Читать книгу The Highlander's Redemption - Marguerite Kaye - Страница 10

Edinburgh—July 1747

Madeleine Lafayette huddled forlornly in the entranceway of a close, the narrow passageway leading to the tenements which Edinburgh’s residents called home. Even in the dim glow cast by the flare of the nearby brazier which served as a street light, it would have been obvious to any passer-by that the young woman was no native Scot. Her slim figure was clad in garments of a decidedly foreign cut, the dark blue tippet she clutched around her shoulders woven in an intricate design that was neither plaid nor stripe. Her flaxen hair showed almost white in the ghostly light, but her skin had neither the pallor of the city dweller nor the swarthiness of the Gael. Rather it was translucent, like a pearl tinged with colour by the sun. With a generous mouth, the soft pink of coral, and slanting green eyes under fair brows, she had the appearance, against the grey of the city’s sandstone and granite, of an exotic sea-creature out of her element.

Shivering, Madeleine hugged her tippet closer. At the top of Castlehill she could see the dark hulk of the castle looming, forbidding and—as she had discovered to her dismay—impregnable. Perhaps it had been a mistake, coming all this way alone with no contacts and no plan, nothing save the one objective in her mind. To find Guillaume.

The exhilaration of her impetuous flight and the trials of the rough sea voyage with the Breton fishermen had prevented her from thinking too much about the danger she was courting in coming here alone, the overwhelming odds which were stacked against her, or the terrifying possibility that despite all her certainty she was wrong. That Guillaume really was dead.

No! He was alive. He must be alive.

Above her, from the castle ramparts, someone barked out a staccato order. Footsteps rang out over the cobblestones as another rushed to obey, then silence descended again.

At home in Brittany her father would be asleep, for in the summer months they both rose with the sun. She loved those early morning rides around the estate, checking on the progress of the year’s planting. The scent of dew-drenched grass beneath the hooves of their horses mingled with the tang of salt and the sweet smell of the crops in the fields. By the time they returned for breakfast, the mist from the sea which hung over the land like a cloak of the finest lace would have burned away to reveal the clear azure of the Breton sky. Here in Edinburgh the air smelled so different, of stone and people and dust and dirt. Though she knew the slate-grey North Sea was only a matter of miles away, she could detect no trace of it. A pang of homesickness clutched her.

Guillaume had been here, in Edinburgh. She knew that much from his early letters home. This morning, landing in the port of Leith just to the north of the city, the castle had been her first thought. She’d made straight for it, for she’d been told that Jacobite prisoners were held there still. The discovery that she could not gain entry had been a blow to her hopes. The sensible thing then would have been to look for lodgings, but she had been unable to tear herself away, tormented by the thought that Guillaume might be just yards away on the other side of those thick walls. An endless stream of people passed in and out of the garrison, but all were checked by the vigilant guards. By the time Madeleine had concluded that she must enlist the help of someone with legitimate business there, it was dusk and the city gates were locked. With no clue as to how to go about finding a bed for the night, she fought the urge to shed some tears of self-pity.

She wondered how Papa had reacted to her flight. Perhaps he was regretting the harsh words which had triggered it. He had been so changed since Maman died, throwing himself into the management of the estate as if he needed to fill the void in his life, leaving no room for dealing with his grief. At home, he had retreated into his shell, like one of those hermit crabs she and Guillaume used to race across the sands, teasing them with sticks to make them scuttle forwards—though mostly they went sideways. Without doubt Papa would be furious to find her gone, knowing full well whither she had come, though she had left no note. Recalling the extent of her wilfulness, Madeleine shuddered.

A burst of hearty laughter startled her out her reverie. A group of soldiers were staggering up the steep incline towards their barracks. Instinctively, she shrank back into the gloom of the passageway, but it was too late, they had spotted her. Three of them, clad in the distinctive red coats and white gaiters of the British army, loudly and raucously drunk.

‘What have we here, lads?’ the largest of the group said with a lascivious grin. Faced with a pair of large green eyes set in a strikingly lovely face framed by white-blonde hair, he whistled. ‘A beauty, by God.’ Grimy fingers grasped Madeleine’s chin, forcing it up so that he could examine her face. ‘What’s your name, darling?’

‘Laissez-moi, let me go,’ Madeleine said haughtily. She was frightened, but not overly so. They had obviously taken her for a lady of the night, and would leave her be when they realised their mistake. She shook herself free.

