by Fiona Faris
Chapter Fourteen
“What now?” Chris jumped, not having heard Onesmus come up behind him.
“Lawks!” he exclaimed, turning to find that his lieutenant had his eye on Rebecca’s retreating back.
“How did your mission go?” he asked instead of answering the question.
Onesmus shrugged. “We left ‘em in the forest, tied up but not too tight that if they’re halfway competent, they should be able to get loose.”
Chris nodded. “Let’s hope they are otherwise MacTavish will be impossible to placate.”
Onesmus gave him a sharp glance. “Are we looking to placate him?”
In that moment, Onesmus looked every bit the assassin he was.
“If we can settle this peacefully, I would prefer it. What about you?” Chris challenged.
Onesmus shrugged, looking away. “What do we do with them now?” he inclined his chin at the retreating figures of the two girls, their heads close together. They were probably plotting. “Do we keep them locked up?”
Chris looked thoughtfully after his wife. “No. I think that if we are to settle this peacefully we should try and have her on our side. I think I can swing it, but we shall have to give her a little trust.”
Onesmus huffed a laugh. “Some of the men won’t like that.”
“I’m aware. I shall take care to explain it to them in a language they can understand.” He fingered the axe he carried in his belt.
Onesmus laughed. “Good luck.”
Chris turned to him. “So, what steps have we taken to prepare for the arrival of MacTavish?”
“We have rotating patrols all over the village. Frank, Ronald and John are taking turns watching the road. Julius and Sebastian are at the blacksmith’s, forging a few more weapons. We’ll be ready.”
Chris nodded in satisfaction. “Good. Now we need to cultivate goodwill in the village. Can’t rely on intimidation when they have alternatives. We gotta start wooing them.”
“Just like you’re wooing your wife?”
Chris gave him a sharp glance but Onesmus was merely grinning mischievously. “Exactly like that.” He said drily.
“You know some of the men are more of blunt instruments and have no idea about finesse.”
Chris laughed soundlessly. “Don’t I know it. They’ll be useful when MacTavish comes around. There is no way that we shall settle this without a fight. But I do intend to come out on top.” He shook his head. “It’s time we had a home of our own.”
Onesmus clapped him on the shoulder. “I am with you brother.”
Chris nodded. “I know.”
When Avery had helped Chris take over Killian Wyatt’ establishments, there was a price to be paid. Regardless of whether Chris had expressed his desire to be free of any affiliations, Avery had insisted that as payment for his help, he was expected to join their gang, or leave England.
“That was not our deal.” Chris insisted angrily, his eyes flicking to Onesmus in betrayal.
“We understand that Killian treated you like a serf, underneath his boot. It is not so with us. You shall have your freedom, and only be called upon to carry out jobs.”
Chris was already shaking his head. “No.”
“I’m afraid I must insist.” Avery said coming to stand close enough to Chris that he was almost breathing directly into Chris’ mouth.
“And I am afraid that I cannot accede.” Was Chris’ reply.
Avery sighed, looking disappointed. He shook his head sadly. “That is indeed disappointing.” He looked toward Vicky. “What shall we do with him?”
Vicky shrugged. “What we do with all traitors I suppose.” She said.
Chris widened his eyes at her, surprised. She had seemed to understand him so well when they first spoke about ending his service to Killian. For her to turn on him was a blow to his faith in humanity.
“Onesmus?” Avery called, “You brought him to us. So it is up to you to take him out.”
Chris locked eyes with the assassin. His grey eyes were cold and dead and Chris despaired. But he was determined. Better dead than under the thumb of yet another master. Onesmus nodded once, shortly and then he grabbed Chris by the arm, dragging him away.
Chris did not resist.
He was aware that he had made Avery twice as powerful as he had been before by handing him Killian’s territories. He did not think there was anywhere he could run where they would not catch him. Perhaps if he went to Scotland…he had heard the women were hardy yet comely up there. But he would be dead long before he reached the border. Better to yield and die like a man.
Onesmus led him to a familiar looking warehouse and ushered for him to enter. “There is drink and food. Help yourself. I shall be back tonight.”
Chris stared at him in shock. “What is this? My last meal?”
Onesmus gave him a half smile, “Something like that. Now will you go in on your own or do I make you go in?”
Chris walked into the warehouse of his own volition. He had no desire to get into useless tussles. Better to save his energy in case there was an opportunity to escape. He spent his time exploring the space, looking for a way out but quickly realized that the only escape was the door he’d come through. He was quite sure that was guarded so he decided to turn his attention to weapons. If he could get his hands on a knife or a gun, or any blunt object made of something hard…he could fight his way out. Then he would have to decide what to do next. He had no friends, no networks to rely on; just his own two feet.
