by Paula Quinn
“I didn’t.”
“Then why is Devon wounded and unconscious in his solar? Was it not by your hand?”
“ ’Twas by my hand and the hand of his cousin.”
The king raised his eyebrows. “The woman?”
“Aye,” Colin said, turning those wolf-colored eyes on him. “The woman ye sent mercenaries to kill.”
James’s breath quickened with a momentary flash of anger that his commands weren’t carried out. But it was soon replaced by the kind of unease one might feel when the dead passed through them. He didn’t like the feeling at all and he didn’t like the way the man who was almost a son to him was looking at him now. The same way he looked at his enemies. Ready to stand, face, and conquer whatever came against him.
The king regarded him, wondering if he had been a fool not to fear him all these years. Was it possible then? Had his resolute general fallen for Lord Dearly’s daughter as James had suspected? Damn it to hell if he had. “How do you know it was I who sent them?”
“One of them told me before I nearly severed his head from his body.”
“I see.” James’s fingers tightened around the pommel of his saddle. If this were any other man but Colin MacGregor, his head would be rolling down the cliffs for making a king squirm. “You know her father, the Earl of Essex, planned this entire uprising?”
“Is that why ye ordered the slaughter of a woman and her babe?”
“No.” James didn’t appreciate explaining his actions to anyone, let alone a soldier. But Colin had always been truthful with him. He deserved the same. He also deserved to be flogged for his boldness. Fortunately, James was terribly fond of him. “You are the closest thing I have to a son, only better, because you are loyal to me to a fault. Like a father—and with the matchmaker who is my dear wife—I had anticipated a courtship for you, and hoped, of course, that you would choose a Catholic noblewoman as your bride. But there were no women who held your interest at court for longer than a night. None abroad whom you ever found worth mentioning to me in missives. Until you came here.” He cast Colin an indulgent smile. “She distracted you, General. She’s a Protestant, and eventually she would have poisoned your mind against me. I see that you’re angry about it and I—”
Colin’s impassive expression didn’t change when he shook his head. “I am disappointed.”
“Remember to whom you speak,” the king warned in a low tone.
His general returned his gaze to the castle, stared at its walls for a moment, and then said softly, “I wish I could.”
James bristled in his saddle. He’d had enough. “You stand here and insult me, the only man I would ever allow to do so. But I warn you, try me no further. Your Captain Drummond is inside fighting without you. You will tell me now why that is.”
“Verra well then, I will,” Colin said, turning slowly back to him. “I’m going home.”
For a moment, James simply stared at him, doubting the good of his ears. He couldn’t be serious. Home to Camlochlin? Now? With William set to arrive within the next few months. “You cannot.”
“With respect, Your Majesty, I am. I am nae longer convinced of the purpose of my sword. I know ’tis to protect, but ’tis nae longer to protect ye.”
James’s mouth opened into a tight O. “I’ll have you hanged for desertion.”
A smile, much like the one he offered his men in Whitehall’s tiltyard before he set them on their knees, quirked Colin’s lips. “Will ye? How d’ye think my kin would feel about that? Rob is chief now. I’ve spoken to him about my decision and I have his support. With all of England and the church against ye, d’ye truly want to make enemies of the MacGregors?”
“Do you threaten me?” James nearly choked on the words as they left his mouth. “Is this about Lord Dearly’s daughter? Do you threaten to leave my service, my well-being, even denying me from seeing my daughter?” His voice rose to a roar. “Over a woman?”
“I don’t wish to threaten ye at all,” Colin said, his voice remaining infuriatingly calm. “My brother’s wife makes us kin and fer that, I would see nae harm brought upon ye. I only wish to leave England.”
“But William is coming! You would allow a Protestant to sit on the throne?”
“I would prefer his swift defeat,” Colin admitted, providing James a measure of relief. “But not fer the reasons ye would like to believe. Ye have let the lusty siren of absolute power lure ye into tyranny.”
