One Man's Love

by Karen Ranney

“I know all your secrets,” she said, smiling. “Don’t I?”

  “I don’t feel at all comfortable discussing my frailties when I’m perched on a ledge like a bird.”

  “You’re not comfortable with heights,” she said, looking as if the discovery amazed her.

  He braced his hand against the rock, the glittering stone abrasive against his palm. “Up until this moment,” he said, “I’ve had few opportunities to test my affinity for cliff-walking.”

  She began to smile, obviously amused. He bent down and kissed her, captivated by the moment and the woman.

  “Have you no other secrets?” she asked a moment later.

  He thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t like the taste of mutton,” he said, “although you’ll need sheep for your wool. And I have no ability to sing.”

  She smiled at him before turning and following the path. It didn’t get easier, he noted, but as long as he concentrated on the cliff face and not the sheer drop to his right, it was bearable enough.

  They reached the land bridge, finally, the path rising steeply upward.

  “We have to cross the glen,” she said, gesturing to a narrow neck of land.

  He glanced from it back to the fort, measuring the distance. The soldiers didn’t appear particularly vigilant, but it was never good to underestimate an adversary. With a start of surprise, he realized that’s exactly what the English were now.

  Slowly, he slipped off his coat, folded it inside out, and tossed it over the side of the cliff.

  “It would be seen too easily,” he said at her questioning glance.

  She stretched out her hand. “It’s a race,” she said, smiling. “I’ve always been better at running than you,” she boasted.

  “I caught you in the courtyard,” he reminded her as he took her hand.

  She grabbed her skirt in her fist and together they ran across the strip of grass, Leitis muting her laughter with effort.

  “I won,” she announced on the other side, a bit of sophistry he allowed her. Her laughing face was flushed, her hair lit by a fading sun until it was tinted red-gold. In her lovely eyes was joy, so pure and unalloyed that his heart seemed to swell in gratitude for it.

  “Don’t do this now, Ian,” she said, glancing up at him, her lovely eyes clear and deep. “Not at this moment.”

  “Do what?” he asked, confused.

  “Look at me in that way. It makes me want to kiss you.”

  She sighed as he caught her up in his arms and kissed her anyway.

  “We should get to the village,” he said moments later.

  She nodded, clutching at his waistcoat with possessive fingers.

  “It doesn’t seem quite right,” she said, gazing up at him. “We are fleeing for our lives, responsible for getting almost fifty people to safety, and any moment we might be pursued by hundreds of English troops. I shouldn’t be so happy, should I?”

  “Happiness is fleeting enough. Hold it tight when it comes and don’t let it go.” To mark that thought, he pulled her to him again, spiraling down into their kiss with a jubilant delight.

  Slowly they parted, each looking at the other. A moment of discovery and acknowledgment, he thought, that what was between them was greater than nationality or country.

  They turned, finally, walking toward the village hand in hand. But when she would have veered onto the well-worn path through the glen, he pulled her into the cover of the forest.

  “It’s shorter this way,” she protested.

  “But we don’t know whether or not Wescott has posted troops there,” he said. She looked startled by the possibility.

  But when they emerged from the forest a few minutes later, there was no sign of the general’s troops.

  The village was unearthly quiet, as if the inhabitants had already left. There was no smoke from the chimneys, no sign of life.

  Leitis knocked on the first door and an old man answered. “It’s time,” she said. “I’m sorry we couldn’t give you any warning,” she added.

  “We’re ready,” he said.

  Ian strode to a cottage banded with flowers. An older woman answered, her gnarled hands clutching the doorframe tightly. “It’s time to leave,” he said gently.

  Her only response was a tight-lipped nod.

  One by one the cottage doors opened and people emerged, gathering in the middle of the village.

  “We have to leave Gilmuir quickly,” he said, addressing them. He didn’t wish to alarm them, but neither did he want them kept in ignorance. It was better if they understood the need for haste. “The English might well be searching for us soon.” Their faces each wore varying degrees of fear.

