Tying the Scot

by Jennifer Trethewey

  Something else tickled her memory. Something Alex had said when they spoke in the garden about the first attempt on her life. Patrick Sellar, the man she met in the tavern. He had said Patrick Sellar threatened to harm her should the Sinclairs interfere with his business.

  “Alex interfered with Sellar’s business when he went to see Granny Mackay,” Lucy said out loud.

  Her voice pinged back from the wall in front of her, carrying with it a new and terrifying thought. It hit her like a fist in her belly. If Sellar was behind her abduction, he wouldn’t ask for ransom. Sellar would do away with her as a means to punish Alex and Laird John.

  She whispered a prayer, “Please God. Don’t let me die.” Lucy started walking again, this time quietly chanting, “I’m not going to die. I’m not going to die. I’m not going to die.”

  This was definitely not the great adventure her brother George had in mind. None of this was good. It was all bad. The cold, the dark, the rustling sound coming from the corner. Rats. She shuddered. Even more disquieting, she didn’t know the time of day. How many hours had passed?

  As if in answer to the question, Lucy heard her jailer enter the hall outside her cell. Hope blossomed in her chest while fear churned in her belly. Hope that the man was coming to release her. Fear that he was coming to kill her. She backed into the far corner and waited for him to unlock the door.

  A dim shaft of light spilled inside her cell. “Supper,” her jailer announced, and dropped a tin plate containing something brown on the floor. “And here’s a blanket.”

  Lucy stepped forward and snatched the wadded blanket from his outstretched hand. “May I have a lantern, sir?”

  The big man’s features were hidden in shadow, but he seemed to hesitate. Maybe the man held some sympathy for her. She could appeal to his better nature. Maybe he would help her escape.

  She asked nicely without whining. “Please, sir. I’m frightened in the dark.”

  He slammed the door shut and turned the lock, dashing her hopes of freedom.

  Groping on her hands and knees, Lucy found the plate of food, some sort of stew containing mushy vegetables and grizzly chunks of beef. She ate it with her hands and licked her fingers clean. Rats were present, and the smell of food would draw them in. She placed the empty plate on the floor in one corner. Then Lucy wrapped herself in the scratchy blanket and sat in the corner farthest from the plate.

  God might bless her, watch over her, but he was not going to save her. She whispered another prayer to the only one she knew could rescue her. “Please, Alex. I’m sorry I was such a proud fool. Find me. Save me.” She closed her eyes, repeating her prayer.

  How long she waited, she couldn’t say. She’d lost her sense of time. Lucy roused at the sound of keys. The jailer was back. The door creaked opened a crack and one arm reached inside and set a chamberstick with a lit candle on the floor.

  “Thank you,” she said in a voice that sounded unintentionally childlike. “You are very kind.” The door shut. Without another word, the lock turned and the jailer walked away. How long did she have? How many hours? Would Alex find her before someone came to take her life?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Alex and Ian spent the rest of the evening formulating a plan based on Declan’s information. The plan, of course, relied heavily on luck. But by mid-morning the next day, they had accomplished the first step. They had jacked an ox cart of flagstone, stripped the driver and his man of their clothes, then gagged and bound them to trees deep in the forest.

  “You’ll not be harmed,” Ian assured the two men. “When we complete our mission, we’ll return your cart and give you silver for your troubles.”

  Declan and Alex disrobed and donned their captives’ clothing. Unfortunately, even the largest of the two pair of breeks were a snug fit for Alex, leaving little room for his private parts to rest comfortably.

  “Cover yourselves with stone dust,” Ian said, and gave Declan a good sprinkling.

  Alex tucked his red-blond queue into the driver’s filthy bonnet, then rubbed stone dust on his face and forearms. He doubted the guards would recognize either of them. Chances were more likely the other workers might peg them as strangers. When questioned, the driver had revealed they were from a stone quarry in Spittal. The other masons would know Alex was lying if they posed as workers from the same quarry.

  “Remember,” he said to Declan. “If anybody asks, we’re from Achanarras Quarry. Ian, you wait here for Da and the others.”

  “What would you have us do once they get here?”

