The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2) (15 page)

But instead, after the chancellor had made the introductions and invited the shaking student to take a seat, he had left the room, leaving the young Scot and the man who was to be his sponsor to become better acquainted.

“When he told me what he wanted me to do, I refused at first,” Alex said. “I told him I didna want to skulk around in mansions and palaces, that I didna ken anything of the society life, that what I kent was how tae use a sword and an axe, and that I’d already proved I wasna afraid to kill, if I needed to.”

Alex’s tone made it clear to Beth, as it had to his sponsor then, that he had killed a man already, maybe several men. He looked up at her, intercepted her look.

“That was seven years ago, Beth. I’ve killt a good many more men since then. Does that disgust ye?”

“No,” she said sincerely. She would have probably killed the Scot in Manchester, if his reactions had not been so fast. “But you were very young, only twenty-three, was it?”

Twenty-three. The same age she was now.

“Twenty-one,” Alex corrected her. “I’m twenty-eight now. Two years younger than Sir Anthony. Angus is nineteen, and he’s killed, as well. It’s a necessary part of life, if you’re a MacGregor.”

Was it? Why? She wanted to ask, but she also wanted to find out about Sir Anthony.

“Who is your sponsor?” she asked.

He hesitated, but only for a moment.

“Better you dinna know that,” he said. “Dinna think I mistrust you, but if anything does go amiss, the less you ken about such things, the better. He’s rich, very rich, and he’s a Jacobite. And if I’m caught as a spy, I’ll no’ betray him, and he’ll no’ lift a finger to help me. It’s part of our agreement, and I accept it. No one else knows his identity, no’ even Duncan or Angus.”

She wouldn’t push him to reveal the name. It would do no good anyway.

“So, how did he persuade you to change your mind?” she asked instead.

“By wearing me down slowly, telling me that lots of men could fight, but not many had the skills I had. It was over a year before I agreed. The students used to put on plays and such, just for the other members of the university, and in one of them I played a character called Lord Foppington. He came to see the play, and Sir Anthony was born. Well, no’ the name Sir Anthony, that came later, but the character. After that I left university and went to Germany, so that I could learn to speak the language, while my sponsor worked out a suitable identity for me.”

“And it took him six years to invent Sir Anthony?” Beth asked. She knew the flouncy baronet had only appeared in London society just over a year ago.

“No,” Alex replied. “My circumstances changed. My father died, suddenly, and I had to go back to Scotland.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Beth said. “Did you have to take over the family business?” That was what the eldest son normally did when his father died. Alex’s mouth twisted in a wry smile.

“Aye, in a manner o’ speaking,” he answered, eyes dancing.

“What
is
the family business?” Beth asked, suspicious now.

“Cattle reiving, mainly. And trying to avoid being killed by the Campbells, or anyone else who’s a mind to. My father was the chieftain. I succeeded him.”

“The Campbells,” Beth whispered. They were the bogeymen of her childhood, the demons from hell her mother had told her of, the men who had slaughtered her grandfather and many other MacDonalds in cold blood fifty years before, burning their houses and leaving Beth’s grandmother and mother, then aged only two, to fend for themselves in the February snows and sub-zero temperatures.

“I remember now,” she said softly, as Alex fixed her with a look which was a mixture of curiosity and concern. She glanced over at him. Dusk was falling, and the light from the fire glowed warmly in the room. In a short while they would have to light candles. “My mother always told me that no matter what the Campbells had done to us, it was nothing compared to what they’d done to the MacGregors.”

“Aye, that’s right,” he agreed. “The MacGregors are proscribed.”

At least the MacDonalds of Glencoe had received some reparation and had been allowed to return to their ruined homes after the massacre of many of their clan. But the Campbells had not only stolen the MacGregors’ lands, but because of their allegiance to the English crown, they’d also succeeded in obtaining an Act of Proscription against Clan Gregor. Proscription meant they could not use their own names, were not allowed to carry a knife with a point, could not meet in numbers greater than four. Now she could see why Alex and Angus had no fear of danger, and were willing to take insane risks in an attempt to restore the Stuarts to the throne and get the Act repealed. Their very existence as a clan depended on it. It also explained why they used the name Drummond.

