First Chapter

The Destiny

Warner Forever

Chapter One

"Is he dead?" They were just wee lads, the two who spoke over him, their voices hushed and excited as they discussed whether he was still alive.

Neil MacCurrie wasn't sure himself. He should open his eyes, should say something to the lads, get them to tell him on whose lands this small stone cottage in which he'd slept was. And in a moment, when he was sure his body still worked, he would.

He'd not frozen last night, which for a while had been a distinct possibility; nor had he been set upon on his way north from London, another good thing. But overall the trip had been a disaster from the moment his cousin Duncan had rowed him ashore on the coast of France.

It was supposed to have been a simple-and short-trip. He'd visit James Stuart, find out what, if anything, the deposed king planned, and head home. But nothing had gone as he'd hoped. Instead of staying for days, he'd been in France for weeks, waiting with myriad others for a five- minute conversation with the king. When at last it came, the conversation was as illuminating as it was cheerless. But it helped him decide what he would do next.

The first thing was to get home, a task that proved as elusive as securing the royal interview. The delays at court meant he missed the ship that he planned to take on his return, and instead had to take one heading for London, which meant he had to make his way overland, through an England that would not welcome him.

And now this, getting lost in a snowstorm. He should have stayed in Warwick yesterday when the storm hit, but he'd been watched too closely at the inn and thought it wise to head north. It seemed that no matter what he did, something unexpected changed his course, as though he were struggling against a force that was playing with him, challenging him to find a way out of the latest maze. It was not a feeling he enjoyed.

"I think he's dead," one of the boys whispered. "Touch him." "No! You touch him!"

Neil opened his eyes. The boys scurried across the room and watched him with terrified expressions. Speak French, he reminded himself. The disguise was tedious, but necessary.

"Bonjour," he said. The boys exchanged a look.

"Hello," he tried, careful of his accent. He was rewarded with a tempering of their fear. One of the boys swallowed, then echoed his greeting. Neil waved his hand to indicate the filthy cottage they were in. "Where ...?" "Ronley Hall, sir," the boy said.

Neil smiled. He'd found it, despite the deep snows and the wild winds that had driven him to find shelter where he could. In good weather he would have reached Ronley Hall in two hours, but the blizzard had almost stopped his progress, leaving him facing a night outside. He had breathed a prayer of thanks when the cottage appeared through the waves of ice that pummeled him, then stumbled into the empty house and ate a hasty meal before rolling himself in his topcoat and letting sleep find him. He began to relax. He'd been told in London that this house, between Warwick and Coventry, was safe, that Sir Adam Ronley welcomed those who shared his politics. His luck, it seemed, was turning at last.

"Sir Adam?"

The boys shared another look, then gestured for him to follow. They led him outside into the daylight, where he paused, taking a moment to look around. He'd spent the night in an old gatekeeper's cottage, at the edge of the manor house's property, only a few minutes from the main house. In the snowstorm he had not seen the new cottage built nearby, nor the small cluster of outbuildings, nor the long sweeping drive to the elegant country home. Sir Adam, it seemed, was a wealthy man.

The boys left him in the yard, where footmen greeted him with curious questions, but no hostility. Neil spoke French to them, or very broken English with a heavy accent, asking how far it was to Coventry. They didn't understand him, nor know what to do with him, that much was obvious. They watched with wide eyes and told each other that someone should fetch Milford, then led him into the hall, where he was shown a seat by the fire.

Milford would be here soon, said the girl who brought him a plate of steaming food. When he smiled at her, she darted away like a mouse. He ate the meal without haste, ignoring the curious glances thrown him by the bustling servants. Most likely this Milford was the factor or steward here, who would be sent to inspect the new arrival, then report to his overlord. Neil would be polite, but would speak to Sir Adam himself.

The wait was long, but he was content to stand before the huge fireplace in the comfortable hall, well furnished with the long table at which he'd eaten his meal, chairs before the fire and couches set below the glazed windows. There were pictures on the wall, a Chinese vase on a table. Adam had done well for himself.

