Journey to Enchantment (38 page)

On she went, conveying a good deal of information to Prudence and obviating the need for that damsel to do much more than nod, marvel over her sudden and unexpected ‘marriage,' and eat her breakfast.

As soon as she was left alone, she washed and dressed herself. Her slippers were past redemption, but Mrs. Nutthall was able to provide a pair of serviceable pattens for her to wear, and with the addition of some thick socks, for her stockings were ruined, she was able to fit into the wooden shoes quite comfortably. Her dress had been laundered and the larger tears neatly repaired, and by the time she had brushed out her tangled curls and pulled them back so as to fall from a knot high on her head, she felt halfway human again.

She found Percy Nelson chatting with his aunt in the immaculate kitchen. Mrs. Nutthall was sewing busily on a simple gown of pale green cloth which she explained would be more fitting for a sea voyage than Prudence's silk. She would hear of no thanks and went hurrying off to find a shawl so that her guest might go outside. Percy looked thoroughly mauled, but he got to his feet and greeted Prudence with shy courtesy. His aunt returned to wrap the shawl about Prudence's shoulders, and Percy, leaning heavily on a walking cane, led the way through the parlour to the front of the croft. “My uncle has taken the Captain to see his boat, Miss MacTavish, and—”

“Mrs. Delacourt,” she corrected.

He grinned. “Oh—of course. We—er, thought it best. With things being … as they are, you know.”

“Very wise. Will your uncle take us to England, do you think?”

“I cannot tell. They have to be so careful. It will be tricky, but”—he glanced up at the stormy skies—“if the weather breaks— Oh, there they come now, miss.”

Prudence left the shelter of the overhanging roof and went into the wind to meet Delacourt, who, together with a very fat middle-aged man, was walking up the slope from a stand of trees.

Delacourt looked tired, she thought, but his eyes lit up when he saw her and it was all she could do not to throw herself into his arms. She gave him her hand, and he held it for a moment, wordlessly, his eyes locked with hers, before pressing it to his lips.

Mr. Nutthall chuckled, his middle bobbing up and down as a result. “Ye're nae past yer first year o' wedlock, that's verra clear,” he said genially. He bowed slightly when Delacourt introduced Prudence, her cheeks blushing because she was presented as his “dear wife.”

“I've been telling yer mon we might venture it tonight, if so be the storm rolls in,” Nutthall said. “It'll be right chancy sailing, but I'm nae a novice at this game. Are ye a good sailor, missus?”

Prudence had never sailed on any body of water larger than Loch Ness, which had always seemed to be water enough for anyone, but she answered confidently that she had never experienced the least discomfort in a boat, even in rough weather.

They chatted for another minute or two, and then Nutthall left them so that Prudence might be taken down to see the boat while he warned his wife to prepare supplies for a long journey.

Delacourt drew Prudence's hand through his arm. “Did you sleep well?” he asked. “You look wonderful, but perhaps I should not take you to see our man-o'-war in this cold wind.”

“Never mind about me.” She scanned his face. “Are you better?”

He assured her that he was feeling “splendid, thank you,” and led her past the trees, moving ever downhill. They came out onto a curving headland above a sheltered cove, where a two-masted fishing vessel, with sails reefed, lay at anchor, rocking to the surge of the tide. The sea looked dark and the waves threatening and topped with foam when the wind caught them, and low-hanging clouds surged swiftly over the sullen waters. The wind carried spray and the clean smell of the sea, and sent Prudence's curls whipping about. “Oh, but it's wild-looking,” she exclaimed. “What do you think, sir? Will he take us?”

Delacourt was silent for a moment. Then he said quietly, “Prue, have you thought about this? From what I've been able to gather we were attacked not by military, but by bounty hunters—likely out for my valuable head. It might well be exceeding dangerous for you to leave Scotland with me.”

Her heart gave a lurch. She said, “And what if you leave me here and it turns out that the ‘bounty hunters' were soldiers after all, masquerading as civilians so as to do Cumberland's work without the risk of censure? If I stay I might be hurried off to the block even—”

She was crushed close against him, and he groaned, “Do not! It is abominable to think of such a horror!”

“It is very possible,” she said into his cravat.

