Children of the Mist Read online

  THE SCORCHING FLAMES OF LOVE AND DUTY

  “Och, I’m looking forward to teaching you submission,” Darach growled provokingly, pulling the robe over her tousled jet mane as she stood shaking with barely suppressed ire. “Aye, you’re a comely wench, and I’m a most fortunate groom,” he teased, lowering his dark head and brushing his firm lips across her rebellious mouth. He laughed harshly, avoiding her sharp teeth as she snarled and tried to nip him. “To bed, my little bride. ’Tis time we truly celebrate our marriage in proper Scottish custom by remaining secluded in the privacy of our own chamber for several days and nights . . .”

  Also by Aleen Malcolm

  THE TAMING

  RIDE OUT THE STORM

  THE DAUGHTERS OF CAMERON

  KENLAREN

  ALEEN MALCOLM

  Children of the Mist

  FUTURA

  A Futura Book

  Copyright © 1986 by Saxonia Productions, Inc.

  First published in Great Britain in 1987 by Futura Publications, a Division of Macdonald & Co (Publishers) Ltd London & Sydney

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  ISBN 0 7088 3164 8

  Printed and bound in Great Britain by Collins, Glasgow

  Futura Publications A Division of Macdonald & Co (Publishers) Ltd Greater London House Hampstead Road London NW17QX

  A BPCC pic Company

  Table of Contents

  Children of the Mist part one

  chapter 1

  chapter 2

  chapter 3

  chapter 4

  chapter 5

  chapter 6

  chapter 7

  chapter 8

  chapter 9

  chapter 10

  chapter 11

  part two

  chapter 12

  chapter 13

  chapter 14

  chapter 15

  chapter 16

  chapter 17

  chapter 18

  chapter 19

  chapter 20

  chapter 21

  chapter 22

  part three

  chapter 23

  chapter 24

  chapter 25

  chapter 26

  chapter 27

  chapter 28

  chapter 29

  Glossary of Gaelic and Scottish Words

  part one

  Scots are like witches; do but whet your pen,

  Scratch till the blood come, they'll not hurt you then.

  Now as the martyrs were enforced to take

  The shapes of beasts, like hypocrites at stake,

  I'll bait my Scot so, yet not cheat your eyes;

  A Scot within a beast is no disguise.

  No more let Ireland brag her harmless nation

  Fosters no venom since the Scot's plantation:

  Nor can ours feigned antiquity maintain;

  Since they came in, England hath wolves again.

  Had Cain been Scot, God would have changed his doom

  Not forced him to wander but confined him home!

  —John Cleveland, 1613-1658

  from the Rebel Scot

  chapter 1

  France, 1759

  Rain lashed at the windows of the small attic room, and the wind skirled and whined through the many cracks and holes of the ramshackle house, guttering the candles that poignantly lit the sorrowful scene. The occupants of the room were frozen in a tableau about a bed where a wasted woman lay with a small boy curled in sleep within the comfort of her skeletal arms. Two young girls sat on each side of their dying mother, the flickering light captured inside the tears that silently streamed down their smooth cheeks and played across their bowed heads. One had hair as fair and fine as spun gold, and the other’s was as thickly dark as the sheen on a raven’s wing. An old woman stood in the shadows, her pleated lips pursed tightly, trying to smother the sobs that shook her bent body.

  “Katrine, ’tis best you go now and find your father,” urged the old woman, gently nudging the dark child. Green, tear-filled eyes flashed angrily and the glossy black head was fiercely shaken. “Go on wie you now, wee-an. If you dinna fetch him, there’ll be the de’il to pay. Auld Simmie has gone for the doctor, so there’s just you,” she pleaded.

  Katrine allowed her old nurse to usher her from the room. She stared at the closed door, trying to stop her torrent of tears. “What if she wakes and needs me?” she asked, sobbing.

