Chapter 10
Holyrood House was built in a quadrangle around a courtyard, a bit like the house where Jeremy Drake lived, but on a much grander scale. Arched walkways surrounded the four sides, and windows marched along three floors, flanked by columns. Mal, who was interested in architecture, craned his head to take it in, consigning the columns, pediments, and symmetrical design to his compartmentlike memory.
Though those they passed were celebrating victory, Malcolm was not about to let down his guard. He knew how easily Highlanders could go from affable drinkers to killing machines in a few seconds flat. Hell, Alec could do it if you woke him too early in the morning.
For now there were called greetings, toasts to the prince, taunts to poor Johnny Cope, whose army had fled before them once, and was likely to again.
Duncan was on the far side of the courtyard, in a group of officers. Will and Alec headed to him, returning greetings to Highlanders who knew them.
Mal halted on his journey to Duncan to cut out a pair of men he knew. “Gair Murray,” he said. “What the bleeding hell are you doing here?”
The man with a kilt so weathered Mal couldn’t tell what had been its original color, sun-bleached hair, and a face as baked as his kilt gave Mal a nod.
“Looking to make coin, what else?” Gair smiled, his teeth crooked but whole. Gair was only about ten years older than Mal, but his dedication to life on the sea had aged his skin to tough leather.
The man with him, as stringy and tanned as Gair, was called Padruig, his first mate, who was never far from the man’s side. Padruig, as usual, wore more weapons than Gair—two long knives, a pistol, and a musket over his shoulder. He had a patch covering one eye, giving Mal a warning stare out of his good eye, which was sea gray.
Mal hid his pleasure at finding them. He’d been looking for Gair up and down all night, but he kept his question causal. It did not pay to sound too eager or desperate with Gair. “And what are you two selling the good prince?”
Gair answered readily. “Arms, rations, ammunition, ponies, blankets, knives, swords, names of men eager to join him, transportation, message service, and souvenirs.” He took from his pocket a carving of what looked to be a rose, along with a piece of tartan. “Trinkets to remind him of his glorious time leading the Scots to victory.”
“In other words, anything ye can convince him and his quartermaster t’ buy,” Mal said.
“Aye.” Gair held out the carving, which was nicely done, and the blue and green plaid. “Only two shillings, since ye’re a friend.”
Mal kept his hands at his sides. If you touched something Gair handed you, he considered that you’d bought it, and Padruig would finger the hilt of a knife until you paid. “Does Teàrlach know you’re a thief?”
“Aye,” Gair said. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“As it happens, I’m glad I chanced upon ye here. I might have a commission for ye.”
“What is it, lad?” The questionable souvenirs disappeared, and Gair gave Mal a solicitous smile. Like looking at a shark, it was. “What can I do for his lordship who has more money than any young lad has a right to?”
“Aye, and I bust my balls for it.” Gair had all sorts of arguments for why rich men should give him their money, of their own free will, of course. “I need safe passage to France. Can ye give me it?”
“To France? Are ye mad?” Gair tried to look astonished. “With every naval frigate watching the Scottish coast, every port on the lookout for French ships coming to the prince’s aid, ye want me to sail you off to France?”
“Not me,” Mal said, holding on to his patience. “A young lady and her husband. Once he becomes her husband, that is. I still have to sort that.”
“Ah, I see. I’m to be giving a young man and his wife a honeymoon, am I?” Gair let out his quick laughter. “What a lovely way for a couple to start out in life, running an English blockade.”
“Which you do all the time,” Mal said. He knew damn well Gair would do this—his arguments were to justify the exorbitant price he’d get around to demanding. “War or peace, you fly past English ships without them ever being the wiser. I’m only asking you to do what you do every day of your life.”
“Ye have much faith in me. I’m getting old, ain’t I, Padruig? Harder for me to man a sail, innit?”
Out of the corner of Mal’s eye, he saw Duncan striding out of the darkness for Will, and Alec looking around for Mal. Mal curbed his impatience. One of his brothers would come and drag him away very soon.
“I don’t have time to argue with ye,” Mal said. “How much to take them away tomorrow night?”
