by Karen Ranney
“They’d freeze their…” After a quick look at Malcolm’s frown, Ada’s words stuttered to a halt.
“Well, we have to do something,” Leitis said. “We can’t simply stand here gaping.”
“I’d rethink my words, lass,” Malcolm said, frowning. “It’s the three of you who are acting all ninny-like.”
Leitis squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, stepped forward before she could lose her nerve. A man walking across the courtyard halted and stared at her. He approached her slowly, as if he feared she was only a vision.
“I need to speak with the colonel,” she said resolutely. Her hands were clasped tightly in front of her, her chin tilted up.
“You want to see the Butcher?” His accent was difficult for her to understand; the look in his eyes was not.
He had a thin, almost wolfish face, his grin revealing childlike nubbins of teeth and gums that were red and inflamed. His white shirt was stained and gaped open to reveal a hairy chest. It was evident he had not yet taken advantage of the bath.
“The Butcher?” she asked faintly.
“The Butcher of Inverness. The new commander.”
“No, the colonel,” she said, shaking her head. The man who saved the village could not be the Butcher of Inverness.
“That’s the one,” he said, nodding. He looked, she thought dully, pleased at her shock.
The Butcher of Inverness. They had all heard tales of the man. Those Scots who had escaped the slaughter of Culloden had been imprisoned at Inverness, only to be sent to their deaths on a whim. It was said that the Butcher would spare a prisoner because it amused him, or send him to the gallows because of the look in a man’s eye.
The Butcher of Inverness? Her stomach clenched, and Leitis felt as if she might be ill.
The knock on the door was not unexpected, nor was Donald’s face. His words, however, were a surprise.
“Begging your pardon, sir, but we’ve got trouble.”
Donald had been with him ever since Flanders, having joined the army filled with dreams of grandeur and far-off battles. At first his light blond hair, rosy cheeks, and eagerness to please had marked him as barely out of boyhood. But in the past year Donald had been promoted to sergeant and lost the last of his innocence. There were times when his smile was a bit too forced and his laughter had an edge to it. The effect of Inverness, no doubt.
“What is it?” Alec asked.
Donald stepped inside the room. “Sir, there’s a group of Scots in the courtyard, and there are women among them. It’s almost a riot.”
By the time Donald had finished his sentence, Alec was putting on his coat and out the door.
Four Scots stood surrounded by at least thirty men in various stages of undress. One elderly woman was holding her hands clenched to her chest and one old man looked ready for a fight. But it was the younger women the crowd was concentrating on, and one of those women was Leitis.
She took a few steps back to avoid one man’s touch, only to bump into another man behind her. The man laughed as he pulled both her arms backward.
“Please,” she said, “let us go.”
“Give me a kiss and maybe I will,” the man in front of her said.
“Evidently you have a great deal of time on your hands, Sergeant,” Alec said curtly. “However, I can think of a number of tasks to occupy your time, none of which includes terrorizing women.”
The soldiers surrounding Leitis and the other woman stepped back quickly when they realized that they had been overheard.
“Begging your pardon, Colonel,” the sergeant said. “But she’s a Scot.”
It had been a long day; he had been in the saddle since dawn. Surely that was the only reason for the anger that nearly overpowered him then. It was too much like the emotion he felt on the battlefield, a visceral rage that masked his will to survive.
“What exactly does that mean, Sergeant, that she’s a Scot?” he asked carefully, expunging from his voice any hint of emotion.
“Well, you know how they are, sir,” the man said. “They’d do anything for a bit of bread and such.” He grinned at Alec, an expression no doubt meant to convey masculine understanding. It had the effect of making Alec wish he were wearing his sword.
Leitis turned and faced him. Her face was pale, except for the mark of Sedgewick’s blow darkening her skin. He frowned at it, suddenly irritated by her foolishness.
“The men stationed here haven’t seen a woman for months,” he said sharply. “Did you give no thought to your safety?”
She didn’t answer his question, only asked one of her own. “Are you the new commander of Fort William?” she asked, her voice little more than a whisper. “The Butcher of Inverness?”
He nodded once.
She took a deep breath. “I am Leitis MacRae,” she said. “You have my uncle here,” she said. “I have come to ask for his release.”
“Have you?”
She still possessed the devil’s own arrogance. Who else would demand of him concessions when a hundred men surrounded her and her puny group of rescuers?
He spun around and led the way through Gilmuir, more in an effort to organize his thoughts than a wish to have privacy for their meeting.
The four of them followed him, glancing occasionally at the ruins of Gilmuir and whispering among themselves. Did they mourn the old castle’s death, or did they simply condemn the invaders?
A blue and ebony horizon loomed, touched only here and there with a tinge of pink. Night came with reluctance to this land of sweeping shadows. But then, dawn was birthed with as much difficulty.
A stubborn land, one that mirrored its people well.
He stood with his back to them, ostensibly looking out over Loch Euliss where it flowed into Coneagh Firth. In actuality, he was thinking of the girl he had known, of five summers in which he had been first shy and then daring around her.
He turned and surveyed them.