  “She’ll wait till you are back. She might be ill, but Suibhan MacNiall MacGregor has a strong spirit,” the old woman returned huskily. “Now, off wie tha’ gown and into your trews. Sinfu’, it is, tha’ a fine, well-born young lady should hae to dress up like a common street urchin and go searching the brothels and taverns,” she muttered angrily beneath her breath as the girl stepped out of the ill-fitting, threadbare gown and pulled tight trews over her lithe legs.

  “So, I hae to pull my drunken father out of a whore’s bed and bring him home to my dying mother?” Katrine spat derisively.

  “Bite tha’ bitter tongue, my lass. Your puir father has enough hate and fury for the world, so we dinna need more from you!”

  “How can you defend him, Aggie? My mother’s dying—and he’s rutting like some animal! It has been more’n a week since we last saw him, and he knows how ill she is!”

  “Keep your voice down! I’ll nae hae your thoughtless, unruly mouth upsetting your mother. Your father is a mon, and you are a wee-an of barely twelve. Aye, ’tis a hard life and you should not be knowing aboot a mon’s appetites, but you do. And here’s a wee bit more to ponder,” she hissed, tying back the thick hair with a piece of twine. “Each mon deals wie grief in a different way. There’s many a mon who canna deal wie sickness or a woman’s weakness, and they hide from it—put their energies to other... things...”

  “Aye, to that wee tail between their legs!”

  “Och, Katrine MacGregor,” Aggie reproved softly after a stunned silence. She stared into the young girl’s face, sadly noting the fury that distorted the exquisite features. “Here’s your hat,” she added, roughly cramming the black felt over the ebony hair so the shadow of the brim muted the hard rebellious expression.

  Katrine hesitated at the top of the steep narrow stairs, hearing the sharp scrambling of hard rats’ nails in the darkness below. She was very conscious of the heavy silence behind her mother’s door. A terrible shudder shook her slight frame and she turned back to her old nurse.

  “Och, Aggie, I maun kiss my mama just one last time,” she whispered, her green eyes wide and brimming with pain. Not a trace of the hard bitterness remained. She was a soft, sorrowing little child. Old Aggie held her close for a second, then thrust her toward the door. Kat sidled into the room. Macaree, her fourteen-year-old sister, looked up and frowned at seeing Katrine’s masculine attire. Her pale, delicate hand held her mother’s.

  “What is it, my gentle Macaree? What is it, my wee fairy lady?” whispered Suibhan. Kat froze upon hearing her mother’s voice. “Is it my wee Wild Kat?” she asked, her sunken eyes trying to probe the looming, moving shadows.

  “Aye, ’tis me,” answered Kat, her voice cracking with emotion. She removed her hat and hung back, somehow afraid to approach the bed.

  “Come closer,” Suibhan said weakly. Macaree exchanged a fe
arful glance with her younger sister. Afraid that their mother would fret at seeing her dressed as a boy and surmise that once more her errant husband had to be fetched from some sordid place, Kat yanked the confining twine from her hair so that her lustrous raven curls encircled her face. Then she obeyed her mother.

  “Here I am,” she said, trying to be cheerful but unable to stop the tears.

  Suibhan gazed up at her daughter and reached a thin trembling hand to stroke the wet cheeks.

  “Aye, here you are, my wee Wild Kitten—my bardach Kat. Och, dinna cry for me, my wee warrior. Weep for thyself, for I am leaving you with an awesome task. You are my strong one despite your tender years, and you maun take care of my gentle Macaree and wee Robbie.” Her hand clawed painfully, tangling in Kat’s hair. “You maun protect them,” she repeated urgently.

  “Aye, I swear to it.” Katrine wept, taking her mother’s hands in hers.

  “And where’s my gentle Macaree? Where’s my fairy princess?” asked Suibhan, panic sharpening her voice. She frantically pulled her hands away from Kat’s and flailed the air.

  “I’m here, Mother.” Macaree’s soft musical voice and soothing touch calmed Suibhan. “I’ve not left you.”

