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THE DESTINY
Book 2 of the MacCurrie
Twins
November, 1691. Warwickshire,
England
“Is he dead?”
Neil MacCurrie wasn’t
sure himself. He should open his eyes, should
say something to the wee lads who spoke over him,
their voices hushed lads, get them to tell him
who owned this small stone cottage in which he’d
slept was. And in a moment, when he was sure
his body still worked, he would.
It was supposed to have
been a simple – and short – trip to France. He’d
visit James Stuart, find out what, if anything,
the deposed king planned, and head home. But
nothing had gone as he’d hoped. Instead of staying
for days, he’d been there for weeks, waiting with
myriad others for a conversation with the king.
When it at last came, the conversation had been
as illuminating as it had been cheerless, but
it had helped him decide what he would do next.
The first thing was to
get home, a task that had proved as elusive as
securing the royal interview. The delays at court
meant he’d missed the ship that he’d planned to
take on his return, and had instead had to take
one heading for London, which meant he had to
make his way overland, through an England that
would not welcome him.
And now this, getting
lost in a snowstorm.
“I think he’s dead,” one
of the boys whispered. “Touch him.”
Neil opened his eyes.
Speak French, he reminded himself. The disguise
was tedious, but necessary. “Bonjour,” he said.
The boys exchanged a look.
“Hello,” he tried, careful
of his accent. He was rewarded with a tempering
of their fear. Neil waved his hand to indicate
the cottage. “Where . . . ?”
“Ronley Hall, sir,” the
boy said.
Neil smiled. He’d found
it, despite the deep snows and the wild winds
that had driven him to find shelter where he could.
In good weather he would have reached Ronley Hall
in a few hours, but the blizzard had almost stopped
his progress, leaving him facing a night outside.
“Sir Adam?”
The boys shared another
look, then led him into the hall, where he was
shown a seat by the fire. Milford would be here
soon, said the girl who brought him a plate of
steaming food. When he’d smiled at her, she’d
darted away like a mouse. The man who joined him
after more than an hour’s wait was tall and fleshy,
but fit, several years older than Neil, with dark
hair still wet with snow. And a guarded expression.
He stood in the doorway for a moment, then stopped
before Neil, looking into his eyes.
Neil nodded. “Monsieur.”
#
Eileen Ronley looked
up from her embroidery as Sim burst into the room,
skidding to a stop in front of her. She gave
him all her attention.
"Milford said to
tell you to come to the hall at once, miss,"
Sim gasped.
Eileen sighed. She knew
what would happen; she’d hurry to the hall, smile
and sit while the latest of Milford’s marriage
prospects assessed her. What would he see? A
woman with thick blonde hair that defied the pins
she kept in it, whose freckles showed no matter
how much she stayed out of the sun. This one
wouldn't want her either, but at least she had
the comfort of knowing it was not just her person
that he would reject. A woman without connections
or dowry was not welcome in the marriage market,
especially one whose family had chosen the wrong
side to back in the war between King James and
King William.
“Hurry, miss, please."
Sim shifted his weight, his brows furrowed.
She smiled to calm him.
"Don’t worry, Sim. Tell Milford I'll be
there shortly."
The boy started away,
but she called him back.
"What does this one
look like?" she asked.
Sim’s expression shifted
from worry to confusion.
"Is there a man Milford
wants me to meet?"
The boy nodded.
“What does he look like?"
Sim shrugged. "Big.
Fearsome, miss. Looks through you. Milford brought
his guards with him."
"Splendid,"
she murmured. This, then, would be the one man
with standards so low that he would agree to marry
her.
When she entered the hall,
Milford was sitting at the end of the long table,
the stranger facing him with his back to her.
Sim was right; the visitor was big. And heavily
armed. A sword hung from his hip, a long dagger
from his waist, two pistols were tucked into the
sides of his belt.
Milford gave her only
the briefest of glances and grunted for her to
join them. Eileen stood next to the stranger,
but did not look at his face. What little she'd
seen on her approach had been daunting. He wore
no wig, his dark hair instead drawn back neatly
and tied behind his neck. His clothes were fashionably
cut. He wore a black fitted brocade coat that
stretched across his wide shoulders and hugged
a lean torso; a topcoat of fine black wool trimmed
with braid lay on the bench next to him. His
linen shirt was white, his gathered breeches buff,
his neck cloth silk. Simple black leather gloves
rested in his long fingers. A man of obvious
means. She looked down at her clothes, seeing
the many places she’d mended the muslin, the tear
in her hem. He would think her a pauper.
"He's French,"
Milford said. "Or at least that's what he
speaks.”
The stranger rose to his
feet and faced her. He was very tall; she stepped
back as he bowed to her, then straightened to
meet her gaze. He was extraordinarily handsome
and somehow she knew he knew that. His eyes were
deep blue, framed by dark lashes and straight
brows, his cheeks dark with several days’ growth
of beard, his nose straight, his mouth wide.
It was difficult to judge his age with that beard;
he was perhaps in his thirties, but he might have
been younger. He watched her study him, his eyes
amused now.
“Mademoiselle,” he said
in French. “I hope I meet with your approval.”
She felt her cheeks go
scarlet.
"Talk to him,” Milford
said. “Find out his name, where he’s from.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“You don’t know who he is?”
“Two boys found him asleep
in the old cottage. How would I know who he is?”
Milford frowned at her, then gave a low grunt.
“I didn’t bring him here to see if he’d marry
you, Eileen, if that’s what you thought.”
Eileen sat on the bench
next to the stranger, smoothing her skirts, trying
to think of French verbs. "Welcome to Ronley
Hall, sir. You speak French?”
“Oui, mademoiselle.”
“And some English?”
“Un petit peu.”
“Your name, sir?"
she asked the stranger in French.