The man laughed and tried to snake his arm around her waist. ‘Give us a kiss,’ he said, manoeuvring Madeleine so that her back was against the sandstone of the close wall. The other two joined him, grinning and egging him on. She could smell the ale on their breath, the dirt and sweat on their bodies. Now she was afraid. There were hands on her, touching her face, her hair, her breasts. She struggled. ‘Let me go,’ she said again, her voice betraying her fear, but the man merely tightened his hold, so she kicked out, her foot in its sturdy boot making contact with his shins.

He yelped. ‘You little wild cat, you’ll pay for that.’

On the other side of the street, Calumn Munro was returning from an evening in his favourite tavern down in the Cowgate where the whisky, which came from the landlord’s own illegal still, was mellow, and the company convivial. As he made his erratic way home, a woman’s cry for help pierced the balmy night air, causing him to halt abruptly.

Across the road, at the foot of Castlehill, a group of men were bundling something—or someone—into a close. Despite the potent effects of the whisky swirling around his brain, Calumn’s body was immediately on full alert. He strode purposefully towards them, his long legs covering the short distance effortlessly, his golden hair and the heavy skirts of his coat flying out behind him. When he arrived his fists were already clenched in readiness. There were three of them, soldiers in uniform, he saw with disgust, surrounding their victim. He caught a glimpse of pleading eyes and fair hair, noted that the woman was young and extremely pretty. She was also struggling frantically.

Concern for her plight and loathing for its perpetrators filled his mind and fuelled his body. With a roar like a battle cry, Calumn launched himself at the soldiers, with nary a thought for his own safety. He took the largest of the three first, hauling him clear of his intended victim before landing his own mighty fist smack in the middle of the man’s face. With immense satisfaction he heard the crunch of bone. A swift follow-through with a double punch to the abdomen, and with a whoosh of breath the man collapsed, moaning. Calumn turned his attention to the other two, fighting dirty, using his feet as well as his fists.

Heart pounding, legs shaking, a cold sweat breaking out on her brow, Madeleine leant back against the wall and took deep, gulping breaths of air while in front of her, in the narrow space, her rescuer set about the soldiers with a devilish fury. He was a tall man and, beneath his expensive evening clothes, a very well-built one, with broad shoulders and powerful thighs. His hair, the colour of ripe corn, unpowdered and untied despite his formal dress, flew out in a bright halo of colour behind him as he dealt efficiently with her assailants. Of his face she could make out little, gaining only a fleeting impression of cold menace.

A cruel blow to the jaw took his second opponent out. A vicious kick and an arm-twisting had the last one at his mercy. On the stairway which wound its way from the close up to the first of the tenements, a man appeared in a nightcap, brandishing what looked like a poker. Her rescuer glanced up, telling him curtly to go back to bed, at the same time frogmarching the third soldier out of the close and hurling him into the gutter. Madeleine forced herself to move. Quickly retrieving her small bundle of belongings from beneath the stairwell, she picked her way over the comatose bodies of her attackers out into the street where her rescuer waited.

‘Are you all right?’ he said anxiously, his voice a soft, attractive lilt, very different from the harsh tones of the soldiers.

Madeleine nodded. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she managed through lips made stiff with fear. Seeing he was not yet convinced, she tried to reassure him. ‘Truly, I’m all right, I took no hurt.’

The tension in him eased, his mouth curling into a smile, the fierce lines on his face relaxing, so that she saw he was young, perhaps five or six and twenty, and almost unfairly handsome. His eyes were dark blue, his smile engaging. Despite her ordeal, she could not but return it.

‘Calumn Munro,’ he said with a flourishing bow, ‘I’m happy to have been of service.’

‘I’m most happy to meet you, Monsieur Munro,’ Madeleine said with a curtsy which was almost steady.

‘You’re French,’ he exclaimed in surprise. ‘Mais oui.’

She was enchantingly pretty, all big green eyes and silken hair, with a mouth made for kissing. Alone, at such a late hour and in the vicinity of the castle, he had assumed she must be a courtesan, but, looking at her more closely, he wasn’t so sure. Of a certainty, she was no common harlot. ‘May I know your name, mademoiselle?’

‘I am Madeleine Lafayette.’

‘Enchanté.’ His exertions, on top of the whisky, were beginning to take their toll on Calumn. He needed his bed, but he could not simply abandon the poor lass to the whim of the next group of soldiers who were even now making their raucous way up the hill. ‘Let me escort you home, mademoiselle,’ he said, proffering a gentlemanly arm. ‘It’s not safe for any woman to be out on her own here at this hour.’

His knuckles were bleeding. There was a bruise forming on his cheekbone. She saw now what she had not noticed before, that he was—albeit charmingly—in his cups. ‘I am thinking that you too should be in your bed, monsieur,’ Madeleine said, ‘you look as if you have had too much wine.’

