by Karen Ranney
His mind focused on her, noting the solemn expression on her face. Did she represent all those prisoners who had been condemned, then? Was she the angel of righteousness, the one who spoke out for the Scots?
Her silence mocked him.
His fingers threaded through her hair. Each individual curl seemed to reach out and snare his hand. She was so warm, and he was so very cold. Even her scalp felt heated where his palms rested. He moved closer, feeling the angel stiffen as if she became marble in that moment.
Vignettes of memory marched through his mind, reminded him of those acts performed in the heat of battle when survival mattered more than kindness. A litany of transgressions he felt duty-bound to reveal to her. But she only placed her warm hand on his brow to silence him. The tips of her fingers were callused, as if she’d performed countless acts of charity in the past.
He wanted to seek forgiveness in the sanctity of her touch, be healed deep inside where grief, sharp enough to cut, lingered.
She bent forward, arching over him in protection. Did tutelary spirits speak in voices as soft as a breeze? This one did. A celestial trick, then, to assuage his fear at an angel’s presence.
Alec wrapped his arms gently around her in case she took flight. She was possessed of womanly curves that fitted against his body perfectly. An angel crafted only for him, then. His personal guardian.
She pushed against him, a soft fluttering of wings. But her strength was no match for his. He bent and kissed her mouth, softly, so as not to frighten her. But her lips thinned as if she were enraged.
It was not wise, perhaps, to anger an angel.
His thumbs brushed beneath her chin, tilting her head so that he might deepen the kiss. Her mouth felt mortal, warm and full, a pillow for his lips. Did he transgress against heaven with such an act?
She murmured something and he deepened the kiss to silence her protest. In a moment she would disappear, leaving him only a memory of a dream so sweet that it had pulled him from carnage into carnality. He felt himself swell, desire overpowering the lingering aftertaste of his nightmare. His hand cupped her cheek, fingers splaying to hold her still. But lightly, so carefully that she could not claim to an ethereal tribunal that it had been coercion.
But the angel struggled, her wings slapping at him, her head tossing from side to side. He held her pinned beneath him, desperate to convince her to remain. He kissed her, deeply, completely, feeling as if she were a well and he a man dying of thirst. Again, and she began to quiet. Once more, and she lay quiescent beneath him, her lips slack beneath his.
“Is Moira MacRae’s fate to be mine, then, Butcher?” she asked curtly.
Were angels granted the ability to wound with words? To speak in a bitter tone to audacious mortals? He kissed her once more, but she only lay rigidly beneath him.
“Hurry, then. Rape me and be done with it.”
The angel’s face began to change, the strange luminescence altering to become reddened lips, pink cheeks, and flashing eyes the color of a pale dawn sky.
A spirit garbed not in ethereal raiments, but those of a temporal world. She was not the living instrument of his forgiveness, but a woman enraged.
No angel, then, but Leitis.
He was atop her, his hands gripping her arms tightly over her head. He stared down into her face as sleep vanished in that instant. She turned her head on the pillow, the resignation in her eyes painful to see.
Pulling away from her, he stood, stumbling away from the bed. His words of contrition were halted by the fixed and immobile look on her face.
He was, suddenly, desperate to leave her. Donning his shirt and boots quickly, he left the room in silence.
It was a lonely night, one that was empty of nature’s sounds. Not one bird called or squirrel chittered. Not one single forest creature squawked or screamed, remaining mute as if they knew his plans and the significance of his solitary journey.
Nodding absently to the sentry on duty, Alec began to cross the land bridge, following a worn path up to the north end of the glen. To the one place in all of Scotland that he dreaded visiting.
He climbed over several large boulders, up past the other cairn stones that marked the burial place of the MacRaes. A venerable pine, shadowed by night, stretched its branches against the sky and marked her resting place. She lay alone here in a place of honor, her eternal view the loch and Gilmuir below. The gentle winds carried the scent of summer to this place. And here the bitter cold of winter would linger.
