MacGregor's Bride

by Barbara Dan

  "Ready?" 'Father' Seth looked like a pale saintly Jesus in his black robe.

  "As ready as I'll ever be."

  Leaving the boarding house, all three climbed into a hired carriage. Seth drove, while they went over the plan one last time. Even so, in the back of her mind, there lingered a gnawing fear.

  Suddenly she gripped Andrew's arm. "No matter what happens, promise you'll get Bruce and all those men out safely."

  He patted her ice cold hand. "Relax, it's going to work like a charm, believe me."

  "I put enough drug in that bottle to put the guards out for two days," Seth assured her with a malevolent chuckle. "Just drug the guards, and then you hightail it back to the ship."

  "I will, I will," she whispered tensely.

  "Leave everything to us, Lydia," said Andrew. "We have men and two longboats standing by to take Bruce and his men out to the ship. "The rest is up to God," Andrew said cheerfully.

  Lydia glanced up at him and felt an involuntary shiver pass through her. Why couldn't she shake this horrible fear? All this play-acting was making her overwrought. Nothing would go wrong. They had covered every possibility. Or had they?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Just past seven o'clock, they reached the prison gates. The northern sky was still light, surely one of the longest days Lydia had ever known. Up before daybreak, they had been on the run ever since. Edgy with anticipation, she let her brother help her down from the carriage and stood waiting, while Andrew pulled the bell to summon the guard.

  The sergeant peered at them through the iron bars of the front gate.

  "Oh, Father," he said, recognizing Graham. "What brings you at this hour?"

  "We've come to confess a new convert," Andrew said smoothly. "A very sick man. Not likely to last the night, I'm told."

  "An' who might that be?" The sergeant scratched his head.

  Lydia stood on tiptoe, speaking around Andrew. "A young man named Lance Adamson. I spoke with him this afternoon."

  The sergeant nodded. "He was taken to the infirmary late this afternoon, I believe."

  "Oh, then it's urgent that we see him," Lydia said. "Open the door, Sergeant."

  "Well, I don't know—" The man started to move away from the door.

  "Please!" she cried, now desperate. "Have you no thought for his immortal soul?"

  The sergeant cracked a wry smile. "If you put it that way, can't say as I do. But—"

  "I'm the new prison chaplain," Andrew snapped authoritatively. "General Sommers gave me permission to come and go as the prisoners' needs dictate."

  The key turned slowly in the lock.

  "I guess it's all right for you to come in," the sergeant said grudgingly.

  "Bless you, my good man." Andrew entered with Lydia and Seth right behind him.

  The prison had cooled with the approach of nightfall. They came to a cell with two dirty cots, and the guard stopped. "There's Adamson," he pointed. "I'll be in the office by the front gate, when you're ready to leave." He spun curtly on his heel and left.

  Andrew bent to examine the prisoner and frowned. "He's burning up with fever."

  The young man's hand shook as he reached out to Lydia. "Don't leave me. I don't . . . want to . . . die alone."

  "You won't." Lydia reassured him. "In a few minutes, Father Andrew and Father Seth will come and take you out of here."

  "Can you stay with me till then?" he asked plaintively.

  She sat on the edge of his cot, stroking his hand gently. "Andrew, we have to get him out of here," she whispered.

  Seth put a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Leave him to us. We'll have the place emptied out before ten."

  Lydia gripped his arm. "When are those two. . .uh, ladies coming?"

  "Not until eight."

  Andrew frowned. "What's that?" A note of suspicion crept into his voice.

  "Oh, nothing," Lydia said hastily. "Seth heard that a couple of women might visit the guards tonight."

  "Oh." Andrew relaxed visibly. "Let's take a look around, Seth."

  Lydia listened to their fading footsteps. Lance lay quietly, comforted by her presence. "I'm sure your mother's cooking will fix you up in a hurry," she said.

  He smiled wanly. "It's not likely I'll ever see her again, this side of heaven."

  "You never can tell," she whispered, afraid to discuss their plans, but wanting to encourage him.

  Lance coughed weakly. "Maybe so . . . I sure do dream about her cooking."

  "Hold onto that dream, Lance," Lydia said softly. "Just hold on . . ."

