Victor tugged at Rosamond’s hand and she crept away with him.
* * *
He had found a quiet place overhung by the low bank that edged the little cove. A place where they could be alone for these last few moments, and they had sat on the sand, clasped in each others’ arms, blissfully sharing the caresses and the words of love that were theirs alone.
Now he drew back reluctantly, and looking into his wistful eyes, Rosamond knew, and the cold grip of terror seized her once again. “You’re going back,” she accused.
He smiled wryly. “I have no choice. I had to see you safe, my love. Now I must finish what I came to do, and—”
In her heart she had known this when he suggested they go ashore, but the confirmation of her fears hit hard and she sat up with a cry of anguish. “No! Ah, Rob—no! They’ll surely arrest—”
He put his fingers across her lips. “Hush, beloved little Rosa. You forget—I am an English captain, my identity firmly established, thanks to the bungling of some Whitehall idiot.”
“Yes, and how long shall it be, do you suppose, before that same idiot discovers his mistake?”
That possibility had occurred to him, but he took up her hand and kissed it gently. “Sweetheart, I must do what I can for my people. You know it.”
She did know it, but she loved with all her heart, and she was afraid. Clinging to his coat, she said, “Then I shall stay with you!”
He took her by both arms and held her a little away from him. “D’ye know what a Highland Scot does with his woman when she argues?”
Blinded by tears, she shook her head.
“This…” he said tenderly, and kissed her into silence. With his lips still against hers, he murmured then, “You’ll not forget, Rosa? You wait one year. Not a day longer.”
Her voice quivered on a sob. “As I told you once before, sirrah—I dinna ken…”
He laughed brokenly, then hugged her against him in an agony of yearning. “You drive me to distraction when you say that—and you know it, you little varmint! By heaven—how I love you!”
“And I you. Forever. So—do not fail me…” But the awareness of his very probable arrest, and of the slow and savage death that would be meted out to this valiant young man if his true identity became known, was paralyzing, and her courage failed. She moaned, “Oh, Rob, my darling, my darling! How can I bear to leave you here—and in such peril?”
He said quietly, “Would you have me leave the task to someone else, Rosa? Would you have me break my vow?”
She looked up into his steadfast eyes and fought to say “Yes,” but could not. And so, with a muffled sob, she tightened her arms about him and clung to him, silently praying.
He pressed fervent kisses onto her silken hair, longing for her to be safely gone; dreading to send her away; wondering if ever they would meet again. Through his misery, he heard Jock shout. He stood, summoning a smile somehow, and pulled Rosamond to her feet. “The tide must be up. Come, dear one. Now, you’ll not meet Charles with such a long face, surely? And him with his own heart heavy and hiding it so well.”
Rosamond battled gallantly to steady her trembling lip, and wiped at her tears. “No, my brave Scottish gentleman. I’ll … I’ll not shame you. Only—oh, Robbie, I love you so much! Why must Fate bring us together only to part us so soon? Why— Good heavens!”
Victor, his eyes devouring her lovely face, saw shock come into it and whirled around.
The yawl was putting out to sea.
“What the—” he gasped, furious.
A vicious crack. Another. And two little spurts of spray shot up in the water just short of the yawl.
“Oh—God!” groaned Victor. “Not this close! My Lord! Not now!”
He whipped out his pistol as running footsteps approached. “Behind me, lass!” he growled, scourged by grief for her precious sake, but determined to sell their lives dearly.
A liveried, red-faced footman ran, crouching, from the rough path that slanted down the bank. “Your man…” he wheezed, coming up with them, “says … stay tight … sir! Our coach … out of sight. They may—they may think … you’re all … safe away…”
Victor swept his lady into his arm. “Good man!” He glanced about swiftly. Thank the Lord that Rosa wore a beige gown and his cloak was forest green. There were gorse bushes everywhere. “Here!” He pulled Rosamond towards a clump that grew close against the bank.
A flurry of deafening shots. And by one of those perverse chances that so often disrupt human plans, an intrepid horseman far in advance of the troop set his mount leaping over the edge directly above the fugitives. The big horse’s thundering hooves dislodged a section of the bank, creating a small avalanche. Victor saw the mass hurtling down and shoved Rosamond clear, but the hail of clods and flying rock caught him squarely. Blinded, reeling, he clutched his temple and fell in a limp sprawl.
