A Highlander Never Surrenders (38 page)

“Are you comfortable, my dear?” Monck asked Claire, handing her another blanket before he folded his legs and sat across from her on a thick woolen pallet.

“Ridiculously so,” she replied, nibbling on a square of hard black bread. “I have not been this warm in over a fortnight.”

Graham smiled at her while Monck poured him a cup of ale. “Why did Lambert come to Scotland?” he asked the general, accepting the drink.

“Fleetwood and some of the other generals have sought my support in their bid to rule the country, but I refused to give it. For it seemed all too likely that England would fall under the most abhorrent and debasing kind of government, one of complete tyranny. Indeed, since the expulsion of Parliament it is occurring already. I have openly declared that I will reduce the military power in obedience to the civil. Lambert has come in a last campaign to persuade me to follow him rather than fight him.”

“And . . .” Claire barely had time to bring her hand to her mouth to cover her gaping yawn. “Pardon me,” she said, oblivious to the smiles of the two men watching her. “He intends to use Connor to persuade you?”

“He intends to use your brother against me in some way.”

“Is that why you do not bring your army to Newcastle?”

“It is part of the reason,” Monck told her. “I do not believe Connor has told him what he wishes to know.”

“I agree,” Graham said quietly.

“I cannot risk Lambert finding out before I reach London.”

“Finding what out?” Claire yawned again and leaned her elbow on her pallet.

“It is best that you do not know.” Monck cut his gaze to Graham, hoping the clever commander had not already discerned the truth himself.

“So Connor knows what no one else does,” Claire surmised, trying her best to keep her eyes open.

“Aye, and should I ride to Newcastle, I’ve no doubt Lambert will use Connor’s very life to compel me to tell him.”

“Would you tell him in order to save Connor’s life?”

The general met her sleepy gaze with a solemn one of his own. “I am afraid I would.”

He watched her cool sapphire eyes grow warm against the golden light of the candle flames, the ever-defiant tilt of her mouth relax into the softest of smiles. “I was wrong about you, General Monck,” she confessed, closing her eyes. “I am glad I did not kill you.”

When the sound of her breath grew slow and even, Monck looked away from her to Graham, but the commander merely shrugged, reading the question in his eyes. “She believed ’twas ye who betrayed Connor. But she knows now ’twas James Buchanan.”

“Aye, I surmised that he was the traitor when I read Connor’s letter. I will see that he is dealt with properly.” Monck poured them each another cup of ale and handed Graham’s to him. “Do I have you to thank for stopping her from breaching my fortress walls and slitting my throat while I slept, Commander?” When Graham cast him a doubtful look, the general tugged at his collar to reveal a small scar on the side of his neck. “It is precisely where I found Connor four years ago; hovering over my bed with a dagger at my throat. It was only by the grace of God that I possessed a single piece of evidence to offer him, convincing him that I was not his enemy, that stayed his hand. After that night we became friends, though he never told me how he made it past my guards. I’m certain she knew how he did it.”

Graham smiled looking at her, so angelic in her slumber. He remembered her determination to save her sister when he first met her, her bold confidence in gaining entrance into Edinburgh, despite the hundreds of guardsmen patrolling its high cliff walls. Could she have breached its mighty defense as her brother had? He knew she would have given her life trying. He shook his head. Hell, she was braw, a force to be reckoned with, and he loved her more than his heart could bear.

“You are in love with her.”

Graham downed his ale and swiped the back of his hand across his mouth. “Is the surrender of my poor heart that obvious?”

“She is promised to another.”

Graham laughed and leaned back on his pallet. “General, you will have to kill me to see
that
promise through. Besides, Robert Campbell’s heart belongs to Anne.”

“To Anne?” Monck mused. “Hmm, I wonder what Connor will think of that. He had hoped to gain a strong alliance with the Campbells for the future.”

“He will have it,” Graham told him. “And with the MacGregors and Grants, as well.”

Glancing at him from beneath his heavy brows, Monck’s eyes shone like swords against the firelight. “And if the king should return to England, will you swear your allegiance to him and bid the other Highland chiefs to do so as well?”

“Aye, without question.”

The general cut his glance to Claire. “Interesting,” he murmured absently. “We had not considered a Highland alliance.” Looking back at Graham, he said, “You do realize what it will mean for you if the king accepts this offer.”

“What will it mean for me?” Graham asked, canting his arms behind his head.

“Since Connor is alive, you will not gain his lands, but you will become a lord by taking Claire as your wife.”

Closing his eyes, Graham smiled. “I can live with that. Just so long as nae one tries to make a lady out of my woman.”

Chapter Thirty-six

A
nd it is most sure, the valor of a few may surmount the numbers of many.

The flame flickered. The man crouched in the corner rushed toward it on his hands and knees, praying as he crawled.
Don’t let it go out. Please.

James Buchanan’s anxious gaze darted upward to the iron grate in the stone ceiling, and then back to the lone candle.
Please.

Stumbling forward, he reached the illuminated corner. Hope provoked a smile as he drew his body over the flame to protect it from the draft. He’d been careful to place his candle far away from the overhead grate, but the slight gush of cold air bounced off the walls and always found its way to the flame. He would have shielded his candle with his shirt, happily giving up the little warmth it afforded him, if there was a way to secure the fabric to the wall. But there was nothing in his cell save a small bucket for his waste, and his candle.

Dear God, how had Connor resisted giving his captors the information they sought? Fleetwood said that Connor had remained stalwart. How? How, when just the threat of darkness tempted James to scream and never stop?

He lifted his hands to cup the waning flame and damned Connor to hell. If the bastard had given them what they wanted, James would be at Ravenglade right now enjoying the comfort of a willing wench’s embrace.

The light grew smaller. He watched with helpless desperation until it became a tiny spark of blue.

