The Highlander's Redemption. Marguerite Kaye

towards the Parliament buildings and the solid hulk of the Tollgate prison. The appetising scent of fresh bread, strong cheese and the dry, fusty smell of the many bales of cloth fought a losing battle with the stench from the sheughs, the steep gutters running either side of the street.

      Madeleine paused, wide-eyed, in the close entranceway, waiting for a gap in the heaving crowd. Calumn took her arm. ‘Hold on tight to me.’

      She needed two steps to keep up with his one. The crowd seemed to part for him like magic as his long legs strode effortlessly through the busy market. Madeleine clung to his arm for dear life, with her free hand keeping a firm hold on her small supply of money through the slit in her petticoat where it was tucked into one of the embroidered pockets tied securely around her waist.

      Noticing the trepidation on her face, Calumn pulled her closer. ‘I take it you’re not from the city?’

      ‘I’m Breton, from a place near the town of Roscoff on the coast.’

      ‘I’ve not been to Brittany, though I’ve been to France. So you’re a country girl, then?’

       ‘Absolument.’

      He had not slowed his pace. They took the steep road down West Bow, Calumn leading the way unerringly through a warren of dark closes and narrow wynds to an inn on the Grassmarket where he greeted the landlord by name and demanded breakfast immediately. They were ushered into a dusty back parlour, away from the curious group of ostlers, coachmen and passengers awaiting the public conveyances, and shortly were served thick slices of bacon, eggs and blood pudding. Though Calumn ate heartily, Madeleine was more cautious, deciding against the heavy black pudding after a suspicious sniff.

      ‘Tell me about this Jacobite you’re looking for.’ Calumn pushed his empty plate aside.

      ‘He came to Scotland with a battalion called the Écossais Royeaux.’’

      ‘The Royal Scots. A mix of French and Scots, and a fair few mercenaries too. Under Drummond’s command, am I right?’

      ‘Yes. How do you know all this?’

      He ignored her. ‘All the French were pardoned, you know, rounded up and packed off home long since. How can you be certain this man of yours is still alive?’

      She traced a pattern on the scarred wooden table with a fork. ‘I just am. I can’t explain, but if he was dead—well, I would know. I would feel it.’

      Rory’s dead, Calumn. It’s been almost six months. He’s dead, we have to accept that, all of us. Heronsay is yours now. His mother’s words echoed, making him close his eyes in an effort to block out the painful memory. His own reply floated into his mind, so strangely reminiscent of Madeleine Lafayette’s. He’s alive. If he was dead I would know. I would feel it.

      Calumn blinked, and found that same Madeleine Lafayette’s big green eyes watching him with concern.

      ‘Is there something wrong?’ Instinctively, she reached out her hand to his.

      Her fingers were long, the nails well cared for, buffed and shaped. He laid his other hand on top of hers, noting the stark contrast between her smooth and creamy-white skin and his own, rough and tanned. Her hand felt good nestling there, fragile yet resilient. He twined his fingers into hers, liking the way her fingertips grazed his knuckles, fitting so perfectly, though she was so much smaller than he. He remembered then, last night, how the rest of her body felt, pressed close to his, fitting just as snugly, feeling just as right. It was as if he knew her. Had known her. Which was ridiculous. He dropped her hand, sat back and shook his head firmly. ‘There’s nothing wrong. I know what you mean, that’s all, when you say you’re sure he’s alive.’

      Just for a second he had looked lost. Vulnerable. ‘You’ve obviously felt the same about someone,’ Madeleine prompted carefully.

      A door slammed shut. His eyes refocused. ‘So who is he, this Jacobite of yours?’ Calumn asked brusquely.

      ‘His name is Guillaume, the Comte de Guise.’

      ‘A nobleman. That should certainly make it a bit easier to track him down.’

      ‘‘Oui, that’s what I thought,’ Madeleine agreed with relief. ‘That’s why I wanted to talk to the other Jacobites at the castle. I know it’s unlikely, but I have to start somewhere.’

      ‘It’s highly unlikely, especially after all this time. Why have you waited so long? It’s been over a year since Culloden.’

      ‘You think I don’t know that!’ Madeleine’s lip trembled. ‘A whole year of trying everything in my power to find out what has become of him, but no one will tell me anything. I’ve written countless letters to the authorities and to the army, but all they will tell me is that Guillaume is not on any list, either of men who have been sent back, nor of any of the—the fallen, or the men who have been executed. It is so out of character for him not to get in touch. I don’t understand it—where could he be?’ Huge eyes swimming with unshed tears gazed up at Calumn beseechingly. The strain of the last year, the ordeal of the last few days, were beginning to take their toll.

      ‘Do you not think, mademoiselle, that the time has come to accept that he is—’

      ‘No!’ Her gaze was fierce, her rejection absolute. ‘No,’ she said again more quietly, though no less resolutely, ‘I won’t listen, you sound just like everyone else.’

      The accusation stung. Once again, Calumn was reminded of a similar scenario not six months ago, his own no-less-vehement rejection. His hand clenched into a fist. He had held out, held on, waited, but he could not forget the doubts. He had not been so steadfast in his belief as this woman was. Though he had held fast in public, in private he had questioned. Was not this certainty simply the guilt of the survivor? A stubborn unwillingness to confront the truth? He had survived his wound because fate, ill fate, had placed him on the side of the victors. Rory, who had chosen to fight with his kin, had most likely not been so fortunate. Yet still Calumn had waited, because not to wait would be to admit the inadmissible. The price he had paid, would continue to pay, for his own choices, was high enough without that.

      ‘I’m sorry, I should not have been so rude.’ Madeleine’s voice broke into his thoughts. She was gazing at him searchingly. Too searchingly.

      ‘There’s no need to apologise,’ Calumn replied gruffly. ‘What you believe is not for me to question.’

      She smiled tentatively. Whatever was going on in that handsome head to make his tempter so volatile, it was more than the after-effects of whisky. ‘I know Guillaume is probably dead, I know that it’s irrational of me to think otherwise in the circumstances, but I still find it impossible to accept. You understand, I think. It’s the lack of certainty.’

      His nod was reluctantly given, but it was eventually given all the same. ‘What is this man to you?’ he asked sharply.

      ‘Guillaume and I are—friends.’

      ‘Friends! You’ve come all this way, after all this time, for a friend? He must be a very particular friend.’

      Piercing blue eyes, disconcertingly penetrating, searched her face. Madeleine returned to playing with her cutlery. She was strangely reluctant to tell him the truth. She put the fork back on the table and forced herself to meet Calumn’s gaze. ‘We have known each other since childhood. Guillaume is my best friend.’ That, at least, was true.

      Calumn raised his eyebrows sceptically. ‘And how came you to be here in Edinburgh alone?’

      ‘Everyone else thinks Guillaume is dead. No one will listen to me, I had no option but to come.’ The truth was, she had run away, but if she told this man the truth she doubted he would help her. More likely he would insist on packing her back to her father, and she could not risk that, not when she had already risked so much just to get here.

      ‘Won’t you be missed?’

      She shrugged, deliberately offhand. ‘They