Balford’s grin only increased her terror.
Axton took her elbow and escorted her to the horse. She was hoisted over his shoulder, then shifted to his lap once he had mounted. Filled with indignation, she squirmed to be free.
“Stop that, lass,” he growled. “I’ve kept my hands off ye, but I’m only a man after all. Dinna tempt me.”
She wanted to spit in his face. He deemed himself worthy of her regard because he was simply a murderer, not a rapist. She closed her eyes, wishing she could reach the spoon still secreted up her sleeve. The futility of it increased her despair. What could she hope to achieve with a crude wooden utensil?
As they rode slowly through the woods away from Strathmiglo, she pondered thrusting the spoon in Balford’s eye when he began his assault. She had no illusions that he would be satisfied with simply killing her.
Peering up at every large tree they passed, she wondered if it would the one they chose. The sodden gag made it difficult to breathe and her heart was beating too fast.
By the time Axton dismounted in a glade of hawthorn bushes, she’d lapsed into a trance and wasn’t certain she heard correctly when he gruffly told Balford to stay with the horses.
She took a last look at the glowering wretch as Axton dragged her away.
They hadn’t gone far when a ruined castle loomed out of the trees. They threaded their way through heaps of rubbish strewn haphazardly in overgrown ornamental gardens—stuff looters apparently hadn’t wanted. He tried without success to drag what looked like a tangled rope ladder from near the bottom of one pile. She looked up at the parapets wondering if he planned to throw her off. They finally gained access through a door hanging off its hinges. It occurred to her he was searching for something as they traipsed down one hallway and up another, his hand firm on her elbow. They came to an abrupt halt next to a metal grill in the stone floor. Panic seized her when he lifted it off to reveal a gaping hole.
“No ladder, so this will have to suffice,” he said, tying the rope around her waist. “Dinna fash,” he continued. “I hae no reason to kill ye. The only thing ye need fear in this place is the ghost of Queen Mary. They say ye can sometimes hear balls echoing off the walls of her father’s tennis court.”
She suddenly realized where she was. Her tutor had taken perverse delight in telling alarming tales of Fàclann Palace, where prisoners were made to climb down a ladder through a narrow opening into a dungeon below. “Nay,” she spluttered as fear constricted her throat.
“They’ll find ye down there eventually,” he promised, bracing the other end of the rope around his back. “Put a foot on either side of the edge. I’ll nay let ye fall.”
She obeyed, astonished that she could even move her legs without her trembling knees buckling. Blinking away tears, she peered down into black nothingness. The stench stole her breath away. Notions of fending off rats, bats, and other creatures with a wooden spoon filled her head—impossible with her hands bound. She clutched the rope, praying she wouldn’t retch as the walls seemed to sway.
At least he didn’t intend to kill her, though she might die of fright if there were skeletons in the abyss.
“I had a feeling ye wouldna have the guts.”
Axton spun around at the sound of Balford’s sneering voice. “The Lord may judge us for Sharp’s death,” he replied, “but I’ll nay be cast into Hell for murdering an innocent lass.”
She nigh on fell into the hole when Balford drew a dagger and lunged at Axton, causing him to let go of the rope. Lying helpless beside the bottle dungeon’s opening, she watched them struggle together for what seemed like an eternity before Balford slashed his comrade’s forearm.
Axton lay panting, trying to stem the bleeding.
She shook her head frantically as Balford staggered to her side, an evil gleam in his eye. She recalled Axton’s words about the effects fear could have on a man, and she knew Balford had lost his wits.
Grinning like an imbecile, he straddled her hips, waved the dagger in her face and gripped the neck of the gown. “Now, let’s see what’s beneath this frock.”
The travel-worn silk tore like a butterfly’s wing. Wishing for the bindings she’d found uncomfortable, she raised bound hands to cover her breasts that the silk shift did little to hide, but he shoved them away. Suddenly, he frowned. “What’s this?”
Her heart broke when he slit the thong holding Garnet’s medal and tore it from her neck.
