Patricia Veryan - [Sanguinet Saga 06] - The Noblest Frailty (38 page)

"D'ye see any of the rogues? Be damned if I do!"

They quickened their steps, but when they had run across that
great storage room and passed through the open door, they encountered a
misty, deserted cove, with only the fast-diminishing sails of a yawl to
vouch for the hurried flight of the Free Traders.

Devenish cursed bitterly. "They're safely away! And I've not
one witness to attest to the fact that I did not shoot my wretched
cousin!"

"Tyndale will attest to it," said the General. "The wound did
not look to be serious. Not much more than a deep score across the base
of his throat. D'you know which one shot him?"

"Yes." Devenish said reluctantly, "The leader of that
unsavoury crew was a lout named Shotten. He fired at me. Tyndale ran to
push me clear, and so took the ball himself."

"By Jove!" exclaimed the General, eyes kindling. "That was
well—"

"Sir!" called one of the grooms, his voice ringing with
excitement. "Come and have a look here!"

They went back inside. Several of the crates had been broken
open, and the grooms were busily unloading bottles of rum and cognac
from one large barrel. "Let that stuff alone, men!" Drummond ordered
crisply. "The Excise people will want to find it undisturbed." His eyes
fell on a bottle of '71 port. He amended hurriedly, "Or relatively so,"
and grinning into Devenish's stern face, murmured, "Finders keepers—eh?"

Devenish shrugged and wandered to a clear area of the room. It
had very obviously been occupied recently. There were scratches and
grooves in the rocky floor indicating that heavy objects had been
dragged across it, and from the disposition of dust and straw it
appeared that many large crates must have been removed. "I'd give a
good deal," he muttered, "to know what was stored here…"

The General nodded briskly, "Likely a cargo bound for London
markets. And more likely, there's many a gentleman will be the better
of a case or two of duty-free brandy before another week's out. Oh,
well—this haul alone must be worth a fortune. There may be a reward,
m'boy. You're liable to become famous. But you cannot stay here alone.
You must come and rack up at Steep Drummond for a while."

With bleak control, Devenish thanked him. "I will impose on
you sir, only until I can be assured of my cousin's condition. Then, I
must get home."

The General slanted a compassionate glance at him. "Of
course," he agreed understandingly. "Only natural you'd want to go."

Yolande closed the bedchamber door softly and trod her weary
way down the hall. Reaching up to push back an errant strand of hair,
she stopped, her heart contracting. Devenish had been sitting beside an
ornately carven old chest, but came to his feet when he saw her, and
waited, his face pale and expressionless. She reached out to him
tentatively.

He did not take her proffered hands, saying in a voice she did
not know at all, "How is he?"

She blinked, allowing her hands to lower again. "Not very
good, I'm afraid. The gunshot wound is slight, but—but it seems he
struck his head when he fell. He keeps going off into unconsciousness,
and the doctor… just—" Her voice scratched a little. "He does not
really know…"

He had not expected this and, shocked, stepped a pace closer,
peering at her in the dim light of the one lamp that was lit and
asking, "He must have come around, surely?"

"He spoke twice. You are quite exonerated, Dev." Tears
blinding her, she said pleadingly, "Oh, Dev… dear Dev. I am—so sorry. I
wish—
how
I wish I had not said it!"

He did not answer, and she dashed her tears away, impatient
because she was so very tired and distraught and could not seem to see
him clearly. He had moved over to the window and stood looking into the
night, his back very straight, his hands loosely clasped behind him.
Humbly, she begged, "Can you please tell me what has been happening? I
heard people coming and going all night long, I think."

"Oh, yes. There has been a very great fuss. Your grandfather
sent riders to Kilmarnock, and the Constable came and Sir Hugh
somebody-or-other called out the militia, who are guarding the castle
until the powers-that-be arrive. And—" The clasped hands gripped
tighter. His head tilted upwards as though he was bracing himself. He
asked hoarsely, "Do you— Yolande, do you mean to wed him?"

She bit her lip, her heart aching for him. But said firmly,
"Yes. If he lives, I will marry him."

"If he lives!" He spun around. "There's no question of
that
—is
there?"

