by Tarah Scott
“We are righting a wrong.” The major general pinned him with a hard stare. “Will you come willingly, or must I call the men waiting outside?”
“I will come.”
“Nae!” Emma grabbed his arm. “You cannot go.” She swung her gaze onto the major general. “He isn’t guilty. It is Lord Munro who deserted the men.”
The viscount gave a low laugh. “I see Macleod is still spreading his lies.”
“They are not lies,” Emma cried. “It is the truth. You are the liar. You concocted this lie to save yourself. Who is the real coward, sir?”
Lord Munro stiffened. “Beware, madam. It is no small matter to make accusations against a nobleman.”
Gentle fingers grasped her arm. She spun too face Rhys.
“I must go,” he said.
She shook her head. Tears blurred her vision. “You cannot let them take you. It isn’t right.” A sob escaped her throat.
“Young woman, stand aside,” the major general ordered.
Emma spun to face him. “I will not. You cannot take him.”
“Lieutenant,” the general called.
A shadow appeared in the open doorway and two men entered.
“Take him,” the major general ordered.
Emma shook her head. “Nae. This is wrong.”
The men stepped past Emma and grasped Rhys’s arms.
She seized his arm.
“Emma,” he said in a harsh voice.
She jumped.
“Go to your room,” he ordered.
She shook her head. His eyes snapped onto something behind her. Someone grabbed her arm. She jerked and gasped at sight of Lord Munro’s fingers wrapped around her arm. He yanked her aside.
“Major General,” Rhys growled. “Munro will release her, or I will leave him and your men in a heap on this floor.”
The major general’s eyes flashed, but he said to the viscount, “Release her.”
“Sir—” he began.
“You heard me,” the older man cut in.
The viscount muttered, then released his grip. The major general straightened his jacket and followed Rhys and the men from the shop. Emma stumbled outside after them, but a warning look from Rhys stopped her when she had taken half a dozen steps after them. She stood and watched as they forced him onto a horse, then mounted and rode away.
Chapter Nine
Rhys couldn’t allow himself to look into the storm of Emma’s blue eyes. If he did, he would throw all caution to the wind, knock the heads of the two soldiers together, then kill Munro and run off with her. Rage boiled deep in his gut as he turned his horse away from her and started down the road, the major general in the lead, the two soldiers on either side of him and Munro in the rear.
Munro. The bastard had touched Emma.
He ignored the stares of passersby. The major general had been right about one thing. He shouldn’t have spent a single night under her roof. Good God, he should never have let matters progress so far out of hand. How could he have risked shaming Tory’s sister with an out-of-wedlock child?
Worse, Munro would seek her out just to prove his dominance over Rhys.
He had to clear his name. Once his rank was restored, he could protect her. Marry her.
Rhys recalled the rumor that another Green Jacket had survived the battle. So many men had fallen on the battlefield that day, he couldn’t know who the few survivors might be. The unnamed witness could be one of so many men. If the story were true.
He was such a fool not to have left for England two months ago when the rumor first reached him at Blackstone Abbey. He had to go. Now. But first, he had to get Emma to safety. His imprisonment in the Inverness jail allowed Munro unchallenged access to her. Munro would do as he pleased, and Rhys knew exactly what the man pleased. Rhys had one option: Blackstone Abbey.
He would send a message to Ewan, asking that he come with Kyla and take Emma to Blackstone Abbey where she would be safe until Rhys returned. Would she agree to go? His chest tightened. He would beg her to go. If she refused, when he escaped, he would take her there by force.
It could be months before he saw her again. If he didn’t find the witness, he might never be able to return.
In that case, he would find a way to bring her to France. He would find honest work and care for her.
He groaned inwardly. She was just as likely to think of accompanying him to England. Would she truly chance marriage to an escaped deserter? Her sweet face rose in memory. She deserved a safe home. The Colonies, perhaps. No one would follow them there. Nae, he had to clear his name here, in Scotland, and reclaim his estate. He had an obligation to Ewan and the others at Blackstone Abbey.