He shrugged inwardly. He would get as far as possible and when he could not run anymore, he would face his death with dignity. It was just not his nature to lie back and allow someone to kill him without putting up a fight.
He felt around for a flint and steel for the room was windowless and therefore quite dark. Finding them on the table next to the candle, he occupied his time getting some light. He decided that food might not be a bad idea, after sniffing it to make sure it wasn’t poisoned. He searched around to see if he could find some of that brandy he’d been offered the last time he’d been in the warehouse but all he found was ale. Shrugging, he took a long swig and then set about searching for anything he could use as a weapon.
The candelabrum was solid brass but short forby. He tried to kick out one of the chair legs but the carpentry work on that was solid. He sighed, looking around for anything else. He ran out of time because Onesmus was opening the door and gesturing for him to get out.
“You do not want to do this.” Chris pleaded.
Onesmus said nothing, just gestured for him to get out, again. Chris sighed, doing as he was told. He wondered how Onesmus would do it. A pistol shot to the back of his head? Perhaps a knife in his back? That sounded apt, considering that they had betrayed him. Onesmus led him through back alleys and side streets, keeping one hand on his arm in case Chris had any thoughts of escaping.
Chris actually had many thoughts of escaping but he was waiting to recognize the area where they were, or to see an opening. Onesmus’ was maybe as good an assassin as Chris was. To outwit him would not be easy. Eventually, they ended up at the docks, much to Chris’ surprise. There was not much activity at this time of the evening and Onesmus led him to the muddy shores. He turned to face him, handing him a small cup.
“”Drink.” He said.
“And if I don’t?”
Onesmus sighed. “Look, Avery wants me to kill you, so you have to be dead. That is the only way.”
“Or I could kill you.”
Onesmus shrugged. “He would simply send somebody else after you. If you drink the liquid, maybe you have a chance.”
“A chance at what?”
“Surviving.”
Chris frowned. “You need to explain yourself.”
Onesmus looked around as if expecting that they were being watched. Now that he thought of it, Chris thought it was likely that they were. “That elixir will make it seem as if you are dead. It wears off after twelve hours. Enough time for Avery’
s vultures to ensure that you are indeed dead and then it will be up to me to ‘get rid’ of the body.”
Chris stared. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I am a man of my word. And I promised that we would help set you free.”
Chris gave him a wry smile. “Death is a kind of freedom.”
Onesmus returned the smile in kind. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. We cannot know until we are dead, no?”
Chris raised both eyebrows at this unexpected bit of profoundness. “Indeed.”
He grabbed the cup and threw the liquid down his throat before handing back the cup with a shrug. “I suppose I shall know whether you have killed me or not in twelve hours.”
“I suppose you shall.” Onesmus agreed just before Chris’ world went dark.
Rebecca knocked tentatively on the study door, where Chris was frowning at some papers. “May I come in?”
He looked up with a vague smile. “Of course.”
Rebecca walked to the desk, craning her eyes to see what he was working on.
“I am simply looking over the household accounts,” he said without looking up.
Rebecca stiffened. “Those are not for yer eyes.”
He looked up at her, challenge in his eyes. “If I am to run things here, I have to know how we are doing, don’t you think so dear wife?”
Rebecca’s lips tightened in anger. “Ye don’t run things yet.”
“Yet.” He repeated, “I believe in being prepared.”
Rebecca looked away, visibly swallowed her spleen before returning her eyes to his. “I have a request to make of ye.”
“Go ahead.” He folded his arms, looking up at her with interest.
“I would like to get some of our day workers back to continue with house renovation and repair. It was what I was tasked with when I came here and I dinna want to let my brother down again.”
“Again?” Chris lifted a surprised eyebrow, “When did you let him down?”
Rebecca got to her feet, “When I allowed ye in my bed.”
Chris barked a laugh. “You think so? Would he not want you to allow your husband to bed you? Or is there more to your relationship with your brother than mere sibling affection?” he meant his tone to be nasty but still felt regretful when she paled.
“How dare ye?”
He leaned forward, placing his fisted hands on the table so as to get closer to her, “Oh I dare. I am your husband, and just because you are back in the bosom of your home does not mean you get to forget it.”
Her color was still high but she looked away, visibly fighting for composure. “Can I have my workers back or not?”
He shrugged. “Do whatever you like.”
