As High as the Heavens (38 page)

It would be quicker to climb to the parapets and see
if he could catch sight of a boat crossing the lake. The
two guards walking sentry, Duncan well knew, had been
gifted all eve with sufficient ale to muddle their senses.
They'd pay little heed to a guest taking a bit of night
air.

As it was, both guards must have decided it was time
to imbibe a bit more of their ale. On his way to the parapet walk overlooking the loch and Kinross, he passed
the men hunkered down in the sentry shack. They paid
him scarce notice.

Far across the loch, Duncan could just make out a boat
drawing near the beach. As he watched, two people, one a
woman from her long skirts and manner of walk, climbed
from the boat and disappeared quickly into the trees.
Choking back a savage curse, Duncan gripped the stone
wall and clenched shut his eyes, his mind racing.

"Foul-hearted traitor," he muttered softly, thinking dire thoughts of what he'd do when he got his hands next on
Robert Gordon. "If he thinks to trap me here, hoping I'll
become a suspect in the queen's escape, as surely will all
in this castle after tonight, he's sadly mistaken."

There could be only one reason, aside from the older
man's quite evident hatred of him, for the despicable
treachery. Gordon meant to assure that Duncan would
never again be a threat to his plans to wed his daughter
to Charles Seton. He had been a fool to fall so neatly
into Gordon's little trap.

Aye, a fool once, but a fool no more, he vowed. If he
remained in Lochleven, he might eventually be able to
convince them he was innocent of any wrongdoing in
the queen's disappearance. But if he failed, he would
lose the chance at avenging himself on Robert Gordon,
not to mention meeting again with Heather before she
wed. And that failing-never again to see or speak with
Heather-more than anything else would be beyond
bearing. He had to escape, and escape soon, or all would
be lost.

Duncan scanned the dark, lapping waters of the loch
beneath him. It was said William Wallace, during the
Wars of Independence, feared the great harm the English, who were then garrisoned in Lochleven Castle,
could do to Scotland. His sword tied to his neck, he swam
across the loch and captured the garrison's boat. Then,
joined by his men, they crossed the loch once more and
stormed the castle, taking it into Scottish possession.

He glanced down wryly at the fine clothes he now
wore. If William Wallace could swim this loch, so could
he. But William had done so garbed only in his shirt. He, on the other hand, would have to cope with the encumbrance of fine hose, padded trunks, a high-necked
ruffled shirt, and tightly fitted doublet. Well, at least not
the doublet, Duncan thought as he unfastened it and
pulled it from his body.

After removing the silver brooch Heather had given
him and tucking it safely away, Duncan tossed the garment aside. He shot one final look over his shoulder in
the direction of the guards. The two soldiers were still
engrossed in finishing off the remains of the jug of ale.
The time was ripe for an escape.

Duncan turned back, climbed atop the parapet and,
after an instant's hesitation, dove toward the loch. His
form was perfect. He cut through the water's surface
with a precision honed by years of practice.

A few seconds more and Duncan broke the surface
again, gasping, his body aquiver with the shock of the icy
water. Yet it was water no worse than that in the burns
and lochs of the Highlands, he reminded himself, before
doggedly setting out across the lake. His long, effortless
strokes quickly carried him to his destination.

The queen and her young warden were nowhere to
be seen. It must be well past midnight by now. If all had
gone as planned, Mary had already met up with George
Douglas, John Beaton, and Lord Seton, and was even
now on her way out of Kinross.

As Duncan neared the shallows on the far shore, the
waning moon disappeared behind some clouds. Only a
few lights flickered in the windows of the half-timbered
houses of Kinross, dimly illuminating the way into town.
As angry and determined as he was, though, the night could've been pitch black and he would've found his way
to Drummond House. If naught else, Robert Gordon's
foul, traitorous scent would've led him there-as surely
as if the darkness had already burned away into broad
daylight.

