“Make ready to sail,” he called into the dark, and men rushed to obey. Laire stood by the rail and waited. The wind off the firth blew straight through her, chilled her to the marrow, and she wondered if it was snowing at Glen Iolair, and if her sisters still danced and drank and slept, maddened by the potion Bibiana fed them. And Papa, what of him?
She looked up at the sky, but clouds obscured the stars, and she could smell the bitter tang of snow on the wind.
“Ye should go below,” the captain said, but she stayed where she was, scanning the dock, watching for the sealgair. “Cast off!” he bellowed, and the sail unfurled with a rumble like thunder. The ship slipped away from the dock, felt the wind, and moved into its embrace.
Then she saw him, striding down the dock. She knew him by his height, by the bow on his back, by the way he walked—proud, aware of everything around him.
Except her. She held her breath, pulled her hood close, and edged behind a line as she willed him not to look in her direction. She measured the distance between the boat and the wharf. The boat was edging away from the dock with painful slowness, creaking complaints like an old woman stirred from a comfortable bed.
She felt his eyes on her the moment he found her, knew he saw her standing by the rail, her hand gripping the hawser so tightly the hemp burned her palm.
He began to run, swallowing the wharf with his long legs. His dark hair flew behind him in the wind. She knew he too was measuring the distance between the ship and the dock, wondering if it was still close enough that he could jump . . . she held her breath, willed the ship to move, to fly. He was almost at the edge, gathering speed . . .
She cried out as he skidded to a stop on the edge of the dock and teetered on the edge for a moment before catching himself and stepping back. Too far. She sagged with relief and saw his eyes flash with anger, saw his lips move, form a curse. He stood where he was, his eyes on hers, and watched her depart.
She gasped for air, her knees weak, her heart thundering against her ribs. She put a hand to her throat under the cloak, felt the locket there and clutched it, rubbing the pattern etched into the silver. The sealgair watched her still, his eyes burning through the darkness. He wouldn’t give up, wouldn’t stop. But she’d escaped for now.
“When is the next boat sailing for Edinburgh?” she asked a passing sailor.
“Two days, if the weather doesn’t stop it. There’s a storm coming. We’ll have a rough trip ourselves.”
Two days before he could find a boat. Five days of sailing, Seven days before he reached Edinburgh, she calculated.
Her trail would be cold by then. She’d be safe with Uncle Hamish and on her way back to Glen Iolair with a cure soon after that.
She’d won. She risked a smile as she stared at him in the darkness, standing on the dock as the ship sailed away. He would not catch her now.
Aye. All would be well after all.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Edinburgh
After six days of sailing through a gale that seemed to push the ship backward faster than the vessel moved toward its destination, they docked in Edinburgh. Laire paid the captain the second half of the agreed-upon price, and he pocketed the coins and turned away without the slightest curiosity about why she’d come or where she was going. She was grateful for that, though she would have liked to ask him if he knew how she might find her uncle.
She walked down the gangplank and looked around her. Fresh snow shrouded boxes and bundles and heaps of coal along the wharf. Warehouses and sheds looked balefully down at her, offering neither pity nor assistance. Her heart thumped in her chest. She’d never been further from home than Inverness, and always in the company of her father and a watchful tail of burly MacLeod clansmen. Alone, she had no idea where to go, or how to find her uncle.
She scanned the huddled gray buildings of the city, which seemed to stretch over the hills as far as the eye could see. One of those houses was Sir Hamish MacEwan’s home, but which one? Her uncle sent her long letters and gifts from his travels, and he’d often described his home, but mostly the gardens and the conservatory where he grew exotic plants. She couldn’t recall him ever mentioning a street, or even a neighborhood.
She was a MacLeod of Iolair. Papa had friends in Edinburgh, business acquaintances, knew traders and merchants. Could they help her? She had no idea how to find those men either . . .
People bustled around her, hurrying through the snow, grinding it into gray slush beneath their feet. Men loaded and unloaded ships, cursing the cold and the weight of their burdens. A flash of light caught her eyes. Two men were carrying a polished silver mirror up a gangplank, grunting under the weight of the expensive glass and trying not to slip. For a moment she caught sight of her reflection. Her face was pale against the black of her cloak, her eyes wide, worried, and underscored by dark crescents. Her skirts were rumpled and travel-stained, and her hair was a rat’s nest. Who would recognize her as the daughter of the wealthy and powerful MacLeod of Glen Iolair?