 She looked at him with new understanding, and he looked at her likewise. He had not known she was of the Glencoe branch of the MacDonalds. They smiled at each other. They were not united merely by religion and the Stuart cause, strong though that was. They had just discovered a new bond, a personal and justified hatred of Clan Campbell. And in that moment they both knew that whatever else happened in the future, however successful or disastrous their marriage turned out to be, that bond would remain, at least.

It was a good start.

* * *

At Alex’s insistence they abandoned all thought of rehearsing any more that day.

“We can practice some more on the way to Dover,” he pointed out. “Iain’s driving us there, so we’ll be safe from eavesdroppers. Once we’re in France, we’ll have to be more careful, as I’ll be hiring a postillion.”

Instead Alex bounded off upstairs to take off his paint and get out of the ridiculous red outfit, reappearing in the kitchen ten minutes later in time for a huge bowl of mutton stew, after which the household repaired to the library to play a chess tournament, armed with a bowl of plums and several bottles of wine.

Alex played Maggie, and Iain took on Beth, while Angus, who claimed to have no interest in playing tonight, hovered behind his brother, making helpful suggestions. In spite of his sibling’s assistance, Alex succeeded in beating Maggie, while Iain demolished Beth with insulting ease, before going on to thrash her husband in the final.

“I used to be footman to an old laird in Edinburgh,” he explained later over a bottle of burgundy. “He was a wee bit infirm, didna get out a lot, but he was awfu’ fond of the chess, and we used to play together of an evening. He taught me all I ken about the game.”

“Aye, he taught ye all ye ken about drinking and idling too. Fine figure of a man Iain Gordon was when I married him,” Maggie he winked at Beth. “Two years at yon lairdie's, and he’s an idle sot.”

“I’m no’ idle!” he retorted. He didn’t deny the accusation of being a sot, Beth noticed.

“Glad to hear it,” his wife replied, so quickly that it was obvious her insult had been bait of some sort, and he had taken it. She was sitting on the floor near his feet, her elbows resting on his knees, her luxuriant red hair, which was her only claim to beauty and of which she was justly proud, hanging loose on her shoulders. “Ye’ll have no objections, then, to chopping those logs for the fire in the morning, and fixing the snib on the privy door you’ve been saying you’ll get round to for weeks.”

“I’ve got to drive to Dover tomorrow!” he protested, wriggling feebly on the hook.

“Ye’ll no’ set off before ten, at the earliest,” his wife pointed out. “Plenty of time to chop a few wee logs.”

Iain groaned, remembering the enormous pile of wood in the yard. He glowered at Angus, who was grinning hugely.

“Aye, laugh while ye can,” he said with mock rancour. “You’ll be married one day, then you’ll ken what it’s like, and you’ll be sorry.”

“Not me,” said Angus, with the supreme confidence of youth. “The lassie I marry will be sweet-natured and biddable.”

“They’re all sweet-natured and biddable when ye marry them. It’s no’ till after you’ve made your vows that they become shrews,” he advised, glaring at Maggie.

His wife reached lazily back with one arm, and he ducked too late to avoid the deftly aimed ebony pawn which bounced off the top of his head and disappeared into the shadows in the corner of the room. He rubbed the sore spot with a bony finger and eased his angular body into a position more suitable for defence or retaliation.

“Any woman who has the misfortune to marry a Scotsman
has
to become a shrew, if she wants a decent roof over her head,” Maggie countered. “Otherwise she an’ her bairns’d freeze to death in their broken down huts while the men were out indulging in the national pastime of fighting. And when they’re no’ killing each other, they’re sitting idle, drinking and telling tall tales, and waiting for the next brawl.”

This was so accurate a picture of the traditional Highlander’s way of life, that none of the men present could contradict it. “I’m warning ye, Beth,” she finished. “Get out now before ye fall in love wi’ the wee gomerel. There’s no hope for ye after that.”

 Everyone looked at Alex and Beth, who were seated, wine glasses in hand, side by side on the sofa. There was a small, careful space between the couple, all the more noticeable because the MacGregors were normally a very tactile family. Maggie observed it with a slight frown, and snuggled closer to Iain, who reached down to lift one of his wife’s fiery curls and wind it round his finger. He glanced back at the sofa. Next to her tall, well-built husband, Beth looked tiny, delicate. She felt relaxed, perfectly at home with her new family. Her cheeks glowed rosily with wine and happiness. She showed no signs of taking Maggie’s advice and running for the hills.

