Elaine Coffman - [Mackinnons 06] (38 page)

“Aye, Your Grace.”

“You are dismissed,” Adair said, “but stay close, in case I
have need of you.”

“Aye, Your Grace.”

After he had gone, Adair sat at his desk, a smile upon his
lips. Just as he had suspected, the young Earl of Caithness had made a
mistake—a
big
mistake—and it would cost him the title he coveted. Adair
hoped it would also cost him his life.

Too bad for the earl that he had let his feelings for a
woman stand in the way. He had not gone to Edinburgh first. Putting the one he
loved above all else, he had taken the woman to Caithness, ruled by his heart
and not by his head.

Foolish. Very foolish.

Because of that one mistake, Fletcher Ramsay would pay
dearly. He would never become the Duke of Glengarry now. He would even lose the
title of the Earl of Caithness.

For how could a dead man hold a title?

Adair clenched his fists. He would have to plan the earl’s
death carefully. It would have to look like an accident.

How ironic, everyone will say, that the young Earl of
Caithness lost his life so tragically, in much the same manner his father had
lost his some twenty years before.

Adair settled back, deep in thought. He knew that Fletcher
would lose no time in going to Edinburgh with his proof, now that he had the
Lindsay woman safe at Caithness. Now was the time to end this thing once and
for all. Only this time he would not trust so important a mission to one of
those bumbling fools who worked for him.

No, this time he would take care of Fletcher Ramsay himself.

Just as I did his father.

Early the next morning, before the first rosy fingers of
dawn spread over the moors, Adair hurried into the stables.

Angus, who always rose early, was spreading a pitchfork of
hay in an empty stable. He looked up when the duke entered. “Good morning, Your
Grace.”

“Morning, Angus. Saddle Brigadoon for me.”

“Brigadoon, Your Grace? Are you going on a long trip?”

“Aye, and I need speed and endurance.”

Angus nodded and went to saddle the horse. While he was
gone, Adair went outside and paced back and forth, slapping a riding crop
impatiently against his leg. He cursed, then paused, looking back toward the
stables, wondering what was taking Angus so long.

Just at that moment, Angus appeared in the doorway and led
the stallion out to where Adair waited.

Not wasting a moment, Adair mounted the great gray and
spurred him hard. The mighty horse leaped forward with a shrill cry, and soon
his great hooves pounded out a rhythm as he ate up the miles between Glengarry
and Caithness Castle.

Adair rode as if under a spell as the powerful stallion
raced across the sunlit purple moors, but it was not purple moors that he saw,
but moors stained red with blood. The taste of blood was in his mouth now,
salty and metallic, and the hoofbeats seemed to be tapping out the names of
those he had murdered.

Adair felt a sense of exhilaration. At last, he was off to
settle an old score. One that he should have settled long before now, for he
realized that he had made a big mistake those many years ago. He should have
never allowed Maggie Ramsay to leave Scotland alive.

And that included her three children as well.

He reached his destination—the point where the road from
Caithness intersected the road to Edinburgh—ahead of schedule.

He turned off the main road, riding the stallion along the
track above the sea.

He waited a little more than an hour before he heard
approaching hoofbeats. He saw him then, the Earl of Caithness, riding his
gelding down the road from the castle.

Adair waited until Fletcher was almost even with him, then
he put his whip to his stallion and dug in his spurs.

Brigadoon leaped forward, thundering out of the fringe of
trees, galloping down the road, heading straight for the narrowest point—a
place where only a few feet of solid earth separated any passerby from the edge
of nowhere. It was a place where the rock gave way, and far, far below lay
nothing but foam and the echo of the tides thrashing against sharp cliffs,
where the howling wind raged and whistled and seabirds shrieked as if to give
warning for what lay below.

On he came, spurring his horse until blood ran down
Brigadoon’s sides and the great stallion’s mouth was white with foam.

The approaching hoofbeats caught Fletcher’s attention. He
turned around in the saddle and saw a man on horseback thundering straight at
him on a huge gray horse. He had only a moment to think, for he realized
immediately that the rider intended to run him off the road.