They turned right onto another street. Rhys closed his eyes and recalled the warm press of her mouth against his. Her soft gasp when he entered her. Rhys cut off the fantasy. He would drive himself insane if he wasn’t careful. Emma would go to Blackstone Abbey and he would go to England.
***
After the jailhouse lamps were extinguished, Rhys fell into a fitful sleep. The creak of a door opening yanked him awake. He pushed off the thin mattress on the floor and approached the bars. Lamplight lit the far end of the jail’s short corridor. He was the only prisoner. A late-night visitor could not be a good thing. A man’s form came into view, a lantern in hand. Beside him—
Rhys drew a sharp breath. He would recognize that cloaked figure anywhere. Emma threw back her hood and Rhys said, “What the bloody hell are you doing here, Emma?”
They reached his cell and the man said, “Ye have five minutes,” then retreated to the far cell and set the lantern at his feet.
Emma stepped close to the bars. “Are you unharmed?”
“Emma, you are to go home and never return here,” he growled.
“I sent a message to your friends at Blackstone Abbey,” she said, as if he’d not spoken.
“Blackstone Abbey?” he repeated.
She very well may have saved them.
Rhys stepped closer to the bars. “Listen to me, when Ewan arrives, you are to go to Blackstone Abbey with him.”
“What?” Her brow furrowed. “Nae. I will not leave you.”
“You will do as I say,” he said.
She shook her head. “I will not let them put you in prison.”
Rhys glanced toward the jailer who leaned against the wall, eyes closed, then murmured, “I have no intention of going to prison. But I cannae’ clear my name knowing you are in danger.”
“You are going to clear your name? I can help.”
He blew out a frustrated breath. “I am going to England.”
“England? But why?”
“There is no time to explain. Do you trust me?”
She nodded. “But—”
“But nothing, Emma. It is my way or prison.”
She hesitated. “I can help.”
“Nae, lass, in this, you cannot help, and I cannot leave knowing Munro will come for you the instant I am gone.” She opened her mouth to reply and he added, “You know full well he will come, and you know what he will do to you.”
Her shoulders slumped.
“Pack immediately,” Rhys said. “When Ewan receives your missive, he will set out right away.”
She met his gaze. “Can I come with him to say goodbye?”
“As long as you are accompanied by Ewan. He will protect you with his life.”
She nodded, and his chest tightened at sight of the moisture in her eyes.
She started to turn away, and he said, “Emma.”
She paused and turned back.
“Lass, I…” He suddenly felt like a schoolboy. “I love you.”
Her eyes widened.
“I know it isn’t much,” he added in a rush, “but once I restore my honor, I will try to make you happy. If, that is, you want me.”
She took two quick steps to the bars, reached through and pulled his face toward hers. When her mouth touched his, he knew that nothing would stop him from findi
ng the witness who could swear that Munro had deserted them on the battlefield that day.
Emma pulled back and said, “You clear your name, Rhys Macleod. I will be waiting.” She spun and walked, head held high, back to the jailer.
Rhys watched. They reached the door, and the man stood aside for Emma to precede him. She looked back in Rhys’s direction for an instant, then disappeared through the open doorway. The door creaked shut. He stared at the door. She’d said she would wait for him.
Rhys threw himself onto the mattress.
Chapter Ten
I love you.
The words were the last Emma thought of when she fell asleep that night and the first she thought of when she woke the following morning. She rose and dressed, then had a quick bite of oatcake and tea. She had received no word from Rhys’s friends at Blackstone Abbey. What if Ewan didn’t come, as Rhys said he would? Nae. Rhys had told her to trust him. Emma scribbled a note for Ewan to let him know she would be at the infirmary, then tacked it to the front door and hurried along the walkway.
The day of the fundraiser for the Royal Northern Infirmary had dawned bright and unseasonably warm. Emma spent the morning with the rest of the women, too busy trailing Mrs. Worsley to fret much over Rhys. They inspected every linen, every garland, every candle.
