by Cathie Dunn
“Sorry, I wasn’t allowed to bring a sharp knife for shaving. But tame your hair.” He fished a leather strap from his pocket and handed it to Rory. Taking the strap between his teeth, Rory raked his hands through his hair until the last rebellious strands were smoothed back. Swiftly, he tied it in a knot.
“All for nothing, anyway, my friend.” He watched Malcolm push his dirty clothes and brogues into the bag, lacing it up.
“Why?” Malcolm’s eyes glinted with suspicion.
“I can’t reveal the hiding place. It’s for the best.” He sighed. “Go and see Jamie MacKinnon when the time is right. Be that next year or the next decade.”
“You stubborn fool,” Malcolm growled at him. In two strides he was confronting Rory, digging his hands deep into his shoulders. Rory closed his eyes as pain tore through him.
“It’s for the best,” he repeated. Malcolm’s fist came out of nowhere, hitting his gut hard. He doubled over while Malcolm stepped back.
“So you’re sacrificing yourself, is that it?” Malcolm laughed out loud, the sound devoid of any mirth. “What pretence! Those muskets won’t be worth much in ten, twenty years’ time. They’ll be rusty and the powder damp.”
“No.” Slowly straightening up, Rory shook his head. “It won’t be that long.”
“Listen to me.” Malcolm stood nose to nose with him now. “I refuse to let you throw away your life for naught. What about Lady Meg? And Jamie? They rely on you.”
Rory leveled his gaze to his friend’s irate stare. “They’ll be fine. I’ve made sure of that.”
“Have you, now?” Malcolm’s expression turned cynical. “And what about the young lass you mentioned earlier? Miss Catriona?”
Rory’s breathing stopped. What indeed? She’d be left to rot at the hands of that bastard. But what was he to do? Nothing. Stubbornly, he shook his head again. “By now, she’s probably wed to that bastard, Henderson.”
“Henderson?” Malcolm’s eyebrows shot up.
“Aye, some dandy banker friend of her brother’s. He took her from Taigh na Rhon.”
“A banker? By name of Henderson? His given name isn’t John, by chance?” Malcolm’s body tensed.
“Aye, that’s him.” Seeing recognition in Malcolm’s eyes, Rory groaned as the truth hit him. “He’s not the one after my muskets, is he?”
A wolfish grin on his friend’s face told him he was right. “Aye, the man who got you arrested, and accused of murder. The man who wants your muskets. John Henderson.”
Rory squared his shoulders as realization hit him. “What have I done? I’ve left her to that devil.” Rage returned with a vengeance.
Malcolm gently patted his shoulder, careful not to touch his wounds. “And now you’ll save her from his clutches. They’re not wed yet. In fact, we’re trying to find him. Any ideas?”
“Probably near the MacKenzie town house.” The terror he’d seen in her eyes now made sense. Henderson was not just a lecherous dandy. He was a plotter and a killer. “What does he want the guns for?”
Malcolm spat into the corner and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “To sell to the highest bidder, of course. He’s a dealer.”
Urgency unlike he had ever felt gripped Rory. He was helpless, stuck in this cell. And Catriona was in the clutches of an evil man. Malcolm was right. They must find Henderson—before the bastard had a chance to do any more damage to Catriona. The sudden glimmer of hope gave him back his energy. He was ready to go. When he found her, he’d take her back home.
“Now I’ve got you back,” Malcolm exclaimed. He tilted his head toward the door. “The guard’ll be back any second. Where are the muskets?”
The blasted arms versus Catriona’s life. In a heated whisper, Rory revealed all, and nothing he’d done in his entire life felt so right. The need to save her from Henderson’s clutches overwhelmed him, throwing him into a maelstrom of plans. His mind buzzing, he shook Malcolm’s hand as they parted ways.
“See you in court, my friend.”
“Aye,” Rory replied. “We shall meet there.” But his thoughts had already left the filthy cell behind.
