The Devilish Lord Will: Mackenzies, Book 10

by Ashley Jennifer

  “Oh.” Will’s voice drifted back to them and Josette hurried to where he stood unmoving, his lantern high.

  Bhreac surged forward, stumbling over debris in his haste. “Did you find the gold? Is it here?”

  Will didn’t answer him. “I thought you gone forever, my friend,” he said softly.

  The light from his lantern fell on a bulk of something shrouded in a dust-covered cloth. Will set the lantern on the floor and grasped the cloth with great care. He pulled it slowly away, the fabric slithering from an object about five feet long and four feet tall.

  Josette’s breath caught as he raised the lantern again, its light glinting on burnished mahogany and polished brass.

  Bhreac sighed in disappointment. “No gold there.”

  “No.” Will’s voice had gentled to a note Josette rarely heard in it. “Treasure of a different kind.”

  Josette thought the piece of furniture was a harpsichord, top shut, keys covered, or a clavichord. Then she realized it was a pianoforte, and must be the one Will had told her his mother had purchased.

  Will folded the cover back from the keys. It shouldn’t play, Josette reasoned, abandoned here. But the thing had been cared for, the wood oiled, the brass cleaned.

  Will pressed his fingers to the keys. The sound that came out was off, the strings far out of tune, but they struck and rang.

  “My father sent this down here after my mother died,” Will said. He played a scale, then another, the notes quiet. “He couldn’t bear to look at it. Naughton took care of it, though, and so did I, figuring that someday Dad might want it back. I used to come down here and play, too far from the rest of the house to be heard.”

  He brought his other hand to the keyboard and picked out a tune. It was nothing Josette recognized, but she didn’t have the knowledge of music Will did. Whatever he played had full notes in the base and clear, sweet sounds in the treble—or would when the pianoforte was tuned.

  “Lovely,” Bhreac said. “Is the gold inside?”

  Will lifted his fingers away, and the music faded. “My friend, you have no soul.”

  He gave Bhreac a deprecating look but opened the lid to reveal the instrument’s innards.

  Josette peered inside but saw only strings stretched along the soundboard, pads on the hammers looking slightly the worse for wear. Definitely a pianoforte. Harpsichord strings were plucked; pianoforte strings were struck.

  “No gold,” Josette said quietly. “I’m glad. Might have ruined it.”

  Will, at her side, slid an arm around her waist. “Aye, that would have been a pity.”

  Josette looked up at him. His eyes held sorrow, memories, fondness. When she touched his cheek, he leaned down and kissed her.

  The kiss was heat in the darkness, as sweet as the music he’d played. Josette loved this man and his many facets, from his laughter to the tears he’d blinked away as he’d turned from the keyboard.

  Bhreac waited patiently until the kiss eased to a close. “Anywhere else we should look?” he asked as Will brushed moisture from Josette’s lips.

  Will’s answer rang through the stone chambers. “No, I’m weary of dusty darkness. We’ve earned a dram or two.” He grabbed the dust cloth, and Josette helped him settle if back over the pianoforte. He rested his hand on top of it when they finished. “I’ll be rounding up Errol and any able-bodied man I can find to carry this treasure back to the distillery, I think. It’s been hidden long enough.”

  * * *

  A few days later Will accompanied men to the cellars to bring his mother’s pianoforte into the light. In the intervening time he had made space for it in the chamber that had been a small sitting room, Josette very interested in putting the room to rights.

  He and Josette, with Bhreac and Beitris assisting, had continued to search in likely places for the gold, but turned up nothing. Will thought he knew why, but kept his speculations to himself.

  He did make Bhreac tell him why he’d been drifting around the Highlands to chance upon Will and the ladies at Strathy Castle.

  “I was looking for you,” Bhreac said, wistfulness in his voice. “I could not accept that my old friend Will was dead, and then I heard of a ghost causing strife for army men around the forts and camps. A spirit of a vengeful Highlander, the stories went. Destroying supplies, releasing animals, terrifying hardened soldiers. I concluded it must be you or one of your brothers. So I went searching.”