Neil tossed his topcoat onto a nearby bench and opened his coat, thinking as he did that no matter how long he wore these French clothes, they still did not feel like his own. It wouldn't be much longer. For now, he was full, he was warm, and soon he'd be able to speak English again. His ruse had been successful thus far, and would be needed to get him home, but he was weary of it.

The man who joined him after more than an hour's wait was tall and fleshy, but fit, several years older than Neil, with dark hair still wet with snow. And a guarded expression. He stood in the doorway for a moment, then came into the hall followed by several armed men, who filed into a line along the wall. He stopped before Neil, looking into his eyes.

Neil nodded. "Monsieur." Eileen Ronley looked up from her embroidery as Sim burst into the room, skidding to a stop in front of her. The scrawny boy was breathless, his face scrunched with worry, but since Sim had spent most of his ten years in that condition, she was not particularly alarmed. Still, his agitation was contagious and she gave him all her attention.

"You're wanted in the hall, miss," Sim gasped. "Milford said to tell you to hurry, he needs you at once." Eileen sighed and looked over the boy's head. Milford always said to tell her to hurry. He thought of no one's needs but his own; everything must be done on his schedule. She knew what he wanted-she'd hurry to the hall, smile and sit while the latest of Milford's marriage prospects assessed her.

What would he see? A woman with thick blond hair that defied the pins she kept in it, whose freckles showed no matter how much she stayed out of the sun. This one wouldn't want her either, but at least she had the comfort of knowing it was not just her person that he would reject. A woman without connections or dowry was not welcome in the marriage market, especially one whose family had chosen the wrong side to back in the war between King James and King William.

As usual, Milford had not warned her, would not want her to take time to change her clothes or comb her hair. She sighed again, looking down at the gown she wore, one of her oldest. Black, despite the fact that she was now out of mourning. It had been two years-two long years-since her parents' deaths, but there had been no money for new clothes and she'd not had the luxury of putting it aside. It would have to do yet again.

"Hurry, miss, please." Sim shifted his weight, his brows furrowed.

She smiled to calm him. "Don't worry, Sim. Tell Milford I'll be there shortly." The boy started away, but she called him back. "What does this one look like?" she asked. Sim's expression shifted from worry to confusion. "Is there a man Milford wants me to meet?" The boy nodded.

"Who is he?" "I've never seen him before, miss." "What does he look like?" Sim shrugged. "Big. Fearsome, miss. Looks through you. Milford brought his guards with him." "Splendid," she murmured. This, then, would be the one man with standards so low that he would agree to marry her.

When she entered the hall, Milford was sitting at the end of the long table, the stranger facing him with his back to her. Sim was right; the visitor was big. And heavily armed. A sword hung from his hip, a long dagger from his waist, two pistols were tucked into the sides of his belt.

In the past, when Milford was introducing her to a possible husband, he'd been falsely jovial, loudly welcoming, treating her as though she were a treasured relative that he would hate to lose. Now he gave her only the briefest of glances and grunted for her to join them. Milford's guards, standing behind him and near the fireplace, looked relieved to see her.

Eileen walked toward them and stood next to the stranger, but did not look at his face. What little she'd seen on her approach had been daunting. He wore no wig, his dark hair instead drawn back neatly and tied behind his neck. His clothes were fashionably cut. He wore a black fitted brocade coat that stretched across his wide shoulders and hugged a lean torso; a topcoat of fine black wool trimmed with braid lay on the bench next to him. His linen shirt was white, his gathered breeches buff, his neck cloth silk. Simple black leather gloves rested in his long fingers. A man of obvious means.

She looked down at her clothes, seeing the many places she'd mended the muslin, the tear in her hem. He would think her a pauper.

"He's French," Milford said. "Or at least that's what he speaks."

