A Traitor's Touch

by Helen Dickson

  In the course of their journey, despite his assertion that he would respect his privacy, Simon had done his best to discover why the youth was hell-bent on going to Scotland, but with a skill beyond his years Henry had managed to avoid giving more than vague, generalised answers, remaining reserved in his friendliness towards him, leaving him no wiser than he had been at the beginning of their journey. In truth, he was concerned about what would happen to him when they reached Edinburgh and they had to part company. Without his protection he would be prey to all manner of dangers that beset lone travellers.

  ‘When we reach Edinburgh and we go our separate ways, I can arrange for an escort to accompany you to Inverness.’

  ‘Thank you for your concern, Simon, but I beg you not to worry. I am grateful that you have allowed me to travel with you, but I am fairly self-sufficient and able to take care of myself the rest of the way. You owe me nothing and I will take nothing from you.’

  ‘You never did tell me why you were running away.’

  ‘I have no wish to involve you in something that is not your concern. You have problems of your own to worry about.’ She was as determined to remain silent as he was to drag it out of her. She had her pride and her reasons, which she would not discuss with him.

  Simon sighed heavily. ‘You are a stubborn lad, Henry.’

  ‘The same could be said about you,’ she said, directing the conversation from herself. ‘All this time we have been together, not once have you let your guard down.’

  ‘Not intentionally I assure you. My mind is somewhat occupied with what might be going on over the border.’ He looked across at his companion. ‘Unlike you, Henry, I have nothing to hide. What would you like to know?’

  She shrugged. ‘In truth, I haven’t thought about it.’

  ‘Well, I will begin by telling you that I was educated at a school in France which attracts children of Catholic families in England and Scotland. After that I trained in military arts and saw service abroad.’

  ‘Do you have a wife?’

  Almost immediately his gaze shifted once more to the slight figure riding beside him. ‘I do not.’

  ‘So you are a bachelor and a soldier. That is a lot more than I knew a moment ago. And now?’

  ‘Now I follow the dictates of my religion and my conscience.’

  ‘Which is a dangerous thing to do.’

  ‘In this present climate it is so. But I am always slow to voice my opinion. In this time of persecution against Catholics in England, since the king and his ministers have not the slightest intention of toleration for the old faith, it is prudent to be diligent, which is why we Tremains have kept our titles and our land. Few families can boast as much.’

  She looked at him sharply. ‘You have a title?’

  Her surprised amused him. ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘What is it? How should I address you?’

  ‘I am Lord Simon James Talbot Tremain—but I give you leave to continue calling me Simon.’

  ‘So, you are a lord and you have inherited a fortune, yet you are unattached—uncommonly selfish of you.’

  ‘How is that?’

  ‘Having witnessed the way women fall at your feet when you enter a room—’

  ‘That will be tavern wenches,’ he interrupted with an amused tilt to his mouth.

  Henrietta shrugged. ‘What’s the difference? Women are the same the world over and, though it pains me to say so for I have no wish to feed your ego, you are a handsome man. I imagine not a woman in the kingdom will spare the other gentlemen a glance until you have been claimed.’

  He cocked an amused brow. ‘Why, Henry, what’s this? Flattery?’

  ‘No. I was merely stating a fact. But going back to what we were talking about, if the conversation I overheard between you and your fellow Jacobites on the heath is true and Charles Stuart is indeed in Scotland, it can mean only one thing—that some disorder is brewing—that some extraordinary event is anticipated. Is there to be a rising?’

  Simon didn’t answer straight away—when he did, he spoke thoughtfully, picking his words. ‘Nothing is that simple, nothing is obvious. I am assailed with a multitude of questions but I will find no firm answers until I reach Scotland and Charles Stuart.’

  ‘Do you think it will be concentrated in Scotland, if there is a rising?’

  ‘I cannot answer that, but it has to be on a great scale for it to be of effect.’

  ‘Will the Catholics win, do you think?’

  Simon’s mood had darkened and his expression was grim. Although he looked calm and in control, his mind was in a continual turmoil of conflicts. ‘That depends on the support Charles Stuart can raise on both sides of the border.’

