Joan Wolf Page 5

  To her dismay, she found herself alone in the middle of a wood with Ian. The others were about a quarter of a mile ahead of them, and it would have been undignified to shout for help when he laid his hand on her bridle and brought her horse to a halt.

  For five minutes she sat in speechless indignation while he told her in no uncertain terms what he thought of her manners, her morals, her intelligence, and her plans for the future. Then, her eyes flashing green fire, she shouted, “You don’t own me, Ian Macdonald!” and, wrenching her horse’s head around, hit him with her crop and galloped down the path toward the river.

  He stared after her for a minute, his face black with anger, and then he swore furiously. He had been this way yesterday. The bloody bridge is out! he thought, and he drove urgent heels into his own horse’s flanks. There had been flooding in the area due to heavy rains, and Ian had noticed the small sign posted on the bridge yesterday. Frances, flying toward the river in full gallop, would never see it.

  Ian was in deadly fear. Her horse, hearing the sound of drumming hoofs behind, stretched himself even further. In desperation Ian turned off onto a small path that bypassed the main road. With his head down on his horse’s neck to keep from being swept off, he plunged through the undergrowth and then swung out onto the main road, positioning his horse across it so Frances had to stop. She pulled up, rocking a little in the saddle from the suddenness. He leaned forward toward her and struck her, openhanded, across her left cheek. Her horse reared a little in fright.

  “You deserved that,” Ian said, his voice shaking. “You damn little fool, the bridge is washed out. You might have killed yourself.”

  She looked from his taut face to the swollen river, the bridge, and the small sign. Her eyes widened and then slowly swung back to his face. At this moment, the heavens opened and the rain poured down.

  “Come on,” Ian said through shut teeth. “There’s a cottage just down this road.” He turned his horse’s head and, obediently, she fell in beside him. Neither of them spoke as they cantered toward the small, thatched-roof cottage he had pointed out.

  The overhanging trees provided some cover but the rain was hard and they were both thoroughly drenched by the time they reached the shelter of the cottage. It was empty so Ian forced the door and let Frances in while he went to put the horses in the shed.

  The cottage was clearly someone’s home. There was rough but comfortable furniture in the main room and wood stacked neatly by the fireplace. When Ian came in, blinking drops off his lashes. Frances was competently building a fire. It flared, up as she lit it, illuminating her rain-wet figure and tumbling hair. She raised her arms to push it off her face and turned to look at him. He crossed the room to stand beside her. The mark of his hand was still on her cheek. He reached out to touch it.

  “I didn’t mean to hit you, mo chridhe,” he said, speaking in Gaelic. “You frightened me.” A strand of her wet hair caught on his fingers. He looked at the pale gold tendril, then back to her face. He regarded her unsmiling for what seemed to her a very long time. Her heart was hammering in her breast. He left the fire and went over to the old sofa and picked up the blanket that was neatly folded across its back. Then he returned to the hearth and spread it on the floor.

  “What are you going to do?” she asked in the same language he had spoken in. They were the first words she had spoken since he struck her.

  “Make love to you, m’eudail.” He took a step toward her and, instinctively, she moved backwards. He stopped dead. “Frances.” His voice was very deep and she stared as if hypnotized into the darkness of his eyes. “Come here,” he said softly.

  There were three steps between them. In the five seconds before she took those steps, Frances made a decision. Then she moved and he reached out and caught her against him, his mouth coming down hard on her own. She slid her hands under the wetness of his coat and held him close. She could feel the strong muscles of his back under her palms. He did not release her mouth as he swung her into his arms and then knelt to lay her on the blanket. Frances opened her eyes to look up into his passion-hard face. His hands were on the buttons of her shirt and then she felt his lips on her breast. As she closed her eyes and gave herself to the growing urgency of his passion, the thought that lay behind her surrender flickered once again through her mind. He won’t leave me now.

  * * * *

  They lay close together for sometime without speaking, then Frances said softly “Ian?”

