Cowboys and Highlanders

by Scott, Tarah

  "Let the night shift deal with it," Ramsey muttered. "The things they ask us to do."

  The skirts were yanked back over her legs and she lay motionless, counting the ten steps her jailers took to the door, then the creak of the door as it opened and the echo of the clank being pulled shut. She waited a long moment.

  Was he still there?

  How many times had the Irishman stared in at her through the small, barred window on the door? Twenty—thirty times? She had lost count. There came the soft but distinct scrape she had come to know. She willed her body not to tremble. Ramsey had, again, waited for the woman to go, then opened the shutter on the window to stare at her from the other side.

  Minutes passed—more, she thought, than he had taken before. It wouldn't matter if she screamed. In this place, everyone screamed. The opening swished closed. Elise began to tremble so badly she feared her teeth would chatter. Most rooms were built to keep the sound in, but her room seemed to amplify sound. She imagined her persecutors listening for the slightest sound so they might pounce upon her, pronounce her stupor a lie, and administer more laudanum.

  Tears rolled from the corners of her eyes. She had lost her child—Marcus's child—less than two months in the womb. Even in her laudanum-induced state, she had known the moment the blood began to flow. How many days ago that had been, she couldn't say. There had been no pain, the laudanum had ensured that, but she had known. The degradation that followed paled in comparison to the despair.

  Laudanum had been the instrument that had taken the child's life, but Price was the babe's murderer as certainly as if he had squeezed the life from the infant with his own hands. Robert had taken her child and her brother. Now Price had taken her second child. Between them, they had stripped her of all she held dear. Not all, her mind reminded her. There was still Marcus. More tears flowed.

  Dear God, let him accept my death. Do not bring him to America.

  * * * *

  Marcus locked gazes with Price Ardsley. "My wife and I are leaving." He started toward the door.

  The men, transfixed by the strange happenings, parted as he brushed past them. All but one—standing closest to the door—who stepped in front of him.

  "Pardon me, sir," he said in a low, firm voice, "if you would explain."

  "Brentley," Steven said, and stepped up beside Marcus. "Please clear the doorway."

  "Steven," Price said. "Explain yourself."

  Steven opened his mouth, but Marcus spoke. "I am Marcus MacGregor, the Marquess of Ashlund, and this"—he nodded to the woman in his arms—"is my wife, the Marchioness of Ashlund."

  An instant of stunned silence passed, then the man standing closest said, "I assume you have proof of this claim?"

  "My brother-in-law has the wedding certificate." Marcus motioned with a nod of his head in Steven's direction.

  Steven retrieved the certificate from the front pocket of his great coat and handed it to Brentley. The older man took the paper while reaching into his pocket and pulling out a pair of spectacles. He wrapped the wires of the spectacles around his ears, then read the certificate.

  "The ceremony was officiated by a Father Whyte of Badachro, Scotland," he said.

  "I know nothing of that person or place," one of the other men said.

  Brentley looked at Marcus. "Forgive me, sir, but you will understand this"—he indicated the wedding certificate with a small shake—"isn't enough."

  "Steven," Marcus said, "take the ring from my breast pocket."

  Steven pulled back Marcus's coat and reached inside the pocket. He retrieved the ring Robert had given Elise and handed it to Brentley. "The inscription," Steven said. "Read it.

  Brentley took a step closer to the door, holding the ring out so that the light from the hallway glinted off it. He squinted, reading aloud, "For all eternity." He looked questioningly at Steven.

  "That is the ring Robert gave Elise on their wedding day."

  From the corner of his eye, Marcus saw Price's mouth thin.

  Another of the board members cleared his throat. "What sort of proof is that?"

  Brentley looked from his companion back to Steven. "You are sure?"

  "Absolutely," Steven replied.

  Brentley whipped his glasses off and faced Price. "What do you make of this, Price?"

  Price stepped up to them and extended his hand. "May I see the ring?"

  Brentley placed it on Price's open palm. Ardsley stepped into the doorway and examined the ring. An instant later, he turned his gaze onto Marcus. "It looks very much like the ring Robert gave Elise." He handed the ring to Steven.

