The Little Pretender E-Book

Barbara Cartland

• Herausgeber: Barbara Cartland Ebooks Ltd
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Serie: The Eternal Collection
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 490

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

In 1750 Scotland, just four years after Bonnie Prince Charlie’s Rising of the Clans, it’s hard to know who’s loyal to the English and who is faithful to the Stuarts. And it’s beautiful seventeen-year-old Iona’s perilous mission to ascertain whether the Duke of Arkrae, head of Scotland’s most powerful clan, is a traitor – or is he in cahoots with the English. The plan is for Iona to gain the trust of the Duke and his clan by claiming to be the sister he thought to have died as a child. As all around her doubt her claim and call her a ‘pretender’, Iona struggles to hold her nerve. Her native wit and steel nerves do not fail her – but almost instantly, on meeting the imperious Duke, it’s her heart that lets her down. She’s fallen deeply, hopelessly in love! Traitor or not, surely the Duke could never love the Little Pretender who was sent only to ensnare him?

Leseprobe

The Little Pretender

“I am instructed to arrest a young woman staying in this castle - calling herself Iona Ward.” Iona looked from the English officer to Lady Wrexham, who was watching with a twisted smile on her face. Iona raised her head proudly, called for her cloak, and allowed herself to be conducted to an unknown fate at Fort Augustus. There the drunken, leering commander of the fort lost no time in making clear what lay in store for her. Standing accused as a Jacobite spy, she gathered her courage to ask for proofs of her guilt. “Zounds!” the major exclaimed. “Do you realise, you cheeky wench, that I have the authority to have you thrown into the deepest dungeon in this fort? Or, better still, give you over to my men for their amusement?”

1

“Bonjour, Mademoiselle! Vous êtes tres charmante!”

Iona stopped and looked up, for her eyes had been on the ground as she picked her way carefully over the dirty, cobbled street. In front of her, barring her way stood a gentleman. He was dressed in the height of fashion, but neither his clothes nor the rouge and powder with which his face had been carefully embellished could hide the fact that he was elderly.

But if he would disguise his age, the wrinkled Lothario made no attempt to hide the question in his peering, lecherous eyes or the invitation that twisted his thin, reddened lips.

Iona drew herself up to her full height, which was not very high, and in a voice as disdainful as she could make it she replied in French,

“You have made a mistake, Monsieur! Permit me to pass!”

But her gesture of dignity had perhaps been a mistake, for as she threw back her head, the dying light of the afternoon revealed the whiteness of her skin, the surprising colour of her eyes and the delicate features which had been half-hidden by the darkness of her fur-trimmed hood.

The rake’s smile broadened and he took a step forward over-eagerly. He had not been mistaken – here was loveliness.

His sudden movement made Iona shrink away from him. She was not really afraid, for she had moved about Paris alone since she had been a child and was accustomed to the roués and the vieux marcheurs who thought that any young woman who walked the streets unchaperoned was theirs for the taking.

Usually she could deal with them effectively and with little trouble to herself, but this evening she was in a part of Paris she did not know well and she was uneasily aware that she was inviting unpleasantness by walking alone in such a neighbourhood.

But she had no choice in the matter, and now she looked swiftly round her to find the best means of escape. It was not easy to know what to do. The street was very narrow and in the centre the cobbles sloped to a deep gutter where the water from recent rains strove to flow against the piles of sewage, refuse and rotten vegetables flung out daily by the inhabitants of the tall, dirty houses.

It might be possible to cross the gutter, Iona thought, and proceed down the other side of the street, but the cobbles were wet and it would be easy to slip and fall ignominiously should she try to move swiftly. There was nothing for it, she decided quickly, but to face her persecutor defiantly.

She pulled her dark cloak further round her, and then clearly and in a slightly louder tone, so that he should not think her afraid, she said,

“I am on business of the utmost importance, Monsieur. Be kind enough to stand aside.”

Perhaps it was her tone, perhaps the haughty carriage of her head or maybe the look of utter contempt in her eyes that told the reprobate all too clearly that here was someone he could neither entice nor threaten into obliging him. Almost instinctively he started to move aside, and then perversely changed his mind.

“If you must leave me, most beautiful Mademoiselle,” he said, “at least allow me to kiss your lips before you go.”

His voice was silky, but there was an undercurrent of lust in it, which warned Iona of the danger in which she stood. Unwisely perhaps, but impulsively, she attempted to push past the man who barred her way, and instantly found herself clasped in his arms.

She was so slight and slender that he seemed to enfold her, his white hands covered with glittering rings having a surprising strength, and the folds of his velvet cloak swirling around her so that she felt that he both suffocated and overpowered her. She fought against him frantically and in terror realised that his desire had given him the strength of the youth he had long lost.

“Au secours! Au secours!” she cried, and then in her extremity called in English, “Help! Help!”

Already she could feel the hot breath of her captor on her cheek, could see his dark eyes looking down at her as he forced her head back against his shoulder, and then, when she felt almost faint from the horror of it, help came unexpectedly.

Quite suddenly a dark shadow seemed to blot out the light as she struggled, panted and cried. One moment she was captive, the next moment she was free, freed so quickly that she staggered and almost fell. But to her surprise she saw that he who had held her at his mercy was now at the mercy of another – a tall man, so tall, so broad shouldered that the old roué seemed but a pygmy in his hands.

“This man is molesting you, Mademoiselle?” the newcomer asked.

“Oui, Monsieur.”

Iona’s answer was barely a whisper between her lips, which were quivering.

The Frenchman struggled like a rat held beneath the paws of a cat.

