Chapter Twenty
LUCY WANDERED ALONG the beach, taking off her shoes and stockings and feeling the sand cool and damp between her toes.
It was odd how she felt every tiny physical sensation these days; she was aware of scents as never before and noticed every taste and touch as though it were new.
It was such a change from her previous life where she had lived in books and in her rational mind.
Now she still loved her reading and her writing, but her life had the dimension of the senses, as well. She felt as though she had come alive.
The previous week had been perfect. The sun had shone and Golden Isle had lived up to its name.
Robert had been persuaded to take some time away from his work rebuilding the estate and had joined her for a picnic at Golden Water, the tiny loch that gave the island its name.
They had ridden together over the high hills and bathed in the sea.
Even now, as summer was coming to these northern islands, the seawater was so cold it was shocking, but there was one protected cove where the pools were warmed by the sun.
Lucy smiled now as she remembered pulling off her clothes and plunging into the green depths of the water completely naked. It had been a memorable afternoon.
And they had talked. As they lay in bed one night Robert had told her how his grandmother had been the only member of his family who had continued to write to him, in defiance of her husband, during his years in Canada.
“She will like you very much,” he predicted, as he pressed kisses against the soft skin of Lucy’s throat and down to the hollow between her breasts. “When my work is done here I shall be proud to take you to Methven.”
Lucy had wondered then about that work. She had seen the boats to Findon coming and going increasingly frequently, bringing men and materials to Golden Isle.
McTavish had been dismissed and Jack Rutherford had come from Methven to deal with the accounts, so Robert said.
Lucy was certain that something else was going on, but when she asked Robert he told her that he was merely strengthening the defenses against the French privateers that had been seen in northern waters.
Jack, urbane and charming, said the same. Yet still Lucy wondered.
The wind was cool on her face. Evening was falling and the shadows were lengthening.
She wrapped her shawl more tightly about her shoulders and walked a little more quickly back toward the harbor.
Ahead of her she could see a group of the island women and children scavenging over the rocks, collecting driftwood.
So few trees grew on Golden Isle that timber was always very highly prized.
The tide was coming in, sucking at Lucy’s bare feet, the chill sting of the water making her shiver a little.
The water splashed her dress and petticoat, splashed too on the rocks where the children were playing in and out of the pools.
Their calls and cries reached Lucy on the stiff breeze.
It felt peaceful and yet for some reason she also felt a premonition she could not shake. Something was wrong.
As she reached the quay she saw that Robert was there, and Jack.
She felt the little lift of her heart that she always felt now on seeing her husband.
She hurried her steps toward the harbor, but she had no time to call out a greeting.
A strange hush had fallen over the crowd on the quay and they had turned out to sea where the sun was dropping into the water in a big ball of fire.
In front of it, black against the fiery red, was a ship.
“The navy,” someone murmured, and then the whisper ran around like wind through corn. “The press-gang...the gangers are here.”
In the same moment someone turned and pointed away to the south where on the headland a beacon was flaring into life. “Attack! The village is under attack!”
Lucy felt the ripple of something go through Robert like lightning. “Cardross,” he said. “He’s come and he has brought the press-gang with him.”
Lucy could feel the terror and the hatred in the crowd like a living thing. They had seen this before, witnessed the destruction of their lives. Robert grabbed her hands. “Get to the Auld Haa,” he said. “Lock yourself in and come out for no man.” He kissed her. “I’ll come to you as soon as I can.”
“No,” Lucy said. Her repudiation was immediate. “I want to help, Robert.” She turned and waved a hand toward the women and children in a ragged huddle on the quay. “Let me look after them. If Wilfred comes, then I can take care of myself. I’ll cut him down with a broadsword.”
A flicker of a smile lit Robert’s tense face.
“I know you could do that,” he said, “but I can’t let you.
It’s too dangerous.” He pulled her to him and she felt the thunder of his heart against hers and the quick, impatient need in him to be away to defend his island.
“You cannot risk your life, Lucy,” he said.
