The Groom Says Yes

by Cathy Maxwell

  Dedication

  For my wonderful, loving friend Anne Elizabeth

  Contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  About the Author

  By Cathy Maxwell

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  September, 1817

  Tolbooth Prison

  Edinburgh

  The minister was a slight man with thinning brown hair and was obviously uneasy at being in the presence of the “Irish Murderer.” The hands holding his prayer book shook.

  Frankly, Cormac Enright hated the epithet. It had been coined by the writers of the broadsheets printed almost daily during his trial. On the morrow, those filthy scribblers would line their pockets selling hundreds of papers and pamphlets detailing his execution, and Mac wished them happily to hell for their greed.

  He lifted his broad shoulders from the rickety cot where he’d lain for the past several hours . . . thinking of nothing . . . thinking of everything.

  The cleric, in spite of his fear, gave the air a sniff and wrinkled his nose in disgust.

  Mac almost laughed. He was a trained physician. He had fought in battle and lived as rough men do, and even he had found the stench of the Tolbooth hard to take, and he was certain he reeked of it as well. The building was ancient and highly unsanitary. It was so bad, it was scheduled to be torn down in a few months. Mac’s hanging was to be the last held here, and the guards had assured him he should feel honored. This was a moment in history. The crowd already gathering to watch him put to death might number in the thousands because Edinburgh did like a good hanging.

  And because the woman Mac was accused of murdering, Gordana Raney, had been beautiful, young, and a popular singer around the taverns.

  Mac’s sole consolation was that he’d managed to keep knowledge of his title, earl of Ballin, from the leeches and the corrupt lawyers who had convicted him although, he realized, it was of little matter. He was the last of his line. There was no one left to witness the shame his foolishness had brought upon his family. Then again, of what value was a penniless title?

  Aye, he’d deemed it wiser to keep quiet.

  But that didn’t mean the pride of five hundred years of Irish nobility didn’t pound through his veins.

  He raked a hand through his unruly hair. He had not been allowed to shave, to make himself presentable. His dark blue jacket was torn at the sleeves and in need of a good wash. He was in need of a good washing.

  “If you’ve come to hear my confession, cleric, you will be disappointed,” Mac said. He’d not spoken in days. His voice sounded rough, hoarse. “I may hang for a crime I did not commit, but I’ll not confess to it. Not that anyone cares what I say.”

  The reverend nodded, his brow furrowed as if he had concerns of his own, then, to Mac’s surprise, he said to the guard standing at the door, “Leave us.”

  To Mac’s further amazement, the man did.

  The guard’s name was Harris, and he’d taken particular delight in making Mac’s life hell over the past months. Now, he acted as docile as any lackey. Mac felt his guard go up.

  The reverend gave his spectacles a push up his nose. “You are a big, brawny man. No one told me you were so tall.”

  “Will that be a problem for my execution?”

  The man actually took a nervous step back, but then he stopped. “I am Reverend Kinnion. Reverend Kinnion of Kenmore,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “I am here because there are those who wish to repent for their mistakes.”

  “I don’t repent.”

  “I’m not speaking of you.” The Reverend Kinnion shifted his weight. His manner had changed. He seemed focused, intent. “They say you don’t know what really happened. That you were drunk when you killed the girl.”

  Aye, he’d been blind drunk that night. Sick with drink. “I wouldn’t have harmed her.”

  “You were covered with her blood.”

  “I had no blood on my person—” Mac denied heatedly, then stopped and gathered himself. No good would come from alienating the last person willing to hear his side of the story, especially one watching him so intently.

  Modulating his tone, Mac said, “They found a man’s blood-soaked cloak on the floor of my room. They claimed it was mine. It wasn’t and I don’t know how it came to be there.” The smell of Gordana’s blood seemed to be always present with him, choking him. “I am a fool of a man, Mr. Kinnion. I’ve done many things, most of them wrong. But I vow I did not harm her.”

  “I know you are telling the truth,” the Reverend Kinnion said. He moved closer to Mac but not too close. “However, I needed to hear your denial from your own lips. A friend, a man I hold in high esteem, has asked me to do a favor. One I did not know I could carry out until this moment. My friend is not like you. He wishes no darkness on his soul.”

  “Who is your friend?”

  The reverend hesitated. His voice grew even more hushed as he answered, “Davidson. Richard Davidson.”

  “That bastard.”

  “He asks your forgiveness.”

  Mac almost choked on the audacity of the man. “His false testimony put the noose around my neck. He lied when he claimed he saw me murder Gordana Raney. I’ll forgive him in hell.”

  “Fair enough,” the reverend countered. “Meanwhile, I shall pray that you will one day find it in your heart to grant his wish. As for right now, you and I need to leave this place.”

  “Leave?” Mac wasn’t certain he’d heard the man correctly.

  “Aye, but we haven’t much time. I bribed the guard with me, Harris is his name, to look the other way as we made our escape.”

  “You are here to help me escape?” Mac said dumbly.

  “Aye, if you will move your feet. Are you coming or not?”