  "It could be a forgery," Brentley said.

  "Possibly," Price agreed, then said to Marcus, "Have you other proof of your claims?"

  "The night Elise was washed overboard, her husband tried to strangle her. She was forced—"

  "That is common knowledge," Price interrupted.

  Satisfaction surged through Marcus. So this was to be the line Price would not have him cross. "True," he agreed, "but there are details which wouldn't have been common knowledge."

  Price inclined his head. "Gentlemen," he looked around the room, "in the interest of privacy, perhaps it would be best if we reconvened in my study."

  The men gave a general nod of agreement. Price grasped the servant's bell hanging near the door and tugged. A moment later, Simons appeared in the doorway.

  "Simons, show my guests to the study."

  "Indeed, sir," Simons replied. "If you would, gentlemen." He bowed.

  "I cannot leave Elise," Marcus said.

  The men hesitated, and Price said, "Gentlemen, if you will allow me, I will reassure Lord Ashlund that Elise will be well tended in his absence. Go with Simons. We'll be along directly."

  The men filed out of the room until only Steven, Marcus, and Price remained.

  Price closed the door, then faced Marcus. "What do you want?"

  "My wife," Marcus said, and turned to carry the woman impersonating Elise back to the bed. He gently lay her on the mattress, straightened the covers about her neck, then faced Price.

  "And the stocks?" Price asked.

  "Yours, once you deliver her to me."

  "They are mine now."

  "All assets will be frozen for a minimum of three months," Steven interjected. "That is the time it will take to confirm the Marquess's claim. And"—he added with a slight smile—"that could easily turn into six months. The board will wish to be extremely thorough in this matter. In the end, they will be mine."

  "It's a shame Robert's aim wasn't better," Price commented.

  "Be that as it may," Steven replied evenly.

  "You have until tomorrow evening to deliver Elise to the Josephine," Marcus said. "The ship is docked in Boston Harbor and awaits our arrival before departing for England."

  "I have a signed affidavit giving me Elise's stocks," Price said.

  "I care nothing for your money," Marcus said. "Return her to me, and I will not contest the documents."

  Price looked at Steven.

  "My sister's life is worth the shares I gave her."

  Price returned his attention to Marcus. "You will dine with me tomorrow evening."

  "An early supper. I have a friend aboard the Josephine. He knows Elise and will send me word once she arrives."

  "And what about this puppy?" Price motioned to Steven.

  Marcus looked at Steven.

  "I, too, will be waiting at the Josephine." His expression hardened. "I wish to see my sister before she returns to Scotland."

  Price looked at Marcus. "You will sail on the Josephine?"

  "Aye."

  "And you"—he turned again to Steven—"will remain here to deal with me." Steven didn't reply, and Price said, "Let us adjourn to the library and explain how poor Elise was so out of her head she forgot her husband in Scotland. You can assure them you have no interest in her fortune."

  "This woman leaves with us tonight," Marcus said.

  For the second tim
e that evening, Price showed a flicker of emotion. "A woman in her condition shouldn't to be moved."

  Marcus shook his head. "I will not arrive tomorrow evening to find my sick wife dead."

  "It's unlikely she will die. The only real thing wrong with her is malnutrition. That and the laudanum."

  "Is malnutrition the only thing wrong with Elise?"

  "Elise is quite well."

  "Alive and well?" Marcus pressed, maintaining a firm grip on his fury.

  "Very much alive."

  "Then let us speak with your guests. Steven will remain here."

  "Of course," Price said, and opened the door for Marcus.

  At nine o'clock that night, Marcus settled the woman impersonating his wife into the carriage, then assisted the maid, who would tend to her on the short ride to the Josephine, into the carriage. He strode to his horse and took the reins from Steven. They mounted, then urged their horses after the carriage. They remained silent until long after leaving the estate.

  "He has no intention of allowing you to return to the Josephine tomorrow evening," Steven said in a low voice.

  "Aye," Marcus replied, and lapsed back into silence.

