The Chieftain (18 page)

Instinctively, aware that escape was impossible, they rose to their feet and faced the soldiers. The naked lust in their eyes was horrible, more frightening then the levelled pistol one of them held. The only comfort was that Janet’s solidly Lowland dress made them pause for a moment, suddenly doubtful of the nature of their prey.

‘You keep your distance!’ commanded Janet warningly, and with more vigour than she felt. The soldiers stood still, though one of them smiled unpleasantly, his eyes running over Isobel’s tall figure, graceful beneath the plaid.

‘Someone in authority shall know of what we’ve seen today,’ Isobel put in with reckless courage, aware that this might simply increase their danger.
 

But the soldiers were quite untroubled by the threat, and merely laughed derisively.

‘Do you think they’d care?’ one returned. ‘After the trouble these savages have given us, anything goes.’

‘What have those women and children ever done to you?’ demanded Isobel indignantly.

‘Now, don’t tell me they don’t know about the rebellion! Don’t tell me they didn’t wave their men off to follow the Pretender with all good wishes for his success! If their men weren’t rebels, they’d be down there protecting their women, wouldn’t they now?’

Before Isobel could protest further, a second soldier dug his companion in the ribs. ‘We’re wasting time—Come on!’ and he took a step towards them.

‘You lay a hand on us and you’re in trouble,’ warned Janet. ‘I’m no rebel, and nor is Mrs MacLean here.’

‘Then what are you doing here. I’d like to know—’ began the soldier, but his companion cut him short.

‘Mrs MacLean did you say? That wouldn’t be the Mrs MacLean who’s wife to MacLean of Ardshee, would it now?’

‘What if it is?’ asked Janet defensively.

‘I reckon our Captain would like a word with you,’ said the soldier with a smirk of satisfaction. The disappointment of the other two men was clear, but the women heard him with relief. That at least offered some respite from whatever fate the soldiers had in mind for them.

This was not how Isobel had dreamed of coming home, marched between two soldiers, her arms harshly gripped, down the slope where the runner had carried the fiery cross on that summer night last year. The third soldier walked beside Janet, but without holding her, as if with respect for her civilised appearance.

Just before the slope of the hill levelled out to the headland there was a smooth knoll, edged on one side by the woods that covered the cliffs, giving a clear view of bay and castle alike. Here they paused, the soldiers scanning the busy scene for their commanding officer, Isobel and Janet feeling only deeper horror as the small details of the looting and murder and rape became clearer. A new dimension was added to their distress as they watched, for red flames shot up suddenly from the thatch of the nearest cottage, crackling brightly through the dry heather stems. They were firing the houses, and their Captain was personally supervising the operation a short distance away.

One of the soldiers ran to tell him of their find, and he turned, unsmiling but gratified, to meet the prisoners. He was a tall spare man in a powdered wig, very smart in his scarlet coat and tricorne hat. There was an excited sparkle of anticipation in his eyes as he strode onto the knoll and stood before Isobel and raised his hat.

‘So you have come home, Mrs MacLean,’ he greeted her, in quiet yet familiar tones.

The man who faced her in all the magnificence of military scarlet was John Campbell, the respected lawyer and once-trusted friend.

Isobel stood transfixed with astonishment and disbelief, aware of an illogical and yet comforting conviction that now they would be safe and all would be well. Yet what logic was there in thinking that, when her eyes told her that John Campbell was responsible for all that they had seen this morning? She gazed at him in confusion and could think of nothing to say.

‘Does your husband know you are here?’ John asked in the same amiably conversational tone. She shook her head, and saw that he was faintly disappointed by her reply. ‘Then you have not seen him since the battle?’

She shook her head again.

‘I think he may be dead,’ she added with difficulty, between dry lips.

‘Indeed? What makes you think that?’
 

‘A... a feeling,’ she replied evasively, recognising that in an odd way it was almost a hope. She had seen enough today to know Hector could expect no mercy at John’s hands.

