Page 73 of Highland Crown
“They gutted our cause. They broke our hearts and crushed our spirit,” he said softly. “Until now.”
She turned around to face Adams. She understood. She could almost forgive.
“What do you intend to do about the bounty on my head?” she asked.
“Word is being spread as widely and quickly as possible that it was a mistake. The offer has been rescinded, though I know the danger to you does not go away instantly.”
“It’s gone? It’s over?”
“I was already in Aberdeen en route to Inverness when I received word from this weavers’ committee,” he explained. “I’d suspected I would find you here.”
Isabella shook her head in confusion.
“Mr. Searc Mackintosh. In return for his efforts to protect those gathered today from any attack, he demanded the bounty be removed. He has vouched for your name and for your integrity.”
The thunderclouds parted. God was watching.
Standing at the edge of the crowd, Cinaed saw the golden glow of heaven break through and shine down onthese people. The summer sun was descending in the west, beyond the tall steeples of High Church and the Tolbooth. Here in the fields of Inverness, legions of angels had come to side with their cause. Despite the raised voices of the orators on the platform, despite the clamorous cheers that greeted each pause, despite the wail of the bagpipes, a sense of harmony infused this assembly.
Cinaed waded into the sea of Highlanders. Thousands had turned out. Tradesman and farmers, sailors and wharfies, ministers and magistrates. And families, everywhere. With each step he took, a path opened in front of him, like a parting of the sea. Folk on every side stood back, turning their faces toward him and making way. As he looked out over the heads of those around him, he felt a sense of belonging coursing through his veins. Here he was, amongst thousands, one with them.
He could feel nothing but the deepest love and respect for them. It was reflected in every face that looked upon him. They were fearless. With a gang of armed men, he had freed two so-called enemies of the Crown, but these people—born with the same Highland blood that flowed through his body—had come here with nothing but empty hands and raised voices. They’d come to this protest, crying out for reform, for freedom, for justice, armed only with a free, clear conscience… and their courage.
He once thought he’d lost them, but now he knew he’d never lost anything. They were always here.
He moved closer to the front of the crowd, to where two hay wagons had been maneuvered into place to create a hustings for the speakers and guests. The heads of the weavers’ organizing committee were on the platform,several local Whig politicians, the minister from the High Church, two ladies promoting suffrage for women, and some others.
Small groups of cavalrymen sat astride their horses on the outskirts of the gathering, and a few hundred yards off to the east, across the fields towards Longman, the British were making a stronger presence known. A temporary encampment was visible, and he could see red-coated dragoons along with the blue coats of Hudson’s Hussars. They’d even thought to bring a number of field guns. But Cinaed had no eyes for these things as he scanned the energized crowds for Isabella.
He saw her, standing far to the left, at the very front, and her shining eyes turned to him. Like two falcons sailing across the skies, they moved toward each other. When they met, he saw the question in her face.
“It’s done,” he murmured.
As their fingers entwined, they turned together toward the speaker who was exhorting the crowd.
“If a people cannot reform an unjust government, then that system has failed. And if that system has failed, a nation is destined for ruin and for change of the fiercest kind. So I say to you now, change is our destiny. The Highlands’ destiny. Scotland’s destiny!”
As he finished, the crowd picked up the cry, “Destiny! Destiny!”
And Cinaed and Isabella raised their voices with them.
CHAPTER21
The rose is fairest when ’t is budding new,
And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears;
The rose is sweetest washed with morning dew,
And love is loveliest when embalmed in tears.
—Sir Walter Scott, “Lady of the Lake,” Canto IV, stanza 1
As the candle beside the bed flickered, Isabella looked one last time at Cinaed’s powerful arms stretching over to her side of the bed, even in sleep trying to hold her. A dark tendril of his hair lay across his cheek, and she fought the urge to push it back and kiss his face before leaving the room. Dawn was upon them, and he’d just fallen sleep.
She slipped through the door and moved quietly down the steps, her mind continuing to dwell on the love they’d shared by the candle’s light. After what they each had gone through yesterday, there had been great hungering need in both of them. But their lovemaking had known no hurry, and their touches were tender and lingering, as if they had years lying ahead of them.
She had sighed out his name; he had made her tremble. He’d shuddered in ecstasy at the things she’d done to his body. They had not talked of the past. Theyboth pretended a million tomorrows would follow tonight’s rapture.