‘Not too much wine, too much whisky,’ Calumn corrected her gravely. ‘Let’s get you home. Come now, which direction?’

The words were very slightly slurred. She began to fear that he would collapse if they stayed here for much longer. ‘Which direction are you taking?’ she asked, and when he pointed vaguely down the hill, told him that she, too, was going that way. She would see him to his own door and then claim to have lodgings nearby. She tugged on his arm. ‘Come along, monsieur.’

‘Calumn, my name’s Calumn,’ he said, taking her bundle and throwing it casually over his shoulder before tucking her hand into his other arm. ‘En avant!’ He seemed to rally, setting off down the brae with an easy grace, the loping stride of an animal built for speed, not the mincing step of a city man. Clinging to his arm, Madeleine had to run to keep up.

They crossed into the Lawnmarket, which during the day teemed with tradesmen selling butter and cheese as well as the wools and linens for which the place was famed. At this time of night it was eerily quiet, difficult to imagine that in just a few hours it would be nigh on impossible to get from one side of the street to the other without running the full gamut of maids, merchants and pickpockets.

At the far end, Calumn stopped at Riddell’s Court where his family kept rooms. ‘Where to now?’

Madeleine shrugged. ‘Not far. I can make my own way from here,’ she said, trying for a confidence she was far from feeling. The reality of having to spend the night outside and alone was only just starting to sink in.

She reached for her bundle of belongings, but Calumn held on to it, seeming to notice for the first time what it actually was. ‘You’ve just arrived, haven’t you?’

Madeleine nodded reluctantly.

‘And you’ve nowhere to stay?’

‘No, but there is no need to …’

‘You’d best come up with me then.’

Madeleine shook her head.

‘I don’t blame you, after what you’ve been through, but you’ve nothing to worry about. Apart from anything else, I’m fit for nothing but sleep. I’ve a spare room with a lock on the door that you’re welcome to, and I promise I won’t try to take advantage. Word of a Munro.’

She had a fleeting sense of a shadow when he said his name, like a cloud crossing the sun, then it was gone. Weighing up a bed in a house and a door with a lock, against a draughty stairwell and a backdrop of late-night marauders, Madeleine was extremely tempted to accept his offer. Instinctively, she felt Calumn Munro was trustworthy. Had he not already proved himself a knight errant? She nodded her cautious acceptance. ‘You’re very kind, monsieur. ‘

Calumn led her through the wrought-iron gate which protected the close entrance into the courtyard and up the steep wooden stairs to the second of the building’s four storeys. He had some difficulty in fitting the heavy key into the lock, but eventually threw the door open with a flourish. ‘Here we are.’ He pulled Madeleine into a narrow hallway and thrust the door shut behind them.

Inside, in the warmth, the after-effects of the whisky hit him abruptly. In the light of the lamp which burned on the table by the door, she watched the colour drain from his face. ‘Make yourself comfortable,’ Calumn said, waving vaguely at a door almost directly opposite. ‘I’ll just stop here for a wee minute.’ He started to slip down the wall.

Though she was taken aback by the rapidity of his decline, Madeleine gamely tried to catch him before he fell unconscious on to the floorboards. ‘You can’t go to sleep here.’ Placing Calumn’s arm around her shoulders, she staggered as she heaved him upright. ‘Which is your chamber?’ she asked, and then all but dragged him towards the door he indicated.

‘No, no, I’ll be very well where I am,’ he mumbled in protest, but she continued to propel him forwards, managing to reach the bed just before the weight of him pulled them both on to the floor. ‘You’re a fine lass,’ he muttered appreciatively, collapsing backwards onto the bed without releasing his hold on her. Madeleine tumbled forwards, sprawling full length on top of her host. ‘Perfect,’ he murmured happily, pulling her closer, one arm around her waist, the other hand proprietarily on her bottom, before falling instantly asleep.

Pressed tight against his body, Madeleine could not decide whether to be shocked, annoyed or amused. She could not move. Her head was tucked into the crook of his shoulder, her face pressed into his neckcloth. He smelled of clean linen and warm man. Different, but not at all alien or repellent as her attackers had been. Reassuring almost. It must be his size. He was not just tall, but solid muscle and bone. The contours of his body seemed to complement hers, as if they were two halves of something designed to fit. Her curves melded into his hollows. It was an unexpectedly pleasant feeling. Though she knew it was imprudent, she was not at all inclined to move just yet. Guillaume had never held her like this. That last day, before he had sailed to the aid of the Scottish Prince, he had not held her at all.

