Highland Sunset Page 12

  "Someone ought to give Morar a good shake," Lady Linton said furiously. "What can he be thinking of?"

  "He is thinking of his prince, ma'am." Niall's voice was insufferably arrogant.

  Lady Linton was not intimidated. She stared at his splendid-looking young face and her blue eyes flashed. "Well, he ought to be thinking of his daughter. And of his wife. How will Frances bear up when she sees her husband lose his head to the executioner's ax?"

  Niall was staring at his mother's cousin as if she were some strange sort of insect. Then he turned to his sister. "Are you coming, Van?"

  "I must go and put on riding clothes."

  "Riding clothes?" Lady Linton asked sharply.

  "Niall has horses, ma'am," Van said gently. "And he wishes to leave immediately."

  "But Edward..." said his mother in great distress.

  "Edward is with the king."

  "The elector " Niall said fiercely.

  Van ignored him. "I must pack a few things into a small bag, ma'am. Come upstairs and assist me." She put a hand on Lady Linton's arm and began to walk her to the door. She threw Niall a cool look over her shoulder. "I will be about half an hour. Wait here."

  Twenty minutes later, as Niall was pacing the length of the drawing room, the refreshments brought by Fenton untouched on the side table, the door opened and the Earl of Linton walked in.

  "MacIan," he said from the doorway. Then, as Niall swung around to face him, "I'm Linton."

  Niall's eyes narrowed as he took in the look of this Sassenach who had tried to steal his sister. Edward came further into the room and threw something down on a chair. He said nothing further, just looked at Niall out of intensely blue eyes.

  The hostility in the room was so strong the air seemed to crackle. Niall's eyes narrowed almost to slits. "I have come to take my sister home," he said between his teeth to the big blond Viking in front of him.

  Something flickered in the earl's hard blue eyes. "Morar has gone out, then?"

  "He has gone out."

  "The goddamn fool," Edward said, very softly but with extreme violence.

  "It's you who are the fool., Linton, to think you would be allowed to lay a hand on my sister!" Niall flared.

  Van was coming in the doorway as he spoke and at his words she stopped dead, her eyes flying to Edward. The earl's clear-cut features were iron-hard. He did not look at her. "Your sister," he said to Niall, "is perfectly capable of speaking for herself." And at last he turned.

  Van felt as if she were being cleaved in two. He was so angry, she thought, but his anger was not hot like Niall's. His blue eyes were hard on her face.

  "Your father is making a great mistake," he said.

  "Perhaps. I do not know." She was trembling. "Edward." Her eyes were lifted to him. "Don't you see? It is precisely because he comes alone and trusts himself to us that we must follow him. And he has the right!"

  His eyes were blue ice. "You are leaving, then?"

  This was anguish, to part from him like this, in front of others. But to be alone would be no better. Worse, perhaps. She gripped her hands hard to conceal their tremors. "I must."

  "Edward." It was Lady Linton's voice, full of distress. "He is taking Vanessa on horseback! All that long way!"

  The blue eyes took in her riding habit, then went to Niall. "You will take my carriage," he said. "It is well sprung. Send it back when you get to Edinburgh."

  Niall flung up his head. "I'll take nothing of yours, Sassenach!"

  Edward was ice to Niall's fire. "I am not offering it for you, MacIan, but for your sister. A week in the saddle is too much for her."

  Niall looked as if he were going to refuse again but Van said, "Thank you, Edward," and stared at her brother.

  Edward rang a bell and said to the footman who appeared almost instantly, "Have the carriage sent around immediately." Then he turned to Van. "Do not expect England to follow Scotland's example."

  "I know." Her voice was faintly breathless. "But England and Scotland were two different countries with two different kings for centuries. Why should they not be so again?"

  He did not reply and Lady Linton said urgently, "Vanessa, you are to tell your mother that she has friends in the Lintons. If ever she—or you—should have need of us, we are here."

  "Thank you, Cousin Katherine," Van said unsteadily. "You have been so very kind to me."

  "Dear child." The countess embraced her warmly.

