Pursuit of Princes (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 5)

by Julia Brannan

  “For God’s sake, man, out with it!”

  “Miss Cunningham’s pregnant, Your Grace,” the keeper said.

  “What? Has she had relations with another prisoner?”

  “No, Your Grace. It seems she must have been with child since before she was captured. She didn’t know the signs to look for, so she didn’t know herself, it seems. When Isobel told her that she was sure, Miss Cunningham checked for herself, and then she got very upset and told her not to say anything about it and that it didn’t make any difference.”

  Of course it made a difference! If it was true.

  “Is this Isobel woman sure about this?” Newcastle asked.

  “Yes, very sure. She feels bad about breaking her promise, but said she’s worried about Miss Cunningham, especially when she didn’t come back to the cell. She said she can’t have the death of a baby on her hands if Miss Cunningham’s hung, Your Grace, and thought telling me was the only thing she could do.”

  Newcastle looked at the clock. Eleven fifteen. The captain would have just arrived in her cell, and would no doubt spend some time talking to her before he began his more physical persuasion. It would take the keeper about twenty minutes to return. He would be back before any real damage had been done.

  If this was true, it could change everything. He tapped his quill on the desk thoughtfully for a moment, then came to a decision.

  “Go back to the prison, Mr Jones. Tell the sergeant to allow Miss Cunningham to sit down. Feed her but keep her on her own for now with a guard. And then bring this Henderson woman to me. I want to speak to her myself. Go, man! Quickly!”

  Mr Jones jumped, sketched a clumsy bow and then fled.

  Newcastle put the quill down on the table. It was extremely clear that however badly this Anthony traitor had treated Miss Cunningham, she still believed herself in love with him. Surely then, once she had come to terms with her pregnancy she would do anything to keep his child? If she could be brought to believe her lover was almost certainly dead, she would undoubtedly realise that it was foolish to conceal the identity of a dead man and sacrifice her unborn baby in order to do so. He would offer her a complete pardon and a small income for her and the child, if she told what she knew. Women were notoriously protective of their babies – it was their natural instinct to be so.

  He would speak to this Henderson woman, and then he would have Miss Cunningham examined to make sure she was not merely trying to cheat the gallows with a false claim. If the child had been conceived in April, then it would surely be easy to determine if it was a true pregnancy or not.

  He smiled. This was the best news he had heard all week. And the very best chance to get her to reveal what she knew about Sir Anthony.

  * * *

  When she came round, she was lying on the stone floor. Ned had taken off his jacket and had folded it up to form a makeshift pillow, and was sitting next to her, his young face deeply troubled. She tried to lift her head to see if Richard was still there, but the resulting pain made her cry out.

  Ned was instantly alert.

  “Don’t try to move, Miss. You’re hurt.”

  She didn’t need him to tell her that. She couldn’t remember ever being in this much pain before.

  “Richard…” she mumbled.

  “The captain’s gone. He won’t be coming back while I’m here, I promise you, even if I’m court-martialled for it. It ain’t right to treat anyone like what he did you, no matter what.”

  “I heard you come in, before I fainted. I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t want you to get into trouble.”

  “After he threw me out, I was so angry I went outside for a bit to calm down,” he said. “I wish I hadn’t. I should have stayed right outside the door. If I’d know what he was going to do, I never would have left you at all.”

  “I’m glad you did leave. Richard’s a bad enemy to have.”

  “When I came back I opened the grille very carefully, just to see if you was all right, and when I saw…” He stopped and ran his hand over his face, “…I came straight in and told him to stop. He told me to f…a bad word, and that the duke had authorised him to interrogate you, and I said that I couldn’t believe he meant for him to kill you. I thought you was dead, Miss, I did. And he laughed at me and said you was just pretending! He ain’t no human. He’s a devil.”