“Unlikely. But, Prue, if I take you from home and family, where shall I safely deliver you? Is there a relative you could stay with for a time?”

Her spirits sank. She had been so sure he meant to offer. But he must not see her disappointment, so she said cheerfully, “Oh, yes. I've an aunt lives on a beautiful estate near Richmond who will be very glad of my company.”

Still he hesitated, muttering, “Lord, but I wish Robbie were here to take care of you. If they know who I am, and you're caught with me…” He frowned, and did not finish the sentence.

A chill crept between her shoulders. “Then I shall say you kidnapped me, and that I knew naught of your wickedness.”

He grinned at that. “You'd be far more like to rail at them and proclaim that I had come to realize the Jacobite Cause was the right one!” He put a hand over her parting lips and went on in a very grave manner, “Prudence, aside from all else, you heard what Nutthall said. Our best hope is to set sail during a storm, and it will be a chancy business. So many risks for you, so many dangers. I shall never forgive myself if I bring you to disaster.”

She smiled into his worried eyes and set herself to allay his fears. And she thought, ‘The storm will pass, and then—days and nights of sailing. Days and nights at sea, to all intents and purposes alone with him.' How wonderful it would be. To stroll the decks together; to eat luncheon and dinner together; to be free from danger and distractions. She would twine herself around his heart and so enchant him that he would have offered (and been accepted) long before they set foot in England!

*   *   *

Four days later, Stuart MacLeod guided Prudence's faltering steps along the deck and supported her as she gazed across the grey tumbling sea to the distant coastline. She asked in a thread of a voice, “Is it truly England? You are quite sure I am not dead?”

He smiled down at her. “Sae soon as 'tis dusk we'll have ye on solid groond again, lady.”

She gave a great sigh. When they had boarded
The Maid o' Moidart
she'd thought it a fine boat, well able to withstand the rigours of any storm. They had set sail after dark, in heavy rain, with a strong wind blowing from the east, and Mr. Nutthall and his sons working frenziedly to guide the vessel clear of the cove. The fear of the water that had kept Lockerbie from venturing into the Monster had again prevailed to separate him from his beloved master. He and Delacourt had said their farewells in private, but that it had been a sad parting, Prudence was sure. Cole, although still weak, had not so much as considered being left behind, and MacLeod, ignoring all counsel to the contrary, had announced he meant to be sure that Mr. Doone came safely to his own shores.

Happily packing the necessary articles Delacourt had been able to purchase from Mrs. Nutthall, and much more comfortable in the green cloth gown that had miraculously been altered so as to fit very nicely, Prudence had been bathed in a rosy glow of happiness. It had been a surprise when the hairbrush she had put on top of the small chest had suddenly sailed past, but she had caught it with faint amusement and tucked it into a drawer. Moments later she had experienced an uneasy sensation when the floor of the cabin dropped suddenly from beneath her feet, a sensation that intensified when the little cabin tilted slowly onto its side. Within another quarter-hour she had come to the appalling realization that, firmly believing they had survived the worst of their personal nightmare, she was now entering another phase of it.

She had heard of the evils of
mal de mer,
but never had she dreamed how truly ghastly is that allegedly trite affliction. Delacourt, who had gone up on deck to give a hand with sails, ropes, and spars—or some such—had returned to find her huddled on the floor in a pitiful condition. With a cry of sympathy he had swept her up, deposited her in the bunk, and run for the basin. And, with true heroism, had not left her through that long, hideous night, while the storm mounted in fury until it was all he could do to balance himself and keep her securely in the bunk.

Longing to be comfortably dead, Prudence had found that the dawn brought no relief. For the next two days Delacourt held her much-employed bowl, bathed her clammy face, murmured encouragement, and plied her with brandy and water. Between paroxysms she moaned out thanks and apologies and begged that he leave her to expire, asking only that she not be buried at sea.

Delacourt had little respite, for MacLeod and Cole were almost as badly afflicted, and even when thunder, lightning, and torrential rain abated, the wind continued at gale force.

The third day was slightly less violent, and Mr. Nutthall, guiding
The Maid o' Moidart
before the wind with shortened sail, and struggling to repair the damage they had sustained, was able to report that they had been swept along at such a rate that by the following afternoon they would be cruising the coast of South Wales.