  “You’ll not be able to take more than you can carry, and even that should be limited. We’ll be taking the path around the cliffs.”

  “I know of no path around the cliffs,” a voice said. Ian turned to see Hamish standing a short distance away, his feet braced apart. One hand gripped his pipes, while the other was bunched in a fist and braced on his hip. For all the world, Ian thought, like a banty rooster defending his barnyard.

  They stared at each other, Ian knowing the exact moment when Hamish recognized him.

  “So, it’s the Butcher himself,” Hamish said, “come to lead those foolish enough to go. Where does an English colonel hope to take the MacRaes? To hell? Or just to prison?”

  Ian heard the collective gasp of the people surrounding him.

  Leitis came to his side, placed her hand on his arm in wordless support. “The reason the English will be searching,” she told the clan, “is because he’s Ian MacRae.”

  Hamish looked startled, then his eyes narrowed as he stared at them both. “He’s the Butcher of Inverness.”

  “He’s also the man who’s put his own life in jeopardy,” she said. “Not for his pride, Uncle,” she said, staring fixedly at the pipes. “But for others.”

  “O-ho,” Hamish said, frowning at her. “It’s like that, is it?”

  She nodded. “It’s like that,” she said firmly.

  “Your grandfather would be spinning in his grave to see you now, Ian MacRae,” Hamish said, turning to him.

  Ian took one step closer to the old man. “You dare to talk to me about what my grandfather would have thought?” he asked incredulously. “Your own actions have been nothing but selfish, Hamish. You allowed Leitis to be your hostage, never caring what might happen to her.”

  He was so close that he could reach out and pick up the old fool and fling him away like so much rubbish. The fact that he wanted to made Ian clench his hands into fists.

  “I don’t intend to allow anyone else to suffer for your pride, Hamish. Not Leitis, not any of these people.”

  He looked out over the crowd. “It’s true I’m half English,” he said, “but those at Fort William would punish me for being half Scot.”

  Leitis spoke beside him. “Some of you know him as the Raven,” she said. “He helped you all.”

  “You gave me food,” a man said, pushing his way to the front of the crowd.

  “And me.” An older woman spoke the words. People parted as she came forward.

  “And brought us here in safety,” another woman said. He recognized her as the mother of the boys he’d carried through the storm.

  Ian heard a chorus of responses, all of them gratifying and obviously irritating to Hamish, who stood in the same place looking mulish.

  “There’s not much time,” Ian said. “You can either trust me or you can stay here. Either way, there’s uncertainty and peril. I’ll not lie to you about that. All I can offer you is freedom.”

  “You’re going, then, Leitis?” a young woman asked.

  Leitis folded her hand into Ian’s, then looked up at him. “I am,” she said.

  An old man stepped forward. His look was as sharp as Hamish’s had been.

  “You’re the old laird’s grandson?”

  “Yes,” Ian said.

  “That’s good enough for me,”
he said. “No English blood can dilute a true Scot.” He turned to address the crowd. “We should be going, then,” he said sharply.

  One by one the villagers began to nod.

  The procession out of the village was a muted one. There was no time spent in glancing over the structures, whole or burned. And other than a few softly spoken regrets, there was no grief expressed about those possessions that had to be left behind. A lesson in their cheerful acceptance, Ian thought. The people of Gilmuir recognized that memories could be held within and needed no tangible reminders.

  The cloudless sky was a whitish blue as they retraced their steps through the forest. The late afternoon sun created long shadows over the landscape. A breeze from the north set the branches of the trees to dancing, as if nature bade them a farewell with a wave of leafy fingers.

  Hamish MacRae stood watching them, his pipes on his shoulder. The MacRae Lament was perfect for this moment as he witnessed the loss of his clansmen. Yet he couldn’t play it for fear of endangering them.

