A Beauty at the Highland Court: A Star-Crossed Lovers Highlander Romance (The Highland Ladies Book 7)

by Celeste Barclay

  The more she thought about the next day, the more her chest tightened. Sweat broke out along her brow. She felt like she couldn’t breathe, even when she sat up in the dark. Impending panic only made her feel worse.

  I need a drink. I can’t do this without something to ease my fear. It would put me to sleep and a dram in the morning would make it easier to face Father. Damn it. What I wouldn’t give for a jug right now.

  Arabella glanced at the shadowy form of the woman across the chamber from her. Once she was certain Rebekah was fast asleep, Arabella slipped from her bed. She crept to the pegs on the wall and lifted off two gowns. One was her plain kirtle, and the other was a day dress she hung over the plain gown to hide it. It laced on the sides, so she slipped into it without needing her maid. She picked up the riding boots that sat at the end of her bed and lifted her cloak from where it lay across her chest. She eased her way out of the chamber on bare feet. When she made it into the shadows of the passageway, she hurried to put her shoes on and close the cape around her. Even inside, she drew the hood up. She couldn’t risk a glimmer of light catching her reddish-brown tresses. She was the only woman at court with that shade of hair, and it would give her away.

  Arabella slipped through the passageways, trying not to jump when she heard noises from behind closed doors or wooden floorboards creaked beneath her feet. She left the keep through the kitchens and hurried to the postern gate. She kept her head down as she slipped a small pouch of coins into the guard’s hand. He opened it without hesitation, and she found herself able to breathe freely. She picked her way through the streets, staying where light from the buildings illuminated her path. She walked past the Picked Over Plum, not sparing it a glance. She’d had success being admitted into the Merry Widow’s kitchen. She knocked and prayed she would be received as cordially as the night before.

  “Then now, lass. You’re back,” said the woman who greeted Arabella the night before. “You were gone in less than two shakes of a lamb’s tail. I didn’t even have a chance to ask my husband if he would sell you the whisky.”

  “I ken, and I’m sorry for inconveniencing you last eve. I saw someone I recognized, and my lady wouldn’t want it known that she seeks whisky.”

  “Dinna fash. I figured as much. And it was nay inconvenience. Wait here a stitch, love, and I will find my husband.”

  “Thank you.” Arabella kept her cloak tightly wrapped around her, even though the temperature was sweltering in the kitchens. As the minutes ticked away, Arabella wondered how busy the tavern must be if it took the woman so long to return. Angry voices outside made her turn back toward the door she’d used to enter. The wood suddenly splintered as the door swung open. Burly men burst through the doorway, some with clubs. The kitchen wenches shrieked, and Arabella looked on, stunned into motionlessness. The tavern keeper’s wife pushed open the door to the kitchens, but pivoted the moment she laid eyes on the men.

  “Raid!” The older woman bellowed. “Raid!”

  “A raid?” Arabella asked anyone who might answer.

  “Aye,” one man grunted. “Your employer doesn’t pay his taxes, so we are here to collect. One way or another. You look like you’re worth a pretty penny.”

  “That she does,” said another man whose front teeth were missing. “She might be the amount Timothy owes the crown. Find the sod.”

  While the two men spoke to Arabella, she could hear the furor happening in the main dining room. Furniture crashed; other women’s shrieks reached a crescendo over deep, angry, male voices. The number of men swarming the kitchen seemed to continue to swell. The first man who spoke to her seized her arm in a vicelike grip. He swung her around, yanking her arms behind her back. Arabella felt something cold and ungiving encase first one wrist, then the other. She strained to see the manacles the man placed on her. She looked around and witnessed men doing the same to the other women.

  The door from the dining room swung open. The woman who let her in and a man Arabella presumed was her husband were shoved through. They wore manacles too, but someone had cuffed their hands in front of them.

  Bluidy hell. What have I gotten myself into? Where will they take me? I have to get out of this. I have to be let go before anyone discovers I’m here. But I have to tell someone who I am.

  Arabella peered back at the man whose hand was once more wrapped around her upper arm. She kept her voice low as she pleaded her case. “I’m Lady Arabella Johnstone. I’m a lady-in-waiting to the queen. I was merely here on an errand. I can’t be taken to the gaol.”

