As High as the Heavens (37 page)

She sighed. "It's past time ye dressed. Ye must depart
soon.

Aye.

"Do ye wish me to come down when ye're ready to
leave and bid ye farewell?"

A fleeting look of some softer, more tender emotion
flashed in his eyes, then was gone. Savagely, Duncan
shook his head, his features now set in an expression
as hard as stone.

"Nay. It'd be better if ye didn't. If I'm to play the part
of my brother convincingly, I need all my powers of
concentration about me. I don't need yer memory as
distraction."

He spoke true, Heather well knew, but his words hurt
nonetheless. "Suit yerself," she choked out. "I wish ye
Godspeed then, and a safe and successful outcome. If
ye can still believe aught I say, believe that."

"And believe me when I say that I'm grateful for all yer efforts in preparing me these past months. It was a
sacrifice for ye, I well know, but deeply appreciated."

His words, to Heather, sounded suspiciously like a
final farewell. She couldn't bear the implications of such
a parting. Her eyes spilling over with tears she could no
longer staunch, she fled the room, never once looking
back.

George Douglas lost no time in seeking out Duncan. As
the rowboat approached the landing at Lochleven Castle,
a handsome young man with blue eyes, dark, wavy hair,
and a ruddy complexion hurried over to offer his hand
in assistance. Before the boatman even had a chance to
tie the vessel to a mooring, Duncan had leaped out.

He took George's hand in greeting rather than in help.
"What a glorious day for a feast!" Duncan proclaimed,
forcing himself into the role of his grandiosely preening brother.

Pausing, he pretended concern over a smudge of dirt
on his snug black hose. "Och, I haven't even met with yer
sainted mother yet and already I'm soiled. Ye really must
see to it that yer men keep the rowboats more tidy."

Eyes wide, George stared at Duncan in admiration.
"Aye," he finally managed to stammer out, "I'll have a
talk with the boatmen forthwith. But first, allow me to
escort ye into the castle. It's a warm day. I'll wager ye
might like a cool swallow of ale."

They began to walk up the short, grassy embankment
toward the castle. As soon as they were far enough from
earshot of the boatman, George lowered his voice.

"By all the saints, Duncan. If I didn't know the switch
had been made, I'd swear ye were yer brother. Not only
are ye his spitting image, but ye sound and speak exactly
like him."

"I had a good teacher," Duncan muttered dryly.

His hand rose to finger the silver thistle that now lay
pinned to his doublet. Freshened pain at the memory
of Heather's betrayal battled chaotically with a fierce
yearning to see her, hold her once more.

Fool, he berated himself. Stupid, simple-minded, lovestruck fool.

"Aye, I'd heard that Heather Gordon tutored ye."
George grinned. "Now that's one bonny lassie. I was
once a suitor for her hand, ye know, before her father
finally decided on Charlie Seton."

"It seems every noble of any repute has been Heather
Gordon's suitor at one time or another." Shoving aside
further distracting thoughts of Heather, Duncan glanced
up at the guards walking the castle parapets. "Be that as
it may, before we draw any closer, tell me now. Are the
plans still as they were, or have any last-minute changes
been necessary?"

"Just one. Once he stole the castle keys from my
brother, Lochleven's laird, ye were originally to leave
the feast with Willie and, if needed, act as guard to him
and the queen. Now, ye're to remain behind for about a
half hour to keep everyone distracted so the keys' theft
isn't noticed. Then, and only then, are ye to join them at
the castle gates where ye'll all escape together."

Duncan frowned. He knew George wasn't staying for
the feast, having pled prior commitments so as to be available to help the queen escape Kinross once she
reached the shore. But there was something about this
new change that didn't feel quite right.

"And who will now guard the queen if someone discovers their escape?" Duncan asked. "Surely not young
Willie?"

"All I know is other arrangements have been made to
see to Mary's safety."

"Even so, a half hour's a long time. Do ye really think
it'll take that long to free Mary from her room and get
her down to the front gate?"

George shrugged. "It may. Hence the need for ye to
meet them there. If the keys are missed before Willie
can get her to the boats ...

"Aye, I know." Duncan sighed, quashing his earlier
misgivings. "All will be for naught."

"Not to mention," the younger man added with a sudden touch of black humor, "our heads may take quick
leave of our bodies."

"That would be preferable to torture and languishing
in prison," Duncan muttered. "But we won't dwell on
such dismal consequences. We've a mission to complete,
and complete successfully. The sooner we embark on it,
the better."

"Well spoken, Colin," George said, clapping him on the
back as they walked through the front gate of Lochleven.
"But first, before our cup or two of ale," he added, noting
his mother standing on the steps of the keep, "ye must
pay yer respects to the Lady Margaret."

Duncan's glance lifted to where Lochleven's chatelaine awaited. He plastered what he hoped was an appropriately delighted smile on his face. There was
no time left to worry over unexpected changes at any
rate. The first true test of his disguise was upon him. He
uttered a quick, fervent prayer and strode out alongside
George.

"Whatever is the matter with ye, Colin?" Lady Margaret Douglas asked later that evening, a worried look in
her eyes. "Ye've been unusually quiet for a time now. Is
the feast not to yer liking? Is there aught that disturbs
ye?"

