One Man's Love (15 page)

T
hey lost the English patrol with such ease that it surprised Leitis. The soldiers went in one direction as she and the Raven traveled in another.

He stopped at one point and tied the horse to the back of the wagon, then climbed back up beside her.

As the sun set, they followed a well-worn path through the hills, into the very shadows. The night was clear, the stars glittering down at them from a sky rendered a pale gray by the full moon. The chickens kept up their raucous sound, aided from time to time by the call of an empathetic bird from the underbrush.

She lost track of how long they traveled. They halted, finally, before a place so poor and desolate that it looked to not be inhabited at all.

The Raven jumped down from the wagon seat and walked to one of the houses.

An elderly man with a bald head rendered shiny by moonlight peered out of the door. “Who are you and what will you be wanting?” he asked, annoyed.

“My name is not important,” said the Raven, “but I’ve come to bring you food.”

The door shut in his face.

Leitis bit back a smile.

He simply stared at the closed door and shrugged. Walking to another cottage, he knocked on the door and was greeted by an old woman clutching a sputtering taper.

“I’ve brought you food,” he said, bowing slightly.

“And who are you?”

“One who cares.”

“Then go shoot an Englishman,” she said, and slammed the door in his face.

Leitis tried to stifle her laughter, but the Raven heard it nonetheless.

He walked back to the wagon, the moonlight illuminating his frown.

“Why won’t they take the food?” he asked.

“Did you expect them to kiss your hand?” she said, smiling. “We’re a proud people, Raven. We don’t take easily, even from our own.”

She jumped down from the wagon seat, went to the first cottage, and rapped loudly on the door.

“We’ve stolen some English food,” she said before the old man could speak. “That man,” she said, pointing at him, “is the notorious Raven. Wanted by the English for his sedition and daring.”

The man looked curiously at them both.

“We’ve chickens. And flour,” she added, guessing at the contents of one of the barrels. As to the rest, per
haps it would be wise for them to make an inventory of the wagon’s contents before she boasted.

The old man grinned, revealing a large gap between his front teeth. “Chickens, is it?” he said, stepping out of the cottage.

“English chickens,” she said, smiling and leading the way. “Annoying things. They’d make a fine meal.”

The Raven went back to the second cottage and knocked on the door again. When it opened he began to speak. “There are English provisions in the wagon over there. Food we’ve taken from English soldiers.”

“Have you?” the woman asked.

“Would you have some of it?”

She peered beyond him toward the wagon. “Have you any oats?”

“Come and see,” he coaxed.

She nodded sharply, but instead of following, walked to the next cottage and summoned her neighbor. Before many minutes had passed, twenty people were gathered around the wagon as barrel lids were lifted and wooden crates examined.

There were two barrels of flour, two of oats, a variety of pickles. There was salted beef and bacon so thick that it looked to be a whole haunch of pork. The turnips produced only laughter, and Leitis could well understand why. The vegetable was now a staple of her diet since the English had slaughtered their livestock.

Most of the chickens went first, and then the other meat. It appeared, after a few moments, as if a plague of locusts had descended on the wagon.

It would have been more satisfying to know that the food would last. But of course it wouldn’t, and these people would be hungry again soon enough.

Leitis and the Raven climbed back into the wagon, headed for another village.

“Did you argue for the rebellion?” she asked suddenly.

He looked surprised at the question. “No,” he said simply. A moment later he continued. “Reason prevails only when emotion is absent. There was too much emotion and too little reason in favor of the prince.”

“What would you have changed?” she asked him curiously.

“There are a hundred easy answers to that question,” he said carefully. “None of which matter, because my knowledge is based on what ultimately occurred. But if I had been one of the leaders, I would have equipped my men with more than shovels and pikes with which to go to war. I would have trained them, and outfitted them, and ensured they did not go hungry on the return from England. I would have seen their exhaustion, and known that they needed to rest before they fought.”

“You were at Culloden,” she said quietly.