The buttons on Calumn Munro’s jacket were digging into her chest, and something else was pressing insistently against her further down. His hand tightened on her robe. She could feel his heart beating slow and steady through his jacket. She could hear him breathing, feel his breath on her hair. His proximity was making her hot. A trickle of sweat ran down the valley between her breasts. She realised what the something else was which she could feel through the layers of her petticoats. A shiver arrowed through her.

Minutes crept by, and still Madeleine lay pliant on top of him, listening to his breathing in the dark of the room. She stopped thinking. Exhaustion rolled over her like a mighty breaker on to the beach. The temptation to close her eyes and give in to sleep was almost overpowering. Two days it had taken the fishing boat to sail from Roscoff to the port of Leith. She’d felt its rocking under her feet for hours after she had landed. The bustle and noise of the sailors and stevedores at the port had been intimidating. Edinburgh itself was smaller than she had expected, but much more foreign, too. Had it been a mistake, coming here?

Beneath her, the tone of Calumn’s breathing changed and his grip on her loosened. Madeleine inched cautiously off the bed, back out to the hallway. Picking up the lamp, she opened the door at the far end and found herself in a large reception room with a huge fireplace. The boards were polished and scattered with rugs. Two enormous wooden chairs of carved black wood sat side by side at the hearth, with a settle opposite. Under the window was a chest of the same wood, the fittings brightly polished brass. A table and four chairs sat in another corner. Heavy rafters showed dark against the tempered walls, on which were two companion portraits. A fierce man in full Highland dress with Calumn’s deep blue eyes, and a woman, golden-haired and very beautiful, equally stern. His parents, unmistakably. They were obviously a wealthy family.

A muffled groan drew Madeleine back to the bed chamber where Calumn lay sprawled on top of the covers. She ought to make him more comfortable. Placing the lamp carefully on the nightstand beside a decanter of amber liquor, she unlaced his shoes. He did not stir, so she unrolled his stockings. His calves were muscular and finely shaped. His legs, with their cover of dark golden hair, felt rough and warm. His feet were long and narrow. Bare, they made him look vulnerable.

The water in the china jug was cold, but she poured some into the bowl anyway, and found a clean linen towel which she used to carefully bathe his knuckles. She had nothing with which to bandage them, but judged they would heal more quickly exposed to the air in any case. The bruise on his cheek was purpling. At home she would have applied an arnica paste for the swelling.

Engrossed in her task now, Madeleine set about removing Calumn’s jacket, a more difficult operation, for the dark-green velvet fitted tight across his broad shoulders. By the time she had finished she was out of breath. His silk waistcoat was easier. She unwound his neckcloth and placed it at the foot of the bed beside his jacket. His shirt fell open at the neck, giving her a glimpse of his chest she could not resist touching. His skin was cool. A dusting of hair. Not an ounce of spare flesh. She should not be doing this.

With an immense effort, she rolled Calumn to one side, tugged up the heavy counterpane and sheets and rolled him back. He sighed and snuggled his head deeper into the feather bolster. His profile was so perfect it could have been sculpted, save for the tiny cleft in his chin. A long strand of gleaming golden hair caught in his lashes. Madeleine smoothed it back. It was surprisingly soft.

‘Bon nuit, Calumn Munro,’ she said, pressing a tiny kiss to his brow. Treading softly, she retrieved her bundle and opened the second door leading off the hallway. It was a small windowless chamber obviously intended for a maidservant, simply furnished with an iron bedstead, a wooden chair and a wash stand. As Calumn had promised there was a lock in the door and a key in the lock. Madeleine hesitated, then turned it. Quickly disrobing, she placed her shawl, dress and stockings on the chair and sank gratefully on to the rather lumpy mattress, pulling the rough woollen blanket over her. Within minutes she was asleep.

The next morning Madeleine padded through to the scullery on bare feet with her tippet wrapped over her shift and poured herself a glass of water from a large stone jug. Returning to the main reception room, she walked straight into Calumn, who growled something low and vicious in an unfamiliar language. Startled, she jumped back, spilling some of the water down her shift. He towered over her, clad in a long woollen robe tied loosely at the waist. In the bright light of day his eyes were dark blue and heavy lidded. The stubble on his jaw was a tawny colour, darker than his tousled golden hair, giving him a raffish look.

‘Who in the devil’s name are you?’ he barked.

Madeleine’s heart sank. ‘Madeleine Lafayette. You don’t remember?’

‘You’re French?’

She smiled nervously. ‘Yes, I’m still French.’

