Stuart, Elizabeth (46 page)

She
nodded, avoiding his searching look. "I gathered wood while you were gone.
I was hoping we could have a fire."

He
picked up a handful of twigs and dry moss, kneeling to arrange them on a
blackened spot in the center of the floor. She watched his strong, capable
hands work with the wood and flint. In a matter of moments greedy flames licked
hungrily at the tiny branches.

The
fire illuminated the darkening room, highlighting Francis's stiff, handsome
face. He lifted inquiring blue eyes to Anne's. His quick grin flashed, though
it lacked something of its old warmth. "I'll get the trout cleaned up and
spitted now. It'll not take long to cook over a hot fire."

While
the meat dripped juicily into the crackling flames, Francis brought in several
armloads of fragrant marsh grass, dropping them on the floor in one corner of
the hut. He lifted one of the blankets from the back of a chair, spreading it smoothly
over the pile of grass. "I've slept on this hard-packed dirt many a night,
but you'll be needin' something softer." He picked up the other blanket
and tossed it down several feet away. "The dirt's good enough for
me."

Anne
nodded without speaking. He was going to make it easy on her after all.

They
both ate hungrily from the delicate roasted flesh of the trout, leaving the
hare to cook over the spit for breakfast on the morrow. Francis wished aloud
for Donald and his flask of wine, teasing Anne with the memory of that other
night when they had eaten over an open fire and she had fallen asleep at his
feet.

She
smiled, recalling her misery that night—the night that had been the unexpected
beginning of her love for Francis MacLean. There had been nothing to fear from
him, though she'd not known it at the time. If only they could have gone
back...

Anne
studied Francis's profile. The dancing firelight cast his strong features in
relief against the shadows of the room, gilding his raven hair with golden streaks
and reflecting from his eyes in dancing lights. A wistful smile curled the
corners of his lips, as if he, too, were remembering.

Anne
caught her breath at the wave of love and tenderness washing over her, wishing
she could tell him what was in her heart. She had hurt him that afternoon, and
it was the last thing she wanted. Yet the sooner she was away from Francis, the
safer he would be.

Catching
herself up sharply before she could succumb to the lure of self-pity, Anne bade
Francis a cold good night. She closed her eyes, snuggling into the warmth of
her cloak on the fragrant mattress of cut grass. In spite of her misery, she
was thankful beyond measure that she was not out in that chill darkness, alone
and hungry and wondering if she would ever reach the MacDonnells to the north.

"Anne."
The word was a soft whisper beside her. She opened her eyes as Francis knelt
and spread his own cloak over her. "Mine's larger, lass, and will easily
cover you from head to toe," he explained, tucking the cloth gently about
her shoulders. "It'll be cold by morning."

She
raised herself on one elbow. "But you'll need it, Francis. Mine will
do."

He
was so close, she could feel the warmth radiating from his body. An erratic
pulse beat revealingly at his throat, and his eyes gleamed down at her from the
shadows. "I'm a bit too warm as it is," he said, glancing toward his
unwelcoming blanket in the corner. "I'll be fine, lass. Now get to
sleep." He touched her hair briefly, then moved away to his place beside
the fire.

She
gratefully drew his cloak beneath her chin. She doubted she would need its
warmth, but the faint smell of sea and heather mingled with his own familiar
scent was comforting. Her heavy lids dropped over her eyes again, and
exhaustion claimed her.

***

Francis
lay perfectly still,
every muscle tense as he tried to place the sound
that had awakened him. He rolled over and sat up, his hand caressing the
comforting steel of his dirk. He had no idea how long he had slept, but the
fire had burned down to a bed of glowing embers, providing little heat or
light. Perhaps it was only the snapping coals that had aroused him.

From
the corner came a low groan, and Anne mumbled incoherently in her sleep. He
frowned, listening to the torment of her dreams, wondering miserably if he
should awaken her or allow her to sleep on uninterrupted.

