Miss Leslie's Secret

by Jennifer Moore

  Dores reentered, followed by Catriona.

  Conall rose, still unable to comprehend what was happening.

  Catriona turned Aileen’s head to allow light from the open door to shine on her wound. She picked up the rag Conall had dropped. “There ye go, dearie,” she said, putting the rag back in place. “’Tisn’t deep. Head wounds jes tend to bleed more than they should.”

  Aileen pulled her knees to her chest. She sobbed as she reached out a hand toward him. “Conall?”

  Conall backed away, unable to produce words from the jumble in his mind. He stepped outside to where the villagers awaited. Whispers and questions sounded around him, but he couldn’t focus on any.

  The piper stood by, mouthpiece between his teeth, anticipating Conall’s signal.

  Conall pushed the blowpipe down. “Nay, there’ll be no weddin’ today.”

  He started away, but Mrs. Campbell pulled on his arm, stopping him. “Sergeant, ye must tarry.”

  “Did ye know?” he asked. He could see from the guilt in her expression that she did. Pulling away his arm, he continued toward his house.

  “Ye don’t understand.” She hurried beside him, nearly running to keep pace. “Balfour MacTavish is wicked. Aileen hid Jamie away to protect the lad.”

  Conall held up a hand to stop her. “Aileen lied.” He increased his pace, storming up the lane to his house. He closed the door behind him; the ice forming around his heart helped to dull the pain. He thought rum would do a suitable job as well. The last thing he wanted was to feel—anything.

  He didn’t think he’d ever felt so betrayed, and it hurt. He made his way to the library, lifting the decanter from the side table. He picked up a glass but set it back down, taking a drink straight from the crystal bottle and carrying it up the stairs.

  He entered the master’s chambers, and the pain hit him full force. Mrs. Ross and Brighid had spent the morning preparing the room for his wedding night. A vase of flowers sat on the dressing table, and fresh bedding was pulled tight over the mattress between new fluffy pillows. He pushed the pain away, focusing instead on anger—’twas a much easier emotion to endure—and on the drink in his hand. He took a deep drink and looked away from the room, turning toward the closet. He’d come to this blasted place with only a few things, and that was all he intended to take with him. He pulled out the military pack that held his uniform, musket, and a few items he’d picked up in his travels. Then he opened another pack, stuffing in the clothing he’d purchased in London.

  He tipped his head back for another drink from the decanter, frustrated when it came up empty.

  “Sergeant Stewart?” Mrs. Ross entered the room. “What am I to do? We’ve all this food, and—”

  He slammed down the decanter on the dressing table. “Have the feast. Celebrate all ye like. ’Tis of no concern to me henceforth what anyone in this blasted village does.”

  He hefted the two packs, pushing past her into the upstairs passageway.

  “Sergeant, where are ye going?”

  “Canada.” He marched down the stairs and out of the house, planning never again to return.

  ***

  That evening—or perhaps ’twas the next day, he didna know or care—Conall sat on a tavern stool in a roadside inn, leaning over a dirty glass. He also didna care about the number of times the balding bar man had filled the drink. He’d lost count hours ago, and yet his heart continued to ache.

  This morning, he’d had a family, but now he had nothing. Nobody. Aileen lied to him. Jamie was gone. The thoughts scrolled through his mind, repeating again and again, no matter how he tried to drink them away.

  He twirled the ring on the bar, a simple bit of jewelry, but he’d imagined Aileen would love it. He’d seen it when he traveled to Fort William for the wedding gown, and—

  He grunted and held the empty glass toward the man behind the bar.

  The stool beside him scraped over the wooden floor and groaned as someone sat. “Don’t ye think ye’ve had enough?” Conall recognized Davy MacKay’s voice but didn’t turn.

  He slipped the ring back into his pocket. “No’ as long as I’m still conscious.” He reached for the newly filled glass but misjudged the distance and knocked it over.

  “Yer guttered.”

  “Not yet,” Conall said. “But wi’ any luck, I’m well on my way.” He nodded a thanks to the man who wiped up the spilled drink. “How did ye find me, Davy?”

  Davy sipped on a glass of his own. “Well, ’twasn’t difficult. There’s only one road out o’ Dunaid, and I figured ye’d stop in the first tavern ye came to.”