The marker he’d made for her as a boy was still intact, surrounded by a larger stone that looked to have been placed there only to protect his childish efforts. He didn’t need to read the words to remember them. He’d done the painstaking carving, locked in his chamber so that no one could see his tears.
It was the English who brought murder to Gilmuir. He knew Leitis’s words were the truth. All these years he’d learned to hate, only to discover that his enemy was innocent. Where did he put that anger now? Where did that rage go?
What was happening to him?
He felt himself changing in a way he could feel but not articulate. Perhaps it was the various burdens he felt pressing down on his shoulders—the millstone of command, the secret of his heritage, and his acts in Inverness. Or it could be that this past year had sickened him to what he was and what his countrymen had done.
Here, in this lonely place, he prayed silently. Not to God, who had often heard his pleas in the midst of battle, but to his mother, the one person in the world who had seen only goodness in him and who had granted him love and enduring understanding.
If there was a sound in the night, it was only the soft wind soughing around the cairn stones. But in his mind his mother whispered to him.
Forgive, my darling son. Be forgiven.
For almost an hour Leitis sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the door, waiting for him to reappear.
He hadn’t upended her skirts and entered her quickly as Marcus had, so intent on the deed that he had not noticed her pain. She had been prepared for the act to be even more unpleasant with the Butcher. Instead, he had looked shocked at his own actions.
It was not until she had pushed him away that she’d realized he had still been in the throes of a dream. His look of stunned horror upon awakening had been too real to be feigned.
She didn’t want him to be bound by honor, gentle with her, or even repelled by his own frailty. It contradicted all she’d thought of him, made him someone she didn’t understand. The degree of curiosity she felt about him was unwise. As foolish as the memory of his dream-induced kiss.
She stood, walked to the window. There was no moon to shine a light inside the window, nor fire to cast an orange glow. Only the candle burning silently on the table, its faint glow no match for the darkness that encapsulated Gilmuir.
She walked to the door and opened it slowly, half expecting to see Donald on guard. But there was no one there. An invitation, perhaps, to escape. But it was too dangerous to take the cliff path in the dark and she doubted if she could get past the sentry stationed at the land bridge.
Instead, she walked toward the priory. The large, open chamber lay in solemn silence. A strange feeling of loneliness crept over her, as if the whole world slept comforted and safe on this night, but for her.
She stepped into the middle of an arch, stretching out her arms as if to capture the warm night breeze from the loch. The moon was tucked behind a cloud and there was no light to differentiate the darkness of the water from the horizon. As a result, it appeared like an impenetrable black curtain stretching as far as the eye could see.
Even Gilmuir seemed nestled in shadow, a great black bulwark silhouetted against the night. Within its walls were voices and laughter, the footfalls of children, the grumbling from old men, the giggles of young girls. All the sounds layered from generation to generation.
This was how she would always think of the old castle, even if it crumbled to nothing but dust. Here, there was the his
tory of Gilmuir and the memory of proud people not yet defeated.
“Forgive me,” he said.
She whirled to see the Butcher approaching her, a dark shadow in a place filled with them. Cautiously, she backed up until she felt a brick pillar behind her.
“Forgive me,” he said again, halting a few feet away. “My actions have no justification, so I cannot offer you excuses,” he added stiffly. “All I can say is that such behavior will never happen again. I will sleep at Fort William in the future.”
She said nothing in response, silenced by surprise.
Without another word, he turned and left her, leaving her to stare after him until he disappeared into the darkness.
Chapter 9
A lec stood in Fort William’s courtyard, oblivious to the cacophony around him. He’d given orders that they would begin patrols this morning and the troops were scrambling in preparation. An irritant, since they should have been ready at a moment’s notice.
But his attention was not directed at the horses being led from their stalls, or the furtive looks sent his way. Instead, he stared at Gilmuir as if he could see through the walls. He wanted to go to her, to tell her who he was and what he had done. But he doubted she would listen to him, especially after his actions of last night.
