by Jarecki, Amy
Crossing her arms, Audrey didn’t budge.
“We need an army,” said Graham.
Dunn narrowed his dark gaze and smirked. “Nay, nay. Not on this side of the border. I aim to aid in Seaforth’s peaceable escape.” Audrey opened her mouth to speak, but he thrust his finger in front of her face. “And I reckon I’ll need your help, Sassenach.”
Her heartbeat spiked. “Anything.”
“Remember what I said about Tupps.” Graham moved closer. “Miss Audrey isn’t safe here.”
Dunn snickered. “You mean to tell me you’re afraid of a sniveling Englishman?”
The MacKenzie guardsman threw out his palms. “A lying, cheating, devious—”
“I am not leaving before His Lordship is freed,” Audrey said, standing her ground.
“Enough!” Dunn sliced his hand through the air. “She’s right. We’re not going anywhere without Seaforth. Leave the rat to me and Clan MacRae.” He peered at Audrey with a sharp-eyed stare. “Can you sew, lass?”
This Highlander was nearly as uncouth as Mr. Tupps. Even his scowl appeared sinister. But if Seaforth trusted him, then she had no choice but to do so as well. She nodded. “Yes. I am an accomplished seamstress.”
“’Tis fortunate.” He winked and grinned like a devil. “You’ll need to stitch your fingers to the bone, ’cause I have a plan.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
During the long ride to Durham, Reid kept his gaze forward, but he could count every redcoat dragoon out of the corners of his eyes. If only Dunn had returned, he mightn’t be in this mess. And if he’d received a response to the missive he’d dispatched to London, he would have avoided it altogether for certain. Fighting wasn’t the answer, either. Now was no time to start a rising. Too many things needed to be orchestrated. Besides, marching into battle was never the first option.
But all the while, Reid thought. He thought about Audrey and devised a hundred ways to murder Wagner Tupps, but most of all, he thought of what led him into this mess.
The directive from Prince James that Dunn took into the Highlands was to bring the clans together and train for war—words he’d never uttered on British soil, words he’d never written with his quill. It was damnable enough to carry such a missive, which he’d done fully aware of the risks it bore. Though his actions had not been treasonous.
The Jacobites would continue to behave peaceably until the death of the queen. Only then would they unite and defend James’s ascension to the throne—preferably without bloodshed, and preferably without legislation in place to prevent a Catholic from becoming king. Not only did they need to build their forces, but those loyalists sitting in Parliament had a responsibility to abolish the Act of Settlement and prevent the ratification of the Occasional Conformity Act.
Damnation, he’d been so close to arriving at a solution to the succession without the threat of bloodshed. And now, rotting in the bowels of a notorious prison was to become his lot? Why hadn’t the queen sent a reply? He’d been forthright in his letter to her. With her husband dead and no surviving children, surely Her Highness would appreciate Reid’s efforts to convince her half brother to accept Protestantism.
A tick in his jaw twitched when the spires of Durham came into view. And as they rode into the city, people stopped and stared. They put their heads together, men hiding behind hands and women behind their fans. None too discreetly they gossiped about Reid’s bare knees and his tartan, no doubt casting judgment on the barbaric Scot who sat the saddle. Soon they’d all be chattering with excitement once they discovered Captain Fry had brought in a Highland earl accused of treason.
That ought to keep the vultures entertained for a fortnight or more.
After passing the town hall, the retinue turned right and proceeded under a dark, stone archway. The sound of shod horses resounded among the city’s walls, becoming deafening in the dank tunnel. On the other side, the archaic gaol’s bailey stood thirty feet high, made of sandstone and streaked with black from years of withstanding coal-burning fires. Above, sentries watched from atop the wall, armed with muskets and wearing tall grenadier hats.
Blackened iron gates with teeth honed to cold spears screeched open like a welcome to hell.
Once inside the outer courtyard, the horses stopped. Six dragoons pulled Reid from his mount and urged him under another dank archway, jabbing him with the sharp points of their bayonets. The same six men bared their teeth and coaxed him beneath a portcullis with deadly iron spikes.
