Cherished Enemy (38 page)

He sighed, turned, and took her hands. “You've the right of it,” he said, with a wistful smile. “I'd have small hope of convincing you otherwise now.”

“And you would have gone away and never told me!”

“The only thing I've a right to say to you, little Rosa, is—goodbye.”

“But—” she said, whitening.

She looked so stricken. So little and lovely and anguished. His heart wrung, he groaned, “Do you think I do not long with all my heart to go to your father and beg permission to pay you my addresses?” His hands tightened painfully on hers. “I
cannot,
my dearest dear! I
cannot!
Not without telling him the truth. Can you guess how he would receive
that
news! Nor can I ask you to wait. For what? Exile? Poverty? To shut your beautiful self away from life; to refuse all the far more eligible suitors who will pursue you while you wait for a man whose face you may next see grinning down at you from atop a pike on Temple—”

She stopped those terrible words by reaching up to plant a kiss as close as she could to his mouth. It was more than he could bear. His arms wrapped around her. His grey eyes blazed with a passion of longing that made her heart leap in frenzied response. He kissed her, and she clung to him returning kiss for kiss through a fiery embrace that left her weak and swaying as with a muffled curse he thrust her away again.

“For the love of God!” he gasped. “Do not make it worse, Rosa!”

Feebly, a hand pressed to her tumultuous heart, she stammered, “Wh-when did you … know…?”

He walked over to stand gazing down at Lightning, who was stretched somnolent before the empty hearth. Rosamond thought he did not mean to answer, but after a pause he said quietly, “Hal showed me your portrait so often. I began to love you then, I think. When first we met I thought you the most exquisite creature I ever had seen, and my heart was properly stolen away. But I knew there was no hope. That you very properly disliked and distrusted me and for your own sake must continue doing so. I tried to think of you as something forbidden. Someone I must regard as an enemy. As if I could succeed in such a … forlorn endeavour. I tried, God knows, but … much good it has done me, for one look at your sweet face and I would find myself saying—things I should not have said…”

“Or looking them,” put in Rosamond lovingly.

He groaned. “Aye. I dinna doot that! And see where my selfishness has led me! See the dishonourable thing I have done!” He drove a fist into his palm. “I should have gone away and left you—unhurt, untouched—as sweet and innocently happy as when I found you…”

“I was not sweet and innocent,” she declared, running in front of him and peering up into his averted face.

“True,” he agreed with a quivering smile. “You were a—a sour old harridan now that I come to—”

She put her fingers across his lips. “I was cruel and horrid, because—I did not understand.” She caressed his cheek gently. “Robert MacTavish—I
love
you! Tell me
you
love me.”

He wrenched his head away from her touch. “No! I must not!
You
must not. I am an enemy of your king, and thus fair game for any public-spirited citizen.” He smiled crookedly and shook his head as she attempted to speak. “Dear girl—pray let me finish. 'Tis useless to indulge in flights of fancy. Even was there hope for us, which there is not, we are from two different cultures. Two different ideologies.”

“Do you mean theologically?”

“We are Presbyterians, but—”

“Then I shall become one. It—it cannot be so very different. We all worship the same God, surely?”

With one finger he traced the side of her mouth, and said, his eyes dark and ineffably sad, “My brave little lass—is impossible. Even do I escape back to France, I must face years—perhaps a lifetime—of exile from my land. Do you think I would drag you away from yours?”

She gripped the front of his coat and scanned his face searchingly. “But you do not mean to go back to France, do you? You said that you knew where the treasure is now hid, and that you would stay till the business was done.” His eyes became bleak and his mouth tightened, but he said nothing. In a sudden panic she cried, “
That
is why you won't ask me to wait for you! Not because of exile or poverty, for you know I could endure both were I by your side! You mean to stay in England—where every man's hand will be 'gainst you. You have done enough! Do not attempt this hopeless task, I beg you. Robbie—you
must
sail for France as soon as may be!”

