Sarah Gabriel - Keeping Kate

by Keeping Kate (lit)

  "What do you want?" she asked, her voice hoarse.

  "I came to see how you're faring," Alec replied.

  "You've seen. Now go away."

  "Come here." He let the silver necklace swing.

  She narrowed her eyes. "Leave it there and go away."

  "I must speak with you first."

  "We have nothing to say. You had me arrested, or have you forgotten?"

  "What choice did I have, Kate?" he asked quietly.

  She paused. "Though you wear a Highland plaid, you're a red soldier all the same. A true Highlander would never have arrested me, nor would he take away one of his own."

  "You mean Ian Cameron? What is your interest in him?"

  "Go away, unless you mean to open those doors and let me out of here." She glanced uneasily at the other man in the cell.

  Alec had already noticed that the fellow watched her in a way that made his skin crawl. He wanted to get Kate out of there as much as he suspected she wanted to go. "Come here," he said.

  By nature and habit, he was cautious rather than reckless. Yet tonight he found it rather easy to call up a little of the madness he hid inside himself, the wildness he had smothered for most of his life. It was there, wait­ing to be tapped.

  The girl was indeed the beauty he had seen in Lon­don, and therefore was more valuable a prisoner than Grant or Wade even suspected. The woman hobnobbed with King George, yet had such interest in government documents that she disguised herself and went into of­ficers' tents at great risk to get them. She had some sort of intrigue in mind, no doubt of it. As things were, that meant Jacobite scheming.

  And she was certainly no other than Katie Hell, yet she would admit to nothing more than her first name.

  He meant to question her until he was satisfied— then he might just let her go. But he was not about to tell her that.

  Dangling the silver chain as it caught the light, he tucked it in his sporran and turned away.

  "Wait." She came toward the cell door, the chains on her wrists chinking. Alec turned, leaned close to the bars, aware that the sentry was now approaching along the corridor. "What is it you want of me?"

  "You must come with me," he murmured.

  She scowled. "Where?"

  "Elsewhere," he said, and glanced over his shoulder. "Sergeant," he called, "I'll need the key, if you please."

  "Begging pardon, Captain, but Colonel Grant gave new orders concerning the wench."

  "I know. I've spoken with the colonel. He's tending to other business now and asked me to supervise this."

  The sergeant nodded. "Aye, then."

  "It's all arranged. As it happens, I have a vehicle wait­ing, since I plan to travel to Edinburgh myself. I'll see to her transfer. Discreetly, just as the colonel wanted." Alec removed Wade's preliminary orders from his pocket and waved the page without giving the sergeant time to look closely. "It's an awkward matter, and we're pressed for time, as you know. Unlock the cell, please. And I'll need the key to her fetters. Keep this to your­self, sir, as long as you can."

  Reaching into his sporran, Alec produced a shiny guinea, which the soldier snatched before relinquish-

  ing a small iron key. The sergeant opened the cell door with a larger key.

  "I'll see to this, Sergeant." Alec stepped inside and took hold of Kate's arm while she gaped up at him.

  "Where are you taking me?" She pulled back. "I do not want to go to Edinburgh with you."

  "Go there with me," he murmured, "or Grant."

  "I'll go with neither," she snapped.

  "Very well. Good luck to you, then. May you be safe and well," he said—but he said it in awkward but sin­cere Gaelic as he turned away.

  "I'll go with you," she returned in rapid Gaelic.

  Alec released a breath and turned to take her arm and lead her through the door. He was glad the ex­change had been brief. His scant Gaelic would not have stood up to the challenge.

  As they moved into the corridor, the other prisoner rose from his corner to grab the bars as the sergeant shut and locked the door. "Hey! Ye took the High­lander away, now the wench. Let me out, too!"

  "You don't want to go where she's going," the ser­geant growled.

  "To her death, is it? She's a witch, that one. Ye'd best burn her if you take her to that place." He laughed.

  Kate gasped as Alec pulled her along. "Could they do that? Try me for witchcraft?"

  "Have you turned anyone into a pig lately?" Alec muttered.