  “Hmm?” he raised himself on an elbow to look down at her face, framed by the primitive splendor of her ash-blond hair. There was a very faint mark on her cheek. He bent to kiss it.

  “You’ve been doing this with someone else,” she said in accusation.

  “What?” He stared at her in astonishment.

  “I’m not a fool,” she said heatedly. “I can tell. Who is she?”

  He flopped back onto the blanket, his face vivid with amusement. “Frances, I love you. You never say the expected thing.”

  She frowned suspiciously. “What expected thing?”

  “Something tender,” he said, laughter trembling in his voice. “Think of all the tender things I’ve just been saying to you.”

  “The point is, who else have you been saying them to?”she said inexorably.

  “No one.” He was positive. “Stop being so silly.”

  She sat up and stared at him. “Silly?” she said. “I haven’t been making love to other people.”

  The amusement abruptly left his face. “You’d better not.”

  “What would you do if you found out I was?” she asked curiously.

  “Kill him and beat you,” he replied promptly.

  She seemed to find this answer satisfactory, because she pillowed her head on his shoulder. He felt her long lashes sweep against his skin as she closed her eyes. “We should leave,” she sighed.

  The rain beat hard against the window. “We can’t,” he said with conviction. “It’s raining.” His hands moved over her body with exquisite precision. After a moment she yielded to his caresses, with a quiver that ignited his passion to fever pitch. When she lay in his arms, afterwards, utterly still, utterly his, she understood too with a woman’s powerful knowledge that in some profound way she had also possessed him.

  When the rain stopped they rode back to Wick. They did not discuss the future. Neither of them wanted, at that moment, to spoil the magic of the present.

  Chapter Eight

  And fare thee well, my only luve,

  And fare thee well a while.

  And I will come again, my luve,

  Tho’ it were ten thousand mile!

  —ROBERT BURNS

  There were a few suspiciously raised eyebrows when Frances and Ian arrived back at Wick, together, dishevelled, and late for dinner. They were laughingly casual about being caught in the rainstorm, but Lady Mary Graham was not at all pleased with what had happened. “This is precisely the sort of behavior that can ruin a girl’s reputation,” she scolded her niece. “Really, I am quite annoyed at Lady Darlington for allowing you to fall behind like that. And you, too, Frances. You ought to know better. People have such nasty minds. There is bound to be someone ready to think the worst of you.”

  They wouldn’t be far wrong, thought Frances with a flash of amusement. But she meekly bowed her head and listened to her aunt’s strictures with sweet docility. Her thoughts were elsewhere.

  After dinner that evening, the whole company assembled around the piano in the drawing room. Lady Darlington urged her daughter to play, which she did very prettily. Catherine was an attractive girl and she showed to advantage at the piano, a fact of which her mother was very aware. Then another young lady played a very competent Mozart sonata. “Won’t you honor us with your talents, Miss Stewart?” asked Lady Darlington, honor-bound to include Frances in the entertainment.

  The others chorused their similar wishes with varying degrees of enthusiasm, and Frances’s eyes went once again to the magnet that had drawn
them all evening. Ian smiled at her very faintly and she said slowly, “All right.” She crossed to the piano and sat down, her face looking grave and abstracted. “This is a Scottish ballad about a girl who loved a boy called Geordie,” she said simply, and, striking a few notes, she began to sing. The song had all the power of the great ballads and her voice was marvelous: deep and clear and perfectly controlled. As the last note died away there was a sigh in the room, as if a great collective breath had been let out.

  The faintest, briefest glint of recognition showed in Frances’s eyes, and then she sang another. When she had finished and started to get up Robert Sedburgh said quietly, “You would please us all if you would sing one more, Miss Stewart.” She looked back at him, smiled suddenly, and said ,”Very well, I’ll do something different—something in Gaelic. This is a victory song of the clans. It should, of course, be played on the pipes.” But the wild, triumphant cry of the bagpipes was echoed in her voice as she launched into the exultant war cry of the Macdonalds of Lochaber.