Climbing from the loch, Duncan paused to squeeze
what water he could from his sodden shirt and now ludicrously dripping trunks. As he did, a stealthy movement
in the trees, a subtle rustling of leaves, warned him he
wasn't alone. His hand snaked to the dirk he had hidden
at his waist, but it was already too late.

Something thick, hard, slammed into the back of his
head. Everything went black.

"Bumbling fool!" a voice, Robert Gordon's voice,
pierced the fog that Duncan awoke to. "Did ye have to
thwack him that hard? He'll be out to midday at this
rate, and I dare not tarry overlong in Kinross."

"Ye told me he was a mean one, and no mistake," a
gruff, unfamiliar voice replied. "I wasn't about to take
any chances wi' him. Besides, it was but a wee tap on
the head, it was. I can't help it, can I, if the Highlander
has such a dainty skull?"

Duncan groaned, opened his eyes to a dimly lit room,
and attempted to shove to his elbows. Something jerked
him back. His head hit the floor, and the unexpected
impact set his temples to throbbing fiercely. He closed
his eyes and turned away.

Something rough and prickly stabbed into the side
of his face. Straw, he thought. The stench of human excrement and things damp and moldy wafted by. A
prison cell or dungeon. Curse Robert Gordon. Was there
no end to the man's duplicity?

"Ah," Gordon's voice rumbled with relief, hovering
directly over him, "our fine young cock wakens at last."
He ground his foot into Duncan's shoulder, pinning him
to the floor. "Listen and listen well, ye arrogant cur," he
growled. "Ye may have thwarted my first plan to teach
ye yer place, but ye won't escape me this time."

"It'll do ye no good, Gordon," Duncan rasped, fighting
to throw off the man's foot. For the moment, though,
he was too weak and dizzy to succeed. Finally, he gave
up.

Glancing around, he noted the smoky torches dimly
illuminating the tiny, windowless room, the acrid, pitchscented air, and the four armed men standing on either
side of Robert Gordon. Undeterred, Duncan still struggled to rise. Chains clanked and tugged. For the first time,
he realized he was firmly anchored to the floor.

Rage scorched through him. With bleary, burning eyes,
he locked gazes with the older man.

"Indeed ye were a fool to imagine ye could ever best
me." Duncan managed a defiant, mocking smile. "Did ye
seriously think some puny castle could keep me in?"

Robert removed his foot and leaned back, his lips
twitching with amusement. "Well, mayhap I did misjudge ye. It would've been better, it seems, to have found
some way to betray yer impersonation once ye reached
Lochleven." He sighed and smiled. "But ye were so vital to
our plan to amuse and distract Lady Douglas and, more
especially, her son while the keys were stolen ..."

"So, ye meant to sacrifice me all along."

Duncan cursed his stupidity. He should've known and
made sufficient contingency plans to avert the inevitable
confrontation with the older man.

"Or was this newest treachery of yers just recently
devised, after ye realized that Heather and I had fallen
in love?"

Gordon's mouth tightened in anger. He turned and
motioned for the guards to leave the room, then squatted beside Duncan.

"Ye're right. I couldn't have ye interfering in my plans
for my bonny daughter. Charles Seton, not ye, is the
man for her." He paused, a hard, brittle light springing
to his eyes. "But nay, none of what I'd planned for ye
was just recently devised. For nearly all yer life-and yer
brother Colin's as well-I've sought some way to ruin ye
both. It's the true reason why I kept ye in the Highlands
all this time, when I could've easily brought ye back to
live with yer brother on the Stewart estates. And why I
watched with undisguised glee as Colin became a spoiled,
spineless fop not worthy of any decent woman or of any
discerning man's regard."

"But why? What did Colin or I ever do to ye?"

"Och, it wasn't ye or yer brother," Robert said with
an unsteady laugh. "It was yer father. We were the best
of friends for years, and then he stole the woman who
had always been meant for me."

Duncan frowned, his thoughts racing. The woman
who had always been meant for Robert Gordon? "My
true mither?" he asked at long last. "Are ye speaking of
her?"