Frantic, Rosamond started for him, but the footman, fearful of his own life, dragged her behind the shrubs and clapped a hand over her mouth.
An distant, but enraged voice roared, “Shoot, you dolts, before they escape us!”
A dim corner of Victor’s stunned mind thought, ‘Holt!’ He knew vaguely that he lay in full view, but to move was beyond his power. In a misty sequence of very brief impressions, he saw the yawl, sails billowing, putting out to sea; heard a furious volley of shots, and a sob of horror, swiftly muffled. He knew a numb gratitude for the footman, and with a mighty effort fought his way to his hands and knees, but his head hurt brutally, his knees would not hold him and he was down again.
The tall chestnut stallion had plunged into the waves. The yawl was too far out, however, and Roland Fairleigh, cursing blisteringly, reined him back, and turned towards the bank and the oncoming troop. He saw Victor then, lying under the jut of the bank, his head bloodied, striving feebly, vainly, to reach the pistol that lay within inches of his hand. Amusement replaced the wrath in Fairleigh’s black eyes. He urged Rumpelstiltskin forward and the big horse danced to within a few paces of the helpless Scot.
“Fortunes of war,” grinned Fairleigh. He backed the stallion, looked up, and waved his tricorne. “Hey! Jacob!”
“Damn … you…!” gasped Victor.
Cantering hooves, and the shadow of Holt’s head and shoulders appeared on the sand. “Well?” he roared.
“How’d you like—” cried Fairleigh.
A faint yelp from the footman, and then Rosamond’s scratched and tear-stained face peeped through the thorny branches. “Roland…” she whispered desperately. “Please … Your word, remember? Your word of honour!”
Fairleigh stared at her, a frown drawing his dark brows together.
“Like—what, blast your ears?” snarled Holt, glaring down at his kinsman.
Fairleigh grinned up at him. “To … catch some fish,” he said, turning the stallion to the path. “Might as well, since we’re here, eh?”
“You think ’tis funny, do you?” his cousin raged. “Look at that curst yawl! And the whole lot of ’em in plain sight! Safe away! Laughing at us! We were only minutes late, you stupid block! You were minutes from claiming a fat reward! Mull on that, damn your eyes!” He reined around, his voice diminishing. “One of you men, bring Albritton’s coach. Sergeant! Ride like hell to Portsmouth. There’s small chance, but a fast frigate might come up with those traitors … The rest of you …
The shouts and the hoofbeats faded.
Rosamond scrambled from her hiding place and flew to gather Victor into cherishing arms.
The footman mumbled, “Cor! That was close, that was!” and mopped his sweating brow, then crept in search of Lord Boudreaux’s carriage and the coachman.
“We’re alive … my Rosa…” Victor gasped, lifting an unsteady hand to touch her face.
“Yes, beloved.” Overwhelmed with relief, she said tremulously, “Thanks to Roland Fairleigh … You see, he is not such a villain, after all!”
“He kept his word,” agreed Victor, keeping a few
mental reservations to himself.
“And we’re together. You cannot send me off now, my love.”
His head was beginning to clear. “By Jupiter,” he gasped. “I can’t, can I? And you cannot go home! What the deuce am I to do with you, little Sassenach?”
She smiled, and kissed him.
* * *
Captain Jacob Holt tilted back the chair, placed one foot against the locker in his tiny barracks bedroom, and fingered his swollen and discoloured jaw. “I was properly ripped up,” he muttered broodingly, “and as good as told my chance for promotion had sailed off with that damned smuggler’s yawl!”
His shoulders propped against the worn bookcase, Roland Fairleigh Mathieson clicked his tongue sympathetically, inspected a cuticle and murmured, “I’ll own I was surprised that Victor sailed with them. I hope he’ll find it was worth what he’s given up. You’re quite sure you saw him…?”
“You saw him as well as I! He was standing there in plain sight beside young Albritton.”
“Mmmn. Looked different, somehow.”
