As High as the Heavens (42 page)

They waited until midnight to leave their hiding place
in Edinburgh Palace and creep stealthily through the
long halls to the Earl of Moray's bedchamber. Thanks to
Heather, who had learned a few secret nooks and crannies in the palace when she had spent time there with
Queen Mary, and to Duncan's special talent for scaling
walls and entering rooms through outside windows, less
than half an hour later Duncan was standing in the earl's
grand bedchamber.

James Stewart slept in a huge feather bed, his mouth
loose and slightly agape, snoring softly. A beeswax candle
burned near his bedside, casting a dim, flickering light
on the regent's face. Duncan passed quickly by the bed,
crept into the antechamber before the door, and gagged
and bound the manservant sleeping there. Then he unlocked the bedchamber door. Heather hurried in.

She shot a quick glance at the manservant. Though
he lay facing the wall, she feared the repercussions if he
should happen to recognize her.

"Cover his eyes," Heather whispered, motioning toward the servant.

Duncan pulled the pillowcase free of the pillow, then
drew it over the man's head. "Stay here," he whispered
back. "It'd go just as badly for ye if Moray recognized
ye.

"Aye." She gave a quick nod. "Now, hurry, and speak to the man. The longer we tarry, the greater the danger
becomes."

He smiled grimly, then turned and strode back into the
main bedchamber. James Stewart slept on, apparently
oblivious, Heather realized as she watched from her hiding place, to what was transpiring in his antechamber.
As Duncan drew up at the bed again, he withdrew his
dirk. Sliding it up beneath the slumbering regent's chin,
he paused, then gently shook Moray awake.

"M'lord?" The softly spoken words echoed in the nightsilent room, easily reaching Heather's ears. "Wake up,
but have a care for the dirk beneath yer chin. If at all
possible, I wouldn't have ye impaling yerself."

Moray gave a small start. His lids fluttered open, fought
momentarily to focus in the dim candlelight. Then his
eyes widened.

"Y-ye!" he croaked, staring up at Duncan. "How did ye
escape yer cell? Only this eve I visited ye, and yer chains
looked strong and solid."

"Well, then, I'd venture to say I'm either some foul
spell caster or not the man ye imagine me to be," Duncan
replied. "Now, tell me true, m'lord. Which of the two do
ye think it is?"

Fear and confusion, followed by a cynical assessment,
flashed in James Stewart's eyes. "Ye're another man altogether, aren't ye? Now that I look closer, I see the subtle
differences. Ye aren't Colin Stewart, that much I'm certain. But ye look enough like him to be his ..."

Moray's voice faded. Sudden realization flared in his
eyes.

"Colin tried to convince me there was a twin. I didn't believe him, though I'd heard the rumors that David
Stewart had fathered twin boys, not just one. But he died
so soon after the birthing, as did his wife, and when only
Colin was ever seen. . ." He paused, scanning Duncan's
face. "Then the rumors were true. And ye're the twin."

"Aye." Duncan shoved the tip of his dirk a fraction
higher, pricking the soft skin beneath Moray's jaw. "And
I can't have ye falsely imprisoning and mayhap even
executing my brother. He's innocent of all involvement
in Queen Mary's escape."

"Is he now?"

"Aye, he is. Didn't I just say that?"

"And are ye, then, taking the blame instead?" Moray's
lips thinned into a hard little smile. "One of ye must, ye
know. My mither assured me Colin visited her the eve of
Mary's escape, then disappeared from Lochleven soon
thereafter."

"I was the man who dined with the Lady Margaret
that night." Duncan's mouth lifted in a grim smile. "If ye
don't believe me, ask her about her offer to turn down
my bedcovers and tuck me into bed that night. Only
I could know that, and certainly not my brother, who
wasn't even there."

