Mary fastened the bodice with its ill-made hooks. “What about you, Auntie? Are they arresting Papa? Will they take you too?”
“They say your father is passing information about the Jacobites to the English army. I don’t know why they’re bothering to arrest him—I imagine dozens of people are passing flurries of messages to London. They’re taking him and Lord Halsey to Holyrood. Me as well, I suppose. But I want you gone. At once. You’ll be safe with the Bancrofts. Please.”
Mary tugged on her stoutest pair of boots, snatched up a pair of leather gloves, and tucked a purse full of coins into her corset. “Auntie, I can’t leave you to face them.”
“My dear, I’ll never fit through that hole. I’m twice your girth. I’ve weathered worse storms than this, but you’re too young and vulnerable, and I don’t want to see—” She broke off and pointed a finger at Ewan “You take care of her, lad, you understand me?”
Ewan snapped off another salute. “Aye, sir.”
Aunt Danae looked startled, then nodded. “Very good. Now go before they storm up the stairs.”
Mary threw her arms around Aunt Danae and kissed her firm cheek. “I will see you soon,” she promised.
She turned to follow Ewan, her heart heavy. There was no telling what the victorious, celebrating Jacobites would do to her father and aunt, how long they’d be kept. Surely Malcolm would be able to find out, be able to do something about it. Mary remembered how the Scottish soldiers had turned away, pretending to ignore Malcolm’s party as they’d ridden through the streets and out the gates to the wharves. Mal would know, wouldn’t he, how to keep the worst from happening to Mary’s family?
Fear and uncertainty made her stomach roil. Mary gave Aunt Danae one last look, then ducked into the passage after Ewan. Ewan closed the panel behind them, and the darkness was complete.
Ewan’s passage was full of grime, old nails, and other things Mary did not want to think about. They moved carefully on hands and knees, but the way was narrow, smelly, and damp. The ceiling was low enough to scrape Mary’s back if she didn’t bend all the way down and go at a lizard’s crouch.
The passage led to somewhere in the middle of the house, ending in a stairwell of rickety steps. Once upon a time, these must have been servants’ stairs, but walled off when inhabitants had modernized the house. The fact that servants had scrambled up and down this precarious wooden staircase, carrying fuel for fires and buckets of water, gave Mary new pity for them.
The stairs creaked alarmingly as she descended, following Ewan. Mary clung to the walls, happy she’d thought to grab her gloves.
They made it to the bottom without mishap. Ewan opened a small door into a tiny passage that ran alongside the kitchen garden. He led Mary through this passage, which turned sharply behind another house, and finally emptied into the next street.
The darkness helped them slip unnoticed through lanes and emerge once again onto the street where Mary’s father’s house lay. The house was surrounded now by both Highland soldiers and curious neighbors. A plain carriage sat before the front door, and as Mary watched, her father was bundled into it, his hands behind his back.
Halsey was pushed in after him. The first carriage rolled away, and another took its place as Aunt Danae was led out. The soldiers looked as though they were being polite as they handed her in, her hands unbound, but they were not letting her go. Mary’s eyes stung with tears as the carriage rolled away into the darkness.
Ewan tugged her hand. “This way, sir!”
Mary made herself turn from the house she’d lived in all these months and follow him into the streets.
Soldiers were everywhere, laughing, shouting, drinking, celebrating their victory at Prestonpans. Ewan led Mary through streets crowded with horses, carriages, Highlanders, and inhabitants of the city.
Ewan disappeared suddenly into a side lane for a heart-stopping moment, then reappeared with an empty basket, which he put on Mary’s arm. Mary nodded her approval, though she didn’t like the idea of him stealing it. But with the basket, Mary looked like any other woman of the town, going about her early morning errands.
In this way, Mary slipped through the city, blindly following Ewan, who promised he was taking her to Malcolm. All was well until they passed a tavern, which spilled men onto the street. One of the Highland soldiers there broke away from the swelling mob, saw Mary, and moved toward her.
“Come and celebrate w’ me, lass,” he said, his broad face red with drink. “Bring the lad too. I dinnae mind.”
