by Amy Jarecki
* * *
Only a fortnight had passed since Emma bid farewell to Ciar on the Isle of Kerrera. But it seemed like an eternity.
“I’m sorry Robert is so anxious to take you home,” said Janet sitting across the coach. “He should have given you more time to recover.”
“Aye,” Betty agreed, swaying into Emma’s arm as a wheel rolled through a hole in the road. “You’re in no state to be traveling.”
After Robert had rescued her from the pillory, he’d taken her to Achnacarry, where she was fed and sent straight to bed, though they only stayed one night there. First thing this morning, her brother had insisted the only place he could keep a proper eye on her was Glenmoriston, where they now headed directly.
“It doesn’t matter,” Emma mumbled.
Janet’s fan zipped open, the breeze from its flapping strong enough to cool Emma’s face. “It most certainly does. You have had a terrible ordeal. Whatever prompted you to slip away from Achnacarry in the first place, I cannot understand.”
“I must concur, miss,” said Betty, the traitor. “You could have ended up in grave danger. Och, in fact ye fell straight into unimaginable peril.”
Emma folded her hands. How could she ever make them appreciate what she’d accomplished? “I did that which needed to be done, and that is all.”
“Good heavens,” said Janet, her voice scornful. “I can name dozens of Highlanders who would have rushed to Dunollie’s aid.”
Emma sat forward and pounded her fist on the bench. “But they were all out organizing a rising to thwart the Hanoverian king.”
“Grant and Cameron would have come around to help His Lairdship,” said Betty.
“Neither of you understand.” The walls of the coach felt as if they were closing in around her. “Ciar was accused of murder. Governor Wilcox was planning to send him to the gallows.”
“Oh, I think we understand very well,” said Janet, the slats of her fan hitting in rapid repetition as she closed it.
Taking a deep breath to calm the ire boiling beneath her skin, Emma pressed her back against the seat. “Dunollie is the only man besides my brother who has ever shown me kindness. I would die for him.”
“Heaven forbid,” Betty mumbled under her breath.
Emma scooted away from her lady’s maid. The pair of them thought they knew how she felt about Ciar, but they never would. They could only see her as an invalid—someone who would always tag along, who would always be there in the background but never have a home or life of her own. Until she’d gone to Achnacarry, Emma believed it herself. She never dreamed that she’d want to leave Glenmoriston and marry. But with Ciar she could do anything. Truly, he understood her better than her own kin.
She needed to find out what had happened to him straightaway.
The fact that he hadn’t come for her made her fear the worst. Had something horrible transpired at Dunbarton? Would she ever see him again? And what about her beloved Albert? Was he still on Kerrera? Had Nettie taken the dog in? Surely she would have fed him once she realized Emma was gone.
Emma spent the rest of the journey pressed against the side wall of the coach, refusing to engage Betty and Janet in conversation. If they believed she was incapable of helping Ciar and unmitigatedly daft for slipping away in the middle of the night, then they could go hang.
Miserable hours passed before the familiar rush of Moriston Falls announced they’d arrived on Grant lands. Not long after, the wheels of the coach rolled over gravelly stones down the sycamore-lined drive, the leaves rustling outside the window.
As soon as they rolled to a stop, Robert’s voice boomed across the courtyard. “Lewis, carry my sister to her bed. Betty, see to drawing her a bath.”
“I am not feeble in body or in mind. I will walk to my chamber on my own,” Emma shouted, reaching over Betty and finding the coach’s latch. She opened the door, though she wasn’t stubborn enough to leap out before a footman grasped her hand. The last thing she needed was for her obstinance to trump her common sense and send her face-first to the cobblestones.
“’Tis lovely to see you, miss,” said Hubert, the footman. He’d been in service at Glenmoriston since he was a lad of sixteen, and Emma would recognize his voice anywhere.
“Thank you. I wish I were happy to be here.”
She held her head high and made her way through the front door, crossed the entry, and whisked up the stairs of the house that she knew so well, she anticipated the creak of the ninth step and the way the banister ended in a smooth curve at the top.
