Chapter 2
TWO COACHMEN AND a footman took their spots on top and behind the carriage after Eleanor and Hannah were seated and Captain Luxbury settled himself opposite them.
Two slightly damp braids looped beside Eleanor’s temples, the ends of which were hidden beneath her bonnet.
She thought of Brownie and suddenly wanted to leave the carriage, race to the stable and cry into the old gelding’s neck.
She’d taken her life here for granted for so long, but she was afraid she’d never see Lady Beth or Cook or anyone here ever again.
She glanced out of the window and saw the Lord and Lady of Ingledew looking lost.
They’d been the closest thing to parents she’d known.
Lady Beth’s duplicitous instructions required that Eleanor either betray the King to follow the plan or betray Lord Edgeworth and escape.
Lady Beth’s final hug included a whispered hint that she’d hidden money in Eleanor’s trunk.
What was she to do?
She gazed at them again and pleaded with her eyes for them to take her back.
Lady Beth looked away; Lord Edgeworth looked down.
Behind them she spotted a plump hand raised in farewell.
Cook.
Sadly, she realized she’d never known the woman’s real name.
She loved Cook and she knew that Cook loved her, too.
In that instant, she determined which path she would choose: the path that led to her own real name.
“Princess Eleanor … may I call you that?”
Luxbury’s voice and question startled her out of her thoughts.
“I mean, in private, of course.
Your secret identity is safe with me.”
He nodded with some hesitation at Hannah.
“With us.”
“Captain Luxbury, please …”
The words stuck in her throat as the carriage jerked forward to start the journey.
She swallowed her complaint and tucked down her chin.
She swayed with the coach, her hands clasped in her lap, her knuckles white.
Hannah spoke up.
“I’m sure she’d prefer to be called Mistress Eleanor, if you don’t mind.”
Eleanor had noticed the subtle change in Hannah’s behavior toward her.
They’d been such close friends, but last night and this morning Hannah acted subservient as well as defensive.
“Of course, of course.”
He angled himself so his knees and the tip of his sword would not touch them.
“But please, both of you, call me Bernard.”
His greatcoat lay rolled beside him and he rested an elbow on it.
The ladies nodded.
The carriage rattled on as the horses began to trot.
Hannah spread the throw she’d brought over Eleanor’s lap.
The morning was chilly and the ride was rough on the road through Lancaster and then Cumberland, close to the Irish Sea.
The captain assured them the carriage portion of the journey would be over when they reached the port and then they’d sail the final leg.
He bored them with the names of sea vessels that patrolled the coast and then he blathered on about military things that held no interest for them.
Still, each in turn nodded and Hannah even made a face of rapt attention until, after more than three hours on the journey, the ladies began to squirm.
At last, the captain noticed his companions’ discomfort.
He knocked thrice on the carriage roof with the butt end of his pistol and hollered to the driver that it was time, ahem, to give the horses a rest.
As the coach slowed and then came to a complete stop, Luxbury scanned the landscape through the window.
“Looks safe enough.
There are some … uh … bushes over there … for privacy.
The men and I shall keep to the other side of the carriage.”
“Thank you, Captain … Bernard,”
Eleanor smiled and waited for him to descend first.
She started to get out, but Hannah nudged her and whispered to let the captain take her hand.
Once they were a goodly distance from the eyes of the men and shielded by some foliage, they lifted their skirts.
“He’s quite the bore, isn’t he?”
Eleanor said a few moments later.
“I must disagree,”
Hannah finished and stepped away, “I think he’s rather handsome.”
“More handsome than Cameron?”
Hannah blushed.
“You’ve found me out.
But a captain or any officer is beyond my station, surely.
And quite beneath yours … princess.”
“Don’t you call me that.
I’m not sure I believe Lady Beth’s story.
And are we really talking about marriage? I liked things better when we pretended to be boys.”
Eleanor smoothed her skirts, then felt her braids and let loose an exasperated sigh.
“Are these necessary? And these petticoats? And gloves? We should abandon it all and run away.”
“You torment me.”
Hannah started to walk then heard a rustling in the bushes and stopped.
“What’s that?”
“Dinner, perhaps.”
Eleanor picked up a long stick and moved softly toward the noise.
She saw what was moving and stabbed once.
She held her victim up for Hannah to see.
“You’ve skewered a snake.
Hide it at once.
They mustn’t know of your bravery.
’Tis not a lady’s way.”
The look on Hannah’s face humored Eleanor too much.
She jiggled the snake a bit and thrust it toward Hannah’s face as any young lad might do, then laughed and dropped the unfortunate adder.
“I am not going to marry King George.
We will escape tonight or …”
She left the thought incomplete as the captain’s voice called a warning.