  "The carriage is at the front door, my lord," said a footman.

  "Come along, Van," Niall said crisply, and Van looked for the last time at Edward.

  "Good-bye, Van," he said. Then, meaningfully, "If you need me, you know where to find me."

  The pain in her heart was so great it was difficult to breathe. "Good-bye." Her lips formed the word, although no sound came out. Then Niall had her arm and was ushering her out to the hall. When she was in the carriage she looked once more toward the house. The countess was standing on the front steps waving. Of Edward there was no sign.

  They were on the outskirts of London when Niall turned to his sister. "How could you have wanted to marry him? A Sassenach. And he was talking to the elector! How could you, Van?"

  He was outraged, furious, and, under it all, bewildered and hurt.

  Van's face was as remote as the moon. "I do not wish to discuss Edward with you, Niall," she said, and turned her head to look out the window.

  Niall had never seen his sister look like that. "Van," he said urgently, and put his hand on her arm.

  "I have left him," she said over her shoulder. "That should make you and Father happy. I do not wish to discuss him again." And she removed her arm from her brother's grasp.

  They rode in silence for quite a long time. Then Van turned back to him. "What has been happening at home?" she asked composedly. "Did you have any warning of the prince's coming?"

  Thankfully, Niall began to tell her all that had occurred in the Highlands these last few weeks.

  They arrived home to find the clan preparing for war. It was a relatively simple matter. Clansmen pulled broadswords from the sod where they had been hidden since the Disarming Acts. They dug up Lochaber axes and steel dirks. They primed muskets and dags. The piper composed a new song to be played in honor of the Prince:

  O Thèarlaich mhic Sheumais, mhic Sheumais, mhic Thèarlaich Leat shuiblainn gu h-eutrons 'n am éighlich bhith màrsad...

  Angus Mor was playing it as Van and Niall came riding into the courtyard of Creag an Fhithich.

  Alasdair was not at home and Morag told Van that the countess was in her sitting room, which was at the back of the house, where she would not have seen their arrival. Van went up to the familiar room and stopped at the door to look at her mother. Frances was alone, sitting in a blue velvet chair, her hands idle in her lap, her face abstracted and serious. Then she looked up and saw her daughter.

  "Oh, my darling." Her voice was so gentle, so full of love. "I am so sorry. So very, very sorry." And she held out her arms.

  Kneeling before her mother, Van felt the touch of Frances' hand on her cheek, her mother's lips on her hair. She closed her eyes against the agony in her heart. Oh, the comfort, the understanding, the peace of Mother.

  Van pressed her cheek against her mother's soft breast. "I love him so much, Mother. But I couldn't stay. Even if Niall hadn't come, I would have come home."

  "I know, darling."

  Van pulled away and sat back on her heels. "Was Father angry with me?"

  "A little'. But he had agreed to the marriage before... before this."

  Something flickered behind Van's eyes. "He agreed?"

  "Yes."

  Van straightened up. "Perhaps it will be all right, then, Mother. If the prince can take and hold Scotland, we may be two countries again instead of one. And once peace is restored, Edward and I can be married."

  Frances did not have the heart to discourage her. She reached out and brushed a stray curl off her daughter's cheek. "Perhaps, darling. Yo
u may very well be right."

  Her reward was the life that seemed to come back into Van's eyes.

  Alasdair wasted no reproaches on Van. He simply held her two hands in his and said, in Gaelic, "It is good to have you home, my daughter."

  "It is good to be home at such a time, Mac mhic Iain," she replied.

  He gestured her to a chair. "Your reports on the English Jacobites were not encouraging." His black brows formed almost a straight line across his dark gray eyes.

  "I spoke to most of the men you wished me to see, Father. They would smile to see King James on the throne, but they will not lift a finger to put him there." Van's face was somber. "Father, I hope you do not think that what I am about to say is disloyal, but I feel I must say it for I feel it is true."

  He was completely attentive. "What is it, Van?

  "England does not want the Stuarts, Father. They are afraid of a Catholic king and they are afraid of France."

