by Anne Greene
Cailin and Avondale met in their chambers.
“Come sit with me.” He held out his hand and patted the side of the large, overstuffed chair.
She nodded and curled at his side. The elation she’d expected was dampened by the set of his jaw and the dark shade of his eyes.
Would the news he’d delivered send him over the edge?
Would she worry the rest of her life about what would send him into one of his spells? His future looked so bleak. But, no matter what he did, to her or even to their bairns, she would never, never allow Rafe to carry out his plan of her dear husband’s accidental death. “I so appreciate what you did for our family tonight. Do you think your banner will keep Cumberland’s soldiers from searching our castle?”
“No. He’ll search. Pray God he finds nothing.” His chocolate eyes deepened to onyx. “You must remain in our chambers. In our bed. With a cloth over your eyes. You will feign sickness.”
“That will not be difficult. I am sick at heart.”
“Obey me in this, Cailin. Do not leave our bed tomorrow. No matter what happens.” His lips parted in a sad smile. “You and our baby are too important to risk.” He took her hand. “Promise me.”
She nodded.
He went to a chest in the corner, pulled a key from his vest, unlocked a drawer and withdrew a length of royal blue silk. Slowly he unfurled the banner, royal blue embroidered with three gold stags, and using the stairs to the bed, draped the royal banner of the house of Avondale over the red velvet canopy at the foot of the huge bed. From the door, the silk emblem would be the first object anyone entering would see.
Soldiers could not miss the message.
He returned to the chest and removed a small box from the drawer, closed the door, and walked slowly to her side. He took her hand and slid a gold ring with the royal blue seal of the house of Avondale onto her index finger. It was a small replica of the gem he wore on his own finger.
He bent and kissed her forehead. “With this ring I give you my heart. No one dare touch you as long as you wear this ring. This seal is second to the Duke of Cumberland and third to King George himself. This ring holds power and authority.”
Darkness touched her heart. Did his preparations mean he feared a bout of blackness? Did he expect he would be unable to defend her? “Will you not be here beside me?”
He turned his face away. “I don’t know what tomorrow will bring. But if you obey me, you shall be safe.”
What did he fear? What did he know that she didn’t? Why was he not open with her? Would he run, rather than face his nightmare, Bloody Billy?
Avondale’s tight lips and frown forbade her asking. She wouldn’t push him over the edge by forcing him to speak.
He settled in his accustomed double chair next to the crackle and snap of the fireplace. She twirled the ring on her finger watching the gem flash and sparkle in the reflection of the flames. The fit was loose, so she must be careful not to let the seal slip from her finger. Well she knew the significance of this ring. With this emblem, he empowered her to act in his stead. He’d given her his heart, and he fully trusted her. Madman or not, he’d deposited far more power into her hands than she’d ever before experienced. Her hand shook.
What did he expect would happen tomorrow?
His face was set with determination.
“But you will be by my side tomorrow, will you not?”
“You shall be safe.”
Though he still evaded answering her question, the darkness on his face kept her from asking yet again. Since the morning would certainly bring evil into the castle, tonight she would speak to him of his protection. Whatever put the tension in his stance, the rigidness in his broad shoulders, the tight set to his lips had to be dangerous. Especially for a man subject to periods of blackness. He needed what she’d yearned to speak to him about since the day they wed.
She slipped into the chair beside him. Cuddled into the one big seat in front of the roaring fire, she cupped his strong face in her hands. “Let us read together from the Holy Scriptures. Our earlier reading has taken us to the book of Romans.”
He nodded, his eyes on the fire, his face tense.
She found the place she wanted in the fifth chapter.
“For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.” She looked up from reading and raised a brow, trying to keep her expression calm while her heart beat so fast she feared he might detect the sound or see the palpitation.
“Yes, I am well acquainted with sin.” His voice deepened, “I walk with a load strapped to my back every day.”
“Why not, here tonight, receive God’s gift?”
“How can losing the guilt be as easy as taking a gift?”
“Easy for us, but not easy for God’s Son.” She leafed back in her worn Bible to the book of First Peter.
“Who his own self bare our sins in his own body on the tree, that we, being dead to sins, should live unto righteousness: by whose stripes ye were healed.”
“I know of Christ’s suffering terrible agony and dying on the cross. More agony than any man should ever bear.” He rubbed the stubble on his cheeks, making a small rasping sound in the silence.
A log broke in the fireplace and fell with a comforting thud.
She skipped back in her Bible to Romans again. “That if thou shalt confess with thy mouth the Lord Jesus, and shalt believe in thine heart that God hath raised him from the dead, thou shalt be saved.”
They talked long into the night.
He promised he would think on the words she had read.
She would remember his sweet lovemaking for a very long time. It was as if he thought there might not be another opportunity to show his love.
Yet, the next morning when she opened her eyes, his pillow was empty.
Throwing a robe over her nightdress, she ran into the dressing room…and stumbled over the two bodies sprawled on the floor. She gasped and the room spun.
Hennings and Rafe.