  “And I’m the bleeding queen of England,” the odoriferous man laughed in her face. “Ah reckon nowt ter that.”

  Arabella hadn’t heard a commoner speak during most of her time at court. Even her maid’s speech was refined, but she understood the man said he didn’t believe her. She wanted to stomp her foot, but acting like a spoiled child would only draw more attention to her. She tried to pull away from him, throwing her body weight in the other direction. She landed against the chest of the man who was clearly the sheriff. He was a stocky man who carried a club, with a pouch swinging from his waist. Arabella knew the sheriff’s job was to collect rent and fines, and it was clear he was there for the latter. She wondered briefly how much of the coin in his pouch was for revenue and how much was from bribery.

  She darted her gaze at the tavern owner and took in his worn linen shirt and scruffy breeks. She took a closer look at his wife and noticed the frayed hems and cuffs of her gown. Her eyes swung around the kitchen, noting the poor condition of the wenches’ clothes, and the old, chipped crockery. The Merry Widow may have been popular, but it wasn’t profitable. The man had no money to bribe the sheriff.

  Arabella considered the money hidden beneath her cloak and wondered if she could bribe her way to freedom. She needed to speak to the sheriff without everyone taking an interest. She also needed to be set free before they reached the castle. Otherwise someone would recognize her, or she’d be thrown into gaol with no way to get help.

  Why didn’t I listen to Lachlan?

  “Ahm happy as pig in mud,” the sheriff grinned as he pulled Arabella against him. He ground his pelvis against her. Arabella’s skirts kept her from being able to kick the man’s shins. “She’s a right bonnie tart.”

  “Claims she’s a lady-in-waiting, she does,” the one who manacled her chortled.

  “Mayhap she is, or mayhap she’s some rich mon’s leman. Her clothes are fine, and she’s clean. A good rut with a clean whore is worth being slow to return to the castle.”

  Arabella fought to break free, her feet kicking out as she hoped to make contact despite her skirts. The man wasn’t as tall as Lachlan, so she threw her head forward. Her forehead made contact with his nose, and she heard a loud crunch before blood splattered on her forehead.

  “You bluidy bitch. You will pay for that. I shall take you extra rough now. Then I’ll pass you along.”

  “And my father and betrothed will murder you in your sleep. They’re both lairds. One’s a Highlander,” Arabella threatened. She felt the moment the man hesitated. She suspected it was hearing that a Highlander might come to avenge her that gave him pause.

  “I don’t have time for this,” the sheriff said as he pulled a dirt-smeared linen from his sleeve and pinched his nose with it. The sheriff slapped Arabella, making her eyes sting and her cheek hurt from where she bit it. Arabella saw him raise his fist even though her eyes watered. “Tha’ll get a clip rahnd yer heid if tha carries on like this.”

  Arabella understood the colloquialism, and didn’t doubt the man would drive his fist into her head if she fought him again. She swallowed the blood she could taste and nodded her head. The sheriff dragged her through the door into the main dining room. Arabella kept her head down, thankful for small mercies–her cowl and hood were still in place despite the manhandling. She surreptitiously glanced around to see if she recognized anyone. She prayed Lachlan might have returned, but she knew he wouldn’t. He’d come to the tav
ern the night before because of their argument. She looked to see if any of the women the tavern was nicknamed for were present. If she could find another lady from court, she would sort out her reputation later. An acquaintance could become an ally. But much to her dismay, the only women were the whores and serving wenches.

  The sheriff dragged her across the room. She noticed none of the men called one another by name, and Arabella wondered if that was on purpose. If so, she wondered why. It was clear which man was in charge. There would be no anonymity for his enforcers. The sheriff flung her through the front door, and for a moment she considered breaking into a run. She’d been fleet-footed as a girl, but with her hands cuffed behind her back, she had no way to lift her skirts out of the way. The sheriff laughed as though he knew what she contemplated. He used his club to nudge her into walking. He kept a step behind, and Arabella knew he did it so he could swing his club at her. Once bitten, twice shy. He wouldn’t let Arabella get the better of him again.

