by Ruth Langan
Camus gave his friend a wild-eyed look. “Beware, Dillon. I do not like the looks of this.”
“Nor I,” Father Anselm said softly.
“I have given my word to Lord Waltham.” To the English, Dillon said, “You will wish to refresh yourselves before beginning your journey home.”
“Nay.” Essex shook his head. “Lord Waltham is anxious to have his treasure returned. We will not tarry until our mission is accomplished. Where is the lady?” His gaze lifted toward the balcony.
Leonora stepped back quickly. Placing her palms against her heated cheeks, she stared around Dillon’s chambers. For so long, these rooms had been her prison. For the past few nights, they had been her refuge. And now she felt the same way she had when she’d been abducted from her father’s home. Everything familiar was being torn from her.
How could this be? How had this rough Highland fortress become her refuge, her haven? How was it possible that she had found heaven in a Highland savage’s arms?
When Dillon entered his chambers, he found Leonora staring around as if committing everything to memory. She turned, and the two stared hungrily at each other across the room for long, silent moments.
“Your father’s emissaries have come.”
“Aye.”
She had her chin lifted in that familiar manner. He had once thought her haughty, aloof. Now he knew that this was her way of facing down her fears. How he longed to pull her into his arms and reassure her. But that would only make things worse. They must get through this thing with strength and dignity.
“I had hoped they would sup with us before their departure. Alas, they are eager to return you to England. I can understand your father’s impatience to have you back in his safe embrace.”
She nodded and took a final glance around the room, then walked determinedly toward the door. As she passed him, he put a hand on her arm. She flinched and bit her lip to keep from crying out, but did not turn toward him.
“Know always that I love you, Leonora.”
Her only acknowledgment was a silent nod of the head. Placing her hand on his sleeve, she descended the stairs beside him. When they walked out into the brilliant sunshine of the courtyard, she saw the line of Highlanders waiting to bid her goodbye.
Flame, her arm still heavily bandaged, drew Leonora close and hugged her fiercely. “I was wrong about you, Englishwoman,” she whispered. “I wish…” She sniffed and tried again. “I wish I had not wasted so much time hating you. In years to come, I will think of you.”
Leonora smoothed back the unruly strands of fiery hair that curled around the girl’s cheeks. Tears threatened, but she quickly blinked them back. She must not allow herself to cry in front of her own countrymen, who were watching her closely. “If I had a little sister, Flame, I could not wish for a better one than you.”
The lass turned away to hide her tears.
Mistress MacCallum hurried over, twisting a corner of her apron between her fingers. Even before she began to speak, tears were spilling from her eyes. “Thank ye, m’lady, for all ye’ve done for us here at Kinloch House.”
“Nay. I thank you, Mistress MacCallum, for making me feel at home here.”
“Oh, m’lady.” The poor woman was forced to turn away in embarrassment, clutching the apron to her face.
Father Anselm caught Leonora’s hands between both of his. Peering intently into her eyes, he saw how she was struggling with her emotions.
“I would ask your blessing on my journey, Father.”
“Aye, my lady.” He lifted his hand in blessing while murmuring in Latin, “God go with you.”
“Thank you, Father.”
As she lowered her head, he whispered, for her ears alone, “Never forget that God’s hand is upon all our lives. He, and He alone, can make a crooked path straight.”
“But I cannot even see my path, Father,” she cried. “I am too blinded by tears.”
“Then take His hand. Trust Him to lead you, child.”
He stepped aside, and Camus strode forward.
Taking her hand, the young soldier lifted it to his lips and muttered, “You have been a most honored guest in our Highlands, my lady. I bid you a safe journey.”
“Thank you, Camus.” She glanced at Dillon, who stood so stoicly beside her. “He will need a friend, Camus.”
“Aye, my lady. More than ever, I will be Dillon’s friend.”
Dillon silently led her to her waiting steed, pain and fatigue evident in his eyes. Stanton stood holding the reins. The old man bowed slightly and wheezed, “Such a wee lass, for a noble Englishwoman. But a finer lady I’ve ne’er met.”