“Lachez-moi, Canaille! Lachez-moi!” he cried, but he was as impotent and powerless as Iona had been but a few seconds before. He screamed, a scream of rage and terror as the big man picked him up by the scruff of the neck and the seat of his breeches and flung him into the gutter. There was a splash and a squelch of mud and filth as he sprawled on his back in the dirty, polluted water, his silk-stockinged legs in the air.

He looked so comical with his face distorted with rage, his wig askew revealing his bald head, that for a moment Iona felt the laughter swell in her throat, and then she was aware that her heart was beating quickly and that she was still trembling a little from her fright.

She turned towards her rescuer.

“Thank you, sir, thank you,” she said, and even as the words fell from her lips she was aware that unwittingly she had spoken in English. She was answered in the same language.

“I am glad that I could be of assistance, Mademoiselle.”

If the words were formal, the tone in which the stranger spoke them was even more so. Instinctively Iona felt that though he still stood there, he had withdrawn himself from her presence.

She glanced up at his face and knew that, having been of service, her rescuer was anxious to efface himself. She could not have explained why she knew this, for the man who had saved her from the unwelcome attentions of the Frenchman made no effort to withdraw into the shadows, nor was his three-cornered hat pulled low over his eyes, yet Iona was convinced that there was some mystery about him.

He was handsome, she thought, perhaps the most handsome man she had ever seen, yet there was such an air of aloof frigidity both in his expression and in his chiselled features that the words of gratitude which she would have spoken died on her lips. She felt somehow that they would sound false, for there was something so cold and imperious about this stranger that she felt only humiliated that it should have been necessary for him to champion her.

His clothes were plain, so plain that Iona was sure that they had been chosen for that reason. He wore no jewellery and yet she was sure that this, too, was deliberate. She had looked at him for but a second, and yet she felt that she had taken in so much and yet had learnt nothing. Without speech or gesture she knew that he was urging her to go, and compelled by some force she could not attempt to understand or explain, she obeyed.

She curtsied, he bowed, and then Iona was hurrying down the street with not even a backward glance at the spectacle of the amorous voluptuary picking himself out of the gutter. She moved so quickly that she was breathless when, after taking a turning to the right, she found herself at her destination.

She raised her hand to the knocker on the door and then waited until she got her breath. For the first time she looked behind her to see only another street as dingy and as dirty as the one she had just left.

She knocked on the door. It was opened almost immediately as if someone had been waiting there for her arrival. Iona stepped forward and, as she did so, the door was shut behind her and bolted, She stood uncertainly in what seemed to her a vacuum of darkness, and then a wheezing voice said,

“Ici ’moiselle!”

A door was opened ahead, and now there was light, the light of four candles on a table in the centre of a room. There were six men seated round it, and as Iona entered, blinking a little after the darkness of the outer hall, two rose, one moving into the shadows at the far end of the room, while the other turned towards her.

With a little smile of pleasure she recognised a friendly face.

“I have come, Colonel,” she said simply.

“I knew you would not fail,” he replied.

He was a big man, red-faced and jovial, and there was something reassuring in the warmth and strength of his hand, so that Iona felt her fears and apprehensions of the last few days slip from her.

She had lain awake at night worrying, and had gone through the days haunted by an aching fear of her own incompetence, and yet now at the clasp of Colonel Brett’s hand all that seemed fantastic and impossible became quite reasonable and possible.

Instinctively she took a deep breath and raised her hands to throw back the hood from her head. Colonel Brett turned towards the table.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “This is the lady of whom I was speaking.”

As the four men rose and bowed, Iona was aware that she was being scrutinised minutely and searchingly. Then before it could embarrass her Colonel Brett drew her to the table and pulled up a chair.

“Sit here, my dear,” he said kindly. “Will you have wine or coffee?”

“Coffee, please,” Iona replied.

It was set down in front of her and she lifted the cup to her lips. It was hot and strong, and as she drank, Iona took stock of her surroundings. Now, counting Colonel Brett, there were five men at the table, but still one chair was empty. It was an armchair at the head of the table and in the shadows by the mantelshelf the sixth man was standing.

She could see nothing of him, but she knew that he was there and that he was listening. The men at the table were middle-aged or elderly, and Iona only had to look at them to know that they were all Scots, that they were exiles even as her guardian had been.

Quite suddenly homesickness and nostalgia for the years which had passed, came over her so strongly and so vividly that she felt as if she would choke. It was the familiarity of the scene – the darkened room, the lighted candles on the table, the half-empty wine glasses, and the air heavy with tobacco smoke.

How well she knew it. How well she recalled the lowered voices, the heavily shuttered windows, and the servant on guard at the outer door. Yes, she knew it all, the talk which would go on in to the early hours, the arguments which would wage backwards and forwards across the table, the problems to which there would never be a solution, the sadness – or was it yearning – which seemed to overlie the expression on every face until they seemed to appear almost alike, related one to the other by a mutual suffering.

How much she missed all this. She only knew now how long the last two years had seemed and how utterly lonely she had been. She sat there very still and quiet in her high backed chair, her hair shining a fiery red in the candlelight seeming to draw the men’s eyes as if it were a torch.

At last Colonel Brett spoke.

“Iona,” he began, and his voice was low and deep. “I have told these gentlemen of your coming, but I have waited until your arrival to go deeply into the matter which concerns us all. One thing I want to make quite clear, and that is this – if you have changed your mind, if you feel that you cannot undertake what we ask of you, then do not be afraid to say so. We shall understand – all of us.”

There was a little murmur from the other gentlemen as if of approval, but Iona merely lowered her eyes, the long dark lashes seeming almost to touch the paleness of her cheeks.

