by Cathie Dunn
“Our parents did know I was returning? Did they not?”
Angus’ grin told her. “No.” He laughed out loud. “They’d only have been in the way. It didn’t take much effort to convince them to take a break in London. Father was craving news of a different kind to that of his daughter playing the strumpet.”
The slap rang loud in the room. Her hand hurt, but with no small measure of satisfaction she noticed his cheek turning a flaming crimson. “You—”
“Hold your horses, sister.” He nodded to John who came up behind her, holding her firmly by the arms as he positioned his body close behind hers. Bile rose in her throat.
Angus rose to stand barely an inch in front of her. Fumes of alcohol assailed her as he spoke. “I warned you, up north. You didn’t listen. See, John and I made a little pact. Forget Francis and the others. I gave him contacts, names of some well-known Highlanders, so he can get something he desperately wants—apart from you—and in return he’ll marry you despite your ruined reputation. After all, he tasted the goods, so he might just as well enjoy the full meal.” Angus grinned and raised his hand. Catriona flinched. He laughed out loud as his smooth palm stroked her cheek.
Fury made her shake, her heart pounding in her ears. How dare he! John’s fingers were digging deep into her flesh. He relished the chance to take her, married or not. And with Father away, nobody was left to come to her aid. “And what do you get out of it, Angus? Money?”
He returned to his seat, a look of deep content on his face. “Life is expensive, sister.” Raising his glass, he toasted her.
John turned her to face him. He snaked his arms around her, and pulled her into a tight grip, grinding his hip into her stomach. As she felt his arousal, desperation overwhelmed her, making her anger soar. With her fists against his chest, she tried to push him away but he proved surprisingly strong.
“What do you want, John?” Her voice was no more than a hoarse whisper.
“A small token of your affection, dearest bride.” His mouth came crashing onto hers. She pressed her lips shut, deep revulsion spreading through her.
Shifting her face to the side, she whispered, “Never.”
His hand came up and held her head fast by the chin. “Ooohh, a Highland wildcat. I like that.” His lips covered hers again. Catriona gritted her teeth. The sheer force of it stunned her. Why did Angus not do anything? Was he so much in the man’s debt? John’s tongue delved into her mouth, seeking hers. She saw her chance. With all the anger built up inside her she bit down. When John pushed her away, Catriona let go.
His hand covered his mouth. Blood leaked through his lips.
“Bitch!”
He lunged at her but she scurried around the dining table. Hampered by drink, he stumbled across the floor. Throwing the door open wide, she nearly slammed it in his face before she fled up the stairs. Clutching her skirts, she ran to her bedroom. She ran for her life. His ragged voice followed her, screaming and swearing. With shaking hands, she turned the key in the lock. Surely, even with her parents away he wouldn’t dare break the door.
But silence descended. Her ear on the door, she caught her breath. Calm. She must calm herself. The quiet unnerved her. What was he up to now? With much effort, she pushed a small chest of drawers in front of the door. That should keep him out. With a ragged cry, she fell on the bed. What was she to do?
***
Weary from the rough journey, Rory dropped onto the bench in the dank cell they’d thrown him. The last remnants of daylight filtered through the narrow bars from the small window high up, barely reaching into the confined space. Rivulets of slimy water trickled down the rough walls in places. The stink from a bucket in a corner made him gag. His clothes were as filthy as this hovel from days spent riding in rain and gales.
He was used to the fickle weather, but the harsh treatment meted out by Major Robertson surprised him. How the man must despise Highlanders. Each night he left Rory to sleep out of doors, chained to a wall, a tree, a fence without cover from the elements, his shirt ripped and trews sodden with mud. Once a day he was fed gruel. It always gave him stomach cramps but he ate to keep his strength up. When he asked for water after a long, strenuous ride, he’d ended up punished for insolence. His back still burned from the sting of the whip, the inflamed scars a constant reminder.
Carefully, Rory leaned against the wall, only to bolt forward as the sores scraped against the rough surface. He pushed the smelly blanket off the bunk and lay on his arm, keeping himself on his side. Taking a deep breath through cracked lips, he closed his eyes. He needed a miracle.