It was the most the old man had ever spoken in her presence. Yet his simple words touched her so deeply, she had to swallow the lump in her throat.
Dillon lifted her in his arms and settled her onto the saddle. Stepping back a pace, he looked up and said, “Godspeed, my lady.”
She stared at a spot over his shoulder to avoid the anguish in his eyes. “Thank you, my laird.”
A call went up from the Duke of Essex and the horses began to move smartly away. Handsome Alger Blakely caught up the reins of Leonora’s horse and began to follow the procession.
“Oh, my lady,” came a voice from the crowd of servants. Leonora glanced over to see Gwynnith take several steps toward her.
Lifting her head, the little servant called in a tremulous voice, “Never forget us, my lady.”
Leonora lifted a hand, then turned away as the first tears threatened to fall. Keeping her head averted, she blinked rapidly. When she turned back, she saw, through a mist of tears, the crowd of familiar faces. Mistress MacCallum. Father Anselm. Camus Ferguson.
But then there was only one that mattered. He stood head and shoulders above the others, showing not a trace of emotion, as he towered, as tall as a giant, as unbending as the oak trees that spread their branches across his beloved Highland forests.
Leonora felt her composure unraveling. The tears could no longer be held back. Like a dam washed away by the force of a river, hot tears streamed down her cheeks, scalding her eyes, burning her throat. Her heart shattered into a million tiny pieces.
Clouds obscured the midnight sky. Dillon paced the overgrown rose garden, the restless hounds at his side. Everyone in Kinloch House had long ago retired for the night, but still Dillon paced. He could not bear the thought of returning to his chambers alone. And so he paced, his thoughts darker than the storm clouds above.
He would welcome the storm. It had been during a storm that he and Leonora had first come together to unleash the pent-up passion between them.
As if sensing his somber mood, the hounds growled and cried and leaped at the wall. The same wall, Dillon thought with a fresh wave of pain, through which Leonora had made good her escape. God in heaven, he could not bear to even look at it.
“Be still, fool hounds,” he hissed.
But the dogs, perhaps agitated by the impending storm, cried louder, snarling and leaping at the wall.
Annoyed, Dillon started to make his way back to the keep, but the hounds refused to follow. Instead, they continued their baying until Dillon suddenly snapped to attention. What was wrong with him? Had he completely lost his senses? The hounds had heard something. Something that alarmed them.
Touching his hand to the sword at his waist, he strode across the garden and pushed open the heavy door. At once the hounds burst through the opening and began baying and whining as they raced ahead. Dillon had all he could do to keep up.
They bounded through the thicket, emerging on the far side of a steep meadow. They continued running, then suddenly came to a halt and crouched beside a darkened mound.
As he drew close and recognized what had set the hounds into such a frenzy, Dillon felt his heart stop. Kneeling in the fragrant heather, he rolled the darkened mound over. And beheld the battered, bloodied face of young Rupert.
It was Gwynnith, standing on the tower beside the cages of doves, who spotted the strange p
rocession coming across the darkened meadow. In a flash of lightning, she could make out the vivid outline of the laird and his heavy burden. With a flurry of skirts, she raced down the tower stairs and awakened Mistress MacCallum.
“You must come quickly,” she called, tugging on the old woman’s nightshift until she was fully awake. “The laird is carrying someone in his arms. It appears to be a Highlander who has come to some harm.”
The two women were waiting at the garden door by the time Dillon arrived. For a moment, when they realized who lay in his arms, they were too stunned to move.
Pulling herself together, Mistress MacCallum commanded, “Prepare a pallet, Gwynnith. And rouse the servants. We must work quickly, if we are to save ’im, judging by the looks of ’im.”
Dillon’s tone was thunderous. “I will need every potion you have ever conjured, Mistress MacCallum.”
Following the women inside, Dillon laid the boy tenderly on the pallet that Gwynnith had hastily prepared beside her own. One by one the rest of the servants tiptoed into the room, then hastily scurried about preparing the roots and herbs requested by the housekeeper.