“Well, gentlemen,” Colonel Brett went on, “the position is briefly this. Most of you will remember James Drummond. He was one of us whom we loved and trusted, who fought with great bravery for the Chevalier de St. George in ’15 and who was exiled for life.

“James Drummond died two years ago. I went often to his house so I know what Scotland meant to him, and that he died as he lived, wanting only the return of our rightful King. He had living with him his ward, Iona, whom he bought up from a tiny child, and it is her you now see before you.

“James was her guardian – he certainly never acknowledged any other relationship. In fact there is no record of who Iona is. The only thing we are certain of is that she is of Scottish extraction, and although she has never been to Scotland, it is indeed her native land.”

Colonel Brett paused and looked at Iona.

“Is that not true, my dear?” he asked.

But Iona could only nod, for the references to her guardian had brought the misery of her loss all too vividly before her. For a brief moment she raised her eyes, bright with unshed tears, then lowered them again.

“That is Iona’s background,” Colonel Brett continued.

“And now, gentlemen, comes the second part of my story. A few weeks ago Father Allan MacDonald, who was Chaplain to Clanranald’s Regiment at Falkirk, came to me with a strange story. A French priest, with whom he had become friendly, called upon him one evening and asked him to attend a parishioner of his who was dying, as she wished to make her last confession.

“Father MacDonald quickly gathered that the parishioner in question was a Scot and the priest, whose knowledge of our language is very limited, was appealing to him because he was unable to cope with the old Scotswoman’s distress. Father MacDonald followed the priest to a shabby, poverty-stricken house where he found a very old woman making an almost superhuman effort to cling to life until her story had been told. Her delight at seeing Father MacDonald was pathetic, and drawing on her last remaining strength, she told him that she was Jeannie MacLeod who had been nurse to the infant daughter of the Duke of Arkrae.

“Seventeen years ago, in 1733, the Duke and the Duchess and their family had crossed the Channel to visit Vienna as the guests of the Emperor Charles. On their return, travelling in the Duke’s private yacht, they were overtaken by a terrible storm. At this point, Father MacDonald said, Jeannie MacLeod became somewhat incoherent, but it is easy to understand that in the confusion and terror she had lost her head, as perhaps had many other people aboard. It appears, however, that she had for many years been in love with the Duke’s valet, and it was therefore with a sensation of relief that she found herself safely in a boat with this man at the oars and her charge, the Duke’s little red-haired daughter, in her arms.

“But her relief was short lived, for after a few hours at sea the child died. Heavy with grief, seasick, hungry and thirsty, Jeannie MacLeod did not realise what was happening until after three days adrift they were picked up by a French fishing-boat and brought to the Coast of Brittany. By her account she was ill for some time, but when she recovered she learned with horror two things. First, that the valet, whose name was Ewart, had drawn away from the yacht without taking any trouble to find out if the Duke or the Duchess or any other members of the party were safe, secondly, that he had in his possession all the Duke’s jewels.

“Father MacDonald said that he had no reason to doubt that Jeannie MacLeod had been an honest woman. She was shocked and horrified at what Ewart had done, but she loved him and she was utterly dependent on him in a strange land. The child she had nursed was dead. She had, to put it bluntly, little to gain and much to lose by exposing Ewart to the authorities, so, as most other women would have done, she made the best of a bad business. She married the man and the sale of the Duke’s jewels enabled them to set up a small shop on the outskirts of Paris.

“They remained there until he died of a fever and then she supported herself as best she could by taking in washing.

But the sin her husband had committed, and she too in condoning it, lay heavily on Jeannie’s heart, and she begged Father MacDonald for absolution and also that he would convey the truth to the Duke. The child had not suffered, she said. She was but three years old and unconscious almost from the first moment that they had found themselves adrift in the boat. Two things only had Jeannie kept, which she asked to be returned to their rightful owner. One was a miniature, the frame of which, set with diamonds, had long since been sold, and the other a little bangle of no particular value, which the child had worn round her wrist. They are here.”

Colonel Brett put his hand in his pocket and drew out the two objects. The bangle was of gold set with very tiny pearls. He placed it on the table and beside it he put a small frameless miniature.

Iona glanced at it curiously and saw that it was of a woman.

Colonel Brett cleared his throat.

“You may be wondering,” he said, “how this concerns us all, so I now come to the point. When Father MacDonald gave me the miniature and the bangle, I had no other thought in my mind but to get someone who was going to Scotland to return them to the Duke of Arkrae. Then looking at the miniature I was astonished, for the picture painted a good many years ago, reminded me of someone I knew very well. Jeannie MacLeod had not told Father MacDonald whom the miniature portrayed, but there is no doubt in my mind that, as it was in the Duke’s possession, it is a picture of the Duchess of Arkrae – mother of the child who was drowned. I will now, gentlemen, pass this miniature amongst you and ask you if it reminds you, as it did me, of anyone you have seen before.”

Colonel Brett pushed the miniature across the table to the man on his immediate left. He stared at it for several seconds, and then looked up at Colonel Brett from under bushy eyebrows. Without a word he passed it to his immediate neighbour. Almost in silence save for one exclamation of astonishment the miniature was passed round the table until it reached Iona.

She had known what to expect, but now as she looked at the pictured face staring back at hers, she, too, felt inclined to give an exclamation of astonishment, for it was as if she looked in a mirror. The miniature was very delicately executed, but the colours had not faded and the pictured face was clear, its colour undimmed.