She jumped back as someone pushed past her, splashing her with dirty water that soaked the front of her cloak. She was cold, and it would soon be dark. She had to be clever about this. Surely there was a particular quarter where men of science and intellect lived and worked. Near to the university, perhaps, or close by a great library. The jagged soot-darkened houses and shops around her hardly seemed to encourage deep thought or high learning. It was clear that she wasn’t in the right place at all.
A hand touched her shoulder, and Laire spun, reaching for her knife. The sealgair . . .
But it was a young woman who stood smiling at her. “Good day to ye. Ye look like ye might be lost. Can I help?”
Laire scanned her face. She had blond hair and wide blue eyes like Jennet’s, though she’d be closer in height to Cait or Meggie. When she smiled, dimples appeared in her cheeks, like Isobel’s. The girl tilted her head and waited. She looked kind and near to Laire’s own age. Laire took a deep breath. She had to start somewhere, trust someone. “I’m looking for my uncle. He lives in Edinburgh.”
“Your uncle? Are ye alone?” She stood on her toes and peered over Laire’s shoulder.
Laire didn’t reply to the question. Instead she said, “His name is Hamish McEwan. He’s a man of science.”
The girl’s eyes flicked back to her, and her brows rose like sparrows taking flight. “Hamish MacEwan? Och, everyone knows Hamish MacEwan!”
Laire felt hope soar in her breast. “Can you tell me how to—” But the girl put her arm through Laire’s companionably.
“I can do better than that. I have a friend who knows everyone in Edinburgh. He has a fine carriage and he’ll be happy to take ye along to see Harris—”
“Hamish,” Laire corrected, and resisted the girl’s tug on her arm. “Hamish MacEwan.”
A sharp look passed over the girl’s face. She removed her hand from Laire’s sleeve and stepped back, shrugging. “Suit yourself.” She took a step backward, turned to go. “Mind the streets after dark. Edinburgh is a dangerous place for a lass alone,” she called over her shoulder.
“Wait.”
The girl turned to look at her. “Are ye a teuchter, then? A Highlander?”
Laire nodded.
“My friend—the one with the carriage—is a Highlander. On his mother’s side.” She pointed up one of the winding little lanes that led away from the docks. “He owns an inn. He’ll be glad to stand ye a pint of ale and something hot to eat while he sends for his coach-and-four to escort ye.”
Laire’s stomach rumbled. She looked at the frowning faces that surrounded them, the shifting eyes and hands that darted to the hilts of sharp dirks, worn where they could be seen. A shiver ran up her spine.
“Well, I’m getting in out of the cold and the snow before my feet freeze,” the girl said, shrugging. “Come or don’t, as ye wish.”
Laire’s feet were already freezing, and her gloveless hands were blue with cold.
She smiled her thanks an
d followed the lass into the labyrinth of the city.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Iain bribed a ship’s captain to sail early. He arrived mere hours behind Laire MacLeod, since his ship sailed behind the snowstorm that slowed hers. Finding her had become an obsession, a challenge—even in Edinburgh, big as it was.
He had no idea why she’d come to Edinburgh. What if it was just a temporary stopping place? Ships from all over Europe called on the city. How far would she run? How far would he go to find her?
The alabaster box was heavy in his pack, and Bibiana was waiting . . .
Snow was falling again when they docked in Edinburgh. It was early evening, but the sky was as snow-lit as if it had been day. Folk hurried by bundled against the cold, not stopping to gawk at newcomers or watch cargo unloaded.
He felt a tug on his cloak. “First time in the city, Highlander?” a female voice purred beside him. He turned to find a young blond lass grinning up at him. Her smile faded at his frown. Her hand dropped away, and she took a step back.
“I’m looking for someone,” he said, keeping his voice low. “A lass.”
Her smile returned, bright as a torch. “Then ye’ve found her,” she said. “Shall we go where it’s warm?”
“A Highland lass,” he insisted.
