Wolf, Joan (38 page)

He pressed his fingers to his temples as if he had a headache. "Sackville, did you say?" he replied. "He's the Duke of Dorset's son."

"Do you know him?" Van asked.

He shook his head. "I know Dorset. I know Sackville was wounded at Fontenoy." He was sitting in the chair before the empty fireplace, his fingers still pressed to his temples.

"Too bad he wasn't killed," Van said.

"If it wasn't Sackville, Van, it would be someone else." He sounded very weary.

The tiger with Van began to pace up and down. "A duke's son," she said. "There is perhaps some excuse for the soldiers, who are ignorant, brutish recruits from the slums and stews of the country. But a duke's son, Edward! A man of education. There is no excuse for him. None."

"No," he said. "There is not."

"Well? What are you going to do?" She could hear the rising shrillness in her voice, feel the tiger she was trying so hard to keep hidden coming ever closer to the surface.

"I will ride to Knoidart tomorrow," he said. "They won't come to Morar if I can help it."

"When is this going to stop, Edward?" Her voice cracked. She was perilously close to screaming.

He looked at her. "They want Charles Stuart, Van. Albemarle has sworn that for the chance of laying his hand on the pretender he would walk barefoot from pole to pole."

She stared at him, her breath coming short and hard through flared nostrils. "Where did you near that?" She was standing at the footboard of the bed with half the distance of the room between them.

"I received a letter from my mother today. She directed it to Inverary and the duke was kind enough to send it on to Morar." Even in the dimness of the bedroom light his eyes looked blue. "She had further news," he continued. "It seems Cumberland's popularity in England has faltered as word of what is happening here in Scotland has gotten out. When he returned to London in July he was welcomed like a hero, but the tide is beginning to turn."

Van took a step toward him. "How?" she asked tensely.

"Well, it seems that when it was proposed that the duke become an honorary freeman of a city guild, the aldermen replied, 'Let it be of the Butchers' Guild.' "

Van's head went up. "Ah," she said.

"But the aldermen's reply is not going to change government policy, Van. For as long as Charles Stuart is free, there will be soldiers in these glens."

Van took another step toward him. "Would not the best thing for all be for the prince to escape?"

There was a long pause. When he answered at last his voice was very weary. "Should the prince escape, Van, there will always remain the possibility of all this happening again. For as long as there is a Stuart pretender, the Highlands will be involved in plots to restore him."

"No," Van said. Her voice was profoundly bitter. "We have learned our lesson, Edward. There is no way the Highlands will ever rise for a Stuart again."

The expression in his eyes was as weary as his voice. "Would your brother agree to that?" he asked. "Or Lochiel?"

Van looked back at him and did not answer.

"And the MacIans and the Camerons would follow their chiefs," he continued, "and it would all happen again." He pressed his fingers against his temples once again. "No, I am afraid that the best thing for the Highlands is that Charles Stuart should die."

The following morning Van watched Edward ride out on the horse he had had shipped to Morar from Ireland. She smiled a little as she remembered the look on his face when the animal had been unloaded. He was missing his own horses badly.

He was doing so much for them all, had given up so much. And she loved him so. But she wondered if the day would ever come when they could live together without the shadow of this war and this retribution there to darken and distort what they felt for each other.

She was not free to love him. At night she lay against his big, warm, life-giving body and felt despair and guilt welling up within her. How could she love him when she knew betrayal was in her heart? All she could do was live from day to day, waiting, waiting always for some word, some sign, that her brother was safe. Perhaps then she could begin to live again.

Like so many Highlanders who had fought at Culloden, Alan MacDonald had been hiding and running and hoping somewhere in his travels to find a ship to take him to France. His father had escaped, he learned from clansmen in Lochaber. The wounded chief had boarded a French ship in Poolewe that had .been searching for the prince. Alan hoped to have similar luck but it was mid-August and he was still in the Highlands.

It was his longing to see Van once more that prompted his decision to return to Morar. Perhaps he could get a ship from Arisaig, he told himself. And so he began to make his way west, from Loch Garry, where he had been in hiding for weeks, toward Knoidart and so to Morar.