Leitis stood in front of the group, her face carefully expressionless. So as not to anger the Butcher of Inverness?
“My uncle is an old man,” she said. “Hamish sometimes forgets what year it is.”
“Or the fact that Scotland lost its rebellion?” he asked dryly.
“Yes,” she said simply.
The others aligned themselves behind her, as if they looked to her for guidance. She should not be here at all, let alone leading a misfit group.
“So I am to pity an old man,” he said. “What are you offering in exchange?”
“We have nothing,” she said shortly. “Your soldiers have slaughtered our cattle and trampled our crops.”
He folded his arms over his chest and leaned back against the half wall.
“Therefore, you are relying solely on my compassion.”
“Isn’t that the definition of it?” she asked. “To give without thought of recompense?”
“I am the Butcher of Inverness,” he said. “Am I supposed to have such sensibilities?”
She looked away, then glanced back. “Perhaps you should,” she said firmly, her mouth in a thin line. As if, he thought, she were scolding him.
“I promise that he will never play the pipes again,” she said in the silence.
“I could achieve that guarantee with his hanging,” he said bluntly. “Do you also pledge obedience?”
“Mine,” she said, nodding.
“And that of your clan?”
Her lips thinned as she looked down at the gravel path. “I have no right to speak for anyone else,” she said reluctantly. “But I can promise that I will not disobey English laws.”
“For this paltry promise you wish your uncle’s safe return?”
“No,” she said, looking up. “I also want the safety of my village guaranteed.”
He faced Loch Euliss again. As a boy he’d stood here many times marveling at the view before him. Below Gilmuir the loch was narrow, surrounded by blue-tinged hills. In the distance, Loch Euliss widened into the firth, flowing beneath
towering cliffs before meeting the sea.
Alec unfolded his arms, turned, and walked slowly toward her. He didn’t answer her, merely studied the bruising on her jaw. The blow angered him still; so much that he mentally rearranged the major’s duty schedule. A protracted patrol would not be amiss.
He suddenly wanted, unwisely perhaps, to protect her, keep her safe from the consequences of her own courage and from those who would think nothing of harming her.
Alec told himself it was because she was a link to his past, even as he realized the discord of that thought. His finger reached out and traced the line of bruising on her jaw.
His hand was slapped away by the old man at her side. “The bargain doesn’t include touching our women,” he said fiercely, his wrinkled face twisted by anger.
Although he could not recall his name, Alec remembered him from his childhood. Back then, he’d thought him ancient. The intervening years had not marked his face further, but the old man was trembling badly either from disease or fear. A brave man, to challenge Alec with words when he had no other weapons.
He inclined his head, conceding the inappropriateness of the gesture. “You should not have come,” he said. “Send your laird to me and I’ll bargain with him.”
“There are so few of us left, there is no need for a leader,” the old man said.
Alec wanted to ask Leitis the fate of the others, to know for certain what had happened to the laughing Fergus and the solemn James, and her father, who had always been kind to him. But he did not ask the question, preferring the ignorance of the moment to the bluntness of the truth.
“My uncle is all the family I have left,” she said, as if she’d heard his thoughts. Her chin tilted up and her lips firmed into a thin line.
They exchanged a glance. He could not ease her pain and she should not know his sudden, bitter regret.
“Return to your village,” he said, addressing the group. “I will release Hamish shortly.”
An old woman spoke up. “Why?” He didn’t recognize her. Either she had changed so much in the past years or he had simply not known her as a boy.
“You beg me for my compassion, then question it?” he asked wryly.
“An Englishman always has a price for his generosity,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him.
“Because I have a hostage for his good behavior,” he said, reaching out and encircling Leitis’s wrist. He knew the second she understood.
“No!” she said angrily, attempting to pull away. He held her easily.
“Leave now,” he said to the others, “and I’ll guarantee you safe passage. Linger, and you’ll be prisoners.”
The others moved away, looking back as if they challenged their own courage in doing so. They’d come to rescue one of their own and lost another.
Perhaps it would teach them that it would not be wise to act so precipitously in the future.
After all, he was the Butcher of Inverness, a soldier given that sobriquet by the Scots themselves. A man of fearsome reputation and deadly intent.
He smiled and began to walk toward the laird’s chamber.
Chapter 5
T he Butcher signaled with his free hand and a man emerged from the shadows. His face was unnaturally lean, both his chin and nose pointed. He fell into step behind them as they moved through the archway and what was left of the clan hall. The Butcher was relentless in his grip, but his hold on her was not painful all the same.
She could almost hear the voices of her brothers admonishing her for her foolishness, the soft wails of her mother, her father’s angry remonstrances. Other voices, too, but not so recognizable. The Butcher’s previous victims?
What had she done?
He opened a door, stood aside motioning for her to enter before turning to the other man. “I want you to guard my guest, Harrison,” the Butcher said.
The other man nodded and moved into position in front of the door.
“I have a piper to release,” he said, glancing down at her.
“Are you truly going to let him go?” she asked, surprised.
His smile startled her. “I am a man of my word,” he said, and waited for her retort.
