"I could go for Munro and Adam and bring back a large enough troop to escort you to Margarth Cove."

"I can't risk battle with Elizabeth. How can I protect her in a melee? There's nowhere she'd be safe."

"And she couldn't travel fast enough to outrun the dragoons from Edinburgh."

Johnnie shook his head. "If she hadn't been with me, I would have made straight for the coast. My barb can outrun any horse in Scotland. But Elizabeth can't ride at a forced pace. The dragoons would have overtaken us by Coldstream. But we'll reach the ship," he said. "The journey will just be in stages."

They reached the shepherd's hut in the foothills of the Cheviots late that afternoon, the snow at the higher alt.i.tude making the horses' footing treacherous. And after Johnnie had helped Elizabeth inside the rough stone structure built into the hill, he started a fire. They were both chilled; the temperature had dropped as the trail climbed, the wind frigid and bl.u.s.tery, tossing the light snow on the ground into swirling clouds.

He led the horses in out of the wind also, securing them against the wall away from the hearth. They couldn't afford to lose their mounts to the bitter wind. And while Elizabeth tried to stop shivering, slowly turning before the fire, Johnnie unloaded their few supplies.

"We won't be here long," he said, placing their food pack on a rough table. "A day or two at the most. You may have the chair," he added with a courtly drawl, pulling a small three-legged stool from under the table and bringing it over to the fire.

"How far is it to Margarth Cove?" Elizabeth asked, sitting down, thanking him with a smile for his gallantry.

"Probably twenty miles from here," he said, dissembling slightly in the interests of optimism.

"Would it be better to travel at night?"

He nodded, squatting down beside her, warming his hands at the fire. "There's less risk." He stared into the flames for a moment. "If we do meet troops, though, they'll be more suspicious of travelers out so late."

"We could cover twenty miles in five hours even at my snail's pace."

It wasn't twenty but more like twenty-five, Johnnie knew, with the first several miles in the hills desperately slow going. "It's possible," he lied. Then he stood abruptly, his frustration level acute; familiar with a life of reckless incaution, he was restless under the necessary restraints dictated by Elizabeth's pregnancy. "I'm going to find some more wood for the night," he suddenly said. "If you get hungry before I return, there's a meat pie right on top," he added, pushing the table closer to the hearth.

"I feel like a d.a.m.nable burden." Her sigh curled frosty white in the frigid air. "I'm discovering how useless I am outside a fully staffed household."

"Good G.o.d, I don't expect you to know how to chop wood. What woman would?" Reaching over, he tousled her hair so she looked up at him and saw his affectionate smile. "You can, however, say a prayer to whatever deity is in charge of fires that the last occupant left a supply of wood. Otherwise, I'm going to have to go back to that copse a mile down and bring back a few trees."

"In that case," Elizabeth said, attempting to return his smile when she was cold, tired, and hungry, "I shall surely pray for you. It's too cold to be out tonight. Why not burn the table?"

"A resourceful woman," Johnnie said with a chuckle. "But it won't last the night."

And as Elizabeth huddled before the fire, a stream of curses reported Johnnie's irregular progress outside in the dark, followed a short time later by a yelp of pain-more curses, and then a howl that seemed to signify gratification. He returned five minutes later, carrying an armload of neatly split oak. "I think our fortunes are on the upturn," he said with a grin, shaking the snow from his hair and shoulders. "There's enough wood stacked in a hole dug out of the hill to keep us warm."

His good spirits amazed her; he had certain cause for bitterness with a price on his head, his t.i.tle and estates confiscated, his very life at risk. But his optimism cheered her in the drafty, dirt-floored hut when she was cold, wretched, and plagued with doubts about their chances of reaching the coast. "How do you do it?" she asked.

"Actually, I fell into the hole."

"No, I mean stay so cheerful."