  “Why are ye here?”

  “I missed Nellie.”

  Conall snorted at his friend’s joke and accepted a freshly filled glass from the bar man.

  “What happened?” Davy asked.

  “Ye’ve not heard?” Conall was surprised. If there was one thing a village the size of Dunaid was good at, ’twas gossipin’.

  “Nay. By the time I left, Aileen and Dores hadna come oot o’ the cottage.”

  Hearing her name sent a fresh shard through Conall’s heart. He took a deep drink.

  “Catriona tol’ me somethin’ about Jamie bein’ taken away,” Davy said.

  Conall set down the glass, wiping a thumb over his wet lip. “She convinced me she was a widow, then on our weddin’ day, who should show up but her husband to take away his son. Their son.”

  “Her husband?” Davy twisted on the stool to face Conall. “But I thought . . . I’ve known the woman eight years now. Aileen Leslie’s a widow.”

  “Aye, tha’s what she claimed.”

  “Why would she lie aboot a husband?”

  Conall shrugged. “That’s the question, isna it?” He gulped another drink and slid his glass forward to be refilled. “I’ve thought aboot it all day and reached two possible scenarios. Either she’s married and attempted to trap me into an illegal union, or she’s not, in which case, she hoped to hide the boy’s origin by legitimizin’ his parentage. Usin’ my good name to protect her sullied one.” His stomach twisted at the harshness of his words. He thought of Aileen as a young lass, not yet out of her teenage years, tryin’ to raise an infant on her own. The shame and fear she must have felt. But with an effort, he shoved away the sympathy. Aileen had played him for a fool. “Either way, I was deceived.”

  “Do ye blame her for keepin’ such a thing a secret?” Davy said. His voice was soft, the compassion Conall refused to feel apparent in his friend’s tone. “With her son’s reputation hangin’ in the balance?”

  Conall planted an elbow on the bar and rested his forehead in his palm. His mind and heart were in chaos. “I could ha’ forgiven her anythin’, Davy. Blast, but I love the woman.” He slapped down his hand, feelin’ the alcohol loosening his tongue. He fought to keep his emotions under control. The last thing he wanted to do was to start weepin’ in a roadside tavern. He swallowed down the hurt that came from a deep shame that she’d not trusted in him enough to confide the truth. His shame grew, but he stifled it. She was in the wrong, not he. “I canna forget tha’ she lied to me.” He motioned the bar man toward them. “If ’twasn’t for Balfour MacTavish, I’d be wedded right now, blissfully unaware o’ her deception.”

  “Balfour MacTavish?”

  Both Conall and Davy looked up at the bar man when he spoke.

  “Do ye know him?” Davy asked.

  The man filled their glasses and set them onto the bar. “Nay, not personally. But he was in here earlier today with a man called Famhair on his way to Fort William. Best to be stayin’ away from that one if ye know what’s best for ye.” He bent closer, glancing to both sides to ensure they weren’t overheard. “Works for Sim MacRob.”

  Conall’s gut clenched. During his time in the marines, he’d heard the name spoken in whispers by convict felons destined for Sydney and soldiers whose petty crimes had been forgiven on condition of military service. Sim MacRob was a notorious criminal with rumored connections to vari
ous smuggling ventures. Tales of his involvement with human trafficking were rampant, though he somehow managed to evade capture by allowing lesser men in his organization to take the blame for his crimes.

  Apprehension made Conall’s mind alert. “Did they have a child with them?” he asked the man.

  “Aye, a wee lad with gleamin’ shoes. Red hair.”

  Conall jumped to his feet, fumbling in his jacket pocket for his billfold. “Davy, I have to go.”

  Davy rose as well. “I’ll come wi’ ye.”

  Conall set a pile of bills on the bar and started toward the stairs to fetch his bags from an above room. As he’d learned to do during a battle, he was able to hone confusion into a sharp focus. All he’d needed was a mission, and now he had it.

  “I’ll be ready in a moment,” Davy called behind him. “I’ll need to send a letter to my wife.”

  The ache Davy’s words produced surprised Conall. His wife—Conall had thought to have a wife by now. But ’twas easier to push it aside now that he had an objective. He concentrated on the objective, letting distractions fall away. He needed to find Jamie before Sim MacRob got a hold of the lad.

