Forgive me… Och, forgive me…
Chapter 29
The townsfolk rallied around Victoria and Genevieve, while Murdock and a select group of men stayed behind to make sure the mercenaries did not get away without a dose of punishment.
“Will you help me to carry her inside?” Victoria said, her hands still pressed to Genevieve’s wound. They were covered in her friend’s blood, but Genevieve’s chest continued to rise and fall, albeit slowly and with a shallowness that worried Victoria.
A quartet of the most muscular men stooped to pick up the older woman, and easily delivered her into the house. Victoria walked alongside, never letting the pressure lessen on the bloodied hole. Only on the threshold of her home did she look back, but Camdyn had disappeared into the crowd.
What does he mean to do? How are we to evade the English soldiers, now?
Trying to return her focus to Genevieve, she instructed the four men to carry the woman up the stairs and into her personal study. A room that they had seen with their own eyes, when they were the ones in need of healing. Indeed, she did not need to say a word as they took Genevieve to the chaise-lounge, and lay her down.
“Mr. Brecken, could you do what I have been doing, and press your palms to Genevieve’s injury? I must depart for a moment,” Victoria said, for she still had to collect the crate of tonics from the carriage that would never reach the north, now.
The fisherman, whom she had once treated for a broken leg, and now walked without any hint of a hobble, nodded. “Like this, aye?” He took over her position, covering the wound.
“You must apply as much of your weight to it as possible, though not too much in case you should break her sternum or her ribs,” Victoria warned, wondering if she would be better off sending one of them to fetch the crate. But the possibility that they might bring the wrong one, and waste time that Genevieve did not have, steeled her resolve.
Mr. Brecken leaned into the push of his hands. “I’ll nae move ‘til ye come back.”
“Thank you,” she replied, though it was not merely thanks for this small gesture. It was all-encompassing gratitude for the selflessness of the townsfolk, who had answered her call. She had not known if Murdock would be successful in gaining their help, after she had sent him to assemble as many as possible, but she realized that she need not have worried. This was their payment for all the times she had helped them and asked for nothing. This was the power of kindness.
Victoria ran from the study, her hands slick and warm from her friend’s blood. The sight of that vivid red increased her pace and endurance, powering her through, for there had been so much horror tonight that she was in perpetual fear that her body might flounder. Shock could render a person immobile, yet she was still moving, still striving, still brimming with determination.
“Lady Desiglow!” Murdock came panting up to her, as she exited the house. He looked ashen, as though he had seen a ghost.
“Is something the matter?” She did not pause to speak with him. Instead, he followed her as she hurried to the concealed carriage.
Murdock put his hand on her shoulder, making her stop. “It’s Camdyn, lass. He is nae anywhere to be found. I’ve been lookin’ for him, thinkin’ he’d want to decide what happens to that English lad’s body, but… he’s gone, and I dinnae ken where.”
“Find him,” Victoria urged. “You must find him, but I cannot go with you. My dearest friend is on the brink of death, and I must save her.”
To prove the point, she opened the carriage door and reached in for the first crate. She checked it, to make sure it had what she needed, and turned back toward the house. Yet, with every step she took, her heart wrenched in her chest, her mind churning with dark thoughts and dismal possibilities.
Where have you gone, you fool? What did you mean when you said you would worry about the rest?
“I’ll bring him back to ye, lass!” Murdock shouted. “I will nae let him do aught rash!”
Victoria forced herself to keep going, though she re-entered her study in something of a daze. For she had come to the realization that there were only two reasons that Camdyn had disappeared from the manor’s grounds—either he had run off, to flee the imminent threat of soldiers, or he had gone to turn himself in, to try and get ahead of the warning William had given with his dying breath.
And I know he would never run…
“Ye look mighty pale, lass.” Mr. Brecken eyed her with concern.
Victoria heaved in a shaky breath. “I will be fine. Please, continue what you are doing until I ask you to move your hands.”
She busied herself with the familiar motions of healing, as a means of distracting her mind from Camdyn’s plight. It was the only thing she could do, though with every dab of a whisky-soaked cloth, and every droplet of tonic and tincture that she placed into the wound, she thought of Camdyn’s own wound. He had been shot, too, and if he did not receive due care soon, it might fester and poison his blood.
Everywhere I turn, I am forced to face another way in which he might be taken from me. Have we not suffered enough? Can we not be happy together, now?
“Genevieve, this is going to be painful,” Victoria said, though her friend’s eyes were closed. If it had not been for the faint rasp of breath, Victoria might have suspected that she had acted too late.
Taking up a pair of thin pincers, she began the intricate task of removing the small, metal ball from inside the wound. It had not gone through the back of Genevieve, and if Victoria left it in there, it would be nothing short of a death warrant. These nasty little balls had a habit of breeding a pestilence into the blood, that very few could survive.
“What are ye doing, M’Lady?” Mr. Brecken looked horrified, as did the three men who had joined him here.
Victoria did not answer. She focused only on finding the ball and removing it as quickly as possible, so she could close the wound and begin to pray for her friend’s recovery… and for the life of her beloved.