  “Sheriff, I can pay my bail and resolve this before we enter the castle’s bailey,” Arabella spoke barely above a whisper.

  “And how would a woman such as you have the amount I would ask? I haven’t paid you yet for a tumble.” The man roared with laughter.

  “As I told the other man. I’m Lady Arabella Johnstone. My father is Laird Johnstone, and my betrothed is a laird.” Admitting twice that Beathan might be her betrothed left a sour taste in her mouth, but she hoped she could use it for leverage. After she spoke, she realized she would have been wiser to say her betrothed was the son of an earl. But she so rarely thought about Lachlan’s position that she’d not remembered it before she spoke.

  “Is that so? Then all the more fun I’ll have exploring you as I look for your coin,” the sheriff taunted. Arabella opted for silence. She would do what she could to ensure he didn’t lay a hand on her, and she would save her coin to either bribe the guards at the gate or to bribe the guards at the dungeon.

  Twelve

  Arabella knew the guard at the castle’s gate recognized her because his eyes widened in recognition, but he said nothing. Arabella glared at him as the repugnant sheriff pushed her into the bailey. The uneven dirt and stones made her stumble, and her hood shifted. It tempted her to shake her head and free it of the cover. She wasn’t certain if her hair would help or hurt her; either way, people would recognize it. But she waited too long to decide. The sheriff steered the group toward a doorway she knew led to the dungeons. She couldn’t even enter the castle and hope to spot someone familiar. The steps were slick, and had the sheriff not gripped her arm, she would have tumbled head over heel. The creak of the dungeon door opening was the most ominous sound she’d ever heard.

  Arabella gasped at the stench in the fettered air. She’d never imagined anything could smell so foul. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she looked around. She noticed cells lined the walkway ahead of her. With the sound of so many people entering, the prisoners came to their doors and pounded on them. Some of the doors had rectangles cut out to serve as windows the imprisoned men peered through, shouting jeers and profanity as Arabella and the others walked past. She searched for a prison guard, but none appeared. She knew the men who’d led the raid weren’t guards because they didn’t wear the king’s livery or crest.

  Arabella spotted the large ring of keys hanging from a peg in a wall above an empty chair. She strained to look into the shadows to discover whether a guard was nearby. Heavy booted footsteps approached from Arabella’s left, but she could see little in the dark. She jumped when a hulking figure suddenly emerged, much closer than she expected.

  The guard looked as unfriendly as anyone might imagine a man who oversaw the incarceration of criminals. Except Arabella wasn’t a criminal. She admitted to herself that she was foolish, but she hadn’t committed a crime. She realized that she should point that out.

  “What crime have I committed?” Arabella asked. She attempted to keep her tone pleasant. “I was at a tavern behind on its rents, but I’m not related to the owner, and he is not my employer.”

  “Shut up, bitch,” the dungeon guard snarled. Arabella jerked back, unprepared for his aggressive response. She raised her chin, straightened her spine, set her shoulders back, and cast the most imperious glare she could muster while her heart pounded and her bladder threatened to fail.

  “You will refer to me by my title, Lady Arabella Johnstone. I am a lady-in-waiting to Queen Elizabeth. I am the daughter of Laird Mitcholm Johnstone and betrothed to the Earl of Sutherland’s son.”

  “And I’m King Robert’s long-lost son,” the guard sneered.

  “Perhaps you should make yourself known to him as I have made myself known to you,” Arabella snapped.

  The sheriff shook her arm and spat beside her. “I thought your betrothed was a laird. Now he’s the son of an earl. I don’t believe either. You upstart wench. You’ve learned to sound like your lady, but if you were one yourself, you wouldn’t have set foot in a tavern’s kitchen. And you wouldn’t have been there alone. Where is your mon? If you have one.”

  Arabella twisted to look back at the sheriff. She took her time looking up from his feet to his face. She didn’t have to feign her disgust. “Wake Lachlan Sutherland and discover who I am. Do it now because if he finds out you’ve kept me down here, you’re forfeiting your life.”

