Wolf, Joan

by Highland Sunset

  "You look splendid, darling," Frances said. "How is your father?"

  "Father is fine, Mother. He was with Lord George when I got your message." He grinned down at his wife. "I didn't wait for him."

  Jean's small face was beautiful. "We have been so worried," she said softly. "Everything seemed to be going so well... then we heard of the retreat..."

  Niall's face darkened. "The prince did not want to retreat. Lord George and the chiefs forced him to it."

  "Sit down, darling," Frances said gently, "and tell us about it."

  Niall sat on an old sofa and pulled Jean down to sit beside him. He kept her hand in his on his lap. "There was no English rising," he said, and his eyes locked with Van's for a minute. "You had the right of it. The Sassenach did not move."

  She looked back at his severe face. "I would have been glad to be proven wrong," she said quietly.

  After a minute his face relaxed. He turned to his mother. "There was no help from England and no help from France and we had two large English armies coming after us, so the chiefs deemed it wisest to return to Scotland and make our stand on friendly ground. Although it seems that Glasgow"—he scowled at the name—"is scarcely less Whiggish than England. Damn Lowlanders."

  "Well, I'm glad you're back," Frances said firmly. "I know your father was against the invasion from the first. You will all be much safer here in Scotland."

  "Yes," said Jean fervently, and gazed up into his face.

  Van said nothing.

  Shortly thereafter Frances sent Niall and Jean upstairs to "spend some time together," as she tactfully put it. and she and Van remained in the private parlor she had hired and discussed what Niall had told them. Frances was emphatic in her belief that the clans had been right to return to Scotland. Van was not so certain.

  "Would you have ordered the retreat if the decision had been yours?" she asked Niall later as a table was being set up in the parlor for dinner to be served. She was standing next to him by the window, a little distance away from Frances and Jean. She kept her voice low.

  He answered in the same tone and without hesitation. "No. No. If it had been up to me, I'd have gone on. We were only one hundred and fifty miles from London." He smiled a little ruefully. "I have no sensible reasons for such a choice, I fear. Things certainly did look very discouraging. But, Dhé! We were almost to London, Van! I'd have gone for it."

  Van looked up into her brother's burning eyes and felt, in her heart, that he was right. She trusted Niall's instinct in this more than she did her father's caution. She said nothing, however, but asked him the question that had been on her mind since his return. "How is Alan? Is he all right?"

  Niall nodded. "Alan is fine. He feels as I do about the retreat, but we are only young hotheads according to Father and the chiefs." Her brother shrugged. "Well, we haven't lost a battle yet. Lord George soundly thrashed Cumberland's advance guard at Clifton." He grinned at her. "Alan will tell you all about it himself. He is not yet in Glasgow, but I expect he will be here by tomorrow."

  Jean came up to join them and he draped an arm around his wife's shoulders. "I'm starved," he said. "When is dinner?"

  "Right now," said Frances as the first servant bearing a steaming dish came in the door.

  Dinner was very gay, with Niall recounting every amusing incident he could recall to make them laugh. Of his listeners, however, only Jean was as happy as she seemed to be. Van was uneasy, although she gamely strove to catch the mood of optimism her brother was so gallantly spreading. And Frances, even as she listened and responded to her son's talk, had one eye always on the door. It opened once, to admit a servant with a note for Niall. Of Alasdair there was no sign.

  "Come outdoors for a walk with me," Niall said to his wife after they had eaten. "You are looking pale, m'eudail."

  "I have not liked to go out too frequently," Jean said softly. "Glasgow, as you mentioned earlier, is very much a Whig town."

  "You'll be safe with me," Niall said confidently. Then, to his sister, "You too, Van. You must be needing some air."

  Van hesitated, looking toward Frances.

  "Come along," Niall said sharply, and she looked at him to find him frowning at her meaningfully.

  "Oh," she said. "Yes. I'd love some air. I'll go get my cloak too."

  She left the room and Niall smiled at Frances. "I'd invite you as well, Mother, but I imagine you want to wait here for Father."

