Moncrieffe nodded. “Unfortunately, there are witnesses to her debauchery, my lord, which I will happily bring forth to you.”
“Very well then,” Longcrier said, and looked at Regis. “Mr. Regis?”
Regis jerked at his waistcoat and stepped forward. “My lord commissioner, Baron Moncrieffe would have you believe that Mrs. McKinnon conspired with her late husband’s cousin Thomas McKinnon to renege on her husband’s agreement to settle his debt. He would have you believe that they conspired to steal the beeves he avows belonged to him and kill his son so that she would not be forced to marry him. If Baron Moncrieffe is successful in having you believe this, milord, then the McKinnon property would revert to the Bank of Scotland, and undoubtedly, the Bank of Scotland would dispose of the land as soon as possible to retire the debt owed them. I would imagine that the Baron could have the whole of Glenbaden for a mere pittance.”
“My lord commissioner, really—”
“Moncrieffe,” the justice wearily interrupted. “You had your say. Mr. Regis will have a go of it.” He nodded at Regis.
“Baron Moncrieffe has several thousand heads of sheep, my lord. He has expanded his grazing rights to the north and the south, all at the expense of poor Scots he has willfully displaced from their homes. It is not inconceivable, therefore, that Baron Moncrieffe—knowing Fraser McKinnon’s illness would soon lead to his death—planned on obtaining the whole of Glenbaden, a prime grazing land for sheep. It is likewise not inconceivable that Baron Moncrieffe seized the opportunity to push his friend further and further into debt in hopes of securing that land and perhaps even forced a dying man to an agreement that he was without proper faculty to consider.”
“I beg your pardon!” Moncrieffe blustered.
“And I beg yours!” Regis shouted back.
“Gentlemen!” the justice roared. “Let’s get on with it, shall we? Lord Moncrieffe, have you witnesses?”
“I do, my lord commissioner. If the court pleases, I present Mrs. Alva MacGregor Tavish of Glasgow, the mother of Kerry MacGregor McKinnon,” he said, sweeping his arm dramatically toward the door behind the justice.
Kerry jerked around to Moncrieffe then, gaping at him with incredulity, her eyes stark blue against her morbidly pale face, then dragged her gaze to the door where her mother was emerging, escorted by two men. In her hand, she carried a crude, wooden cross. Her hair was gray, although Arthur could see that it might have once had the black sheen of Kerry’s. She was small; her plain gray gown hung loosely on her. As she was led to stand in front of Justice Longcrier, she looked heavenward, clasping her hands together around the cross she carried.
And Arthur felt the world begin to crumble beneath his feet.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
SHE WAS LIVING, breathing, in a nightmare; nothing seemed real in the drama unfolding before her—it was as if someone had summoned actors together, given them words that would falsely condemn her as a whore, an adulteress, and a thief.
She stood rigid in her box as the witnesses were paraded before her, her eyes fixed on the justice who occasionally looked at her, his brown eyes rimmed with what she could only term as sadness. The shock of seeing her mother after all these years—Lord God, how the bitterness had aged her!—had numbed her, sunk her into a pool of indifference. The vile lies and accusations Alva screeched as proof of her affair with Thomas were nothing new to her—she received those same condemnations at least monthly in a letter. But to hear them spoken out loud … it sickened her. There was nothing they could do to her now that could hurt any more than her own mother.
Where was Arthur? Had he given in to the impossibility of it all? Found her situation as hopeless as she? How she longed to see the reassuring smile of her beautiful stranger one last time.
One by one, the witnesses against her stood in front of Justice Longerier: Moncrieffe’s butler, who testified that she and Thomas had plotted against the baron; a peddler, who had once come to Glenbaden to sell his pots and pans, swearing that Thomas presented himself as her husband while Fraser lay dying in the last room; a doctor, who said he saw Thomas driving the beeves they had stolen to the market in Perth.
Mr. Regis was scarcely able to argue on their behalf at all, so hostile was the crowd toward them. To every question the justice asked, she answered truthfully, but the crowd responded angrily. They wanted to see a hanging. They wanted someone to pay for the death of Charles Moncrieffe.
