Highland Jewel

by Markland, Anna

  He opened the laces of his shirt and untied a thong from around his neck. “I want to give ye this,” he rasped, offering a tarnished amulet on his palm.

  She frowned. “What is it?”

  He shrugged. “Something of so little value even the Dutch jailers didna steal it.”

  She traced a finger over the engraving of a man. “Who is he?”

  “My mother’s a died-in-the wool Catholic who insisted I wear a St. Christopher medallion when I embarked for Amsterdam. She believed the saint would keep me safe. Legend has it he carried Jesus across a swollen river.”

  She shook her head. “But ’tis precious to ye.”

  He fastened the thong around her neck. “I’m ashamed to say I kept it hidden of necessity in a Protestant country, but maybe it did save my life.”

  She squinted down at the medal before tucking it into the high neckline of her bodice. “I’d best do the same with so many Covenanters about.”

  “Aye,” he replied. “Ye dinna want Michael or Donald accusing ye of being a Papist.” The brief smile was fleeting. “Seriously, ’tisna worth much, but I give it to ye as a token of…”

  He stared into her eyes, seemingly unable to find the words he wanted to say.

  Deafened by the heartbeat pulsing in her ears, she touched the spot where the medal lay hidden. “I’ll treasure it,” she murmured as she stood on tiptoe and kissed him.

  He gathered her into his arms and took possession of her mouth. She felt bereft when they broke apart and he ushered her into the Guthrie house with a whispered Farewell until the morrow.

  * * *

  Wishing he could have stayed with Jewel, Garnet offered his help to Michael, but it was gruffly refused. There was naught for it but to go out to the meadow and speak to Murtagh.

  “I didna expect ye back so soon,” the blacksmith said, getting up from his campstool by the fire.

  This wasn’t the time to go into the reason they’d left the castle early. “Jewel wanted to come home. I left her at the house next door.”

  Murtagh eyed him. “I thought she’d enjoy the occasion. I hope ye did naught to offend her?”

  Garnet glanced about at the curious faces of the other Highlanders. “Can we talk somewhere in private?”

  Murtagh led the way to the burn at the edge of the meadow and sat on a fallen log. “Weel?”

  “Jewel is fine, but she forced me to see I must have it out with ye before we begin our journey.”

  As expected, his challenge received no reply, so he soldiered on. “When I was a bairn, Glenheath’s Highlanders burned my grandparents’ manor house in Blairgowrie to the ground and stole their livestock.”

  “And ye think I was part of that?”

  “Ye freely admitted ye fought for the mon.”

  Murtagh tossed a pebble into the burn. “I canna deny I may have rustled a few sheep thereabouts. An army has to eat. But I was never part of destroying property and leaving folks homeless.”

  Garnet shook his head. “The men responsible boasted of being Royalists fighting for the Glenheath Rising. My grandfather protested he was a Royalist, but they didna listen.”

  Murtagh tossed another stone. “The earl was afraid such atrocities were happening. We didna ken how many separate clans had joined the Rebellion. ’Tis difficult to control Highlanders once they’ve a fire in their belly. Glenheath ordered a halt to raids on farms and estates, except when they needed food. Some of them didna respect his commands because he was a Lowlander. They knew better.”

  Despite Garnet’s determination to hold on to his anger, he recognized the truth of what Murtagh was saying. “So, ye swear to me ye didna burn down the Barclay estate?”

  “I’ve already said so,” came the gruff reply. “Now that’s sorted, tell me what happened at the castle while we walk back to the camp.”

  It seemed too simple after Garnet had carried the resentment against Glenheath for so long, but he knew in his heart Murtagh hadn’t been responsible. He spoke the truth about the impossibility of controlling groups of marauding Highlanders, some of whom had been sworn enemies for generations. “I’m glad I’ll nay be obliged to kill ye,” he jested.

  His good humor fled when he caught sight of Quinn and Beatris Guthrie standing by the campfire, deep in conversation with the Dutch ambassador.