  "I'm thinking about it," she snapped. "Do not pull so hard. I'm not a sack of wool to be dragged about!"

  "You'll not be burned as a witch—they no longer do

  that in Scotland, fortunately for you. But we must hurry." Alec drew her past the sergeant's post.

  "I could hurry if these chains were off, and if I had my shoes." She stopped short and lifted her bedrag­gled hem.

  Alec looked down at her stockinged feet and the heavy chains around her ankles. He sighed. "Be damned. I forgot about the shoes."

  "I will have my shoes and buckles, too. And my good plaid, and my silver necklace, which you have stolen from me."

  Frowning, one hand on her elbow, he led her back to the guard. "Sergeant, fetch the rest of her things, please."

  While they waited, Alec crouched to lift the hem of her dress. Seeing the manacles around her slim ankles, he felt a jolt of anger. Her slim ankles and the torn fab­ric of her stockings were crusted with blood.

  He brushed his fingers over her ankle. Then he took the small key from his sporran, unlocked the cuffs, and skittered them and the joining chain away over the stone floor.

  He glanced up. Her eyes looked beautiful, sad. "I'm sorry," he said. "I did not realize."

  She shrugged. "Hurts mend."

  "Do they?" he murmured, thinking of hers, and his own, layers deep and invisible. He stood.

  She held out her hands, where another set of iron fet­ters and a swag of chain linked her wrists. "And these?"

  "Not yet." He dropped the key back into his leather purse, buckling it shut.

  She huffed in annoyance, then turned as the soldier

  returned clutching Kate's plaid and shoes, leather bro-gans with silver buckles and stout soles.

  Sturdy shoes to run off in, Alec thought as he took them, and the plaid, and slipped another coin to the sergeant. He handed the shoes to Kate and draped the plaid over her shoulders.

  "And I'll have the necklace, too," she said.

  "It's safe. We've no time. Put your shoes on."

  She stooped and tried, her hands clumsy with the manacles on her wrists. Alec bent and took her foot in his hand to slip one shoe on, then the other. She bal­anced a hand on his shoulder as he buckled the shoes.

  "That's too tight," she said.

  He adjusted them impatiently, then stood and tugged her toward the stairway. As they rounded the corner, he headed for another staircase not used regu­larly. He had no desire to meet anyone else just now.

  "Where are you taking me? Did you bribe that sol­dier?" Kate yanked futilely under Alec's sure grip.

  "Outside, and aye," he said curtly, and guided her to a dim stairwell, where stone steps circled a central post.

  "Sending me to Edinburgh is unfair. I've heard no charges yet, no judge has interviewed me, and I have not seen a lawyer."

  "You're seeing one now." Alec pulled her up an­other step.

  "You'll take me to a lawyer, then?"

  "I am a lawyer. Blast it, will you pull us both down the stair?" He stepped down behind her to lift her by the waist, setting her on the next stair tread to hurry her along.

  "You? My case is lost for certain, then. You're preju­diced against me," she muttered irritably.

  "I'm not your lawyer. I am a lawyer. A Writer to the Signet, trained at the University of Edinburgh and Lei­den, and currently employed by the army to review documents. You reviewed some of those documents yourself, as a matter of fact."

  She looked back at him, began to
speak. He hefted her up yet another step. She was lightweight and no trouble to lift.

  "A pusher of papers and a wretched turncoat. Why would I want you for my lawyer?"

  "Be damned," he grunted, urging her upward again, "I am not your lawyer, as I said, and will you keep silent?"

  "I will not. Look what you did to dear Mr. Cameron."

  "Dear Mr. Cameron has knocked more redcoat heads together than you or I could count. Though you seemed quite eager to kiss him," Alec added, not sure why he mentioned it.

  "A kiss of friendship. You'd wait an eternity for the same, I promise you," she snapped, stopping on the step above him, so that her face was near on a level with his.

  "Would I?" He stared at her in the darkness. The memory of the kisses they had already shared flooded his mind, seeming to fill the small space between them with palpable tension. His body pulsed, and he was sure she was affected, too, for she glanced away in silence.