It might easily have passed for a portrait of Iona. There was the same red hair curling riotously back from the white forehead, the same big green eyes with long, dark lashes. It would be impossible for anyone to look at the miniature and then at Iona and not to see the resemblance. It was impossible, too, not to imagine that the delicate, heart-shaped face was hers, and the narrow white pillar of her neck was carried just as proudly.

A man at the far end of the table cleared his throat.

“Well, Brett, continue,” he said.

The Colonel looked down at the small bracelet and touched it with the tip of his finger.

“So far I have spoken of this to no one save Iona. Father MacDonald must remain in ignorance, as must everyone else outside this room. My suggestion is that Iona goes to Scotland carrying the miniature and the bracelet and presents herself at Skaig Castle as the present Duke’s sister.”

There was a sudden movement and somebody said gruffly,

“A wild scheme!”

“Daring if you like,” Colonel Brett said, “but not wild. You gentlemen here know as well as I do that we have for months now, nay years, been trying to get in touch with the present Duke. The old Duke, his father, died in ’45. He was eighty-one and on his deathbed when Prince Charles landed, therefore the Clan MacCraggan took no official part in the Rising, although several members joined individually.

“The present Duke was abroad, and as he did not return to Scotland until our armies were defeated and our Prince forced to take refuge overseas, we do not know where his sympathies lie. You, gentlemen, and I both know what the support of the MacCraggan’s would mean to our plans for the future, but at the moment we are unable to say whether they will be for or against us.

“Twice during this past year we have sent messengers to Scotland with instructions to get in touch with the Duke. The first was caught by the English and beheaded before he got to Skaig Castle, the other has never been heard of since. We have heard rumours of all sorts. The old Duke was supposed to have been in touch with the Hanoverian Usurper of the British throne but it is difficult to know if this is the truth or no. He inherited from his uncle and was therefore not important enough for us to have a record of his sympathies in the Rebellion of ’15.

“The present Duke has great power. He has increased his territory since he inherited the title, his Clan, unlike many others, has not been persecuted. We want him on our side, but if he is to be our enemy, then let us know it and be forearmed.”

“And this lady will undertake such a dangerous quest?” one man asked.

“When I have finished Iona shall answer that for herself,” Colonel Brett replied. “There is one more thing. You all know of the ‘Tears of Torrish’, those fabulous diamonds that were given to our Prince before the Battle of Culloden. For safety they were sewn inside his bonnet, but when His Royal Highness was forced to fly from the battlefield, the wind blew his bonnet from his head. Thus the ‘Tears of Torrish’ were lost. For years we have been making what inquiries we could. The bonnet may have been trampled in the mud or someone who is still loyal to the Prince may have preserved it as a precious keepsake. We had almost given up hope of hearing of the diamonds again, when three months ago a rumour reached us – that the MacCraggan's knew something of the gems. If Iona goes to Skaig Castle, that is the second thing she may discover for us.

“There is no need for me to tell you what the ‘Tears of Torrish’ would mean to the Prince at this moment. Five years ago they were valued at fifteen thousand pounds, today they may be worth a great deal more.”

Colonel Brett drew a deep breath and laid both his hands face downwards on the table.

“That, gentlemen, is my story. You have seen the miniature, you have seen Iona. If she will undertake this adventure with all its risks, with all its dangers, with all its penalties, I can tell you she will do it for one reason and one reason only – because she believes in our cause. She believes, as we do, that Charles Edward Stuart should reign over England and Scotland – as now and for all time he reigns in our hearts.”

There was a sudden silence, a silence in which Iona knew they were waiting for her to speak. Her eyes went to the miniature, to the tiny gold bracelet, somehow pathetic in its very smallness, and then suddenly she got to her feet. She stood there in the candlelight looking so fragile and so delicate that for a moment those watching her felt that she had not the strength to undertake anything, not even to make the speech for which they waited. Then suddenly her eyes were open and they saw the fire within them, a fire that seemed suddenly to light her whole body as if it were a light shining through her.

“You have spoken of this, Colonel,” she said softly, “as if what I have promised to attempt is a very great undertaking. Surely it is but a small thing to do for the Prince we love?”

There was a little sigh from the assembled company, a sigh of relief as Iona spoke. Then from the shadows of the fireplace someone came walking towards the table. He stood for a moment behind his empty chair. The gentlemen rose and Iona looked across the table. Though she had never seen him before, she knew him even as she had known that he had been all the time listening in the darkness.

In silence the men drew aside to let her pass, and then she was beside him, sinking at his feet in a deep curtsey, her lips against the hand he extended to her. Then he drew her to her feet, and she looked up into his blue eyes and saw in his handsome, whimsical countenance that strange, compelling charm which made men even against all logical conviction be ready to fight and to die for him.

“Thank you, Iona,” he said, and at the sound of his voice her heart swelled within her with a joy that she could neither explain nor contain. Still holding Iona’s hand, the Prince turned towards the assembled company.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “if this lady will undertake such an adventure on our behalf, then we can only offer her both our blessing and our faith in her success.”

His fingers tightened for a moment on Iona’s and then he released her hand.

“A toast, Colonel,” he said, and lifted from the table the glass of wine which had stood in front of his empty chair.

Five men lifted their glasses and turned towards Iona. She felt full of an excitement such as she had never experienced before. She felt a power within herself to achieve whatever was asked of her, because it was for his sake she attempted it and because of his faith in her.

She clasped her hands together tightly. This moment was beyond happiness. The glasses were raised.

“To Iona – the Little Pretender!” His Royal Highness said softly.

2

A church clock struck six as Iona got out of bed and pulled the curtains. The window of the hotel bedroom looked out over the grey roofs of houses hardly distinguishable from the sky.

