“Praise God in heaven above.” Alasdair crushed her to his chest, raining kisses across her upturned face. “Thank God Almighty.”
“We need to move,” Ian interrupted, urgency ringing in his voice.
Ian was right. She forced herself free of Alasdair’s beloved embrace. “I was headed to the north wing. Connor’s rooms used to be there.” Squinting against the pelting rain, she motioned toward the farthest window on the second floor. Her heart ached. The window was dark. She always kept a candle lit for Connor. “That would be his window, but I dinna ken if they’re keeping him there or not.”
“They separated ye?” Alasdair asked as they pressed their backs against the rounded wall of the torture building.
“Aye.” She peered around the wall, glancing beyond it to the main building of the keep. All appeared quiet. “Temsworth no longer needs me, and he said he’d only allow Connor to live to his seventh birthday.” Cold hard rage filled her, fueling every ounce of resolve she needed to finish this battle. “I mean to kill the bastard.” She held out a hand. “Spare me yer knife, aye?”
“He’s here?”
“Aye. Arrived today. Now give me yer dirk.”
“Pewterton,” Ian said in a tone that gave her chills.
“Aye,” Alasdair agreed. “As soon he tells the lie to Hawkins, we’re discovered.”
“What lie?” Isobel asked. Ian and Alasdair weren’t making sense.
“There’s nay time to explain,” Alasdair said, then bounded out of the shadows toward the north wing. He waved for them to follow. “We must make haste and find Connor.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
The knowledge that at any moment the alarm would sound tempered his joy at reuniting with Isobel. Once the warning rang out, Connor’s recovery and their escape would become a greater challenge. Alasdair palmed a pistol in each hand as they crept along the wall. So far, all was quiet. He prayed they’d reach the lad before all hell broke loose. So much at risk, but so close. They couldn’t fail now.
“This way,” she whispered, pushing past him to take the lead. “There’s a side door Connor and I always used to reach the gardens.” She hefted his short sword in her right hand and his dirk in her left.
He hated the sight of her wading into the fray. But there was naught to be done about it. She stood the best chance of leading them to Connor, and they would not be leaving here without him. As they slipped in the side door, the alarm bell sounded, clanging long and loud through the stormy night. Determination pounded harder through his veins.
They hurried down a dimly lit passage, coming up short as doors slammed farther up the way. The clattering of boots against the stone floor thundered toward them. Wide hearths burned at each end of the wing, casting enough light that they risked being spotted. Isobel yanked hold of his arm and pointed in the opposite direction. “The garderobe. Back there. Hurry!”
The curtained-off alcove took them away from their destination, but there was no helping it. Alasdair stood in the center behind the curtain, pistols raised and ready in case any of Temsworth’s men had noticed them seeking a place to hide. He’d shoot them right between the eyes if any dared pull the curtain aside. Ian stood to his left, pistol in one hand, sword in the other. Isobel pressed against the wall to his right with his dagger raised.
An unknown number of guards stormed past. The curtains swayed with the wind the group stirred. He held his breath, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, tensed and ready. The area grew quiet.
He slid the barrel of his pistol between the heavy curtains and peered out, glancing first one way, then the other. The hall was empty. “Looks to be safe,” he said as he stepped out and took a better look around. Nerves on edge, he waved the others forward. “Best make haste. I fear they may try to take the lad somewhere more secure.”
“Up those stairs,” Isobel said, pointing her sword at a dimly lit archway at the far end of the hall. She took the lead at a dead run, charging up the narrow steps two at a time. Sconces fitted with hanging lanterns lit their way.
“Wait.” He grabbed hold of her and pulled her back as they reached the arched opening of the second floor. He held a finger to his lips and tilted his head toward the hallway, listening. It was time to take greater care. The duke knew he’d come for Isobel and her son. All was silent. He eased out into the corridor, keeping Isobel tucked behind him.
“The door at the end,” she whispered as gunfire popped somewhere off in the distance.
“Pewterton must be fighting back,” Ian observed as they rushed down the hallway to Connor’s room.
“Good,” Alasdair said as they reached the door. “God be with them.”
