Honor bound, p.11
Honor Bound, page 11
“Have you heard what happened at Culloden?” she asked next.
“Aye, we hear more than you might suppose, even tucked away here.”
A woman appeared in the doorway of the cottage behind the old man, and another in that of the next cottage over.
Mara made sure to lift her voice so all might hear. “I would buy some breakfast, if you have any to spare—for myself and another.”
“Where? I see no other,” returned the old man.
“I dare no’ say, but he is an important person and vital to our Cause.”
The woman exclaimed softly; she and the elder conferred in rapid words, and then the woman called, “Your esteemed guest is most welcome to all we possess!”
That was the spirit, Mara thought. But could she trust the situation? Cautiously, she asked, “Where are your men?”
The woman pushed past the old fellow. “They ha’ no’ come back from the battle. Faith, I hoped you might be my husband come now. But others ha’ passed through, bringing news.”
Mara felt a weight on her heart; she knew this woman’s husband likely lay dead.
“If your companion be who we think,” the woman called, “go and tell him my house is his.”
“Thank you, mistress. I will bring him.”
Trust, Mara thought as she turned her mount and rode back up the hill. Dared she? The place appeared peaceful enough and its occupants sincere, but so had that other clachan back when Diarmad saved her from a terrible fate at the hands of those Sassenach soldiers. Death could lie within these cottages, and she worried not so much for herself but for Ramsay.
Somewhere during the night just past, Diarmad’s life had become more precious to her than her own.
Ramsay, still sitting his horse, met her with an inquiring blue-gray stare. “Well?”
“I think ’tis safe, and they already suspect your identity.”
He grumbled. “I wish I did not have this role to play.”
“But you have. Come along; perhaps we can learn something useful.”
What appeared to be all the occupants of the clachan awaited them below, standing out in the light. Mara hoped Diarmad’s slight loss of luster, his scruffy beard, and stolen boots would not spoil the illusion. His fine coat now bore a layer of dirt, and his hair, no less than hers, hung tangled.
But she had to admit, as they negotiated the slope side by side, he had the bearing of a true prince, head held high, expression composed. Ramsay played his role better than he knew.
And apparently he still appeared sufficiently impressive, for as they approached every head bowed. One or two of the women dropped into rough curtsies, and the old man lowered himself to one knee.
Ah, and Ramsay would not like that. But when she stole a look at him, he remained impassive.
“Welcome!” the old man quavered. “I am Alasdair MacKenzie. All we have, sire, is yours.”
Emotion clenched at Mara’s heart. Glancing again at Ramsay, she saw some of his stoicism chip away. How would he handle this?
He swung down from his horse and, bearing still regal, went to the old man.
“Arise, Alasdair MacKenzie. You have no call to kneel to me.”
“I ha’ every call, liege, if you be who I suppose.”
Ramsay met Alasdair’s fervent gaze. “No need, even so. You and your companions pay me all necessary homage with the loyalty in your hearts. Do we not all fight for this Cause together?”
Using his stick, Alasdair pushed to his feet. His gaze searched Ramsay’s face. “We heard you were on the run, Your Highness, and wi’ naught but a lass to guide ye. I hope you will rest here wi’ us a wee while. This is my son’s wife, Rona. My son went off to yon battle, and I wished right well I was not too old to go wi’ him!”
Emotions chased one another across Ramsay’s face. For a moment Mara wondered if they would prohibit speech. But he said, “I am honored indeed by your fierce, loyal heart. We would be grateful for any news you have. But we are pursued and would not bring harm down upon you and yours.”
“Na, na,” Alasdair responded, “do no’ fash yourself over that, my liege.” He turned to a lad standing nearby, who looked no more than ten. “Geordie, run up the brae and keep watch. Whistle if you see anyone come.”
The lad nodded and ran off, back up the way Mara and Ramsay had approached. Alasdair made a sweeping gesture of welcome toward the cottage.
“My Prince, come ye in!”
