Journey to Enchantment (37 page)

MacLeod came up and stood watching. The boy was silent, his eyes lowered.

“May we know your name?” asked Delacourt.

The response was muffled. “Percy Nelson.”

MacLeod rumbled, “Sir, are ye well? That was a woundy ding ye took fer this ungrateful whelp.”

“I am not ungrateful!” The fair head lifted, the grey eyes glaring resentment. “Only I think I've seen you before, sir. At Prestonpans. And you're a Captain?”

“You're right, by Jove! What a memory.”

“Why, I saw you in action, sir.” He sighed, then went on in a hopeless voice, “I suppose—if I have to be arrested, I'd as soon you were the one to do it.”

MacLeod gave a contemptuous snort.

Delacourt said, “A deserter, are you?”

Meeting his eyes, Nelson said wretchedly, “Not because I was afraid, if that's what you're thinking! I served through Prestonpans and that awful massacre at Culloden. I thought it was done then.” His eyes slid away to stare at Prudence, who was washing her hands in a nearby rivulet. “I didn't realize,” he muttered, half to himself. “I joined up to serve my country. I wasn't afraid to fight. But—God! I did not join to murder helpless women and babes. Or…” He closed his eyes as though to shut out images too horrible to contemplate. “My God! If I must be shot for deserting Butcher Cumberland, then shoot me now and be done with it!” He looked up at Delacourt with desperate pleading. “Go on, sir! It would be kinder than—than to send me back to disgrace and execution.”

“Well, MacLeod,” said Delacourt gravely, “what d'you think of that?”

“I'm nae a gert thinker, sir. Whatever ye say is enough fer me. Now and hence.” His colour heightened as Delacourt darted a surprised glance at him, but he said doggedly, “Sae long as I do live, sir.”

“What's all this?” said Delacourt. “Here, give me a hand up, will you?”

At once MacLeod's strong arm was hoisting him to his feet. His head ached and he was dizzied for an instant.

Watching him as she secured the knot of the makeshift bandage about Cole's arm, Prudence called, “Ye've done too much! You're not well enough to—”

“Well enough? Little lass, I am so well I scarce can believe it!” He gripped the brawny hand on his arm and said intensely, “Stuart MacLeod, if you are still remorseful because you knocked me down, pray know that wallop you gave me saved my life. No, man! I am not mad—I mean it. Truly, I do not know how to thank you.”

MacLeod glanced at Prudence and stammered, “Nay, sir. I ken ye're kindly seekin' tae ease me mind, but—”

“The devil I am! It is so, I tell you. I always knew my wound was not healing properly. It became more and more of a nuisance, with the feeling that something tight and sharp was bound through my chest. My doctor had implied I would not—well, that it was only a matter of time. When I came round after you grassed me, it took a few days to realize the tightness was gone. Now, Lord, if you could but know how grand it is to feel well! To feel my strength coming back. You've given me back my health, you great looby!
Now
will you believe me?” He put out his hand and said rather unsteadily, “And allow me to thank you.”

MacLeod hesitated, then shyly he took Delacourt's hand. “If 'tis as ye say, I couldnae be more grateful. But were it not for Ligun Doone, I'd ha' lost me whole family, I dinna doot. There's no way ye can be rid o' me, lest—”

“
Ligun
 …
Doone
…?” gasped Nelson, who had managed to get to his knees and had been watching this exchange with growing excitement. “Sir? Captain, never say
you
are Ligun Doone?”

MacLeod groaned and clapped a hand over his unguarded lips.

“Oh, dear,” sighed Delacourt.

Lockerbie came up, a fierce scowl on his pale face and his musket aimed at the young trooper. “Great loose-mouthed gowk,” he snarled, glaring at MacLeod. “Now we've tae kill the lad!”

“Absolutely not!” said Delacourt sharply.

“If 'tis a matter o' the Sassenach's life or yours, sir,” said MacLeod, “ye must stop and think there's the reward, y'ken.”

“As if I would touch it,” said Nelson, indignant. “And how could I claim it? I'm a deserter.”

Worried, Prudence interjected, “You could send your kinfolks to claim it when the Captain let you go.”

“Well, you may be sure I would not!” Nelson struggled to his feet only to hop painfully, and sink down again. “Sir,” he said desperately, “I give you my oath! You cannot know how
glad
I am. To think Ligun Doone is English and has done so much of good. I'll
never
betray you!”