Isobel tried the latch, frowning when the door clicked and opened with no issue. “It’s not locked,” she said.
Heightened apprehension made him gently set her aside. He pulled her hand away from the latch. “I’ll be going first, m’love. I smell a trap.”
Thankfully, she didn’t argue. Gunfire sounded again. Closer this time.
Alasdair eased through the door, pausing to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkened room. He would’ve thought there’d be at least a candle burning since the place appeared to be a nursery. Perhaps they’d imprisoned Connor elsewhere or, as he feared, already moved the lad somewhere more secure.
“There,” Ian whispered, directing them to a faint light flickering under one of the three doors on the far wall.
“His room?” He looked at Isobel, the concern on her face stoking his readiness even more.
She shook her head and tapped her chest. “Mine,” she mouthed.
“Pray he’s there.” Alone, he silently added. He didn’t fear a fight but didn’t wish the child endangered. He motioned for them to stand to the right of the door as he eased it open.
“It appears the Tollbooth has grown lax,” Temsworth observed in a sneering drawl. “You look entirely too hardy for a man who should’ve been properly tortured and hanged by now.”
“Revenge does a lot to keep a man strong.” Alasdair stepped forward, assessing the room while keeping Connor in his sights. Five men, including Temsworth. One of the wretches held a hand across Connor’s mouth and a knife to the boy’s throat. The other three flanked the duke with short swords and cudgels at the ready.
“Ahh, I see you brought your pet,” The duke’s gaze shifted to Alasdair’s left. His mouth curled to one side as he pointed his cane at Isobel. “Since I’m feeling so magnanimous upon the return of my son, I am prepared to offer you a deal, Master Cameron. Leave now and take the bitch with you. I shall allow you and your men safe passage.”
Alasdair risked another step forward, coming up short as the man holding Connor tightened the knife against the wide-eyed lad’s throat. “Ye know that’s not acceptable,” he said with a tilting of his head toward the boy. “I willna leave without Connor. He is my son now.”
“Then it appears we have a dilemma.” Temsworth spared a glance at the lad. “Surrender your weapons, or the boy dies.”
“He willna kill him,” Isobel said as she moved to Alasdair’s side. “He needs him alive until he’s seven years old to get the rest of his inheritance.”
Temsworth’s mouth tightened, and his left eye twitched. He sidled over and positioned himself behind the man holding Connor. “Kill them,” he ordered. “All except her. I shall see to her demise personally.”
Alasdair aimed both pistols and fired. Neither went off, just popped as the hammers hit the caps. Damned wet powder.
The duke laughed, sounding like a hissing snake. “Oh, joy! Unexpected entertainment for the evening. Kill them now!”
“Here!” Isobel tossed him the short sword and switched his dirk to her right hand.
Three to three. Even odds. Somewhat. Isobel had always held her own with the lads when they were naught more than bairns. Hopefully, she’d nay forgotten the skills she’d learned as a wee lass. Alasdair knew the duke didn’t possess the courage nor the skill to fight, and the one
bastard could do nothing more than maintain his hold on Connor.
“Dinna let them near the door,” Alasdair shouted to Ian as he surged forward.
Steel to steel clashed. Blades slid together, then hilt locked with hilt. He roared as he shoved the brute back to the wall. Arms locked, he buried his blade up beneath the man’s ribcage and gutted him. He whipped his sword free and turned just as Isobel dropped and rolled hard against her approaching assailant’s shins, tripping the man. Alasdair smiled. She had used that tactic often when they were children. She turned and jumped on the rogue’s back, held fast, and slashed the long, lethal dagger across the man’s throat.
Ian took out the third man but received an ugly slash across his chest in the process.
Alasdair stalked forward, pointing his sword at the man holding Connor. “I’ve a choice for ye, man. Release the boy, and I’ll allow ye to see if ye can get past my brother.”
“Do it and die,” Temsworth growled, drawing his ornate small sword from his side and setting it against the man’s neck.
Connor chose that moment to go limp, then bounced back up and slammed the back of his head against his captor’s man parts.
The man choked out a pained grunt, struggling to maintain his hold. The duke slashed his throat, then lurched to grab hold of Connor’s collar.