  “You should be dressed in silks and laces, my golden angel-child. Look at you, as perfect as a china doll. Take care of her, Kat, dinna let any stain her pure beauty. Macaree, you maun be mother to wee Rob . . . You and Aggie maun mother him well so he grows to manhood straight and true.” Suibhan absently ruffled her sleeping son’s flaxen head, and Macaree’s gentle tears fell on the faded and much-darned coverlet.

  “Go quickly, Katrine,” urged Aggie when once again the woman lay motionless, her eyes wide and fixed.

  “Is she ... ?” Macaree asked fearfully.

  “She’s having herself a wee rest,” Aggie said comfortingly. “Take care of Robbie,” she ordered as the little boy tossed fretfully. “And you, Miss Katrine . . But the girl had already rushed from the room, and her swift feet took the dark rickety stairs two at a time.

  The wet night air stung Kat’s cheeks. She bent her head against the icy wind as she raced across the shining cobblestones of the winding streets toward the raucous sounds of the tavern. She impatiently pushed her way through the milling crowd of men, not heeding the cuffs and shoves she received in return. She deftly dodged under restraining arms and fled to the small hidden gaming room in the back.

  “L’écossais MacGregor n’est pas ici, et s’il était ici, je le donnerais . . . ” A brawny arm picked her up and she was carried through the public house, hearing what manner of violence the enormous man would inflict upon the Scot MacGregor if he were there. Katrine was roughly thrown into the street; she scrambled to her feet as other angry voices joined in with suggestions of what havoc to wreak on the man who cheated at cards, robbing honest workers of their hard-earned money. Katrine rubbed her sore ribs and fled from the chorus of drunken yells.

  Obviously, her father had been there earlier, and from the anger that had met her at the mention of his name, she surmised that his pockets were well lined. She scampered through the dark, wet streets not daring to slow her pace, although she had a painful stitch in her side. She entered the fashionable district and raced through the wider, cleaner streets, nimbly dodging carriages and elegantly dressed couples, ignoring the shouts as her feet splashed through puddles and doused silks and satins. Gasping for breath, she arrived at an imposing town house, where each pink-laced-draped window was lit and the sounds of laughter and music could be heard.

  Wise to the ways of footmen toward uninvited guests, Kat grasped the heavy knocker in both hands and let it fall. She then dodged to one side. The massive door was opened, and when the servant stepped out to see who was there, she ducked behind him and crept into the house. Several rooms led off the large marbled entrance hall; the ornate doors were all wide open and cloying, heavy perfume assailed her small nose. Seductively dressed women were draped across sofas and men’s laps.

  “Gregor MacGregor!” Kat yelled at the top of her lungs, knowing she had just a few scant seconds to be heard before she would be once again thrown into the street. “Gregor MacGregor!” she screamed again, directing her voice upstairs, hoping he wasn’t ensconced out of hearing range in one of the bedrooms. “Gregor MacGregor! Your wife is on her deathbed!” She took advantage of the stunned inaction as many pairs of dazed eyes turned to stare with disbelief at the small ragged urchin. They’re all drugged to the gills! she thought contemptuously as she recognized the sickly sweet smell of opium mixed with the many perfumes used to cover unwashed bodies. “Gregor MacGregor!” she shrieked as rough hands grabbed her.

  “Laissez le garçon!” purred a low voice, and the liveried servant released Kat instantly and stepped back as a heavily painted older woman approached. “Cherchez I’écossais MacGregor,” she ordered, waving a gloved hand toward the ceiling.

  “Merci, madame,” thanked Kat when the servant had swiftly run up the stairs. She stood still, hearing the blood pulse in her ears, biting the insides of her cheeks and trying to ignore the curious stares of the indolent people who clustered in the doorways.

  “You are in the employ of the Scot MacGregor?” the painted woman queried softly in English. Kat nodded. “Then you know better than to keep your head covered in front of your superiors, boy.” She reached out and snatched the hat from Katrine’s head. “Your master may have many inexcusable faults, but bad manners is not one of them,” she added as the lustrous ebony hair settled about the child’s poignant face, and fear-filled green eyes gazed at her.