When the procession reached the second floor, Mrs. Worsley clapped her hands.
“The windows,” she said. “We cannot have a single speck. The major general and Lord Munro will be touring the wards before the ball tonight.”
A cold finger touched Emma’s spine. She’d forgotten that the celebration was to be held at Lord Munro’s mansion. He and the major general would be taking their leisure in a ballroom while Rhys lay on a thin mattress in a cell. Perhaps not. If Ewan arrived before then, surely, he would secure Rhys’s release. She hadn’t thought of it last night, but Rhys must intend for his friend to help him. Otherwise, how would he get out? A horrifying thought occurred. Rhys had agreed that she could go with Ewan to say goodbye to him. That meant— Nae, it couldn’t be. Rhys intended to escape?
“Emma.”
Emma jarred from her thoughts at Mrs. Worsley’s sharp tone.
“What?” Emma looked from her to the other women.
“You are to wash the windows again,” Mrs. Worsley said.
“Yes, Mrs. Worsley.” Emma bobbed a curtsey.
“Molly, join her.”
“Yes, Mrs. Worsley.”
Emma and Molly hurried down to the washroom and began filling buckets with warm water.
“Heavens, was something not spotless?” Molly asked, wrinkling her nose.
Emma smiled, but her thoughts raced as she located a soft linen cloth used to wipe the windows. How could Rhys escape from jail? Surely, he couldn’t.
Molly leaned forward eagerly. “Have you seen the new lad? The one they brought from Edinburgh who can’t recall his name?”
“Nae.” Emma shook her head.
“He arrived yesterday,” Molly continued in a dreamy voice.
“Molly, you aren’t a wee bit moonstruck over him, are you?” Emma teased.
Molly giggled. “He could be a prince, Emma.”
“There hasn’t been one story in the newspaper about a missing prince. More likely, he’s a pauper.”
Molly tossed her a sour look, then stooped to hand her a bucket of soapy water. “You’ll see, Emma. One day, my dreams will come true.”
Emma hoped so. She also hoped her dreams weren’t shattered. No one from Blackstone Abbey had come looking for her. Had her message not reached them?
They lugged their buckets up the back stairs and through the soldiers’ ward. Emma glanced over the row of beds. Which huddled form belonged to Molly’s obsession? With every bed occupied, there was little way to tell. She smiled warmly at one young man looking her way, his head wrapped in bandages, still, after all this time. Emma heaved a sigh and hurried to the end of the hall. The price of war was too steep to pay. She’d lost her entire family. Rhys had lost his honor….and over what?
A moment later, Molly joined her, and they washed the windows in silence.
At last, when they had nearly finished, Mrs. Worsley appeared. “Well done,” she said. “Hurry up and finish. You have just enough time to dress and report for your duties before the celebrations begin.”
They finished, then stored their buckets and rags. When they had donned their cloaks, Molly waved as Emma raced out the door. Emma arrived home to find her note still tacked to the door. Her heart fell. It was but an hour’s ride to the abbey. Perhaps she should go there herself. Darkness was already creeping across the sky. Her heart lurched. Would Rhys spend another night in that dark cell? Where was his friend? Had the jailers even fed him?
She entered the house, already swinging her cloak off her shoulders, when she caught sight of an envelope on the floor a couple feet from the door. Emma scooped up the letter, hung her cloak on a nearby hook, then turned the envelope over. Her breath caught. The return address named a hospital in—she jarred—Portugal.
Portugal.
Where Tory had fought and died?
Emma glanced toward the open doorway as if she might somehow see the battlefield, then shook off the strange feeling and tore open the letter.
August 11, 1812
Emma,
By now, no doubt, you believe me dead.
Emma yanked her gaze down to the signature.
Tory
The room spun. She staggered back a pace. Tory? She stumbled to the stairs and collapsed onto a step as her eyes devoured the letter.
