“Aye,” Beatrice sobbed. “She had me steal the key from Errol.”
“But she didn’t know he’d take you, too.” Rose snorted softly and shook her head, feeling the rub of the rope on her already chafed neck.
“I don’t even love Cullen,” Beatrice said, her words stuttered. “My mother wants me to be the next Lady MacDonald. I prefer Errol. I told her that.” She took a full breath and let it out, trying to subdue her tears. “But when my mother wants something, if I don’t do it…” She let the rest hang.
Rose flinched, closing her eyes at the memory of Claire’s vicious slaps whenever Madeleine disagreed with her plans. There was never a discussion, a compromise, a retraction of what Madeleine was required to do. And it had led her here, just as Agnes had led Beatrice to this same hell.
Rose opened her eyes on a full exhale and watched the woman. In some ways they were alike. “Can you swim?” Rose asked.
“Not in winter in the sea. No one could survive that.”
Unless she was able to get them to the second small boat tied to the side of the ship, there was no hope in the watery depths surrounding them. “Keep it in mind if you decide your fate is not to survive,” Rose said, solemnly. “For me, it is better to die than to live at the hands of Henri or the king.”
“Oh God,” Beatrice whispered. “I…I…” She shook her head slowly. “I am so sorry.”
Rose sighed deeply, sorrow heavy in her gut. “It sounds like we have similar mothers. I wonder if they would choose a different path if they knew the fate of their daughters.” Rose had pondered that often in France, but had stopped the night she escaped the palace, knowing that Claire saw her only as a commodity to be traded for the comfort of court life.
Beatrice rested her forehead on her bent knees, her shoulders shaking in silent grief. Light outside the porthole showed that the sun was up and bright. Henri had risked sailing close to Islay in the moonless night, mooring off the coast and tying up the farmer who was supposed to light the beacon to warn Cullen. Would he dare to sail out of the cove in the light of day?
By now Cullen must know she was gone, even if he didn’t know Henri had escaped to his ship. “What was in the letter you left?” Rose asked.
Beatrice peeked up from her knees, wiping her running nose on her muddied skirt. Her forehead wrinkled in a new wave of what looked like regret. “My mother had me write that ye were leaving him to go back to the life of a courtesan. That ye couldn’t live at Dunyvaig when ye were accustomed to palace life. And that ye never cared for him. That he should wed within his clan.”
Cullen had never seen Rose’s handwriting. Had he seen Beatrice’s before? Would he know that it was all a lie? Or would he think that was why she didn’t return his words of love? Had stopped him from talking about the future? She’d told him that love was a child’s tale.
Rose inhaled, her breath shaky, and she lowered her face to her hands, giving in to the pain shattering through her. Cullen. A good and honorable man, strong and without deceit. A man who, despite her being a danger to his own clan, had risked his position by swearing to protect her. He was told he must choose his clan above all, and yet, he had risked so much to keep her safe. He must think her worthy, despite her upbringing.
Her heart contracted so hard it was likely to burst into dust. Tears welled out of her eyes, and she let them course down her cheeks for several minutes as she listened to her heart ignore her wish to wither away. Such pain. Would he believe she’d left him? That she was so spoiled and fickle that she would forsake his love for the splendor of court? Nausea swamped her as she cried silently. The thought of losing him, never seeing his smile again, never feeling him pull her to him or hearing him laugh or say her name, the name he’d given her… Oh Cullen. Cullen, I love you.
She raised her head. Love? Wiping her wet cheeks against her knees, Rose swallowed, her heart beating harder, hammering away at the numbness that had first enveloped her, pushing back the despair that fisted around her heart. She…loved Cullen. There was no doubt now. Not with this pain at the thought of losing him. “Je l’aime,” she whispered just under her breath. “I love him.”
The realization that her heart could love after all she’d endured, that it wasn’t always just a lie, gave her strength to straighten up. Cullen had called her brave and strong. Perhaps it was time she acted so. Hopelessness loosened its hold on her mind as her gaze searched the dim room for weapons or tools to aid them. Rose wiggled her hands behind her, feeling the slack in the quickly made knot. I escaped before. I can do it again. She may have been raised to satiate a man’s sexual appetite, but she was so much more. It was time to be brave, strong, and clever. Rose breathed in fully, her tears receding as determination sprouted like a rain-fed seedling. The rope chafed at her twisting wrists, but they had loosened.
