Page 67 of Keeping Kate
Chapter 18
Kate walked steadily through the rain, stubbornly refusing to question her impulsive decision. Now and then, she wiped away the tears that kept coming. Slipping on a muddy hill, gasping, she lifted the hem of the red dress, the fabric already sopping and muddy in the short time since she had left the inn. Jean’s lovely gift, ruined. That was all that made her cry, she told herself.
Surely, she need not cry about leaving Alec Fraser asleep on the bed, or feel the dread sense that she had betrayed him, or that she would never see him again. None of that, she tried to tell herself, should matter a whit. She was free. That was most important. It had to be, she thought.
With the door unlocked and Alec snoring softly, she had slipped out of the room. Her brother and kinsmen would be worried about her, and she had to give them Ian Cameron’s message about the missing weapons. She wished she could have explained that to Alec. Perhaps he would have understood—but perhaps not.
This time, she had crossed the long moor to the foothills quickly without pursuit. Sniffling, she turned to glance back, feeling a flicker of disappointment that he was not there, just about to catch up to her. But he could find her, for now he knew her name and might go to Duncrieff—but first, she could get the message to her kinsmen and urge them to hide just in case the government sent officers for them.
She hurried on through drizzling rain and pockets of fog, such a beastly morning that she snugged her plaid about her head and shoulders as she went doggedly onward. Far ahead, she could see the mist-covered hills that surrounded the bowl-shaped valley of Glen Carran. A long way off as yet, but every step took her closer. And she must not think about the man she had left behind at the inn.
She plodded on through the rain. Jack had encouraged her to trust Fraser, and her heart told her the same, but she could not bear to remain in military custody with him or any other. He might be more trustworthy than most, but he could not protect her from what might come once she stood before the Court of Session.
Then she realized that staying with Fraser might bring more danger to him than if she escaped. She had made enemies in her guise as Katie Hell, and her Jacobite kinsmen had enemies as well. If Alec did mean to help her, they were both better off if she left. Perhaps she was running to protect Alec as much as herself and her kin.
She reminded herself to be glad she had walked away. She had memories and secrets that would warm her always. That would have to be enough.
She paused to catch her breath, taking a moment to work her fingers under the waist of her bodice to loosen her stays a little for comfort. Looking back again, she saw only empty moorland stretching toward the military road through the fog.
Topping the next hill, she saw a drover’s track, a wide, worn earthen path that dipped and wound between slopes and peaks. It would lead her westward to Duncrieff through the hills. Mist shrouded the hills as she headed northwest.
Duncrieff Castle at the head of Glen Carran was a few hours’ walk, and she had only a little bread in her pocket, taken from the table in the room. Realizing she was thirsty, she saw a fast-flowing narrow burn and stopped to dip her hands into the cold, clear water to sip her fill before moving on. The overgrown drover’s track was marked well enough, and she easily found her way.
Miles on, her legs trembling a bit on the slopes, she stopped again for a drink, to catch her breath, to look around. A sound came clearly through the fog—a crackling and rustling behind her, echoing on the hillside, difficult to locate. She whirled. Surely those were rapid, sure footsteps—not hoofbeats—scraping on rock, crushing over wet turf.
Alarmed, she knew that others roamed these hills. Cattle thieves, brigands, red soldiers, farmers, her own kinsmen as well. Knowing she could not chance who it might be, she gathered her skirts to hurry.
Higher up on the hillcrests, the fog sat thick as clouds, giving her no good view, but hiding her as well. Steadily, cautiously, she walked on, making her way over the wing of this hill, the shoulder of that one, keeping within foggy patches as much as she could. Her red gown was damp and muddy, her plaid sparkling with rain, but the good, thick wool was dry inside. Though she ached with weariness, she would not stop. Not yet.
She heard the sounds again, rhythmic footsteps across rocky ground. Looking around, she could see little, standing in a trough between two slopes that caught the fog as if in a deep bowl.
“Kate!”
She gasped, turned. Alec. She knew the tone and timbre. His voice was faint yet, not very close. Suddenly, wildly, she wanted to answer.
She whirled, hurried ahead, stopped short again. What if he was lost or was worried about her safety? But she would be foolish to run back to her captor. She was nearly clear away.
At the height of the next slope, the swirling mist thinned enough to reveal the drover’s track ahead and the raw shapes of gray rock and mossy turf. Now she heard another sound—the echoing murmur of male voices. And they were much closer than Alec Fraser was at this moment.
Whether brigands, farmers, tinkers, soldiers—she had to find a place to hide.
Bunching up her gown, she hurried toward a narrow cleft in a rise of gray rock.
“Where in blazes is she,”Alec muttered as he walked up yet another steep incline. “Damn it, Kate, where the devil have you gone this time?”
He had spread a more colorful string of curses all the way over the moors and up slopes and now, following the drover’s track. His doggedness brought reward at last, even through the fog, when he glimpsed that red gown ahead through the mist.
He called out again, his voice echoing in the misty hills.
His red woolen coat was damp and heavy with it, a snug hindrance, but he was at least glad of the Highland kilt in the dark regimental plaid that allowed him the freedom to make rapid progress, striding, leaping. He had gone goat-like over some rocky places to cut time and distance, determined to pursue her.
He hoped the fog, this indecent soup, would clear, but so far it showed no sign. If he could not find Kate, he at least knew where she was heading, and he would find Duncrieff Castle, and the girl, one way or another.
He stopped, peering around, seeing only bleak rock and muddy turf cloaked in fog. No flash of red wool, no bright rosy-gold curls visible anywhere. Muttering, he followed the old track.
Earlier, waking to an empty bed, he had rushed furiously through the tavern room, snatching a biscuit out of Jack’s hand as he went past—the lad had been holding his swaddled babe, nor did Alec want his company. He would do this on his own, find the girl, and get her to Edinburgh as fast as he could this time. He made good time on horseback, once or twice glimpsing Kate’s red gown in the distance. He had thanked Jeanie more than once for that flag of color. But the lass had put a good lag of time between them.
Reaching the foothills of the higher slopes, he had left the horse at a crofter’s cottage, finding an old shepherd there, home out of the rain. The old man was glad to show the horse hospitality in exchange for coin. Alec had continued on foot, asking directions to the Duncrieff. Through those hills and on the other side, a long glen. A few hours, the old man said, as the man’s wife gave Alec bread, cheese, and a leather flagon of whisky.