“I was there,” he confirmed.

“Was it as bad as I think?”

“Worse,” he said shortly.

They fell silent. She could not ask him for details, because he might provide them. It was cowardice, perhaps, to want that last vision of her loved ones to be as they were laughing and walking away from Gilmuir. She did not, Leitis discovered, want to know about the suffering they’d endured.

“There will be no food left for Gilmuir,” he said. “I thought it would last longer.”

“It’s not an easy thing to feed a nation,” she said softly.

He said nothing, only placed his hand on her arm and squeezed it lightly.

The euphoria she’d experienced earlier had dissipated, and in its place was a feeling of easy companionship. Leitis wanted, suddenly, to lay her head on his shoulder and whisper words that might ease his regret. But there was nothing she could say to offset the truth.

A little while later they halted again at another tiny hamlet.

The Raven descended from the wagon and helped Leitis down. She smiled at this evidence of his gallantry.

He went around to the back of the wagon and took out the remaining two cages of chickens along with a half barrel of flour and one of oats. He made several trips, placing them in front of one small cottage. The door opened as he placed the chickens atop the oats.

An old woman stood in the doorway, her white hair shining as bright as a beam of moonlight.

She stared up into his masked face, unsmiling.

“How are you faring?” he asked.

“Better, for the generosity of a stranger,” she said, her voice carrying a lilt of humor. She stretched out her hand, touched the edge of his mask with trembling fingers. “It’s not always wise to hide who you are,” she said.

“I’ve brought you some food,” he said, carrying the barrels inside the small cottage as Leitis followed with the crates of chickens.

The elderly woman looked bemused, then smiled, sitting heavily in her chair. “It is only fair that we make another trade,” she said, pointing to a large basket. “Have you any need for that?” she asked, turning to Leitis.

Her hands rested on the arms of her chair, the
knuckles too large for her fingers. She was little more than bones and skin, too frail, almost birdlike. But there was a brightness to her, almost as if she glowed from within.

Leitis moved across the room, opened the basket, and peered inside. It was filled with skeins of dyed wool, the color uncertain in the light of one taper.

“I have no use for it,” the old woman said, her eyes twinkling merrily up at the Raven.

“Did the Butcher of Inverness take your loom?” Leitis asked suddenly.

“I know of no Butcher,” the old woman said, smiling. “Can you use the wool?”

Leitis nodded.

“Then take it with my blessings,” she said.

“Thank you,” Leitis said, picking up the basket.

The old woman’s response was to reach up and place one withered hand on Leitis’s cheek. “And thank you,” she said. “It gives me pleasure to know that it will be used.”

“You know her?” Leitis asked as they walked toward the wagon.

“I met her once,” he said.

“What did she mean about another trade?”

He shook his head as he helped her up to the wagon seat. Once again Leitis knew he would not answer her.

“I need to hide the wagon someplace where the English can’t find it,” he said a few moments later.

She nodded, understanding. While it might be useful to the Highlanders, it would also be proof of a deed they had not committed.

They found a deserted village not much farther on, tucked into the side of a hill. The moonlight crafted long shadows around the huts, creating figures where there were none.

Leaving the empty wagon behind one of the vacant cottages, the Raven released the horses, slapping them on the rump.

“They’ll eventually be discovered,” he explained as he tied the basket to his saddle. “Or find their own way to the encampment.”

“We look like peddlers,” Leitis said, amused.

“I refuse to gather up pots on my way through the glen,” he teased, helping her to mount. Once she was settled, he walked some distance away before returning to her.

“My mother always said that an apology should be accompanied by an act of contrition,” he said, extending his hand to her.

Nestled in his palm was a clump of heather, most of the spiky blooms falling victim to the wind. She reached over and took it, held it like a nosegay with both hands.

“Thank you,” she said, touched.

“There is a preponderance of heather in Scotland,” he said softly. “A hardy plant,” he said. “Like its people.”

“Even heather needs to be nourished,” she said, letting the tiny blooms float free between her fingers.