***
Darkness descended over the rooftops of the houses around them, yet a sliver of daylight remained. The mild summer breeze ruffled the leaves of the birch tree in front of her balcony. Catriona changed into a plain linen dress and riding boots, leaving her stays behind, their stiffness a hindrance. She’d only packed a small bundle of essential garments, her cloak, and mittens. Excitement mingled with apprehension. What if something went wrong? She might die on the stone terrace below her. Or be attacked on her way to the Highlands. Determined to make it all work out, she shrugged off any doubts. She leaned over the railing of the balcony but below all windows lay in darkness. Angus must have gone out.
From inside her bedroom, she took the blankets she’d knotted together earlier today. Ignoring her rumbling stomach, she tested the strength of the knots a final time before tying one end around an iron bar in the corner of the balcony’s railing. Bracing her feet against the wrought iron, she leaned back with all her weight. The knot held. With a final glance at the deserted terrace and garden, she let the blankets drop. They fell just short of the floor, but close enough for her to get to the ground safely.
Catriona drew the curtains before closing the balcony doors behind her. She threw her bundle over the railing. It landed with a thud. Listening for sounds from below, she held her breath and only let it out slowly when nothing moved. Now or never.
Skirts lifted, Catriona raised one leg over the railing. She clung to the metal while she heaved her other leg over. A quick glance told her the distance to the ground. Best not look down. She crouched low, careful not to step onto the hem of her dress, and took hold of the blanket. Fear seized her heart as her other hand let go of the safe metal, to cling on to the bedcover.
Dear God, please!
With a prayer heavenward, she closed her eyes and eased herself off the balcony floor. Dangling in the air, her hands dug deep into the sheets as they swayed violently. Sweat beaded her brow and hands, threatening to make her fingers too slippery to hold on. Finally, her feet found a knot, and she dragged herself downwards, inch by inch, knot by knot.
After what seemed an eternity, a ripping sound made her look up. It was too dark to see where the cloth ripped but she knew she needed to hurry. Looking down, relief flooded through her. The ground was mere feet away. With a final effort, she let go of the sheets and tumbled to the stone terrace. Scared in case someone heard her, she froze. Silence still surrounded her. Scrambling to her feet, she grabbed the bundle and slung it over her shoulder.
Catriona hurried along the gardens, glad of the many times she’d wandered through them in the dark. The faint light barely outlined the trees. The croaking of the frogs told her how close she was to the pond. On another occasion, she’d have loved to sit and listen to the natural world around her. But not tonight. She swallowed hard. She’d never enjoy this peaceful retreat again.
The hedges grew thicker when she neared the far wall, with its locked door leading to the fields beyond. She’d have to skirt the city but her mind was made up. The coin she’d kept hidden in her wardrobe for so long was now sewn into her cloak, just enough to get her to Loch Linnhe. Once at the manor, Auntie Meg was bound to help her.
Memory of Taigh na Rhon brought back the pain Catriona felt when John forced her from her new home. Fear for Rory was eating away at her insides. She briefly closed her eyes and prayed he was still alive. Determined to see him again once she was back in the Highlands, she forced her worry for him from her mind, and approached the gate. Angus often crept in through it, so it would be unlocked. Slowly, she pulled it open. On tiptoes, she sneaked through and carefully shut it behind her. Breathing a sigh of relief, she turned. A shadow of a large man loomed over her.
“What—?”
He threw a coarse sack over her head. She lashed out at solid muscle but a rope tied swiftly around her pushed her
arms against her body. John must have arranged for someone to keep watch. Well, she’d show them! She kicked out, cursing her skirts as her toes connected to a shin.
“Little witch. You won’t do that again.” Something hard hit her head.
Chapter Seventeen
Rory stood with his head held high when Judge Lawson, his fleshy head topped by a powdered wig, entered the courtroom, his bulky frame looming large as he waddled to his seat.
So, this was the man who’d sent so many brave Highlanders to the gallows. Rory watched the judge wriggle himself into a throne-like chair covered in cushions. He was hard-pressed not to laugh at the ridiculous picture in front of him. The man was a caricature, everything he despised in the wealthy and powerful of Edinburgh.
Rory’s glance roamed upwards to the empty public benches. A trial behind closed doors. So the judge was not able to make an example of him, otherwise the local press and a number of handpicked citizens would have been invited to watch the spectacle.
The prosecutor eyed him like a hawk ready to pounce on a hapless rabbit. Clearly, here was another monster, baying for Highland blood. Rory’s heart plummeted.