There was something drear and sombre about the scene and Iona shivered before she turned hastily to the room and began to dress. It had been after sunset the night before when the little French shipping packet La Petite Fleur had nosed its way slowly up the Moray Firth and into the harbour of Inverness.

Iona had stood on deck since the first moment when she was told that the coast of Scotland was in sight. She had felt excited beyond expression at the thought of seeing the land, which, since her earliest memories, had been a part of her heritage. And then when she beheld the mountains rising peak upon peak against the crimson splendour of a setting sun, she had felt such a soul-stirring elation sweep over her that she could only stand trembling with the sheer intensity of her feelings, her face reflecting some of the glory which shone in the sky.

The spray of the waves breaking against the bow of the ship glistened in her hair and on her cheeks, but she felt neither the damp nor the sharpness of the wind, and was so enthralled that she was unaware that Hector MacGregor, coming in search of her, watched her for some moments before he spoke.

“Is it what you expected?” he asked at last softly.

She turned to him with an effort as if he dragged her spirit back into the confines of her body.

“Scotland at last!” she said softly. “My land, your land – and his land!”

She spoke the last two words softly and it was a physical pain to think of their Prince exiled among foreigners, eating his heart out with yearning for the mountains and the heather.

“Four years since I was here last,” Hector said gruffly, “and God knows it’s lovelier than ever.”

There was so much pain in his voice that Iona threw him a quick glance of sympathy. She knew his story only too well, how his father and his two brothers had been killed at Culloden and a price put on his own head.

After months of privation and incredible hardships he had managed to escape and join the Prince in France, but of all the exiles in the Royal entourage Hector MacGregor was the most restless, the most untiring in his plans and plotting for a triumphant return.

Lean and wiry, his big bones and sandy head making it impossible for him to disguise his nationality, Hector was only twenty-seven though he had acquired in those years experience enough to last the average man a lifetime. He had a natural severity of expression which was transformed by his smile, and which changed him from a taciturn Scot into a charming young man. A man, moreover with an irrepressible spirit and an unquenchable optimism. In a tight comer, in an odds-against fight in all times of danger, Hector was an invaluable companion and a partner without compare.

It was the Prince who had insisted that someone should escort Iona from France to Scotland. She had been willing to make the journey alone, but His Royal Highness had been adamant on the point that someone must accompany her until she was safely on the Scottish shore.

His chivalry had touched Iona, but she had lived in France long enough to know the dangers which would beset any young and pretty girl setting forth alone on a French packet which did not ordinarily carry passengers. Although she was prepared to brave whatever the dangers might be, it was with a sense of relief that she heard that Hector MacGregor had offered himself as her escort.

It was dangerous for him, she knew full well, to go to Scotland and should he be recognised, there would be only one ending for the journey – the executioner’s axe. But when she spoke to him of her fears, he laughed.

“I have taken graver risks,” he said, “and what’s more, it would be almost worth dying to see Scotland again, to smell the wind blowing across the moors and to hear people talking in a civilised tongue.”

Iona laughed.

It had not taken her long in their acquaintance for her to realise with what bitter contempt Hector, like many other of his countrymen, held the French. Nevertheless her fears for his safety increased as they grew nearer to the Scottish shore and she begged him to be careful.

“I’ll be careful enough,” he answered. “Do not trouble your pretty head about me. I have friends whom I must see and work that I must do for the Prince before I return. Nevertheless, remember that from the moment we leave this ship we know nothing of each other. Speak of me to no one or if by any unfortunate chance you learn that I am in any predicament, deny any knowledge of me. To admit an acquaintance, however slight, would be to draw suspicion on yourself and your enterprise which, as you well know, is of the greatest import.”

Iona had not needed Hector’s confirmation of what she already knew. Colonel Brett had spoken without undue emphasis of the task before her, but in the days that followed, when she had seen much of the Colonel and the gentlemen surrounding the Prince, she had begun to learn just how much value they put on the information she might obtain for them regarding the Duke of Arkrae.

Expressions of loyalty reached the Prince continually from the Clans who had supported him four years earlier in his ill-fated march South. Many any of them were ghosts of their former selves, their leaders beheaded, and those of their clansmen that lived after the terrible Massacre at Culloden were hunted relentlessly and continuously by the victorious English troops.

The Duke of Cumberland had countenanced the most bestial cruelty. Wounded Highlanders had been dragged from their hiding places and tortured or clubbed to death, their crofts had been burned to the ground and their women and children left to starve. In some cases a Clan had to all intents and purposes been wiped out, in others the survivors, scattered and impoverished, lived pitiable lives under the tyranny of the English Governors who watched their every movement with suspicion.

The Clan MacCraggan, strong and wealthy, with its lands untouched and its Clansmen intimidated could, the Prince’s advisers thought, be strong enough, should they prove loyal, to carry His Royal Highness to victory.

Iona had tried to imagine what the Duke of Arkrae would be like, but failed because no one could give her any clear details of him. The men who had been exiled after the Rising in ’15 as her guardian had been, had, of course, never met him, and the younger men who had fled to France after the defeat in ’45 were equally ignorant. Hector MacGregor, whom she had questioned on the journey over, could tell her little more than she knew already.

“His Grace is of consequence,” he said, “firstly because of the strategic position of his land. Secondly, from all I hear he is the rising power in Scottish affairs. So many of our great men are lost to us – Kilmarnock and Balmerinoch executed, Keppoch and Strathallan killed in battle, Lochiel and Elcho in exile. If Arkrae is of the right way of thinking it may be the saving of Scotland.”

“And if he isn’t?”

