The countess collapsed onto a nearby settee and wept silently, her head buried in her hands.
The duchess turned a troubled face toward her son. “They’ve been captured,” she said quietly. “The masons from the cottage. Things are very bad, Alex. Your father has already determined their fate. They will be hanged tomorrow at sundown.”
One road, running north and south, passed the estate. The way to Carlisle was on this path. Henry knew it as well, and instinctively led Jenna in the direction of the rest of his clan. Whether by good fate or fortune, they were only a few miles up the road before she heard voices and the movement of horses.
Under the cloak of darkness, it was easy to remain invisible, but soon the sun would rise, and she’d have to stay well away to keep her cover. It wouldn’t be as difficult as tracking an animal. She’d spent years learning how to hunt with the men. They’d taught her how to judge distance and space, as well as wind direction to keep her scent away from sensitive noses. As it was, none of the soldiers paid much mind to their surroundings. Instead, they kept a keen eye on their prisoners.
The men and horses were nothing more than shapeless masses in the dark, but gradually, in the bleary light of dawn, it became clear that all those in her clan were accounted for. Each was on his own horse and had his hands tied with rope behind his back. Four soldiers accompanied them on the trip, one of them foul of mind and temper. Jenna guessed he was in charge, because he led the procession and had the ugliest snarl. She watched and listened as he growled orders to the other three, and griped the moment any of them dared to suggest they stop to rest or water the horses. Jenna dubbed him Corporal Curmudgeon, for lack of his real rank and title.
She knew the men must be aching and tired. It pained her to watch them, mile after mile. But imagining what they must be suffering, the anxiety . . . to know they were heading to their death . . . was unbearable. She wanted to run to them, reach out to them, beg their forgiveness, and make everything all right again.
Had she not panicked and hidden in the garrison’s chambers, Mr. Wicken would have only questioned her about the gunshot and not found the cache. It always ended like that in Gavin’s fireside stories. It was ultimately that one thing the hero did differently, did wrong—the action that set their downfall in motion.
Why hasn’t Gavin told me more stories about escape?
One of the privates made his way to the top of the parade and attempted to speak with their chief. A brief conversation ensued and after a moment of hefty snarling—lest the rear guard forget whose mission this was—the corporal turned his horse around and raised a hand to stop the line. Although Jenna couldn’t hear what had been said by their fearless leader, the gist of it was they were stopping and dismounting.
Jenna spotted the reason for the stop. A stream ran alongside the road. The horses, as well as everyone else, would get to drink.
She kept Henry in the woods but let him have his fill of cold water, and then tied him to a sturdy sapling. She covered her hair with the tail end of her brown woolen cloak and crawled from one tree to the next, determined not to attract the attention of either men or horses.
She looked at her family, their faces drawn but emotionless. Then she moved to get a clear view of the corporal, with his scrunched-up angry features. His hair was greasy and drab. How can anyone have hair of no specific color? She thought of her father’s wiry black hair—or rather, pewter now, as it was speckled with just as much gray as its natural coal coloring. Daniel’s gleamed with shades of russet. A dark brown that made you think of rich, earthy soil, or Mrs. Wigginton’s gingerbread. And Lord Pembroke’s hair . . . She thought of the gold strands kept just long enough to bend at the edges, its color fair and glinting when the sun caught it.
Her own hair was simply red, and it seemed to bleed into the rest of her body with any onset of emotion. She hoped none of it was showing at the moment, for it could never blend into the background.
She pressed her eyes closed and put her hands over her face, welcoming in a patch of darkness where she touched a clear place to think. She needed a plan and guessed by the speed of their travel, they would reach the Duke of Keswick’s hunting lodge by dusk.
The grumbling of her stomach made her jerk in surprise, but her hunger was nothing more than a minor distraction in her concentrated efforts to contrive a solution. She would do whatever it took to get her family back, but without a plan, she had no choice but to follow and pray one would appear.
Alex’s mother put a finger to her lips and then an arm out to stop Alex from entering the duke’s open study door. She pressed them both against the corridor wall, and they listened to the voices inside.
“Where are they?” Alex heard someone demand.
“What in the devil’s going on?” shouted the duke. Then, after the click of a pistol notched into place, they heard the duke say, “Apparently, we have business to discuss?”
“I asked a question,” the man said evenly.
“I take it you mean the Jacobites? They’re dead. Hanged, I presume,” the duke said, a hint of pleasure in his voice.
“Then prepare to die yourself,” the man hissed at the same time the duchess moved into the open doorway.
“Wait,” she said, a Queen Anne pistol raised and held in her hands, but upon seeing the gunman, lowered it.
Alex rounded through the opening behind his mother. He stopped short, caught at seeing Daniel in the study with a Spanish pistol leveled at his father. The duke was pressed against the back of his leather chair, tea staining the front of his dressing gown and the stack of papers on his broad walnut desk. “What is this?” Alex said, searching the room for an explanation.
Daniel swiveled the gun toward the doorway. “Did you do this to them?” he asked, aiming the pistol at Alex.
“Stop, Daniel!” the duchess said, putting up a hand. “Alex hasn’t done a thing—and as far as I know, they’re still alive.”
