by Regan Walker
Robbie waited as Nash stared into the fire, one hand on his hip. It was like Nash to be pensive before a major undertaking. He had acted that same way before they had gone to St Peter’s Field. “Well?”
“I wonder if we are doing the right thing.”
Robbie gave Nash’s back a puzzled look. “How could returning a fugitive to gaol be wrong?”
Nash whipped around. “Have you heard nothing since we left London? Kinloch is only a fugitive because it was convenient for the government to charge him with a crime he didn’t commit. Together with Henry Hunt, who rots in prison for a speech he never gave, the people here consider Kinloch a hero of sorts, a man who—as Ailie put it—wants only what’s fair for the people of Scotland. Even you concede Kinloch’s speech in November was not an act of sedition.”
“But Sidmouth—”
“Is often wrong, as the scar beneath my hair reminds me.”
Robbie and Nash had never before questioned an assignment, yet now Nash did. Something had brought about a change in his thinking. Or someone. “It’s Ailie, isn’t it? You cannot bear for her to know. Are you sure you haven’t let your infatuation with the girl cloud your judgment?”
“My feelings for Ailie are not a mere infatuation. I don’t like keeping secrets from her, especially one she would not approve of.”
“You are making too much of this. We can slip into Arbroath, see Kinloch back in custody and return, all in a few hours. Ailie will be none the wiser. After all, that is the reason we are here.”
“One of the reasons we are here. Don’t forget, the purpose of our sailing to Scotland, as our brothers and our friends believe, was to celebrate Christmastide with all of them.”
Too tired to argue with his brother, Robbie pulled off his breeches and shirt and crawled into bed. “Perhaps a night’s sleep will clear your mind.”
Nash lifted his coat from the peg. “I’m going for a walk. As tomorrow is Christmas Eve and Christmas Day follows, Kinloch will have to wait. We owe it to our friends and family to be here.”
The door closed and Robbie turned over, stuffing his pillow under his head. Nash would see reason. He always did.
Ailie was too wound up to sleep. The avalanche and the memory of Nash pulling her from its path had left her unsettled. Did a man act like that toward a woman he considered only a holiday fling? Pacing in her room brought her no respite. Perhaps a walk would do her good. She often walked to the shipyard at night to look at the stars.
Taking up her blue tartan scarf and dark blue cloak, she decided to stop at the kennel to get Goodness and Mercy.
When she arrived, they whimpered, wagging their tails, eager to go with her, despite their excursion over the moors.
With the dogs trotting beside her, she took the path down to the shipyard, burying her hands in the wool of her tartan scarf as she’d forgotten her gloves. At the dock, she stopped to inhale the salty air blowing onshore from the North Sea. Closing her eyes, she listened to the familiar sounds of the night, the water slapping against the ships moored at the dock, an owl hooting from a tree in the distance and the hisses and yowls of the shipyard cats fighting over some rat.
She opened her eyes as the dogs wandered off, sniffing for something of interest.
Gazing up at the night sky. Absent a moon, the stars were on brilliant display. She recognized Orion the hunter from his belt, marked by three stars in an angled row, and the Milky Way that swept across the sky in a great swath of stars as if God had cast them from his great hand.
She stared upward for a long moment, letting her soul grow peaceful in the chilled night air. The sounds around her were soon absorbed by silence.
“She walks in beauty, like the night of cloudless climes and starry skies…”
Her heart leaped at the familiar voice. Before she could turn, Nash pulled her into his warmth and crossed his arms over her chest. She leaned against him, content in the nest of his arms. “You would quote Lord Byron to me?”
“Oh, so you are familiar with our poet?”
“As I am of Rabbie Burns, the Bard of Ayrshire. Byron’s mother was a Scot, you know, a Gordon, in fact. He was raised in Aberdeenshire. My governess favored both poets.”
Nash pressed a kiss to her temple, his breath warm on her face. “I was not aware of Byron’s Scottish origins, but I thought his poem particularly apt for this night… and a fitting description of you. Are you out here admiring the stars all alone?”
