An Introduction To The Eternal Collection Jubilee Edition (47 page)

She half expected Lord Niall to tell her that she lied, but he said nothing and with a sense of relief she guessed that he was not in a position to know if she was telling the truth or not.

“So that is your story,” he said at length, “Yet you would be surprised if I was fool enough to credit it.”

“I am not aware that I have given your Lordship any reason to doubt my word,” Iona said.

Lord Niall laughed.

It was not a pleasant laugh and Iona was aware that he enjoyed torturing her. She made every effort to keep her voice clear and steady, to control the quivering of her fingers and the sudden trembling of her lips. But she could not prevent the colour rising in her cheeks, or the way it would suddenly ebb away leaving her pale and a little faint.

Lord Niall walked across the room to stand with his back to the mantelpiece.

“Come here,” he said suddenly.

Iona drew a step nearer to him, still keeping instinctively out of arm’s reach.

“There are many things I might say to you,” he said, and his voice was suddenly silky. “Firstly that Mr. Thomson – if that is indeed his name – was a damned fortunate fellow, and secondly that you are far too pretty to be my sister.”

Iona’s lips tightened for a moment and he added,

“But you don’t like my saying either of these things, do you? Shall I add something else? It is that I am a trifle suspicious of young women who come from Paris just now for the purpose of getting into communication with the Duke of Arkrae.”

Here was danger!

Now Iona’s embarrassment had vanished. She felt instead alert and watchful, and in a voice of puzzled surprise she asked,

“Perhaps your Lordship will explain what you mean.”

“Why should I bother? You are not so simple as you appear. Besides, I might prove a better friend than an enemy. Why not trust me?”

“With what?” Iona’s eyes were wide and innocent.

“Your reason for coming here.”

“But surely that is obvious,” Iona parried. “You have doubtless seen the letter containing Jeannie MacLeod’s last confession.”

“I am not interested in that,” Lord Niall replied. “I am only interested in you and perhaps a trifle in the gentleman called Hugo Thomson.”

There was a definite menace in his slow tones, yet now Iona was aware that he had nothing definite with which to threaten her. He was but feeling his way, suspicious, uncertain, and whilst she was afraid of him, she knew that for the moment he was weaponless.

Lord Niall looked down at his quizzing glass swinging pendulum-like from the thumb and finger of his left hand.

“You are, of course,” he said softly, “an ardent Jacobite?”

His words were so unexpected that Iona felt her heart give a frightened leap and the blood drain away from her cheeks. Then as he looked at her and waited for her answer, the door opened and she was rescued.

Now in her own room, she was well aware that the respite would be but a short one.

Lord Niall was dangerous, she was well aware of that. It was not only because he had caught her at a disadvantage in Inverness that she distrusted him, it was something deeper and more fundamental than anything he had ever done or said. It was the instinctive reaction of every sense in her body. He was not trustworthy – there was something horrible and treacherous about him, something which affected her sub-consciously so that she knew with absolute clarity that here was a real and malevolent danger.

“How white ye are, mistress!” Cathy said breaking into Iona’s thoughts.

Iona sat down on a chair.

“I’m all right, Cathy,” she said a little unsteadily.

“Ye are faint. May I fetch ye a glass o’ wine?”

“I shall be all right in a minute,” Iona murmured, putting her head down in her hands.

Without waiting for permission Cathy sped downstairs and a few minutes later came back with a glass of brandy that she held to Iona’s lips.

“Take a sup, mistress,” she begged, and because Iona felt too weak to argue she took a sip or two and felt the liquid run like fire through her body.

“Thank you, Cathy,” she said at last. “I am better now and ashamed of my own weakness.”

“Dinae fash about being weak,” Cathy answered. “Let me unlace ye an’ lie ye doon until it is time for dinner.”

Iona did as Cathy suggested and, though she
had no
idea of sleeping, the long walk through the woods and the emotional disturbance of her interview with Lord Niall had taken their toll and she fell into a fitful slumber.

She was wakened by Cathy bringing her hot water with which to wash and laying out her evening gown.

“Ye must hurry, mistress,” Cathy said. “I guessed ye were asleep an’ left ye as long as I dare, but it will be wise no tae be late.”