Just like my father…

From out of nowhere appeared a brilliant, blinding light, and
then something seemed to suspend time. From out of the intense brightness he
saw a man like unto an angel, dressed in white and standing in the middle of
the road in front of him, his being shining as a flash of lightning, his
countenance one of immeasurable beauty.

Suddenly, as if seeing the vision as well, Fletcher’s
gelding shied, stopping a split second before the moment of impact, as if
Fletcher himself had jerked back on the reins.

Instead of hitting Fletcher’s horse dead center and forcing
him over the edge, the great gray beast Adair rode hit Fletcher’s horse with
only a glancing blow to the shoulder.

The blow wasn’t enough of an impact to force Fletcher and
his horse over the cliff, but it was enough to cause the gray’s girth strap to
break.

Adair’s saddle came off.

At that moment, the gray stallion screamed and made a sharp
turn to the right, sending Adair over the side to the death he had so carefully
planned for someone else.

As soon as it was over, Fletcher looked around for some
sight of the man he had seen standing in the middle of the road.

But there was no one there.

He dismounted, his body trembling and weak. He had no
explanation for what had happened. It was something far beyond his
comprehension. Some being, stronger than he, had been watching over him, and it
had been that being of immeasurable beauty who had stopped his horse and saved
his life.

An hour later, Cathleen and Aunt Doroty came down the road
to Edinburgh in the Earl of Caithness’ coach. They were deep in conversation
when the driver pulled the coach to a stop.

Her heart feeling as if it had lodged in her throat,
Cathleen looked at Aunt Doroty. “Well, it looks like this is it,” she said. “We
had better make this good.”

“Aye. I always fancied myself an actress,” Aunt Doroty said.
“Only I never thought I would have the chance.”

Cathleen opened the door and helped Aunt Doroty out.

“Well, bless me! What are you doing here?” Aunt Doroty
asked.

Cathleen, right behind her, looked up to see Fletcher
standing a few feet away, holding two horses. One she recognized as Fletcher’s
horse, but the other was one she had never seen before—a huge gray beast with
no saddle.

She ran to him, her mind fertile with questions. “What are
you doing here? Where did you get that horse? What happened? Were you
attacked?”

Fletcher took her in his arms and said, “The strangest thing
has happened.”

“Strange? What do you mean?”

“I’m not sure I can explain it. You may think me insane, but
I could swear I saw an angel.”

“It’s the sun,” Aunt Doroty said. “You’ve been out in it too
long with your head uncovered.”

“No,” Fletcher said. “You don’t understand. It was a being,
but it wasn’t human, although it was in human form.”

“Perhaps it was an angel,” Cathleen said, sounding perfectly
accepting. “What did it look like?”

“It is difficult to say, for there was so much light, like
looking into the sun, a brilliance that seemed to stop everything.” Fletcher
went on to tell her about the experience and how the apparition had caused his
horse to stop, thus saving his life.

“I know this sounds strange,” he said, “but I cannot shake
the feeling that this was connected with my father.”

“And perfectly fitting it would have been, too,” Aunt Doroty
said, going over to the edge of the road and looking down to the thrashing sea
below. “Perhaps it
was
the spirit of Bruce Ramsay you saw today. At any
rate, it is more than appropriate that Adair Ramsay met the same fate he gave
your father.”

“And planned for you,” Cathleen said, going to the edge of
the cliff and standing next to Aunt Doroty. Fletcher joined her there, and she
put her hand through his.
“‘For he shall give his angels charge over thee,
to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up…lest thou dash thy foot
against a stone.’
”

A short time later, as they were preparing to take the coach
into Edinburgh, Fletcher watched Walter, the coachman, pick up Adair’s saddle.
He was about to heave it into the luggage boot at the back of the coach when he
paused and looked down at the saddle, a strange, bewildered look upon his face.

“What is it?” Fletcher asked.

“I dinna ken, Your Grace, but there is little doubt that the
cinch strap was cut.”

Fletcher checked the saddle, seeing that the cinch had
indeed been cut. The question was, by whom?

“Has it been cut?” Aunt Doroty asked.

“Yes,” Fletcher said.

“But who would have done it?” Cathleen asked.