His lips ticked her skin, causing her to shiver. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“My brave lass for whom the night holds no terrors, you rest uneasily?”
He called her his lass. How she loved that. For a passing moment, she wondered if she should tell him about her dreams, but she allowed the moment to pass. “Aye, sometimes.”
He nuzzled the side of her head. “As do I.”
Turning her to face him, he said, “I am gratified you recognized me from only my voice.”
She couldn’t see his eyes in the darkness but she felt the intensity of his gaze. “I know you, Nash. Not just your voice, but your touch. Only you speak to me in verse and tender words. And, if that weren’t enough, I have kissed no other man as I have kissed you.”
He pressed his forehead to hers. “As I would have it, sweet Ailie.”
Inclining his head, he pressed his lips once, twice and yet a third time to hers, each time pulling away before she could fully enter into the kiss. His teasing lips were more enticing than if he’d kissed her full on the mouth. The soft touch of his lips, their warmth so quickly withdrawn, enticed her. His scent of sandalwood and wool, blended with his own smell, enveloped her.
When his lips lifted from hers, she opened her eyes. “You would tease me?”
“Nay, I would but tempt you to more.”
Her eyes had grown accustomed to the dim light, allowing her to see more of his features beneath his dark brows. A lock of his hair had fallen onto his forehead. She brushed it aside. “I would gladly succumb.”
This time he did not tempt, but claimed her mouth in a stirring kiss, full of passionate intent. This kiss was different than their first kisses in the woods and the others in the library. It was deeper, more demanding. When his tongue slipped inside her mouth, she yielded, threading her fingers in his hair, holding him to her.
Ripples of pleasure radiated from her lips to her breasts, even to her woman’s center, shocking her with the force of it. She had never felt the like of it before. The night around her faded away. Her feet were no longer anchored to the dock, but sailing with him high above it.
There was only Nash and his kiss.
When he lifted his lips from hers, she experienced the same quiet she had on the moors when the avalanche stopped, as if the entire world held its breath. She was glad for the darkness that hid the flush in her cheeks, the burning heat she could feel despite the cold air all around them. But her ragged breathing could not be hidden. Neither could his.
With one arm around her waist, he slid his other hand to her neck, his thumb stroking her jaw. “I cannot seem to stop at one kiss with you, Ailie. ’Tis just as well we are standing on the dock and not sitting on a parlor sofa or I might do something we’d both regret.”
“I’ll not be regretting that kiss, Nash, not ever. And I’ll not be forgetting it either.”
“I don’t want you to forget. I want you to remember it always.”
Her heart soared at his words. If he wanted her to remember his kiss, surely he wanted to be with her beyond his time in Arbroath.
He dropped his hand from her neck to join his other one at her waist. “Have you thought more about going to London, Ailie?”
“Do you mean Muriel’s offer to take me under her wing and sponsor me in the ton?”
He let his hands fall from her waist and reached for her hand. With determined steps, he began to walk along the dock, taking her with him.
The dogs returned, sniffed at Nash’s heels, then ran ahead. The ships, tethered to their
moorings, rocked on the water like brooding ghosts.
“Well, that’s one way of getting you to London, I suppose. Does it appeal?”
She wondered what thoughts were going through his mind. She detected impatience in his voice. Was he angry as well? Did he want her to come to London?
“I have come to like Muriel very much and would enjoy her company.” In a rush of words, she said, “Part of me thinks I should stay to help Emily with the baby, but I could be back by then, couldn’t I? Too, our housekeeper, Mrs. Banks, is very good with babies, so perhaps there is no reason not to go. Is that what you meant?”
He was just ahead of her but she heard his sigh, his warm breath a cloud in the cold night air. “You might have more choices before we set sail for London.”
She pulled back on his hand and stopped. He turned to face her. “You’re being cryptic, Nash Powell.”
“I am… for the now, as you would say.” Even in the darkness, she could see his white teeth as he smiled.