  ‘What’s he like? Have you met him?’

  He nodded. ‘He’s young, with considerable charm and dignity.’

  ‘And is that enough to bring him to Scotland to lead an army of restoration?’

  ‘As to that, we shall have to wait and see. I was in Paris myself recently and, by and large, the prospect for a Stuart restoration did not seem to be preoccupying the aristocracy of France. One thing is certain. Whatever the outcome, it will bring about change for the Catholics. If it fails, the damage will do the cause no good and will be so great that both here and abroad they will be condemned. Anyone connected with the rising will be arrested. It would be a hard thing indeed to escape the full consequences if we were to be charged with rebellion and treason. Men have lost their heads for less. The Protestants did not scruple to send men to the gallows merely for saying that James Stuart had claim to the throne.’

  Henrietta was scarcely able to grasp the reality of it all as Simon’s words fell like hammer blows against her heart. Remembering the tragedy that had deprived her of her father, as she stared at Simon’s hard profile a chill seemed to penetrate to her very soul. ‘Then may the Lord save you all,’ she whispered.

  The prayer was heartfelt and Simon looked at her closely, seeing pain and panic in the eyes of this unusually assured youth.

  ‘Are you in favour of rebellion, Simon?’

  ‘In a word, no. But I am of the faith and must support it. Catholic fanatics have been conspiring for years to claim the throne for the Stuarts. They have a long tradition of subversive activity.’

  Henrietta’s lips twisted in a wry smile. ‘That I do know,’ she uttered quietly, thinking of her father’s lifelong dedication to the cause.

  Puzzled by her words, Simon glanced across at her. ‘What do you mean by that?’

  She smiled awkwardly. ‘Nothing. I was merely thinking aloud.’ She looked ahead. ‘See, the clouds are gathering. I’m sure there’ll be rain before nightfall.’

  ‘I believe you’re right,’ he agreed. ‘If my words have frightened you, I apologise. It was not my intention to upset you.’

  Simon’s voice was surprisingly gentle and the unfamiliar sound caused an embarrassed flush to sweep Henrietta’s cheeks in a crimson flood. His head was turned towards her and for a moment she fancied there was a strange expression in his face she had not seen before. ‘You have not upset me, and do not forget that my sole purpose for going to Scotland is to visit my uncle. But now you have spoken of what might be afoot, I can perceive the danger and act upon it should the time arise.’

  ‘The picture may not be so bleak. I may be wrong.’

  ‘And I am afraid that you may be right,’ Henrietta whispered, nudging her horse to a gallop as the first drops of rain began to fall and a gust of wind swept the land.

  Chapter Three

  In London, just when he thought that everything he had ever wanted was within his grasp and relishing the thought that he would have his heart’s desire at last, a sickening dread invaded Jeremy Lucas’s dark soul. He had long coveted his uncle’s wealth, but he was impatient. His uncle was
in good health and likely to live another score years and ten. He could not wait and in the end he had triumphed and that was all that mattered. Until now. Everything around him had turned sour.

  It had never occurred to him that there might be a problem, but on his search of the house, when he failed to locate his uncle’s legal documents—his financial papers and deed to the house—he became frantic. His worries increased when Mr Goodwin presented himself at the house and asked to speak to Miss Brody. On being told that he was his uncle’s solicitor and the late gentleman’s entire estate had been left to Miss Henrietta Brody, without so much as a blink, Jeremy saw to it that the respected solicitor met a timely end at the point of his sword and his body was consigned to a watery grave in the River Thames.

  Securing his uncle’s documents from Goodwin’s satchel and intending to destroy the new will and abide by the old held by Braithwaite, Jeremy stopped when he saw in bold print that the new will had a copy.

  Of course there was a copy! Why hadn’t he realised that? How could he have been so unfamiliar with legal practices that he had stupidly thought the will in Goodwin’s keeping was the only one? But where was it?