He’d bunked with Harrison, his adjutant’s surprise at being awakened abruptly quickly hidden. Instead of sleeping, however, Alec had spent the hours staring up at the ceiling engaged in thought.
He had believed, for most of his life, in the barbarity of the Scots, only to witness more cruelty by the English in the past year. He’d been trained to obey, yet he’d spent the last few months actively disobeying his commander’s orders. He’d always thought of himself as a man of honor, but a dream had almost lured him to force himself on Leitis.
Alec felt as if he were being split in two. The man he had been vying with the man he was becoming. Only he was not certain of this new identity. It was more Scot than English, more rebellious than obedient.
Turning, he walked through the courtyard and into the regimental hall. The men he’d requested for this meeting had all assembled. He sat at the head of one of the dining hall tables, the room emptied but for himself and the six other officers.
The large room was similar to the clan hall, a meeting place with flags hanging from the walls in a display of nationalism. In the case of Gilmuir, the walls had been festooned with banners and weapons.
Present were Captains Wilmot and Monroe, along with Lieutenant Castleton, all of whom had accompanied him from Inverness. In addition, Sedgewick was in attendance, as well as his adjutant, an officious lieutenant by the name of William Armstrong who was now in the process of staring down Harrison.
“It is my place you’ve assumed, sir,” Lieutenant Armstrong said.
Harrison merely smiled, his face unchanged by such an expression. In fact, Alec thought, it might be that the other man appeared more genial when he did not smile at all. As if his face, ill favored as it was, was not suited for amiability.
“My adjutant always occupies the position to my right, Armstrong,” Alec said, impatient with the maneuvers that occurred at such functions. The arrival of a new commander was always a cause for celebration for some and panic for others.
Armstrong sat, his face twisted in an expression of annoyance the mirror of Sedgewick’s expression. Alec had little tolerance for either of them.
“This meeting is for one purpose, to outline the changes that are in effect immediately.” He nodded across the table, acknowledging his officers. “Captains Wilmot and Monroe will each be responsible for approximately fifty men.” They would browbeat them, lecture them, coddle them if necessary, but in a few weeks each soldier would understand what was required in Alec’s command.
“Lieutenant Castleton will oversee ancillary functions such as the bakery and the stores. And the barnyard,” he added dryly. “Do something with that, Castleton, before we’re all dead of the stench.”
“And my duties, Colonel?” Sedgewick asked stiffly.
“You are going to be on patrol,” he said bluntly. He nodded to Harrison, who passed Sedgewick a map. Sedgewick wasted no time unrolling it. A moment later, he passed the map to Armstrong.
“My patrol area is almost to the Irish Sea,” he said resentfully, making no effort to disguise his disgust at the assignment.
“I’m aware of the area, Sedgewick,” Alec said crisply. “Just as I am of the fact that you are challenging my orders.”
Sedgewick’s mouth tightened, the look he gave Alec without even a pretense of respect or compliance. It was obvious he was furious, so much so that the control over his temper and his words was hard-won.
The moment lengthened as the two men stared at each other.
“May I take any of my men with me?” Sedgewick asked finally, “or shall I patrol half of Scotland by myself, Colonel?”
If Alec had used that sarcastic tone with any of his commanders, he would have been whisked away in chains. But if he put Sedgewick in gaol, it would not rid him of the major’s presence. Sending him on patrol was the best recourse.
Alec wanted Sedgewick gone from Fort William. The reason was simple. It wasn’t because of his posturing, nor for his barely veiled insubordination, but for his character. And his ability to accept any act no matter how vile under the aegis of duty.
There were limits that men created in the secrecy of their own minds, lines they drew between obedience and their conscience. He had reached his in Inverness, discovered it was a barrier as firm and solid as a wall of brick. He wondered, however, if Sedgewick would ever know that his own line existed.
