Stuart, Elizabeth (23 page)

Evan
sat up in bed, clasping Francis's arm urgently. "I don't want to be a
coward, sir. There's nothing worse! Tell me how I can learn not to be afraid.
And, please, sir... please don't tell my father!"

Francis
put a comforting arm about the boy's shoulder, drawing him into the shelter of
his arms. "Being a man doesn't mean you're never afraid, Evan," he
said quietly. "Only a fool is never afraid—and fools don't live long. Fear
can be good if it makes a man canny."

"But
you're not afraid of anything."

Francis
smiled into the darkness, carefully weighing his words. "At risk of
disillusioning you lad, I'll tell you I'm oft afraid."

"I
don't believe you," Evan said suspiciously. "You're just saying that.
You never act scared!"

"Ah,
but how a man acts is a whole different subject now, lad. What a man feels and
how he acts are often separate matters. A man may oft be afraid, but he bears
himself proudly and doesn't let his enemies know. You're not a coward, lad—not
by a long shot," Francis said bracingly. "You felt nothing your
father and MacGregor didn't feel. They've just had more practice at covering up
the signs of fear."

"You
really think my father was afraid?"

"I'm
sure he was—a little. I'd have been, in his shoes. You men were in a damned
tight spot!"

"But
how can I learn not to act afraid," Evan persisted. "I'd like to be
like Father next time... or even Will."

"Please
God, there won't be a next time. At least not like that!" Francis said
with a laugh. "Evan, you've a lot of promise, but you can't expect to have
the control of a man full grown by age ten. As the years go by, you'll handle
what life brings you, and one day you'll wake up and find yourself a man
without ever knowing how it came about. Remember, fear can be good if it makes
a man shrewd. The danger comes if he allows it to grow and take control."

Evan
sat quietly digesting the information. "Well, I think I acted brave enough
when the English were about," he said finally. "Deep down I knew
you'd get us out." His small arms went around Francis's neck and he leaned
his head trustingly against Francis's chest with a sigh. "I knew you
wouldn't let Glenkennon win. I told myself that over and over again in the dark
when everyone else was asleep."

Francis
pressed his face against the boy's hair, holding him tightly while he struggled
with a surge of guilt. How could he have found pleasure in Anne Randall's arms
these last weeks while this small lad waited so trustingly in the hell of that
notorious prison? How could he have forgotten his kinsmen, even for a moment,
while he schemed to keep Anne from returning to Glenkennon?

With
a final hug, he pushed the boy down onto his pillow and tucked the covers
around his shoulders. "Go to sleep now, lad," he said, rising from
the bed.

"Oh,
sir, you can close the curtain now," Evan said sleepily. "I think you
were right about the light."

"Aye,
lad."

Once
outside the door, Francis paused, reflecting on the wisdom it must take to be a
father. He remembered his own father well and marveled at the man's patience
and his understanding of the knotty problems facing a boy forced into manhood
early by the violence of his day. Suddenly, he felt a longing for his sire's
rich wisdom in a way he had not in years. What decision would Colin MacLean
have made in his position?

Francis
had done what he had to do in bartering Anne for the freedom of his kinsmen.
His people were his first consideration; there had been no other choice. Yet
there was no relief in that decision, no lightening of the ache in his chest.
He sighed heavily, wanting his father's counsel or, even more, the gentle
understanding of his mother.

As
a boy, he had carried his hurts to her, and she had patched them up using her
healing arts not only on the cuts and scrapes inevitable to an enterprising lad
but on his wounded pride and faltering ego as well. She had been his trusted
confidante, an infallible being who always knew what to do.

Katherine
MacPhearson MacLean had loved her husband and family with all her heart, and
she had borne the tragedies life dealt her with a quiet dignity and an
unshakable faith in the Almighty. She had seen the death of three of her
offspring, two at birth and another in his first year of life. She had borne even
the death of her husband in a manner that put Francis's own actions to shame.
It was Lady MacLean who had ordered the defenses of Camereigh and repulsed the
Campbell attack while the eighteen-year-old Francis stood in shock beside the
mangled corpse of his father. She had comforted him, he remembered, instead of
requiring the comfort and support of her devastated son.

