The smell of fried fish was in the air. Apparently, dinner was part of the magistrate’s expected payment, because his court table was set with a plate and silver. Someone had already given him a stack of thickly sliced bread.
He buttered a slice as he gave Richard a look up and down. “You are from London, aren’t you?” His lips curved into distaste right before he stuffed the whole slice of bread in his mouth. He had short, fat fingers that he moved with an effeminate air.
Richard bowed as best he could with his hands tied with three different knots behind his back. The villagers had wanted to ensure he wouldn’t escape and hence their elaborate knot arrangement.
What he did wish is that he was clean shaven and didn’t look as if he’d slept in his clothes. Then there wouldn’t be any foolish accusations. The magistrate would see him as an equal.
As it was, he had to use his voice, manner, and credentials. “I am the Honorable Richard Lynsted. My father is Lord Brandt, my uncle Lord Maven, and my cousin is the Duke of Holburn. My family owns estates throughout England.”
“I am Sir John Garson and we don’t like the English much here,” the magistrate informed him. “Especially English dukes. You know what the Duke of Cumberland did at Culloden. Whether you supported the uprising or not, his butchery tears at the heart of every good Scotsman. We are lowlanders here but the more we think upon it, the more we dislike the English.”
A chorus of somber “ayes” met his pronouncement.
Anger flashed through Richard. He tamped it down. He prided himself on self-control and temperance.
“What are the charges against me?” he inquired, careful to keep his voice neutral.
Sir John stuffed more bread into his mouth before answering, “You are charged with the death of that man they fished out of the River Tweed.”
Richard waited for him to ask how he pleaded.
The magistrate didn’t say anything.
“I plead not guilty,” Richard finally said, because he must have it on the record.
“We assumed that, sir,” Sir John answered, his interest going past Richard to the doorway behind him.
Richard turned to see what he was looking at. A smiling village woman stood in the doorway holding a tray of fried fish.
“One moment, my dear,” Sir John told her with a smile. “I must finish this trial.”
“Yes,” Richard agreed. “I wouldn’t want your food to grow cold.”
“Silence,” Sir John barked. “Your English humor is not appreciated here.”
“I wasn’t being humorous,” Richard answered, his temper strained. He tried to keep control of himself and this trial. “I wish to tell my story.”
“I suppose you will tell us you had nothing to do with that man’s death?” the magistrate replied, folding his hands over his ample girth. “Come here, lass, and place that plate right here. Don’t want you standing there feeling unappreciated.”
The village woman did as he said, giggling as he lifted the covers and drew a deep whiff of her cooking. She sidled over to join the other witnesses to this “trial.”
“Now,” Sir John said, finally giving Richard his attention, “what say you?”
“I did not kill Herbert,” Richard said. He’d given some thought to his defense, and after meeting the magistrate decided the clearer and shorter the story, the better. He would also leave Grace out of it. “He was traveling with me. He’s been in a retainer in my family’s employ for years. My coach and I were traveling to Inverness when we stopped for a short spell to stretch our legs. Herbert fell into the river. I tried to save him but was unsuccessful.”
“Eh, now? And what happened to your coach and driver?”
“Dawson drove off,” Richard said, choosing his words carefully. “Perhaps he jumped to a conclusion that was not correct.”
Sir John leaned over a paper covered with hasty scribbles in front of him. “Dawson.” He pointed to one of the scribbles and smiled up at Richard. “It says here your coachman accuses you of attempting to kill him, too. The man said he barely escaped with his life.”
“He’s lying,” Richard answered.
“Yes, well, I don’t believe you are being completely honest, Honorable Mr. Richard Lynsted. And our dead man, this Herbert, appeared bashed and beaten.” Sir John glanced over to the gray-haired yeoman Richard had spoken to the day before. “Douglas, is that not what you told me?”
“It is,” Douglas answered.
“Nor do you look to have been enjoying a stroll in the country,” the magistrate said to Richard. “In fact, you appear as if you were in a right proper row.”
Richard said, “I received most of these bruises yesterday when this man”—he nodded to Douglas—“and a good number of others assaulted me for a crime I didn’t commit. They hit me on the head and threw me into that larder over there on the church grounds.”
“Ah, yes, the larder,” Sir John repeated, nodding. “We’ve used it a time or two as a gaol, right, Douglas?”
“That’s right, Sir John. But if I may say, Mr. Lynsted looked that rough yesterday when he came into Rachlan Mill. And the man who was driving the coach appeared as if his nose had been broken. He said he’d barely escaped with his life. Said his master had gone mad.”
“Did he appear mad to you when you first met him?” Sir John asked.
“He appeared cautious,” Douglas answered, “as if he had something to hide.”
“And he knew the dead man?” Sir John asked.
“Recognized him immediately.”
Now Richard understood why Dawson hadn’t returned to finish the task he’d been charged with—murdering Grace. He’d set them up and left the job for these villagers.
Nor would his uncle be too sad to have Richard gone, too.
“You do realize,” Richard said, “that none of the testimony presented in this court is valid. It’s all hearsay.”