  “To tell you the truth, Ian, I havenae thought that far ahead. But be ready. If we find her and can get her out, you can best believe Sellar’s men will be hot on our tail.”

  Armed only with dirks, Alex and Declan climbed aboard the cart. Declan took up the reins, gave the oxen a snap on the rump, and the cart lurched forward. The mile-long journey was agonizingly slow-going. When they turned off the road down the tree-lined lane leading to Dunrobin, nearly an hour had elapsed. The oxen paused in front of the gates at the castle wall, waiting patiently for them to open. Two guards granted them entry without question.

  The cart trundled noisily into the yard. Sweat trickled from Alex’s forehead, tickling his cheeks and dripping off his jaw. He glanced at Declan, looking cool and untroubled. How he loved his sleekit cousin.

  One of the armed guards lingering in the yard in front of the keep directed them toward an entrance to what looked like a courtyard. The sound of stone-cutting and hammering emanated from within the enclosed space. Most likely where all the construction was taking place. Declan maneuvered the oxen toward the entrance.

  A chilling voice called, “Halt.”

  Declan pulled on the reins. “Stad!” The Gaelic for stop.

  A second guard strode over to their cart. “You there. I’ve never seen you here before. Who are you?”

  “Got a load from…from…” Alex’s mind went blank. He shot a panicked look at Declan.

  “We’re from Achanarras Quarry,” Declan said.

  God bless his cousin’s perfect memory.

  “Achanarras? Dunrobin trades with Spittal Quarry.” The guard removed his rifle from his shoulder, a slow, almost unconscious movement, but a sign of suspicion. “Who sent you?” the guard demanded.

  Alex sensed Declan lifting his shirt to gain easy access to his dirk.

  “Dinnae ken.” Alex shrugged. “Quarry manager ordered us to deliver the stone.”

  “Let me see your inventory paper,” the guard said, holding his hand out and flicking a crooked finger impatiently.

  Shit. No bloody papers. Alex felt Declan tense beside him. Shit, shit, shit.

  “What paper, sir?” He attempted to sound as stupid as possible.

  The guard stepped back, holding his rifle in both hands. “Get down. The job foreman will want to speak with you.”

  Shouts and the sound of horses trotting into the yard drew the guard’s attention away from Declan and Alex.

  Laird John Sinclair bellowed, “I demand to see Patrick Sellar!”

  Every one of the six armed guards, including the one interrogating Alex, scrambled to form a line in front of the main entrance to Dunrobin Keep and trained their rifles on Laird John. Magnus, Ian, and Fergus edged their horses forward, hemming in the guards.

  Laird John lifted his head to the second story. “Patrick Sellar, come down and face me like a man.”

  Alex’s brilliant father had timed his arrival with military precision, allowing them the diversion they needed to slip past the guard without inspection. Declan snapped the reins, and the oxen lumbered into the courtyard, squeaky wheels protesting and stone rattling in the back of the cart.

  The courtyard buzzed with construction activity. At least two-dozen masons and carpenters were in the process of erecting the foundation and framework of a large addition to Dunrobin. Alex had never seen such an ambitious construction project, the cost of which must be in the thousands. This, he thought, would be
the chief reason Lady Sutherland was so intent on increasing her sheep farming and wool production.

  Alex tensed when a worker approached. He was going to have to speak with the job foreman after all. The man waved a friendly greeting then ordered two other workers to begin unloading the stone from the cart.

  “You’re late,” the man said to Alex. “You’ll find the foreman in the kitchen. Hurry or you’ll miss second breakfast.” He pointed to the servant’s entrance to the castle.

  “Thanks.” He and Declan hopped down off the cart and made for the door.

  Once inside the dark hallway, he took his bearings. The sounds and smells of breakfast came from the right. Down the corridor to the left, the flicker of a torch illuminated what looked like the entry hall to the keep. Alex turned left, signaling for Declan to follow.

  Their plan was to search the lower levels. That was where holding cells were most often located in castles as old as Dunrobin. Just before they reached the archway to the keep, Alex heard footsteps. He and Declan plastered themselves against the wall, out of sight. The front door to the keep opened and daylight spilled into the hall.