A vision of Catriona came unbidden. He moaned as he remembered the man who abducted her. Henderson must have taken her to Edinburgh. So near yet so far. His own helplessness shamed him, and the thought of Henderson forcing himself on Catriona sickened him. He was unable to save himself, never mind the lass. He balled his hands into fists as he imagined her fighting spirit subdued, molded to respond to the man’s every whim. He shook his head, clearing his mind of the thought.
‘Twas all his fault.
A slim shaft of sunlight fell onto the floor when he awoke the next morning to the sound of a key grating in the lock. Groaning, he pushed himself into a sitting position as the door opened. A gaoler, clad in filthy rags, shuffled into the cell with a plate of stale bread and a pitcher of water, followed by a soldier with a cocked pistol aimed at Rory.
“Thank you,” Rory whispered, his throat dry from the lack of water. He grabbed the pitcher and drank greedily. The gaoler pulled it from him and set it on the floor. “Too much water and ye’ll kill yersel’.” His gaze surveyed Rory’s appearance. “Had a rough trip?”
Rory gave a croaky laugh. “Aye, you could say so.”
The man nodded. “Major Robertson doesn’t take prisoners. If ye ken wha’ I mean.”
Rory understood. “I’m still alive.”
“Just,” the gaoler replied and waddled off toward the heavy door, followed by his shadow, the pistol never leaving Rory. “Ye’re due in court tomorrow afternoon before Judge Lawson.” The door banged shut.
Rory groaned and dropped his head into his hands. He’d heard of the judge. Judge Lawson hated Highlanders. He was the one who sent Rory’s associates to the gallows. And he’d happily send him after them. His miracle better hurry before the noose tightened around his neck.
***
Catriona woke to the sounds of birds singing outside her window. Daylight flooded the room. She raised her hands to shade her eyes from the glare. Barely open, they began to stream. Gently, her fingers probed the puffed lids when memory came rushing back. The reason she cried herself to sleep. John and Angus scheming. Mother and Father in London. How could she have fallen into such a trap?
A soft knock on her door made her jump. “Go away.” Her voice croaky, she barely managed a whisper.
“Good morning, Miss Catriona,” the new maid called cheerfully, her knocks growing insistent. “Let me in. You’ll need help with your morning toilette.”
“I don’t need any help,” Catriona cried. “I’m staying abed today. I’m not well.”
“The more reason to let me in, Miss. I can look after you.”
Catriona didn’t miss the urging tone in Jenny’s voice. The girl must be desperate, probably under Angus’ instructions.
As if to confirm her suspicions, she heard frantic whispers coming from the corridor. She slid out of bed and tiptoed to the door. Sitting on the chest of drawers she’d pushed to bar it, she leaned her ear against the wood. ‘Twas as she thought. Her brother’s voice rose harsh against the maid’s whimpering. A slap from the other side made Catriona jump. Her hands flew to her mouth. All the devils in the world could not make her shift that chest. It was her only protection.
“Open the door, Catriona.” The threat in his voice was unmistakable.
“Get lost, Angus!”
“All right, then. I’ll come in.” The knob turned and a thump hit the door.
“You wo
n’t be able to. I’ve moved furniture in front of the door. You won’t shift it.” Still, she jumped when his fists rained down on the shaking wood. Praying it would hold, she looked around the room for other items to block the door. But the bed and wardrobe were solid, too bulky, and the light French desk was far too flimsy. Her heart beat in her ears as the pounding on the door ceased, and silence descended. Heavy footsteps retreated along the corridor, followed by a lighter step.
Heaving a sigh of relief, Catriona sat on the bed. She was a prisoner in her own home, her own bedroom. No food. No water. No comforts. Cursing her brother, she chewed at her fingernails. She needed to find a way out.
Her gaze fell on the balcony doors.
Chapter Sixteen
Rory woke with another pounding headache. His sleep disturbed, not only by noises outside his cell door all night but by his own memories. Catriona’s voice invaded his dreams as he approached the gallows, calling his name, urging him to step back. Noose tight around his neck, a vision of her gold-flecked eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks, jolted him back into the dim morning light casting shadows in his prison.
