Journey to Enchantment (28 page)

“Prue…?”

“Yes. I'm here. Are you shot?”

He sighed. “No. Are you?”

“Bruised, merely. I could not get the wretched beast to stop.” She peered at him. He seemed so listless. “Are you sure you're all right?”

“Oh, yes. Thank you.” He tried to get up, but sank back and said wearily, “I'm sorry, but I seem to be … so very tired.”

She said indignantly, “Well, ye canna sleep here, mon!”

He chuckled but responded in a drowsy murmur, “I cannot think of a … better place.”

She thought that he must be utterly exhausted and, stroking back the curls that the wind blew about his face, asked, “Have you the cypher?”

“If it is still … in my pocket.”

She felt in his waistcoat pocket and took out a small piece of parchment. The moon had slid from behind the cloudbank some moments ago; its light was not bright, but her eyes were accustomed to the dark now and, by tilting the parchment, she was able to read the message it contained:

                II

Up and down the hill and vale

Daringly the eagle flies.

I would give my soul to be

Soaring past the wind, as he.

Sorry me.

You be free.

“It's no verra grand poetry,” she decided. “What does it mean?”

“New life for a great many people. Or death … if it falls into the wrong…” The words faded into silence.

Prudence folded the parchment carefully and tucked it back into his pocket, then pulled the cloak about him. There was no sound of pursuit. She thought, ‘He can rest for just a minute or two.' And she sat there on the deserted road, the Englishman asleep in her arms, and the two horses munching contentedly nearby.

Her head nodded and woke her. Her legs felt numb. Delacourt was still sleeping, and she had no idea how long they had been here. She shook him gently and saw his eyes blink open. “I think we'd best go on now,” she said.

“Oh, Lord!” He sat up, staring at her, and said in a brisk, sure voice, “What a silly gudgeon I am. You should have made me get up, ma'am!” He clambered to his feet, then reached down to her.

She struggled up, but stumbled. He held her arm, steadying her. “I am a fine protector! Can you manage?”

“Oh, yes,” she said staunchly. “I am quite—tol-lol, you see.”

She had the satisfaction of hearing him laugh, then he was guiding her to the horses. He made her walk up and down for a minute or two before she attempted to mount, and the feeling came back into her legs with an unpleasant tingling that made her flinch. She asked, “What happened when you went back to the stables?”

“A pitched battle. No—not the big fellow, Miss Prue. I've brought Flaxen for you.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Oh, and you had my saddle put on her. What a nuisance that must have been for you.”

He cupped his hands and she put her little slippered foot into his grasp and was thrown into the saddle. “No more of a nuisance than for you to ride in my saddle all this way on that blasted great brute.” He stood smiling up at her, the moon lighting his face softly. “And you in your evening gown and dainty slippers. Thank God you do not wear one of your great hoop skirts tonight.”

“Amen to that,” said Prudence.

He chuckled and swung into his own saddle. Braw Blue staged a sudden and violent display of pyrotechnics. Startled, Flaxen shied and danced away. Prudence managed to retain her seat, but watched in alarm as the big grey bucked and spun and snorted fury. She heard Delacourt give an exasperated shout, and suddenly Braw Blue ceased his tantrums and stood quietly.

Irritated, Delacourt panted, “If it isn't just like Rob to choose such a nonsensical animal! Very well, Miss Prue, we can go along now, I do believe.”

Go along they did and, as they rode, he told her what had transpired in the stables. It appeared that he'd had the foresight to instruct the servants on what to do in the event of just such an invasion as they'd suffered tonight. The moment the attack had begun all the females had been rushed out of the main house and had taken refuge in the buildings where dwelt the outside servants. The grooms, gardeners, lackeys, footmen, and even their formidable chef had banded together to repulse the invaders, prepared to explain later that they'd supposed they were being attacked by thieves. To a man they'd sworn to do all in their power to delay the aggressors for as long as possible. Delacourt had found a fierce battle still under way in the house, and the grooms defending the stables from a threatened seizure of the horses. By pure luck he'd come without interference to Flaxen's stall, a groom had assisted him to saddle the horse, and only as he was prepared to mount had he been accosted. Between them, he and the groom had overpowered the attacker. Delacourt had ridden down another determined assailant, and had walked the cream-coloured Thoroughbred quietly around the
mêlée
and into the night.

