Elaine Coffman - [Mackinnons 06] (34 page)

She left the room and walked along the dimly lit hallway to
the stairs. Her hand on the rail, she started down, hearing the sound of voices
coming from the taproom below.

The men were speaking in French, so she paid them little
heed, but when they said the name Ramsay, in English, it caught her attention.

She froze.

“Ramsay?” the innkeeper repeated. “
Mais non, monsieur
,”
he said, saying that he had no guests registered by that name.

“He is an American. He is traveling with a young English
woman with dark hair.”

Not even the inn was safe from Adair’s men. Her heart
pounding, Cathleen turned around quietly and tiptoed back up the stairs. When
she reached the second floor, she ran back to the room and closed the door
behind her, ramming the bolt in place. She threw the few possessions they had
into the small bag they carried, then hurried to the window.

Opening it, she leaned out and looked down to the courtyard
to see if there was a way to escape. It had rained during the night, washing
the red tiles on the roof and leaving a few puddles in the inn yard.

At that moment she saw a small carriage come into the
courtyard, its wheels splashing through a large puddle as it stopped. A moment
later, the door opened and Fletcher climbed out.

“Fletcher!” she called, keeping her voice as low as she
could.

He looked up.

She held up a hand, then pointed behind her. “They’re here,”
she said. “Stay there. I’m coming out.” She tossed their bag down to him.

“Wait there,” he said, “I’m coming up.”

“No, there isn’t time!” She crawled to the edge of the roof.
On all fours, she peered over the ledge and saw him standing below her. She
inched her body around until she was in a sitting position, her feet dangling
off the ledge.

“Catch me,” she said, then shoved herself off the roof.

“Cathleen!”

She dropped down into Fletcher’s arms.

“I’m glad to know you can trust me at least about some
things,” he said.

“Hurry,” she said as he lowered her to her feet. “We haven’t
much time.”

He took her hand, and they ran across the courtyard to the
carriage. Opening the door, he stuffed her inside.

“Hold on,” he said, climbing in beside her. Then, sticking
his head out, he told the driver to hurry.

They did not move.

She poked her head out and told the driver to hurry, in
French.

The driver cracked the whip and the carriage took off with a
lurch. Digging her hands into the seat beneath her, Cathleen held on for dear
life.

“Don’t say it,” he said.

“What?”

“That you warned me I would need someone to speak French.”

“I won’t.”

“What was that all about back there? Did someone come up to
the room?”

“No. I heard two men talking to the innkeeper,” she said,
then told him what had happened.

It seemed that Fletcher was more upset over the fact that
she had not stayed in the room, as he had told her, than he was about the men
looking for them.

“If you can’t behave yourself and do as I ask, I’ll send you
back to Caithness.”

She gave him her most contrite look. “I’ll behave.”

“Did you recognize either of the men?”

“No. I stopped on the stairs and didn’t go down far enough
to see them.”

“It’s just as well. We know who sent them and why.”

“Fletcher,” she said, putting her hand on his arm. “Do you
think they are here simply to spy on us, or to do us bodily harm?”

“Something tells me they are here for more than just
spying.”

“You mean…”

“I won’t let anything happen to you, Cathleen. I’ll protect
you. I promise.”

She snuggled close to him, tucking her arm through his,
burying her face against his shoulder. She did not want him to see the look of
sadness on her face. How could she tell him it wasn’t herself she worried for?
She knew he would protect her. Even if it cost him his life…

They searched records at two churches before the driver took
them to a small country church called St. Benedictine’s.

The priest, Father Sebastian, was more than helpful, and
Fletcher was grateful that he also spoke English.

Father Sebastian informed them that the de Compiegne family
had attended his church for centuries. “In fact,
monsieur
, St.
Benedictine was built on de Compiegne land and paid for by them. There are many
members of the family buried in the churchyard. The earliest dates back to the
year 1163.”

“The years I’m interested in are much later than that,”
Fletcher said.

Father Sebastian nodded, then glanced toward the window. “It
looks as if the Lord has blessed us with another fine day. Would you like to
visit the churchyard?”

“Perhaps, if we don’t find what we are looking for
elsewhere. May we see your marriage and birth records?” Fletcher asked. “I’m
mostly interested in the 1700s.”

“Of course. I would be delighted to show them to you,”
Father Sebastian said.

He led them into a small room that contained
floor-to-ceiling shelves filled with books. A long table and four chairs stood
in the middle of the floor.

“The years you are interested in would be in one of these,”
he said, pulling two large books from the shelves and placing them on the
table. “I will come back later to see how you are doing.” Father Sebastian left
them alone in the room.

Cathleen’s heart throbbed with anticipation as she waited,
seeing Fletcher’s hands tremble as he opened the first book. His eyes scanned
the first page and then the next. Page after page, she watched him, his jaw
clenched tightly as he skimmed the names recorded there.

Suddenly she realized that her heart was no longer pounding,
that a remarkable calm had settled over her. It was at that point that she felt
herself surrounded by an incredible warmth.

A moment later, Fletcher took a deep breath, closed his
eyes, threw his head back, obviously overcome with emotion.

