The Secret Clan: The Complete Series

by Amanda Scott

  “Are ye going tae be peepin’ over me shoulder every minute, Mam?”

  “I’ve nae time for such, but I canna leave the Chisholms on their own just because that dissembling harlot canna be bothered wi’ them. And ye’ll recall that if I help one side, I must give equal attention tae the other.”

  “But, Mam—!”

  She grimaced. “Hold your whisst, will ye? I willna interfere wi’ ye an ye dinna require it. Your business be wi’ Mistress Barbara. I’ll take nae hand wi’ her.”

  With that, he had to be satisfied, but he hoped Lucy would return quickly.

  Aboard the Marion Ogilvy

  They were off the southern coast of Portugal when the wind shifted. For nearly a sennight, crossing the Mediterranean, it had been steady from the larboard quarter or southeast, an unusually fortunate occurrence. What was more common, Kit knew, was for a ship to fight headwinds when sailing west, which required men to be constantly in the rigging, hoisting, lowering, and trimming sails to catch wind when and where they could. They had been under full sail, running with the wind nearly the whole distance, making excellent time with remarkably little effort.

  Sir Kenneth Lindsay had told Kit only that morning that because of their commendable speed, they would not put in to shore again for fresh water and supplies until they reached La Coruña, on the northern tip of Spain.

  Lindsay had spoken to him several times along the way but briefly, because he had not encouraged the man’s attention. That attention had clearly aided him so far, if only because Gibson had kept his distance, but he knew that Gibson was only biding his time until he could be rid of the ambassador’s nephew. Then things would doubtless grow worse than before.

  Gibson also kept clear of Willie Armstrong. Indeed, the atmosphere aboard the Marion Ogilvy was more cheerful and less tension-filled than Kit could remember its being since he had come aboard. It was not so happy, however, that he wanted to remain aboard her for the rest of his life.

  He was in no hurry, for his time was not his own and he was watched too closely to attempt an escape yet. In any case, he expected the ship to find itself becalmed somewhere along the way. Indeed, with the wind blowing constantly from the east and southeast, he had thought they would slow considerably on turning north. And so they had yesterday, after passing through the Strait of Gibraltar.

  Now, though, as he watched breakers crash against the Portuguese coast, the sounds of wind straining the sails above him and shouts of the men scrambling to adjust the running rigging, told him the wind had shifted at last.

  It blew now from the south, pushing them steadily northward as if God Almighty were as eager as Sir Kenneth was to see the latter’s messages delivered swiftly into Cardinal Beaton’s hands.

  Either that, Kit thought morosely, or they were all speeding toward perdition.

  By Friday, the end of her first sennight at Ardintoul, Bab had begun to sense a change in her mother. If she asked a question or made a comment, Lady MacRae would sometimes respond in a normal fashion. But just as Bab began to hope that her mother was emerging from the misty world she had chosen to inhabit, her ladyship got up in the middle of a comment she was making and walked out of the room. Following, Bab found her on the ramparts again, staring through the bartizan arrow loop at rain pouring down on Loch Alsh.

  When the rain stopped that afternoon, unable to bear being cooped up any longer, Bab ordered her favorite gray gelding saddled, rejected an escort, and left the confines of Ardintoul for the peaceful quiet of its surrounding woodland.

  She knew the area well and knew that she would be safe, certainly while Kintail was in residence at Eilean Donan. He was not called Wild Fin Mackenzie for naught, and the one thing guaranteed to arouse his temper and stir his men to action was a threat against anyone under his protection.

  Fin, like Patrick, might have something unpleasant to say to her about riding out alone, but he was across the loch and Patrick was in the Borders, and even when both were at home, she often defied what she perceived to be their more arbitrary commands, the ones issued out of habit rather than necessity. The people of Kintail knew her as well as they knew Fin and Patrick, and she could take care of herself.