  Those within earshot hooted with laughter, the sound mocking Arabella. She knew no one believed her. She would have to hope that they would present her to the king for her crimes and that he would be exonerate her. But she knew she could rot in the dungeon for years before that ever happened. For all she knew, King Robert had already passed judgment on the tavern owner, and this was his sentence.

  No more was said before the dungeon guard led the way down the corridor. He unlocked several doors, before unlocking her manacles and tossing Arabella into a cell. She reeled back from the stench from an unemptied chamber pot, rotting hay, and unwashed bodies she knew were there but she couldn’t see. She stepped further into the cell as people entered behind her. She moved to the side wall and inched along it until her foot nudged something. A hand wrapped around her ankle. She didn’t scream. Instead, she drew back her other foot and drove her boot into whoever grasped her.

  “Touch me again, and I’ll kill you,” Arabella hissed. She wasn’t convinced it was an empty threat now that her hands were free. She realized in that moment there was little she wouldn’t do to stay alive, to see Lachlan again. In the dark, she fumbled to withdraw the blade she carried on her any time she left the castle grounds. She carried a smaller dirk while she remained in the keep. While she rarely walked through Stirling Castle alone, it was inevitable at times. She was prepared to defend herself.

  It was Lachlan who insisted that she carry a dirk and taught her how to use it. They’d known each other a month, and she’d listened to Lachlan speaking to his sisters about their knife skills. He’d worried for his sisters, but he was speechless when he learned she neither carried one nor knew how to use one. He’d mumbled things under his breath about her father and brothers, but she hadn’t caught all of it. She suspected it was nothing polite.

  The hand released her ankle, and Arabella inched away. Several tavern patrons were imprisoned with her, and there was little space to be had. She listened to the voices and noted that she didn’t hear any other women’s tones.

  Sard! They tossed me in here with all men. They expect me to be raped. They’re punishing me. I should have kept my mouth shut. Arabella tipped her head back and closed her eyes. If you panic, you’ll draw attention to yourself. Remain still and think through this.

  There was a small window near the ceiling, far too high for anyone to reach. In the morning, the light would illuminate the cell enough for the men to see her. She needed to get free before then. She wouldn’t be able to hide once the others could see. With the odor of human waste hanging in the air, she knew she couldn’t use the need for relief as an excuse. Her stomach churned, and sh
e felt her gorge rising. She wondered if casting up her accounts would be enough to get her away from all these men. It would either get her moved, or it would get her killed. She couldn’t be certain which would happen first.

  Arabella coughed a few times, making sure she gagged with each one. She eased her way to the door, ensuring the guard could hear her. In between, she made herself sound as though she were choking. She ignored the warnings, then the threats to be quiet. As the earliest rays of light shone through the window, she scratched. She scratched her arms, her legs, pretended to struggle to reach her back, and her belly. She writhed as she did it. She was careful to keep her face and any hair from showing in the light. But as soon as she coughed and scratched at the same time, the other prisoners in the cell complained that she brought sickness with her. The racket from their voices, stomping feet, and those next to her thumping the door finally forced the guard to investigate.

  “She’s pox ridden,” a man proclaimed when the guard stood at the door.

  “She’ll be giving it to us if she stays,” another complained.

  “Get her out,” one of the few women in the cell demanded.

  “The bitch isn’t going anywhere,” the guard said lazily.

  Arabella had scratched the back of her hands and her wrists enough to leave red marks. She pushed her sleeve back enough to bare her wrists as she reached out for the opening in the door. She made her voice croak and rasp as she spoke. “There’s naught wrong with me.”

  But it was only a moment before the people standing close enough noticed the scratches. She gagged a couple more times until she could throw up what was left of her evening meal.

  “Get her out,” the others in the cell demanded. Their cries grew louder until people in the adjoining cells joined in. The guard unlocked the door and grabbed Arabella by the hood of her cloak and hair. He pulled her from the cell, then shoved her toward the darkest part of the dungeon. She could see the end of the corridor of cells, but the man continued to march her toward it. When they reached the stone wall, he reached past her shoulder and pushed a stone. A door opened that led them into a pitch-black space. The guard lifted a torch from a sconce before grunting at Arabella. She took that as a signal to keep walking. At the end of this hidden corridor, they reached a door the man unlocked.