  He had never before felt as old or as useless as he did now. Worse, he felt shamed. The Butcher’s words had sliced deep. He had endangered Leitis and done so without thought. And he’d lost her for it. She’d walked out of the village without a look in his direction, without even a farewell. As if he’d ceased to exist in her mind.

  There was promise in that stony look he’d received from the Butcher. Ian, he corrected. A born leader of men, he thought.

  Turning, he looked around him. He had lived his life with each day passing, one into the other, never noticing how much had changed. Until this moment, when he felt the world was not quite the same, but something altogether unfamiliar.

  He didn’t feel as if he belonged here anymore. But neither was he glad to be quit of Gilmuir. It was not an easy thing, after all, to begin a new life when he was almost at the age to be passing from this one.

  But he wasn’t about to be left behind.

  He walked through the village to Peter’s cottage, rapped hard on the door.

  “Who is it?” Peter asked peevishly.

  “The English come to call,” Hamish said sarcastically. “Who do you think it is?”

  The door flew open; Peter frowned down at him. “Dora, with the meal she promised. Something other than turnips, for a change. Or Mary, come to give me a bit of smelly cream for my knee. Anyone but you.”

  “The rest of them are leaving,” Hamish said, pushing back his irritation at Peter for another, more important task.

  “Now?” Peter asked.

  “We’ll be the only ones here,” Hamish said. “And I’ve no wish to spend the rest of my life with only you as a companion, you old fool.”

  “Why don’t you go piping in Gilmuir’s courtyard, idiot?” Peter said. “The span of your life is bound to be shortened then.”

  “I’m going with them,” Hamish said.

  “You’re going with them?” Peter repeated, surprised.

  “If you don’t hurry, you’ll be the only one here,” Hamish warned, then gave him back one of his eternal sayings. “A wise man wavers, a fool is fixed.”

  “I don’t think so, old man,” Peter said suddenly, squinting at him. “I’ll not be a hermit.” He left the doorway and Hamish walked inside. Peter was busy spreading out a sheet and piling things inside it.

  “You would make yourself daft,” Hamish agreed. “Besides, you need someone to point out the errors of your ways.”

  Peter stood, tied the sheet into a neat bundle. “My errors?” he said incredulously. “I’m not a fool with the pipes. You’ve got the pride of a gaggle of clergy, Hamish MacRae.”

  Hamish grinned and preceded him out the door.

  Chapter 29

  I an and Leitis led the way through the forest, the journey a soundless one. Individually each of the Scots crossed the small stretch of glen. Some, like the children, thought it a great game and had to be coaxed to silence. Others walked more slowly, their pace causing Ian to look toward the land bridge and hope that the soldiers’ preparations for night would distract them from looking toward the glen.

  “If the children can walk,” Ian said, addressing each of the women, “it would be safer if you did not carry them.” He didn’t add that it was because they would need to keep one hand free for balance along the more difficult parts of the path. Children generally had less fear, probably because they didn’t fully understand the danger.

  It was the older people who worried him. As they crossed the glen, he led them gently down to the beginning of the path and paired them with a younger person. That way, they could have the assistance they needed as well as the vocal support to get through the harrowing journey.

  Leitis led the way back to Gilmuir, Ian following, the last person on the snakelike procession. He was halfway to the land bridge when he heard muttered whispers behind him.

  He glanced around to find Hamish and another man arguing as they made their way across the glen. Hamish carried only his bagpipes, while the other man held a knotted pack.

  “Your tongue wags like a lamb’s tail, you old fool.”

  Hamish frowned at that insult. “At least I’ve the wit to wag it, you dried-up old acorn.”

  “Better half an egg than empty shells,” the other man replied.

  Ian stared at them. “If you’re coming with us,” he said in a much quieter voice than they were using, “it would be better to do so without calling attention to ourselves.”

  “See what I mean? Keep your tongue within your teeth,” the other man said, glaring at Hamish.

  Hamish stepped up to Ian. “I’m coming to keep an eye on my niece,” he said belligerently. “I’ve no wish for her to be shamed.”