To her relief, Calumn’s flash of ill temper faded. He raked his hand through his hair and grinned ruefully. ‘French, and obviously not a housebreaker. I need coffee.’ He opened the door leading out onto the stairwell. ‘Jamie,’ he roared, ‘where are you?’

A patter of feet preceded the arrival of an urchin of some nine or ten years with a mop of dirty blond hair and a face which would benefit from the application of a washcloth. ‘Nae need to ask how you are this morn, Mister Munro,’ the lad said with a cheeky grin, handing over a tray on which was an enamel pot of coffee and a large jug of ale. ‘You’re like a bear wi’ a sore head.’

Calumn took the tray wordlessly. Tossing the boy a coin, he caught Jamie’s curious glance towards Madeleine. ‘I’ll not be the only one with a sore head if I catch you blathering, do I make myself clear?’

‘Clear as day, Mister Munro. I didn’t see nobody.’ Whistling tunelessly and somehow managing to grin at the same time, a feat which impressed Madeleine immensely, Jamie banged the door shut behind him.

Calumn poured them both a cup of coffee before helping himself to a long reviving draught of ale. ‘Jamie’s family live on the ground floor,’ he said by way of explanation. ‘Andrew Macfarlane, his father, is dead. His mother takes in lodgers and looks after me, too.’ He dropped gracefully into one of the seats opposite Madeleine. Under his robe he still had his shirt on, but not his breeches.

Embarrassingly aware of her own dishabille, Madeleine pulled her tippet closer and tried to redistribute her shift, a manoeuvre which simply succeeded in drawing Calumn’s attention to her bare ankles. Shuffling her feet as far back under the settle as she could manage, she shook out her hair in an effort to disguise the flush creeping over her cheeks. ‘Do you remember nothing of last night, monsieur?’

Calumn inspected his knuckles ruefully. ‘Aye, it’s coming back to me now.’ His mouth thinned as an echo of the menacing look from last night traced a path across his handsome countenance. ‘It’s men like that who give soldiers a bad name. You took no harm?’

Madeleine shuddered as the image of the men’s faces flickered into her mind like evil spirits. ‘None, thanks to you. You were very brave to take on three of them alone. You could have been killed.’

He gave a twisted smile. ‘Perhaps that was my intent. I sometimes think I’d be as well dead.’ His eyes glittered, like the glint of granite on a Highland peak.

Madeleine shivered, frightened by the bleakness in this expression. ‘You should not talk so.’

‘Should I not now?’ he growled at her. ‘And what business, mademoiselle, would that be of yours?’ he demanded, frowning fiercely and staring off into space, so that she dared not reply.

Fortunately he did not seem to expect her to. His frown eased, then as suddenly as it came on, his mood shifted and his attention refocused on his visitor. She looked mighty uncomfortable in her state of undress. Far too uncomfortable to be the type of woman he had taken her for. And she was younger than he had taken her for, too. What the devil had he got himself into?

‘It was a sorry introduction to Scotland for you, but if you don’t mind my saying so, you were asking for trouble, hanging around the castle like that. They no doubt mistook your calling. I did so myself, but I take it I was wrong?’

Madeleine stared at him in consternation. ‘Indeed, you are mistaken,’ she said indignantly, clutching her tippet even more tightly.

‘That’s what I just said,’ he responded, unmoved by her embarrassment. ‘But as I’ve also just said, you can’t blame me for thinking it, anyone would have made the same mistake.’

She could not deny this, so remained silent.

‘What the hell did you think you were doing there? Had you no money for a lodging?’

In the cold light of day, after a night’s refreshing sleep, Madeleine struggled to come up with an answer to this perfectly reasonable question. Her actions seemed stupid even to herself. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, feeling singularly foolish. ‘I mean—yes, I had money, but I don’t know why I didn’t find a place to sleep.’

‘Do you know why you’re here, at least? In Edinburgh, I mean?’

‘Of course I do,’ she responded, drawing herself up haughtily. ‘I was trying to get into the castle, but they wouldn’t let me pass.’

‘Why on earth …?’

‘I wanted to speak to the prisoners there. I’m looking for someone.’

‘A man, I presume.’

Madeleine nodded.

‘And what has this man done?’

‘Nothing,’ Madeleine said indignantly. ‘He’s not a criminal.’

‘Then why—ah, your man is a Jacobite.’ He waited on her nod. ‘And what makes you think he’s in there?’ Despite his pleasing lilt, the worlds were sharply spoken.

