As High as the Heavens (35 page)

"Fine words. Let's see if ye, in all honesty, can still say
them fifty years and nine or ten bairns from now. That'll
be the true test of yer love."

In all honesty ... the true test of yer love ...

Inexplicably, Duncan's words stabbed at Heather's
heart like no amount of guilt and agonizing over her
burdensome secret ever had. How could she say she loved him, how could she hope to build a life together, on the
treacherous foundation of lies and deception?

She couldn't. That reality, at least, could be denied
no longer. Vow or no, she couldn't keep the secret from
Duncan a moment more.

Wordlessly, Heather extricated herself from the warm
haven of Duncan's arms, walked to the chest-high clothes
cupboard, and opened it. Extracting a small, paperwrapped parcel, she turned and made her way back to
him.

"Here," she said, handing him the package. "I meant
to give this to ye on the morrow, but mayhap it'll have
more significance now."

Duncan frowned in puzzlement but undid the small
parcel. Inside, finely wrought in silver, lay a representation of the Scottish thistle surrounded by a wreath of
heather.

He looked up. "What's this for?"

"It's the clan badge of the Stewarts, the Scots thistle
is," Heather explained. "Colin's inordinately proud of
his own silver thistle brooch-a family heirloom-and
wears it nearly all the time. I had one fashioned by a
silversmith to look exactly like the one Colin wears."

"Down to the last little detail, ye've spared no effort
in assuring I'll appear like Colin." Duncan smiled. "My
thanks. I'll wear it gladly on the morrow."

Heather swallowed hard and forced herself not to
break eye contact with him. "There's an even greater
significance to that brooch than just serving as part of
yer disguise."

He looked at her, his gaze guileless and infinitely trusting. "Aye, lass?"

"Ye always suspected that I knew more than I was
willing to share about yer true parentage, didn't ye?"

Duncan's smile faded. Every muscle in his body tautened.

"Aye, that I did."

"My father made me swear not to tell, even before I
first met ye. Even then, though, I protested that it wasn't
right to keep such a thing from ye. Still, he was adamant
and, to my shame and growing distress as I came to
know ye, I kept the secret."

"Until now." He eyed her narrowly. "Why do ye finally
see fit to tell me now?"

"Ye asked me to be yer wife." She forced herself to
meet his suddenly hard, unflinching gaze. "I can't keep
any secret from ye again."

"Tell me what ye know then."

The request was little less than a command, but
Heather chose not to take offense. Duncan had a right
to be angry. Until now, she had temporarily sacrificed
his welfare for the sake of her father's and the queen's.
She only hoped that once all was revealed he could put
her knowing, if necessary, deception behind him. It was
the only hope they had, if they ever wished to go on with
their lives together.

"Ye were born a Stewart, not a Mackenzie," Heather
said softly. "And, as ye may have also suspected, ye've
always been the twin of Colin Stewart and never just
some uncanny double. Hence," she added, her smile rueful, "the additional significance of the Stewart clan
badge I gave ye. It belongs as much to ye as to Colin."

Duncan looked away. "So, Colin's my brother, is he?"
he finally replied, his voice low and drained of all emotion. "And ye and yer father would have me betray him
and the people he considers his friends?"

"He and his friends support Moray, not the queen!"
Heather cried. "In times such as these, sometimes it's
necessary to pit family members against each other.
Indeed, even Mary's stepbrother turned on her, didn't
he?"

"Did ye ever once think, though"-his surprising calm
as deceptive as that of the calm before a storm-"what
the act might cost me in terms of my future relationship
with my long-lost brother? Even if I don't ruin Colin in
the doing, what will he think of me? Do ye truly imagine
he'll ever welcome me home after the morrow?"

Heather hung her head. "I'm ashamed to admit that
I never thought of that. I only worried over the unfairness to ye."

"Ye didn't worry overmuch, though, did ye? Ye managed to wait until the night before Mary's rescue to tell
me.