  Smothering a cry of pure rage, he sought out Braithwaite. After much deliberation they decided there was only one person who could throw some light on the matter and that was Henrietta Brody. She might even have absconded with the copy of the will. He should have searched her before he’d thrown her out on to the street. It was imperative that he got his hands on it before she handed it over to a lawyer and her case was heard in a court of law.

  The calm Jeremy had felt after killing Goodwin reasserted itself. Hate welled up inside him as he thought of Henrietta Brody. The name was a curse. He was consumed with a vengeful quest to vent his wrath upon the girl. The chit would pay, and would pay dearly. Of that Jeremy was certain. Where would she go? She had no friends who would take her in and only one relative, an uncle in Scotland—Inverness or somewhere equally as remote. He’d find out. He’d leave no stone unturned to find her.

  * * *

  Simon and his companion had ridden through Northumberland, which lay between the Tyne and the Tweed, its countryside of rivers and forests, where Romans and Normans had left their own particular mark. Mile after mile they rode, over fell and vale, across long ridges to Cheviot and the Solway, where streams and burns meandered in timeless grace. Eventually they crossed the border into Scotland. It was a beautiful landscape of rolling hills which gave way to green and pleasant valleys. The historic abbey towns of Jedburgh, Melrose and Kelso bore witness to the cruelty and senseless destruction brought about by war and political reprisals down the centuries.

  Unfortunately the weather, which had been warm and fine for most of the time, broke with an alarming savagery, and since leaving the hostelry where they had stopped for the night, the heavy mists of early morning had coalesced to a soaking rain. Leaden skies pressed down on them and the crude road quickly turned into a muddy morass. On the more exposed areas the gale-force winds went searching along the landscape in a frenzied dance, threatening to blow them off their horses and into the soggy turf alongside.

  They pushed their animals hard, apparently attempting to outrun the storm, but the wind blew with an ever-deepening chill that made Henrietta shiver. A bolt of lightning seared the sky, closely followed by a loud clap of thunder. As she glanced at her companion silhouetted like some devil against the grey sky, the wind whipped his cloak out wide about him, lending wings to his form.

  A groan of despair slipped from Henrietta’s lips as she thumped her heels against the mare’s flanks to urge her on in the punishing downpour. The horse responded readily, quickening her pace, but the heavy, wet soil clung to her hooves, impeding her progress. They could barely see, much less move any measurable distance. The journey was already taking its toll on Henrietta. She felt utterly drained both in body and spirit. Her whole body was battered and bruised from the nine days of riding, and now her clothes became so thoroughly drenched that they were soon plastered like a second skin to her body.

  Seeing the youth’s distress, Simon peered around for the closest haven and, pointing to a group of trees growing close together, he guided the horses towards them. There was another sharp crack of lightning and for a moment the scene was brightly illuminated. Unable to believe that they could be so ill-favoured by the circumstances, Henrietta fought an urge to weep, but the impulse to relent to harsh, anguishing sobs was promptly forgotten as a blinding flash of lightning ripped through the trees, hitting a tall pine a short distance away. The fiery bolt snapped the trunk in half as easily as a dried twig, sending a dazzling spray of sparks flying in all directions. Shaken to the core of her being, Henrietta threw up her arms to shield herself from the blinding flares and, in terrified trepidation, looked up as the top of the tree plummeted to the ground with a crashing roar, in its rapid descent stripping off branches of nearby trees and scuffing a blow on the side of her head.

  Before it reached the ground, a deafening crack of thunder seemed to shake the land around them. The mare shivered in terror, letting out an anguished shriek, and heaved herself forward.

  Astounded by how closely the youth had come to being permanently singed black by the lightning, Simon’s breath left him in a rush as he came quickly to his aid, concerned by the blood trickling down the side of his face. He was trembling uncontrollably, soaked to the very depth of his clothes, straining desperately to bring his mount under control. Reaching out, Simon snatched the bridle. ‘Easy, girl,’ he murmured in an attempt to sooth the horse. ‘Easy.’ The mare calmed a trifle, but stood shivering beneath the dripping trees. ‘Henry, are you all right?’ he shouted to his companion above the noise of the storm.

