Mine Is the Night A Novel - By Liz Curtis Higgs Page 0,86
were high and his mouth firm, almost sculpted. But it was his eyes she noticed most. A warm dark brown, like his hair, like his eyebrows, like the hint of a beard on his chin.
Elisabeth turned away, embarrassed to have studied him so closely. “You say you brought me here for a reason, milord.”
“Aye, Bess. I need to know where you stand with the Jacobites.”
She whirled round. “Whom have you been speaking with?”
“Reverend Brown.” He grimaced. “I was a fool not to have realized it from the first. Perhaps I did not wish to know and so avoided the truth. I’m grateful I’m no longer in active service with the navy, or I should be duty bound to report your whereabouts to the king.”
Elisabeth stared at the ground, thankful she’d not had much to eat. “And you … feel no such duty … now?”
“None whatsoever. But I would know where your allegiance lies.”
She lifted her head, determined to speak honestly. “My Highland family always supported the Stuart claim to the throne. Because I loved them, I embraced Prince Charlie and his cause. But after losing my brother … and then my husband … the Jacobite cause is no longer my own.”
“So then, if King George should ask me where your loyalty rests?”
“Only with the Almighty,” she said plainly, “and with those who bow to him.”
He nodded slowly as if weighing her answer. “Aye, that should please him.”
Elisabeth almost laughed, so serious was his expression. “Are you planning on discussing me with His Majesty anytime soon?”
“Perhaps,” was all he said, then stood, gazing up at the darkening sky. “Come, Bess. I promised your mother-in-law I’d have you home before sunset. Can you ride with some speed?”
She rose, straightening her shoulders. “I can.”
Minutes later they were galloping westward, her mare already sensitive to her cues. Once the road straightened, they eased their pace. “Well done, Belda,” she crooned, easing back into the saddle.
“You’re a natural horsewoman,” the admiral commended her. “I insist you take Belda out regularly, for she needs the exercise.”
Elisabeth pretended to look shocked. “But, sir, I must sew.”
“Sew faster,” he charged her and took off again.
They were riding neck and neck, leaning forward in their saddles, eyes fixed on the lights of Bell Hill, when the admiral suddenly eased his pace and motioned for her to do the same. “Dragoons,” he muttered.
The two slowed to a stop, breathing hard, the admiral’s hand resting on her reins.
Her heart in her throat, Elisabeth peered ahead. Whatever were dragoons doing at Bell Hill? She counted eight men in uniform trotting away from the house. Please, Lord. Let them not turn this way. Along with the admiral, she waited and watched as the dragoons neared the road. When the men finally bore right and started downhill toward Selkirk, Elisabeth nearly collapsed onto Belda’s mane. Thanks be to God.
Jack was quiet for some time, his jaw working. “I don’t know what brought them to my door this night, but you can be sure I will find out. In the meantime, Bess, it might be wise if you remained withindoors.”
“If you think it best …”
“I do. If I am the one they seek, let them come find me. If it is you they are after, I’ll do as my mother once did when two English spies appeared at her door.” He leaned so close Elisabeth could smell the sweet cider on his breath. “I shall hide you on my roof and dispatch the king’s men to the hills.”
Forty-One
Friends are much better tried
in bad fortune than in good.
ARISTOTLE
arjory paced in front of the hearth, the embers low, the supper dishes scrubbed. A single candle flickered on the sewing table. Night had fallen, and still there was no sign of Elisabeth.
Anne looked up from her book. “You’ve no need to fret, Cousin. She is safe with Lord Buchanan.”
“I know,” Marjory said absently, moving toward the open window. She leaned out, feeling the night wind against her face. The marketplace appeared deserted. Other than the usual sounds of barking dogs and lowing cattle, all was silent.
Or was it?
She closed her eyes, straining to hear. Aye, she was certain now: hoofbeats from the east. “They’ll be here shortly,” she said, then exhaled in relief. Wanting to look her best for Lord Buchanan, she smoothed her hair, brushed the lint from her gown, and washed her hands in lavender soap, a present from Anne.
Marjory had hoped her Tuesday birthday might slip by unnoticed, but Anne had insisted on a small