She did not give him the satisfaction of responding. But the words seemed to linger in the air between them. No Englishman is a man of honor.
He stepped back, closed the door, leaving her alone. She looked around the room in desperation. She had helped to tend the dying laird herself and therefore knew this chamber well.
She opened the door to the clan hall again. Harrison was still there, leaning against the doorframe with his back to her.
“You’ll stay put, miss,” he said calmly as if he could see her. Perhaps he only sensed her panic.
“He can’t keep me here,” she announced, a bit of bravado in the face of her very real fear.
He glanced over his shoulder at her, his face oddly less attractive when he smiled. “Can’t he? He’s the colonel of the regiment. He can do anything he pleases,” he said, then reached over and pulled the door shut in her face.
She turned and surveyed her prison. Against the wall was a curious-looking chest equipped with a series of drawers restrained by a brown leather strap. Well worn, it looked to be something the Butcher carried with him on his travels.
The Butcher had evidently chosen this room to be his.
Was she to be his hostage or his whore?
She walked around the table and stood looking down at the Butcher’s maps. The loch’s perimeter was carefully delineated. She had never thought that it was so large. It led to the firth, that much she knew, ebbing and flowing with its own tides. Each tiny mark upon the map appeared to be a village, just as a larger symbol must indicate another fort. Another blight upon the landscape. An irrefutable piece of evidence that the English were here to stay.
A knock on the door preceded the arrival of a young man, his head nearly buried beneath the doubled mattress he carried. She watched as he heaved it onto the bed frame, then stepped back and smiled shyly at her.
“I’ll not share that with him,” she said, stepping away until her back was against the wall.
“I don’t know about that, miss,” he said, his cheeks flushing a bright red. “I’m just here to settle the colonel’s quarters.”
He bent and arranged the mattress until it was square on the frame, then tested its plumpness by pressing on it with both palms. “I would have stuffed it with hay,” he said, addressing his comments to the bed, “but it smelled of horse and other things.”
She said nothing, only watched him as he walked around the side of the bed closer to her. She backed away, but he didn’t notice, being so concerned about the placement of the mattress.
“I used grass and pine needles instead,” he said, as if she’d asked. “But I put a few flowers in it,” he confided, glancing over at her. Unexpectedly, he grinned, and the smile reminded her oddly enough of Fergus and his occasional misdeeds. That sudden memory sobered her enough to look away rather than be charmed by a young English soldier.
“I’ll be bringing you the evening meal, then, miss,” he said, walking to the door. “Is there anything else I can fetch for you?”
“Is it customary to ask for a prisoner’s preferences?” she asked, rankled by his good cheer.
“Oh, you’re not a prisoner, miss,” he said earnestly. “You’re the colonel’s guest.”
She was left without a word to say as he closed the door behind him.
The fact that he’d decided to keep Leitis with him disturbed Alec on a visceral level. A foolish thing to do, to hold Leitis MacRae hostage, a warning whispered in a voice that sounded like his long-dead grandfather.
The gaol was located not far from the chapel and Alec wondered if the architect had planned this irony. The room was the size of one of the barracks chambers, the only concessions to its function the series of manacles mounted high in the wall and the bars over the window.
A gaol was a necessity in a fort this size. All
owances had to be made for those who did not easily accustom themselves to military life. Disobedience was severely punished in His Majesty’s Army. But most of the discipline meted out was for other infractions. Men who were systematically trained to kill, as soldiers were, did not easily discard that fierceness of temper after battle.
The prisoner he visited was not, however, a private who had taken a bottle to his roommate or a captain who had challenged another man to a duel for the honor of a lady. Instead, it was a grizzled Scot with a glower that could melt the bars of his cell. A slim man of short stature, his wrists were manacled to the wall a few inches above his head.
Alec could almost feel the hatred directed at him, Hamish’s eyes were so filled with it.
He glanced over his shoulder at the guard stationed inside the door.
“Give me the keys,” he said sharply, then frowned at the look of surprise on the other man’s face. As a lowly lieutenant, he’d had to obey any order given him with quickness, respect, and above all obedience. It appeared, however, that both Sedgewick and the men under his command had not yet learned that lesson.
“Do you have a problem obeying me, Sergeant?” he asked curtly.
“No, sir,” the other man said, handing the ring to Alec.
Alec heard the door of the gaol close behind him as he stared at Hamish MacRae. Hamish had been kind to the young boy he’d been, had taught Alec the basics of the bagpipes. But it had been James with the talent and the wind for the instrument.
Hamish looked at him contemptuously, a glance at odds with his current pose of being manacled to the wall.
“So you’re the new commander of this eyesore,” he said.
“I am,” Alec said sharply, walking closer to the old man.
“Have you come to gloat, then? If so, you’ve found a poor target for it. I’m an old man and I’ve seen too much to regret my passing.”
Alec raised an eyebrow at Hamish. “Is it a trait of the Scots, this eagerness to martyr yourselves?”
“Is it a trait of the English, to push us toward it?” Hamish glared at him from beneath bushy eyebrows, not unlike a trapped badger.