  Mac was across the cell in a blink. “What of the other guards?” he whispered.

  “Harris said he will try to manage them, but we take our chances. He told me how to find the back entrance. The crowd that has been gathering for your hanging is by the gallows. This exit should take us away from them.” He opened his prayer book. The pages had been hollowed out and a coin purse hidden there. He gave the purse to Mac. “This will pay for your passage away from Scotland. Do you understand? You are to leave and never return.”

  Mac nodded. He would agree to anything to leave his hellhole. He tucked the purse inside the coat he wore. “You don’t happen to have a pistol in that book as well?”

  The Reverend Kinnion’s eyes widened at the suggestion. “I would not. And I must go first. I was the one told the way and, if something happens, and you are captured, well, I hope you understand, but I’m going to run. I hope to see my wife again.”

  “I pray you do,” Mac answered. Moments ago, he had been in despair. Now hope surged through him, filling his being with anxious energy.

  The cleric drew a shaky breath. “Very well. We shall go now.”

  But before he could leave, Mac grabbed his arm. He looked into the man’s eyes. “I thank you for this. I’m beholden to you.”

  “You are not. I could not rest easy
knowing you were innocent.”

  “Why not declare what you know? Why protect Davidson?”

  “Because letting it be known he lied when he testified against you would ruin him. He is a good man, Mr. Enright. He was caught up in a situation he could not control.”

  “All he has to do is speak the truth.”

  “And that is never easy.” The Reverend Kinnion changed the subject. “Down this main hall is a connecting corridor. Harris will see that it is dark. Wait for a count of ten, then follow me.”

  The reverend slipped out the door.

  Mac listened, counting, barely hearing the other man’s footsteps, then he eased out past the door and into the hall.

  Everything around Mac took on importance. The pitch burning in the torches stung his nostrils. The worn soles of his boots were careful of the uneven floor, and his ears were attuned to those sounds coming from the guard post. He could hear the scrape of a chair being set on its feet, of a man’s groan as he rose . . . of Harris’s accented voice saying, “That reverend has been with Enright long enough. I’d best go check on them.”

  Damn the man. Mac didn’t trust him. He would take Kinnion’s bribe and turn on him.

  Mac hastened his step toward the darkness of the connecting hallway—and then he heard the shout of “Hey!” and knew he’d been caught.

  Harris had betrayed them. He’d taken the cleric’s bribe but was probably planning to foil the escape and see himself a hero. That was the guard Mac knew.

  Harris shouted again for him to halt, but he spoke to air. Mac had charged around the corner into the darkness. He heard a door open ahead and knew it was Kinnion. Heart pounding, Mac picked up his pace, his muscles screaming after months of forced inactivity. Still, he was in better shape than the guards, or so he bloody prayed.

  The Tolbooth was a bit of a labyrinth. There were doorways and half floors. But Kinnion seemed to have found his way. He was well ahead of Mac, who now had to listen for the reverend’s footsteps as well as the clamoring noise of his gaolers in hot pursuit.

  He was upon the stairs before he realized they were there and practically tumbled to the bottom. There was another door. Mac opened it. He could no longer hear the Reverend Kinnion. He now trusted instinct.

  When he’d first come to the prison, he’d tried to memorize where he was in the building and its peculiarities. He sensed there was a door to the outside close at hand. The air smelled of freedom. Sweet and fresh and tinged with a hint of salt from the sea. All he had to do was keep going forward.

  The guards had reached the top of the stairs. They now started down just as a musket shot cracked the air.

  The gunfire was not in the building. The sound would have reverberated.

  Above him, the guards went still. “What was that?” one of them asked.

  “Was it Enright?” another questioned.

  Mac moved forward, his hand trailing the wall. He found the door, twisted the handle, and pushed it—the door did not open.

  Something blocked it from the other side.

  With every second counting, Mac threw his body at the door, shoving on it until he moved whatever was in the way to the side enough for him to squeeze through.

  He fell out into the night, stumbling over a man’s body, collapsed in front of the door.

  Kinnion.

  In the dim moonlight, he appeared dead, blood staining his shirt. The gunshot had attracted attention. People began running out of the darkness.

  The first to come forward was a hulking brute who gave a cry when he saw Kinnion’s body. Mac had been leaning down to see if Kinnion was alive and if there was anything he could do for him. The brute grabbed Mac by the collar and threw him toward the street. “Run, man. Run.”

  The order brought Mac to awareness of how dangerous his position was. He began backing away as the large man picked up Kinnion. A crowd quickly surrounded them, apparently believing the reverend was Mac.

  Mac took a step back, then another. No one had recognized him yet. He had to be bold. He had to stay calm. He moved into the shadows, forcing himself to walk, to act as if he were one of those gathered for the hanging.

  Rumors were starting. It was quickly put out that the good reverend was the Irish Murderer. Someone dropped his hat on the ground, and Mac picked it up, pulling the wide brim down over his eyes to hide his face.

  Guards came out of a door close to Mac, but their attention was not focused on him. They ran right past him. His hopes began to build.