“Seems we have a Papist on our hands,” he sneered, flinging the amulet against the wall.
Axton had managed to stand, swaying behind Balford. “Ye’re endangering yer mortal soul,” he growled. “Come away. We’ve still a long journey to Aberdeen.”
Unable to breathe, she locked eyes with Balford, seeing hesitation for the first time.
“Aye,” he said, getting to his feet.
She nigh on fainted with relief—until he grasped her hips and swiveled her into the hole. She clung desperately to the edges, unable to hang on when he stepped on her fingers and shouted, “Ye’re consigned to hell, Satan’s temptress.”
The last thing she remembered was Axton’s shout and the searing pain when the rope jerked around her waist and stayed her fall. Her head collided with something rock-hard. She surrendered to oblivion, certain her back was broken.
At the end of Strathmiglo’s deserted high street, Garnet took Jewel’s cap from inside his doublet, fingering the wool lovingly before holding it to Aristotle’s nose.
Wagging his tail, the puppy leapt at Garnet then ran circles around him, clearly pleased with himself.
“Nay, not my scent.”
He turned the cap inside out where a couple of Jewel’s long strands still clung to the fabric. “Again,” he insisted, resolved to sift his fingers through those silken tresses when he found her.
The slamming of a door disturbed the eerie silence. A youth exited one of the cottages, stopping abruptly when he saw them.
“’Tis the lad who came to Fàclann last night,” Hamish declared.
“She’s in there,” Murtagh replied.
The youth dithered on the doorstep before going back inside.
“He’s going to warn them,” Gray said, urging his mount forward.
The Highlanders formed a semi-circle around the door as Murtagh, Garnet and Gray dismounted.
“Open up,” the blacksmith shouted, pounding the door with his fist. “Afore I make kindling o’ this…”
The door creaked open. If the scowling village wife was surprised by the size of the Highlander demanding entry, she didn’t have time to show it before Aristotle ran past her into the dwelling. When she turned to see where the dog had gone, Garnet slipped into the house.
Aristotle had jumped up onto a rickety kitchen chair. He barked and growled, front paws on the table.
The cottager, his wife and the youth retreated to huddle near the kitchen fireplace.
A quick glance around the cottage revealed no one else.
Gray entered the house, jaw clenched. “Where’s my sister?” he demanded, glaring at the villagers.
Garnet picked up Aristotle and searched for a means to access an attic or a cellar, but the dog gave no indication he could sense Jewel.
Murtagh stood nose to nose with the tight-lipped villager. “She was here. The dog confirms it. Where is she? A company of dragoons is nay far away. They’ll arrest ye if ye dinna speak.”
“Ye think we fear dragoons?” the auld man sneered. “They already killed my son at Airds Moss.”
“Aye,” the youth confirmed, his voice trembling with emotion. “’Twas my father’s honor to die alongside Richard Cameron.”
Garnet and Gray exchanged a wary glance.
Murtagh took hold of the front of the youth’s jerkin with both hands and lifted him. “We dinna care about Axton or Balford. They kidnapped an innocent young lass and I’ll tear yer grandson limb from limb if ye dinna tell us where she is.”
He remained unmoved when the lad’s grand
mother pounded his arm. “Let him go, ye bully. He’s just a boy. We dinna ken her whereabouts, but they didna take her with them.”
Garnet and Gray made for the door, Aristotle on their heels.
Murtagh set the youth on his feet. “If they’ve murdered her, we’ll be back.”
They strode around outside, looking for any indication of the direction the fugitives might have taken. They turned their attention to the trees when no recent hoof-prints were to be found on the road.
It was Jock who eventually pointed out evidence someone had recently ridden along an overgrown path that meandered into the woods.
“I suggest a few men remain here to watch the house,” Garnet advised, “and the rest of us follow these tracks on foot.”
Murtagh agreed. After a few wrong turns, they stopped when a ruined castle came into view.
“’Tis the ruin we saw from the hills,” Gray said.
