Stuart, Elizabeth (29 page)

"Bess,"
she said suddenly, turning toward the girl, "what can you tell me of Sir
Percy Campbell?"

"Campbell?
He's well known in these parts," Bess re- marked. "He's master of
several large estates, though his principal residence is Dunbarton, northwest
of here."

Seeing
the girl intended to say nothing further, Anne prompted her. "But how is
it he has no wife? He's well past thirty if I'm any judge."

"His
wife's dead—from an accident near a year ago," Bess said slowly. For a
moment, she recalled the tales that had circulated about Campbell then quickly
dismissed them from her mind. Servants' gossip, she told herself, and not the
kind of talk her dear, sad mistress needed to be hearing.

"She
was a wealthy Campbell heiress, but a frail lass who bore him but one sickly
daughter. The bairn lived scarcely a sixmonth." Bess lifted speculative
green eyes to Anne's. "'Tis said he's looking about now for a young wife
to bear him sons. He's a wealthy lord and not at all ill-favored," she
added helpfully.

"Yes,
he's well to look at I suppose," Anne remarked, "and not as old as I
feared." She rose abruptly and crossed to the window, leaning her elbows
on the polished stone. "And there's always the chance he won't like
me," she whispered, trying desperately to banish the image of a man whose
eyes twinkled bluer than any summer sky and whose smile made the sun seem cold
in comparison.

"And
what would you be wearin' tonight?" Bess questioned briskly, seeking to
divert her mistress from an unhappy train of thought. Carefully removing
several new gowns from the clothespress, she held them up for Anne's inspection.

"I
don't suppose it matters, Bess. You choose."

Bess
quickly selected a gown of rich crimson silk with long, fitted sleeves and a
panel of Flemish lace sewn about the deeply scooped neck. The lass needed the
deep shade to bring out the color in her pale cheeks, Bess decided.

She
laid the lovely garment across the bed, then turned to dress Anne's hair.
Braiding the long strands expertly, she wove slender ribbons of deepest wine
through the braids, then twisted the thick mass about the crown of Anne's head
and caught it with a pearl-studded clasp.

"'Tis
lovely you look, mistress," she said, stepping back with a proud smile.
"The gentlemen will lose their hearts tonight and no mistake."

***

The
words were a good omen, it seemed, for when Anne entered the parlor a short
while later, Glenkennon looked up and smiled at her in approval. "Good
evening, my dear. You're looking most fetching tonight." His glance
shifted from her to Edmund Blake. "Blake here has been telling me all ran
smoothly while I was away."

Anne
forced herself to smile and murmur an assent. She didn't dare glance at Blake;
he would probably consider her indebted to him now in some strange way.

Glenkennon
winked at his friend Campbell. The man had risen at Anne's entrance and was
studying her with open admiration. "I can't tell you, Percy, what a
comfort it is to have a daughter see to my household. Anne keeps things running
smoothly."

"There's
little to see to here," she said, gratefully accepting a glass of wine
from Nigel Douglas. "The servants know their tasks and Ranleigh runs
itself, even in Father's absence."

"A
woman who's as modest as she is lovely," Campbell said archly, stepping
forward to take her hand and draw her toward a seat beside his own.

Anne
sent a longing glance at Nigel, wishing she might sit beside him and discuss
news from Dundee. While the men were away, she had missed his easy wit and the
amusing tales he recounted of his recent service in Jamie Stuart's court. She
couldn't recall laughing even once since he had been gone.

But
Campbell was waiting. Turning obediently, she followed Sir Percy to the settle.
"Tell me, my lord," she said, seating herself with a rustle of silk
skirts, "were you in Dundee on business, or was it chance that brought you
together with my father?"

"The
former, I fear. We've had raiders plaguing us of late," Campbell replied.
"We've lost mainly horses and sheep at this point, but the outlaws are
getting more daring all the time. Sir Alexander Dorsett lost a quantity of
silver en route to your father not a fortnight ago. And just a week earlier, a
large quantity of powder was destroyed at an English outpost. Those of us
who've suffered met in Dundee to discuss what might be done."