“Easy said.” Cole came up to join them, his face haggard and Prudence's impromptu bandage already showing a red stain. “Your ugly friends are stirring about, sir. 'Tis past time we was on our way.”

Delacourt turned to survey the vanquished. “What in the deuce are we to do with the clods?”

Nelson said, “Sir, if you'd seen what I have, you'd do the world a favour and shoot them out of hand.”

The other men voiced their approval of these sentiments, but Delacourt shook his head. “Likely you're right, but I do not fancy the role of executioner. I wish to God I could hand 'em over to a military tribunal.”

“One of Cumberland's appointing?” Prudence said a mocking, “Hah!”

The end of it was that Delacourt ordered Stuart MacLeod to strip the bounty hunters of all weapons and valuables, gag them, and dump them in the hollow. And with a thought to his own sore heels, he added, “And remove their shoes!”

It was dusk as they resumed their interrupted journey, MacLeod far out in front; Nelson, mounted on one of their appropriated horses, behind him; Delacourt and Prudence following; and Lockerbie and Cole bringing up the rear.

XVIII

For several miles the little band travelled in silence, every ear stretched for sounds of other riders. When it became necessary that they lead the horses, they were a sorry lot, Lockerbie's broken head causing him to become so dizzied at times that Cole, himself weakened, would have to steady him, and MacLeod more or less carrying young Nelson, whose right leg was so badly bruised he could scarcely endure to set foot to ground. Delacourt's head pounded unremittingly, but it was so trifling a discomfort compared with the misery he had now escaped that he scarcely heeded it. His main concern was for Prudence. She struggled on gamely, but with each mile the way seemed to become more difficult, and for all of them fatigue was a daunting enemy. His arm about Prudence, Delacourt glanced up at the fearsome pass they must ascend and paused, dreading to subject the girl to such a climb.

Nelson saw his face and peered upward also. “Holy Christ!” he gasped. “Sir—you're never bound for Loch nan Uamh?”

“We are. Do you know the area?”

“I know it well, and I know also that it fairly bristles with troops. They think the Young Pretender—”

“D'ye mean Prince Charles Edward Stuart?” demanded MacLeod, angrily.

“Well, of course that's who I mean! Who else could—”

“Never mind,” said Delacourt. “What do they think about the Prince?”

“That he sailed for the Isles, but is coming back with another army and will land at Loch nan Uamh. Sir, if you go there, your life will not be worth a groat! If those bounty hunters knew who you were—”

“They
knew
me?” asked Delacourt, coming level with MacLeod and halting, his arm still supporting the wilting Prudence. “Do you mean they
knew
I was Ligun Doone?”

“Well, they must have, sir. I heard them speaking of ‘settling the Englishman' several times, though I'd no notion then it was you they meant.”

MacLeod growled, “We daren't go there, then.”

Delacourt said nothing for a moment, then, “
You
could get through, though, and put Miss MacTavish on a boat, perchance?”

“I'll nae creep off alone,” declared Prudence, anger returning the spark to her eyes.

“Be still,” said Delacourt. “Well, MacLeod?”

“I hae me doots, sir. If the loch is swarming wi' redcoats, every ship will likely be guarded.”

“And there is not the need,” Nelson put in. “Captain, my aunt married a Scottish gentleman. They've a neat little croft on the coast, not ten miles from here, and my uncle—a very good sort of man—fishes the Sea of the Hebrides, and sometimes sails as far as Ireland. I spent many summers up here. I was trying to reach the croft, in fact, when the bounty hunters got me.”

“Whisht,” exclaimed Lockerbie, elated. “Does y'r uncle hae his own boat, laddie?”

“Yes. He and my cousins built it themselves, and a right good boat it is. Sturdy, and rigged for ocean travel.”

“What a piece of luck we found you, Percy,” said Delacourt. “Lead us, then.”

*   *   *

Afterwards, Prudence could never summon a clear recollection of that last phase of their ride. She remembered that it was interminable, miserable, and yet holding a very deep and special joy because it seemed her love was reprieved and would, with God's mercy, live after all. She remembered cold and wind and a freezing drizzle; her feet slipping in the mud, or being bruised by rocks, and when she thought she could take not another step, MacLeod suggesting they might better rest for a wee bit, “for 'tis a touch rough up ahead, sir.” After that, only a blur of effort through which Geoffrey's voice came to encourage and sustain her, until even that faded into darkness.