When Heather remained silent, Duncan heaved a deep
sigh. "Well, there'll be time enough to delve more fully
into all that later. Just tell me this. What happened to
my mither and father?"

Relieved to turn the conversation away from her personal failings in the matter, Heather finally glanced up
at him. "Yer mither died birthing ye. Yer father, the Lord
David Stewart, soon followed her in attempting to put down a clan uprising. Before that happened, though,
he called on my father for aid. It was my father who
suggested sending one of ye away into the safety of the
Highlands to my mither's kin, the Mackenzies."

"I should've known yer father's hand was in this somewhere." As he spoke, Duncan strode to her wardrobe,
opened it, and began digging through her clothes.

"What are ye planning to do?" As she watched him,
unease filled Heather.

"What else? Wake yer father and demand that he tell
me the rest of the story. Unless," he sneered, shooting
her a dark glance, "ye know it all."

Heather shook her head. "Nay, I don't know it all.
What I do know, I've told ye."

Duncan finally seemed to find what he was searching
for. He pulled out a blue silk gown, turned, and walked
back to her.

"Here, put this on. Ye're going with me."

Shivering now, Heather took the gown from him and
hurried over to the dressing screen. Slipping behind it,
as swiftly as she could, she dressed and then slid a pair
of soft shoes onto her bare feet.

His expression just as dark and foreboding as when
she had left him, Duncan awaited her. There seemed no
point in further pleas for understanding. Heather stalked
to the door, unlatched it, and swung it open.

"Let's be quick about this, if ye will. We've both got a
long day ahead of us."

With a tight-lipped scowl, Duncan brushed by her and
headed directly across the hall. Just as he was raising
his fist to pound-not knock, Heather wagered-on her father's door, she managed to reach his side and grab
his arm.

"Allow me," she whispered. "Odds are my father's a lot
more likely to answer the door at this hour if he hears
and sees me first."

Without a word, Duncan lowered his arm. "Have at
it, then."

She tapped lightly on the door, then leaned close and
called out in a low but insistent voice. "Father? Father,
it's Heather. I must speak with ye."

There was a grunt from inside the room, the slap of
bare feet on the wooden floor, then the sound of a latch
being lifted. The door creaked open. Robert Gordon,
tousled of hair and bleary of eye, peeked out.

"By all the saints, lass," he croaked. "It's surely past
midnight. Whatever's the matter, that ye must disturb
my sleep?"

Duncan stepped around Heather and all but shoved
the door into his face. "I am the matter. And it's past
time ye told me all."

Muttering an oath, Robert staggered backward. Duncan strode in, Heather in his wake. She turned quickly
and shut the door.

Her father stood there in the long, linen shirt he slept
in, his spindly legs and knobby knees poking out from
beneath the voluminous sleeping garment making him
look so much like an indignant crane. His expression,
by turns bewildered and then outraged, only added to
his rather droll pose. There was nothing droll, however,
in the blistering words he turned on Duncan.

"Ye overstep yerself, my good man," he snarled, "to presume to enter my bedchamber at this hour and make
any sort of demands. If ye weren't so vitally important
to the rescue on the morrow, I'd call for the constable
to clap ye in irons."

"But I am, aren't I?" Duncan was quick to snarl back.
"And so ye'll tolerate my audacity, won't ye?"

Robert made an impatient motion. "Be quick about
it, then. It's come to the point I can barely tolerate being
in the same room with ye."

"Indeed?" Duncan smiled grimly. "I wouldn't have
thought ye'd speak thusly to one of yer own kind. And I
am one of yer own kind, aren't I? A nobleman, a Stewart,
I mean?"

The older man's gaze swung to Heather. "Ye told him
then, did ye?"

She refused to make protest of innocence or quail
before him. "Aye, Father, I did."

"Fool!"

