Stuart, Elizabeth (33 page)

Since
Anne was in no mood to listen to his explanations, Francis left the hall,
wandering down the corridor to the rooms set up for dicing and cards. He
strolled among the tables, speaking to acquaintances and watching the luck of
the dice.

"Well,
Sir Francis MacLean. By all that's holy, I didn't expect to see you here!"

Francis
stiffened, immediately recognizing the insolent voice. Turning slowly, he swept
the seated man with a contemptuous glance. Percy Campbell sprawled back in his
chair, his long, pointed face flushed with the effects of too much wine.
"Ah, Sir Percy, my good friend. I should have known I'd find you at cards.
I heat it's all the excitement you can stand these days."

Campbell
kicked an empty chair back from the table. "Do sit down, MacLean. Take a
hand and tell us what you're doing here. It's rare, isn't it, for you
Highlanders to venture out of your fortresses save to rob and steal?"

He
paused, studying his cards before glancing up. "But you do get to town
occasionally, don't you, to drink and brawl in the streets." His narrow
mouth turned in a condescending smile. "I hope you're not planning to
embarrass yourself with such barbaric behavior here."

The
man standing nearest the table melted away, while those seated held their
breaths and did not move. Francis considered the pleasure he would take in
sending Campbell headfirst over the table but decided against it. A brawl would
accomplish nothing and might give Glenkennon an excuse to clap him in irons.
The cowardly Campbell laird wasn't worth it. Besides, he could pain the man
more by pricking his overblown conceit.

"Why,
Sir Percy, I'd not think to sit down to cards and take more of your gold."
Leaning across the man, he thumped the small stack of coins at Campbell's
place, tumbling them across the table. "I can see your luck is on the
ebb."

Resting
his palm on the table beside Campbell, he shifted so that their eyes were on a
level. "And as to why I'm here—why, I've come in search of you, man,"
he said in a voice so low none but Campbell might hear. "You boasted
aplenty of your desire to cross swords with me, and your words have reached my
ears. Well, I'm at your disposal, Campbell... and I'm no' so helpless as some
you've abused!"

Campbell's
face reddened, his dark eyes staring out at Francis with hatred and fear.
Pushing backward, he overturned his chair in his haste to draw his jeweled
dagger. The earl... f... fetch the earl," he stammered, glancing
desperately at the men around him. His eye fell on Charles Randall. "Fetch
your father. Quick boy, before this brigand runs me through!"

Francis
still leaned carelessly upon the table, making no move to reach for his dirk
despite Campbell's action. "Calm yourself, Campbell. You're safe enough.
I'd no' so abuse Glenkennon's hospitality as to draw steel in his house."
He smiled thinly, his blue eyes blazing with con-tempt. "I'll be guilty of
no so barbaric a behavior."

Straightening
away from the table, he turned his back on Campbell's blade. Ignoring the
curious stares, he sauntered toward a corner table where Sir Evan MacCue and
Lord Galbraith were playing cards. Slowly the men in the room resumed their
previous activities, leaving Percy Campbell standing alone, foolishly clutching
his dagger in one hand.

From
his place across the floor, Charles Randall watched MacLean's dark,
aristocratic figure with reluctant admiration. He had encountered him once
already that evening. Fully expecting to feel the bite of the Highlander's
caustic wit, he had been surprised when the man had merely spoken politely and
moved on past.

MacLean
might be a rogue, he thought wryly, but the Highlander was a man! Better an
enemy of his caliber any day than a brace of allies like the blustering
Campbell. For a moment Charles wondered what it would be like to ride beside
MacLean instead of against him, then quickly banished such a dangerous thought.

***

Hours
later, the wasted hall was awash in a flickering dimness, the candles guttering
and dying one by one. Tired servants trailed out, removing flagons of wine and
empty glasses, rearranging the tables for the meals which would follow in a few
short hours.

