Journey to Enchantment (19 page)

She shrank inwardly, reminded that it was during that battle he had been so badly wounded, and trying not to picture how it must have been for him. She concentrated upon stringing together the daisies she'd picked. “And yet,” she murmured, “loving England as much as you do, you now turn against her.”

He was silent for so long that she glanced up, thinking he had dropped off to sleep as he sometimes did during their outings. He was staring with frowning eyes at a hovering butterfly. “Do you think me a traitor?” he asked slowly. “I have wondered if I am. But I do not fight against my countrymen. I merely try to outwit Butcher Cumberland.”

“The men who do his murdering are English, forbye.”

“Yes. And I fancy many of them despise what they do, yet dare not disobey.”

Her lip curled. She said with scorn, “A typical wail of humanity. Men cry out against the horrors of war, against cruelty and killing, yet they go on making war just the same!”

“Not all men dislike warfare, Miss Prue. To some it is a way of life. Others are biddable and accept it as their inheritance. I suppose, for every thinking individual, it is a decision based on moral ethics. If you believe in something with all your heart and it is threatened, you should be willing to fight to defend it. If it is not worth that effort, then you must be prepared to give it up.”

“But it should not happen in that way! Men should sit down and
talk
aboot their differences. Nations should be willing to reach solutions across tables instead of slaughtering all their young men and ruining one another to achieve their aims. It is not always the wisest or the best who are the strongest, and—” She broke off, laughing at herself. “Only listen to me making speeches!” She thought, ‘He looks tired,' and said, “Sir, I have thought to hear men coming late at night. Do they?”

His nights had been busy this week, and he was very tired indeed, but he only said, “Why, they cannot pop in and out during the hours of daylight, you know.”

“Jacobites?”

He nodded.

“Are there many of them? How do they know where to find you?”

“There are quite a number, poor fellows. And the word is carried from one to another.”

Afraid for him, she murmured, “You must go constantly in fear of betrayal.”

“Oh, no. I think not. Most of them in fact would dread my capture, for if I were put to the question, I might place them in jeopardy.”

If he were put to the question. Tortured is what he meant. Her hands on the daisies trembled. Long fingers closed over hers. He was leaning down, looking at her in the way she remembered from the old shed but that she had not glimpsed since, and her heart began to beat frenziedly.

“Prudence,” he said, his voice low and husky, “do you know how very beautiful you are?”

She sat motionless, scarcely breathing, waiting for him to leave the chair and kiss her as he had done before; longing for his arms about her, for the touch of his lips on hers. He came closer and, reaching out, touched her cheek. He drew back abruptly. She was seized by disappointment and dimly heard him saying something about the need for a solution to the problem of the men who still languished in the pyramid. Somehow gathering her scattered wits, she said threadily, “I still do not see why they must come to you. You say you have many brave gentlemen who help you. Cannot one of them take command?”

He answered hesitantly, “Yes, of course. Only … the men trust me, Miss Prue. They say they feel safe with me. It's only foolish superstition, but—well, they seem to think I am their good luck. I've had a few successes, so—”

“A few! Sir, how many rebels
have
you slipped through Cumberland's lines?”

“Why, I'm not really sure. Upwards of—fifty, I suppose.”

“Oh, how splendid! Over fifty lives—fifty families spared heartbreak!”

Watching her, his face flushed. He looked away, saying gruffly, “Do not look at me in that way. Can you not see that—I'm trying very hard, but…” The words ceased. He left the chair and walked quickly away, pausing at the edge of the shade cast by the tree, gazing out at the distant scene, but seeing it not at all.

Prudence followed. “Captain Delacourt? What is it?”

He spun around. His eyes were strained and she cried, “Oh, dear sir! I know these are desperate times, but—”

He gripped her shoulders strongly, and said in a harsh voice, “But you do
not
know, little Highland lass. It is all pointless. You know I must go away and— There is so little time.”

Her lips felt cold and stiff. She said, “Yes, of course. I am silly. Shall we go back to the house?”

