The Judge (Highland Heroes Book 3)

by Maeve Greyson

  Neither he nor his brother spoke, just covered ground and watched for signs of anyone else in the area. He rubbed a hand along his still tender jaw and cheek. Baldie and Beardie had burned away his beard and blistered his flesh in the process. The scarring didn’t appear severe, thanks to Ellie’s stinking salve, but the healing itched like a fiend, and he doubted he’d ever be able to grow a beard again.

  A flash of movement to the left made him draw his pistol.

  “Naught but sheep,” Ian called out. He motioned down the hillside with the barrel of his pistol. “More of the herd and the dog are just over there. See them?”

  A bright glinting in the distance caught Alasdair’s attention as he watched the dog working the herd. It was the sun’s rays bouncing across waters farther to the east. Loch Lochy. The journey had passed quicker than Alasdair expected. It had taken half a day, but with the longer light of the summer days, they still had a few hours of daylight left before the sun sank below the horizon. Good. The old woman they sought might be more comfortable speaking to strange men at her door if she could see their faces.

  “Catriona told me Crestshire placed the croft but a short distance from the westernmost tip of the loch.” Ian pointed to the left. “The waters spill into the rivers there.” He drew an invisible line to the right. “I say we head that direction. What say ye?”

  “Aye.” Alasdair fought against the urge to spur his horse into a full gallop. It would be unwise. Might scare the poor woman and make her withhold valuable information.

  “Just there. See it?” Ian pointed toward a tiny, thatch-roofed dwelling with an even smaller building, a stable perhaps, to the back of it. Both squatted on a small rise of land overlooking the loch. A donkey meandered about in a small fenced-in area. A pair of goats, a sheep, and three chickens wandered around the perimeter of the whitewashed house.

  Alasdair slowed his horse, and Ian did the same. Within a stone’s throw of the cottage, they both dismounted and walked their horses the rest of the way.

  “Ye can stop right there, the both of ye, and state yer business,” called out a voice from the center window of the place. The barrel of a rifle peeped out from between a crack in the closed shutters.

  Alasdair kept his hands where the woman could see them and assumed as non-threatening stance. “Be ye the woman who assisted a wounded man and an old woman?” he bit back the words and a beautiful lass. While he champed at the bit to hear all the woman could tell him about Isobel, he had to win her trust first.

  “If I am?”

  He chanced a glance in Ian’s direction, then returned his focus to the tip of the gun barrel aimed at them. “We be cousins to the man ye saved and close friends to the old woman. We come to thank ye and pay our respects. It’s our understanding our dear friend died.”

  “Yer names?” The tip of the gun barrel didn’t waver. The old woman was relentless and unyielding.

  “Alasdair Cameron, and this is my brother, Ian.”

  The gun slid out of sight, disappearing into the shutters. A thumping behind the door told him the bar across the threshold had been lifted and set aside. With a groaning squeak, the door opened with a slow, cautious swing.

  “Ye be him?” asked the raggedy old woman standing in the doorway. “Ye be her man?” Her eyes narrowed as she studied him. “Come inside. Ye’re looking a mite peely-wally ’cept for that burn on yer face. Be ye injured elsewhere?”

  “My heart,” Alasdair managed to rasp out as he hitched his way forward. He found himself suddenly weak, drained with the relief that mayhap he’d finally learn of his dear love’s whereabouts. “Tell me, I beg ye, tell me she lives.”

  The kindly old crone reassured him with a smile and waved him forward. “Aye, she lives,” she said soft and low as she stole a glance around. “Come inside. Morley will see to yer horses.”

  A young lad, a scythe clutched in his hands, stepped out from around the corner of the house.

  “It’s all right, Morley,” the woman said. “Take their horses in the shed and get them some feed and water, aye?”

  The boy gave an obedient nod, leaned the blade’s long wooden handle against the wall, and hurried to gather the horses.

  “Come.” She stepped aside and held out a hand.

  Alasdair ducked to enter the home, and Ian followed.

  “I be Euna Ranald.” She shuffled around them and pointed to the only two chairs in the room. “Sit. The both of ye.”