The knot of dread in Garnet’s innards tightened. He doubted the fugitives were hiding in the ruin. They’d have fled with all possible speed after getting rid of Jewel. He hunkered down next to Aristotle. “’Tis up to ye now, laddie,” he said, letting the puppy have another sniff of the cap.
The dog rolled over onto his back, paws in the air.
Garnet obligingly scratched his pink belly. “We dinna have time for this now, Aristotle.”
The puppy gave a resigned sigh, got to his feet, shook the dust off his coat and scampered off towards the ruin, nose to the ground.
Friend Or Foe
“I dinna have a good feeling about this,” Murtagh muttered as Aristotle sprinted from one pile of rubbish to another outside the ruined walls.
Garnet cursed as the bottom of a rusted and blackened pot disintegrated when he kicked it. “Useless junk.” He was beginning to doubt Aristotle’s abilities as a tracker, especially when the dog sank his teeth into a length of rotting fabric, seemingly determined to pull it off the pile.
Gray leaned over and lifted the end of a tangled rope ladder, freeing the fabric.
Growling, Aristotle wrestled the ancient drapery into submission, then triumphantly dragged it to an arched door hanging off its hinges. He sat on his haunches, clearly waiting for them to follow.
The unmistakable odor of decay assailed Garnet’s nostrils when he entered. A whiff of charred wood still lingered in the air, though more than a hundred years had passed since the devastating fire. Kings and queens had played and held court in these precincts. In different circumstances, a visit to a once-celebrated castle might have been memorable, but anger filled his heart when he thought of Jewel’s terror—if she was still alive when they brought her here.
“We could search all day and ne’er find her,” Gray said dispiritedly.
“Dinna abandon hope,” Murtagh replied.
“We’ll split up and call her name as we go,” Garnet suggested.
“Won’t that alert the assassins?” Gray asked.
Garnet shook his head. “They’re long gone. But Jewel is here. I feel it.”
He yanked the fabric from Aristotle’s jaws and let him sniff the cap once more. “Concentrate on this, puppy.”
He managed to keep hold of the hat when the dog tried to pull it from his hands. “Nay, we want ye to find her,” he said, tamping down his frustration.
“He just wants to play,” Murtagh sighed.
“Let’s set about searching and see if he picks up her scent,” Gray suggested. “He’s bound to follow.”
“I’ll take some of the men down to the cells below,” Murtagh declared.
“We’ll stay together,” Garnet told Gray, suspecting the lad was too distraught to search on his own.
They wandered through shadowy, cobwebbed passageways, shoving open warped doors to cavernous, smoke-blackened rooms, shouting Jewel’s name. Aristotle followed along, sniffing here and there, but apparently sensing nothing.
Suddenly, he began to bark, scratching at a corner. “He smells a rodent,” Gray said.
“Nevertheless,” Garnet replied, hunkering down to see what had captured the dog’s interest. His heart nigh on burst from his chest when he saw his St. Christopher.
He clenched it in his fist and thrust it into the air. “She’s here,” he bellowed, opening his palm to show Gray.
The hope in the boy’s eyes dimmed. “Doesna belong to her.”
“Aye, it does. I gave it to her.”
The youth fought back tears. “Jewwwwel,” he yelled until he coughed for lack of breath. “Why do ye nay answer?”
Garnet didn’t want to voice his worst dread. “Mayhap, she’s gagged.”
Murtagh and his comrades came running along the passageway. “Naught in the dungeon.”
“She’s somewhere hereabouts,” Garnet told them, showing the amulet. “I gave her this. Spread out and keep yer eyes peeled.”
“Over here,” Jock shouted after a few minutes.
They hurried to cluster around an ominous hole in the stone floor, barely wide enough for a man to enter. The end of a thin rope was draped over the edge and Garnet’s belly churned when he pulled on it. “’Tis tied to something.” On his knees, he peered into the foul blackness. “Jewel,” he called, his voice echoing in the void.
“What we have here is a bottle dungeon,” Murtagh said. “I recall a similar diabolic prison in St. Andrew’s Castle. We need a ladder.”