“It’s not enough, is it?” he asked. She knew he spoke of their efforts tonight.

“No,” she said, agreeing.

“It will never be enough,” he said angrily.

“Perhaps not,” she said, “but you alone cannot alter the world.”

“I don’t care about the world,” he said roughly. “But I do care about these people.”

“It is as bad throughout Scotland as it is here?” She felt compelled by curiosity to ask.

“It is better here than in most of Scotland,” he said.
“The English no doubt, concentrated more on building Fort William than in terrorizing the Scots.”

“They did it well enough when they razed Gilmuir,” she said. “It made no difference to them that Gilmuir had no cannon or that it posed little threat.”

“What happened to all of the people who lived there?”

“Most of them came to the village,” she said. “Some left. Some died.”

“The English aren’t going to leave,” he said suddenly.

She glanced at him. “I know,” she said.

“Scotland is never going to be the way it was.”

She only nodded, having come to that conclusion months ago.

“I wonder if the people of Gilmuir would leave Scotland,” he said a few moments later.

She turned and stared at him. “The English would be pleased,” she said. “As long as there are no Scots in Scotland, how it’s achieved doesn’t matter.”

“So they endure only to spite the English?” he asked skeptically.

“They endure because this is their home.”

“A home is not necessarily a place, Leitis,” he said surprisingly. “Instead, it’s people. To me, Gilmuir is nothing but an empty shell without Niall MacRae.”

“You knew the old laird?”

He nodded but said nothing further.

He didn’t like to speak of himself, that was obvious.

“Someone told me recently that you could not live without pride. How long will it be until even that has been taken away? Between the Dress Act and the Disarming Act, there’s little identity left for the Scots.”

“They do care a great deal about our clothes,” she said, bemused.

“The better to keep the Scots from rebelling.”

“It would take more than that,” she said, unwillingly amused. “Or don’t the English know that our men would just as soon fight naked?”

He chuckled, the tense mood eased.

“How would they live? Where would they go?” she asked a few moments later.

“A place where they can be Scots, speak their language, wear their tartans, carry a dirk in both hands if they wish, and play the bagpipes until their ears bleed.”

She realized, suddenly, that he was serious.

“You sound like Hamish,” she said. “My uncle has a way of believing that which cannot possibly happen.”

He smiled at her, the moonlight playing over his mask. “Another secret to divulge, Leitis,” he said. “When I want something to happen, it generally does.”

The moon was on the horizon by the time they reached the place he’d left the boat. He helped her from the horse, untying the basket of wool and handing it to her as she settled in the skiff.

He unwound the rope and settled into the boat. She watched him, making no pretense that it was his skill at the oars that fascinated her. Nor was it that she wished to peer beyond his mask. It was the man in his entirety that captivated her. A man of laughter and mischief, one who cared for strangers, and kissed her so tenderly that her heart had seemed to stutter.

It was not wise to think of his kisses. But they had felt so oddly right that it had startled her. Would he kiss her again? The night wasn’t over, and she was not done with being one of the Wild MacRaes.

It was an enchanted night, the perfect time to be outside of herself. Perhaps she should be wearing a mask, too. Or had she already become someone other than Leitis MacRae?

A silvery shadow flickered just beneath the surface of the water. She reached out her hand and almost touched the back of a fish. She chuckled, amused. “My brothers taught me how to tickle fish,” she said.

“And lured you from being ladylike?” he said, smiling.

“I doubt I would have been back then,” she said. “The memories of my childhood might be tainted,” she admitted. “But everything seemed bigger, more important. Even my feelings. I was never merely content, I was rapturously happy. Never angry when I could be furious. Never simply melancholy when I could be grieving.”

His smile revealed even teeth made even brighter against the contrast of the black leather. She leaned forward and touched the mask gently.

“Is this still necessary?” she asked. “I’ll not divulge your identity.”

His hand covered hers, held there until she could feel the warmth of his skin through his glove.