“Beatrice,” she whispered as one hand finally slid free. “We need to work together.”
Beatrice looked up, her face splotchy and wet. “I will do anything ye say.”
…
Cullen raced up from the dungeons, running across the great hall where everyone waited. He pointed at Agnes. “Keep her here,” he yelled without stopping and leaped up the stairs to his room. He slammed against the door, but the bar was lowered on the inside. “Rose!” he yelled, but his heavy breathing was his only answer. “Rose!”
“The secret steps,” Errol said and tore back out of the room.
Bloody damn hell. Why hadn’t he barred the steps? Cullen slammed his fist against the door, any pain from the impact numbed by his need to see Rose safely behind the door. Beside him Broc and Tor waited silently, all of them ready as soon as Errol lifted the bar.
“The door to the secret stairs was open,” Errol said, panting, as Cullen charged into the empty room.
He turned in a circle, searching, but of course she wasn’t there. “Nay,” he yelled, his voice exploding up to the rafters. “The bastard took her.”
Errol pointed to the open wardrobe and the lifted lid of the trunk. “He was looking for something.”
Tor went to the desk, picking up a parchment. “She left a letter.”
Cullen grabbed it from his hand, his eyes focusing on the unfamiliar script.
Cullen,
I am sorry to leave without saying good-bye, but I cannot stay here surrounded by rock walls and barbaric people. I’ve been given a chance to return to the French court. It is where I belong, decked in gold and silk, not borrowed wool. You are the leader of a proud people and should look among your own to find a lady to lead by your side. Do not follow me. There is nothing you could offer me that I want.
Thank you for helping me.
Madeleine Renald
Cullen’s jaw clenched, his mouth opening to release the breath he’d been holding. “It’s not from her,” he said, though his chest felt like it was dropping down into his gut. Could he have frightened her away by saying he loved her? No. She would never return to the French court, especially with that dog of a pirate. “Nay.” He shook his head, crumpling the thin parchment. “This isn’t Rose. He took her.”
“What does she say?” Errol asked, picking it up off the ground where Cullen had let it drop.
“He’s taken her to his ship,” Cullen said, traipsing to the door over the secret stairs. The cold that billowed up from the depths sent a chill through his bones. It was as if the very life of him was balanced on the precipice of finding Rose alive. The bastard had hours lead time. By now he could already be putting to sail, taking Rose anywhere the sea flowed. “Damn,” Cullen growled low. He rubbed a hand over his chest where it constricted.
“How do ye know it’s not from her?” Errol asked. “It says she wants to go back to France. Could de Fleur have offered to take her back to the French court?”
Cullen swiveled toward him. “Look at the name she signed.”
“Madeleine Renald,” Tor read.
Cullen met his best friend’s troubled eyes. “Madeleine Renald is dead. There is only R
ose.” The woman he loved, the only woman he loved. He should have bound her to him, asked her if she loved him. Spoken in English, asked her to wed with him, even if she didn’t believe in love.
“I think I know what he was looking for,” Broc said near the hearth. He stood, holding up a single pearl. But Cullen could not care less about the valuable necklace, each of its pearls representing an atrocity against Rose.
The men followed Cullen down to the great hall below where William sat deflated and Farlan paced. Agnes stood, her eyes hard and her lips pursed. Grace sniffed into a handkerchief while Joan stood close to his mother. All eyes turned to Cullen as he walked in. “The bastard took Rose.”
“Did she leave any word?” Agnes asked.
Cullen had never before wished to strangle a woman. Until now. Striding to halt abruptly before her, he looked down, forcing his hands to fist at his sides. “We found the letter that was left.”
“What does it say?” she asked.
“Why don’t ye tell us, Agnes?”
“How would I know?”
“Because Rose certainly didn’t write it.”
