Journey to Enchantment (16 page)

“The cautious way,” she said with a curl of the lip. “But you fought for what you believed. Were you in the army before the Rising?”

“No. I joined because— Oh, many reasons I'd best not go into are we to become friends.” She met his smile and returned it, and he went on, “Besides which, my life at home had become—unbearable.”

He looked stern. Prudence asked, “Did you lose your home?”

“After a fashion I suppose we did. My father died with very little warning.”

“But—you were the heir, no?”

“Yes, but—well, Papa had always considered me a frippery fellow. Not without justification, sad to say.” She was staring at him with such incredulity that a faint flush of pleasure tinged his thin face. “Thank you for that silent vote of confidence,” he said warmly. “But I fear it is misplaced. I really was a wild, irresponsible chap. Only look at how I came galloping up here to fight, with never a thought for my poor sister, left with those two—” He checked, his eyes bleak and his mouth a thin, hard line.

“Had you to cope with an executor?” she asked sympathetically. “How very annoying for you.”

“It was indeed. My uncle is a greedy, unprincipled nipcheese, and his wife—very beautiful, but— I should not speak ill of a lady, but between them, they enraged me to the point that I knew I must get away, or I'd say or do something beyond forgiveness. And whatever else, family is—family.”

She nodded, admiring him the more for that loyalty. “Aye. And we've all some dirty dishes among our relations, alas. But what became of your sister?”

His mouth tightened. “What indeed?” he muttered. “My groom tells me she ran away with one of the men I sent to deliver part of—” He checked. “With a rebel I sent there for sanctuary.”

“Oh, my! And do you know that they are safe?”

“Would to heaven I did. But I know Penny, and I know the man—the very best kind of fellow. I've no fear for her dishonour, only…” He was silent, staring blindly at one hand tightly gripping the arm of his chair.

“Only—he was a Jacobite?”

He nodded. “If they should take her … if she is charged with treason—”

Prudence's hand closed over his. “Do not! Oh, do not torment yourself so.”

“Do you not see?” His hand turned to clasp hers. “It would be my fault. I
sent
Chandler there.”

She leaned closer, still holding his hand. “You sought to save the life of a brave gentleman. You wrong your sister, I am sure, if you fancy she would have had you do otherwise. Besides—he is an Englishman. He will likely blend in and not be noticed.”

“He was hunted all the way down,” he muttered broodingly. “He's no ordinary Jacobite.”

“He's—he's never one of the couriers?”

Delacourt put back his head and regarded her steadily. “So you do know of them. How much?”

“Very little. I was tiptoeing into the drawing room with a surprise birthday gift for Sir Matthew Garry, a few weeks ago. And he said, ‘Johnny is a courier, God help him, but he does not carry the list.' They saw me then, and said no more. Nor did I ask, for I sensed it was private. Indeed, I had completely forgot about it until you spoke of it again this morning.”

“I see. Elizabeth is right then, and you must be told the whole. But first, may I see your Monster?”

She was nothing loath, for she hoped that the sight of their childhood endeavour might drive the sombre look from his eyes. And so she wheeled the chair around to the back of the house, skirting the stables and the barn until they came to a slope with at the foot a rundown old shed. And here Prudence was thwarted; the paved path ended and the continuation was merely a track filled with loose pebbles. “Oh, well,” she said, halting. “When you are better, perhaps.”

“Fustian!” He threw the blanket from across his knees. “You know I am able to walk.”

She glanced around apprehensively. “If someone should see…”

“You can support me. See—I shall lean on you, pathetically.”

He did this so well that she was obliged to put her arm about his waist.

With the soft silk of her hair tickling his cheek, and the clean fragrance of her in his nostrils, he murmured, “How very kind you are, Miss Prue.”

Disturbingly aware of his nearness, and recalling the glow in the face of a lovely Scots lass, she said, “So I am. But do not be preparing to collapse and tell me you are ‘tol-lol,' for I'm not
that
kindly disposed towards you, sir.”

He chuckled. “It had crossed my mind, I'll own.” His eyes twinkled into her startled ones. “Now you cannot blame a poor lonely Sassenach when he is faced with so beautiful a spirit of
joie de vivre
as Miss Prudence MacTavish.”