  Ian’s face blazed as he listened to the fierce Gaelic words calling out the traditional invitation to the wolves of Lochaber to come feast on the flesh of the fallen enemy. The rest of the company did not understand the words, but the spirit was unmistakable. It was not civilized, Robert Sedburgh thought, as he watched Ian Macdonald’s face, but it was magnificent.

  When Frances finally rose from the piano her eyes met Ian’s in a glance of such unvoiced intensity that Robert Sedburgh was shocked. Something had happened this afternoon; he was almost sure of it. Lord Robert loved Frances very much and his antennae were extremely sensitive where she was concerned. He observed her closely for the rest of the evening, and he did not like what he saw.

  The incident that disturbed him most occurred toward the end of the evening. He and Ian were standing talking by the tall French windows. Lady Darlington had finished pouring tea and Frances was seated on a sofa next to Catherine Darlington, still holding her cup and talking about music. Lord Robert said something to Ian and Ian agreed, put his plate down and suddenly yawned. “I beg your pardon,” he apologized easily. “I have been somewhat short of sleep these last few days.”

  “Perhaps you ought to seek your bed early this evening,” said Lord Robert courteously.

  Ian nodded agreement, looked at Frances’s back with warm and peaceful eyes, and smiled faintly. She turned around as if he had touched her.

  It was defeat for Robert Sedburgh, and he knew it. The rest of the night his face wore an uncharacteristically harsh expression, that was underlined by the unhappiness in his eyes whenever he looked at Frances.

  The next day Lady Mary Graham received a letter from her sister, which caused her to pack her bags and her niece and depart abruptly for Somerset. Mrs.Treveleyn had suffered a miscarriage and urgently needed the solace of Lady Mary’s company, so wrote Mr. Treveleyn, Lady Mary’s brother-in-law. Frances did not want to go, but in the face of her aunt’s real distress she made no complaint. She went to Somerset, was helpful when she could be, and kept out of the way when she couldn’t. They stayed three weeks.

  They arrived back in London on September 8. On September 9, Ian called. Frances took him to the room Douglas was using as a studio on the pretense of showing him her portrait. Lady Mary let them go. Whatever was between Frances and Ian wouldn’t go away by keeping them apart, and she had come to the conclusion that they had better make a decision one way or another. So she refrained from accompanying them, for which Frances gave her a grateful smile;

  Ian did look at the picture. It was almost finished

  - Douglas was working on background at present. Ian’s gaze went from the radiant young face of the portrait to the girl beside him. “Anyone who didn’t know you would say Douglas was a liar,” he said soberly.

  Faint color stained her cheeks. He so rarely complimented her. “I think it’s good,” she admitted.

  “It looks like you,” he said laconically. He turned away, dismissing the portrait from his mind in favor of the model. “God, I didn’t think you were ever coming back.”

  “Neither did I.”

  His eyes on her were intent. “Shall I speak to your uncle?”

  She smiled at him, a glowing vital smile that illuminated her face. “Yes. I heard from Papa. He says you will have no trouble enrolling in the University of Edinburgh. We can live with him and ...”

  He listened to her run on, a look of incredulity growing on his face. Finally he cut in harshly. “You really don’t expect me to go back to school?”

  The light died from her face to be replaced by a braced and wary stillness. “If you don’t return to school,” she finally answered, “how do you intend to earn a living? My money from my mother isn’t enough to live on.”

  All the muscles in Ian’s face hardened. “I’ll go into the army, of course.”

  “Then don’t bother to speak to my uncle,” she returned with ominous calm. “I won’t marry you.”

  “Frances! You don’t mean that.”

  “I do.”

  And there it was. He looked at the slender loveliness in front of him. He could snap her in two with his hands, but he could not break her will. It was a granite wall, firm, categorical, unassailable. He tried once more. “You may have to marry me.”

  Her eyes were grass green. “No, I won’t,” she lied determinedly. “I am all right.”

  Ian fought to get a grip on his anger. He wanted to shake her. Worse, he wanted to throw her down . . . Frances correctly read the look in his eyes and stepped backwards. She knew that terrifying temper. “Don’t touch me,” she said breathlessly.

