He glanced at her, something disturbing, discordant in his gray eyes—a haze that shielded him somehow, or hid some part of him away. "I turned coward the instant my men began to fall. I turned and ran. A calvary officer charged across the field and cut me down. I'm certain your father would say the only pity was that the officer's sword thrust wasn't deep enough to kill me."
She'd been raised on tales of glorious charges, epic heroism, instead of the usual fairy-tale nursery fare. And the beaus who had flocked about her had stumbled over themselves to provide her with the most stirring tales of battle. She'd never thought of it as a curse until the scene Gavin Carstares had painted with his words played out all too vividly in her mind.
Soldiers, blinded by confusion, helpless without their commander, flailing in the battle Gavin hadn't had the courage to face himself.
She turned away from him, trembling. A thousand conflicting emotions seemed to be attempting to beat their way out of her breast. Never had she felt a deeper need to escape this cave, this man, these new feelings that were tearing her apart inside.
"If you dare so much as touch me again, I swear I'll shoot straighter this time."
He stilled, his voice suddenly quiet. "I'm counting on it."
Rachel's fingers clenched in the folds of coverlet, a desperate litany rampaging through her head. She had to escape—get away from him—before it was too late.
CHAPTER 8
Rachel stalked out of the cave into the sunshine, chipped plates tucked against her midsection, a hard knot of desperation lodged in her throat. After two weeks of drizzly, miserable weather, the makeshift table had been dragged out into the fresh air, settled beneath the spreading branches of a tree at Mama Fee's behest so that the "wee bairns" could catch some sunshine before the winter came.
The children were racing about in some raucous game of murder and mayhem, battle cries that should have been heard all the way to Edinburgh piercing the air, while the dread Glen Lyon held the first casualty of the game—a sprite of a little girl—on his lap, distracting her from her scraped knee by teaching her to paint a flower in Celtic interlacing.
They might have been a family on holiday, except that Papa and his brother practiced treason instead of playing at piquet, and the gentle old woman had misplaced her mind.
But then, it was little wonder that Fiona Fraser's wits had frayed. After two weeks as the Glen Lyon's hostage, Rachel was beginning to doubt her own sanity. And it was all Gavin Carstares's fault. The man was a wizard, a sorcerer who made the ridiculous seem sane, the impossible seem logical, miracles seem commonplace. But as for reality—Rachel gave a snort of disgust—reality had no place in the Glen Lyon's domain.
For over two weeks, she and the Glen Lyon had pretended to be lovers, going off to share a bed— nights that were, in reality, spent on opposite sides of the room, trying to forget hot kisses and accidental embraces. He was more concerned with this charade than the real dangers that threatened the glen.
If she had been in the Glen Lyon's place, she would have been making ready for battle. She would be arming the oldest of the children, teaching them how to fight. She would be plotting strategies for defense and stockpiling ammunition and foodstuffs, making certain that every person in the camp was alert to the possibility of an attack.
And an attack would come. Of that much, Rachel was certain. Nathaniel Rowland had said that Sir Dunstan was hunting the Glen Lyon with all the powers at his command, and Dunstan Wells was a force to be reckoned with—a soldier down to the marrow of his bones, a fierce commander, a hero, bathed in the glory from a dozen different victories, a man willing to sacrifice anything for king and country.
And as if that were not dangerous enough to those he judged as his foes, the Glen Lyon had fanned the flames of Dunstan's enmity higher still by taking Rachel captive.
That was a direct assault against Dunstan's honor. It would be answered with a ruthlessness Rachel understood all too well.
Rachel banged the plates down onto the surface of the table, and caught her lip between her teeth. The notion that she would be avenged should have brought her pleasure. The certainty that she would be rescued should have filled her with relief. It might have, save for one minor difficulty. She could picture the scene all too clearly—the horses thundering, the sabers flashing, the righteous fury in the eyes of her betrothed as he and his men charged down into this tranquil glen.
The image filled her with thick, leaden dread instead of relief.
No, she was going mad as well, here in Gavin Carstares's private insane asylum. That was why she had to find a way to escape—today.