He
rose and added wood to the fire, stirring up the coals with a branch. Wide
awake, he watched as Anne moved restlessly in her sleep. Suddenly, her
anguished scream rent the night, sending the hair crawling along the back of
his neck. He was across the floor in the space of a heartbeat, his hands on her
shoulders, shaking her awake.

"Wake
up, Anne. It's a dream." He caught her flailing arms and held her against
his chest. "It's a dream, Anne," he repeated. "Only a dream.
Wake up, sweetheart."

She
struggled in his arms, fighting to push him away. "No! Don't... don't hit
me again!"

Francis
closed his eyes at her words, drawing her tightly against him. "You're
having a nightmare, sweetheart," he whispered against her hair. "I'm
here. No one will hurt you now."

She
stared at him wildly for a moment, then collapsed, shuddering against his
chest. He felt the rise and fall of her breasts against him with her shallow,
frightened breathing. His lips brushed her hair and his arms tightened
protectively about her. "Nothing can happen to you now. I promise,"
he whispered reassuringly. "Whatever it was, try to forget it. It was only
a dream."

She
clung to him desperately, needing the warm comfort of his arms around
her—needing even more the reassurance of his understanding. She had to tell
him; she could not keep the horror locked inside her any longer. He still
believed in her, loved her in spite of everything.

She
shook her head against his chest. "No, Francis, no," she choked.
"It... it wasn't a dream." A sob convulsed her body and tears
trickled from beneath her tightly closed lids. "Sir Percy... he..."
She struggled to speak, biting her lip. "He..." She dissolved against
him as racking sobs swept her body.

Francis
pressed his face against the cool silk of her hair. "I know, love, I know
what he did. But it's all right," he murmured helplessly. Holding her
close, he lived the hurt she felt, defenseless against the pain that bound them
together.

He
had failed her, he thought darkly, feeling the bitterness of defeat for one of
the few times in his life. He should have foreseen the danger. God, why hadn't
he taken her away from Ranleigh weeks ago?

He
kissed her forehead and her hair, tasting the salt of her tears, as he cradled
her in his arms like a frightened child. "It's all right," he kept
whispering, stroking her shaking shoulders, massaging the nape of her neck with
gentle fingers. "It doesn't matter, love. He'll never touch you again.
It's all right."

After
many long, heartbreaking minutes, Anne's sobs began to subside, and she finally
lay quietly against him. Francis knew—he must have guessed long before—yet he
had not turned away from her in disgust. "I'm so s... sorry,
Francis," she whimpered, struggling for breath. "I'm so very
sorry."

He
stroked the damp hair back from her face. She stared at him woefully from
behind tear-spiked lashes, her look wrenching his heart. "Don't be
foolish, love. You've nothing to be sorry for," he breathed.

His
mouth traced the delicate line of her cheek to brush gently against her
trembling lips. "'Tis Campbell's black soul that'll answer for the deed,
though I should have known Glenkennon would offer you little protection."

"Protection?"
She laughed bitterly. "Protection? It was my dear father who gave me to
the man. My own father, Francis! My own flesh and blood, and he sold me to
Campbell to get wages for his soldiers," she choked out. "I knew he
never loved me, but I never dreamed he hated me so deeply."

Francis
crushed her against him. "Glenkennon isn't your father, Anne," he
said softly. "Your father died before you were ever born."

Anne
stiffened abruptly and pulled away, staring at him with wide, incredulous eyes.
"What did you say?"

"Glenkennon
isn't your father, lass. He had your father murdered shortly after Mary
MacDonnell's marriage."

She
drew a deep, shaky breath. "Tell me."

"Your
father was a MacKinnon, lass. The eldest son of the laird of a small clan whose
land Glenkennon now holds. We crossed over part of it last night before we came
to the bog."

She
had stopped crying and sat so still, she might have been carved from stone.
"Do you feel up to hearing it, lass?" he asked gently. "'Tis not
a pretty story."