"Who else? She was mine, and mine alone, Fia was.
And then he took her away." He laughed again. "So I
had to punish him, I did. I bided my time, inveigled
my way back into his friendship and trust, and awaited
the perfect opportunity. Unfortunately, David didn't live
long enough to discover the fullest fruits of my revenge.
Not that it hasn't still been verra, verra sweet, indeed,
mayhap even more sweet because it has been so long
in coming. I've had all these years to fully savor it-the
final and complete destruction of David Stewart through
his only heirs."

It explained so much, Duncan realized, even as he
struggled to fathom the depth of Gordon's hatred and
need for revenge. The impact it'd had on his own and
Colin's life so far notwithstanding, he also understood
now why Heather's mother had died of her unrequited
love for her husband. And why, as well, Gordon had
suffered few qualms in using his daughter to his own
purposes, even to dangling her as a prize before a man
he hated and meant ultimately to destroy. His claims to
the contrary of his love for Duncan's mother, the man
was, and had always been, incapable of loving anyone
but himself.

"Ye're mad, Gordon," Duncan snarled. "And more
the reason to get Heather as far from ye as fast as I
can. She deserves far better from life than ye'll ever
give her."

"And ye're the one to give her the happiness she deserves, are ye?" Once more, the merest hint of a smile
twitched at the corners of Robert Gordon's mouth, and
a look of triumph glittered in his eyes. "After the way ye treated her the eve before last, and how ye parted
yesterday? I think not, my good man."

The memory of Heather standing there with tears in
her eyes as he accused her of all manner of self-serving,
manipulative acts flooded Duncan. Remorse filled him. He
had been cruel that eve, and even crueler still just before
they had parted and he had ridden off to Lochleven.

But she had also said she loved him. Surely love didn't
die so quickly, or with such an easy death as a few harsh
words could cause.

Or did it?

"She'll choose me still," Duncan gritted out the defiant
reply, his voice reverberating with more bravado than
he suddenly felt. "See for yerself. Fetch Heather from
her room. Do it now. Hear the truth from her own lips,
if ye dare."

The smile hovering on Gordon's lips spread into a
malicious grin. "Och, and if I could, don't ye think I
would, if for naught more than to crush that overweening pride of yers once and for all? But alas, I can't. My
daughter isn't here."

Duncan went very still. "What do ye mean, she isn't
here? Where could Heather have gone, considering I left
her less than a day ago?"

Robert Gordon gave an uncaring shrug. "Where else
but with her betrothed? The plot had commenced and
Lord Seton had his own part to play. No matter the outcome, there wasn't any reason for Charles to linger here
a moment longer. And, believe it or not as ye will, it was
my bonny daughter who suggested the long overdue visit
with her beloved Charlie and his family."

As if something supremely amusing had just struck
him, Robert paused, then chuckled. "Ye know her as well
as I. Surely ye must understand, above all others, why
she seemed to need a time to renew old acquaintances
with young Seton before their imminent wedding."

With a snarl of animalistic rage Duncan jerked up,
straining at his shackles, fighting to get to the other
man. "There'll be no wedding!" he cried. "Not if I have
aught to say about it!"

"And what, indeed, can ye say or do about it, my proud
if foolish young man?" Robert Gordon asked softly. "This
cell, those shackles, are as far as ye'll get for the next
month or two. And, when I finally free ye, if I choose ever
to do so, it'll be too late. Too late, at the verra least, for ye
to interfere in Heather's wedding to Charles Seton. And
even, mayhap, if I have aught to do with it, too late, as
well, for ye to salvage aught of that fine life and heritage
that ye no longer even deserve.

"Nay," he said, his features taking on a hard, frigid
resolve, "far, far too late to do aught more than tuck yer
tail between yer legs and slink off to that hovel ye call
home in the Highlands. Aye, the Highlands, where ye've
always belonged and will never, ever, rise above."