With Dillon’s help, Gwynnith stripped Rupert’s clothes, torn and matted with dried blood, from his battered body. It was obvious that the lad had withstood a brutal beating. His skull had been split by the blade of a sword. Both eyes were swollen shut. His arm was broken. In his shoulder was embedded a small knife. The wounds had long ago begun festering.
“How did the lad manage to survive?” Mistress MacCallum breathed while she began applying her salves and ointments.
Seeing the severity of the wounds, Dillon ordered a servant to fetch Father Anselm. The priest, groggy from sleep, hurried to kneel beside the lad, anointing him with oil, and murmuring in Latin the words of the Last Rites.
At that, Gwynnith began to weep.
“Hush now, lass,” Mistress MacCallum scolded. “There’s no time for tears.”
“He cannot die,” Gwynnith said, pressing Rupert’s big hand to her cheek.
Over the young servant’s head, Mistress MacCallum and Dillon shared a look of stunned revelation.
“I had not realized,” Dillon said, clearing his throat, “that Rupert is so dear to you, Gwynnith.”
“Aye, my laird. This silent giant of an oaf means everything in the world to me.”
“Then you shall stay with him, day and night, until he recovers. Mistress MacCallum,” he said sternly, “I order Gwynnith to do nothing in Kinloch House except tend to Rupert until he is strong and well. Is that understood?”
“Aye, m’laird.”
As Dillon began to scramble to his feet, the lad, who until that moment had spoken not a word, suddenly reached out a hand and moaned softly. Instantly, Dillon dropped back onto his knees and said, “Rupert, lad, can you hear me?”
“Aye.” The word was a mere croak.
“Tell me who did this thing to you. He will be hunted and punished at once.”
“’Twas…” The lad ran a swollen tongue over his parched lips and struggled to get the words out. “The English villains…”
“English villains?” Dillon’s heart seemed frozen inside his chest. “You do not mean Essex and Blakely?”
“Aye, my laird…overheard their scheming…on way back to Kinloch House…’Twas they who persuaded Lord Waltham…to remain in England and…keep your brothers at his castle until they return…. Plan to murder…the lady…lay the blame on you, my laird.”
“But why? How could Waltham believe I would murder his daughter when he is holding my brothers?”
“Will claim you are…vicious madman…thus assuring that our countries will go to war.”
At his words, Dillon felt as if all the air had gone out of his lungs. God in heaven. He had just delivered the woman he loved into the hands of murderers.
Chapter Twenty-two
“May God forgive me, Camus.” In his chambers, Dillon paced like a man possessed. “I personally delivered Leonora into their hands.”
Camus filled a goblet and watched helplessly as his friend emptied it in one long swallow, then, with a furious oath, hurled it against the wall, shattering it into a million fragments.
In quick strides, Dillon crossed the room and lifted down his father’s sword from above the mantel. “You must assemble my army, Camus. I cannot wait. I go after them now.”
“And if they have already reached England?” Camus asked.
Dillon strapped on his scabbard and reached for a heavy traveling cloak. “I care not how far they ride. If necessary, I will go to hell and back. But this I know, I will not rest until I have rescued Leonora from those madmen.”
“You must send word to the lady’s father, my friend.”
“There is no time.”
“Listen to me.” Camus caught Dillon’s arm, refusing to flinch when his old friend shot him a murderous look. Had he not promised Leonora he would be Dillon’s friend? At the moment, his old friend was not thinking clearly. Nor would he, Camus thought, if the one he loved was in the hands of such as Essex and Blakely. Everyone in Kinloch House had seen what they’d done to young Rupert. They were indeed heartless madmen.
“If we cross over to England, we have need of Lord Waltham’s cooperation. Else we become, by murdering English soldiers on English soil, candidates for Fleet Prison, my friend.”
Though Dillon was beyond caring, his friend’s words penetrated the black fury that held him in its grip. He slowly nodded. “Aye, Camus. Forgive me. I am blinded.” He took a deep breath. “Assemble the army. Tell them to follow my trail. Then take three or four of your most trusted men and ride to Lord Waltham’s castle.”
“And you, Dillon?”
