Stuart, Elizabeth (44 page)

"It
was because of the stolen gold that Glenkennon pressed you so fast, wasn't it?
He had his back to the wall, and you were an easy source of income. Christ's
blood!" Francis exploded. "I never reckoned on him moving so fast.
But I should have—I should have thought of it!"

He
turned to Conall. "Glenkennon will be hot on our heels, so we'd best split
up. I'll take Anne and head east to the usual place. You run for Camereigh as
fast as your horse can take you. I should see you in a week's time if all goes
well. And Conall," he added, "be sure all's in readiness. We'll soon
have a fight on our hands, if I'm any judge."

Conall
squeezed Anne's hand again, then disappeared into the night, leaving her
standing alone in the darkness with Francis. Somewhere nearby a horse snorted
and pawed the ground impatiently while the silence stretched uncomfortably
between them.

"Did
you have anyone to meet you out here, lass?" Francis finally asked.
"A horse... food... anything to speed you on your way?"

She
shook her head, then realized he could not see her in the dark. She cleared her
throat uncomfortably. "No. I've the money you gave me sewn into my
cloak... and I had a bit of food, but I lost it when I fell. There was no time
to arrange anything more."

"God's
body," he swore. "What a close run thing!" He caught her
shoulder and drew her against him, brushing a quick kiss against her hair.
"I've no horse for you, love, since we'd not planned to take you with us
tonight, but I'm sure Leven can carry the two of us easily enough."

Catching
her hand, he led her to the impatient animal. "Give me your foot, and
we'll be away from here before anyone's the wiser." He boosted her onto
Leven's back, then swung up behind her, soothing the restless horse as it
sidled nervously beneath the unusual weight.

Anne
held herself stiffly in Francis's arms, refusing to relax against him. The feel
of his muscular limbs about her shoulders reminded her of Campbell, and she
leaned away from him.

What
must he have been thinking of her strange behavior? And more to the point, how
could she tell him she wished to go to the MacDonnells instead of to Camereigh
with him? He'd not let her go easily. Yet she could not tell him the truth. She
could not stand to see the love in his eyes turn to disgust. He loathed Percy
Campbell almost as much as he hated her father. He could not love a woman who
had lain with one of his bitterest enemies, even if it had been against her
will.

Besides,
Francis was in enough trouble without taking on the added burden of her
dishonor. He would be determined to kill Campbell if he discovered the truth.
She shivered, knowing Campbell and her father were probably angrily searching
Ranleigh for her even then.

"Cold,
love?" Francis asked softly against her ear. His lips caressed her cheek,
and he moved his arms more closely about her.

Try
as she might, she could not sit still beneath his caress. "No, I'm fine,"
she said, shifting away.

Francis
thoughtfully guided Leven toward the familiar territory of Glenkennon's eastern
holdings. The hue and cry would soon be up after Anne, and he had no intention
of being caught with her and only one tired horse between them. They were
making that night for a well-hidden shelter deep within the boundaries of
Glenkennon's own land—a place the man would never think to look. He had used it
several times in the past few months as a resting place between raids. After
the search died down, he and Anne could strike north for Camereigh.

Anne's
strange behavior was a puzzle, but he would not press her for answers. She was
as tightly wound as a spring waiting to fly out in all directions. He had no
wish to set her off until they had put some distance between themselves and
Ranleigh, and he could give her his full attention.

But
he knew something terrible had forced her into fleeing without thought of
provisions or mount. He cursed himself silently for having left her at Ranleigh
so long.

By
morning, the fitful clouds of evening had ranged themselves into a heavy,
low-hanging mass that obscured the colorful radiance of sunrise and gave the
dawn a sullen cast. The black hopelessness of night gradually lightened until
the moor and sky merged into a dismal gray blur around the weary travelers.