His friends laughed loudly. Ewan seized Mary’s sleeve, trying to pull her along.
The man’s heavy hand landed on Mary’s shoulder, hot through her thin shirt. “Don’t run away, love. I’ll make it worth your while. More coin to bring your man tonight, eh?”
He spoke a broad Scots, from the far west, but Mary understood him well enough. She knew, though, that if she responded in any way, he’d know she was English as soon as she opened her mouth. With her fair hair touched with red and rough clothes, she might pass for a Scotswoman, but she’d never be able to speak like one.
Mary tried to shrug the man off and follow Ewan, but the soldier tightened his grip. “Come on, then, woman.”
Mary swung around, using the momentum to send her heavy wicker basket straight into the Highlander’s stomach—whump. The Scotsman lost his hold on her, cursing as he doubled over.
His friends laughed uproariously. Mary spun to run after Ewan, but another pair of hands landed on her shoulders.
She was pulled around to face another Highlander, this one very tall, with dark red hair and a face flushed with rage. He looked her up and down, then gripped her face and turned it to the light, studying the bruise and cut her father had left.
Malcolm let go of her, grabbed hold of the Scotsman who’d first accosted her, and punched him full in the face.
“She’s me wife, ye daft cob.”
That brought astonishment and more laughter to the others. “Wife? Aye, is that what you’re calling her, Mackenzie?”
“Bloody drunken . . .” Mal swung back to Mary, seized her by the arm, and Ewan by the neck. “I’m agog to hear this story. I’ll lay into ye, boy, if ye’ve had a hand in procuring her.”
“Malcolm,” Mary managed to splutter.
“Later.” Malcolm marched them down the lane into the fog and dim glow of sunrise. “After I get ye off the street, ye ken?”
Malcolm didn’t trust himself to speak as he pulled Mary along. Nor did he want to hear her explanations while they twisted and turned through the crowds. Those rising to begin the day mingled with those ending their nights, and the streets were teeming.
Mary could be out here for no good reason. He’d told Naughton to make certain she stayed put inside her house, where she’d be safe. The bruise on her face, as well—that hadn’t been put there by the drunken soldiers. The wound was at least a day or two old.
Something had happened while he’d been busy keeping Duncan out of trouble. Malcolm needed to get her indoors and shake out of her what.
Mary scuttled along beside him, her head down, asking no questions. She looked exactly like a servant being dragged away to be chastised by her master, and beneath his anger, Mal wanted to laugh. She was good.
They reached the Mackenzie house. Malcolm pulled Mary through the front door, nearly running into Naughton, who’d opened it for them.
Naughton sent Ewan a glare from his thin height. “Lad, you’re filthy. Ye shouldn’t be coming in by the front door.”
“My fault,” Mal said impatiently. “These two aren’t taking another step until Mary tells me why she’s roaming the streets dressed like a farm worker.”
Naughton, Ewan, and Mary all started speaking at once. Mal heard Naughton’s calmer tones saying something about Ewan and messages, Ewan going on about soldiers, and then Mary, frantic and angry at the same time.
“Stop!” Malcolm shouted. When he wanted to, he could roar as forcefully as the duke. The word vib
rated through their shrill voices, and all three fell into a startled silence. “Mary—tell me.”
Instead of calmly spilling out the story, Mary glared at him in fiery anger. “Did you do this? You have said again and again you’d do anything to make me come to you—did you force the arrests so I’d have no choice?”
Mary’s anger made her beautiful, her blue eyes full of sparks. Her words troubled Mal, however.
“Who did I force to be arrested?” he demanded. “I told Ewan to make ye stay put. Not roam the streets dressed like a French peasant, with all the full-of-themselves Jacobites wandering about. What did ye think they’d do?”
Did she look chastised? Not a bit of it. Mary gripped the basket as though she would ram it into his stomach, like she had the drunken lout at the tavern.
“My father and aunt have been taken by the Pretender’s men. Lord Halsey as well. Likely they’d have arrested me too, if I hadn’t fled. My aunt can’t be held prisoner. She’ll be unable to bear it, and she’s done nothing wrong!”