  Though the words seemed no more than a whisper in the pelting torrent, Henrietta’s head snapped around. Now fully alert to Simon’s presence, which was hardly more than an ominous grey shadow in the rain-shrouded gloom, she lifted a hand to shield her eyes from the downpour. Even so, the moisture dribbling down from her sodden hair forced her repeatedly to blink in an effort to clear her vision. She opened her mouth to speak, but words failed her. Frozen through and deeply affected by what had just happened, her body was all a-tremble.

  Shifting his hat forward over his brow, Simon pulled the collar of his cape up close around his neck and swung down to the ground. Wasting no time, he reached up and dragged Henrietta from the saddle. Her strength had vanished, her senses dulled, her wits long fled. Unable to stand, she crumpled to her knees upon the sodden ground. She could no longer force her shaking limbs to perform. All she wanted to do was curl up somewhere, close her eyes and sleep. Drawing herself into a small, disconcerted knot, she hunched her shoulders against the deluge.

  Without more ado, Simon’s arm slipped beneath her shoulders and a hoarse voice murmured words that failed to penetrate her confusion as his strong, sinewed arms lifted her and held her close against a broad chest. Her head lolled limply against his shoulder and even the fear that another bough would descend on her could not rouse her from her darkening world.

  Simon lifted her onto the back of his stallion. Taking the long rein of the mare, he tied it to a metal ring behind the cantle of his saddle. Swinging up behind the trembling form, he clamped a protective arm around her and reined the stallion back out into the open as the mare dutifully followed at the end of her tether.

  * * *

  They rode on for what seemed to be an eternity. Night crept in with its stealthy cloak of darkness. Suddenly a large house seemed to appear from nowhere in the dusk. Through a haze, Henrietta watched the welcome sight of the dark shape of the building come nearer. But at the moment she couldn’t be awed by anything. The rain had seemingly spent its furore and dwindled to drizzling mist. Only Simon’s arms holding her body stopped her from falling off the horse. She could hear him urging her to stay awake, but his voice sounded hollow and distant. He opened his cl
oak and pulled her snugly against him. Henrietta found no energy to resist, but rested her head against the solid bulwark. Vaguely she was aware of her body tilting back and her head bumped gently against his broad chest, but a dull ache began to throb there. In the next moments the heavy mists seemed to swirl around her, closing in upon her like a dank tomb, choking off her breath and pulling her down into a dark abyss as a numbing, uncaring oblivion claimed her.

  Riding into the stable yard, Simon barked orders to the groom staggering out of the stable to see who it was that commanded attention. On seeing the master he hurried to do his bidding, taking the reins of the two exhausted mounts and holding them steady while his lordship came to ground with a single bound and dragged the inert form of a youth after him. Carrying him into the house, Simon strode through the hall as Annie Atwood, the housekeeper at Barradine, came hurrying from the kitchen to see what all the commotion was about. On seeing the master she gasped her delight on having him home again, but she looked worriedly at the figure in his arms.

  ‘Oh, my goodness!’ she gasped, gazing at the pale face resting against his shoulder. ‘Is she badly hurt?’

  ‘Nothing more serious than exhaustion and a cut to his head, Annie. The lad’s also drenched to the skin. I’ll take him straight upstairs. Have a bath prepared and some food.’

  Annie watched him cross the hall and bound up the stairs, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow. Lad? Why, ’twas obvious to any who had two eyes and a wit in his head that that was no lad.

  * * *

  Emerging out of the darkness, Henrietta realised with some relief that she was no longer plagued by a feeling of discomfort. She was still wet, but indeed she was warmer than she had been, her body stretched out on a bed, a soft pillow beneath her head. She struggled to find a shadowed place from the radiance that shone on her eyes. The light was bright and intrusive in its boldness. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut, she tried to banish the glare, but unable to do so she finally yielded a cautious peek through silken lashes and found the culprit to be a brightly burning lamp on a table beside the bed. An indistinct shape loomed over her, a shape that took Simon’s form, his expression darkly aloof and pensively silent. Having removed her jacket, he was intent on the task of unbuttoning her shirt.