  He gave her a gentle shove up another step or two

  with a hand at her lower back. She drew a breath, clearly in pain.

  "What is it?" Alec asked.

  "Nothing," she said. "Just that every muscle aches, I'm tired, I'm hungry, and I do not care to hurry to my trial and execution though you are in a rush to get me there."

  "You can rest and eat later. Up you go."

  Kate took the next steps, reached a landing, and turned. "What sort of law do you practice, and what do you charge for your services?"

  "Hire me later," he answered, a hand at her waist.

  "Are you worth hiring? I probably cannot afford you. Most long-robes charge absurd fees. Stop that," she said, when he urged her upward again. "I will be climbing by myself."

  "Then please do so," he said between his teeth. She had a way of speaking, he realized, that was as wholly charming as the way she moved, the way she looked, her scent, her kiss—

  Stop that indeed, he told himself.

  "If I could afford to pay you, would you swear to the military that I've done no crime?"

  "I was the arresting officer. I cannot defend you."

  "Tell them you made a mistake. After all, you did."

  "Shall I lie for you, and benefit by funds from your bank account, if you have one? That's criminis particeps, my dear, which is Latin for—"

  "I know what it means. I can read and understand Latin, French, and Italian."

  "Excellent. An accomplished lady. Then what the devil were you doing sneaking about a military en­campment, dosing my tea, and stealing my papers?"

  "I gave you a soothing tonic. You looked tired."

  "How kind of you. At least you admit to that much. This way," he said, when they reached the top of the stair.

  "I did not intend to steal anything that night."

  "Did you just intend to memorize it?"

  "You surprised me with that pistol." She turned, mere inches away, and rested her hands on his chest, heavy iron links banging against him. "Captain Fraser, please let me go. Leave me here, and I'll slip away," she pleaded quietly.

  Somehow his hands found the sweet curve of her waist, and his fingers settled at the small of her back. Her eyes held some kind of magic, beautiful eyes of pale gray, extraordinary in shadows. He stared down at her, frowning slightly.

  He could indeed release her. For a moment, he felt as if he had captured a fairy creature whose innocent al­lure had cast a net about him, drawn him into her spell. She was fascinating, unpredictable. He wanted, blast it all, to help her, though he would risk a great deal if he assisted her to escape.

  For a moment he was deeply tempted to do just that. He had not cared about helping or pleasing anyone in a long time, he realized. Still he did not answer.

  "Please, Captain. I must be free," she whispered.

  She glowed, this girl, vibrant and exciting, shining like a candle flame on that dark landing. His body

  throbbed as memories of delights he had shared with her rushed through him.

  He had never known anyone like her. Even Amy, who had once possessed his foolish, pining heart, had not been so enticing as this girl. With Kate, a mere smile, a sweep of those dark lashes over silvery eyes, made his body pulse, his thoughts blur.

  The rain pounded outside the doorway ahead, and the rainy light illumined her upturned face. Inappro­priate to the time, the place, the situation, he felt in­creasing desire. Reaching out, he brushed a hand over her cheek, could not stop himself.

  He pulled away. "We must go," he said brusquely, grabbing her elbow.

  "I do not think I want you for my lawyer," she mut­tered.

  Chapter 8

  E

  merging into the dark courtyard beside Fraser, Kate felt the cool bliss of raindrops and wind on her face. She lifted her head, glad to be outside for the first time in days, regardless of the circumstances.

  Hastening beside him, she stumbled. He put a hand at her waist and guided her with him. Ahead, she saw a post chaise in the shadows by the main gate, harnessed to a pair of horses.

  A man opened the door and lowered the hinged step. He was young, lean as a whip, wearing dark clothing, his features hidden by a cocked hat. He was not mili­tary, she noted, puzzled, as Fraser urged her toward the open door.

  Quickly, he lifted her around the waist and dumped

  her inside the coach. Kate scrambled onto the bench seat as he came inside to sit beside her. The seat of squabbed leather was comfortable, though the vehicle was small, intended to hold two or three.

