A Heart In The Highlands

7-2

“No one informed me that her Ladyship’s arrival was imminent,” he said and, passing the Duchess, moved to Beatrice’s side. He took her hand and she felt the warm insistent pressure of his lips.

“My deepest apologies for not being the first to welcome you,” he said. “Nevertheless it gives me unbounded pleasure to meet your Ladyship.”

“I thank your Lordship,” Beatrice said, and there was a hint of laughter in her tone.

The Duchess turned to Iona.

“Your hair needs attention,” she said icily, “and a shawl is hardly the correct wear for the salon. It would be best for you to retire and tidy yourself before being presented to Lady Wrexham.”

Iona curtsied but said nothing, and the Duchess swept away leading Beatrice towards the salon, the two men following in their wake. Swiftly Iona picked up her shawl and hurrying from the Chinese Room sped upstairs.

Her heart was still fluttering and her hands were cold with fear. It had been a relief beyond all words that the Duchess should have interrupted her interview with Lord Niall, and yet she was embarrassed that they should have been discovered tête-à-tête and she wondered what the Duke would think. In her bedroom, Cathy was waiting and as Iona entered, she went towards her.

“Is all weel, mistress?”

“I got back safely and no one saw me enter the castle,” Iona said, “but unfortunately I met Lord Niall in the passage. He was looking for me.”

She felt her heart throb again as she remembered that almost agonising moment when Lord Niall had said that he must speak with her. She had been too agitated to make excuses, and miserably conscious of her muddy shoes and stained dress she had followed him downstairs to the Chinese Room.

It was a charming little drawing room decorated with strange and colourful hangings of exotic birds and flowers, but Iona had no eyes for the room, only for the dark secretive face of Lord Niall.

He closed the door, walked across to the writing desk and sat himself on the edge of it, then he looked her up and down, playing with his quizzing glass the while as if it were a weapon he held in his hand.

“You might be my sister,” he said at length, “though we are not alike.”

She knew he was taunting her and she answered him bravely.

“Surely you are the unusual one? I thought all MacCraggan’s had red hair.”

“Indeed not! Have you ever heard the rhyme our clansmen repeat when a child is born?

“MacCraggan red, oh happy day! MacCraggan black, then kneel and pray.”

“The black MacCraggan’s are the bad ones, and they are also – dangerous.”

Iona recognised the implication of the last word.

“I am not afraid of you,” she said quietly.

“No?” He raised his eyebrows. “And yet why should you be? I might find a sister useful.”

Iona said nothing. His eyes scrutinised her very closely.

“Was it enjoyable?” he asked at length.

The question seemed to Iona to have no sense.

“Enjoyable?” she repeated. “To what are you referring?”

“The night you spent in Inverness,” he replied, and she felt the embarrassed colour run swiftly into her cheeks. She had already decided what her explanation was to be. Keeping her eyes on his, with almost pathetic dignity she said quietly.

“What your Lordship supposes is not the truth. The ship that brought me from France made its first port of call at Yarmouth. Two passengers disembarked, another came aboard. The latter was the gentleman whose bedchamber was opposite your own in the hotel at Inverness. He was kind to me onboard, for the ship’s company were rough and it was not too pleasant to be a woman travelling alone and unprotected.

“I was in great fear that my possessions, poor though they were, might be stolen from me, and so I gave to the gentleman for safekeeping most of my money, and the packet containing the proofs of my identity. He was gracious enough to guard these for me, but unfortunately when we arrived at Inverness, he went ashore before I had time to ask for the return of my valuables. He did not come to the hotel until after I had retired to bed, and I was therefore forced to wake him early in the morning before I left on the stagecoach.”

To Iona’s own ears the story sounded plausible enough, but she was well aware that the mocking suspicion was still apparent in Lord Niall’s eyes.

“And the gentleman’s name?” he inquired.

“Thomson,” Iona stammered. “Mr. Hugo Thomson.”

She made up the name at random – at the same time regretting that she had not been sensible enough to inquire of Hector what name he had actually used at the hotel.

She half expected Lord Niall to tell her that she lied, but he said nothing and with a sense of relief she guessed that he was not in a position to know if she was telling the truth or not.