"Does
no one know their identity?" she asked.

"Not
yet. They strike in the dead of night and leave no sign capable of being
followed over a few miles." Campbell smiled at her arrogantly. "But
we'll catch them soon enough. Even crafty men make mistakes and these will hang
by a piece of good rope soon enough, I'll swear."

"It's
MacLean, I've no doubt," Glenkennon said calmly. "He's behind these
raids; there's none other among those uncivilized northern fools who could have
planned the attacks."

Anne's
heart lurched painfully, then began to beat so wildly she could feel it
pounding in her ears. She studied her clasped hands carefully, not daring to
look up.

"They're
far too widespread to be the work of any one man," Nigel Douglas put in,
pouring himself more wine. "It's more likely the work of several rebels
seeking to profit at the expense of England and those loyal to the king."

"It
can't be MacLean, much as I'd like to see him swing," Campbell agreed.
"Are you forgetting I saw the man myself? He was roistering about town
with a wench on each arm the very night of that raid on Mayburn."

Campbell
chuckled. "MacLean may deal in witchcraft as they say, but even he can't
be in two such distant places in the same evening. Besides, the landlord
himself told me MacLean had been drinking, wenching and spending his blunt
freely in his house the past week. That was just the time the outpost was
struck. No, it can't be MacLean," he repeated, "though if you'd like
to hang him for the fun of it, I for one wouldn't object." A wench on each
arm...

Anne
continued staring carefully at her hands, concentrating on keeping that blank,
interested smile that seemed to please her father. So Francis had been wenching
and carousing about town, she repeated to herself dazedly, considering her very
different activities of the past few weeks. Had she really believed he might
yet care—that he might still come for her?

She
had been a fool—a complete fool! Francis had not cared for her in the least,
and it was senseless to delude herself with any hope to the contrary. She could
not blame him for her disillusionment this time. He had spoken the truth to her
on that last morning, and it was she who had believed against all proof that
there was more behind his words—that his actions might yet be some trick to
best her father.

Somehow
she survived the endless evening, retiring immediately after supper with the
complaint of a headache. Once in bed, she leaned against the pillows dry-eyed,
watching a friendly moonbeam creep slowly across her chamber floor.

Hope
was over now—entirely so, and she couldn't even wish for any spark to keep it
alive. While she had lain shedding hot tears in her bed, Francis had been out
drinking and spending his time with cheap women. She clenched her fists in an
agony of jealousy and ire until the nails of her fingers cut painfully into her
palms.

She
bitterly reviewed every hurtful word he had uttered to her. Ironically enough,
they gave her the inspiration for her plan. He had always seemed well informed
of the happenings at Ranleigh. Well, let him hear of the advent of Anne Randall
upon the midlands. Let him hear that the beautiful daughter of Robert Randall
had all of Scotland at her feet.

In
the morning she would set out to charm Sir Percy. Other guests were arriving
the next week, and she had no doubt that she could win them, too. She did not care
that she would be playing into her father's schemes, she only knew that she
wanted Francis to hear of her success.

Lying
back upon her pillow, she stared grimly into the night, hoping Francis MacLean
would have abundant time to regret what he had lost before her father put a
rope about his neck.

Francis
was once more in residence at Camereigh. Alone in the laird's room, he leaned
an elbow lazily amid the clutter of ledgers on his desk, abstractedly studying
the glass of wine in his hand. It had been a most successful six weeks—five
highly profitable raids against the English without the loss of a man.

With
a satisfied smile, he raised the glass in a silent toast to his men's success.
Yes, it had been a profitable six weeks—Glenkennon must have been in a
continual rage those days.

