Daniel grabbed her arm. “You won’t have to.” He scrutinized Lord Pembroke. “Let’s go—we’ve not much time.”
“Wait,” Lord Pembroke said and quickly turned to Jenna. “Miss MacDuff. There is so much to say—and not nearly enough time to speak it.” He drew a hand down over his face as if to draw the thoughts from his brain to his lips. “We come from such different worlds, and if God grants us favor, then shortly we will both be heading back to them. But I want you to know”—he paused, searching for words—“you have altered mine.”
Jenna studied his face, seeing warmth and love and gratitude.
He continued. “In many ways, I am in your debt and will find a way to repay you.”
Jenna was about to say you’re welcome, when Lord Pembroke stepped forward, took her face in his hands, and brushed his lips across hers.
“When I am able, I will search for the door to your world. Thank you, Miss MacDuff.”
Jenna knew her face flushed with heat but managed to say, “When you find it, you may thank me a thousand times again.”
Alex hid behind a large tree and scanned the mangy crowd that had gathered along the last of the route, intent upon seeing an early evening’s entertainment. The hanging of one was enough to gain the interest of a few, but word had spread it would be as much as six, and it looked like many had put their evening chores aside to see the spectacle that had befallen them.
There were, at first, only a few minor quips from the bolder members of the audience, loud statements of disgust that these men had found their way into England in the first place.
“Bleeding Scots trying to take over with their James. The great coward isn’t even here, then, is he?” one man remarked. “He’s hiding ’neath Louis’s skirts, he is. Now, who wants to follow his leader there?”
The head soldier didn’t seem to mind the jeering, and furthermore did nothing to stop the occasional lobbing of an old winter apple at the group of men. They were lined up beneath the long, sturdy branches of two great oaks, while a rope was staked across the front of the horses, their ability to take off prematurely impeded. He watched from his saddle and smiled at the rising anticipation from the crowd as they gradually lost any remaining timidity.
Alex glanced at the clansmen on their horses, hands bound by ropes behind their backs, faces bound by oath and honor. The head soldier’s face pinched with anger when he looked at them and said, “You may think your faces display courage to this crowd, but they see a mask of conceit.” He smiled at the bystanders and turned back. “They’re expecting me to wipe your features of their arrogant dispositions. And I must. It will show these law-abiding folk the serious nature of the new crown—the loyalty that is anticipated, that is expected.”
Alex swung up into his saddle and looked at the clansmen, and then behind him. He had never met people with such valor. Even his mother’s resolve had shaken him, awed him. The Spaniard was right. What had he done? Was it not time to test his self-command? This was his moment. He would do it for them . . . and for himself.
He drew in a large breath and moved forward out of the copse of trees. The crowd gasped, and the corporal’s face revealed raw shock. Alex guessed it was because of what trailed behind him. It looked like he towed a dead woman flung across another horse, her flaming red hair spilling down the animal’s ribs, a crimson sheet lit by the setting sun and stirring with the breeze.
Alex cleared his throat and hollered, “You there, sir, what rank are you?”
The soldier narrowed his eyes and answered. “Corporal Brummidge, milord.”
Alex could almost taste the resentment that spilled out with the man’s words. He knew he’d been usurped. A man who’s lost his status is rarely ready to give it up so easily, and he looked like a soldier who’d been born and bred to battle.
Alex spoke again. “My father is dead. I am your new Duke of Keswick.”
Two soldiers standing near the crowd saluted, but the corporal remained aloof and merely nodded.
Alex glared at the corporal and pointed. “I found this young woman trailing you. Did you know you were followed?”
The corporal arranged himself taller in his saddle, and made a quick jerk of his head to throw a condemning glance at the two soldiers.
Alex continued, his eyes burning into the corporal’s. “Had I not come upon her, there’s no telling what might have happened. These men might well have escaped with her aid.”
The corporal’s gaze wavered as he glanced at the crowd. Their glee at his humiliation was palpable.
Alex raised his voice. “I had my own man kill the woman, so you won’t be short of rope for the rest, but I expect to see the remainder done properly. I won’t take chances with the careless management displayed thus far.” He pointed at the two soldiers. “You two, move aside. I’ll have my own attendant do the ropes.” And turning back to face the corporal, he continued. “Were you aware you had a deserter among your ranks?”
