“And this Tav?”
“Just another urchin he fostered. Too big for the chimneys, too small for the mines,” she said and didn’t admit that the lad’s happy smile had stolen her heart years ago, long before old Pete’s death. “I hope to see him educated. Find him a trade.”
“There are better ways to go about it than this, lass.”
She heard him approach from behind, felt his hand on her shoulder, and knew he was not immune to her charms.
“Like I says, I’m not one for whoring.”
“’Twas not exactly what I had in me mind,” he said.
She turned her head slightly. The chemistry was back, that sharp twang of interest sparked by his strength and an unexpected sense of humor. But she had no need for chemistry. “Ahh, shall we call it love then?”
He paused a second. “If you like,” he said and turned her toward him. But in that instant she lifted the solid pitcher and swung for his head with all her might. It struck the side of his pate like a hammer. He staggered backward. It wasn’t until that moment that she noticed the bracelet dangling from his fingers.
He stared at her, then dropped to his knees, big body slumping. “I but meant ye could keep the brilliants,” he said.
“Oh,” she breathed, but a commotion outside caught her attention. No time for regrets or apologies or second guesses. Snatching up her purloined possessions, she fled.
“So you insist on continuing on this foolhardy path?” Father Thomas’s tone was disapproving, his face pinched as he leaned heavily on a hewn oak cane.
“I was a stranger and you took me in.” Brenan Mackay enjoyed quoting scripture to Father. It made him livid. “When I was hungry--”
“I know the gospel of Matthew far better than a bloody mercenary.” The old man oft reminded Mackay that he did not belong behind hallowed walls.
“Then you’ll know ‘tis our duty to help those in need.”
“They’re thieves and cutthroats, born of thieves and cutthroats,” Father said. “You truly believe you can set them right?”
“I believe we can but try.”
“As you tried with that girl?”
Mackay stifled a wince, remembering the feel of the pitcher against his head. Not a single dent had appeared in the pitcher. He couldn’t say the same of his head. “As I said at the outset, I am sorry to have lost the coins.”
“As well you should be. It is not as though we took you in for your spiritual gifts, Mackay.”
They had taken him in with the hope that his massive presence would discourage just the sort of thing that had happened with the girl. Well, for that and the coin he had to offer the coffers. She had been right, after all; killing people had paid considerably better than saving them. Thus, they had struck a deal; he would guard the sanctuary in exchange for the right to collect money in an effort to free a child from poverty now and again. “I believe I have guarded the church well enough these past nine months,” he said.
“Had I known you’ve a weakness for women I would not have accepted you at the start.”
“We all fall short of the glory of God.”
“Don’t quote scripture to me, you hulking Highlander.”
Mackay almost laughed. He shouldn’t enjoy seeing his superior riled. He was sure of that, but the girl…Swift Torree…he had learned her name some days after first hearing her melodious voice, would turn the head of any man who still breathed. Except perhaps Father Thomas. His fondness for ale made all other weaknesses dim by comparison.
“As you are sure aware, I replaced the coin that was taken with me own. Added to that what’s been collected in the past, I believe I have enough to free a wee lad from the streets.”
“You’ve replaced the coin.”
“Aye.”
“That makes me wonder from whence a postulant of this humble church secured those funds.”
So he was a postulant now. Earlier, he had been informed that he would not be accepted to that lofty position until he had proven himself worthy.
“No answer to that, Mackay?”
He brought his attention back to the aging clergy. “Be not curious in unnecessary matters; for more things are shewed onto thee than--”
“Cease--” cried the priest and raised his cane as if to strike, but Mackay caught it easily.
“I shall be going to Cryton’s hovel,” he said, “and I shall take the coin with me.”
Turning, he dropped the money pouch into the horsehair sporran that hung from his belt and left the ancient kirk. It was only a middling walk to Old Town. Less than a full mile. The city disintegrated with every stride.
Near Gregor Wynd, an old woman sat hunched and immobile on a stump fashioned into a stool. Outside a tilted pub, a dog leaned against its leash and snarled a slavering warning.
At the corner of two crooked, unmarked streets, a tall, narrow house slumped toward an alley. Its foundation was sagging, its mortar crumbling. Two men lounged beside the listing door. One was tall and scrawny. The other was short and scrawny.
They rose warily to their feet as he stopped nearby.
“Sod off,” said the smaller of the two.
“Good day to you, too, lad,” Mackay rumbled.
The pair glanced narrowly at him then each other.
“Who the devil are you and what do you want?”
“I am naught but a man of peace,” Mackay said and gave them his best smile, but some had likened his best to a snarling glower.
“Gaw, them men of peace be awful big buggers these days ain’t they?” the tall one said and his companion guffawed.
Mackay made certain his own expression never changed. To this sort fear was like the scent of blood to a starving hound. “I’ve come to see Cryton.”
The short, scrawny lad shifted restlessly. “I don’t know no one by that name.”
