Chapter Eighteen

“Wait here,” Mara bade Ramsay, eyeing the cluster of cottages at the end of the loch. “Let me ride in alone.”

She fully expected another protest. Diarmad Ramsay had an annoying habit of thwarting her at every turn. Had he forgotten she had been sent as his guide? Aye, he tended to do so.

Except last night. They had shared most equally in what passed between them. All at once memory swamped her, complete with taste and sensation. Och, what a body the man had! And how swiftly the taste of him went to her head. Having had him, how was she to keep from wanting him again?

Determinedly, she banished that thought. She must concentrate on the matters at hand, which included keeping him safe—if she wanted to lie with him once more.

And she did—och, she did.

She shot a burning look at him where he sat his pony, his hair gleaming in the morning sun and his eyes holding the look of reserve she’d learned to expect from him. A man of conflicting impulses was Diarmad Ramsay; he wore that skepticism like a second coat, yet get him on his back with a woman’s mouth on him, and he flared brighter than fire.

By all the merciful powers, how was she to think about anything else? She might well ride down into danger, there below—or to her death.

Aye, well, and if she did, at least she could comfort herself with the knowledge she’d had Diarmad Ramsay first.

“Do not follow me down,” she insisted, “until I sign.”

He nodded. Resolutely, Mara turned her gaze from him and rode down the slope.

The clachan, no more than a group of four cottages, lay quiet. When Mara drew near enough, she saw a few hens pecked about the yards and smoke filtered up from the chimneys. If she did not err in her estimation of their location, this would be MacKenzie country. Would there be any men left, or just widows?

“Good morn!” she called in Gaelic as she rode down, and found her question answered as a man emerged from the nearest shieling. Tall and no doubt once strong of limb, he now bent to the weight of age. A snowy cap of hair topped his head, and he came leaning on a staff. But the eyes that regarded Mara looked quick and perceptive.

“Good morning, mistress,” he returned.

“What town is this?” she asked.

“Dunraer. You are on MacKenzie land. Alone are ye, lass?”

Mara ignored the query to pose another of her own. “Any soldiers about?” The way he answered that question should tell her something about his loyalties.

He tossed his head disdainfully. “No Sassenachs here—no’ yet.”

Indeed, she reflected; the English must not have come, for the buildings still stood whole.

“Have you heard what happened at Culloden?” she asked next.

“Aye, we hear more than you might suppose, even tucked away here.”

A woman appeared in the doorway of the cottage behind the old man, and another in that of the next cottage over.

Mara made sure to lift her voice so all might hear. “I would buy some breakfast, if you have any to spare—for myself and another.”

“Where? I see no other,” returned the old man.

“I dare no’ say, but he is an important person and vital to our Cause.”

The woman exclaimed softly; she and the elder conferred in rapid words, and then the woman called, “Your esteemed guest is most welcome to all we possess!”

That was the spirit, Mara thought. But could she trust the situation? Cautiously, she asked, “Where are your men?”

The woman pushed past the old fellow. “They ha’ no’ come back from the battle. Faith, I hoped you might be my husband come now. But others ha’ passed through, bringing news.”

Mara felt a weight on her heart; she knew this woman’s husband likely lay dead.

“If your companion be who we think,” the woman called, “go and tell him my house is his.”

“Thank you, mistress. I will bring him.”

Trust, Mara thought as she turned her mount and rode back up the hill. Dared she? The place appeared peaceful enough and its occupants sincere, but so had that other clachan back when Diarmad saved her from a terrible fate at the hands of those Sassenach soldiers. Death could lie within these cottages, and she worried not so much for herself but for Ramsay.

Somewhere during the night just past, Diarmad’s life had become more precious to her than her own.

Ramsay, still sitting his horse, met her with an inquiring blue-gray stare. “Well?”

“I think ’tis safe, and they already suspect your identity.”

He grumbled. “I wish I did not have this role to play.”

“But you have. Come along; perhaps we can learn something useful.”

What appeared to be all the occupants of the clachan awaited them below, standing out in the light. Mara hoped Diarmad’s slight loss of luster, his scruffy beard, and stolen boots would not spoil the illusion. His fine coat now bore a layer of dirt, and his hair, no less than hers, hung tangled.

But she had to admit, as they negotiated the slope side by side, he had the bearing of a true prince, head held high, expression composed. Ramsay played his role better than he knew.

And apparently he still appeared sufficiently impressive, for as they approached every head bowed. One or two of the women dropped into rough curtsies, and the old man lowered himself to one knee.

Ah, and Ramsay would not like that. But when she stole a look at him, he remained impassive.

“Welcome!” the old man quavered. “I am Alasdair MacKenzie. All we have, sire, is yours.”

Emotion clenched at Mara’s heart. Glancing again at Ramsay, she saw some of his stoicism chip away. How would he handle this?

He swung down from his horse and, bearing still regal, went to the old man.

“Arise, Alasdair MacKenzie. You have no call to kneel to me.”

“I ha’ every call, liege, if you be who I suppose.”

Ramsay met Alasdair’s fervent gaze. “No need, even so. You and your companions pay me all necessary homage with the loyalty in your hearts. Do we not all fight for this Cause together?”

Using his stick, Alasdair pushed to his feet. His gaze searched Ramsay’s face. “We heard you were on the run, Your Highness, and wi’ naught but a lass to guide ye. I hope you will rest here wi’ us a wee while. This is my son’s wife, Rona. My son went off to yon battle, and I wished right well I was not too old to go wi’ him!”

