by Amy Jarecki
The water in her stomach churned with a sickly, simmering swirl. Though she might be afraid, she did not care what the crowd might say or do, as long as Ciar stayed safe and kept away until he had the evidence he needed to clear his name.
Soldiers marshaled her out the gates and up the rickety wooden steps to the pillory.
“Good morning, Miss Grant,” said Governor Wilcox, his tone sardonically displeasing. “I hope you slept well.”
Emma rubbed a kink in her neck but kept her lips tightly closed.
“I am here to offer you one last chance,” he bellowed loudly enough for all to hear. “Tell me where the scoundrel Ciar MacDougall is hiding, and I will remove your irons and release you this very day.”
She scoffed. “I cannot tell you where he is because I do not know.”
At least she told the truth on that count. Though Ciar had gone to Dunbarton to find Riley, Emma doubted he was still there. Perhaps Riley hadn’t been at the fort. Perhaps the sentinel had been transferred to another post. Whatever the reason, Emma refused to believe that Ciar was in trouble. And if she knew anything about the man, he would never give up until he proved the truth.
With luck, she prayed, he was far away from Fort William and would never learn of her capture.
“Very well, then, enjoy my hospitality,” Wilcox said.
Emma held her head high, standing regally as a dragoon removed her manacles.
“She’s blind,” came a whisper from the crowd.
“’Tis true what they say, that God has condemned her for her sins and delivered his wrath. She is the devil’s own.”
Emma clenched her teeth. Robert had sheltered her from the evils of society, but she knew well enough the fears and superstitions about the blind. She wanted to shout that she was a good person. She wanted to tell them about Ciar’s innocence, but they wouldn’t listen, not when they thought her a demon.
The soldier forced her to bend forward and lowered the bar over her head, trapping her wrists and neck. Panic surged through her blood. She fought against the rigid pillory while taunts from the crowd grew louder. Something vile smelling smacked the side of her head and streamed toward the corner of her mouth. She spat, but the acrid taste of mold made her gag.
“Stop!” she shouted, but her claim only made the crowd badger her more.
“You are a disgrace!”
“Take her to the gallows!”
“The woman’s a witch. She will cast spells on us all unless she’s drowned!”
Emma winced, shaking her head. She refused to listen. She would not let their hateful words hurt her. No matter what, she must remain strong. One day this misery would be over. Ciar was out there somewhere. She had to put her trust in him. He would clear his name and come for her.
Closing her eyes, she sent her mind back to Gylen, to the cozy cellar, the quiet cove, to Ciar’s loving arms protecting her…
* * *
The return trip to Kerrera should have taken a day, two tops. But it seemed the luck from Emma’s medal of Saint Lucia had run its course. Once Ciar and his men sailed out of the Firth of Clyde, there was no wind to be found and, when a gale finally hit, it came from the north like a rogue. They were pummeled by torrential rain while they tacked from east to west, barely making progress. Now it had been over a sennight since they’d set sail for Dunbarton.
Rain still came down in sheets when the men pulled the galley ashore at Kerrera.
“Do you intend for us to stay the night?” asked Livingstone.
Ciar wiped the droplets out of his eyes. “MacIntyre will think we’re not coming.”
“Surely he’ll wait, given the storm.” Livingstone hopped over the side, and Ciar followed. “There’s room in the cellars for the men to camp. And Riley isn’t going anywhere.”
Ciar glanced back to the mast where the dragoon was tied, his chin dropped to his chest. The man was conscious, though he had a mouth filled with bile.
“Lock him in the rear cellar,” said Ciar. “Bail out the water from the hull, then let the men take their rest.”
Good God, he was bone weary. It was late, and one more night shouldn’t make a difference at this stage. If MacIntyre had returned to Spean Bridge, Ciar would just have to send someone to fetch him.
As he entered the passageway, a musket fired down near the cove. He stopped for a moment. Before he could consider whether to go out and see what the men were up to, Albert dashed through the passageway, tail wagging as if he’d missed Ciar immensely.