28
Avondale snatched off his hat and wiped sweat from his forehead. After last night, he’d risen early and ridden all day. Thus far, the hordes of soldiers had not bothered any of Castle Drummond’s people.
When the soldiers began their search of the castle, he’d stood outside the front door, hand on his sword, praying Brody and the wounded men had disappeared without a trace of their having been inside the broch.
But he’d had to ride off before the two bodyguards regained their senses. He’d left a note pinned on the insides of Hennings’ and Rafe’s jackets. They must not follow him. At the risk of their own lives, they must protect Cailin and the babe. When the laudanum he’d administered them wore off, they would guard her with their lives.
He’d seen from his perch on the distant hilltop that the redcoats had thoroughly searched the castle and grounds. Some still lingered, but he couldn’t. Urgency drove him.
Scores of redcoats were underfoot everywhere, popping out from the forest, riding up over the hills, threading through Kirkmichael’s streets. Hundreds stalked the Lowland countryside on foot. Others thundered past on horseback.
He’d raised his coat of arms to fly over each cluster of cottages dotting the great estate, and King George’s soldiers had respected his banner. They searched homes, but had taken no prisoner on MacMurry lands.
He beat dust from his shoulders. His tongue clung to the roof of his mouth, and, all but falling from his saddle in weariness, he’d ridden further afield to the cottages in Kirkmichael, the adjoining burgh.
He heard rumors that soldiers rounded up one or two Scottish peasants at each cottage they rode up to, ravished the women, and pillaged the farms and stores. With no opposing army to protect the peasants, and the redcoats goaded by the duke’s proclamation, the people were at the mercy of the soldiers.
And he had long since crossed the boundary of MacMurry land.
He stiffened his back and put his hand on his sword. Yet another
band of soldiers herded a group of men and boys, hands bound behind their back, up the carriage road in his direction.
Blood dripped down homespun shirts and from the foreheads of several of the men. Some limped. The soldiers were singing, shouting and laughing.
One dragged a young woman by her arm, her gown torn and hanging from one shoulder, the other exposed to the sun and the leering eyes of the soldiers.
Avondale urged his horse forward, and then turned his steed and blocked the narrow road.
“Let us pass, sir.” The face under the tall military hat was almost as scarlet as the man’s uniform.
“Where are you taking these people?” His dry throat sounded a tad weak, so he raised his volume. “Answer me, soldier.”
“Cumberland said round up any Scot sympathizers to the fugitives hiding out in the Lowlands. These men fit the bill.” The soldier stomped his polished boot on the road. “We’re taking them to be sold as slaves and sent to the colonies.”
“The duke promised you could keep any monies you received, so you rounded up these innocent people.” He’d practiced that sneer in his voice and manner all his life. Never had he used it for better service.
The soldier ducked his head. “Yes, sir, he did. He did do that.”
“Do you know who I am?” He let his horse prance close to the embarrassed soldier’s side.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“So, where did you find these prisoners?”
“In yon village.” The man shuffled his feet and jerked a thumb back over his shoulder.
“Blairsville, was it?”
“Don’t know the name, Your Grace,” he mumbled, glancing at his men as if to see if any knew the name of the burgh where they’d captured the peasants.
“Of course, you don’t. If you did, you would know these people are under my protection.” He glanced at the six men and two boys who stood heads down, shoulders heaving as if they’d been running.
The girl looked up, tears streaking her face. She tried to raise her ripped gown to cover her naked shoulder, but the man gripping her arm jerked her so violently she fell at his feet.
“No, Your Grace. We didn’t know. We thought—”
“You didn’t think.” Avondale raised his voice and urged his horse close to the soldier.
The man had to step back. He collided with another of his men.
“I want these people freed.” Avondale put an edge on his voice.
The soldier’s mouth dropped open. “But—”
“Now!”
A sullen expression dropped over the faces of the soldiers, but they turned to slash the ropes binding the men and boys. They muttered and growled low in their throats, but they freed the prisoners.
One of the freed peasants hurried to the girl, helped her to her feet, and thrust an arm around her waist. He balled his fist, veins in his red face all but bursting.
“Look to your right and to your left, soldier, as far as you can see.” Avondale quieted his side-stepping stallion.
All the soldiers gazed around the glen, eyes wide.
“This is my dukedom. None of the people who live here was involved in any way with The Jacobite Rising. Not a single one. Each man, woman and child is loyal to King George. Not a one of them is to be harmed. These are loyal, hard-working crofters and merchants. Not a Jacobite among them.” He rattled his sword. “Now leave my glen and my bailiwick.”
The soldier managed a bow. “As you say, Your Grace.” Looking more eager to be off than to stay and apologize, the squad of soldiers headed down the road in the direction of Castle Drummond.
“Wrong way, soldiers. From here to the Highlands belongs to me.”
The soldiers cursed, but turned and, in a faint-hearted march, headed away from the castle towards the midlands.
Avondale sat his horse and watched them leave, dust and grit from their march settled over his shoulders and in the hair of the people he’d freed.
They bowed in the dust at his horse’s feet. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
The man with his arm around the woman looked up. “Might we know Your Grace’s name?”