Gair stroked his bewhiskered chin. “Well, now, I—”
“Name it. Before Duncan comes over here and throws you out on your backside.”
“He can’t,” Gair said. “I’ve been recruited by the bonnie prince himself.”
“Never think me brothers can’t do anything they’ve put their mind to. Or me. How much, Gair?”
He named his price, which was three times as much as any safe passage should be, even in troubled waters. Mal rolled his eyes, said “Done,” and turned around to meet Alec.
“Godspeed,” Gair said, his grating chuckle trailing behind Mal.
“Duncan’s as foaming at the mouth as Da,” Alec said as Mal met him halfway across the courtyard. “What were you doing with Gair Murray? Ye still have everything in your pockets? The shirt on your back?”
“I stayed outside his arm’s reach and didn’t let him or Padruig touch me. Is Duncan coming home quietly? Or do we have to truss him up?”
“He wants us to stay. Join him. Better still, run up north and convince all the Mackenzies back with us.”
“Da would go apoplectic if he heard that,” Mal said, his irritation at Duncan rising. Mal’s father wasn’t clan chief, however, despite his lofty title, which had been bestowed on Old Dan, the first Duke of Kilmorgan for favors received by a grateful Scottish king. If the current Mackenzie chief wanted to spill all the Mackenzies out of their lands, the duke couldn’t stop them.
“Not our dilemma,” Alec said. “We’re being taken to meet the prince.”
“What for?” Mal asked, frowning. “So we can build our own gallows and be done?”
Alec shrugged, not liking it any better. They reached Duncan and followed him from the quadrangle through a column-flanked door into the bowels of the palace, a place Mal had never been.
Unlike the castle at the other end of town, Holyrood was a royal residence. Charles’s grandfather, James, had lived here when he’d been Prince of Wales, but he’d gone to London to be king. These days, aristocrats with connection to the English government lived in apartments upstairs, though Charles had now commandeered the rooms and ousted their inhabitants.
If Charles and his father, James, managed to take over, though, they wouldn’t stay here and rule a free and independent Scotland, Mal was certain. Charles would go to London, boot out the Hanoverian king, and bring his father in from Rome to live in St. James’s Palace. They’d strut around London, cultivating connections there, and the Scots would be left out in the cold again. The fact that the men in plaids, some barefoot, lounged in the courtyard, and men in well-tailored breeches and English coats wandered about inside, in the heart of the palace, only bolstered Mal’s cynicism.
Prince Teàrlach mhic Seamas received them in a large room full of people. Servants and retainers ran about attending all the different masters in the chamber. Duncan walked among the Highland leaders as though Camerons and Macdonalds were his oldest and dearest friends.
“Your Highness,” Duncan said, when Charles finally found the time to receive them. “My brothers, Will, Alec, and Malcolm Mackenzie.”
Charles was a disappointment for Mal. Gossip in taverns and coffeehouses had built him up to be a man of vast charm and energy, the great hope who would lead Scotland to greatness.
What Mal saw was a man his exact age, twenty-five, with a receding chin and a high, sloping forehead. He wore a fair-haired wig that had bunched curls over each ear and a tail in the back. His dress was standard for an English gentleman—frock coat and knee breeches, waistcoat, neckcloth, fine stockings and shoes.
The Mackenzie brothers were all taller than Charles, who’d rectified that fact as they approached by backing up onto a stone step that separated one part of the room from another.
The prince’s eyes sparkled with energy, that was true, and also with confidence that bordered on arrogance. But he had far less charm and the verve to lead than Will Mackenzie, who could make people do anything he wanted—much of the time without those in question even realizing it.
Charles’s gaze lit on Mal, as though sensing his assessment. The gaze was interested but haughty—Yes, we are of an age, but I was born a prince, chosen by God to rule.
Mal noticed how the other men in the room looked at Charles, and it was not entirely with respect and tenderness. Lord George Murray, who commanded the army, and his ilk were experienced at fighting and tactics—plenty of men here had fought in British regiments in the wars on the Continent.