“Nay?" He held his smile with stout resolve. “Then I’ve come to see whoever you’re beholden to.”
“I ain’t beholden to no man,” said the tall one, but just then the door opened. A round-faced fellow with a top hat set at a jaunty angle sauntered through, his right arm thrown over the bare shoulders of a woman one could only call a trollop.
“Ho there, what goes on here?” he asked, voice jovial and a little too loud.
“This bloke here says he wants to talk to Cryton. I says I don’t know no one by that name.”
The man in the top hat shifted his gaze to Mackay and smiled. “Brother Brenan,” he said. “You have to forgive Kerry here. He don’t have no good memory. ‘Tis a pleasure to see you again.”
Mackay remained as he was. He was a man of peace, but at times such as these it was difficult to remember why. “I’ve come for a boy,” he said.
The man called Cryton stared at him for a moment, then threw back his head and guffawed at the murky sky. “Ahh, you wouldn’t know it to look at him would you, luv?” he said, addressing the girl at his side. “But the big beast of a Highlander here has a weakness for the lads.”
The girl turned her eyes toward Mackay, but they were all but dead to the world. Too far gone to save. He had seen it a hundred times.
“I heard you have a child called Burch.”
“Burch?” Cryton grinned again. His teeth were straight and unstained. His soul was not. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Brother. We’re good-hearted people here. But we ain’t running no foundry.”
“Nay, you’re--” Mackay began, but stopped himself carefully. “I’ve coin for his release, same as the last time.”
“Release! You make it sound as if we’ve got children chained to the walls. That’s not the case a’tall, is it, Sil?”
The tall fellow shook his head.
“Sure we stumble across the odd orphan now and again, but we do the godly thing. Give them a place to sleep, maybe a loaf of bread to keep ‘em from death’s yawning door.”
Anger rumbled ominously in Mackay’s innards. “You make them steal and beat them senseless if they fail to pro
duce--” He stopped himself again. “As I said at the outset, I’m a man of peace and willing to pay for the child.”
Cryton canted his head. “Wear out the last lad so soon, did you?”
Mackay felt his hands grind into fists. “There are brothels and rum houses on half the streets in this burg. Bring the boy out now or I’ll take me coin elsewhere.”
“I’m telling you, I don’t have no spare lads lying about.”
Mackay stared at him a long moment, then nodded once and turned away, but Cryton caught his arm. Mackay stared at the hand on his biceps, kept his emotions in careful check, then slowly glanced over his shoulder at the offender.
The younger man dropped his hand and took a cautious step back. “All the lads are out earning their keep.” He grinned, but his cockiness had frayed a bit. “Delivering milk and whatnot. Ain’t that right, Annie, luv?” he asked. She nodded vaguely, eyes bruised and ancient.
“Why don’t you come in and sit for a bit?” Cryton invited. “They’re certain to be back soon.”
“Aye.” The shorter of the two guards pushed the door wide. It moaned like a tortured ghost. “Aye, come on in. We’ll fetch you some tea and crumpets.”
Mackay knew better than to comply. Knew a serpent when he heard its hiss, but according to his sources the boy named Burch had just arrived there two days before. Not too long to bring him back from the brink. Not too long to find his soul.
He took a long step across the broken threshold.
Inside, it was dark and musty. Debris was scattered across the bare wood floor. He scanned it briefly. No children were in sight, but a slim woman stood against the far wall with her back toward them. She was dressed in a ragged, gray frock facing a window that had long ago lost its panes.
“Here we are. Home sweet home. It looks a bit rough now, but… Swift!” His tone took on a bright menace. “I believe I told you to clean up this mess.”
Mackay’s heart thumped at the sound of the name, stopped as she turned toward them.
It was her in flesh and blood. The lass who had struck him unconscious. The lass who had stolen the kirk’s alms. But what had they done to her? There was a welt on her temple and purple bruises stretched like long fingers across her throat. Chains encircled her ankles, chafing the skin of her bare feet, but her eyes were the same, sparking with intellect, snapping with life.
Their gazes met with a clash. For a second there was something there. Hope or regret or fear. He wasn’t sure which, but in a moment she turned to Cryton and smiled. “Go to hell.” Her voice was as softly melodious as he remembered.
The villain’s lips curved into a snarl. Then he leapt across the floor and struck her across the face. She staggered back, hitting the wall with a sickening thud.
The sheer violence of it stole Mackay’s breath away, but Cryton was moving again, grabbing her by the hair, drawing back his fist for another strike.
Without being entirely aware he had moved, Mackay crossed the distance and caught the villain’s wrist, twisting hard then turning to watch the room at large.
“Hey!” Sil yelled. “Let him go ‘less you want your brains spattered clear to Holyrood.”
Mackay stood perfectly still, eyes steady on the man with the pistol. “I’m a man of peace.” The words were more for himself than anyone. A mild reminder not to snap the other’s arm like a dry chicken bone. “Don’t make me do something for which I must pay penance.”
