I haven’t been to London in years and I have no desire to go back.”
“Not even to prevent a rebellion? Someone has to speak for the Scottish. They can’t do it for themselves. They need you. You are the laird.”
“It’s too late, Anne.”
She leaned against the far corner, frustrated by his stubbornness. “It’s not too late. Until the gunpowder is used, it can be stopped.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know. If Lambert kills Robbie Gunn or marches both Robbie and me to London, the Highlands will burn with rebellion.”
He was right…but so was she! “Aidan, I don’t want there to be a war. I don’t want Hugh to die before he and Fenella can be happy. I don’t want Bonnie Mowat to cry for her sons. I’ve already told you, I can’t watch you die.”
Reaching for her, he pulled her close. “Anne, have faith. Trust me.”
She nodded, unable to speak.
They rode in silence. Then Aidan said, “I could plead the crofters’ case against the Clearances in Parliament, but they won’t listen.”
Hope rose inside her in spite of his stubbornness. “You will make them listen. And if they don’t hear you, you’ll go back and tell them again the next year.”
He laughed. “And the year after that?”
“Yes.” She ran her hand down the line of pewter buttons on his vest. “You must tell them until they listen.”
“It could take years, Anne.”
“How long has it been going on?” she said. “Years?”
He didn’t answer, but the mulish set of his mouth told her she’d made her point. “You may not be able to save everyone, Aidan, but you know that already. You’ve managed to keep your people safe. Now you must use your connections to speak for those who don’t have a voice.”
“Enough, Anne. Enough.” He turned to the window again. She watched him, her hands in her lap. He was thinking.
Then, he said, “I vowed never to return to London. I never felt as if I belonged there.”
“So you created your own world here.”
“Yes.” He shot her a defiant glance. “Is that wrong?”
“No…except that now your people need you to return for them.”
He didn’t answer, but broodingly stared out the window, although she doubted he noticed the passing scenery. He was lost in his own thoughts and she would have to have faith he would make the right choice—provided they escaped Major Lambert.
The coach started to slow and change direction. Aidan straightened. “We’re in Lybster.”
Anne remembered the quaint fishing village. They veered off the main road. At a crossroads, the military party had to wait for a funeral procession marching to the church. The view on her side of the coach was of the church graveyard and the freshly dug grave ready for its occupant.
“A grim omen,” Aidan muttered. She nodded. He waved a boy over. “Who died?”
“Packy Gilbride,” the youngster answered.
Aidan leaned back in the seat. “Did you know him?” Anne asked.
“Aye. He was a character. Had hair the color of Deacon’s and a temper to match.”
Lieutenant Fordyce rode up. “It won’t be much longer, my lord,” he reported officiously, as if theirs was a pleasure trip. “Major Lambert’s headquarters is over the next hill, about a mile south.” He was the model of respectful courtesy.
“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Aidan said dryly. They exchanged a few other words and then the officer left them. He laced his fingers with Anne’s. “No matter what happens, you must take care of yourself first, even if it means denouncing me and telling Major Lambert what you know.”
“I would never do that.”
He faced her. “You must. If I am to have peace, it will only come from the knowledge that you are safe.”
His face was so close to hers that she could see texture of the shades of blue in his eyes. “Promise,” he whispered.
She nodded, but silently vowed it was a promise she would not keep.
The coach started moving, and before she was ready, they arrived at the country manor that served as Major Lambert’s headquarters in Lybster.
“Courage, Anne,” he whispered, as they drove up the tree-lined drive.
Major Lambert greeted them himself. He was dressed casually in a white shirt, long vest, and riding boots. His neck cloth was slightly askew, as if he’d been pulling on it. He’d left off his wig, and his close-cropped hair gave him a relaxed, almost festive, air. His cheeks were ruddy with good humor, and drops of mud seemed to have splattered along the front of his vest and on his sleeves. He carried a riding crop