by Amy Jarecki
“Thank you.” He hugged her once again. “Be careful not to venture outside where you can be seen. Only walk from the passageway to the cove with Albert. You’re familiar with that path, and any passing ships won’t be able to spot you.”
“I will.”
“That’s my lass.” He kissed her cheek one last time. “We’ll be sailing for Fort William before you know it.”
And then he was gone.
Emma stood for a moment while Albert paced by the door. The hollow, belowground cellar suddenly felt cold, silent, and lonely. What if something bad happened to Ciar? What if he didn’t return?
“Dear God, watch over him.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The sun’s rays shone through gaps in the cloudy western sky when Ciar ordered the galley’s sails furled at the confluence of the rivers Leven and Clyde. Ahead, Dunbarton Castle dominated, her fortress walls extending high up the promontory.
“Word is the soldiers take their respite at the Clipper Alehouse near the bend of the Leven,” said Livingstone, holding the tiller firm.
Ciar raised his spyglass. “Man the oars. We’ll cruise past.”
“You heard him, men!” bellowed the man-at-arms. “To your stations.”
Dunbarton was similar to many Scottish burghs, with a town square not far from the riverfront. Boats were moored on either side of the river, where they had easy access to the sea. “It will be easy to slip in without drawing notice.”
“Aye, and I hardly recognized you with a full beard. A man would have to look twice before he’d ken your face.”
“Crooked nose and all?” Ciar snorted. “Nonetheless, I’ll be calling into the tailor’s shop first.”
Tired and irritable from a night of hard sailing, they left the Dunollie men to watch the galley while they headed for the square.
Once he was outfitted in a pair of breeches, a buckskin coat, and a tricorn hat low on his brow, Ciar followed Livingstone into the Clipper. He ordered two pints and pushed one across the bar for his friend while panning his gaze across the alehouse patrons’ faces. There were only a dozen or so dragoons in the crowd. “He’s not here.”
“Want me to ask questions?” asked his man-at-arms.
Ciar inclined his head toward an empty table in the shadows, well away from the light of the window. “After we’ve settled in. Nothing draws attention faster than a man who’s too eager.”
He hadn’t missed the sideways glances when they’d arrived or the whispers now. Clearly, everyone was wondering who they were and if they’d cause a stir. He slid into the seat against the wall, where his back was protected. “Drink slow, my friend.”
A barmaid stopped by and bent over the table, until her wares nearly burst from her bodice. “Come in from fishing the Clyde, have you?”
“Something like that.”
She waggled her shoulders. “Would ye like some company?”
After spending so much time with Emma, this woman tempted him about as much as a hog. “Perhaps a bit of information.”
“What kind of information?”
“A friend of mine was just transferred to a regiment at Dunbarton—have you met anyone new as of late?”
“Possibly.” She held out her hand. “But it’ll cost ye a penny.”
Ciar nodded to Livingstone, who dropped a coin in her hand.
She slid it into the folds of her skirts. “What is your friend’s name?”
“Riley—was sent down from Fort William.”
The wench’s eyes flashed wide before she wiped a hand over her mouth and glanced away. “Riley? Aye, I’ve met him.”
“Does he come here often?” asked Livingstone.
“As often as the next soldier, I suppose.” She twirled her bodice laces around her finger. “Plays cards. Likes to tup as well.”
Ciar nudged Livingstone with his elbow and gave a nod. “The second penny is for your silence.”
She took the second coin and rubbed it between her fingers before it disappeared just like the first. “He don’t mean nothing to me, but you’re not planning to hurt him, are ye?”
“Nay, lassie. After all, he is an old friend.”
The woman tipped up her chin, her eyes narrowing. “What is your name?”
“Manfred.” Ciar stared the woman in the eye and drank. “If anyone asks, his old friend from Fort William, Manfred, has a wee bit o’ treasure for him.”
* * *
If Riley was out riding sorties, he wouldn’t find his way to the Clipper Alehouse until after dark—if he came at all.