  “He’s not the only one, Ned. If you stay in the army, no doubt you’ll meet others like him. And others like you, too. Nathan…” She stopped, aware that her tongue was running away with her. Ned was older than Nathan had been. Fifteen and mortally wounded, but he’d tried to protect her from the wild Highlanders when he’d seen them approaching her. But Alex and Duncan had been no danger to the young redcoat. Richard was most definitely a danger to Ned.

  “Did you make him leave?” she asked. If he had, his life would not be worth living.

  “No, Miss. I was going to, but then the sergeant came in and said the duke had ordered you to be allowed to rest. The sergeant’s a harsh man, but even he was horrified when he saw you hanging there like that. It was him what told the captain to leave. He didn’t want to, though. Said he’s…never mind.”

  Said he’s coming back. She knew Richard. He’d believed her when she told him she’d given her dowry to Prince Charles. He would never forgive her for that. He didn’t need the money any more; it was the principle of the thing. He wanted the dowry as revenge for their father rejecting him. That was why she’d baited him, hoping he’d be infuriated enough to kill her. She’d underestimated how much he’d changed. But then he’d underestimated her too, underestimated her hatred of him, hadn’t believed her capable of lying to him, or of withstanding such pain. She had told him one truth, though; Newcastle could rot in hell before she’d tell him anything. And so could her brother.

  “Why are they letting me rest, Ned?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. The sergeant said you can eat, too. He’s sent for some soup for you. Your legs is all swelled up, but I think they might be alright if you can rest for a bit. But the keeper’s trying to see if he can get a surgeon to come, because your shoulder is out and it needs to be put back.”

  The door opened and Mr Jones entered, bearing a bowl of hot soup and some bread.

  “Are you alright, Miss Cunningham?” he asked worriedly.

  What the hell was going on? Why were they all suddenly so worried about her?

  “Private Miller tells me my shoulder is out,” she said. “You said the surgeon won’t come here, didn’t you?”

  “He might if the Duke of Newcastle’s ordered it,” the keeper said. He put the bowl down on the floor.

  “Has the Duke of Newcastle ordered it?” she asked. If he had, then that meant they were not just letting her rest to give her a false sense of security before starting again, but that something important had happened. Something concerning Alex. It had to be. Why else would they stop?

  “No, he hasn’t,” the keeper said, to her immense relief. “But I think he would if he knew the state you’re in. So I’ve taken it on myself to fetch him.”

  “That’s kind of you, Mr Jones.”

  “Not at all,” he said, as though she’d insulted him. “You can pay me back the next time you get to wear a fancy dress.”

  “I think that may be a long time coming,” she replied.

  He stood up.

  “I’ll take my chance,” he said. “I’ll go for him now.” He left the room, closing the door behind him.

  The soup smelt wonderful. Her stomach rumbled and then contracted painfully, making her gasp. Ned picked up the bowl.

  “I’ll have to feed you, Miss,” he said.

  “I can’t eat lying down,” Beth said. “Help me to sit up.”

  He looked at her doubtfully.

  “That’s going to hurt a lot. Your arm’s all twisted.”

  “I haven’t eaten for three days,” she said practically. “My stomach’s hurting more than my arm at the moment. I need food. Let’s go slowly.”
Another cramp hit her and she moaned, then took a couple of deep breaths.

  “Now,” she said, and very gently he lifted her upper body off the floor, propping her against the wall. The pain was excruciating, but she managed by a sheer effort of will not to faint. Her arms hung uselessly, one by her side, her hand resting in her lap, the other one twisted behind her. She tried to move the fingers of the hand resting in her lap, and failed.

  “I think you will have to help me, after all,” she said.

  He knelt in front of her and fed her, slowly and with great tenderness.

  “When you’ve finished, I’m going to see if I can get you a blanket,” he said, noticing that she was shivering.

  “I’m not cold,” she said. Her teeth chattered and they both laughed. She realised that she must be cold, although she really didn’t feel it. She did feel light-headed though, but that would be normal, with the pain and lack of food.

  It was while she was swallowing the last mouthful of bread that she suddenly felt her bladder void itself, soaking her dress at the back.

