Highlander's Hidden Destiny: A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel Page 2

  “Never mind me own affairs. I have come to tell the Regent that such actions are foolish and that any uprising will surely fail. The Hanoverians have the land in an iron grip and if the Regent makes a move then they will only increase their oppression of the people still loyal to the Stuart cause,” Feargan replied.

  It had long been his fear that any uprising would cause far more harm than good. There was simply not the popular support needed for the Regent to take control. He could rely upon a few loyal Highland families and the peasantry who still clung to the old religion, but the Hanoverian army were well equipped and prepared to deal with any insurrection.

  Feargan had no desire to see his people further oppressed, or to endure the wrath of the sitting monarch, who he knew could make life very difficult, indeed. The Laird of Loch Beira had come to France to reason with the Regent. He wanted to remind him that the romantic fantasies of a French court in exile were very different to that of real life in Scotland. There, simple folk eked out a living on the heather, and the desire for more bloodshed was dwindling rapidly, despite the blood-lust of some of the Highland chieftains.

  Hamish McBride shook his head and stared ponderously into his drink.

  “Ye will not change the Regent’s mind so easily. His life, and that of his dear departed faither, has been dedicated to the cause of winning back the throne from those Hanoverian impostors. The Highland clans will come to his aid, ye shall see.”

  “Aye, but the people are weary. When were ye last in Scotland, my friend?” Feargan said, slamming down his glass upon the bar, and causing others to look over at them in bemusement.

  “It is twenty years since last I set foot upon those bonnie shores and now I pray each day for the standard of our good Regent to fly above the castle at Edinburgh,” Hamish said, his wistful tone causing Feargan to shake his head.

  “Ye are delusional, just like the Regent, it seems. I will speak with him, I will get down on my knees if I have to, but I am telling ye and him that an invasion, an uprising, an insurrection, call it what ye will, will nae work. Ye are a philosopher, are ye nae?” Feargan said.

  “And what will? We are long past words, and sometimes it is the sword that must speak what the heart desires,” the old man replied, downing the last of his drink.

  At that moment, the door to the inn opened and the carriage driver appeared, his cloak thick set with snow, which he proceeded to shake onto the floor, much to the proprietor’s annoyance. A string of expletives was exchanged between the two men, and the driver informed Feargan that he had managed to dig the wheels of the carriage out of the ruts and right it, ready for the morning.

  “We shall be at the Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye by lunchtime, monsieur,” he said. “I have done my best.”

  “Aye, well, the weather is not yer fault, as ye say. Ye shall have yer fee, but we shall take along this man, too, at nay extra charge, dae ye hear me?” Feargan said, as he dismissed the man.

  “Of course, monsieur,” the carriage driver said, seemingly relieved to simply be out of the snow for the night.

  “A carriage ride to the château? How kind of ye,” Hamish McBride said, as the carriage driver was served the now congealing stew from the pot above the fire.

  “Aye, I need ye to introduce me to the Regent, with whom ye say ye ken so well,” Feargan said, smiling at the man who shook his head once again.

  “Ye shall have nay luck in persuading him to yer mad ideas. Fancy coming all the way from Scotland to tell the Regent he is a fool to return to the land which is rightfully his. I have never heard of such a thing,” the old man said, rising from his place at the bar.

  “That is because ye have lived yer whole life amongst those who believe it to be an easy task for the rightful king to return to his inheritance. Believe me, now is not the right time. As much as I long to see a Stuart upon the throne, I will tell the Regent a hundred times that he should not invade and cause more loss of life,” Feargan said.

  But the old tutor just shook his head and wished the Laird of Loch Beira a goodnight. Feargan sat for a little longer, nursing a drink, as around him the revelry began to die down and the fire burned low.

  He was determined to put his case to the Regent and avoid the possibility of any uprising. There was much at stake, and as he bedded down for the night, in a poky bedroom atop a rickety flight of steps, Feargan knew that the next few days were crucial if the Stuart cause were to be saved.

  2

  The following morning dawned brightly, and Feargan was awoken by sunlight streaming through the window, and the sounds of the proprietor in the yard below. He was shouting to the stable boy and Feargan rolled over on the uncomfortable bed, pulling the blanket over him, a draught having blown across him from the broken window throughout the night.

  “Miserable place,” he said to himself, struggling out of bed and splashing icy water upon his face from a jug on the washstand.

  He rubbed his eyes and gazed at his reflection in the cracked mirror which hung upon the wall. He was a handsome man, his black hair and blue eyes set amidst an attractive face, though the travels from Scotland had taken their toll. He hoped that he would at least receive the hospitality of the court in exile, if not its ears.

  Feargan was under no illusion that the Regent would listen to his pleas—old Hamish McBride had been right about that. It was clear from the secret correspondences he had received, and from the whisperings amongst his Catholic neighbors, that an uprising, led by Charles Edward Stuart, was inevitable. It would be the cause of much bloodshed and distress, not least for men like Feargan, who would bear the brunt of their Hanoverian impostor’s wrath.