  But even as she spoke, her gaze fell on gentle Lance, sleeping so peacefully. She touched his face, and it felt cool. She shook her head, thinking it best not to waken him. He needed to conserve his strength for when they escaped. The hand in hers was relaxed now. She laid it by his side, but as she started to get up, her heart gave a lurch. The boy was too still, too—

  Chiding herself for unreasoning fears, she shook him gently. His jaw fell open, and she saw the unmistakable pallor of death.

  "Oh, my God!" she cried, springing to her feet. "No!"

  Was this some ghastly omen? Were they all going to die in this terrible hole?

  In a caged frenzy, she paced, gulping deep breaths of foul air, trying to overcome her growing dread. Why had she ever embarked upon such a reckless enterprise? What if she got them all killed? She struck out at the wall, at the bars on the half-open cell door, hurting her fists, almost glad for the pain. It was no more than she deserved. What lunatic strain had prompted her to put Bruce and all these men in jeopardy? Oh, God! What had she done? Sickened by the enormity of what she had set in motion, Lydia sank to the cold stone floor.

  "Lydia?" Seth was suddenly beside her, helping her up.

  Dashing away her tears, she saw his worried expression, and Andrew behind him.

  "Ready?"

  She breathed deeply to steady herself and nodded, grateful for the calm resolve in Andrew's voice. "It's time," he said.

  "Where are the guards?" she whispered.

  Seth leaned close to her ear. "I suggest you let those two 'ladies' in the gate and send 'em after the two guards by the inside sallyport. We'll take care of the men on the wall."

  "Meanwhile you ply the guard at the front gate with whiskey," Andrew added.

  "I'll do it. Now go!"

  "You have the pistol and the bottle?" Seth asked tensely.

  "Right here, under my robe," she said.

  "See you back at the ship." Andrew gave her cheek a quick buss.

  The tower clock started to chime, and they disappeared like fleet shadows across the compound. The time was past for entertaining doubts.

  Ducking into an empty cell, Lydia threw off the nun's habit, stuffed it under a mattress. She stuck the pistol into the top of her garter. Smoothing her red skirt, she fluffed her hair, picked up the bottle of drugged whiskey, and sauntered out to the main gate.

  As the eighth chime stopped reverberating against her eardrums, the whiskey-roughened, sultry voice of a woman on the other side of the gate floated on the air. "Hey, open the door!"

  "One moment." She lifted the heavy bar, taking care not to drop the bottle.

  A second voice giggled. "Hey, Sally! How'd you get inside before us?"

  From their disheveled appearance, Lydia suspected both women had been "on duty" for quite some time before paying the prison a visit. "Come in, ladies," she whispered.

  The first woman laughed and gave her a nudge. "Wha' cher whisperin' for, honey?"

  "I want our visit to the guards to be a surprise," Lydia said, trying to match her seamy companions' demeanor. She shrugged her dress off her shoulders and pushed her blond hair into an untidy but fetching "do." "Maybe you should tell me your names," she said, as they walked toward the offices. She wondered where the sergeant had gone.

  "I'm Madge. An' this here is Tessie," said the sultry voiced whore. She wore a bright blue dress that rivaled the red one Lydia had on. No wonder Seth had bought her
an "outfit."

  Tessie smelled of cheap perfume and whiskey. She wore heavy rouge, Lydia noticed, and wore a little hat with feathers to match her purple spangly dress. She stumbled into the adjoining office. "Where's my customer?" she giggled, looking around.

  Taking Madge by the arm, Lydia led them into the hallway. "Madge, you and Tessie follow the corridor straight along. I've got two of the handsomest soldiers just dyin' to meet you," she lied. "Invite 'em back to the office. I've got a bottle of the best whiskey money can buy."

  She held up the bottle as an enticement. Madge tried to snatch it, but Lydia evaded her companions easily and waggled a finger. "Now, Madge honey, we'll have a party, just as soon as you get back here with those two h-horny devils." She could only hope her speech sounded convincing enough to pass for one of them.

  "Sure thing, Sally. We'll be right back."

  "Save some of that bottle for me," slurred Tessie, weaving unsteadily.

  "Sure thing, Tessie." Lydia felt that she was acquiring the hang of things in record time. "Just don't let 'em drag you into a dark corner, y'hear now?" She laughed raucously and headed back to the office. "Hurry, girls!"