The corporal searched his party.
Alex snorted. “We found him beneath a tree, enjoying a late-afternoon kip. You’ll find him upon your return, tied to the same tree for safekeeping.”
In truth, Alex remembered, the young private had not been found sleeping under the tree, but rather pissing by the side of it. He was tied to it though—embarrassingly, without his clothes, which now appeared on Daniel’s body.
“Milord,” the corporal said through rigid jaws, “I assure you I can handle the punishment of these men.” He watched Daniel move swiftly from one prisoner to the next, stepping into a stirrup, securing the knot around the tree branch, and finally placing the noose over each neck.
Alex laughed. “I have no more faith in your assurance than I do in your proficiency. I might as well ask the prisoners to string themselves up.”
The gathered mob howled. Ridicule on top of an execution was capital entertainment.
Alex shook his head. “No, I shall take on from here, and I will deliver seven Scots exactly as they should be, where they should be.” Alex eyed the corporal fingering the smooth, rounded handle of his standard-issue pistol. He noted the bitter expression on his face as he watched Daniel finish the preparations.
“You may take your leave, Corporal Brummidge. I have no further use for you here,” Alex said, narrowing in on the gun.
The corporal reeled back in his saddle, his face pulling into a sneer. “Surely you don’t mean to dismiss me and my company when there might be need for our services, milord?”
“It is precisely what I mean, Corporal. There is nothing valuable you may contribute apart from directing the dispersal of this crowd. If you and your men would kindly break up the unwelcome audience—”
“Unwelcome audience?” the corporal interrupted. “This is a lesson demonstrating the result of traitorous activities.” He glanced from the crowd back to Alex. “Shouldn’t they benefit from the mistakes of others? Shouldn’t they watch the hanging and glean . . .”
The corporal stopped midsentence and Alex turned to catch sight of one of the ropes, previously secured around a tree branch and one of the prisoner’s necks, slipping free to the ground.
Daniel dashed to the rope, but the corporal, now on high alert, shouted out to him.
“You there! Stop!” He raised his gun and pointed it at Daniel.
Alex shouted, “Now!” and an explosion of action occurred in front of the crowd.
At the same time the corporal cocked and aimed his gun, the Freemason’s Daughter sprang up with a bow and arrow in her hand, expertly drawn, skillfully released.
Daniel slashed a knife through both the rope restraining the clansmen’s horses and the one securing the two remaining soldiers’ mounts. He leapt up behind Gavin.
The arrow hit the corporal’s gun.
A shot rang out as the pistol flew out of his hand.
The crowd screamed.
Alex fired above the horse’s head, striking enough terror in the animal to rear and throw the corporal from his back. Th
e horse took flight, following Alex toward the north.
The remaining horses bolted in all directions to escape the sound of gunfire. But the nooses never tightened around the necks of those who were to be hanged. The ropes slithered from the tree branches, uncoiling from their slipknots. The clan, still atop their horses, leveled themselves to the necks of their escaping animals. The ropes slid past the face of death and that of the corporal as they merrily dangled along in the grass, dancing with their liberty.
Jenna’s mind flashed in lightning speed as her thoughts shut down and her physical senses prickled with blood-tingling friction, animal instinct taking over. She clutched the sleek neck in front of her, bending low and melting into the flow of muscles as Henry flung himself into the race with his cohorts. His instinct was as keen as hers.
They chased the crisp March wind. They felt each curve and dip of hill. The two of them headed toward the magnet of their own internal compass. She closed her eyes. Time was disproportionate, the calculation of seconds and minutes surreal as she and her horse flew across the fields in front of them. She thrilled at the notion she would live another day to make up for the terrible mistake she had made.
She heard the cries of men, and if all had gone according to plan, the voices belonged to only her clansmen, having left the three soldiers with no mounts to pursue them with. She held tightly to Henry and allowed her eyes to open just enough to see what lay in front of her. It was Hadrian’s Wall and, blessedly, Henry was plowing straight for it. She closed her eyes and saw her homeland: the rough-toothed mountains of unnatural green, smooth hills blanketed with heather, the sparkling lochs with their unimaginable depths. She loosened her grip, prepared for the jump.
