The Highlander (31 page)

^Twenty-One

An honorable imprisonment...as is due to one who is in treaty for ransom. —Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832), Scottish novelist.
Ivanhoe
(1819)

Because the roads in the Highlands were nothing more than cattle tracks, Calum had arranged passage for them aboard a ship that would take them to Inverness, which lay at the southwestern end of Moray Firth, on the banks of the River Ness.

They docked at New Quay, which was sometimes called Citadel Quay, and soon wound then-way through the medieval streets of Inverness, until they arrived at Bunchrew House, where Calum arranged for a room for Sophie.

"You must remain in the room until I return," he said. "I have arranged for the proprietor to bring you your meals. Do not open the door to anyone else."

"Except you."

For a moment, Calum looked at her warily, then he almost smiled. "Except me," he said, and Sophie felt they had crossed an important milestone.

"Where will you go first?"

"I thought I should start at Inverness Castle, to see what I can find out. I hope that they will be able to tell me where he is. I'll be back as soon as I can."

He opened the door and was about to depart when she called out to him.

"Calum, wait!"

He turned back to her and Sophie said, "If you can arrange it, I would like to see him. As a favor to me, please do not tell Jamie the purpose for our visit—at least not until I am gone. Just let him think we came to see him."

' 'Aye, I will see what I can do, but first I must learn where they have taken him."

When Calum returned he brought the news that Jamie had been at Inverness Castle, and had been transferred several days ago to Fort Augustus, some sixty miles from Inverness, at the foot of Ben Nevis.

They departed for Fort Augustus early the next morning, several hours before the sun was up. The journey took longer than she had anticipated due to all the climbing, with the last ten miles being what she could only call brutal.

When, at last, they began their descent into Fort Augustus it was a slow journey due to the strong headwinds.

As he had in Inverness, Calum placed her in a small inn and went to find Jamie and make arrangements for her to see him.

Jamie was lying down in a room barely large enough to accommodate the small bed. His sole light was a small rectangular window set high in the wall near the ceiling. It was the only connection to the world outside.

He heard the tread of feet and the sound of voices as someone approached. A moment later the small pass-through in the door was opened and a guard said, "You have a visitor."

Jamie eased his broken body off the bed, wincing as the raw flesh chafed against the manacle around one ankle. His meals had been vile and few, and his weakness caused him to sway unsteadily the moment he stood. He had to brace himself with one bruised arm against the wall.

One eye was swollen shut and the other he was only able to open a little, but it was enough that he could see where he was going.

He limped toward the door. The chain scraped the floor with a rattle with each step. When he reached the tiny opening he could see the guard's mouth moving, and then the words penetrated through the ringing in his ears.

"You have three minutes. No more."

He looked through the tiny opening in the door. Sophie...she looked exhausted, and her lovely features were grim and drawn. His gaze swept lower. "You have lost weight, lass. I would hate to think ye were grieving for me."

"Why would I be grieving for someone who cannot stand the sight of me?" she said.

He tried to open his eye a bit more, to see her more clearly, but her features were blurred. "What are you doing here? Who brought you?" he asked, for he had already vowed someone would pay a dear price for bringing her here. He would kill the bastard who told her where he was.

"I haven't much time...only three minutes, and I prefer to use it to tell you what I came here to say. Do not say anything. Only listen. I am sorry for everything that has happened since I came into your life. Please believe that I never intended for any harm to come to you or your family. I owe you so much...." Her voice cracked and she paused. "I am sorry. I hate tears."

He had never wanted to hold her and comfort her any more than he did now. She looked small, desolate and exhausted. He knew how she must have worried about him, and how she would have blamed herself for what happened.

"What I said is true," she said. "I do owe you a tremendous debt. I pray I can pay some of my indebtedness with a small gift. Perhaps then you can find it in your heart to forgive me.''

"Sophie..."

She shook her head, not wanting to give him an opportunity to tell her what he needed to say. "How I envy God, for he can be with you always, while I cannot." Her voice broke for the second time.

