by Scott, Tarah
“It's good to see you. What brings you south?”
Davis reached down the neck of his shirt and pulled out a letter. “Clachair sends his thanks.” He handed Kiernan the letter.
Kiernan took the document and slipped it into the front pocket of his jacket. “We have visitors from Hay territory. They tell me things are still bad up north. I hope you are faring better.”
Davis nodded. “Times aren't easy, but we're managing.”
“How long can you stay?”
“I'm returning home immediately. I've been gone too long.”
“A shame. How are the children?”
Davis shrugged. “They are adjusting to losing their mother.”
“And you?” Kiernan asked.
Davis’ expression clouded. “I canna’ get used to her being gone.” He cast an embarrassed glance at Heddy, then said, “I'll be going.” Without further conversation, he pulled on his horse’s reins and returned in the direction he had come.
Kiernan turned back to Heddy. “Shall we.” He gestured toward the kitchen door.
She turned with him and they began walking. “Your friend doesn’t look nearly as bad off as the others. The Hays look half starved.” She lifted her skirts for the single step that led into the kitchen. “Are they from the same place?”
Kiernan opened the door. “Hay country is farther north than Davis' home.”
"Is that where you plan to visit when you go north?"
Kiernan shifted his gaze onto her. "Are you thinking you would like to accompany me north, instead of staying at Brahan Seer? Perhaps you'll miss me just a little?"
He didn't miss the annoyance that flickered in her eyes, but she said, "I have never visited the northern Highlands. I've heard they are beautiful."
"You would like it there," he said, and, oddly, thought it was true.
They entered the kitchen and Kiernan escorted Heddy to the chair she’d occupied earlier. “Bridget.” He looked at the housekeeper who stood at the counter cutting bread. “Ah, I see you are already preparing food for our guests.”
“The famine,” Heddy remarked, pulling his attention back to her. “It has lasted nearly two years now.” She frowned. “Did the two hundred thousand pounds Dr. MacLeod raised to assist with the famine not help?”
“They say the Duchess gave aid to three thousand people on her estate,” Mrs. Grayson interjected in a mocking voice.
“Three thousand?” Kiernan repeated. “Kind of her, considering she’s likely displaced that many this year alone—despite her advanced age.”
Mrs. Grayson snorted. “More like ten times that many.”
“Ah, Bridget, perhaps not quite so many?”
“It might as well have been,” she answered in a lofty tone, “for all the damage she caused.”
“True,” he agreed.
“Duchess?” Heddy asked.
“The Duchess of Sutherland,” he said.
“She displaced these people? Then the famine isn't the cause of their plight?”
“The famine is the final nail in the coffin. The real cause is the clearances.”
“Clearances?” Heddy repeated. “I've heard the word bantered about, mostly as propaganda voiced by elders not in favor of progress. I understood the changes in Scotland were for the better.”
“For the noblemen," he replied. "For the tenants who have been farming the land for generations, the switch to cattle ranching has meant eviction, homelessness, and starvation. The duchess has been clearing her land for years and, though she alone can't be blamed—the Morenish and Breadalbane evictions are just as terrible—she has displaced nearly fifteen thousand Highlanders.”
“By heavens,” Heddy said. “I can see why the three thousand she aided is paltry in comparison. Why is she doing this?”
Kiernan gave a wry smile. “The most common reason.” Heddy gave him a questioning look, and he said, “Money.”
*****
Phoebe waited until the occupants of the Green Lady Inn had retired for the night before stealing to Kiernan MacGregor’s room, a taper in hand. A clock inside the room struck a muffled gong. She waited until ten more gongs sounded and the room fell silent before tapping lightly on his door. As hoped, silence followed. If her instincts were correct, Kiernan was checking on Alan Hay. Earlier, when the strangers arrived, there had been no mistaking Kiernan’s curt remarks. He clearly didn't trust Alan Hay.
She knocked again. When no answer came, she turned the knob and eased open the door. Silence. Phoebe stepped inside and clicked the door shut behind her. She lifted the candle and scanned the room. An empty bed sat against the far wall and a chair and small desk were located in the far right hand corner. Her gaze caught on the single letter lying on the desk. Was that the letter from Clachair that Davis had given him?