Duncan ground his teeth in frustration. Aye, he
thought, clasping his wine goblet so tightly his knuckles
went white. There was much that disturbed him. Willie Douglas had surreptitiously appropriated the castle
keys nearly a half hour ago. Since then, as the minutes
ticked away and he waited for his predetermined time
to take his leave, Duncan had sat there in agonizing
dread that the theft would be discovered. But neither
Lady Margaret, of course, nor any of the others still at
table, was privy to that. So the charade, at least for a
time more, must play on.

"Nay, naught's the matter, m'lady," he said, turning to
the older woman on his right. "I was but enjoying a brief
respite by listening to the other conversations at table.
Besides which," Duncan added, faking an inebriated,
slightly lopsided smile as he lifted his goblet of wine,
"the excellent vintage served this night has set my head
to throbbing and addled my thoughts."

Lady Margaret giggled and laid her hand atop his. "Not so much that ye won't find yer way to yer proper
bedchamber, I hope? I'd gladly escort ye there, and even
turn back yer bed covers for ye, but then the servants'
tongues might wag and their tales cause a scandal." She
patted his hand with an intimacy Duncan found disturbing. "They can't truly understand the special relationship
we share, can they?"

And neither would they want to, he thought grimly,
taking in the older woman's appearance. Though she
may have once been the beauteous mistress to Queen
Mary's father, and borne him the bairn who'd someday
be the Earl of Moray and Mary's half-brother, the years
hadn't been overly kind to Lochleven's chatelaine.

Even in the best of times, it was said Lady Margaret
was a stem, dour woman not given to great sentimentality, save for a favored few, his brother Colin included. And
her attempts to slow the ravages of time with kohl-lined
eyes, red-ochred lips, and skin whitened with ground
alabaster, bordered on the ludicrous to a man who preferred his women fresh-faced and free of artifices.

But Heather wasn't here right now, and they might
never be together again, Duncan reminded himself, if he
didn't extricate himself soon from the cloying, strangely
possessive presence of Lochleven's chatelaine. He took
another swallow of his wine, then lowered the cup and
nodded with all the solemnity he could muster.

"Nay, they can't, m'lady. And what would it matter if
they did? They'd still be wrong at any rate."

She leaned back, withdrawing her hand, but a selfsatisfied, predatory smile hovered on her lips. "Ye speak
true, dear Colin. Indeed ye do."

Time to be gone from here, Duncan thought, before he
gave away his distaste for the woman and the dissolute
life his brother apparently was leading. "By yer leave,
m'lady. I've a need to withdraw to my bedchamber." He
made a vague motion toward his head. "The headache
doesn't ease. And there's always the morrow."

"Well, though this gathering will be far less pleasant
without yer presence, I give ye my leave." Lady Margaret
nodded her permission. "And, as ye say, there's always the
morrow. And mayhap even later ... this verra night?"

Duncan shoved back his chair and stood. "Aye ...
mayhap later this verra night." He turned to the laird.
"I beg pardon, m'lord, but my head throbs too fiercely
to be good company much longer."

William, in the midst of a rousing tale, paused and
frowned, but after a quick glance at his mother, sighed
in resignation. "So be it, Colin. The night is drawing on,
and all of us must soon be abed at any rate. Ye must give
me yer solemn oath, though, that, on the morrow, ye'll
spare me a few hours for a chess rematch. I vow it was
only a lucky move of yers, the last time we played, that
won ye that prize mare of mine."

"And now ye wish a chance at winning the horse back,
do ye?" Duncan inquired, well aware that was where the
laird was heading.

"Aye, of course, lad." William grinned broadly. "And,
since ye're still a guest in my castle ..."

"I've no choice but to acquiesce to yer offer," Duncan
finished for him.

William feigned an ingenuous shrug. "If ye wish to
call it that, then so be it."

"Then I'll most certainly need my rest." He bowed. "I
bid ye good night, m'lord."

"Good night, Colin."

With a final, parting bow to Lady Margaret, Duncan
turned and strode from the Great Hall. The cool night
air was a welcome relief after the stifling confines of
the stone chamber. The sudden sense of exhilaration
sent his pulse to pounding and his blood to coursing
through his veins.

If all had gone as planned, the queen and Willie Douglas would be awaiting him just inside the locked castle
gates. It would take but a few minutes more to use the
stolen keys. Then they'd soon be out on the loch, paddling their sovereign to freedom.

In the distance, frogs croaked from the rushes at the
lake's edge. Water slapped against the pier. Some night
bird called out, the sound sweet and melodious. But,
even as Duncan drew near the front gate, he neither
saw nor heard any sign of two other people waiting in
the shadows.

Unease twined within him. He quickened his pace,
crouching low to avoid notice by the skeleton crew of
guards walking the parapets overhead. Yet, when he
made the gate there was no one about. He tried the iron
bound portal. It was locked.

For a fleeting instant, panic filled him. What had gone
wrong? Was Willie, even now, still struggling to free Mary
and bring her here? But George had said other accommodations had been made to provide them with help in
negotiating Lochleven's corridors and courtyard. But if
that help had failed to protect the queen and ensure her escape, the danger was great that all their plans would
come to naught. Surely, now that the party had likely
begun to wane with Colin's departure, the laird would
soon notice the keys' theft.

Duncan hesitated a moment more, torn between the
urge to search the castle for sign of Willie and the growing certainty that he had been purposely left behind.
Such a dastardly trick would suit Robert Gordon well,
he thought with a sick, sinking feeling in his gut. That
last-minute change of plans, requiring him to remain at
the feast after the keys were stolen, had never set well
with him. Now, his worst fears seemed to have come to
fruition.