  Where the devil was the sergeant? She walked through the anteroom and stood uncertainly, listening for the footfall of her intended victim.

  She didn't have long to wait.

  Suddenly two great rough hands grabbed her breasts from behind.

  "Hey, wench, how in hell did you get in here?" the man roared.

  Before she could reply, Lydia felt him lift her bodily, propelling her into the inner office. The sergeant's hands were all over her, and he was certainly no gentleman!

  She landed rather abruptly on the desk's hard surface. Gazing with alarm into his florid face, she saw that the sergeant wasn't averse to taking a nip while on duty. He was also not averse to— She gulped, closing her eyes for the briefest of seconds, and realized she would have to defend her honor, or he'd soon be doing whatever it was he usually did to woman of easy virtue.

  Still clutching her bottle, she tightened her hand into a small fist and walloped him in the eye. He hardly seemed to notice, although it was by no means a weak punch. Lydia decided she had to get his attention. What would a whore do in a situation like this? she asked herself, trying to scoot across the desk's hard surface away from him.

  He caught her by the ankle, ran his hand up her calf, pinching and uttering crude words of appreciation for the feminine pulchritude beneath his fingers.

  "Oh, sir, what's your hurry?" Lydia said, sitting up as best she could. Instead of drawing her leg from his grasp, she carefully set the bottle out of his reach—for later—and winked.

  Sitting there, her skirts up around her knees, her right bosom about to spill over the top of her dress, Lydia tried to make herself everything the bored sergeant had ever dreamed about.

  Sergeant Nielson stopped in his tracks, his eyes and hands hot, a licentious leer on his face. "By God!" he rejoiced. "Honey, let me take a look at you. A woman like you don't come along very often around here!"

  Oh, I'm quite certain of that, Lydia thought to herself and winked again. "You must get lonesome," she said, trying to make her voice low and seductive like Madge's. She reached out and hiked her skirt a couple of inches more, showing her dimpled knees.

  The man's jaw dropped. Lydia could almost see him drool, and she decided to play him like a fish on a line. She had to wait until all three guards were present before opening the bottle. And she certainly had no intention of satisfying any of the primal lust she saw in his beady eyes. She slid off the desk, flashing plenty of ankle. She adjusted her bodice just enough to restore her own sense of security, yet left enough showing to keep him panting like a dog after red meat.

  "Why don't you get comfortable?" Lydia suggested, advancing. She pushed him aggressively into a big office chair, sat on the arm, and began playing with his brass buttons.

  Needing no more encouragement, Sergeant Nielson popped open his tunic to reveal a dirty undershirt and suspenders.

  She intercepted his fingers before they could start undressing her. She gave him a slap on the wrist and another wicked wink. "You want to be a naughty boy, don't you?" she crooned and then twisted away before his arm could capture her waist.

  "Please, sir, don't rush me," she said coquettishly. Frantically she wondered when the two "pros" would return with their prey. "I like to take my time," she told him. "We have all night."

  She sashayed around, making her skirts rustle tantalizingly, and she made sure he saw plenty of cleavage.

  "Do you have glasses?" Lydia inquired with a flashy smile. "I brought some excellent whiskey with me. Why don't we have a party?"

  The idea of an all-night party made Sergeant Nielson's eyes bulge in anticipation. "As long as you're out of here by three in the mornin,' so I don't catch hell from the commander."

  "Sergeant, we have loads of time." She made her voice sound hot and sexy. "I'm Sally. What's your name?" She looked down at him sprawled in the chair and smiled.

  "Calvin," he said huskily, wetting his lips.

  "Oooohh, I like that name. Cal-l-l-vin-n," she said slowly, as though savoring something delicious. "Calvin, sir, you don't suppose—?" Lydia looked around suggestively. "You don't suppose we could invite my two friends, Madge and Tessie, to join us, do you? They're right outside."

  Calvin's eyes lit up like this was his lucky night, or so Lydia guessed, watching him break out in a cold sweat at the thought of not one, but three women at his beck and call.

  "Oh, I mean to keep you all to myself, Calvin, honey," she cooed, twisting a strand of his hair around her finger. "I think Madge and Tessie must have been detained by a couple of your guards, Calvin. Wouldn't it be neighborly to invite them all in to have a drink with us?"