He returned to the chair without a word, put back his head, and soon went to sleep. Prudence left the picnic hamper for the servants to bring. She pushed the chair as smoothly as she was able, her heart heavy. It was very plain that the Captain was attracted to her, but he either wanted Miss Clandon more or was betrothed to an English lady. That last thought came as a staggering shock. How stupid that she had not considered the possibility before. Had he guessed that she had a
tendre
for him? She felt shamed and embarrassed and as soon as she reached the house surrendered the chair to a waiting Lockerbie and walked hurriedly to the stairs.

And did not know that, obedient to the commanding lift of one thin hand, Lockerbie halted and stood patiently while a pair of dark eyes watched until Miss MacTavish disappeared from sight.

*   *   *

“Sir,” said Little Willie Mayhew, propping himself on one elbow, his drawn face reflecting anxiety, “we dinna like biding here. We ken well that the whole countryside's swarming wi' redcoats, and we're no wishful tae bring doom on the MacTavish and his kin. Nor y'sel', neither.”

The hidden room in the pyramid was a crowded place with three cots practically touching, two candles providing the only illumination, and the air that entered by way of cunningly concealed vents hot and barely adequate.

Delacourt, seated on the foot of Mayhew's cot, gently cuffed the big man's toes and said with a cheerful grin that he had no wish for such a grisly happenstance. “Now what's this I hear about Cunningham's troopers having a look at this place last night?”

“'Tis true, sir,” said Jock Campbell, his bandaged right foot protruding from beneath the sheet on his cot. “It was warm, ye'll recall, and we'd taken a chance and opened the door a mite.”

“Damned near didn't get it shut in time,” croaked Ensign Harry Stephens, an English Jacobite aged eighteen, and the only officer among the fugitives. “We could hear 'em through the vents, Captain. They were as curious as they could stare, and I heard one of the perishers say that this would make a good hiding place for any rebs who were skulking about.”

Up went Delacourt's dark brows. “Did you, now? Anything else?”

“Lord! Ain't it enough, sir? They'll tell that bloody Cunningham and he'll come and tear this pyramid apart like he did the MacKenzies' cottage.”

“Our stalwart Colonel already knows about this pyramid, and I believe MacTavish was at pains to show him the hidden room. There are two, you know, but only one is public knowledge.” He thought, ‘I hope,' and added, “I know this is not a prime posting house, but we've plans to get you on your way very soon.”

“Sir,” interjected Campbell, looking appalled, “I trust ye ken how much we're beholden tae ye. 'Tis no that we're ungrateful—Gawd knows we'd all be dead was it not fer ye'sel'.”

Delacourt smiled but he was uneasily aware that none of these poor fellows was in any condition to travel. Willie had that ugly wound in his knee; Campbell's ankle was shattered; and young Stephens, with the longest journey to safety, had a musket ball through his side that had broken two ribs. “If I could arrange it,” he muttered, “you'd all stay where you are for at least a month. But I've a notion our time is limited.”

Stephens gasped, “Never say the house is watched, sir? If that's the case we should all leave at once, and not delay another minute!”

“I don't believe it is watched. Yet. MacTavish is highly regarded throughout the world because of his contributions to archaeology. He has been honoured by several foreign governments. You may be sure that any accusations against him will have to be well substantiated, if only because of his worldwide reputation.”

“Ye mean,” said Jock Campbell, “they may hae their suspicions, but they'll be needing proof. And we're it, eh, sir?”

“Exactly. So, my regrets, lads, but you're all going to be arrested.” Dismay came into their eyes, and he added with a grin, “By me.”

“Whisht,” breathed Willie, much relieved.

“What'll ye do wi' us, Captain?” asked Campbell.

“In your condition, run you through a corner of hell, I'm afraid. You're to be conveyed by wagon to Fort Augustus—or at least to a few miles northwest of the place. I've men to meet us there with horses and you'll be taken to Glenrae, where I understand your family can offer sanctuary, Mayhew.”

“Aye, sir. For me and all of us. And right glad they'll be tae help.”

“Splendid. As for you, Ensign, as soon as you're fit to go on from Glenrae there's a fishing boat and a guide to take you over to France if you wish.”