“They take hearsay seriously in Rachlan Mill,” Sir John corrected him. “A man’s word is his bond.”
“Well, my word, which is my bond, is that I didn’t kill anyone. Herbert’s death was an accident,” Richard informed him. “And I have the right to confront my accuser, Dawson.”
“We can’t do that. He’s not here,” Sir John said, leaning over the plate of fish and giving it a whiff. He was obviously more worried about his food growing cold than Richard’s trial. “Besides, you are being tried by a jury of your peers and they heard what this Dawson had to say—”
“What peers?” Richard blurted out, surprised at the statement.
“These villagers,” Sir John answered. “They have been listening to the testimony.”
“But they have been testifying against me,” Richard protested. He’d be damned before he’d allow himself to be found guilty by this mockery of justice, especially when he could see by the villagers’ expressions they thought him guilty. “I demand to be taken to London for my trial,” he said. “I demand that Dawson confront me with these ridiculous charges.”
“You aren’t in England any longer, lad. In Scotland, we take care of our own justice,” Sir John informed him. “I’ve had enough of you, the Honorable Mr. Richard Lynsted. A man’s dead here and someone should pay for his death. How say you, jury?”
“Guilty.” The word came out of them as one.
“Very well, he’ll hang on the morrow.” Sir John reached for his dinner plate.
“Hang?” Richard was stunned. “But I haven’t done anything. It was self-defense.”
Sir John looked up from tying a bib around his neck. “Self-defense?” He dropped the cloth and refolded his hands over his belly. “I thought it was an accident, Mr. Lynsted.”
“It was,” Richard said, cursing himself for a fool. “He attacked me and I defended myself. But I never meant for him to fall—and that is what he did, he fell into the river.”
“And apparently the truth is something an ‘honorable’ gentleman like yourself stretches and changes for himself. Which is, in my
esteemed opinion, very much like a lawyer.”
The villagers murmured agreement.
“And does this new information change your opinions?” Sir John asked addressing them. “How say you, jury?”
This time their “guilty” was louder and more confident than the last.
“Take him away,” Sir John ordered with a wave of his hand. “And,” he added as an afterthought, “see that he has a good meal this evening. It will be his last.”
Brawny young men flanked the trussed-up Richard and marched him back to his cell, unceremoniously shoving and pushing him the whole way across the church grounds.
They threw him inside the larder and locked the door, setting one of their number to stand guard. The one small blessing is that they cut free the ropes binding his hands.
Richard paced the perimeter of his cell. They were going to hang him. The idea was ridiculous, their charges unfounded, the verdict unprecedented—at least in his social circle.
If he was in London, he’d see that an inquiry was sent here to investigate this travesty of justice—
But he wasn’t in London.
He’d never go there again.
They intended to hang him and would. This was their corner of the world. By the time anyone learned of his predicament and came to his aid, he’d be dead.
Such dark realizations would sober any man and they certainly did the trick for Richard.
Grace had warned him. And instead of listening to her, he’d been an arrogant fool.
He wondered where she was now. If she knew. He hoped she wasn’t still in the area. He didn’t want these bastards to catch her. Who knew what they would do to her? She’d been through enough humiliation and pain in her life.
The sound of hammering came from a distance.
Richard walked to the small barred window in the door and peered outside. His guard gave him an evil grin. “They are building the gallows now. Have to have it the right size for you.” Richard turned back to his cell.
For the better part of two hours, he entertained a fantasy he could escape. He didn’t test the bars since they were right in front of the guard, although he noticed they were made of wood and not of steel. Instead, he tried his brute strength on every inch of the cell’s limestone walls to no avail. Initially, he was systematic and thorough, keeping his purpose quiet. Toward the end, his efforts turned frenzied and frustrating. There was no way out.
“Dinner’s here,” his guard shouted through the bars. “Stand to the back of the cell.”
Richard immediately decided he would rush whoever came through. He’d put down his head and bowl right through the door.
However, when the door opened, a man entered with a blunderbuss pointed right at him.
Richard changed his plans. The gun was old but at these close quarters it could do damage. An older woman with a kerchief around her head placed a wooden tray on the ground. A cloth covered the food.
“I gave you hard cider,” the woman said. “It’s potent.” There was compassion in her eyes. Richard was tempted to plead his case.
“Come along, Beth,” the man with the gun said. “We’d best go home. We can retrieve our plates and fork on the morrow.”
The woman ducked her head and left. The gunman followed and the guard locked the door.
“Well, so much for that escape attempt,” Richard muttered. He knelt down and lifted the covers off the food, suspecting what it was by the smell of it. Sure enough, the plate was piled with the same fish the magistrate had been eating for his lunch.
Richard’s stomach rebelled. It had been well over twenty-four hours since he’d tossed aside Grace’s roasted rabbit. He needed his strength but he didn’t think he could eat this.
And then he could imagine Grace arguing he must eat, he would need the nourishment, and so he forced the meal down.
A part of him refused to believe he would hang. There had to be an escape. Or perhaps that fool Sir John would come to his senses or have an attack of conscience.