  Frances smiled back a little mistily. "Thank you, darling. You are very thoughtful."

  He kissed the top of her head. "Marriage has been good for me," he said teasingly, and as soon as Jean and Van returned, he herded them deftly out the door.

  The room was very quiet after they had gone. Frances sat on the old sofa, her hands idly crossed in her lap, her eyes fixed abstractedly on the door. After a few minutes there came the sound of a step in the passage outside. Frances' hands tensed. The door opened and Alasdair was standing there.

  Her heart began to slam. She did not leap up as Jean had done, but stayed in her seat, her eyes scanning his face. She said his name.

  He gave her a sober smile. "Here's a Christmas present you did not expect, Frances," he said, and came across the room.

  He moved like a man who was very tired, not just muscle-tired but soul-tired. He did not touch her but sat in the hard chair that was placed opposite the sofa on the other side of the fire. "You have all the news from Niall, I suppose."

  She tried to answer, failed to make any sound, and tried again. "Yes," she managed to say this time. Then, "I thank God you are all home."

  He was looking at the fire, not at her. He was trying to keep his face expressionless but she, who knew him so well, could read the pain on it. "Not all," he said harshly. "We left a garrison at Carlisle."

  Frances did not understand. "To hold the city?"

  "They cannot possibly hold the city against Cumberland. They will be taken. And executed."

  Frances was appalled. "But why leave them there then?"

  "The prince wanted to make a show of force, not to abandon England completely. Of course, he has every intention of returning."

  "But he won't?" Her voice was scarcely a whisper.

  "He won't." At last he turned to look at her. "You were right, Frances. The clans alone cannot topple an established government. And there is no sign of help from England or France." She made an involuntary motion toward him and stilled it. His gray eyes were dark and shadowed. "But, you see, the damnable thing is, if it were all to do again, I would do the same. That is why I cannot ask you to forgive me."

  "Oh, darling." Her heart rose in her chest with grief for him. "There is nothing I could not forgive you. If you don't know that by now..."

  Her voice trailed off because he had left his chair in a kind of a lunge and was coming toward her. Then he was next to her on the sofa and she was in his arms.

  His kiss was full of hunger.

  She clung to him as one drowning might cling to a safety device thrown out just before he has gone down for the last time.

  "There is so much for you to forgive me," he said in her ear when his embrace finally loosened a little. He rested his cheek against her hair. "I don't know what got into me, Frances." His voice sounded bewildered. "It was as if I had a hard knot of anger inside of me and I could not see or hear around it. I was like a stone. I knew I was making you unhappy, but I could not seem to help myself." He laughed shakily. "A fine excuse, I know."

  "When you looked at me, you saw all your own doubts." Her arms were holding him close to her.

  "Yes." His voice was very low. "Yes, I suppose that is true."

  "Alasdair." She drew a deep breath and closed her eyes briefly. She had to say this right. "It does not matter what happened in England, what will happen here in Scotland. You are my husband, and where you go, I go. Your honor is my honor, your cause, my cause. You are in this to the end, I know that, and I am with you."

  There was a long pause. Then he said in a low and shake
n voice, "I don't deserve that."

  She made an effort at lightness. "Well, that's what you've got." She took his face between her long, slender fingers and looked up into his eyes. "Just don't ever put me... outside like that again." Her voice was almost inaudible. "I don't think I could bear it."

  "Never." He was looking deep into her eyes. "You are the very heart in me, Frances. When I put you out, I became a stranger even to myself. There is no real life for me without you."

  "I love you." She ran a forefinger along the line of his high cheekbone.

  "I don't know why. I have never known why. Scarcely a day has gone by since we married that I did not look at you and wonder at the miracle that had given you to me." He put his hand over hers, then turned his face to kiss her fingers. "Come upstairs with me, Frances," he said. "Come upstairs."

  It was as if nothing had changed, Frances thought, as though the last desolate months had never happened. He was hers once again. His thin, hard hands were so achingly familiar, the lean, muscled strength of his body so well known to hers.

