Stuart, Elizabeth (40 page)

"I'll
just have to find something to do to pass the next few weeks," she said,
struggling to keep her voice light.

"Try
planning your wedding," he whispered. "It's like to take place sooner
than you think!" He kissed her again, then stood up reluctantly. "I
must go now, lass."

She
searched for something to keep him another moment. Moving to the clothespress,
she rummaged for the ruby necklace. "Here. You must take this back to
Janet."

Taking
the chain of glimmering stones, Francis held it to the light. "Do you have
any valuables of your own? Any jewels Glenkennon allows you to keep?"

She
shook her head.

"Keep
it then. You'd not believe the way a few coins or a sparkling stone will open
doors if you've ever a need to buy your way from a tight spot." He reached
into his pocket. "And take these," he added, holding out three gold
pieces. "Hide them away just in case. No lass should be without a few
coins to jingle together."

He
walked beside her to the door. "I'll be back for you, lass. Remember
that," he said, his hands grasping her shoulders almost painfully.

She
tried to smile, but the growing tightness in her throat warned her she was
losing control. She could not cry—Francis would hate it. "Be gone,"
she whispered, reaching up to stroke his somber face. Her fingers traced his
frowning mouth. "And may God go with you."

He
kissed her again, a hard, angry kiss, and she managed one last smile. Then the
door opened a slit in the shadows, and he was gone.

The
smile on her face crumpled slowly. Covering her mouth with her hands, she
leaned against the door, sobbing silently.

***

The
long golden days of late summer blazed across the Scottish landscape, drying up
the lowland bogs and turning the winding roadways into thin, shifting rivers of
dust which hung in the air long after a traveler passed, stinging the eyes and
making the mouth taste of chalk. The sun marched across the sky with a
maddening slowness, refusing to hasten its journey no matter how often Anne
checked the time each day.

At
night she lay in her bed, gazing wide-eyed at the ceiling, remembering those
brief, sweet hours when Francis had lain beside her. She smiled to herself, and
her heart beat faster as she wondered what the night would hold when he'd no
longer rise to leave her side.

That
first day after his escape had been the hardest, when she had been forced to cover
her aching loss beneath an unconcerned exterior. The entire household had been
in an uproar that day, with worried men standing in anxious groups, and
Glenkennon seething beneath his forced calm.

By
the whispered comments and speculative glances she had observed, Anne gathered
that at least half the assembled gentlemen believed her father had foully
murdered the missing men. It seemed the height of irony that what the earl had
schemed to do by stealth, so as not to arouse suspicion, he now stood accused
of by the very escape of the men he had planned to murder. She smiled to
herself, knowing Francis had probably planned it that way all along.

By
the time Glenkennon convened his council, there were several gentlemen openly
questioning MacLean's disappearance. A none-too-polite request by Sir Evan
Mac-Cue that Glenkennon allow an inspection of his prison did little to soothe
the earl's rapidly fraying temper.

It
was to this unreceptive audience that Glenkennon coldly announced the levy, and
the resulting uproar occasioned the calling of his guard. Order was quickly
restored, but the presence of armed soldiers couldn't quell the sullen looks on
the men's faces or the whispered protests that rippled across the floor.

Even
those men Glenkennon had always relied on— men like Sir Alexander Dorsett and
Sir William Johnson —looked askance at the new tax. And Glenkennon had neither
the time nor the temper to soothe them with promises of future largess.

But
in the end, it was as the earl had foreseen, with every man signing his name to
the paper and promising a portion of his worth in gold and silver. No man cared
to risk defiance with his family's safety in Glenkennon's hands.

But
if time moved at a frustrating crawl for an impatient Anne, such was not the
case at Camereigh. In its Highland fastness, the castle hummed night and day
with a frenetic activity as every stone and inch of mortar was checked for
soundness. Weapons and ammunition arrived daily to be stockpiled, and the great
storehouses of the castle were filled to overflowing.