  Alasdair's face was stern. "The Stuarts are England's rightful rulers, Van."

  "Yes, I know that. But the English do not. The English think they have the right to choose their king, and they do not choose King James."

  He frowned. "Are you quoting the Earl of Linton to me?"

  She kept her face expressionless. "Not just the Earl of Linton, Father."

  "The common people—"

  "No," Van interrupted him, and he frowned even harder. "I am sorry, Father, but the common people will not risk their lives for the sake of one dynasty as opposed to another. It is simply not that important to them."

  He made a sound indicative of contempt and Van leaned forward. "Be honest, Father. You are fighting for the Stuarts, but the clansmen who follow you are fighting for Mac mhic Iain and for no other man, king or prince, that exists in this world."

  His gray eyes met and held hers. She was right and he knew it.

  "You are saying then that we can expect no help at all from England?"

  "None." She flung up her head in a proud gesture. "It is we who want the prince, we who are true to the Stuarts. We can give him Scotland. Why should he not be content with that?"

  Alasdair looked at his daughter's face and his hard gray eyes began to glow. "Why not, indeed, my daughter?" He began to smile. "The Act of Union has always left a bad taste in my mouth."

  Van awoke early on the nineteenth of August to the sound of the piper who was pacing back and forth in front of the castle with a stately tread. The notes of his tribute to the prince filled the morning air:

  Oh, Charles, son of James, son of James, son of Charles,

  With you I'd go gladly when the call sounds for marching...

  Van hastily got out of bed.

  Niall had scarcely slept at all. Today was the day the prince would raise the standard. The chosen place was a narrow valley at the end of Loch Shiel, Glenfinnan by name. There on this day were to gather the MacIans, the Camerons under Lochiel, the MacDonalds of Keppoch and Lochaber, and assorted other clans from the surrounding area. Today the clans would officially announce that they were in arms against the usurper king who sat on the British throne.

  Alasdair was attired in the full panoply of his rank when he came punctiliously to bid his wife farewell. For the last few weeks they had spoken to each other with cool courtesy when it was necessary to communicate, and that was all. Frances had not forgiven him for raising the clan and he had not forgiven her for opposing him.

  Frances was sitting up in bed when he came into the room. He wore the kilt today, not the trews, and at his waist hung a dirk and wrought-steel pistol. The rest of his weapons consisted of a broadsword, which dangled by his side, and a target which hung upon his shoulder. His bonnet was decorated with an eagle's feather, the sign of a chief. He looked barbaric, magnificent, and tough as nails.

  "I will be saying good-bye to you," he said formally.

  "Good-bye, Alasdair," she replied. "Godspeed."

  He kissed her cheek, a kiss cold as a knife, and then was gone.

  Gone to what? Frances though bitterly as she lay back and stared at the canopy over her. Gone to rebellion, to battle, to ultimate disaster.

  He knew that. He had to know that. He was much too astute not to understand what he was doing. And yet, the prince had called, and so he went.

  She could forgive such a reaction in Niall, but not in Alasdair. A grown man should be more flexible, able to change and revise his thinking with the times. But not Alasdair. Oh, never Alasdair. He would bring them all to utter desolation, but he would have remained true.

  She could see him now in her mind's eye, marching at the head of his clan, head up, frown between his eyes. She felt such fear for him. She felt such fear for them all. With a heavy heart she pushed back the covers and got out of bed.

  The prince and a small party of followers were already at Glenfinnan when the MacIans arrived, marching in two long lines, led by their chief and their piper. Niall's heart swelled as his clansmen filed into the glen and his father went to give allegiance to his prince. Then came the sound of the Camerons' battle song: "Clanna nan con, Thigibh an so, thigibh and so..." "Sons of the dogs, come hither, come hither and you shall have flesh." Lochiel's men also were pouring down the hillside. Soon the little glen was filled with clansmen and the aging Duke of Atholl, one of the staunchest of veteran Jocobites, unfurled the prince's red-white-and-blue standard. Charles Edward then stepped forward to speak.