August 11, 1812
Emma,
By now, no doubt, you believe me dead. I nearly was. After the battle, I was found by the men who cleared the battlefield. They also thought me dead. Someone realized I was breathing, however, and called a doctor. I have been in the hospital since, unconscious. I know, it is too fantastical to be believed. Only three days ago I awoke, and today, I could speak well enough to ask for pen and paper.
I pray God you are well and have not mourned me terribly. I am healing well. I received your letter telling me about our father’s death.
Her heart squeezed. He’d received her letter. He knew about Papa. Emma closed her eyes and pressed the letter to her heart for a long moment. Of course, he knew. He was her twin. She’d thought him dead. Rhys had said Tory died in his arms. Rhys had reentered the battle after that: to die, she realized with a sob. Emma sent up a silent prayer of thanks that the two men she loved had been spared, then opened her eyes and read.
I am sorry, lass. When I return, we will visit Father’s grave together. Did he see you safely married? By now, you must have a bairn or two.
Have you met my friend Rhys? I told him to find you. He is a brave man. Ange vengeur. He saved those of us he could after Major Ross deserted us.
Emma stared at the words ‘after Major Ross deserted us.’ William Ross, Viscount Munro. Tory knew of Lord Munro’s desertion? Her heart began to pound. Rhys would be free. Tory was alive and Rhys would be free. Her eyes blurred through tears as she read the final words,
He saved me. If not for him pulling me off the field, I would have surely died beneath the dead. I will return soon, Stinkpot. If that husband of yours is not treating you right, I will shoot him.
Love,
Your brother
Tory
Emma wasn’t certain how long she sat on the stairs, but when she finally rose, she climbed the stairs with one thought in mind: to find the major general and show him Tory’s letter. Rhys would be a free man tonight.
In her room, Emma withdrew her best dress from the armoire. She had only one dress decent enough to help her pass as one of the guests instead of the serving girl she was supposed to be. She surveyed the dress she’d sewn during her affair with the vicar, intended as her wedding gown. She’d never worn it. It was made of a fine white muslin with a French lace trim and pink ribbon rosettes. How apropos that she should wear this dress on a night when
she would pretend to be something she wasn’t—a lady.
She cleaned herself, then quickly dressed and wrapped her hair in a simple chignon at the nape of her neck. When she looked in the mirror, the determined woman who stared back was as beautiful as any woman who would attend the party. All she had to do was pass through the door without notice. Once inside, she would find the major general and show him Tory’s letter.
Emma grabbed a wrap from the armoire, then pulled her velvet reticule from the drawer and dropped in enough coin for a cab. Tonight, she would arrive in a hackney. Nights were far too dangerous to walk the streets alone dressed as a real lady. She folded Tory’s letter and stuffed it inside, then headed downstairs.
When Emma stepped from the cab twenty minutes later in front of Lord Munro’s mansion, strains of an orchestra wafted to her from inside the well-lit ballroom. Carriages lined the road, each bringing wealthy sponsors whose generous charity had built the new ward.
The driver touched the brim of his hat as she laid his fare in his hand along with a modest gratuity. Emma took a deep breath and climbed the half dozen steps to the door. A smartly dressed footman opened the door and stood aside as she entered the mansion as if she belonged there.
A burst of color and lights nearly blinded her as she entered the ballroom. For a moment, Emma was shocked into inaction and froze. She had never seen a room so grand. Heat flooded her cheeks at sight of the beautiful women on the dance floor who wore extravagant dresses that flared and swayed in the bright candlelight. She’d been a fool to think the dress she wore could disguise the fact that she was a member of the working class.
Breathe, Emma, she told herself. You are inside. That is all you need.
Emma started when she spotted Molly, carrying a tray of champagne. Emma started to turn, but Molly spotted her. The girl’s eyes widened, and panic sent Emma’s heart into a gallop.
Molly reached her and said, “Emma, what are you doing here dressed like that?” Her saucer-wide eyes lifted to her face. “Mrs. Henderson is furious that you have not shown up in the kitchen. She plans to tell Mrs. Worsley. She is going to have an apoplexy when she discovers you are here at a guest. Are you here as a guest?”
