Journey to Enchantment (12 page)

VI

Prudence waited in her room for two hours before she at last heard Lord Briley's luxurious carriage rumble down the drivepath, escorted by two troopers and doubtless with the Colonel inside with his lordship. She got out of the chair, for she'd not dared relax in bed lest she fall asleep, and stretched wearily. Walking to the door, she put her ear to the panel and listened. She heard the bolts of the front doors being shot, and a window was closed somewhere, none too gently. Still she waited. The stairs creaked. A line of light awoke briefly beneath her door, accompanied by the sound of soft footsteps. That would be the MacTavish going to his room, but she had no wish for any to see her going to her father's chamber at this hour of the night—or morning, more like—and she waited another twenty minutes or so before she at last crept into the hall.

It was very still now, the gentle quiet of a house wherein all are asleep. Prudence closed her door softly and stood motionless in the hall, waiting for her eyes to become accustomed to this deeper gloom. Gradually, from across the landing and stairwell she could detect the brighter square of the window on the west side. She turned right and crept towards her father's bedchamber, which overlooked the terrace at the back of the house. Her scratch at the door went unanswered. She tapped gently. Still no response. Greatly daring, she lifted the iron latch, opened the door a crack, and stuck in her head.

“Papa?” she called softly. “Are you awake, sir?”

Silence.

She bit her lip, but even if Papa slept he must be awakened, so she trod resolutely inside.

The great bed with its tall posts and battlement-trimmed canopy loomed before her. Treading closer she could discern no sign of occupancy, yet she was sure Papa had come upstairs. Besides, had he not retired the candles would still be lit and the bed turned down and ready. She narrowed her eyes against the gloom and saw the coverlet move a little. She put out her hand and recoiled with a scream as a dark shape sprang at her.

An enquiring trill sounded.

“Señorita!” Prudence put one hand to her rapidly pounding heart. “You wee scamp! Does the MacTavish find ye on his bed 'tis yourself will be in a braw pickle, whatever!”

Purring grittily, the unrepentant cat rubbed against her skirts. Taking her up and stroking her, Prudence reasoned that her father must have been wakeful as he often was after an evening's company, and had likely gone downstairs again to select a book and perhaps enjoy a glass of port in peaceful solitude. She started off in search of him, but decided it would be as well to send the grey cat about her business first. The great oak tree spread its branches very close to Papa's corner windows and although it was a long way from the ground, Señorita often hunted high up in the tree. Prudence opened the casement, leaned out to set the cat securely on the branch, and watched her pick her way daintily towards the trunk with not the least appearance of unease.

From below came a faint scuffling sound. Prudence peered downwards, gave a gasp, and drew back. Someone was creeping across the terrace! Every furtive movement of the dim-seen crouched figure spoke of underhandedness. Further, whoever it was could very well be bound for Delacourt's room! She thought, ‘I have him! If I can but catch him wi' his conspirator, I'll prove his treachery to the MacTavish, beyond all doubting!' She started to the door, trying to feel triumphant. Her eyes fell on the small gun cabinet in the corner of the room. The ragtag English soldiery had broken into several estates after Culloden, and the ensuing rape and pillage had caused the MacTavish to set weapons close to hand, always loaded and ready. It was very possible that Delacourt would seek to silence her. Perhaps permanently. He might appear pale and feeble, but she'd several times fancied to glimpse a touch of steel in those dark eyes and would put nothing past the villain.

Thus it was that a few minutes later she crept along the downstairs corridor, the bell-mouthed blunderbuss heavy in her hands as she approached the Captain's door. It would not do, she decided, to attempt the room he slept in. Better if she crept in through the chamber that now served him as a parlour. And the safest way to enter that room would be from the side door. Accordingly, she went to the music room, slipped inside, and tiptoed across to the connecting door. Almost at once she heard soft, urgent voices. Her pulse racing, she inched the latch up and eased the door open.

The room was without benefit of a lighted candle, but Prudence's eyes had become accustomed to the darkness and she saw that Captain Delacourt, fully clad, was half in, half out of the window, assisting another man to climb inside.

“Quiet,” he hissed, as a spur jingled. “We must not wake the house.”