“Worse than that, it would be exceedingly rude,” Iona said, and slipped off the bed.

She washed and then as she turned, towards the dressing table Cathy said,

“There’s a deal o’ talk downstairs the noo.”

“Of what?” Iona asked.

“O’ ma Lady Wrexham. The servants hae been gossipin’ with her Ladyship’s coachman an’ grooms an’ noo I hear tell that her Ladyship has come here tae spy.”

“How do they know that?” Iona asked.

“Saving yer pardon, mistress, but her Ladyship’s servants were boasting that she is under the protection o’ the Marquis o’ Severn.”

“And who is he?” Iona asked.

“Weel, we ken richt enough that the Marquis is the enemy o’ Scotland. The cruelty o’ the English soldiers has his approval an’ more, while ane o’ her Ladyship’s footmen avows that the Marquis has sworn afore many months hae passed that Prince Charles’s head shall lie in its blood on Tower Hill.”

Iona shivered.

“Is this true, Cathy?”

“I can only tell ye whit they’re sayin’, mistress.”

“Thank you for telling me,” Iona said at last. “Hear all you can, Cathy.”

“Indeed I’ll dae ma best, mistress.”

“But be careful,” Iona admonished. “You must run no risks. Are you the only one in the castle loyal to the Prince?”

“Nay, mistress, but we dinna speak aboot it, even amang oursels for the Duchess is English an’ the Governors o’ Fort Augustus an’ Fort William often call here.”

“I understand,” Iona said. “And the Duke?”

“We dinna ken what His Grace feels. If the English come tae the castle, he is polite tae them – but this English lady hae come the noo an’ she’s awfu’ bonny.”

Iona understood only too well the implication in Cathy’s words. She had had but the merest glimpse of Lady Wrexham through the open door of the Chinese Room, but it had been enough. Beautiful and the mistress of the Marquis of Severn, why should Lady Wrexham have come north unless her reason was much the same as her own?

There was something dramatic in the situation, Iona thought suddenly. Two women arriving within a few days of each other at Skaig Castle, one from France and one from London, each with her instructions, each determined on the success of her assignment.

Iona could see the situation so clearly that it was almost as if she watched herself and the personages at Skaig upon a stage and saw a plot unfolding act by act.

The Duke stood as it were at the crossroads. Which way would he turn? Which woman would succeed in gaining his support? Iona thought of the Prince far away in France, waiting for her return, hoping almost against hope that she might succeed where others had failed. Then she remembered that quick glimpse she had had of Lady Wrexham – an impression of beauty, of glamour, of youth, of loveliness and with it all the poise of an experienced woman of the world.

What chance had she against such weapons? And then Iona remembered with a sudden thankfulness that the ideals for which she battled were greater by far than the wiles of any woman, however desirable. It was the Cause that mattered, and it was impossible that the fate of Scotland should be altered by the contour of a woman’s face.

“I will not be afraid,” Iona told herself. “Lord Niall is bad and wicked, but the Duke is good.”

She was surprised at her own conviction that this was so. Only this morning she had not been sure, unable to make any complete diagnosis of His Grace’s character and personality. But now she knew with a conviction that could not be denied that the Duke, whatever his political sympathies, was good at heart.

Quite unexpectedly Iona’s depression left her. She felt revived and fortified. She felt also ready to fight for what she believed, however great the odds against her. She remembered Hector hiding in the woods and sent up a prayer for his safety. Strangely enough, it was comforting to know that he was not so far away. It gave her a sense of danger shared, of a renewed comradeship after she had felt so very much alone.

Cathy robed her in a gown of ivory satin. It was trimmed very simply with rows of narrow lace, but it had been cut by a skilled French seamstress.

Iona had no jewels, but her eyes seemed to blaze like emeralds and her white neck had the sheen of precious pearls. Cathy offered to powder her hair but Iona refused. She had never aped the fashions of the nobility and she knew it was safer to remain humble and unpretentious. Besides, she was feminine enough to realise that her hair was in fact lovelier unadorned.

