Highland Sunset

by Joan Wolf

  His eyes were very blue in his white face. "I know, Van."

  "And now they are after us like beasts of prey. Murder. Plunder. Rape. Starvation. This is not merely the pursuit of rebels who were in arms against the government. This is extermination."

  "I told you," he said. "The government is going to make very sure Scotland will never rise for the Stuarts again."

  She took a step toward him. Her eyes were narrow and glittering. "You always told me that cruelty would never work on an animal. That you would only drive him into opposition. Does it work, then, on people?"

  That reached him, as nothing else had. His own eyes blazed. "Christ, Van! Do you think I approve of what is being done here?"

  She sustained that blue blaze for fully half a minute before she said, almost unwillingly, "No. I suppose not."

  "You suppose not?"

  "Well, then, why don't you do something about it?" she cried. "You are important enough. The government always listens to you."

  "They are not listening to me now." There was a cold stillness in his voice that made her shiver. "I did my best, but it was no good. So I resigned."

  "How noble of you," she said.

  There was silence.

  Van let out her breath. "All right, I'm sorry I said that," she flung at his grim white face. "But don't you see, Edward, how impossible a marriage would be between us now?"

  "Come here and kiss me," he said. "Kiss me and then tell me that marriage between us is impossible."

  "No!" she cried sharply, almost shrilly. She turned and walked away to the window and stood staring out at the loch. She was breathing rapidly. He saw the rise and fall of her breasts, the long slim line of her body, and his mouth hardened.

  Van looked blindly out the window and tried to get a hold on her emotions. She could not marry Edward. It was impossible. Alan. She tried to think of Alan, whom she had heard was a prisoner now in Fort Augustus. She shook her head.

  "If you do not marry me," he said, "I do not see how I can protect Morar."

  Her head swung around. "There must be some other way," she said breathlessly.

  "Not that I know of." His eyes moved to her throat, her breasts, to her waist and her hips. She felt the dark blood begin to throb in her veins. It was what frightened her most of all, this perilous attraction he had for her. Even now, with her country falling in ruins about her, she had only to look at his mouth to remember the feel of it on her mouth, on her body. She forced her voice to steadiness. "If I marry you," she said, "it will only be for Morar."

  He was coming toward the window, his hair bright as a Viking's helmet in the light of the sun. He was so big. He stopped in front of her and placed his hands on her waist. "Then marry me for Morar," he said, and bent his head to hers.

  It was as if a hood came down upon her mind. Her body arched up against his and her arms went up to circle his neck. The thick rope of her hair swung down past her waist, brushing against his hands as they slid caressingly along her hips. Her lips opened under the pressure of his. His body was so strong against hers.

  He raised his head and looked down into her face. His eyes were narrow and brilliantly blue. "Marry me," he said imperatively.

  "Yes," Van breathed, and he kissed her again.

  Van closed her eyes and pressed her cheek into the hollow of his shoulder. It would be so easy to give in to him, she thought. So easy to lose herself in the physical bond that undeniably existed between them. But it was not as simple as that. He might not be an enemy, but he was still a Sassenach. A Sassenach and a Whig.

  "Did you mean what you said before about helping Niall to escape?" she murmured.

  She felt his lips in her hair. "Yes."

  She filled her lungs with air, straightened her spine, and stepped away from him. "I can get word to Niall, I suppose," she said steadily, "but I know already that he will refuse to abandon the prince."

  He looked down at her, his face very grave. "Then I cannot help him," he said.

  "Edward." They were no longer touching, although they were still very close. "Edward," she said again, softly, pleadingly, "could you not help the prince to escape as well?"

  His face changed and she knew, even before he spoke, what his answer would be. "No," he said flatly, coldly, finally. "No, I will not assist the prince. I will get Niall away because he is your brother, but I will have nothing to do with Charles Stuart, Van. Nothing."

  Still she persisted. "But why, Edward? He is no longer a danger to England. Surely you can see that."

