The Bedeviled Heart (The Highland Heather and Hearts Scottish Romance Series)

by Carmen Caine

  Cameron’s eyes flooded with alarm.

  “We searched the Tolbooth, my lord,” one of his men inserted quickly.

  Cameron’s eyes narrowed at Thomas. “Think ye to lie to me?” he hissed, twisting the blade still embedded in Thomas’ hand.

  The man screamed again, licking his lips nervously. “I swear, my lord, I swear I am speaking the truth. ‘Tis a secret cell. I will take ye there myself!”

  “Then do so, at once!” Cameron all but roared the order.

  Wrenching his dagger free, he grasped Thomas by the neck, shoved him down the stairs and out into the secluded close.

  Drawing his sword, he warned the man, “I will not hesitate to smite your worthless head from your shoulders, should ye think to escape me! Now give wings to your feet!”

  With his hand leaving a trail of blood, Thomas began to run, and Cameron swiftly followed.

  Black clouds of smoke billowed over the rooftops as they approached the Tolbooth Prison. A frenzied mob of trouble causers and malcontents had gathered outside, armed with stones and sticks.

  Screams rent the air.

  The burnings had already begun.

  Not allowing himself to think, Cameron forced his way to the front to behold a sight that would sicken him the remainder of his days. He closed his eyes, relieved the two victims were clearly men, even as their screams burned through his soul.

  It did not last long. As the flames rose to consume them, he turned, his eyes sweeping over the bloodthirsty crowd with revulsion before dropping a contemptuous gaze upon Thomas. “What manner of devil are ye?”

  Shoving the man through the mob, they finally stood on the steps of the Tolbooth Prison, and then Thomas led them to the secret cell.

  Pushing open the iron and oaken door, Cameron burst inside the cell, crying, “Kate!”

  The cell was empty.

  Chapter Fourteen - Skye

  Kate had not slept from the moment she arrived at the Tolbooth Prison. No sooner had she collapsed on the sour straw than two guards entered the cell. Lifting her up, they escorted her to a small chamber where a middle-aged man with thick lips, slanted eyes, and a bulging belly sat at a writing desk. He held a long, feathered quill in his hand.

  “Are ye Kate Ferguson?” he mumbled, spitting a little as he talked.

  Kate grimaced. The persistent pain at the back of her head had dulled, but it was still strangely difficult to think.

  “Are ye struck dumb?” The man lifted a bored brow.

  “She’s Kate Ferguson,” one of the guards answered on her behalf.

  The man at the desk grunted, “Witnesses?”

  “Maura McKinney, your lordship,” Maura said, stepping from the shadows. “I’ve come to offer my testimony, your lordship.”

  Scratching his scalp with the tip of his quill, the man yawned. “Swear ye’ll tell the truth, lass.”

  Picking up an ivory cross from the desktop, he held it out to Maura and watched apathetically as she knelt and kissed it reverently. He then tossed it back on the desk in a careless gesture.

  Dipping his quill in the inkpot, he ordered, “Ach, be quick. I’ve two witches more for which to pen testament this night!”

  “I swear upon my soul’s salvation that I witnessed Kate conspiring with the warlock, John Stewart, Earl of Mar,” Maura replied in a hurried, rehearsed manner. “I saw them dancing about a wax figure of the king, roasting it with the intent to cause his majesty harm, and suspending it above a cauldron of boiling water to melt its feet so his majesty would suffer difficulty and—”

  The man held up a hand signaling Maura to wait as his quill scratched furiously across the parchment. Then he asked, “Dolls? How many?”

  “I saw three, your lordship!” Maura curtsied, her blue eyes round and earnest. “They were making many, your lordship, and devising many tortures to heap upon them to hasten his majesty’s demise. Kate bedecked the dolls with thread from his majesty’s robes and locks of his own hair.”

  Kate frowned in confusion. ‘Twas Maura who had made the doll. Dimly, she wondered if she should mention it.

  The man’s head bobbed up and down as he continued writing. Finally, he gave a nod of satisfaction. “’Tis duly noted, lass. ‘Tis enough—”

  But Maura was not finished yet. Licking her lips, she added, “Aye, and Kate called the Devil’s minions last fall to curse her own village with a plague. She alone did not suffer, and when the good folk sought to cast her out, she cursed the harvest as well!”