At
her nod, he frowned, staring into the crackling flames. "When Glenkennon
met your mother, he'd just arrived in Scotland and was eager to make a name for
himself. He saw her and wanted her. And he was determined to have her, though
the lass would have nothing to do with him. She'd fallen in love with Bruce
MacKinnon and he with her the first time they'd clapped eyes on each
other."

He
glanced up. "The MacKinnons weren't a large or powerful clan, but after a
time the MacDonnells gave their consent to the match, since they doted on Mary
and wanted her happiness above all else. The marriage took place secretly, for
by then Glenkennon had his soldiers harassing the MacKinnons.

"When
Glenkennon learned of the marriage, he was beside himself with rage. He
convinced the commissioners controlling young James that the Catholic
MacKinnons headed a conspiracy to rescue Mary Stuart and institute a Catholic
state in Scotland. Talk of conspiracy was rife then, and a plot to murder
Elizabeth had been uncovered. Before the furor died down, Glenkennon talked the
commissioners into issuing a writ of treason."

Francis's
voice dropped. "The MacKinnons never had a chance. Glenkennon sent
soldiers in the dead of night, and every building down to the lowliest
peasant's hut was put to the torch. Men, women, and children were slaughtered
without quarter, and only a very few managed to escape the carnage. Old Ranald
MacKinnon and his two sons, Bruce and Richard, were slain defending their home,
and all in the house perished save Richard's youngest son." He stared down
at her. "A servant dragged Conall to safety in the marsh.

"Since
the marriage hadn't been made public, Mary was still with her parents at Brise
Hall, thus her life—and yours—were spared." He paused, running gentle
fingers over Anne's frozen face. "You'd already been conceived, lass,
though she'd told no one save her parents and my mother."

The
comforting crackling of the fire and the noise of Anne's shallow breathing were
the only sounds in the silence. "But how came she to marry
Glenkennon?" Anne whispered. "How could she?"

"When
Glenkennon learned Mary hadn't been killed, he devised a way to punish the
MacDonnells even further," Francis replied grimly. "A few weeks later
he kidnapped Mary. He took her to Edinburgh, and from there by ship to England
before the MacDonnells could raise the clans. Once at Rosewood, he simply
played a waiting game, knowing he held all the cards. By the time you were
born, love, Mary was his lawful wife, and Glenkennon held his power over her
till her death by threatening harm to you."

Anne
sat silent, frozen in disbelief by the unexpected horror of his words. "My
mother was forced to wed the man that killed her husband... my father,"
she breathed. "My God, Francis! How did she stand it all those
years?"

He
drew her into his arms, stroking her hair tenderly. "I don't know, lass.
Before God, I don't know."

"Why
didn't you tell me this before?"

"I
didn't think it wise for you to know the truth while you still lived under
Glenkennon's roof."

He
was right. She would never have been able to hide her hatred had she known.
"So now I know the truth. Now that it's too late... too late for
everything," she added bitterly.

His
arms tightened about her. "It's not too late for us, Anne. I've not
changed my plans one jot."

She
pushed away from him and stared bleakly into the fire. "Percy Campbell
ended everything between us."

"Campbell
ended nothing but his own foolish life by his deed," Francis replied,
"and I'll take care of that soon enough. What happened between you makes
no difference in the way I feel, save that I regret not killing the bastard
long ago."

"Then
you don't understand what he did," she said low. Hot tears of shame began
to trickle down her cheeks. "Oh God...," she choked, covering her
face with her hands.

He
caught her to him, stilling the trembling of her lips with his kiss and warming
her shivering form with the heat of his own body. "Hush, love, it doesn't
matter," he said softly, drawing her down beside him onto the blanket. He
wrapped his arms about her and held her securely against him. "I love you,
Anne. Nothing will ever change that."

"B...
but you can't, Francis. You can't possibly want me now!"

He
lifted the hair back from her face, tracing her lips with gentle fingers.
"If that's what you think, you little know the way of it, sweet." He
smiled, raining tender kisses on her eyelids and cheeks before moving to take
her mouth, gently at first and then with an increasing ardor as her moist lips
parted beneath his.