At least it gave Ciar and his men time to set a trap. He had three of his crew take a table near the door. The other three stood at the bar while he and Livingstone ate a meal of lamb stew and bread at the same table where they’d met the barmaid.
She must have found a customer for the night because she was nowhere to be seen. At least that’s what Ciar thought until Riley walked through the bloody door.
As soon as he stepped inside, the vixen ran from the back. “These men are waiting for you!”
“Ballocks!” Ciar growled, pushing to his feet.
Riley’s jaw dropped with stunned recognition, and then pure terror flashed through his eyes.
As the weasel turned, the Dunollie men blocked the front door. Whipping around, the bastard pushed over a table and ran to the back. Ciar followed as he shoved chairs aside.
A dragoon caught his arm, yanking him to a halt. “Not so fast.”
Instinctively, Ciar gripped the man’s throat and stared him in the eye while Riley banged through the rear door. “This isn’t your fight.”
Gurgling, the soldier went limp. With a shove, Ciar released him and sped outside while the slap of footsteps followed. He stole a glance behind. Livingstone.
A dark shadow disappearing around the front of the building caught his eye, and he sprinted toward it, leaping over barrels and old crates.
Skidding, Ciar rounded the corner.
Ahead, Riley headed for the wynd across the road while shouts came from the alehouse. The wee street twisted toward the river, but there was no other way out but to double back.
“There he is!” yelled Livingstone, with MacDougall men in his wake.
“Cut him off around the bend. I’ll follow.” Ciar glanced back. “We cannot lose him!”
Trusting his men, he darted straight for the water. It was a risk, but dividing forces was the best chance to nab the scoundrel.
Sprinting along the river, Ciar sucked in deep breaths, ignoring the burn of his thighs. He slowed a tad, scanning the river’s edge, peering into building doorways, squinting to discern objects in the shadows. With a sudden burst, a barrow clattered to its side as Riley darted out of the wynd. Over his shoulder, the dragoon spotted Ciar and sharply swerved east.
Anticipating the change of direction, Ciar ran after him. He reached out, stretching as far as possible, his fingers almost skimming the sentinel’s coat while mud from Riley’s shoes splattered his face.
The brigand swung back with a fist. “You’ll hang!” he screamed, his voice high-pitched and breathless.
Ciar ducked and dove, wrapping his arms around Riley’s legs and tackling him to the road. “There will be a hanging, but it will not be mine.”
“Move your beastly arse off me!” Riley shrieked, kicking his feet, his fists thudding against Ciar’s back. “I am a soldier of the crown.”
Rising to his knees, Ciar threw a hook across the man’s jaw. “You are a murdering deceiver, and I aim to make you pay for the misery you’ve caused me and Tommy MacIntyre’s kin.”
But Riley didn’t hear a word. He dropped to the dirt, out cold from Ciar’s punch.
Wheezing, Livingstone came running. “Haste. Half the dragoons from the alehouse are headed this way.”
“Where are the men?” Ciar asked.
Livingstone crouched with his hands braced on his knees as one named Willy approached. “I ordered the rest of them back to the ship,” he panted. “T
hey’re preparing to set sail.”
Ciar stood and hefted Riley over his shoulder. “Keep an eye out. The last thing we need now is an escort to Dunbarton’s dungeon.”
Together they slipped through the shadows, listening for troops, ready for an attack. Just as Ciar thought they’d make it without a fight, a dragoon leaped from behind a fence, swinging his saber. Ciar tightened his grip on Riley and bobbed away from the hiss of the blade. With the lout’s recoil, he darted with the speed of a falcon, jabbing an elbow to his opponent’s nose, dropping the dragoon to his face.
“Must ye knock everyone unconscious?” asked Livingstone.
“Better them than me.” His muscles burning with fatigue, Ciar lumbered down the steps to the wharf. Riley had to weigh fifteen stone at least.
“Halt!” someone yelled from above.
“Faster,” Ciar growled, willing his legs to pump harder, grunting with the agony of the weight across his back.