Kerry looked across the dais to Thomas. He was propped against the railing, his arms folded across his chest. He caught her eye, smiled wryly. Her heart swelled with remorse for having done this to him. Thomas had been her rock through those years with Fraser, and for that she would hand him his death warrant. She dropped her head, unable to look at him any longer; tears filled her eyes. Please, God, let them hang me, then. But let Thomas go free!
“Kerry! Kerry, listen to me!” Ah God … Arthur’s voice touched her like a caress against her cheek, a kiss to her neck in the middle of the maelstrom. She opened her eyes, searched for him, saw him standing below her box, off to one side, straining to be heard through the din. His hazel eyes glittered strangely, but he smiled at her, that same, cheerful smile she had come to love. “Hold your head up, Kerry! Do not let them believe they have defeated you!”
But they had defeated her. It was too late, far too late. She opened her mouth to tell him she loved him, but faltered. Arthur’s face clouded; he clenched his jaw, raised his hand and pointed at her. “Keep faith with me, Kerry McKinnon!” he shouted. “You promised you would keep faith with me!”
Tears slipped from her eyes, raced down her cheeks. Aye, she had promised him once, but only to keep him from swimming in the same despair that threatened to drown her now. How had it all come to this? She didn’t want Arthur to see her hang. It was her last and final wish—he could not see her hang! He was trying to move forward, to be closer, and she suddenly panicked, certain if he got any nearer she would lose the last fragments of her composure. “Go!” she shouted at him, drawing the attention of several around her. A few men looked over their shoulders to see whom she addressed. It caught him off guard, drew him up short, his face colored slightly. He clenched his jaw even tighter, glared at her. “Go!” she shrieked at him.
“Mrs. McKinnon!” the justice called to her, craning his neck to see who she addressed.
Kerry turned away from Arthur, her last sight of him his pained bewilderment.
Her heart felt as if it was shattering into a thousand different pieces.
There was nothing left of her, nothing left to hang but an empty shell. A strange calm descended over her, and impassive, she looked at the justice as he demanded some semblance of order in the hall.
When the crowd finally settled, the justice frowned at Moncrieffe. “You were saying, sir?”
“My lord commissioner, upon receipt of the letter from the Bank of Scotland, Thomas and Kerry McKinnon scattered their clan, stole the beeves, and murdered my Charles when he happened upon them! They killed the poor boy because the only way Kerry McKinnon could honor the debts owed the Bank of Scotland was applying the terms of her husband’s agreement, which meant marriage to my son!”
The justice looked at Kerry. “You received word the debts were due?” he asked gently.
The question confused Kerry. She had received a letter from the Bank of Scotland, weeks before Charles’s death. She slowly nodded. “Several weeks before,” she said wearily. “I received word of the debts several weeks before … before this happened.”
Moncrieffe snorted. “My lord, if the court pleases, Mr. Durwood Abernathy of the Bank of Scotland!” Moncrieffe called dramatically.
Mr. Abernathy, too?
As Mr. Abernathy walked to stand in front of the justice, he looked at Kerry with such regret that she cringed with shame. In a trembling voice, he informed the justice that he had indeed sent a letter to Mrs. McKinnon informing her that the McKinnon debt was to be collected on 21 July. Although she had never
received that letter, when Mr. Abernathy stepped down, Kerry believed her fate was sealed.
But not Arthur. He knew Kerry had not seen that letter—he had broken the seal himself! A thought suddenly occurred to him, and he pushed through the crowd, to Mr. Regis, who was busily searching through a sheaf of papers.
“Regis!”
“Not now, Christian!”
“Listen to me—”
“Can you not see I am presently engaged? Good God, man. If you want her to live, you willna bother me now!”
The anxiety and the fear in Arthur had reached a desperate pitch. They had one small chance as he saw it, one very slim hope. He lunged at Regis, knocked him against a small table where his things were stacked. “Listen to me, Regis,” he breathed. “I need time. I know how to free her, but—”
Regis shoved hard against his chest. “Do not tell me what to do!” he spat. “I told you I couldna save her bloody neck! Surely even you can see how grim the situation is now!” He sliced a murderous look across Arthur, turned back to his papers.