"I… I don't know. He has been unconscious for hours now." Her
lip trembled and she said with unknowing pathos, "I am—very frightened."

How strange that the sight of her grief still had such power
to move him. How strange that, even now, he loved her, worshipped her,
wanted so desperately to make her his wife. And yet somehow, he heard
himself saying, "He saved my life again, you know. The bullet that
struck him down would likely have caught me in the head, had he not
pushed me aside. I… I suppose you must resent that fact."

With a muffled whimper, she shrank, turning from him, her face
buried in her hands. "Do not… oh, please, Dev. Do not hate me!"

"Hate you!" He stepped closer to seize her shoulders, pull her
against him, and press desperate kisses on the cool silk of her hair.
"I
adore
you! I always have—you know it. Yolande—
for the love of God—
think
! What are you doing? We
have been promised all our lives! Do you really—"

"I know!" She wrenched free and faced him. "I feel sick and
ashamed. But I cannot change my heart. I have broken my promise to you.
But—but at least our betrothal was never made public. You will not have
to suffer that humiliation."

"It is no less binding because it wasn't published! You gave
me your word!" And knowing he could choose no worse time to plead his
cause, driven by desperation he plunged on. "You said you would name
the day when I came back from the castle."

Her eyes fell. She wrung her hands and admitted miserably, "I
did. Oh, I know how I have hurt you. I—I cannot tell you… how I wish I
might not."

"
I
can tell
you
!"
Again, he took her by the arms, gazing into her strained upturned face,
and demanding, "Admit to yourself that he is not for you. Could you
adapt to his way of life? Could you give up everything you have ever
known? Home, family, friends, even your country. Admit you will break
the hearts of all who love you! Can you do it? Yolande—
can
you? And not care?" She was weeping openly now, but he shook her a
little and rasped, "
Think
, love! Stop and think
what you are doing!"

"Dev… oh, heaven, how… how frightful it is… ! How can I make
you understand? I love my family… my friends—my country. But… I love
Craig more. I—I would follow him… to the ends of the earth."

He flinched as if she had struck him. A groan was torn from
him, and he again turned from her. Sobbing, she took his arm and leaned
her cheek against it. And despite himself, his hand went out to caress
her bowed head. Despite the aching anguish within him, he soothed,
"Never weep, my—my dear one. What a—a dolt I am. Just as… clumsy as
ever, you see."

"No… you are not at all…"

"I should not have spoken. You are too upset to think clearly.
I do apologize. But, Yolande—" he looked down at her, forcing a smile.
"It will pass. You'll see. It is just an infatuation."

She stiffened and drew away. Her sobs eased as she stood
there, gazing at him in silence. Then she said with a quiet resolve
that terrified him, "No, Dev. It is not infatuation. I know now that
from the first moment I met him, I have loved Craig. And that I always
will love him. The only thing ever to come between us will be—death."

His face convulsed. With typical abruptness, his mood changed
and he looked so maddened that for the first time in her life, Yolande
was afraid of him. Fists clenching, eyes narrowed and blazing with
passion, he snarled, "Then, I pray to God he
dies
!"
And strode rapidly away, leaving her to gaze after him, her eyes wide
with shock and an emotion that would have further enraged him—pity.

The days that followed were busy ones for all concerned, which
was perhaps as well. The authorities from Glasgow arrived and were soon
superseded by the authorities from Edinburgh. Writers from several
newspapers and periodicals descended upon Steep Drummond and infuriated
the General by conducting understanding and sympathetic interviews,
then writing articles that grossly misrepresented the facts. Devenish
said nothing of Sanguinet's part in the matter, nor would he until he
had reported to the Horse Guards. But the newspapermen promoted the
smugglers to "Bonapartists"; Drummond and his men had galloped to the
rescue of his "headstrong young nephews," arriving in the nick of time,
and driving off the ruffians by means of a pitched battle during which
half of the castle had been burned to the ground. The ultimate offence
was a piece by one writer describing Drummond as "a peaceable little
old gentleman," which so infuriated the General he all but foamed at
the mouth. Devenish was questioned interminably, praised lavishly, and
then depicted in the newspapers as having sadly mismanaged the affair.
It was, it appeared, very obvious that had the authorities been
"properly notified," the criminals could have been seized and brought
to justice. Instead of which, thanks to Devenish's ineptitude, not only
had they escaped but war hero Major Craig Tyndale now lay at death's
door.