She came slowly down the stairs, for despite Cathy’s fears it was not yet the hour for dinner. She reached the first floor and was about to enter the Crimson Salon when she heard voices below in the Great Hall. Curiously Iona paused to listen. A group of men were standing in the centre of the Hall, talking loudly. She leant over the stairs to look closer at them. Then her hands gripped the banister and it was with the utmost difficulty that she prevented herself from giving a cry of horror!

Standing in the midst of the men, his arms bound behind him, was Hector.

8

Without considering what she was doing, impelled only by her own horror at seeing Hector in such a plight, Iona ran down the staircase. She had, however, set but one foot onto the stone floor of the Great Hall when a stern voice asked,

“What is all this?”

The men who were gathered round Hector and talking amongst themselves turned hastily towards the Duke who unobserved had entered the Hall from a door on the far side.

Iona stood still.

She was nearer to Hector than the Duke and with a kind of hypnotised fascination she watched his approach. Dressed for dinner in a satin coat of silver grey embroidered with pearls, he was in strange contrast to Hector who was tousled and dirty, his coat torn, his stockings ripped from knee to ankle. Yet Hector faced the Duke fearlessly, his head held high, his shoulders braced despite the tightness of the rope cutting painfully into his wrists.

The clansmen bowed awkwardly but with an inborn reverence as the Duke approached. One amongst them who appeared to be better dressed and slightly more refined moved forward as their spokesman. He had a thin, cadaverous face and his eyes, in one of which there was an unsightly cast, were too close together.

The Duke glanced at him.

“Well, Sime,” he said sharply, “What is the explanation of this?”

“We found yon mon, Yer Grace, lurkin’ in the woods on the East shore. Wheen he saw us approachin’ he tried tae escape an’ fought lik a wild cat ’til we overcame him.”

The Duke looked not at Hector but at the men surrounding him.

“Why were you in the woods?”

“His Lordship’s orders, Yer Grace,” Sime explained. “He sent for me but twa hours back an’ told me he haed suspicions tha’ there was a stranger abroad.

‘Bring whoever ye may find tae the castle,’ his Lordship says, an’ here we are, Yer Grace – wi’ the prisoner.”

He jerked his head at Hector.

Iona, listening, felt paralysed with horror.

The man had said that it was two hours ago that Lord Niall had sent for him. That would be after her interview with his Lordship in the Chinese Room. She was sure now that he had guessed from where she had come when he had met her walking down the passage. He had noticed her windswept hair, the mud on her shoes, the dusty hem of her dress and had surely drawn his own conclusions.

At any rate, his suspicions must have been aroused enough for him to send his men to make a search of the woods.

Wildly Iona wondered what she could do, clasping her hands together in her agitation until the knuckles showed white and her nails dug into the soft palms.

Now the Duke was looking at Hector.

For a moment the eyes of the two men met and then the Duke said quietly,

“Unloose this gentleman’s bonds!”

The clansmen looked astonished and Sime protested,

“He’s a dangerous mon, Yer Grace – an’ exceedin’ powerful. It took half a dozen o’ us tae bind him, an’ Andrew’s jaw is broke frae the blow he gied him.”

“Obey me!”

The Duke’s command seemed to echo round the Hall.

Sullenly Sime took a knife from his belt and cut the thick rope. Hector shook himself, the ends fell to the floor, and he began to chafe the blood back into his wrists.

“I thank your Grace.”

His voice was resonant and light.

“You were in my woods?” the Duke asked.

“I was.”

“And your reason for being there?”

“I am on the way to Skye. I prefer to walk over the hills than trudge along the road.”

Hector’s tone was calm. He might have been conversing with the Duke from the comfort of an armchair.

“That sounds reasonable enough,” the Duke commented.

“If I have trespassed,” Hector said, “I owe Your Grace an apology. I was not aware that you had closed your territories to wayfarers.”

“I have not,” the Duke replied. “I have no objection to people passing over my land so long as they do no damage.”

“It would then be gracious of Your Grace to permit me to continue my journey,” Hector said, “these men sprang upon me unawares.”

“It appears that I should apologise for their action,” the Duke said.

“I see no reason for you to do that,” a voice said suddenly from the foot of the stairs, “for they are not your men, my dear Ewan – but mine.”

Iona started and turned round.