She walked to Tor, pointing at the wrinkled letter in his hand. “Ye don’t know that. She could have simply left when she had the opportunity.” She grabbed it, reading aloud.
“I’ve been given a chance to return to the French court. It is where I belong, decked in gold and silk, not borrowed wool. You are the leader of a proud people and should look among your own to find a lady to lead by your side. Do not follow me. There is nothing you could offer me that I want.”
Agnes lowered her hand. “Don’t ye see, Cullen? She was lying about loving you the whole time. It was an act.”
But Rose had never told him she loved him, had said love was a child’s tale. She’d never sought to maneuver him with declarations of love.
Agnes threw her arms out wide. “She attempted to be the lady here, but realized it wasn’t what she truly wanted. Remember what the French captain said.” She jabbed her pointed finger at Cullen. “She lies, manipulates men. Lets them win and think they have the upper hand when she’s really scheming inside to undo them.”
From the corner, William cleared his throat, his words coming with a croak. “She won the chess match.” He stood up and took a big breath. “Ye are wrong, Agnes, about Rose.”
“How the bloody hell would ye know anything about this, ye traitor?”
He stepped forward, his gaze moving from Agnes to Cullen. “She may have been raised to lie and manipulate, but her heart is honest. She could have let me win when we played chess, trying to win my favor, but she chose to go against her upbringing. She beat me honestly.” He turned to Agnes. “Rose doesn’t lie. Ye do.”
“Ye sent Beatrice to steal my key,” Errol said from where he stood by the table. His face ashen, Errol looked like he would never believe another female as long as he lived. Agnes crossed her arms before her and looked away.
Garrick ran in from the entryway. “Captains Taylor and Thompson have landed with a group of twelve armed men. They’re marching on Dunyvaig. Do we close the gates?”
Cullen looked between William and Agnes. All he wanted to do was ride after Rose, bring her back, and make her understand what he should have said last night. That his words before were more than passion-filled prattle. Buin mo chridhe dhuit. His oath that she owned his heart and soul, his half of their wedding vows. All she needed to do was accept him for their union to be complete before the eyes of God. He’d pledged himself to her. A few words from her and she would be his wife.
But with the English marching on Dunyvaig, he couldn’t just ride away. None of his light boats or ferries could catch a galleon under full sail anyway. He needed a plan, a plan that would save Clan MacDonald and Rose.
“Nay,” he said to Garrick. “Leave the gates open. Let them come inside and see what havoc three traitors, who don’t coordinate their treason, can do within a clan.”
“Where is Beatrice?” Charlotte asked, her voice hard. “Ye can add her to the dungeon with these three.” His mother had apparently disowned William and Farlan.
“Beatrice had nothing to do with this,” Agnes said. “She loves ye, Cullen. My daughter is the one ye should marry.”
“She loves Cullen?” Errol said, his eyes narrowed at Agnes. “After she attacked me in the barn last night?”
Agnes’s lips pursed tight. “A willing sacrifice to free up the man she loves to wed her.”
“Oh, shut yer damn mouth, Agnes,” Charlotte said. “Ye’ve done enough damage, releasing a scoundrel to steal away an innocent lass. I wouldn’t let Cullen marry your daughter if she were the queen of Scotland.”
Cullen turned away from the spiteful old bag to see Bonnie and Blair run into the keep. “There are English marching up the hill,” Blair called.
“And we can’t find Beatrice,” Bonnie said. “She was supposed to meet us at dawn, but we can’t find her anywhere. Could the English have taken her?” They both ran toward Broc.
“Ava, ye and Grace go with Mairi upstairs,” Tor said, and the three of them ran for the steps.
“Beatrice wasn’t back at our cottage?” Agnes asked, her sharp brows pinching closer together.
“Nay,” Bonnie answered. “And we’ve checked every cottage as we ran by. Everyone’s locking up their barns and doors, thinking the English are here to steal their livestock and slaughter their children.”
Agnes lowered onto the bench behind her. “We need to find her.” Her gaze moved about the room, but no one responded. “She…she’s innocent. Could the French captain…?”
“The man tied a rope around Rose’s neck,” Cullen said slowly, staring her down. “He is a brutal devil, who has no honor, and now ye’ve given him your daughter.”