The clan chiefs who’d thrown in their lot with Charles were wily. They knew that if they won through, their stars would rise—a grateful king would bestow on them more titles and power, and perhaps give them the coveted lands of their neighbors who’d chosen to side with the English.
And some, like Duncan, truly believed they had a duty to fight for their rightful prince, whoever he might be. That line of succession had been disrupted—little matter that it had been done more than fifty years ago—and should be restored.
These men were risking everything they had and everything they were, but the confidence in this room was palpable. Charles’s army had walked right into Edinburgh without opposition. Forced the gates open in the wee hours of the morning, bowled over the sentries, and declared the city theirs. The triumph of that sparked in the air.
The prince began speaking to Duncan and his brothers in French. Mal knew plenty of French, as did Alec, the pair of them having spent much time learning about life in the streets of Paris. Duncan, who never left the Highlands and spoke only English and the Scots language, looked annoyed.
“We need the Mackenzies,” Charles was saying. “Strong, brave men, like yourselves. They could turn the tide. If the Duke of Kilmorgan joins me, we cannot lose.”
Have ye met any Mackenzies? Mal wanted to say, but kept his mouth shut.
Charles went on in this way for a time, and Alec, feeling Duncan’s glare, finally translated for him.
Duncan bowed when Charles finished. “I have said so all along,” Duncan answered in English. “Malcolm will be returning to Kilmorgan to speak to our father. If anyone can persuade the duke to take up the cause, it’s the runt.”
Charles looked puzzled at the last word, until Alec explained the nickname in French. Charles flashed Mal an amused look. “You call him runt when he is extremely large.”
“Not when I was a wee lad,” Mal answered. “Now only Will can top me.”
Charles again pretended to smile as he turned to Will. “You will join us, tall William?”
“Leave it to Malcolm,” Duncan said. The look he bent on Malcolm told him Mal had better do as he said or have the thrashing of his life. While this had terrified Mal when he’d been a boy, these days he had more than an even chance at besting his brother in a straight fight.
“He won’t have to go all the way to Kilmorgan,” Alec said brightly. “Father has come to Edinburgh. With Angus.”
As Duncan’s face changed slowly from weathered red to angry purple, the prince’s eyes sparkled. “Ah, then you can go to him now. All of you, including you, Lord Duncan. Bring back all the Mackenzies to swell my ranks. Go. Now.”
Duncan scowled, but erased the glower to bow to Charles. “Of course, Your Highness. At once. I can’t promise to be successful. My father is devilish stubborn.”
“You will persuade him,” Charles said. He waved his fingers in a dismissive gesture, and turned back to the tables across the room where his generals were planning whatever they were planning.
Alec flashed a grin at his older brother. “That seems to be that. Come on, Duncan. Let’s not keep Da waiting.”
Malcolm did not return home with his brothers. He slipped away and spent the rest of the night making plans.
By the time he returned home, it was daylight, and he was ready for sleep. He’d hoped Duncan would have gone again, but he heard the shouting before he reached the house. His father must have woken from his laudanum-induced sleep and found Duncan there. The duke’s rage coupled with a hangover spilled out into the street.
Malcolm tried to continue walking past the house, but Will popped out the door and cut him off. “No you don’t,” Will said. “Get in here, runt. It’s going to take us all to keep them from killing each other.”
The duke and his firstborn son faced each other in the dining room, from which Naughton had cleared last night’s mess. The table had been set for breakfast, holding candelabras and a silver coffeepot, as well as porcelain cups. Too many weapons for Mal’s taste.
Alec and Angus stood on either side of the table, buffers between Duncan and their father. The twins didn’t always see eye to eye, but this morning they’d found common cause.
“. . . because you’re too bloody young!” The duke was shouting at Duncan as Will and Mal entered. “Ye don’t remember the last uprising, do ye? Well, I do. I was there.” He banged both fists on the table, rattling the porcelain. “I was there when it all went wrong. It broke my father, and he died of grief. That’s when I knew—if God wanted a Catholic on the throne, one would be there!”