****
Alasdair and his son’s wife, Rona, left their cottage door open to the bright day. But so many people gathered there to peer in they nearly blocked the light. The interior of the cottage—small and humble—revealed clear signs of want, which made what its occupants had to relate even more incredible.
“Thirty thousand pound,” Alasdair announced in his quavering voice. “That is the price the English have put on your bonny head, my liege. Can ye imagine it?”
Diarmad scarcely could, any more than back in the cave when MacNeal had brought word of the bounty offered for Charles Edward. Who could conceive of so much money? And how could folk, especially folk in such straits as these, resist that prize, especially when their loyalty had already cost them so dear in the lives of their husbands and sons?
“But do ye no’ bother yoursel’,” Alasdair immediately assured him. “None here shall betray you. We would no’ dream on it, would we, Rona?”
“Nay, indeed.” Rona edged closer and offered Diarmad a plate of oatcakes, likely all she had in the house. He hesitated to deprive her of her small store, then thought about her pride in later telling how she had served her Prince the product of her own hands.
“Thank you, mistress.”
She blushed. Seeing the pure worship in her eyes, Diarmad had to look away.
“Pray tell me what other news you have,” he bade Alasdair.
“We ha’ seen waves o’ men that survived yon battle pass through—none o’ our own yet. They bring word from others they ha’ met. That is how we learned of the price on your royal head. But”—Alasdair’s rheumy eyes widened—“’tis said you are everywhere! In the east heading for Dunbar, in the west hopping among the islands.”
“Well, I am here now. My guide thought to circle around to the north and perhaps shake the hounds from our tails.”
“A wise course, if you ask me, my Prince! There is an old cattle trail that leads from the north. I could show ye how to pick it up when you are ready to leave us.”
“But do no’ go yet,” Rona beseeched.
“Aye so,” Alasdair agreed heartily. “Our roof is yours for as long as ye wish.”
Diarmad thought about what had happened the last time they paused in such a place as this and shook his head.
“Honored as I may be by your hospitality, your safety means more to me than my own. I cannot linger here and endanger you and yours. When those who follow us arrive, you must say you have not seen us.” He looked to the door where the others stood listening. “Do you all promise me, most solemnly?”
They nodded, their eyes like stars. Diarmad felt a rush of mingled love and sadness. Surely Highland hearts proved too loyal for their own good.
“We should indeed move on, my liege,” Mara whispered.
Rona murmured in protest, but Alasdair got to his feet at once. “You may rely upon our silence!”
“Thank you.” Again Diarmad swept the avid faces with his gaze. “Thank you all. Master MacKenzie, will you show us this trail before we go?”
“I will, if you can bear with me, sire. I am no’ so spry as I used to be.”
Diarmad arose also and turned to Rona. Gallantly, he clasped her hand. “I am humbled to my heart, mistress, by your kind welcome. And I trust your husband will come home safe to you soon.”
Even as he spoke the words he knew them to be futile. He could see like knowledge in Rona MacKenzie’s eyes, yet she held her head proudly and said, “It makes it all better, my liege, for having met ye.”
Was that true? Could it be? Diarmad thought of what the sum of thirty thousand pounds sterling might mean to these folks and quailed at such sacrifice.
“Scotland will never go down to defeat,” he declared, “so long as it contains such stout hearts as yours.”
Old Alasdair lit with joy. “Come, sire, and let me show you the way to safety.”
Back outside, the beautiful day enfolded them. Diarmad could see the lad, Geordie, silhouetted on the height and raised an arm to him in salute. The lad returned the gesture.
Would Geordie also store this memory as a precious thing and someday tell his bairns about the time he stood guard for his Prince? And if so, did it truly matter that Diarmad was not the real Charles Stuart? The memory would be just as valid, as was the matchless spirit of these people.
“Thank you all,” he said in parting, “and may God bless.”