Boot heels cracked up the outer steps, through the entryway, and into the great hall. Captain Taylor at the lead with Captain Thompson following, they marched across and stopped before Cullen. “Duffie,” Captain Taylor said. “We received a missive stating that you have captured a Frenchman by the name of Henri de Fleur. That you care to surrender him and his ship to England.”
Everyone in the great hall remained motionless. Cullen nodded, his arms braced across his chest. “Aye, that is all true. But the captain is a slippery bastard and has escaped back to his ship, which I know is moored within a cove around Colonsay Isle.” He’d watched the crewman row halfway to Colonsay before the ship came out to intercept him yesterday.
“Escaped?” Thompson parroted, his gaze scanning the room. “Or let go?” Did he think they hid de Fleur behind a tapestry?
“Why would we call ye here if we let him go on purpose?” William said. “The man got loose.”
Captain Taylor ignored his blustering companion, his focus assessing Cullen. “Which cove? There are dozens big enough to hide a ship.”
“I can show ye,” Cullen said.
“We have maps,” Thompson said. “Just point them out, and we will set sail immediately. The King’s Jewel can outrun any galleon.”
Cullen kept his eyes on the shrewd gaze of Captain Taylor. “Ye take me with ye or I don’t help ye capture a French galleon for King Henry. There’s liable to be plenty of treasure on board, too.” He raised one eyebrow in an unspoken appeal to the English captain’s greed.
Captain Thompson puffed up his chest. “You will tell us where the ship is anchored or you will be arrested for treason against the English crown.” He didn’t seem to notice Tor, Broc, and Errol resting their hands on the hilts of their swords.
Taylor held up his hand to stop Thompson from continuing. “What do you gain from this?” he asked Cullen.
“I will guide ye to de Fleur in exchange for one piece of treasure on board,” Cullen said.
Captain Thompson came up next to Cullen, but Cullen wouldn’t release Captain Taylor’s stare. “How dare you—” Thompson huffed, but Captain Taylor interrupted him.
“I could have you hanged for hampering the capture of a French shi
p. Investigate your people for conspiracy and take your lands.”
Cullen’s stance didn’t waiver. And if William so much as cleared his throat, he would throw his dagger at him.
“Aye, Duffie,” Captain Thompson repeated. “What treasure is worth your bloody life and possibly the Isle of Islay?”
Cullen’s stare was made of ice despite the fire burning in his gut. “De Fleur stole my wife.”
Chapter Twenty-One
Rose stretched to the end of her tether, her back bending to reach her stockinged foot toward Henri’s desk drawer. Straining, her chin tipped up to give her the last inch, she grabbed the knob with her toes.
“That’s it,” Beatrice whispered.
The drawer dropped out with a bang, and both women froze for a long moment, listening. But the tread on the deck above them remained the same, and Rose flipped the contents with her foot.
“Dieu merci,” she whispered and scooted the knife toward her until she could reach it with her fingers. With only three sawing motions on the rope about her neck, it broke. Heart pounding, she rushed to Beatrice, cutting through the rope around her own neck and hands. Beatrice grabbed her in a hug, squeezing so hard it was uncomfortable. “We are certainly not saved yet,” Rose whispered.
Beatrice nodded, eyes wide. “Tell me what to do.”
“First we find another blade. And be careful. Henri keeps them all extremely sharp.” The first task was easy to accomplish since Henri slept with one under his mattress. “Hide it on you somewhere you can reach easily,” Rose said. Rose tucked hers in a robe pocket. She scooped the contents of the desk drawer back in so it would look undisturbed.
The glimmer of a needle and thread caught Rose’s eyes. She fished them out and hurried to the rope. “Two stitches to keep the rope around us, so when they come, they’ll think we are still tied tight. If we are to escape, we will need the advantage of surprise.”
“Aye,” Beatrice whispered, her fingers moving nimbly to break the thread and jam the needle point through the thick rope. Soon both of them had ropes strung around their necks and wrists. “Ye are so clever,” Beatrice said.
The Rogue of Islay Isle (Highland Isles) Page 20