Alasdair MacIan's kilt and shirt were filthy and ragged by now, and Alan's red beard was long and shaggy. He had been mistaken for the prince more than once by clansmen who had only seen Charles from a distance. Alan had often thought of how he would put that resemblance to use should the occasion ever arise.

He had made it to Knoidart when he was surprised by a party of Sackville's soldiers who were out rounding up cattle. He turned to run for the hills, where no English soldier could follow a Highlander, but Alan's luck had run out. He felt the musket ball thud into his back. The pain was terrible but he fought the mist that was distorting his vision. Dimly he could see a face leaning over him.

"Villains," he said in the last great effort of his life, "you have slain your prince."

Edward stared at the arrogant, aristocratic face of Lord Edward Sackville and made a heroic attempt to hold on to his temper. The colonel was dressed magnificently, in a fine scarlet broadcloth coat looped with gold, its blue lapels turned back to show the snow-white lace at his throat. Edward's own clothing was beginning to show definite signs of wear.

"Your men's behavior flouts all the conventions of war," he managed to say evenly. "You are dealing with a civilian population, Colonel. Your regiment's behavior has been thoroughly reprehensible and I protest it to you strongly."

Lord Edward's haughty, thin-nosed visage remained unmoved. "This is not an ordinary war, Lord Linton, as you are well aware. There is only one way to deal with this cursed country and that is by fire and sword. Nothing else will cure their damned vicious way of thinking."

Edward's eyes began to get very blue. "I might remind you, Colonel, that this 'cursed country' is part of Great Britain and that these civilians whom you are molesting are British citizens." His voice was restrained but the sting in it brought a spot of color to Sackville's thin cheeks.

"They are damn rebels, is what they are!" the colonel retorted hotly.

"Nor," Edward continued as if he had not heard, "did I ever expect to see an English officer degenerate into the role of executioner."

They were alone inside Sackville's tent. From outside Edward could hear the lowing of the great herd of cattle the English had collected to drive back to Fort Augustus.

"You will retract those words, sir!" Sackville said sharply.

"I will do no such thing." Linton's eyes were like ice, his mouth a thin line in his suntanned face. "And I tell you now, Sackville, do not dare try to cross your troops into Morar or I will have you up before Parliament." The hold Edward had been keeping on his temper was beginning to slip. He hoped very much at that moment that Sackville would challenge him to a duel. He would like nothing more than to put his sword through the bastard's black heart.

Sackville read the look in Edward's eyes very well and took a slight step backward. He did not want to challenge Linton, either politically or personally. The earl had the edge over him on both counts, and he knew it.

"I have no intention of entering Morar," he was beginning, when a soldier appeared at the door of his tent.

"A search party has just come back with a dead body, Colonel," the man said with visible excitement. "They think it is the pretender!"

"What! Where?" Sackville was out the door of his tent in a moment. Edward followed more slowly. One body, the men had said. If it were indeed the prince, where was Niall?

A
horse was coming into camp with a body tied across its back. Sackville issued a sharp order and the body was lifted off and laid stretched out upon the ground. Edward walked over and looked down.

The dead face was young and the hair and the beard were distinctly reddish in color. Edward looked at the ragged kilt and filthy shirt. The height was about right. It could be Charles Stuart.

"He said, 'Villains, you have slain your prince,' " one of the soldiers was telling Sackville. Edward knelt down and looked into the dead man's eyes. Then, with gentle fingers, he smoothed them shut.

"What do you think, Linton? Have you ever seen the Old Pretender's son?" It was Sackville speaking. His face wore a strangely greedy look. Capturing the prince would be a major coup for him.

Edward scarcely made an attempt to conceal the distaste he felt. "No, I have not." He looked once more at Sackville and then said slowly, "By all reports, however, this man fits the description."

"Yes. He does. But I would like to be certain." Sackville walked over to stare down at the dead man on the ground. What a plum for him should this truly be the prince! "Is there no one in the area who can identify the pretender?" he asked.