He and Mara, leading their mounts, followed old Alasdair around the end of the loch and up the opposite height, a trip made ponderous and difficult by the old man’s gait. Indeed, Alasdair’s breathing became labored before he paused and showed them the beginnings of two paths.
“There is the cattle trail, my liege. ’Tis a good route north and south. Cattle traders—and thieves—ha’ been using it for time out of mind. The other path goes on up over the hills and makes a difficult way indeed. I used to take it trapping and hunting when I was a young man. Both lead north, but the weather will catch you on the heights, when it comes.”
“Thank you, Master MacKenzie. I would have you turn your back on us now so you will not have to lie if soldiers come after us, asking.”
The old man’s face contorted with emotion. “No matter, my liege. I would give my life gladly to spare yours.”
Humility hit Diarmad so hard he could not speak. Had the true Charles Edward—wherever he was—experienced this? Diarmad only hoped so.
“It has been an honor!” Alasdair declared.
And Diarmad returned, “Nay, for the honor has been all mine.”
He and Mara took the path to the heights, knowing the old man stood stiff with dignity and watched them out of sight.
Chapter Nineteen
“So, Charles Edward still lives.” Mara spoke the words speculatively as she and Diarmad moved slowly across the hillside. “You ken what that means, Ramsay.”
Diarmad did. Had they gleaned word of the Prince’s capture or death, they might have been able to give up this mad ruse. He could have gone home.
To what, though? To the absence of his father, and possibly Cainnech, as well. Ah, but if that were so, Diarmad would be doubly needed to take up the place of Chief. And perhaps provide comfort to Una—eventually, when her grief lessened, take her to wife?
Once that would have been his fondest wish; now it lay all tangled up with loss and pain. How could he even consider being with Una if it required the loss of his brother?
And what of this woman here beside him? He turned his eyes toward Mara, which did not afford him much benefit. For here on the path up over the heights the weather proved as Alasdair had warned: what had been sunny below had evolved, as they rode, into a sea of mist and clinging damp that cut their visibility and rate of travel drastically.
Mara appeared no more than a ghostly form on horseback, with jewels of mist caught in her wild hair. Funny how, even so, just looking at her raised his desire.
Night must come, and what then? Hours spent wrapped in her arms, the heat of her mouth upon him, her body welcoming his? Could he hope for any of that? Had last night been just a single, mad episode, never to repeat?
He could not ask her. He would not, for all his desire. But his flesh began to ache, and he had to clench his lips together to keep the question in.
Will you love me tonight? Might I spend myself in you and in so doing regain my strength all over again?
“You did well playing your part back there,” Mara went on, apparently taking his silence for concurrence. “But thirty thousand pounds! Can you imagine?”
“Nay,” he muttered unhappily.
“Still, I suppose the capture of the Prince would effectively end most of King George’s immediate problems. I wonder where Charles Edward is now, and with whom?”
Does she wish she were with him? Diarmad wondered. Does she regret she was not deemed fit to guide the true Prince, rather than a mere substitute? The question that had occurred to him this morning once more raised its ugly head: Had Mara MacIvor loved him so well merely because she fantasized about loving Charles Edward?
If so, it would be both a blow to Diarmad’s pride and a sorrow. For he wanted her to desire him. Only him.
Such thoughts followed him like the trailing mist. By late afternoon, the fog had turned into a soft rain and gloom hugged the shoulder of the mountain across which they traveled.
Diarmad felt rather than saw Mara shoot him a look. “We should find a place to camp before dark. A fall up here could be fatal.”
“Aye.” And would they lie together when they paused? Diarmad could not seem to banish the question no matter how he tried.
Mara, now riding in the lead, began casting around for a likely stopping place. By the time she found a small dell half choked with rowan trees, the rain had increased to a steady downpour.
“Here,” she bade Diarmad. “You tend the ponies, and I will rig one of the rugs between the branches. ’Twill not be completely dry, but better than naught.”
Diarmad drew the horses into the shelter of the copse where they could graze on the soft grass beneath, tethered them, and dragged his and Mara’s belongings farther in to where she crouched beneath the rug.