‘I don’t. I don’t know where he is.’ Madeleine paused, swallowing hard as the many, many things she didn’t know about Guillaume and his fate threatened her ability to think clearly. ‘The castle is as good a place to start as any. I thought someone in there—one of the other Jacobites—might know him, or of him, might be able to help me trace him.’

‘It’s a bit of a shot in the dark if you ask me.’ Calumn pressed a hand to his brow. His head had begun to thump. His tried to think, but his thoughts fled from his grasp like a hare from a hound. ‘How do you come to speak such good English?’

‘A woman in our village, Madame le Brun, who is married to the school teacher, is from a place called Dover.’ Confused by the sudden change of subject, Madeleine eyed her host warily. ‘She teaches me embroidery—or she tries to—as well as English. She would be pleased at the compliment,’ she said with an attempt at humour, ‘for she despairs of my stitchery.’

Calumn rubbed his eyes and shook his head in an effort to clear away the fog befuddling his brain. A shaft of sunlight slanted in through the leaded panes of the window, making him wince. Too much whisky, but at least it stopped him from dreaming. He focused his gaze on his unexpected houseguest. She was a slight thing, with long flaxen hair trailing down her back. Beautiful in a fey, ethereal way. ‘You look like a mermaid,’ he said.

His smile curled like smoke. His voice had a teasing quality, a lilting, sensual tone, which connected to her senses at a very basic level. Looking at him from under her lashes, the sunlight making his hair a burnished halo, Madeleine thought anew how strikingly attractive Calumn Munro was. Perhaps his ill temper was simply morning crotchets. ‘My mother used to say that, too,’ she said.

His eyes crinkled as his smile deepened. ‘Did you put me to bed?’

‘I just made you comfortable.’ The vivid memory of being held hard against him made Madeleine’s toes curl up into the soft pile of the rug at her feet.

‘Did I behave myself?’

She wondered nervously if he knew that it was she, not he, who had taken liberties. ‘You behaved perfectly. You promised you would. Word of a Munro, you said.’

Calumn’s smile faded. His eyes darkened, as if a light had gone out. ‘Word of a Munro,’ he repeated, his tone bitter. ‘I must have been drunk.’

He got up and stretched, rolling his shoulders, which were stiff from tension. He needed food and fresh air. ‘I can’t think on an empty stomach. We’ll get some breakfast and you can tell me your story properly.’

‘You’ve done too much for me already,’ Madeleine protested, but it was half-hearted. She was ravenous. Calumn Munro looked like a man with influence, and last night had proven him also a man of action. What’s more, he was her only friend in this foreign country; she would be foolish to turn down the opportunity to enlist his help.

Foolish, but also wise? She knew nothing of him, found not only his uncertain temper but his very presence unsettling. But … she trusted him. And he intrigued her. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said with an uncertain smile. ‘I’ll go and get dressed.’

‘I’ll get Jamie to fetch you some hot water,’ Calumn said, suiting action to words with a bellow which would have awoken the dead.

With the hot water, Jamie brought a letter which had just arrived. When he had washed and dressed, Calumn broke the seal reluctantly, his frown deepening to a scowl as he scanned the closely crossed sheets of his mother’s elegant hand. Father weaker … demise imminent … factor requiring constant supervision … your return required urgently. All the usual phrases, although the bit about the attack on the western lands was new. Revenge by a Jacobite clan … to be expected given the Munroes’ stand, his mother wrote. Calumn’s stomach clenched in anger as he read this paragraph more closely. Bad enough the mess the Rebellion had left in its wake, now they must be feuding amongst themselves! If they were to survive in the Highlands, the clans must stick together, could they not see that!

Beg of you to return. Your father … not likely to live much longer. If his father died, the lands would be his. His to change and to renew, his to care for and nurture rather than work to exhaustion, his to do all the things he’d thought about and planned during the last few years. But they weren’t his yet, nor likely would be in the near future. His father might be weak, but his grip on life was a lot more tenacious than his mother gave him credit for. And anyway, what was the point in dreaming, when the fact was he couldn’t go home. Not now. Maybe not ever.

The usual feelings of frustration and anger and pointless railing at fate, roiled in his gut, making him nauseous. Calumn crumpled the letter up in disgust and threw it into the empty hearth just as Madeleine rejoined him. She raised her brows, wondering what could have inspired such fury, but seeing the deep frown which marred his face, chose wisely not to comment. He was dressed in breeches and top boots teamed with a dark coat, the clothes expensive and well cut. He had shaved and tidied his hair, though it was not tied back but swept away from his brow, curling almost to his shoulders. It was unusual for a man of his obvious standing to go without powder or wig, but Madeleine thought it becoming.