By the time dawn rose, she did not know if she would have either of the people that she cared for most in this world.
I must’ve taken a knock to the heed or somethin’.
Camdyn slowed as he approached one of the large, gray stone townhouses in the center of Inverness. He had slipped away from Desiglow Manor while everyone had been mired in the chaos of William’s death and Genevieve’s injury, and wrangling the mercenaries, and had not stopped running until he had reached this spot.
He took a deep breath that sent a shooting pain down his injured arm. “I’ve got to do it,” he told himself. “If I dinnae, this’ll never end. There’s bravery on a battlefield, but this… this might be the stupidest, boldest thing I’ve ever done.”
Clutching his arm, his shirt sleeve stained crimson, he staggered up the steps to the front door of the townhouse. It was one he knew well, for he had often hidden himself across the road and watched the windows of this property. Inside, he knew he would find Lieutenant General Henry Hawley, the military commander for the King, in Scotland.
Dinnae make me regret this, ye Sassenach rat.
Camdyn knocked and waited. With the hour being so late, he did not know if anyone would answer, but he would not give up until he was granted an audience with the Lieutenant General. A man he had seen a handful of times during his watch of this house, and once upon Culloden Moor, leading the government cavalry to victory.
The door opened a few minutes, and several additional bangs, later.
A narrow-nosed, pinched-mouthed man stood silhouetted on the threshold. “Who goes there?”
“My name’s Camdyn McKay, and I need to see the Lieutenant General on urgent business,” Camdyn replied. “There’s been some bother up at Lady Desiglow’s manor, and I’d have General Hawley hear about it. It’s one of his men that’s started it.”
The man hesitated. “Wait here a moment. I shall return shortly.”
The door closed and Camdyn did not know if it would open again. All he could do was wait,
as he had been instructed. It would do him no favors to barge in or try to break down the door, not when he was about to beg forgiveness of his sworn enemy.
An agonizing ten minutes later, the door creaked open. “The Lieutenant General has agreed to speak with you. Please, come this way.”
“Thank ye kindly.” Camdyn entered the house, and immediately felt as though he were walking into the lion’s den.
At the door to a parlor, the butler, or manservant, or whatever he was, turned and observed Camdyn’s injured arm. “Might I fetch you a cloth and bandages for that?”
“Aye, if ye would. I wouldnae want to drip me blood all over this nice house.” Camdyn forced a smile and stepped into the parlor.
There, seated in an armchair, wearing a nightcap instead of his usual brown wig, was Henry Hawley himself. Defeated at Falkirk Muir by Camdyn’s side, only to go on to triumph a short while afterward. Two foes, about to sit down to talk together.
Hawley lifted his head and beckoned for Camdyn to sit in the armchair opposite. “My man tells me you have come with dire news, Mr. McKay?”
Camdyn sat, perching on the edge of the seat out of anxiety. “Aye, that’s true, but there’s another reason I came to speak to ye. I dinnae think yer man would let me in if I told him me real reason.” He paused. “But ye’ve nay need to worry. I dinnae mean ye no harm or aught like that. As ye can see, I am nae armed.”
He had left his broadsword in the safety of the apple trees, back at the manor, where he would hopefully collect it when he was permitted to return. If he was permitted. It all rested on Henry Hawley now.
Hawley’s eyes narrowed. “Then why have you come?”
“I want to ask ye for a King’s pardon,” Camdyn said, his throat tight. Only love could have brought him to this point of desperation, but it was the only option he had left.
“And what, pray tell, have you done that would call for such forgiveness?” Hawley leaned back in his chair, apparently satisfied that Camdyn was not an assassin of some kind.
Camdyn bowed his head. “I ken there’ve been rumors goin’ round Inverness that there’s some Devil of Culloden Moor, and he’s the right-hand man of Bonnie… uh… Charles Stuart.” He swallowed thickly, his arm throbbing. “I want ye to ken that the lad that was seen slinkin’ away after Culloden Moor were me, but I am nae a devil, nor am I aught to do with Charles Stuart. I were just another soldier, tryin’ to keep me life.”
“Go on…” Hawley gestured for Camdyn to continue.
“That rumor started ‘cause I killed the son of some Lord. But how many sons were killed that day, eh? How many sons have died throughout the war between the crown and the Jacobites? It were him or me and to be honest with ye, I thought we were both goners.”
“Anyway, I collapsed outside the gates of a lass—nay, a Lady—who dinnae ken who I was, or what I was. She healed me ‘cause she’s a kind soul, and naught else.” Camdyn felt his eyes sting with tears as he thought of his beloved. “I was about to set out on me way, to leave her be, when some lad comes to her door, claimin’ he’s the new Earl of Desiglow and demandin’ she marry him.”
Camdyn hurriedly told Hawley the rest of that particular part of the story, where William had been sent from the manor, only to return with a band of mercenaries. He explained that a terrible truth had been revealed, and that William was responsible for killing the former Earl at Prestonpans, so he could gain the man’s title and try to gain his wife, as well.