Once in the courtyard, Captain Fry hastened ahead and pointed to a lone wooden post with an iron ring nailed high up the shaft, waiting to anchor its next victim’s wrists.
Reid’s gut twisted, but with his following blink, he memorized the faces of the six dragoons who’d coaxed him from his mount with the point of their bayonets. He would not forget the faces of oppression. Nor would he forgive.
Grinding his teeth, Reid fought against the men while they tried to force his manacled wrists up to the iron ring. Until Captain Fry pressed the barrel of a flintlock pistol to his temple. “I’d like nothing better than to end this right here, mate.”
Ice shot through Reid’s blood as he blinked and saw an image of Audrey. His men were good, but Tupps would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. Without Reid to intervene, the lass would fall into the bastard’s hands.
My men must protect her. But where the bloody hell is Dunn?
Willfully, he raised his wrists to the ring. “You are making a grave mistake, raising your hand against me. I’ll have you know I am one of Queen Anne’s most beloved.”
“You won’t be once she sees the missive from Kennet.”
“That I visited her brother in France? Many a noble has made the crossing. Tell me, who would you see on the throne when our great queen is gone?”
The captain hit him in the shoulder with the base of his pistol, but not before he hesitated. “You speak with the smooth tongue of a traitor.”
Reid sneered and ignored the throbbing pain. “You, sir, cannot tell me you are acting solely on the word of a known liar. A known swindler. A man who prides himself on collecting tidbits of scandal on unsuspecting subjects for his own gain.”
“I speak the truth!” Wagner marched into Reid’s line of sight and smirked. “You met with James in France. I saw the missive Nicholas Kennet dispatched to you with my own eyes.”
Reid groaned. There had been many missives and not a one constituted treason.
Captain Fry shoved the weasel in the shoulder. “Visit the factor’s rooms for payment. This is government business now.”
Reid tested his wrists against the chains, his fingers already growing numb from hanging above his head. “I am an emissary of the queen.” He eyed the captain, commanding his attention. “I suggest you wait to receive word from Her Highness before you flog a peer of the realm.”
The corners of the man’s mouth turned up as he pulled the cat-o’-nine-tails from his belt and combed his fingers through the braided thongs. “I’ve received enough proof. Behind these walls, titles count for naught. When you are a guest of Durham Gaol, you are mine.”
“Truly? Do you ken I was fostered by the queen herself?” Reid matched the captain’s smirk with one of his own. “Even from this shite hole I can see to it you are shipped to the Americas in chains.”
Fear flashed through the captain’s eyes so fast, if Reid had blinked he would have missed it. With a spike of his heart, he inclined his chin over his arm, leaning his face in spitting distance of the red-coated maggot. “What’s your story, Fry? Why are you stuck in this miserable outpost? What is it? Are you the fifth son of a baronet—the lowliest of peers?”
The man’s jaw twitched. His eyes darkened.
“Ah, ’tis worse, is it not?” Reid goaded. “You’re a bastard.”
The man struck with lightning-fast reflexes. Nine tarred leather strips, knotted to lacerate the skin, sliced across Reid’s cheek. Ignoring the sting, he laughed out loud.
“You
are guilty of treason, and I will have your confession by the day’s end.” The captain’s heels clicked the cobbles while he marched out of view. “Cut off his coat.”
Blood seeped down Reid’s cheek while a dragoon used a dagger to cleave through layers of fabric, exposing his flesh to the cool breeze. Bile churned in his gut as he closed his eyes and steeled his mind to the pain that would come. “You’re wasting your time.”
“You visited the Pretender in France. Admit to it!”
Leering, Reid glanced over his shoulder. “I visited him, aye. And Her Highness, Queen Anne, kens my purpose.”
“Lie!”
The whip’s tines hissed through the air, ripping through his skin like knives. Every muscle clenched with the toe-curling strike.
“You are a Jacobite traitor!” bellowed Fry.
“No,” Reid growled through clenched teeth, his nerves throbbing with the sting.
Another strike ripped through the flesh on his back, making his knees buckle as a feral wail pealed from his throat.