  She rode through still-dripping woodland, retracing the track that they had followed the previous week from the beach, and when she reached the shore of the loch, she turned east toward Loch Duich. From its shore, riding uphill through trees and shrubbery to the high meadows was easier than trying to reach them through the rock-strewn glens. She enjoyed the solitude so much that it was not until a drifting cloud crossed the sun that she realized how low it had sunk in the western sky.

  Turning toward home, she wondered guiltily how her mother had fared without her. But Ada MacReedy was an excellent companion as well as an experienced waiting woman, and Florrie was a MacRae as well as being their housekeeper, so Bab knew that Lady MacRae was safe and well cared for.

  She tried to tell herself that it was good for her mother to have her daughter home again, but persuading herself of that was hard. The fact was that although Bab worried, her worry did no good, for she did not know what ailed her mother or how to help restore her to the woman she had been before Sir Gilchrist’s death.

  As she rode out of the trees toward the shore of Loch Duich, she saw another rider emerge from woodland a short distance away. The sun was dropping swiftly behind the Isle of Skye, so its light was slanted and dusky, and the woods were deeply shadowed. Lost as she was in her thoughts, she might not have noticed him but for an instinctive awareness that she was no longer alone.

  At first, he was no more than a solid shadow in the flickering depths of the forest, but as he rode nearer, she knew without question who it was, and her heart began to sing.

  Chapter 9

  A natural sense of caution reminded Bab that at least one impostor, Francis Dalcross, had pretended to be Sionnach Dubh, but even as the thought flitted into her mind, she knew that where the true Fox was concerned no pretender could fool her. Something about him stirred recognition, something she would know in the darkest night and without his speaking a word, an intimate, inexplicable signal that hummed between them, offering both comfort and the promise of increasing awareness and more intimate knowledge.

  She reined in her horse and waited for him to come near.

  “You came all the way to Kintail,” she said when she knew he would hear.

  “Aye, sweetheart, to make sure ye reached home safely.”

  Smiling at the feeling his voice stirred within her, she said. “As you see.”

  “What I see is a young woman out riding without suitable protection.”

  Despite the stern tone, she continued to smile. “We Macraes are perfectly safe on our own land,” she said. “Moreover, Kintail land surrounds us and Kintail is in residence. Were there strangers about, we would receive warning long before they could do us harm.”

  “I am a stranger.”

  “Aye, but even if someone saw you, no one would complain about the presence in Kintail of Sionnach Dubh.”

  “Perhaps not, but how could anyone be certain of my identity?”

  Suddenly shy, not wanting to tell him she would always know, she said only, “There are but two choices, sir. Either you are a lone rider and thus small danger to Kintail, or you are Sionnach Dubh and no danger to anyone who behaves himself and does not cause harm to law-abiding folks.”

  As she said the words, she realized that his next argument would doubtless be that even a lone rider could cause harm to an unprotected female. Surely, that was what Fin or Patrick would say, for it was exactly what they had said in the past.

  But he did not. Instead, he reached out gently and brushed her cheek with the knuckles of his gloved left hand.

  The stallion stood so still that it might have been inanimate black marble.

  “The fresh air agrees wi’ ye, lass,” he said. “It has put color in your cheeks and a sparkle in your eyes.”

  And heat, suddenly, in her c
heeks. She nibbled her lower lip, uncertain what to say to him and realizing there were dangers for unprotected women that she had not considered. Speaking the first words to come into her head, she said, “I thought you would scold as Patrick would.”

  “I dinna ha’ that right, sweetheart. Nor, if I did, ha’ ye yet given me cause. I wanted to see ye, so it would be gey hypocritical to scold ye for riding out alone when it affords me exactly what I’d hoped for and gives me such pleasure besides.”

  “Aye, but I did not expect you to admit that.”

  She thought she heard him chuckle, but she could not be sure. How she wished she could see his face and read his expression. She was sure he must be handsome, but even if he wore the mask to cover scars or an otherwise hideous countenance, it would not matter. Her reactions would remain the same.

  He moved his hand away from her cheek, and she wished he had not. It occurred to her as it had the first day they met that if he were to sweep her off her saddle and carry her to his lair, she would not care one whit.