“Mistress Eleanor! Mistress Hannah! Conceal yourselves!”
They were still screened by shrubbery and trees, but the captain’s shout caused them to shrink behind some bushes and listen hard.
“I hear more horses,”
Hannah said.
“It sounds like a coach and six,”
Eleanor agreed.
“We’ve seen so little traffic.
We must be near a city.”
Eleanor moved some branches to peek through.
She was wrong.
It wasn’t a coach, but a wagon, pulled by two grey mares.
It stopped and she could see the captain arguing with three men.
“Brigands?”
Hannah asked.
“I remember my journey from Cornwall to Ingledew and we were afraid of robbers.”
“Shh.
I can just make out their words.”
The two stayed still as rabbits and perked their ears.
Bits of the conversation carried on the spring breeze.
“ … two hundred more or else …”
“No … as agreed … put up your pistols …”
“… stop! What are you doing?”
Eleanor lifted her head in time to see the fighting.
The captain drew his sword, one of the strangers slashed the footman with a knife while the driver used his whip indiscriminately.
Then the shooting began.
Eleanor let loose a curse.
Hannah’s grasp on Eleanor’s arm equaled the grip she had on the nearest branch.
They both shook, overcome with trepidation.
The guard lay in a pool of blood; one of the strangers fell upon him.
Eleanor willed him not to be so still.
Then her attention went to Luxbury; he was an accomplished swordsman, but it was his pistol that had killed the robber.
Luxbury stood there fussing with the weapon, unaware that another brigand was coming up behind him.
A warning shout was all she needed to do, but she froze.
The enemy smashed the captain’s head with the end of his musket.
She leaned into Hannah and whispered, “I think they’ve killed Luxbury.
Remember when we fought the Chadderton boys?”
Hannah’s brown eyes went wide.
***
KEIR MCKELVEY PACED the uneven floor of the great hall in Castle Caladh.
Two servants scurried along close to the walls, one retrieving bits and pieces of the vases and bowls Keir had shattered, the other gathering the contents that splattered: mostly wet clumps of marsh marigolds.
Both kept their eyes on him in case he elected to break something else.
An arm.
A neck.
Everyone had heard the argument that only ended because Keir’s father, Laird McKelvey, stormed out.
The candles in the chandelier made dancing shadows as it still swayed from its contact with the last bowl.
Keir nearly slipped in the puddle of water it had made.
He swore an oath at the top of his voice and scared an approaching maid into retreat.
In the three weeks he’d been away helping Fenella, his father had secured a match between Keir and the eldest daughter of Bram MacLeod, leader of the MacLeod clan.
He knew the girl, Anabel, a fractious grump of a lass with red hair and freckles.
Beautiful, yes.
Pleasant … hardly.? Keir’s father claimed she’d calmed and blossomed this month past, but actually what had changed was her dowry, which now included lands Keir’s father coveted.
His temper abated suddenly. “No,”
he said to no one, “I’ll not have her.”
Escape sprang to mind and he charged out of the castle, tricorne hat in hand, and headed for the stable where his gelding was no doubt still receiving a rub down from the stable lad.
He was surprised to find the stable empty.
No lads.
No horses.
Ha! His father had such foresight, coming here and sending them away while Keir broke pots and jugs in the great hall.
Keir hissed air through his nose.
“I’ll not have her. Ye hear?”
He clenched his fists.
Exactly as he had surmised, his father was near.
He strode forth from the side of the stable.
“I hear ye, lad.
When ye’ve settled yerself a wee bit more, we’ll drink to yer health and toast forthcoming rites.
The date is set for six weeks hence.”
Keir stared at the scar on his father’s forehead.
Fuming again.
“’Tis done and settled.”
The old man swung his arm and pointed up the hill.
“Off ye go now, lad.
Hide yerself in yer secret place ’til ye make yer peace wit’ yer fate.”
Keir unclenched his fists, but stood rigidly glaring at Laird McKelvey, an older mirror image of himself.
Tall.
Broad-shouldered.
Dark hair and passionate green eyes.
Keir would sooner die than be bound to any lass, let alone one so disagreeable as Anabel MacLeod.
His father looked away first, then turned his back and started for the castle.
Over his shoulder he added, “Ye’ll not sup with us t’night.
Let the fairies tend ye.”
Keir snorted and watched till his father was out of sight.
He muttered, “Fairies, indeed.
I’ll feast, ole man, and sleep on a softer bed than any ye have.”
He considered the stable.
His father most likely instructed the servants not to bring the horses back till the morrow.
He could sleep in a stall, but he had a better place in mind.
A secret place.
His father thought it was up the hill, but it was not.
Keir turned away from the hill and strode past the paddock and toward the woods.