  Kate stared numbly at the woman. Plague? She had lost her own mother and wee sister, Joan, in that illness. Ach, her father still suffered from it! Or had. The memory of his death rose in her mind, but she was oddly unable to weep.

  She scarcely heard Maura continue.

  “And she practiced her accursed ways in Stirling, taking coin from good womenfolk for potions of love but giving them malicious ones in their stead that caused them to break out in a pox and to lose their hair!”

  Lifting his quill from the page, the man glanced at Maura with a snort of impatience. “Ach, ‘tis mischief only and not a crime worthy of death as the others! Hie ye off, lass.” With a frown, he waved her away and motioned to the guards. “Bring the next witch!”

  The guards opened the door and brought in a shriveled, wizened old woman. She shuffled past Kate with her aged face resigned as though she had accepted her fate. And as Kate was led away, someone stepped forward and accused the woman of conspiring with Mar against the king in exchange for the promise of perpetual youth.

  It was only after the men had shoved Kate into her dark cell, closing the door behind her, that she felt a vague sense of alarm. Sinking to her knees, she buried her face in her arms.

  What was happening?

  She began to shake, and her forehead beaded with sweat.

  Threads of light from the flickering torches of the passageway filtered through the tiny window in the iron and oak door.

  She did not know how long she sat there, watching the shadows play across the rancid straw on the floor. It could have been hours or minutes, before a weak shaft of gray light fell through a small window high on the cold, stone wall behind her, and the door to her cell creaked slowly open.

  “Kate!” Maura’s voice snaked into the room. “Ach, Kate! Ye must be quick afore we are caught!”

  Kate blinked slowly.

  “Ach, have ye truly gone mad?” Maura’s tone wavered between fear and disgust.

  Cold fingers closed around Kate’s wrist, tugging her to her feet, and then a hand delivered a stinging slap across her cheek.

  “Kate! I’ve not the time for this now! We must run afore they burn us both as witches!”

  With a great effort, Kate focused her eyes on Maura’s frightened blue ones.

  Pressing her lips in a tight thin line, Maura’s nostrils flared. “We’ve only a moment afore the guards return! Come!”

  She didn’t wait for Kate to reply. Yanking her by the forearm, Maura pulled her out of the cell and down the corridor, hurrying through a large, rank-smelling chamber with a group of women huddled in one corner opposite a man fettered in chains.

  At the sound of approaching voices and booted feet, Maura cursed and darted into a darkened archway, dragging Kate in after her.

  As if in a dream, Kate watched three men pass slowly in front of them, mere inches away. And then Maura was shoving her again, peppering her commands with curses as a door in front of them suddenly opened, and they burst outside. A cloud of acrid, brown smoke blew in their faces.

  With eyes tearing in response, Kate coughed and stumbled as Maura pushed her through a wild crowd surging around two pillars of fire. Someone was screaming, many were shouting, as a shrill voice intoned, “Do ye repent? Repent and save your wicked souls!”

  “Sweet Mary!” Maura cried out behind her. “May the saints forgive me! We have to go, Kate. Now! Dinna look at the fire! Let’s go!”

  Kate frowned, still bewildered.

  The high
hum of anxiety permeated the air. Fear and anger were clearly writ on the faces swirling around her. And as Maura tugged her in the opposite direction, she glanced over her shoulder to see the two columns of fire.

  One suddenly shifted, and a skeletal, human hand pitched forward to sag at an odd angle before a roaring crackle of flames rose to consume it.

  Kate froze, her eyes widening in horror as Maura yanked her back. And then, not wanting to see anymore, she turned away. Beginning to shake all over, she covered her face with her hand, but it was difficult to block out the bitter stench of scorched flesh.

  “Hurry!” Maura screeched hysterically, weaving through the frenzied mob and down the High Street of Edinburgh. “Follow me, Kate! Hurry!”

  Deep inside, a tiny voice inside Kate screamed that she should not trust nor follow Maura, but her desire to escape the bloodlust of the crowd was greater. Scarcely able to breathe, she stumbled after Maura for what seemed like hours before she felt the familiar sway of a boat and sank down gratefully, cradling her head in her hands. Fighting off tears of shock, she rubbed her burning eyes and closing them, gave way to an overwhelming, crushing weariness.