Livingstone took the lead, signaling for the men to cast off.
Just as the galley drifted away from the pier, Ciar hoisted Riley from his shoulder. “A bit o’ help here!”
A musket fired as two men grabbed the redcoat and dragged him into the boat. Ciar covered his head as he leaped for the hull. Rolling to his back, he looked upward.
The sail hadn’t yet picked up wind. He hopped up and grabbed an open oar, pulling with all his strength. “Keep your heads down, and row as if the devil is blowing hellfire up your arse!”
* * *
Humming a Celtic ballad, Emma stirred the pottage Nettie had brought and tapped the wooden spoon on the edge of the kettle, the sound ringing throughout the chamber. “I think we’ll both like this, Albert.” After all, every morsel Nettie had delivered to the Gylen cellars had been exceedingly delicious compared to the bland fare they had been eating.
The dog moved beside her and growled—not exactly the response she expected.
“What is it?” she whispered, listening while the hairs on her nape stood on end.
The echo of muffled footsteps came from the passageway, but it wasn’t Ciar’s bold stride. This gait was slower and precise, as if each step was being placed with careful calculation.
Her stomach turned over. Dear God, please don’t let him be hurt.
She clasped the spoon in front of her chest. “Hello?”
No answer came, but a hushed whisper curled through the air.
Emma gasped, certain she’d heard someone say, “She’s in there.”
Barking, Albert bolted forward while Emma dropped to her knees and crawled under the table between the chairs, her heart beating so fast it thundered in her ears.
The door swung open to Albert’s vicious snarls. A riding crop hissed through the air, followed by a yelp.
“No!” Emma shouted, stretching her hand out for her dog.
Albert skittered beside her, shaking with fear while heeled shoes tapped the floor. “Well, well, we’ve found the rabbit but not the fox.”
As Emma recognized the man’s voice, ice shot through her veins.
A chair grazed the flagstone as Governor Wilcox pulled it away. “Hello, Miss Emma. We meet again.”
Either she was shaking as violently as Albert or the dog was trembling so badly he was quavering her. Nonetheless, she refused to stand and curtsy before the man. Not after all the pain he’d caused.
“Swallowed your tongue, did you?”
She said nothing.
“I’ll make it easy. I require only one tidbit of information. Where is Dunollie?”
“How did you find me?”
He chuckled. “It was just a matter of time. I have spies everywhere. Clever, though, it wasn’t until his men sailed into the hidden cove that I received a report.” He grabbed her elbow and dragged her from under the table. “Tell me where MacDougall is now, and I’ll forgive your crimes.”
She jerked her arm away. “He’s innocent, and you’ll never find him.”
“Everyone slips sooner or later.”
“Not Dunollie.”
“Hmm. What I cannot understand is why he would leave a blind woman stranded on an island alone.” Wilcox pulled her toward the hearth while Albert growled. “One who cooks, it seems.”
Emma clamped her lips together.
“My guess is wherever he went, he won’t be gone for long.”
“You’re wrong. He’s…he’s…” She wrapped her fingers around Albert’s collar and drew him to her side.
“He’s what?”
Wilcox emitted a hint of amusement in his tone, enough to make Emma gulp. What should she say? If she mentioned Dunbarton, the governor might send warships to intercept him.
She did her best to appear undaunted, though her heart raced so fast she could hardly think. “He will not return until he has proved to you that he had no part in Tommy MacIntyre’s murder.”
Albert pulled against her grip, barking and snarling. But Emma held tight; if she let him go, he might end up hurt.
The man’s chuckle was as ugly as it was cynical. “Why do I not believe you?” He grabbed her wrist, but the dog snarled and pushed between them. “Lock her in irons and shoot the mongrel.”
“No!” She dropped to her knees and threw her arms around Albert’s neck. “I’ll go with you willingly if you promise to leave him be.”
Wilcox snorted loudly. “You are in no position to make demands of any sort.”
“Please.” She ran a steady hand over Albert’s coat. “There’s no reason to harm him. He’s only trying to protect me.”