It was a bit of a walk, but worth the hike. No one, as far as he knew, not his brothers or his sisters, had ever found the hidden hollow.
He’d left his claymore with the horse, but he had his biodag, a long dirk, in its sheath at his waist, along with a fork and flint, of course.
His sporran held a few coins and a handful of oats for his horse.
He could eat those himself.
He would make a fire, catch a fish or a hare, and sleep under the stars, or, if it got too cold, in the tree well.
That was preferable to sitting with his younger brothers and one remaining unwed sister and enduring his father’s remarks.
His mother, God rest her soul, would have stood up for him.
Twenty minutes later he found the hollow looking the same as he’d left it the last time he’d been here, many months past.
The stones he’d set, a miniature cairn a third the size of the one he’d laid at his mother’s grave, still marked the entrance.
He took a final glance at the sky.
The wide expanse was bejeweled with stars, and the westering moon glowed with the promise of tomorrow’s light.
He bent low to duck into the space.
He’d always thought of the spot as a soft cave, an evergreen shelter grown of boughs that curved to the ground and kept most of the sunlight out.
He’d camped here many nights, but tonight he’d be without a blanket.
No matter, his kilt would serve.
He ducked back out and went about gathering sticks.
Anabel MacLeod.
Never.
***
BERNARD LUXBURY HEARD groans, but he couldn’t get his eyes to open.
A moment later he realized the sounds could possibly be his own.
Slowly he raised his head, felt dizzy, touched the back of his head and then stared at the sticky red stuff that smeared his palm.
A horse neighed.
Bernard still looked at his hand.
He couldn’t make sense of it.
He sat up and closed his eyes again.
What had happened?
He’d been in a carriage, hadn’t he? Or had he been riding in formation? He squeezed his lids harder, tried to think.
The horse neighed again and stomped its foot.
Something wasn’t right.
Bernard took a longer breath, opened his eyes, and gasped at what he saw.
A man, dead beside a wagon.
Two more men, one atop the other.
Dead.
The footman, sprawled across the ground. He appeared dead as well.
Bits of memory returned.
His carriage.
Where was his carriage? He didn’t see the driver’s body.
Could he have raced away?
His heart lurched when he remembered Eleanor and the young lady with her.
He rose to his feet, wobbled a bit, and groaned.
There were answering groans on the other side of the wagon.
He staggered forward, used the wooden sides for support and came around.
There, tied to the wagon wheels with strips of cloth, were the other two brigands, moaning.
Blood dripped down their faces from gashes on their heads.
Enough sense returned to the captain for him to realize these men, though thieves or worse, would be in perilous danger should the horses decide to bolt.
“Easy, there,”
he crooned as he moved ahead.
The mare on the right gave him a wide-eyed whinny, but he grasped the reins in time.
“Easy, girl.”
He calmed them both, wondering if the smell of blood and sulfur had set them off.
He checked that the wagon brake was set, but unhitched the team anyway and led them to a tree, tying them as well as he could.
Where were the women? Had the driver overpowered the thieves, tied them to the wagon, and left the women?
He looked to the field where he’d sent them and called out their names.
Silence.
Good.
They must have made it to the carriage.
The driver was a good man.
He’d see them safely to the port.
One of the thieves spoke up then, a string of filthy invectives followed by, “Witches they were! Clubbed us and tied us up with their own petticoats.
Heard them order the carriage driver to hurry on.
Meetin’ the devil, they be.”
Luxbury’s face went flush with relief.
“Ay, cap’n, untie us, will ye? We’ve done ye no harm.”
Luxbury eyed the two.
“No harm? Which one of you whacked me?”
The thief who spoke glanced at his mate and raised a brow.
“Nah, sir, ’twas the bigger one.
That she-devil bashed you and came after us.
Wild, they were.
Uncivilized.
Like those Scottish highlanders.
Untie us.”
Luxbury took a step closer.
They were lying.
He could see it in their faces.
And of course a woman couldn’t have taken him down.
He turned toward the horses without a word.
There’d be passersby within a day.
The men would survive. He’d even leave them one of the horses. But the other he’d ride bareback and follow after the carriage. He didn’t know how long a head start they had, but surely he’d catch up to them before night fell. The driver would still head to the port, finish the arrangement, get them on a ship, and collect his pay from Luxbury’s contact there.
He felt terrible leaving the other man and the footman here, but he had nothing to use to bury them.
He could at least get them off the ground, put them in the wagon, speak a prayer over them.
***
THERE WERE NO giggles or nervous laughter in the carriage.
Serious reflection and quiet fear filled the small space.
Eleanor was proud of herself for suggesting they fight like boys, but Hannah’s hesitation had curbed the idea.
Instead, they had sneaked up as close as they dared.