Rachel glanced over to where Adam sat, honing his sword. He seemed totally preoccupied by the task, but she was aware that, as always the past two weeks, he was watching her with those hooded gray eyes, guarding her the way his brother would not. It was as if those warrior eyes could see through to her soul, knew of every desperate plan, every scheme she had managed to hatch during her captivity.
Rachel was able to gather tidbits of information from the Glen Lyon's followers as they stopped at the cave, seeking their leader's counsel. These men looked at Gavin Carstares with adoration and hero worship in their eyes—an adoration that had only deepened the sparks of sadness that lurked in the depths of his.
The information she had gleaned was pathetic at best—a knowledge of where the horses were tethered, the fact that a troop of English soldiers had set up headquarters at Furley House, a day's ride to the west. Yet the strangest thing that Rachel had discovered during the days in which she had shared a cave room with a traitorous rebel—watched a coward bear pain and fever in silence to keep those about him from worrying—was that no matter what she did, no matter how much trouble she caused, or how far she ran, Gavin Carstares would never hurt her.
That was the most terrifying, confusing knowledge of all.
Rachel glanced over to where the mob of children had surrounded Gavin, wielding sticks for weapons. The oldest boy, Barna, had eschewed his role as Pict warrior, and was involved in yet another disturbingly bloodthirsty game. But the ubiquitous lump of sugar loaf was tucked once again into his cheeks, giving him that strange, deformed appearance that had horrified Rachel the night she'd arrived at the cave.
Rachel had never spent much time around children. Babies and bonnets and sticky-fingered waifs appeared to her like some sort of strange-smelling exotic creatures, completely unpredictable. She'd never been quite sure if they would burst into tears when she approached or attempt to bite off her fingers. She had little doubt that Barna, at least, was of the finger-biting variety.
But these children had disturbed her even more greatly than usual. Their games chilled her and their carelessly flung out revelations about what dragons lurked in their imaginations were dark and frightening things. God only knew what horror they were re-enacting today, but it seemed a particularly vicious one.
Barna swaggered up to Gavin, his face drawn into lines of patent villainy. "Hand Catriona over at once! She must be killed right off—cut up to ribbons and left as a warning!"
Gavin cuddled the little girl closer, and gently drew her paint-splattered fingers away when she attempted to stick them in her rosy mouth. "Consider my lap a safe haven—sanctuary," he said, smiling down at Barna, his silvery eyes astonishingly appealing behind the wire rims of his spectacles. "Do you remember I explained about it when we were reading the story before bed last night? The one with the marvelous pictures?"
It was evident the boy remembered quite clearly, but he feigned ignorance, shaking back his tumbled curls. "Can't say as I remember. I was thinkin' about the sorcerer turnin' me into a falcon so I could swoop down an' pick out Sassenach's eyes."
Rachel's stomach rolled at the grisly picture, but Gavin only tugged on the tail of the boy's clumsily made shirt, explaining again with patience. "In medieval times, an embattled knight could retreat to a church, and on holy ground, no one dared harm him. It was against God's law. And man's, as wel
l."
Barna and his band of stick-wielding brigands fell into disarray for a moment, discomfited by this development in the game. But in a heartbeat, the precocious boy swaggered back to face Gavin. "I don't care 'bout sank-chew-ary," he said, thumping his narrow chest with one fist. "I march right into churches and drag the traitorous curs out, skewered on the point of my sword. An' then we toss 'em back an' forth on swords until we're too tired for the game."
Rachel shuddered, sickened as the boy continued.
"Nothing can stop me from es-sterminating Scots vermin! Now, hand her over at once. We're all done burning the cottages an' killin' sheep an' cows an' such. An' all the other people are dead. I plan to rack up a right magnificent heap o' corpses over there, an' I need her to make it higher. Come on, Catriona. Please!"
"Don't want to be dead like my mama." The girl sniffled. "'Sides, I'm too little to make the stack much bigger."