  “Oh God, I’m sorry,” she said, mortified. The dancing lights were back, swimming at the edge of her vision.

  “What’s wrong?” Ned asked.

  “I think I’ve just pissed myself,” she said bluntly, and then started to slide sideways down the wall.

  Ned caught her, eased her back down to a lying position, then looked at her, suddenly alarmed. All the colour had drained from her face; even her lips were white. Gently he tapped her cheek, but got no response. She’d fainted again. He decided to take the opportunity to move her into a more comfortable position, while she was unlikely to feel the pain. In fact he would take her out of the cell altogether. In the corridor there was a bench that the soldiers and turnkeys sat on, and a brazier to take the chill from the air. He would take her there and if anyone told him off for it, they could go to hell.

  He opened the door, then went back and lifted her up carefully. She weighed almost nothing. Her dress at the back was sodden. He could feel the urine soaking into his shirt, and grimaced. He walked down the corridor and very gently laid her down on the bench. Now he would light the brazier, and at least he wouldn’t have to leave her to get a blanket. She would soon warm up.

  He took his hands from under her, settling his folded coat back under her head. Then he looked at his soaked shirt sleeve and hand, which were bright red.

  “Oh fucking hell,” he breathed, and forgetting he wasn’t supposed to leave her, he stood up and tore down the corridor, shouting for the sergeant as he ran.

  * * *

  Richard was not happy. How dare that puppy charge in and tell him to stop, just when he was getting started? He’d waited years for this moment, and had been enjoying himself immensely. If the sergeant hadn’t come in and told him that Newcastle himself had ordered him to stop, he’d have beaten the young private to a pulp for his insubordination to a superior officer.

  And it had been a learning experience too. He’d heard about the strappado, of course; he had an interest in such things, but he’d never actually tried it out on anyone. It would have been really interesting to progress to the next stage, of jerking her up and down on the rope. Judging by the agony she’d been in, he doubted she’d have survived that without giving in and begging him to stop.

  Although she was incredibly stubborn. But if she’d held out after that, he could have tried the third stage. He didn’t have a weight to tie to her feet, but pulling on her legs would have had the same effect. In truth, in view of the fact that the bitch had vomited on him, he’d intended to try that even if she had given in.

  And he’d kept to Newcastle’s instructions not to mark her. True, her shoulder had been pulled out of joint, but putting it back in place, very slowly, would have just added to the pleasure.

  What the hell was Newcastle up to, stopping him like that? He was absolutely sure that before the day was out he would have known everything there was to know about Sir Anthony Peters. It was infuriating.

  Now he would have to start again, and the element of surprise would be lost. But on the other hand, now she knew how agonising the strappado was, the mere anticipation of it might drive her to divulge the information he wanted.

  And then he would continue anyway, just to watch the traitorous bitch scream.

  God, he needed a woman. He was as hard as a rock. Even riding at a slow walk was uncomfortable. He would visit a whore house on his way home.

  No. Why pay when you could get it for free? His wife would be alone when he got in. He had no doubt that she would have got rid of those titled lunatics by now. She wouldn’t disobey him. He could have the whole evening alone with her, doing whatever he wanted.

  True, Anne would be a poor substitute for Beth. She would disintegrate before he even touched her. But it was better than nothing. And whatever he did, short of murder, he’d be safe from the law. A man could not be prosecuted for raping his wife. And she wouldn’t dare to make a complaint, anyway.

  When he got home, he ran up the steps and hammered on the door. It was opened by the same footman as yesterday, except this time he did not have a supercilious expression on his face, nor a horrified one. This time he looked positively radiant on seeing the young captain at the door. He bowed, and Richard walked past him into the hall.

  “Tell my wife I wish to see her immediately in the library,” Richard said brusquely.

  The footman smiled.

  “I am afraid Lady Redburn is not at home, sir.”

  Richard halted his progress up the corridor.

  “Mrs Cunningham, you fool,” he snarled. “Where is she?”