Anne
closed her eyes and allowed her head to drop listlessly against Francis's
shoulder. Sometime during the night, they had left the hills and rocky glens
behind and entered a wetter, marshy lowland. The unfamiliar terrain made Anne
more uneasy with each passing mile, but she was so tired she scarcely cared
what became of her.

As
the morning slid away, the ground became more treacherous and the plant and
animal life shifted to that which made its home in the bog. Pools of dark,
stagnant water shimmered with iridescent rust and orange, and a malodorous
black scum grew thickly along the edges of each pool. Thorny brambles grew in
profusion on the scattered patches of high ground along with a handful of
scrubby, stunted trees. Anne stared at the watery wasteland in dismay, trying
to ignore the maddening whine of insects and the stench of rotting vegetation
that pervaded the air.

The
only cheerful sight was the scattered clumps of wild marsh marigolds blooming
gaily among the thick bracken. As they passed a sunny patch, the rushes beside
them thrashed wildly, and a huge frog leaped into the sluggish water beneath
Leven's nose.

The
startled animal shied violently, half rearing and leaping from the trail into
the sticky, sucking mud. Only Francis's strong hand kept Anne in the saddle as
the animal sank to his knees. It was several minutes before Francis had him
calmed and back onto the narrow ridge of solid ground.

Anne
clung to Leven's heavy mane, unable to relax after nearly being tossed into the
fetid water. "Francis, are you sure you know where we are?" she
asked, breaking the silence that had stretched between them several hours.

"Don't
worry, love. I haven't brought you this far to lose you in a bog," Francis
replied, his tired voice lifting in amusement. "I've followed this trail
often enough, though I'd not advise you to try it alone. The bones of many a
foolhardy soul lie in this stinking muck. There are places here where a mounted
man can sink from sight."

Anne
shivered and clung more tightly to Leven's mane, finding no difficulty in
believing Francis's words.

"This
whole treacherous expanse is fed by underground springs," he explained.
"Even in summer it remains a bog. In winter months it's nigh impassable,
though I've crossed it as late as December."

She
peered with misgiving at the desolate expanse ahead. "How did you find
your way through? There's no trail I can make out."

"Conall
was born not far from here. He learned his way about when he was a lad, though
few men know the trail."

"But
I thought Conall was born at Camereigh."

He
shook his head. "Conall's no more a MacLean than you for all he uses the
name. His parents were murdered by the English when he was a lad. They'd have finished
him off, too, but a clansman dragged him from the burning house, and they fled
through this bog. Since the English could not follow, it was assumed the boy
perished in the mud."

He
fell silent again, as if seeing the picture of a frightened child being dragged
through this wasteland. His arm tightened around her. "Since that time,
we've used the trail to reach a hideaway known only to a few trusted men.
Glenkennon can't follow us here, lass."

"Who
holds Conall's land now?" Anne asked, suspecting the answer before Francis
spoke.

"Glenkennon."

***

The
ground gradually became firmer beneath Leven's hooves, and the brown water and
strange plant life gave way to lush grass and more familiar vegetation. Small,
wooded hills rose from the flat expanse of moor, and the stallion pressed
forward eagerly, as if realizing his stable was near.

As
they topped a sharp rise, Anne gazed down into a narrow glen where a heavy
growth of trees followed a winding stream bed. Francis gave Leven his head, and
the horse scrambled down the rocky slope, finally halting before a dense
thicket of young birch. "We're here, lass," Francis said wearily,
swinging down from the saddle.

Anne
blinked in dismay. She had expected a shelter of some kind; even a cave in the
hills would have been preferable to this place. Francis gestured toward the
trees, and she peered into the shadowy grove. A small turf hut stood well back
from the clearing, admirably concealed by the thicket. She slid from Leven's
back, her legs so cramped and stiff they buckled when she hit the ground.

Francis
caught her arm. "Can you stand, lass?"

She
clung to the stirrup leather as the blood began to circulate painfully through
her numbed extremities. "Of course."