Fighting the urge to scream, he crumpled against the cool wall. It would do him no good if his resolve broke down, for his throat was too dry, his vocal cords too sore to utter even a moan.

The rats would come soon, courageous in the darkness and as hungry as he. Panic engulfed him, washing over the resentment he felt toward Connor. He closed his eyes, awaiting the battalion of squeaking, scurrying rodents and their sharp teeth that nipped and bit, testing his flesh and his sanity.

But his cell was silent, save for the foreboding drum of footsteps echoing outside his door.

“I know nothing,” he cried out in a low whisper,turning his face into the wall as the key grated against the lock and the door opened. “Please, do not hurt me again.”

The footfalls rushing to him were light, the voice, dulcet—like angels calling his name. “James, oh, my dearest, James.”

He stopped whimpering and opened his eyes to the face illuminated by the torch held beside it. Elizabeth.

“Come, my darling,” she said in a hushed voice, casting a frightened look over her shoulder. “I am getting you out of here.”

From a low,tree-lined hill a few hundred yards away, Graham surveyed what remained of Lambert’s massive army as they marched north along the river Tyne. He smiled slightly against the brisk wind that tore at his mantle. There were no more than fifty soldiers. The slumped posture of almost half their number told Graham that they were weary and inattentive to their surroundings. They’d been traveling long on little food and less pay. Whatever promises of glory their leader had made had been chiseled away by the frigid weather. With fifteen of Monck’s men at his flanks, he could ride straight at them and likely cut down ten men before their comrades had time to react. But Connor was somewhere among them, and Graham would not risk Lambert’s using him as a shield. He’d promised Claire when he left her this morning, guarded by five of the general’s fiercest soldiers, that he would bring her brother back alive. He meant to keep that promise.

“Ready yerselves,” he told the men around him. “And remember what I’ve told ye. We must take them by surprise. Catch them off guard. Even if ’tis by but a few moments, ’tis our best chance. And nae matter what happens, protect Connor Stuart at all cost.”

“Do you think Lambert will believe that we’ve come to aid him, Commander?” a soldier to his left asked.

Graham nodded, grazing his astute eyes over the troop trudging along in the distance below. “Aye, he will believe it.” He pulled off his bonnet and dug his heels into his horse’s flanks. “I will make him believe it.” He took off, leading his army of fifteen down the hill, in plain sight of his enemy.

He did not slow his thundering pace until Lambert’s men began throwing off their mantles to unsheathe their blades. There were few, but those soldiers who had remained with Lambert were his most loyal. They proved it by immediately reforming their ranks and shielding him on every side.

“My lord,” Graham called out, raising his empty sword hand in a gesture of submission as he slowed. “We’ve come from Scotland to offer you our service.”

Though he was short in the saddle, John Lambert lacked no arrogance in his proud stature as he sized Graham up with a wary sneer. “Scotland, you say? I have no supporters in Scotland.”

“Aye, you do, my lord,” Graham said with flawless English inflection, bowing his head in deference. “There were a little over one hundred of us under Governor Monck. Recently, he relieved us of duty and station for our disloyalty to him and his support of Parliament. He is a soldier, and yet he denounces military rulership of the kingdom.”

Lambert’s lips pinched into a scowl, but Graham’s careful eyes had not missed the subtle nod of agreement, the hint of satisfaction that passed over Lambert’s face while he listened. “What makes you think I want what General Monck has thrown away?”

“With all due respect, Major General, it is not what you want that is important. It is what you need.”

“You presume much . . .” Lambert arched his brow waiting for Graham to give his name.

“Major Alan Hyde,” Graham told him. “To my right is Major Richard Lindsey. To my left, Captain Charles Cosworth. The good men you see at our rear are our most loyal soldiers.”

Lambert did not look impressed. In fact, he snickered and flicked his reins to leave. “Return to me in three days with a few thousand more men and I will consider allowing you to ride with me.”

“In three days General Monck will have reached London. Aye,” he said when Lambert stopped, his dark pupils dilated with rage. “He set out for the city weeks ago. Allow us to ride with you now and we can cut off his troops before he reaches the Thames. He rides with less than a thousand men.”

“Even if I believed you, what makes you think we can stop him, you fool? We are less than one hundred.”

The slow grin creeping along Graham’s lips was enough to convince at least some of Lambert’s men that what he said next was true. “You will not need more than that with me at your side.” When Lambert threw back his head and laughed, Graham smiled with him, then motioned with his chin to the largest and most alert of Lambert’s men. “Allow me to demonstrate.”

Lambert sighed, but his curiosity was piqued. With a slight wave of his hand, he signaled his man to come forward. “Make a quick end of him, Lieutenant—”

Graham did not wait for him to finish giving his order, but reared his stallion up on its mighty back legs, freeing his claymore at the same time. He brought the horse and the flat end of his flashing sword down on the lieutenant’s temple.

“Tell me that was not your best soldier,” Graham said as his opponent crumpled from his saddle and fell unconscious to the ground.

Lambert, too, watched his third in command slip to the hard earth, then blinked his astonished gaze back to Graham. He snapped his fingers and two of the men guarding him rushed toward Graham. They went down as quickly as the first.

“Tell me who you are,” Lambert demanded, sidestepping his mount out of Graham’s reach.

“I told you . . .”

“Nae, you claim to be English, yet you fight like the Scots and you carry their sword.”

“A gift,” Graham said, holding his bloodless blade up to admire it, “from a MacGregor, after I removed his head.” With a flick of his wrist, he turned the sword in his hand and offered the hilt to Lambert. “The craftsmanship is superb. Here, feel its weight and how well it fits in your hand.”

Lambert backed up, suspicion narrowing his eyes into slits. “Is it my trust you seek to gain, or my arse on the ground with the rest?”