"I kill everybody—no matter how little they are! Even babies!" Barna boasted. "Then soon as everyone's dead, Lachlan here gets to be the Glen Lyon an' swoop down an' kill me! It's great fun to die. You can scream an' roll on the ground an' get all dirty. Besides, if you play, I'll..." Barna's face twisted in a grimace. "If you play, I'll pretend any game you want later."
"Will you be my husband an kiss me on the cheek afore you go off to fight with the Bonnie Prince?" Catriona asked, her wide eyes hopeful.
The boy sputtered, all but gagged, his cheeks bright red, but his impressive pile of corpses was apparently important enough for him to endure even the indignity little Catriona had planned for him.
"All right," he groused. "As soon as I'm dead. But it'll take some killin' to get to me! I'm the wickedest devil ever to wear skin! With a pile o' corpses to my credit that'd reach all the way to London if I laid 'em out nose to toes!" He danced around, wild, his stick slashing at the air. "I'm Sir Dunstan Wells—"
Blood drained from Rachel's face, and she gripped the edge of the table. She felt as if Barna had buried his stick in her stomach, disbelief stabbing through her. At that moment, she caught Gavin's eyes, saw in them a sharp regret, a sting of embarrassed color in his cheeks.
"Enough of that game, now," he admonished, giving Barna the sternest look she'd ever seen him level at one of the children. "It's time to play something else."
A chorus of objections rose from the children, and Barna's grubby chin jutted out. "But I want my pile o' corpses! It'll be lovely fun!"
"You can play Merlin, and instead of turning people into corpses, you could turn them into anything you wanted," Gavin said. "Ducks and lions, dragons and princesses."
Little Catriona crawled down from Gavin's lap and tugged at Barna's arm. "If you were a sorcerer, you could make my mama come back alive again, and then I'd never ever make you kiss me."
Barna looked as if he wanted to protest, but one more glance into his hero's eyes and he succumbed.
The children ran off, demanding magic instead of bloodshed under the crystalline sky.
Rachel turned her back to the scene, concentrating on wedging the plates rim to rim on the too-small surface of the table. But her hands were shaking at the fierce hate the children had revealed.
True, she was certain Dunstan had taken some harsh action during his time in Scotland—it was a commander's duty. And yet...
I kill everybody... no matter how little... even babies... Barna's claim echoed through her.
"Rachel?"
The sound of Gavin's voice at her shoulder made her drop the plate she was holding, chipping off another piece of the rim.
She wheeled on him, clutching at her anger to keep away the chill uneasiness that swept through her.
Rachel lashed out. "I suppose you slipped bedtime tales of Sir Dunstan in between reading them 'The Song of Merlin' and recounting tales of your own heroism in battle. It seems you are a monstrous good liar."
"I wish to God I could make them forget they ever heard Sir Dunstan's name." Gritty with loathing, the words battled with the compassion that still lit Carstares's face. "Rachel, I'm sorry if they upset you."
"Upset me? I've grown used to madness while I've been here. I probably should have forgotten about setting the table, and gone to add to the pile of corpses myself. But then," she said bitterly, "I'm not a baby, so Sir Dunstan probably wouldn't bother to murder me.
Gavin's jaw knotted, something firing in his eyes. He battled it back. "I didn't realize what they were playing until you did. The instant I did, I told them to stop."
"Of course you did," Rachel said, banging down another plate. "You're the most infernally courteous kidnapper in all Christendom. Heaven forbid that the children's game should be impolite in my presence. Maybe you should have them play the Glen Lyon. They could kidnap innocent women and hold them hostage, then apologize until their faces turn blue."
Gavin's face turned a far different hue—embarrassment darkened his cheekbones. "It was necessary. I explained my reasons to you."
"I'm certain Sir Dunstan would have a perfectly logical reason for playing 'skewer the baby'—as if there could be an ounce of truth in such rubbish! A soldier, murdering children!"
She attempted to jam the last plate into place, but there wasn't enough space left for it. Rachel clamped her jaw tight in irritation.
"God, this is the most ridiculous of all," Rachel snapped. "We don't even need this extra plate."