She never appeared so strong, yet fragile, or so very far away. He had seen a great deal of suffering in his life—after all, he was a Scot— but he had never seen such anguish as he saw in her eyes before she turned away.

"Sophie...for the love of God, wait a moment."

"Time's up," the guard said, and shut the window.

The visit with Jamie subdued her, and Sophie was quiet during the ride back to the inn. She would never be able to erase the memory of his poor face, swollen and bruised, with a dozen cuts where the blood had dried to a thin crust. She knew the rest of him probably looked even worse, and was glad she had been spared the seeing of it.

Calum, sitting beside her, did not have much to say, either, but he did manage to ask, "Are you certain you want to do this? Once the exchange is made you will be on your way to England, and into the clutches of Rockingham. There will be no way any of us can help you once that happens."
     

' 'It is not what I want to do, but what I must do. It was my deception that pulled Jamie and the whole Graham clan into the fray. I alone bear the responsibility of getting him arrested. It is therefore fitting, I think, that I be the one to set things right."

"You're a lass. You shouldn't be involved."

She had decided at first not to tell Calum about the condition of Jamie's poor face, but thought better of it. This was because they had allowed only one of them to see him, and so Calum had arranged for that person to be her. "I cannot let him stay there a moment longer. You did not see his face, Calum. It was nothing but bruises, cuts and grotesque swellings. One eye was completely swollen shut, and the other not much better. His lips were raw and caked with dried blood. I dare not imagine what the rest of him has endured. He has been manacled like an animal. I heard the chain rattle when he walked. We have to get him out of there, and unless you have a better plan we go with mine."

"Jamie willna see it that way."

"Then you shall have to persuade him to see things differently."

"Aye, if he dinna kill me first."

"He willna," she said, trying to lighten his mood with her terrible attempt at mimicking his Scots burr. "He may be angry, but he will not do bodily harm to his own brother. Besides, none of this is your fault."

"The fault lies with Gillian and the traitors in the
Am Freiceadan Dubh,
who had their bloody hands in the middle of Jamie's arrest."

"I am not familiar with that name."

"It means the Black Watch. They are so called because of the dark tartan they wear. Unlike the scarlet coats of the British, the dark tartan makes it easier to spy on unsuspecting Highlanders, who would never believe they could be betrayed by their own countrymen."

"Yes, Jamie told me once that they were mostly Lowlanders, but some were Highlanders who chose to serve the English rather than then-own country."

"They are the pick of the Highlanders, for they are the sons of some of the more powerful aristocracy. They bear the taint of being loyal to the bastard who sits upon the throne of England. Black is the color of their hearts, and watch is what they do, ye ken?''

She nodded. "Yes, I knew they were traitorous spies..."

"...who watch the Highlanders, arrest them, kill them or turn them in. We are no' allowed to carry weapons in the Highlands and when we are caught and they find a weapon, it is all the reason they need to arrest us."

"What do you mean you are not allowed to carry weapons? You carry them all the time."

It was the first real smile she had seen on Calum's grim face. "Weel, ye ken it was like this...after they put down the uprising in 1715, the clans were told to turn in their weapons. Some did, and the rest imported a shipload of worn-out muskets and swords from Holland. They surrendered those and kept their own."

Sophie fell quiet. She was thinking about Jamie and the vigorous Celtic stock he was descended from. She remembered her first impressions of this land with no roads and an abundance of moor and bog—a land peopled by savage, warring tribes who spoke the most outlandish gibberish they called a language, and adhered to customs and dress that went beyond human understanding.

She recalled the vision of Jamie when he let his plaid drop, affording her an ample view of his well-muscled buttocks and a glimpse of what lay on the opposite side, and decided there were some things one did not have to understand to enjoy. It was his wildness, his love of country, and the way of life they tried to hold on to that made him the man he was.

