As High as the Heavens (40 page)

Heather turned. Beth sat at the long table placed
against the far wall, her back turned.

"Ye can't know for certain he hasn't forgiven me. No
one can, unless they hear Duncan's denial from his own
lips."

"And pray, how long will it take before ye give up that
foolish little dream?" Beth glanced over her shoulder,
sternly meeting Heather's gaze. "It's over seven weeks
since ye two last parted, and there's been nary a word
from him. Even a lass as love-struck as ye should be
accepting the truth by now."

"I'm not love-struck!" Stung by her maidservant's jibe,
Heather lifted her chin in defiance. "But I'm also not
so certain Father told me the truth when he claimed to
have waited well into the next day for Duncan to return
from Lochleven, and that he never did. Think on it, Beth.
What if something happened to Duncan? What if they
caught him and he languishes in some dungeon? Or,
worse still, they've killed him!"

"I liked Duncan verra much, until he treated you so
unkindly. Nonetheless, I don't wish to think him dead or
imprisoned. But, if he is, what can ye do about it? Ride
to Edinburgh and demand he be released? Ye'd implicate
everyone in the plot if ye did."

"Och, and don't ye think I haven't thought of that time
and again?" With a frustrated toss of her head, Heather
strode to the chair set before the hearth and flung herself into it. "It's the one and only reason I haven't gone
seeking Duncan all these past weeks."

"As if yer father would permit ye to do such a thing,"
her maidservant said with a disgusted snort. She returned her attention to her gown. "Since the time ye
refused to wed young Charlie and he brought ye back
from the Setons, he hasn't let ye out of his sight for nary
a day."

"I should've slipped away when he left last week." Heather's lips tightened mutinously. "It's been like being
in prison these past weeks, and all because I can't bring
myself to wed a man I don't love."

"Ye spoiled all his fine plans, m'lady. Ye're no longer
his loyal, biddable daughter. He doesn't know what to
do with ye anymore."

"Father needs to let me find my own happiness in
my own way, that's what he needs to do! But he won't. I
see that clearly now. He won't ever do aught save what
serves him. And he won't let me go to Duncan. Not now
or ever." In spite of her best efforts, the tears began to
flow. "Och, Beth, Beth. I don't know what to do anymore,
where to turn."

"Aye, it's certain he'll never give ye to Duncan." With a
sigh of resignation, Beth laid down her sewing, rose, and
hurried over to her mistress. "Now, dinna fash yerself,"
she crooned, taking Heather into her arms. "All will be
as it should. Ye must just give it a wee bit more time."

"But what if I n-never see D-Duncan again?" Heather
sobbed. "I 1-love him, Beth. I can't bear it if I d-don't know
what has become of him. Och, I must know. I must!"

Beth grasped Heather by the arms and pushed her
back. "Even if, in the knowing, it breaks yer heart?" she
asked, scanning her face. "Even if, in the knowing, it
shatters all yer newfound hopes and dreams?"

Heather stared back at her. "Aye. If I don't seek him
out, if I don't know, I'll wonder all my life. I'll curse
my cowardice and inaction to my dying day. I must try.
Duncan ... our love ... are worth the risk."

Her maidservant smiled. "It does my heart good to
hear ye say that. I feared for ye after Rose and yer mither died. Feared their mistakes in loving would cripple ye
for the rest of yer life."

A sad smile lifted Heather's lips. "It may still. If he lives,
Duncan may yet reject me and break my heart."

"But if ye don't try, if ye don't open yerself to lovingwith all its inherent risks-ye won't ever find a true and
lasting happiness." With an ineffably tender look in her
eyes, Beth reached up and stroked Heather's cheek. "In
the end, it's loving-and only loving-which makes us
whole and satisfies us down deep to the marrow of our
bones."

Love ... It was indeed worth the risk, Heather thought.
Love of a man such as Duncan Mackenzie, love of life,
of honor, of family and friends. In the end, though, the
source of all love was God.