"Look, I found the wood, which means I don't have to walk a mile on this G.o.d-awful, miserable night, chop down some green wood, drag it back uphill a mile, and then try to get it to burn." He shook his head again so the melted snow scattered in a flurry of drops. "I'd say that's a d.a.m.n good reason to smile. And if I could get you to toast some bannocks while I bring in enough wood to last the night, I'll dazzle you with my good cheer."

"Maybe I could warm that cooked grouse on the spit and put some of those ham slices on that grate." His cheer seemed to be infectious.

"I knew there were other reasons to love you madly beside-well ..." His smile flashed white in the shadowed interior. "The obvious ones-your skill at needlework, your mastery of the tea table-"

"My s.e.xual abandon?" she reminded him with a theatrical batting of her lashes.

His smile widened. "I was getting to that."

He could make her forget the cold and her hunger, the oppressive danger; he could make her smile sitting on a rough stool with her back cold as ice and her face burning from the fire. "I love you," she whispered, taking strength from his confidence, hope from his determination.

"We'll reach the ship," he quietly said, placing the wood on the floor and going to her, understanding the extremity of her despair.

"I know," she murmured, when she didn't, when she wondered how they could possibly cross twenty miles of patrolled land undetected.

Sitting on the cold earthen floor, he pulled her into his arms and held her on his lap, warming her with the heat from his body, with his love, rocking her gently as one would a child. "Tomorrow night we'll go east. Most of the route is through property of my friends and neighbors. We'll be fine. Robbie should be at the cove by now. And you've never seen Holland."

He kissed her gently when she smiled. "It's warmer there," he murmured with a faint smile. "You'll like that."

"Tell me about it," Elizabeth said, wanting the images and words and dreams. Wanting to forget the cold and her fear. "Tell me of your house there."

And he spoke then with uncustomary detail and at great length because he understood her need for hope. He told her of his home outside The Hague, set out in the country a short distance from the city, painted pale yellow with an enormous garden surrounding it. "The gardeners planted another five thousand tulips last fall," he said, "and they'll be blooming next month when we're there." He hugged her closer and told her they'd find a midwife she liked in Amsterdam or Rotterdam or The Hague. The ones in France weren't as fastidious as those in Holland, a country where housewives even washed their steps and sidewalks every day. He volunteered to live in any of his homes she preferred, although he admitted that the one in Rotterdam was more hectic, with the warehouses attached.

"We'll reach safety," he repeated at last.

"I wish I weren't a hindrance ... slowing you down."

He went still suddenly and took her face gently between his great large hands, so his eyes held hers, and he said so softly his voice didn't carry beyond the circle of their warmth, "Never say that. Don't even think it." He'd been reared to a.s.sume responsibility, to fulfill his duties, to rise to difficult challenges, and now he had two lives in his care that meant more to him than all his worldly possessions. His deep voice was only a whisper now. "We'll see the coast tomorrow night."

Her eyes filled with tears. "And our child will be born in Holland."

He nodded. "My word as Ravensby."

Well fed from the supplies they carried, they slept on a bed of dried ferns covered with a plaid, the stone walls heated from the fire holding warmth, the quiet sounds of the horses munching their grain a peaceful presence on the cold winter night. The solitude brought with it a tranquillity that eased Elizabeth's anxieties; Johnnie's powerful body warm against her back offered security. She slept as though they weren't being hunted, weren't on the run.

They brought the horses outside in the morning, for the sun had come out, and patches of snow were beginning to melt, leaving gra.s.s exposed. And later they replenished the woodpile, Elizabeth helping, and feeling more optimistic in the bright sunshine. How long could a twenty-mile ride take? she more cheerfully considered. Surely, two people in the dark of night could elude a few patrols. She doubted soldiers would be conscientiously out all night anyway. And Johnnie had said they'd be traveling through private lands.

As her thoughts turned inward, she didn't properly attend to the difficult terrain, and she slipped, her feet suddenly going out from under her on an icy patch. With an abrupt cry of alarm, she dropped heavily on her back, the wood in her arms tumbling on top of her.