When Davis handed Kiernan the letter and said it was from Clachair, she recalled four years ago, reading a notice in the paper about a five thousand pound government bounty on a man with the unusual name. The likelihood of the wanted man being the man who'd written the letter was slim, but this was just the sort of information she was obliged to investigation. Phoebe hurried to the desk and picked up the envelope.
A thrill raced through her. Was this how her father felt when he investigated Arthur Thistlewood? For the first time since she had agreed to spy for Great Britain, Phoebe felt the kinship with her father she had always sought. They hadn’t shared their lives, but they shared patriotic passion. The exhilaration was replaced by unexpected regret. If this Clachair was the man wanted by the government, that meant Kiernan MacGregor was himself a criminal. By heavens, she hadn't liked any of the criminals she'd come in contact with—hadn't considered the possibility she could like any of them. But then, Kiernan MacGregor wasn't like Lord Capell, who sold women, or Lord Wallace, who would sell his Parliament vote to the highest bidder. Phoebe suddenly wished she knew nothing of the letter. But she did. She withdrew the single piece of paper from the envelope and read.
Dear Kiernan,
All is well here. I received the writing paper you sent. As always, your generosity comes at the most opportune time. I have distributed the paper amongst my students. They shall make good use of it. Thank you for thinking of us. I look forward to seeing you when next you come north.
Clachair
There was nothing the least bit suspicious about the letter, and Kiernan had left it in plain sight. Tension eased within her as she slipped the letter back into the envelope, then placed it back on the desk. How many times would she suspect a man of criminal activities and find out she was wrong? Not many she feared.
The small but distinct creak of the windowsill to the left of her bed alerted Phoebe that someone had entered her room. Only a few minutes earlier, the clock had softly gonged once. So, the intruder had chosen climbing the trellis leading to the portico, instead of risking the lighted hallways. Choices a practiced thief would make.
Through slitted eyes, Phoebe watched him move stealthily from the window to the armoire. He inched open the door and rifled through her cloak and gown. She had removed her reticule and stuffed it beneath the mattress, her father’s letter intact. Had Kiernan read the letter, he would have realized his error in mistaking her for Hester. If only she could show him the letter. But the one piece of evidence that could free her was the one thing she couldn’t hazard revealing for fear of incriminating her father.
The intruder cursed softly. Phoebe tensed. He abruptly turned as though to exit the way he had come, but paused and gazed at her. Moonbeams shone through the window in front of him, but he remained in the shadows. She resisted the urge to squeeze her eyes shut. He couldn't possibly discern the fact her eyes were cracked open. He lingered, and Phoebe realized he struggled with some inner decision. Could it be the same indecision she had sensed in Alan Hay that afternoon? Was this Alan Hay, or had he sent one of his men to do the robbing?
He hurried back to the window and climbed back onto the roof. Phoebe waited until the count of
three before throwing back the covers that hid her fully clothed body. She sat up. No dizziness or pain. Just as Dr. Connor had predicted, today was a turning point in her recovery. She hurried to the window. Peeking outside, she spied the man on the edge of the roof. He turned and fitted a boot into a trellis rung and quickly disappeared from view. Phoebe thrust her hand forward, intending to shove the curtains aside, only to have her fingers catch in the intricate weave of the Nottingham lace.
“By heavens,” she muttered.
She disentangled her fingers and yanked aside the curtain. She grasped her skirts, but hesitated. Climbing through the window was no difficult task, but climbing from the roof to the ground might prove too much despite her improvement. She scanned the lane between the inn and the stables, but the intruder didn't appear as expected.
Phoebe hurried to the door and, a moment later, reached the hallway’s end and crept down the stairs. At the bottom, she paused and listened to the silence for a moment, then headed for the kitchen door. Once outside, she sidled alongside the building to the corner. The lane between the inn and the stables stood empty. She hurried to the stables, around the building, and located a stall door. Phoebe eased open the bolt on the upper half of the Dutch door. When no sound came from within the stall, she opened the door and reached inside for the bolt that locked the lower half. The bolt held firm. She pressed harder, with no better luck.