Rage exploded in the regent's eyes. "Smarmy cur! How
dare ye speak so of my mither? I'll have yer head on
„
a-

"Not before I have yers skewered on this wee dirk,
m'lord," Duncan was swift to counter, twisting his dirk's
tip a bit deeper until blood began to ooze from the puncture site. "And I didn't mean to insult yer mither, only to give ye some way of ascertaining the truth of my words,
if ye still had a need to do so."

"I-I believe ye," Moray gasped. "Now ... can ye ...
remove yer dirk? I won't ... call for help. I swear it!"

Duncan pulled back his dirk but kept it close. "I've little
time to bandy words with ye. Since ye say now that ye
believe my brother is innocent, only one thing remains.
Ye must pardon him and set him free."

"And are ye offering to take his place in the dungeon
instead?"

"Nay." Duncan gave a harsh laugh. "I risk enough in
coming here this night. I won't surrender myself to the
likes of ye."

"Then why should I let Colin go? Someone must pay
for Mary's escape."

"Ye'll give me yer word and scribe, then seal it, or I'll
kill ye where ye lie," Duncan hissed, bringing his dirk
up beneath Moray's chin once more. "If my brother can't
live, neither will ye!"

"F-fine, fine." Moray pushed the dirk hastily away. "It'll
be done as ye ask. But first, I've one question more."

"And that is?"

"Which of ye is the firstborn?"

At the question, Heather sucked in a breath. Duncan,
she silently cried out to him, beware. Moray's clever and
calculating. He asks ye that for a purpose, and the purpose
may well serve only him.

"Colin, of course," Duncan lied. "Colin's firstborn."

Moray smiled. "That is good. If it had been ye, though
I freed yer brother, I'd have confiscated all yer estates
when I declared ye outlaw."

"It won't matter, one way or another." Duncan stepped
back. "Outlaw or no, yell never find me once I leave ye
this night. And, with Colin's pardon, ye'll have no right
to our lands."

"Nay," Moray agreed wryly, rubbing the tender spot beneath his chin, "now I suppose I won't. A shame, though.
Yer ancestral lands would have fattened my coffers considerably."

Duncan motioned toward the writing table set near
the window. "Time's passing. Hie yerself to yer table and
scribe out my brother's pardon."

"As ye wish."

Moray climbed from his bed. Clothed only in a long
white nightshirt, he padded over to the writing table.
A few minutes later he laid down his quill pen, capped
the inkhorn, and began to wave the paper to and fro to
dry it. After melting the sealing wax, Moray folded the
letter, dropped a sufficient glob where the paper ends
met, and affixed his signet ring's imprint in the center
of the hot wax.

"I hope this will suffice," he said, finally turning to
hand the letter to Duncan.

Duncan took it. "It'll suffice as proof, in the case ye
ever try and go back on yer word. It wouldn't be a wise
move on yer part, if ye did. I got to ye once. I can do so
again."

Moray's mouth twisted. "I believe ye could. No man,
no matter how high he rises, is ever truly safe if someone
wishes him dead."

"And the higher a man rises, the more others have
reason to see him dead."

"It's a two-edged sword, to be sure."

Duncan pointed toward the bed. "Now, it's past time
ye were taking yer rest. Hie yerself back there."

Without protest, the regent rose and walked to bed.

"Lie down on yer stomach," Duncan then ordered,
"and put yer hands behind ye."

Moray eyed him calmly. "Ye needn't trouble yerself. I
won't give the alarm."

"Lie down, I say. Now!"

Meekly enough then, the earl did as ordered. Duncan
soon had him bound and gagged. He then rolled the
man over.

"Farewell, m'lord," he muttered, staring down at him.
"I wish ye good fortune in ruling a kingdom ye so unfairly took from yer sister. I'd wager, though, that the
yearning to rule far outstrips the inevitable reality of
the experience."

He turned and strode to the anteroom. Heather took
one look at his impassive face and quickly unlocked the
bedchamber door. The way was clear. They were soon
hurrying down the back hallways and stairs of the palace. Finally, though, Heather halted, pulling him into a
small alcove.