“What is it?” she asked, looking down at the book.

“It’s…here,” he said, his voice choked with feeling. “After
all these years, it’s right here. The proof. My family. I am the true duke,” he
said, “just as my father said.”

She looked down at the page, seeing the faded brown ink, but
the writing was quite legible. There before them was recorded the marriage of
Alexander Ramsay, son of Alasdair Ramsay, Duke of Glengarry, to Madeline de
Compiegne, daughter of the Comte de Compiegne. Six months later, on June
23,1740, was recorded the marriage of Douglas Ramsay, son of Alasdair Ramsay,
Duke of Glengarry, to Brigitte de Compiegne, daughter of the Comte de
Compiegne.

The proof was there. All of it. Douglas and Alexander
were
brothers. They were the sons of Alasdair Ramsay, and Alasdair was the Duke of
Glengarry. And, as they had suspected, Brigitte and Madeline were sisters.

They searched further, finding it recorded that one year
after their marriage, Brigitte and Douglas Ramsay baptized their infant son,
Ian.

“There are no other births recorded,” Cathleen said.

“That is because Douglas and Brigitte must have taken their
son and returned to Scotland. The dates coincide with the time of Alasdair’s
death.”

“Aye. Alasdair’s death would have made Douglas the Duke of
Glengarry,” Cathleen said. “That is the reason they returned to Scotland.”

“If my father had only known…”

She touched his arm. “I have a feeling that he does,” she
whispered.

“You and your unshakable faith,” he said, looking at her.
“Sometimes…” He stopped, not finishing the thought.

“Sometimes what?” she asked.

“Sometimes I find myself wishing I had that kind of faith.”

“You can.”

He shook his head. “It’s a bit late for me, I’m afraid.”

“It’s never too late, Fletcher. One of these days something
will happen, something that will bring you closer to God.”

“Perhaps,” he said, drawing her against him. “Until then, I
guess you’ll just have to have enough faith for both of us.”

“I do.”

He pulled back, giving her a quick kiss. “If I tell you to
wait here for me, will you do as I say?”

“Where are you going?”

“To speak to Father Sebastian. I need to find a scribe. This
information must be copied in a legal document and certified, if it is to stand
up in the courts at Edinburgh.”

“I hadn’t thought about that,” she said, realizing he was
right. “I don’t suppose Father Sebastian would take too kindly to our taking
these old books with us.”

“Nor would I want to. They are safer here,” Fletcher said,
then he started to leave.

“Wait!”

He turned toward her. “What?”

“Where are you going?”

“To find Father Sebastian and then to visit the scribe.”

“You can visit Father Sebastian, but you can’t go to the
scribe.”

“Why not?”

“Because you don’t speak French.”

Fletcher stared at her, and Cathleen knew the exact moment
when the truth of her words sank in. He did not look happy, but he agreed with
her. “I guess that means we’ll both have to go.”

“No, I think it would be better if—”

“Absolutely not.” His expression grew dark, and he did not
bother to hide his irritation. “You are not going alone and that is final.”

“Just hear me out,” she said. “It would be better if I went.
Adair’s men are looking for a man and a woman, not a woman alone…and certainly
not a French-speaking woman.”

Just as she knew he would, Fletcher saw the truth of her
words and consented to let her go, but not before lecturing her thoroughly on
being extremely cautious.

It was quite warm by the time she reached town. Cathleen
wanted to remove her bonnet but dared not, fearing that the color of her hair
would be a dead giveaway. She looked out the window as the carriage drove down
the streets of Honfleur, passing the vendors’ carts, the shops where the
proprietors were carrying on their normal day’s business. But for her,
something about this day was not normal. Uneasiness pricked at her spine.

Suddenly the carriage stopped, and she heard the driver
shouting. She poked her head out the window. “What is the matter?”

“There is an overturned cart blocking the street,
mademoiselle
,”
the driver replied.

“How long will it take to clear it?”

He shrugged. “Who knows? Perhaps a few minutes, perhaps
hours.”

Cathleen glanced out the window again. “I’ll get out here.
If the cart is cleared from the street before I get back, drive to the address
I gave you and wait for me there.”

The driver nodded. “
Oui, mademoiselle
.”

Cathleen climbed out of the coach, closing the door behind
her, then she turned to make her way down the street, which was narrow and twisting,
the cobbles difficult to walk upon.

The air here seemed warmer and more humid, stifling. She
opened the top button of her dress.

She came to a corner and turned up another street. A few
minutes later, she noticed that there were no shops here, no people. Thinking
that she had taken a wrong turn, she stopped. It was then that she heard the
sound of running feet coming up behind her.

Turning around, she saw two men swiftly approaching her,
their footsteps echoing with a hollow clap. She darted down an alley, finding
it difficult to navigate its narrow lane, which was littered with garbage and
refuse. Too late, she realized her mistake—the alley had no way out. She gave a
quick glance back. The two men rushed into the alley behind her.

She ducked behind a large barrel, holding her breath at the
rancid smell of rotting garbage and God knew what else. The slime beneath her
began to soak into her clothes. She could feel it on her hands. Something small
and scuffling ran over her hand and she jerked it back, flinging the slime
across the front of her dress as she did so. Her stomach turned at the smell.
For a moment she was afraid she would be sick.