  “How is your mother?”

  The question startled her. “She… she is well, thank you.”

  “Don’t offer me polite chatter, lass. I ken fine that she is not well and has not been well for many months, and I ken, too, that her state must be distressing. How fares she since your return to Ardintoul?”

  Even to him, she would not say all that was in her heart but neither would she lie. “She does not seem aware of much that happens around her,” she said. “She spends hours each day sitting on the ramparts watching Loch Alsh as if she still expects my father to return, but I think she is a little better now. Last night, after supper, she complained that the chicken was stringy.”

  He chuckled. “Is that so unusual?”

  “Aye, for she rarely speaks of food or other ordinary things. She mostly talks to herself, and when she does seem to talk to others, she says odd things.”

  “Does she?”

  “She told Florrie MacRae—our housekeeper—that she thought the new turf near the fairy ring would be ready for cutting in a sennight’s time.”

  “Well, it is springtime, after all.”

  “Aye, but we plant no turf, for Ardintoul does not lend itself to such luxuries. The land is either too rocky or too wooded, so we have never planted a lawn. And if there is a fairy ring hereabouts, I have never seen it.”

  It was easy to talk to him, easier even than she had expected, and although she did not voice her greatest fear, that her mother would disappear forever into the odd world that she occupied for so many hours each day, she had a notion that he understood without needing to hear the words.

  “I heard about the incident at the Beltane fire,” she said, turning the subject away from Ardintoul. “Are those men you rescued still safe?”

  “Aye,” he said. “They’ll keep themselves scarce until Francis Dalcross and his men find other mischief to occupy their time.”

  “It was good of you to help them,” she said.

  His body stiffened, and she could see his gray eyes narrow. She could even detect the glimmer of anger in them and wondered what she had said to ignite it.

  “It is not a matter of goodness but of justice,” he said. “Our self-righteous sheriff and his power-mad son have taken extraordinary liberties with folks too well accustomed to freedom to relinquish it easily, and when one sees what Francis Dalcross does in the open, one wonders what else he has done in the shadows.”

  “You said he acts only to enhance his personal power,” she reminded him, “but does he not also act in the name of Rome and his grace, the King?”

  “Aye, and power is heady stuff, lass. Even good men fall victim to its lures. Villains like the sheriff and his son use it as a weapon.”

  “But is that not what politics is all about? Patrick says politics is just fighting to control others and to seize power. Is that not exactly what the Dalcrosses do?”

  “Nay, lass, this has become personal, whilst politics tend to be factional. To have a political motive, both Dalcrosses would really have to represent the King, the Pope, or some other recognizable faction, but despite words to the contrary, they take no more interest than most Highlanders do in Jamie’s court or the Pope’s.”

  “Francis cares more for his own consequence,” Bab said.

  “Aye,” he agreed. “He also seeks to ally himself with powerful men, specifically Cardinal Beaton and the Pope, even when it sets him in opposition to his own people. We Highlanders cling to our ancient traditions, but we try to practice tolerance and common sense, too, allowing for differences and necessity of circumstance. For example, we allow a marriage to take place without a priest, so that folks can marry even when a priest can’t get to them because of weather or distance. According to Dalcross at present, all men should worship, marry, and die with the exact same rituals, whether they worship in Rome or Stirling or London.”

  “Mercy, sir, you sound most knowledgeable! Does all this mean that you agree with King Henry that Scotland should have her own Kirk?”

  He chuckled, his posture relaxing, and his eyes twinkling. “Ye ken fine that I hold nae such belief. Henry be exactly the same as Dalcross, for he wants what he wants when he wants it. He dismissed Rome and formed his own Kirk in England merely so he could discard a wife who couldna give him sons to marry one he thought would. When the hapless Anne Boleyn produced a daughter instead, he cut off her head and married a third time. He’s now on his fifth wife, and the only son he’s begotten is a weakling brat. D’ye see our Jamie acting in such a daft way?”

  “His grace has had two wives,” she pointed out.