He closed his eyes again. The girl’s life was ruined, and all because his jealousy had got the better of him. Henderson wound him up, toying with Catriona right under his nose, until he walked right into the trap. Rory shook his head, relishing the stabs of pain at his temples. Oh, he deserved the pain. Because of his foolish action the girl was in the hands of that lecherous bastard.
Anger raged through him like a wildfire at the thought of Henderson’s hands on Catriona’s helpless body, her silent screams echoing through his head. He’d take the look of dread, of fear on her beautiful face to his grave. She’d counted on him and, in his jealousy, he made a mistake. He let her down. Now it was too late, not only for him, but also for her. Yet while he’d be dead, her whole life still lay ahead of her. A life of misery and shame. A lifetime of abuse. Rory jumped up and kicked the bunk, wood splintering into shards. His fists pummeled the cell door but not a sound emerged from the other side. His curses went unanswered. Drained of all energy, he collapsed and leaned against the damp wall, its rough edges digging into his scars. He didn’t care. Closing his eyes, he let the grief flow through him. She was out of his reach. Forever.
The rattle of a key in the door jolted him awake. He must have dozed off—but for how long? Rory stood, staring at the damage he’d done to himself. His knuckles beaten raw, and his calves were smeared with blood from the sharp chunks of wood. The bunk lay in a sorry pile. He stepped back as the door opened, and his gaoler entered with a jug of water and a loaf.
As expected, the soldier with the pistol came in to prevent any attack. Surely, they’d heard his earlier rant. The gaoler eyed the splintered bunk and put the food and water down without a word. He picked up yesterday’s dishes and turned to speak to a man hidden in the shadows of the corridor. “Ye can come in now. At yer own risk.” He stepped aside as Major Malcolm Campbell stepped over the threshold, an eyebrow raised as he surveyed the damage.
“You gone raving mad already, Rory?” A smirk touched the corners of his mouth. “Leave us,” he ordered the gaoler. The man scuttled out. “You too.” The soldier’s gaze cast a doubtful glance at Rory.
“Are you certain, Sir? Cameron might attack you.”
“Cameron won’t harm me. Now go on a round of the building, and don’t dare come back before I call for you!” A scowl from the senior officer made the soldier turn on his heel, slamming the door shut behind him, key grating in the lock. Malcolm waited until the footsteps retreated down the corridor, then let out a long breath.
“You’re in a big mess, Rory.” He clasped Rory’s arm.
“Aye, I know. I haven’t got much time.” Rory dragged his hand through his hair. Embarrassment suffused him. He turned away from his friend, squinting into the light seeping through the bars.
A sharp hiss from Malcolm reminded him of his scarred back. Of course, the linen was torn and bloody from the marks underneath. “I’ll make a fine picture of a man before Judge Lawson,” he said bitterly, his hands gripping the bars.
Malcolm stepped to his side, a gentle hand on his shoulder. Rory shrugged it off. He didn’t deserve his friend’s sympathy.
“Get a hold of yourself.” Malcolm’s voice was calm, yet sharp. Of course, he was used to giving orders. Rory snorted.
“To what effect? I’m going to die.” His gaze met his friend’s before he lowered them. “I’ve let the cause down. And I’ve let Catriona down,” he added with a whisper.
“Who did this to you? Robertson?” Malcolm swore when Rory nodded. “The bastard has no friends up north. He knows how to make Highlanders appear like wild animals before Judge Lawson. Suits both of them.” The contempt in Malcolm’s voice made Rory look at him again.
“Robertson’s doing this on purpose? Making me look like an animal to give the judge justification?” Rory could hardly believe it but Malcolm nodded.
“Not all military men share his views. You know I don’t.”
“I know. You’re not to blame.” He straightened himself and turned. “Why are you here anyway? I’m beyond help.”
“I don’t think so.” Malcolm turned and let his gaze roam the room. “You’ve had your chance to let off steam. Now we’re going to get you out of here.”
“What?” Rory’s laugh echoed through the room. “Lawson has yet to free a Highlander accused of murder.”
“Don’t worry about that. It’s in hand.” Malcolm’s eyes lit up, a cunning smile on his lips.
