Here Burns My Candle Part 25

When she did not respond, he had his answer.

After a long silence he heard her rise and quietly begin dressing, pulling on her stockings, gathering her petticoats, finding her shoes. One of the candles gave out, leaving the room darker still.

He stood behind her, longing to comfort her, knowing he was the last man on earth who could do so. "At least let me help you dress."

She did not move as he arranged her clothes, her gaze fixed on the remaining candle.

Words rushed to his lips, but he could not speak them. I do love you, Bess. The others meant nothing to me. You alone have my heart. She'd heard them all before. I've failed you as a husband. Aye, she'd heard that too. But his words were not enough.

Anxious to make amends, he gathered as many hairpins as he could and fastened the loose strands of her hair in place, without comb or mirror or any skill whatsoever. "Forgive me," he said when he finished, stepping back.

"For tonight?"

"Nae, la.s.s." He swallowed. "For all of it."

She turned toward him. "Oh, Donald..."

"I am more sorry than I can ever say." He looked into her eyes, letting the scales fall away, holding nothing back. "I cannot alter the past. But I can change the days to come."

"Please." She pressed her fingertips to her mouth as if his words sickened her. "Do not make such a promise."

"'Tis not a promise," he protested, "but a fact. When the Rising is over, when the prince's men return home, a different husband will cross your threshold. A husband who is faithful. A husband who honors his vows."

She bowed her head. In the still, shadowy room she said in a broken voice, "Donald, how I wish that might be so."

"It will be so." He reached for her hands, though his own were shaking. "Nae, from this moment on, it is so."

A loud knock at the door startled them both. "Kerr, the hour is spent." Duncan Belhaven's words were slurred, his laughter churlish. "I trust ye've finished as weel, milord."

"We have not." Donald leaned down, his forehead almost touching hers. "In truth, we have just begun."

Thirty-Nine.

Haste is needful in this desperate case.

WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.

E lisabeth studied the hands clasping hers. Pale skin, long fingers, slender wrists. The hands of a gentleman. The hands of a rake. Many women. He'd confessed as much weeks ago. Why had she not listened to the truth behind his words? I have a weakness...

"'Tis time I took my leave." Elisabeth eyed the door, her only means of escape. "Mr. Belhaven is waiting, and Gibson is down the stair."

"Please, dear wife." Donald drew her closer. "They can tarry a moment longer."

When he gazed into her eyes, her resolve began to waver. His regret had seemed genuine, had it not? And his vow sincere?

Before she knew it, his arms were encircling her. Donald kissed her so tenderly she could not help responding, telling herself that he meant what he said, that he loved her still, that he- "Enough," she pleaded, easing away from him, her body and soul at such odds she could barely put two words together. Help me. 'Twas the cry of her heart, though none could hear it. Help me know the truth.

Donald touched her cheek before releasing her. "If you insist, milady. But remember my vow. You alone and no other."

As he began gathering his clothes, she draped her wool cape across her shoulders, then drew the hood over her disheveled hair, her heart aching. Donald's request prodded at her. Forgive me. For all of it. How could she possibly do so? Yet how could she not if she loved him?

Help me. The words kept darting through her mind like birds in a gilded cage. But she dared not seek advice from Marjory or Janet, and her Highland mother was lost to her, it seemed. Elisabeth glanced at her great-grandmother's silver ring. The Nameless One was lost as well, a cold and distant moon. She would find no solace there.

Elisabeth s.h.i.+vered, though not from the cold. She'd never felt so alone. Was there nowhere she could turn for comfort? No one she could trust completely?

Her husband was still dressing when Duncan Belhaven knocked again, demanding the use of their shared lodgings. A woman's airy laugh slipped through the cracks in the door-a jarring counterpoint to the strained atmosphere within.

The soldier bellowed, "Surely ye've finished by now."

"Aye, aye," Donald grumbled, yanking on his coat, then jamming his feet into half-buckled shoes. Stock untied, periwig in hand, he flung open the door and scowled at his roommate. "Have you nae patience, man?"