Devenish read this with fuming resentment and joined the
General in calling down maledictions upon all newspaper writers. Even
Mrs. Drummond was offended. "It is not," she sniffed, as they sat in
the drawing room after dinner one evening, "as if Devenish did not do
all that he was capable of doing. They surely must realize he is
not
a big strong fellow. And he certainly did not
mean
Major Tyndale Winters to be hurt." She turned curious eyes upon the
seething Devenish and murmured, "Now, did you, Alain?"

"I must own, ma'am," he answered with a brittle smile, "that
I'd not had the wit to consider it."

Arabella blinked at him, uncertainly. Mrs. Fraser uttered a
faint snort and took up her embroidery. General Drummond fixing
Devenish with a stern eye, said, "I understand you'd a letter from
Alastair Tyndale today. Does he mean to come up here, may I ask?"

"He did not say so, sir. I had written to tell him of what
transpired, of course, and of Craig's condition. He asks that I remain
until— Well, one way or the other. If this goes on much longer, I shall
take myself to the Gold Florin in the village. Lord knows you have been
more than kind to allow me to stay here, under the circumstances."

"The circumstances," the General said with deliberate emphasis
and a darkling look, "have changed. You have redeemed yourself. In my
eyes, at least." He noted Devenish's faint, cynical smile, and frowned.
"The lass is properly in the boughs now, and little wonder. She is
grateful to Tyndale, and is besides a good girl who would bend every
effort to help
anyone
in so wretched a condition."

Mrs. Fraser did not look up from her embroidery, but her
scornful, "Hoot toot!" was quite audible.

Devenish said politely, "Thank you, sir. But I think that is
not all there is to it."

"It had best be! Your cousin has shown himself a right gallant
gentleman. What's gone before cannot be changed, nonetheless, and I'll
not give my approval to my granddaughter's marrying into such a house.
No more, I doubt, will her parents."

"She is of age, sir."

"Aye, she is that. But if you think she would wed over the
objections of her family,
I
do not. And
besides—whatever else, Tyndale is a gentleman. He'd neither propose
marriage to a lady he well knows is already promised, nor allow her to
go against the wishes of her family. Give her time, lad. She'll come to
her senses!"

For the next five days and nights, however, Yolande rarely
emerged from the sickroom. Her grandfather had installed competent
nurses to care for the injured man, and the devoted Montelongo seldom
left him, so that her help was not needed, but she dreaded lest Craig
regain consciousness and did not find her at his bedside. Often, during
those weary days, she would think his awakening imminent, for he would
begin to toss about and mumble, and sometimes he tried to get up,
shouting incoherently. Always, hers was the only hand that could quiet
him. But always, he sank back into the depths without having recognized
her.

The nurses who shared her vigil were kind and capable, but
uncommunicative. The doctor talked to her gravely of Tyndale's splendid
constitution, but of the often bewildering effects of concussion, and
the fact that only last year Craig had almost died of wounds received
at the Battle of Waterloo. " 'Twould be a shock tae any man's system,
ma'am," he observed, nodding his white head ponderously.'"We must gie
the body time tae recover!"

But it seemed to Yolande that her love was not recovering.
Each day, he appeared to her anxious eyes to become more gaunt and
thin. The periods of activity were fewer, and on several terrible
occasions she feared he had ceased to breathe. When she begged the
doctor to do
something
to help him, he patted her
shoulder and said kindly, "Ye gie me more credit than I deserve,
lassie. Better you should broch the subject tae the good Lord. And be
wiling tae abide by His decision."

Those ominous words sent a shiver down Yolande's spine. She
sank to her knees beside the bed and prayed as she had never prayed
before. The nurse, coming silently into the room following a quiet
consultation with the doctor, saw that sad little scene, and her heart
was wrung. She went quickly into the adjoining dressing room where they
had set up her trundle bed and offered up a few prayers of her own.