by Cathie Dunn
Dear God, I need a plan.
After much prodding, the key slid into the lock and turned, and the door slammed open, hitting the wall. Rain pounded behind a tall shadow entering the room. John. She’d recognize his hateful shape anywhere. Closing her eyes, she prayed he’d fall for her ruse. His shuffling steps drew nearer yet the sound of the rain didn’t fade. He must have left the door open. Perhaps someone would see her? Her breath slowed to almost a halt. Focusing on the steady rise and fall of her chest, she heard his steps approach. Something sharp prodded her in the side. His boot.
Breathe in. And out.
“Bloody useless girl.” John’s voice was close to her ear, whisky fumes mingled with her calm breath. Drunkard! Nearly retching, she kept her eyes firmly closed.
“Wake up, bitch!” His hand grabbed her shoulder and shook her. “Wake up!” Catriona let him shake her, ignoring the pain at her temples. “No use to me in this state, you are. Well, I have ways to teach you,” he growled.
Feeling him lean over her, she took her chance. Her eyes flew open. She pulled her legs up and rammed them into his groin. John dropped to the floor next to her, howling, his hands clutching his crotch.
“Help!” Catriona screamed at the top of her voice. Pushing herself on her side along the floor, the rough wood scraping her elbow, she inched toward the door. “Somebody help me!”
But then John was upon her, still gasping. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her back. With a thud, she collapsed onto the floor. Pain shot up her arm as she tried to cushion the fall with her elbows. He pulled her head back. Stars swam in front of her eyes, and the temptation to just let go, to slip into oblivion, was nearly too much to resist. But she needed to keep her wits about her.
“What are you doing? Let me go,” she cried through clenched teeth.
A cruel smile curled his thin lips. “I’m doing what I should’ve done months ago, dearest. I’m going to take what’s mine.”
Bile rose within her as his filthy breath reached her nose. She turned her face away from him but he pulled it back with a greasy thumb, roughly sliding it over her chin and lower lip. When it pushed between her lips, she bit down, tasting his blood for the second time in two days.
“Bitch!” He slapped her hard and dropped her head to the floor. Her ears rang, and black dots appeared in front of her eyes as she toiled for breath. Kicking at the cords at her ankles, she fumed. There must be a way out.
“Let me go at once,” she ordered him. “Angus will come looking for me.”
“I think not,” John snarled. “Nobody knows where you are, not even your wayward brother. Now I’ve got an appointment to attend to, but don’t worry—you won’t have to wait long for me. I’ll be back soon to finish what we started those many weeks ago.” He stood, leering at her, and strolled to the door. “You might be interested to know that Rory Cameron’s trial was held this morning. I’m certain his execution’s going to attract quite a crowd at the Grassmarket. I, for one, will be cheering when he dangles at the end of that rope.”
“Rory...executed?” Catriona whispered. The thought of Rory’s body hanging lifelessly from the gallows shook her to the core. The truth hit her harder than John’s hand had moments earlier. She’d have lied to the Court to keep him from harm, just like she lied to Major Robertson. Now he was going to die, alone. Tears stung in her eyes, as she glared at John’s retreating frame. “You bastard! You’ll pay for this.”
His snigger chilled her, sending icy shivers down her spine. John fooled them all—society, her parents, maybe even her clueless brother.
“My dear, Catriona, your allegiance is moving. But remember, you’re mine now—not Cameron’s, and when I return from his execution I’ll show you what that means.” He took the key and grabbed the door handle. The solid wood banged into place. The sound of the key grating in the lock ended her hopes of escape. Clearly, despite his inebriation, he was not too drunk to forget to lock her in.
Catriona let the tears fall freely as she curled up on the barren floor, her body shaking. A sense of loss descended on her. She imagined Rory led to the gallows, the noose tightened around his neck, the ground opening beneath his feet.
“Rory.” She sobbed. “You can’t die.” The only man she trusted. The only man she loved.
Dead.
Chapter Eighteen
“Taken? What do you mean, taken?” Rory stared at Malcolm, heart missing a beat, as they rushed toward the stable where Malcolm left two horses.
