From inside her bedroom, Beth heard Fletcher’s voice. She had given Posie strict orders she was not to be disturbed by anyone, not even the laird himself.
Since locking herself in her room a short time ago, Beth had taken out her anger and misery on her clothing and her previously damaged bonnet. The dress she had carefully selected yesterday lay in a heap in the corner where she’d thrown it. The discarded pile included her undergarments, from chemise to hosiery. She wanted nothing in her sight that would remind her of last night’s leisurely, romantic disrobing. She had bathed and pulled on a cotton robe, then tried to write in her journal. But she splattered the ink and finally crushed the paper and tossed it in the direction of her clothes.
Oddly, tears wouldn’t come. Her mind was crystal clear, just when she would have liked to have no memory, no thoughts, no feelings. Fletcher’s face, his words of love, his commitment to their future haunted her and finally set her to pacing around the room and muttering to herself. How could he? If he hated the English so much, why didn’t he merely insist she marry his father and allow that rascal to ruin her instead of doing it himself? Her cheeks burned. On the other hand, Fletcher had appeared to enjoy his vengeful game. She hugged her arms around her. If Red had forced his way with her, her body might have been ravaged and her life ruined, but she could have kept her heart and soul intact.
At the sound of Fletcher’s voice she froze for an instant. Had he come to humiliate her further? To make a scene and announce her fall into sin to anyone at Strathmor who would listen? Red Mackinnon would be delighted that his jest had worked so beautifully, and no doubt he would crow to his clansmen that the Englishwoman had been used and sent scurrying back to England. What was Uncle Percy’s part in the scheme? Possibly he thought the marriage was legal. That was what he wanted: her marriage to a Mackinnon. Would he tuck his tail and take her to Berkshire? Or would he try to force her to wed someone, anyone, just to get rid of her?
Fletcher knocked heavily on her door.
“Leave me alone,” she said hoarsely.
“Elizabeth, you must allow me to speak to you.”
His voice, low and pleading, sent pain rocketing through her. She steadied herself by gripping the bedpost and glared at the door.
“Elizabeth, I’d like to speak quietly. But if I have to shout my explanation, I will do so.”
He had a point. No use everyone within hearing distance learning the details of her disgrace. Clutching the neck of her robe, she crossed to the door and opened the bolt, then moved quickly to stand as far away as possible.
Fletcher pushed into the bedroom, then gently closed the door behind him. His face was flushed and his eyes blazing. “I’ve heard about MacNeill. I am as devastated as you, Elizabeth,” he rasped.
“Is that so? I doubt it.”
“You must believe me. I thought our marriage was legal. I was insane, I know, to trust Red, but I swear to you: I thought we were man and wife.”
She scoured his face, searching for any sign of duplicity. She saw none, only a look of sincere concern. Her mind told her not to trust him, to send him away until she could collect herself. But her heart battled against the practicality of that idea. She wanted to believe him. “I find it hard to comprehend that you didn’t know Angus MacNeill was a crofter rather than a minister. Your father knew, and Skye is your home. You’ve been to the church in Kylerhae. Why didn’t you know MacNeill’s status?”
“I did question my father, if you recall. Remember, I have spent most of my time at Edinburgh these past years. I had a recollection of MacNeill standing up at the kirk and praying at great length. The night I arrived from Edinburgh, things were in such a muddle—so many people, so much confusion—I simply accepted Red’s insistence that MacNeill could conduct the marriage. I would have made certain we signed papers the next day, but since we planned to annul the vows at the earliest opportunity, I gave the matter no further thought. And then, at Ruthie’s...”
“Yes? At Ruthie’s?”
“I knew how much I loved you. Wanted you and needed you in my life.” He closed half the space between them. “Elizabeth, I give you my solemn oath, on whatever heritage you choose: I would never have taken you to bed if I had known we were not married.”
His eyes were heavy with emotion. If he was lying, he was very expert at it.
She lifted her chin. “I’m inclined to accept your explanation, though I suppose I’m being as naive as you once described me.”
He stepped closer. The late afternoon light from the window washed over him, emphasizing the sharp planes of his face. “Your naiveté was intertwined with your innocent and trusting nature. I used the word only with affection.” His brow furrowed. “I have made a total mess of things, I admit. But Elizabeth, I honor you, respect and love you.” His voice lowered. “My sweet Beth, I am in love with you, and I will put things right between us.”