  Her body had always answered to the call of his, but this time was more fiercely passionate than any she could remember from the past. He wanted her with such a single-minded intensity, needed her with such an overwhelming need. Frances' profoundly feminine nature responded deeply to his urgency, abandoning without reserve all her own prodigious sweetness to the hard, driving manhood that needed it so desperately.

  He held her for a long time afterward, not saying anything. Then, "When I married you I wanted to buy the sun and the moon to lay them at your feet. I wanted to give you the world to hold in your lovely white hands. And I have only given you grief."

  "That's not true," she said strongly. She raised up a little on an elbow and stared down into his sober face. "Never say that, Alasdair. Never think it. It's not true."

  "Is it not?" His voice was soft.

  "No." She bent to put her mouth on his. "I have had everything in life I ever wanted," she said and kissed him. His arms reached up to pull her down and after a minute he rolled so that she was once again beneath him.

  "I thought you looked tired when you first came in," Frances said later, a hint of laughter in her voice. "You seem to have recovered."

  "You are a tonic, mo chridhe," he said in return.

  She snuggled her head against his shoulder. "You timed your entrance well. The children had just gone out."

  "I know." His voice was amused. "I sent Niall a note and told him to get himself and the girls away for a few hours."

  Frances sat up and stared down at him. "You didn't!"

  He grinned and for a moment looked almost as young as Niall. "I did. The people at the inn told me you were at dinner and I wanted to see you first, alone. So I sent in a note to Niall."

  "So that was the note the servant brought in." She gave her husband an admiring look. "How clever of you, Alasdair."

  "Thank you, m'eudail."

  Frances laughed. "Niall told me marriage had made him more sensitive. I should have known he was not as sensitive as that." She sobered. "I think Jean may be with child. She has been sick every morning for the past week."

  He looked absolutely delighted. "Good for Niall!" he said heartily. "Good for Jean." Frances' tone was decidedly dry. "Good for both of them."

  "Don't say anything to Niall, Alasdair. Jean will want to tell him herself."

  "All right." He yawned and stretched and sat up. "The children will be back by now. Perhaps we ought to go downstairs."

  "Yes. Niall couldn't keep the girls out for too long. It's cold."

  "The cold won't hurt them," he said imperturbably as he began to dress.

  Frances looked at him and smiled, her eyes misty with a sudden surge of love.

  CHAPTER 19

  The Highland retreat had dramatically changed the mood in London. If the government was not yet triumphant, still it clearly felt that now triumph was in its future. Even the news of the Highland victory at .the Battle of Falkirk on January 17 did not dampen English spirits. The Highlanders had defeated General Hawley, but the Duke of Cumberland, with his great army of regulars from France, was inexorably closing in on the pretender and the rebellious clans.

  Edward got more detailed news of the Battle of Falkirk from the Duke of Argyll, who had received firsthand reports from some Campbell participants.

  "Hawley evidently thought that the Highlanders would never stand up under a cavalry charge," the Campbell chief told Edward as they sat together at their club one afternoon. "He sent his cavalry, some seven hundred and fifty strong, straight in to attack the Highlanders' right wing." The duke lifted an eyebrow at Edward. "Where the MacIans were," he added a little dryly.

  Edward's eyes narrowed to mere slits of blue. "And?" he prompted.

  "The clans held their fire until the horses were almost on them—a very shrewd tactic. But then Lord George Murray was commanding the right wing, and Lord George has a good military brain. The cavalry is well-trained, however, and they did not break under fire but continued to come on." The duke paused dramatically. "Hawley's plan was to trample the clansmen underfoot."

  Edward sighed. "What happened next?"

  The Campbell smiled slightly. "Hawley forgot about the dirks," he said. "The Highlanders simply lay on the ground, drew their dirks, and stabbed the horses in their bellies. The cavalry broke and ran for Edinburgh."

  Edward was frowning. "But if it was such a rout, why didn't the pretender's army follow up their advantage? They could have retaken Edinburgh."