He was pale and ill-looking, and his long ordeal had written lines into his face, but Prudence thought him the most attractive man she'd ever seen, and the shed seemed to fade as she looked up at him. With a faint sense of self-preservation she drew back.

He ushered her inside. “I hope you will not feel compromised to be in here alone with me.”

Even as she drifted nearer to him she said weakly, “The last time I was alone with you, you were—very naughty. In fact, you kissed my…”

He stroked the afflicted area with one gentle fingertip. “This?”

“Aye,” she whispered.

“Are you sure? Was it … like…” He repeated the offence. “This?”

Dizzied and short of breath, she closed her eyes. “Not quite … that naughty.”

“Oh? Could it have been more like … this…?”

Her head swayed back. His arm was about her. His lips found hers with fiery urgency. She soared into a dim delight, and he kissed her lips, her soft cheek, her brows, her closed eyelids.

“My lovely little rebel,” he whispered tenderly. “My pure fearless warrior maid.”

His lips were awakening sensations she had never before known. She became suddenly far from fearless and, opening her eyes, scanned the dark face bent above her. His eyes were soft as night and held an expression that drove away every emotion save one. Her arms went around his neck. He bent and kissed the tip of her nose, the side of her mouth, the lobe of her ear. Drifting and warm and ecstatic, she felt a tremor go through him. As from far, far away she heard him mutter, “What a scurvy trick!” His hands were on her shoulders, gently moving her away. He said lightly, “A little more of this, m'dear, and I shall properly abuse your father's hospitality.”

She bumped down to earth. He was watching her, his eyes faintly amused, his hands still holding her.

“Oh!” she gasped. “Whatever—are you about?”

“A small token of my esteem.” He smiled. “Nothing more than—” He checked. His eyes encountered other eyes. Enormous, staring eyes, and a great scaly, ungainly head. “My … Lord…!” he exclaimed softly.

“Your … esteem?” quavered Prudence.

He did not seem to hear. “So this is your Monster!” Intrigued, he left her and wandered closer to the great hulk the children had constructed out of pieces of wood and scraps of tarpaulin and leather, and whatever they could lay their inventive hands upon.

He was completely absorbed. He had forgotten her. But watching his tall figure, the proud carriage of his head, Prudence knew painfully that she had given her hitherto untouched heart at last. To an Englishman who likely thought her an ungraceful, countrified, half-wild Scots girl; a man accustomed to mincing, elegant misses, with soft, drawling English voices and haughtily raised eyebrows. She thought, ‘He will soon go away and I shall never see him again. I must do everything in my power to help him. I must not let him know that he has my heart. And I must be ready to say goodbye.'

Delacourt had walked around the bench and now stood opposite her, gazing with awed eyes at their creation. “How on earth,” he muttered, “did you manage it?”

She forced herself to speak as casually as he did. “We had a favourite gardener who did a lot of it. And I made the eyes, and—”

“
You
did? But you said you were just a little girl.”

“I was. But I've always had a knack for drawing and the like.” She thought of the sketch she had made of him, and went on hurriedly, “And I painted his ‘scales' but the boys made them. He's a wee bit faded and tattered the noo. Only look.” She rattled one ungainly ‘leg,' then jumped back as it fell off and landed with a crash at her feet.

Delacourt sprang to her side. “Are you all right? Did you hurt yourself?”

“No, but I hurt him, poor old Monster. I'm amazed he has lasted so well. All these years. We must have a good roof on—” She checked, peering at him. “What is it? I am all right, truly.”

“For a minute, I thought—” He put a hand over hers, resting on his arm. “Prue, I'm a dreadful fellow. Can you forgive me? I had no right.”

“I should have stopped you,” she said with a rather too bright smile. “We shall just forget it ever happened, shall we?”

He looked down at her gravely. “I am grateful you're aware you could have stopped me, ma'am.”