Reaching this point in his account, he was silent for a moment, then said, “I'm afraid we must ride on for as long as we can. Are you very tired?”

“Oh, no,” she lied bravely. “It's yourself I am worrying over. Did ye take no hurt in all that brawling?”

“Very little, I assure you. I am only sorry I had to frighten you just now. I wish I could tell you I'll not commit such a folly again, but I might.”

“It is not folly. You're doing splendidly. I only hope I may not hold you back.”

A laugh in his voice, he responded that he hoped she didn't hold him back either, although he promised her there would not be the need.

“I am sure,” said Prudence thoughtfully, “that my papa is aware of that, Captain Delacourt.”

The Captain said nothing.

XIV

The clouds soon began to drift into a more solid mass. Within an hour they had obliterated the moon, and the night became so dark that Delacourt was obliged to slow their pace. In another hour it began to rain, the wind, cold now, blowing icy drops into their faces. Delacourt stopped long enough to wrap his oilskin cape around Prudence. Chilled through, she kept an anxious eye on him. At first he had ridden with the easy grace of the born horseman, but as time went along he began to droop wearily in the saddle.

When a particularly strong gust sent her hood flying, she called, “Captain, might we stop for a little while?”

He pulled back his shoulders and turned to her. “Of course.” He led the way from the road and dismounted, coming quickly to help her from the saddle.

“Dare we stop?” she asked, making no attempt to restrain her teeth from chattering.

“We
shall
stop. Poor girl, you must be frozen.”

He found a scraggly clump of trees, and they took shelter under the branches. It was cold and damp and smelled of rotting vegetation, but the wind did not blow with such penetrating force here, nor the rain drip so heavily. Prudence sank onto the gnarled root Delacourt found for her, and watched him obliquely. He had appeared close to collapse on the road, but now that she was showing every sign of exhaustion, he was bustling about cheerily, maintaining a steady flow of chatter about how well she had done, and how fine were the horses, and that they would come up with some of his people from Cavern Craigalder so soon as it was light.

When he had unsaddled and hobbled the horses, he stood looking down at her and muttered, “Lord, but I wish I'd something to offer you.”

“You have,” she told him. “I put it back in Braw Blue's saddlebags. Not that I'm by way of being a drinking woman, you understand, sir.”

He brightened and knelt to rummage in the saddlebags. The flask was unearthed, unstoppered, and offered with a flourish. Prudence sipped, coughed, and pulled a face. “Ugh, but it's horrid. How can you men stand the stuff?”

“With a good deal of difficulty,” he said, his grin as unseen as her grimace. “But you'll find it warms you.” He sat beside her, took a healthy mouthful of the brandy, and gasped. “Hey! I see what you mean. I wonder where Lockerbie found this.”

“He likely rescued it from my father's cellars. The MacTavish prides himself upon his knowledge of fine wines.” She was indeed beginning to feel less chilled and when he offered her another sip she did not protest, but took a good swallow, finding it not nearly so objectionable this time.

Following her example, he pointed out that she was still shivering.

“I know.” She pulled the cloak tighter around her, but it was wet and clammy.

“That won't warm you.” He edged closer, and slipped his arm about her.

She sank her head against his chest. Soon the warmth that swept over her was more than satisfying.

Delacourt murmured, “I wonder what the deuce happened to ol' Cole. He was supposed to be keeping watch for any signals.”

“He didn't warn you,” she said, adding, “Do you think my family were able to get away?”

“I should think so. From what you told me the fellow you crowned was not likely to be able to give the alarm before your Monster was halfway across the loch. Did you see if those ruffians wore uniforms, Prue?”

She frowned. “The man I hit did not, I know. He wore the—the very oddest sort of tunic.” She felt sleepy and settled her head more comfortably against him. He urged her to have another sip of the brandy, then did the same.

Watching him drowsily, she asked, “What did my mean father aboot—I—er, that is, what did my father mean about Ligun Doone?”