  Alex’s father shouted, “Call off your dogs, Sellar!”

  “Laird John, to what do I owe the honor of your visit?” The sticky voice and the feigned pleasantries belonged to Patrick Sellar.

  “Where’s Lucy FitzHarris?” John demanded.

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “Miss FitzHarris left my home yesterday. I believe she is here at Dunrobin.”

  “You’ve lost your son’s bride? She’s only just arrived. Awfully careless of you.”

  “I’m in no mood for nonsense, Sellar.”

  Alex smiled to himself. His father was an excellent actor. Anyone who didn’t know the man would believe his outrage.

  “Why would you think Miss FitzHarris is here?” Sellar, also a decent actor, played innocent.

  “She received a letter instructing her to meet Lord Langley at Dunrobin Castle.”

  “I don’t know any Langley, and Miss FitzHarris is not within these walls. But I welcome you to search the castle yourself.”

  “Thank you. I will. Ian, come with me.”

  Three sets of footsteps clattered up the keep’s winding stone staircase. The front door to the keep closed, leaving the entry hall in torchlight again. Declan slithered into the entry and snatched the torch from the wall. He led the way down the stairs to the lower level, the dungeon. It was cold, dark, and dank when they reached the bottom. Alex shuddered at the thought of Lucy being held in such a place. She would be frightened half out of her mind.

  “See any light, Declan?” Alex whispered.

  “Nae. No voices, either.”

  They continued down a corridor, casting about with the torch, looking for chambers or likely places where a hostage might be secreted away. It seemed obvious to Alex this level hadn’t been used for anything but storage for some time. Nevertheless, they made a thorough search.

  Frustrated, he called out, “Lucy.” No answer.

  “She’s no’ here,” Declan said.

  “Come on. Da will be searching the second and third floors. Let’s return to the main floor and see what we can find.”

  As he and Declan reached the landing at the keep entrance, Alex heard his father striding up and down the halls above, cursing in a way that would singe most people’s sensibilities.

  “Lucy. Goddammit, woman! I ken you’re hiding from me. Come out here this instant. I’ll have a word with you.”

  Declan laughed. “He’s a sly devil, your da. Acting like it’s Lucy’s choice to be here. Not letting on about her kidnapping.”

  Alex headed down the corridor with Declan right behind. Finding an unlocked door, he opened it, took the torch from Declan, and peered inside.

  “You there. Stop.”

  The unfamiliar voice made them freeze in their tracks. Alex slowly turned to face the voice. A small man wearing a powdered wig, dressed in pink and white livery, stood in the hallway behind them, scowling with disapproval.

  “Just where do you think you’re going?”

  Alex went blank. Fortunately, Declan maintained his wits.

  “Looking for the kitchen, sir,” Declan said, assuming the proper tone of an underling.

  “Straight down the hall. You’d better hurry. Second breakfast is almost over.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. We’ll just be on our way,” Declan said, bobbing his head as he backed away.

  “Wait,” the man in livery called.

  Alex and Declan froze again, hands on their dirks.

  “Put that torch back where you found it.”

  “Right, sir. Sorry, sir.” Declan took the torch from Alex and did as the man asked. When he strode back, Alex saw a smile on Declan’s face and wanted to smack him. This was not a lark. This was a matter of life and death. His cousin must have seen the irritation in Alex’s face, for he straightened his own.

  “Come. Maybe one of the servants knows something,” Alex said through gritted teeth. He gave his cousin a shove in the back, urging him forward. “Hurry.”

  Heads turned to greet them when they stumbled into the steamy kitchen, all three faces rosy-cheeked from the heat of the pots bubbling over the fires, all three pates covered in white kertches, and all three women looked boiling mad.

  “We’ve just finished second breakfast. You’ve missed it. Be off with you,” the matron of the trio said.

  Alex smothered his anger with charm. “But we’ve just arrived, and your cooking smells so good.” He approached the woman slowly, a hand on his belly. “My wame is growling at me. He’s saying, ‘Feed me one of the bonnie lassie’s bannocks, or I’m like to die.’” He dropped to one knee before the matron who appeared to be the head cook, and smiled up at her.

