The Gathering Storm (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 3)(50)

Beth looked around for signs of Alex's ‘worry'. Smashed ornaments, fists crashed through furniture, Angus lying bloody in a corner, having provoked his brother into violence, as he was so good at doing … no. Alex had restrained himself well.

"Er, you actually got that the wrong way round," she admitted, emboldened by the lack of destruction in the room. "He did invite me to a private supper, which I refused, so I didn't go off in his carriage with him. I..er … did throw myself at him, though. A bit. I can explain," she added hurriedly, seeing the anger flare in his eyes instantly.

She sat down and explained, quickly.

"It was really difficult," she said. "I can't stand even being near the man, let alone touching him. But I thought that if I made him think I hoped for more than a brief fling, it might put him off altogether. It appeased him for now, anyway, which was the main thing."

"I see your point, and ye did well, taking all those precautions in case he followed ye, but I dinna think it'll put him off for long, Beth. After all, if he had an affair wi' you, and you fell completely in love wi' him, he could still discard ye whenever it suited him. He's a prince. Ye couldna do anything to hurt him, no matter how scorned ye felt. You must avoid being alone wi' him, Beth, at all costs."

"I know that already," said Beth. "I'm sorry, though. It seems as though the rumours already have me in bed with him. I hadn't expected that. It won't do your reputation any good." Or mine either, she thought. Although it seemed that giving your favours to royalty or the nobility was commendable as far as society was concerned, whereas giving them to anyone else made you a whore. It was ridiculous.

"Oh, Sir Anthony willna mind that at all," Alex said, cutting into Beth's thoughts. "No one'll say anything directly to him anyway, and he's awfu' good at ignoring broad hints and suggestions. I, on the other hand, would mind a great deal. I'll tell ye this now, Beth, so ye know it. If ever Cumberland manages to get you alone and propositions you, if it comes to it you say no directly, in whatever way ye have to, and tae hell wi' offending him."

"But we can't afford to offend … "

"Aye, we can, if the alternative is that bastard laying his hands on you. Christ!" he said through gritted teeth, clenching his fists at the thought of it. "You say no," he ordered, his face hard. "And if he doesna take no for an answer, ye hit him, or scream. I dinna think it'd come to that, though. He'd no' force a woman against her will, I'm sure. But ye dinna ever think ye're doing me or the Stuart cause a favour by taking him or any other man to your bed, Beth, because an ye do, I swear to ye now, I'll kill him. Do ye understand me?"

She looked at him, wide-eyed. He meant it. A shiver of fear ran down her spine, but it was overwhelmed by the realisation that his love for her outweighed his passion for the Jacobite cause and the consequent need to keep the Elector as a friend. He would risk it all rather than have her compromise herself.

She dismissed the fear. She would never be unfaithful to him. Neither with Cumberland nor anyone else, for any reason.

"Yes, I understand you. I will never go with any other man willingly, for the Stuart cause or not. You know that already, I think," she said.

His face relaxed and he smiled, his blue eyes suddenly warm.                       
       
           



       

"Aye, I ken that, mo chridhe," he said tenderly, taking her hand. "I'm sorry. I was just awfu' worried, and tired, too. It's been a long day. Let's away tae bed. It's verra late."

* * *



"Oh, I can't do this!" Beth said, throwing the cause of her frustration on the floor for the umpteenth time.

"Aye, ye can," said Duncan, picking the needles and wool up and expertly unravelling the mess she'd made. "It's easy when ye get the hang of it."

She glared at the tangled puzzle suspended from the two needles in his hands.

"Knitting is like making porridge," she said with such venom that Duncan burst out laughing. After a moment she saw the funny side and joined him.

"Why do ye no' just give up, and make Anne some baby clothes from material instead? Ye've an awfu' good hand wi' a needle and thread," he suggested. "Ye've made some lovely things for Maggie's bairn."

"I know, but it's annoying me that I can't get the hang of knitting, when you all find it so easy."

"It isna possible to be good at everything. Ye canna get the hang of wielding a claymore either, and we all find that easy too," he pointed out, placing the now untangled piece of work back on her knee.