“Your head might just roll tonight, after all.”
Colin had the supreme audacity to step closer to the king’s mount and continue speaking. “If I don’t tell ye, friend, I fear no one will until ye’re seeking refuge in King Louis’s courts.”
James found that despite his anger, he could still smile at him. “You’ve never lacked balls, have you, Colin? I’ve always found it quite refreshing in comparison to the spineless subservience of my court.” Yes, this young rooster bowed to no man. He would do as he pleased and without hesitation go to war with anyone who tried to stop him. James didn’t want such a battle. He had too much to lose. Namely his throne. “I do what I must for our faith, son,” he said, growing serious. “As I always have. Doubt the conviction of my actions if you must, but help me defeat the Protestant usurper before you leave England’s service. Help me stop William and I will grant you anything you wish.”
“My lord!”
They both turned to Captain Richard Drummond as he raced his horse toward them from the castle.
“General,” Drummond acknowledged, dismounting and spreading his gaze over Colin’s unbloodied shirt before returning it to the king. “Dartmouth is ours. Lord Devon has been spared as you requested and awaits you in the Great Hall.”
“Any word on our victory at Kingswear from Lieutenant Willingham?” James asked.
“I’m certain it will arrive momentarily, my lord,” Drummond assured him.
“How many men did you dispatch to Kingswear?” Colin asked his second in command, then followed that query with half a dozen more, proving to James that leading an army still fired his blood.
“We missed your presence inside, General.”
“Ye did well without it, Captain.” Colin’s stony expression softened just a bit, but James noted it.
“Your general wishes to leave my service,” the king said, ignoring MacGregor’s murderous glance and trotting away. “Come inside with me, Colin. At least hear your men’s views on a decision that could cost them their lives.”
Stopping on the cliffs with George and her mount at her side, Gillian watched Colin speaking with the king and another man. She couldn’t hear their words, only the wind and the roar of the surf… or was that her heart pounding in her ears? She knew why he wasn’t coming with her to get Edmund. He had a war to win. The wind whipped away her tears but she swiped at her cheeks anyway. She tried not to think about him dying in it. He said he would be the man in her life who never let her down again. A father to Edmund. She wanted it more than anything she’d ever wanted in her life. Was he sincere? He’d lied to her. Could she ever trust him again? Aye, she could. His eyes had never lied to her. But what did it matter? He was a general in the Royal Army. He had to fight King James’s war against William whether he wanted to or not. He had tried to tell her, that night in George’s guestroom, coiled in each other’s arms. He’d asked her if he should stand idly by while his freedom was threatened. She understood his meaning more clearly now. The MacGregors were Catholics, and they had already been proscribed once before. Who knew what new laws a Protestant king would decree upon them? Colin fought for his kin and their freedom, and he would willingly go to war to protect them.
When she saw him following the king into Dartmouth, she tried not to feel abandoned again. His choice might be for a noble cause, but what if he was killed? She would weep for him every day and never wed. For what man could ever take his place, or love her son the way he did? What would she do without him in Camlochlin, with people she didn’t know? Where would she go if t
hey asked her to leave? It made her angry that he’d remained behind. Anger, she reasoned while she mounted her horse and steered it north, was better than suffering the terrible weight of her conquered heart. She’d allowed it. She had no one else to blame for letting down her guard and allowing another man fill her with fanciful dreams.
“Do you think he will live through a war with the Dutch?” she asked George when biting her tongue became too painful.
“I’ve no doubt he could bring victory to James with his sword alone,” her captain told her while they wove their way carefully over the bluffs.
“Aye, you’re correct,” she breathed gustily, feeling a bit relieved. “He will live.”
“And William will be defeated.”
She could feel George’s eyes on her, silently asking her if she realized what his victory would mean. She did. England’s Catholic king would remain. The punishments he had already ordered against the Protestants would worsen for their disloyalty, beginning with lesser sects like the Cameronians… and the Presbyterian Covenanters.