  Windows pierced the sides and the door, and the sloped front wall of the coach had one small window. Through that opening, she could see the horses' heads and saw the coachman leap onto one horse to ride postillion.

  "Sit back and hold on," Fraser said. "Our rider will be in something of a hurry, I think."

  She settled back against the seat, thought at first the coach moved slowly, stopping at the gate as the postil­lion rider spoke to the sentry. Fraser lifted a hand in a brief salute, and the coach rumbled out over one of the stone roads that Wade's construction crews had been cutting throughout the Highlands.

  Suddenly the rider urged the horses on, and the ve­hicle lurched and began to race. Kate slid across the bench seat into Fraser, who righted her. Quickly she moved back to her own corner by the window.

  She watched outside as the chaise rolled along. The rain lessened, and the sky, still in gloaming, was a hazy lavender above the dark shoulders of the distant moun­tains. She leaned her cheek against cool glass and watched the stars sparkle through a veil of scudding clouds.

  After a while, she glanced at Fraser, who sat an arm's reach away. A damp chill pierced the coach, and she shivered, trying awkwardly to pull her plaid closer around her.

  He reached out and helped her drape the arisaid over her shoulders, since she was hindered by her shackles. His hands were deft as he fixed the silver pin, caught in the fabric, more securely for her.

  "Silk-lined woolen tartan," he remarked, fingering the fabric. "You make quite the living as a laundress."

  "Laundresses can have nice things, too," she said, and he was silent, fastening the brooch. For a moment, she savored his closeness, the warm scents of soap, man, and a surprising hint of something sweet. "You smell good," she said impulsively. "I noticed it before."

  "Thank you," he murmured.

  She held out her hands. "You may take these chains off me now, if you please."

  He regarded her wryly. "We might bargain for it."

  "I will not bargain." She opened her palm. "I'll have the chains off, and I'll have my necklace from you, too."

  She thought he pinched back a smile. "The larger chains will stay for now. And the finer chain is in my safekeeping."

  "But it's mine," she protested, feeling frantic sud­denly. The necklace was more precious to her than any­one outside her family knew. From the age of seven, she had never been without it. "I must have it."

  He lifted a brow. "And you said your name was ... ?"

  She c
aught her breath and looked away. Fraser propped an elbow on the window frame and rested his chin on his knuckles. For a few miles they rode in si­lence, Kate continually glancing over at him.

  Still, though she would not admit it, she was grateful to be in a fine coach, warmed by her own plaid and on

  her way somewhere, anywhere, rather than sitting in that dungeon. She was grateful to Fraser for taking her out of there. Although she did not want to admit it even to herself, she felt a subtle but definite thrill running through her as she sat near him.

  The coach rumbled along, and Kate bounced a little on the seat. The shackles, resting in her lap, clanked. "Where are we going?" she asked.

  "Away from the Highlands," Fraser said simply. His piercing gaze made her flutter inside, then he looked out the window again. In the dim light, his chiseled profile blended elegance and strength, so easy to ad­mire that it made her feel pleasant inside. But his dark, straight brows were pulled tight.

  "We're following Wade's road down the Great Glen into Perthshire," she observed. "Will we head to Edin­burgh from there, or take the lesser road straight east?"

  "We'll travel through Perthshire, then southeast for Edinburgh. If weather allows, we'll make only one stop, since MacDonald recommends that for the sake of the horses."

  "MacDonald?"

  "My ghillie and my cousin, John MacDonald. Jack."

  She nodded. "Your kin are MacDonalds?"

  "Aye. My mother was born a MacDonald of Keppoch."

  She blinked. "The Keppoch clan are strongly Jaco­bite. But you're a regimental officer, and a Fraser. What sort of Fraser are you—the Whiggish sort, or the High­land sort?"

  He smiled. "Comme gi, comme ga." He waved his hand.

  She narrowed her glance. "A captain in a Highland In-

  dependent Company, wearing Highland gear and speaking only a smattering of Gaelic ... you must be one of Fraser of Lovat's own kin, since you are an officer."