He
shook his head silently at the memory. Yes, she would have understood what he
was feeling and would have had a word of comfort. But he was a man now, and his
family and clan depended on him for wisdom. He prayed to God that he would have
enough of it.

The
gentlemen were still sitting in conversation when he opened the door. "Has
that pesky boy of mine been plaguing the life out of you, Francis? I was on the
verge of sending Will to rescue you from his infernal questions," James
Cameron said with a smile.

"Not
at all. Evan's a fine lad 'Tis pure pleasure for me to have him about."
Francis glanced toward Will. "You've two find lads. They're a credit to
your house."

Will
flushed bright red at such unexpected praise from his idol, but Jamie only
smiled and laid a hand on his son's arm. "Aye, Francis, 'tis proud I am of
all my children, including the girls back home." He raised an eyebrow.
"But I'd say 'tis time and past you were setting up your own nursery and
praising sons of your own."

"But
we'll have to find him a wife first," Will teased.

Colen
MacKenzie choked on his ale, but Francis only smiled at the boy. "That's
not always the case, lad. Has your father not talked with you man to man?"

Will
acknowledged the hit with a rueful grin, then pursed his lips into a prudish
line. "Of course I'd know nothing of such things, but Mother's suggested
that's desirable."

Cameron
turned from his son with an indulgent grin. "Speaking of wenches,
Francis—tell us, what thought you of Glenkennon's girl? The talk in Edinburgh
is that she's wondrous fair. I'm sure the gentle Robert was in a quake knowing,
as he must, your penchant for the lassies."

There
was an almost imperceptible stiffening along Francis's spine. He turned,
pouring himself a draught of whiskey from the flask on the table. In the sudden
quiet, Donald cast a frown at Cameron, then quickly dropped his eyes.

Francis
studied the amber liquid sparkling in his glass. "She's wondrous fair,
easily the fairest woman of my acquaintance," he said smoothly. "And
no faint-hearted English lass either. She does her MacDonnell blood credit...
though little good it'll do her in Glenkennon's house." He tossed off half
the drink, then moved to the window, staring out into the night. Donald
deliberately began another subject, and the conversation floated easily around
the men once more.

After
a few moments, Colen MacKenzie heaved himself out of his comfortable chair,
smothering a ponderous yawn. "Well, lads, James and me must be up betimes
if we're to reach Shieldaig by tomorrow next. We bid you good rest now and
sweeter dreams than you've had in many a night."

Francis
rose with the MacKenzies. "I'll say good night, too, and see to my men. We
may have word from our patrols. If you've need of anything, Donald will see to
it. Sleep well."

Francis
escaped the confines of the room gladly, breathing in the sweet night air while
he made his way across the battlements. The wretched moon was pouring out its
silvery radiance in a repeat performance of the previous evening. He had no
doubt that should he walk the beach, the dancing waves would again curl
refreshingly about his feet and the stars above would twinkle just as brightly
as they had the night before. Only one thing would be different— Anne would not
be beside him.

He
swore softly into the darkness, clenching his fists atop the wall in an effort
to get hold of himself. He was acting like a besotted schoolboy, he told himself
disgustedly. He must keep his mind on other matters.

"Did'y
call, sir?" a familiar voice questioned.

"No,"
Francis snapped. "That is... Dugall. I was looking for you. How goes the
night?"

"All's
quiet. Nothing's stirred save a few deer that ventured into the meadow."

The
two men stood quietly, peering out into the moonlight. "He'll not come
tonight," Francis said softly. "Glenkennon's too canny. He knows I'd
be ready for him now."

"There
be no tellin' what that devil'll do," Dugall replied sourly. "Why for
all we know he could as easily be snug between the covers at Ranleigh as out
there in the dark."