“I ken where there is one,” Gray exclaimed, running for the door through which they’d entered. “I’ll need help.”
Gray tugged lightly on the rope, still encountering resistance. “I dinna want to pull too hard in case it’s tied to Jewel. I suspect she’s injured and we could harm her further.”
Murtagh put a hand on his shoulder. “We must pray she’s still alive.”
“She is,” Garnet assured him. “My heart would sense if she no longer drew breath.”
“I’ll look for something we can use as a torch,” the Highlander said as Gray and Jock hurried in with the rope ladder.
“A few rungs rotted,” the youth panted, “but it should do the trick.”
“Aye,” Garnet replied, taking hold of the hooks on one end. “Probably the one they used originally. ’Tis made to fasten on to the grill.”
He and Jewel’s brother maneuvered the hooks into place. Jock held them fast as the ladder fed out amid a cloud of choking dust. They could only hope the rope hadn’t rotted to the point it wouldn’t hold their weight.
Murtagh arrived with a rusted candle lantern, a small flame flickering within. “Most of the panes are gone,” the blacksmith explained, dropping a pile of candle ends on the floor. “But we’ll make it work. I’ll go first.”
Gray put a hand on his arm. “She’s my sister. I’ll go.”
Garnet itched to be the one to rescue Jewel, but he helped Jock secure the hooks, nodding in recognition of the lad’s courage.
Murtagh lay flat on his belly holding the lantern in the hole.
Gray descended into the inky darkness. “I’ll need the lantern,” he called after what seemed like long minutes. “’Tis blacker than night down here.”
Satisfied the hooks were secure, Garnet followed. “I’ll fetch it.”
Dizziness.
She opened her eyes to pitch blackness. Was she blind?
She was sitting with her back against a cold, hard surface. Pain radiated through her body if she moved even a muscle. She tried to touch her aching head, but her wrists were bound for some reason. She could barely touch fingertips to throbbing temples.
There were sounds. Scratching—and a whimpering she realized was coming from her own throat.
An awful stench made her nauseous, but the gag…why was she gagged?
Where was she?
Different sounds. A dog barking. Voices. Men shouting.
Jew! Jew!
Was she Jewish?
Were they looking for her?
Then footsteps, coming closer.
She tried to hold her breath, but her heart was
beating too fast. Mayhap she was hiding and didn’t want to be found. But she needed help. Was it friend or foe who approached?
“’Tis blacker than night down here,” a voice shouted. “I’ll need the lantern.”
“I’ll fetch it,” another voice replied.
More footsteps.
A glimmer of light.
She was in a cave.
A man holding a light aloft edged closer. “Christ,” he exclaimed, drawing a dagger.
She tried to wriggle away but he hunkered down beside her and used the weapon to slice through the bindings around her wrists.
A friend, apparently.
“Jew, Jew,” he rasped as he freed her mouth of the foul gag.
“Am I a Jew?” she wanted to ask as she gulped air, glad she could breathe at last.
“Ye’re alive.”
Was she alive? She must be, but she closed her eyes, giving in to the temptation to slip back into pain-free oblivion.
“Stay awake,” he said.
The meager light revealed his anger. She followed his gaze and saw the front of her gown was torn. “Thirsty,” she rasped, trying to right the ripped bodice with fingers that refused to work properly. My throat is a desert was too difficult to manage.
“I’ll get water,” another man said.
Her rescuer covered the torn gown with a plaid, and she didn’t have the strength to fend off his hands as they wandered over her body. Strangely, she wasn’t afraid.
“Do ye think ye’ve broken any bones?” he asked.
She touched a hand to her head, wondering why it felt sticky. “Hurts.”
“Aye. Ye’ve a nasty gash, but ye seem fine everywhere else.”
She wasn’t fine, but she’d be dead soon, so it didn’t matter.
The man who’d gone for water returned and knelt beside her to hold something to her lips. He was younger than the other man—and crying.
“Dinna cry,” she murmured after a few sips of water. “What’s yer name?”
Highland Jewel (The House of Pendray Book 3) Page 13