“This isn’t just for me, though God knows I would do everything in my power to keep you safe. It’s for Methven.”
Lucy understood then. He was talking about the future, the promise of the heir she could even now be carrying.
She felt terribly torn, wanting desperately to help, hating the thought of waiting helplessly for events to unfold, yet understanding how important it was to Robert, to the entire Methven clan, that she should be safe.
“Damn Wilfred,” she said unsteadily. “You must go, Robert. Stop him.” She threw a glance over her shoulder to where the gangers’ longboat was making its steady way ashore. “I know you won’t let them take any more men,” she said, “but be careful. The gangers answer to no laws and respect no man.”
Robert gave her another hard kiss that for all its brevity shook her to her soul.
“Come back to me,” she whispered. “It takes two of us to make an heir for Methven.” She drew back a little. “Besides, I love you and have no desire to be a widow quite yet.”
“I love you too,” Robert said. He kissed her again, longer, deeper, before releasing her and turning away to where the men waited for him.
Lucy walked slowly up the road to the Auld Haa in the gathering twilight.
When she reached the gate, though, she hesitated.
Ahead of her the road wound uphill toward the northern beacon.
It had not been lit, which meant that no one had warned the crofters to the north of the island that they were in danger of attack.
Again the sense of premonition tickled down Lucy’s neck.
Wilfred had set fire to the crofts in the south.
The press-gang were sweeping in from the west. But what if there was another attack here, on the vulnerable, unprotected crofts to the north?
Golden Isle was riven with inlets and coves.
Men could come ashore in any number of places and spring an attack before anyone had guessed.
Grabbing the smoldering torch that lit the entrance to the Auld Haa, Lucy hurried up the track toward the beacon a few hundred yards ahead.
The stony track slipped beneath the soles of her shoes.
Away to her left, Golden Water shimmered in the last of the setting sun.
The cold wind breathed gooseflesh down her spine.
She felt as though someone was watching her.
She thrust the torch into the heart of the kindling and turned back to the road, relief in her heart.
“Not so fast, cousin.”
Wilfred Cardross was standing directly in front of her, no more than a black shadow against the cobalt blue of the night dark sea.
Behind him were five of his clansmen. Lucy could hear the beacon fire hiss and spit as it roared higher.
At least it was too late for Wilfred to douse it now, and soon it would be seen from the crofts.
They would know to rally their defenses.
Wilfred was walking slowly toward her. She could see his face now in the livid light of the flames.
He was dressed in all his finery, foppish laces and bows, but the expression in his eyes was feral, a contrast to the refined elegance of his attire.
Lucy’s heart thumped. She raised her chin defiantly and met his eyes.
“Wilfred,” she said. “I see you have brought more men this time. How wise of you.”
“Cousin Lucy,” Wilfred swept her a bow. “How charming to find you here. I do thank you for saving me the trouble of coming to look for you.”
He gestured with his head and the clansmen moved forward. Their expressions were hungry. Lucy felt the fear claw at her throat and beat it back.
“How neglectful of Methven to leave you to fend for yourself,” Wilfred said contentedly. “He should have been more careful in protecting his property.”
“My husband,” Lucy said, “is protecting his clan, a concept I believe you are unfamiliar with, Wilfred. You steal from yours, don’t you? Rob them and steal their cattle and burn their houses?”
Cardross laughed. He was looking to the south where a line of fire now marked the devastation his men were wreaking on the island.
“There is precious little left to protect here,” he said.
“The press-gang will take the remaining islanders and all the Methven men, as well.” His gaze came back to fasten on her.
“And when I take you, that will be the end.”
He came a step closer. Lucy could see his face in the firelight.
He was smiling. He was enjoying this. She backed against the rough stone of the beacon wall, groping for the handle of the torch she had brought with her.
Her fingers grazed the stone, felt the lick of the heat.
At all costs she had to keep Wilfred from guessing what she was about.
He thought she was not armed; she did not want to give away the element of surprise.
“What’s the matter?” she said contemptuously. “Are you afraid I will push you over if you come too close, Wilfred?”