“Ye believe in God only when it’s convenient to ye,” Duncan yelled back. Mal noticed he’d left his bonnet downstairs. Wise. If the duke had seen the white rose emblem on it, he’d have thrown it into the fire, and maybe tried to push Duncan there too. “And it’s nothing to do with Catholics. It’s to do with the right of the succession. That can’t be dismissed when it’s convenient.”
“Ye don’t give a donkey’s arsehole about the right of succession!” The duke waved his arms, his loose shirt fluttering. “Ye want to strut around and be right-hand man to a prince who will hang on your every word and tell ye how splendid ye are.”
“Maybe if you’d had any use for me, I wouldn’t have to pledge my loyalty to someone else!”
The duke went scarlet from forehead to throat. A vein pulsed at this temple, and Angus stepped forward in concern.
“Any use for ye? You’re my oldest son!” The duke held on to the lip of the table as his breath came fast. “You’re to be duke after me, take over me lands. Why wouldn’t I have use for ye?”
“Aye, and become a copy of you.” Duncan said, leaning his fists on the table. “A sanctimonious, hardened, dried-up pig of a man. Ye’ve let the rest of us know it’s Angus ye love, and none other. Surprised you remember ye have more sons.”
Will’s mouth compressed. “Mal.”
“Aye.” Malcolm signaled to Alec, and the two of them went to either side of Duncan.
Duncan didn’t notice. “Ye hated me before our mum died, because I took her attention away from you. Ye hated us all after for reminding ye of her. When are ye going to notice that your offspring hate ye back as much?”
The duke reached for the nearest candelabra, spraying wax across the table as he lifted it. The man was breathing rapidly, almost choking, spittle on his lips, but he had enough strength to throw the heavy silver piece across the table at Duncan.
Alec and Mal had already yanked Duncan out of the way. The candelabra sailed across the room and clattered into the mahogany paneling, the candles guttering and falling to the carpet in a smash of soft wax.
Mal took a firmer hold of Duncan’s arm, and Alec the other, as Duncan readied to launch himself at his father. Duncan fought his two youngest brothers as they dragged and shoved him out onto the landing and down the stairs.
Duncan broke away and was walking swiftly toward the front door on his own by the time they reached the ground floor. “To hell with him,” he snapped. “I’ll get the Mackenzies behind us another way.” He snatched up his green bonnet with its white badge and turned to Mal and Alec, who stood shoulder to shoulder, blocking the way back up the stairs. “Join me, Mal. Alec,” Duncan said, his voice hard. “You saw him. Why should you want to stay loyal to him?”
“Because he’s our da,” Malcolm said as the frightened footman opened the door wide for Duncan. “And you’re a wee bit too full of yourself.”
Duncan went red again, but he only snarled, swirled his coat and plaids around him, and was gone.
“Alec Mackenzie?” A man had come up while Duncan made his dramatic exit, waiting until Duncan had gone a little way up the street. Now said gentleman stood respectfully on the doorstep.
Alec went out to the newcomer. “Aye, I’m he. Wait, are ye going to shoot me or skewer me? In that case—never heard of the man.”
“I have a letter for you.”
The accent was English, but a quick look told Mal that the messenger was not a soldier. He didn’t have the stance or countenance of a man who made a living marching, shooting, and fighting for his life. He was soft-faced, like Jeremy Drake, but older.
“You couldn’t have sent it by post?” Alec asked with little patience. He usually wasn’t this impolite to a stranger, but a row between their father and Duncan put everyone in the family out of joint.
“This was too important to trust to the post,” the gentleman said. “This letter came from my sister in France, who is dear friends to Genevieve . . . to your wife.”
Alec’s face changed in an instant from irritation to abject fear. He snatched the letter the man removed from his coat pocket, ripped open the seal, and scanned the first lines.
A strangled cry came from Alec’s throat. He quietly fell back against the stones of the house behind him, the paper dropping from his nerveless fingers.
Mal caught the letter before it reached the ground, turned it around, and read:
Genevieve went quietly to God after a day of terrible illness, but now she is out of pain. Your daughter, whom she brought to bed the night before her death, thrives. One life is gone, but another has come . . .