‘Ah, but I think he will come back here,’ John went on, smiling a little. ‘You came to wait for him, did you not?’

She said nothing, frightened as once before by the odd light in his eyes; though he clearly knew what her answer would have been.

‘Then you shall do exactly as you planned, my dear, and sit at home to greet him on his return. We had meant to destroy the castle, but you must have a roof to shelter that pretty head. And I don’t doubt we’ll find some comfortable concealment there too while we wait. We shall be ready to give Ardshee the welcome he deserves on his return. There’s to be no quarter given to any rebel, you see, Isobel.’

Isobel shivered, but raised her head defiantly. ‘I’ll have no part in any plan of yours.’
 

John raised a quizzical eyebrow.

‘No? I think you will, my dear, I think you will.’ He turned to the soldier who stood at Janet’s side. ‘Take the servant to the castle, and see she’s well cared for. She’s done no harm, and she can go home when an escort is available.’
 

Isobel glimpsed Janet’s face as they led her away, full of mingled amazement and rage and disgust, and above all a naked loathing for the gentlemanly Mr Campbell whom she had believed, once, to be worthy of her liking and respect.

‘Now—’ said John, as they were left with only the two soldiers for company. ‘Now let’s see what is to be done.’

Isobel knew, with sudden clarity, not only that she was very afraid, but also that whatever John threatened, whatever he did to her, he would not bend her to his will.

‘I promised once to make you a widow again,’ he went on, ‘and I shall keep that promise. Sadly, I did not meet with Ardshee on Drummossie Moor - Culloden, as his Highness the Duke is pleased to call the battlefield - and I must admit I do not know his fate, except that there was no report of his death. But if he is alive, he will, in time, come back here, will he not? I think you yourself have argued along those lines, or you would not be here now.’ He paused for her answer, but none came and he continued smoothly, ‘I had planned to lie concealed until he came, but the difficulty is that if he is as cautious as he ought to be, it might be difficult for us to lay hands on him once he sees the - er - disarray—’ His hand indicated the burning settlement. ‘On the other hand, were he to find you living peacefully here, mourning the dead but explaining that the trouble is past, welcoming him warmly as a loving wife should - and were I and some others to lie concealed in the castle - then we would have him as neatly as a salmon on a hook. I think you will agree that your return is most apt, in the circumstances.’

‘I shall do nothing, nothing at all, to help you,’ Isobel asserted; then added: ‘And what if he is dead? You will have a long wait.’

‘If he is dead, then word will come to Ardshee. And then, my dear,’ he caressed her chin with his hand, though she drew sharply away, ‘then, my dear, you will be mine. If Ardshee can force you to marriage, then so can I. And after all he did, you came to care for him a little. It could happen again.’

‘Never!’ she lashed out. ‘I’d sooner die!’

‘Be careful,’ he warned. ‘I might take you at your word.’

‘Then do!’ she flung back at him. ‘I meant what I said. You will never hurt Hector through any act of mine - and you will never have me as long as I live!’

John grasped her arms, and she was reminded forcibly of their last angry meeting. But now he spoke softly.

‘Do not think you can protect Ardshee, Isobel. I have sworn to kill him, and I shall kill him, if he lives still. I swore it before ever I met you, for what his father did to mine. When he took you from me that only made me the more determined. And never think either that I want you for your fortune alone. Once perhaps that was true - but not for very long now, not for years. No, Isobel, you were meant to be mine, and one day I shall have you, as surely as this hand will strike down Hector MacLean and make you a widow.’

She looked into his eyes, and recognised the utter ruthlessness there. She had thought Hector ruthless, taking her in anger when she spurned him, trying by force and subtlety alike to lay his hands on her fortune. But she knew that John Campbell’s ruthlessness was that of a madman, obsessed by desire for her and hatred for the man who had married her. She knew there was no appeal she could ever make to him with any faint hope of success. All she could do was to try and convince him that she could never be his, even by threats and violence.