He scratched behind the dog’s ears, noting the laddie’s coat wasn’t as well-groomed as Emma usually kept it. “Did you miss me?”
Albert yowled and started for the exit.
Ciar pulled his collar. “We need to pay a visit to Emma first.”
Albert yowled again, hopping on his rear paws and snorting as if he desperately needed to go outside.
“Go on then.” Ciar waved him away with a flick of his hand. “But stay out of trouble.”
Another musket fired. Strange. But he was too eager to see to Emma to think much of it.
Albert stayed on Ciar’s heels. “I thought you needed to go out, laddie.” Water sloshed from his shoes while he plodded down the passageway. As he neared the door, a sinking feeling gripped his stomach. Oh, God, the dog was trying to tell me something has happened to her.
Ciar’s breath stopped dead in his chest as he ran into the vault. “Emma!”
When she didn’t answer, he spun toward the hearth.
“Em—?”
The last thing he heard was a sickly thud swelling through the cavern.
* * *
Robert Grant dug in his spurs as he demanded a gallop from his horse. Never in his life had he been so angry. As soon as he’d received word from Janet, he’d raced for Achnacarry, praying his sister had returned. Over a fortnight had already been wasted. Worse, it had taken a week of hard riding to reach his wife, where he learned Emma had not only spirited to Fort William with the son of Lochiel’s coachman, she’d picked the locks to the fortress and aided in Dunollie’s escape after the man had been incarcerated for murder.
The man Robert had considered his greatest ally had the gall to send the stable boy home, but the MacDougall scoundrel had gone into hiding with Emma. What the blazes was he thinking?
And things only grew more precarious by the moment. Not only was Robert’s sister ruined, she had been captured on the Isle of Kerrera, taken back to Fort William, and locked in the public pillory for all to torment and ridicule.
Robert had only discovered the bulk of this information after he’d paid a visit to Achnacarry. He’d been riding for a sennight with little sleep and had barely had a chance to greet his pregnant wife when he had no option but to change horses and make haste for Fort William.
I’ll never forgive Ciar for this!
Had the man completely lost his mind? Why in God’s name had he gone into hiding and taken Emma with him? A blind woman, for heaven’s sake. As Robert rode, the burning ball of fire in his chest raged.
He crossed the bridge at Inverlochy and demanded more speed, the horse snorting with exertion. When High Street came into view, the sight of his sister, wrists and head locked in the bars of a pillory, made the bile in his stomach churn.
A crowd stood around the platform, their jeers echoing down the cobbled road as Robert rode forward, his horse spent.
“You’re the devil’s own!” spewed a woman.
“You should have been drowned at birth. You are a scourge that should be snuffed in flames.”
“No!” Emma cried, her voice hoarse and grating.
Her hair was matted. As Robert dismounted, he couldn’t see her face. “Go on, the lot of ye!” he bellowed. “You’re fiendish troublemakers!”
He dashed up the steps, but was met by a dragoon pointing a bayonet between his eyeballs.
Robert could have ripped the weapon from the blighter’s hands and bludgeoned him with it. “Release her,” he growled.
&
nbsp; “Brother!” Emma croaked.
The man threatened him with the bayonet again. “You, sir, are interfering with justice.”
Losing his patience, Robert grabbed the musket’s barrel, yanked it from the soldier’s hands, and jabbed him in the shoulder with the butt. “Do you find torturing and humiliating blind women amusing?”
“Stand down, you insolent cur!”
“Release her now,” Robert seethed through his teeth. “And I will take her directly to Wilcox and castigate the cowardly governor for the abhorrent treatment of the sister of the Clan Grant chief.”
The man stood dumbfounded.
Sauntering forward, Robert grasped the weasel by the cravat. “If you do not unlock the pillory immediately, I will impale your arse with this worthless bayonet.”
A bead of sweat streamed from the soldier’s temple. “M-my superiors will hear of this.”
He pushed the man toward the lock. “They will, and I’ll be the first to tell them.”
As the dragoon opened the padlock and lifted the bar, Emma dropped to her knees.
