Chapter Twenty-Five

A doleful situation, and no mistake. Diarmad Ramsay, watching the dawn creep in over the windowsill of his small prison, fought the despair that gripped him. Cold to the bone, he believed this one battle he must lose.

Well, Da, he spoke to his father in his mind, it has come to this. Whether as the Prince or as his ally, I will meet wi’ death. A wide, dark river it seems, from where I stand, though one you ha’ crossed before me. Will you be waiting for me after the axe descends?

The hairs stood up on the back of his neck at the thought, though his father gave no reply. Had Diarmad truly expected one? Scowling, he made a determined account of his scanty arsenal of weapons. He had his wits, and little more. But he and Mara MacIvor still lived, and she made a formidable weapon in any situation—a bit heedless and headlong, perhaps, yet just thinking on her heartened him. He had already determined if but one of them survived this it should be she. He would say and do whatever he must, lie and bend his honor to assure it if he could.

He did not know that he could, but it brought to mind another possible advantage: the doubts which the king’s agent, Dwight, clearly harbored about MacNeal. Well, what right-thinking man of any nationality would not doubt that blackguard? Dwight must have some decent instincts to which he might ultimately listen.

And the Prince—the true Prince, presumably—had been sighted in the area. Should he be seen once again while Diarmad and Mara MacIvor remained in Dwight’s hands, then that should provide further doubt.

Diarmad frowned still harder while staring at the new morning. Of course, it might not be the true Prince who had been seen. Other teams like his had been sent out as decoys. If he and Mara had gone astray, so might they.

He would gladly sacrifice another set of imposters in order to get Mara free. The capture of a second team might accomplish that—as would the capture of the true Prince.

And when it came to it, Diarmad would sooner sacrifice the safety of that benighted royal than others like himself who merely sought to do their duty at the cost of their own lives.

Aye, and what did that make of his honor? If he bent it now and failed to protect the accursed Charles Edward, did that violate the promise he had made to his father? For his honor might be bent but not broken yet.

His father’s spirit did not need to appear before him; Diarmad knew what he would say: Play the game through to the end. Convince them you are Charles Edward and buy our true Prince more time to get safe away. During your journey to Windsor, aye, and even to the block, he may well get away to France.

Sacrifice. His father had made that at Culloden. And honor bound as he was, Diarmad should be willing to follow his example.

He was. But cursed if he would take the courageous Mara MacIvor with him.

Nay, if he fought on—if he continued to lie and resist—it would be for her sake, not his own.

****

“Stand there, sir.”

Dwight snapped the order from behind his breakfast table where he lounged at apparent ease. Diarmad had been hauled into the dining room by a passel of three guards and stood before him like an errant child.

Still for all that, Dwight’s uncertainty made another presence in the room. The man did not know what to make of Diarmad and so must have decided to employ intimidation.

The isolation of the night just past had been intended to further that, as was Dwight’s lordly attitude now. Would the true Charles Edward wilt under such circumstances? Hard to tell.

Sick as Diarmad’s stomach felt with anger and honest fear, the breakfast spread on the table smelled tempting. The landlady’s fine dinner seemed all too long ago.

Act on Mara’s behalf, he told himself, and the Prince be hanged.

“Where is my wife?” he demanded.

“Your wife, is it? You mean the trollop who may carry your royal seed?”

“She is my wife, and though many generations of stout Scotsmen stand behind me, there is naught royal in my blood.”

“MacNeal says there is.”

“MacNeal is obviously a rogue who has his eye fixed on the head price laid on the Prince.” Diarmad lifted his head. “He has naught to do wi’ me.”

Dwight examined him with cold, gray eyes the way a surgeon might probe a wound. “Where were you married?”

“The priest at Runfrel. Send one of your men to ask him, if you will.” Or better, do not. Diarmad had never been to Runfrel and did not know if a priest dwelt there or not.

“And why were you wearing the Stuart tartan?”

“Wedding finery is no’ so easy to come by these days. Those things were lent to me—which is why the plaid does no’ match the kilt.”

“And the jacket?” The gray eyes narrowed. “’Tis a fancy garment, that, for a Highland bridegroom.”

“Lent also. It pleased my wife, though.” Diarmad allowed himself a scowl. “I doubt it does now. I demand to be reunited with her at once.”

“You demand? Sounds like a prince, that.”

Diarmad drew a breath. “You have no right or cause to keep us apart, and us newly wed.”

Dwight tapped his clean-shaven chin with one long finger. “I will admit you looked like newlyweds when we burst in upon you. But there may still be cause for arrest.”

“Cause? What cause?”

“Those weapons you and your purported wife carry, for one—it is not permitted.”

“Not permitted for Highland men, perhaps. Does the decree include women?”