  A mask of control came down over his features, almost but not quite hiding the passion beneath. “I have no intention of touching you,” he said coldly. “I will give you a warning, though, Frances. This is the last time I’ll ask you to marry me. You won’t get a chance to change your mind.”

  Her face suddenly blazed. “Go marry the army!” she shouted, as angry now as he. “That’s your true love.”

  He stared at her for a few silent moments and a nerve quivered in his cheek. “Goodbye,” he finally said in the same cold voice as before. He crossed the room and went out, shutting the door behind him. Outside he paused for a minute, his head bent; there was no sound from within. He straightened and walked quickly down the hall, his stride long and even as usual.

  Frances listened to him go. “He’ll be back,” she said to her portrait as the sound of his steps died away. “I know he will.”

  * * * *

  After he left Frances, Ian went directly to the house of Andres Bello, where he was fortunate enough to find Simon Bolivar. They had a long and serious conversation. The next day, when Colonel Bolivar sailed for South America in a British man-of-war, Ian Macdonald was with him.

  It was left to Douglas to break the news to Frances. He had not had an opportunity to talk to Ian. There had been a letter for him at the breakfast table yesterday morning, and one for Ian’s mother. In his letter to Douglas Ian had spelled out his reasons for accompanying Bolivar. “I have spoken to Colonel Bolivar at length,” he wrote. “There are many things about the situation in South America that I do not understand, but I do recognize the desire for independence is something worth fighting for. And Bolivar is, I believe, a great man. He will be to South America what Washington was to the United States. The opportunity to join an enterprise of such magnitude is irresistible.” He mentioned Frances only indirectly, in his concluding remark. “After all, there is nothing for me at home.”

  So now Douglas had to face her, and he was not looking forward to the task. He asked to see Lady Mary first and briefly explained his mission . She sent for Frances to come to the drawing room and, after an anxious look at her niece, left the room. “Mr. Macdonald has some news for you, my dear,” she said softly. “If you want me I will be in the morning parlor.”

  Douglas was left alone with Frances. He had worried all day yesterday about this encounter. It was the first time,
so far as he knew, that Frances had not gotten her way. He did not know how she would react; Frances, under the sweet serenity she presented to the world, had a temper almost as dangerous as Ian’s. Douglas, who had watched and loved her for years, was one of the few to realize that.

  “What is the matter, Douglas?” She looked pale but composed.

  “Frances.” It had to be said. “Frances, Ian has gone to South America with Colonel Bolivar. He sailed yesterday.”

  “What?” Her long green eyes stared uncomprehendingly at Douglas’s concerned face. “South America?”

  “Venezuela, to be precise. Caracas has declared its independence from Spain. There is bound to be fighting. General Miranda has gone as well, to command the South American troops.”

  “South America,” she said again, slowly this time. She felt bitterness surge through her heart. Never, it seemed to her, would she forgive him for this. She stood still, with a hard, frozen face, and let Douglas’s words wash over her. Finally a phrase of his penetrated her consciousness. “What did you say?” she asked.

  “I said that one of the reasons he went was, as he put it, ‘there is nothing for me at home.’ “

  There was a blank silence and then Frances blindly raised her hands toward him. He moved quickly to take her in his arms, feeling her hold to him fiercely as the sobs of deep, terrible grief shook her. “It will be all right,” he found himself saying. “He will come back.” But she sobbed on and refused to be comforted.

  Chapter Nine

  0 how can I be blithe and glad,

  Or how can I gang brisk and braw, When the bonnie lad that I lo’e best

  Is o’er the hills and far away?

  —ROBERT BURNS

  Robert Sedburgh had gone home to Aysgarth after he left Wick, and when he returned to London a month later it was with the thought of reporting to the Horse Guards with the news that he was ready to return to Portugal. The information that Ian Macdonald had left for South America sent him round to Hanover Square in a hurry. For the first time in a month, hope flickered in his heart. He had been so sure she was going to marry Macdonald.