“So that is your story,” he said at length, “Yet you would be surprised if I was fool enough to credit it.”

“I am not aware that I have given your Lordship any reason to doubt my word,” Iona said.

Lord Niall laughed.

It was not a pleasant laugh and Iona was aware that he enjoyed torturing her. She made every effort to keep her voice clear and steady, to control the quivering of her fingers and the sudden trembling of her lips. But she could not prevent the colour rising in her cheeks, or the way it would suddenly ebb away leaving her pale and a little faint.

Lord Niall walked across the room to stand with his back to the mantelpiece.

“Come here,” he said suddenly.

Iona drew a step nearer to him, still keeping instinctively out of arm’s reach.

“There are many things I might say to you,” he said, and his voice was suddenly silky. “Firstly that Mr. Thomson – if that is indeed his name – was a damned fortunate fellow, and secondly that you are far too pretty to be my sister.”

Iona’s lips tightened for a moment and he added,

“But you don’t like my saying either of these things, do you? Shall I add something else? It is that I am a trifle suspicious of young women who come from Paris just now for the purpose of getting into communication with the Duke of Arkrae.”

Here was danger!

Now Iona’s embarrassment had vanished. She felt instead alert and watchful, and in a voice of puzzled surprise she asked,

“Perhaps your Lordship will explain what you mean.”

“Why should I bother? You are not so simple as you appear. Besides, I might prove a better friend than an enemy. Why not trust me?”

“With what?” Iona’s eyes were wide and innocent.

“Your reason for coming here.”

“But surely that is obvious,” Iona parried. “You have doubtless seen the letter containing Jeannie MacLeod’s last confession.”

“I am not interested in that,” Lord Niall replied. “I am only interested in you and perhaps a trifle in the gentleman called Hugo Thomson.”

There was a definite menace in his slow tones, yet now Iona was aware that he had nothing definite with which to threaten her. He was but feeling his way, suspicious, uncertain, and whilst she was afraid of him, she knew that for the moment he was weaponless.

Lord Niall looked down at his quizzing glass swinging pendulum-like from the thumb and finger of his left hand.

“You are, of course,” he said softly, “an ardent Jacobite?”

His words were so unexpected that Iona felt her heart give a frightened leap and the blood drain away from her cheeks. Then as he looked at her and waited for her answer, the door opened and she was rescued.

Now in her own room, she was well aware that the respite would be but a short one.

Lord Niall was dangerous, she was well aware of that. It was not only because he had caught her at a disadvantage in Inverness that she distrusted him, it was something deeper and more fundamental than anything he had ever done or said. It was the instinctive reaction of every sense in her body. He was not trustworthy – there was something horrible and treacherous about him, something which affected her sub-consciously so that she knew with absolute clarity that here was a real and malevolent danger.

“How white ye are, mistress!” Cathy said breaking into Iona’s thoughts.

Iona sat down on a chair.

“I’m all right, Cathy,” she said a little unsteadily.

“Ye are faint. May I fetch ye a glass o’ wine?”

“I shall be all right in a minute,” Iona murmured, putting her head down in her hands.

Without waiting for permission Cathy sped downstairs and a few minutes later came back with a glass of brandy that she held to Iona’s lips.

“Take a sup, mistress,” she begged, and because Iona felt too weak to argue she took a sip or two and felt the liquid run like fire through her body.

“Thank you, Cathy,” she said at last. “I am better now and ashamed of my own weakness.”

“Dinae fash about being weak,” Cathy answered. “Let me unlace ye an’ lie ye doon until it is time for dinner.”

Iona did as Cathy suggested and, though she had no idea of sleeping, the long walk through the woods and the emotional disturbance of her interview with Lord Niall had taken their toll and she fell into a fitful slumber.

She was wakened by Cathy bringing her hot water with which to wash and laying out her evening gown.

“Ye must hurry, mistress,” Cathy said. “I guessed ye were asleep an’ left ye as long as I dare, but it will be wise no tae be late.”

“Worse than that, it would be exceedingly rude,” Iona said, and slipped off the bed.

She washed and then as she turned, towards the dressing table Cathy said,

“There’s a deal o’ talk downstairs the noo.”

“Of what?” Iona asked.