  * * * *

  Elise started awake, her eyesight finding and fixing on the sliver of light that jabbed beneath her door into the darkness of her cell. The stench of sweat, urine, and blood met her nostrils. Hers, she realized with a clarity she hadn't experienced in weeks. Memories washed over her in a tidal wave.

  Scotland. The carriage careening down the road. Shots fired. Price. Price was in Scotland! No—he had been in Scotland—he—they—were now in America. He had brought her back to Boston. He waylaid her coach. She squeezed her eyes shut. Six—seven men murdered in cold blood. And Mary—the memory of the girl's pleas for mercy as Price forced her into the carriage left Elise as cold now as they had then. Mary was the informer Marcus sought.

  Marcus. Elise sobbed. He believed her dead. She ceased crying. She was dead. She had signed her death warrant when she signed over her shares in Landen Shipping. But the death of the unborn child he had used to coerce her now stirred something within her.

  The child is dead! she mentally screamed. Price has no more hold over you.

  He wanted her dead. Yet, his affirmation, when she demanded to know if he knew Robert had been poisoning Amelia, had shaken her in a way she hadn't thought possible. He had looked out through those expressionless eyes and answered "Of course" in that cool voice her mother had so loved.

  The stirring flared into anger, and with anger came the realization her mind was free. No one had come the previous night to administer another dose of laudanum. She hesitated. Was this the next day? Perhaps two, three, or five days had passed. She couldn't know. But she could think, could find out. Was she strong enough to leave this place? Her heart skipped a beat. Was she strong enough to even rise from this putrid pallet?

  Elise took a deep breath, then pushed up to a sitting position. Her pulse raced. The movement had been effortless. Could she—she shoved to her feet. She tripped, one foot having landed on the floor, the other on the pallet, and she stumbled sideways, slamming into the wall. She slid to the floor, head swimming.

  "Too fast," she told herself between the gasps for breath she prayed was fear and not lasting effects of the laudanum.

  Her pulse slowed and she, at last, rose. Her head remained clear, despite the lurch of her stomach with the first step. She halted, waited a moment, then, eyes fixed on the light, she edged forward until her fingers touched the cold steel of the door.

  * * * *

  Marcus closed the door to Miss Lisa Poteck's cabin aboard the Josephine, then followed the narrow corridor to the captain's quarters. With a perfunctory knock, he entered. Captain Garret sat at a large table, studying navigation maps that covered the large oak surface. He looked up as Marcus approached.

  "How is Miss Poteck?" he asked in a refined English accent.

  Marcus seated himself opposite him. "She will be fit enough for the meeting. All is in readiness?"

  "It is, Lord Ashlund."

  A loud knock sounded at the door and Steven entered.

  Marcus came to his feet when he recognized the man behind Steven as one of those hired to watch Danvers Hospital.

  "Ardsley has gone to Danvers," Steven said.

  "When?"

  The man answered, "I rode the moment he arrived. Less than two hours ago."

  Adrenaline coursed through Marcus.

  Steven was already consulting his pocket watch. "It is twenty-five past one." He stuffed the watch back into its pocket. "Price did just as you said he would."

  "Aye, lad. He had no choice." Marcus turned to the messenger. "Wait for me on deck."

  The man nodded, then left.

  Marcus waited for the door to shut, then faced Steven. "The board members are ready?"

  "They're waiting at a nearby tavern." He shook his head in obvious disbelief. "I thought you were wrong. Had I gone to Danvers as I wanted…"

  His brother-in-law had no notion of the will it had taken Marcus to remain idle on the Josephine. He, too, wanted nothing more than to catch Price Ardsley on the road to Danvers, but he couldn't chance Elise being hurt in the gunfight. Justin would follow her. If worse came to worst, he would attack and take Elise from Price.

  "Ardsley had to be sure you and I were aboard the Josephine," Marcus said. "You can be sure he knows of our continued presence here." Marcus faced the captain. "Captain Garret, please have your doctor prepare Miss Poteck."

  "As you say," Garret replied crisply.

  Marcus started for the door, Steven on his heels. Once in the corridor, Steven closed the door and called out to Marcus. He halted.