“Thank you, sir. God send amnesty is granted soon,” said the Ensign.

Campbell, who had been watching Delacourt frowningly, said, “Sir, ye said
ye
was tae be the one tae arrest us?”

“Correct. I've the uniform, you see, and papers if we're stopped.”

The three men exchanged sober glances. Willie said, “Ye're never meaning tae ride all that way yersel'?”

“Oh, I shall do, never fear.” They did not look much relieved, and he smiled wryly. “Unless you've another English officer handy who can fit into my uniform.”

“Ye've many friends, sir,” Campbell argued. “There must be some English Jacobites among 'em.”

“Three. One's short and fat. Another's about the size of Willie, and the third took a musket ball through his leg when we relieved the troopers of Jamie MacDougall.”

The Ensign pursed his lips. “What about the gentleman who's been staying here, sir? Lord Briley.”

“Oh, he'd be more than willing. In fact, he'll likely flay me alive when he discovers I've not given him a chance at this, but the fact is, the poor fellow lisps. If you should encounter a patrol, as you very likely will do, his lordship would be too easy to identify to Colonel Cunningham.” The Ensign started a further protest, but Delacourt stopped it with a lift of his hand. “Enough, gentlemen, enough! I appreciate your concern, but I shall be suitably disguised, I assure you. We shall go on very well, I've no doubt.” He stood. “Now, we shall attempt this on Sunday morning, so prepare yourselves.”

Their grateful thanks followed him to the door. He stepped cautiously into the night, and stood motionless for a moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. When he could detect no movement or the slightest sound, he slipped into the shrubs where he had concealed his wheelchair, retrieved it, sat down, and sighed wearily. He fairly ached with tiredness, and his wound, which had been less troublesome these past few days, was causing him the old nagging pain that was like a wire band tightening around his lung. He coughed involuntarily, winced, and peered about, holding his breath. Again, he seemed to have escaped detection, and he manoeuvred the chair through the grounds to the long temporary ramp MacTavish had caused to be put up alongside the door that opened into the west side of the house.

Sidley worried him. But if he was wrong, if his uneasiness about the butler was unjustified, he was putting those poor devils through this ordeal needlessly soon. Although it was not really needless at all events—not with MacTavish and Hortense and Prudence always at risk. Nothing must happen to those good people, however willing they were to take the chance. An image of Prudence's vital little face came into his mind's eye. No. He dared not delay any longer!

The rear hall was dark and deserted, the house quiet, its inhabitants long since sleeping. He pulled on the wheels, guiding the chair silently along to the room that served him as a parlour. Cautiously, he lifted the latch. Lockerbie was not waiting to censure him for having gone out alone; a candle burned on the table as he had left it, but the room was empty. Delacourt closed the door, climbed from the chair, and started towards the bedchamber.

He had very little warning: a sudden beading of chill, clammy sweat on his face, a numbing dizziness, a complete loss of all awareness of colour. He knew he was going down and in that same instant saw a man come from the bedchamber. With his last gleam of consciousness he recognized the narrow face, shocked out of its customary imperturbability. He thought a fading, ‘Sidley…'

“Sir, please try to take a little. Oh, God!
Sir!
Please!”

With a tremendous effort Delacourt whispered, “Did you call … for help?”

“No, sir. Thank the Lord you're better! Try and sip a little of the brandy.”

“Do not lift me, please. I'll be—all right if you just … let me lie here for a minute.” He could feel the man trembling and thought remotely, ‘I must have put the fear of God into him.' The sick weakness began to fade, but the sharp pangs still racked him. If he could just manage to breathe very lightly for a minute or two …

At length Sidley whispered, “Will I lift your head a little now, Captain? So you can have the brandy?”

Delacourt nodded, and the butler slipped an arm under his shoulders and held a glass to his lips. He sipped cautiously, dreading that he might cough again. The powerful spirit blazed through him. He held his breath and was able to fight off the cough, and in a moment felt warmed and stronger. “Thank you,” he managed, “for not rousing the house.”