“Whatever is wrong with Miss Emma?” asked Mrs. Tweedie from below. Emma had always adored the housekeeper, but once the woman learned of her escapades, she’d side with Robert for certain.
“She’s had an ordeal,” Janet explained. Good heavens, they all seemed to expect Emma to recover and go about her affairs as if she hadn’t fallen in love with Ciar. As if he hadn’t opened a new window of possibilities for her.
When she finally made it to her bedchamber, she strode inside, locked the door, and flung herself onto the bed.
For the second time since Wilcox had captured her on Kerrera, she allowed herself to weep. Burying her face in a pillow, she wept for Ciar. She knew something dreadful had happened and yet Robert bore him no remorse, insisting Dunollie had crossed the line. Robert swore Ciar should have refused Emma’s help and the fact that he had not done so had made him a lesser man in his eyes.
A lesser man?
“Ciar is a greater man than any other!” she screamed into the pillow. “He was framed for murder and wronged. You discredited him too, brother. When he needed his allies you forsook your dearest friend!”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Hugh MacIain shook Ciar’s hand. “Would you like some added muscle? I’d be happy to ride with you and your men.”
“You’ve taken enough of a risk by hiding me in your attic. I’m grateful, friend, but I’d hate to have you and your kin pulled into this mess.”
“I’d gladly ride alongside you any time. One never kens, someday I might be knocking on your keep’s door.”
“You’ll be welcome. Day or night.”
Regardless of the niceties, Ciar could have murdered Livingstone for letting him sleep another day. He accepted the reins of a horse from a stable hand, mounted, and signaled for his men to follow.
Leading them across the shallows of the River Coe, Ciar beckoned his lieutenant to ride beside him. “What the blazes were you thinking?”
Livingstone’s eyes widened beneath his feathered bonnet. “Berate me if ye like, but you were in no shape to ride yesterday. And I’d wager today is questionable as well.”
Ciar ground his molars, making the ache in his head throb. Pain didn’t matter. He’d spent far too much time abed. “We ride.”
“Agreed.” Livingstone wrapped the lead rope around his hand, pulling along the horse carrying Riley bound and gagged. “Besides, I’ve arranged for Kelly to meet us at the abandoned barn on the outskirts of town.”
A bit of tension released at the back of Ciar’s neck. “You did?”
“He was waiting for us in Inverlochy north of Fort William. You didn’t plan to ride right past the fort undetected, did ye? Mark me, every red-coated bastard this side of the great divide has a musket ball with your initial carved in it.”
Ciar cued his horse for a trot while his ire fizzed all the more. Of course he hadn’t thought of all the details. He’d been unconscious. “Kelly has Manfred and Brown, you say?”
“MacIntyre is with him as well.”
Damnation. Ciar wouldn’t have done any better himself. “Very well, let us skirt around Loch Leven and approach from the foothills of Ben Nevis.”
Livingstone’s grin stretched his whiskers. “Now I ken you’re on the mend.”
Ciar clenched his fists around the reins and settled his seat in the saddle. He’d be a great deal happier once his name was cleared and he’d rescued Emma from Wilcox’s clutches. The route he’d ju
st planned would take them a good three hours longer—three hours more Emma would be forced to suffer. But, damn it all, if anything went awry, her suffering might endure for sennights.
Of course, it was on the cards that they’d be pelted with rain throughout the journey. By the time they arrived at the old barn, Ciar’s clothes were soaked clean through. He clenched his teeth against the chattering, dismounted, and led the way inside.
Hell, the rain dripped through the rotting roof, making the moss-encrusted ground slosh. At one side the ceiling had completely caved in, leaving a pile of jagged planks with mangled nails sticking out like elongated briar thorns.
“I thought you might have been a bloody myth,” said Kelly, stepping forward with an extended hand. “One more night in this shitehole, and I would have chartered a boat back to Ireland.”
Ciar gave a firm handshake, grinning without unclenching his teeth. “Thank you for bearing with me. It seems the red-coated blighters nearly did me in.”
“Not to worry. I’m certain your generosity will make it worth my while.”
“Indeed it will, Mr. Kelly.”