  The cook’s beefy cheeks flushed even redder. “Och, stop your flirting and sit yourselves down. Tess, get the lads something to tide them over until dinner.”

  Declan and Alex sat on a bench by the wall while the comely Tess heaped two plates with bannocks, chunks of cheese, and brown bread dragged through bacon grease. Alex consumed the welcome and much-needed scran, and considered his next move. One could count on servants knowing everything that went on in a household, but how to ask them without drawing suspicion?

  “You worked for Lady Sutherland long, miss?” Alex asked the cook conversationally.

  “Near fifteen years,” she said, turning her attention to a pot about to bubble over.

  “Must be a chore serving all us workers.”

  “Nae. I’ve got my Tess and Elspeth to help.”

  The girls giggled at the mention of their names.

  “Did you hear that lunatic upstairs yelling for some lass?” Alex asked. “What the devil is he on about?”

  “Dinnae ken. What goes on up there is none of my concern.” The cook lifted her eyes to the ceiling and shook her head. “I just feed them.”

  Tess piped up. “He’s calling for someone named Lucy. He sounds powerful mad.”

  “Who’s Lucy?” Alex asked.

  Tess and Elspeth shrugged.

  Declan nudged him with an elbow and chucked his chin toward Alex’s left. A large man wearing a long black coat, black britches, and black boots seemed to appear from nowhere. He paid Alex and Declan no mind. Without a word, he approached Tess, held up two fingers, and waited while she loaded two plates just as she had done for Alex and Declan.

  The hulking figure retraced his steps across the room. He opened an almost invisible door set into the oak wood paneling of the kitchen wall and slipped into a dark corridor.

  “Who’s he?” Alex asked.

  “Mr. Boatman,” Tess said.

  “Why’d you give him two breakfasts?”

  “He asked for two plates last night, as well. He wouldnae answer me when I asked him why. Must be he has help minding the docks.”

  “Where’s that door lead?”

  “You’re awfy nosey,” said the cook, givin
g Alex a sidelong look.

  “I’m a mason,” Alex said by way of explanation. “The construction and layout of these old castles interests me.”

  “It’s a passage to the docks. Used it a hundred years ago for quick escapes. Now we use it for deliveries straight up from the water’s edge.”

  …

  Lucy woke in darkness, shivering violently. The sour smelling blanket hadn’t offered much warmth. She remembered sitting earlier with her knees hugged to her chest, leaning against the wall and fighting back sleep. She must have lost the battle and shifted to a curled position on the freezing stone floor.

  The candle stub had burned out. Had she slept long? Was it morning? The jailer had brought the candle to her quite some time after her last meal. By the length of its stub, she had estimated the wax would give her at least three hours of light. She groped along the floor with one hand, found the chamberstick, and touched the wick. Cold. It had been out a while.

  Despair swept over her, a feeling unfamiliar to Lucy. She had never felt this hopeless and afraid. Lucy straightened abruptly.

  “Do not cry. To cry is to lose.”

  Having spent many years as the target of her brother George’s nasty pranks, she had learned a valuable lesson: the first one to cry loses. She supposed she should be thankful to George. His teasing had made her tough. In George’s games, the loser wasn’t the weakest or the slowest. The loser was the first one to cry. Tears equaled shame and defeat.

  In Lucy’s mind, it was acceptable to cry if one was sad for someone else. It was acceptable to cry if one was injured. But one did not cry when one felt sorry for one’s self. Wallowing in self-pity was the same as accepting defeat. She would rather die than lose. If the object of imprisoning her in this cold, dark hell were to make her cry, they would lose.

  Lucy flung away the blanket. Every muscle in her body protested when she unfolded her legs and forced herself to stand. It was difficult to find her balance in total darkness. She reached out, found the cold, stone wall with one hand, and resumed her circuit around the cell.

  I will not cry. Let rage burn away self-pity. Let anger kill fear. I’ll use my wits to get me out of this. Think. How to survive? How to escape?