  Chapter 19

  “Ye can’t stay inside forever, dearie.” Dores opened the cottage door, letting in a breeze and a shaft of sunshine.

  Aileen held up a hand to shield her eyes. She turned over on the sleeping pallet to face the wall, not caring if she never got up again. She could stay inside forever. The two people she loved were gone, and ’twas all her fault for keepin’ a secret so large that it couldn’t help but grow too big to be contained.

  Jamie was gone—who knew where—and she’d no way of finding him again. Was he even now crying for her? Hurting? She heard his screams in her head and squeezed her eyes shut, but no more tears came. She felt hollowed out, empty except for the pain. The aching filled her, growing and stretching until her skin hurt as well.

  And Conall. She couldn’t erase the memory of his face when he’d realized her lie. Betrayal, anger . . . If only she’d a chance to explain. Surely he’d understand and remain with her. But she hadn’t. And he hadn’t. He’d left thinking her a liar, and in truth, she was.

  The pain inside increased, becoming so strong it hurt every inch of her, and she felt that she might shatter. ’Twas worse than anything she’d felt before. Worse than when her da had gone away. Worse than when she’d been forced from her home and watched it burn. Those times, she’d hurt. She’d mourned but continued on. Now she felt broken. She hadn’t the will to go about tending bees, smilin’ at her neighbors, and milking the goat as if everything was fine.

  Because ’twasn’t. In just a few moments, her world had changed. Everything she’d loved—her hopes for the future, her heart—gone.

  “Mo croí,” she whispered, touching the space beside her where Jamie had slept. She thought of how he’d wake with one side of his curls flattened down and a grin on his freckled face. How he’d cuddle against her on cold nights, his freezin’ wee feet pressing against her legs for warmth as she told stories and sang him to sleep. The memories that had once brought such joy now hurt, and she curled tighter, pressing on her stomach, trying to contain the pain.

  She heard voices that she dimly registered as belonging to Catriona and Dores, but she didna have the energy to care what they were sayin’.

  Footsteps approached.

  “Aileen, come, lass.” Dores spoke with her typical tone, one that brooked no nonsense, but ’twas softened a bit. “Ye must stop yer wallowin’. Sit up now.” The auld woman pulled on Aileen’s arm, tugging her into a sitting position.

  Aileen complied, not having the will to fight against it.

  “Listen now,” Dores said. “We’ve somethin’ to tell ye.”

  “First things first.” Catriona squatted down, inspecting the cut on Aileen’s temple. She sat back, a pleased expression on her face. “Och, ’tis much better. I’d wager ye’ll nay even have a scar.” She gave a nod to Dores, giving her permission to continue with what she’d planned to say.

  Aileen leaned to the side, intending to lie back on the pallet.

  “Catriona’s had word from Davy. He’s with yer sergeant.”

  Tears that she’d thought were long dried up welled in Aileen’s eyes. “He’s nay my sergeant.” She laid her head down, and the tears overflowed, dripping over her nose and into her hair.

  But Dores yanked on her arm, pulling her back up. “Aileen, ye must listen. Jamie is in danger.”

  Aileen opened her eyes. That got her attention. “Tell me.”

  Catriona pulled a folded paper from her apron pocket. She spread the paper out on her knees.

  All Aileen saw were lines and squiggles, which she supposed, formed a message. She looked at her friend, waiting for her to decipher it.

  “Davy and the sergeant are off to Fort William.” Catriona ran her finger along the markings as she spoke. “He said somethin’ they heard in the Glenfinnan inn led them to believe the lad might be in danger. His father”—she winced and glanced at Aileen apologetically—“they believe he’s travelin’ wi’ a dangerous man, Famhair.”

  Famhair was the name of the giant man that grabbed Jamie. Aileen looked at Dores. “We must go after him.” She started to rise.

  Catriona laid a hand on her arm. “Davy and the sergeant will find Jamie,” she said. “Ye’ve seen what kind of man this Famhair is.” Her eyes darted to the cut on Aileen’s temple. “’Twould be best if ye remained here, out o’ harm’s way.”

  Aileen patted her friend’s hand then stood. “He’s my son,” she said simply.