  “Where is she? Where is my Isobel?” He couldn’t bear waiting any longer.

  “Isobel,” Euna repeated with a thoughtful smile. “Aye. That name suits her better.” She plunked two wooden cups on the table in front of them and hurried over to the cupboard beside the hearth and fetched a bottle. As she filled each of the cups, she nodded. “She told us her name was Ailsa MacNaughton in order to protect her son.” She motioned toward the cups. “Drink. It’s not the whisky ye look like ye need, but it’s nay so bad. Brewed it m’self.”

  Ian scooped up the cup, took a hearty swig, then thumped his chest and wheezed out a coughing fit. Face red and forehead peppered with sweat, he slid the cup back to the table with a shake of his head.

  “It’s not all that bad,” Euna scolded, then turned to Alasdair. “Wee sips, aye?”

  “After ye tell me about my Isobel.” He leaned forward, his fist resting on the table beside the cup.

  The woman’s smile turned sour, and she blew out a heavy sigh. “She went to get her son back from those men that stole him away.”

  “By herself?” He launched to his feet, willing the woman to eat her words, and tell him the truth.

  Euna backed up a step, hands held high as though to fend him off. “I told her it was ill-advised, but she wouldna listen. Especially, after the soldiers came here searching for her and the boy, and one of them recognized yer kin.”

  “Lord Almighty,” Ian said. “Would she truly do such a foolhardy thing?”

  “Aye. She would,” Alasdair said. He sank back into the chair and dropped his head into his hands. The thought of her out there all alone—defenseless, vulnerable, helpless—the thought crazed him. He lifted his head and looked Euna in the eyes. “Do ye know which direction she went? Did she say where she believed the men would take the boy?”

  Euna puckered her mouth and drew her brows together. Tapping a finger against her chin, she paced around the small room. “South for certain, but she named a place, as well.” She scowled harder, eyes narrowing. “What did she say?” she muttered to herself.

  Alasdair chanced a drink of Euna’s deadly brew. The fiery liquid hit his tongue and burned a trail clear to his gut. He breathed in a hot breath and blew it out. He’d had worse but damnation. Strengthened by the cup of dragon’s blood, he glared at the pacing crone. “Think, woman! Isobel’s life depends on my finding her.”

  Euna shot him a fierce look and waved his words away just as Morley entered the room.

  “Morley!” She whirled about. “The place Ailsa named. The place where her son might be?”

  The boy made a hissing sound along with some odd motions with his fingers and hands.

  “That’s it!” Triumphant finger in the air, Euna faced Alasdair. “Hestlemoor. She said that was where that bastard would lock up her son. It was where he held her prisoner all those years.”

  England. Alasdair’s heart fell, but his anger and determination strengthened. He didn’t know England as well as he knew Scotland, but he had heard of Hestlemoor. It was the wicked duke’s summer home that sat on the shores to the west of the Lake District. Rumors abounded about the place and all that went on there.

  He turned to Ian. “Four days’ ride. Maybe three if we push hard.”

  “Then push hard, we will,” Ian said as he rose to his feet.

  Morley tapped Euna’s shoulder, made several more curious gyrations with his hands, then hurried to a cot in the corner. The boy pulled back the blanket and gathered something to his chest. Face solemn and eyes filled with sorrow, he
came to Alasdair and held out a thick braid of hair.

  “It’s hers,” Euna explained. “She bade me cut her hair, and then she dressed as a man.” With a reassuring squeeze of her grandson’s shoulder, she nodded toward the hank of hair the lad held between his hands. “He thinks ye should have it since ye be the man of her heart.”

  Alasdair accepted the silky tress. He stared down at its glossy blackness. She had cut her hair and dressed as man. How could she hope to succeed at such a thing? Jaw tightening, he tucked the braid inside his shirt, close to his heart. “I have to find her before she gets herself killed.”

  Chapter Twenty

  “I say, Ferguson,” Lieutenant Pewterton said. “I do believe you are the finest tracker I have ever known. We could use a man like you in His Majesty’s army. Have you ever considered it?”