“Any number of people, I would think,” Fletcher said. “Adair
was not a well-liked man.”

Aunt Doroty returned to the edge of the cliff and looked
down. “A fitting end,” she said. “At last the bastard gets his just rewards.”

After tying his horse and Adair’s gray to the back of the
coach, Fletcher came around to help the ladies into the coach.

“If it’s all the same to you,” Aunt Doroty said, “I will
ride up front with Walter for a while. I would imagine the two of you have
plenty to talk about, and I much prefer fresh air to being cramped inside that
stuffy coach.”

“You cannot ride up there, Aunt.”

“I would like to know why not. I spent many an hour riding
up here when I was younger.”

Before Fletcher could say more, she turned to Walter and
said, “Weel, dinna stand there looking confused. Help me up!”

Fletcher handed Cathleen into the coach. Then, just as he
was about to join her, he had the strangest feeling that someone was watching
him. He turned and saw a man on horseback sitting in the shade of a towering
crag, not very far away. At that moment, Cathleen looked out and, seeing
Fletcher’s gaze, glanced in that direction.

“Angus?” she whispered.

Fletcher turned to her. “What did you say?”

“That man. I am almost certain it was Angus.”

“Angus? But what would he be doing here?” Fletcher asked,
then turned to look again.

The man was gone.

As the coach started down the road to Edinburgh, Cathleen
and Fletcher looked out the window taking one last look at the rocks where
Adair’s body lay. “‘
They that take the sword shall perish with the sword,’
”
she said. “Matthew.”

Fletcher put his arm around her and drew her against him.

She buried her face against his chest, her arms going around
his middle as she hugged him tightly to her.

Fletcher held her, feeling that his life was now complete.

Suddenly she pulled back, and looked at him in a way that
made his breath catch.

“You have nothing standing between you and being the Duke of
Glengarry now,” she said.

“Nothing except you. I meant what I said, Cathleen. I would
give it all up in a heartbeat if that was the only way I could have you.” He
looked down at the signet ring, shiny and golden, that circled his finger. “You
gave the ring back to me.”

“Aye.” She turned in his arms and kissed him softly.
“‘Whither
thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall
be my people, and thy God my God: Where thou diest, will I die’.
I love
you, Fletcher Ramsay. What a story we will have to tell all our grandchildren
one day.”

Fletcher had a wicked gleam in his eye. “If we’re going to
have all those grandchildren, we will have to become parents first.”

“We will,” she said, laughing. “In about seven months.”

When he got over his shock and finished scattering a dozen
kisses about her face, asking her an equal number of times if she felt all
right, he seemed to relax. “It’s a good thing you agreed to marry me,” he said.
“When did you know?”

“The afternoon I threw up in France.”

He laughed, remembering the afternoon in Le Havre when they
had been attacked. At the time, he had merely thought her frightened.

Holding her in his arms, he felt a peace he had never known
before, and he knew how it would be with them.

He had always known that there would come a time when he
would regain all that had been taken from him, a time when he would avenge his
father’s death and set everything right.

It was now twenty-two years since the murder of Bruce
Ramsay, Duke of Glengarry. The year was 1879, and Fletcher Ramsay, Duke of
Glengarry, Earl of Caithness, was twenty-nine.

Outside, the road looked towards Edinburgh, winding its way
across miles of empty Highlands. Beyond it, on the summit of a towering crag,
half-veiled in cloud, hovered a brilliance, an intense brightness like a flash
of lightning. It lingered there, calm, assured, and holy, impervious to wind,
mist, snow, and time, the very essence of Scotland.

Fletcher closed his eyes, feeling that their story, his and
Cathleen’s, would one day take its place in history. It would be a story that
wove its way across treeless moors, crossing narrow, winding roads and silent
heaths where shaggy Highland cattle grazed the distant slopes, just beyond the
ancient ruins of a roofless castle.

It would be a story woven into the history of Scotland
itself, where the turbulent drama of kings, queens and sagas lingered like the
haunting echoes of the Gaelic tongue, the skirl of the pipes, the roar of
thrashing seas and wild birds, and the ever-present silence of bleak
landscapes.