“Admit you’re trying to overthrow the queen.”
“Never!” Reid growled. He blinked through the sweat dripping into his eyes. But regardless of his will, frayed and exposed flesh too easily succumbed to grating pain. His arms strained against the iron manacles chained above his head while tremors weakened his legs. Holding on to a thread of sanity, his mind focused on one thing—Audrey. His ward needed him. He must survive for her.
Reid clamped his teeth until they nearly shattered and took his lashings, counting each vicious strike as he fought to retain his wits. Hot blood seeped into the waistband of his kilt as his back stung like he’d been crisscrossed and carved by a madman’s blunt knife.
Once his legs gave way, Reid’s head lolled, his arms straining, about to tear from their sockets. Bitter bile scorched his throat while he leaned into the pole for support. With his next blink he saw Audrey smiling. Audrey laughing.
The captain blocked the cooling wind when he sauntered up and shoved Reid’s hair from his face. “See, MacKenzie? It doesn’t matter if you’re an earl or a thief, all men bleed the same.” He slapped Reid’s back, sending a fresh bout of searing pain across his raw and bloodied flesh.
A savage bellow ripped from his throat as the courtyard spun around him.
“’Tis a pity you cannot see the beautiful artwork on your back.” Fry snorted with scorn. “You see, I am an artist of sorts. I carve patterns that will never fade. Patterns that will live in your memory for the rest of your days—which I suspect will not be long.”
“You’re mad.” The words came out dry and bitter.
The captain leaned forward. “What, what? Are you ready to confess, Jacobite?”
Reid’s head shook as he forced himself to raise his chin and level his gaze with Satan. “I will meet you in hell.”
Behind, someone cackled in a grating laugh.
Mercifully, that was the last sound Reid heard as his mind slipped into the blackness of oblivion.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Crouched behind the woodshed, Wagner watched the manse. He’d hidden there many times over the years, observing the activity that passed in silhouette across the windows after dark. Night was his friend. He could move anywhere without drawing attention to himself. People revealed their closest secrets in the dark. And it was under night’s cloak that he could be a ghost.
This was the first time he’d visited Coxhoe House since Seaforth’s abduction five days ago. Now that the Earl of Seaforth was out of the picture, there was little to stop him. Wagner had stayed away on purpose. Nicholas Kennet’s daughter needed to reestablish her priorities, needed to foster a bit of fear in her heart. It would be far easier to turn her to his side without that beast of a Scot playing guardian. And now that Seaforth was in the clutches of Bainbridge Fry, the man was doomed.
Fry had proved an ally more than once. The officer was almost as power hungry as Wagner. And through the years it came to pass that they had much in common. They both suffered illegitimate birth, though Fry was the son of the bishop of Durham—formerly a Catholic who had turned to Protestantism with the times.
But the bishop of Durham ran everything in his jurisdiction, including the gaol. Fry had received an education at the expense of the church, though he was never permitted to live under his father’s roof. Now that Fry had become a man, the bishop had seen to it his son was promoted to captain and made the prison warden. An apt post for a man who loved control. A tyrant who gained power from the pain and torture of others.
Wagner both respected and feared Captain Fry. As long as he could feed the man with dirty secrets, their relationship would continue. But he wasn’t daft enough to grow too close. Wagner might enjoy watching the ruination of others, but he lacked Fry’s thirst for blood. The man wore a countenance of steel, yet every time Wagner met with him he sensed the captain on the verge of becoming unhinged.
But nothing about Captain Fry’s madness mattered at the moment. The officer had Seaforth locked behind the gates of an impenetrable prison—a gaol with the worst repute for sending her guests to Hades. And if the earl managed to survive her atrocious conditions, it was only a matter of time before Queen Anne ordered his execution. Fry promised to dispatch a report to London when he gained a confession that would bury the earl once and for all.
True, the missive Wagner had intercepted from Kennet’s messenger wasn’t incriminating enough to stand on its own. Kennet had written that he believed the visit to Prince James was the only way to convince His Highness to convert to Protestantism. It was close to treason, but not an all-out admission. Nonetheless, Fry was confident he’d be able to gain a confession from Seaforth in short order.
