Highland Sunset

by Joan Wolf

  Lord Edward's haughty, thin-nosed visage remained unmoved. "This is not an ordinary war, Lord Linton, as you are well aware. There is only one way to deal with this cursed country and that is by fire and sword. Nothing else will cure their damned vicious way of thinking."

  Edward's eyes began to get very blue. "I might remind you, Colonel, that this 'cursed country' is part of Great Britain and that these civilians whom you are molesting are British citizens." His voice was restrained but the sting in it brought a spot of color to Sackville's thin cheeks.

  "They are damn rebels, is what they are!" the colonel retorted hotly.

  "Nor," Edward continued as if he had not heard, "did I ever expect to see an English officer degenerate into the role of executioner."

  They were alone inside Sackville's tent. From outside Edward could hear the lowing of the great herd of cattle the English had collected to drive back to Fort Augustus.

  "You will retract those words, sir!" Sackville said sharply.

  "I will do no such thing." Linton's eyes were like ice, his mouth a thin line in his suntanned face. "And I tell you now, Sackville, do not dare try to cross your troops into Morar or I will have you up before Parliament." The hold Edward had been keeping on his temper was beginning to slip. He hoped very much at that moment that Sackville would challenge him to a duel. He would like nothing more than to put his sword through the bastard's black heart.

  Sackville read the look in Edward's eyes very well and took a slight step backward. He did not want to challenge Linton, either politically or personally. The earl had the edge over him on both counts, and he knew it.

  "I have no intention of entering Morar," he was beginning, when a soldier appeared at the door of his tent.

  "A search party has just come back with a dead body, Colonel," the man said with visible excitement. "They think it is the pretender!"

  "What! Where?" Sackville was out the door of his tent in a moment. Edward followed more slowly. One body, the men had said. If it were indeed the prince, where was Niall?

  A horse was coming into camp with a body tied across its back. Sackville issued a sharp order and the body was lifted off and laid stretched out upon the ground. Edward walked over and looked down.

  The dead face was young and the hair and the beard were distinctly reddish in color. Edward looked at the ragged kilt and filthy shirt. The height was about right. It could be Charles Stuart.

  "He said, 'Villains, you have slain your prince,' " one of the soldiers was telling Sackville. Edward knelt down and looked into the dead man's eyes. Then, with gentle fingers, he smoothed them shut.

  "What do you think, Linton? Have you ever seen the Old Pretender's son?" It was Sackville speaking. His face wore a strangely greedy look. Capturing the prince would be a major coup for him.

  Edward scarcely made an attempt to conceal the distaste he felt. "No, I have not." He looked once more at Sackville and then said slowly, "By all reports, however, this man fits the description."

  "Yes. He does. But I would like to be certain." Sackville walked over to stare down at the dead man on the ground. What a plum for him should this truly be the prince! "Is there no one in the area who can identify the pretender?" he asked.

  "You have killed every man who could possibly have fought in his army," Edward replied.

  Sackville's thin nose looked even sharper. He gave Edward a vicious look and did not reply.

  Edward also looked at the figure on the ground, but the expression in his eyes was not greed but pity. After a moment Edward said, "My wife has met the Young Pretender. Perhaps she may be induced to come and identify him."

  "Your wife," said Sackville. "Morar's daughter...Yes." He stared at Edward. "Will you send for her, my lord?"

  "I will ask her if she feels up to the task," Edward replied, and looked once more on the still face of the red-haired young man before he went to find his horse.

  He was back in Morar by early afternoon. Van was in the garden and he sent Morag to find her and ask her to return to the house. He waited for her in the office, an abstracted frown on his face.

  She came in, looking alarmed. "What is it, Edward? you are back very soon. Did you see Sackville?"

  "Yes, I saw Sackville." He gestured to a chair. "Sit down, Van."

  She was very pale as she took the chair he had indicated. "Is he coming to Morar after all?"

  "No." His mouth smiled reassuringly, although his eyes remained grave. Van's face did not lose its expression of apprehension. "Sweetheart," he said gently, "Sackville thinks he has got the prince."