The terror suddenly exploded in Arthur’s chest, ripping through his heart and his mind. He grabbed Regis, whirled him around and caught his throat in one hand. “I need time!” he bellowed. “She never saw the letter, Regis! I broke the seal! She never saw the goddamn letter!”
Regis grabbed Arthur’s wrist with both hands, his eyes now reflecting his fear as he gasped for breath. “All right, then, she never saw the letter! How can that help us now?”
He didn’t understand! The sudden feel of dampness on his cheeks astounded and mortified Arthur. He lifted his free hand, touched his cheek. Tears. Tears. He looked heavenward, blinking, silently pleading—pleading that he might lead this loved one out of the morass, might know the richness of life only she could show him. Please God, let me have this chance. He lowered his gaze, dropped his hand. “Willie Keith,” he said hoarsely. “The lad who delivers the post …”
Regis’s mouth dropped open. No other explanation was apparently necessary; his eyes rounded with surprise and he whirled quickly around, riffled through his papers. “Go then. But be quick! I’ve a shepherd here, but I …”
Arthur did not hear the rest of what Regis said. He was already pushing through the crowd to the bailey.
How in God’s name did one find Willie Keith? He had no notion of where the boy lived! Arthur rode Freedom hard, reining to a wild stop in the first hamlet he came to. No one was about; they were all apparently at the tower. Frustration and fear groped at him, tried to sweep him under with their current. He swung down from Freedom, left the horse to drink from a trough as he stalked from one cottage to the next, pounding at each door. At the last one, he did not bother to knock, but in a fit of frustration, lifted his leg and kicked it open. “Is there no one in this godforsaken place?” he roared.
The cry of an infant startled him; he lurched forward, through the door. A woman stood against one wall, her suckling infant at her breast. She cried out, brought her hand up to the baby’s head. A strange heat instantly swept through Arthur, he quickly held up his hands to show her he meant no harm. “Forgive me, madam, but it is with some urgency that I find the lad Willie Keith. He delivers the post.”
Too stunned to speak, she could only nod. Arthur dug his nails into his palms in a mad effort to maintain his composure and forced himself to ask, “Where … might … I … find … Willie Keith?”
“Killiecrankie,” she whispered, and Arthur’s heart surged on a new wave of hope. He pivoted away, raced for Freedom. He did not allow himself to think how far Killiecrankie was, just spurred Freedom to the west, lowered his head, and forced all thoughts from his head except that of Willie Keith.
Freedom covered the distance in a quarter of an hour, but the hamlet was just as deserted as the last. Only a blacksmith remained behind, hard at work. Arthur strode to him, his hand resting on the butt of his gun holstered at his side. “I beg your pardon, sir, but it is imperative that I find Willie Keith at once!”
The blacksmith looked up, eyed him casually before turning back to his work of forging a horseshoe. “He’s delivering the post, just as he does every week.”
“Yes, but where? It is a matter of great importance!”
“Aye, but I canna help you, milord. Willie travels many different roads, he does. I’ve no notion where he might be.”
Calmly. “Have you any idea then when he might return?”
“Oh aye,” said the blacksmith, thrusting the shoe into cold water. “Not ’ere dusk, you can be sure.”
That was too late. That was too goddamned late!
The world at last crumbled under his feet, and Arthur turned away, walking unevenly. He felt himself sinking, rapidly descending down into the brink of hopelessness. He felt his failure keenly, felt it as sharply and as fresh as a knife to his heart, and his mind’s eye was suddenly filled with the deadly pallor of Kerry’s skin as she stood in the box, swaying with the fatigue and weight of the testimony—the lies—against her.
He walked, blindly, paralyzed by his inability to save her, the crushing knowledge that it was done, that he could not stop the tide of this ordeal from taking her, from taking the one person he loved above all others.
That thought overwhelmed him; his legs buckled and he suddenly found himself on his knees in the middle of the rutted lane that marked the center of the hamlet. Tears filled his eyes, tears of gross frustration, of loss—he had lost her. He had lost the one person who could make him believe heaven existed on earth. The loss was so devastating, so suffocating that he was insanely reminded of Phillip. How often he had tried to imagine the despair that might bring a man to end his own life.