  * * *

  Still thinking of Garnet’s kiss, Jewel ventured into the unusually dark hallway of the Guthrie house. She’d expected to hear the sound of voices coming from the kitchen, but it was eerily silent. “Hello,” she called, wondering if the girls had been naughty and Gladys Cook had put them to bed early.

  There was no reply.

  Apprehension constricted her throat as gooseflesh marched across her nape. Something was wrong.

  She put one foot on the bottom step, torn between assuring herself the bairns were asleep upstairs and rushing into the yard for help. Perhaps Mr. Cameron was still there, with the farmer, or she could run to the meadow.

  The stairs creaked as she gripped the banister and took each step one at a time, slowly. “Hello,” she managed again from her dry throat.

  Panicked thoughts assailed her. Beatris would be devastated if anything untoward had happened to her daughters.

  She put a hand on the knob of her cousin’s bedchamber and turned it, deafened by the thudding of a pulse in her ears.

  The room was empty, but a creaking sound drew her attention to the ladder leading up to the attic in the tower.

  Assuring herself the bairns were playing a game of hide-and-go-seek, she slowly mounted the rungs and opened the small door at the top.

  Peering into the unlit gloom, her heart lurched when she saw the three wide-eyed lasses crouched in the corner with a sobbing Gladys Cook. Andrew lay with his head on his mother’s lap, his arm bloodied.

  Aristotle growled at her, then barked furiously.

  Meaghan hooked a finger in his collar. “Quiet, ’tis Miss Pendray,” she whispered. “They’re downstairs,” she told Jewel.

  Cold fear surged up her spine. She’d just come from downstairs. “I didna see anyone.” She knelt at Andrew’s side, alarmed by his pallor. “What happened?”

  “He tried to protect us,” Jane explained. “They stabbed him.”

  “How many?” she asked, assuming the household had been the target of thieves.

  “Three,” Meaghan replied.

  “One of them’s from next door,” Kate said.

  Alarm surged. If the Camerons had something to do with this…

  She rushed to the tiny, dirt-streaked window, peering into the gathering shadows for any sign of Garnet, or Murtagh, but all she could make out by the light of the fire was a plumed hat, like the one the ambassador…

  Oh, nay.

  “I’ll go for help,” she said breathlessly, turning abruptly when Aristotle resumed his frantic barking.

  “I canna allow that,” said the man who’d stooped to enter.

  Crimes

  Garnet gritted his teeth and prepared to face his accuser. He’d laid one ghost to rest, but another had risen up to destroy him. There was no escape. He nodded to the Dutchman. “Vermeer.”

  To his surprise, the man whipped off his plumed hat and embraced him. “Barclay! I could not believe it when Quinn Guthrie told me you were here. I felt sure it must be a coincidence of names, but it is you.”

  “Aye,” he replied cautiously as Vermeer stepped back.

  “Providence has caused our paths to cross, so I can right a terrible wrong,” the ambassador declared with a broad smile. He nodded to the gaping Highlanders as if they should know what he was talking about.

  “I dinna…”

  “Firstly, Johannes has been censured for his transgressions against you. When the Prince heard of the travesty…”

  “The Prince?” Garnet asked.

  “Vilhelm,” Vermeer explained. “His Majesty is anxious to retain good relations with Scotland for when…well, let’s say for the future. You’re aware his wif
e is the daughter of your king’s brother. A vendetta against a prominent Scot like yourself…he could not permit it.”

  “But I was convicted…sentenced to hang.”

  “Ja. Your nemesis is a member of a powerful family. The Prince had to tread carefully. He agreed not to prosecute if Johannes surrendered the emeralds you were accused of stealing.”

  “But he had a woman murdered.”

  “And he will get what he deserves, but it will take time. In the meanwhile, the emeralds were used to aid your escape.”

  “Can somebody explain what’s going on?” Murtagh bellowed. “What’s all this talk of a prince and an escape?”

  Quinn drew him aside. “Ambassador Vermeer explained it to me. The Prince of Orange got involved when Barclay was falsely accused of a terrible crime in Amsterdam.”

  Murtagh glared. “Huh! I ken that feeling.”