Messengers
came and went, stumbling over one another in their haste to follow the orders
of the chief, as Mac-Leans from all over the Highlands and even the Isle of
Mull were summoned to the laird and alliances were struck with a host of other
clans. Closing his eyes only a few hours each night, Francis was a figure of
perpetual motion as he drilled his men, saw to the stockpiling of food and
weapons, or rode out personally to discuss an alliance with some proud Highland
chief.

But
the frantic activity was worth it. Before a fortnight was out, Francis had
achieved his goal.

"It's
done now, Donald," he said wearily, shoving a well-handled paper across
the desk toward his friend. He raked a grimy hand through his tousled hair.
"I've the signature of near every laird within a three-day ride and a
pledge of as many men as they can put weapons to."

Donald
scanned the list, his dour expression unchanging. "You've enough men to
put up a fight, lad. They'll do."

"Aye."
Francis retrieved the list and locked it carefully away. He rested his head in
his hands and closed his eyes, trying to block out the dark images that had
haunted him all day. "There are enough names there for Glenkennon to keep
his hangmen busy for a week," he said softly.

Dropping
his hands, he met Donald's gaze angrily. "I don't mind risking my own
neck, but I'll be damned if I like the idea of bringing down my friends!"

"You're
tired, Francis," Donald said. "You'll feel the better for a decent
night's sleep."

Francis
pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. The air was too close. The walls
pressed in unbearably. "I'm going for a walk," he said abruptly.
"I'll be back before dark."

He
moved rapidly down the corridor, nodding curtly to a clansman who dared speak
to him in his dark mood. He had no direction in mind as he left Camereigh, but
his feet turned of their own accord down the well-known paths behind the
castle. Coming out on the cliffs guarding Camereigh's back, he inhaled the
pungent freshness of the ocean, tasting the salt spray in the wind that blew in
from the sea.

The
sun had dipped low over the watery horizon, bringing an end to the stifling
warmth of the day. Above him a pair of gray herons flew up the coast, heads
stretched in a graceful arc, wings beating in perfect unison against the wide
backdrop of burning sky.

He
frowned at the tranquil scene, wondering what changes another month would bring
to that peaceful coast. It was an awesome thing to stir a people to rebellion.

He
closed his eyes wearily. He had used every persuasive art at his command to
unite the clans against Glenkennon. Some had joined him willingly, eagerly
even, their hatred of the earl stirring them to embrace the cause with relish.
Others had been fearful and cautious, hating the words which smacked of
treason, but agreeing with him in the end.

Francis
wondered tiredly where it all would end. How many of the men he had convinced
would be alive come winter?

"Don't
turn that dark scowl upon your lass, else you'll frighten her to the other end
of Scotland."

At
the voice, Francis glanced up, surprised to see Conall perched precariously
upon the jagged rocks behind him. Frowning, he turned back seaward. "I've
a right to scowl, lad. I've just succeeded in talking my neighbors into
treason, and I'm wondering how many will be alive to curse my name a few months
hence."

"'Twould
be a grim thought indeed, if it were true," Conall said quietly, "but
we've no quarrel with the king, so the word treason need not apply. We've only
banded together to protect ourselves from a scoundrel."

"I'm
afraid Jamie Stuart may not see the thing our way," Francis interjected.
"Those will be his troops, and they'll be carrying the royal lions when
they march over those hills to fight."

"You
didn't begin this thing, Francis," Conall said low. "It began long
ago, when you and I were both lads. Many families hereabouts have suffered from
Randall's greed. Have you forgotten my parents were murdered, my name and lands
taken while I fled for my life? Have you forgotten Mary MacDonnell... and Anne?

"You
and your clan are next on his list," he continued. "And after you
will come Ian MacDonnell, Colen MacKenzie, Jamie Cameron, and so on, until all
the men with any backbone will be gone. Christ, Francis, were it not you, it'd
be some other of us fighting to organize the clans! The man must be stopped,
but it'll take a united front, else he'll pick us off one by one.

"If
treason's the word used, then so be it. But at least we stand together instead
of waiting for a false arrest or a knife blade in the dark. That's the way
Randall prefers to work."