Daniel lowered the gun and stood back. He drew a deep breath and closed his eyes in a moment’s relief.
“How in God’s name do you know this man?” Alex demanded of his mother.
The duchess’s eyes were glued to Daniel. “Who found you?”
“The young apprentice. On the road an hour ago. He told me they’d been captured and he’d escaped. I was on my way back, and thankfully close.”
The duke leapt up and roared, “Who the bloody hell is this man and what is he doing here?” He slammed a heavy fist onto the tea-sodden papers, splattering brown droplets.
The duchess slowly pivoted to face her husband. “The fact that this man has a gun—and a fairly accurate one, at that—states his business will come first. Be quiet and sit down while I sort things out.” Her speech was crisp, but her voice remained settled as she continued.
“I can’t be certain where they are at present, but I believe they’re on their way to Carlisle—where the hunting cabin stands. I imagine that would be where he’d have them executed. Would I be correct in that assumption?” She looked over her shoulder.
“Yes,” the duke said brusquely.
“What?” Alex said, startled. “Wait—but what about a trial? Surely, our magistrate must officiate a trial.” His face was stricken with panic.
The duke rolled his shoulders back in a shrug. “Why waste time with formalities on these people?”
The duchess put a hand out to stay her son, who was about to launch himself at his father. “Well, for one thing,” she said, speaking to her husband, “it might have ensured your prisoners would actually be killed and not set free by other Jacobites who are scheming behind your back.”
The duke’s face pulled into a sneer. “What a ridiculous notion. We’ve rounded up all of them, apart from him, I’m guessing, and in a short moment, he too will be swinging from a tree.”
Daniel stood fixedly but looked as if he could spring like a coil at a moment’s notice.
“Well, I suppose that just leaves me, then,” the duchess said.
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br /> “What?” Alex and his father said together.
“We’ve been preparing this rebellion for some time, and damned if I’m going to have you get in the way of it. You and your crooked politics and contemptuous attitude. You’re determined to profit from your fellow man’s failures—most of which you’ve contrived yourself.
“I feel I ought to thank you though for your healthy contributions to the Stuart cause. When James determines it’s time to move, and our armies are prepared to fight, the money you’ve invested”—she raised an eyebrow—“albeit unknowingly, will be greatly appreciated.”
The duke looked stricken. “What?”
“You’re . . . a Jacobite?” Alex whispered.
“I think it important everyone be given the chance to choose their allegiance—family history or not. Pressure to conform and support simply because of one’s ancestry shows poor judgment. We sent you to school, Alex, to become educated. To open your eyes to the future. To see how you are a part of it, can influence it, maybe even direct it.” She shook her head. “I did not agree for you to attend Cambridge simply to be bullied into inhaling their opinions and regurgitating them as your own.”
She glanced at her husband, disgust in her eyes. “Instead, I had every reason to anticipate you would come to your own conclusions as to who you were and what you stood for. . . .” She smiled now. “And I must say, it seems that you have.”
“What a load of rubbish,” the duke spat at her, rising and clutching his dressing gown. “You’ve never paid one moment’s attention to anything related to government. You said talk of politics gave you a headache.”
She blinked serenely and smiled. “I lied.”
“You’ll be hanged for this as well, you traitoring strumpet,” he said, puffing.
“Oh? By whom?”
“Well, when the guards I’ve sent off with the first load of conspirators return, they’ll have a second chance to earn their suppers, won’t they?” he said through gritted teeth. “I’ll make sure you get what you deserve.”
“Again, I must stress the importance of paying attention to details—especially when participating in something as dangerous as a revolt against one’s king. When I hired these men to build the garrison—”
“You?” Alex interrupted. “I thought that Father—”
“I’m a woman, Alex, and the mistress of this household.” She flashed a look at her husband. “As I was saying, when I hired them, I knew what I was doing. Daniel could not have been more helpful, and as my liaison, I trusted him to find me the right people.”
“Your liaison?” Alex choked. “Daniel is D? This is the man you’ve been writing ardent declarations of love to?”
“Not love letters. Coded letters. I know this comes as an awful surprise to you, Alex, but I found Daniel and he found the Freemasons—”
“The what?” Alex said.
“The Freemasons,” the duchess answered patiently. “They’re a fraternal group—a brotherhood. And their principles mirror mine. Soon, with their help, King James Edward Stuart will land on British soil to reclaim his rightful throne.”
“Over my dead body!” the duke shouted.
“As you wish,” the duchess said coolly. Raising the Queen Anne pistol with both hands, she took quick aim.
THIRTY-SEVEN
DANIEL AND ALEX LEFT, RACING THE HORSES TO THEIR limits. After each hour of hard riding, Alex stopped at one of the farms to exchange the animals for fresh ones. They had several dozen miles to cover. Their destination was not a place, but a future. The clan’s fate lay in their hands.
“How come none of the guards are the ones my mother hired?” Alex shouted to Daniel as they rushed headlong up the road.
Daniel glowered at Alex. “Her Grace’s soldiers were meant to arrive early this morning. They were cut off once the garrison’s contraband was discovered, and these men are most likely local militia called in to aid your father with circumventing the law.” He turned back to spur on his horse.
