“Is it not good to feel the sun warm upon your face?”
With Flame leaning heavily upon Leonora’s arm, the two young women walked along the overgrown path of the rose garden. They sat wearily upon a stone bench, and Flame struggled to catch her breath.
“I hate this feeling of helplessness. I am as weak as a bairn, and just about as useless.”
“You grow stronger every day,” Leonora said good-naturedly. “Besides, look at how Mistress MacCallum and the servants fuss over you.”
“Aye. If I eat any more of Mistress MacCallum’s pudding, I shall be as plump as she.” Shading her eyes, Flame stared into the distance. “I yearn to feel a horse’s hooves beneath me once more, and the wind in my hair. I want to be free to do as I please.”
She happened to turn. The look of pain on Leonora’s face twisted like a knife.
“Forgive me, Leonora. How can I think of myself when your heart is so heavy? I am being selfish.”
“Nay.” Leonora patted her hand. But the questions she could not bring herself to ask Dillon tumbled from her lips. “How can we be certain Rupert will deliver Dillon’s message?”
“The lad may be slow to speak, but he is not slow-witted. If there is a way to slip into England and reach your father’s castle, Rupert will find it.”
“But even if he does, how can my father’s soldiers enter your land without being accosted? Surely they will be delayed many nights by fighting.” It was not that she wished harm to her father’s men. She only yearned for more time, to spend with those she had grown to love.
“Nay. They will not be accosted by loyal Highlanders. Rupert will give them Dillon’s banner to carry. That banner will assure them safe passage. As long as it remains unfurled, no Highlander would dare to attack them.”
“It has been two days since Rupert left.”
“Aye.” Flame’s eyes narrowed as she calculated. The English would, in all likelihood, be here on the morrow. She needed to keep Leonora’s mind off that gloomy fact, even if it meant doing something she detested. Struggling for a cheerfulness she didn’t feel, she said, “You promised to teach me how to embroider.”
Seeing through her scheme, Leonora smiled gently and helped her to her feet. “So I did. And I know how anxious you are to add to the lessons of the good sisters in the abbey.”
She nearly laughed aloud at the look in Flame’s eyes. It would be sheer torture for the lass to spend time on such frivolous female work. “Mistress MacCallum has left cloth and thread in Dillon’s chambers. Come.”
For at least a few more hours, Leonora reasoned, she would keep herself busy, and for the sake of Flame and the servants, she would force a smile to her lips.
And tonight, for perhaps the last time, she would lie in Dillon’s arms and pretend that their love would never come to an end.
~ ~ ~
Leonora stood on the balcony and watched as the English horsemen made their way up the steep incline toward Kinloch House. Dillon’s banner of blue and green on a black background fluttered in the breeze. As Flame had promised, no Highlander accosted them. Though more than a dozen of Dillon’s finest archers kept them in their sights, not a single arrow was notched into a bow. And though a line of swordsmen lined the trail, not a single weapon was raised in challenge.
While the horsemen clattered into the courtyard and dismounted, Leonora leaned over the balcony railing to see their faces. She had expected a long column of soldiers, escorting Sutton and Shaw. Instead, there were only a half a dozen soldiers. The only familiar faces belonged to Lord James Blakely, his handsome son, Alger Blakely, and George Godwin, the Duke of Essex. There was no sign of Sutton and Shaw.
She watched as Dillon stepped through the doorway, flanked by Camus Ferguson and Father Anselm.
“I am returning Waltham’s daughter to him unharmed. Will he now do the same for my brothers?” he asked sharply.
“Lord Alec Waltham wishes to be assured that his daughter has not been harmed. When he has such assurance, he will release his prisoners into the hands of your young messenger,” called the Duke of Essex.
Dillon’s features hardened. “I would not have summoned you here to return the lady to her father if she had been harmed in any way.”
“Perhaps.” Essex gave a cool, calculating smile. “That is for Lord Waltham to decide when the king’s own physician examines her. Are you prepared to deliver the woman into our hands?”
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 procession 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.