“You’ll have twenty men,” Alec said, determined that any man who’d been labeled a laggard or troublemaker would accompany Sedgewick.
Sedgewick stood, the bench scraping against the wood. “Then if you will excuse me, sir,” he said, standing at attention stiffly, “I’ll be preparing for my departure in the morning.”
“I will not, Major,” Alec said, also standing. “You’ll have plenty of time to ready for your patrol when we return. Right now, you’ll accompany me on a tour of the vicinity.” He wasn’t about to leave Sedgewick at the fort with only Donald to guard Leitis.
“Then I’ll give the orders to move out,” Sedgewick said.
“Have the men pack provisions for one day,” Alec ordered, watching as Sedgewick left the room.
When the door closed behind the major, he felt only relief.
Armstrong spoke up as Alec dismissed the men. “The supply wagons need repairing, sir,” he said. “And the smithy’s anvil cracked.”
“Tell the man in charge,” Alec said, glancing down at the lieutenant. “Lieutenant Castleton, in this case.”
“But you’re the colonel, sir,” Armstrong said, looking confused.
It would be unwise to judge Armstrong because of his association with Sedgewick. But it was obvious that the major’s style of leadership differed greatly from his own.
“Every man at this table, Armstrong,” he said patiently, “is capable of having his own command. The reason for that is that they have learned to govern. The officer who refuses to give his men practice in responsibility only thinks of himself and not his regiment. My duty is to see that the Crown’s mission is accomplished in the Highlands, and that will not be done with my attention being directed toward anvils and wagons.”
“Yes, sir,” Armstrong said, chagrined. With any luck there was promise to the lieutenant. Alec would keep him at the fort and ascertain whether his loyalty was reserved for Sedgewick or the regiment.
The meeting completed, his next priority was finding Hamish. The old fool couldn’t be allowed to flaunt his disdain for English authority so publicly. If he continued with his nightly serenades within hearing distance of Fort William, the men in his command would wonder why Alec did not punish his hostage.
Alec walked into the courtyard and mounted his horse, the soldiers behind him doing the same. Other than a s
mall troop left behind to guard Fort William, all of the men in his command were arrayed here, waiting patiently in their regimentals for the signal to advance. Nearly half of them were cavalry, the others infantrymen.
This day’s ride served another purpose in addition to finding Hamish. It would be his initial inspection of the territory surrounding Fort William and must, therefore, be done with a show of force. Showing the Highlanders the full complement of soldiers would not only prove that the English were here to stay, but it might deter thoughts of rebellion.
“I heard you released the piper,” Sedgewick said, mounting and moving to his side. “It came as a great surprise when you exchanged him for a hostage.”
“Should I have sought your permission, Major?” Alec asked sharply.
“No, sir. I just congratulate you on your good fortune to select one of the few women within miles with some promise. After you find the piper and release her, I’ll have to try her myself.” He smiled, an expression of challenge rather than mirth.
Alec faced forward. Damn Hamish and his stiff-necked pride.
Leitis smoothed her hands over her wrinkled skirt, pulled on her shoes, looked around for her hair ribbon, and, finding it on the pillow, tied her hair back. The mundane duties kept her hands busy as her mind whirled with plans to escape.
There was one spot in the window where the glass was shattered, forming a cobweb pattern. Grabbing a length of sheeting and winding it around her hand, she tapped on the glass until a hole appeared.
On the horizon the sky was lighter, as if the earth were an overturned bowl and the rim of it pale blue. The dawn sun was sending streaks of orange and pink light across the sky. It was a perfect summer morning in Scotland. All her life she had loved this season most. The scent of lush flowers and grass, the screech of an eagle on its morning hunt, brought back the magic of her childhood. She could almost hear her brothers’ laughter as she raced with them across the glen or hid in the forest and caves she knew so well. It felt as if something warm bloomed in her chest and she was suddenly aware of a feeling of gratitude for those enchanted days of freedom and joy.