Perhaps he was not angry, after all. “Oh, very well, be mysterious.”
He tilted his head to the sky. “Look, Ailie, there’s a shooting star!”
A bright star streaked across the black velvet canvas above them, making all the other stars seem dim by comparison. “They do come at this time of year.”
He squeezed her hand. “I shall remember this one as coming for us.”
A wave of joy washed over her. The thought that the star might mark more than the time of the year pleased her immensely. He had recited poetry to her, told her to remember his kiss and now he chose a shooting star to mark their time together. Could he come to love a Scot? Could she love an Englishman? The realization that she might already love him made her pause. If she weren’t careful, if he just sailed away come the New Year, she could be left alone and hurt. But it was too late to guard her heart.
They made their way back to the house. He waited while she returned the dogs to their kennel and then escorted her to her chamber. Like the gentleman he was, he bowed, kissed her hand and wished her a good night before disappearing down the dark corridor to his own room.
Ailie floated into her chamber, certain she traveled on an invisible cloud.
Before she blew out the candle, she opened her diary, dipped the quill in the ink and thought long before she wrote.
23 December
Today’s stalking for the red hind led us into the path of a terrible avalanche. I have never seen one before, but I knew enough of them to recognize the great mass of snow rushing toward us for what it was. Nash pulled me from danger as I stood paralyzed before the onrushing snow. He was quite cross with me. At first I was angry, but then I wondered, did his being cross mean he cares? Or, might he have merely acted the gallant? But that was before tonight’s kiss in the shipyard beneath the stars.
I will never forget that kiss as long as I live.
As I consider my future, I pray he will be in it. I would like to see his face every day, to always know only his kiss. Nash asked me about Muriel’s invitation to go to London, which looms ahead. I am inclined to go.
Yet the strange dreams still trouble my sleep. I feel like I am hurtling toward something, but what?
Chapter 15
24 December, Christmas Eve
The next morning Nash did not wake with a changed mind. Instead, he was more resolved than ever to try and persuade Robbie to allow Kinloch to sail. Besides, what harm could the man do in France? He would be gone from Scotland and unable to inspire those who might be inclined to rebellion.
Nash had just finished shaving when Robbie began to stir. Patting his face dry, Nash turned to his brother. “I’ve lost all taste for Sidmouth’s assignment.”
Robbie opened one eye and then closed it. “You would have me go to Arbroath alone?”
The words echoed in Nash’s mind, more unsettling than a blow. With them, Robbie played his trump card, leaving Nash torn between his loyalty to his twin and love for Ailie.
Love is what he felt for her, plain and simple, and she would have Kinloch go free. Yet Robbie had been his constant companion since they were toddlers.
The irony of was not lost on him. Robbie had always envisioned himself Nash’s protector, yet Nash could not allow Robbie to go to Arbroath alone to face the ruffians guarding Kinloch.
He let out an exasperated sigh. There was no help for it. He would go to town with Robbie and hope he could turn his brother from his intended course.
“All right. I will go with you to Arbroath the day the Panmure is to sail, but I still have reservations about your cause concerning Kinloch. The more I think on it, the more I wonder, just why was the man charged with sedition in the first place?”
Robbie sat up. “I remind you, Brother, Kinloch might have been arrested in Dundee, but the charge against him came from London. Our lot has never been to question Sidmouth.”
“Manchester changed that for me, Robbie. None but the basest of cowards would attack unarmed men, women and children. I cannot justify the deaths on St Peter’s Field, nor can I excuse the government’s failure to dispense justice after.” Fury rose in his chest as he remembered that day. He shook his head. “No, I cannot.”
Robbie cast him a worrisome glance. “I can see you mean to be stubborn. Very well, we shall celebrate Christmas and deal with Kinloch on Boxing Day.”
Good Lord. Nash had forgotten entirely the Panmure would sail on that holiday, unobserved by the Scots.
“You do recall that the twenty-sixth is Boxing Day?”