  Isobel bit back a scathing retort. Instead, she nudged an elbow hard into Pewterton’s side, then placed a finger across her lips.

  The lieutenant’s eyes rounded, and he gave a quick, apologetic nod.

  She shook her head and glanced to her right, Atchison and Fields both shrugged. The four of them lay on their bellies atop the rocky crag overlooking the camp of the three men who held Connor captive. The remainder of Pewterton’s squad waited behind them, at the base of the rugged cliff.

  Her heart twisted, and she nearly sobbed aloud at the sight of dear sweet Connor huddled in the firelight. So forlorn. So lost. Her poor wee lad cowered at the base of a tree, his knees drawn to his chest, and his arms clutched around them. He looked so pale.

  She motioned for them to slide back from the ledge. She had a plan, but she would need the soldiers’ cooperation. Partway down the rocky hillside, she held up a hand and stopped them. Waving them in close, she spoke in a low, gruff whisper, “If we charge’m, they might hurt the boy to save themselves. I wouldna put anything past ruffians such as them.” She watched the trio of Englishmen, letting her words sink in and doing her best to seem more like a bounty hunter than an anxious mother about to reclaim her child. “If the boy gets hurt, there’ll be no gold for me, and ye’re sure to get a reprimand for failing in yer orders.”

  Atchison and Fields both gave slow nods of agreement. The lieutenant scowled back at her, pursing his lips.

  “What do you suggest?” Atchison asked.

  “Three men. Three shots. Clean and simple.” She glanced back up the hillside. “They’re within range from up there. Pick’m off like fine fat birds on a limb, aye? Then hie down to their camp and gather up the lad.”

  “You mean to kill them?” Pewterton stared at her in horror. “Without proper trial or even hearing a word of their defense?”

  “Ye saw the boy. His condition.” She clenched her fists to keep from clubbing him with the butt of her pistol to knock some sense into his thick skull. Over the past few days, she had gotten to know the British soldiers. Several were not so bad. She might even say she liked Pewterton, Atchison, and Fields. But if Pewterton didn’t pull his head out of his arse, she’d quickly change her opinion. “Ye doubt their abuse of the lad? Open yer eyes, man. Ye saw how he looked.”

  The lieutenant stared downward, pulling at his chin as he appeared to ponder her words and war with his conscience. He shook his head, fixing her with a troubled look. “I am not comfortable acting as both judge and executioner. We should merely capture them and ensure they go to trial. Let the court decide their fates.”

  They were but a day’s ride from Hestlemoor. In fact, they stood on Hestlemoor land right now. She recognized the landscape. One way or another, she had to recover Connor tonight. Once behind Hestlemoor’s iron gates, getting him back might prove impossible. And the kidnappers had to die—quickly. If any lived, they might make out who she was and give away her identity.

  It would be difficult enough keeping Connor from recognizing her. A son would know his mother. As much as she hated the thought of it, the only way she could keep her identity safe was by keeping her distance once they rescued him until it came time to spirit him away.

  But now, she had to play on Pewterton’s weaknesses to get the indecisive fool to act. “I canna believe ye would choose to defend those heartless curs over that poor innocent lad’s welfare. Ye willna condemn them to die, but ye’ll risk a wee bairn’s life? God forgive ye. God forgive ye for denying the lad the rescue he needs.”

  “God does pay particular attention to the innocents, does he not?” the lieutenant said as though in a daze. He glanced back up the mountain, frowning at the ledge. “He watches over them?”

  “Aye,” Isobel affirmed, allowing her argument to take root and grow in the troubled man’s mind. She struggled to remain calm. It was all she could do to control the raging desire to dash into the camp and snatch Connor up by herself. They needed to get on with it while the current situation remained in their favor. “What say ye, man?”

  “Count me in,” Atchison said.

  “I, as well,” Fields chimed in, clutching his rifle in both hands. “Although I be a better cook than a marksman.”

  She patted the rifle hanging from her shoulder. The soldiers had been good enough to loan it to her since all she possessed were the two pistols that had once belonged to Morley’s father. “A blackguard for each of us, then.” She turned to Pewterton and nodded to the rifle slung across his back. “If any of us should miss, ye can finish the job we started, aye?”