  Dores left the cottage abruptly, but Aileen didna have time to worry aboot the woman. She tugged at the silk dress she still wore, reaching over her shoulders to unfasten the buttons.

  “Fort William is two days’ journey,” Catriona argued, stepping behind her and taking over the button unfastening. A moment later, they lifted the dress over Aileen’s head. Aileen felt a pang of regret, lookin’ at the beautiful gown, now quite ruined from her bleeding and weepin’. But she’d no time for such worries. Her son needed her.

  Based on the blast of sunlight that had filled the cottage when Dores had opened the door a moment earlier, Aileen figured ’twas still mornin’. “If I hurry, I can catch the mail coach.” She prayed it had arrived on schedule—Wednesday morning—and that it’d not left early. She didn’t know if the driver would bother to wait around. ’Twas a rare thing for the coach to take a passenger from as far away as Dunaid, and ’twasn’t a rare thing for the coach not to arrive at all. Sometimes it was days or even a week late.

  She pulled on her homespun dress and shook the crushed flowers from her hair, pulling it back into its standard twist, then tied a bonnet beneath her chin.

  On the top of her kitchen cabinet, Aileen had kept a box of ready money for emergencies. She hoped ’twould be enough. Dragging over the chair, she climbed up and took down the box, opening the lid. As she looked inside, she felt a twinge of disappointment that the sum was so small. She’d no other choice; ’twould have to do.

  “Ye’ll care for the goat, won’t ye, Catriona?” Aileen filled her coin purse, folded her mother’s plaid over her arm, and started for the door.

  “Aye.”

  The door opened, and there Dores stood wearing a coat and carrying a purse o’ her own. “Yer nay going alone, Aileen.” She lifted her chin as if expecting an argument. She narrowed her eyes. “I’d no’ mind another go a’ those scoundrels.”

  The sight of her friend standing there, willing to accompany her into possible danger filled Aileen’s aching heart with the deepest gratitude.

  She kissed the older woman’s cheek then linked her arm with Dores’s, pulling her toward the center of the village. “I canna imagine goin’ anywhere without ye.”

  Chapter 20

  Conall slouched in his seat. His ears strained as he listened to the men at the tables around him. He’d heard enough complainin’ in the past hours aboot torn fishing n
ets, nagging wives, and irritable warehouse overseers to last a lifetime. He glanced up, recognizing the look of concentration on Davy’s face as his friend listened at the tables on the other side of the tavern. Conall shifted, feeling restrained by the borrowed clothes he wore as a disguise. What he wouldn’t give for a good stretch. The jacket was tight across his shoulders. The holey trousers also fit poorly, and he itched to loosen the waist.

  He rubbed his eyes, lifting the mug of the tavern’s strong coffee. Three days had passed since the cancelled wedding, and in that time, he’d hardly slept. The journey from Glenfinan had taken all night and most of the following day, but he’d pushed himself and Davy, only stopping for short rests as they made their way to Fort William.

  Once they’d arrived, he’d spent every waking moment searching for Sim MacRob. He’d spoken to Mr. Douglas, the minister who’d sent him the letter about his parents, and an old military companion who lived on a farm a few miles out of town, but the men could tell him nothing that he didna already know.

  He finally had a stroke of luck when he inquired at the local garrison. The commander, a Colonel Fredrick Ravenwood, was a man he’d served with in Andalucía. The colonel had invited Conall into his office, delighted to see an old war companion and, over the course of their conversation, provided Conall with new information regarding Sim MacRob. None of it good.

  With the approaching emancipation of slaves in British territories and the growing division in America, the African slave trade was winding down, and slave owners were looking elsewhere for labor. MacRob supplied “indentured servitude”—not illegal if entered into on one’s own volition, but according to rumors, the man dealt in mostly women and children, abducting and selling the poor souls to crooked ship’s captains who smuggled the human cargo abroad.

  “And how is it that he’s not been apprehended?” Conall had asked Colonel Ravenwood.

  The man tugged on his graying mustache, leaning back in his chair. “He preys on orphans, prostitutes, and beggars, those who are invisible to the law, you see. People with no family, nobody to testify before a magistrate or bring a case against him. All we have are rumors, and that’s not enough to convict a man.”