Wagner rubbed his hands.
That is one beheading I cannot miss.
He watched the light flicker in a window in the west wing of Coxhoe House. He’d seen Audrey’s feminine form pass behind the curtains of that window so many times, there was no doubt it was her chamber. Her lair. Excitement pulsed through his veins as he ached to run his fingers through her golden tresses.
Tonight he’d have her for himself. Another hour and she would be his.
* * *
In the past it had usually been easy to slip into Nicholas Kennet’s manse. The cook had rarely latched the kitchen window, and no one ever checked. Kennet had a number of servants, but no army. Once Seaforth had moved in, it became more of a challenge—not impossible, but Wagner needed to be stealthier. And now guards patrolled the perimeter of the manse. Wagner waited until the patrol passed the kitchen and turned the corner before he made his move. Wasting no time, he ran to the window and heaved it up, but the damned thing had been latched. He chuckled to himself as he drew his knife.
This blade hasn’t failed me yet.
He levered it between the upper and lower pane and pushed the lock open. In moments he was inside.
He checked his pocket watch by the glow from the hearth. Half past twelve. He tiptoed to the door and stood very still, holding his breath. Not a voice or footfall echoed from the passageway beyond.
Thrice before Wagner had slipped inside and wandered these halls. The last time had been when Kennet was away with Seaforth. That time, Wagner made his way to Audrey’s chamber and stood outside her door. He’d pressed his ear to the timbers and listened to her slumber. He’d inhaled her scent and bathed in it…until a loud creak had startled him from his quest. He’d been so anxious to see to the ruination of his uncle, a man who refused to recognize his nephew. Wagner’s plans might have been foiled by Seaforth for a time, but no longer.
Wagner slithered up the servants’ stairs and into the west wing passageway until he arrived at her door. He closed his eyes and reveled in the rush, the thundering of his heart, the lust swirling in his loins.
His fingers trembled with anticipation as he lowered them to the knob and turned. A slight click sounded.
He froze and held his breath, waiting for her to wake. Perhaps the beauty w
ould call to him. Closing his eyes, he willed it to be so, but after a moment’s hesitation he slowly opened the door and crept inside.
The fire in the hearth cast an amber glow throughout the chamber, just how Wagner liked it. Across the floor, she curled beneath the bedclothes, the heavy coverlet piled high as she slumbered. He smiled to himself. Audrey was a burrower. He liked that, too.
He locked the door behind him. “Audrey,” he whispered, hoping to rouse her enough to avoid startling the lovely. Things would be so much easier if she were willing.
She didn’t stir, though her breathing grew heavier.
Pulling a cloth from the purse he wore at his hip, Wagner crept forward. He didn’t want to gag the girl, but he couldn’t take the chance on her sounding an alarm. He stood at the edge of the bed for a moment, preparing to strike. His movement must be flawless. Tingles of anticipation fired across his skin.
“Audrey,” he said softly, drawing the bedclothes away.
Blue steel flashed.
Wagner’s heart flew to his throat. This wasn’t Audrey.
A hulk of a man took aim.
The flintlock fired with an earsplitting boom.
Something seared the side of his head. His ears rang as he stumbled backward.
The brute sprang off the bed. “You flea-bitten bastard, I’ll run ye through!”
Bare feet thudded on the floorboards. A dirk hissed from its scabbard.
His heart nearly exploded as Wagner sprinted for the window. In one motion, he slammed a chair through the pane while taking a flying leap. Crashing into the ground, his knees buckled, but he used the momentum to roll away. Another shot fired as he ran into the darkness, cursing under his breath.
Hot rage churned in his gut.
No one double-crossed Wagner Tupps.
Now he had no choice but to make Audrey pay. She’d forced this upon herself.
* * *
Audrey’s eyes flashed open at the sound of musket fire. Even from the east wing she could hear Mr. MacRae shouting curses followed by the sound of breaking glass. Springing from the bed, she raced into the corridor.