Johnnie was at her side in an instant, tossing the wood aside, kneeling beside her in the snow, checking for broken bones. And when he'd a.s.sured himself nothing was broken, he picked her up and carried her back inside the shepherd's hut. Laying her down on the fern bed, he tucked the plaid around her.

"You're not to help anymore," he firmly said. "That's an order."

"Yes, sir," she faintly said, her breath knocked out of her when she fell. And with the troubled look in his eyes, she didn't dare tell him cramping spasms had begun drifting up her stomach. Just a consequence of the abrupt jolt to her body, she told herself, rationalizing away the seriousness.

But the spasms continued, and in another hour she couldn't conceal her suffering as stabbing pains accompanied the seizures. Struck by another convulsion, she winced, worry creasing her brow. And a short time later, when Johnnie returned with a drink for her from the stream outside, she nervously whispered, "I think I'm in labor."

His skin went pale beneath his dark tan. "It's too early...." A baby could never live at seven months, he thought, terror-stricken.

"Maybe the pains will stop." They must, she silently prayed, knowing she'd lose her child if they didn't.

Johnnie only nodded, unable to speak. No matter his strength or will, he was powerless to relieve her. He couldn't even go for help; Elizabeth couldn't be left alone in this crisis.

"See if I'm bleeding ... I'm not sure."

No, he wanted to reply, because if she was bleeding ... there was no hope the child would live. But he couldn't refuse, even if he wished to ignore reality, so he slowly lifted the green plaid, gently eased the fine saffron wool of her skirt aside, and looked, his heart thudding in his chest. The irregular light from the fire poorly illuminated the hut. "I don't think so," he said, straining to distinguish detail in the half-shadows, feeling inadequate to the task.

"Take my handkerchief." Elizabeth said, pulling the white linen from her throat. "If there's no blood ..." Wistful hope infused her voice.

He took the crisp fabric, placed it between her legs, and held it there for a moment. Lifting it free, his breath in abeyance, he looked swiftly as if he wished the bad news over. Then he looked again. And then he smiled, holding the white square of Holland cloth so Elizabeth could see it. "Nothing," he said, a small triumph in his voice.

"At least not yet," she said with an immediate relief, but the strength of her cramps hadn't diminished.

"Now lie perfectly still; I'll fetch and carry for you," Johnnie said. "Order me about," he added with a grin, "if it will make amends for the state I've put you in"-trying to distract her with humor, trying to distract himself, too, he realized, from the impossibility of dealing with this life-threatening condition.

"You are to blame ... coming up to my room that night at Goldiehouse," Elizabeth replied with a small, reminiscing smile.

"And not letting you say no."

"I never can with you."

His smile wasn't the familiar roguish one, but a rueful faint quirk of his mouth. He'd never thought in the glory of their pa.s.sion of this possible extinction of life, of her pain. He kneeled beside her, his hands on his thighs, his broad shoulders slumped, feeling wretched, his eyes filled with pity. "I promise you celibacy from this moment on," he quietly said, "to guard you from this again...."

"Don't make me cry, Johnnie," she whispered, touching his cheek with her fingers. "I've no regrets of loving you."

Taking her hand, he held her fingers to his lips, his grip tender, his breath warm in the coolness of the hut. He kissed each finger, a b.u.t.terfly caress. "It's my fault. This is all because of my selfishness," he murmured, tormented by the pain he'd caused, by the horrendous consequences of that casual seduction so many months ago.

"I wanted this baby, Johnnie, ever so much. You gave me what I wanted. You made me happy, Johnnie."

He shivered, this powerful man who ruled men's lives. Then, placing her hand under the warm plaid, tucking the wool material around her neck, he said, disquieted, restless under conflicting emotions, "I'll be back in a minute. I have to finish carrying in the wood so you won't get cold."