Calumn gave himself a shake, pressing his thumb into the furrow of his brow as if to smooth away the thoughts which formed it. ‘Come on, then,’ he said, holding open the door for her, ‘my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.’

They made their way down the stairs, out of the dark close and into the Lawnmarket, which was now teeming with hawkers and traders. Vendors vied for supremacy in the calling of their wares. Horses and carriages clattered on the cobblestones. Chairmen shoved and pushed their precarious way through the hordes thronging up Castlehill and down the High Street towards the Parliament buildings and the solid hulk of the Tollgate prison. The appetising scent of fresh bread, strong cheese and the dry, fusty smell of the many bales of cloth fought a losing battle with the stench from the sheughs, the steep gutters running either side of the street.

Madeleine paused, wide-eyed, in the close entranceway, waiting for a gap in the heaving crowd. Calumn took her arm. ‘Hold on tight to me.’

She needed two steps to keep up with his one. The crowd seemed to part for him like magic as his long legs strode effortlessly through the busy market. Madeleine clung to his arm for dear life, with her free hand keeping a firm hold on her small supply of money through the slit in her petticoat where it was tucked into one of the embroidered pockets tied securely around her waist.

Noticing the trepidation on her face, Calumn pulled her closer. ‘I take it you’re not from the city?’

‘I’m Breton, from a place near the town of Roscoff on the coast.’

‘I’ve not been to Brittany, though I’ve been to France. So you’re a country girl, then?’

‘Absolument.’

He had not slowed his pace. They took the steep road down West Bow, Calumn leading the way unerringly through a warren of dark closes and narrow wynds to an inn on the Grassmarket where he greeted the landlord by name and demanded breakfast immediately. They were ushered into a dusty back parlour, away from the curious group of ostlers, coachmen and passengers awaiting the public conveyances, and shortly were served thick slices of bacon, eggs and blood pudding. Though Calumn ate heartily, Madeleine was more cautious, deciding against the heavy black pudding after a suspicious sniff.

‘Tell me about this Jacobite you’re looking for.’ Calumn pushed his empty plate aside.

‘He came to Scotland with a battalion called the Écossais Royeaux.’’

‘The Royal Scots. A mix of French and Scots, and a fair few mercenaries too. Under Drummond’s command, am I right?’

‘Yes. How do you know all this?’

He ignored her. ‘All the French were pardoned, you know, rounded up and packed off home long since. How can you be certain this man of yours is still alive?’

She traced a pattern on the scarred wooden table with a fork. ‘I just am. I can’t explain, but if he was dead—well, I would know. I would feel it.’

Rory’s dead, Calumn. It’s been almost six months. He’s dead, we have to accept that, all of us. Heronsay is yours now. His mother’s words echoed, making him close his eyes in an effort to block out the painful memory. His own reply floated into his mind, so strangely reminiscent of Madeleine Lafayette’s. He’s alive. If he was dead I would know. I would feel it.

Calumn blinked, and found that same Madeleine Lafayette’s big green eyes watching him with concern.

‘Is there something wrong?’ Instinctively, she reached out her hand to his.

Her fingers were long, the nails well cared for, buffed and shaped. He laid his other hand on top of hers, noting the stark contrast between her smooth and creamy-white skin and his own, rough and tanned. Her hand felt good nestling there, fragile yet resilient. He twined his fingers into hers, liking the way her fingertips grazed his knuckles, fitting so perfectly, though she was so much smaller than he. He remembered then, last night, how the rest of her body felt, pressed close to his, fitting just as snugly, feeling just as right. It was as if he knew her. Had known her. Which was ridiculous. He dropped her hand, sat back and shook his head firmly. ‘There’s nothing wrong. I know what you mean, that’s all, when you say you’re sure he’s alive.’

Just for a second he had looked lost. Vulnerable. ‘You’ve obviously felt the same about someone,’ Madeleine prompted carefully.

A door slammed shut. His eyes refocused. ‘So who is he, this Jacobite of yours?’ Calumn asked brusquely.

‘His name is Guillaume, the Comte de Guise.’

‘A nobleman. That should certainly make it a bit easier to track him down.’

‘‘Oui, that’s what I thought,’ Madeleine agreed with relief. ‘That’s why I wanted to talk to the other Jacobites at the castle. I know it’s unlikely, but I have to start somewhere.’

‘It’s highly unlikely, especially after all this time. Why have you waited so long? It’s been over a year since Culloden.’

