"Sir?"
The knock on the door could not have come at a worse time.
"Is it possible to ignore him?" Maggie whispered.
"Harold doesn't respond to evasion, Maggie," he said, helping her up. "He has more tenacity than an English bulldog.”
"Yes, Harold?" he said, opening the door.
Harold didn't flinch, regarding him steadily. Was it his imagination, or was there a hint of censure in that look? Richard discarded that novel thought with the news Harold brought.
"I'm afraid, sir, that there is a crowd of reporters gathering on the lawn."
Time was not merely running out. Time was over.
He turned and glanced back at Maggie. She sat on the wing chair, staring out at the day.
He'd have to tell her now.
"Thank you, Harold,” he said, his tone one of weary resignation.
"Shall I address them, sir?"
"Tell them I'm in residence but that I'll not make a statement. That should satisfy the bastards."
"There are television crews, also, sir." That news was even worse. In that second, Richard lost all hope that Maggie might escape unscathed from this interlude.
"Is there anything else, Harold? I'd prefer getting all the bad news at once, instead of in dribbles and bits."
"I don't believe so, sir."
The censure in Harold’s gaze had softened to something like pity.
“Is the car ready?"
“As always, sir,” Harold said. “Shall I summon Brian?"
"No, Harold, I'll drive. Do you think it's likely they've got a lookout posted at the garage?"
"I couldn't say, sir but it doesn't appear the case."
"Try to get me as much time as you can, will you? We’ll be ready to leave in fifteen minutes."
"I shall do my best, sir." Harold stepped back. "May I be so bold, sir, as to wish you the very best of luck?"
"You might even want to say a prayer, Harold, just in case."
"I shall do both, sir," Harold said solemnly.
Richard half turned from the open doorway, his hand braced on the door. It was a solid door, at least two hundred years old, capable of defeating drafts, the errant pillager, any unwanted vermin. He wanted, suddenly, to slam it but such a gesture would not buttress him against the power of the press.
He would not be vilified as much as Maggie. There would be no restraint in her case. The English tabloids could be vicious and they would be.
They would make her life a living hell.
He should have sent her away yesterday. ‘There is no greater regret than to recall a happy time in the midst of wretchedness.’ Dante’s words seemed almost prophetic.
He returned to her side, his fingers brushing across the back of her hair. She raised her hand, and he enfolded it in his, bringing it to his lips.
"We have to leave, Maggie,” he said, as gently as possible, despite the haste that drove him, and the sense of time defeating him.
"What's wrong, Richard?"
"Do you need assistance with your luggage?"
“I’m already packed,” she said.
The rigidness of his tone wasn't quite rudeness but it reminded her of the man she'd first met on a beach in Texas, the one with the voice that warned her not to intrude.
She stood, smoothing her hands down her skirt, testing the buttons of her blouse, and slipping on her shoes. Her hands reached up to finger comb her hair before she turned to him.
He'd thought, from the first moment he’d seen her, that she was pretty, occasionally beautiful. Over the last two weeks, he’d witnessed another dimension to her attractiveness. Maggie seemed lit from within, as if a bright spark glowed inside her.
Color suffused her face, lent her pearlized skin a soft glow. Her auburn hair was riotous around her shoulders, a mass of tangles and tendrils.
"I’m sorry,” he said, stretching his minutes with her, praying for deliverance at the same time he brought her back against him, nuzzling her hair with his lips.
He would have to tell her but not like this, not with the press crawling over the garden, with their satellite trucks, and their intrusive curiosity. Not now.
"What is it, Richard? Tell me what's wrong." Affection, and something else too strong to call simple caring, surged through her.
"We need to leave, Maggie. Don't ask me more."
A few minutes later, they were descending the stairs silently, hand in hand. Maggie could feel Richard's tension in the coldness of his fingers, in the fact that his grip was too tight.
Something was wrong, and his tension only fed her fear.
What an exquisite irony that a royal duke was going to be killed with a gun captured from an English soldier. The Manton double barrel flintlock pistol had been in her family's possession for more than a hundred years. The pistol boasted two triggers and two hammers, one for each of the barrels, a good precaution if she missed on the first shot. Age had not diminished the gun’s killing power; she'd fired it not too long ago, and not one shot had gone astray.
The heirloom was worth at least a ten thousand pounds, with its gold lined bands, vents, and engraved trigger guard. After today, it would be priceless.
She could almost envision a thousand Scots warriors camped on the hill beside her, their frigid breath whispering to her what she must do, how she must avenge all their ancient deaths and unfulfilled dreams.
The cold didn't bother her, wrapped as she was in her tartan shawl and boots, her father’s black goggles over her eyes to shield them from the glare. The snow still fell, but behind the white curtain she could see movement in the garage far beneath her. From her perch among the ancient ruins of Lindencuden Abbey, she had a perfect view of Hawthorne House.
She lowered the binoculars, smiling.
The reclusive duke hated reporters; she'd counted on that. He would do anything to avoid them, another personality trait of vital importance. She watched as the doors of the garage opened and the staid black Rolls Royce backed out of the garage, each rotation of its tires bringing the duke closer to history.
Now, all she had to do was wait. The next few minutes lay before her in slow motion agony.
So close, she was so close.
She clamped her teeth over her bottom lip, soothing herself with thoughts of what would happen after the duke was dead. The press would be frenzied; a nation would mourn and weep. Out of this cacophony of hysteria would come a warning, a message to heed Scotland's call to self-rule. They would learn then, this nation of subjugators, that the time had come for freedom, for recognition for Scotland.