Francis
stared into the shadows of the nearby wood as if his eyes could truly pierce
the darkness. "He's out there all right; I can feel it," he said with
an eerie assurance. "He wants me badly, but he'll take no risk till he's
sure he can't lose."

The
old soldier felt the hairs prickle along the back of his neck. There was some
what said young MacLean had the Sight, others that he dealt in witchcraft, so canny
was he in anticipating the moves of his enemies. He squinted back into the
night, wondering what the laird really did see.

With
a few hastily issued orders, Francis retired to his chamber. The room had never
seemed so uninviting as it appeared now in the flickering light of a single
candle. Shrugging out of his clothes, he threw himself wearily onto the great,
curtained bed. He had spent a day exhausting to body and mind and had not had a
wink of sleep the night before.

Staring
up into the darkness of the velvet canopy, he wondered where Anne was camped
for the night. Was she wide awake and thinking of him—or had she already
dismissed him from her mind? Her thoughts of him would not be kind. He had hurt
her deliberately, thinking she would get over him more quickly. There would be
nothing she might romanticize and regret. Anger would soon take away the sting
of her loss—but what would help him?

He
thought again of the words of James MacKenzie. He'd had no other choice. The
life of an outlaw was not for a woman. God's blood, it was scarcely one for a
man! But was the life Glenkennon planned for her so much better?

He
ground his teeth in frustration at thought of Anne married to a man such as
Percy Campbell or the sniveling Howard laird. Well, if the worst came, and she
were endangered, he could always snatch her back. His sources kept him well
informed of the happenings at Ranleigh.

But
did he have the right to endanger the well-being of the entire MacLean clan?
His thoughts swam hazily and his head ached with a vengeance. There seemed to
be no satisfactory answers to the questions crowding his mind. He closed his
eyes against the pounding in his head, and sleep mercifully overcame him.

***

True
to her brother's prophecy, Janet arrived at Camereigh just after noon the next
day. Her party was sighted by the watchful patrols, so that the Camerons were
lined up in the courtyard when she entered its narrow gate.

Never
had she seen a more beautiful sight! Her eyes flickered over her tall sons
anxiously, then came to rest on the gaunt, pale face of her husband. His brown
hair was long and in woeful need of a trimming, but the piercing gray eyes
beneath his shaggy mop were the same as she had loved these fifteen years.

She
slowed her mount, and Jamie stepped forward, his powerful arms sweeping her
from the saddle before the animal came to a halt. All the anguish and
uncertainty of the past month faded as she lost herself in his arms.

Releasing
Janet reluctantly from his crushing embrace, Jamie smiled at her. "Come love,
you musn't weep over us." He brushed a tear from her cheek. "I'm
afraid the boys won't like it above half."

"Oh..."
she gasped. "I... I didn't mean to cry."

He
gave her shoulder an understanding squeeze, turning her to greet their sons.
Evan flung himself into her arms, but stopped short of letting her make a fuss
over him in the presence of the men of Camereigh.

Will
hung back shyly. "Hello, Mother," he said, but his heart was in his
eyes. "It's good to see you."

She
stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek, gazing at him through tear-drenched eyes.
"It's good to see you again, too—all of you."

Turning
to her brother, she searched for words. "How can I ever thank you,
Francis?" she asked unsteadily.

"By
keeping this bunch of reivers out of mischief."

"But..."

He
cut short her thanks by putting an arm around her and sweeping her up the
stairs in advance of her family, calling for refreshments as they turned into
the hall.

For
more than an hour the group ate and talked, the story of their adventures
shaded for the ears of their wife and mother. Janet listened intently, reading
much between the lines but never letting on by even the flicker of an eyelash
that she knew there was more to these stories than was being so gaily
recounted. She caught Jamie's hand beneath the table, a silent communion
flowing between them while they laughed together at the antics of their lively
sons.