“Och, but ye've already done that,” cried Prudence, levelling her blunderbuss.

Delacourt swore and jerked around. His accomplice, a large individual, gasped a startled, “Oh, God!”

Delacourt started forward. “Miss Prudence, is it? Give you my compliments, ma'am. You've caught us fairly.”

“And will pull this trigger do either of ye take another step!”

The moonlight revealed sufficient for Delacourt to see that her little chin was resolutely set and the finger curling around that deadly trigger was too inexperienced to be tested. “Call your father,” he suggested. “He'll—”

“Do whatever you say? Is that what ye think? Well, you've the wrong o' it this time, Captain Crafty. I've sufficient evidence that Papa will believe me at last.” She raised her voice and shouted at the top of her lungs, “Papa! Come quick!
Papa!
”

The intruder beside Delacourt gave a wail and jumped for the window.

“Dinna move!” shrilled Prudence, raising the blunderbuss in trembling hands. “One shot frae this will serve both of ye villains!”

“Have a care, for God's sake,” growled Delacourt. His eyes slid past her. “Take the gun—quick, before she kills somebody!”

“I'll no fall for that old trick,” she sneered, the heavy gun wavering.

“Heaven help us! What are you about, Prue?”

“Papa!” Her stretched nerves quivering, she cried, “Thank the Lord you've come. Ye wouldnae believe me aboot this lying murderer. Ye
must
believe the—”

“Put down the gun, child!”

She turned a dismayed face. “Wh-what?”

Delacourt sprang forward and smacked the yawning barrel aside, even as her finger tightened involuntarily. There was a deafening explosion. Delacourt and his accomplice both went down, a chunk of plaster fell from the wall, and smoke filled the room.

“Oh … dear, oh, dear,” whimpered Prudence, as her sire tore the blunderbuss from her resistless hands.

MacTavish cried a frantic, “Geoff! Are ye hurt, lad?”

His voice shaken, Delacourt declared he was all right. “Will…?”

There was no response. Clambering to his feet, Delacourt said, “I'll see to him, sir. You're going to have to do some explaining. I hear your people coming.”

MacTavish balanced the gun against the wall and strode to the hall door. “Prudence,” he flung over his shoulder, “see if you can help Captain Delacourt.”

Shaking like a leaf, her mind numbed, Prudence crept forward. The Captain knelt beside his motionless friend and she shrank, sickened as she saw the dark wetness that was blood.

“Bring a candle, quickly,” he demanded. “And some clean neckcloths from my chest.
Move,
girl!”

Convinced she was having a nightmare, Prudence tottered to the adjoining room. A chest of drawers had been brought down and placed against the far wall. She snatched up one of the candelabra, appropriated several neckcloths, and took them to Delacourt, then ran back to pour some water from the pitcher and carry the washbowl to him.

Distantly, she could hear her father reassuring the servants, probably telling them he had discharged the gun by accident. She knelt beside Delacourt staring with wide horrified eyes at the ugly wound above his unconscious friend's knee. “D-did I … do that?” she quavered.

“Scarcely,” he snapped, “since his wound was already bandaged. He hurt it when he jumped clear of your broadside.” He glanced at her, his dark eyes angry and lacking all trace of their customary languor. “Egad,” he said with an ugly sneer, “you're never going to faint, I hope. I thought you had more backbone. Wet one of these and give it here.”

With shaking hands she obeyed him, and he bathed the wound as gently as any woman might have done.

“I'll g-go and get some b-basilicum powder…” she said through chattering teeth.

“You'll do better to close the curtains.”

She did so, keeping her eyes averted from the wounded man.

MacTavish came back. “Luckily, Miss Clandon was not disturbed,” he said, lighting several more candles.

“Not so lucky,” Delacourt muttered, making a pad from a clean neckcloth. “Elizabeth's a fine nurse, as I can testify, bless her. Tear one of those for me, will you, sir? That fall broke the wound open.”

MacTavish obliged and thrust the strips at the busy Captain. Prudence shrank back and sat, shivering, on a gilded chair. The wounded man moaned faintly. MacTavish said, “Brandy, Prue. There's some in the decanter in the music room. Here, I'll help lift him for you, Geoffrey.”