She had known that truth as a child and young woman.
She had rediscovered it when she had come to love Duncan. And she had accepted it once more, at long last,
because to do otherwise was to turn her back on everything that truly mattered.

No one walks through life unscathed. As if he were there
right now, Heather heard Duncan speak those words yet
again. A spiritual person, though, isn't destroyed or made
worse by the pain. And even our weakness, our doubts and
fears, can lead us closer to God if we let them.

A spiritual person ... A God lover ...

Heather smiled sadly. With all her heart, she wished
to be that sort of person again. A person like Duncan,
whom she'd never forget and always-always-love.

Good, brave, and honorable Duncan. A man she might
never see again or, even if she did, she might well have lost forever. But a man, nonetheless, next to the Lord,
who had gifted her as no other.

"Aye," Heather murmured, dragging her attention
back to the present moment, "down to the marrow of
our bones." She turned her head, kissed Beth's palm,
then took it and clasped it to her. "If anyone would know
the truth of that matter, it'd be ye. Ye've had two great
loves in yer life, haven't ye, first with Seamus and now
with Tavish."

"Aye, that I have." Beth gave a wry laugh. "Though
even I must admit the thought of wooing the formidable
Tavish Gordon was quite daunting. Many a lass before
me had tried and failed."

"He but awaited the right woman, and ye were that
woman.

"But I didn't know that. And there was many a time I
stood there, quaking in my shoes, before I gathered the
courage to approach him."

Heather sighed, shook her head, then released her
maidservant's hand. "As I quake now, contemplating
the difficulties ahead of me. If Duncan is still alive and
refuses to forgive me for my part in keeping the news
of his brother from him ..."

As if a sudden thought had struck her, Beth frowned.
"Och, aye, Colin Stewart. I'd nearly forgotten to tell ye
the latest news from Edinburgh."

"And that news is?"

"Colin Stewart has been imprisoned in Edinburgh Castle's dungeon to await sentencing for his part in Mary's
escape from Lochleven. Rumor has it Moray desperately desires a scapegoat. Because of that, Colin will most
probably be executed."

Heather went silent and still. It wasn't fair. Colin was
but an unwitting pawn, used first by one side to assure
the queen's rescue and now by the other so that Moray
might vent his rage at being bested, if only temporarily,
by those loyal to Mary.

And Colin would most assuredly die. Her father and
the other lords involved in the plot didn't dare speak up
for the unfortunate young man. To do so would implicate
them, with equally fatal consequences.

But to stand by and watch an innocent man die ...

"I need to find Duncan, if he still lives," she said, filled
with a fierce resolve. "Will ye help me, Beth? Help me find
a way to escape Dunscroft? Help me find Duncan?"

"Aye, ye know I will. And so will Tavish." She paused.
"What exactly do ye intend to do, m'lady?"

"What else?" Heather gave a wry laugh. "For starters,
journey to the Highlands. If Duncan escaped Lochleven,
I'll lay odds I'll find him there."

Duncan sat on the stoop outside his mother's cottage,
throwing scraps of meat from the deer he had just cut
and dressed to Cuini and her pups. The pups-wiry,
gray-and-brown balls of boundless energy-had grown
strong and healthy. Already they rivaled their dam in
agility and aggressiveness, if their speed at catching the
bits of meat he tossed their way were any indication.

The summer sun felt warm upon Duncan's face. The
scent of grass and wildflowers was sweet. After a fine midday meal, his belly was full. With very little encouragement, Duncan mused, it'd be very easy to lean back
against the house and doze a bit.

He had been home two weeks now. Though he hadn't
regained all the weight he had lost when imprisoned
those many weeks in the bowels of Drummond House,
his mother's hearty Highland meals had leastwise quickly
rejuvenated him. His racking cough and fever were gone.
Long hours spent outdoors in the fresh, invigorating air
and bright sunshine had restored most of his color. And
the care and concern of his mother and friends had been
a balm to his tortured soul.