  Josette had heard the same stories and had drawn the same conclusion, she’d said. Will was not certain he believed Bhreac entirely, but he embraced the man.

  “I’m alive, old friend. And will take care to remain so.”

  Will had much to live for, he’d decided. The melancholia that had snaked into his heart at Culloden eased as he beheld Josette plumping pillows and choosing pictures for what would become the music room.

  Soon his mission would be finished. He looked forward to celebrating afterward.

  Now Will chided the men to be careful as they carried the pianoforte from the cellar, lifting it down through the trapdoor Errol had known the exact location of, to a waiting cart.

  Will himself hung on to one of the ropes. He fretted so much that Errol had growled at him to go away and wait for them to trundle it out.

  Sweat stained Will’s linen shirt as the pianoforte was leveled in the cart and the patient horse started the journey to the distillery. He’d get the thing cleaned up, the pads replaced and the strings tuned. He knew a man in Inverness who would be just the one to help.

  Will and the men had just managed to maneuver the pianoforte into the sitting room at the distillery, when young Ewan dashed into the courtyard, shouting for Will.

  “He’s coming,” he said breathlessly when Will emerged at a run. “Macdonald himself. He’s only a few hours behind me.”

  Chapter 27

  Clennan Macdonald tasted both rage and triumph.

  A Mackenzie was alive. Will Mackenzie, an upstart, braggart of a spy, whose exploits had betrayed many a Highlander. His family had foolishly thrown their lot in with the Young Pretender, which had killed Mackenzies, Macdonalds, and hundreds of men in all the glens.

  Duncan had been the worst, but he’d been felled at Culloden. Clennan had witnessed Duncan’s death, wishing he’d been the one to cause it. Clennan had joined the gunfire at the rest of their bloody family, though he hadn’t seen who’d fallen in all the smoke and confusion.

  He’d later read with glee the names of the hateful Duke of Kilmorgan and his sons—Allison’s children—dead and gone. Served her right.

  The woman ought to have married poor Horace and borne many Macdonald bairns. She’d have been where Clennan could put his hands on her, either to use her to bring glory to the Macdonalds or to ease his physical needs, whichever he liked. Horace wouldn’t have minded. He’d already indicated such.

  But the bitch had to defy them and run off with a Mackenzie, the be-damned Duke of Kilmorgan, of all men she could have chosen. After Allison wed, she’d gloated to Clennan, to his face, that she’d escaped his clutches.

  The day Clennan learned that the Mackenzies were dead, he’d laughed out loud. He’d gone to the ruins of Kilmorgan and taken the best of the artwork and trinkets that he could find. Allison’s money had bought the Mackenzie bastards soft luxuries that should have been Horace’s and Clennan’s.

  And now, he’d been told that one of Allison’s sons had survived. Figured it would be Will, the coward who always managed to be miles away from any true danger. Will Mackenzie stirred up trouble and then left others to clean up his mess.

  Clennan would kill him, make sure the rest of the French gold he’d tricked away from the Jacobites was safe, and destroy every stone of Kilmorgan Castle. He’d take a sledgehammer to that harpsichord or pianoforte, or whatever it was he’d found in the cellars—he’d left it there in case he could later sell it, but he knew it had belonged to Allison. She’d loved to play pieces by that German fellow, Bach, or by Italian composers—s
illy skill for a Scotswoman.

  When a message had arrived from Sir Harmon Bentley, the man giving him the incredible news that a Mackenzie lived and had returned to Kilmorgan, Clennan had been stunned, but not for long—he’d acted quickly.

  If Will Mackenzie found the hoard of gold, he’d be unstoppable. He might try to virtuously return it to the French king for a reward—rumor had it that he’d had a hand in introducing Madame de Pompadour to Louis. Probably Will had been her lover too.

  If the delectable woman who’d been Alec’s artists’ model was with him, as Sir Harmon assured him she likely would be, Clennan would take her as well. She’d serve him until Clennan was tired of her.