“Your wife’s family will suffer if King James remains on the throne,” she answered his unspoken question. “And Colin’s will suffer if he doesn’t. All this killing over religion. Do you think God approves?”
“No,” her companion said quietly.
“Nor do I.” She shook off any more thoughts of what they could not change and flicked her reins, taking off along the sandy shore. “Now let us go find my son and pray that I won’t have to ride back here and kill Geoffrey myself.”
Chapter Thirty-six
As Colin had predicted, his brother had sent the bard Finlay Grant back to George’s manor house to warn him that his identity had been discovered—and to get word to them that the child Edmund remained unharmed in the chief’s care just outside of Essex.
Gillian wasn’t surprised when George insisted that Finn take her on to the others without him. She hadn’t expected her captain and his wife to come to Camlochlin with her. She also hadn’t expected the day when she was to be parted from her dearest friend to come so quickly. How did one prepare for such a day?
“Remember me fondly, my dear captain.” She flung her arms around his neck and did not fight back the tears she would shed for him. “As I will always remember you.”
Their departure was brief, with her eager to get to Edmund and Captain Gates warning Finn to guard her with his life.
Eight days and seven nights later she knew George would have been relieved at the way Colin’s kin guarded her and Edmund, never letting them out of their sight. Gillian didn’t mind such stringent attention. They were nothing like the men of Dartmouth. Though they shared drink around the fire at night, they spoke kindly and courteously to her. Edmund liked them too, preferring to ride with one of them instead of with her on some days.
And Lord, but they were a handsome bunch. Not as handsome as Colin, of course, but she could barely look at Connor’s slow, double-dimpled grin without it spinning her head just a little. Rob was infinitely more dangerous in appearance, with shoulders a league wide and hair as black as a raven’s wing. Will’s eyes glittered like diamonds in the sun when he laughed, which was often, and usually at someone else’s expense. And Finn. Heavens, what could she say about Finn, save that she was certain he felled many hearts in Skye?
“We ride hard, I know,” Finn told her one night after catching her rubbing her bottom before settling in by the fire. “We will reach Glenelg by morning and be in Camlochlin by nightfall.”
If that was supposed to make her feel better, it failed. It wasn’t the idea of starting a new life in a strange place with people who probably wouldn’t like her because she was a Protestant that set her to weeping each night as she snuggled close on the hard ground with Edmund. She had prayed that Colin would change his mind about fighting and head out after them. But if he had, he would have caught up with them by now. He wasn’t coming, and the thought of never seeing him again left her aching with despair.
She didn’t speak of him. The others did it for her. She learned much about Colin from the warriors traveling with her, and everything they told her further convinced her that battle came above all else for him.
“He fears nothin’, that one,” Will told her after they crossed the narrows by boat the next morning and docked in Kylerhea. “Dinna’ fret over him. He’ll turn up alive and well in a year or two, after the war.”
Passing them on his way to retrieve his horse, Connor smacked Will across the back of the head and glared at him. “Ye’re an insensitive lout, Will. Ye need a woman in yer life.”
“I have plenty,” Will called back, then took off after him.
Finn came up behind her, singing a ditty about the chief and his ability to keep his breakfast in his belly where it belonged during their boat ride. He winked at her as he mounted his saddle and began the next stanza, aiming his voice at Will this time:
“The chasm of hell comes quickly, auld friend…
Tread cautiously ’round every bend.
The cliffs of Elgol are deadly to all…
But none turn so green when the chasm is seen,
as Will while he prays not to fall.”
Gillian couldn’t help but smile at the light banter between Finn and Will as she fit her foot into her stirrup. Two large hands closed around her waist and lifted her the rest of the way. She turned and offered her thanks to Rob, whose color had returned to his face once he was back on solid ground. She watched him scoop up Edmund and Aurelius and set them down in his saddle before he followed.