“O’ ma Lady Wrexham. The servants hae been gossipin’ with her Ladyship’s coachman an’ grooms an’ noo I hear tell that her Ladyship has come here tae spy.”

“How do they know that?” Iona asked.

“Saving yer pardon, mistress, but her Ladyship’s servants were boasting that she is under the protection o’ the Marquis o’ Severn.”

“And who is he?” Iona asked.

“Weel, we ken richt enough that the Marquis is the enemy o’ Scotland. The cruelty o’ the English soldiers has his approval an’ more, while ane o’ her Ladyship’s footmen avows that the Marquis has sworn afore many months hae passed that Prince Charles’s head shall lie in its blood on Tower Hill.”

Iona shivered.

“Is this true, Cathy?”

“I can only tell ye whit they’re sayin’, mistress.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Iona said at last. “Hear all you can, Cathy.”

“Indeed I’ll dae ma best, mistress.”

“But be careful,” Iona admonished. “You must run no risks. Are you the only one in the castle loyal to the Prince?”

“Nay, mistress, but we dinna speak aboot it, even amang oursels for the Duchess is English an’ the Governors o’ Fort Augustus an’ Fort William often call here.”

“I understand,” Iona said. “And the Duke?”

“We dinna ken what His Grace feels. If the English come tae the castle, he is polite tae them – but this English lady hae come the noo an’ she’s awfu’ bonny.”

Iona understood only too well the implication in Cathy’s words. She had had but the merest glimpse of Lady Wrexham through the open door of the Chinese Room, but it had been enough. Beautiful and the mistress of the Marquis of Severn, why should Lady Wrexham have come north unless her reason was much the same as her own?

There was something dramatic in the situation, Iona thought suddenly. Two women arriving within a few days of each other at Skaig Castle, one from France and one from London, each with her instructions, each determined on the success of her assignment.

Iona could see the situation so clearly that it was almost as if she watched herself and the personages at Skaig upon a stage and saw a plot unfolding act by act.

The Duke stood as it were at the crossroads. Which way would he turn? Which woman would succeed in gaining his support? Iona thought of the Prince far away in France, waiting for her return, hoping almost against hope that she might succeed where others had failed. Then she remembered that quick glimpse she had had of Lady Wrexham – an impression of beauty, of glamour, of youth, of loveliness and with it all the poise of an experienced woman of the world.

What chance had she against such weapons? And then Iona remembered with a sudden thankfulness that the ideals for which she battled were greater by far than the wiles of any woman, however desirable. It was the Cause that mattered, and it was impossible that the fate of Scotland should be altered by the contour of a woman’s face.

“I will not be afraid,” Iona told herself. “Lord Niall is bad and wicked, but the Duke is good.”

She was surprised at her own conviction that this was so. Only this morning she had not been sure, unable to make any complete diagnosis of His Grace’s character and personality. But now she knew with a conviction that could not be denied that the Duke, whatever his political sympathies, was good at heart.

Quite unexpectedly Iona’s depression left her. She felt revived and fortified. She felt also ready to fight for what she believed, however great the odds against her. She remembered Hector hiding in the woods and sent up a prayer for his safety. Strangely enough, it was comforting to know that he was not so far away. It gave her a sense of danger shared, of a renewed comradeship after she had felt so very much alone.

Cathy robed her in a gown of ivory satin. It was trimmed very simply with rows of narrow lace, but it had been cut by a skilled French seamstress.

Iona had no jewels, but her eyes seemed to blaze like emeralds and her white neck had the sheen of precious pearls. Cathy offered to powder her hair but Iona refused. She had never aped the fashions of the nobility and she knew it was safer to remain humble and unpretentious. Besides, she was feminine enough to realise that her hair was in fact lovelier unadorned.

She came slowly down the stairs, for despite Cathy’s fears it was not yet the hour for dinner. She reached the first floor and was about to enter the Crimson Salon when she heard voices below in the Great Hall. Curiously Iona paused to listen. A group of men were standing in the centre of the Hall, talking loudly. She leant over the stairs to look closer at them. Then her hands gripped the banister and it was with the utmost difficulty that she prevented herself from giving a cry of horror!

Standing in the midst of the men, his arms bound behind him, was Hector.