That evening, Prudence had been able to take some soup that MacLeod contrived to heat in the ravaged galley. She had slept then, from pure exhaustion, awakening late this morning, limp as a rag and aching in every bone from the endless retching that had so drained her strength, but without that hideous feeling of nausea. Delacourt had come early with hot water and towels and the information that as soon as she was decent she was to ring the little bell he brought her and MacLeod would be at her disposal.

Now, watching the loom of the land draw nearer, she heard a quick light step and turned to find Delacourt coming towards her, all eager solicitude.

He took the unsteady hand she held out to him, kissed it, and said, “How splendid to see you up and about again, my wan wisp. Only another hour or so, and you shall walk on ‘this green and pleasant land' and not find it heave under your feet.”

It was closer to two hours, however, and just after dark, before Mr. Nutthall guided
The Maid o' Moidart
into a secluded inlet some fourteen miles south of Bristol.

Their thanks were waved aside. “Nae call fer that, sir,” said Nutthall, shaking hands with Delacourt. “That Percy lad's as close tae a fourth son as I'll ever get, I fancy. And a damned good lad—saving yer presence, ma'am. I owe ye a sight more than a rough journey in my wee
Maid,
let alone allowing ye tae ha' paid me so handsome. Me boy, Bruce, has the dinghy ready and will row ye ashore. God be wi' ye, sir and ma'am.”

Looking strangely alien in the breeches Mrs. Nutthall had managed to procure for him, MacLeod climbed into the dinghy and Delacourt guided Prudence down into his arms. They were rowed ashore under a moonless sky, the gusty wind blowing up the waves in a way that made Prudence shrink in Delacourt's protective arm, dreading lest she become ill again. Very soon, however, Bruce Nutthall ran the dinghy onto the beach and jumped out to hold her secure while MacLeod lifted Prudence over the side and carried her onto the sand. Following, Delacourt said his farewells to young Nutthall, then reached out to the towering Scot. “God speed, Stuart. I shall never forget you, my good friend.”

“I'll take guid care o' that, sir,” growled MacLeod, ignoring his hand. “I said I'd bide wi' ye, and I meant it.”

Delacourt gripped his arm. “Curst idiot,” he said affectionately. “You belong in Scotland's glens and great mountains. You'd be miserable in England, and you know it.”

“I'd nae be content away frae ye, sir. And—and the little lady. If ye make me leave, I'll just bide a wee while and follow.”

Delacourt shook his head. “It is very good of you, but—there's your accent, you see, and it might mean—”

“Death tae ye? D'ye think I dinna ken that, Captain? I'll be mute.”

“A fine existence! MacLeod, you great madman, do you not know to what you condemn yourself? If all goes well and I escape arrest, mine will be the tranquil life of a country gentleman. You'd fairly die of boredom.”

“I've had me share o' excitement, sir. And d'ye take me fer a nincompoop? Ye're in as much danger here as ever ye were in the north. More, maybe. I'll
nae
leave ye, sir.”

Delacourt groaned and clutched his hair, and MacLeod said haltingly, “Sir … dinna turn me off.”

Prudence touched Delacourt's arm. “It is what he wants, dear sir.”

He sighed. “So be it, Stuart. But I'll not hold you to it, should you change your mind.”

MacLeod gave a great beaming grin. “Will I carry your wee lady, sir?”

Experiencing the odd sensation that she still rocked to the motion of the waves, Prudence said, “That would be lovely, MacLeod.”

He bent and lifted her gently. They waved farewell to Bruce Nutthall and began to trudge up the beach.

With a gesture to the north, Cole said, “Bristol lies that way, sir. It would be best, I think, did we find a sheltered spot where you and the lady might rest, while MacLeod and I go to the nearest village and hire a carriage and team.”

This was agreed upon, Delacourt handing Cole the money belt Sir Ian had loaned him when he had left the cavern. Strapping this about his trim middle with a little help from MacLeod, Cole glanced around the dim-seen landscape and sighed. “Lor', but it's good to be home, isn't it, sir?”

Delacourt agreed, but recalling his last sight of his own home, wondered what he might find when he came again to Highview.