“I didn’t until you mentioned it, but now that I think of it, when I first learned the Panmure’s captain meant to sail on the twenty-sixth, the date sounded familiar. ’Tis the day when Mother gives gifts to the servants.”
Ailie woke from the dream, her chest heaving. This time, she did not have to call back the images, for they were terrifying and indelibly stamped in her mind. One of the Powell twins lay on the ground, his eyes closed and his skin pale as a ghost, as blood gushed from his head.
Was the gruesome specter a prophetic sign foretelling of one twin’s death? Her mind shouted, “No!” If the man were Nash, she could not bear his loss. And, if Robbie, Nash would never be the same, having lost part of himself.
She sprang from her bed, determined to banish her rising dread. Perhaps the dream merely reflected an irrational fear after the avalanche. But she knew it was not so.
Lighting a candle to add to that of the fire burning steadily, she went about her morning toilette, dabbing a bit of lily of the valley scent on her neck and wrists before donning her blue velvet wrapper.
Taking a seat at her dressing table, she combed the tangles from her hair she had forgotten to plait the night before.
A pale young woman looked back at her from the mirror, her brows drawn together in worry. She could not very well greet their guests looking like this. She set down her comb and pinched her cheeks. Then she thought of Nash kissing her under the stars and a blush arose on her sensitive skin.
A soft knock sounded on the door and Rhona peeked her head in. “Ye’re up?”
“Aye, I woke early.”
“Just as well.” Rhona opened the door wide and entered. “Yer guests are all awake, too. Lord Ormond and his wife are having an early breakfast before going fer an early morning ride. The countess is up, too, and reminded me that today is the English Christmas Eve. She seemed verra excited about it, saying her Mrs. Platt is to make special pies.”
Ailie started. “I completely forgot! That means the men will be dragging in the Yule log and Emily will need help with decorating.”
“Ye ken,” said Rhona, picking up Ailie’s brush and taking over the job of her hair, “I rather like the English celebration of the Christ Child’s birth. ’Tis proper to have a festive celebration.”
Rhona’s long strokes with the brush were soothing. Ailie closed her eyes, feeling the tension leave her shoulders. “It would not be difficult to welcome the Savior’s birth each year as they do. I ju
st realized that tomorrow is Saturday and the first day of their Christmastide. I expect our friends will want to attend an Anglican church. It will have to be St Mary’s.”
“And then ye’ll all be off to the Parish Kirk the next day?”
Ailie opened her eyes, as she considered the possibility. “Two days of church might be a bit much. Perhaps Will won’t mind if we do not attend this Sunday.”
“He’ll be wanting to please the mistress, so St Mary’s on the morrow seems fitting.”
“Aye, you are right. After all, if Emily were in London, she’d be attending the Anglican church service on Christmas Day.”
George Kinloch stood before the window in the largest of his rooms in Miss Grahame’s boarding house, staring at the stone buildings across the street, as drab as the sky above them. Behind him, the men’s voices faded as his thoughts turned to his family.
Were they getting ready to celebrate Christmas? Would they be in church tomorrow?
His last letter to Helen had been written from Edinburgh on the fifteenth of December, telling her he was leaving the country. If all went well, his next one would be sent from France, encouraging her to come and bring their girls. His sons would remain in Scotland to see to his affairs.
With only two days before his departure, plans were well advanced. Taking his father’s middle name as his surname, he would travel as Mr. Oliphant. His cousin Grant would arrive the night before they sailed, bringing with him a wig. George had agreed to wear it until they were free of Britain.
His conscience did not accuse him of any crime, but he would still be uneasy until they sailed. At least he’d be sailing to a country that had once welcomed him.
The angst he felt was that brought on by the distance that separated him from his loved ones about which he could do nothing.
As he turned to face the room, the voices resumed their normal volume.
Hamish was making inquiry of his brother Iain. “Ye followed ’im?”
“Aye, after he passed the boardin’ house, I slipped oot tae see where the mon went. He were the same one that were in the tavern, ye ken?”