Phoebe grasped her skirts and hoisted herself up and over the door into the hay-littered stall, then eased the door shut. She inched forward until her outstretched hand contacted the far wall and felt her way to the stall door leading into the main part of the stable. The metal of the bolt was cool beneath her fingers and she held her breath while easing it free. A tiny creak of hinges sounded behind her. Phoebe jerked her head around in time to see the upper door she had entered through opening. Her heart thudded. The door opened more and a large figure became visible in the doorway.
“Heddy,” came a harsh whisper.
Despite recognizing Kiernan MacGregor’s voice, Phoebe knew an instant of confusion.
“Come here,” he commanded.
Before she could respond, a door creaked and muffled voices broke the silence within the stables. Kiernan muttered something incoherent and she startled when he hoisted himself over the door and started toward her.
Upon reaching her, he grasped her arm and yanked her to him as he whispered, “What in blazes are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same,” she retorted.
“No, you could not.”
She started to reply, but the voices grew louder.
“Rest assured we will discuss this later,” he said.
“Nothing,” a low voice was saying. “I told ye they were too poor.”
“Did you search the fine gentleman’s room?” another said.
“Are you daft?”
Phoebe recognized Alan Hay’s voice.
“Hush,” the other said.
“Never mind,” Alan shot back. “No one inside the inn can hear us.”
“You didna’ find anything in the woman’s room?” the other voice asked in such a miserable tone Phoebe felt sorry for the speaker.
Kiernan’s hold on her arm turned painful.
“He was in your room?” Kiernan demanded in a harsh whisper.
Phoebe pressed a finger to his lips to quiet him. His free hand closed over her hand, but he stilled when Hay's companion said, “What are we to do next? We canna’ go on much farther without provisions.”
“We’ve come this far,” Alan replied. “We’ll make do the rest of the way.”
“But we have come only half way,” the other replied, “and ‘tis the easy half. The north is rough land.”
Kiernan’s lips tensed beneath Phoebe’s fingers.
“There will be plenty once we get there,” Alan said. “Just wait. We’ll make that bitch pay for what she and her kind have done to us—to us and every other Highlander.”
“I still say she’s got too much power,” another grumbled. “It won't be so easy.”
Alan laughed, low and cruel. “Even someone as powerful as the Duchess of Sutherland isn't invincible. She's seventy-two. She won't be hard to kill.”
Phoebe jerked. The duchess.
Kiernan pulled her hand to his chest. “Be still,” he hissed.
“Still…” the other man said.
“Are you a coward?” Alan demanded.
“I’m no coward,” he replied, “but I’m no fool either.”
“If you don't have the stomach for it, get out now,” Alan said.
“I didn't say I wanted out,” the accused said sullenly.
A sound like that of a slap on the back was followed by, “It's been difficult, George. You lost the wee one and Shannon hasn't been the same since.”
“I should have left her with her father in MacEwen territory,” George answered.
“We agreed,” Alan said, “no one suspects us with the women along.”
Phoebe drew a quick breath. Kiernan must have understood her horror, for his free hand shot around her waist and he gave her a squeeze. She felt the hard shape of the pistol stuffed into his belt and wished mightily for an opportunity to aim it at the men who sacrificed women and children for their own ends.
“What’s done is done,” Alan said. “It served its purpose.”
Phoebe started at sight of another figure appearing in the doorway through which Kiernan had entered.
He backed her into the corner. “Stay here,” he ordered.
The man in the doorway disappeared as Kiernan hurried back to the door that opened into the stables. He pulled the pistol from his waistband and, in unison with the groan of the main stable doors abruptly opening, yanked open the stall door.
“Lay down your weapons in the name of the Marquess of Ashlund!” a man yelled.
Kiernan lunged into the stables and out of her view.
Phoebe rushed forward as Alan Hay’s voice boomed above the female screams, “Lads! Dinna let them—"
A shot rang out.