Gavin said nothing. He didn't have to. Rachel winced at the memory of the first morning she'd plopped down at the table, garbed in a scarlet gown with a neck so low she was certain she'd catch lung fever. Gavin's eyes had rounded in astonishment, his throat working as his gaze had skimmed over her. Adam had teased. She'd been sizzling with discomfort, angry at herself for the telltale blush that stained her bosom, half exposed in the harlot's gown.
Wanting to get as far away from the two men as possible, she'd started to scoop the extra plate off the crowded table in a huff, when Gavin had gently grasped her wrist.
"Leave it."
"There's no reason we have to be wedged together so tight we can't breathe! There's no one sitting here!"
Mama Fee had smiled at her, serving her a hot oaten cake. "Why, my sweet lamb, it's for Timothy. He'll be passing hungry when he comes in from his ramblings."
She'd been stunned, her heart hot and aching for the woman who still clung to hope that her boy was healthy and laughing and coming home to her when his "ramblings" were through.
Ever since that day, Rachel had endured the empty place setting, had arranged it with the greatest of care. She had endured being all but jammed against Gavin's shoulder whenever meals were served, even though the slightest brush of his thigh beneath the table or of his arm against hers sent sizzles of awareness through her veins, a swirling, heated memory of how it had felt when he'd kissed her, when he'd touched her.
But today the masquerade at the table seemed too insufferable to bear. She grimaced, imagining what any sane person would say about the pretense, what her father the general would have said in such a situation, what Dunstan would have done. The image made her mouth tighten, her shoulders stiffen.
"You aren't doing Mama Fee any good, lying to her this way," she said for Gavin's ears alone. "Her son died an honorable death. I might not agree with what side he was on, but he is still a hero of battle. She'll have to face the truth sooner or later. My father had to tell his dearest friend that his son had died in battle. I'm certain Dunstan wouldn't flinch from the truth."
"There's no question Dunstan Wells would inform Fee that her child lays in a mass grave with hundreds of other faceless soldiers," Gavin said in quiet scorn. "Is that what you want to tell her?"
"No! I mean, not that way. But somebody has to stop pretending! Somebody has to—"
"Tell her that her son is never coming home? Don't you think she'll figure it out for herself?"
Rachel glared at him, wishing he wasn't standing so close to her, the heat of his body penetrating hers despite the distance between the
m. "She should know the truth! It's not going to change, no matter how much you want to pretend otherwise."
"No. The truth won't change. It will still be there— cold and undeniable—when she has the strength to face it. I know that your papa the general would dismiss it, Mistress de Lacey, but spirits can be wounded far more deeply than the body can be. And physical wounds are far easier to heal. Fiona will face the truth when she can. Until then, the only gift we can give her is to care for her, allow her this tiny bit of comfort before reality crashes in—not that a soldier's daughter is likely to understand."
He turned and strode away, angry in a way she'd never seen him. Though he left, his words had stirred a thousand echoes of memories Rachel had tried so hard to quell... her very first memories, memories of death.
She had been three years old, and was supposed to have a new baby brother by Christmastime, but something went horribly wrong. She could remember her papa walking into her bedroom, grim, no tears on his face as he briskly informed her that her mother was dead. She was not to cry. It was over and done with.
The day after the funeral, she had crept out, wanting to go into her mother's withdrawing room, the sunny chamber where her mother always was. But a dozen maids had been buzzing about the chamber, tearing it apart, bundling off everything that had belonged to Rachel's mother.
Rachel stiffened, remembering how she had run to her father, begged him to tell them to stop. But the general had glared down at her from beneath the shelf of his bushy brows. I was the one who ordered it. There is no sense living amidst unseemly clutter. It only makes you cling to the past.
As Rachel had stood there, fighting back tears, yet another maid had come in to her father's study. With no expression on her face, she had taken a portrait of Rachel's mother from the wall and replaced it with a battle scene of Henry V at Agincourt.
Now Rachel knew that her father had been right. There was no sense in clinging to the past, pretending death away. And yet it would have been so comforting to have a sewing box or portrait, or even a stray hair ribbon—something to assure Rachel that her mother had been real, something that might give her even the vaguest memories of the woman who had died when she was so small.