Hector made a grimace.

“Then let us know the worst,” he said. “’Tis better than hoping against hope.”

He looked at her, shook his head, and she sensed the pity in his eyes.

“They have set you a herculean task, my girl,” he muttered. “I’m not sure that I approve, it’s too risky.”

Iona raised her head proudly and smiled at him.

“I am not afraid,” she said, then hesitated, and added honestly, “Well – not very.”

Hector MacGregor put his hand on her shoulder.

“Of course you’re afraid,” he said. “We are all afraid when we go into battle and that’s what you are about to do, and the Lord knows I hate to see women fighting.”

“But not in a battle of wits,” Iona replied.

“There’s more to it than that,” Hector retorted. “What if you are caught? If they find out who sent you on this journey, it will be prison and perhaps worse.”

“Torture?” Iona asked, her eyes wide.

“Maybe,” Hector answered. “The English would give a great deal to know where the Prince is at this moment. He is, as you know, banished from Paris since King Louis signed the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle, but most Frenchmen have a sneaking fondness for the Stuart cause and would look the other way if they met him. But the English would make trouble if they could. They’re afraid of another rising and so long as they’re afraid, they will do everything in their power to keep a check on the Prince’s movements.”

“I am thankful I know so little,” Iona said. “His Royal Highness may have left Paris by now and be anywhere in Europe. How am I to know where he is?”

“To be a Jacobite is enough to damn you!” Hector said. “But let us look on the bright side – even if all goes well, you will have to get away before you are proved an imposter. I suppose you have made plans for returning to France?”

Iona nodded.

“Colonel Brett has given me the name and address of someone I can trust in Inverness.”

“Then let’s pray they are trustworthy and will be able to help you. Brett’s all right, but he is always full of schemes and ideas, many of which are impracticable when it comes to putting them into operation. Don’t rely on him too completely when it comes to details, Iona, check up where you can on your own. It’s your neck you’re risking, not his.”

Iona looked startled.

“But of course I trust the Colonel,” she said. “I have known him for many years and he lives only to serve the Prince.”

“Yes, Yes,” Hector said testily. “I’m not questioning his loyalty, I’m just saying that sometimes he is so carried away by his grandiose schemes that the details are often forgotten or ignored. But attention to detail is often the difference between success and failure. Take, for instance, this plot in which he has involved you. The Colonel sees a miniature, decides that you resemble the lady in question and without further inquiry packs you off as a claimant to the title and identity of a child who he has been told was drowned seventeen years ago. Has he made absolutely certain that the girl was drowned? How does he know that the miniature is a picture of the child’s mother? Suppose the Duke carried a portrait of his favourite mistress with him, where do you find yourself then?”

Hector spoke vehemently, but Iona threw back her head and laughed.

“Oh, Hector! Hector!” she said, “What a basket of bogies you are carrying! I swear that your imagination easily exceeds the Colonel’s. Why, the old woman, Jeannie MacLeod, said that the child died in her arms and they buried her at sea. She would not have lied on her deathbed. And the child had red hair! Someone said – I can’t remember who – that it is a characteristic of the MacCraggan’s, so the Colonel’s assumption that I might be accepted as the Duke’s sister is not so wild as you would pretend. After all, the drowned child would be just my age if she had lived.”

“Yes, that’s true enough,” Hector said reflectively. “And the MacCraggan’s are red-headed – but there are many redheaded folk in Scotland.”

“I won’t listen to you,” Iona declared. “You’re trying to frighten me, but what purpose will it serve? The adventure has begun and I must go through with it to the end.”

“I know that,” Hector said, “but be on your guard. Promise me?”

“I promise you,” Iona answered with all sincerity.

She did not really underestimate the dangers that would be waiting for her at Skaig.

Now in the chill of the morning Hector’s words came back to frighten her. Her hands trembled as she dressed herself and she knew it was not only with the cold. She had made inquiries the previous night and they had told her that there was a stage coach leaving at seven o’clock for Fort Augustus, which would bring her within some ten miles of Skaig Castle.

Iona put on her travelling dress of dark green silk and arranged a clean white fichu around her shoulders. She had but few clothes. Colonel Brett had given her a small sum to fit herself out for the journey, but although Iona had expended it with meticulous care, her wardrobe was limited and the trunk in which it was carried was light enough to cause comment along the porters at the hotel.

Such frugality was fitting, she thought, for a girl who was supposed to have been brought up by an impoverished nurse. All the same, she was feminine enough to wish that she could have arrived at Skaig Castle beautifully and fashionably garbed in gowns which would have given her courage and been a fitting background to her pretension to ducal lineage. She thought sadly of some of the lovely things she had owned before her guardian died, not that her gowns and manteaux had been exceptionally expensive, but she had been able to dress as befitted the cherished ward of a gentleman.

Her guardian had denied her little and she always understood that some of the money on which they lived was her own. James Drummond’s money was principally an allowance paid by his relatives which Iona was well aware would cease at his death. But he had some capital in France and with her own dowry she would certainly not be left penniless.

But when eventually he did die, things were very different. Iona found then that he had lent his own small capital, and hers, to one of his relations who had been banished in ’45. It had not been a tremendous sum – in fact the gentleman who received it had thought it so negligible that he spent it both speedily and lavishly in keeping up his position at the French Court. But it was all that stood between Iona and absolute penury. James Drummond had trusted the exile and had believed his repeated assurances that sooner or later the money would be returned. It was left to Iona to find on her guardian’s death that the money was lost beyond recall.

James had been dead only a few days when his debtor was arrested and thrown into prison because he could not pay the thousands of francs he owed the tradesmen. Iona had known then what it was to have no security, to be alone in the world without money, without a home or even a name.