  His eyes were as hard and cold as his voice. "He is a danger to Scotland, Van, not to England. To help him escape is to inevitably bring more pain and suffering on the people of this poor country. For as long as he lives, Charles Stuart will be a center of intrigue and of trouble. There will be more plots, more schemes, and more good men will throw away their lives for this worthless prince. It would be far better for everyone if he were caught and executed. Then there would be an end to all this plotting, and Scotland could start to build her future on realities, not on tarnished dreams."

  Part of Van knew that he was right, that his was the voice of reason. She herself over the last months had grown more and more disillusioned with the prince and the Stuart cause. If Niall had spoken thus to her, she would have accepted it. But she could not accept such words from Edward, who had ventured nothing in this conflict, who was an outsider, an Englishman, a Whig.

  "I do not think my father felt he was throwing away his life," she said stiffly. "He gave his life for his prince and his true king. There are worse ways of dying."

  "I have never been an admirer of lost causes," he answered shortly.

  "Well, we in the north are not so cool and so calculating as you," she cried, goaded into anger. "We follow our hearts—and our loyalty, once given, is sacred. The poorest clansman who fought at Culloden would not betray the prince—no, not for all the gold in the elector's coffers!"

  "That is probably true." He looked down on her from his great height. "And that is precisely why the government is coming down so hard on the Highlands. If they cannot change you, then they will break you." His mouth was a grim straight line. "And that is also why it would be best for the Highlands if the prince were captured. The government's vengeance would then be directed at its proper object, and the Highland way of life might survive."

  Her hands clenched at her sides. "You speak of expedience. I speak of loyalty."

  "Loyalty is a reciprocal arrangement, Van," he replied. The coldness had left his face and he looked very sober, sober and tired. "How loyal has Charles Stuart been to Scotland? Do you remember the plan you outlined to me when last we met? That the prince should declare his father King of Scotland? That he should forget England and hold Scotland alone? That he should call once more on the 'auld alliance' with France?"

  Van's eyes dropped from his face to his chest. "Yes," she said in a low voice, "I remember."

  He caught her off guard with his next question. "Was your father in favor of invading England?"

  Her eyes flew upward for a brief, revealing moment. "I thought not," he said.

  She turned away from him sharply and went to stand by the teapot. "Sweetheart." He spoke to her back and his voice was very soft. "Let us have done with raking over the past. We are in agreement at least on the present, that the government's actions in Scotland are unpardonable, are against all the recognized rules of war, and that we want to do what we can to help the innocent victims of this... this policy of extermination."

  He meant what he said. She remembered what she had thought when Niall told her about Prestonpans, that she had thought Edward would never enjoy the bloodshed of battle as Niall had. She remembered Edward's infinite patience with his horses, his kindness, his concern for his tenants and his dependents. He had resigned his government position over this policy toward Scotland.

  But the gulf was still there between them, the gulf between a man who had lost nothing and a girl who had lost all, the gulf between
conqueror and conquered. It was not something she could forget.

  He was, however, Morar's only chance for survival. She turned to face him and forced a smile. "I wondered why you were traveling with Mr. Drummond. Is he going to perform our marriage ceremony?"

  "Yes." He smiled back, her favorite smile, the one that made him look like a boy. "Fortunately, he seemed to be devoted to your mother. He made the trip for her sake, not for mine."

  "Perhaps he will be able to comfort her," Van said. She did not sound as if she placed much trust in this possibility.

  "You are quite sure that your father is dead?" he asked gently.

  "Oh yes." She looked at him out of shadowed eyes. "Niall carried him off the field. He burned his body in a small barn they found, so at least he was not left to rot until Cumberland ordered the bodies dumped into the mass graves."

  "Christ," he said. "Van, I am so sorry."

  "It is Mother who is suffering most. And I think, now, that it is going to be worse for her. You see, we have been so busy and so worried trying to save what we could here in Morar that there has not been much time for grief. But now, if we are truly safe..." She gestured. 'The loss is going to strike her hard," she said. "Mother and Father—they did not have just an ordinary marriage."