Before Alasdair could charge forward, Isobel stormed past him, screaming like an angry wraith.
Shock, then fear, registered on Temsworth’s face, but it was quickly replaced by rage. He raised his sword to meet Isobel’s onslaught, whilst struggling to maintain his hold on his son’s shirt.
Connor twisted free, but rather than run, he snatched up Temsworth’s cane and cracked the gold ball of the handle hard across the man’s knees.
Thrown off balance, the duke staggered, twisting his weak leg. Isobel tackled him to the floor.
Alasdair waded in and wrenched the man’s sword away as Isobel drove her dagger up into the soft underside of his chin.
“To the hottest parts of hell with ye,” she screamed as she pulled the blade free and stabbed him again. “To hell!” she yelled, lifting the knife for another strike.
Alasdair caught hold of her wrist and pulled her away. “It’s over, love,” he assured as he held her until she stopped struggling. “Ye killed the bastard. He’ll never trouble ye again.”
“Mama!” Connor latched hold of them, wrapping his arms around them both.
Isobel’s hiccupping sobs changed to joyous laughter. “My dear son,” she hitched out as she wrapped an arm around him.
Connor lifted his tear-stained face to Alasdair. “Ye came for us. Ye came for both of us.”
“’Course I came for ye.” Alasdair patted the lad’s back whilst still holding one arm tight around Isobel. “I would never leave my wife and son to such a terrible fate.” He smiled down at him. “And I’m proud of ye for the way ye fought to protect yer mother.”
“I was brave, aye?” Connor hugged himself tighter against them, pressing his face to Isobel’s leg.
“That ye are, lad, that ye are.” Alasdair cast a look about the room, the realization of what they’d accomplished, and the ramifications, hitting him full force. They had killed a duke. Not a particularly well-liked man, but a powerful man just the same. And several of his men. France as sanctuary was now their only choice—for an indefinite period. He squeezed Isobel in another hug and kissed the top of her head. It mattered not. At least they were reunited. “Time to go. Quickly now, aye?”
Ian spoke Alasdair’s thoughts aloud. “Tor Ruadh first and then France, or straight to the port?”
“My gold is with Alexander for safekeeping. We’ll need it to settle in France.” Alasdair stepped back and touched a hand to Isobel’s roughly cropped hair. “But if we travel as three men and a boy, we should make it to Tor Ruadh with no trouble.” Ian’s bloody chest concerned him. “How bad?”
“Naught but a wee scratch.” His brother strode to the bed, ripped away a wide strip from the bedclothes, and shoved it into the front of his shirt to staunch the bleeding. He held his arms aloft and smiled. “Bandaged and ready for travel.”
Isobel looked around the room, a strange expression on her face. “This isna finished yet.”
Gunfire and shouts within the keep sounded closer.
Alasdair took hold of her hand, fearing the entire ordeal had pushed his dear one’s mind off-kilter. “Come, mo chridhe. We must make haste.”
“Nay.” She strode across the room, picked up the lantern burning brightly on the table, and tossed it to the center of the bed. “This place has been hell on earth. Time to purge it with fire.” As flames took slow hold across the linens and blankets, she yanked the bed curtains from the rods and shoved one end of them into the hearth. The glowing hot coals ignited the cloth, and fire licked its way across the folds. Smoke filled the air.
“That should do it, lass.” Alasdair took a firm hold of Isobel’s arm and pulled. “Come. We need to go. Now.” He understood her need for vengeance, but Temsworth’s guards would be upon them soon.
Connor pulled at her other hand. “Come, Mama.”
Her troubled brow smoothed, and she smiled. “Aye. Good enough, I reckon.” She pulled away from Alasdair and retrieved his dirk from the floor. The weapon in her right hand, Connor’s hand in her left, she nodded to Alasdair. “If we leave the way we came, we should miss everyone.”
Ian lifted a burning candle from the sconce beside the door, then opened it. He glanced about, then turned to Alasdair and smiled. “Canny woman ye have there, brother. Fire is a fine distraction, and we’ve plenty of sconces to leave the place in ashes.”
“Lead on, brother.” Alasdair left the door to the blazing bedroom open, so the fire could spread easier.