  * * *

  Kate awoke to the pleasant warmth of the sun on her skin. She lay on a straw pallet. The sheets were coarse but clean. The room was small with a dirt floor and bits of straw crammed between the crevices of ancient, crumbling stone walls.

  The sun streamed through a tiny, open window, and she could hear the bleating of sheep and the sound of laughter outside.

  Confused, she slowly sat up, struggling to recall where she was but succeeding only in summoning a series of dim, disjointed memories.

  Her father’s death at Craigmillar. Sir Arval collapsing against the wall. A hand falling out of the flames in Edinburgh. The endless lurch of a cart jolting along a rutted road. And the blooming, purple heather coloring the endless moors stretching into the distance. And then the steady, soft crooning of an old woman sitting on a bench beneath a tree.

  She frowned.

  Where was she?

  An image of Cameron’s dark, passionate eyes flashed through her mind.

  She shivered, her heart swelling at once with an ache so deep that she could not bear it. Ach, she could not think of Cameron nor of his bairn.

  His bairn! With a ripple of fear, she frantically clutched her abdomen. A larger than expected swell met her searching fingers and she glanced in surprise. Their bairn was safe and had clearly grown. Her lips parted in confusion.

  A sound at the door startled her, and she glanced up to see an ancient woman shuffling into the room with the aid of a stick. She gripped a small basket in her crooked fingers.

  “Here I am again, my wee lassie,” her familiar voice crooned. “’Tis time for ye to eat, and then we’ll sit in the warm sun for a wee bit of fresh air.”

  As she hobbled closer, Kate licked her lips and asked, “Could ye tell me where I am, my good mother?”

  The old woman started violently and dropped her basket. “Sweet Mary, have ye finally awakened?”

  Kate held still, frowning as the old woman shuffled closer.

  With her aged eyes wrinkling in surprise, the old woman’s lips creased into a wide smile. “I knew ye had the will to live, lassie. ‘Tis good to see ye in your eyes again!”

  Still frowning, Kate glanced around and repeated, “Where am I?”

  “Ye be in Kiltaraglen, and I am Flora MacLean,” the old woman replied with a slight cackle. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she rested both hands on the top of her stick and heaved a long, loud sigh. “I’ve fretted over ye so these past two months, ever since ye arrived with your sister Maura. And we’ve—”

  “Maura?” Kate interrupted with a ripple of alarm before adding with belated astonishment, “Two … months?”

  Even as she asked, she knew it was true.

  She had been hearing this woman’s voice crooning to her softly through her dreams, bathing her forehead and patiently feeding her bannocks and fish. She had sat with her on the bench in the warm sun whilst listening to the plaintive wail of the gulls and the roar of the sea.

  “Ye’ve been caught in a muckle dream, lassie.” Flora leaned over to pat Kate’s abdomen with her twisted fingers. “Ach, I feared the fairies had cast ye in a spell to take your wee bairn!”

  Kate glanced down at her belly, covering it possessively with both of her hands. She closed her eyes. Her bairn was safe. Cameron’s bairn was safe.

  Cameron. Her lips twisted downwards. She couldn’t think of Cameron—not yet.

  So much had happened, she wanted to cry to relieve her aching heart, but the tears refused to come.

  Rising unsteadily to her feet, Flora said, “I’ll fetch Maura, lassie. Your sister will be right relieved to find ye’ve returned to us.”

  The mention of Maura’s name filled Kate with trepidation. Where had Maura taken her to? And for what purpose? Reaching out to stay Flora, she shook her head, asking, “Kiltaraglen? Can ye tell me where that might be, my good mother?”

  The old woman clucked a little, shaking her head. “Ach, everyone knows of Kiltaraglen, lassie! ‘Tis on the bonniest isle on Earth. You’re on Skye.”

  Skye! Kate felt a thread of hope. “Are we near Dunvegan?” she asked. “My mother’s own Aunt Isobel lives there.”

  “Isobel?” Flora’s eyes lit with a warm recognition. “I know the wee lassie right well!”

  Kate felt an immense and comforting sense of relief.

  “I’ll send a lad for her straightway. Dunvegan’s nae far, lassie,” Flora assured, and then her aged eyes crinkled in bewilderment. “Though ‘tis strange Maura dinna mention it afore.”

  Kate tensed.