“Colin spoke fondly of your wife,” she said, needing a distraction from more agonizing thoughts… and the notion of crossing deadly cliffs.
Rob favored her with a smile so much like Colin’s that she nearly wept. Again. Damnation, but it seemed that once the floodgates had opened they would never close.
“I’m surprised he told ye of us,” the chief said. “I’m surprised by many of the decisions he’s made of late.”
She eyed him doubtfully. “Are you surprised that he remained behind to fight? All I’ve heard for a fortnight is how he has waited and trained for his glorious battle.”
“I dinna’ think he remained behind to fight fer the king.”
“Why else would he?”
Instead of answering her, Rob shifted his vivid blue eyes from her to the downy top of her son’s head. “Love shows nae mercy to a man. When ’tis true, his dreams and desires become meaningless if she is no’ a part of them. Colin gives up his war fer ye, and I must tell ye, Lady Gillian”—he smiled at her—“I sit in awe of the lass who has won my brother’s heart.”
Having mastered the skill years ago, she held back the tears welling up in her eyes. She would not let them fall in front of the MacGregor chief. He was pure, raw strength, born and bred in the harsh seclusion of the mountains, as were the women. She would not appear soft and weak to any one of them.
“Giving up his war would mean desertion.” Lord, the thought of Colin being hanged nearly shattered the last of her control. She glanced down at Edmund petting his dog.
“The king will let him go,” Rob said softly. The confidence in his voice pulled her attention back to him.
“How do you know?”
“Because I’m his daughter’s husband and he doesna’ want a battle with his kin in the north.”
His daughter’s husband? Hadn’t Colin told her Rob’s wife was called Davina? “How…”
“Ye will discover the whole truth of it at Camlochlin.”
That was fine with her, since her head was already spinning in every direction. She needed to stay focused on what was important. “If he has left the army unhindered, then where is he?”
“I dinna’ know,” Rob admitted, skimming his eyes over the vast hills around them. “But if he means to return to ye, he will. Nothin’ will stop him. Trust me.”
She wanted to. The sheer authority with which he spoke convinced her that she could. Until they rounded the end of Loc
h Slapin and the cliffs of Elgol filled her vision. She tilted her head up and almost turned her horse around. Dear Lord, she hadn’t been in the saddle in almost four years. She could never maneuver the animal around precarious footing.
Thankfully, her chaperones didn’t expect her to. After Connor helped her into his saddle, he tied her mount to his, leaped in front of her, and told her to hold on.
She did. For her life. She kept her eyes squeezed shut and stopped breathing at least fourteen times when Connor’s horse bucked and neighed, not wanting to go forward. They pushed along in a single row up the narrow precipice, Rob and Edmund in the lead, with Will directly behind him, and her and Connor third. At the rear, Finn’s voice rang out along the rocky wall in an ode to his chief.
“Your brother seems to recall every heroic deed Rob has ever performed,” Gillian noted, her face pressed against Connor’s back and one ear toward the bard. His voice, as angelic as his countenance, was distracting and soothing.
“Aye, and I’m tempted to smash him across the head with the flat of my blade. It’s as irritating as hell.”
“Finn,” Will called over his shoulder, “sing something aboot Connor. He’s pouting.”
Much to Gillian’s horror, Connor turned around in his saddle, taking his eyes off the pebbly path.
“Don’t sing about me or anyone here. I know all the damn tales, and after hearing them a thousand times, I wish we’d died in them.”
“Fine then,” his brother quipped. “But I cannot recall what I sang fer ye. Are ye certain I immortalized ye in verse? If not, I can make something up.”
Dear God, Connor laughed. Gillian was too afraid to open her eyes to see how close to the edge they had come.
Finally, he righted himself, but Gillian’s prayers of thanks were interrupted by Edmund’s shout that they were in the clouds. She didn’t dare open her eyes to see if he was telling the truth.
After what seemed a hundred lifetimes, Connor stopped his horse and turned to her. “We’re home.”