For perhaps the first time in her life she had felt humiliated and ashamed of being herself. When she had been old enough to understand, her guardian had told her that she had been brought into his keeping when she was but a few months odd.

“I gave the person who brought you my most solemn oath,” he told her, “that I would never reveal to you or anyone else who you are. You were christened Iona because you were born on the small lovely Island of that name which lies on the west coast of Scotland. That is all I can tell you. But I can promise you one thing, my dear – you need not be ashamed of the blood which runs through your veins, and you need never be anything but proud of your nationality which is Scottish.”

James Drummond sighed, then added,

“I have tried to make a home for you, Iona, if I have failed it is not for the want of loving you.”

Was it surprising then that whenever the subject had arisen Iona had assured her guardian that she loved him better than anyone else, and that she wanted no other home? They had laughed together when, finding a surname essential, she had chosen to call herself “Ward”, because she was his ward and he was her guardian.

“Iona Ward!” she dimpled. “Tis a pretty name and one day perhaps I will make you proud of it.”

But when their home was sold and the sale of the furniture and the pictures brought Iona only enough to pay for a granite headstone over James Drummond’s grave, she wept bitter tears because she had nothing left – not even the knowledge of her own identity.

Who was she? Where had she come from? And where should she go?

Eventually she found a job in a milliner’s shop where once she had bought her bonnets, and had rented a tiny attic in a respectable lodging house nearby. She had never realized until then how few friends her guardian had made in France.

He had not been a young man when in ’15 he took an oath of allegiance to the Chevalier de St. George. Banished from Scotland a few months later, James Drummond had found it hard to start life anew in a strange country. He had hated his life in Paris and had been too homesick even to be particularly sociable with the other exiles. Occasionally he paid his respects to his exiled King, occasionally he spent an evening with some other Scotsmen, passing the hours making plans which they knew in their hearts, even while they agreed over them, were doomed never to be anything but dreams born of wine and tobacco smoke.

The years passed, James Drummond’s friends thinned out as they died or were pardoned and returned home to Scotland. He was an old man when Prince Charles set sail in ’45 on his gallant bid for power. When the fugitives and exiles of that ill-fated enterprise came flooding into France, James Drummond would not bestir himself to make their acquaintance.

With the selfishness and egotism of one who has nearly reached the end of his life he was complacently content with the companionship of his young ward, and it never entered his mind that she might need friends of her own age. Iona never complained, and having never associated with young people, did not miss them. But when her guardian died, she was appalled by the barren desolation of her own loneliness.

Now, as she dressed in the austere and ugly little hotel bedroom, she wondered why she should be afraid. Nothing in Scotland, she thought, could be worse than what she had experienced in the last two years in Paris after James Drummond’s death.

She was engaged in adjusting her travelling hood over her hair when there came a knock on the door. She bade whomever it might be “enter” and a maid came into the room, bringing a cup of chocolate that she set down on the table.

“Will ye be wantin’ breakfast afore ye leave?” the girl asked.

She was a skinny creature with big red hands and large, clumsy feet.

“No, thank you,” Iona replied.

“The coach will be in the yard at a quarter to seven, if ye be wantin’ a guid seat,” the girl volunteered.

Iona was grateful for the information and when the maid had left the room, she picked up the chocolate and began to sip it. It was badly made and tepid, but it was all Iona had ordered. Her guardian had always eaten what he called “a proper breakfast”, but Iona, reared in France, had a native taste for hot rolls, coffee or chocolate, and could not contemplate anything more substantial.

She finished the chocolate and was gathering together her small pieces of luggage when suddenly she dropped everything and stood still in utter horror, the blood receding from her face. She had remembered something almost unbearably disturbing. While she and Hector were travelling from Paris to the coast, she had given him for safety the miniature and the pearl bracelet, which were to establish her identity when she reached Skaig Castle.

Colonel Brett had also written out an account of the confession Father MacDonald had heard from Jeannie MacLeod, with the alterations and additions on which they had agreed. He had not, of course, been able to sign it with Father MacDonald’s name – instead he had added a fictitious one.

“They will make investigations, Iona,” the Colonel warned her, “but before anyone can have returned from France with the information, you will, pray God, have learned all we want to know and have made good your escape.”

The letter had been bulky and the miniature and bangle so precious that Iona had been afraid of losing them or having them stolen from her. She had given them to Hector for safekeeping, and now with a kind of sick horror she remembered that he had not returned them to her. They had both been so excited at seeing Scotland, and he had talked so much of the evening he was going to have with his friends that they had left their farewells until the last hurried moment.

“I shall drink whisky tonight, Iona,” Hector had said as the ship neared the quayside. “That’s real drink, and it will be a welcome change from the gallons of sickly wines I’ve quaffed these last five years. Doubtless I shall be gloriously drunk. If you hear me come singing to bed, remember you have no acquaintance with such a vulgar, roistering fellow.”

Iona had assured him laughingly she would have no desire to claim acquaintance with him under such circumstances, and then their smiles had faded and they had looked at each other, their faces suddenly serious.

“God keep you!” Hector MacGregor said quietly, his eyes on Iona’s shadowed face. “I shall be waiting to welcome you in France on your return.”

He raised her fingers to his lips. Iona felt an almost insane desire to cling to him, to ask him to come with her and to tell him that she was afraid to go on alone. As if he sensed what she was feeling, he suddenly put his arms round her and drew her close to him. For one moment she leant her head against his shoulder and shut her eyes. Here was security and protection. For a moment Iona told herself that everything else in the world was unimportant. Then Hector let her go and his face was turned towards the shore.