The hall was still empty of guards, and the gunfire and shouts had died away. At each of the sconces along the walls, Alasdair lifted Connor so the boy could remove the lit candle or tin of oil. The rooms in the wing were sparse, but each had enough furniture to fuel a healthy flame that would soon reach the wooden rafters and bring down the roof.
Alasdair glanced back as they headed down the stairs. Smoke rolled from all the rooms, hanging low in the damp air. Satisfaction filled him and hope for the future as well. France would nay be so bad. Especially with Isobel and Connor at his side.
“Soldiers!” she hissed as they reached the base of the stairs. “I saw the red of their uniforms when they passed in front of the hearth.” She stole a frantic glance in the other direction of the hall. Smoke already filled the tower housing the spiral stairs behind them. “Someone approaches from both sides. We’re trapped.”
Alasdair pushed around her. “Keep close behind me,” he ordered. “And Connor—hold tight to yer mother.”
Ian took his place at Alasdair’s side, nudging his shoulder against him. “Now what?” he asked, strain clear in his tone.
“We shall see,” Alasdair said as he swiped sweat and grime from his burning eyes. The smoke and heat had grown fierce, and the flames crackling on the floor above had set to roaring. It wouldn’t be long before everything caught, and the wing came down around their ears.
A redcoat stepped out from behind a column, shoving the tip of his musket in Alasdair’s face. The man’s eyes rounded, and a smile flickered across his grimy face. “Master Cameron!” He lowered his gun, and his smile grew as he peered from side to side and took in Ian, Isobel, and Connor.
Atchison. Alasdair exhaled and lowered his sword. “I never thought to be so relieved to come face to face with an Englishman.”
Isobel peeped around Alasdair’s arm. “I owe that man a good hard kick in the bollocks.”
Atchison’s gaze fell to his feet. “Please forgive me, Your Grace, and believe me when I say, I am truly glad to see you safe and leaving this place.” He lifted his head and fixed a startled glance at the staircase behind them. “The smoke is coming from the second floor.”
Alasdair scooped up Connor in one arm, looped
the other around Isobel, and pushed past Atchison. “Aye, the place is afire, and we intend to let it burn.”
“We’ve overcome the duke’s people.” Atchison rushed forward and waved for them to follow. As they trotted toward the part of the wing connected to the tall main building of the keep, he shook his head. “Strange lot. Many died defending the place. More devoted to the duke than any servants I’ve ever seen.”
“I want the entire place in ashes,” Isobel said as she pulled away. She took hold of an iron rod beside the hearth and raked the burning logs and roiling coals out onto the floor. She ran to a long bench, latched hold of the armrest, and strained to move it. It didn’t budge.
Alasdair blew out a frustrated growl. The place and the terrible memories it held had taken hold of his love and held her prisoner. He set Connor to his feet, strode to her side, and hefted the bench over to the fire. As she ran past him to fetch another chair, he snatched hold of her arm and brought his face close to hers. “Enough, Isobel. The devil bastard is dead, and his hell is on fire. We must go now, love. We’re still at risk.”
The glow of the fire flickered across her filthy, blood-spattered face, the demons she fought reflected in her dark eyes. “He really is dead?” she whispered, casting a fearful gaze back at the stairs.
“Aye, mo ghràdh.” Alasdair eased his fingers to her smudged jaw and barely touched her face. “I swear the bastard’s dead and already burning in the hottest part of hell.”
She launched herself against his chest and wrapped her arms around him. “Thank God Almighty,” she said. “And thank God for ye.”
As much as he wanted to hold her and never let her go, they had to get to safety. Alasdair turned her in the direction they needed to go. “Come, love. This place will soon be down around our ears.”
Her smile widened. “Aye. That it will, and glad I am of it.”
A loud rumbling followed by timbers splitting affirmed their words.
The lad in one arm, Alasdair took hold of Isobel’s hand, and they ran, following Atchison and Ian through the wide archway leading to the center building of the stronghold. Congregated in the entry hall at the foot of the double set of stairs, weapons held at the ready, stood Lieutenant Pewterton and several of his men.
The Judge (Highland Heroes Book 3) Page 27