Chapter Thirty-Three

What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Daniel demanded, looking more shocked and stung than Abby had ever seen him.

She turned away from him and looked into the fire. She didn’t want to be having this conversation with him. Mayhap ever. She was furious with the queen for telling him. She had no right to put Davina in such danger! No one knew how a fiercely loyal general of the queen’s entire army would react to such news.

And Daniel hadn’t reacted well.

Part of Abby understood his shock and dismay at discovering such a secret, but that gave him no right to insult her kin, especially her mother.

Was he a danger to Davina MacGregor now?

His voice broke through her thoughts and dragged her back to the present. “Why does your mother need protection from me?”

“Ye’re a soldier.”

“I wouldn’t hurt her.”

She turned again to look at him, hating herself for becoming such a quivering, tearful mess. “Soldiers killed her entire family before my faither brought her to Skye.”

“I thought her family was the Stuarts.”

She shook her head. “They were the nuns her faither, the king, left her with when she was an infant. Nuns who raised her and loved her like their own child.” She’d never told anyone what she was telling him. Only a few in Camlochlin knew Davina’s true identity. It felt good to get it all out, to stop living in fear of the world finding out. “There were twenty-six of them,” she went on, not caring about the stray tears spilling from her eyes. Daniel knew the truth and if he was going to do anything about it, she wanted to know now rather than later. “They were all killed by soldiers just like ye, loyal to their duty to rid the world of a Catholic monarch. But they didna’ have to kill all her sisters because she didna’ want the crown then and she doesna’ want it now! She wants a quiet life with my faither and me and my brothers. Why can ye all not understand that?”

Daniel didn’t answer her but kept his gaze on the ground while she continued.

She told him how the queen had invited her mother to England and how her father wouldn’t let her go. None of them trusted the English. “They feared the invitation might be a ruse to get my mother here and kill her, but—”

“And yet they let you come in her place?”

“I insisted. My mother and I believed the queen just wanted assurances that no one was interested in deposing her. My plan was to come here and convince my aunt of the truth. Besides, the queen threatened to send her armies to Skye if we refused her. I couldn’t let my kin die because I was a coward.”

She wanted him to believe her. If he didn’t, she would never forgive him. Why wasn’t he saying anything?

“What is it, Daniel?” she asked softly, in a shaky voice. “Are ye angry to discover that the peasant is truly a princess?”

He shook his head, offering her a look so replete of yearning she closed her eyes to keep from flinging herself into his arms and forgiving him anything.

“I thought of you as a princess from the first time I laid eyes on you. Abigail…”

“And you, Daniel? Are you a prince?”

When he didn’t answer her, she waved him away. “Please, just go.” She turned away, not wanting to see him or think about what he meant to her, and how there could never be anything between them. “Ye delivered me safely to the queen, Daniel. Yer duty is done. There’s nothing more fer us to discuss anymore.”

“Like hell there isn’t,” he argued. “I understand that you thought I might harm your mother. But you know me now, Abby. You know me better now. Why did you keep this from me even after we—”

“Cease!” she cried out. His words were painful to her. She loved him too much for them not to be.

“No!” He came to her and took her by the arms. “Look at me, Abigail!”

She did, and was sorry she obeyed. His glorious eyes spoke to her. Even if he never uttered another word to her, she would have known she broke his heart just by gazing into his eyes.

“I kept a truth from you, Abigail. One I haven’t yet confirmed. You, on the other hand, are James the Second’s granddaughter. I’ve spent years fighting men who believe Anne is not the true queen. I’ve killed hundreds! How am I not supposed to be angry with you for not telling me?”

Aye, she’d lied to him. She hadn’t trusted him. But how could she? How could she trust an English soldier—a general bound to protect his queen—with the truth about her mother? She’d kept the truth from him and her secret was too big. Already he believed her motives were corrupt.

“This never had anything to do with ye,” she told him softly, honestly. “I came here to help my mother and my kin. I came to keep them safe, not to care for the queen’s right-hand man.”

“Is that all I am?”

“Aye.” She nodded, doing her best not to fall apart and weep like a sick fool. “Yer duty is yer life. ’Tis one of the first things I learned aboot ye, General. But ye’re correct, I do know ye better now. I know that the queen is yer beloved friend, even more, I suspect. If she decides that my mother is her rival, ye will do all ye can to keep her from being deposed.”

When he didn’t answer she pushed away from him, breaking his hold on her, and went to stand by the door. She opened it and waited for him to leave.

He turned to watch her and simply stared at her as one moment blended into the next, tearing her heart from its place.

“Just go.”

