The Lady and the Highlander

by Lecia Cornwall

  “Thief!”

  He looked up as the cry sounded. The man with the papers was pointing at him, shouting. Wee Kipper dropped the candlestick, which fell with a clatter to the floor. He began to run back toward the hole in the floor.

  His foot got tangled in one of the sacks over his shoulder, and he tumbled. He felt the hard floor come up to meet his palms, felt splinters bite into his knees. He heard angry shouts, and rough hands dug into his shoulders. He kept his eyes on the hole.

  But the grate slid back into place, and Wee Kipper knew Chieftain was gone, and he was caught and as good as dead.

  Hoolet returned to the cellar, to her cache of special belongings. She wanted the green gown and the lace. She hoped that when Laire returned with Wee Kipper, their faces rosy with cold, and with tales to tell of the things they’d seen on their walk, Laire would begin the alterations on the green dress.

  She hummed a minuet as she went down the steps. But the music died in her throat when she walked into the room and found Chieftain hunched in a chair by the empty hearth, sobbing.

  “What are ye doing?” she asked. Chieftain was hard as stone. He didn’t cry . . . He looked up at her in surprise before turning away quickly. “What’s happened?” she demanded, approaching him, standing before him, forcing him to look at her.

  He sobbed like a bairn. “It’s Wee Kipper. He’s taken. He was on a mission—”

  “A mission? What mission? It’s daylight!” Hoolet cried. She crossed and looked into the cubby where Wee Kipper had made his bed. It was empty. She felt her hands begin to shake, and her belly turned to water.

  “What did ye do?”

  Chieftain blubbered. “The Sinclair warehouse. A ship came in last night—” he sobbed. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  Hoolet cast desperate eyes around the room and saw the empty bottle on the floor. She raised accusing eyes to Chieftain. “Ye were drunk? Ye took Wee Kipper out in broad daylight when ye were drunk?” She clouted him on the side of the head with her fist. “D’ye know what they’ll do to him? They’ll hang him! He’s a wee boy, the youngest of all of us. How could ye do it?”

  Chieftain cowered under the next blow.

  Hoolet hit him until her arm ached. “We have to get him back.”

  “How? There’s no way,” Chieftain moaned.

  She grabbed him by the ear, began to drag him across the room. She refused to let go when he tried to pull free. “Where are we going?” he demanded.

  She kept dragging him. “Upstairs to tell the others.”

  A servant showed Iain into the jungle that served as Sir Hamish MacEwan’s sitting room and asked to wait for Mistress MacLeod. He looked around at the books on rare plants and familiar ones piled next to antique herbals, atlases, and medical books. He turned as the door opened and Laire entered. The housekeeper stood behind her, keeping a suspicious and proprietary eye on Iain. Laire’s cheeks flushed at the sight of him.

  “I’ve come to fetch Wee Kipper,” he said without preamble. “Magpie and the others miss him.” They missed Laire as well, as did he, though he refused to say it aloud or let it show on his face.

  She frowned. “Wee Kipper?” she said, and her blush faded. “He isn’t here. Where could he—”

  There was a sudden frantic pounding on the front door, and shouts outside. Mrs. Groves put a hand to her heart, her blue eyes popping from her head. “There’s trouble! And Sir Hamish is away from home. They might imagine an old lady can’t defend her master’s home, but I can.” She opened a drawer and took out a sharp letter opener and headed for the door.

  Iain put his hands on Laire’s shoulders, moved her aside, and followed the housekeeper.

  Hoolet nearly fell into the room when the door opened.

  “Wee Kipper’s taken!” she cried, looking from Laire to Iain and back, ignoring the woman with the knife. “He’s in the Tolbooth and sure to hang!”

  Laire slipped past Iain. She took the letter opener from Mrs. Groves and tucked it up into her own sleeve. Then she reached for her cloak. “Mrs. Groves, I’m going out. You needn’t worry.” She cast a quick glance at Iain. “I’ll be safe with Laird Lindsay.” Or else, her eyes said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The trial had been swift and the outcome a foregone conclusion. Wee Kipper was marched into the court with five grown men, his wrists and ankles bound like theirs. He couldn’t see past the knees and backsides of the other prisoners as his sentence was passed.

  “Hang ’im,” the judge said without bothering to look up as each prisoner shuffled forward and his name and crime were called out.