  "Yeah, I guess so."

  Beneath her brazen facade, Lydia was getting nervous. She could see the muscles under the sergeant's shirt straining and the bulge in his breeches.

  "Of course, after a wee little drinkie," she winked, "we could send 'em outside again, while we get cozy-like."

  Suddenly Calvin shot out of his chair. He clutched her to his chest, nearly squeezing the breath out of her. "To hell with 'em, Sally. You an' me is all the party I need."

  Lydia gulped down the fear that threatened to undo her. "Calvin, honey," she purred, trying not to show her revulsion. "You are so strong! And I do like strong men . . . only I can't breathe!"

  "Oops, sorry." Calvin loosened his grip, but still kept her plastered to his sweaty chest.

  "That's better." She forced a little smile. "Now, do be a good boy, Calvin, and go call your guards."

  Sergeant Calvin Nielson, a ten-year man in His Majesty's 98th Regiment, didn't recognize a command when disguised in a sugar coating. But he did understand his own body's carnal urges. Anxious to keep Miss Sally happy, he reluctantly released his prize and stepped into the hallway.

  "Evans! Toller! On the double," he bellowed. No bull at mating time ever uttered a more urgent bawl.

  Within seconds, two young privates stumbled out of the dark, their arms around Sally's two friends.

  "Wha's the matter, Sergeant? Can't you see we're havin' fun?" Tessie giggled, hanging all over Toller's broad shoulders.

  "Fun, hell!" snorted Evans. "We were about to get laid."

  "C'mon into the office," shouted the sergeant. "I got me a little wench with a bottle of good aged rye whiskey. She insists on sharin' it with everybody."

  "That's right," Lydia verified, doing her version of a clinging vine on Nielson's arm. "Let's all have a good time together!"

  Inspired by her two friends' loose jointed gaits, Lydia wobbled slightly, swaying her hips, as she pulled Calvin back into the office. She brandished the bottle over her head.

  "Bring out the glasses, sweetie!"

  "Hey, Sally, are you too good to drink out of the same bottle with the rest of us?" laughed Evans, a powerfully built recruit in his mid-twenties.

  A w
arning bell went off in Lydia's head. His aggressive manner suggested he would be tougher to deal with than his companions. Her greatest fear was that she might trigger suspicion. All it would take was one guard to rouse the entire garrison. How she handled herself was crucial. It could mean the difference between success and crushing defeat.

  Ignoring her natural aversion to the man's familiar squeeze on her left breast, Lydia tossed her blond curls flirtatiously. She leaned her shoulder into Evans' chest, looked up into his rugged features, and did a fair imitation of Tessie's giggle.

  "I thought I was Calvin's girl, soldier. But you're such a handsome devil—"

  Evans wasn't shy. He bent his head and planted a wet kiss on her neck. "Hey, Sergeant," he said, "how 'bout we switch girls?"

  "Naw, this one belongs to me." And Calvin pulled Lydia roughly out of Evans' embrace.

  Madge and Tessie stood laughing at nothing in particular.

  "Blimey, Private, there's plenty of you to take care of all us girls," volunteered Madge, happily offering her assistance.

  Blushing at the immodest way her breasts were peeking over the top of her bodice, Lydia suppressed her mounting panic and raised the bottle overhead. She gave a little wriggle to show that she was in the mood for a party, like her companions.

  "How 'bout it?" she asked. "C'mon, Calvin, sweetie. Break out the glasses. I want to drink a toast to the six of us."

  "Fine with me." Toller was quite willing to go along with the crowd. "An' then I want to get laid." He grinned at Madge, who rubbed her breasts up against him.

  The sergeant led the way back to the inner office. Rummaging around in the day officer's liquor cabinet, he came up with glasses in assorted sizes. At least they were fairly clean, Lydia noticed, and then wondered why she was worried about cleanliness at a time like this. She meant to poison them, not have them die of disease! Oh, well, this was no time to get picky. The sooner they drank Seth's concoction, the better!

  She sat one hip on the corner of the desk and pulled the cork. "What say we drink to the King's health?" She poured a stout drink in each glass.

  "Old George?" Evans sneered, reaching for his whiskey. "He's a madman!"