The loyalty these Highlanders had for one another and their land deserved admiration, especially considering that Scotland was a small country of barren soil, few people and a rugged life, yet any one of them would gladly spill his blood for his wee bit o' wild scenery and romantic ruins.

Was this, too, something handed down through their Celtic blood, from their brooding, reflective ancestors?

They were a law unto themselves: men who lived by a strict code, filled with integrity. They had no king and no legal system—nothing but the chief of their clan, a mighty, claymore-wielding arm, and a spirit that would not die.

God only knew the British had tried to break that spirit, for they had built chains of fortresses, put in garrisons and even tried to murder an entire clan in order to tame the Highlanders and bring them to yoke.

Nothing worked until they began to recruit independent companies from the clans loyal to the crown—men who spoke Gaelic and knew the countryside and raised their arms against then-own countrymen.

It shamed her to think she had been as deceptive as they.

The next morning Sophie looked at the scarlet coat of Major Charles Penworthy, of His Majesty's 10th Dragoons.

"I welcome you to Fort Augustus,
mademoiselle.
I regret any hardships you had to endure during your trip here. Rest assured, the Duke of Rockingham has made arrangements for the rest of your journey that are, shall we say, much more appropriate for a woman of your class and breeding."

Her heart hammered. She was here, in the same garrison where Jamie had been, only now he was on his way back to Monleigh Castle with

Calum. Never had she ever felt so alone. She knew the men here were falling over themselves to treat her well, now that they understood who she was, and who she was to wed. Little ease did these superficial things give her.

Dread crept in through her every pore.

She had a feeling that her trip to the home of the Duke of Rockingham would be the most pleasant part of it all, for once she was in his clutches she knew he would not simply kiss her hand and say, "My dear, all is forgiven."

^Twenty-Two

Let me remind you what the wary fox said once upon a time to the sick lion: "Because those footprints scare me, all directed your way, none coming back." —Horace (65-8
B.C.),
Roman poet.
Epistles

(c.20
B.C.)

Those
who knew the Duke of Rockingham said the diamond ring on his little finger was as ostentatious as the duke himself. And so was his palatial home.

Nothing could have prepared Sophie for the stunning sight of Swifford Castle, or its surrounding two thousand acres of parkland. And when one added the farmland, woods and moorland, the size of the duke's holdings rivaled that of the king's.

As for being palatial, it came close to holding its own against the beauty of Versailles.

The ducal carriage drove over a picturesque stone bridge, where graceful swans floated aimlessly and ducks paddled among the reeds along the water's edge. The carriage continued on down a graveled lane and through an opening in the woods where a copper weeping willow stood alone in the middle of a meadow, dripping tears from its branches, and she wondered if it cried for her.

Enchanting, fairy-tale towers rose over the treetops, giving no hint that within the gothic towers lay lavish, even opulent interiors, rich with priceless paintings, stained glass, marble, gilding and elaborately carved furnishings, and a man with a heart as hard and cold as stone.

Once the carriage arrived and she alighted, Sophie was led into the house through the south corridor into an enormous hall adorned with scenes from the time of the Emperor Augustus. The floors were marble, imported, she was told, from Italy. An obvious way to display his wealth, Sophie was certain.

A butler with a thin, pinched nose met her at the door and promptly gave her over to the care of the sour-faced woman standing beside him. "Mrs. Crabb will escort you to your apartments."

With a kind of haughty effrontery, Mrs. Crabb was one of those people who could, with one look, show disapproval and be insulting at the same time. "This way," she said.

Sophie fell in line behind the woman who resembled her name, for she embodied all the qualities of a curmudgeon—ill tempered and full of resentment. She did not speak again until they came to the end of a long corridor on the third floor. She paused long enough to open the door to one of the one hundred and fifty rooms in Swifford Castle.

"The duke has had this room prepared for you. It is normally reserved for highly distinguished guests."

Sophie said nothing as she stepped over the threshold into the room that was to be her prison, in spite of its exquisite tapestries, painted walls and ceilings.