Emotions chased one another across Ramsay’s face. For a moment Mara wondered if they would prohibit speech. But he said, “I am honored indeed by your fierce, loyal heart. We would be grateful for any news you have. But we are pursued and would not bring harm down upon you and yours.”

“Na, na,” Alasdair responded, “do no’ fash yourself over that, my liege.” He turned to a lad standing nearby, who looked no more than ten. “Geordie, run up the brae and keep watch. Whistle if you see anyone come.”

The lad nodded and ran off, back up the way Mara and Ramsay had approached. Alasdair made a sweeping gesture of welcome toward the cottage.

“My Prince, come ye in!”

****

Alasdair and his son’s wife, Rona, left their cottage door open to the bright day. But so many people gathered there to peer in they nearly blocked the light. The interior of the cottage—small and humble—revealed clear signs of want, which made what its occupants had to relate even more incredible.

“Thirty thousand pound,” Alasdair announced in his quavering voice. “That is the price the English have put on your bonny head, my liege. Can ye imagine it?”

Diarmad scarcely could, any more than back in the cave when MacNeal had brought word of the bounty offered for Charles Edward. Who could conceive of so much money? And how could folk, especially folk in such straits as these, resist that prize, especially when their loyalty had already cost them so dear in the lives of their husbands and sons?

“But do ye no’ bother yoursel’,” Alasdair immediately assured him. “None here shall betray you. We would no’ dream on it, would we, Rona?”

“Nay, indeed.” Rona edged closer and offered Diarmad a plate of oatcakes, likely all she had in the house. He hesitated to deprive her of her small store, then thought about her pride in later telling how she had served her Prince the product of her own hands.

“Thank you, mistress.”

She blushed. Seeing the pure worship in her eyes, Diarmad had to look away.

“Pray tell me what other news you have,” he bade Alasdair.

“We ha’ seen waves o’ men that survived yon battle pass through—none o’ our own yet. They bring word from others they ha’ met. That is how we learned of the price on your royal head. But”—Alasdair’s rheumy eyes widened—“’tis said you are everywhere! In the east heading for Dunbar, in the west hopping among the islands.”

“Well, I am here now. My guide thought to circle around to the north and perhaps shake the hounds from our tails.”

“A wise course, if you ask me, my Prince! There is an old cattle trail that leads from the north. I could show ye how to pick it up when you are ready to leave us.”

“But do no’ go yet,” Rona beseeched.

“Aye so,” Alasdair agreed heartily. “Our roof is yours for as long as ye wish.”

Diarmad thought about what had happened the last time they paused in such a place as this and shook his head.

“Honored as I may be by your hospitality, your safety means more to me than my own. I cannot linger here and endanger you and yours. When those who follow us arrive, you must say you have not seen us.” He looked to the door where the others stood listening. “Do you all promise me, most solemnly?”

They nodded, their eyes like stars. Diarmad felt a rush of mingled love and sadness. Surely Highland hearts proved too loyal for their own good.

“We should indeed move on, my liege,” Mara whispered.

Rona murmured in protest, but Alasdair got to his feet at once. “You may rely upon our silence!”

“Thank you.” Again Diarmad swept the avid faces with his gaze. “Thank you all. Master MacKenzie, will you show us this trail before we go?”

“I will, if you can bear with me, sire. I am no’ so spry as I used to be.”

Diarmad arose also and turned to Rona. Gallantly, he clasped her hand. “I am humbled to my heart, mistress, by your kind welcome. And I trust your husband will come home safe to you soon.”

Even as he spoke the words he knew them to be futile. He could see like knowledge in Rona MacKenzie’s eyes, yet she held her head proudly and said, “It makes it all better, my liege, for having met ye.”

Was that true? Could it be? Diarmad thought of what the sum of thirty thousand pounds sterling might mean to these folks and quailed at such sacrifice.

“Scotland will never go down to defeat,” he declared, “so long as it contains such stout hearts as yours.”

Old Alasdair lit with joy. “Come, sire, and let me show you the way to safety.”

Back outside, the beautiful day enfolded them. Diarmad could see the lad, Geordie, silhouetted on the height and raised an arm to him in salute. The lad returned the gesture.

Would Geordie also store this memory as a precious thing and someday tell his bairns about the time he stood guard for his Prince? And if so, did it truly matter that Diarmad was not the real Charles Stuart? The memory would be just as valid, as was the matchless spirit of these people.

“Thank you all,” he said in parting, “and may God bless.”

He and Mara, leading their mounts, followed old Alasdair around the end of the loch and up the opposite height, a trip made ponderous and difficult by the old man’s gait. Indeed, Alasdair’s breathing became labored before he paused and showed them the beginnings of two paths.

“There is the cattle trail, my liege. ’Tis a good route north and south. Cattle traders—and thieves—ha’ been using it for time out of mind. The other path goes on up over the hills and makes a difficult way indeed. I used to take it trapping and hunting when I was a young man. Both lead north, but the weather will catch you on the heights, when it comes.”

“Thank you, Master MacKenzie. I would have you turn your back on us now so you will not have to lie if soldiers come after us, asking.”

The old man’s face contorted with emotion. “No matter, my liege. I would give my life gladly to spare yours.”

Humility hit Diarmad so hard he could not speak. Had the true Charles Edward—wherever he was—experienced this? Diarmad only hoped so.

“It has been an honor!” Alasdair declared.

And Diarmad returned, “Nay, for the honor has been all mine.”

He and Mara took the path to the heights, knowing the old man stood stiff with dignity and watched them out of sight.