"How do you know I couldn't wield a claymore?" she said mischievously. "I've never tried."

"Ye'd be sorry if ye did. They weigh a good fifteen pounds, and they're awfu' tiring if ye havena got the muscle for them," he said, looking doubtfully at her slender arms. "Remember Alex's scar."

"Yes, well, maybe I've not got the strength for a claymore, but I have for knitting. Do you mind if we have another go?"

"Not at all," said Duncan. "I've nothing else tae do."

The two of them were alone in the house. Iain and Maggie had gone shopping for food, and Angus was out in the shed at the bottom of the small garden, taking advantage of their absence to put in some more work on his present for the baby. He was making a crib, but wanted it to remain a secret until it was finished, which had resulted in much furtive behaviour on the part of the MacGregor brothers, and the rather interesting phenomenon of owls calling warningly across the garden in broad daylight if the mother or father in waiting showed any sign of visiting the shed. Maggie and Iain, whilst remaining ignorant of the reason for the conspiracy, were of course extremely suspicious, but were collaborating to the extent that they rarely went in the back garden any more, with the resultant diminishing of the diurnal owl population in the area.

Alex was out at yet another meeting with the principal English and Welsh Jacobites. These meetings were testing him to the full, because whilst he understood some of the objections the others had to committing openly to the Stuarts, he mistrusted them and doubted their stated intention to participate in a rebellion at any level. He often returned home tired and crabby, smelling of tobacco smoke and brandy, with little or no progress to report.

"I wonder how Alex is getting on," pondered Beth now, dropping three stitches without noticing. "I wish I could be with him."

"He'd take you if he could, ye ken that," said Duncan, taking the knitting gently off her and retrieving the stitches before they could unravel too far. Alex had said as much the previous day. It would be useful to have an ally quietly watching proceedings, picking up subtle reactions that he, fiercely negotiating, might miss. But he was neither attending these meetings as himself nor as Sir Anthony Peters. He did not trust the English Jacobites enough to reveal his true identity to them, and of course if he went as the foppish baronet, he would be revealing openly to people who were already under suspicion by the authorities that Sir Anthony was a spy. Instead he had taken on the role of Benjamin Johnson, a cloth merchant from Liverpool, complete with suitable accent, sombre clothing, a hideous light brown wig and brass-rimmed eyeglasses. No one would ever guess that the cloth merchant was Sir Anthony; and it would take some considerable scrutiny to recognise Alex MacGregor in the unprepossessing features of Mr Johnson.

Beth was another matter entirely. With her glorious hair and striking facial beauty, she would be far harder to disguise. The men Alex was meeting were of the nobility. There was a good chance they might run into Sir Anthony and his wife. It was not worth the risk of them recognising her, much as he would have liked to have her with him.

From the hall came the faint but unmistakable sound of someone knocking on the front door. Duncan and Beth looked at each other.                       
       
           



       

"Are ye expecting a caller?" he asked.

"No," she said. "But it could be Isabella, or Anne, I suppose. Or anyone who wants to find out how my affair with the Elector's son is going."

Duncan stood, smoothed down his dark blue velvet breeches, slipped into his shoes and retrieved his coat from the back of the chair. He looked down his nose at her with the utmost arrogance.

"How do I look?" he asked.

"A perfect footman." She smiled. "Except for the wig." She stood up, abandoning the knitting and helped him to put it on, tucking his own hair up under it. He moved to the door as the caller knocked again.

"Is my lady at home?" Duncan said formally.

"Yes." Beth sighed. "I might as well face the hordes. Unless it's Cumberland himself, in which case I have a particularly infectious disease of some sort. Leprosy. Plague. You decide."

She picked up the knitting again. Now, what was it? Hold the wool loosely. That was the problem. She felt that if she didn't keep a death grip on the yarn, all the stitches would fall off the needle, but of course that was ridiculous. All she had to do was relax. She draped the wool carefully over her fingers and knitted half a row. The library door opened and Duncan walked in.