“He already kens a great deal about Lady Desiglow, and was aware that there were no heirs or family to inherit, so he asked for Lord Desiglow’s title when he were offered a reward for his bravery at Prestonpans,” Camdyn went on, trying to read the blank expression on Hawley’s face. “In the end, William Spencer tried to kill Lady Desiglow, but I got in the way, and killed him instead. Me debt paid for all she done in healin’ me. Apparently, I was what yer surgeons would call a lost cause, but she fixed me up.”
Hawley puffed air through his lips. “That is quite a tale, Mr. McKay. Are there witnesses who can corroborate the latter part of your story?”
“Aye, sir. The townspeople came to defend Lady Desiglow, so they all seen what happened,” Camdyn answered politely.
Hawley nodded. “Then, tell me, why is it that you wish to have a King’s pardon? You would not be blamed for killing William Spencer, under such circumstances. I, myself, once killed a man in a duel, so I can understand defending a personal matter. So, it cannot be that.”
“I want to…” Camdyn dug his fingernails into his palms, willing himself to say the words that might save him and Victoria both. All he had to do was renounce his loyalty to the Jacobite cause and pledge his allegiance to King George. Yet, the words would not come out. It would be a betrayal, not only of himself, but of all the men he fought beside.
He tried again, considering a different tactic. “If there’s ever to be peace in Scotland, the King needs to offer a pardon to all Jacobites. Ye won, sir. King George won. It’s time this were put to rest, for though there are rumors, there is nae goin’ to be another uprisin’. Charles Stuart fled, and he is nae comin’ back.”
“Do you know that for certain?” Hawley leaned forward with interest.
Camdyn nodded. “Aye, he turned tail as soon as it looked like we were defeated. He’s gone, and I’ve heard that from someone who has eyes and ears everywhere. It’s over, sir, and I’d like me and those that fought to be able to go back to our lives. We dinnae have anyone to speak for us nay more, since Charles Stuart scarpered, so I’m doin’ the speakin’ on everyone’s behalf. It’s time for peace.”
A small smile crept onto Hawley’s lips. “Is that all?”
“And I love her, sir. Lady Desiglow. I love her,” Camdyn admitted. “She is nae a Jacobite supporter, dinnae mistake me. She thinks war is a daft thing that sees families ripped apart, and good men dead, and she’d be happy if soldiers never fought another battle in their lives. But… I dinnae want her getting’ hurt or threatened by English soldiers, ‘cause of me. I just want to put the war behind me. I’m sure ye do, too.”
Hawley’s expression softened. “You love her?”
“I ken ye understand somethin’ of love, sir. Elizabeth, her name is, I think?” Camdyn had heard something of the love affair between Henry Hawley and Elizabeth Toovey some months prior to the battle at Culloden. “If she were in peril, ye’d want to do anythin’ to help her. If she were bein’ hounded ‘cause of ye, ye’d want to put an end to it. Love makes us do queer things, sir, like sit down with an enemy and ask for peace.”
Hawley mustered a soft chuckle. “On that, we can agree.” He paused. “Indeed, I think we can agree on everything you have said. Most of the troops in England have no further desire to remain, I am eager to return to my Elizabeth, and those Jacobites we have captured have no information to give. As you say, they are just soldiers. The one responsible for all of this, your Bonnie Prince Charlie, has abandoned them.”
“Does this mean ye’ll consider what I’ve asked?” Hope swelled in Camdyn’s chest. Truly, he had not expected Hawley to be so… like him—tired of the fighting and the death and the misery, and eager to be back in the arms of the woman he loved.
Hawley canted his head. “Was there anything more you wanted to request? It does seem as though there is some unfinished dispute in regards to Lady Desiglow, for the title of Earl could be granted to another, as it was to William Spencer.”
“Right… that.” Camdyn adjusted his wounded arm. “If there’s any way, might ye ask the King to let Lady Desiglow keep what’s hers? The Earl left her everythin’, and he wanted her to have it, so it only seems right that she should be allowed to. If he cannae agree to that, can ye ask that she be allowed to keep the manor and the money that her husband left to her? It’ll be the only way she can start again, after all that’s happened to her, and she is nae guilty of aught. She should nae be punished.”
Hawley drummed his fingertips on the armrest for several silent mom
ents. “I will write to the King and relay everything you have told me, and everything you have asked of me, though I shall need testimonies from the witnesses who saw what came of William Spencer.” He chuckled. “I never liked the fellow much, though I did not know him too well.”
Camdyn’s eyes widened in surprise. “I’ll get them testimonies, aye. Nay bother, sir. But… do ye think the King will oblige?”
“I am certain your chances of gaining a pardon from the King are favorable, if he hears that a Jacobite has come to me, unarmed, and spoken of a desire for peace. You see, it is my opinion that the King is also keen to be done with this unpleasantness.”
“In addition, the knowledge you have given me of Charles Stuart, and your words about there being no further uprisings, will also aid your case. Meanwhile, William Spencer’s actions will improve Lady Desiglow’s hopes of regaining what was temporarily given to another. I shall be sure to include it in my letter of recommendation,” Hawley said.
Highlander's Fallen Angel : A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel Page 25