  The bullet that had struck Kinnion had probably been meant for Mac. Even the escape might have been a trap. But this was not the time to pause and reflect.

  Mac did know one thing—he would not be leaving Scotland. Not until he’d had a conversation with Richard Davidson.

  The decision was not wise—but then, when had the Irish ever let wisdom and prudence interfere with bull-nosed stubbornness?

  Of course, he didn’t know where to find Davidson. He knew the man was from the country, but he knew little else. However, Davidson had a friend, the good Reverend Kinnion of Kenmore. Kenmore. The name had the sound of a village to it, and Mac would find Kenmore if he had to travel to the end of Hades.

  And so he did. He began walking west, walking into Scotland.

  He found a stream to bathe in. The water was so cold, his skin turned blue, but a good washing made him feel human again.

  A bit before dawn, he was offered a ride on a passing driver’s wagon. Mac didn’t ask the driver if he’d heard of the Irish Murderer, and the man didn’t speak of the Old Tolbooth escape. This gave Mac hope that his story was not known very far outside the city and that his Scot’s accent was passable.

  He concocted a story about his being a sailor recently returned. This explained his scruffy appearance.

  The Scots were hospitable. Not as open as the Irish, but they were not as dour as he’d been led to believe. A yeoman lent Mac his shaving kit. The dull razor served well enough, and Mac began to feel a bit like his old self.

  Each day, each hour, Mac traveled closer to Kenmore. He was a man on a mission, and he’d not rest until he tracked down Davidson and asked why he had lied.

  He was riding in a tinker’s wagon when the man stopped at a crossroads, and said, “Kenmore is about two miles across that moor. Just follow the road. You’ll see Loch Tay through a line of trees and know you are close.”

  “Thank you,” Mac said, jumping down from the cart. An ache had started to form behind his eyes. He welcomed a stretch of the leg and fresh air.

  However, he hadn’t walked long until he realized he was experiencing the first stirrings of real illness. His step faltered. Dizziness was making it hard for him to walk. His stomach cramped. He practically fell onto the dirt road and crawled to the side, where he lost what little food he had in him.

  He knew the grippe very well. Influenza was a killer amongst battlefield camps.

  The world whirled around him, his insides threatened to erupt again, and for all of his great size, he had the strength of a newborn.

  He managed to scramble to his feet. He tried to walk on, but it was no use. He was in danger of collapsing again—and that is when he noticed the bothy, one of the stone huts built for shepherds and wayfarers that dotted the moors across Scotland.

  Here was shelter.

  Mac staggered into the bothy. This one was located not far off the road. There was no door, just an opening. The floor was hard earth. He fell to it, his legs no longer able to support him.

  He yanked his jacket off and curled into a fetal position, wishing he were dead, the fever rattling his bones.

  Here he was, almost in sight of his one link to Davidson and unable to take even a step closer.

  Instead, he hugged his sides and prayed, something he’d thought he’d forgotten how to do. But his prayer was not for healing or Divine benevolence. Oh, no, Mac prayed that he’d not depart this world until he could put his hands on Davidson’s throat and choke the truth out of him.

>   Chapter Two

  Kenmore

  For today’s program of the Ladies’ Quarterly Meeting, Mr. Iain McClain, the schoolmaster, read a poem he’d written in praise of the local mountain, Schiehallion.

  Sitting in the kirk sanctuary with two dozen other women considered prominent in the valley, Sabrina Davidson noticed that he was very free with the word “breast” when describing Schiehallion’s shape. He used it no less than three times. Then, when he referred to mountain’s “nippled crest,” Sabrina almost laughed aloud. She stifled the sound when she realized no one else seemed to think there was anything awkward or humorous about his imagery. Indeed, they clapped enthusiastically at the end of his recitation of his dreadful poem. Sabrina clapped as well, albeit less enthusiastically.

  The women then, as was their custom, piled out of the church to walk across the way to the Kenmore Inn, where a delicious luncheon awaited them.

  Sabrina walked in their midst, surrounded by their happy chatter . . . but acutely aware that no one was actually speaking to her. No, they talked of matters that interested them—children, household concerns, husbands—topics that didn’t include Sabrina.

  Not for the first time did she realize that if she stopped and let them go on, no one might notice she wasn’t part of the group. It wasn’t that they didn’t care for her. She was the magistrate’s daughter. She had a place in their society, including the fact they needed her musical skills to play the pianoforte for the local assemblies.

  However, Sabrina was an outsider and would always be one. She was nine-and-twenty and unmarried. Thankfully, her father had been devoted to her late mother and would never think of disgracing her memory by remarrying. Otherwise, Sabrina might have become that most pitied of souls, an unmarried female relation.

  As it was, she not only served as her father’s hostess and helped him as his secretary, but she was also the earl of Tay’s niece. Her position in society was secure.

  Still, Sabrina had caught herself thinking about the married ladies quite a bit lately. There was a mystery to men that other women seemed to understand, and she didn’t. During those years when a woman was young enough to catch a husband, Sabrina had been caring for her mother, who had battled a wasting illness, and now the time for courting had passed her by.