“Good God, you’re too weak to stand,” Robert barked, scooping her into his arms. “Have they not been feeding you?”
She weakly brushed her fingers across her dirty mouth. “A slice of bread and a cup of water.”
He dashed down the platform. “How long have you been here?”
“Three days, I-I think.”
Robert’s jaw twitched as he marched through Fort William’s gates and headed straight for the governor’s office. “Hold fast, dearest. I’ll have you safely at Achnacarry in no time.”
“But—”
Before she uttered another word, Robert kicked open Wilcox’s door. “What in God’s name were you thinking, making a public display of the blind sister of one of the most powerful clans in the Highlands?”
The sour-faced governor looked up from his writing table. “Grant? Devil take it, you’re not the Scot I was hoping to see.”
“I would have arrived sooner had I not been north of Inverness when I received word.”
The man placed his quill in its holder. “Your sister aided a murderer to escape this very fort. She’s dangerous and cunning.”
Robert looked down at the half-starved woman in his arms. “You mean to tell me you’re afraid of this wee lassie?” He looked Wilcox in the eye. “Furthermore, you’re saying that she, a blind woman, broke into this fortified establishment, slipped past innumerable guards, and freed your prisoner?”
Feigning disbelief, Robert stepped forward. “You saw my sister break into your prison?”
Wilcox’s gaze shifted as he licked his lips. “She was here—visited me the morning before Dunollie escaped. Furthermore, her dog barked, and a woman was seen fleeing with him.”
“A woman?” Robert snorted. “This woman? Hardly. How can a sightless lass elude your highly trained soldiers? That she might have is unconscionable, unless you are completely incompetent in the exercise of your duties.”
Wilcox rubbed the back of his neck.
“I am taking my sister home.”
“She is my prisoner and an accessory.”
“She is a victim.” Robert eyed him. “And you are abusing your station in making a public spectacle with her.”
The governor let out a long sigh, looked to the window and back. “I had thought to use her as bait, but after three days, the bastard still hasn’t shown his ugly face.”
“What happened…to Ciar?” Emma mumbled.
Robert tightened his grip around her. “See? She has no idea as to Dunollie’s whereabouts. For all you know he’s fled to Ireland or worse.”
Emma shook her head. “No, no.”
“Calm yourself, sister. You are delirious with exhaustion and hunger.” Robert eyed the governor. “She has paid far too high a price for your incompetence.”
“I disagree. Her punishment thus far has been lenient. We discovered her in a hidden cellar on the Isle of Kerrera—Dunollie’s lands, mind you.”
Robert backed toward the door. “That still does not make her guilty.”
“Go on.” Wilcox flicked his hand. “Get out. She is of no use to me now. You ought to keep a tight rein on the chit—lock her away for good.”
Without another word, Robert headed for his mount. “I will see you safely home, lass,” he whispered as he set her on the horse and mounted behind her.
Steadying Emma in his arms, Robert shook his head. “I once considered Dunollie my greatest friend. But I swear on our father’s grave, he will never come near you again.”
“No!” Emma shrieked, throwing an elbow and smacking him in the arm.
Good God, the lass had endured unconscionable trauma, driving her to complete madness. She mustn’t have any idea what she was saying. “Shhh, girl, and calm yourself. You are safe now.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Something warm and slavering swiped across Ciar’s face. The warmth was pleasant but the lingering moisture made his eyes flicker open for the briefest of moments. Groaning, he rolled his head aside while a hammer in his head punished him for moving.
“No, ye beasty,” demanded a young voice. Female, but too high-pitched to be Emma.
When someone applied a cool cloth to his forehead, Ciar forced himself to open his eyes.
He didn’t recognize the bedchamber. It was relatively small, and rain tapped the roof. Above were exposed beams, as if he were in a windowless attic room. His body was covered by a quilt, his head resting on a feather pillow. Beside him stood a serving maid wearing a white apron over a plaid kirtle.
Ciar looked from her hands to her head. Her brown tresses were covered by a mobcap, and as she leaned over him, wisps of her hair swayed with the motion. “Ye’re awake.”