He detached her clutching little hands and pressed a kiss in each palm. “I shall,” he said gently. “And when I do I will carry with me the memory of a priceless idyll with a very rare lady. More than some men are allowed for all their days.” His mouth twisted into his wry grin. He said with fine nonchalance, “We have, after all, known each other for a very short time. You are so very beautiful, Miss Rosamond…” Almost, he drifted into insanity again, and had to bite his lip hard to return to the proper course. “The gentlemen will flock around you and very soon you will be remembering me as a nice—I hope—but rather wild Highland laddie. Which is as it should be.”

“Which is stuff!” she declared angrily.

He clenched his fists and fought the need to seize her and claim those deliciously vehement lips.

“I
will
wait—all my life if I must, but—for my sake, Rob—
please
go to France! Charles can arrange it, I know he can. If you won't let me go with you, I can follow, but—I
beg
of you, get away from England before—”

He said simply, “My word is given.”

She uttered a muffled sound of despair, and stared at him in helpless misery.

With a great effort he managed to sound calm. “But I thank you for that generous offer. I think I shall never receive so priceless a gift. In return, I can only beg that … you give your pure heart to—one of your own.” His voice was very low and strained now, but he stumbled on. “To some good fellow like—like Thad Briley, or—” The very thought made him cringe, and he rushed on before his courage failed him. “You were made to be happy, little Rosa. Do not send me away saddened because I have brought you sorrow.
Please,
promise you will—”

She smiled into his pale face and said rather threadily, “I—dinna ken, Robbie.”

He gave a gasp. His face twisted in anguish and the glitter of painful tears came into his eyes.

Rosamond, her own eyes blurred, said, “I have never given my heart before, my brave Scots gentleman. I shall not do so again. I
will
wait! And you are too much of an honourable man to make me wait in vain. You are, you see, quite hopelessly trapped, my—my very dear.”

For a moment he stared at her, then he ducked his head, muttered something in the Gaelic, and, devastated, drew a trembling hand over his eyes.

“If we—” Rosamond went on.

He lifted a hand authoritatively and tilted his head, listening, then muttered hoarsely, “The others are coming.”

At once she put off her cloak. Avoiding her eyes, Victor took it with unsteady hands and laid it over the chair.

The white, drawn face, the nerve that twitched beside his mouth only made her love him the more. She thought fondly, ‘He tried so hard to be brave and honourable, but he loves me and wants me for his wife. If he gave his word, I cannot fight that. But there will be a way. Perhaps not now, but somehow, someday, there
must
be a way for us.'

The door opened and Charles ushered Deborah inside. They paused, both glancing searchingly at the silent pair who smiled at them with gallant but pathetic brightness.

“Well,” said Charles with forced cheer. “We'd best get to work, eh?”

“What about poor—I mean, what about Mr. Fairleigh?” asked Rosamond. “He has been tied up for hours. Surely—”

“I looked in on him,” said Charles. “Slipped out after you ladies left the dining room, and gave him some water—and a hunk of bread and cheese.”

“He must be horribly cramped,” said Deborah without much sympathy.

“And extreme vocal,” said Charles. “You never heard such outraged indignation, as though we were fiends, rather than that
he
is beneath contempt.”

“It'd not surprise me,” sneered Victor, having to an extent recovered his equanimity, “had you gone so far as to loosen his bonds and let him trot about a bit!”

“Necessary.” Charles sent a sidelong glance at the girls, his face rather red. “But I had his word first, you may be sure, and kept my pistol handy.”

Victor gave a snort of disgust. “His word, is it! Much faith I'd pin on
that!
The fellow is a threat to us all. You'd have done better to put a period to him!”

“I involved myself in this business to try and save lives,” replied Charles sharply. “I've no wish to take one—even that of such a rogue as Roland Otton!”

“Even if 'tis a matter of his life or ours?” jeered Victor. “Is not just you and me you risk!”

Charles flinched. “True. I'll send him off with Treve. He'll know what to do with the fellow. Enough of this! 'Tis past one o'clock already—we've only a few hours before you must leave us. Let's to it!”