"Nae mair than ye did, Lord Kerr." Broad-shouldered and copper-haired, his fellow Life Guard strode into the room, one of the tavern maids firmly attached to his side. "We've not the luxury of a lang hour. Jeanie must return to her labors." Mr. Belhaven winked boldly at Elisabeth. "I'll thank ye to take yer leave, milord. And yer bonny mistress with ye."

Donald's eyes narrowed. "Lady Kerr is my wife."

"Och! Begging yer pardon, mem." His exaggerated bow did not improve matters.

For a moment Elisabeth feared Donald might challenge him with steel or fist. Both were ill advised since the other man was taller, broader, and clearly stronger. Instead Donald s.n.a.t.c.hed his riding boots from the corner, grabbed Elisabeth's hand, and stormed into the hall without another word.

The door shut behind them with a decided bang.

"Idiot," Donald grumbled, stamping toward the stair, though his anger seemed to dissipate with each footfall.

A single wall sconce illumined the sagging wooden floor and un-painted walls of the narrow hallway. When they reached the midway point, Donald turned to look at her, his features bathed in a bright yellow pool of light. "Pardon my temper, la.s.s. Belhaven is a good soldier, but he sorely tries my patience."

She merely nodded, shocked by what the candles revealed. Deep furrows were carved into his chalky brow, and fear haunted his eyes.

Whatever bravado her husband might show the world, the sad truth stood before her. Elisabeth took the white cambric stock from his hand. "'Tis my turn to dress you." She tied the stiffened fabric round his neck, willing her hands to remain steady.

Donald's gaze never left hers. "We'll not be alone like this on the morrow."

"I know," she said quietly. The whole of Edinburgh would descend on Holyroodhouse to see the prince ride forth. But here in the empty hallway, no one watched or listened.

"My dear wife." He lightly rested his hand above her birthmark, hidden beneath layers of wool, silk, and linen. "I must ask you again. Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?"

She swallowed the lump rising in her throat. You are forgiven. Aye, she could speak the words. But would she truly mean them? The faces of all the women who'd danced with her husband, or smiled at him, or flirted with him swept through her heart like midwinter snow. "I am not certain."

"What must I do, then?" Donald caught her chin before she could turn away. "I've vowed to change my habits, and I will. Can you not trust me?"

"I... cannot." Tears stung her eyes. When he started to circle his arm round her waist, she stepped out of reach. "Please don't."

A look of anguish crossed his features. "Have I lost your love as well?"

"Nae." Elisabeth stepped out from the shadows so he might see her face as clearly as she saw his. "Even if I wished it so, I could not stop loving you."

Donald's voice was low. "Do you wish it?"

Pain pressed down on her like a millstone, grinding her will into dust. As deeply as it hurt to love him, 'twould hurt far more to lose him. "Nae," she said at last.

He kissed her brow, clearly relieved. "Then I shall work to earn your trust. And your forgiveness as well."

A door flew open at the far end of the hall. Slurred voices and m.u.f.fled laughter spilled out before the door abruptly closed and silence returned. The distraction gave Elisabeth time to gather her cape round her and her courage as well.

"Lord Kerr, I must go."

He did not object, only straightened his clothes, then offered his arm as if they were any happily married couple with naught on their minds but a good night's sleep. "Milady?"

While they retraced their path down the stair and through the noisy public room of the inn, Elisabeth's mind ran ahead to their parting on the morrow. So much had yet to be said. How could they repair the torn threads of their marriage across the miles with mere pen and ink?

"No sign of my brother and his wife," Donald said above the din, "but I believe I see Gibson waiting at the door."

She peered across the room, her view impaired by too much smoke and too few candles. Or was it the fresh wash of tears in her eyes? "Aye, 'tis him."

Donald moved his arm round her waist as if expecting her to be torn from his side. Alas, the prince would accomplish that in less than a day. Weeks, even months, might pa.s.s before she welcomed her husband home. Who knew what sort of man might return to cross her threshold? Scarred and weary from battle, hardened by the cruelties of war, the Donald she knew might never return.

A different husband. That was what he'd promised her. Yet for all his faults, for all his weaknesses, Donald was the man she loved.

You are a fool, her mind said.

You are faithful, her heart responded.

When they reached the inn door, Gibson greeted his master with a deep bow. "Guid eve, milord. I trust ye are weel."