  Flora’s aged eyes narrowed, but there was a kindly smile on her lips. “Ach, then, ‘tis nae matter. I’ll send word to Isobel straightway to expect ye when ye’ve gained a wee bit of strength in your limbs, and your heart is lighter.”

  At that, Kate grimaced. “My heart will never be light again.” She had lost too much. She was certain she would never smile again.

  “Ach!” the old woman snorted in mirth. “Ye haven’t lived long enough to say that, ye wee fool.” With a broad smile, she shuffled away. “I’ll send Maura to ye. She’ll be glad to see ye’ve come back to us.”

  Swinging her legs out of the bed, Kate ran her hands apprehensively over her arms, but she had little time to prepare for Maura before the woman burst into the room.

  Maura was paler, thinner than Kate had remembered her, and there were dark circles under her puffy eyes. Furrowing her brows, the once proud woman nervously sidled up to Kate. “Are ye well, Kate?”

  Kate stared at her.

  Maura cleared her throat. “Do ye … remember?”

  “Remember what, Maura?” Kate finally asked in a voice edged with pain. “My poor father’s death? Sir Arval’s? The wax doll and Edinburgh?” She couldn’t mention Cameron. His name was too painful.

  An utter wave of loneliness swept over her.

  Maura caught her breath. “But I saved ye, Kate!” Her blue eyes filled with tears. “I saved ye from being burnt as a witch! Do ye recall that?”

  Kate swallowed, recalling again the smoke in Edinburgh and the hand falling out of the fire. She shuddered.

  “I am but a wave, tossed here and there by the whim of the wind!” Maura wailed softly, beating her hands against her chest. “How can ye not recall that I saved ye? I brought ye here, and I’ve tended ye well these past two months, both ye and your bairn!”

  Kate turned her face away and covered her ears with her hands, not wanting to hear the woman’s voice.

  “Ye have to forgive me Kate!” Maura cried, reaching over to snatch her hands away. “Do ye forgive me, Kate? Do ye?” She gripped Kate’s shoulders and began to shake them in a silent plea.

  Stepping aside, Kate pushed Maura away and choked. “Ach, Maura! My father’s dead now, and ye had a hand in it!”

  “How can ye say such vile things!”
Maura wept, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “How can ye after I’ve saved ye and Cameron’s bairn!”

  At the mention of Cameron’s name, Kate flinched. Two months. Did he think her dead?

  “I beg ye to forgive me, Kate!” Maura fell to her knees, confessing, “I only wanted to be bonny. I dinna know how it all became so twisted! I only wanted to be bonny!”

  Memories flooded through Kate, scenes that she wished had remained buried. Gasping, she covered her face with her hands, but then as if sensing her distress, the babe in her belly moved.

  Kate froze.

  Her throat caught.

  Oblivious to Maura’s sobs, her hand dropped wondrously to the soft swell to feel the slight flutter under her fingertips. And then her spirits began to lift and her heart to rise. She was not alone.

  “I beg ye, Kate!” Maura was holding desperately onto her ankles.

  Kate glanced down.

  Suddenly, there was something pitiful about the woman groveling at her feet. She did not know how long she stood there before she finally whispered, “I will always curse the day I met ye, Maura, and I’ll ever hate your choices that brought about my father’s death, but I dinna hate ye. I will not hate ye. I’ll always pity ye. But …” Kate paused and drew a deep breath.

  Maura’s tortured blue eyes locked with hers.

  Pulling herself up to her full height, Kate finished in a resolute voice, “But if ye truly desire forgiveness, never let me hear your voice nor see your face again!”

  And then Kate left her there, cringing on the floor, lost and forlorn.

  * * *

  Flora led her to the bench under the shade of the tree, and Kate closed her eyes, listening to the peacefully familiar sound of rustling leaves sighing in the wind mixed with the calls of the gulls and the roaring of the sea.

  Keeping her promise, the ancient woman immediately sent a lad with tidings to Dunvegan, though Kate was startled to find the “lad” was a gray-haired man in his late fifties.

  After he departed, Flora joined her on the bench, and the day passed in pleasant chatter. She asked Kate many questions, but wisely refrained from mentioning Maura or enquiring about the father of Kate’s bairn. And as the light of day faded, Flora brought fresh bannocks and a wooden bowl of mutton stew, and then she wearily returned to her straw pallet. The soft crackle of the fire mingled peacefully with the old woman’s crooning, and it was not long before Kate fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.