How he hoped to God Phillip had not felt anything as keenly as this.
A sound, a faint whistle brought his head up and he looked to the right, gasping. Phillip stood leaning against a cottage, his arms folded beneath the hole in his chest, his legs crossed negligently, his blond hair wildly mussed. Arthur sucked in his breath, and slowly sank back on his heels. He had lost his bloody mind. Was he mad? How could he see Phillip now if he hadn’t gone completely mad—
Phillip nodded his head in the direction of a cluster of cottages. A movement between them, the flash of red, and the faint whistle again. Arthur struggled to his feet, followed the sound of the whistle, moving backward, until he saw the flash of red again, coming toward him now.
Willie Keith.
Arthur hastily wiped his sleeve across one eye. “Willie,” he said, holding out his hand. “Willie, listen to me now, lad. You must help me.”
Willie eyed him apprehensively. “Aye,” he said uncertainly.
“You care for our Mrs. McKinnon, do you not?”
The boy’s face instantly flamed. He looked down at his satchel and bit his lip.
“She needs you now, Willie,” Arthur said slowly, and took a tentative step forward. “You know that she needs you now, don’t you?” he asked softly.
Willie nodded very slowly, took one small step backward without looking up.
Arthur knew then. How he knew it, he did not know, but he knew the poor child had seen Charles Moncrieffe die. He moved slowly, very carefully placed his arm around the boy’s shoulders, gave him a comforting squeeze. “There are times, Willie, when a man must help his friends, even if he’s very afraid. What do you think, we’ll have us a bit of a chat, shall we? Man-to-man,” he said calmly.
Willie Keith sniffed, dug his fingers into his eyes. Arthur patted his arm and quietly led him toward Freedom, holding him tightly against his side, comforting him.
Only when he had the boy securely on Freedom’s back did he look back to where Phillip had stood and shown him Willie Keith.
He was gone.
Kerry did not believe her legs would hold her much longer. She gazed up at the rafters of the old tower, swaying slightly, wondering if she would hear the angels singing when she died.
She had long since lost track of what Mr. Regis was doing. He was questioning an old s
hepherd about the best grasses on which to graze sheep, and then cattle. She actually agreed with Moncrieffe—she had no idea what the relevance of it was. It had gone on for what seemed hours; Justice Longcrier seemed to be losing patience, too. With his head propped against his fist, the fingers of his left hand drummed incessantly against the table as he frowned at Regis.
At the very least, Arthur had heeded her and gone. At least she hoped so. Her vision was blurred now, but she looked around her, looked for his face, the familiar aristocratic stance. He had gone. Squinting, she dragged her gaze to Thomas, who seemed quite intent on the old shepherd. She wished she could tear her thoughts away from the inevitable. Part of her wanted to throw herself on the mercy of the justice and beg him to spare her the agony of waiting. Another part of her wanted to live as long as she could, every second of every moment she had left.
If only she could sit for a moment.
“Mr. Regis!” Longcrier suddenly blurted. “I’ve learned quite enough about sheep herding. Whatever do you mean by all of this?”
“My lord commissioner, I had intended to demonstrate that the best grazing land for sheep were on the lands that Mrs. McKinnon owned.”
“Yes, yes, so you have! What of it?” the justice pressed.
Regis frowned, splayed his hands across the table and seemed to silently debate the question. “I would put forth a theory, my lord.”
Justice Longcrier sighed loudly. “Very well then. But this shall be your last theory, Mr. Regis.”
“I believe Baron Moncrieffe coveted Glenbaden—”
“I beg your pardon once again, sir!” Moncrieffe bristled.
“You advised Mrs. McKinnon not to raise sheep, did you not?” Mr. Regis shot back. “By her own, undisputed testimony, you advised her to raise beeves, even though it was obvious the land couldna support the herd! Did you not tell her thus so that she might fall further into debt and then you could have her land to graze sheep? Was that not keeping with your previous expansions of the sheep farming, sir?”
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