Francis
studied the darkening sea. "I know, Conall. We must make a stand against
him. But merciful God! Why can't the man contract the fever or take a fatal
fall from his horse? 'Twould make my life so much easier."

Conall
chuckled. "The devil protects his own, so they say. But listen! I've
news." He stood up, resting his hands on his hips. "What would you
say to word of a large shipment of gold and silver on its way to
Glenkennon?"

"The
tax levy for the outfitting of his army?" Francis breathed.

"The
same. 'Tis said to carry a heavy guard, but there's no army moving with
it." He raised a finger to his lips and grinned. "Hush, lad. It's
supposed to be a secret," he whispered. "It's leaving Duncraig on
Tuesday for Ranleigh."

"That'll
mean Glencarry Pass on Wednesday evening— and there'll be no moon this
week."

Conall
nodded. "Glenkennon's creditors are openly badgering him now. And his
soldiers have received no wages in months."

Francis
threw back his head and laughed, his mood of depression scattered to the winds.
"Glenkennon's mercenaries are poor soldiers at best, but with pockets to
let, they'll be more than hesitant to cross into the Highlands. The good Robert
may be hard pressed to force them onto our lands, not to mention into our
swords. God's blood, the man will tear out his hair in frustration!"

He
scrambled numbly up the rocks to Conall's side. "Your news comes in good
time, man. We must ride tomorrow if we're to reach Glencarry ahead of
Glenkennon's gold. Hurry, Conall! I want my raiders gathered. We must lay our
plans tonight."

Glenkennon
took the theft
of his gold hard. He sat perfectly still
while
Blake gave him the news, his thin lips a tight, angry slash across the sudden
pallor of his face. "Bring Kincaid here. That fool
will
answer for
the loss!"

"Kincaid's
dead," Blake replied bluntly. "He and two others died in the ambush—a
dozen more are wounded."

Glenkennon's
face contorted in sudden fury, the powerful muscles of his arms cording with
his effort at self-control. "This wouldn't have happened if we'd taken
MacLean as I wished to do weeks ago," he said through grated teeth.
"But, no... I listened to my fool of a steward instead. Damn you to hell,
Blake!" he shouted, striking his fist upon the desk. "I'd have had
the man a confessed traitor and cold in his grave by now if not for you."

Blake
stared at him impassively. "Just so, my lord." Glenkennon rose and
paced the floor, his fingers clenching into tight fists in his rage. "Have
you questioned the men?" he bit out. "By God, they'll wish they'd
died with Kincaid by the time I get through with them!"

"They
were set upon in the dark by an undetermined number of men wearing no
identifying markings," Blake replied calmly. He shrugged his shoulders.
"To hear them tell it, there were upward of a hundred men in that
glen."

"MacLean!"
Glenkennon snapped. "I need no description or count. But how did he know?
Who knew the route that gold was to take?"

"Any
number of people," Blake answered. "It's impossible to keep news of
that nature quiet. Kincaid knew. Nigel Douglas, who organized the collection.
Several individuals in the household of Sir William Johnson, since the money
was collected there. Your son, Charles—"

"I
want MacLean," Glenkennon interrupted. "I'd have killed him before to
get him out of the way. But now..." He smiled grimly, his dark eyes
glittering with narrow purpose. "His death won't come easy, Blake.
Everyone must know the fate of a man who tries to make me look the fool. If I
accomplish nothing else in Scotland, I'll destroy MacLean. I swear it," he
added softly.

He
swung from the window, in command of himself once more. "Gather all the
plate in the household—gold and silver in any form. I want it sold for whatever
it will bring." He moved lithely to his desk and sat down, toying with the
great ruby on his hand. "Sell my eastern holdings if you must, but get me
enough coin to pay the back wages of my men, else we'll never budge them for
this campaign." He glanced up. "And send Nigel Douglas to me. I want
him on his way to England with letters to James. I'll not wait until the autumn
rains make the Highlands impassable."