He walked a few feet beyond the small door that required care to navigate for a man his size, past the shadow of the hut, feeling the hypocrite because he'd always been indifferent to the G.o.ds of other men, to the need for intercession in his life. Clenching his fists at his sides, he lifted his head, his powerful body etched against the endless blue sky. "You don't know me," he whispered, "but please listen." He stood motionless for a moment more, handicapped by the previous impiety of his life, grappling with the means of communication. Then he slowly dropped to his knees on the snowy ground and bowed his dark head under the sun-drenched heavens and, clasping his capable strong hands together, prayed for the lives of his wife and unborn child.

He beseeched in a swift, wrenching entreaty, pressed for time with Elizabeth expecting his return. He pleaded with a directness natural to him, promising atonement, promising concessions, offering all he had for their safety. Then he came to his feet with swift grace and brushed the snow from his knees. And wiped the wetness from his eyes.

When he returned to the hut with the wood, he stoked the fire high so the small room lost its chill, and he sat beside Elizabeth, entertaining her with stories of his escapades with his cousins at Ravensby, safe adolescent stories without the knotted entanglements of maturity. He poured them both some claret and unearthed a tin of Mrs. Reid's plum cake for a snack when Elizabeth complained of hunger, taking it for a good sign that she still had her healthy appet.i.te. She ate one piece and then two and then a half more as he found himself counting bites, cheered at the mounting numbers. After refilling her wine cup and seeing that the crumbs from the cake were brushed away from under her chin, he continued his innocuous tales. His voice was no more than a deep, low intonation in the silence of the mountain hut, a distraction to possible catastrophe, perhaps-at some primitive level-a means of keeping evil at bay.

When she dozed off, he kept talking, the resonance of his voice filling the dim interior of the hut. He didn't move for a lengthy time as he continued his soliloquy, superst.i.tious like some pagan from long ago that the spell would be broken, not wishing to disturb the tranquillity of his wife's sleep. But when Elizabeth sighed in a great relaxing exhalation that soothed the crease between her light brows and brought a faint smile to her face, he gently placed a hand on her belly mounded beneath the green pattern of his plaid and waited to feel the contractions that she'd had him monitor a short time before.

And he waited, every muscle poised, tense, a man of logic, too, as well as pagan sensibilities. He counted to fifty, slowly, a reasonable man attuned to empirical evidence, then to fifty again, not daring yet to give way to elation. And then to a fresh one hundred because his wife and child were too important, too essential to his life, to allow credulous hope.

But at the last uttered number computed under his breath, when no movement had occurred under the light pressure of his palm, not a ripple or shiver or the tiniest quake, he lifted his hand, covered his mouth with it and, falling back on the packed earthen floor, let out a mute whoop of jubilation.

He looked very young at that moment in the rough shepherd's hut despite his mighty body, despite his reputation as a warrior and rogue, despite his t.i.tles and honors and acclaim. He was only twenty-five, and the woman he loved in all his mercurial moods, who had brought him love when he'd not thought it possible, his dear and precious wife, was safe.

He blew her a kiss, restless in his jubilation, and came standing in a smooth uncoiling of muscled strength. "Thank you," he whispered heavenward, his sense of obligation profound. She looked so peaceful now on her rough bed, he almost wondered if it'd been some evil dream. Until his gaze fell on the crumpled linen handkerchief, and his stomach tightened. He had to bring her safe to the coast; his thoughts raced ahead, planning their flight, a.s.sessing all the possibilities when their travel required even more restraint. Elizabeth couldn't be jarred or jostled or forced to ride too long. Where to stop, what tracks best met their needs, how close must he stay to villages should they need a midwife?

She was too fragile and he too uninformed to tolerate this isolation again. He would have been helpless if the baby had come early ... helpless to save Elizabeth or the child in case of complications. He wouldn't allow that danger again.

They didn't leave that night as planned, although when Elizabeth woke, she insisted she was well again.

"Wait one more day," Johnnie suggested. "We've still food. Give yourself a chance to recuperate from your fall. Whether we leave tonight or tomorrow won't matter to Robbie."