"Rather, I'd say the fool was ye, m'lord," Duncan interjected. "Ye were the one who thought to keep the truth
from me until it suited yer pleasure to tell me-if ye ever
meant to tell me at all. But now I know, and ye'll tell me
all, or I'll walk from this room and never look back."

It was a bluff, Heather knew. Duncan would never
desert the queen in her hour of need. But she wasn't so
sure her father knew that.

"What do ye want of me?" Robert snapped. "I'd think
ye'd have already learned enough from my traitorous
daughter."

Stung, Heather lashed back. "Ye'd no right to keep it
from him. It was dishonorable and-"

"Enough, lass." With an upraised hand, Duncan silenced her. "It doesn't matter anymore." He riveted the
full force of his furious gaze on her father. "Who's the
firstborn of the two of us?"

Robert hesitated, eyed him nervously, then wet his lips.
"Ye are. It was why ye, instead of Colin, were secretly
taken away and hidden in the Highlands. That way if
yer father failed to subdue the uprising, at least the true
heir would survive."

Did Gordon tell the truth, Duncan wondered, or was
this yet another prevarication from a man he suspected
had lived much of his life twisting reality to suit his
own means? One way or another, it might be difficult
at this late a date to find many who did know the actual facts. But what if he really was the Stewart heir?
It changed everything, he thought, glancing at Heather.
Everything.

"So now Colin has gone all these years imagining he's
the heir." Duncan gave a snort of disgust. "What a fine
kettle of fish ye've now forced the both of us into. It makes
me wonder if ye ever intended to tell me the truth, or
just to let my brother continue to imagine he was not
only the heir, but the sole child as well."

"Or, even more to the point," Heather added, "why
ye waited all these years to reveal the secret. Until you
fashioned the plot to free the queen, there surely could've
been naught to compel ye to keep Duncan in hiding all
this time. The uprising against the Stewarts ultimately
failed, and no harm ever came to Colin because of it. Why didn't ye bring Duncan back from the Highlands
soon thereafter?"

Two accusing pairs of eyes glared at Robert Gordon.
He smirked and shrugged.

"I had other things of greater import to occupy myself
with and, after a time, saw no further reason to amend
the wee oversight. Ye grew and flourished there in yer
Highland home. And I had done all that yer father requested. I had seen to yer safety, fulfilled my vow to
him. It wasn't my responsibility to continue to meddle
in Stewart affairs, so I didn't."

"A fine and true friend, ye were," Duncan muttered.
"Or were ye, even from the beginning? This smacks more
of revenge than of loyalty, if ye ask me."

"Be that as it may," the older man replied, "time passed,
and then one day the queen was betrayed by her brother.
And, when I concocted the plot to rescue Mary using ye as
the decoy, I certainly couldn't risk telling ye the truth then.
The Stewarts are loyal to Moray. He's the man in power,
the man of the hour. I couldn't be certain that, once ye
knew the truth of yer birth, ye wouldn't turn to his side."

"So ye thought first and foremost to use me to yer
own purposes.

"Aye," Robert replied defiantly. "For the sake of our
queen, I'd do that and more."

Duncan gave another snort of disgust. "As if ye've
ever done aught for another, save when it served to yer
advantage."

Rage suffused the older man's features. "I don't have to
stand here and suffer yer insults, ye arrogant pup. Ye've
gotten what ye came for. Ye have yer answers. Now fulfill yer end of the bargain and be ready on the morrow. In
the meanwhile, get out of my room."

"A moment more, m'lord," Duncan said. "Ye said earlier today that my brother was to be apprehended and
held incognito until after I returned from Lochleven on
the morrow."

"Aye, what of it?"

"Where is he now?"

Robert eyed him suspiciously. "If ye mean to free him,
it won't-"

"I don't wish to free him," Duncan said, cutting him
off. "I but wish to speak with him. He is my brother,
after all. It's past time I meet him."

"And what purpose would that serve?"

"What's it to ye? I don't have to justify my actions to
ye.