Francis
released her and strode to the door, giving a mighty heave to the plank
structure to swing it in on its leather hinges. He preceded Anne into the musty
gloom, ripping down the tanned animal hide that covered the open space of the
single window. His action flooded the room with light and fresh air, but it did
little to lift Anne's spirits.

She
gazed at her dismal surroundings in consternation. A sturdy plank table stood
in the center of the room with two rough, uncomfortable-looking chairs on
either side. Along the wall opposite the window stood a smaller oblong table,
its roughhewn surface graced by a dusty basin and an empty wooden pail. A
squat, wooden chest leaned drunkenly against one wall, the long-abandoned nest
of some rodent spilling from behind it.

"It's
not such a bad place to hide for a few days once it's aired," Francis
said, turning toward her with a smile. "We can..." The smile died
abruptly, his features hardening with anger. "Who struck you?"

Anne's
fingers flew to the telltale bruise along her jaw. She had forgotten it in her
weariness. "No one," she said, faltering at the look of cold fury on
his face. "I stumbled on the stairs and struck my head against the
wall." She forced herself to smile. "I was lucky to get off with a
bruise instead of a broken neck for my clumsiness."

He
caught her chin, turning her face to the light and studying the mark narrowly.
She wanted to pull away but knew the folly of further angering him.

"Was
it Glenkennon?" he asked, barely controlling his wrath. "Did he beat
you into agreeing to the wedding?"

She
felt his fingers tighten and met his cold gaze nervously. She had never been
able to lie to him successfully. "Please, Francis, you're hurting
me," she whispered.

He
dropped his hand, his eyes holding hers. "Who struck you, lass?" he
repeated.

"I
told you, I fell. It's as simple as that," she said, moving away from him
to inspect the basin and pail with feigned interest. "If you'll bring in
some water, I'll see what I can do to clean up the place."

Francis
did not move. He stood in the center of the packed dirt floor watching Anne
inspect the contents of the room. She was not going to tell him anything
further without a fight. Damn Glenkennon and his cowardly habit of attacking
those weaker than himself! The man must have struck her. That ugly bruise was
the result of no fall.

"I'm
going outside to see to Leven," he said grimly. Snatching up the pail, he
ducked through the low doorway without a backward glance.

Francis
led the tired stallion around back of the hut to a small lean-to built for the
stabling of horses. Unsaddling the big horse, he rubbed him down with a shock
of twisted grass, pondering Anne's behavior all the while. She was nervous as a
cat, he thought darkly. And strangest of all, she seemed afraid of him. He was
used to her rapid changes of temperament, but by God, she had best learn to be
honest with him!

He
sighed and leaned against Leven's powerful shoulder while the stallion nuzzled
playfully at his shirt. There would be time enough between them to get to the
bottom of the matter, Francis thought. They would have little to do but talk as
they waited out the days in that isolated place. He thought of the way Anne had
looked just then with those breeches hugging her slim hips and her shirt
unlaced at the throat. He grinned as a flicker of desire quivered through his
body despite his weariness. Yes, there would be plenty of time between them.

Francis
brought water for Leven from the stream and cut some of the lush grass growing
along the bank for the animal's fodder. Having assured himself the horse was
well cared for, he rinsed the pail and filled it with fresh burn water for the
hut.

When
he entered the doorway, Anne was busy cleaning the dust from about the place.
He nodded in approval and filled the empty basin with water. "Wash up and
we'll eat. I've bannocks and dried meat in that bag. There may even be a bite
of cheese, if Conall didn't finish it." He rinsed his hands, then spread
the meager fare on the table.

Seating
himself in one of the low chairs, Francis watched appreciatively as Anne washed
her hands, then splashed water on her face, rinsing away the dust and sweat of
travel. Her breasts filled out her boy's shirt in the most eye-catching way,
and her narrow waist looked tinier than ever with the rope catching the trews
above the enticing roundness of her hips. He smiled to himself, imagining his
hand soon following those curves.