“Where am I?” he asked, his throat dry.
“Glencoe. A guest of His Lairdship, Hugh MacIain.”
Pressing the heels of his palms against his throbbing temples, Ciar winced, trying to remember. “How the blazes did I end up here?”
The sound of boots pounding the floorboards made the pain grow worse. “I brought you to MacIain after the redcoat bastards bludgeoned you,” Livingstone said. “It was the only place I kent you would be safe.”
Ciar tried to move, only to make the throbbing worse. “But MacIain? Glencoe?”
“He’s the staunchest Jacobite in Scotland.”
“I need to find Emma.”
Livingstone gave the maid a dismissive wave of his hand. “Leave us and take the dog with you.” As the door clicked behind her, the man-at-arms pulled a wooden chair beside the bed. “How much do you remember?”
“Musket shots. Aye, I went into the cellars to find Emma, but she wasn’t there. And I heard muskets.”
“We were ambushed by redcoats. One of them was waiting for you inside—hit you on the head with an ax handle.”
Ciar groaned. “Another bloody knock in the head?”
“Aye. I reckon I need to fasten an iron helmet on ye.”
“But you said they ambushed? Was Emma harmed?”
“They took her to Fort William about a sennight ago.”
The cloth dropped to his chest as Ciar tried to sit up, blinking his eyes against the pain. “God no.”
He tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed, only to be pushed back by Livingstone. “You need to listen to it all afore ye charge out of here like a wounded bull.
Ciar dropped to the pillow, weak as a bairn. “I’ll not sit idle whilst she suffers.”
“Didn’t think you would.” Livingstone picked up the cloth and tossed it into the washbasin. “As I was saying, dragoons were lying in wait—Wilcox’s men they were and thank God they were bad shots. Willy was hit with a glancing blow to his shoulder, but he’ll survive. Moreover, there were only three of the bastards. It didn’t take long to overcome them.”
“Where are they now?”
“Locked in the back vault beneath Gylen Castle—I left a pair of men there to guard them until �
�tis safe to release the maggots—else they’ll go cryin’ to Wilcox.”
Ciar ran a hand over his whiskers. “Who else kens we were there?”
“No one as far as I’m aware. Their orders were to wait until you returned and to stay out of sight. After you arrived they were supposed to return to Fort William and summon the governor.”
“They told you this?”
“With a wee bit o’ encouragement.”
Livingstone held a cup of water to Ciar’s lips. As soon as it touched his mouth, Ciar guzzled greedily. “How long have I been here?”
“Two days.”
“But the Coe is nearly a stone’s throw from Fort William.”
“Brilliant, aye? Keeping you in the devil’s back garden.” Livingstone set the cup on the washstand. “’Tis the only place I could think of they wouldn’t look. After his da’s house was burned to the ground, MacIain built another with a false ceiling. No one kens you’re up here.”
“Aside from the serving wench.”
“She’s loyal to the cause.”
“What of Riley?”
“He’s here—under guard. After you were knocked unconscious, I sent word to Kelly. He and Tommy Jr. nabbed Brown and Manfred. They’re holding them in Inverlochy.”
“Then there’s no time to spare.” Ciar pushed himself up and swung his feet over the side of the bed, grabbing the post to steady himself. “Do the captives ken why they’re being held?”
“I told Kelly not to say anything to tie him to you. They have no idea Dunollie is involved.” Livingstone patted Ciar’s shoulder. “Your face is as white as bed linens. It might serve you well to stay abed for another day.”
“I’ll rest when this is ended and nay before.”
“Thought you’d say that.”
Ciar stood, his legs shaking beneath him.
Livingstone caught his arm. “You’re in no shape to be going anywhere, let alone the dragon’s lair.”
“Give me a slab of bacon, a half-dozen eggs and a shot of whisky, and I’ll be set to rights.”
“Aye. Or face down in your plate.”
“Shut it,” Ciar growled—right before his knees buckled beneath him and everything faded into blackness.