  As he finished dressing Feargan looked at the stark, little crucifix which hung above the bed, and closing his eyes he knelt in prayer, asking the Lord for deliverance and safety, not only for himself but for the whole Stuart cause. As he made the sign of the cross, a knock came at the door and the voice of the carriage driver broke the silence of his prayer.

  “Monsieur, zi carriage is waiting for you, and zi innkeeper has prepared a breakfast, though you may wish to depart immediately.”

  “I daenae wish to spend a moment longer in this foul place. Get the carriage ready, and see to it that Mr. McBride is ready to join us,” Feargan called back, wrapping his cloak around himself and leaving his unpleasant quarters behind.

  Downstairs he paid the proprietor for his troubles and had just finished settling up, when Hamish McBride appeared in the bar, dragging a heavy trunk behind him.

  “I am grateful to ye for yer kind offer of transportation. How I would have managed with this trunk I daenae ken,” Hamish said, handing the innkeeper his payment and dragging the trunk out behind Feargan.

  “How did ye get it from Paris to here without a carriage?” Feargan asked, as the carriage driver loaded their cases into the back of the now salvaged vehicle.

  “A kind man from Bordeaux gave me a lift, but he would not go further than the inn for his road lay to the south. Clearly, the good Lord intended for us to meet,” Hamish said, settling himself into the carriage as Feargan climbed in next to him.

  “If ye secure me an audience with the Regent, then I shall believe that,” he replied, as the driver urged on the horses and the carriage trundled along the road once again.

  The cold morning had caused the snow to freeze, and now the carriage moved far easier along the road, though its motion was most uncomfortable for the occupants and the driver, who had to rein in the horses on several occasions as the carriage slid its way towards Saint Germain-en-Laye. Hamish McBride attempted to engage Feargan in conversation on several occasions, but the young Laird was more interested in his own musings and stared resolutely from the window at the winter landscape beyond.

  “We should have taken a sledge, just like the old Norsemen used to back home in the Highlands during winter,” Hamish said, as the carriage slid to the side for a fourth time, causing the driver to curse.

  Feargan made no reply, hi
s thoughts turned to the Regent and the words he would say if ever he got the chance to speak with him. He had been preparing for this moment for the past six months and was determined that the young Prince would hear him out.

  As they rounded a bend in the road the carriage slid once again, sending Feargan hurtling across the seat and colliding with Hamish who was knocked to the floor.

  “I should have walked. Even dragging the trunk, it would have been more comfortable,” the old man said, laughing, as he pulled himself back up onto the seat.

  “Is it far now, driver?” Feargan called, pulling down the window of the carriage and leaning out.

  “You will see zi château in just a moment, monsieur, it is a fine sight indeed to behold.”

  In a few moments the carriage slid once more around a corner and just as the driver had said, the Château de Saint-Germain-en-Laye came into view, obscured a little by a line of bare trees, their branches thick with snow and through which the outline of that stunning building could be seen.

  “It is quite a magnificent place to call home,” Hamish said, leaning over to look out of the window next to Feargan.

  The château was of a quite unique design, and unlike many fine English houses it was built, not symmetrically, but with two quite distinct wings, one of which ran at an angle back towards the gardens, whilst the other jutted out in front. The façade of the house was white, its windows large, and it extended to four or five floors, depending upon which part was viewed. The gardens, though bare and snow covered, stretched out to woodland in the distance, and the entire effect was one of considerable grandeur. A fitting home for a court in exile, though one reached by the roughest of roads.

  “There is nothing like this in Scotland for the Regent and his retinue,” Feargan said, shaking his head, as he pictured his own rather more humble abode.

  The Lairds of Loch Beira were by no means the wealthiest of Scotland’s nobility, though Feargan possessed a modest enough fortune. His own home, on the banks of the Loch, was a far cry from the splendors of a French château, though it had served the family well over the years. A fortified farmhouse, to which had been added extra rooms over the years, giving the effect of a house which told the story of the family who had inhabited it for many generations.

  As the carriage approached the château, Feargan looked up at the imposing building above him, wondering if the Regent was there at this moment. Feargan’s letters had fallen on deaf ears and it was for that reason that he had decided to make the journey to France himself, in order to present his case and plead with the Regent to change his mind. Now that he was here, amidst the grandeur and splendor of the court in exile, he wondered how he would be received.

  “Allow me to make yer introductions, lad, and ye say ye wish to have nothin’ to dae with the nobility?” Hamish said, as the carriage pulled up outside the château and several footmen came rushing forward.

  “Unless it fulfils my purposes to speak with the Regent, then nay,” Feargan replied, gathering up his bags and following Hamish out of the carriage and onto the forecourt.

  The château appeared even more daunting at close quarters, and Feargan looked up at the imposing façade, shaking his head as he thought once again of the peaceful loch at Beira and the simplicity of life at home.