Malcolm sat on a bench behind him. Rory scrutinized the lawyer his friend hired. Mr Steele, a stooped, reedy man with a devilishly witty glow in his eyes, had brandished a pair of spectacles at him when they first met only an hour earlier, ranting about the evilness of smugglers and Border Reivers. But by the end of their conversation, Steele jested with him and slapped him on the back in an attempt to cheer him. Only Rory’s self-control stopped him from punching the older man in return, his scars livid where the lawyer’s hand had hit them. It was not Steele’s fault. Rory had not revealed the full extent of his mistreatment. A grimace-like grin was all he could muster.
Now he watched as the wily old fox sparred with the prosecutor, Steele’s wrinkly face full of indignation at the false accusation and brutal detention of his client so esteemed by the Lochaber community. Rory suppressed a smirk as Judge Lawson’s expression grew more and more exasperated. Everyone in the room knew—or at least guessed—the truth.
Called to give his statement, Malcolm provided a faultless account of his investigations into the murder, and the culprit caught. Dressed in full military regalia, right down to the ceremonial sword by his hip, Malcolm was the model of a government soldier and quite convincing. The judge nodded in agreement at the smooth handling of Malcolm’s words in Rory’s defense, reluctance written on his features. For the second time, his friend came to his rescue. How could he possibly ever repay him when Malcolm risked his reputation—and possibly even his life—on his behalf?
On hearing a petition from the prosecutor to question Rory, Judge Lawson’s gaze fell on him. The jowls wobbled as he nodded at his clerk who duly cleared his throat.
“Step into the witness box, Mr Cameron.” Rory glanced briefly at Malcolm before he took the stand. He placed his hand on the Bible the clerk held out, and swore to tell the truth and nothing but the truth. A faint nod from his lawyer should calm him, yet unnerved him. What on earth was going on?
“You are here to answer to charges of murder, Roderick Cameron,” Judge Lawson rasped. “How do you plead?”
Rory felt the judge towering over him like a mound of soft flesh. He looked up, meeting the judge’s cold eyes. “I am not guilty, your Honor.” He held the gaze without blinking, without falter. Inside, his mind was in turmoil. Why was he not accused of smuggling? Did Steele have something to do with it? The judge moved back in his chair and grudgingly gestured for the cross-examination to begin.
The prosecutor stepped forward. “What can you tell me about the deceased, Mr Cameron? You don’t deny knowing him?”
“No, I knew him. He was a drover we sometimes employed to move our cattle to the markets in Stirling and Carlisle.” Rory remained calm, the churning in his gut safely suppressed. If he stuck to the basic truth, he might just make it.
“You heard Major Campbell here. He said you reported the death to him, in Inverness. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that is correct. I was on my way to the city on business when I came across the deceased before he was killed. I was conversing with him when a shot rang out from behind me. He died in front of my eyes.”
“And you pursued the murderer?” Judge Lawson asked, leaving the prosecutor glaring at him, open-mouthed, clearly incensed at the disruption.
“Aye, your Honor.” Rory nodded. The judge’s changed demeanor mystified him. Suddenly the balance shifted his way. “By the time I scaled the wall opposite, he’d disappeared. So I thought it best to report the death to the major as promptly as possible.”
The prosecutor fiddled with his pencil. “Your Honor—”
“Silence, Cummings! I’m conducting this interview myself from now on, as you can see.”
“Yes, my Lord.” The prosecutor shrank back into his bench, glaring at Rory.
“Mr Cameron, one thing baffles me. How did you come to know Major Campbell? After all, your clans are not exactly” —he hesitated before adding— “on the same political side.”
Rory glanced at his friend. “That’s easy to answer, your Honor. Major Campbell saved my life many years ago. Some months later, I was grateful for my chance to return the favor.” Malcolm inclined his head in silent solidarity.
“A Cameron with Macdonald blood and a Campbell? Most unusual.” The judge leaned back, scratching his chins.
“'Tis so, your Honor.” Malcolm stood. “Sometimes fate is stronger than blood feuds.”