  He pulled his rifle into both hands, stared down at it, then looked up and nodded.

  “I shall take the man in black.” She had promised herself to finish that particular rogue off. Tonight, vengeance belonged to her.

  “The scarred man will be my target,” Atchison volunteered.

  Fields let out a frustrated huff. “That means I get the skinny one.” He scowled at Isobel and Atchison both. “I told you my aim is poor, and yet you give me the thinnest target?”

  Atchison shook his head and rolled his eyes. “The scarred man is fatter. You take him. I’ll take the thin one.”

  “Might we just get on with it? I still have an ill-feeling about this whole affair, and my nerves can bear no more.” Pewterton swiped the back of one hand across his forehead. He looked ready to faint.

  Isobel nodded and led the way back to their perch on the ledge. Dearest Connor still crouched at the base of the tree, staring into the flames. Her target sat with his back to her, poking branches into the crackling fire. Both the scarred leader and the thin man with the cold, dead eyes stood opposite him but still well within range.

  “On my word,” she whispered. All of them readied their rifles and took aim. She leveled her sights on the center of the man’s back, right between his shoulder blades. She eased in a deep breath, then blew it out. “Now.” She squeezed the trigger.

  Three shots exploded, followed by a fourth shot moments later. Connor scrambled to his feet and darted behind the tree. His pitiful wails echoed through the night. “Mama! Mama!”

  Isobel swallowed hard and forced herself not to react. Instead, she stood, slung the rifle to her shoulder, and brushed off her hands. “Well done, lads.”

  “I shall run and get the poor child,” Lieutenant Pewterton announced, then scurried down the rocky slope and around the base of the cliff to the dead men’s camp.

  She watched from the ledge as he bent down and talked to Connor for a long while, then lifted the boy into his arms and carried him back to where the troops waited. Struggling to calm her pounding heart, she pulled in deep breaths. Connor was safe, and their final escape was at last within reach. Hovering at a safe distance, she basked in the view of her beloved son. The soldiers stood a few feet away around Connor, chatting with the lad, and attempting to put him at ease.

  “My time will come,” she whispered. As soon as her new English friends drifted off to sleep, she and Connor would steal away and not stop until they reached the sanctuary of Tor Ruadh.

  “Ferguson!” Pewterton called out as he waved. “Come down, man. Lord Temsworth wishes to meet the man r
esponsible for his rescue.”

  “I must be strong.” She hitched her thumb up under the strap of her rifle and trod down the hillside. When she reached the base of the hill, she stood a few feet away, kept her head bowed, and touched the brim of her hat. “Lord Temsworth.” A knot tightened in her throat as Connor peered up at her. Eyes narrowing, he studied her entirely too long for comfort. Thank the saints for the cover of the night.

  “Think ye can find my mama like ye found me?” Connor finally asked.

  She ached to sob out her love for him. Her knees shook with the need to fall to the ground, but she managed to hold firm. “Where did ye last see her, m’lord?” she asked.

  “Back in Scotland. By the water where those men grabbed me up and stole me away.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” she promised, all the while keeping her head ducked and her face in the shadows. She prayed for clouds to cover the sky and block what little light there was coming from the waning moon and the stars winking around it.

  “We shall make camp at once,” Pewterton announced with a pleased-with-himself smile. He bent and brought his face close to Connor’s. “Fields shall cook you a fine meal, my lord, and then you may sleep to be well-rested when we return you to your father tomorrow.”

  Connor backed up a step, a horrified look on his face. “Nay! Ye canna take me back to him. Father’s a terrible, mean man. A cruel, heartless bastard! Auntie Yeva said so, and I say it, too.”

  Isobel bit the inside of her cheek to keep from cheering.

  Lieutenant Pewterton’s jaw dropped. He slowly straightened and stared down at the lad. “Oh, dear.” He bent, returning to Connor’s level. “Lord Temsworth, how could you say such a thing? Did those miscreants torture you? Who is this Auntie Yeva? Who filled your head with such slander about your father?”