“My father was a MacKenzie,” she tried. She folded back her cloak despite the weather, revealed a beguiling smile.
“She’s got dark hair, almost black, and unusual eyes . . .” Iain said.
Something flashed in the girl’s eyes. Her cheeks flushed pink, and she lowered her gaze for a moment. “All cats are gray in the dark.” She pulled her cloak open further still, revealing a half-open bodice and the swell of her breasts.
Iain gaped, but not at the lass’s charms. It was the locket around her neck that caught his attention.
It belonged to Laire MacLeod.
It was nearly midnight, and if not for the glow of the snow in the air and on the ground, the city would be black as pitch. Will Kerridge slipped and nearly fell to his knees, unbalanced by his burden. He cursed and steadied himself against the rough brick wall of the alley. Charlie Bell, his partner, turned to frown at him. “Hie yourself, man,” Charlie grumbled. “I’m freezing my ballocks off.”
“She’s heavier than you’d think,” Kerridge growled, shifting the unconscious body of the lass on his shoulder. She didn’t stir. They’d given her enough poppy to put a horse to sleep. She was a dead weight, and he knew exactly what carrying a dead body felt like. “How much farther? We could just cut her throat, sell her to the medical school instead,” he grunted to Charlie.
“Nay, we’ll make more at the Pearl. The abbess likes the pretty ones, pays well for ‘em.”
“How can ye tell if a lass is pretty when she’s got her tongue hanging out of her face and her eyes rolled back?”
Charlie chuckled. “That’s exactly the way I like to see ’em when they’re on their knees before me.”
Kerridge grunted, shifted the lass again. He didn’t care a fig what happened to her, but the payment they would receive for delivering her was far too little to be out on a night like this. The snow was thick on his hair, melting into his eyes and beard and freezing again. His feet were already numb. Only the girl, bundled in a woolen cloak and draped around his shoulders like a scarf, kept him warm, though her hands and feet were like ice. He wondered if she’d freeze to death before they got to the brothel, a fine, upscale establishment that catered to English army officers and gentlemen with money. Of course, if she died, the abbess wouldn’t want her, and that thought made him feel almost cheerful. Dead, she could be sold to the surgeons at the medical school, and for a body this fresh, they’d earn almost as much as the abbess would pay. This gave Kerridge the strength to push forward and to hope the wind was cold enough to freeze the blood in her veins. Her long dark hair blew across his face, and he swept it away impatiently and trudged on.
They heard the sound of laughter ahead of them, dampened by the snow. Bell pressed himself into the shadows, and Kerridge did likewise, holding the girl tight. A pair of smartly dressed young men rounded the corner and passed them.
“You’re a lucky sod,” one of the lads said, swaying drunkenly against his friend. “Ye won enough to pay for your lodging and your university fees for a year.”
“Shh!” the other one hissed, giggling drunkenly. “Ye never know who’s listening.” He sketched a bow that nearly toppled him. “But I am indeed stinking rich. I shall have beef on my plate and coals in the brazier at my lodgings for a change this winter.” He took off his hat and tossed it into the air for joy. It landed a foot before Kerridge’s hiding place. Kerridge held his breath while the fool retrieved it, unawares.
“We should have hired a coachman to take us home,” the other one said.
“Aye, but there are no coaches out in the snow. Nay, It’s Shanks’s pony for us, and the merry jingle of riches to keep us company on the walk.”
They trudged on.
Charlie jabbed his elbow into Kerridge’s ribs. “D’ye hear that? A fortune.”
Kerridge nodded. “How much will we get for delivering the girl?”
Charlie spat into the snow where the hat had landed. “Not a fortune.” They watched the young men weave and slip their way through the snow. “I say we leave her.”
“Leave her?” Kerridge asked. “What, just here in the snow?”
“The brothel is just across the square. We can drop her beside the steps near the door. We’ll go after those two swells and come back and deliver her proper-like later.”
Kerridge frowned. “What if she dies?”
Bell grunted impatiently. “We’ll come back later and see. If she meets her demise, we’ll sell her dead. If she lives, the abbess can sell her instead.” He chuckled. “Opportunities like this don’t come every day, Will, my lad. Come on, before this one disappears. You set her down, and I’ll follow the toffs.”