She turned to the door without another word and stomped out. He sighed, rolling his eyes, and sat back down, pulling the accounting ledger toward himself. For a man who came from nothing, the MacTavish had done a good job establishing a solid foundation for Dun Alba. Now it was up to Chris to build on that and prove that he was worthy. There was not much time – he expected that Rebecca’s brother would come riding to the rescue any day now. His men had reported that one of the serving boys had ridden out as soon as they had cleared the village limits.
That was fine.
He was prepared.
Rebecca rode to the village with Frances, noting how the occupants avoided her eye as they passed her on the road. Frances filled her in on the brigands’ activities in the village – patrolling, collecting tolls, and generally acting like they were in charge of the place. Rebecca did not know what to do about that. Not without any help from her men or her brother. All she could do was try to curb their excesses perhaps by speaking with Chris.
So far, according to Frances, there had been no violence. But that could be because the villagers were cowed. She did not want the people to live in fear. Perhaps she could make Chris see that fear only worked so far and the best way to get the villagers to accept him and his rule was to show some benevolence. Her stomach turned at the thought of helping him. It felt like a double betrayal of her brother but what could she do? She knew that Alexander would expect her to do everything in her power to keep their charges safe. And the villagers were their charges. That she knew for sure.
She stopped off at the dressmaker’s because Alexander had retained her son to run errands for him. She had not seen him since they came back but he would be the best means to get word to the rest of their workers that it was business as usual. The woman came to the door, looking anxious.
“Madame. How may I help you?”
Rebecca shook her head. “I dinna need help. Is yer son aboot? I need him to carry messages for me.”
The woman looked immediately anxious.
“It is alright. The master of these…men that patrol the village now is agreeable. No harm will come to him.” Rebecca was pained to have to acknowledge that there might be a shift in power but she did not want to worry the poor woman any more than she already was.
“Oh…well then. I shall fetch him for you.”
Rebecca nodded. “Thank ye.”
Frances leaned in toward her. “Are you sure this is a good idea? What if…he…does something to us?”
Rebecca rolled her eyes but took care to look Frances in the eye. “He needs me Frances. He means to negotiate with my brother for control of Dun Alba. He has to keep me happy for now.”
“The men that follow him, they look like they might want to attack you.”
“Aye well…” Rebecca shrugged wryly, “I expect they dinna ken what to make of me.”
Frances opened her mouth and then closed it. Rebecca’s gaze sharpened.
“What is it?”
Frances looked away.
“Oh come, not ye too. How am I to help ye if ye won’t talk to me.”
Frances sighed. “It’s just…you and he are…very cozy together. Even I hardly know what to make of you.”
Rebecca stared at her in shock. “It’s still me, Frances. We both want the same thing. For things to go back to the way they were.”
Frances looked skeptical. “But…do we, really?”
Chapter Fifteen
Dun Alba had an elaborate dining table, which had the family crest carved into the center in an intricate design done by a local carpenter. Even after so many years of misuse, all it had needed was a good dusting to have it looking good as new. Since they had moved in, the MacTavishes tended to use the kitchen table for most meals, finding the dining room a little too ornate for their simple tastes.
Chris declared that they would eat their evening repast at the table, ‘with proper silver and everything.’
“We do not have any silver,” Amos informed him blandly.
“But you have plates and all that don’t you?” Chris asked irritably.
“Yes we do.”
“Good. Then get that and make up the table. We shall all eat together on the table.”
Amos inclined his head very slightly to indicate he had heard and shuffled off back to the kitchen. Chris huffed in impatience, not missing the subtle disrespect but unwilling to confront it at the moment. He could only fight so many battles at a time. He went off in search of his wife, so he could inform her that she was required to dress for dinner. Finding her out in the pig pen, distributing feed about for the lone pig to sup on, he paused to watch her, enjoying the site of her derriere in the air, swinging about as she worked. She stopped suddenly, straightening and turning sharply as if she meant to attack.
He stiffened even as she relaxed. “Oh, its ye.” She said as she went back to her self-appointed task.
“Yes, it’s me. Don’t you have servants to do that?”
Rebecca threw an incredulous look over her shoulder at him. “My hands work perfectly fine.”
“Yes, but you’re the lady of the house.”
She snorted. “And so what? Ye expect me to lounge about like they do in London? I am not delicate English flower. Where I come from, everybody pitches in.”
C
hris straightened up, still watching her behind. “I have asked your steward to prepare the dining hall for dinner. We should get a butler.”
That had her unbending and turning, hands on hips. “What are ye aboot the noo?”
“What’s wrong with wanting to sit down together and eat?” he turned and began to walk away, “I hope you plan to wash and change your gown before dinner,” he called behind his shoulder prompting Rebecca to stick her tongue out at him.