Donald delivered his riding boots into the servant's hands. "I shall look far better when you've polished these. Send them by caddie in the morn, aye?"

As Gibson juggled the boots in one hand and his lantern in the other, Janet stepped round him, her chin thrust forward at a haughty angle, her small mouth drawn into a pout.

Donald inclined his head. "Many apologies, madam."

"I have been waiting a very long time," Janet grumbled.

Elisabeth realized Andrew was nowhere to be seen. "Are you quite ready?" she asked.

"Quite." Janet spun on her heel, sweeping her hem across the rough floor.

Something was amiss. Elisabeth could hardly sort it out with her own emotions in turmoil.

"Forgive me, milady, but I must go." Donald tightened his hold on her. "I'll send a messenger the moment I've news of our departure."

She eyed him a moment longer, fixing in her memory his tall, lean frame, his cool blue eyes, the narrow line of his mouth. "Look for us in the forecourt," she said softly, curtsying before her tears began in earnest.

As Donald bowed in return, she hastened for the open door leading to White Horse Close, forcing herself not to turn round, not to look back, not to call out his name.

Forty.

What a whirlwind is her head,

And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger

Is all the rest about her.

GEORGE GORDON, LORD BYRON.

J anet tarried at the top of the forestair, an impatient look on her face. "The dowager will have worn the carpet thin, fretting over us."

Elisabeth leaned down, pretending to brush the dust from her skirts, all the while mastering her emotions. "Gibson will hire sedan chairs and have us in Milne Square well before the drum sounds," she a.s.sured her sister-in-law, grateful the two would not travel home on foot. The climb was long, the night cold, and Janet's company often less than cordial. "I trust Mr. Kerr is well?"

"Well enough," Janet snapped, then turned and started down the stair.

Her sister-in-law seemed even more pernickitie than usual. Since Janet's gown was neat and every hair in place, perhaps she and Andrew had kept their distance in the confines of their borrowed room. Elisabeth hoped the couple had not argued on their last evening together, a regrettable way to send a man off to war. Her own distressing hour with Donald was hardly better.

"This way, leddies." Holding aloft his lantern, Gibson led the way, scowling at any and all who looked in their direction. Shrouded in darkness, the courtyard teemed with soldiers and travelers, cutpurses and ne'er-do-wells. Gibson carried neither pistol nor sword on his person, but Elisabeth knew he would not hesitate to reach for the small dirk hidden beneath his livery if needed. When they reached the Canongate at the end of the vaulted pend, he quickly hailed a sedan chair for her and pressed a silver sixpence into the chairman's hand. "I'll have anither for yer sister-in-law afore lang," he promised, and sent Elisabeth westward.

With Donald's boots on the floor beside her, she gripped the seat and braced herself for the jostling ride uphill. They hurried past change house and tavern, brewery and well, tolbooth and kirk before charging through the Netherbow Port and into the town proper. She heard the chairmen shouting in Gaelic, not slowing their pace until they trotted by the entrance to Halkerston's Wynd and into Milne Square.

Disembarking at Baillie's Land, she beckoned a caddie bearing a paper lantern to tarry by her side while she waited for Janet. For a ha'penny he would lead them safely up the stair and carry Donald's heavy boots as well. "My sister-in-law will be here shortly," Elisabeth promised the lad as they stood s.h.i.+vering in the cold, vacant square.

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched a small figure emerge from the dark recesses of the wynd and approach her with confident steps. A woman, Elisabeth quickly realized, younger than she, small and lithe, with fair hair and light-colored eyes that gleamed in the lantern light. She'd seen her before. At market perhaps?

Boldly sauntering up to her, the la.s.s thrust out her palm. "Have ye a coin to spare a fisherman's widow?" Her brown drugget gown was clean but worn, the sleeves patched, the lacing in her bodice frayed.

Instinctively Elisabeth touched the silk reticule hanging from her wrist. Some cutpurses were women who devised clever means of distracting their marks. But the la.s.s didn't bear the look of a thief. She also didn't have a silver beggar's badge sewn to her clothing, permitting her to beg in the parish.

"I am sorry to hear of your loss," she told the young widow, holding out a ha'penny. "Do you live in the neighborhood?"