“My spy reported watching a scuffle at the garden gate of the MacKenzie property a couple of nights ago. Miss MacKenzie had not been seen out of doors since her return. I believe she was locked up. And then, this commotion. It confirms my suspicion.” Malcolm gestured to a stable lad to bring their mounts.
“And?” Rory glowered at his friend. An urgent need flowed through him, feeding his rage.
“Well, someone was caught by the gate. My spy said he heard a muffled cry but as there were three attackers, he couldn’t come to her aid. I assume John Henderson was behind it. No-one else has any reason to abduct her.”
“Henderson again,” Rory growled. Fear gnawed at his insides, and his blood boiled.
Malcolm settled into the saddle. “Come, Rory. The noose is tightening around Henderson’s neck.”
“Where are we going?” Rory asked as sat up. Gingerly, he straightened, his scars itching. Irritated, he stopped short of scratching his own back and followed Malcolm from the stable.
“I have in my possession a paper that details all of the Henderson family properties. But first we’ll pay a visit to young MacKenzie’s home.” Malcolm strode ahead, up the cobbled streets toward the new-built houses set away from the dank, packed flats on castle hill.
As they turned the horses toward the rows of new manors springing up on the lower side of town, Rory’s pulse raced. The pain from the scars fought with his rage at himself for having left Catriona to her fate. It only fed his fury at Angus.
What kind of brother was he, to allow his little sister to be the puppet in his game? A gambler. A wastrel. A dandy. Revulsion tore through Rory’s blood as he urged his mount down the street, dodging merchant carts, cattle, and beggars. Grand buildings, several stories high, with elaborate paintwork and plastering, proved the city’s better fortunes following the union. He snarled. All earned on the broken backs of the poor folk.
Rory and Malcolm stood at the bottom of the steps leading to the double doors painted in shiny black, an ornate gilt knocker resting on the varnished wood. He took a deep breath and climbed the steps at a slow pace in an attempt to keep his temper in check. His back straight, the tension almost tore him apart. Swallowing hard, he lifted and dropped the knocker, and took a step back. Within seconds, a young maid opened the door, furtively wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Raising her head, her lips parted in a shy smile.
“Good afternoon, sirs.”
“Good afternoon,” Rory answered. “I wish to speak to Angus MacKenzie.” Not giving her time to form an excuse, he stepped across the threshold, brushing past her.
“I’m sorry, but Mr Angus is out. And...and he is not expected back till later tonight.” She lowered her gaze, her hand still resting on the doorknob.
“No worries. I’ll find him.” Rory walked toward the first door and flung it open. The lavishly furnished drawing room was empty. He turned and listened at the door across the corridor. A faint grating sound caught his ear, almost imperceptible. “Angus!”
“S-s-sir, ‘tis as I said, Mr Angus is out. Will you please leave?”
Rory rounded on her. “I don’t care what you say. He’s here, and I’ll find him.” He moved her out of his way and grabbed the handle of the door. It was locked.
“What’s in here?”
“The library, sir. Nobody uses it these days.” Her voice trembled. She hesitated, clearly under pressure from Angus.
“Unlock the door,” Malcolm ordered. The girl’s shoulders shook but Rory felt no
sympathy. She may have been involved in Cat’s abduction.
“I can’t, sir. I don’t have a key.”
“Angus,” Rory yelled at the top of his voice. The girl scurried over to stand in front of the library door.
“Sir, please. Nobody’s in.”
“Where’s Miss Catriona?” He closed in on her, inches separating them, until she was forced to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. Quickly, she lowered it again, fiddling with her apron.
“Miss Catriona’s out, too. Riding in the park.”
“A lie!”
The maid’s head shot up. Rory took her by the shoulders and moved her to the side, out of his way, and his gaze settled on the solid wood. “Miss Catriona has been abducted.”
“No!” The girl’s voice faltered. She seemed to crumple against the wall.
“Yes indeed, so you should be forthcoming with the key immediately.” Malcolm’s warning made the maid shrink even further.
“I…I really don’t have it, sir.” She sobbed.