"You have killed every man who could possibly have fought in his army," Edward replied.

Sackville's thin nose looked even sharper. He gave Edward a vicious look and did not reply.

Edward also looked at the figure on the ground, but the expression in his eyes was not greed but pity. After a moment Edward said, "My wife has met the Young Pretender. Perhaps she may be induced to come and identify him."

"Your wife," said Sackville. "Morar's daughter...Yes." He stared at Edward. "Will you send for her, my lord?"

"I will ask her if she feels up to the task," Edward replied, and looked once more on the still face of the red-haired young man before he went to find his horse.

He was back in Morar by early afternoon. Van was in the garden and he sent Morag to find her and ask her to return to the house. He waited for her in the office, an abstracted frown on his face.

She came in, looking alarmed. "What is it, Edward? you are back very soon. Did you see Sackville?"

"Yes, I saw Sackville." He gestured to a chair. "Sit down, Van."

She was very pale as she took the chair he had indicated. "Is he coming to Morar after all?"

"No." His mouth smiled reassuringly, although his eyes remained grave. Van's face did not lose its expression of apprehension. "Sweetheart," he said gently, "Sackville thinks he has got the prince."

"Got the prince!" Her eyes were huge and fearful. "And Niall?"

"There is no sign of Niall." She relaxed visibly and he let out a long, slow breath. "What they have got, Van, is actually a body they think may be the prince."

Her black brows drew together. "A body. A dead body?"

"Yes." And he told her what had happened on the hillside. "Needless to say, Sackville hopes very much that it
is
the prince," he concluded, "but he needs another source of identification."

Van stared at her husband's contained face. "Do
you
think it is the prince, Edward?"

"I don't know. The description fits, certainly, but, you see, I have never met the prince. Nor has anyone in Sackville's command."

"And I have." Her words were slow and drawn out.

"And you have." She could not quite fathom his expression. "If you feel you can do it, Van, Sackville would like you to come and look at the body. If you feel you cannot, I will be glad to tell him so."

She stared intently into his face, trying to understand what he might be thinking. His eyes were unreadable. She drew a sharp breath. "I will come," she said.

"Very well," He looked at her dirt-stained dress. "Why don't you change into trews and I'll have a pony made ready for you?"

"All right." She shot another look at his face before she left to go to her room to change.

They arrived back at the English camp late that afternoon. Colonel Sackville stood at the opening to his tent and watched the tall blond English earl crossing the ground toward him. His eyes went to the slender black-haired girl at Linton's side. "Lady Linton," he said formally. "I am grateful for your assistance in this matter."

The girl's great light eyes flicked once across his face. The colonel felt color sting into his cheeks. There was no doubt at all what the Countess of Linton thought of him. "Where is he?" she asked in perfectly cultured English.

"In the tent over there." He looked at the earl. "If you will come this way?"

Linton nodded. "Are you ready, Van?" he asked his wife.

"Yes." She walked steadily between the two men, her eyes on the tent which might hold the body of the prince. She did not know what it was she hoped to see. If it were indeed Charles Stuart, then this ugly chapter in her country's history might finally be closed. Niall could be got away to France. But to see him in the hands of these Sassenach, their bonnie prince... She drew a deep, steadying breath and walked with Edward into the tent.

He was lying on a blanket on the ground and she recognized him instantly. She went white to the lips at the sight of that dead face and her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Dear God. Dear God. Dear God. It was Alan.

From a very long way away she heard Edward's voice. "Do you recognize him. Van?"

"Aye." Her own voice was deep and husky and full of emotion. She went down on her knees and bent to press her lips to the dead man's forehead. It was cold as ice under her mouth.
Ailein, Ailein, Ailein,
her heart cried out in silence. She rose to her feet and looked at Sackville. "It is the prince," she said clearly, and walked out of the tent.

"Well, there's no doubt that she recognized him," Sackville said with satisfaction to his second in command after Van and Edward had left once again for Morar. "She went white as a ghost."