He made a quick, nervous gesture toward one of the gold damask chairs, urging me to be seated. A second chair was pulled up, facing it, but he walked up and down in front of me, too restless to sit.
“I need your help,” he said abruptly.
“Um?” I made a politely inquiring noise. Gonorrhea? I wondered, scanning him covertly. I hadn’t heard of any women since Louise de La Tour, but then, it only took once. He worked his lips in and out, as though searching for some alternative to telling me, but finally gave it up.
“I have a capo – a chief, you understand? – here. He thinks of joining my Father’s cause, but has still some doubt.”
“A clan chieftain, you mean?” He nodded, brow furrowed beneath the careful curls of his wig.
“Oui, Madame. He is of course in support of my Father’s claims…”
“Oh, of course,” I murmured.
“…but he is wishing to speak to you, Madame, before he will commit his men to follow me.”
He sounded incredulous, hearing his own words, and I realized that the flush on his cheeks came from a combination of bafflement and suppressed fury.
I was more than a little baffled myself. My imagination promptly visualized a clan chieftain with some dread disease, whose adherence to the cause depended on my performing a miraculous cure.
“You’re sure he wants to speak to me?” I said. Surely my reputation hadn’t gone that far.
Charles inclined his head coldly in my direction. “So he says, Madame.”
“But I don’t know any clan chieftains,” I said. “Bar Glengarry and Lochiel, of course. Oh, and Clanranald and Keppoch, of course. But they’ve all committed themselves to you already. And why on earth…”
“Well, he is of the opinion you are knowing him,” the Prince interrupted, syntax becoming more mangled with his rising temper. He clenched his hands, obviously forcing himself to speak courteously. “It is of importance – most importance, Madame, that he should become convinced to join me. I require… I request… you therefore, that you… convince him.”
I rubbed my nose thoughtfully, looking at him. One more point of decision. One more opportunity to make events move in the path I chose. And once more, the inability to know what best to do.
He was right; it was important to convince this chieftain to commit his resources to the Jacobite cause. With the Camerons, the various MacDonalds, and the others so far committed, the Jacobite army numbered barely two thousand men, and those the most ill-assorted lot of ragtag and draggletail that any general had ever been lumbered with. And yet, that ragged-arsed lot had taken the city of Edinburgh, routed a greatly superior English force at Preston, and showed every disposition to continue going through the countryside like a dose of salts.
We had been unable to stop Charles; perhaps, as Jamie said, the only way to avert calamity was now to do everything possible to help him. The addition of an important clan chieftain to the roster of supporters would greatly influence the odds of others joining. This might be a turning point, where the Jacobite forces could be increased to the level of a true army, actually capable of the proposed invasion of England. And if so, what in bloody hell would happen then?
I sighed. No matter what I decided to do, I couldn’t make any decision until I saw this mysterious person. I glanced down to make sure my gown was suitable for interviewing clan chieftains, infected or otherwise, and rose, tucking the medicine box under my arm.
“I’ll try, Your Highness,” I said.
The clenched hands relaxed, showing the bitten nails, and his frown lessened.
“Ah, good,” he said. He turned toward the door of the larger afternoon drawing room. “Come, I shall take you myself.”
The guard at the door jumped back in surprise as Charles flung the door open and strode past him without a glance. On the far side of the long, tapestry-hung room was an enormous marble fireplace, lined with white Delft tiles, painted with Dutch country scenes in shades of blue and mulberry. A small sofa was drawn up before the fire, and a big, broad-shouldered man in Highland dress stood beside it.
In a room less imposing, he would have bulked huge, legs like tree trunks in their checkered stockings beneath the kilt. As it was, in this immense room with its high gessoed ceilings, he was merely big – quite in keeping with the heroic figures of mythology that decorated the tapestries at either end of the room.
I stopped dead at sight of the enormous visitor, the shock of recognition still mingled with absolute incredulity. Charles had kept on, and now glanced back with some impatience, beckoning me to join him before the fire. I nodded to the big man. Then I walked slowly around the end of the sofa and gazed down at the man who lay upon it.
He smiled faintly when he saw me, the dove-gray eyes lighting with a spark of amusement.
“Yes,” he said, answering my expression. “I hadn’t really expected to meet you again, either. One might almost believe we are fated.” He turned his head and lifted a hand toward his enormous body-servant.
“Angus. Will ye fetch a drop of the brandy for Mistress Claire? I’m afraid the surprise of seeing me may have somewhat discomposed her.”
That, I thought, was putting it mildly. I sank into a splay-footed chair and accepted the crystal goblet Angus Mhor held out to me.
Colum MacKenzie’s eyes hadn’t changed; neither had his voice. Both held the essence of the man who had led clan MacKenzie for thirty years, despite the disease that had crippled him in his teens. Everything else had changed sadly for the worse, though; the black hair streaked heavily with gray, the lines of his face cut deep into skin that had fallen slack over the sharp outlines of bone. Even the broad chest was sunken and the powerful shoulders hunched, flesh fallen away from the fragile skeleton beneath.
He already held a glass half-filled with amber liquid, glowing in the firelight. He raised himself painfully to a sitting position and lifted the cup in ironic salute.
“You’re looking very well… niece.” From the corner of my eye, I saw Charles’s mouth drop open.
“You aren’t,” I said bluntly.
He glanced dispassionately down at the bowed and twisted legs. In a hundred years’ time, they would call this disease after its most famous sufferer – the Toulouse-Lautrec syndrome.
“No,” he said. “But then, it’s been two years since you saw me last. Mrs. Duncan estimated my survival at less than two years, then.”
I took a swallow of the brandy. One of the best. Charles was anxious.
“I shouldn’t have thought you’d put much stock in a witch’s curse,” I said.
A smile twitched the fine-cut lips. He had the bold beauty of his brother Dougal, ruined as it was, and when he lifted the veil of detachment from his eyes, the power of the man overshone the wreck of his body.
“Not in curses, no. I had the distinct impression that the lady was dealing in observation, however, not malediction. And I have seldom met a more acute observer than Geillis Duncan – with one exception.” He inclined his head gracefully toward me, making his meaning clear.
“Thanks,” I said.
Colum glanced up at Charles, who was gaping in bewilderment at these exchanges.
“I thank you for your graciousness in permitting me to use your premises for my meeting with Mrs. Fraser, Your Highness,” he said, with a slight bow. The words were sufficiently civil, but the tone made it an obvious dismissal. Charles, who was by no means used to being dismissed, flushed hotly and opened his mouth. Then, recalling himself, he snapped it shut, bowed shortly, and turned on his heel.
“We won’t need the guard, either,” I called after him. His shoulders hunched and the back of his neck grew red beneath the tail of his wig, but he gestured abruptly, and the guard at the door, with an astonished glance at me, followed him out.