“Angus,” Rory roared. Glaring at the maid, who’d cowered behind the banister, he took a step back. With his blood at boiling point, his boot hit the door, and the crack of breaking wood reverberated along the hall. “Come out, you coward!”
He kicked the door again and again, his rage rising with every crash. Finally, he broke through. Within seconds he was inside. His gaze found Angus fiddling with the hooks of the window, while looking over his shoulder at the door. In a few strides, Rory reached the now open window and yanked Angus away from it.
Angus aimed a hit at him, and his fist connected with Rory’s side. The pain fed his rising temper. He grabbed Angus by the shoulders, parried a kick aimed at his groin and pushed him into an armchair, almost toppling it over backwards. Wafts of brandy reached his nose. He grimaced in disgust. ‘Twas only early afternoon and the man was already in his cups.
“What do you want, Cameron? I expected you to be dead by now.” Angus’ speech was slurred.
“Aye, I thought you might’ve wished for my head on a spike. But the judge thought differently.” Rory sat opposite him, keeping a close eye on Angus and the door. The maid had disappeared, but Malcolm was now firmly installed at the open doorway. “Now, tell me where your sister is.”
“Catriona? Why, she’s visiting an aunt.” Angus’ gaze darted across the room.
“Your maid just said she’s out riding.”
“With her aunt.” Defiance crept into Angus’ voice. He sat with his legs and arms crossed. Defensive, sullen.
Rory chuckled sardonically. “Aye, and I have regular drinking sessions with the Green Man.” He grew serious. “Where is she?”
“Like I said—”
Rory was upon him in an instant. Driving his knee into the sitting man’s gut, he crouched over him, drew his dirk from his boot, and held it against Angus’ neck. The young man’s eyes widened, and his hands clawed Rory’s face. “I’d sit still if I were you. My hand can get very shaky.” A tiny trickle of blood showed stark against Angus’ white skin, the red stark on his white neck kerchief.
“You bastard,” Angus hissed but he dropped his hands, sitting still. Rory wrinkled his nose as the smell of alcohol nearly knocked him back.
Angus turned to Malcolm. “You’re a soldier. Stop him!” But Malcolm simply turned his gaze to the papers in his hand.
Rory adjusted his grip on the knife. “Now, for the final time, where is your sister?”
In a whiny voice, Angus told him what he wanted to hear. “Catriona’s been missing for two nights. The daft lass tried to escape, climbing down roped up sheets from her balcony.”
Rory pushed himself off Angus. He turned away and took a deep breath. Admiration for Catriona’s desperate action, warred with the fear inside him. They had little time to waste. Closing his mind of all the things Henderson might have done to her in the amount of time he had her, he focused on the list Malcolm handed him.
“The girl’s clever, that’s certain,” Malcolm admitted and, looking over Rory’s shoulder, turned to Angus who sat slumped in the armchair. “When did you last see Henderson?”
“First thing this morning. He said he had business to attend to. I was wondering if he’d taken her but I didn’t dare ask,” his voice faltered.
“Of course he’s got her,” Rory snarled at him, making Angus shrink even more into the padded leather. “And he’ll pay for it.” Casting another glance at the list, he discounted a couple of properties instantly. Henderson would not risk holding her where his father stayed, so that removed the city house and the country mansion from the list.
“What’s this?” He pointed at a couple of addresses in a less salubrious area off High Street at the foot of the castle. The area with narrow lanes and filthy, cramped quarters. “St. Mary’s Wynd, a workshop, and Pearson Close, an attic flat.”
His mind raced. Both places were perfect for hiding someone from prying eyes. Not a soul would question a bundle being lugged about, and the noise and clamor would hide any screams.
“That’s a good guess, Rory.” Malcolm nodded.
“But which?” Rory wondered aloud.
“Pearson Close.” A whisper escaped Angus’ lips. “John talked about having some business to undertake in Pearson Close.”
Rory shut his eyes for a second when Malcolm mused. “The narrowest lane in the city. Barely wide enough to allow two grown men to pass by one another, certainly not a place one would take notice.”
“And it’s an attic.” Regaining his composure, Rory turned to Angus. “If anything happened to your sister, I’m holding you responsible.”