  "Got the prince!" Her eyes were huge and fearful. "And Niall?"

  "There is no sign of Niall." She relaxed visibly and he let out a long, slow breath. "What they have got, Van, is actually a body they think may be the prince."

  Her black brows drew together. "A body. A dead body?"

  "Yes." And he told her what had happened on the hillside. "Needless to say, Sackville hopes very much that it is the prince," he concluded, "but he needs another source of identification."

  Van stared at her husband's contained face. "Do you think it is the prince, Edward?"

  "I don't know. The description fits, certainly, but, you see, I have never met the prince. Nor has anyone in Sackville's command."

  "And I have." Her words were slow and drawn out.

  "And you have." She could not quite fathom his expression. "If you feel you can do it, Van, Sackville would like you to come and look at the body. If you feel you cannot, I will be glad to tell him so."

  She stared intently into his face, trying to understand what he might be thinking. His eyes were unreadable. She drew a sharp breath. "I will come," she said.

  "Very well," He looked at her dirt-stained dress. "Why don't you change into trews and I'll have a pony made ready for you?"

  "All right." She shot another look at his face before she left to go to her room to change.

  They arrived back at the English camp late that afternoon. Colonel Sackville stood at the opening to his tent and watched the tall blond English earl crossing the ground toward him. His eyes went to the slender black-haired girl at Linton's side. "Lady Linton," he said formally. "I am grateful for your assistance in this matter."

  The girl's great light eyes flicked once across his face. The colonel felt color sting into his cheeks. There was no doubt at all what the Countess of Linton thought of him. "Where is he?" she asked in perfectly cultured English.

  "In the tent over there." He looked at the earl. "If you will come this way?"

  Linton nodded. "Are you ready, Van?" he asked his wife.

  "Yes." She walked steadily between the two men, her eyes on the tent which might hold the body of the prince. She did not know what it was she hoped to see. If it were indeed Charles Stuart, then this ugly chapter in her country's history might finally be closed. Niall could be got away to France. But to see him in the hands of these Sassenach, their bonnie prince... She drew a deep, steadying breath and walked with Edward into the tent.

  He was lying on a blanket on the ground and she recognized him instantly. She went white to the lips at the sight of that dead face and her hands clenched into fists at her sides. Dear God. Dear God. Dear God. It was Alan.

  From a very long way away she heard Edward's voice. "Do you recognize him. Van?"

  "Aye." Her own voice was deep and husky and full of emotion. She went down on her knees and bent to press her lips to the dead man's forehead. It was cold as ice under her mouth. Ailein, Ailein, Ailein, her heart cried out in silence. She rose to her feet and looked at Sackville. "It is the prince," she said clearly, and walked out of the tent.

  "Well, there's no doubt that she recognized him," Sackville said with satisfaction to his second in command after Van and Edward had left once again for Morar. "She went white as a ghost."

  "Looks as if it's the Young Pretender, all right," Lieutenant Morton replied. "What do we do now, Colonel?"

  "Cut off his head and send it to London,"
Lord Edward Sackville replied. "The last of the bloody Stuarts." He smiled thinly. "We shall be heroes, Morton. I'll get a letter off straightaway to Lord Albemarle."

  "Yes, sir," replied the lieutenant, and turned to go and order the disposition of Alan's remains.

  The ride back to Morar was silent. Van's mind was filled with memories of Alan. He should have stayed in Morar, she thought hopelessly. I knew he should have stayed.

  "Will you be all right?" Edward asked her when they reached the door of Creag an Fhithich.

  She looked at him in surprise. "Aren't you coming in?"

  "I want to tend to Fitz," he replied, patting his horse's neck. "I have not quite managed to convince your clansmen that horses require more care than ponies."

  "I shall be fine," she replied, her attention focused fully on her husband for the first time since she had seen Alan. He was regarding her with polite concern. "Is something wrong, Edward?" she asked hesitantly.