Anne
gave the servants her last orders, then crossed the empty floor toward the
doorway where several women still clustered as if reluctant to retire. Why
didn't they go on to bed, she wondered wearily. Her own head pounded and she
was so exhausted she doubted she could climb the stairs.

As
she reached the doorway, a familiar laugh rang out, and she realized at once
why the women still hovered there. Francis and his handsome friend stood just
outside, entertaining the fools with their glib nonsense. Her throat tightened
suddenly, and tears of frustration and weariness stung her eyes. God, she
couldn't bear another confrontation with Francis that night! She was not adept
enough at this verbal fencing to hold her own with so skilled an opponent.

Pushing
past the women, she attempted to slip through the doorway, but Francis stepped
into her path. "Mistress Randall, my compliments on a wonderful evening's
entertainment."

She
drew a deep breath and looked up. His eyes were warm and steady on hers. In
that moment she hated him —hated him for his insincerity, for all the looks,
for all the smiles, for all the lies she had wanted so desperately to believe.

"Alas,
the evening's done and we must seek our beds," he said softly, "but
before you slip off, I've something for the occasion." Reaching into his
doublet, he drew out a velvet bag, placing it in her hands before she could
protest.

"I
don't care for your gifts," she said churlishly, attempting to give it
back.

He
held up his hands. "It's not from me, lass, but from Janet. She'll be
offended if you refuse. It's a little something she's been wanting you to
have."

She
nodded stiffly, turning the package over in her hands. "Very well. Give
her my thanks."

Francis
stepped back, allowing her to reach the stairs. "Pleasant dreams, mistress,"
he called after her.

In
the privacy of her chamber, Anne sank wearily into a chair. For a moment she
simply stared at the bag, feeling its warmth from where it had lain inside his
doublet next to his heart. Loosening the strings, she turned it upside down.

A
shimmering flash of blood red stones tumbled into her lap. She caught her
breath in amazement. It was the necklace Janet had lent to her that long-ago
night at Camereigh.

Tired
as she was, it was dawn before Anne slept.

Anne
awakened reluctantly to Bess's insistent hands shaking her from the depths of a
deep sleep. Sitting up with a groan, she pushed the hair back from her eyes and
attempted to listen to the words the girl repeated.

"Your
father insists you come down now, mistress! The gentlemen are a'ready about the
hall." Bess rolled her green eyes expressively. "My lord Percy
Campbell is askin' for you, and—" Her gaze fell upon the heap of
glittering jewels on the chair, and she broke off abruptly. "Oh,
mistress," she breathed, lifting the sparkling chain to the light,
"is this the earl's gift for your birthday?"

"No,"
Anne said crossly, the reminder of the necklace flooding her thoughts with all
the misery of the evening before. "Sir Francis MacLean gave it to me—or
rather, his sister did," she corrected herself. "It's too valuable a
gift to accept, of course. I must give it back as soon as possible."

Bess
peered at her strangely. "'Tis a shame to return so lovely a gift... but
I'm sure you've the right of it. It'd cause trouble for sure, if your father
got wind of it."

Anne
leaned forward and took the necklace, staring as if bemused by the sparkling
stones. Why had Francis given her such a valuable heirloom? Did he think to buy
back her regard? Did it please him to think of wounding her yet again? Her eyes
flashed at the thought, and she thrust the necklace into Bess's hands.
"Here, take it! Get it out of my sight until I can return it to that
arrogant man."

Bess
blinked in surprise at the flash of bad temper from her mistress. She silently
took the necklace, hiding it away among Anne's clothing.

Tossing
back the covers, Anne stumbled to the wash basin and splashed her face with
cold water, hoping to shake off the dread that weighed her down that morning.
There was nothing wrong, she told herself firmly. If she felt miserable, it was
justly due to the precious few hours of sleep she'd had.

Entering
the hall a short time later, she was relieved to find several other women
already present. Lady Dorsett, Lady Galbraith, and Lady Galbraith's two
daughters were engaged at a table with several gentlemen. There was much
laughter and good-natured bantering as Anne sat down.