  “Gone, sir. As I intend to be, this very minute. My resignation is on the drawing-room table with the others.”

  “What others?”

  “The other servants, sir. They have all left. I merely waited to admit you to the house, as I knew you did not have a key, and there is no one else here.”

  “How considerate,” Richard said sarcastically. “Where has my wife gone?”

  “I believe she has left you a note, sir. On the table. With the others.”

  This was unbelievable! Was it some sort of joke?

  “Are you insane?” Richard said. “If you leave now, I will ensure that neither you nor any of the other servants ever work again.”

  The footman nodded.

  “I am sure you would if you could, sir. But we have all found employment elsewhere, this very day. Good day to you, Captain Cunningham.”

  The footman walked out of the door, closing it gently behind him, leaving Richard standing in the hall, alone.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Loch Lomond, October 1746

  It was a dry day, the first one for over a week, and possibly one of the last there would be for some time. Although it was sunny, the air was crisp and there had been a heavy frost that morning. It would not be long now before the snow came. Because the weather was dry a small fire burned outside the well-hidden cave entrance in the mountainside. Over it was suspended an iron pot from which came the appetising smell of rabbit stew.

  Around the fire ten men were sitting on a variety of stones placed there for that purpose. All but one were wearing the great kilt or feileadh mhor, in various muted shades of brown, green and purple tartan, in direct flagrance of the Dress Act passed by Lord Chancellor Hardwicke some two months previously, which banned the wearing not only of the kilt, but of any tartan material at all. Although if any of them were to be caught, the wearing of the kilt would be the least of their transgressions against His Majesty King George’s government.

  At present the formidable group of muscular, heavily-armed warriors were in fact in the process of planning their latest illegal activity, and to this end one of them was drawing a map on the ground with a stick while the others looked on, engrossed.

  “So I was thinking,” commented the cartographer, indicating a wavy line which represented the river, “that if we cross here in the dead of night we’ll cat
ch them by surprise, because they dinna think that anyone can ford the river except by the bridge, so they’re no’ guarding it.”

  “Can we ford it?” the sole observer of the Dress Act, if of no other law, asked.

  “Aye, it’s nobbut a wee stream, no more than three feet deep,” Angus replied.

  “In the summer. It’s October now,” Alex pointed out.

  “Maybe four feet, then,” Angus amended. “A bath’ll wash the dust of marching off, and prepare us for the fun.”

  “And on the way back a bath’ll wash the blood off, and prepare us for the stroll home,” Kenneth added, to cheers.

  Graeme looked doubtfully at the wavy line. In the last months he’d battled his way up and down many a ‘wee hummock’ and had been nearly drowned in the raging torrent of several ‘wee streams’.

  “I’ll carry ye, laddie, if ye’re feart to get your fine troosers wet,” Kenneth offered, casting an eye over Graeme’s tattered breeches and torn hose. Everyone laughed.

  “Piss off,” Graeme said good-naturedly. “So, when we’ve waded across the ‘wee stream’, how many redcoats will we be facing?”

  “I counted twenty,” Angus said. “They post two sentries, here and here,” he indicated two spots on the map. “If we take them out quietly, the rest of them will still be asleep. They’ll be supping in hell before they ken we’re there.” He sat back, and everyone looked to Alex to make the decision. He continued to look at the map as he worked out the logistics of the proposed attack.

  There was a short silence, during which Allan stirred the stew and added a few sticks to the fire.

  “Aye,” Alex said at length. “It sounds feasible, providing we can cross the river. Let’s get there first. If it’s four feet like ye say, we can wade across in the night and attack directly. If the water’s higher than we’re expecting, we can always cross a wee bit further up, and take a rest to get our breath back first.”

  Eight men cheered and one groaned.

  “If I drown, I’m going to come back and haunt you for eternity,” Graeme threatened Angus, who laughed before looking over the older man’s shoulder to the brow of the hill, over which a young woman had appeared and was making her way towards them. Angus waved her over and patted the stone next to him.