Delacourt, bathed in a pleasant glow, said amiably, “What about him?”

“You 'member. It was the day th' Colonel frightened me so much when I met him oot riding. And Papa said ye shouldnae hae used the name Ligun Doone, and Liz'beth said—” She hiccuped, and apologized. “Liz'beth said—”

“Yes, m'dear,” he said huskily, his lips against her ear. “Wha' did Eliz'th say?”

Prudence shivered but not from the cold. “She—she said—Geoffrey!”

“Did she now? Well, proves sh' knows m'name,” he chortled.

“No. I mean— Oh, never mind. Now sit up straight, do.”

“Cannot,” he argued, leaning against her even more closely.

“Yes, you can.” She put both hands against his chest and held him back, and he let his head sag and giggled foolishly into her hand. “You've had too much of that horrid brandy,” she accused.

“No such thing!” He drew back and said in a firmer voice, “Eliz'beth was talking to Ligun Doone.”

“Elizabeth said that you used the name Ligun Doone to thumb your nose at Cumberland. Is it truth? What does it mean?”

He chuckled. “It's truth the gentle Duke would be very cross. Means the Long Down.”

“Long Down?” she echoed, mystified. “Why should that upset the Butcher?”

“Because.” He swooped suddenly to kiss the end of her nose. “Sorry, ma'am. Fell li'l bit. Where was I? Oh, yes. It means, at least, they
say
it was one of the early names…” He began to laugh softly, then hilariously. “For—”

“For what? Oh, Captain,
please
do not tease!”

“That rhymes!” He kissed her ear, a little off-centredly, but improving his aim with the second attempt.

Prudence said a breathless, “Geoffrey Delacourt!”

“Wrong! Delavale! Geoffrey Dela-
vale!
”

She pulled away with an irked exclamation.

“Now y'r cross,” he said owlishly. “Doan be cross.”

Because of his weariness and his weakened condition the brandy had made him silly. Faith, but she'd begun to feel silly herself there for a minute or two. But at least he was not slumped and listless, or sinking into one of those terrible swoons, and what could be sweeter than his kisses? She said gently, “I'm not cross, dear sir. But—no! Geoffrey, you must behave! Now tell me, what is the Long Down said to be a name for?”

“Very bad grammar,” he said, waving one long finger under her nose. “London.”

“My God! If Cunningham ever learns
that!
”

“
Wouldn'
he be in a pucker!” He gave a whoop of laughter that made her clap a hand over his mouth.

She hissed, “Yes, he would, sir! And he'd know who Ligun Doone is, pucker or no!”

“Don't see that,” he argued, drawing himself up in aggrieved fashion. “Lots o' Englishman in Scotland just now.”

“Yes, but you've been up here for just the right length of time, and, oh, Geoffrey! What on earth possessed—”

She was pushed aside, and Delacourt leapt to his feet. She saw the gleam of a pistol in his hand, and she realized in a shocked way that, although the wind seemed to have dropped a little, the rustlings around them had been increasing.

“All right,” he said in a harsh, unfamiliar voice, “come out. And tread carefully, friends, this pistol has a set-trigger.”

Prudence stood and edged closer, and he reached out to sweep her behind him.

A taut second of stillness. A cautious Scots voice: “Sir…? Is that yesel', Captain?”

“Kerbie!” exclaimed Delacourt.

A dark figure rushed at them. “Of all the bonnie luck!” The two men gripped hands strongly, and Lockerbie went on, “What happened, sir? We'd word there was a signal light and we came so fast as we could. Whisht, sir, but I—I was afearin' ye'd wear the hempen cravat a sight too soon, and then that fool Cole says—”

“Cole! Where is he? Cole?” Delacourt peered into the darkness, and a shrinking form materialized to edge forward reluctantly. “So here you are! Damn you. What the devil went wrong?”

Cole, head downbent, evaded the hand Delacourt held out despite his wrath and said shamefacedly, “I failed you, Master Geoff. You as I'd cut off my arm for! Failed you—”

“Oh, don't be a gudgeon. If you failed I know blasted well it was not deliberately. Lord, man, you've looked after me all my life! Had you run to the commode, or some such major emergency?”