Alex ground his teeth and gripped the reins tighter. I had nothing to do with my father’s actions! Why blame me for his unseemly behavior? Obviously, the duke had sent them to his most remote hunting cabin, to have their execution carried out in such a fashion that would call no notice.
As the afternoon passed, Alex focused on his mother’s words. She had stunned him with not only her actions, but her determination. She was willing to risk everything to achieve success. His unnerving thoughts brought up sharp images of what they might find when reaching the hunting cabin. His mind imagined gruesome scenarios, but he refused to ask Daniel what he expected. At times, he’d catch the Spaniard staring at him with an expression of either anger or distrust, but mostly it was a simple appraisal.
They were a mile from the rise where the cabin lay, both breathing raggedly with the effort of hours at top speed. Daniel finally spoke to him. “They’re prepared to die, you know.”
Alex jolted with surprise. “What do you mean?”
Daniel kept his face aligned with his horse’s, his breath coming in spurts. “I mean . . . they understood this might happen . . . that at any point they could be discovered . . . and because of the uncertainty, they never take one moment for granted . . . not like you do.”
Alex growled through gritted teeth. “I hardly think you can accurately assess my life.”
The Spaniard glanced at him. “Oh no?” he huffed. “You’re privileged with wealth . . . a fine education. You hunger for nothing. . . . You have no purpose.”
Alex snarled at the accusation. “All this simply from riding together for the better part of the day?” He pulled his horse even with Daniel’s to glare at him. “You must consider yourself a good judge of character . . . even if the character has yet to be displayed!”
Daniel snorted and slowed his horse.
“You’re dead wrong about me,” Alex snapped.
“Am I? Well, pretty soon, if not already, there will be seven people wrongly dead—and what did you do to contribute to it?”
Alex tightened the grip on his reins. Nothing. I did nothing! But perhaps that’s just what the Spaniard meant.
The sun was setting, and the day’s sharp breeze was dying down. Jenna had noticed nothing of the temperature or her own exhaustion during the last several hours, but pushed herself to keep up with the corporal and the sad procession of men that followed behind him.
The men sat against a stone wall that enclosed a field of grazing sheep. Jenna lay flat in the cold soggy leaves, staring hard at the soldiers, willing herself to hate them. She needed to hate them. It was the only way she would be able to kill them. Her stomach clenched, and she curled up, retching what little there was in her stomach. She wiped her mouth with the back of her muddy hands and watched the corporal rummage through one of his saddlebags. She had a clear shot of him from her vantage point and thought it probable she could hit him.
She reached for the quiver behind her back and rose to her knees. Her breathing grew faster. She couldn’t get enough air. She put her hands on the ground, felt her chest heave with effort.
I have to do this.
I must do this.
Her mind panted the words along with her breath. She rose again, this time to her feet.
It is them or us.
She notched the arrow into place and felt her thumb brush past her cheek as she slid into form. The view down the sight line was shaky. Her hands trembled wildly, so she closed her eyes and took a slow breath to steady her grasp. Her ears pricked at a rustling from behind. A strong hand suddenly closed over her mouth and simultaneously another grabbed the arrow before she could release it. The two hands pulled her roughly to the ground, and they tumbled through a mound of leaves and dirt before coming to rest at the bottom of the hill.
“What do you think you are doing?” a voice hissed in her ear. The heavy weight that kept her pressed to the ground remained motionless, the hand still firmly over her mouth. “Do not move,” he whispered as she struggled for
breath and freedom. Then she heard the sounds of voices above them at the crest of the edged rise they’d just fallen from.
The soldiers.
There was a moment of mumbled chatter between the men on the rise, concluding that whatever they heard or saw behind the clump of greens had been of the animal variety, and was not of immediate concern. They left, and the hand over her mouth removed itself as the owner’s body rolled off her back. She looked up and pushed the hair from her eyes, stunned to see Daniel standing inches away, searching the rise where the soldiers had last appeared.
Tear-streaked and muddy, Jenna leapt to her feet and threw herself at him. “Daniel, thank God!”
He hugged her fiercely then set her down and put a finger to his lips, scanning the crest for movement. When at last he was satisfied, he grabbed her hand and the bow and pulled her farther back through the woods, away from the circle of soldiers.
Jenna heard the rush of movement behind her. She wheeled around to see Lord Pembroke, panting and out of breath. Without a thought she embraced him too.
He seized her tightly then put her at arm’s length, making a cursory inventory. Lord Pembroke turned to Daniel. “Where did you find her?”
Daniel eyed Jenna. “At the top of the hill with her bow drawn. How were you planning to battle four soldiers?”
“One by one, if I had to,” she said pointedly.
Lord Pembroke shook his head. “If you kill any of them, the crown has proof of a crime against you, whereas if you simply escape . . .” His face stiffened. “Well, at least they wouldn’t burn you at the stake.”
Her stomach dropped, twisted with fear. She dug her nails into the palms of her hands and blinked against her anguished tears. “I will do whatever I must. These men fight for something and someone they believe in. And I believe in them. And we will do it to our death. I won’t leave them.”
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