And yet as the hours dragged on, he began to fear this might be the last night of his life. Not even the potent hard cider eased his tension.
Darkness fell. His guards changed. The new guard was a strapping lad with a shock of carrot red hair and a face full of freckles. He had to be all of nineteen and very proud to be serving his term as guard.
Richard sat on the floor of his cell. The only light came from the rush torch outside the door. It spread across the floor in rectangular lines though the barred window.
Even the moon and stars had disappeared, blanketed by clouds.
Going to the window, Richard asked the redhead for paper and pen.
“What for?” the lad asked.
“Last testament.” What he really wanted to do was document what had happened. His father needed to know his twin’s treachery.
“You don’t have anything,” the lad answered with a smirk.
Richard refused to give up. For a space of time, he used the spoon to carve his story in the serving tray. However, the letters appeared as nothing more than scratches.
Now Richard understood why condemned men made their marks in the stones of their prisons. It was their last attempt to let someone know they were there.
He turned his mind to what he would say on the morrow. He needed words that would convince them to spare him. He was not going to die. He wouldn’t. Not on what had started off as a great adventure, as his way of proving to his father he was more than a clerk, and to prove to himself he was a man.
Perhaps everyone had been right about him. Perhaps he was nothing more than a great ox of a man who had intelligence but no wit, no daring, no bloody common sense.
Grace had tried to warn him. And he’d wanted to prove her wrong because he wanted to be the protector. After all, what danger could lurk in such a small Scottish village?
He laughed bitterly. God, he was a fool.
And he prayed she was safe. He hoped she’d run as far from here as possible. There was the possibility she’d gone for help. He hoped not. He did not want her involved in this whole sordid business.
He also wished he’d taken a moment to tell her what he really thought about her. He’d tell her she was beautiful—but then she’d heard that from a hundred other men.
So Richard amended his thoughts. He decided, if he could speak to Grace one last time, he’d tell her how resourceful she was, and wise. And that he admired her intelligence and even her bluntness that could set his teeth on edge.
He’d tell her…he’d tell her he was in love with her.
The thought filled his mind.
Common sense told him he was being foolish. What was love? He wouldn’t know.
And yet, the very air around him vibrated with the truth of that one thought. He’d fallen in love with Grace MacEachin—a woman who could have a prince or a duke.
She didn’t need an oaf like himself.
And then there was the small problem of his uncle trying to kill her…
None of it mattered, he loved her all the same. Loved, loved, loved.
Love was different than he’d expected. It humbled him, filled him with conviction, made him want to jump up and down with joy, made him vulnerable and scared and secretive.
It seeped through his every vein, entering every muscle of his body, erasing pride, expectations.
He loved Grace MacEachin. He’d watched intelligent, powerful men throw over careers, friends, family, and honor in the name of love. At last he understood why. He didn’t care if Grace was an actress or a whore or tart or duchess or Turkish princess.
He loved her.
And maybe that is what he would say on the gallows in the morning. Maybe instead of pleading his case, he’d profess his love, and then he’d die, but everyone who had heard him speak would be deeply touched and tell others, who would tell others, until all the world knew he loved Grace MacEachin.
Someday, somewhere, Grace would hear of his declaration and realize here was a man who
se heart was true, a man who professed love with his last breath—
Richard picked up the cider jug and gave it a shake, realizing it was empty, and perhaps far more potent than he’d given it credit for.
Instead of mooning over Grace, he should be planning the words he’d use to dissuade the hangman—
“James Cannon?” Grace. He recognized her voice immediately.
Richard jumped to his feet and went to the window. All was dark beyond the torchlight.
His guard answered with a gruff, “Aye, I’m Cannon. Who goes there?”
“You don’t know me,” Grace said, stepping into the torchlight. “I’m Josie McGlynn from Dundee who is visiting her uncle Douglas.” She wore her hair loose and curling around her shoulders. Instead of the blue traveling dress she had been wearing, she now wore a simple dark skirt and a white blouse with a neckline so low it exposed the round curve of her breasts. Her petticoat. She’d removed the bodice from her dress and was prancing around in the night in her petticoat. Her breasts rose like two high mounds above her neckline. Her nipples pressed against the thin cotton, beacons, as if there ever were ones, for any man.
“Douglas the miller?” James asked.
“Aye,” Grace answered.
“I’ve not known he had kin visiting,” James said, suspicious, as any guard should be.
“I arrived today,” Grace said. “The village has been a bit busy.”
“Aye, just a bit,” James replied. “Come closer.”
Grace stepped forward. She gave James a shy smile.
“What are you doing here?” he asked. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“I couldn’t sleep,” she said.
“And why not?”
A sly smile came to her lips. “I saw you today. I wanted to meet you.”
What was she doing? Richard wanted to warn her back but feared tipping off James that they knew each other. He glared at Grace through the bars, ordering her away with his eyes.
She ignored him.
“Meet me?” James said.
“Aye. I like the look of you,” Grace assured him. “I knew you would have the most important watch. My uncle says you are the only one he trusts.”
The Marriage Ring Page 14