“Oh? Doesn’t it seem a bit too late for that?”
“Nay. We can marry tomorrow at the magistrate’s office. We’ll take our vows once more and sign the papers. I’ll try to persuade the official to keep quiet, on pain of retribution from the laird. No one will know about the delay. Except Red himself, whom I intend to confront personally as soon as I find him. His subterfuge, and the reason for it, will be explained in full. Or I’ll drag it from him at the point of a knife.”
She gazed at him for a time, thinking, considering, allowing her heart to settle into a more natural rhythm. She could see he was sincerely disturbed. She believed him. But she was shaken to her core. At last she said softly, “Fletcher, I accept your explanation.”
“Thank God.” He started to embrace her.
She moved away. “No. Things happen for a reason. You might call it fate. I’m not sure why we’ve had this experience—brought together after so many years, falling in love, then being torn apart—but I’ve learned one lesson: Caution is a wise course.”
“But you know I love you.”
“I know you care deeply for me. As I do for you.”
“Then why—”
“Fletcher, my time on Skye has been brief and filled with turmoil. I made a decision yesterday to stay with you, to change the course of my life. I thought we were married and I decided to honor our vows.”
His arms fell to his sides. He stiffened perceptively. “And now?”
“Now we have something we didn’t have before. Time to consider the consequences of our union.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We’re not married. Red knows it, and Uncle Percy will soon know it. I was planning to go to England at any rate. I will go there and take care of unfinished business. I need time to think things through, calmly and with a clear head.”
He studied her, his face expressionless.
“If you consider it, this is a wise course for both of us.”
“Will you return to Skye? Or will I be forced to come to England? I assure you, Elizabeth, I don’t intend to lose you.”
His firmness almost made her weaken, but she mustered her courage. “The coronation is set for July 19th. I will be extremely busy until then. After that I will write to you, and perhaps we will meet.”
He took a deep breath. “I respect your decision and deserve this punishment for my mistake. But my darling girl, my life will be hell until I hear from you.”
She felt tears burn behind her eyes. “You’ll have time to think. So will I. I don’t expect I’ll be staying at Berkshire much longer. Once I have extricated myself from that unpleasant situation, we will meet—sometime, somewhere. I’ll have to see what happens once I’m home.”
His eyes were bleak, but he nodded. “Very well. If you insist.”
“You’d better go now,” she said, as her determination ebbed.
“When will you leave Strathmor?” he asked woodenly.
“Not today. It’s too late. And I’m exhausted. You can return to your friends’ wedding. Tomorrow we’ll speak again. I’ll tell you my plans then.”
A sudden breeze swept in from the open window. A cloud passed in front of the sun, and distant thunder rolled from far out at sea.
Fletcher was lost in shadow. He stood very still for several seconds. Then he reached for her hand and raised it to his lips. Bending his head, he pressed a lingering kiss into her palm, then grasped her hand in his. In the fading light, she heard his husky words: “My love. Never will you find a heart more true than mine.” He spun on his heels and walked toward the door.
Beth couldn’t see his exit for the tears spilling into her eyes.
* * * *
Percy observed Red Mackinnon from his chair before the roaring log fire. He enjoyed relaxing in its warmth after a brisk day of riding the moors and highlands of Skye. The two men had completed a late repast at Red Mackinnon’s table and now sipped excellent Scotch porter from sizable pewter goblets. Percy couldn’t have been more satisfied with the way things were going. Soon he and Mackinnon would take their separate paths to England; he was rid of that thorn in his side, Elizabeth; and before the end of July he would have won a noble title for himself and any progeny he might produce in years to come.
Only one minor detail disturbed Percy. “I say, Mackinnon, have the happy couple signed the legal documents yet? First my niece takes to her bed with a cold, then the offices are closed for the festivities. I’ll soon be off to England, with you to follow shortly. I want to be sure Elizabeth is firmly entrenched on Skye under the control of your son.”
Red pulled himself from his overstuffed chair and picked up the poker from the hearth. While causing sparks to fly from the logs, he answered Percy in a tone that was heavily slurred by hours of imbibing. “Doona concern yourself with the matter, my friend. I’m sure Fletcher will see to the signing promptly. I understand from Elizabeth’s maid that the couple spent last night together after a wedding celebration. I myself saw them making eyes at each other during the fair yesterday.” He quaffed his drink and turned back to refill his tankard. “But I’ll speak to Fletcher tomorrow and make certain all the legalities are in order before I leave for England.”