Kerridge hurried out of the alley and across the square to the brothel. He laid the girl in the shadows beside the steps leading to the front door. It was good and dark here, but he kicked a wee bit of snow over her to hide her—or preserve the freshness of her corpse if it came to that—and hurried after his partner.
Iain held the innkeeper of The Skald’s Cup by the throat. He was a big man, but he hung in Iain’s grip like a kitten, his feet six inches off the floor, his eyes bulging, his face red with fear and the effort to breathe.
“Where is the woman who was wearing this?” Iain demanded, holding up the locket he’d taken from the young whore’s neck. He saw fear in the innkeeper’s eyes, and the man made a sound of dismay but stayed stubbornly silent.
Iain dropped him, but only long enough to jab his dirk against the man’s ribs. One quick thrust would drive the blade into the innkeeper’s heart—or it would if the man had one. Iain’s own heart was thundering against his ribs, and he felt his own fear, but for the lass, for Laire. The innkeeper squeaked as the dirk pressed. The girl from the docks huddled in a corner and sobbed.
“Is she dead?” Iain asked through gritted teeth, bracing himself for the answer. The innkeeper tried to twist out of Iain’s grip, and he swung one meaty fist at Iain’s face. Iain ducked, landed a punch of his own. Blood spurted from the man’s lips, and the whore screeched. The innkeeper raised his hands to fend off another blow. His hands were huge, raw knuckled, and dirty. Iain’s belly curled, imagining Laire MacLeod at the mercy of those brutal paws. Iain forced himself to loosen his grip. He’d get no answers if he killed the bastard.
The girl from the docks threw herself on Iain, tugging with all her might, her eyes streaming. “Don’t you hurt him! I’ll take ye to her if ye want her so bad, but leave him be!”
He let the innkeeper go. The man’s knees buckled, and he dropped to the floor like a sack of meal. The girl knelt by his side.
“She isna’ dead,” the girl said, her eyes hard as glass on Iain. “She might have been, if she’d stayed on the d
ocks where I found her, or if she’d wandered off into the vennels. ’Twas clear she didn’t know the city and had no idea of the dangers. She was looking for someone. Are ye him? Hugh or Harrison? I can’t remember. She said ye were her uncle, a man of science.” She looked at him more closely. “Ye don’t look like anyone’s uncle to me, or a man of science. We did her a favor—”
“What kind of favor?” Iain asked. He still held the dirk in his fist, and the girl looked at the blade and flinched. “Are ye her uncle? Her husband?”
Iain didn’t reply. The girl looked away first. He was neither. He meant her as much harm—more—than these two did. He kept his expression flat. Hugh or Harrison . . . She had an uncle in the city.
“We took her to a place where she’ll be warm and cared for, that’s all,” the girl said at last. “We’re not so cruel we’d let a lass die of the cold—or worse.”
Iain felt his throat close. “What kind of place? A convent? An inn?”
The innkeeper gave a strangled laugh. “A kind of convent, Teuchter. A house in the old town, one for gentlemen, the kind with money to pay for the company of a pretty lass like her.”
A whorehouse. Iain felt rage and dismay fill his breast. “Where?” he demanded again, his voice harsher, gruffer. He closed his fist around the locket, felt the filigree edges bite into his palm.
“It was kinder than leaving her on the street. Someone would have robbed her, raped her, and slit her throat—” the innkeeper began again, but Iain gripped his throat again, stopped his words. The man’s face reddened dangerously, and his eyes widened with fear. The girl scrabbled at Iain’s clenched fingers, but he ignored her.
“Where?”
“Let him go! He can’t breathe!” the girl cried. “Stop, and I’ll take ye there.”
Iain stared at the innkeeper, wondered how many young women he’d sold to brothels, how many pretty lasses had met Laire’s fate. The innkeeper regarded him with fear now, knowing Iain was capable of ending his misbegotten life with one flick of his wrist. For a moment Iain’s fingers tightened, and the man made a soft sound, a plea for mercy perhaps. Iain forced himself to let go. The innkeeper gasped for air. The girl fell upon him again, sobbing. He shoved her away roughly.
The Lady and the Highlander Page 10