Casually
joining the conversation, she scanned the room for a tall, familiar figure. Her
search was unsuccessful; neither Francis nor Conall was anywhere in sight. What
if something had happened to them during the night? It was entirely possible,
and though she told herself it would not matter to her one jot, the thought
became a nagging fear that grew as the morning progressed.

By
midday most of the guests were up and accounted for, but there was still no
sign of the two MacLeans. Several gentlemen had gone hawking with her father,
but she doubted Francis would have made one of that group.

A
careful hostess, she moved about the hall, seeing to food, drink, and
entertainment for Glenkennon's guests. She forced herself to chatter with the
other women, yet her eyes lifted anxiously to the doorway at the sound of each
new arrival.

It
was afternoon before she heard the deep voice she had listened for all day.
Unable to help herself, she turned to stare, a strange sensation surging
through her at the sight of Francis very much alive and well and headed in her
direction.

As
he halted beside her, all her well-rehearsed phrases fled her mind. "I
appreciate Janet's gift," she began stiffly, "but you know I can't
accept it. You must take it back."

Francis
grinned. "Nonsense lass, 'tis a gift, and I'll no' be takin' it
back."

"But
I can't accept it," she repeated stubbornly.

Under
the guise of requesting food and drink, Francis took her arm and drew her away
from the nearest table. "You accepted it last night, if memory serves
me."

"But
I didn't know what it was last night," she protested. When he did not
reply, she added pettishly, "If you don't take it back, I'll sell
it."

Francis
shrugged his shoulders. "'Tis yours to do with as you will, though if it's
money you're needin', lass, you've but to say the word and all I have is at
your disposal."

She
stared at him in surprise, shaken as much by the words as the look that went
with them. "You're... you're impossible," she snapped, finding her
voice at last. "You're a lying—"

"Hush,
lass," Francis interrupted, his eyes dancing in amusement. "You can
discuss my character later. For now, just listen—I've something of importance
to tell you. Where can we meet this afternoon?"

He
was close—so close she could see the tiny lines about the corners of his eyes,
so close she could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek as he bent
toward her. The touch of his hand on her arm caused a familiar trembling to
begin deep inside her, but the knowledge of her weakness only stiffened her
resolve. "There'll be no meeting, Francis," she flung back, steeling
herself against his charm. "You told me enough last spring."

The
smile left his face. He angled his head back to better observe her.
"You're wrong, Anne," he said softly. "I didn't tell you nearly
enough that day. That's why Conall and I are here. Now where can we meet?"

Her
defenses began to crumble before the intensity of his gaze. Blessed Lord, she
actually
wanted
to believe him! What was the magic of the spell he wove
that she was ready to fling away her pride yet again?

The
sudden recollection of what she had heard of his amorous adventures in Dundee
saved her. "You must think me a fool to fall for the same trick
twice," she hissed. "Save your sweet words for your other women. I'll
have none of them! I'll not meet you today, nor any other day. Nor do I care
why you're here. I wish you'd go away!"

"You're
a stubborn lass," he said shortly, "and you think you've reason to
hate me." His eyes narrowed darkly. "I don't remember ever giving you
cause to fear being alone with me though. Ten minutes is all I ask."

"I'm
not afraid..." she began, only to end her speech abruptly as Percy
Campbell approached.

"Why,
Anne," Campbell said, "how lovely you look today. None would believe
you danced away the entire evening."

"Thank
you, m'lord," she replied, turning away from Francis in relief. She was
surprised at Campbell's free use of her name, but she had seen a quickly
concealed flare of anger in Francis's eyes at the sound of it and knew he
disliked it far more than she. It gave her a strange pleasure to provoke him.
She smiled brilliantly at Sir Percy. "Where have you been all morning,
sir? I feared you might have left without bidding me good-bye."