"The apartments are full of priceless antiques, and rival anything you have in France. Should you require something, pull the silk cord near your bed and someone will attend to you presently."

With a curt nod Mrs. Crabb departed, but not before Sophie caught a glimpse of the two guards who were now standing on each side of her door.

When the door closed Sophie crossed the room and opened the doors onto a small Juliet balcony. She stepped outside and looked down to the courtyard far below.

The duke had been very careful to assign her a room she could not easily escape from. She thought of the swans and ducks she had seen earlier. How she envied them their freedom to go about, while her life was more like that of a linnet confined in a gilded cage.

Over the roof of the opposite wing of the castle, she could see the treetops of the tranquil, parklike setting beyond. Now comes the waiting, she thought, as she fought against the panic clutching her throat.

Outwardly, Swifford had all the attributes of a fairyland, but inside the confining walls and towering turrets, dwelled something dark and sinister—even monstrous. Beauty and evil... appearance and reality—something was out of balance in this place, jarring her senses like the lyrical harmony of violent poetry.

She could not help wondering how many damned souls had entered this place and never came out.

Weary, Sophie went back inside. She lay across the bed with her clothes on.

She was astounded to discover when she awoke that it was the next afternoon. Who knows how long she might have slept if she had not been awakened by the sound of draperies drawn back, and the burst of brilliant sunlight coming into her room.

She opened her eyes and saw the author of this ignoble awakening was none other than the well-fed Mrs. Crabb.

"His Grace, the duke, wishes to see you, but you cannot expect to see him with the stench of Scotland still on you. There is a tray with a light lunch on your table. Your bath will be brought up shortly. I suggest you do not dawdle. The duke does not like to be kept waiting."

Sophie clenched her jaw and set her chin. "I would think that by now\ he would be growing accustomed to it."

"Enjoy your waspish words while you still can, ducky. You will soon be convinced to hold a more civil tongue."

Night had fallen by the time Mrs. Crabb opened the door to her room and told Sophie, "His Grace will see you now."

Accompanied by her guards, Sophie was escorted down the stairs to Rockingham's library—a room as elegant as the rest of the house.

Surrounded by leather-bound volumes that must have numbered into the thousands, Sophie was left to stand on a French Savonnerie carpet, beneath a gilded stucco ceiling. Beyond her, the door closed and she began to wonder how long the illustrious duke would choose to keep her waiting.

Once she tried to sit down in the damask chair behind her, but she was given a sharp poke in the ribs by the guard to her right. "You will remain standing," he said, "for as long as it takes until the duke arrives."

Her hands went up in mock surrender. "I am a statue of patience."

She had to admit she was about to run out of patience by the time the door behind her opened and a maid came into the library to light more candles. It was only a few minutes after the maid departed that a side door she had not noticed before opened, and William Arthur Wentworth, the twelfth Duke of Rockingham, graced her presence.

He was dressed in the role that suited him, with a satin coat and lace-trimmed shirt, and a fashionable wig, powdered and perfectly curled. Affected and foppish, he at first appeared to be the perfect macaroni, well traveled and aping the fashions of the countries he visited.

He gave her a visual going-over that was blatant, carnal and insulting. "So, the flyaway bird has been captured and returned to her cage," he said, after a long and insulting perusal.

"I came of my own accord."

"Do you think me a fool? I know the terms of your surrender, and the Scot you freed in exchange for yourself. An interesting sacrifice and worthy of investigation, which we will discuss later, but first, I want to know why you thought to escape to Norway."

"I did not wish to marry you. I believe I expressed that plainly to you in France."

"I don't recall your opinion being asked for. This was a business agreement between myself and your cousin."

He poured himself a glass of something that looked to be wine or claret and carried it to his desk. He sat down, neither offering her a glass nor a place to sit down.

"You have caused me a great deal of time and difficulty, not to mention money."

"I do not know why you bothered. I am not all that great a prize."