He smiled and pulled a banner from the diminishing stock in his saddle bag. “Raise this in the center of your village. I am the Duke of Avondale. This banner will protect you from illegal seizure.”
As he rode away, they still knelt in the dust, their heads bowed, his banner held high in one man’s work-worn hands.
Avondale sighed, lifted his water skin, shook open the lid, and lifted it to his mouth. Nothing. Perhaps he’d find a stream somewhere.
He rode up yet another hillock. Smoke rose just behind the thicket of trees. Shouting and the clash of weapons wafted to his ears. He had no power outside his estates, but he could not let these atrocities continue and do nothing. Not again. Never again.
Ducking his head from low branches and sharp twigs, he urged his mount through the trees, and burst through to the clearing.
A heather-thatched roof smoldered, raising black smoke. The acid scent burned his nostrils.
Three redcoats on horseback, sabers flashing in the setting sun, surrounded a young peasant. One soldier had a noose about the man’s neck, and the other two penned him in with their steeds.
Avondale spurred his horse to block the soldier tightening the noose. “Stop. Release this man.”
The soldier’s mouth dropped.
Avondale wiped dust from his jacket to reveal his coat of arms. “I am the Duke of Avondale, and I demand you free this man.”
The soldier snapped his mouth shut, narrowed his eyes, and stared.
Back stiff, hand on his sword, Avondale returned the glare. “This man had no part in The Rising. He, his people, and his property are under my protection. If you doubt my word take your case to King George.”
Slowly the soldier lowered the rope. The peasant’s hands jerked upward, and he tugged at the loop around his neck. His face slowly lost its purple color, and he drew in great gasps of air.
“You’re the Duke of Avondale?” Disbelief pitched the redcoat’s voice high.
Avondale held out his hand. The powerful ring on his right index finger sparkled in the dusky light. “You disbelieve me? That would be a grave mistake. You will find yourself stripped of rank should you and your men fail to leave this burgh immediately.” He glanced around the small clearing.
Two soldiers, trews around their ankles, knelt over a female, her skirt hiked above her head. A pile of tartans and plaids burned in front of the humble doorway.
Another soldier led a cow away from the byre.
The sound of a whip slashing into bare flesh floated from behind the cottage.
“At once, Captain,” he ordered.
The soldier bowed, slid his sword into his saddle scabbard, put his fingers to his lips, and shrilled a whistle.
All around the clearing soldiers froze.
The woman’s soft crying and the fire crackling through the thatched roof filled the silence.
The soldier leading the cow dropped the rope, and the animal turned and plodded back to the byre.
The two men hitched up their scarlet pants and sauntered over to face their captain.
Three men hurried around the corner from the rear of the cottage, a blood-stained horsewhip in the tallest soldier’s hand.
After they all assembled, Avondale forced every ounce of authority he could muster into his voice. “Do not return to this property or to this burgh.” He waved to the other houses clustered nearby, each surrounded by a small clearing. “These people are crofters. Simple farmers. Lowlanders, faithful to the king. Take the word of the Duke of Avondale. These people did not fight at Culloden. You have no right to trespass.”
“But Milord, they are sympathizers.” The captain waved a weak, uncertain hand, as if to prove he had a right to pillage unarmed villagers.
“And you have proof of this, Captain?” Avondale fought exhaustion creeping over his limbs, numbing his hands and feet; over his voice, ma
king it rasp; over his resolve, making him stiffen until he thought his back would break. He stared the man down.
“No, Your Grace. We shall leave at once.” The red-faced captain bowed.
Avondale nodded.
Slowly the men on foot marched after the mounted officers. As they disappeared into the woods, he slumped in the saddle. He had to rest, but he would not return to the castle until he could protect as many peasants as he was able. He would spend the night here in this burgh and start early tomorrow.
Bloody Billy would not have the freedom to murder, rape, pillage, or take captives of any more innocent people as long as he could bluff his way. He had no power to protect these people so far from his own lands and estates, but he could no longer sit idly by while that evil man emptied the countryside of Scots.
He already owed Cumberland. If the duke discovered these actions, the king’s brother would seek his blood.
But Bloody Billy no longer ruled his soul. He’d given himself to a much Higher Power.
29
Cailin had ticked the minutes off, measured the hours in counting the English guests as they finally left the castle, one by one, to return to their lands to protect their holdings and their crofters from the redcoats.
She’d ticked the days off by the routine of the household and her duties. She and Mums selected the week’s menus, assigned the various household chores and supply purchases, and together they took food and clothes to their own crofters who had need.
The only bright spots in the two weeks since her last night with Avondale arrived as she spent time with the bairns. After they moved into the castle, they’d not wanted separate rooms.
So she, Mums, and Fiona assigned Duncan’s four lads to one room.
Though Baby Fiona spent cheerful hours in the nursery, she demanded to sleep in the same room as her three older brothers, so Collin’s four bairns received an adjoining room. Mums placed a small bed beneath the biggest, brightest window for Baby Fiona.
The bairns big eyes took in every nook of their rooms and grew larger when they discovered each would have their own bed.
