Beloved Imposter (4 page)

Janet’s eyes met hers.

“Felicia, are you quite determined to do this?” Janet’s voice broke with worry.

“I am,” Felicia said.

“If they discover who you are, they will bring you back. Your uncle will be very angry.”

“He cannot do anything more to me than what he has already done,” Felicia said. “If only I can get to London…”

“But how?”

“I’ll travel as a boy to London. I have my mother’s jewels. I can sell them if necessary. If I can find Jamie, I think he will help me.”

“But you are a woman.”

And gently born women did not travel alone
. Many terrible things could happen, which was why she intended to pose as a lad. But she knew her fate if she remained in Scotland.

Her silence prompted another question from Janet. “How will you lose the escorts?”

“I have an idea or two,” Felicia replied, once more feeling a stab of guilt at not telling her friend that she had already taken some action to make escape easier. The less Janet knew, the safer she would be. Her friend did not lie well.

Neither did she. But now her life and future were at risk, and desperation made possible actions that had been unthinkable before.

“Then what?” Janet asked.

“There are many caves in the area,” Felicia replied. “Jamie used to take me exploring. He said I should know where to hide if I were ever caught outside the gates.” If she could reach them, she could hide for several days, then travel as a lad to London, to Jamie. He would find a way to assist her, and in London he could do it without anyone knowing.

She realized it was not a particularly clever plan. In fact, it was not even a plan, just a desperate, headlong escape.

“Jamie
will
help you,” Janet assured her. Her face softened as she mentioned Jamie’s name. “He cares for you,” she said. “He feels you are the only one in this family who has truly loved him.”

Felicia was startled by the observation. Jamie seldom expressed his feelings. She knew that there was little affection between him and his father.

In the back of her mind were many questions and fears she would not admit to Janet. Could she ask Jamie to risk his future, even his life to help her? The only possible way she could ask for his assistance was if she could do it in a way that no one would ever know his connection with her disappearance.

Janet helped her pull her long red hair into a cap so that not a single tendril escaped. Then she assisted her with the cloak and plaid that wrapped around most of her face.

Felicia went to the window. “They are mounted and waiting.” She went over to Janet and put her arms around her in a hug. “I will never forget you for this. Thank you.”

“Just be safe. Find a way to let me know you are.”

“I will. God keep you.”

“And you.”

Felicia tried to still the trembling in her hands. She was leaving everything she knew for an uncertain future. If she were discovered, her uncle would keep her captive until the wedding. He most probably would do more.

She swallowed the bile in her throat.

She was alone. So very alone.

She hurried down the stone steps to the great hall, then out the door. Ten mounted men waited for her.

The rain had slowed to a fine drizzle, but a light fog enveloped the distant hills. The cold temperatures would make the day miserable for all of them. The men were obviously anxious to get under way.

One soldier, obviously the leader, gave his reins to a mounted man and helped her mount. She nodded her thanks as she swung up on the saddle. Thank God both she and Janet were good riders. And she knew Janet’s white mare. Somehow, she vowed silently, she would get the well-mannered horse back to her friend.

“My lady,” the soldier said. “We will make the journey as comfortable as possible.”

She nodded again.

The first deception had succeeded. Perhaps the mist and fog would assist her escape. She prayed that both held.

She held her breath as they departed through the gates. Another small success.

As if in answer to her prayer, the fog deepened, obscuring everything but the rider directly ahead and directly behind. If it would last only a few more hours.

She prayed harder.

Janet’s maid rode just behind her, bouncing up and down like a sack of potatoes, and close behind her rode two men. The others rode in front, the leader often looking back to see whether she was still with them.

Despite the slice in the girths, she knew they would not part without strain. She needed to increase the pace and the pressure on the girths. She looked around. No one was looking at her.

The trail widened. The fog was still thick. This was her chance!