  Poor lass probably was sick to death of Will anyway. Will had made her pretend to be his wife, and then sent her in with whoever that Englishman had been to dupe Clennan out of the money he’d given them. Clennan imagined Will had forced the lass to turn over the Louis d’or she’d come away with, probably forced her to do other things as well. Made Clennan ill to think about it.

  His horse, sensing his master’s urgency, increased his pace, eagerly picking its way along the valley toward Kilmorgan. The lad from the West Indies who’d been Sir Harmon’s footman, the bearer of the news that Will was alive and after Clennan’s gold, rode some paces behind him, borrowed to be a servant for the journey. Sir Harmon, the idiot, had apparently harbored Will Mackenzie under his roof and hadn’t even known it.

  The youth—whatever his name was—was a surly fellow. Really, the slaves should stay in the New World and not clutter up the place.

  Not that Scottish servants were much better, Clennan growled to himself. The manservant Naughton had run off God knew where, just when he was most needed. Never mind—let the standoffish man go to the devil.

  Clennan pulled up in sight of Kilmorgan Castle, what was left of it.

  The ruin never failed to move him. Old Scotland, destroyed, as it should be. The world was moving forward with science, understanding, and reason, not superstitions from the past. Clennan’s own brother had believed in will-o’-the-wisps, demons, and ghosts, ridiculous fool.

  He liked the outline of the manor house the youngest Mackenzie had started. Clennan would build there, and have every luxury of the world imported for it. Women too, to warm his nights—ladies were malleable when shown a bit of cash.

  He’d offer some to Will’s woman, and she’d leap at it. Clennan understood her kind.

  He bypassed the ruin and made for the distillery, where he reasoned Will would be hiding. He knew the distillery remained in spite of efforts to destroy it, and was manned by those faithful to the Mackenzies. No matter. Clennan would start up the still again once he owned Kilmorgan and sell the whisky—no reason to waste a perfectly good commodity.

  Will was the greatest hurdle—Clennan would need to kill him quickly. He didn’t trust anyone else to do it properly, which was why he’d come himself.

  The distillery’s courtyard was deserted. Clennan dismounted, tossing his reins to the youth, who pulled up behind him. Removing his pistol from its holster, Clennan assured himself that the bullet was tightly packed into the barrel and the pan was primed. He had only one shot, but that was all he’d need.

  He found the distillery’s door unlocked. He shoved it open and stepped inside, ducking into shadows.

  All was quiet. Dust motes hung in the one beam of sunshine that sliced from above.

  Clennan moved in catlike silence down the hall to the chamber where the wreckage of the great Mackenzie copper still resided. He saw no one, heard nothing.

  He lit a lantern that reposed on a shelf—flint and steel had been thoughtfully placed near the lantern so its candle could be ignited. Taking up the light, Clennan opened the door in the back of the still room and entered the tunnel, making his way to the wider space where he’d found barrels of whisky stashed. He hadn’t touched any—the special reserve would bring him much income once he owned the land.

  He found Will Mackenzie leaning against one of the barrels, sipping whisky from a fine crystal goblet.

  “There ye are, man,” Will said, lifting the glass to him. “What kept you?”

  Clennan raised his pistol, and fired.

  * * *

  Will wasn’t there to be shot. As soon as Clennan moved, Will did too, diving to the rock floor.

  The bullet struck a barrel. Wood splintered, and a stream of whisky spewed out, scenting the air.

  “You stupid bastard,” Will said in true anger as he scrambled to his feet. “Bloody waste.” He caught some of the stream in his glass he’d managed not to break, took a swallow, and let out a sigh of satisfaction. “Excellent stuff—I knew it would be.”

  Clennan glared at him in outrage. “Ye should be swinging from a noose. Or tied to four horses and pulled apart. Maybe I’ll do that to you myself.”

  “Will ye now?” Will pointedly scanned the empty space behind Clennan. “Ye came alone, didn’t you? That’s the word I’ve had—you and one servant. Very confident of you. How do you plan to take me?”

  “You’re alone too,” Clennan said. “Is the lady still with you? Or did she run first chance she had?”