The stranger rose to his feet and faced her. He was very tall; she stepped back as he bowed to her, then straightened to meet her gaze. He was extraordinarily handsome and somehow she knew he knew that. His eyes were deep blue, framed by dark lashes and straight brows, his cheeks dark with several days' growth of beard, his nose straight, his mouth wide. It was difficult to judge his age with that beard; he was perhaps in his thirties, but he might have been younger. He watched her study him, his eyes amused now.

"Mademoiselle," he said in French. "I hope I meet with your approval."

She felt her cheeks go scarlet. None of the men Milford had brought here had looked like this.

"You speak French, right?" Milford asked her. "Yes," she said.

"Talk to him," Milford said. "Find out his name, where he's from."

She raised her eyebrows. "You don't know who he is?" "Two boys found him asleep in the old cottage. How would I know who he is?" Milford frowned at her, then gave a low grunt. "I didn't bring him here to see if he'd marry you, Eileen, if that's what you thought. And tell him to sit down."

Eileen nodded and sat on the bench next to the stranger, smoothing her skirts, trying to think of French verbs and not the man before her.

"Talk to him," Milford said, crossing his arms over his chest.

She did, haltingly at first, pausing because the stranger watched her with an intensity that was difficult to ignore. She found the situation unnerving.

"Welcome to Ronley Hall, sir," she said. "You obviously speak French."

"Oui, mademoiselle." "And some English?" "Un petit peu." "What is he saying?" Milford demanded. "I welcomed him. He says he speaks French and a little English." "We knew that! Ask who he is." "Your name, sir?" she asked the stranger in French. "Belmond, mademoiselle." "Is that his name? Belmond?" Milford asked. "What's the rest of it? Where's he from?" She asked Belmond.

"Jean-Paul, miss. Jean-Paul Belmond." "You are French, sir?" "Oui." "From?"

Belmond smiled slowly, showing a dimple in his left cheek. She caught her breath, saw him note that, and felt a wave of annoyance. This man was very assured of himself. "London, mademoiselle."

Milford moved impatiently. "London! He's from London? What is he, one of those Huguenots?"

"Oui, monsieur," Belmond said to Milford. "Huguenot." "From London. Where in London?" "Spitalfields," Belmond answered, then glanced at Eileen. "I do speak some English, mademoiselle."

She nodded. Spitalfields was full of Huguenots, religious refugees who had fled Louis XIV's France after he'd revoked the Edict of Nantes and removed their freedom of worship. They'd been welcomed as fellow Protestants, as supporters of King William.

"You don't look like a weaver," Milford said, then turned to Eileen. "Tell him."

Belmond smiled again when she translated. "Not all Huguenots are weavers, nor tailors, nor clockmakers, made-moiselle. I am a soldier."

"A soldier," Milford said when she told him. "Where is he going to be a soldier?" "Scotland. To offer my services to King William's army." "What did he say about King William?" Milford asked. "Tell him I fought with William at Maastricht, that I stayed with him all the way through the Battle of the Boyne."

Eileen didn't need to tell him. Something, quickly suppressed, flashed in Belmond's eyes before she had said the words in French. Anger? Why would Milford's words make a Huguenot angry?

"A fellow soldier," Belmond said to Milford in heavily accented English.

Milford nodded with a smile. "You'll find that William is a fair commander. Where will you join his army?" "Wherever I can find it," Belmond answered through Eileen.

"You'll be there a good long while. Those damned Scots won't accept that they've lost the throne for good." "I suspect that while James Stuart lives, the fear that he'll try again to regain his crown will live as well."

Eileen translated, then watched the two men look at each other with approval. "Two mercenaries," she said with distaste. "You sell your ability to kill."

Belmond shrugged. "A man must eat." "You do not look like a man without resources." "I am a younger son, mademoiselle, so I became a soldier." "A younger son of a nobleman?" "Of a merchant." "A merchant. From Brittany."

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from The Destiny by Kathleen Givens Copyright © 2003 by Kathleen Givens
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.

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