The first night that Michael spent alone was indescribable. To have
held the treasure of his heart so near, after both had suffered so
much, only to be forced to turn her over to the most feared and hated
man of the district, and a name of ill repute since childhood.....
There was no reconciling himself to the facts.
That she was his daughter might afford her the narrowest margin of
protection. But who could say what an English Lord---his noble birth a
sham, at that---might do when confronted by the threat of an
illegitimate child?
And the son, Stephen Purceville. Both Mary and his mother had doctored
their accounts of him, knowing Michael's fiery temper of old. But he
was wise enough, with the passing years, to know when he was being
shielded from the truth. The bullet-hole in the portrait spoke for
itself, a constant reminder that the younger Purceville was a force,
and a danger, unto himself. At best he was an emotional powder keg,
prone to sudden threats (and possibly acts) of violence. At worst he
was as cold and calculating as his father. The effectiveness of his
methods could not be questioned. He had taken the two women he loved,
without a fight, from under his very wing. What nest-thieving fox
could claim as much?
Such was the image he began to form of his imagined nemesis.
The morning after was no less a torment. Because for all the
unquenchable fear and concern he felt for them, Mary and his mother
had been right about one thing: he was not well. Nothing short of
bed-rest and shelter from the cold would begin to rid him of the
debilitating fever, and the deep, constrictive cough that had settled
in his chest.
But how could he remain calm, and rest, when those he loved remained
in unspeakable danger? Several times he started for the door, only to
be halted by the cruel realization that there was nothing he could do.
Not only would the exposure to the elements do injury to himself, but
his very presence, in any way connected with them, would only increase
their peril ten-fold. And the still deeper question, which lay at the
back of all others, which haunted him and gave him no peace:
What could one frail, unarmed man do against the grim, unyielding
walls of MacPherson Castle?
As evening began to deepen, and in the same hour that the cell door
was being closed upon the women, his inner turmoil reached a fever
pitch. Something had to be done! He paced back and forth, howling his
rage at the walls.
And yet his mind knew, for all the throbbings of the heart, that he
could not yield. He had learned the hard way, in the stockade, that
there were times when self-denial and an iron discipline were the only
way. And for all the pain it cost him, he knew that he must wrap
himself warmly and try to sleep. In the morning there might be some
meaningful action he could take. And there was nothing, save
pneumonia, that he could accomplish how, alone and in the dead of
night.
So he prepared to pass the dark hours as he had passed those previous.
Leaving the fire to burn itself out, he took the stones that had been
heating before it, wrapped them in a sling, and carried them up the
ladder-stair to Mary's bed, where he would sleep. In the loft he would
at least have some warning in the event of a sudden search, as well as
the advantage of height in a struggle. There was, perhaps, no reason
for the English to return to the cottage.....
Still, he could take nothing for granted. The evening fire was a
necessary evil, now smoldering to ash. All else must be patience and
concealment, until the morning light brought clearer counsel, or dealt
him some new card unforeseen. Until then, patience and hiding.
Patience and hiding.....
He fell asleep.