  “A boy—thief,” they said when Wee Kipper’s turn came.

  “Hang ’im,” the judge said, and Wee Kipper felt the breath leave his body. He looked around desperately, seeking a friend, someone to speak for him, but the faces in the crowd were rough and dirty, without sympathy or compassion. He remembered the men who had come in the night and burned his family’s cott, killed his da and his wee sisters, and raped his mam. They’d looked just like these folk, as if they had no heart, no good inside them. He shut his eyes as the shackles jerked him forward. They led him back into the stinking darkness of the cells, dank chambers filled with the wails and curses of the inmates. Would he scream too if he could speak? There was only one other prisoner in the cell they shoved him into. He glanced at Wee Kipper without interest and turned to face the wall, taking all the stinking straw that littered the floor to make himself a bed.

  Wee Kipper sank into the bare corner and hugged his arms around his body and shivered. He kept an eye on the thin strip of grated window that let in the cold. Dusk was falling over the city. When the sun rose again, they’d come for him. They’d take him outside and put a rope around his skinny neck and hang him. He put a hand to his throat and tried not to cry. He hoped it would be quick.

  Hoolet and Laire stood outside the prison gates in the dark. Hoolet carried a flask of whisky under her cloak. Laire had a dirk and a pocketful of silver coins Iain had given her. He objected to the plan they’d come up with, but the clan insisted the guards would respond better to a pair of pretty lasses than a dangerous Highlander.

  He’d tried to insist that Laire return to her uncle’s house, stay safe and warm while they thought of another way to rescue Wee Kipper. She’d given him a sharp glare—the kind of look a Fearsome MacLeod gave an enemy or anyone else who crossed them.

  Now, as she stood in front of the prison she felt Iain’s big, broad body behind her like a solid wall, reassuring and strong, the way it had felt in the wood at Glen Iolair. It gave her courage. She turned. He was so close to her that she saw his gray eyes flare as she looked up at him. She felt an answering flare in her own breast. She clenched her hands in her skirts to keep from touching him. She looked at his mouth, and her own watered.

  He reached up and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I’ll be right here, and I’ll come for ye if there’s trouble.”

  She scanned his face, and knew he would. She swallowed. “If things go wrong—” She swallowed again, leaned closer to him, breathed in the familiar scent of him, memorized it, just in case. “Get Wee Kipper out.”

  He squeezed her elbow. “Ye can still change your mind.”

  But Hoolet caught her other arm. “It’s time to go in.”

  Laire and Hoolet knocked on the gate. It was dark enough to conceal their faces with their hoods up. Iain and Dux and Bear stood in the shadows of Saint Giles’ Cathedral across the square, waiting.

  “State your business,” the guard said rudely.

  “We’ve come to see a poor prisoner, set for execution in the morn.” She handed him a silver penny. “If it isn’t too much trouble.”

  He snatched the coin from her fingers and opened the postern gate. “Be quick about it. Ten minutes.” He opened a door that led down a long coil of steps. The smell made Laire gag. Hoolet grasped her arm. “I swear I’ll give up thieving,” she whispered as they descended the steps slowly, heard r
ats scurry. The torches that lit the narrow passage at the bottom filled the chamber with more smoke than light. Laire coughed. The cells were black holes on either side. None of the white faces that stared out of the gloom belonged to Wee Kipper.

  “What d’ye want?” the jailer demanded. Laire could smell the whisky on his breath—and that wasn’t easy over the stench of the prison.

  She swallowed and raised her chin. “We’re looking for a boy, very small, sentenced to be hanged in the morning,”

  “Be off with ye. No one sees prisoners.”

  “It’s a cold night,” Hoolet said in a sweet voice, withdrawing the flask from her pocket. “Perhaps this would warm ye.”

  The guard took it with a swipe of his dirty hand. He shuffled to a low door and opened it. “He’s in there. I’ll give ye five minutes.”

  It was almost too dark to see, and Laire entered the terrible hole with her heart in her mouth. “Kipper?” she whispered. Dear god, they couldn’t put a child in such a place, could they? But a small body hurtled into her knees, clung to her. Hoolet sobbed with relief. The cell’s other prisoner lay in the corner with his back to them and didn’t stir. They waited a moment.

