Lord of the Highlands (Highlands #4)
Page 36“Oh, I must,” she said, digging in. “Let’s see . . . Bullets?” she asked, pulling out a heavy pouch that clacked as she palmed it.
“Aye, lead shot.”
“Aren’t you dangerous?” she mused with a smile, continuing to rifle. “What else . . . A handkerchief, and, oh”—giggling, she pulled out a leather coin purse—“look, another murse, how cute!”
He glowered at her.
“Okay, okay,” she said, stifling her laughter, and pulled out a small metal box. “What’s this?”
“My tinderbox.”
“What’s in it?”
“My tinder,” he said hesitantly.
“Yeah, but what’s tinder?”
“Lord above, woman. Jamie is surely scouring the countryside for us, and you’re asking what’s tinder. I use it to light a fire.”
“Ohhhh.” She peeked back in the bag, muttering, “You can light my fire any day of the week, William Rollo.”
She froze. There was a card stuck along the inside of the bag. “What’s this?” It had wedged into a seam, and she plucked it out.
A Tarot card, just like Livvie’s deck. A man walked blithely along, not seeing the cliff he was about to step from. The Fool.
“This is a Tarot card.” A jumble of emotions rattled her. Such a small and specific memory of her aunt shot her through with grief. But she was also confused. “Where did you get this?”
“I found it. On a pretty girl.” He smiled, cupped her cheek, and Felicity thought she might float away.
She must’ve brought one of the Tarot cards with her. And Will had kept it. She marveled. Why would he keep such a trifling thing?
She smiled back, savoring the connection of his eyes locked with hers. Beaming, she dipped back into the sporran.
“That might be something.”
“Something for me?”
“Aye. Though you’ve been exceptionally naughty. I don’t know that you’ve earned it.”
“You just watch me earn it,” she said in her best seductress voice. “Maybe I haven’t been naughty enough . . .”
“Oho!” He laughed, wrapping her hands around the gift. “If I have any hopes of walking out of here no more lame than I already am, you’ll need to staunch your naughtiness for another hour at least.”
“Well?” she asked.
“Well what?”
“Well can I open it?”
“And you’re suggesting I could stop you?”
“Oh goodie,” she said, assessing the pouch in her hand. There was something thick inside. Larger than a ring, smaller than a bracelet, though with the heft of one. “What is it?”
He merely shrugged, and she leaned in, planting an enthusiastic kiss on his cheek. “I love presents.”
“Aye, so I see.”
She beamed at him. She could listen to that accent for the rest of her life and she’d never tire of all Will’s ayes.
Felicity carefully unknotted the drawstring, and made a little anticipatory gasp to see the twinkle of polished metal.
She pulled out a piece of jewelry made of hammered gold. It was shaped like a torc, an unclosed circle that bore the head of a Celtic creature at each end, with brownish gems for eyes. A thick, blunt pin was secured along the back.
“Oh, Will.” Tucking it close to her heart, she told him, “I love it.”
“A Viking design,” he said, smiling. “I thought it only fitting.”
“The stones are garnet,” he told her, watching her avidly. “They put me in mind of your eyes, when they’re caught by the sun.”
“Is . . . is it a brooch?”
“No . . .” He turned her head gently and, gathering two thick swaths of her hair, secured it at the crown of her head. “For your bothersome hair. Don’t you know? My wish is to free you of even the smallest of your troubles.”
“My silly hair.” Tears stung her eyes as she turned to look at him. Her Will. He was gorgeous to her, sitting there looking so uncharacteristically rumpled, with a day-old beard and disheveled brown hair. “You remembered.”
“Aye, Felicity. You are a hard woman to forget.”
They walked along the road, and Will was more certain than ever that Felicity must go.
Time alone with her was heaven. If he thought it were possible to disappear together, to run away and hide on some distant island as James had with Magda, he’d leap at the chance. But he could not let himself forget, for even a moment, the grave danger she was in.
Every minute she spent in the past, the danger only grew. Jamie was relentless; he wouldn’t stop until everything Will loved was destroyed. Even now, he’d be combing the countryside for them. Even now, he’d have Robertson’s followers whipped into a bloodthirsty frenzy.