  “Aye, but only because his first and most beloved died soon after arriving in Scotland. And he now has two legitimate sons, both presently strong and healthy, and may they remain so.”

  “So what will happen?”

  “To Scotland? I dinna ken. To the Dalcrosses? An they go on as they ha’ begun, they’ll be lucky to hang. Folks in these parts lack leadership presently, wi’ so many o’ their menfolk gone south to help Jamie keep Henry in England. But those men will return, and when they do, the Dalcrosses’ reign will be short. In the meantime, those o’ us that remain do what we can.”

  It occurred to her to wonder how he had avoided riding south to fight the English, but she knew that men had stayed behind for many reasons. No one could risk sending all his armed men away, and she knew that even some chieftains, if not clan chiefs, had stayed to keep their own homes safe. Even so, few households would be at full strength again until the men in the south came home.

  “Will ye no offer a man a reward for his long journey, lass?”

  His words startled her from her half-formed thoughts. With most people, one had warning of speech to come, but with his mask, one had none. Moreover, she was comfortable with him even in silence. With most people, silences grew awkward, forcing speech.

  She knew what he wanted from her and would give it gladly, but she wanted him to say the words. Innocently, she said, “What reward do you seek?”

  “Just a kiss, sweetheart, as ye ken verra well.”

  The stallion moved closer, although she had detected no signal from rider to horse; and although he had once called her a lodestone, it was she this time who felt drawn to him. She longed to feel his arms around her again.

  Thus she scarcely breathed as he put one warm hand on her shoulder and bent near, lifting his mask with the other as his lips met hers.

  The kiss was soft, warm, and gentle, but then the hand on her shoulder tightened, and he pressed harder. His lips savored hers, and his tongue darted forth to taste her and then to explore the interior of her mouth.

  She moaned softly as she kissed him back and felt her body respond. It fairly cried out to him to caress it, to take her from her horse and work his will with her. But as quickly as the kiss had come, it was over.

  “I must go, lass,” he murmured. “I dare not trust myself too far.”

  “I trust you,” she said, exert
ing every ounce of restraint she could summon to avoid begging him to say. She would not beg any man, not even him.

  “I know ye think ye do,” he said. “ ’Tis one reason I dare not trust myself. Ye’ll be safe for now, I warrant.”

  “Will you come again?”

  “Aye, lass, I told ye. I canna stay away.”

  And with that, he turned the stallion and rode into the woods, leaving her to stare after him until a chilly gust of wind and thickening dusk reminded her that she had to return to Ardintoul soon or they would send searchers out to look for her.

  Now that he was gone, her common sense stirred, and she realized that she had probably hovered within aim’s ace of making a great fool of herself. Boredom and worry about her mother had made it far too tempting to seek adventure with a man like the Fox, but there could be no future in such a relationship. Still, being with him was exciting, and she looked forward to seeing more of him. For the first time, she began to look forward to Fin and Molly’s departure for Dunsithe.

  Elsewhere, shafts of late-afternoon sunlight still filtered through a dense green forest canopy into a small, trackless glade, playing on the moss-covered ground and sparkling on the calm green water of the little pool in the center.

  A trickling mossy stream fed the pool, and if one stayed perfectly still and no breeze rustled the leaves, one could hear the water bubbling as it flowed. The emerald glade was silent when Brown Claud arrived, just as he remembered it. The figure lying on a mossy bed beside the stream was not, however, the figure he had hoped to see. Her lavender gown clashed with the greenery.

  “Lucy, wake up,” he said sharply, shaking her shoulder.

  She opened her eyes, grinned at him mischievously, and he knew she had been awake all the time. “Did ye miss me, Claud?” she said.

  “Aye, and I ha’ been looking for ye, too, but I didna expect tae find ye here.”

  “Then why come here?” she asked archly.

  “ ’Cause I be looking for Catriona, too, and this be her bower. Ye shouldna be here, Lucy. Members o’ her tribe might be wroth wi’ ye, and me mam be having enough trouble making peace ’twixt the hill folk and our own.”