She dug her heels into the sides of the mare. The mare bolted, running past the forward member of the guard. She screamed for help, then held on for dear life. She heard the shouts of her escort, the pound of hooves behind her. The mare was frantic now, and Felicia did nothing to curb her. A horseman approached close to her side, reaching for her reins when he cried out and she saw him tumble from the saddle.

Another horseman drew close. She glanced back, screamed as if in terror, then he, too, fell. Shouts and curses followed her as her mare ran into another thick patch of fog.

She worked the reins, managed to regain control but slowed the pace only slightly. The shouts continued behind her. She noticed an opening to the left and abruptly guided the mare into it and dismounted. The mare shuddered, and she ran her hand down her neck to calm her.

The human noises faded as she walked swiftly. She was not sure where she was. She would worry about that later. She wanted to put distance between the escort and herself. But first she had to calm the horse and make sure the mare did not stumble into some hole.

She left the faint trail and moved into the forest. The going was much slower now. The fog confused her sense of direction. She stopped frequently to listen for voices or the sound of horses.

Minutes passed. She hurried her steps, praying she was going in the right direction.

Her feet sank into wet ground. Her skirts were heavy and laden with moisture. Still, her only concern was reaching the hills and caves. She could hide there until they stopped searching the area.

A hand suddenly clasped her arm, another stifling the scream that rose in her throat. A piece of cloth was expertly tied around her mouth, and she felt herself being hoisted onto a horse.

Fear spiked inside her as a body rose behind her. Thick arms imprisoned her and grasped the reins of a horse far larger than the mare she’d been leading.

The Camerons?

But they wouldn’t treat their lady in such a way. Nor would they gag her if they had discovered her deceit. Her body necessarily leaned against what seemed an enormous man.

“Ye will no’ be harmed,” came a whisper in her ear.

Then without any additional words from the man, the horse plunged back onto a trail, and she was aware only of speed and strength.

She had escaped.

But to what?

Chapter 3

“Where in the devil is Archibald?”

Rory faced Douglas in the room that served them both as an office.

Douglas raised his eyes upward, as if appealing to a higher being. “I canna say, my lord.”

“Can not or will not?”

“Archibald goes his own way.” Douglas avoided answering the question.

“Aye, and so do too many on this property,” Rory said without trying to disguise his displeasure. “I do not think my father tolerated such disrespect.”

“I do no’ think Archibald meant any disrespect,” Douglas said. “He has always had the clan’s interest at heart.”

His gaze didn’t meet Rory’s, and that was rare. Douglas was the most forthright man Rory knew, particularly in the Scottish highlands, which too often bred duplicitous scoundrels.

Rory was getting a very bad feeling.

“I want to make peace with the Campbells,” he warned.

“You made that clear,” Douglas said. “But they burned some of our crofts to the north. If we do not retaliate beyond reclaiming our cattle, they will continue their burning and stealing.”

“I plan to meet with the Campbell in Edinburgh. A truce would help both clans.”

” Tis a fine dream, but I fear an impossible one. We have been fighting near a hundred years, ever since—”

“Then it is time to end it. There has been enough pain and death. Both the Campbells and Macleans are losing cattle and men. Even power. An alliance would gain us both.”

“And put the curse to rest,” Douglas added.

Rory glared at him. God’s blood, he hated the very mention of that damned curse.

He told himself he was a modern man. He did not believe in curses. Many women died in childbirth. Many lost their child as well. And his second wife? Fever had swept through Leith, the seaport near Edinburgh. His wife was one of many who died.

Bloody bad luck. Nothing more.

Still, the pain was always in him like the tip of a poisoned spear. He lived with loneliness. With fear. With memories.

Maggie walking among the heather, her eyes lit with laughter and love and the pure joy of living.

Maggie giggling as she told him they would have a child. A son. She was quite convinced of it.

Maggie as she clutched his hand and tried gallantly to stifle screams when the baby wouldn’t come and she bled to death.