They were both silent on the way back to the house. Delacourt was lost in thought, and Prudence heard Elizabeth Clandon's voice again; ‘… he has his faults,' and she knew it was very true. Geoffrey Delacourt, or Delavale, or Ligun Doone, was a brave, fearless gentleman, but he was not a very honourable one. Any gentleman worthy of the name would consider himself bound to offer for an unwed lady he had kissed, especially in the way the Captain had kissed her. But it was very plain that he had no intention of doing so. She thought, trying to be objective, ‘Why should he? I did not protest, and nobody saw, nobody knows.' But she knew that in honour he was no less bound; that in a like situation Robbie would have felt committed.

She stifled a sigh and guided the wheelchair through the flower gardens.

VIII

On Friday evenings when the weather was fine, Sir Matthew Garry rode the four miles from Garry House to Lakepoint and, without fail, within the hour, Duncan MacKie's enormous old coach rumbled up the drivepath. On this pleasant evening, they were waiting in the drawing room when Prudence entered, her gown of gold silk swishing about her, and she surveyed them fondly as they came to greet her and escort her into the room.

MacKie, short and stout, his cheeks like little red apples, his neatly curled wig set rather crookedly upon his head, winked his merry blue eyes and told her that she was the prettiest creature he'd seen on this, or any other day, may he be boiled if it was a lie! Sir Matthew, square of face and form, his brows beetling fiercely, growled that Duncan MacKie had ever been a squire of dames, and only seconds ago had made the very same remark to Mrs. Cairn.

Prudence laughed at them, told them they were a pair of wicked rascals, and allowed Sir Matthew to usher her to a chair, while MacKie padded over to pour her a glass of ratafia and enquire in a casual way if Mrs. Hortense was to join them this evening.

“Yes, she is, sir,” confirmed Prudence, amused, as she accepted the glass he brought her.

“And is she—er, sound, ma'am?” barked Sir Matthew. “Sound of—ah, wind? Bright-eyed and full of spirit, as ever?”

“Ye make the lady sound a horse, Matt,” protested MacKie. “What he means, Prue, is—we hope yer lady aunt is in good health.”

Since the lady in question arrived at that point, her swains were able to judge for themselves. She looked very well indeed wearing a gown of black lace over dull red satin. Her mantilla was extremely high and rather dangerously poised, but the lace veil that was draped over it framed her delicate features very fetchingly—or so thought Prudence.

Predictably, the rivals hastened to escort their goddess to the sofa. This being Sir Matthew's week, he sat beside her, while Mr. MacKie resignedly occupied the wing chair, having first edged it as close to the sofa as he could contrive.

Glowering at MacKie, Sir Matthew enquired if Hortense intended to take a hand at the cards later.

“And for why should she not?” demanded MacKie. “Does it escape ye, mon, that Mrs. Hortense has played whist wi' us on fine Fridays any time these ten years?”

“We have a guest tonight,” said Hortense. “Perchance he may be willing to take a hand.”

Neither of the gentlemen remarked upon the presence of the guest, nor enquired as to his identity. When Delacourt was wheeled in just before the dinner gong was sounded, Prudence watched narrowly, and thought it singular that whilst the Englishman was not greeted with the affectionate admiration that might have been logical had they known the truth of his activities, nor was he the object of the enquiries that would have been perfectly natural had he been a complete stranger.

The conversation at table ran along easily enough. Hortense was comfortable with her two suitors, and she had become so fond of their ailing guest that in her eyes he was almost one of the family. As always, MacTavish was the perfect host. Prudence sensed that Delacourt was uneasy and, noting that his glance flickered often to the tall clock in the corner of the room, she guessed his thoughts were with Elizabeth.

Troubled because he was troubled, she accompanied Hortense to the drawing room and went at once to the windows. The moon was high and bright, making the loch into a sweep of silver and lighting the heavens to a deep clear blue. There should be little difficulty in travelling tonight, but there were countless reasons why Lord Briley might have been detained. She walked over to the sofa, lost in thought.

“You sense it, too, don't you, love?” said Hortense. “It closes in. Inevitable. Inescapable.” She frowned. “And I had so wanted to get that new lavender gown finished.” She tilted her head, the great Spanish comb sliding precariously. “My goodness me! Here they come, so soon. I hope there was no disagreement.”