The young man’s face twisted into a sulky scowl. “Not my fault he got her.” His gaze slid to the sideboard, where a crystal carafe held what looked like fine brandy. In two strides, Rory reached it, and hurled it into the fireplace. Shards of glass flew across the floor. Angus cowered in his seat as Rory stood over him. He hauled him upright and shook him so fiercely, his teeth clattered.
“Rory!” Malcolm’s steadying hand on his shoulder stopped him from pummeling the obnoxious young man. He pushed Angus back into the chair. “I say it again, lad. If Catriona is hurt, you’ll pay.”
Rory turned on his heel and stalked from the room, Malcolm right behind him, pointing over his shoulder at the boy holding the reins of two horses at the bottom of the steps. The child grinned at them with crooked teeth, holding out the reins. Malcolm threw a couple of coins to the lad who caught them deftly, before he hurried down the lane.
Rory took a set of reins from Malcolm and jumped into the saddle. “I don’t know how to thank you. Again.”
Malcolm nodded. “You can thank me by rescuing the lass. I’ll be off to the courts. I want to get the sergeants to look at Henderson’s other places.” He extended his hand, and Rory took it in a firm grip. “Who knows what they might find.”
“Thank you, Malcolm. I couldn’t have done this without you.” With a final nod, Rory spurred his mount back toward High Street.
The buildings ahead of him rose high in the sky. He asked a peddler for Pearson Close and found it halfway up the hill. The view down the narrow lane was forbidding, the far end cloaked in darkness. Rory eased himself from the saddle and, leading his horse down the close, he saluted a wrinkled, bent shoemaker at a stall by a low window.
“Good day to you. Do you know of a flat down here belonging to one John Henderson? A dandy, tall, well-dressed?”
“Guess so, sir. Must be the one across there.” The old man leaned out of his window and pointed a skinny finger at a flight of rickety, wooden stairs a little further down the lane. “A fine gentleman comes here sometimes to drop off...crates.” He coughed surreptitiously. “Though this week ‘twas a bundle.”
Perhaps Malcolm should send the sergeants here, too. “Is it the top level?”
The man nodded, his few strands of hair falling over his wrinkled eyes. “Aye, the room just under the roof.” His eyes lit, and Rory understood. The man suspected Henderso
n of dodgy affairs and wanted him caught.
“Thank you, sir. You may just have saved a life.” Guessing the man too proud to accept any payment, he waved to the young apprentice hovering in the background. “Can you take care of my horse while I go up? It’ll be worth your while.”
The youth grinned broadly, doffing his cap. He jumped over the window ledge and took the reins. “Aye, sir. Don’t ye worry. He’s safe wi’ me.” The old man’s eyes twinkled as he returned to his workbench.
Rory strode down the lane, dodging a mangy dog sniffing at something he’d rather not explore closer. The stench oozing from the cobbled ground was nauseating. He squeezed past a stall selling pots and looked at the stairs pointed out by the shoemaker. With a determined jump, he took the steps two at a time. He was halfway up when he looked to the top of the close. John Henderson’s lanky form stood upright, framed by bright daylight. Their eyes met. Rory held his breath. Henderson turned his head as if to check behind him that the path was clear. Sending a final glance toward Rory, he backed out of the lane.
Rory swore. Every fiber of his being itched to run after the man, to punish him for taking Catriona but he shook it off. Let him go! Malcolm’s men will find him. At the top step he paused outside a wooden door with a sturdy lock. Looking down, the height made him dizzy.
“Steady!” Rory held on to the flimsy wooden plank that served as a banister and focused his gaze on the door. There was little space for much leverage against the solid wood, and if he lost his balance, he knew where he’d be headed. Stepping back as far as he dared, he took a deep breath and hit the lock with his boot. The metal shook but held. Another couple of kicks made it rattle, but still the door did not budge. A scream coming from inside froze his heart. His pulse raced as he rattled at the lock.
“Catriona,” he shouted through the barrier separating them. A movement further down the stairs made him turn. The shoemaker’s apprentice came pounding up the stairs. “Sir!”