  Niall was perfectly happy. There in that rocky glen, looking out toward the loch, the sea, and the Western Isles, was gathered the last feudal army ever to assemble on British soil. Niall looked around at the brilliant tartan colors, the bonnets and feathers, the flash of sun on sword and pistol. The prince finished speaking and a great roar rose to the heavens. The Rebellion of 1745 had begun.

  PART II: The Year of Charlie

  Scotland and England, September 1745-April 1746

  CHAPTER 13

  The ancient palace of Holyrood was ablaze with light on the evening of September 18. For years the traditional home of the kings of Scotland had lain empty of royalty, serving only as a garrison for English troops. But on this glorious evening the palace of Scotland's hereditary kings was once again occupied by its rightful owner. The day before, with pipes skirling and tartans swinging, Prince Charles Edward Stuart had entered Edinburgh and taken up residence in the palace of his ancestors.

  Torches were flickering along the length of the Canongate as Frances and Van drove their carriage toward the palace where the prince was giving a reception and ball for his loyal adherents. All of Edinburgh lay at his feet. All, that is, except the English garrison still holding the castle at the other end of the Royal Mile. Tonight, however, it was possible to forget that stubborn spot of resistance and rejoice in the ease with which the prince and the clans had conquered all opposition up till now.

  Van's face was lit with excitement as she and Frances alighted at the blazing door of the palace and began to make their way along the long dark halls and passages that led to the audience chamber and state reception gallery where the ball was being held. The halls were filled with people, and Van looked around her for a familiar face.

  "Your father said he would be waiting for us," Frances said as they reached the door of the reception gallery. Alasdair had been in a conference with Lord George Murray and the prince that afternoon when his wife and daughter arrived in Edinburgh, and they had not yet seen him. The two women paused in the doorway and while Frances searched the crowd for her husband, Van eagerly tried to find the prince.

  She spied him almost immediately, at the far end of the gallery, a tall handsome young man in Highland dress. He was unmistakably royal, she thought as she watched the smiling ease with which Charles Stuart was talking to a man she did not know. Van's eyes went from the prince to circle the room, and her heart swelled with emotion. Here they were, in Edinburgh, in the Palace of Holyrood. A Stuart once again in his proper place. And the clans had done it unaided. Van's chin came up a little and she t
oo began to look for her father.

  Frances saw him first. Alasdair's back was to the door and he appeared to be deep in conversation with a tall, haughty-looking man she recognized as Lord George Murray, the Duke of Atholl's brother, who had been named commander of the Jacobite army. Frances looked at the back of her husband's head and almost instantly he turned and saw them.

  Van's eyes glowed with pride as she watched her father coming toward them across the crowded floor. He wore a red velvet coat and dress kilt and his unpowdered hair was tied back in a queue with a velvet ribbon. A large diamond pin adorned the fine lace at his throat. He stopped before them and spoke to his wife.

  "I am sorry you had to come alone. I could not get away earlier."

  His voice was formal, his gray eyes cool. Some of the brightness left Van's eyes. She had been aware ever since her return home that something was wrong between her father and her mother. She had hoped, after the clans had had such a signal success in the taking of Edinburgh, that the coolness between her parents would have dissipated. Alasdair looked from his wife to his daughter and his expression became less stern.

  "Can you introduce us to the prince, Father?" Van asked.

  "I am looking forward to doing so," he replied and his look at her became positively approving. Van was aware that she was looking her best this night, in an ivory taffeta ball gown with a silk tartan sash that crossed her breast from shoulder to waist. Her only ornaments were the heirloom pearls she wore at her throat and her ears. She looked very well, she knew, but still she was not half as beautiful as her mother. Frances' dress was more sophisticated than Van's simple taffeta, a blue satin that was cut over her shoulders and breast. The close-textured, pearly skin it revealed was as soft and resilient as a young girl's. Frances was beautiful indeed, but Alasdair's eyes as he looked at her held none of their old accustomed glow. They were hard, ironic almost. He offered his wife his arm and they began to cross the floor toward the gallery where the prince was receiving his guests.