“It includes all! Besides, she attacked me; I could take her away with us for that, with or without you.”

Diarmad’s heart fell.

“Best, I think, to take all of you back to Windsor on the strength of my suspicions and let the authorities there sort it out.”

“What of our wedding journey?”

Dwight sneered. “The most unlikely aspect of all. Who would take such a journey in this climate?”

Ignoring the listening guards, Diarmad leaned toward the king’s agent. “My wife had her heart set on it—a short sail to the islands, which is why we are here. Sir, you ha’ met my wife, a woman of some… determination.”

“Indeed.”

“I did no’ like to disappoint her.”

“Then, sir, you are a fool.”

“Perhaps so, sir.” Diarmad fixed his gaze on Dwight’s. Forgive me, Da, he beseeched inwardly. “But I swear to you, I am not Charles Edward Stuart.”

Was that a flash of capitulation in the man’s eyes? Diarmad could not tell.

“I will speak again with MacNeal,” he said, “and make my decision.”

“Aye, but only let me be confined with my wife. ’Tis cruel indeed to keep us apart.”

Dwight’s lips twisted bitterly. He spoke to one of his men. “Put him in the chamber with the woman, but double the guard. Bring me the other prisoner; this will not take long.”

Diarmad’s spirits lifted slightly. Surely if Dwight truly suspected him he would not grant such a favor. And just the thought of being with Mara gladdened him.

He followed the guards without word or protest. They had shut Mara into a tiny side room on the ground floor—not so much a chamber as a cupboard. She sprang up when the door opened and Diarmad stepped in.

Only one small window, high up in the wall, admitted any light. It showed him the worried expression in Mara’s eyes, as well as unmistakable signs that the indomitable Mara MacIvor had spent at least part of the night in weeping.

No sooner did the door close behind Diarmad than she threw herself into his arms. “Och, by heaven, are you all right?”

She clutched him so fiercely he could barely answer. Unexpected emotion rose to choke him. The hard lump that had rested all night near his heart abruptly melted.

“I am. And you?”

“I scarcely know. I ha’ been worried half out o’ my mind that they had taken you away, and me shut in here never to see you again.”

She drew back just far enough to look into his eyes. Hers were awash with tears. “I ha’ never been so frightened.”

“Ah, now, Mara, I would no’ have you worry for me.”

“I can seem to do naught else.”

He saw her lips tremble and, driven by impulse, stilled them with his own. Her emotions leaped at him: terror, uncertainty, longing, and something far sharper that mirrored his own feelings. The kiss, intended to comfort, swiftly became far more.

But Diarmad hauled himself up; this made no time for passion, though each time he touched this woman the flames leaped higher.

“List now,” he said as she clung to him. “We may no’ have much time together. Even now Dwight questions MacNeal and may well speak wi’ you next. Mara, lass, you maun deny everything.”

Her gaze met his once more, and he wondered what he saw in her eyes. Aye, he knew this woman now, with her fierce, loyal heart. Could he count on her to betray her adored Prince?

“Deny?” she echoed.

“I ha’ just come from the man’s presence and have him half convinced we are naught more than the newlyweds we claim. You maun say the same, lass. I told him the clothes I carry are wedding finery lent to me, and that we were wed by a priest in Runfrel. You must say the very same, or he will never believe us.”

Thoughts chased one another through her hazel eyes. He guessed what words she would say even before she uttered them. “But surely ’twould benefit the Prince more should we let these soldiers haul us off to Windsor.”

Diarmad tensed. “It might.”

“And surely ’tis what we promised our fathers—yours and mine—we would do. Anything we could, to spare the Prince’s life.”

“Aye, Mara; my honor lies in chains to the promise I gave my father on his deathbed. And while that may include offering my neck to the axe, I cannot bring mysel’ to risk yours.” Why should this woman, glowing with life and courage, sacrifice herself for the sake of a man who had withdrawn from the field of battle even while his supporters died?

Diarmad’s loyalties had become impossibly twisted. He suspected Mara, far more straightforward, would choose a different course, and he did not know how to persuade her otherwise.

But her eyes once more filled with tears; she reached up and trapped his face between her hands.

“I do no’ wish to see you die, Diarmad Ramsay, not in Windsor or any other place. May God—may my da!—forgive me.”

He kissed her, unable to resist the sweetness of it. Her lips clung and molded to his and her emotions rushed at him still more intensely, not passion this time but something strong as a pledge.

Stronger than the promises they had made to those they loved?

Diarmad had no time to contemplate the question. From beyond their prison came a sudden commotion, raised voices, and someone calling for Master Dwight.

Mara MacIvor stopped kissing Diarmad and stared into his eyes. “What is that?”

Diarmad shook his head. “I do no’ ken, lass, but you’d better begin hoping for a miracle.”