  Several other carriages had driven up, as though this place were a meeting point for every exiled Englishman and disenchanted Scot this side of the channel, which of course it was. The exiled Regent was a rallying point for all those who despised the Hanoverians who ruled at home. King Louis XV was only too glad to assist his cousin in his cause against the Protestant pretenders of England.

  The château was a place of meeting, a seat of government in exile, and home to a retinue of nobility whose lavish entertainments were the stuff of Parisian legend.

  “The Laird of Loch Beira will require lodgings for his stay with us,” Hamish McBride told the footman, who had looked surprised at the arrival of Feargan alongside the old tutor. “Is the Regent here?”

  “Yes, sir, the Regent is in his apartments, but he has given strict instructions not to be disturbed at this time,” the footman replied, as Hamish’s trunk was unloaded, and Feargan’s bags taken inside.

  “We shall see,” Hamish replied. “Come now, let us get in, out of the cold. This way,” and he led Feargan inside, the opulence of the château amazing the young Laird, after the hardships of the road he had endured since leaving Scotland behind.

  The grand entrance hall was styled in a classical manner, with ornate columns rising on either side and large portraits depicting the kings of France, hanging imposingly in-between. The floor was of inlaid marble of black and white, and the space was busy with courtiers flitting back and forth, servants going about their business, and grand ladies in their finery whispering to one another as they passed the time of day.

  Feargan looked in awe around him. He had heard of the beauty of Versailles, and seen for himself the opulence of Paris, and now that he had arrived at the home of the Stuarts his wonder only increased.

  “It is, as ye say, quite magnificent,” Feargan said, turning to Hamish in wonderment.

  “The first château was built here in 1164 by Louis VI and it has been added to ever since. Ye wouldnae ken it was the same building from the old books about the place. Each monarch has imposed his own style. They used it as a hunting lodge from Versailles, and then it was gifted to the Stuarts in 1688,” Hamish said, as Feargan continued to admire the ornate gilding and painted ceiling above, which was covered in golden fleur-de-lis against a dark blue backdrop so as to give the appearance of the evening sky.

  “It is some hunting lodge,” Feargan replied, thinking back to the bothies which he and his father would sleep in when they used to hunt the stag back on the heather around Loch Beira.

  “Your rooms are prepared, sir,” the footman told Feargan, “if you would like to follow me this way.”

  “Aye, wait one moment,” Feargan replied, turning to Hamish, “ye have not forgotten yer promise now, have ye?” he said.

  “If the Regent daenae wish to be disturbed then yer chances of an audience are slim, but I shall try my best for ye, lad, once my duties are attended to,” Hamish replied, as the two prepared to take leave of one another.

  “Yer duties? Are ye not a man of leisure? It seems this house is entirely given over to such things,” Feargan replied, watching as several of the male courtiers exchanged greetings with two women in long flowing gowns, who fanned themselves and blushed at the advances.

  “I am called upon from time to time, even now in my old age, as the ladies of this house still enjoy hearing of the finer points of philosophy and will be keen to ken what I have heard from Monsieur Voltaire in Paris. There is a dance tonight, I trust ye shall join the fun?” Hamish said.

  Feargan was not one for such frivolities. His home in Scotland was a peaceful one and there was rarely cause for revelry. But he knew that if he were to secure his audience with the Regent he must enter into the spirit of the court and nodding his head he accepted the invitation.

  “I shall look forward to it. Good day to ye,” he said, and the two parted ways, Feargan following the footman up the wide and richly carpeted staircase.

  The corridors of the château seemed to stretch endlessly in either direction. Miles of plush red carpets passed door after door, the way marked by exquisite pieces of art and tapestries hanging from the walls. It was like nothing Feargan had ever seen, further proof, if any were needed, that the Stuart’s desire to return to their inheritance was ill-founded. Why ever would they wish to give up such grandeur for the draughty halls of Scottish castles and the loneliness of the moorland heather?

  “If you require anything further, sir, please inform the steward. The court dines at seven o’clock and the dancing will begin at eight o’clock,” the footman said, setting Feargan’s bags in his room and effecting a low bow as he left the room, his liveried waistcoat and powdered wig a striking contrast to Fearg
an’s simple yet handsome appearance.

  The room was lavishly furnished—a large bed comfortably made with satin sheets and richly embroidered pillows, a desk, wardrobe and other furniture of the finest mahogany, and gilt-edged chairs cushioned in exquisite fabrics. A far cry from the simply furnished chambers of home.

  Feargan sighed and warming his hands by the fire, which burned merrily in the grate, he then made his way over to the large window which looked out on the gardens below. Several men and women were taking the air, some gesticulating wildly, perhaps discussing the latest news from home or the latest Parisian scandal.

  It was a seemingly perfect world, cocooned away in exile from a reality which belonged to a new age. This was the past—a Stuart enclave, protected by the power of France. The Regent had no idea what his true Kingdom was like and Feargan was determined to make him realize that.