“No hope of a fire, I fear,” she said regretfully.
“I do not mind.” Diarmad could barely see her face in the dim light, but the very lines of her body called to him. He wanted to retrace the contours with his hands as he had before and taste her all over again.
“Why do you no’ take off that wet clothing?” he suggested huskily.
She tipped her head, and her wild mop of hair slid over one shoulder.
“And,” he continued, “I will do the same.”
She got to her feet and stood facing him. He wished he could read her expression better.
“Ah,” she said, “so that is the way of it. Will you expect what you had last night, to have it every night while we travel together?”
“No’ expect.” He admitted, “Hope. That is…” He caught back the words he had almost spoken. Here and now he did not care if she wanted the Prince rather than him. He would slake his thirst for her on any terms she offered. He concluded, “If you are willing.”
She did not move or speak. He stepped closer, raised a hand to her cheek and caressed it very gently. “Will you accept me, Mara MacIvor?”
Her cheek felt warm against his fingers, her hair damp against the back of his hand. His desire heightened impossibly, yet she still did not speak.
What to do? Cajoling was not easy for him; begging seemed undignified. But he would beg her if he must.
“Well, now,” she spoke at last, the words barely a breath, “I ha’ been thinking about that all the day long.”
“As have I.”
“I am not certain ’twould be wise, sharing your bed again.”
“Why?” He stepped still closer. “Did we no’ suit?”
“Aye, that we did.”
“Did I no’ please you in my attentions?”
“Och, aye. But that was the fulfillment of a promise and, I think, a reaction to the danger we had faced together.”
“We are still in danger.” He bent his head so his lips hovered above hers, and her breath hitched. “Terrible danger.”
“Aye, but there is another danger twice as strong.”
“What is that?”
“I might grow altogether too attached to you. And ’twould never do. I ha’ been thinking about that all day, as well. Surely before long we shall part—perhaps to face the hangman’s noose or the block, perhaps when this wild chase ends and you go home. Either way…”
Aye so, Diarmad thought. Her caution did her justice. Yet his flesh cried out in protest.
He released her cheek and slid his hands down her shoulders until he captured her elbows. “Wise lass. But the night will be damp and cold. I would do you a service by keeping you warm.”
She stiffened between his hands but made no reply. He bent his head and ran his lips along her soft cheek.
“Surely,” he murmured between kisses, “’tis not good for you to linger in those wet clothes. Let me wrap you in my plaid, just for the night.”
“Just for the night?” she repeated a bit wildly. “And what of tomorrow night? And the next?”
“We will consider them when they come.” He planted a kiss at the corner of her mouth and nearly lost his control, a man drowning in desire.
She groaned. “A ruinous course.”
“Is it? Would you rather lie alone and shiver until dawn?”
Slowly he reached up and untied the laces on her bodice; she did not protest as he fought the damp strings, his fingers clumsy with eagerness.
“Just tell me ‘nay’ if you would.”
As the fabric fell open, he kissed her throat and her collarbone, slid his mouth downward. When he reached the swell of one breast, she seized him by the hair and halted the progression.
“Nay.”
“Nay?” Devastation hit Diarmad, twice as powerful as his desire. Would she truly deny him?
But breathless and hurried she said, “Let us first shed all these damp garments.”
****
Mara, weak and absolutely drunk with pleasure, opened her eyes into soft, damp darkness. Her languid sense of security told her she lay wrapped close in Diarmad Ramsay’s arms.
The man had promised to keep her warm and had done a braw job of it. His mouth had heated her skin most generously, his hands—to which her flesh could not help but respond—had been everywhere, spreading flame. Now she hovered between feeling shockingly sated and wanting him again.
Did he sleep? After the last time he loved her, he had come to rest with his head beside hers and her body cradled against him, as if he would shield her from the hard ground. His hair brushed her cheek and his breath, deep and regular, trickled across her breasts.
