Page 9 of Some Like It Wild
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Pamela replied. “Scotland hasn’t had its own king for two centuries. King George is his liege, just as he is ours.”
“Then perhaps he’s a prince. A robber prince,” Sophie suggested, the note of awe in her voice undiminished.
Pamela shifted her troubled gaze from the castle to their host, wishing she hadn’t been the one to point out that therewasa regal quality to his bearing.
As he tugged on the reins to urge the horse forward, she saw the narrow, meandering bridge of land that connected the meadow to the castle for the first time. Far below, the wind whipped the sea into a swirling mass of whitecaps pierced by jutting rocks.
Letting out a moan, Sophie clutched at Pamela’s waist and buried her face against her back. “Tell me when we arrive. If we do.”
Given the battering force of the wind and the dizzying height of their perch, Pamela should have been equally fearful they were about to plunge to their deaths. But their mount started forward with brisk confidence, no less sure-footed than his master.
They were halfway to the castle when icy needles of rain began to spill from the sky. Before Pamela could tug up her bonnet to cover her hair, both the rain and the cloud that had spawned it were gone, blown on their way by a chill gust of wind. Instead of cursing the mercurial weather as she might have done earlier, Pamela threw back her head and laughed aloud, feeling a strange exhilaration at the beauty and wildness of it all. It was as if they were riding straight into a fairy tale on the wings of a dragon.
As a second cloud passed over the moon, bathing the highwayman in shadow, her smile slowly faded. It still remained to be seen if their guide was prince or ogre.
The great chasm between castle and land should have formed a natural moat impenetrable to men and the brutality of their cannons. But as they passed beneath what must have once been the castle gatehouse, Pamela saw that it had failed miserably in its duty.
The highwayman drew their mount to a halt in the courtyard of the mighty fortress. The once gentle moonlight now seemed harsh and unforgiving, spilling without mercy over the shattered walls and heaps of crumbled stone. It seemed the fairy tale castle was only an illusion after all, no more real than a painted backdrop in a production ofKing Lear. As she surveyed the ruins of what must have once been one of the crown jewels of the eastern coast, the pang beneath Pamela’s breastbone felt oddly like grief.
Even in its advanced state of decay, there was no denying the melancholy beauty of the place. Although some chambers and towers appeared to be intact, all that remained of the castle’s chapel was a lone wall overlooking the sea, its stark silhouette standing guard over a crumbling white cross hewn from limestone. Moss had crept over every inch of exposed stone, softening the jagged edges with a thick veil of green.
A gaping window that must have once housed a bell was set high in the wall. Pamela could almost hear the ghostly echo of its pealing, calling those who were long dead to worship or battle.
With nothing but the endless indigo sweep of sky and sea beyond the wall, it was as if they’d reached the edge of the world itself.
“What is this place?” she asked, lowering her voice to a reverent whisper without realizing it.
The rich timbre of the highwayman’s voice paid its own respects to any lingering ghosts. “This is where Clan MacFarlane made their last stand against the forces of Cromwell’s army over a hundred and fifty years ago. Rather than let the castle fall into the hands of their enemies, they blew it up themselves—set the charges and went marchin’ off into the night, their bagpipes wailin’ a final farewell.”
As she gazed around them at the heaps of rubble and the shattered dreams they represented, Pamela wanted to weep at the tragic waste of it all. “Are you one of these MacFarlanes? Were they your clan?”
A cloud skittered across the moon, casting a fresh shadow over his face. “I’m afraid my grandfather lacked both the courage and the scruples of old Angus MacFarlane. He sold out our clan at Culloden for thirty pieces of English silver.”
An involuntary shiver danced down Pamela’s spine. She’d never heard the wordEnglishuttered with such icy contempt. Before she could consider digging her heels into the horse’s sides and making a mad dash for freedom, the clouds parted to reveal the highwayman gazing up at her, his expression guarded.
“So here we are,” he said. “All the comforts of home. I’d help you down but…” He shrugged his broad shoulders to remind her of his bound hands.
“That’s all right. We can manage,” Pamela assured him, throwing one leg over the horse’s neck and sliding to the ground.
She would have kept right on sliding until she landed on her bottom if the highwayman hadn’t stepped forward to brace her with his weight. She hadn’t taken into account how long they’d been riding or how unaccustomed she was to such exercise. She clutched at his shirt, her thigh muscles quivering like a pot of jam. His chest felt as sturdy as a rock beneath her trembling hands, reminding her of those dizzying moments back at the coach when she had clung to him while he sipped tenderly from her lips.
“Thank you,” she murmured, keeping her eyes lowered. She quickly untangled her fingers from his shirt, telling herself it must be the near tumble that had left her so breathless. As she stepped away from him, the bitter wind whipped stinging strands of hair across her eyes. “It’s no wonder you Scots are such a hale and hearty lot. If you weren’t, you’d never survive this climate.”
“Once you get a wee dram of Scot’s whisky in your belly, you’ll discover the wind is nothin’ more than God’s breath whisperin’ against your cheek.”
He watched through heavy-lidded eyes as she lifted her arms to Sophie, hoping to spare her sister a similar embarrassment.
As soon as Sophie was settled safely on her feet, she drew the little pistol out of her sash and leveled it at him, hoping to regain their only advantage. His pistol was safely secured in the horse’s saddlebag. “If you would be so kind as to lead the way, sir.”
“’Twould be my pleasure, lass,” he drawled, offering her a mocking bow before turning away and striding into the shadows.
As they fell into step behind him, Sophie slipped a hand into hers and whispered, “Are you certain we’re not making a terrible mistake?”
“No,” Pamela whispered back, her own courage faltering as they followed him down a grassy path that brought them closer to the churning sea with each step.
At first she thought he was going to lead them right over the edge of those towering cliffs. But he shifted direction at the last minute, guiding them beneath a stone arch to a set of flat, narrow stairs that seemed to disappear into the earth itself.
“Watch your step,” he warned them. “I can’t catch you if you fall.”