“Try not to be such a block, Roly. The fellow tried to disguise himself, of course. But ’twould take more than a tie-wig to fool me! Besides, if it was someone else, Victor would have reported to me, or to the Horse Guards, and proved his innocence.” Holt’s lip curled. “Poor dupe. The chit made a pretty fool of him.”
“You think he’s the one helped her earlier, with the wounded lad?”
“You may be sure I do! And you may be sure I’m not going to report it! With my luck, I’d likely be blamed for not arresting him on the spot!” Holt grunted a curse, stood restlessly and stamped to stand at the window and scowl down at the parade ground bathed in warm afternoon sunlight. “I did my damnedest to circumvent those accursed traitors! I worked day and night, came near to breaking my neck, did break the tops off three teeth, and all I get in return is to be bathed in the acid of my charming colonel’s vocabulary! Well, let him succeed where I’ve failed an he thinks himself so damned omnipotent! He’s panting to become full colonel.” He chuckled suddenly. “Much good it may do him.”
“Never say the mighty Mariner Fotheringay has erred?” drawled his cousin idly.
“’Tis said he had in his hand the list of traitors who contributed to Prince Charlie’s treasure, and let it get away from him.”
They both laughed. Fairleigh said, “Small wonder he’s cheerful as any viper! I’d not be in his shoes.”
“Serve the arrogant bastard right!”
“Rumour has it there’s another copy of the list been sent out—as I’ve no doubt you are aware.”
“I am aware,” said Holt. “Lord help the poor devil who carries it.”
“Now, Jacob! Never say you are in sympathy with these rebel vermin?”
“No—I’ll not say that! But—is an ugly business at best, Roly. I hope to God I’ve seen the end of it! I’m a soldier! I joined to fight, but ’gainst fighting men—not to hunt down half-dead fugitives and terrified … women.” His cold blue eyes became distant and brooding.
Hiding a grin, Fairleigh murmured, “I think you harboured a tendre for the lovely Rosamond yourself, poor fellow.”
Holt’s gaze slanted to him savagely. “Do you. Well do you know what I think? I think you know a damn sight more about what transpired at Lennox Court last week than I do!” His cousin merely regarding him with bland innocence, he sneered, “But for all your lies and sly manoeuvrings, you are empty-handed as ever—eh?”
“For the nonce, alas, I cannot deny it. How does old Albritton go on? Have you seen him since the—er, fiasco?”
“Once.” Holt looked grave, and added slowly, “He seems fierce as ever. I cannot help but feel sorry for him. To have lost all his children—poor old boy … Now, what the hell are you staring at?”
Fairleigh pushed himself away from the wall and took up his tricorne. “It unnerves me to hear a heartless cold fish such as yourself express sympathy for another human being! Zounds, but the Day of Judgement must be imminent!”
Cursing, Holt snatched up his pillow and hurled it at his tormentor.
Fairleigh laughed, flung open the door, and used it to field the missile. “Fare ye well, dear Jacob. ‘Pray love me little, so you love me long.’”
“Love you?” shouted Holt, but with amusement glinting in his eyes. “You mercenary damned lying cheat! Who could like you—much less love you?”
Fairleigh moaned, and with a hand over his heart ran blithely down the stairs.
He had mounted up and leaned forward to pat Rumpelstiltskin’s glossy neck when his cousin thrust his head out of the window and called, “Where are you off to, rogue?”
“To the ends of the earth,” answered Fairleigh with an extravagant gesture. “To seek the maid who will love me for my noble nature, my strength in defence of the weak, my generosity and charity, my manly beauty, my pure and stainless—” With a whoop, he kicked home his heels and the tall chestnut sprang forward, barely eluding the deluge as Holt emptied the water pitcher at them.
His laughter echoing after him, Fairleigh cantered off.
Holt leaned from the window and shouted, “Save some of the treasure for me, Roly!”
Roland Fairleigh Mathieson, sometimes known as Otton, waved and disappeared through the gate.
* * *
The morning was brisk, a tang of autumn threading the breeze that sent gold and russet leaves scampering across the cobble-stones as Colonel Albritton rode into the stable-yard. Jock Addington came hurrying to take the big Roman-nosed roan.
His thoughts on a glass of Madeira and his favourite chair in the library, Albritton glanced back and muttered “Where’s that stupid—” He broke off and swore as Trifle bounded into the yard, gave him an amiable bark in passing and raced off.