‘You think I don’t know that!’ Madeleine’s lip trembled. ‘A whole year of trying everything in my power to find out what has become of him, but no one will tell me anything. I’ve written countless letters to the authorities and to the army, but all they will tell me is that Guillaume is not on any list, either of men who have been sent back, nor of any of the—the fallen, or the men who have been executed. It is so out of character for him not to get in touch. I don’t understand it—where could he be?’ Huge eyes swimming with unshed tears gazed up at Calumn beseechingly. The strain of the last year, the ordeal of the last few days, were beginning to take their toll.

‘Do you not think, mademoiselle, that the time has come to accept that he is—’

‘No!’ Her gaze was fierce, her rejection absolute. ‘No,’ she said again more quietly, though no less resolutely, ‘I won’t listen, you sound just like everyone else.’

The accusation stung. Once again, Calumn was reminded of a similar scenario not six months ago, his own no-less-vehement rejection. His hand clenched into a fist. He had held out, held on, waited, but he could not forget the doubts. He had not been so steadfast in his belief as this woman was. Though he had held fast in public, in private he had questioned. Was not this certainty simply the guilt of the survivor? A stubborn unwillingness to confront the truth? He had survived his wound because fate, ill fate, had placed him on the side of the victors. Rory, who had chosen to fight with his kin, had most likely not been so fortunate. Yet still Calumn had waited, because not to wait would be to admit the inadmissible. The price he had paid, would continue to pay, for his own choices, was high enough without that.

‘I’m sorry, I should not have been so rude.’ Madeleine’s voice broke into his thoughts. She was gazing at him searchingly. Too searchingly.

‘There’s no need to apologise,’ Calumn replied gruffly. ‘What you believe is not for me to question.’

She smiled tentatively. Whatever was going on in that handsome head to make his tempter so volatile, it was more than the after-effects of whisky. ‘I know Guillaume is probably dead, I know that it’s irrational of me to think otherwise in the circumstances, but I still find it impossible to accept. You understand, I think. It’s the lack of certainty.’

His nod was reluctantly given, but it was eventually given all the same. ‘What is this man to you?’ he asked sharply.

‘Guillaume and I are—friends.’

‘Friends! You’ve come all this way, after all this time, for a friend? He must be a very particular friend.’

Piercing blue eyes, disconcertingly penetrating, searched her face. Madeleine returned to playing with her cutlery. She was strangely reluctant to tell him the truth. She put the fork back on the table and forced herself to meet Calumn’s gaze. ‘We have known each other since childhood. Guillaume is my best friend.’ That, at least, was true.

Calumn raised his eyebrows sceptically. ‘And how came you to be here in Edinburgh alone?’

‘Everyone else thinks Guillaume is dead. No one will listen to me, I had no option but to come.’ The truth was, she had run away, but if she told this man the truth she doubted he would help her. More likely he would insist on packing her back to her father, and she could not risk that, not when she had already risked so much just to get here.

‘Won’t you be missed?’

She shrugged, deliberately offhand. ‘They will guess where I am.’

‘I see,’ Calumn said drily, thinking he did, now. She was obviously in love with the missing Comte, in all likelihood had been his mistress, and had equally obviously been abandoned. If he was not dead, this Guillaume de Guise, he had most likely taken up with another woman. Calumn had seen it himself many a time with his own men, stationed far from home for months on end, falling for a pretty local girl and abandoning all thought of the one waiting for them back home. Whether her swain was dead or unfaithful, Madeleine Lafayette was doomed to disappointment.

Callous bastard, not even to have the guts to tell her! If Guillaume de Guise had been one of his men! Calumn sighed and shook his head. ‘You’re probably on a wild goose chase, you know,’ he said gently.

A film of tears glazed her eyes, but Madeleine shrugged fatalistically. The defensive little gesture touched his heart more than her tears. He did understand, of course he did. He’d been the same, all those months when Rory was lost to them. Calumn felt in the pocket of his waistcoat for his handkerchief and handed it to her. Wild goose chase or no, she’d been very brave to come here like this all on her own, so determined and so steadfast in her belief. He, of all people, could not but admire her for that. She deserved to find out the truth, even though she was heading for heartache. Why not help her?

He took her hand in his again, enjoying the feel of it again. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he told her. ‘I’m not promising, but I think I can get you into the castle, if you’re set on it. And I have a friend here in Edinburgh who can check the records, make sure de Guise’s name isn’t on any of our lists for deportation or—or anything else.’

‘I knew you understood,’ Madeleine said softly.

The intensity of her gaze made him uncomfortable. Calumn threw some coins on to the table. ‘Come on, let’s see what we can do about finding this precious Guillaume of yours.’