“Get your fookin’ hands off me!” Cryton snarled.
Mackay smiled. The expression felt predatory and tight. “That which cometh out of the mouth, this defileth the man.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” Cryton hissed, bent away at the waist.
“I’m talking about you telling the tall scrawny lad there to put the gun down.”
“Go to-”
Mackay cranked up his arm a little, refusing to enjoy the other’s whimper of pain.
“Sil!” he shrieked. “God dammit, drop the pistol.”
“But--”
“Drop it!”
Mackay watched it hit the floor and drew a careful breath through his nose. “Now tell the other scrawny lad to drop the knife.”
“He ain’t got no--”
A little more pressure on his arm. “Tell him.”
“Kerry!”
An eight inch blade struck the hardwood.
“Much better.”
“You’re dead, You’re worse than dead,” Cryton snarled, but Mackay ignored him.
“I’ve changed me mind,” he announced to the room, looking at no one in particular. “I want the lass there instead of the boy.”
A slow smile spread across Cryton’s pale complexion. “Titties like that could make a saint randy, aye?”
Mackay refrained from shattering the bone, though it was a close thing. “You’ll let her go,” he said.
“The fook I will. She was poaching goods on my turf.”
“Leave her to me. She’ll poach no more.”
“Going to keep her too busy on her back to-” he began then grunted in pain.
“Unchain her and I’ll give you the coin intended for the lad.”
Cryton sniggered. “You’re bad cooked, old--”
“What lad?” Swift asked.
Mackay didn’t turn toward her, though he heard her chains clatter as she moved. “Release her,” he ordered.
“What lad?” she asked again and strode toward him, links jangling. He glanced at her against his will. Anger burned like acid at the sight of her bruises.
“Good Brother Brenan here comes to our side of town to buy a fair-haired lad now and again,” Cryton said.
“Why?” Her eyes were steady.
“Why do you think, girl?” Cryton asked and made a rude gesture with the arm that wasn’t trapped behind his back.
Her face paled as she turned toward Mackay. “Is that true?”
He said nothing in his defense.
“The boy in the kirk…” She paused as if remembering back. “The one eating bread and jam…” She cleared her throat. “The one you called Rye. He was one of them?”
“I did not bring him from here,” Mackay said.
“But you took him in. Fed him.”
“Maybe he likes his slaves fat when he foo-” Cryton began then shrieked in pain.
Swift jerked her gaze from Cryton to Mackay. “Tavis….you’ll find him in Newberry House on Wendy Close. Take him. He’s a good lad. Kind hearted. Take him before stench like this get their hands on him.
“Stench am I?” Cryton snarled.
“Go now!” Swift pleaded. “Before…”
But just then there was a sliver of noise from behind, a momentary warning. Mackay twisted about. A pistol appeared against the moldering window frame. Fire exploded from its muzzle. Pain seared the side of his head. Swift screamed He stumbled backward. Something struck him from behind, and then he fell, dropping into darkness.
“Are you alive?” a voice hissed.
Mackay opened his eyes, but it did little good. The world was as black as old sins. His head pounded with pain, his body throbbed with feverish heat.
“Wake up.” The voice again, whispered from deep shadows. But he recognized it as Swift’s. It was still melodious though it had lost the polished sheen he’d first heard from her lips.
“Where am I?” His own voice was barely human, guttural with pain, rusty with disuse.
“The cellar.”
Thoughts swirled murkily in his head. Memories streamed past. “Beneath Cryton’s hovel?”
“Aye.”
“And the lads he keeps?”
“Upstairs.”
He nodded. She exhaled quietly as if she’d been holding her breath.
“For such a brawny big bloke, you go down terrible easy, Highlander.” Her words may have been sardonic, but her voice trembled, cranking up a little guilt for the worry he had caused her. “Do you oft let others knock you unconscious?”
He raised a hand
, testing the wound. Pain shot through him, but the bullet seemed to have just grazed his skull. As luck went, that was as good as his was likely to get. “’Tis a poor habit of mine. That I see now.”
“And little else in this damnable hole. Why the devil-”
“This defileth the man.” he quoted numbly. His head rocked with pain.
She was silent for a moment. “You don’t approve of cursing?”
“Nay, but this seems the proper place for it if there be such a thing.”
“Can you sit?”
He shifted, trying. It took all his effort, but finally he was slumped against the rocky wall. She sat beside him, leaning her head against the damp stone. He saw now for the first time that she was chained again and realized that he was too.
“Are you well?” he asked.
“Well?” There may have been humor in her voice, which did not seem quite right considering the circumstances. “They’ve taken my hard-won baubles. I’m chained to a wall, and…oh, Cryton plans to kill me upon his return, but otherwise, aye, I’m fair to middling.”
“Why would he wish you dead?”
Beloved Beast Page 3