“I cannot wait to assemble an army,” he said, striding toward the door. “I ride now.”
“Alone? In this storm?”
Dillon paused at the doorway. “Aye. And pray, Camus, that I am not already too late.”
“We must take refuge from this storm.” The Duke of Essex pointed to the darkened outline of a cottage up ahead. “I will prepare a shelter. James, you and your men come with me. Alger, stay here with the lady.” His smile was dark and evil and full of secrets. “We will signal with a candle when it is safe to approach.”
As the others rode ahead, Alger led Leonora’s horse toward a stand of evergreen. The thick branches afforded some relief from the driving rain.
“Why do we not ride together to the cottage?” Leonora asked. “With Dillon Campbell’s banner for protection, you need only ask and you will be warmly received by all his countrymen.”
“That is not the way of the duke. Essex does not ask. He takes.” Alger gave a short laugh, remembering the path of destruction they had left on their journey to the Highlands. Even the hardened soldiers among them had been shocked by the brutality of the Duke of Essex. He actually seemed to enjoy the bloodletting. By now, the word would have spread throughout the countryside that a band of English soldiers was murdering helpless peasants under the protective banner of Dillon Campbell. No door would be open to them.
Leonora could not hide the alarm she felt. “He will not harm these innocent people?”
Alger drew his steed close and dropped a protective arm around her, enjoying the swift, sudden arousal. His duties had kept him too long from having a woman. “Do not fear, my lady. He will merely…make use of their cottage until the storm passes.”
She let out a sigh of relief, then deftly nudged her horse out of his reach. A few minutes later, she pointed. “There is the signal.”
He felt a wave of annoyance. He had hoped for a little more time alone with the lady. With his calm assurance and good looks, he was usually able to charm his way into a lady’s trust. From there it was only a step to her bed.
Taking up her reins, he led the way across a high meadow toward the small peasant cottage. At the door he helped her dismount, purposely lifting his hands high enough so that they came in contact with the soft swell of her breasts beneath the he
avy cloak.
She turned away so quickly he could not see her angry reaction. But as he followed her inside, he decided that he would stay alert and hope that the others soon fell asleep. Perhaps he could still sample the lady’s charms before she…reached the end of her journey.
Once inside, Leonora glanced around. The Duke of Essex was seated at table, eating what was left of some roasted fowl. James Blakely and his soldiers were drinking from what appeared to be a cask of spirits.
“Where are the peasants who live here?” she asked.
Essex looked up with a chilling smile. “They retreated to their pig shelter rather than share their quarters with the hated English.”
She noticed an empty cradle. “Why did they not take the babe’s bed with them?”
Essex shrugged. “Who knows how these savages think? Would you care for some fowl, my lady?”
“Nay, thank you.” She shivered and drew near to the fire, gathering her cloak around her like a shield. While she stood warming herself, she could feel the silent stares from the others. Everything about Essex and his men made her uncomfortable.
“You had best sleep, my lady.” Alger’s voice, so close beside her, made her jump nervously.
“I am not tired.”
“You are probably too excited about leaving this bloody land behind,” James said bitterly, lifting ale to his lips. The ale had loosened his tongue.
“Why do you hate it so?” Leonora asked.
Tossing his cloak aside, James lifted the sleeve of his tunic to reveal a long, puckered scar. “This was given me by a filthy Highlander many years ago.”
“I am certain there are many Highlanders who bear such scars delivered at the point of an English sword, as well. But that is no reason to harbor ill will for a lifetime.” Leonora smiled gently. “Can you not put your anger aside and begin anew?”
James returned her smile, and for a moment Leonora thought how handsome father and son were. But at his words, her smile disappeared from her lips.
“Aye, I can begin anew. But I fear the Highlander can not do the same. Nor will his sons. You see, he thought I ought not to bed his lovely maiden daughter. I disagreed. So, after I ran him through with my sword, I not only took his maiden daughter, but his wife, as well.” He looked around the room, apparently pleased that all the men were laughing heartily at his joke. Throwing back his head, he added, “And forced his young sons to watch while I did so.”