  The golden eyebrows rose. "No." There was just the slightest gleam of irony in those blue eyes. "You've had a shock," he said. "Try to get some rest."

  "Yes, I will," She watched him lead the horse and pony back down the drive, the faintest of frowns between her brows.

  CHAPTER 31

  Alan's head was sent to London and for several weeks the hunt for the prince cooled. Throughout the end of August and early September a few lonely patrols were sent out from Fort Augustus to struggle through the mountains to search for Charles, but otherwise the west was quiet. Albemarle abandoned Fort Augustus himself and moved his headquarters to Edinburgh, a location far more comfortable than the tent city which he had inhabited at Fort Augustus.

  On September 6 the prince, Niall, Lochiel, and his brother Dr. Archibald Cameron were all safely hidden in a cave high on the slopes of Ben Alder. This cave was the headquarters of Cluny Macpherson, head of the clan Macpherson, and from this mountain eyrie Cluny had been ruling for months in perfect safety.

  Cluny's cave was far more luxurious than Niall and Van's cave in the hills above Loch Morar. The cave on Ben Alder, concealed by a grove of holly, was constructed on two levels and was roofed with turf. Against a great slab of gray rock behind it, the smoke from its chimney was invisible, and with a fire to warm them, six or seven people could find room to play cards and cook their meals.

  The fugitives were physically comfortable yet they were restless. They had been on the run for five months now. What they needed desperately was a ship to France.

  The hunt had quieted but there were still navy ships in the waters of Arisaig and Sleat. Neither Edward nor Van thought much of the fact that two ships flying British colors had cruised into Loch nan Uamh. It was in the late afternoon of September 6, while Niall was on Bel Alder eating his dinner, that Van discovered that the ships were not English but French.

  The news was brought to her by Macdonald of Boisdale. Fortunately Edward was out, so she met him in the office.

  "The two ships lying in Loch nan Uamh are not English but French," Boisdale informed her immediately. "They are in search of the prince, my lady. Can you get word to him?"

  "Dhé!" said Van. "The prince is not near Morar, Boisdale. It will take a little time to locate him."

  "Aye, so I told the French officer."

  "How did they find you?" Van asked. They were speaking in low voices and in Gaelic.

  "The ship put a party ashore to contact someone who could get word to the prince. There were directed to me."

  "And no one suspects they are not English?"

  "They fly the British flag, my lady, and the ships look just like English ships. There is a militia camp near Arisaig, but they have not been curious."

  "The militia will not recognize them for impostors, but the navy will. They cannot remain for too long in Loch nan Uamh." Van's body was taut with tension. At last a ship... if only she could get word to Niall in time. "Listen to me, Boisdale," she said. "Tell the French officer to lie offshore for a while and then to be back in the loch in two weeks' time. I will have the prince at Loch nan Uamh by then and they can take him off."

  "Aye, my lady."

  As Boisdale prepared to leave. Van smiled ruefully. "You look so strange without your kilt," she said. "I cannot get accustomed to seeing Highlanders in breeches."

  MacDonald of Boisdale raised his chin proudly. "Wait until the prince returns, my lady. Then we will drive the Sassenach out of our glens forever. The chiefs and the tartan will be restored when our bonnie Charlie comes again."

  "Aye," said Van, and watched with somber eyes as the MacDonald turned and left the office. Then she set out herself to look for Lachlan.

  Lachlan left for Cameron country to get word of the prince on the night of September 6. On September 10 a letter arrived for Edward from London, delivered by a Campbell from Inverary. The letter was not from Edward's mother, however. The seal was official. Van accepted it, fed the Campbell messenger, sent him on his way, and sat down to wait for her husband and to worry.

  Edward did not return to the castle until nine that evening. He had taken to spending long hours out in the hills and the glens of Morar, evaluating, as he said, the potential for farming in this rocky Highland soil. Van, however, had a growing suspicion that one of the reasons for his extended hours away from the castle was that he was avoiding her.

  She had almost given him up and gone to bed. She was so tired these days, weary with a fatigue she had never felt before. She was also nauseous in the mornings and food had lost all attraction for her. She was beginning to suspect that she might be with child.