The world would know the Scots were serious.
And they would listen, or the blood would continue to flow.
Fiona smiled.
Hawthorne House was one of those undiscovered Scottish treasures that lay nestled in inhospitable terrain and shielded by ghastly weather.
Twice, Michael had to stop the car and scrape the accumulated ice off the windscreen.
Was he being a blooming idiot? He didn't know for certain that Fiona was on her way to Hawthorne House. But if she was, and if she started an international incident, at least he would be there to mitigate it as much as he could. Plus, he could alert the other members of the SFS that Fiona had gone rogue.
He was stopped on the approach to Hawthorne House, the car not the usual panda. No, what was following him was a bright orange ARV, Armed Response Vehicle, striped with yellow and red. He couldn't miss the damn thing.
Before he had a chance to pull over, the lights flashed again, and the ARV came too damn close, nearly running him off the road.
The officer left his car, leaving two men still inside. As he approached, Michael took in his uniform. A black t-shirt topped with a heavy vest, and combat trousers, complete with a number of pockets. If he normally wore a hat, he'd left it in the car. Nor was he wearing a waterproof jacket. Why, to let Michael know that he was impervious to the bitterly cold weather? Great, now he knew.
"Where are you going, sir?" was the officer's first comment. No small talk, then.
How the hell did he answer that? The truth would sound a bit farfetched, wouldn't it? He could just imagine the officer's expression if he confessed the real reason he was here.
There's this woman who's been just a little too interested in His Grace's life for comfort. She's a nutter, and I'm afraid she's up to no good. I'm therefore stalking His Grace to make sure she doesn't do something stupid.
"I'm afraid I've gotten myself a little turned around," Michael lied. "I was out for a bit of the drive."
"This road leads to a private house, sir. Are they expecting you?"
He laughed with enough vigor that it sounded halfway credible.
"Hardly," he said. "I'm not exactly the social type."
The officer's face didn't move, but his eyes went flat.
"How do I get back to the main road?" Michael asked.
"Just turn around, sir."
He saluted, rolled up the window, and turned his car around in the middle of the road, feeling as if he'd made an escape.
The presence of the ARV meant only one thing. His Grace, Richard Strathmore, royal duke, etc. etc. etc., was in residence.
Did that mean that the officers had also stopped Fiona? Even if they had, he doubted it would have slowed Fiona. He'd never known anyone with such determination.
He realized he had a choice, either circle these roads, little more than paths among the hills, in search of Fiona, or find somewhere to stay for the night.
He knew her. She'd jolly well make a camping trip of it. God knows what she had in the back of that Escort of hers. She would have found a back way into Hawthorne House.
And if she could, he bloody well had to.
The approach from the south, a curving, twisting road, was always kept passable by order of Richard's personal protection officers. The road wound around the helicopter pad Richard had used two weeks ago. After his arrival, he'd sent the craft back to Andover where the pilot waited for further orders.
He should have summoned it the minute Billy and Anne had gone home. The first of many good intentions gone awry.
Richard donned Brian's chauffeur's hat and sat behind the wheel, sliding the glass partition far to the left. His pretense would have horrified any inveterate royal watcher. He enjoyed driving and wasn’t averse to donning any type of disguise if it would aid him in escaping the pack of jackals the rest of the world called paparazzi.
When Maggie arrived at Hawthorne House, Brian Donnelly had been her companion, regaling her with stories of Scots lore. Now, her departure was almost clandestine, a note in Richard's voice warning her that he wouldn’t answer any questions. Not why it was necessary to leave Hawthorne House quickly and furtively or why he’d dismissed the driver.
Richard didn’t see any footprints, a fact that should have relieved him. Yet something felt wrong.
He slowly backed the car out of the garage, slid the visor forward so it obscured as much of his face as possible, thanking God that the rear windows were tinted deeply black.
As they followed the curve around to the abbey, Richard was grateful for the weight of the Rolls on the winter roads. The snowfall was lighter now, the weather promising even lower temperatures by nightfall.
Soon, they were far enough from Hawthorne House that the threat of being overtaken by some idiot with a camera was minimal. Still, Richard couldn’t shake the feeling that he was being watched.
Maggie remained quiet in the passenger’s compartment, a silence humming with tension. He wanted to be home at Andover, going to ground like a fox to his lair. At Andover, he would tell her. Or, perhaps he'd merely say goodbye, leave her in blessed ignorance of his role, his destiny, and her narrow escape from scandal.
But she deserved his honesty now. It was too late in coming but he would do right by this farewell. He dismissed the thought of Maggie’s departure with a will honed by a lifetime of duty.
“Maggie,” he began. “I’m not just an architect."
The passenger's window shattered into a thousand tiny fragments.
Richard's first thought was one of vindication – there’d been a reason for that odd feeling he’d had. Any further thoughts were silenced by Maggie’s scream.
Instead of stopping, his anti-terrorist training had him leaving the scene. His foot jammed the accelerator to the floor. Another shot threw bits of metal on the windscreen, followed immediately by a groaning scream from the engine.
He swore when they ground to a stop.
His first imperative was to get them out of the car; he wouldn't be surprised if the sniper's intent was to use the car as a bomb, aiming for the petrol tank next. The second was to get them to safety.
They were in the open, nothing of consequence to shelter them. To his left was a steep hill, and at the top, the ruins of Lindencuden Abbey. The only place to hide.
"Richard?" Maggie’s voice was faint, tremulous. He didn't have time for questions now. "It's all right, Maggie."
"I really don't think so, Richard. I think I've been shot."