He went on, as if she had not spoken at all. "I have had men looking for you that I could ill afford to be without. Now I find myself the laughingstock of London, since everyone knows my betrothed gave herself up to save the worthless hide of a bloody Scot."

"I prefer to think of it as saving a great deal of bloodshed, for had you sent troops to bring me back forcibly, there would have been many lives lost on both sides."

"You misjudge me. I am never encumbered with the loss of lives no matter which side they are on."

"I have heard worse about you," she said, forgetting her control and letting her anger show through.

Surprise flashed in his eyes. She wanted to slap herself for baiting him.

"And may I inquire as to what else you have heard?"

"I have heard many things, mostly dealing with the men you have killed, your skill as a swordsman and your insatiable interest in women. Would you care to refute or validate what I have heard?"

"Your smart words and cockiness do little to improve the severity of your situation," he said, his eyes narrowing to a cold stare. "You seem to forget that you are the prisoner here. I will ask the questions."

"I was not aware I was a prisoner," she replied boldly, "for I have committed no crime. I understand that you are displeased with me, and therefore I request to be allowed to return to France. You cannot keep me here indefinitely."

"Oh, but that is where you are wrong. You belong to me, as this castle does, or my horse, or any of a million things I have bought and paid for. I am free to do with you as I like, and that includes marrying you, if I so choose, or simply using you for as long as it pleases me, and you have no say in the matter. You lost all your rights when you ran away to live with barbaric Highlanders."

"I did not set out for Scotland, nor did I cause that storm!" she said hotly. "It was not my fault the ship ran aground."
¹

"Perhaps not, but it was your choice to remain with the Grahams when you knew we were looking for you. You have put me to a great deal of trouble, and marriage will do nothing more than clip your wings. You need to be taught a thing or two, but first I need to answer one question. How many of them had their way with you?"

She was shaking with anger. "You have no right to speak to me like that."

He leaned forward and folded his hands together on the desk. "You are my runaway bride-to-be, and that gives me the right to ask questions. You are also my prisoner, and that gives me the right to ask them in any manner I choose. Just what would you have me do? You show up at my doorstep, looking no worse for the wear, but of course outward appearances have no way of bearing witness to the state of virginity one might find you in. I always inspect my livestock."

"Your daring is only exceeded by your vulgarity."

If ever a smile looked to be painted on silk, it was his as he said, "Is it, now? Well then, why don't you tell me, are you still untouched or have you been thoroughly explored and spoiled?"

She would not respond to such filth. How well she remembered his visits to France, resplendent in his frilly court dress and acting the English dandy. In spite of all his prancing foppishness, she knew him for what he was, a man whose effeminate exterior hid a cunning mind, an insatiable sexual appetite and one of the deadliest sword arms in England.

To him rape was a sport, and murder a way to while away the hours of boredom. She cautioned herself not to rouse his anger any further than she had already, so she clamped her mouth shut.

"If you are no longer a virgin, then I am the one insulted. Sadly to say, the loss of virtue is irretrievable. And now, as to the state of yours..."

He motioned the guards to take her, and said, "On the desk, if you please, and hold her steady."

She was about to ask what he thought he was doing when, as if he was about to select a peach, he put his hand beneath her skirts and followed the line of her leg, until he reached the top of her thighs. It only took him a moment to find the place he sought.

He examined her roughly then withdrew his hand.

"Just as I thought. A not so surprising absence of a maidenhead." He glanced at the guards. "You may release her."

The two guards helped her off the desk and back to her chair.

Revolted by the thought of him touching her, she sat with her head bowed with shame. She was stunned and shocked, far beyond any mere humiliation. It went far deeper than that.

He had degraded her, in the worst way possible for a woman to be degraded. To do such was unthinkable. To do it on a desk, in a library, in the presence of common guards...was the worst sort of defilement.

Suddenly she felt his hand beneath her chin and he lifted her face. He studied her coldly. "Have you anything to say?"