“What are you up to now? Don’t get yourself into trouble on my behalf, Malcolm.” Rory shook his head. His friend was always one for surprises but this time it had to be more than just a ruse. He needed proof.
Malcolm chuckled. “Well, it’ll all turn out fine, you trust me.” His expression turned serious. “I have proof of the Edinburgh banker who had his sights on your muskets. His spies have kept an eye on you for many months, following your trail, but he still hasn’t found what he most covets. He gave your name to Robertson in the hope the good major would make you spill the beans.”
“Robertson never asked about the muskets.” Rory stared at his friend. He marveled at Malcolm’s efficiency. The major’s network of spies must be the envy of kings.
“No, because he’s not interested enough. He doesn’t believe they exist so he brought you here to get rid of one very influential Highlander. I bet our banker friend isn’t best pleased because for him your death means the end of the road. No muskets.” He grinned. “I’ve lodged the papers with the name of the real murderer to the judge. At first Lawson didn’t want to know—as you can imagine—but in the end he was forced to believe me. I’ve given him the name of the culprit, a crooked Inverness lowlife, and he’s now been detained. Didn’t take long for him to sing.”
“So I’m free to go?” Rory’s hopes soared. Perhaps he might still help Catriona. His heart began to race but Malcolm’s next words sobered him.
“No. The trial is still going ahead but it’s a foregone conclusion. However, you’re still wanted for smuggling,” Malcolm said, his voice turning to a whisper. He glanced toward the door before leaning closer to Rory. “But I have a plan.”
“A plan?”
“Don’t interrupt. Listen, and for once just do as you’re told. I’ve added a note to the murderer’s file that he was involved in hiding the Spanish muskets.”
“You did what?” Rory shook his head.
“Shut up and listen.” Malcolm paused. “I’m afraid you’ll have to give me the muskets.”
“Never! You know they’re for—”
“I’m fully aware of their purpose.” Malcolm sighed. “But in order to save your neck, you have to give them up.”
“Malcolm, I can’t. We’ll need them.” Rory stared at his friend. How could he ask this of him? A successful rising was only months away. He knew it.
“There won’t be another rebellion, Rory. The chiefs have withdra
wn from the cause to continue their own petty wars. Scotland’s in English hands now.”
Rory could not bear to hear more. He rubbed his hands over his eyes. Tired, his shoulders slumped, heavy with the burden of failure. His whole life’s purpose was winning a free Scotland. He had already survived one rebellion. He expected to live through another or at least die trying. Now that was not to be. A dark cloud descended on him, crushing his heart.
“Still, someone’s going to need them one day.” Desperation choked him. His breath came out in short, ragged bursts. He was not one to quit.
Malcolm shook his head. “It’s your life or the muskets. Your decision.” He turned toward the door and banged a fist against it. “Open up! And bring me my bag.” Footsteps hurried toward the door, and it creaked open. The soldier handed Malcolm a large bundle. “Thanks. Now wander slowly to the end of the corridor, and then come back for me.” The soldier nodded and shut the door. Malcolm threw the bag onto the remnants of the bunk.
“A change of clothes. If I’d known you were wounded, I’d have brought bandages. At least now you’ll look more presentable before the judge.”
Rory shuffled toward the bunk, his mind numb. He pulled a clean, white shirt from the bag. “What a shame this will be bloody within the hour.”
“Hurry. I’m going to take your dirty clothes with me.”
Rory gingerly removed the ripped shirt. Malcolm swore as the extent of the punishment Major Robertson meted out was thrust in front of his eyes.
“The bastard. If I only knew yet how to stop him.”
“Nobody can stop men like Robertson.” Rory pulled the fresh shirt over his head, the scent of lavender soap sharp in his nose. Good. At least, he’d not smell like a sewer rat. “They thrive under this government.” Hate flooded him at the injustice of it all. He dropped his dirty trews onto the floor and slipped into the tan breeches he’d pulled from the bag. Stockings, a greatcoat, a neckerchief, and a pair of black boots, polished to shiny perfection, completed the change. Grimacing, he scratched at the stubble on his chin and cheeks.