Inverness, Scotland
“They'd all better get on their knees and say a prayer of thanksgiving,” Hamish said. "And I hear congrats are in order for you."
Michael tried to shrug modestly, but the grin broke through. He was, according to the tabloids, a national hero. He'd already had requests for interviews, and a book deal was in the offing.
Hamish was the only one of the SFS group he wanted to see again. Mary could go shag someone for all he cared - Donald - he'd learned from Hamish.
The pub where they met was decked out for the tourist crowd, all tartans and shields, clan brooches and Gaelic sayings in high script adorning the walls. He’d had beef and Guinness pie with coffee while Hamish had opted for an Orkney scotch egg and tea.
"You were right, then, all along," Hamish said.
"I didn't want to be."
It was a strange and disconcerting thing to see someone killed in front of you, even Fiona.
The reports had named Fiona MacDonald as the would-be assassin. She’d left a tome at her house, pages and pages of hysterical prose outlining how her act would free all the imprisoned Scots, opening up the burial vaults of a thousand years with a gesture as glorifying as the Second Coming.
Right bonkers, she was, the dailies said.
"SFS can't be seen to have participated in any of Fiona's acts," Hamish said. "We should have listened to you."
But there was something to be said for Fiona's madness.
In addition to hundreds of blog posts condemning Fiona MacDonald’s actions, there were as many suddenly discussing Scotland’s independence. They’d had more traffic to their website in the last few days than since it opened.
“She might have done it after all,” Michael said.
“Done what?"
“Aided the Cause."
Hamish looked thoughtful for a moment but didn’t speak.
What could he say?
Fiona MacDonald would, no doubt, be secretly added to the list of Scotland’s martyrs, brave men and women who’d performed actions of heroic necessity for the sake of Scottish independence.
For all her insanity, she might be a hero after all.
Upon exiting All Saints Hospital, Maggie was bombarded with a sensation of sounds she couldn’t categorize. Questions, shouts, demands, all screamed at her.
She held Harold's elbow with a punishing grip. The poor man would probably have bruises in the morning.
"What's your name, miss?"
"Is it true you’re an American?"
"Care to tell us what happened? Did you save His Grace’s life?”
People jostled her; she felt hands pulling at her, the impression of being ripped to shreds by all these intrusive fingers making her want to run. Her heart beat so fast Maggie wondered if she were having a panic attack.
Harold sensed how close Maggie was to screaming, how tight the rein on her composure. He led her to the car, slid in beside her, and slammed the door on one of the more intrusive reporters, nearly taking off the man’s nose.
Maggie sat back against the seat with a sigh of relief, felt the lurch of movement beneath her as they sped away too fast to be safe.
The sling encasing her arm was designed to prevent movement, to allow her wound to heal. For the last several moments, however, she’d been jostled and jolted, not conditions conducive to healing.
She wanted, desperately, to be home.
"I'd just as soon take a commercial flight, Harold," she said.
It was the first time she'd voluntarily spoken, other than to say goodbye to the nurses.
"I'm afraid, miss, that we're not going to the airport."
She sat, hands clenched on her lap. If she kept still, no one could tell what she was thinking. Being blind insulated you, a fact she'd hated once but which she now used to her advantage. A trick she'd discovered, only days old, that disconcerted those around her.
"His Grace asked me to escort you to Andover Castle, Miss Carlisle."
“I don’t want to go to Andover. I want to go home."
Harold didn’t respond. She knew better than to argue with him. Anything Richard wanted, Harold managed to accomplish. In this case, kidnapping her.
“How is he, Harold?”
It was the first time she’d asked.
That terrible day in the abbey, they’d had to sedate her. She’d been hysterical, clawing at the dirt, pushing through the officers to get to him. She’d only calmed when she’d been reassured that he still lived.
Yet since the moment the medical people had pried them apart, whisking Richard away to safety, she’d not asked, never ventured a question about him.
“He’s well, miss. He should be out of hospital in a few days. He’ll be limping for a while, they say but I don’t expect that to slow him down."
He didn’t tell her that it had not looked good at the first, that there was some thought the duke would not survive, he’d lost so much blood. Nor did he tell her that Richard had called out only one name. Not that of his children, but only hers.
"His Grace believes it's your best course now, miss, to remain at Andover for a few days. Otherwise, the press would follow you back to America. He wants to protect you as much as possible."
She said nothing, simply folding back into herself. Without much difficulty, she could pull a gray mental blanket over her thoughts, cushioning them from unwise feelings like regret, pain, and longing.
Blindness helped. If she couldn't see him, she told herself that she couldn't remember him. Although she could render a sculpture of him, replicate his face with her fingers. She could envision the shape of his jaw, the tender fullness of his bottom lip, the way his eyes tilted at their corners. Blindness was not enough. She would need to be deaf, and dumb, and dead not to remember Richard.
Harold was as much a pragmatist as his employer was a romantic, a description Richard would have fought against had Harold been brave enough to tell him what he thought. He was careful to remain silent, now, knowing that silence was a greater gift to Maggie Carlisle than any explanation. Besides, what could he say to mitigate her obvious pain? He felt guilt for his complicity, for his willingness to use her as an antidote to Richard’s loneliness, without counting the cost to her.
Maggie sat back against the cushioned comfort of the seat. Had they taken her picture? Would she be fodder for the front pages of the English tabloids? She could imagine the headlines, the ugliness of conjecture. No, she couldn't, not really. Not the way they'd shouted at her, as if they were a pack of starving animals and she wounded prey.
No wonder Richard loathed them.
Did he feel the same about her?