“Agreed,” said MacIntyre, also shaking Ciar’s hand. “My father’s spirit will not be at peace until these murderers receive their due.”
“Then let us not delay.”
Ciar studied the two dragoons, their uniforms filthy and moth-eaten. He recognized Manfred, but one glance at Brown and he wanted to kick in the cur’s teeth in. He was a beefy, thick-featured ox, as if the mason who chiseled his face hadn’t finished the job. He had a puckered scar extending from his eye to his chin, and his nose looked as if it had been broken more often than Ciar’s.
He sauntered toward the man. “On your feet, soldier.”
Brown’s eyes shifted as he stood, his hands bound in front of him, his feet tied with a length of rope. “I should ’ave bashed your ’ead clear in.”
Ciar fingered the hilt of the dirk in his belt. Never in his life had he wanted to thrash a man as much as he did now. “Hindsight is a great teacher, is she not?”
He would not allow Brown to bait him further. Turning, he started for his horse when the maggot barreled into him from behind. Hit in the middle of his spine, Ciar flung out his hands as he crashed into the pile of rotting roof planks. A sharp pain shot through his cheek. As he threw an elbow at Brown’s temple, the nail that had ripped through his flesh flashed in the corner of his eye.
Brown’s head snapped sideways as he reeled from the strike. Rolling to his feet, Ciar gripped the board and swung it back to deliver a killing strike. Terror flashed through the dragoon’s eyes as he raised his bound wrists to protect his head.
Ciar bared his teeth, bellowing like a madman. The board smashed through Brown’s guard, but just before the nail struck his skull, Livingstone tackled Ciar from the side.
Again, he fell on top of the rotting timbers, nails lacerating his thigh and arm. “Get off me!”
“Gladly, but nay until you’ve faced Wilcox. Ye kill this bastard now, and you may as well set sail for the continent, ’cause you’ll never rest another day in Scotland.”
Ciar pushed up, sending Livingstone crashing onto his arse. The man was bloody right, and that made him want to tear every piece of remaining timber from the barn with his bare hands. “We ride,” he growled, heading for the horses.
Outside, Riley smirked beneath the rim of his dripping tricorn hat. “’Tis still our word against yours, Dunollie. The governor will never believe your story—not after you kidnapped three of the king’s dragoons.”
Ciar scowled all the more. Riley was the next scoundrel who deserved a thrashing.
He mounted and wiped the blood off his cheek with his sleeve. He most likely looked as bedraggled as his prisoners.
* * *
When Ciar muscled his way into the governor’s offices, a slight secretary moved in front of the door, his monocle dropping from his eye. “You cannot go in there. Guards, stop him!”
Ciar grabbed the man’s shoulder and brusquely ushered him out of the way. He’d managed to talk his way through the gates, and he wasn’t about to let this runt of a man stand in his way now. “I’m going in, and no one will block my path, especially you.”
MacIntyre and his men followed with the prisoners while Ciar yanked on the latch and burst into the chamber.
Three officers looked up from a table with Wilcox at the head. “Dunollie?” He thrust his finger at the lieutenant. “Seize him.”
“Not today!” Ciar boomed, drawing his sword from its scabbard. He panned the blade across the room. “No one will lay a finger on me until I’ve had my say.”
Wilcox tipped up his chin, resting his hand on the hilt of his silver-handled pistol. “I would be within my rights to shoot you dead where you stand.”
Ciar didn’t lower his weapon. “Perhaps not after you’ve been presented with the evidence. Livingstone, MacIntyre, Kelly, bring in my prisoners.”
He glanced over his shoulder as the men filed in, crowding the governor’s rooms.
“You dare to arrest soldiers of the crown?” demanded the lieutenant.
“May I introduce…” Ciar gestured with his sword. “Tommy MacIntyre’s heir. He has identified certain effects belonging to his father. Things found in the possession of these three miscreants.”
Riley gripped his bound fists over his chest. “You’d do anything to keep your neck out of a noose, MacDougall.”
“Do not try to hide your finger, sentinel,” said MacIntyre. “Me da’s ring was the first thing I spotted when you were sitting that nag.”