She shuddered as she thought back to those terrifying moments.
The captain’s pistol lay near his knee.
Two filthy highwaymen stood shoulder to shoulder next to the carriage. One aimed a musket at the driver, the other had caught the end of the whip and was in a tug of war with the driver up in his seat. Between their shouting, the horses’ neighing, and the driver’s curses neither had heard the women. Eleanor retrieved the captain’s pistol and Hannah lifted the heavy rifle that had dropped behind the carriage when the footman fell off.
The driver saw them first and gave a surprised shout with a single added curse word, but the thieves didn’t look behind them.
“We’ll not fall for yer tricks,”
one robber said, a second before he felt the end of a rifle jammed in his back.
He dropped his weapon.
The driver let go of his whip and the one holding the other end fell back, tumbling into Eleanor’s skirts.
Without a second thought, she swung the entire pistol at his head and knocked him cold.
The driver jumped down, punched the second man hard in the face, causing him to twist as he fell.
Hannah kept the rifle aimed at his head as he stared up at her.
The driver picked up the musket and bludgeoned him senseless.
“Safe ye be.”
The driver reached for Hannah’s rifle.
Eleanor clutched the pistol and kept it close to her bosom.
“The captain’s dead.”
“Are ye sure?”
The driver glanced at the bodies strewn around the area.
He didn’t wait for her response.
“A pity these boys ain’t.
We’ll tie these ruffians to the wagon wheels.
Have ye anything we could use?”
Eleanor focused on his words and glanced at their trunks.
Nothing came to mind.
She lifted her top skirt and started ripping strips from her undergarments.
Now, sitting in the carriage as they bumped down the road, she pinched the hem of her skirt and felt the coins sewn in there.
The captain’s pistol rattled on the seat next to her alongside his great coat.
She looked across at Hannah.
“Are you all right?”
“I touched that vulgar swain when we tied them.
He woke.
He saw us.”
“You’ve nothing to fear.”
“But the captain … the others … their bodies.
Just left there.”
“Driver said ’twas expedient to be on our way.”
Eleanor let out a sigh.
“Yes, the captain.
That was most unfortunate, but the driver said he’d see us to our destination.
We’ll be safe.
And then he’ll go back to bury them.”
“I shan’t ever forget his face.”
Hannah dropped her eyes to her lap and started to weep.
***
KEIR WAS UNSUCCESSFUL in catching a fish or trapping an animal.
As his fire burned down to coals, he realized his hunger was amplified by the fact he hadn’t eaten the oat cakes Fenella had given him for the journey.
“Och.
The stable boy’s made off wi’ me supper.”
He wasn’t so proud that he couldn’t walk home, raid the kitchen larder, and sleep in his own bed.
He watched the last embers go out and then, by the light of a half-moon, made his way back to Castle Caladh.
He contemplated not his newly arranged marriage, but rather the intriguing coded letter, long since destroyed, that tantalized his Scottish thirst for adventure.
His decision was easily made.
He’d go to the appointed rendezvous and take charge of the secret offspring of the long deceased and unrecognized son of George II.
Keir had heard the tales of the battle of Culloden since he was a young lad.
There was no war with England now, but traces of hate remained.
George III was in trouble.
His feet made soft crunching sounds as he made a new path returning.
It had always been his habit to vary his way.
The secret place had finally lost its charm; perhaps he’d never go back there.
One of Fenella’s tunes looped in his head and even though he was close to the castle he began to softly sing the verses.
As he passed the stable his horse gave an answering nicker to the song he’d heard his master sing for most of the journey home.
Keir was surprised.
He hadn’t expected his father to allow the stable lad to bring them back so soon.
He pulled open the stable door and entered.
“Aha, ye’ve learnt me song, have ye?”
Faint light was all he had to find his way to the stall.
He was careful where he stepped.
Soft nickers, like purrs, hummed through the stable as the other horses recognized his voice, too.
“Och, I’ve na enough for ye all.”
He fed a handful of oats to his own horse and continued to speak in a soft calm tone.
He noticed another sound then, the gentle snoring of a tired lad.
Keir shook his head.
Was there no one on sentry duty? A MacNeil or a Campbell or a Galbraith might take advantage of an unguarded castle.
He’d no sooner had the thought than the lad awoke and scrambled to his feet.
“Sire, I have yer claymore.
The Laird set me on watch to give ye it as soon as ye returned.”
The young boy held out the weapon.
“Yer anger has abated?”
“Aye, but not me hunger.
Can ye fetch me some bread and cheese from the kitchen?”
“Right away, sire.”
The lad started off, then turned and asked, “Are ye leavin’, sire? Dae ye want it in a sack?”
Keir nodded and held a finger to his lips.
“Tell no one.”