Her clear memory began with a neat little wooden bed in a small bare room with a washstand on one wall, and on the other a small press and a battered old chest of drawers. A particularly dreadful painting of a despondent-looking horse graced the space between two narrow windows, and a tall, angular woman was pulling back the skimpy curtains to reveal wind-tossed trees and stormy grey skies.

“You must be Percy's aunt,” said Prudence.

The woman spun around. She had fading fair hair drawn back into so tight a bun that her eyebrows seemed stretched upwards. Her features were sharp and unattractive, and her complexion colourless, but her mouth was curved into a warm smile, and her hazel eyes beamed so welcomingly that Prudence thought her very comely indeed.

“Aye, my poor dearie,” she said, hurrying to the bed. “I'm Mrs. Nutthall, and more proud than I can say to have you here, though 'tis little enough I can offer in the way of the luxuries to which yourself is accustomed. Or himself, either. So fine a gentleman, and doing very much better this morning.”

Alarmed by this ominous statement, Prudence started to throw back the bedclothes, but pulled them up again as a knock sounded and MacLeod came in, with an anxious expression and a cup and saucer in one great hand and a plate of buttered bannocks in the other. “Ah, ye're awake at last, little mistress,” he said, grinning at her.

She sat up, wished him a good morning, and desired to know if Captain Delacourt was all right.

“Aye,” said MacLeod, handing Prudence the cup of tea.

“You must be fair clemmed, poor lass,” fussed Mrs. Nutthall, taking the plate and setting it carefully on Prudence's lap. “Would ye like some jam with your bannocks? I've some I made myself.”

“Oh, but you are so generous. I've no wish to run you short.”

The kindly woman beamed at her and hurried out saying she'd fetch some hot water also, since the sweet lady had been too wearied to wash last night.

MacLeod came at once to the side of the bed. “I'll tell ye as quick as quick, fer the lady will be back and her tongue runs on wheels, I dinna doot. Do ye mind us getting doon frae the high places, and Cole falling tae the groond?”

“No! Heavens! Is he all right?”

“A sight pulled. I carried the poor lad, for 'twas child's play once we came tae the level, y'ken. Nelson was forespent, but led us right bravely, and the rain stopped, which was no a bad thing. When we came tae the croft the lad went in first and then his uncle ran oot, bidding us all tae come inside. The Captain was cheery, but looked nae sae very alive when we came intae the barn. I set poor Cole on the hay, and the Captain handed ye doon, but couldnae climb oot o' the saddle. I caught him when he did come doon—all of a rush. I was a muckle scared, but 'twas just exhaustion, and small wonder. We made him cosy i' the barn wi' Lockerbie and me. He never stirred until this morning, but he's oot the noo, and—”

“Out!” Prudence was sufficently relieved to sip her tea and take a hungry bite of a jamless bannock. “There are no troopers about?”

“The crofter, Mr. Nutthall, says they're thick as flies aroond the loch, and that they've come here a time or two, but wi' his lady being a Sassenach they're let be.”

Prudence thought, ‘So far…'

There was no time for more. Mrs. Nutthall bustled back in. She was a kind-hearted woman and overcome with gratitude because her beloved nephew had told them of his desertion and that Captain Delacourt and his friends had come to this sorry state in rescuing him from the bounty hunters.

“He's not a bad boy, ma'am,” said the lady earnestly, spooning a generous helping of jam onto Prudence's plate, “but he's been brought up gentle-like, and if all we hear of the Duke of Cumberland is truth, I'd think less of our Percy did he
not
desert from such evil doings. He tells us you're in bad trouble because you aided him, but there's no cause to fret. My man's a good sailor and we've a fine boat will carry you all safe home, never fear. Your husband is better this morning, I'm glad to tell you, and— Whoops! Never worry, ma'am. A little jam on the eiderdown won't matter. Only look, it blends in quite nicely with the pattern. I sewed it. I'm a rare good seamstress, if I say so myself. So you married an Englishman? Well, look at us, will you—me wed to a Scot, and you and your husband turnabout. He's a fine-looking young fellow, your man, and don't you be worrying yourself about him nor your servants, either. The chap with the cut in his arm is resting still, for he was in a proper fever when they carried him, and 'tis a nasty wound, but he's going on better already.…”