  “What a pretty little boy you are,” she remarked. “I have many clients who would pay much to taste your sweet innocence.”

  “Gregor MacGregor!” screeched Kat, backing away from the grotesque woman, whose colorless wet tongue licked painted waxed lips, her spittle beading on the bright vermilion.

  "What the hell is going on?” a deep voice bellowed, and for the first time in many years Kat was relieved to see her father.

  She forgot she was meant to be perceived as his servant. She turned and ran up the stairs toward him, not noticing the disarray of his elegant clothes or the strange angle of his wig.

  “Oh, Father, I’m glad I found you. It’s Mother . . .” she managed to say before a blow across the face silenced her.

  “How dare you!” he roared, propelling her down the stairs by the scruff of her neck and striding purposefully toward the front door.

  “That is your son?” the painted woman inquired greedily.

  “A bastard ... a love child,” Gregor said dismissively.

  “Mother’s dying. You must come!” cried Kat, pulling desperately at her father’s brocade coat.

  “Get awa’ from here, you foolish child,” hissed Gregor. “And why on earth should I be at the bedside of a pox-ridden slut?” He spoke loudly, for the benefit of the assembled audience.

  “Let the joli petit garçon stay, MacGregor, and peat-être I shall conveniently forget the very large amount of money that you owe me,” the painted woman wheedled. Her suggestions were received with enthusiasm by several men. A mighty shove dislodged Kat’s grasping hands and propelled her down the hard stone steps. Her already bruised cheekbone smashed on the sharp stones of the street, but she agilely scrambled to her feet as she felt her father’s hoarse whisper searing her ear.

  “Run, my wee-an, run!” he ordered, and she ran as though her very life depended on it. There had been something so shiny, pink, and evil in the opulence of the high-class brothel, something that made her feel sick. She longed to be back in the poor but cozy comfort of the dim attic, cuddled with her siblings and her mother beneath the ragged quilt, sharing warmth, singing silly songs, and telling funny stories.

  “Mother,” she sobbed. “Oh, Mother.” Unbearable grief welled up inside of her at the realization that very soon such comfort and safety would no longer exist for her. She increased her speed and, blinded by her tears and her wild mop of hair, barreled into
a tall, strong figure.

  “Excusez-moi... monsieur, ” she managed to choke.

  Darach Campbell caught his breath upon seeing the face of the small ragged urchin. Startling green eyes gazed up at him, bewildered and full of pain. Tears spilled down, mixing with blood from a gashed cheek. There was a still, frozen moment, and then the small child fought free of Campbell’s steadying hands and whirled away into the wet, windy night. Darach watched until the fleet figure had faded into the inhospitable shadows, a frown creasing his handsome face. Something teased his mind. The boy seemed nightmarishly familiar, yet he couldn’t fathom why. Finally, chiding himself for foolishness, he resumed his walk. Paris, like any other city, was full of homeless waifs, and yet a picture of the pain-filled little face nagged at him.

  Kat’s legs felt like jelly as she ran up the narrow flight of rickety stairs. At the landing she stopped and listened. On hearing the sounds of steady weeping and the shrill unhappy voice of her five-year-old brother, she slumped dejectedly against the wall.

  “I want my mama!” was the strident demand. “Mama? Mama? Wake up!”

  “I want my mama, too,” whispered Kat, sitting on the stairs. The terrible realization of her mother’s death dug into her whole being. “I will be strong for you, Mama,” she promised, willing her tears away. She sat in the darkness, listening to Macaree’s gentle tear-filled voice trying to sing a lullaby.

  “She’s not dead, she’s not! She’d never leave me!” Rob screamed angrily. “Wake up, Mama!”

  Kat opened the door and stood numbly watching the small boy try to shake his dead mother awake. Aggie and Macaree stood weeping in each other’s arms. Heavy, weary feet trudged slowly up the creaking stairs, and Aggie’s husband, Simmie, shuffled in and sorrowfully removed his woollen cap.