He had to keep her safe. They had to say good-bye. And Will knew their parting would forever extinguish this strange new vitality, this joy, he’d discovered deep within.
She’d leave, returning to her strange and foreign world. But Will would stay. He’d pledged his help to the Sealed Knot men, to the King. He’d keep his word, and it would likely cost him his life.
But parting from Felicity? The cost of that would be his very soul.
She kept biting her lip in concentration, touching the back of her head, tracing her finger over her wee hair ornament. Will wondered if there wasn’t an invisible string tied from that mouth to his heart, because every time she nibbled at it with that look of happiness on her face, he felt a tug in his chest. It was deeply gratifying to have pleased her so.
She was such a delight, always so ready to embrace pleasure, to be with her was a revelation. When he was by her side, he forgot his inclination to sink ever downward. He’d lived his life driven by disquiet, despondency. But Felicity was so easy, so light, with an inner fire that illuminated a side of himself he’d never known existed.
It was agony to think on their coming good-bye. He was leading them to Lochaber, to Cameron lands. He’d heard tell of a witch there, one who could help his Felicity.
The thought was too painful. An instant misery, like those nettles that had stung her what felt like so long ago. And so he pushed it from his mind, choosing instead to cling to this brief flare of joy in his life.
This joy that he would allow himself to feel, before he had to bid it farewell forever.
Chapter 26
“Who are you to order me?” Jamie paused before the grave of Maggie Wall. Once such an inspiration, it now served as a bitter reminder of how Will had thwarted his plans yet again.
Oliver Cromwell’s half-wit son had shown up on the doorstep of Duncrub Castle, bold as day. Jamie promptly whisked him to someplace more discreet. Robertson’s untimely death had riled the minister’s followers and set village tongues to wagging, and he dared not bring undue attention onto the Rollo household. “Is that an order from your father?” Jamie asked.
“My father is dead.”
“Ah.” Oliver Cromwell, dead? The news silenced Jamie, his mind barraged by a thousand different thoughts. Would Cromwell’s death mean the restoration of the King? Would Parliamentarians like him find their fates on the gallows?
“And who takes over in his stead?” Jamie finally asked.
“I,” Richard said simply. He removed a large handkerchief from his pocket and fastidiously spread it over a large rock. He sat, crossing his legs primly at the ankles. “Richard Cromwell, Lord Protector of England, Scotland, and Ireland. I quite like the sound.”
Could it be true? Could Oliver Cromwell truly have designated his underachieving third son as his successor? And should this half-wit fail? They’d all be hanged as traitors.
“I shall mourn your father,” Jamie told him carefully. Richard gave a mute nod and another flick over his shoulders, and Jamie thought his pale hair and weak features gave the impression of a diluted version of the elder Cromwell. “Oliver Cromwell was one of the last, great men. His death must have been a shock to your family.”
“Indeed. Thankfully it didn’t happen before he had the opportunity to name me his successor.” Dusting a leaf from his trousers, he scanned his eyes slowly over Jamie. “My father spoke of you. I was curious to meet you. The infamous eldest Rollo.”
Jamie bristled. When would he be seen as his own person? He was always lumped with the Rollo men. Tiresome and self-righteous, the lot of them.
“How is it to have a crippled war hero for a brother?” Richard asked suddenly. “It must’ve stung when he bested you at the Tower.”
Jamie was grateful his face was turned. Tread with care. He schooled his emotions, smoothing the loathing from his face. “I would’ve traveled to you, in London,” he said, ignoring the jibe. “Upon hearing the news.”
“But I find it illuminating to meet men in their own province,” Richard said, taking in the woods around them. “There is no better way to take the measure of a man than unguarded and among his family. And your Perthshire has a peculiar . . . charm. Maggie Wall. Peculiar indeed,” he added with distaste, studying the crudely painted grave marker. “Though I would’ve liked to see the actual inside of your home.”
“Too much danger has crossed my mother’s doorstep already.”
“A dutiful son.” Richard nodded. “If only we could see the same sense of duty applied to the Parliamentary cause.”
Jamie was struck speechless, and Cromwell took advantage. “I too am a dutiful son,” he continued. “And carry on I must. It appears our Royalist enemies have found ways to communicate. Correspondence has been making its way to the King.”