  "Did you inform your cousin of your plan not to sail back to Scotland with Elise?"

  "Instructions await him on the ship they are to sail on," Marcus replied.

  "He will not be pleased. As for Elise—"

  "Elise will be well looked after. Justin knows what he's about."

  "And if you don't make your ship?"

  "I will."

  * * * *

  Elise's hand shook as she pressed a palm against the iron door. She pushed gently. The door swung open. A cry of surprise rose in her throat before she could stifle the sound. Why was her door unlocked? They believed she was still in a stupor!

  She stepped as far as the doorway and peeked into the hall. The long corridor was empty. She stepped from the room and stopped two paces into the hallway. A single light lit the hallway near where she stood. Doors lined both sides of the corridor. She looked left, then right. Both directions turned into what seemed yet another hallway. Which way was out? Out—out to where? Where was she going? Marcus. No. She would not endanger him.

  Blood roared through her veins; her head pounded. Panic rose. Which way? Choose a way, any way! She started forward. Her courage grew with each infinitesimal step forward. Near the end of the hallway, the tip of a banister extended out to where the hallway turned left. Stairs.

  A scream shattered the silence. Elise bit back a shout and hugged the wall. Another cry, fainter this time but close, rent the air again. She peered in the direction she had been moving. A door stood three feet from her. She edged toward the room. The door stood slightly ajar and she peered inside.

  "No!" a woman wailed in a low voice. "Please, Ramsey, not tonight, not tonight." Her voice trailed off repeating the plea.

  Elise jammed her eyes shut. Ramsey, the monster who had been watching her.

  "No," the woman cried again.

  Elise entered the room. "Shhh," she said.

  The huddled form in the far corner jerked upright. "Who's there?" the woman said. "Sara? You're not Sara."

  "No," Elise soothed. She stopped near the woman and knelt.

  The woman shrank back. "Ramsey sent you. He wants to know if my monthly flux has passed. Tell him no! It will never pass. Tell him—"

  "No," Elise whispered. "Ramsey did not send me."

 
"Liar," the woman hissed. She jabbed a finger at Elise and Elise scrambled to her feet. The woman began weeping. "Never," she repeated. "My flux will never pass. I won't spread my legs for him again." She fell into a fit of loud wails.

  Elise backed up. The poor soul was mad. Tears streamed down Elise's face. Ramsey. She couldn't remember his face—Price had drugged her before bringing her to the sanitarium—but she could imagine all too easily what he was like. How many other women had he abused? She turned and fled the room.

  Ignoring the feel of the stiff, filthy fabric, she ran toward the stairs. Her stomach roiled. Still she ran. A noise sounded behind her. She jerked her head around to glance over her shoulder but saw nothing. Another inmate of the many rooms? She faced forward again, slamming into what, at first, felt like a stone wall. She recognized the fingers of steel that gripped her shoulders even before she looked up into the face of Ramsey.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  "Release me!" Elise shouted.

  She thrashed wildly and Ramsey's grip on her shoulders turned painful.

  "Well, now," he said, his Irish brogue sharpened with raucous laughter, "what have we here?"

  "Let me go!" She struggled harder, despite the pain of his beefy fingers digging still deeper into her skin. "My husband—" she began, but he cut her off with more foul laughter.

  "Your husband committed you, my bonnie girl. So don't bother threatening revenge."

  "Price Ardsley is not my husband."

  "Don't know the man's name. Don't care. He put you here and plainly doesn't plan on you ever seeing the light of day." Ramsey yanked her to him and, with one hand, stroked her hair. "That leaves you and I to sport, eh?"

  Elise raised a foot and stomped on the top of his boot. He yelped and leapt back. She whirled and lunged forward.

  "Bloody fool wench!"

  He seized her from behind and flung her against the wall. Ramsey crashed into her back, knocking the breath from her. He snaked a hand around her waist. Elise wedged her hands between herself and the wall and clawed at his fingers.

  "Damn—" he hissed, pulling his hand free.

  He grabbed her arms and yanked them back. Her arms felt as though they would tear from their sockets as he crushed her to the wall.