Maggie who had been his first love, who had stolen his heart and never disappointed. She had thought otherwise. Her last words were, “I am sorry, so sorry … your son …”

And then she stopped breathing.

The agony was as fresh now as it had been then. Just as it was for Anne who had been an innocent, who had loved him even as he had not been able to return that love until it was too late.

“Rory?”

He looked back at Douglas.

“You canna mourn forever. You have a duty to the clan.”

“I will hear no more of it. Patrick will return. He will provide an heir. I will not.”

He strode away, his heart like a rock inside him. He would not marry. He could not. He did not believe in a curse, but he did believe he was a Jonah to anyone who loved him. It had been the sins of his past, not a century old curse that haunted him.

Damn this place. Tragedy and death stalked every corridor. He hated every foot of it. He hated the endless and futile feuds. The victims were never the men who instigated the violence, but the crofters who wanted only to grow enough crops to see them through the next year.

How many had been burned out, their homes destroyed, their crops spoiled, their animals taken? How many babies would die this year?

He knew overtures to the Campbells and the Scottish king would dismay his clan, perhaps alienate them. He was chief by consent. He could well be displaced.

But by whom?

As if summoned by his thoughts, his younger brother approached him. Rory stopped and glared, his anger—and despair—finding a new target.

“No need to glower at me, brother,” Lachlan said with his easy grin.

Lachlan had always been able to charm, even though he was unaware of the impact he had. Perhaps his charm came from a refreshing lack of guile and ambition.

Rory relaxed. He always did in his younger brother’s presence.

He had always competed with Patrick. It had been expected, and he’d usually been bested by his older brother. Patrick was a natural warrior. Rory always had to work at it. But Lachlan had avoided competition and physical tests. He’d always preferred music and books.

“Are you here to tell me I should wed again?”

“You should know me better, brother. I dislike interfering in the lives of others for fear they might try to interfere with mine.”

“Patrick does that anyway.”

“Aye, he does. He wants to make me into himself. But you never have.”

“I like you as you are.”

“My lack of ambition appeals to you?”

“Nay. Your music does. Your good nature does.”

“You once played the lute. You were very good.”

“It was a boyish pastime.”

“Was it?” Lachlan said. “Then I hope I am always a lad.”

“You want me to sing of lost loves, Lachlan. Unlike you, I’ve tasted the pain. I have no desire to sing of it.”

Lachlan’s handsome face clouded. “I am sorry. You know I loved Maggie. We all did.”

“I know.”

Maggie had loved Lachlan more than any other member of the family. They sang together, walked together, told stories to each other. Rory would have been jealous if he had not loved them both so much and known that they loved him as well. Maggie had made him appreciate Lachlan’s gentleness, something Patrick constantly belittled.

They—Maggie and Lachlan—had a connection he’d never quite understood.

“She would want—”

“Lachlan, you cannot know what she would want. You were not her husband.”

He turned and strode away from his brother, not understanding the sudden, overwhelming anger he felt. Why for God’s nails wouldn’t everyone leave him alone? He did not even want to be here.

The sea was solace. Scotland was pain.

Felicia tried not to touch the body of her abductor.

The cloth was taken from her mouth after several miles. She was warned, though, that any cry would mean that the gag would be returned.

She had no intention of screaming. She was frightened. Beyond frightened. But she was equally terrified of being returned to her home. And to her prospective groom.

They stopped after several hours. She was gently dropped to the ground, and food was offered. It was naught but rough bread and cheese, but she was hungry.

She glanced around as she ate. The mist had lifted, but clouds kept the sun at bay, and it was cold and dreary. There were no more than five men. ‘Twas odd, but she felt no threat from them. She should. She knew that. She had been abducted by men unknown to her.

She only knew that they had been respectful. That boded well.

“My lady?”

The speaker was the same large man who had lifted her onto the horse. He looked even more fearsome as she sat on a fallen log, staring up at him. His beard was red and long, and he had but one visible eye. The other was covered by a patch.