Malcolm stared at her. “And ye think I did this?”
“Is this how you plan to rid me of Halsey?” Mary snapped. “By confining my family? If so, you can get out of my way. I’ll take myself to prison with them. I’d rather.”
“Dinnae talk such shite, woman. I would never send your da and aunt to be locked up, no matter the reason.” Mal stopped, grim rage replacing his agitation. “But I know someone who might.”
He stepped around Mary, ignored Naughton, and leapt up the stairs, two at a time, heading for his father’s chamber.
Chapter 19
Mary heard Naughton speaking. “My lady, if you will wait here, I will bring refreshment and ready a chamber for you.” She ignored him to lift her woolen skirts and rush up the stairs after Malcolm.
Houses were tall in Edinburgh, the city building upward when it could expand no more into the marshes. Mary climbed three flights before she heard Mal in a room at the end of the landing, his voice raised in fury.
At any other time, she’d never dream of hurrying to personal chambers and interfering in a family quarrel. But rules had been overturned in the last days, and her father and aunt had been dragged off to prison. Customary manners had fled.
Mary pushed open the door that was ajar to find the duke, fully dressed despite the early hour, his graying red hair hanging loose.
Mary had faced him in the stairwell the other day, when shadows had made him a looming bulk. Today, in the sunlight burning through the mist, she saw him more clearly.
Malcolm looked much like him, as did his brother Will. They had the same hard faces and eyes in some shade of amber, though the duke’s forehead was wider and more prominent than his sons’. The older man’s hair was as thick as the younger’s, his brows drawn together as firmly, his mouth set in a stubborn line.
He and Mal had given up on English, and were shouting in Erse, the Scots language that Mary didn’t know. She heard many consonants run together and fluid vowels, all of it window-rattlingly loud.
Naughton came breathlessly behind her, distressed, but Mary paid no attention. Ewan also joined them, watching and listening, mouth agape.
“The duke is saying he got your da arrested,” Ewan said, explaining, “because he thinks they’re English spies. Lord Malcolm is very angry at him.”
So Mary gathered. The duke, seeing Mary, switched to English. “Wilfort and Halsey are two of the most dangerous men in Edinburgh,” he said fiercely. “Wilfort wouldn’t stop at throwing you in prison, runt, if he knew ye had your hands on his daughter.”
“So ye threw him in first?” Mal shouted. “Are ye mad? I’m going t’ marry this woman, whether ye bless me for it or not. I’d rather not have me father-in-law-to-be angry at me for landing him in prison!”
“He’s a bloody spy, lad,” the duke returned. “He and his boot-licking toady, Halsey, are stirring up the Lowlanders to murder us in our beds. To join the English in cutting down the Highland clans. Lowlanders have always sided with the English, the bleeding traitors.”
A polite cough turned attention to the doorway, where Will Mackenzie leaned, clad in a shirt, kilt, and woolen socks, his arms folded. His rumpled hair indicated he’d just crawled from his bed, as did his puffy, bloodshot eyes.
“Afraid he isn’t wrong, Mal,” Will said. “Lord Wilfort has agents in Glasgow, and a network throughout the Lowlands. He came to Edinburgh when there was a fairly clear danger Charles would sail from France, sent here to stir up the Scots against the Scots.” Will looked mildly embarrassed. “Sorry, Lady Mary.”
Mary wished she could be shocked and outraged at the accusation, but she was not. She knew her father always had some schemes in the works, and she’d heard the words he’d exchanged with Halsey in his study.
“The fool,” she said in resignation. Wilfort was a hard man, possessing intelligence with a razor-sharp edge, but he was still her father. Mary blinked back tears. “What will happen to him?”
“They’ll hang him,” the duke grunted.
Malcolm launched himself at his father. Will moved faster than a man who’d been lounging with a hangover ought to be able to, got himself between them, and pried them apart.
“Your Grace.” Mary put force into her words. The duke turned his head and looked her over, taking in her shabby garments, his disgust plain. “He is my father,” Mary said. “If you made certain he was arrested, then you can get him free again.”