He came toward her and paused in front of her. He said nothing, but his breath echoed through her ears—ragged, short, painful.

They’d been fools, living in the false confidence of love and passion, not thinking clearly about the future.

A future that, for them, did not exist.

The queen woke early the next morning and refused to see anyone but Daniel. She’d lain awake all night thinking about what he said before he’d left her. He knew. He knew that George was his father. Charlotte must have told him.

Anne should have been the one to do it. He had a right to know, but she dreaded the task. He would leave, go off to Denmark to meet his royal relatives. Every year that she didn’t tell him made doing so even harder. She had to tell him now.

Unfortunately, he had left the palace before the sun rose and hadn’t yet returned. She thought of sending for Abigail, then decided against it. How much could she trust her niece? Not much, if the girl was anything like the hundreds of others who’d served Anne over the years. They all wanted something from her. None of them could be trusted. Charlotte was the best example of this. A friend for more than a decade, closer than a sister, and in the end, even Charlotte had her own agenda. To bear Daniel’s child and claim that the babe was royal.

Heavens, Davina Stuart was wise if she truly wanted no part of the monarchy. Why in blazes did Anne cling to it?

It was all she had left. What would she do if she were deposed and cast off to France? She supposed she could return to her childhood home, the Château de Colombes near Paris. Perhaps she could even reunite with her cousin Connor Stuart, who still resided in France. He’d always been kind to her, and Lord help her, but the last time she saw him, she decided he was quite possibly the most handsome man in the country. But what would he want with her? She couldn’t walk. She couldn’t bear any children, and she had lost her looks years ago. Not that she was ever a beauty like her niece, and probably her sister.

No. The throne was all she had. She had to protect it from Catholics. Hadn’t she forsaken her own father and stepmother because they clung to their outlawed religion? She’d given up so much. She couldn’t give up anything else.

With nothing else to do with her morning, and with no one she wanted to spend it with, she ordered her one-horse chaise be prepared for her. The single carriage gave her the freedom she so desired to move about without anyone’s aid. She often rode like one escaping the chasm of hell, speeding toward the light of something unseen—something that gave her what little joy she had left.

She waited quite patiently while her sedan chair was prepared and four of her servants carried her outside to her beloved chaise.

On the way out she saw Charlotte, but ignored her when the duchess offered her company. Her chaise was built for one. She was going to ask Lady Blackburn to leave the palace for good. But not now. Now, she wanted to run.

She wondered, while she was being secured into her cushioned seat and wrapping the reins tightly in her hands, where was her niece? Were Abigail and Daniel together? Something most surely had passed between them on their journey to England. Did Daniel care for Abigail MacGregor—a Jacobite? Finding out the truth about her last night had certainly sent him into a tailspin. Anne guessed it would have for anyone, but there was something else. They looked at each other like they shared deeper things than Daniel shared even with her, his queen. What if he had lost his heart to her? And what if losing his heart to Abigail took him from his duty? From her?

With the thought of her only true friend leaving her, Anne Stuart cracked her whip against her horse’s flank and took off in a flurry of curses and dust.

Usually, Anne stayed on her estates, but this morning she was especially reckless and careless, and after evading her guards, she rode off into the countryside to try to enjoy the day by herself.

She rode hard for over a quarter of an hour. The wind in her hair felt glorious and pulled tears from her eyes. It was the closest she had come to running in the last twelve years. She urged her horse to go faster, and leaving her troubles behind, she gave a shout and began to laugh.

Her delight quickly turned to terror when her horse collapsed suddenly and her chaise flew in midair over the fallen mount. She didn’t have time to scream as her body left her seat and landed with a sickening crunch on the ground. She didn’t stop rolling until she’d turned over six times, bones cracking beneath her. Finally she came to a complete stop and lay in the dirt for what seemed an eternity, until she heard another horse galloping toward her.

Help had arrived. Thank God, she managed a quick prayer and promised to pay whoever had come to her aid handsomely. She tried to move, but it was no use. So she waited, listening to her rescuer dismount.

“Yer Majesty,” came a lilting male voice. “So sorry I had to shoot yer horse, but I was aiming fer ye. Damn ye fer riding so swiftly.”

Anne swallowed back the sheer panic rising up in her throat. Who was it? She didn’t recognize the voice. Why? Why would he try to kill her?

She tried to ask him, but she couldn’t form the words. Her thoughts began to fade.

But not before he knelt down in front of her face and smiled. Beneath his leather tricorn hat, his dark eyes penetrated her very soul.

“Cameron MacPherson, Yer Majesty,” he introduced himself. “And this”—he grinned and pulled a pistol from his belt and pointed it at her face—“is only slightly personal.”