“Well, not in my experience of the Highlanders, Major Campbell.” He dismissed Malcolm, and locked eyes with Rory. “I hear from Major Campbell your quick report led not only to the arrest of the murderer, but also to information the man held about the location of certain Spanish muskets, in traitors’ hands since the pathetic attempt at an uprising at Glen Shiel last year. They are recovered as we speak.”
Rory kept his breathing steady. This was the cue Lawson had been waiting for. Some sign of Rory’s complicity, his guilt, his knowledge of the arms. He held the judge’s suspicious gaze calmly.
“So the major tells me. I believe he has served you well, Major Campbell has. He’s an extraordinary investigator on behalf of the Crown, your Honor,” he added as if as an afterthought. Something shifted in the judge’s eyes, from speculation to something akin to...respect? Rory held back a snort, hardly daring to breathe. He was about to learn his fate.
Judge Lawson leaned back, the chair creaking under his weight. “Return to your seat, Mr Cameron.” He waited until Rory returned to his bench, flanked by two guards before he took a long look at Malcolm, thoughts hidden with years of practice. With a curt nod at the prosecutor, he said, “I’m now ready to pronounce judgment.”
Cummings rose and opened his mouth but Judge Lawson’s hand shot up, preventing him from butting in. “Thank you, Cummings. I’m finished with this case.”
Rory rose at the clerk’s order, his gaze never leaving the judge’s face. Lawson held his fate in his fleshy hand. Did he believe him?
“I find the accused, Roderick Cameron,” Judge Lawson paused, eyes meeting Rory’s in final warning, “not guilty. Mr Cameron, you are a free man.” With that, Judge Lawson pushed his bulk from the chair and shuffled through the door behind him without another glance back.
Cummings stalked out the door, clearly in a huff. Rory let out a long breath.
Malcolm came over and clasped his shoulder. “Well done, my friend.” His lawyer, Steele, winked, pleased with himself and the story he concocted, and scurried from the Court.
“I owe you, Malcolm. Again.” Rory’s voice shook. His insides were raw with emotion, convinced the judge still doubted the evidence he’d heard. Yet he set him free. “You’ve just saved my life for the second time. This is becoming a habit.”
Malcolm laughed out loud and drew Rory with him. Outside the court, Rory gulped in the fresh air. He watched the bustling scene. Gentlemen on horseback wound their way
through peddlers’ stalls. A herd of cows turned into a narrow close nearby. His gaze fell on a girl heaving a basket full of browned apples across the street. Her long dark hair reminded him of...
“Catriona.” Now that he was free he must help her. If it was not too late already. “Have you any news?”
“Come with me,” Malcolm said. “We’ve much to discuss and no time to lose.”
***
Catriona drifted out of her daze. She wanted to wipe the grit from her eyes but was unable to move her hands. Her eyes flung open. Pale dimness surrounded her, only a sliver of light filtered through gaps in wooden slats covering a tiny window.
Frightened, she stretched, hoping to get up, only to find her hands bound behind her back, and her legs tied at the ankles, the cord cutting to the bone when she tried to free herself.
“What in God’s name?” she muttered.
Panic coursed through her. Her skin crawled. A constant rattling sound tore at her nerves. Rain? A roof? Where was she?
Catriona used her elbow and shoulder to push herself upright. Dizziness overcame her in black waves. She closed her eyes and groaned. Her whole body was on fire but the fierce throbbing at her temple was the worst. Looking at the spot where she’d lain, she gasped at a small, dark patch. Blood. She recoiled and looked around. The room was bare, devoid of furniture. Not even a rug covered the beaten floor.
Then the memory came flooding back, freezing her to the core. Oh, God. She’d been taken just as she was on the verge of escape. But who...?
John.
It had to be John. His rage from the night before probably festered. Was Angus involved? Or did he still think her safe in her room, sulking? Surely, someone must have noticed the knotted sheets dangling from her balcony. How much time had passed?
A shuffling sound came from the other side of the solid door. Heavy footfalls on wooden steps. Metal scraped against the door as someone tried to insert the key into the lock, and failed miserably. Catriona slumped back onto the ground and forced her breathing to slow. Keeping her lids half-closed, she stared at the door. Best if whoever came in found her still knocked out.