  “I sensed all along the escape was too easy,” Garnet muttered. “Donald came to visit me in prison in the clothes ye’ve seen me wearing. He dressed in my prison garb and I walked to freedom in his Dutch garments. He told the guards I’d overpowered him.”

  “He did not have to,” Vermeer replied. “It was part of the plan. Your comrade was handsomely rewarded.”

  “Donald was paid to help me?”

  “With the emeralds.”

  * * *

  Jewel did not recognize the man who stood in the doorway, but the prison shirt and pantaloons indicated it had to be either David Axton or John Balford. Somehow, they had escaped their cell.

  She did, however, know the second man who pushed the first aside, his arms laden with male garments. “Ye shoulda stayed out o’ sight,” Donald grunted. “Get these on. John’s already changed.”

  “Daddy’s,” Jane whispered as Axton took the clothing and left the room.

  Aristotle barked loudly at Donald when he approached the bairns.

  Gripping the windowsill for support, Jewel gathered her courage. “Ye canna harm the lasses.”

  “I dinna intend to—if they keep quiet—but yon dog best stop its yapping.”

  Meaghan glared in response, gathering Aristotle into her arms. “He’s just a puppy,” she murmured.

  Another man entered—Balford she supposed—carrying several lengths of cord Jewel recalled from the draperies downstairs. “Sit back to back,” Donald commanded.

  Meaghan clung to her wriggling dog until Balford grabbed it by the scruff of the neck and thrust the yipping creature into an armoire before slamming the door. Muffled barking continued to emanate from the cupboard.

  Andrew winced as both men used the cords to tie the captives to each other.

  “Be careful,” Jewel hissed. “Ye’ve wounded him.”

  Balford snarled. “And the same will happen to ye if ye dinna keep quiet.”

  Apparently, she wasn’t to be tied up with the others. Perplexed, she clamped her mouth shut.

  Axton returned, clad in Quinn’s garments and carrying lengths of torn bed linens. Soon Gladys Cook, Andrew and the three lasses were all gagged and blindfolded.

  Kate keened quietly.

  “Ye canna escape,” Jewel insisted, trying to ignore the thudding in her ears. “The Cameron house is the first place they’ll look.”

  “’Tis the reason we’re nay in that house,” Axton replied. “But how do ye ken we are comrades of the Camerons?”

  Jewel bit back a retort. She’d spoken rashly and let slip she knew who these men were. “Donald is lodging with them,” she muttered, turning away to risk a glance through the window.

  Her spirits lifted at the sight of people hurrying toward the house from the meadow. The alarm had been raised.

  * * *

  Garnet was just recovering from the shock of Vermeer’s revelations when a hue and cry went up from the house.

  “Dragoons,” Quinn exclaimed.

  “My children,” Beatris cried.

  “Stay here,” her husband commanded.

  Vermeer drew her to the campfire. “I will keep care of your wife.”

  The men hurried toward the house. Soldiers armed with muskets blocked their way when they reached the yard.

  “I’m Quinn Guthrie, secretary to the Privy Council. What’s going on?”

  “The archbishop’s assassins have escaped,” one replied. “We’re searching the Cameron house.”

  A dragoon captain joined them.

  “I live next door,” Quinn protested to the newcomer. “My wife and I were at the reception. My children will be afraid with all the commotion.”

  The officer shook his head. “Extra troops were assigned to the reception. The killers took advantage of a smaller contingent of guards. No one leaves this yard until they are captured.”

  “Jewel’s with them,” Garnet reassured Quinn. “She’ll keep them calm.”

  Two soldiers hustled Mrs. Cameron and her girls out of the house. “Thugs,” she screamed. “Forcing an innocent family from their own dwelling.”

  “Where’s yer husband?” the soldiers demanded to know.

  The sobbing sisters clung to each other, all except Maggie who stood alone, staring at her screeching mother in bewilderment.

  Michael was nowhere to be seen.

  The little girl’s plight touched Garnet’s heart. He picked her up. “’Twill be all right. Where’s yer father?”

  She rubbed her eyes. “I dinna ken. He went out with Mr. Cahill.”