She skidded to a halt in the doorway. Mather stood between the robbers and the main stable door, gun raised heavenward, smoke rising from the barrel. Six men in a semi-circle around the robbers pointed weapons at them.
The women screamed again and Phoebe’s snapped her gaze upward. The women cowered away from the edge of the loft. Two of Hay’s men dropped to their knees, their drawn weapons falling to the ground beside them. The man standing beside Alan Hay whirled toward Kiernan. Kiernan halted as the man thrust a hand inside his coat.
Phoebe’s heart leapt. Kiernan leveled his pistol. A heartbeat passed and she thought in that horrible instant that Kiernan had somehow frozen. The man pointed his revolver. She opened her mouth to shout a warning, but Kiernan fired. The man twisted to the side and blood stained the shirt at his shoulder even before he crumpled to the ground. Alan Hay dropped to his knees beside his comrades and Kiernan motioned the women from the loft. They backed away from the edge, but when one of his men moved toward the ladder, the first woman started down.
“Take them to the salon,” Kiernan instructed his men.
Once the women descended, they pleaded innocence for their men. Phoebe glanced left at the pitchfork leaning against the wall and decided it might do for herding them out the door. She froze at seeing the barrel of a revolver suddenly protrude from the stall to her right. Muscular fingers gripped the weapon, and an arm followed, the weapon aimed at her.
She met the eyes of the gun’s owner. His face, devoid of emotion, chilled her. She grabbed for the pitchfork. He leapt forward, knocked the handle from her grasp, and jammed the barrel of the revolver against her neck.
“Nay, lassie,” he said in such a reasonable tone, he might have been cautioning her against paying too much for a scarf at the market.
He snaked an arm around her waist and tugged her close while backing away from the stall and from his comrades. The women were at last being led toward
the main door, but Charlotte looked over her shoulder and her eyes widened. Kiernan glanced over his shoulder.
His attention centered on Phoebe’s assailant as he turned and took a step in their direction. “You don’t have to do this, lad.”
“Dinna’ come any closer,” the man warned.
Kiernan halted. A hushed tension hummed through the room.
“Where are you taking them?” The man’s chin brushed the back of Phoebe’s head when he motioned toward the women.
“What do you hope to accomplish?” Kiernan said. “You won't get ten feet.”
“I will get ten feet and more.” The man pulled Phoebe closer. “Me and my friends.”
“Ye tell him, Robbie,” one man yelled before he was silenced by a pistol leveled at his head.
“I can't let you take her.” Kiernan took a step left and forward.
“You want her dead?” the man demanded.
Kiernan angled his head slightly. “I don't think you want to kill her.”
“I’ve done many things I didn't want to do,” Robbie replied.
“That’s right, m’lord,” said Alan Hay. “We’ve done many a thing we didn't like. Don't think we won't do so again.”
“Aye,” Kiernan agreed, taking another step forward and to his left, “but I don’t think one of them was murder.”
The man’s hold on Phoebe tightened and she wondered if Kieran had miscalculated in assuming the man’s conscience was free of murder. Kiernan took another step forward, and Phoebe’s assailant shifted to the right.
“You aren’t like the duchess,” Kiernan said. “She is the one capable of hurting innocents, not you.” When the man made no reply, Kiernan went on. “It’s a hard line to walk, seeking justice against one so powerful.”
“Watch him, Robbie,” Alan called. “You have them right where we want them. Don't be taken in by his soft manner.”
“We haven’t a prayer in heaven,” the man said as if he hadn’t heard Alan.
“Aye,” Kiernan agreed. “You haven’t a prayer of committing murder. But justice is another matter.”
Robbie laughed bitterly. Alan opened his mouth to say more, but Mather shoved the barrel of his pistol against the man’s temple. Robbie retreated a step. Alan looked at him, and Phoebe read the message conveyed in his eyes: take no prisoners. She shifted her gaze to Kiernan and sent him her own message: be ready. Surprise flickered across his face and his eyes narrowed in a command to remain still, but she jammed her elbow into the ribs of her captor and shoved the gun barrel pressed against her neck heavenward.