Percy relaxed and crossed his legs. “See that you do, sir. I want no question about my niece’s position on Skye as wife to the next laird. That was part of our bargain, you recall.”
“I do recall. I consider my son a lucky mon to have such a charming and beautiful bride. If she had been half so fair when I first saw her, the lass would be warming my bed instead of Fletcher’s.”
Percy stifled a yawn. What did he care who bedded the headstrong girl? He was rid of her, and he had his assassin and scapegoat ready to travel to England. Croydon would be delighted and most certainly in his debt. King George would secretly award Croydon for arranging Queen Caroline’s death, and Croydon would be obligated to fulfill his promise to raise Percy to noble status.
He swirled the drink and addressed his host: “Do you have a plan in mind for your, ah... job in London?”
“Not until I see where the woman is situated—what sort of protection has been provided for her. I’ll study her movements for a few days, then decide the cleverest way to do her in.”
Percy said, “When Queen Caroline returned from Italy, she took a house in Hammersmith near the water. She often goes abroad in public and does everything she can to incite the commoners to rally to her cause. She is aging, obese, and often careless about traveling in mixed crowds. She should be easy pickings for a man who has made his way among savages and scoundrels in the American West.”
“Aye. Sounds like child’s play.” He shook a finger toward Percy. “But I’ll want the money that very day. Also a guarantee of safe passage back to Skye. No doubt the king will have to put up some public show of finding the assassin.”
Hmm, Percy thought, so Mackinnon wasn’t as stupid as he looked. “Oh, absolutely,” he hastened. “I give you my word of honor. And in addition, I’ll introduce you privately to the earl of Croydon, who is furnishing the funds and will insure your escape. My only regret is that the necessity for secrecy will prevent your own people on Skye from knowing of your heroic measures on their behalf. Killing Queen Caroline will surely save them from future encroachment by English land grabbers.”
“Ye’re certain of that?” Red’s speech was even more garbled. Despite his capacity for drink, he was plainly feeling the effects of his last substantial mug of porter.
Percy leaned forward. “I have it on excellent authority that Caroline has every intention of sending troops to occupy the Highlands the very minute she’s crowned queen. She’s coveted Scotland for years. She swears every Scot should be a slave to English rule and be forced to join the Church of England—or be shipped off to work in the colonies.”
Red leaped to his feet. “Bloody bitch!” he cried. “I’ll kill her with pleasure, whatever the risk to my person. Someday history will record that Finlay Mackinnon was the savior of the Highlands. I’ll be ranked along with Red Hector and Big Duncan and Rorie More once the story is out.” He tottered to the fireplace, lifted a massive claymore from the mantel, and waved it overhead. “Here’s to the Mackinnons, to the chieftain of the Isles, to the bravest laird in the Highlands!”
Percy rose and raised his own goblet. “Here, here! I’ll drink a toast any day to the magnificent Finlay Mackinnon.” He downed his drink and started to reach for more but fell backward into his chair. He would have liked to stomp around the hall as Red was now doing, but his legs wouldn’t hold him. He watched the hefty Scotsman pace from one end of the room to the other, slashing with his sword, pausing only briefly to take another gulp from his tankard.
Now Red began singing at the top of his lungs. It was a warrior’s song, and his enthusiasm made up for his lack of tone or talent.
Percy could only watch in a haze of fascination as Red drunkenly climbed the stairs and marched along the landing above. Here the laird grabbed a tartan banner from its stand and wafted it in the air while shouting a battle slogan in incoherent Gaelic.
From his seat, Percy lifted his drink in another toast and swallowed it as swiftly as he was able. When he looked again, Red had disappeared, and a sudden breeze from a doorway above indicated that the man had gone outside to the battlement overlooking the exterior courtyard. Percy could hear his shouted song drifting in the blustery night wind off the sea. The laird of Mackinnon knew how to work himself into a fever pitch of patriotic fervor.
The song’s sudden halt, followed by a scream of terror, brought Percy to his feet. He shook his head to clear the dizziness from his brain and staggered to the front door, dropping his empty goblet in his haste.