The duke’s look turned incredulous. “Why would I do that? Ye heard Will. I wasn’t wrong about Wilfort being a spy. I have no love for the Jacobites, but nor do I want gobshite Englishmen mucking up my life.”
“Send him to London, then,” Mary said. “From that distance, it will be more difficult for him to communicate with this network, and I wager he’ll lose interest. My father has plenty of plots against his fellow Englishmen to pursue.”
Will snorted a laugh. The duke only looked belligerent, and so did Malcolm.
“’Tis out of my hands, in any case,” the duke said. “They are spies, and they’ve been caught. It’s up to the child prince to decide what to do with them.”
“Then I’ll go,” Mal said. “Will, look after Mary—make sure Dad leaves her be. Naughton, give her the finest chamber we have and offer her a meal. I want her settled and in comfort by the time I get back.”
Mary had learned about Mal even in this short time that once he decided to act, his deeds followed swiftly upon his words. He swung around and was out the door, making for the stairs before she could open her mouth.
She ran after him. “I do not need to stay here,” she called down as Malcolm made his descent. “Your coachman can take me to the Bancrofts’. I’ll be safe with them.”
Malcolm gave her an upward look of amazement. “No, ye won’t. Stay put, lass. Ignore my father and have Naughton bring ye anything ye need.”
Will joined Mary at the head of the stairs. Behind him, in his chamber, the duke was now raging at the hapless Naughton. Ewan, who’d followed Mary out, lingered by her side.
“Ye can’t go on your own,” Will said to his brother. “Let me come and smooth the way for ye. I know people.”
“So do I.” Mal balled his fists. “God’s balls, I need ye here with Mary. I can’t take care of all of ye at the same time—”
He cut off his speech abruptly, and plummeted on down the stairs.
Mary watched him all the way down, her arguments fading. When Mal had let out his last burst of temper, there had been something in his eyes, a distress that ran deep.
I can’t take care of all of ye . . .
Mary sensed that the words hadn’t been idle ones, but had come straight from something that struck him to the heart.
Mary didn’t know what to make of this distress—or of Malcolm himself—but she then and there intended to find out.
The prisoners Mal sought were not being held with the captured soldiers in the camps. Lords Wilfort and Halsey had been taken to Holyrood, lo
cked into rooms in the lower cellars.
Lady Dutton—Mary’s Aunt Danae—Duncan informed Malcolm when he arrived, had been taken to Lord Bancroft’s home. Bancroft and his family were under house arrest, so Aunt Danae would sit there until she was either charged with something or sent back to England.
No one Mal spoke to at Holyrood, including Duncan, mentioned Lady Mary. Either they did not remember that Wilfort had daughters or didn’t realize that at least one of them remained in Scotland.
Wilfort and Halsey were being kept in separate rooms—so they wouldn’t plot, Duncan explained. Mal went to see Wilfort first.
Lord Wilfort looked up blankly when Mal entered the tiny room. The Englishman was seated at a small wooden table in the middle, and Mal sat down on the stool opposite him, studying him across the boards.
Wilfort had a thin, rather sharp face, but a regularity of features that told Mal he’d been handsome as a lad. Mary had the same clarity of face, the cheekbones that spoke of a Nordic ancestor long ago. They’d not let Wilfort don a wig, and his shaved head bore a uniform dusting of gray hair. He looked more formidable without the wig, in Mal’s opinion, the man’s hard face and eyes prominent.
Wilfort’s frown deepened as Mal continued to gaze at him. “Are you here to interrogate me?” Wilfort asked in a voice filled with ennui. “Get on with it, if you please. I’m promised the filth you call food in a few minutes.”
“Is the cut on Mary’s face your work?” Mal asked. “Or Halsey’s?”
Wilfort started, then his expression cleared. “Ah, you must be the conspirator she refused to name.” A scowl settled on his fine-boned face. “I should have you arrested for abduction, sir. If anything happens to Audrey, I will have your balls on a platter.”
Mal rested his arms on the table, pretending to relax. “I said the same thing to the captain who sailed the boat to France. Your daughter should be there by now, in the house of a friend of mine. My brother is there to see they want for nothing.”
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