  “That’s enough time,” Laire whispered, desperate to be out of the stinking prison. “Quick as ye can, Wee Kipper, get under my cloak.” She said a silent thanks Iain Lindsay’s cloak was long and heavy. Wee Kipper put his hands on her waist and Hoolet knocked on the door. “All done,” she said, feigning tears. The guard opened the door and Hoolet swept out. Laire moved carefully past him, scarcely needing to feign faintness. He eyed Hoolet with a leer.

  “Wait—I’ll have to search ye for contraband,” he said. He squinted at Laire. “You too.” He shoved Hoolet against the wall.

  Hoolet jerked her head, indicating that Laire should run, but Laire stayed where she was, not willing to leave anyone she cared about in this fetid place. She reached into her sleeve, felt for the dirk. The guard grunted as he put his hands under Hoolet’s cloak, and pressed closer. Laire slid her weapon under his ear. “Let her go and I’ll let you live.”

  The guard went still, and Hoolet slipped out from under him.

  “What now?” she whispered.

  “Bring ’im here,” the prisoner in Wee Kipper’s cell said, now pressed to the bars of the cell, watching. “I’ll make sure he never utters a sound again.” Laire saw the fear in the jailer’s eyes as she held the knife tight against his throat and considered the offer.

  “Someone’s coming,” Hoolet said. Laire turned, saw the shadows on the wall, twisted and distorted by the torchlight, and heard the sound of boots on the stairs, and the clink of weapons. Hoolet didn’t hesitate. She picked up a stool and whacked the guard across the head with it. He fell like a stone, unconscious.

  Hoolet stepped over him. “Come on.” She led the way up the stairs, passing the guards coming down. “Your man’s drunk,” Laire said tartly as they passed them.

  She tried to walk slowly, though she wanted to run. She put a hand under her cloak and squeezed Wee Kipper’s shoulder. “Nearly there,” she whispered.

  They reached the door that led into the yard, and she took a deep breath, her heart pounding.

  “Hurry,” Hoolet said, grasping her arm. The gate was a few yards ahead. Laire kept her eyes on it, waiting for the alarm. The guard saw them coming and unlocked it. Hoolet hurried through.

  But the scream of alarm shattered the night. “Stop those women!”

  The guard grabbed Laire’s shoulder.

  This time she didn’t hesitate; she plunged her knife into his arm. She grabbed Wee Kipper’s hand and ran for all she was worth, through the gate, and out into the street.

  “Run!” Hoolet screamed, but Laire hardly needed to be told. She followed Hoolet toward the dark bulk of the kirk. Could they claim sanctuary? She could hear the guards behind her, the repeated order to stop.

  They reached the porch of Saint Giles’, climbed the steps and plunged into the shadows. Hands grabbed her and she slashed at her assailant with the dirk. Arms went around her. “It’s me,” Iain growled in her ear. She was enveloped in his familiar scent, the big, reassuring bulk of his body. She sagged against him with relief. Bear took Kipper. Iain let her to. “Go with Bear. Dux and I will delay them.” It was too dark to see him, but he found her hand, squeezed it for an instant. “Don’t stop, Laire. Don’t get caught,” he said, and turned back to the guards.

  Bear carried Wee Kipper, and they raced into the kirk. Hoolet led them through the dark nave and down into the crypt. It was pitch dark, and Laire felt her chest contract. She couldn’t see, and the hair rose on the back of her neck . . . terrible things happened in the dark, death hovered there . . . She felt her stomach churn, and fear made her limbs heavy. She stopped and clung to the wall. She could hear Hoolet and Kipper and Bear breathing nearby. There was no sound of pursuit.

  She heard the gruff hiss of metal on stone in the dark, and the noise vibrated across her nerves. Hoolet found her hand and pulled her forward. “Follow me. It’s a tunnel,” she whispered.

  “You’ll have to crawl. Mind your head,” Bear added.

  It was as cold as the grave under the ground. Laire felt sweat sting her eyes. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. “Crawl,” Hoolet ordered, and she heard the rustle of the girl’s skirts moving away. Laire was frozen.

  She felt Wee Kipper’s hand on her ankle behind her, a careful pat, small and reassuring. He was behind her, keeping her safe, a wee child. She forced herself forward into the pitch darkness. The tunnel was barely big enough. Her head brushed the top of the narrow space in places, made her jump with fright. Behind her, Wee Kipper nudged her, patted her, kept her moving.