"Once we start," Elizabeth said, her voice level, her glance steady, "don't stop. No matter how I feel, I can survive four or five hours. Mrs. Reid tells me first babies are slow in coming. She said sometimes it takes one or two days."

Johnnie blanched noticeably even in the flickering firelight. "Two days?" he said in a choked voice. "Good G.o.d."

"Promise me, Johnnie. I won't be the cause of our capture. I've done enough to ruin your life."

"You didn't ruin my life. When one opposes England's Privy Council in such a public way, one understands the risks. The possibility of retaliation was always there."

"But the rape charges are related to me, to my father's partisanship with Queensberry. I feel responsible."

"If you're going to discuss responsibility, darling," he gallantly noted, "my seduction began it all. You didn't stand a chance."

Elizabeth sighed. "You're too d.a.m.ned honorable."

He grinned. "Never with seduction. But I shall drive us unmercifully tomorrow night if it pleases you," he went on, capitulating, not wishing to argue uselessly over an issue upon which he had his own strong feelings. "You win."

But he was too cordial to believe entirely, and Elizabeth wished in a small part of her brain, as she had on occasion lately, that she wasn't pregnant at this inopportune time.

CHAPTER 21.

They left the small hut in the foothills of the Cheviots when the slim crescent moon had risen midpoint in the winter sky. The descent down the snow-covered slopes was treacherous, a thin glaze of ice from the day's hot sun left on the surface of the snow. When Johnnie's barb went down on its knees on loose stones and ice, it only managed to scramble upright because Johnnie had instantly leaped from the saddle. After that, Johnnie slowly led both horses down the rough track, not wishing to risk a like tumble with Elizabeth's mount.

Once they reached flat country, despite Elizabeth's urgings, Johnnie kept the horses to a walk. They pa.s.sed Eccles on the outskirts of the village, only two dogs giving warning of their presence, and Johnnie cut cross-country shortly after, moving in the direction of Blackadder, his cousins' property. The bulk of the darkened manse rose on the crest of a rise as they traveled on the fringes of the parkland an hour later, reminding Johnnie of carefree times long gone. Hunted by his enemies now with torture and death the outcome were he captured, the land and old house took on a poignant tranquillity.

G.o.dfrey had done this to him, and G.o.dolphin's puppet, Queensberry, who never had enough money to sate his greed. A burning need for reprisal, for vengeance, burned inside his brain. Once he had Elizabeth safe in Holland, he could unsheath his sword and retaliate against his enemies. He'd never run from a confrontation before, and were it not for Elizabeth and the child, he'd be riding now to kill G.o.dfrey wherever he was.

He glanced up at the moon, ever conscious of the pa.s.sage of time; the trip down the foothills had caused delay, as he knew it would. He wasn't sure they could reach the cove before daylight.

"What time do you think it is?" Elizabeth asked, aware of his concern.

"Close to midnight. Do you need to stop?"

Elizabeth shook her head.

Leaning over, he touched her hand. "It's a cold night. Everyone's inside."

"Including the patrols, I hope," she said.

"I'd say yes, regardless of your father or Queensberry's orders. The common soldier knows they're both lying in a warm bed tonight."

"A pleasant thought ... a warm bed," Elizabeth said with a smile.

As they made for the coast that night, neither was aware of the critical events transpiring in the days of their flight, events that might impact on their plans for escape.

Westminster had finally pa.s.sed the Alien Act, and as part of its immediate implementation, British cruisers were now patrolling the coast "to seize all Scottish ships trading with Her Majesty's enemies." In addition, in an incident altogether separate but incendiary in the present climate of hostility, the British East India Company had seized and confiscated a Scottish ship in the Thames, citing breach of its privileges in its hiring of English seamen in an English harbor. Outraged, Scotland had instantly retaliated by capturing the Worcester, in harbor at Leith, a ship reportedly belonging to the East India Company. The captain and crew had been swiftly charged with piracy, robbery, and murder, all charges punishable by hanging. The British seamen were currently standing trial in Edinburgh. Angry mobs were out in the streets north and south of the border.