It was all she could do to keep from jumping up, trying her
luck at outrunning them, but she found herself calling upon a reserve of
strength she did not know she had, a strength that enabled her to remain
levelheaded. She reasoned with herself, No amount of garbage, no matter how
foul-smelling, was worth losing her life over.

The sound of running feet slowed. She could tell that they
were closer, walking now, searching. She heard their voices as they spoke, but
she could not make out what they said. She knew it would be only a matter of
time before they found her.

Looking about her, she searched for something, anything,
that she could use to defend herself. She saw nothing, but an old fishing net
and an oak bucket.

“She isna here. Where could she have gone?”

“I dinna ken, but she has to be in here somewhere. I ken we
both saw her turn into this alley.”

“Aye, but she doesna seem to be here now.”

Fear had a metallic taste in her mouth.
The Lord is my
shepherd…

Her heart hammered as she began reciting the Twenty-Third
Psalm in her mind.
Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of
death…

It wasn’t much, but it was all she had available, so she
reached forward, her fingers feeling around in the slime until she had both the
net and the bucket in her hands.

I will fear no evil…

She listened to the sound of the voices until she was
certain the men had just passed by her.

For thou art with me…

Springing to her feet, she tossed the net over one of them.

The man cursed, taking God’s name in vain, as he turned
around and stared at her. He had a frightening face with a hideous scar that
slashed horizontally from his left temple to the right side of his chin,
disfiguring his nose and leaving him blind in one eye.

She heard herself make a small moaning sound, and for a
moment she was frozen, as she stared in horror. He seemed to hold her
transfixed with that one eye of his as he fought against the net. A second
later, he freed one hand and grabbed for her.

She screamed and jumped backward. He lunged, losing his
balance. He fell to the ground with a thud, his body still trapped, and
fighting against the netting.

The other man whirled around and looked at her with a
hate-filled grin. He took a step forward, and she countered it with a backward
step of her own. He lunged, his hand whipping out snakelike to grab her. She
sidestepped and turned at the same time. His grimy hand grabbed a fistful of
her hair. She felt his nails scrape against her scalp, felt the burning pull as
she was yanked backward by her hair.

Biting back the pain, she twisted her body until she was
certain her hair would come out by the roots. But her endurance paid off, and
she broke away from him. A second later, she spun around and brought the bucket
down over his head, holding it in both hands and swinging it with all her
might.

The bucket shattered, pieces flying in every direction, then
clattering to the cobbles below. The man staggered, then stopped still, his
eyes wild, more white than color showing. Winded, her scalp burning, she stared
at him, watching, waiting, wondering if the blow had been enough.

Without a single oath, he dropped, silently and blessedly,
to the ground.

“‘His enemies shall lick the dust,’
” she whispered.
“Psalms.”

Not waiting to take another look, she whirled around and
dashed back the way she had come, running until she had a stitch in her side
and her lungs felt as if they were on fire, and still she ran, following the
twisting streets, stumbling twice on the uneven cobbles and scraping her hands.

Just as she left the narrow sidestreets and rushed out onto
a larger street she saw the carriage coming toward her. “Help!” she screamed.
“Help me!”

The driver stopped and climbed down, running toward her. “
Mademoiselle
,
are you all right?”

So winded that she could not talk, she nodded.

He helped her to the carriage and held the door open for
her. Not worrying about her dignity now, Cathleen almost threw herself inside.
“Take me to the scribe,” she said, gasping for breath. “I’ve decided not to
walk after all.”

“
Oui, mademoiselle
, a most sensible choice,” the
driver said, urging the horse into a faster pace. “
Je n’ai jamais d’espirit
qu’au bus de I’escalier.
‘I never have any wit until I am below stairs.’”

“Aye,” she said. “After wit is ever best.”

An hour later, she stood next to Fletcher, watching as the
scribe copied the information they needed. Her scalp still burned, her scraped
palms were stinging, and she was feeling just a little sorry for herself. After
all, she had suffered a very close encounter with two ruffians, and Fletcher
seemed unconcerned.

Of course, she had not told him about the incident, but in
her woman’s mind that did not matter. In all fairness, she had to admit that he
had noticed her disarray when she stepped out of the carriage. However, it was
her opinion that he was far too accepting of her lame excuse that she had
tripped and fallen.

Perhaps it was just her nerves, she decided at last.

What she really needed was for Fletcher to hold her while
she had a good cry. She scooted closer to him, hoping he could see her need
written in her eyes.

Fletcher sniffed the air, turning toward her. His nose
wrinkled and he made a face.

“What is it?” she asked.

He sniffed again. “Do you smell something?”

“No. Do you?”

“Most definitely.”

“What does it smell like?”

“Garbage,” he said. “Very old, reeking garbage.”

“Oh. I can’t imagine where it could be coming from,”
Cathleen said, looking down and seeing the grimy, wet stains along the hem of
her gown. She held out her hands, where grime seemed to ooze from beneath her
fingernails.