  “Are we safe?” she asked, needing to hear her own voice, to hear the people around her.

  “Quiet,” Bear hissed. They continued on until they came to a wider place. There was a grate in the ceiling of the tunnel here, and faint light filtered through it. To Laire it felt like the sun, and she pressed against Hoolet, wanting to get closer to it. Wee Kipper gripped her hand, and Hoolet put a finger to her lips. Someone was walking across a wooden floor just inches above their heads. She heard the sound of voices, the rustle of clothing. Laire felt a new ripple of fear creep up her spine. They all sat together in silence, not daring to move, waiting for the light to go out, for the footsteps to cross the floor, for a door to close, for darkness to make them safe. Laire’s throat closed.

  “Let’s go,” Hoolet whispered at last, and they began to crawl again.

  Iain stood in the shadows with his dirk in his hand, watching the guards rush out of the prison. Dux calmly strolled out to meet them.

  “Two lasses—did ye see them?” the guard demanded.

  “They went that way,” Dux said, pointing, and the guards rushed off in the wrong direction.

  Then Dux led the way through a warren of narrow streets and vennels until they’d ended up amid the ruins of the burnt-out house across the square from Lindsay House.

  Dux moved several planks and revealed a dark hole in the ground. “They’ll come out here.” He gave a soft whistle and waited. There was no reply. He crouched by the opening to wait.

  Iain felt the way he did on a hunt, waiting silently in the dark. The tunnel was pitch black, and Laire was afraid of the dark . . . Had she panicked, gotten stuck? He swallowed, tempted to dive into the narrow hole to find her. But he wouldn’t fit. He paced anxiously. “Where does it go?”

  Dux grinned. “To all the best places in the city—under warehouses and counting houses, kirks and taverns. The small ones can go through easily, but adults can’t follow.”

  “And that’s how Wee Kipper ended up in the Sinclair warehouse?” Iain asked.

  “Aye,” Dux said after a moment’s hesitation. “We steal so we can eat. We only take what we need to survive. When we grow too big, new little ones come to take our places. It’s how we live because we have no other way.”

  “Have ye no families?” I
ain asked.

  “We are a family.” Dux bent nearer to the mouth of the tunnel and whistled again. Still there was no reply. “They should have been here by now.”

  Iain’s spine prickled. He imagined Laire caught in the tunnel, lost and alone. He imagined the tunnel caving in on top of her, on Wee Kipper, Hoolet, and Bear, trapping them forever . . . He’d be helpless to save her. He felt a sharp, agonizing pain in his chest, a sense of terrible loss that was all too familiar.

  “Where else can we get to them?” he asked Dux, but he heard a soft whistle, muffled by dirt and distance.

  Dux whistled back. “Here they come.”

  Hoolet climbed out first, and Laire followed. Dux reached down to grab Wee Kipper’s hand, and Bear gave the boy a boost from underneath.

  Laire had dirt on her face, and in her hair. Her gown was muddy and her cloak—his cloak—was torn. She’d never looked more beautiful. She stood staring up at the stars, gasping. “Are you unharmed?” Iain asked, taking her elbow. Her eyes were shining as she looked at him. Nearly breathless, she grinned, and that shone in the darkness too. He felt a lump in his throat.

  “I’m fine,” she assured him. “Better than that. We’re safe, Iain. All of us. It seemed impossible, but it wasn’t. Do you ken? It’s not impossible. There’s always a way. I will save my family.”

  She looked so happy, so vibrant, that the shell around his heart cracked. He didn’t hesitate, he didn’t think.

  He pulled Laire MacLeod into his arms and kissed her.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  He’s kissing me, Laire thought. Iain’s lips were gentle, surprisingly soft, but the sensation shot through her like a lance. Her body responded to his instantly, instinctively, and she knew this was meant to happen, that she’d wanted it. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him back. She could feel the wool of his coat and the silk of his hair. He made a small sound and deepened the kiss, invading her mouth. Oh yes, she thought as his tongue slid over hers, and he groaned. He tightened his hands around her waist, pulled her closer, and she pressed against him, felt the hardness of his body against hers, felt exhilarated, safe, and warm. Her blood sang.