England?"

He shrugged slightly. "It has not precisely been decided yet. Father and the chiefs are against it. But I think we will march. The prince wants to."

"I know that," Van replied slowly. "Father told me so. But the chiefs may prevail."

"I don't think so." Niall stopped his horse and looked at her. "What else did Father say?"

"That the success of everything depends still upon the French."

"I don't agree, Van," Niall said positively. "I think the clans can carry the day on their own."

"In Scotland, maybe," Van returned somberly. "But not if you invade England, Niall." Her lashes lifted and she looked at him fearlessly. "The English do not want a Stuart. If you think otherwise, my brother, you delude yourself."

"The Whigs do not want him, you mean," Niall retorted quickly. "The Earl of Linton does not want him. But there are plenty of squires and yeomen throughout the country who are loyal to their true king.
They
will rise to join us. You will see."

"The Earl of Linton has nothing but dislike and contempt for the Stuarts," Van said tonelessly. "He, and others like him, will never rest content with a Stuart on the English throne. And he is a powerful man, Niall. A very powerful man." Her lashes had dropped once more to cover her eyes. "I do not think there will ever be a Stuart restoration in England."

Niall stared at her guarded face. He said suddenly, with savage anger, "Dhé, Van, how could you have wanted to marry him?"

She did not answer and her silence only goaded him into further speech. "He is a Sassenach," Niall said. "Dhé, he even looks like a Viking!"

For some reason that word, a word she had so often called him herself, brought Edward to her mind as he had not been for quite some time. For a brief moment she had a vision of him as he had looked that day at Staplehurst, riding Marcus in the sunshine, showing off for her, he had said. She saw his blue eyes, so full of tenderness and amusement. She heard his voice. The king, he had said, must be responsible to the people. Her throat ached. And, out of an impulse of loyalty toward her lost love, she answered, "We did not like being saddled with a king we did not want. I do not think we should turn around now and do the same thing to the English. Let the prince stay here in Scotland, where he is welcome."

Niall's fingers tightened on his reins and his horse backed. Niall stopped him with a curse, and forced him up to Van's side once more. "You don't still have hopes in Linton's direction, do you?" he said. Then, "Stand, damn you!" The horse sidled and laid back its ears.

"Stop bullying him, Niall," Van said sharply. "You're the one at fault, not the horse. Leave his mouth alone."

"Do you love him still?" Niall asked. His voice was hard. It was the first time they had spoken of Edward Romney since he had brought her home from England.

"The heart is not so easily ruled," Van replied, and her own voice sounded a little muffled. "It does not always respond as one would wish." She looked over at her brother, wanting him to understand a little. "If you knew Edward, Niall, you would understand."

"Never!" His head went up. "Never will I understand how you could have wished to marry a Sassenach!"