"Jean-Paul Belmond,
miss."
"You are French,
sir?"
"Oui."
“From?”
Belmond smiled slowly,
showing a dimple in his left cheek.
“London, mademoiselle.”
Milford moved impatiently.
"London! He’s from London? What is he,
one of those Huguenots?”
“Oui, monsieur,” Belmond
said to Milford. “Huguenot. I am a soldier.
I am going to Scotland. To offer my services
to King William’s army.”
Milford nodded. “Tell
him I fought with William at Maastricht, that
I stayed with him all the way through the Battle
of the Boyne.”
Eileen didn’t need to
tell him. Something, quickly suppressed, flashed
in Belmond’s eyes before she had said the words
in French. Anger?
“A fellow soldier,” Belmond
said to Milford in heavily-accented English.
Eileen watched the two
men look at each other with approval. “Two mercenaries,”
she said with distaste. “You sell your ability
to kill.”
Belmond shrugged. “A
man must eat.”
“You do not look like
a man without resources.”
“I am a younger son, mademoiselle,
so I became a soldier.”
"Ask him questions,”
Milford said. “If you want him when we're finished
with him, you can have him. Or he you, I should
say. Maybe he’ll even marry you."
Eileen took a deep breath,
reminding herself that it would do her no good
to speak sharply to the man who let her keep a
roof over her head. “You will keep a civil tongue,
Milford, or I will not do this for you,” she said
as mildly as she could.
She looked into Belmond’s
eyes again. And realized, with a shock, that
he had understood everything they’d said.
"He treats you with
little courtesy," Belmond said in French.
“One should not talk to a serving girl like that,
miss, and I suspect you are not a serving girl.
None of them speak French. How is it you do?”
“I was well educated.
You understand quite a lot of English, sir.”
“One cannot help but
pick up some of the language when one lives here.”
“Then why do you not
speak to them?”
“I tried. They did not
understand me. I do not have all the words I
need.”
“How long have you been
in England?”
“Almost a year.”
“Where is home, sir?”
His expression was guarded
again. “London now. Originally Brittany.”
She shook her head.
“You are not from Brittany, Monsieur Belmond.
You might not even be French, although your French
is excellent."
“You doubt me, mademoiselle?”
“Yes.”
“I have told you the truth.”
“I would wager that you
have not.”
“Would you?” He watched
her for a moment. “Is Milford Sir Adam’s son?”
“No. Milford bought the
property after Sir Adam’s death.”
Milford sat up straight.
"Did he ask about Sir Adam?”
Eileen nodded.
“Ask him why.”
Belmond answered her translation
in French. “I was told that Sir Adam owned Ronley
Hall.”
“Ask him who told him
that, to ask for Sir Adam?”
“Why is it wrong to ask
about Sir Adam?” Belmond asked her.
"The last man to
ask for him by name was a follower of William’s
enemy.”
“You cannot even say his
name?”
“The deposed king? It’s
not wise.”
“I don’t understand.
It was a simple question, with no special significance.”
"The former owner
of this property drowned in the Thames the day
after he denounced King William. That was two
years ago. Since his death the only travelers
who have asked for him have been sympathizers
of the deposed king.”
“What are you saying?”
Milford asked.
Belmond put both hands
on the table and leaned forward to Milford. “I
go to King William’s army,” he said in English.
Milford nodded, but his
expression was skeptical.
“Who are you, miss?”
Belmond asked her. “Are you his . . . ? "
He let his words fade, but she understood his
meaning.
"I am nothing to
him. He was generous enough not to turn me out
when he easily could have. I do small things,
nothing of any worth. I am simply one more burden.
He is trying to find someone to marry me, but
it is unlikely; I have no dowry and no one wants
a penniless wife."
He smiled again. "I
should think many men would want to marry you,
mademoiselle. Your lack of dowry is not the impediment
you think it.”
“It is when your father
denounced the king and then was murdered for his
rashness.”
“Sir Adam was your father?”
“Yes.”
“And your mother? Is
she here with you?”
“She died with him. She
was from the country to the north, sir, not a
healthy thing to be in England in these times.”
“Your mother was from
Scotland?”
“Yes. From the Highlands.
A MacKenzie.”
“MacKenzie. Your mother
was a MacKenzie. What was her name?”
“Catriona MacKenzie.”
Belmond stared at her.
And she knew.
Milford rose to his feet.
“I don’t like this. What are you talking about?”
“I told him my mother
was Scottish.”
“At least your mother
was wise enough to leave Scotland and spend her
life here,” Milford said.
Eileen closed her eyes
for a moment, fighting her anger.
Belmond looked down at
his gloves and then back at her as he stood.
“Please tell Milford that I am grateful for the
meal, and for the few hours of sleep I had in
the cottage, but that I will now be going while
it’s daylight. Please tell him, mademoiselle.
And thank you for your assistance.”
When she’d translated,
Milford shook his head. “No, he won’t be leaving.
I know you think I’m stupid, Eileen, but I’m not.”
He turned to his men. “Take him to the cellars.
Search him.”
Belmond took a step away
from the table, drawing his sword. “Monsieur,”
he said to Milford in English. “I go to King
William’s army.”
“Not yet you don’t.”
Milford gestured to his men.
Belmond took a step backward.
Eileen moved to her right, thinking to get out
of his way. He moved in the same direction and
smashed into her, catching her before she could
fall. That simple gesture, of his hand on her
arm, gave Milford’s men the opening they needed.
Eileen watched in horror as they fell upon him.
It was over very quickly.
He fought well, defending himself rather than
assaulting, backing several of them against wall.
But there were ten of them and they attacked him
from all sides. When one knocked him to the floor,
the rest swarmed over him, beating him until he
no longer moved. And then they dragged him across
the floor to the cellar stairs.
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