Bruce raised bushy eyebrows when his suspicious gaze fell on Eala, but he seemed to understand the slight shake of her head and kept his lips pursed.
Thankfully, Evan had calmed after being given a draft of laudanum.
Ambrose offered Bruce his hand. “Dr. Ambrose Pendray,” he said. “Considering all he’s been through, yer son is holding his own.”
Bruce accepted the gesture, his grip strong, then looked over his shoulder. “Ye can go now, Corporal.” Grim faced, he studied his stricken son for long minutes after the soldier left. “Stubborn young fool,” he finally muttered before sneering at Eala. “Was it ye encouraged him to turn traitor?”
Ambrose stepped between them. “Yer son is alive, and ye are here now only thanks to Miss Calhoun’s courage. Perhaps, ye need to look elsewhere before assigning blame. However, we canna go into that with soldiers about. They believed Eala’s assertion he was yer son and therefore no Jacobite. His life is in yer hands now. If ye denounce him…”
It was a risk. Bruce could send them all to the gallows, Eala included, if he revealed they’d lied.
“Better he die at home,” the Provost growled. “For his mother’s sake.”
Ambrose breathed again, beckoning the ever-vigilant corporal who stood with his pudgy face pressed to one of the glass panes of the door. “I’ll come with ye and do everything I can to save his life.”
* * *
Jostled about as the wagon trundled away from the inn, Eala gripped the rough wood of the side and looked up at the painted sign of the Black Swan. Jumbled thoughts cascaded through her head. Perhaps, that’s what she had become, a black swan. EalaDhubh, the bringer of bad luck.
She had met her future father-by-marriage only once before. She’d resented his arrogant attitude at the ceremony that had sealed her fate as Evan’s betrothed. She liked him even less now as he rode ahead of the wagon, his broad back ramrod straight. It wouldn’t surprise her if he’d considered betraying his son to the military.
He’d made no secret of the fact he considered Eala an unsuitable bride for Evan. She was, after all, the daughter of the ne’er-do-well Rory Calhoun.
Eala pitied her father who seemed oblivious to Bruce’s disdain and stubbornly believed the marriage would bring him into favor with the rich and powerful in Perth.
The open animosity between Evan and his father had bothered her. The thought crossed her mind more than once that he’d pushed for the betrothal in order to thwart his father’s wishes. Evan’s timid mother was clearly intimidated by her husband and it was therefore difficult to know what she thought of the arrangement.
“Penny for yer thoughts,” Ambrose whispered from the bench opposite hers.
She shook her head, unwilling to share her dark musings with Evan lying unconscious between them and the corporal in the driver’s seat holding the reins. “At least he’s at peace for a short while.”
“’Twill be a long road,” he warned. “But the fact he’s survived despite everything augurs well.”
“Aye,” she murmured. “He’s strong.”
* * *
Ambrose was a descendant of a long line of heroes and heroines. His grandparents had played vital and dangerous roles during the Civil War. His uncles and aunts were known throughout Scotland for their courageous and sometimes unpopular efforts to rescue and educate orphaned and exploited bairns. His parents had risked their lives to infiltrate a rebel army during Argyll’s Rising. He knew all the stories off by heart, but hadn’t fully understood the emotional impact of one’s life being on the line. Now, he recognized the weight of dread lodged in his gut.
However, when the wagon drew to a halt outside an impressive four-story house in its own grounds beyond the main streets of Perth, it was the danger to Eala that concerned him the most. He didn’t know what to expect once they entered Bruce Manor. If Evan died, the elder Bruce might have no hesitation in denouncing them to the authorities.
The well-tended gardens were covered by a dusting of frost, and he suspected an army of gardeners toiled to keep the hedges manicured in the summer months. A poignant memory of Kilmer tugged at his heartstrings. He resolved to take Eala home as his bride once the danger had passed—to them and to Giles.
Vigil
Eala had never been inside Evan’s home. His father withheld permission for the betrothal documents to be signed there. It was ironic that she was only being allowed to enter now because Evan was near to death. She had no illusions about her reception if he didn’t survive.
A bevy of servants rushed to obey their master’s summons. They carried Evan into the house, past his weeping mother and up the wide staircase. Ambrose followed, medical bag in hand.
Eala hesitated at the foot of the stairs, uncertain as to the propriety of entering Evan’s chamber, but Ambrose beckoned. “I’ll need yer help,” he called.
She ignored the elder Bruce’s snarl, suddenly realizing she didn’t care a whit about the old man’s censure. Evan had to be the focus of her concern. Hiking up the hem of her skirts, she raced up the stairs and followed Ambrose into the chamber in time to see the servants lay their master’s son on an enormous four-poster bed. The linens had been pulled back, but their quality was plain to see. The fine furnishings, heavy draperies and expensive tapestries bespoke a chamber lavishly decorated by loving parents for their only son.
“Ye shouldna be here,” Evan’s father wheezed as he entered.
Jaw clenched, Ambrose glared. “Eala has worked tirelessly to save yer son’s life. If ye insist on berating her, I’ll ask ye to leave.”
It was clear from the Lord Provost’s gaping stare no one had ever spoken to him that way before. Eala stifled an urge to grin smugly.