  There was a little silence; then he said quietly, "She must be wondering what we two have decided."

  "That is so." Van made a motion of tucking her shirt into her trews. "Shall we go to see her?"

  "You go," he said. "I will wait here."

  "All right." She rang the bell. "I'll have Morag take you to your room," she said. "Are you hungry?"

  "Starving," he replied instantly.

  Her eyes smiled for the first time all day. "We'll feed you then, my lord. In an hour in the dining room? I'll have Fergus come and get you."

  "An hour," he agreed.

  Van waited until Morag appeared before she went up the stairs to see Frances.

  "Well, darling?" her mother said gently as Van entered the small sitting room and sat down in silence.

  "I shall marry him, of course." Van's voice was curiously flat and devoid of expression. "What other choice is there?"

  Frances scanned her daughter's face. "I thought you loved him, Van,"

  "I did. But there is too much between us now for things to ever be as once they were."

  "Darling, it is not fair to blame Edward for something over which he has no power."

  "I know that." Van's thin hands moved restlessly in her lap. "But one cannot control what one feels, Mother. And I feel that there is blood between us. Father's blood," she added somberly, and looked to see her mother's reaction.

  Frances waited a moment before she spoke. Then, quietly and deliberately, "Almost the last thing your father said to me before he marched for Culloden was that I should remember that I am English." Van's eyes widened. "I think he knew what would happen, Van. He knew and he told me to call upon my English relations in time of need." Frances held her daughter's eyes steadily. "Your father would not object now to your marrying the Earl of Linton. Of that I am quite certain."

  Van's face relaxed very slightly. Then, after a moment, "You must write a letter for Niall. Lachlan will be able to find him."

  "Yes. Yes, I will do that immediately." Frances, however, knew her son very well. "Van, I do not think he will leave the prince. Is it possible that Edward might...?" Her voice trailed off at the bleak look on Van's face.

  "Edward has informed me that he will have nothing to do with helping the prince to escape."

  "Well, darling," Frances sighed. "One can hardly blame him. Indeed, it is something that he has agreed to help Niall."

  "I wonder if he informed Cumberland about his yacht," Van said ironically.

  Frances shook her head. "You heard him. He was not given Niall's life. He is probably endangering his own position by agreeing to get Niall away. If it were discovered, I am sure he would be in trouble."

  "I wonder," said Van, "if we could slip the prince aboard the yacht without Edward's knowing."

  The two women looked at each other. It was Frances who finally said no. "If Edward were not going to be on board, perhaps we could get away with it. But not if he is to be present himself. He is too shrewd not to spot the prince immediately. His accent would give him away, if nothing else."

  "I suppose that is so." Van felt as if a weight had rolled off her chest at her mother's words. The possibility of smuggling the prince away on Edward's yacht had been in her mind ever since he had mentioned the boat. To do that, she thought, would be such a betrayal of Edward's trust... the relief that she would not have to do such a thing was enormous.

  "The French will send a ship for the prince," she said stoutly. "I am sure of it."

  "Well, I hope to God they do it soon." Frances shivered. "Edward said the Minch would soon be crawling with navy ships looking for them."

  Van stood up. "I told Morag we would have dinner at four, Mother, if that is all right with you."

  "That will be fine, darling. Did Edward and Mr. Drummond have any baggage?"

  "Yes. It is coming on one of the ponies. I must go and make arrangements to have it sent to their rooms." She bent down to kiss Frances' cheek and then was gone.

  Van's wedding was a very simple affair, celebrated in the drawing room of Creag an Fhithich on a cold and rainy May afternoon. The rooms of the castle had been restored to their original state since Edward's arrival. The silver had been dug up, and Donal Og had removed all the pictures from their hiding place in the cave and they once again hung on the castle walls in their accustomed places. Van had been very careful not to take Edward to the cave; it would be well, she thought, to keep its location secret from him. Just in case.