“Aye, she may look the picture of innocence and beauty now, but gie her a few weeks and she’ll be a tyrant, like all the rest of her sex,” Iain remarked sourly.

“Less than that, I hope,” said Alex. “I’m giving her three days, at the most.”

* * *

“They love each other, don’t they?” Beth said, as they climbed the stairs. Alex had offered to see Beth to her room, as he was tired too. They left Iain, Maggie and Angus in the library to finish off the wine.

“Aye. Verra much,” Alex replied. “That’s one reason why I’m taking Angus instead of Iain as my servant. Iain’ll no’ be parted from Maggie for so long, and she doesna like to travel. England’s as much as she’s willing to endure, and she’s no’ really happy here. Iain would be a better choice to take, really. There’s no family resemblance between us, although what wi’ the make-up and the fact that people dinna look at servants closely, that shouldna be a problem. But Iain’s older, and more level headed too. And he’s worked as a personal servant before, which Angus hasna.”

“What are the other reasons?” she asked.

“Angus is good at talking to people, at firing them with enthusiasm. He’s persuasive too, and he can speak French, which Iain canna. And I’d prefer him where I can keep an eye on him.”

They’d arrived at the door of her room.

“I’ll wish ye a good night’s sleep,” he said, taking her gently by the shoulders, and kissing her on the forehead. It was a friendly gesture, the sort you might make to a younger sister, perhaps. He turned away.

“Alex,” she began. He turned back, waiting politely for her request. What time is breakfast? Can I have another candle?

“Would you like to sleep with me tonight?” she blurted, then flushed instantly crimson. “Only it’s the last night we can be sure of being alone together, and undisturbed, for weeks, and I thought…ah…it doesn’t matter.” She turned away, fumbling blindly for the doorknob. She had interpreted his hesitation as reluctance, he realised.

He placed his hand over hers, gently prising her fingers off the handle.

“I would love to spend this night with ye,” he said softly. “But no’ if you’re only asking me because it’s the last chance we’ll have for weeks. I said I’d no’ touch you until you wanted me to, and I can wait weeks, months if necessary, until you’re ready.”

Could he?
She is so beautiful. God, give me strength,
he prayed.

“I’m ready,” she said. He closed his eyes, opened them again. She was standing there, still flushed, the pulse at her throat beating wildly. But her voice had held no doubt, and nor did her face. Shyness, vulnerability, but no doubt.

She turned from him, lowered the handle and went in, leaving the door open for him to follow. He did, standing just inside the threshold hesitantly, like a virgin schoolboy. His prayer did not change.

She busied herself lighting candles, tending the fire, turning down the bed. Then, when there was nothing left to do, she turned and looked at him helplessly. He had to take command of the situation, had to be gentle, careful. He was fully aware that if their marriage was to have any true chance of success then he had to erase the terrible experience she had had and replace it with something beautiful, although he did not know precisely what form that horror had taken, and therefore had no idea of what would recall that event to her mind, and what would not. He could not ask her. If he failed…

He would not fail.

He moved into the room, sat on the bed and patted the space at his side. She came and sat next to him, folding her hands demurely in her lap. He took one in his.

“You’re very tense. What are ye expecting of this night?” he asked. “Is it that it will hurt a lot and be over in seconds, as you said before?”

The corners of her mouth turned up slightly.

“No,” she said. “I don’t know what to expect, but I hope it will be something like I feel when you hold my hand, sort of warm and melting, only much more so.”

Her honesty was disarming. Her innocence was devastating. Accustomed only to whores and experienced women, Alex felt as nervous as his wife. He realised in that moment that although he had had sex with many women, he had never truly made love to one before. The realisation that he was about to do so was exhilarating. Terrifying.

He placed one arm around her shoulders, bent his head, and kissed her on the lips, gently at first, until he felt her yield to him. Then he deepened the kiss, parting her lips, and placing his free arm under her knees, he lifted her smoothly on to his lap in a soft rustle of silk. Her lips tasted sweetly of wine, and she wrapped her arms around his back, clinging to him. When the kiss ended they were both slightly breathless.