“You said you’d freely surrender?”
“Aye.”
“Tell the dog to stand down,” said Wilcox.
Emma sliced her palm in front of Albert’s face. “Stay.” Once he quietened and sat, she squared her shoulders and held out her wrists.
“Slap a pair of manacles on her. Leave the mangy hound.” Wilcox started for the door. “Dunollie will return, mark me. And when he does, we’ll trap him in his own sinister game.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Emma shivered with the cold, adding to the intensity of her trembles. Huddled in the bow of the boat, she had never been so terrified in her life. They hadn’t even given her a chance to don her cloak. And now Wilcox and his men were taking her back to Fort William in irons. The cold manacles around her wrists hung heavily, the chain between them resting on the floor at her feet.
The men around her went about their duties, sailing the ship northward into Loch Linnhe, not one uttering a word to her. At the governor’s orders, they tacked east until they tossed the sea galley’s ropes to the sentries on the shore.
As they worked to tie the boat to the pier, Wilcox stepped beside her, his stench of sickly perfume now unmistakable. “This ought to be familiar. You are the one who picked the lock on my sally port, are you not?”
Emma would never admit guilt to this man. “If only I were able to accomplish such a feat,” she managed to say, masking the fear from her voice.
“It matters not. Regardless, you will be my bait. Once I have made a public spectacle of you, Dunollie will not be able to stay away.”
She instantly tensed. No! “If you believe a man as important as Ciar MacDougall will come for a blind woman, you have greatly overestimated his affection for me. I am merely a friend, the sister of his closest ally, and that is all.”
“Hmm. I think not. Take the woman to the officers’ hold.” Wilcox clapped his hands. “On the morrow you will be locked in the pillory and disgraced. Let us see how long it will take for MacDougall to rescue you. After all, isn’t that what Highlanders pride themselves on—honor, duty, loyalty? Those virtues are commendable, though the only problem is that their meaning is displaced among you Scottish folk.”
Emma balled her fists, her face hot, as two dragoons grasped her elbows and escorted her off the galley. The iron gate screeched as they led her through. She counted seven steps, reminiscent of the night she’d stolen inside and rescued Ciar. Oh, the iron
y of returning with her wrists bound and facing utter humiliation come dawn.
The sweet scent of horses and hay wafted from the barn as they crossed the grounds to the same cell where Ciar had been held.
One of the dragoons shoved her inside. “I’d try to sleep if I were you, ’cause tomorrow you will have no rest at all.”
Emma held out her hands. “Will you not take these off?”
“Orders are you must be restrained at all times, else you might escape like an evil sprite.”
After the door slammed shut, Emma’s eyes stung as she slid down the wall. Whatever was she to do? What had happened to Ciar? Why hadn’t he come? And Albert. Good heavens, Nettie, please take care of Albert.
Collapsing into a heap, she let the tears come. If only Ciar had taken her to Dunbarton. Why in God’s name had he left her alone?
The mere thought made her chest heavy, her throat close. Emma’s capture was her own fault. She’d refused to go stay with Archie and Nettie.
Curses, I’m as stubborn as my brother!
She should have listened. But she’d been so happy, she’d falsely believed the illusion that no one could touch her while she hid in the cellars of the ruined castle. Oh, how wrong she was. And now if Ciar received word about her abduction, no doubt he would try to rescue her.
Lord, no! Please, Ciar, please. Stay away.
At some stage, Emma cried herself to sleep, and she didn’t awaken until the guard opened the door. “Up with you, wench. You have a big day ahead.”
“Is there not anything to eat?”
“Prisoners are fed once a day. You’ll receive yours after sundown.”
Good heavens, she was hungry and thirsty. “A cup of water then, please.”
Liquid sloshed. “Did you not see the bucket and ladle?”
When the guard raised a full ladle to her mouth, Emma drank, then wiped her lips. “Forgive me, I have not seen anything in two and twenty years.”
“Just as well,” he said. “’Cause you wouldn’t like what you’ll see today.”