A familiar feeling grasped her by the shoulders when she realized, once again, that Henry had changed his mind. He hesitated and veered an unexpected semicircle away from the wall.
“Damn Newton and his theories!” she shouted as she slipped off the horse and landed with a shoulder-wrenching crunch into the grass, and then into darkness.
She opened her eyes and found herself surrounded by eight men, all shaking their heads and tsking with their familiar disappointed expressions.
“You’re one lucky lass,” her father growled, relief spilling from his eyes.
“Lucky?” she said. “Lucky will be to die in Scotland.”
GLOSSARY OF TERMS AND FOREIGN PHRASES
Bene vale vobis. (Latin): Good luck to you.
fish chuits: similar to crab cakes
Hasta más tarde. (Spanish): Until later.
Jacobite: A supporter of James II of England or of the Stuart pretenders after 1688. From Latin Jacōbus, James
Mai. È brutto! (Italian): Never. It’s ugly.
Mo chreach! (Gaelic): Damn! Literally, “My ruin.”
No lo puedo creer. (Spanish): I don’t believe it.
Non posso ringraziarla abbastanza! (Italian): I cannot thank you enough!
parritch: Scottish porridge
Pazya (Daniel’s horse) In Hebrew it translates as “Gold of God.”
receipts: recipes
slàinte mhath (Gaelic): good health
syllabub: A traditional British dessert, popular from the sixteenth to the nineteenth century, made from rich milk or cream, seasoned with sugar and wine. The frothing cream was poured straight into a bowl containing “Sille,” a wine that used to be made in Sillery, in France’s Champagne region. “Bub” was Elizabethan slang for a bubbling drink.
Tesoro mio (Italian): My love. Treasure of mine.
Tu es hermoso. (Spanish): You are beautiful.
vecchio stile (Italian): old-style
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A huge thank-you to Kristen Pettit, my editor. Your direction, ideas, and encouragement were treasured lodestones that kept me afloat on this journey. I continue to pinch myself with the glee of good fortune to have worked with you. Many thanks to the incredibly clever and beautiful team at HarperCollins for every ounce of effortful work you put into making this book a reality: Alexandra Rakaczki and Janet Rosenberg; Michelle Taormina, Alison Klapthor, and Emily Soto; Kim Stella and Tina Cameron; Stephanie Hoover, along with Bess Braswell and Elizabeth Ward—and definitely not to be forgotten—Elizabeth Lynch. I am indebted to you all for finding my book a home in your house where your creativity never ceases to amaze me.
To my two favorite people in the whole world: Chloe and Gabe—you guys have seen me relentlessly time-travel backward three centuries to chisel away at this tale for a dozen years, and not once in all that time did either one of you suggest I bury this book and crack on elsewhere. You have no idea how much that means to me.
As always, a massive and endless thank-you to Jennifer Unter, my agent. Your toils on my behalf and your ongoing faith in my writing make me hugely grateful to work with you.
Thanks to Alys Milner, whose affection and kindness is something so extraordinary I wish there was a way to make sure everyone in the world had a chance to spend fifteen minutes with her. To M & D, a million hugs for all the cherished dinners and drams. And lastly, to Abby Murphy. Your words, your perspective, your guidance—all a treasure beyond measure to me.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Photo by Chloe Sackier
SHELLEY SACKIER is the author of Dear Opl. She blogs at www.peakperspective.com about food, family, and the folly that is life while living atop a mountain in the Blue Ridge. You can read more of her work at www.shelleysackier.com and follow her on Twitter at @ShelleySackier.
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BOOKS BY SHELLEY SACKIER
The Freemason’s Daughter
CREDITS
Cover photography © 2017 by Emily Soto
Cover design by Michelle Taormina
COPYRIGHT
HarperTeen is an imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.
THE FREEMASON’S DAUGHTER. Copyright © 2017 by Shelley Sackier. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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Library of Congress Control Number: 2016949900
ISBN 978-0-06-245344-0
EPub Edition © March 2017 ISBN 9780062453464
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FIRST EDITION
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The Freemason's Daughter Page 31