  “She’ll not be,” he said calmly.

  Hamish frowned at him. “Is this the magical path? The secret…” His words trailed to a halt as he stared to his left and viewed the sheer drop to the loch.

  It appeared that the cliff path was the one thing that could silence the old man. Ian felt a similar aversion, but he wasn’t about to confess it to Hamish MacRae.

  A rock fell ahead of them, and for one eternal moment Ian held himself still, waiting for the accompanying scream of terror. But there was no further sound.

  It was a journey made in slow, measured steps marked not with fear but an occasional soft murmur or a child’s giggle.

  “There was never a height that didn’t have a hole at the bottom of it,” the man behind Hamish muttered.

  “Give your tongue a rest, Peter,” Hamish growled. “Or I’ll put it to sleep for you.”

  “You and what English army?”

  Ian halted, only to have Hamish bump into his back. Bracing his hand on the rock, Ian was determined not to think of Sedgewick once more. “I’ll ask you again to be quiet,” he said, as calmly as he could.

  “I’ll be inoffensive,” Peter said curtly. “Not like the fool in front of me.”

  “If you’d only shut up,” Hamish answered, “I’d be pleased.”

  Ian still didn’t move, wondering why he was saddled with the two of them. They might have white hair, lined faces, and bodies bent with age, but they quarreled like tired children.

  Finally, they fell silent and Ian began to walk again, not attempting to catch up with the others.

  He wished there were a way to get word to Harrison and Donald as to his plans. The rest of the men who had followed him from Inverness were safe, not having been made conspirators in his acts as the Raven. But the fate of his adjutant and aide disturbed him.

  They finally neared the entrance to the priory, reaching the other villagers, who patiently waited to be lifted to safety. He glanced up and saw two of the older men helping Leitis and hoped that their strength lasted for a few more people.

  He climbed up by gripping one tenacious root. Behind him, Hamish and Peter began to argue again, and he exchanged a look with a surprised Leitis. “They decided to join us,” he explained, “but I’m not sure we’re all that fortunate to have them.
”

  He helped Hamish up to solid earth.

  “I’d have you forgive me for putting you in danger,” Hamish said, addressing Leitis. “For making you my hostage,” he added, before glancing over at Ian. “Although I’m thinking you should thank me for that.”

  Ian just shook his head, extended his hand to help the other man.

  “Better beyond the fear of danger than in it,” Peter said, finally reaching the top.

  “Do you never stop, man?” Hamish asked. “I wish I’d left you behind.”

  “Leave me behind?” Peter said, disgruntled. “I had already decided to leave.”

  “You’re lying,” Hamish said, frowning at the other man.

  “Two cats and one mouse, two mice in one house,” Peter said dolefully.

  Hamish threw his hands up in the air. “What does that mean, you old daft idiot?”

  “Will you two be quiet?” Ian said, irritated. “We’re in even greater danger here. We don’t need you quarrelling.”

  Hamish glanced over at him, surprised. “We’re not quarrelling,” he said. “We’re talking.”

  “Then keep your talking to a whisper,” Ian said, and wished a moment later that he’d not suggested it. Their bickering was annoying at any tone.

  Ian strode to the middle of the priory, bent, and pulled up the stone that hid the iron ring from view. Leitis came to his side, the villagers trailing after her, all of them silenced by what he revealed. Evidently, Fergus and James had guarded the secret well all these years.

  He stood, leaning closer to Leitis so that the echo of their voices would not carry to the others.

  “Will you get them to the ship? There is something I must do before I can follow you.”

  She surveyed him in the fading light, as if to measure his intentions. “You’re not going back to the fort, Ian?” she asked in a worried voice.

  He cupped his hand around her cheek, smiling down at her. “No,” he said, “I’ve no wish to be a martyr.” He kissed her quickly.

  Leitis nodded and sat beside the opening to the staircase, dangling her feet into the darkness. Another difficult journey for the villagers, but it could not be helped.