‘That’s what I just said,’ he responded, unmoved by her embarrassment. ‘But as I’ve also just said, you can’t blame me for thinking it, anyone would have made the same mistake.’
She could not deny this, so remained silent.
‘What the hell did you think you were doing there? Had you no money for a lodging?’
In the cold light of day, after a night’s refreshing sleep, Madeleine struggled to come up with an answer to this perfectly reasonable question. Her actions seemed stupid even to herself. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, feeling singularly foolish. ‘I mean—yes, I had money, but I don’t know why I didn’t find a place to sleep.’
‘Do you know why you’re here, at least? In Edinburgh, I mean?’
‘Of course I do,’ she responded, drawing herself up haughtily. ‘I was trying to get into the castle, but they wouldn’t let me pass.’
‘Why on earth …?’
‘I wanted to speak to the prisoners there. I’m looking for someone.’
‘A man, I presume.’
Madeleine nodded.
‘And what has this man done?’
‘Nothing,’ Madeleine said indignantly. ‘He’s not a criminal.’
‘Then why—ah, your man is a Jacobite.’ He waited on her nod. ‘And what makes you think he’s in there?’ Despite his pleasing lilt, the worlds were sharply spoken.
‘I don’t. I don’t know where he is.’ Madeleine paused, swallowing hard as the many, many things she didn’t know about Guillaume and his fate threatened her ability to think clearly. ‘The castle is as good a place to start as any. I thought someone in there—one of the other Jacobites—might know him, or of him, might be able to help me trace him.’
‘It’s a bit of a shot in the dark if you ask me.’ Calumn pressed a hand to his brow. His head had begun to thump. His tried to think, but his thoughts fled from his grasp like a hare from a hound. ‘How do you come to speak such good English?’
‘A woman in our village, Madame le Brun, who is married to the school teacher, is from a place called Dover.’ Confused by the sudden change of subject, Madeleine eyed her host warily. ‘She teaches me embroidery—or she tries to—as well as English. She would be pleased at the compliment,’ she said with an attempt at humour, ‘for she despairs of my stitchery.’
Calumn rubbed his eyes and shook his head in an effort to clear away the fog befuddling his brain. A shaft of sunlight slanted in through the leaded panes of the window, making him wince. Too much whisky, but at least it stopped him from dreaming. He focused his gaze on his unexpected houseguest. She was a slight thing, with long flaxen hair trailing down her back. Beautiful in a fey, ethereal way. ‘You look like a mermaid,’ he said.
His smile curled like smoke. His voice had a teasing quality, a lilting, sensual tone, which connected to her senses at a very basic level. Looking at him from under her lashes, the sunlight making his hair a burnished halo, Madeleine thought anew how strikingly attractive Calumn Munro was. Perhaps his ill temper was simply morning crotchets. ‘My mother used to say that, too,’ she said.
His eyes crinkled as his smile deepened. ‘Did you put me to bed?’
‘I just made you comfortable.’ The vivid memory of being held hard against him made Madeleine’s toes curl up into the soft pile of the rug at her feet.
‘Did I behave myself?’
She wondered nervously if he knew that it was she, not he, who had taken liberties. ‘You behaved perfectly. You promised you would. Word of a Munro, you said.’
Calumn’s smile faded. His eyes darkened, as if a light had gone out. ‘Word of a Munro,’ he repeated, his tone bitter. ‘I must have been drunk.’
He got up and stretched, rolling his shoulders, which were stiff from tension. He needed food and fresh air. ‘I can’t think on an empty stomach. We’ll get some breakfast and you can tell me your story properly.’
‘You’ve done too much for me already,’ Madeleine protested, but it was half-hearted. She was ravenous. Calumn Munro looked like a man with influence, and last night had proven him also a man of action. What’s more, he was her only friend in this foreign country; she would be foolish to turn down the opportunity to enlist his help.
Foolish, but also wise? She knew nothing of him, found not only his uncertain temper but his very presence unsettling. But … she trusted him. And he intrigued her. ‘Yes, thank you,’ she said with an uncertain smile. ‘I’ll go and get dressed.’
‘I’ll get Jamie to fetch you some hot water,’ Calumn said, suiting action to words with a bellow which would have awoken the dead.
With the hot water, Jamie brought a letter which had just arrived. When he had washed and dressed, Calumn broke the seal reluctantly, his frown deepening to a scowl as he scanned the closely crossed sheets of his mother’s elegant hand. Father weaker … demise imminent … factor requiring constant supervision … your return required urgently. All the usual phrases, although the bit about the attack on the western lands was new. Revenge by a Jacobite clan … to be expected given the Munroes’ stand, his mother wrote. Calumn’s stomach clenched in anger as he read this paragraph more closely. Bad enough the mess the Rebellion had left in its wake, now they must be feuding amongst themselves! If they were to survive in the Highlands, the clans must stick together, could they not see that!
Beg of you to return. Your father … not likely to live much longer. If his father died, the lands would be his. His to change and to renew, his to care for and nurture rather than work to exhaustion, his to do all the things he’d thought about and planned during the last few years. But they weren’t his yet, nor likely would be in the near future. His father might be weak, but his grip on life was a lot more tenacious than his mother gave him credit for. And anyway, what was the point in dreaming, when the fact was he couldn’t go home. Not now. Maybe not ever.
The usual feelings of frustration and anger and pointless railing at fate, roiled in his gut, making him nauseous. Calumn crumpled the letter up in disgust and threw it into the empty hearth just as Madeleine rejoined him. She raised her brows, wondering what could have inspired such fury, but seeing the deep frown which marred his face, chose wisely not to comment. He was dressed in breeches and top boots teamed with a dark coat, the clothes expensive and well cut. He had shaved and tidied his hair, though it was not tied back but swept away from his brow, curling almost to his shoulders. It was unusual for a man of his obvious standing to go without powder or wig, but Madeleine thought it becoming.
Calumn gave himself a shake, pressing his thumb into the furrow of his brow as if to smooth away the thoughts which formed it. ‘Come on, then,’ he said, holding open the door for her, ‘my stomach thinks my throat’s been cut.’
They made their way down the stairs, out of the dark close and into the Lawnmarket, which was now teeming with hawkers and traders. Vendors vied for supremacy in the calling of their wares. Horses and carriages clattered on the cobblestones. Chairmen shoved and pushed their precarious way through the hordes thronging up Castlehill and down the High Street 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