Though he wasn't fully healed-and wouldn't be until
the loss of the woman he loved, not to mention the still
festering wound of Robert Gordon's treachery, a treachery he now realized extended far past what he had tried
to do in separating him and Heather, finally easedDuncan knew now he'd survive. He had only to endure
and permit the peace and joy of being home to soothe
him until, one day, the pain would disappear forever. In
the meanwhile, he was loved and needed here, where he
had always been meant to be.

It wasn't enough, Duncan well knew. Without Heather
at his side, it would never be. But, reality being what it
was, it was all he had. And, this time, he was determined
to find whatever acceptance he could in that.

"So, ye imagine true love will wipe away all the obstacles
in yer path, do ye?" his father had angrily demanded that
night before they had fought the reivers. "Well, Duncan
my lad, life isn't that easy nor that simple."

"Nay, Father," he softly said now in reply, his mouth curving into a sad, bitter smile, "I suppose it isn't, though
ye couldn't convince me of that at the time, could ye?"

He had been a fool in so many things. He had believed
he could best any and every obstacle that stood in his
way-winning Heather's heart and hand, overcoming the
will of God that had ordained he remain in the Highlands and live a simple but far more fruitful life-when
he imagined he was destined to achieve far greater and
more noble things-and, aye, even helping to put Mary
back on the throne of Scotland. Yet, in the harsh light
of reality, Duncan was forced to admit he had failed
in or been wrong about each and every one of those
aspirations.

In the long weeks of his imprisonment, he had thought
many times about taking his life and putting an end
to the tormenting admission of his failures. There was
nothing, Duncan now knew, worse than being held in
some small, dark, dank cell, with no idea when or if
you'd ever be freed. Alone and afraid, with nothing but
futile, impotent regrets to contemplate hour, after hour,
after hour.

There was nothing worse for a man raised to love the
outdoors and fresh air, who had before always found
his honor in service to others and his glory in unfettered freedom and an ever-beckoning sense of boundless opportunity. Yet, even in the blackest moments,
Duncan had refused to give in to that most tragic of all
despairs. Through it all, he had always known God was
near and wouldn't forsake him. And, armed with that
heart-deep certainty, Duncan had, in turn, refused to
forsake God.

In the end, he had come to the realization that he was
actually grateful for the experience-of both his failures
and his incarceration. Both, at long last, had opened his
eyes and forced him to examine, to compare, and finally
to put his lingering doubts to rest.

Duncan thanked God for that gift, though a gift welldisguised and hard won. But then, he admitted wryly,
the Lord had always been prone to teach him in such a
manner, more often than not cloaking His most important lessons within the garb of hardship and suffering.

Strangely-or perhaps not really so-he seemed to
learn best, or leastwise remember best, when the lessons
came with difficulty, exposed to the light of day in layers
of ever-deepening complexity and meaning. In the end,
what mattered most wasn't how fast he learned, but that
he learned and that the significance permeated to the
depths of his soul. What mattered was that he finally saw
the path the Lord had always intended for him to take
and that he took it, when settling for less would've been
so much easier. Easier, but also such poor recompense
for all God had given him and wished for him to give
back in return.

Those long weeks of his imprisonment, weeks in which
he hadn't known from one moment to the next if he'd live
or die, had forced him to consider many things. Things
like what truly mattered in life, and what were but superficial trappings easily discarded. He'd had his taste,
however brief, of the so-called nobler form of living and
had found it shallow, frequently immoral, and bitter as
gall. Life's true satisfaction-leastwise for him-would
never be found there.

His foster parents had lived a full, rich, and satisfying
existence. True, living off the land had been hard and
they'd had their fair share of disappointments. But their
innate optimism, courage, and unshakable trust in the
Lord, combined with their undying love for one another,
had always carried them through. Indeed, hadn't they,
after repeated failures trying to start a family of their
own, taken him in-an orphan of unknown heritageand showered him with love all his life?