  The duke looked cynical. "Dissension among the leadership, Linton. The pretender and Lord George Murray don't see eye to eye."

  "The Highland army cannot afford to disagree among themselves," Edward said bluntly.

  The duke looked pleased. "No, they cannot. At the moment the pretender is engaged in besieging Stirling Castle, a futile enterprise, I fear. The clans will never tolerate such tedious work. If he doesn't look out, half the pretender's army will be slipping off home to their glens."

  Edward and the duke had another glass of wine together and then Edward walked slowly home to Linton House. He went around to the stables before he entered the house, however, and snapped at a groom who was sitting around doing nothing and set him to polishing an already-polished harness. Then he inspected the stalls and complained that the bedding wasn't deep enough. Two grooms jumped to fetch wheelbarrows and more straw.

  When the earl finally moved toward the house, there was a general sigh of relief throughout the stable area. "I never seen his lordship so out of temper," one groom remarked to another as they forked straw into the offending stalls. "Something must have happened. Be best if we all keep busy until he calms down." His companion agreed fervently and both men went to get more straw.

  The staff at the house was not faring much better than the grooms, and when the earl finally locked himself into the library, there was a universal letting out of breaths. Inside the closed doors Edward was sitting at his desk, a rather formidable frown on his face as he went through a pile of papers.

  He was feeling helpless and it was not a feeling he was accustomed to. Images of Van danced through his mind and he knew that with every passing day she was getting farther and farther away from him. They had met last in the glow of Charles's triumphant occupation of Edinburgh. They had met as equals. The next time they met, one of them would be the victor and one the vanquished, and he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt which one would be which. He prayed to God that at least her father and her brother would not be killed. As it was, she would have enough to hold against him.

  Edward gave up all pretext of reading the papers on his desk and stared grimly into the fire. He could not even write Van a letter, he thought bitterly. He had no idea where she was.

  Van was at Stirling. Alasdair had sent for the women when he realized they were going to be stuck in the town for weeks trying to take Stirling Castle. He was as convinced as the Duke of Argyll of the fruitlessness of such a siege,
but Lord George Murray had been overruled by the prince and consequently the Highland army was in Stirling.

  The city, traditionally the gateway to the Highlands, was full of excitement when Van, Frances, and Jean arrived. Lord Strathallen had recently joined the prince with a regiment of Frasers, MacKenzies and Farquarsons. And, more interestingly, Lady Mackintosh had arrived, leading a contingent of four hundred Mackintoshes for the prince. Her husband, the chief, Mackintosh of Mackintosh, had previously come out for the government.

  "Dhé," said Van with a laugh when she was told that piece of news. "That was courageous of her. But I would not like to live in that marriage!"

  Frances thought of how implacable Alasdair had been at the merest mention of opposition to his decision, and shuddered.

  "I cannot imagine how she ever brought herself to do it," Jean said, gazing with big eyes at Niall. She added hastily, "Although of course I am glad that she did."

  The laughter had died out of Van's face. "We all do what we have to do," she said in a hard, abrupt voice. Jean looked bewildered and Frances compassionate. Niall took his wife's small hand in his own comforting grasp.

  Of the three women gathered in the room with him, only his sister had it in her to do as Lady Mackintosh had done, he thought. His mother and his wife were too gentle, too feminine, ever to stand alone so defiantly. They would follow their husbands' lead, in war as well as in peace.

  Van was different. Van might love a man, but that would not stop her from going the road she hersel deemed right. He looked at his sister's proud face. I was not that she was unfeminine, though. She was just... Van.

  Jean's fingers curled within his. The man who loved Van would never feel for her the overwhelming protectiveness he felt for Jeannie, he thought. Or the intense possessiveness. Van was too strong a spirit to be loved like that. Niall had a brief vision of the Earl of Linton's splendidly tall figure and hard blue eyes. A man very different from himself, was Edward Romney. Niall looked into Jean's great brown eyes and smiled. He loved his sister, but he decidedly preferred marriage to someone like his Jeannie.