‘I shall not do as you ask, John,’ she said quietly. ‘Instead I shall do all in my power to see that Hector escapes you, if he is alive. There are many ways of warning him of his danger.’ She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt, not being at all sure how she would be able to protect her husband from this madman. But if, as she feared, he was dead, then it was unlikely she would ever be put to the test.

John’s grasp tightened on her arms, and he brought his face close to hers, the eyes half-demented.

‘What can he possibly mean to you, you little fool? He doesn’t care for you, and he never will. You will never win his heart. What is more if he is alive now he will not live long, even if he escapes me. There will be no mercy for the rebels this time, Isobel. You will never be able to live with him again. Have I not far more to offer? Respect, a good name, the regard of your parents, the knowledge of the world, even something of a reputation as a soldier now—Think, Isobel, think what you could have! Help me that little I ask, and then you will be free - free to be mine.’

‘Free—! That’s not freedom! Marriage to a man who can boast of his military reputation, after what I have seen today—? No, John Campbell, death would be a better fate than that kind of freedom. Let go of me—I despise you now, and I shall despise you for ever, as long as I live!’ She saw his face livid with rage, and he flung her from him to fall on the ground at his feet; then called to the soldiers.

‘Bind her!’ he ordered. ‘Bind her fast to that tree! We’ll see if other means will win her, if fair words fail—’

They dragged her back against a tall pine and began to bind her roughly to the trunk. She struggled wildly, but John only laughed and urged on the soldiers to use her less gently still.

‘That’s the way to tame a woman - beat her into submission!’ he encouraged them savagely. She bit her lip so as not to cry out in fear and pain at their rough handling.

And then just as she braced herself to face whatever horror he had in store for her a wild figure leapt past her from the trees and a sword flashed out and one of the soldiers fell moaning, with blood pouring from his head.

She felt the ropes about her arms tighten briefly, and then fall raggedly severed to the ground. Other hands dragged her from behind and thrust her into the trees. ‘Run!’ came the urgent command in Gaelic, and she ran, blindly obedient, into the woods, stumbling on stones and roots, pushing through branches that whipped her face and pulled at her clothes, deeper and deeper into the trees. The sound of shouts and clashing swords and a swift rattle of musket fire followed her, grew fainter, and died away. Steps crashed after her through the undergrowth and she did not know whether they were those of friends or pursuers.

At last she collided with a tree and leant against it, her breath coming in sobbing gasps. Her legs would carry her no further, though she heard footsteps close behind her. She turned, weakly—And the face that looked into hers was that of her husband.

‘Hector!’ she whispered, incredulous joy leaping through her. ‘Oh, Hector!’

She reached out her arms to cling to him, but he took a step backwards, and the harsh cold light in his eyes turned her joy to ice.

‘God damn you, woman,’ he spat at her. ‘Why did you have to come back? My brother is dead—and you have killed him!’

Chapter Fifteen

Isobel’s first inconsequential thought was that she had been foolish to think it mattered in the least how she looked to meet Hector again. For if it had not been for that instinctive leap of recognition in her heart, she would scarcely have known her husband. There was no trace now of the splendid Highlander who had parted from her on the beach, or left in anger that last night. The man who faced her at this moment was well past caring how she looked.

Thin and haggard, his jawline etched with a black stubble beneath the too-prominent cheekbones and the shadowed eyes, he looked like a man who had gazed too long on horrors. A dirty bloodstained bandage bound his head over the unruly hair, and there was blood, too, on the torn plaid that was all he wore over his ragged shirt, once so fine. His deerskin shoes were almost in pieces and fresh blood was trickling down his bare leg towards the tartan hose. Isobel felt a surge of pitying love, a longing to draw him into her arms and care for him with all the tenderness at her command. But the hate in his eyes and in his voice stood between them like an impenetrable barrier.

Slowly, inexorably, his accusing words sank into her numbed brain.