  “Josette? No, she’s here. Well, not in this tunnel, because I wouldn’t let her put herself into any danger.” Will pinched the bridge of his nose. “And didn’t we have an argument about that? The lass can shout like hellfire.”

  “So she has you wrapped around her finger, does she? I’m not surprised. She must have learned how to handle Mackenzies when she was Alec’s whore.”

  Will’s ancestral fury woke. He wanted to lunge at Clennan, gouge out the man’s eyes, snap his spine. Shut his mouth forever.

  But then he’d have a murder on his hands, for which others might pay, and that wasn’t the plan.

  Will’s jaw went tight. It was difficult to coolly follow his scheme while Clennan begged every second to be killed, but he’d do it.

  “I’ll grind your face into the dirt for that later,” Will said. “And for ruining a barrel of twenty-year-old reserve. I imagine you’re here for your French gold.”

  “Actually, I came to kill you,” Clennan said. “The gold is a secondary concern.”

  “Ah. I’m flattered. The trouble is, Macdonald, that I know where the gold is, and you don’t.”

  Will had the satisfaction of seeing Clennan flinch. The man tried not to, but the slight pause, the blink, betrayed that Clennan had thought killing Will and walking away with his gold would be easy.

  Will held his glass under the trickling stream of whisky and took another mouthful. Shame about this—Mal would rage if he knew what Clennan had just done.

  “You are lying,” Clennan said. “You have no idea where it is. You lured me here so I’d lead you to it.”

  Will only looked at him. Bhreac had said this would never work, that Clennan would see through Will’s ruse. Josette worried that Clennan would simply try to kill Will and go home, believing his gold safe.

  They were both wrong.

  “I’ll take you to it,” Will offered.

  Clennan regarded him with narrowed eyes. “Why should I follow you anywhere? I’d rather kill you now.”

  “You’ve already fired off your pistol,” Will pointed out.

  “I have other weapons. I’m not fool enough to face you without them.” Clennan made no move to draw one—not certain enough yet of his ground, Will suspected.

  “If you want your gold, you’ll come with me,” Will said calmly.

  “And have you lead me into a trap? Where are your loyal men? The ones who’d die for the Mackenzies?”

  “My loyal men fled into the hills long ago.” Will made an expansive gesture. “Look around you, Macdonald. There’s nothing here anymore for them. Men like you took it all away.”

  “Men like me are loyal to the crown.”

  “Aye, when it’s expedient to be,” Will said. “When it’s not …” He made a dismissive gesture with his goblet.

  “And you are the
same.” Clennan’s long-nursed hatred came through his words. “The Mackenzies bend whichever way the wind blows, no matter how many you send out to die for your pleasure.”

  Will thought of Duncan, believing hard in Scottish independence, ready to defy his father to make it so. Duncan had died believing he fought for a better future for his sons and their sons. Angus had died trying to keep Duncan alive so he could keep believing in Scotland.

  “You’re not quite right about that,” Will said, trying to keep his voice light. “Not all men think like you.”

  “Don’t they? They will if they’re not idiots. Where did you put it?”

  Clennan brought out a second pistol from a holster under his coat, the gun no doubt loaded and primed.

  Will eyed the weapon then shrugged and thumped his goblet onto a shelf. “Come on, then.”

  He bravely walked past Macdonald and back toward the distillery. He could have led him out through the tunnels to the cliffs, but Will was not about to trust the man in close quarters in the dark.

  Will walked steadily through the still room and into the main hall, the light through its windows glaring after the tunnels. He continued without stopping to the courtyard, where the light was even brighter—the sun had chosen to show itself today.

  The courtyard was empty. Macdonald looked around quickly, then swore.

  “Where the devil is that boy?” he growled. “Bloody lad stole my horses. And people want to halt the slave trade. Sell them all to the mines, I say.”

  Will kept his mouth shut and his hands at his sides, resisting the urge to throttle the man. Henri had done exactly as instructed—taking away Macdonald’s transportation and any provisions.

  The fact that the plan was moving along calmed Will a bit. He’d have a chance to thrash Clennan soon enough.

  “We’ll go on foot,” Will said. “’Tis not far.”