  It was not a happy feeling, this sense that she could not trust him all the way, this knowledge that he was wrong to trust her. Divided loyalties were keeping her from him now just as surely as they had on the day she left Linton House to ride north with Niall.

  Frances had tried to talk with her on the eve before her marriage, but as soon as Van realized that her mother was attempting to prepare her for her wedding night, she had stopped her. After all that had happened, she thought, there was little point in pretending to an innocence she no longer had.

  "It's all right, Mother," she had said. "I know." She was sitting up in bed and Frances was seated on its edge, looking earnestly into her daughter's face. Van gave her mother a rueful smile. "The least of my concerns over this marriage is the fact that tomorrow night Edward will be sleeping in this bed with me."

  Frances' blue eyes widened. "Van. Have you two...?"

  "Yes."

  "Oh." Frances was clearly startled.

  Van laughed and reached out to cover her mother's hand with her own. "Don't look so horrified," she said. Her face sobered. "If it were just that, Mother. If only it were just that."

  She thought of that conversation now as she sat at the dining-room table over the dinner the cook had specially prepared for her wedding party. There was beef from their own herd and fish from the loch and Frances had ordered some of Alasdair's finest wine to be served. Edward was seated at the head of the table with Van at his right while Frances sat at the foot with Mr. Drummond next to her.

  Edward in her father's seat. It was so strange. Everything about today had felt so strange. She looked down at the ring on her finger and then up to the man beside her.

  He was talking to Frances across the length of the table, talking humorously, charmingly, trying, Van realized abruptly, to take her mother's mind off the fact that he was sitting in her husband's place. And he seemed to be succeeding. Frances was smiling and the tense white look she had been wearing lately had relaxed. Edward finished talking and Frances actually laughed.

  Edward glanced sideways at her and smiled faintly, his lids half-hiding his very blues eyes. "You are looking very beautiful," he murmured as Frances turned to say something to Mr. Drummond.

  Van was wearing the ivory taffeta gow
n she had worn her first night at Holyrood Palace. She told him now, "I was wearing this the first time I met the prince."

  Her voice had been challenging but he refused to be ruffled. He lifted his lids to look at her directly and there was laughter at the corners of his mouth. "I'm sure he found you beautiful too," he said, and the gravity of his voice was at odds with his eyes.

  She wanted desperately to be in his arms. There was no way of hiding that knowledge from herself with sharp words; nor was she fooling him. For all the generous charm he was directing at her mother, Van knew where his real attention lay. It lay with her. As hers was with him. She knew that both of them were only waiting for the moment when they could close her bedroom door behind them and be alone.

  CHAPTER 25

  The rain was falling steadily, beating hard as pellets against the windows of Van's room when she and Edward entered together. Edward went to the window. "What a night," he said as he stared at the rain-lashed landscape. Van imagined the scene he was regarding: the wind-whipped loch, the lowering mountains. He closed the curtain and turned to look at her.

  "May is usually the loveliest month in Morar," she said. And it was. The sun was brilliant this time of year and the dense thickets of rhododendrons that covered the steep hills glowed with an almost tropical brightness. The glittering white beaches shone against the tumbled sea. The long evenings were usually calm and sweet and honey-colored with the slowly fading sun. But this year...

  "The prince is having fugitive's weather this spring," she said. "It may not be comfortable, but it makes pursuit the more difficult."

  He came across to her and, putting one hand under her chin, he raised her face to look at him. "Shall we call a truce?" His voice was very deep and very soft.

  "All right." She was perfectly still, allowing her chin to rest in his fingers without resistance. He lifted his other hand and began to remove the pins from her hair. Van watched his intent face as he went about his task, watched his mouth. When the last pin was out and her hair was tumbling down around her shoulders he looked back at her face. He grinned. "It may not be a hairdresser's delight, but this is the way I like it best."