“I will go first,” he said in a low voice. “We must not be seen together.”

With an intolerable sense of loss Iona watched him leap from the deck on to the stone quay. Hector was her first playmate, her first friend of her own age and class. He had teased her and bullied her and looked after her during the journey as if she were the most precious person in the whole world. They had argued together, quarrelled a little and laughed for no better reason than that they were young and light-hearted. Iona knew now that the voyage from France had been for her a time of extraordinary happiness – but it was over.

If Scotland was full of unknown fears for her, it was home for Hector and he walked away from the ship with his head held high and whistling a gay tune which Iona heard long after he was out of sight.

It was only now that she remembered that he had stridden away from her with her most precious possessions still in his keeping. Agitatedly she looked round the room. Should she write a note and send it to his bedroom? That would be to invite comment amongst the servants, and besides, there was so little time.

It was nearly a quarter to seven and the coach would be waiting. Whatever happened she must get a seat. There was only one thing to do. Risky though it might be, she must go to Hector’s bedchamber.

The hotel was small and the guest rooms were all on one floor. Coming up to bed, Iona had seen a porter ahead of her with Hector’s trunk on his shoulder. He had entered a room at the far end of the passage.

Quietly she opened her door. There was no one in sight. Picking up the voluminous folds of her skirts so that she could move quickly, she ran across the landing and down the passage. She reached Hector’s room and knocked on the door. There was no, answer.

Apprehensively she wondered if, after all, he had not returned to the hotel the night before. Perhaps his friends had persuaded him to stay with them, although more than once he said it was unfair for any man with a price on his head to shelter under a friendly roof, for should the English start to hunt for him, the consequences for those with whom he stayed would be serious.

Iona knocked again, but there was still no answer. Desperate and almost faint with anxiety she lifted the latch of the door. It was not locked and peeping in she saw with a sense of utter relief that Hector was lying on the bed. He was snoring with his mouth open and Iona guessed that his friends had been as hospitable as he had anticipated. She only hoped the whisky had not been too potent.

Iona crossed the room and saw with amusement that he was still fully dressed save that he had pulled his nightshirt over his coat and breeches and his nightcap was perched precariously on the side of his wig. She touched his shoulder.

“Hector,” she whispered, not daring to raise her voice. “Hector!”

He grunted and tried to turn over on his side, but Iona shook him again, this time roughly so that he opened his eyes. He looked at her in a glazed way.

“Wake up, Hector! For Heaven’s sake wake up!”

The alertness, which comes instinctively to a man who has once been hunted cleared his brain and almost immediately he sat up.

“What is it?” he asked, and though his voice was thick the words were clear.

“The miniature! My letter!” Iona said urgently. “You forgot to give them to me and I have to go now.”

Hector pushed his wig and his nightcap a little further back on his head.

“Fool that I am!” he said.

He got to his feet a little unsteadily, walked across the room then stared around him.

“My coat,” he said at last. “Where is it?”

Despite the urgency of the situation Iona wanted to laugh. A little chuckle escaped her lips.

“You have got it on under your nightshirt.”

“I must have been more tipsy than I thought last night,” Hector said ruefully, and thrust his hand through the opening of his nightshirt and into the breast pocket of his coat.

“They’re here safely,” he said in a tone of relief, drawing out both the letter and the small sealed packet which contained the miniature and the bracelet.

Iona almost snatched them from him.

“Goodbye, Hector,” she said. “I must go – the coach leaves at seven.”

“I’m sorry I forgot them, Iona. I’m a dolt and you have every reason to be angry with me.”

He looked so contrite that once again Iona had to laugh.

“It’s all right,” she replied. “There’s no harm done if no one sees me leave this room.”

She went to the door and opened it cautiously. There was no one in the passage. She turned to smile at Hector who still stood in the centre of the room watching her go.

As she did so, the latch of the door caught in her cloak.

Iona had not been able to afford a new one and the material of the one she had worn for some years, which had never been expensive was wearing thin. She tried to free herself and the stuff tore. Ruefully she surveyed the triangular tear where it was most noticeable on her shoulder, and as she did so a door opened on the opposite side of the passage.

It was too late to do anything. A man came out of the room and stood within a few feet of Iona, having her in full view, her wide skirts filling the doorway while behind her was Hector in his nightshirt, his wig askew.

Without thinking Iona glanced up. She saw a young man with a – strange dark, secretive face. He wore a cloak trimmed with sable, his velvet coat was richly embroidered and ornamented with jewelled buttons.

She met his eyes, saw the faint smirk of amusement twisting his lips as he looked beyond her, and the blood flooded into her cheeks as she realised her position and his suspicion.

She turned her head aside and the fur edging her hood fell forward to shadow her face. But she knew that it was too late, too late to do anything but watch the man who had taken her at such a disadvantage walk slowly and with an innate dignity away down the passage.

It was only when he was out of sight that Iona collected herself. Without a backward glance at Hector she shut the door and ran to her own room.

She was alarmed and panic stricken at what had occurred, but there was no time for retrospection or trepidation. She gathered up her belongings and sped down the stairs. The clock in the hall told her it was five minutes to seven and she sent a servant hurrying for her trunk. She passed through the hotel and into the yard. The stagecoach was waiting and already a number of passengers had taken their places.

There were also two private coaches in the yard. One drove away just as Iona came out from the hotel. She noticed that four finely matched thoroughbreds drew it and that the servants’ livery was resplendent with gold braid. She had no time to notice more, for the stagecoach was filling up and she must be certain of a seat.