Lowering
the empty glass, Francis thought fondly of the rough, hard-bitten clansmen who
had ridden with him. They had obeyed his orders unquestioningly, even when
Conall had taken command on those occasions when Francis had made a point to be
seen in Dundee.

He
and Conall had hatched the plot between them after learning that Glenkennon and
his loyal lords would be meeting in that coastal town. Francis had assured
himself a place in the memory of several local innkeepers by dropping his coins
freely and buying numerous rounds for his "friends."

He
closed his eyes contentedly. Now that the immediate danger was over, he could
allow himself to think on other matters. At once, memories of Anne came
stealing back to haunt him as they had so often during the past weeks. He had
attempted at first to fight the visions that plagued him as he lay sleepless on
the hard ground or sat his mount amid the whirling mists. But little by little,
he had come to welcome her presence in his thoughts and to while away many dull
hours in contemplation of her comely face and laughing voice.

He
had yet no conscious plan for taking her against all odds and reason, for he
knew it was impossible. But when he thought of his future, it was with her at
his side, and that vision brought peace to his previously troubled mind.

"Am
I interrupting anything?"

Francis
jerked upright, his hand groping instinctively for the dirk at his belt.
"Conall, for the love of God! You'd best learn not to startle a man so,
else you'll grow no older!"

Francis
relaxed against the chair back, gazing into his friend's clear gray eyes, which
gleamed now in fun beneath his crop of dark, unruly red hair. "I'd ask you
to come in," he added dryly, "but since you've already done so, make
yourself useful by bringing that decanter along."

"By
the look of bliss on your face, I must have caught you contemplating the good
Robert's downfall," Conall ventured. He advanced across the room with a
slight detour to pick up the wine and an extra glass.

Francis
chuckled and shook his head. "Far from it, lad. I'm contemplating a much
sweeter face than that of Glenkennon."

"Ah,
a lass then, is it? 'Tis the only thing sweeter than the confounding of a man's
enemies." Conall made an exaggerated pretense of looking about the room.
"Where have you got her hid? I've a great need to see a softer form and
sweeter face than those I've ridden with these last weeks."

"Do
you think I'd be fool enough to have her here at Camereigh with an unprincipled
rogue like yourself about?" Francis shoved his glass across the table for
Conall to fill. "The sweetest face we've had about the place in weeks is
Donald's, now he's finally shaved his beard. Nay, lad, I keep this lass only in
my mind."

"Humph,"
Conall snorted, "an image can do a man little good. Come, let's get to
Dundee or even Edinburgh, if you'd rather, and find a flesh-and-blood woman to
help us while away a pleasant evening or two."

"I've
already been to Dundee and found nothing to my liking. Go if you like, but take
my men in case you need rescue from a jealous husband."

"You
found nothing to your liking!" Conall repeated in astonishment, nobly
ignoring the latter half of Francis's statement. "You weren't used to be
so hard to please, Francis. Come, this must be serious. Tell me about it—or
wait—let me guess! Have you finally offered for Elizabeth Macintyre as all the
gossips have been claiming this last year?"

"No,
and you'd best not be spreading that tale," Francis said with a quick
scowl. "Comparing Liz to my lass is like comparing a candle to the
sun."

The
teasing grin on Conall's face disappeared. "May I ask the lady's
name?"

"Aye
Conall, you've a right to know. The lass's name is Anne Randall."

Conall's
eyes widened in disbelief. "Are you ale-bitten, man?" he gasped.
"At this time of the day?" At Francis's continued silence, Conall
gave a low whistle and dropped abruptly onto a stool beside his friend.
"Well, I'll say this, you don't take the easy road."

He
took a long swallow of wine, eyeing Francis gravely. "You know there's
nothing I'd rather see happen, if we could pull it off..." His words ended
abruptly and his narrowed gaze shifted from Francis to the floor. Suddenly, he
threw back his head with a rude crack of laughter, slapping his muscular thigh
in merriment. "Christ's bones, it'll infuriate Randall... and damned if I
won't help you to it."