be taken by Indians! Such a thing only happened to other people—to the wives and families of small settlers—not to her, not to the Lady Margaret Sinclair, chatelaine of one of the largest plantations in the Carolinas.
“Leo will tell me it was all my own fault,” she caught herself thinking stupidly once during the long, forced march that led her and the other captives deeper and deeper into impenetrable forest and swamps. “If I had not felt it my duty to visit that poor little Mrs. Rutherford because she was having her first child and I thought there was no other woman for miles around. And then, after all, there were, and I need not have—”
But what was the point of thinking? After a while she concentrated only upon keeping on her feet, for if she fell she would be killed, and she had found, already, that she did not want to die.
Thankfully, her memory blurred—a series of pictures moving faster and faster in her tired mind until abruptly they stopped, focusing on one particular scene, growing brighter and larger, until all she could see was Jean’s face, as she had seen it first.
Dark-haired like herself, his eyes were a strange green-grey, like the surface of a lake on a cloudy day. Surprisingly, he had spoken to her first in French.
“Sacre—” And then, biting the next word off with an effort, “What were you doing among those unfortunate wretches? Had no one warned you of the dangers you might encounter?”
She was too tired, too numb to respond to his anger, except to wonder dully why he seemed so angry. She said the very first thing that came into her mind.
“You—you are not one of them! But who are you?”
“Nom de Dieu! Questions! And it is I who should be asking them. Do you realize in what kind of position you are, madame?”
“I am safe now, though, am I not?” Again she spoke without conscious thought, mesmerized by the angry, intent look in those ice-bright eyes.
Even as she spoke his eyes seemed to change, and something made her start to blush, even though she still could not tear her gaze from his sun-dark face.
“I am blood brother to the Iroquois,” he said. And then, more softly, almost to himself, he added, “Safe? My soul is as wild as theirs. I would not be too sure of it, madame.”
She found out later that she had been a gift from the Shoshone to their Iroquois brother. But by then it did not matter, for he had made her his, in more ways than one.
The women whispered by the fire, never noticing when the shallow breathing came faster, and more convulsively and finally stopped. Their conversation had followed the same pattern as Lady Margaret’s thoughts.
“But what happened then? I mean, it wasn’t hardly the poor creature’s fault, was it? Being carried off by savages and all—”
“It wasn’t that! And mind you, you promised not to tell another living soul! No, he took her back, all right, my lord did—paid a princely sum of money for her return, too. And then, just nine months later, the boy was born. You mind how my lord must have felt? Never being quite certain….” But the boy had his name, and she had the bringing up of him. Let him run wild, too, going off to hunt with the Indians and even live with them for weeks on end.”
“But Lord Leo? His Grace, I mean. Surely he—”
“Ah, but he had his duties with the army, you see. And surely you can understand his feelings about the lad? Those were trying times there with riots, and hotheads preaching all kinds of crazy ideas about self-government and all. And you know what it all came to in the end! Revolution. And Lady Margaret, a British Tory’s wife, entertaining the army officers and their Tory friends in their home—when all the time, she was a spy for them, for those rebels! Yes, and her son, too—for all that he was a mere lad at the time. Only ten or eleven he was, but he would carry them messages. It all came out in the end, of course.”
“I never!” Nurse Sitwell breathed the words, licking her lips almost hungrily.
“Oh, it would have been a rare scandal, I assure you, if Lord Leo’s father—my lord was the Viscount Stanbury by then for his older brother died in Italy of some fever—well, the duke hushed it all up, and only the family knew the whole story.”
“The Frenchman. He—?”
“Ah, that one! It’s my guess she’d have stayed with him or run off with him after he’d got the ransom money if he hadn’t had a wife and family of his own somewhere. But he came back when they had the revolution. I heard them say she hid him when he was wounded and the soldiers were looking for him everywhere. And that was how it started up again. Him and her and the spying. But Lord Leo caught on when the boy was captured along with some other rebels. And then, of course, to save him, she came back to England, meek as you please; and the family put it about she was suffering from some nervous disorder.”
“But you mean she wasn’t really touched in the head then? She—”
As if suddenly aware that she had said too much, Mrs. Parsons pursed her thin lips.
“Don’t you be saying anything like that. She couldn’t have been right in the head at the beginning to do what she done, and well you know it! Those Irish. They say she was a papist, too, and never really changed, although she pretended to, just to get herself married to a catch like Lord Leo.” She added darkly, “And I’ve no doubt that son of hers is going the same way, living up in Ireland all these years! He was incorrigible like one of them savages, and well I remember! They wouldn’t keep him in Eton, and when my lord found him a tutor here for him and Mr. Philip, his nephew, why—one day he almost killed Mr. Philip with his bare hands! And only because Mr. Philip teased him about being a colonial. It took Mr. Grimes and two of the footmen to drag him off. And after that my lord sent him off to live with his uncle in Ireland. Said he didn’t want to set eyes on Master Dominic again, and I can’t blame him! It’s been years now, and no one’s seen or heard of him—and a good thing, too, if you want my opinion. I doubt that he’s changed and I used to be frightened to be around him even when he wasn’t no more than a boy. Those eyes of his, like grey ice, fair startling they were, taken with his black hair—”
Mrs. Sitwell said suddenly and surprisingly, “Well, but all the same I cannot help feeling sorry for the poor lady. Fancy not setting eyes on your own flesh and blood for years and years, and not knowing what kind of a man he’s grown into! He’d be the Viscount Stanbury now, I take it?”
Mrs. Parsons frowned.
“That’s right. And the more’s the pity, for the title ought to be Mr. Philip’s by rights. And I’ve heard even His Grace say so! Ah, now there’s a handsome, charming young gentleman if there ever was one. You’ll see for yourself, I’m sure. But mind you—not a word of what I’ve been telling you. Family secrets—”
“Ah, well, I’ve heard a great deal of those in all the years I’ve been a nurse,” Mrs. Sitwell said comfortably. “And the reason Dr. Elphinstone recommends me to all the lords and ladies that are his patients is that he knows I can hold my tongue.”
Settling deeper into her chair, she encouraged Mrs. Parsons to go on with her reminiscing.
The duke of Royse was also remembering, the old, implacable rage hardening his still handsome features.
Damn it, why did the bitch take so long to die? Why had he let his passing lust for Conal make him choose