“Caught up wi’ ye, sir,” said Jock redundantly, and added with a grin, “Yon wee beastie looks tae be heading in the direction o’—”
“I know. Damn and blast the worthless—” The colonel, who had taken a liking to the leathery Scot, cut off that remark and let his whiskers say the rest. “Why I don’t keep him chained—or better yet, take the confounded brute out and lose him…” He grumbled his way towards the rose garden. But he was very aware that Trifle’s mad venture into house-moving had saved them all. Had he not darted through the railing leading up the pavilion steps, and had his new home not become lodged against that railing, Holt would not have been knocked out of time, and Charles and Rosamond— The colonel shuddered and stamped into the rose garden, resolved not to murder the dog, whatever fresh havoc he’d created.
Trifle was nowhere in sight, however, and there were no new excavations. ‘Probably chasing that fat cat again,’ thought Albritton, his eyes drifting lovingly around his roses. When his gaze reached a certain point, it held steady. Stella’s prize gift, the Cothurnus farradiddle or whatever it was called, had put out a remarkable spurt of growth. What’s more, it had put out several blooms, for a few wilting petals lay on the ground, and one floweret was holding up its face bravely to the pale sun. The colonel wandered closer, his expression softening. It seemed only yesterday that young Victor—MacTavish, that is, had brought Rosamond and Stella home from Paris in time for his birthday … Lord, but he’d been glad to see them. The house was so curst lonely when everyone was away. Especially when Stella wasn’t bustling about, managing everything and everybody. A remarkable woman was Stella. And seemed to grow prettier with the years. She was all he really had left now … Violet Singleton was a well-enough lady, but rather lachrymose—certainly one would not wish to live with her. Loved her children, mind.
He wondered sadly what his own children were doing just at this moment, then berated himself for not being grateful they were safely away—and alive, rather than— He halted, staring. By Gad, but the Co-what’s-it’s-name, had spread! Blessed if that wasn’t another one starting over there next to his prize Rose Indian Ivory! Somewhat taken aback, he moved closer. His eyes narrowed. He bent, peering. His
whiskers began to vibrate …
Five minutes later Mrs. Porchester, clad in her new dark red velvet, came carefully down the stairs, holding a gaily wrapped and tied parcel, a fugitive smile lurking about her lips.
“By ZEUS! By all the—damned POWERS! Damn and blast and—a pox on the deceitful, traitorous swine!”
That irate bellow froze her steps and her smile. She looked anxiously towards the library, then hurried to it, bathed in such a flood of vitriol as she had seldom heard from the colonel.
Pausing in the open doorway, she gasped, “Lennox! What—on earth…?”
The much-tried gentleman turned from a large Compendium of British Botany and Horticulture that lay open on the reference table. His face was purple. He waved one of the seedlings from The Special Gift. “Do you know what this is, madam?” he sputtered. “Do you know what it is?”
“Wh-why, yes, dear. ’Tis my birthday gift to—”
“Your—rare and exceeding costly imported Co-what’s-it, eh?”
“Well—yes, of course. And they can hear you in Chichester, Len____”
“I do not care, madam, can they hear me in RYE!” he roared. “In fact, I hope to God THEY CAN! Especially, that—that damned charlatan who sold you this—this thrice-damned—NOXIOUS WEED, MADAM!”
Estelle blanched. “W-weed? No, but—but Lennox, Dr. Victor told me distinctly—”
“Dr. Robert Victor, ma’am, when he’s not being Lieutenant Robert MacTavish, who has whisked m’daughter into a confounded havey-cavey marriage and made himself m’son-in-law—” He paused, having lost the thread of his tirade. “Oh, yes—that conniving Scotsman likely would not know a Latin word did he fall over one! Much less the species and genus names for NOXIOUS WEEDS, madam!” Ever more purple and apoplectic, he advanced upon her waving the wilting criminal. “This is no imported rarity, Mrs. Porchester! ’Tis a simple specimen of HEDGE BINDWEED! And you—you have caused me to insinuate it among me roses! And the everlasting damned thing has RESEEDED, madam! Do you HEAR me? It has—er … ah…”
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