Ciar threw a questioning glance at Kelly while the Irishman shrugged. Evidently Tommy Jr. had been saving for this moment to reveal yet another bit of evidence.
“Riley cannot deny it, ’cause there’s proof—’tis engraved with TM.”
Wilcox nodded to the lieutenant, who sauntered up to Riley and held out his palm. “Let me see it.”
Riley made a show of struggling to take off the ring while Ciar’s blood boiled. “Stop with the theatrics.”
When the band finally slipped off, the lieutenant held it to the candlelight. “Looks like the letters have been filed.”
MacIntyre leaned in and shifted the ring. “I can still see the T. Look there.”
“It proves nothing,” Riley said, smirking.
If only I could slap the grin from his vainglorious face.
With a tilt of his chin, Ciar motioned Kelly forward, who produced a leather-wrapped parcel. “More evidence, if I may.”
Wilcox leaned across the board. “Make it fast. You men are filling my rooms with the stench of wet wool and interrupting the king’s business.”
“This won’t take long.” Kelly placed the bundle on the table, opened it, then held up a pocket watch. “We found this on Manfred.”
Tommy Jr. pointed. “It belonged to my father and has T. MacIntyre etched on the back, and the engraving hasn’t been filed.”
The lieutenant concurred, the ring still in his pincers.
“I’ll take that.” Tommy Jr. snatched the ring, slipped it into his sporran, then pointed to the second item in the parcel, a knife. “And that’s me da’s sgian dubh. You’ll have to take my word on it, but it has a nick about a third of the way up where it hit a wee stone.”
The lieutenant unsheathed the blade and examined it. “There’s a nick, but Dunollie could have given these things to you just to pin the murder on these men—the very three who witnessed his barbarity.”
“Mayhap,” said Kelly. “But the proof came when Brown showed me the sgian dubh at the Inverlochy tavern. He boasted about the whole thing, swung the piece by the chain, and told me all about his knife-throwing abilities.”
“Lies, ye maggot!” Brown bellowed.
“Enough.” Wilcox sliced his hand through the air. “The lieutenant is right. This evidence proves nothing.”
Riley chuckled. “Exactly what I said.”
Wilcox pointed. “And you had best keep you
r mouth shut, sentinel. These effects should have been returned to the next of kin, not pilfered by you and your fellow soldiers.”
MacIntyre scooped up the parcel and twisted it between his fists. “You cannot be serious. Their guilt is as clear as the nose on my face. You haven’t considered at all the reputation and nature of a respected laird from a family that has ruled in the Highlands since the Lords of the Isles.”
The lieutenant strolled back around the table. “That doesn’t make him innocent.”
Tommy Jr. gestured to Ciar. “I believe his word over that of these sorry louts for certain. Surely my testament to his character bears some weight. After all, it was me father who was murdered—stabbed in the back by a coward.”
“One might think ye had a hand in it as well,” said Riley.
Before did something he’d regret, Ciar sheathed his sword. “I came upon these dragoons on the road to Spean Bridge. They had killed an innocent man, and I caught them in the midst of stealing his belongings.” He thrust his finger at Brown. “And this buffoon had the audacity to boast about it to Mr. Kelly.”
“Your underhanded spy will say anything to earn his coin,” said Brown.
Ciar placed his palms on the table and looked Wilcox in the eye. They had presented irrefutable evidence. It was time to call an end to this madness. “I did not kill Tommy MacIntyre. I will swear to it on my life.” He threw an upturned palm toward his prisoners. “Before you stand three corrupt men, two of whom boasted about their crimes. And I—”
“Move aside,” boomed a deep voice from the doorway.
Ciar straightened as an officer marched in carrying a saddle.
“I’m Captain MacLeod from Dunbarton.”
Swallowing his groan, Ciar looked to the ceiling. He’d never met a MacLeod with whom he’d seen eye to eye.
“I’d heard a rumor Ciar MacDougall was trying to clear his name. And I’ll tell you true that news didn’t surprise me.” MacLeod arched a thick eyebrow, eyeing Dunollie. “No matter how much I dislike MacDougalls, the charge of murder didn’t fit.”
Ciar offered a curt bow of his head. “My thanks.”