Prudence flew to do his bidding, her knees seeming a little steadier as she returned. Her father had his arm around the victim's shoulders and was steadying his head against his own knee. Offering the half-filled glass, Prudence gave a gasp of shock. “Little …
Willie?
But—but—I thought—”

Delacourt waved away the glass. “Never mind. He's gone off again. Better this way, poor fellow. If you'll give me a hand with him, sir, we'll get him onto the bed.”

“Devil we will.” MacTavish bent to help Delacourt to his feet. “Here—” He took the glass from Prudence and thrust it at the Captain. “You'll be the better for some of this. Prue, you're a strong lass. If I take Willie's shoulders, can you manage his legs?”

“Aye,” mumbled Prudence, bending. “Say when, Papa.”

“On the count of three. One, two…” On the third count, they both lifted. Willie Mayhew was big, and a dead weight. MacTavish was slight and fine-boned. Prudence strove valiantly, but she staggered. Delacourt set the glass down and leapt to help, and between the three of them they got the unconscious man into the bedroom and laid him down.

Delacourt went back into his parlour and returned with the glass of brandy.

Prudence pulled a blanket over Mayhew. “I'm sorrier than I can say, Papa,” she murmured. “But had ye not kept everything from me, I'd not have been such a marplot.”

Delacourt sat in an armchair and leaned back. “I told you, sir.”

“Aye, you did that. But you've seen how excitable the lass is.” MacTavish turned to his daughter. “You'll have guessed it, I fancy.”

“You're helping our lads get clear.” She nodded. “I'm very proud of you, Papa.” Tremulously, she smiled at him, then returned her gaze to the Captain, who now sipped his brandy and watched her over the edge of the glass. “I cannot pretend to understand your involvement, Captain. You fought against us, I think?”

“I did. But I do not care for his Grace of Cumberland's way of dealing with defeated enemies. May I know why you are weeping?”

She turned away, her heart twisting. “I feel so ashamed. But … oh, if
only
you'd seen fit tae—tae trust me, Papa!”

MacTavish said slowly, “Yes, I can understand how you feel. But for your own protection, m'dear, it seemed—”

“
My
protection!” She spun to face him, tears spilling down her cheeks. “You speak of
my
protection, when this—this
Sassenach
risks his life for our men! If they catch him it will go much harder on him than on us. He's an officer in King George's service!”

“He's a sight more than that, lass,” said MacTavish, dryly.

“Sir.” The Captain frowned. “There's no call to—”

“It's past mending, Geoff. She's right. She'd as well know the whole.” MacTavish turned to his tearful daughter. “It is my very great pride, my Prue, to present to you Captain Geoffrey—”

She said with a shaky smile, “May I guess? Is it Montgomery?”

“Close.” He stood and bowed. “Geoffrey Montgomery Delavale, at your service.”

MacTavish went on, “Who is also known to every Scot frae here tae the Border as Mr. Ligun Doone!”

Prudence's jaw sagged. She stared, disbelieving, at the amused twinkle in the eyes of this man she had endowed with every imaginable evil.
“You?”
she gulped in a little croak of a voice. “
You
 … are—
Ligun Doone?
”

He said apologetically, “Sorry, ma'am. Your people have enlarged my few successes to such a degree I must only be a disappointment to you.”

Prudence's knees gave out and she plumped weakly onto the bed. “But … but…”

Delacourt said, “No time for explanations now, Miss MacTavish. May I ask, though, how you rumbled me?”

She fought to pull her reeling senses together. “I heard you talking with Colonel Cunningham this evening. I was listening on the stairs. I thought—I was
sure
I could make Papa believe how—how dangerous you were to us.”

“He's well aware of that,” said Delacourt, with a grim look at his host.

“Yes, but, Papa, is this why you were so anxious I should go doon tae Edinburgh?”

“Yes. We're not playing parlour games here, Prue. I'd be a poor father did I not seek to protect you from peril. Geoff—what's become of your man?”

“If I know old Kerbie, he'll not come in until he's scouted the grounds. He's the world's original fusspot. What we've to do, and quickly, is get your misnamed friend to cover.”