  She heard his step behind her coming across the drawing-room floor and turned her head to peek around the high back of her chair. The castle drawing room was so big, she thought. How could one man's presence seem to fill it as his did? Sunshine and energy and strength walked into a room with Edward. Van felt some of her own weariness lift. She smiled up into his face and said lightly, "Have you eaten? Shall I order supper for you?"

  He shook his head. "Glen Alden shot a stag this afternoon and he feasted me well." MacIan of Glen Alden was one of Morar's most important tacksmen.

  Van stared at her husband in wonder. He was sunburned and carelessly dressed and his once-polished boots were worn and scarred. Eating stag with Glen Alden, she thought. The sophisticated and immaculate Earl of Linton. He stretched his long legs in front of him and gave her a faint smile. "What have you done with yourself all day?"

  She answered slowly, "A letter came for you, Edward. From London. It looks very official." She took the letter from the mantel and brought it to his chair.

  He did not change his relaxed posture while he ripped the seal and read what was inside.

  "What is it?" Van asked a little breathlessly. Without answering, he handed the letter to her.

  It was precisely what she had thought it would be. Precisely the message she had been dreading and preparing for these last weeks. Lord Newcastle had written to inform Lord Linton that the man slain in Knoidart, the man whom his wife had identified as the Young Pretender, was not Charles Stuart at all. Charles Stuart must therefore be presumed to be alive and still hiding somewhere in Scotland.

  Van lowered the letter and looked at her husband. He was gazing at the top of his boots, seemingly perfectly relaxed. His hands, ringless save for the one signet, were resting lightly on the chair's arms.

  "Edward," Van said. "I am sorry."

  His head lifted slightly and he looked at her. His face was perfectly contained. Van thought she would have felt better if he had been angry. "I'm glad you didn't try to say you had made a mistake," he said.

  "No. Of course I knew it was not the prince." He was so composed, so... distant. "It was Alan MacDonald," she said. Her voice trembled and then steadied. "I would probably have married him if I had not met you."

  That surprised him. His eyes widened just slightly and she dropped to her knees by his side. "He died saying those words, Edward," she said. "What else could I do? I could not betray the last gr
eat selfless act of his life. He loved me. I think I might have loved him were it not for you."

  She knelt there, her face upturned to his. A memory flashed into her mind of one other time she had knelt thus, the time his mare had died. She thought, from the flicker of expression in his eyes, that he was remembering that time too.

  "You should have told me." His voice was very quiet. She searched his face, trying to read his mind.

  "How could I tell you? I know how you feel about the prince. You would have been honor-bound to inform the government of the truth. And if you did not tell them, then you would be an accessory as well as I. I could not put you in such a compromising position. Surely you can see that?"

  The expression on his face did not challenge. "But I knew all along it was not the prince," he said.

  Van felt shock run like lightning through her body. Her lips parted. "What?" she said faintly.

  "I knew all along it was not the prince," he repeated. "It was I who closed his eyes. Charles Stuart's eyes are brown."

  Van thought of the greenish-hazel of Alan's eyes. She stared at her husband and her shoulders slumped. "You never told me you knew."

  "No. I was hoping, you see, that you would tell me. That you would trust me." There was a long pause as she stared at him hopelessly. "It was obvious that you knew him," he said at last. "If I had realized that, I would never have brought you to Knoidart. I did not mean to hurt you."

  "But why, Edward?" She was completely bewildered by now. "Why, when you knew it was not the prince, did you give me the chance to say that it was?"

  "Christ," he said. "I don't know. I knew you would identify him, of course. It was a perfect opportunity to have the hunt called off for a while." He smiled but there was no humor in it. "I'm sick of all this. Van," he said. "I'm sick of being made to feel I belong to a race of executioners. I wanted to run Sackville through that morning. I was hoping that the prince would get away in the interim, I suppose. Hoping that this whole bloody 'pacification of the Highlands' would come at last to an end."