Victor gave him a fulminating glare but no further argument and they all bent their concentration upon the cypher.

And it began again, the frustrating battle against the innocuous verses that seemed to mock them as the minutes and the hours slipped away and they were defeated time and time again. Hating the cypher that had brought them together, yet now claimed these last precious hours she yearned to spend alone with her love, Rosamond fought in vain to keep her mind on the problem. She glanced obliquely at Victor. His eyes were red-rimmed with weariness but his frowning gaze was fixed with complete absorption on the verses, and she knew that at this moment she occupied no part of his mind.

Deborah gave a moan of exasperation as her latest theory was exploded. “No, but 'tis hopeless!” she exclaimed. “Truly, I think the numbers have no meaning whatsoever. It was likely a simple case of forgetfulness that the fourth number is different!”

Charles sighed wearily. “Perhaps. But what else have we?”

“Well, not
this
course!” cried Victor, driving an impatient hand through his already dishevelled hair. “All this time wasted, and we go nowhere! We cannot break this stupid thing, Charles! Better that I go up there and move the treasure to a place of my own choosing, at least until some clever mind can solve this riddle for us!”

“But that would mean moving it
twice
—no?” cried Rosamond, alarmed. “And I should think that to even move it once would be so dangerous!”

“A very desperate business.” Charles pulled the timepiece from his waistcoat pocket and frowned at the remorseless hands. “As desperate as for you to linger here, Rob. Twenty minutes past three! You
must
leave before dawn, old fellow, for I'd give little for your chances after today!”

Victor muttered irritably, “Oh, never fret so. Holt may not have discovered aught. You know how poor is the army record-keeping. At all events, Treve will warn me in plenty of time.” He glanced at their worried faces and at once his winning grin flashed. “Your pardon! Never heed my ill-natured grumbling. Come—let's try again. Now, if we abandon the notion that the numbers have any bearing on the solution, as Deborah says, we—”

“But—surely they
must,
” argued Rosamond. “You cannot think that a message so vital, so deadly would be sent out with a careless mistake? They likely read and re-read it hundreds of times. And if this Scottish lady is so shrewd as you say—”

“Oh, she's a canny grande dame, I can vouch for that,” put in Victor, with a loving smile at her tired face. “I'd not be alive today, save for her quick wit!”

“Then,” went on Rosamond, blushing happily before the caress in his eyes, “'tis all the more certain that the lady who conceived such a puzzle would not make a heedless slip. Only see how firmly she has writ the Roman one, and two, and three. Then—”

Victor's hand lifted arrestingly. “Jove!” he half-whispered. “Now
there's
a possibility we've not explored!”

“What?” said Charles, leaning forward expectantly. “I don't follow you.”

“Nor I,” agreed Deborah.

“What did I say?” cried Rosamond, blinking at Victor in bewilderment as he again snatched up the quill pen.

“
One,
and
two,
and
three
…” he answered, his voice sharp with excitement. “Suppose, instead of being just the
third
of something, what is meant by the Roman numbers is a
sequence
rather!”

“Do you mean, for instance, the first line of the first verse, but the second line of the next, and the third of the next?” asked Rosamond.

“Yes—or something of that nature.”

“Jupiter!” cried Charles exuberantly. “Is worth a try! Have at it, Rob!”

“Very well. But I think that if we take the first
line
of one verse, the second line of the next, and so on, it cannot apply, for there are
four
verses.”

“Then perhaps when we get to the fourth verse, we start over again at one,” interjected Deborah. “Oh, do try, Mr. MacTavish!”

He wrote rapidly, held up the result and gave a derisive snort. “‘Cattle sleep at night, daringly the eagle flies, riding off they were not so, all is quiet in the city!' Be dashed if even Pitt would write such balderdash!”

“And were you to take the first letters of the words in those four lines,” put in Charles, frowningly intent, “you'd arrive at, Csandtefrotwns—and so on, which is no better. So 'tis not the first, second, and third
lines.
Try the first
word,
next the second, and then the third of each succeeding line and see what happens.”