"What is it, lass? We dare not tarry here overlong."

"Do ye wish to try and free yer brother? I don't trust
Moray overmuch."

"He'll let Colin go. As sly and conniving as he is, Moray
isn't heartless. And he knows now that it was me who
helped free the queen, not my brother."

"Ye're certain, then?"

"Aye, I'm certain."

Heather hesitated a moment longer, weighing her next
words carefully. "And do ye not have a desire to see Colin,
and speak with him one more time? When he hears what
ye risked in getting Moray to free him ..."

"It doesn't matter." Duncan sighed and shook his head.
"Ye heard Moray. He'll declare me an outlaw. I can never
hope now to claim my rightful place beside my brother,
or demand my fair share of the wealth and lands our
father left us."

"That he left ye, Duncan Stewart," Heather reminded
him gently. "Ye are and always will be the firstborn, the
rightful heir."

He smiled sadly. "Duncan Mackenzie, lass. I can't be
aught more than that ever again, and long hope to keep
my head on my shoulders."

"Does that disturb ye, that ye must turn yer back on
yer true heritage?"

"Nay, not anymore. At long last, I am who I want to
be, and it pleases me. Pleases me greatly."

She took him by the arm. A warm satisfaction filled
her. If nothing else good came of all this, Duncan was
finally at peace with himself. For that, at the very least,
she was happy.

"Then come," Heather said. "No more can be done
here. The sooner we're gone from Edinburgh, the
better."

"Aye," Duncan agreed fervently. "The sooner, the
better."

By dawn, they were well into the Pentland Hills southwest of Edinburgh. In a thick stand of ash trees, Duncan
finally reined in his horse. A puzzled look in her eyes,
Heather drew up beside him.

"Why did ye stop? If ye imagine I'm too tired to go
on, ye're sadly mistaken. The way I'm feeling just now,
I'd wager I could ride the rest of the day."

"Could ye now?" He stared at her, his heart in his
throat, dreading this moment now that it was upon him
but knowing it must be faced, nonetheless. "And exactly
where should that ride lead-north to the Highlands or
south to the Grampians and Gordon lands?"

"I'll go," she said softly, "wherever the man I wed
wishes me to go."

"Will ye now?"

That wasn't the answer Duncan had expected. His
stomach gave a sickening lurch, then plummeted.

"So, ye've made up yer mind for Seton then, have
ye?"

For a long moment, Heather stared at him. Then she
laughed.

"Made up my mind for Charlie? Hardly. It's ye I speak
of, ye silly man. Ye do still wish to wed me, don't ye? Or
was yer proposal that night in Drummond House but a
passing fancy?"

Duncan's eyes widened. His jaw dropped, and he swallowed hard. Surely ... surely he had misheard.

"Aye," he finally said, fearing it was all some dream
and he'd soon awaken to a grim and most disappointing reality. "Of course I still wish to wed ye. Despite all
that passed between us in Kinross, I'll never stop loving ye, Heather Gordon. Not in this life or in the hereafter.
But"-he held up a silencing hand when she opened her
mouth to speak-"I can't offer ye aught but the life of
a simple Highlander. Surely ye must realize that, after
what I said to Moray."

"Aye, I realize that, Duncan."

She stared back at him, her eyes luminous, high color
in her cheeks. At that moment, he thought he had never
seen her look more beautiful.

"And will ye still wed me," he forced himself to ask,

"even if I wish to take ye back to the Highlands? Will ye
go with me even there?"

A broad, joyous smile lifted her lips. Happiness glowed
in her eyes.

"Most especially if ye take me back to the Highlands.
There's no other place in this whole wide world I'd rather
live."

"Truly?" Och, but it hurt to breathe, Duncan thought,
and his heart would surely burst in his chest, it was
beating so hard. "Truly, lass?"

"Truly, Duncan."

With that, he threw back his head and roared out the
Mackenzie battle cry.