  As if the mention of their names conjured them, Michael and Donald suddenly appeared from the street. “Is there no respect for a man’s home?” Michael bellowed, his nose a mere inch from the captain’s.

  Maggie buried her head against Garnet’s shoulder as her father ranted and raved at the soldiers. It brought back bitter memories of Blairgowrie and his grandfather’s outrage. Barely old enough to stand, Garnet had clung to his father’s leg watching the flames consume the manor house.

  Perhaps Michael had a right to be outraged. Perhaps he was innocent of any wrongdoing and was being unjustly victimized.

  Then he glanced at Donald who quickly looked away, guilt written all over his face.

  The opportunity to confront him was lost when the captain ordered everyone inside the Cameron house. “Somebody kens something,” he declared.

  Fire

  Jewel’s desperate hope that she might get an opportunity to scream an alarm was quickly dashed when Balford gagged her with a strip of linen and bound her wrists.

  “Who is this lass?” he asked Axton.

  “’Tisna important,” came the reply. “They’ll want her back, whoever she is.”

  She breathed easier knowing they were unaware of her identity, but what did they mean by wanting her back?

  Axton gripped her arm. “We’re going downstairs now, lass. Dinna try to escape or John will come up here and slit a few throats.”

  Terrified, she nodded her understanding. She was to be taken as a hostage.

  Blood rushed to her head when she was hefted over Axton’s shoulder like a sack of grain. She struggled to stave off dizziness as she was carried down to the kitchen, holding on to the conviction their plan was bound to fail. Dragoons had swarmed the house next door. Her own Highlanders were close at hand.

  Her captors paused near the back door, listening. The unexpected silence was eerie. Surely the soldiers hadn’t gone off to search a different house, and where were Murtagh, Gray, and Garnet?

  Her heart lurched when a twisted length of linen Balford dangled over the wood-stove caught alight.

  She pounded her bound fists against Axton’s back and kicked her legs when the wretch tossed the burning cloth into the stairwell. The assassins intended to make their escape by firing the house—with innocent bairns bound and gagged upstairs.

  Flames soon licked at the dry wood. Thick smoke stole up her nose and made her eyes water. The gag robbed her of breath. Overwhelmed by helpless outrage, she succumbed to the darkness and tumbled into oblivion.

  * * *

  Mrs. Ca
meron carried on her tirade as dragoons searched every nook and cranny of her home.

  Two soldiers wrestled Michael into a chair and the captain bombarded him with accusations of complicity and threats of torture. Cameron folded his arms and sniggered.

  It perplexed Garnet that both parents paid no attention to their terrified children. Maggie clung to him like a limpet, her arms around his neck, getting heavier by the minute.

  Gray and Murtagh sat at the other end of the table. Garnet understood why Jewel’s younger brother would feel safer sitting with the Highlander he’d known all his life. Crammed with angry, sweating men, the kitchen brought back bitter memories of the crowded cells in Amsterdam.

  Jaw clenched, Quinn paced in what little space there was. His efforts to convince the captain to allow him back into his own house came to naught. He vouched for Garnet when it came to the soldier’s notice he was lodging with the Camerons.

  Donald had insinuated himself into the midst of the Highlanders, nodding solemnly like a devout preacher.

  Vermeer’s revelations raised suspicions Donald wasn’t the man Garnet believed. He owed his life to his friend, but it was on the tip of his tongue to suggest the dragoons question him when a piercing scream rent the air.

  Quinn pushed his way to the back door where Beatris collapsed into his arms, Vermeer not far behind.

  “The house is on fire,” the Dutchman gasped.

  Cameron leapt to his feet and grabbed a pail. “Quick, everyone out the back way. Much safer.”

  He disappeared before the captain could stop him, Donald hot on his heels. His actions would have resulted in a stampede had Murtagh not blocked the way. “We’ll need more than one pail,” he told the captain. “Get yer men to find whatever they can to hold water.”

  Garnet handed Maggie over to her mother. “Yer husband seems to have forgotten about his family,” he growled, herding her and the other lasses through the crush. He expected the usual scowl but saw only fear on her face.