“Oh, Cait.” Isabelle sat next to her on the window seat. “I am so sorry, but who is Andrew to you?”
“He is… he is… my friend.”
Isabelle took Cait’s hand. “Tell me what happened. Maybe I can help.”
Cait told Isabelle about being kidnapped by Archie McNab and then meeting Andrew. Cait described her relationship with Andrew as a friendship, but her occasional breathy sighs and surreptitious tears were not fooling Isabelle.
“So Andrew McNab would take you riding?”
“Aye,” said Cait with a smile that lit her face. “He took me to the nicest places. One place had a remarkable vantage, a lovely view.” Her face fell and she looked at the floor. “That is where they found us,” she added softly.
“Sounds like you did not wish to be found,” suggested Isabelle softly.
Cait continued to look at the floor. “He was… verra kind. I looked forward to his visits.”
“He touched your heart.”
Cait looked up at Isabelle with searching eyes. “He asked me to marry him.”
“Oh,” said Isabelle, trying to stifle a gasp.
Cait was instantly wary. “No one believes me, I dinna ken why I bother talking at all. I can see ye disapprove too.”
“No, well, have you thought that he might have wooed you to try to get your dowry. Sometimes people can be less than sincere if it would mean their own enrichment.”
“But that’s the thing no one understands. I switched places with my lady’s maid and everyone, including Andrew, thought I was Alys.” Cait frowned, causing tiny worry lines to appear on her forehead. “Poor Alys, she is still a prisoner.”
“Poor Alys, indeed.”
“David will get her back.”
“I am certain of it.” Isabelle nodded, that much she knew of David Campbell.
“The point is, Andrew wanted to wed me when he believed me to be nothing more than a lady-in-waiting. He truly loves me!”
Isabelle pondered for a moment. “And you? How do you feel about him?”
Cait looked at her with large, liquid eyes. “I love him. Indeed, I do.”
“And Campbell is going to try him for the crime of abducting you?”
Cait’s bottom lip trembled. “Which he did not do. He is innocent.”
“Forgive me, but I could not help but overhear. Did Campbell not say that Andrew had confessed to the crime?”
“I dinna ken why he would say that. It wasna him. It was his brother, Archie.”
“Well then,” said Isabelle thinking fast. “We should try to find him and ask him.”
Cait’s face brightened and she smiled a big grin, even as the tears continued to fall. “Would ye? Would ye help me?”
“I would be honored to help you,” said Isabelle and gave Cait’s hand a squeeze. Even as she did so, she had a pang of guilt that this was exactly the type of behavior Campbell had considered locking her in the dungeon to prevent. Isabelle shook her head to dispel the notion. She had told him she would not try to escape. She had never mentioned anything about not helping Cait.
“Thank ye, Isabelle. I kenned ye were a true friend the moment I met ye. Except… why are ye wearing that ugly thing?”
***
Isabelle followed Cait to the entrance of the prison, which was carved into the rock below the storeroom on the western wall of the castle. Cait had helped her dress in one of her old gowns. Despite its age, it was a relief to be back in a silk. Compared to the wool kirtle, it was heaven. Isabelle was also careful about her headdress, making sure all her hair was swept up under the lace snood. She may not be respectable anymore, but at least she wanted to look the part.
“Do ye think Andrew is well? What if he hates me now that he knows who I am?” Cait’s eyes opened wide and she clutched her hands to her breast. “What if he blames me for what David did to him? Why do ye suppose he took the blame for my abduction? But how will we get into the prison? Do ye think he is well?”
Noting the circular and repetitive course of Cait’s speech, Isabelle stopped listening and focused her attention on the one relevant question Cait had asked. How were they going to get into the dungeon to see Andrew McNab?
The door to the storeroom was open a crack, allowing the ladies an opportunity to peek into the room. Besides the stacks of barrels and other stores one would expect to find, there was a young guard sitting on a barrel, humming a jaunty tune.
“How do we get past him?” whispered Cait.
“Just follow my lead,” Isabelle whispered back, hoping she could devise a plan in the five seconds it would take them to cross the room to where the lad was sitting. Isabelle opened the door.
“Halt! Who goes there?” called the guard before either of them could set a foot in the room. Isabelle rolled her eyes. Not even five seconds! So unfair.
“My, but you are assiduous in your duty,” said Isabelle, entering the room.
The guard blinked and gave her a blank look.
“Ye do yer job verra well,” said Cait with a winning smile. Her pale blond hair was loose, a simple gauzy veil framing her face. Even with her eyes swollen and red, she still was a lovely creature.
The guard snapped his focus to Cait and gave her a slow, warm smile and a low bow.
“Has your prisoner given you any trouble?” asked Isabelle.
“Nay, no’ him. He’s been quiet enough. Want me to rough him up a bit, Lady Cait? He deserves nothing less after what he’s done to ye.”
Cait grabbed Isabelle’s hand so hard Isabelle had to grit her teeth to avoid screaming.
“I need to see him,” said Cait, the desperation clear in her voice.
The guard looked taken aback and Isabelle squeezed Cait’s hand to remind her to keep better control of her emotions.
“Is the prisoner secure?” asked Isabelle.
“Aye, shackled to the wall. He will no’ be going anywhere.”
“You are sure he is secure? There is no chance of his escape?”
“None. Ye may sleep well, m’lady.”
“In that case, Lady Cait needs to confront the man who abducted her to speak the words she needs to say.”
“Nay, I canna allow that.”
“By whose authority do you deny the Lady Cait access?”
“Uhhh,” the guard stammered.
“Unless Laird Campbell has ordered ye to block my path, then stand aside,” commanded Cait.
Without waiting for a response, Cait whisked past the guard and down the stone steps.
“W-wait—”
“Best to let her be,” said Isabelle. “She needs to confront him, to speak her mind. Surely you can understand why she would wish to do so without others hearing.”
The guard looked unsure.
“I’m certain Campbell would be very pleased with how you are standing guard. Tell me, have you been in his service long?” Isabelle smiled, determined to keep the lad in conversation until Cait returned. The guard eyed the stone staircase. Cait best be quick.
***
Andrew Campbell sat on a stone bench shackled to the wall. It was cool and damp in the prison, but at least they had provided him with a serviceable blanket and there was no standing water. Overall his cell was clean and he was fed at least once a day. Not too bad, considering the crime with which he was charged. Not that he had experienced prison before. This was his first. And considering the charges, most likely his last.
Andrew leaned his head back on the rough, stone wall and tried to keep his mind blank. There was not a single topic that did not cause him pain. Though he rarely drank in excess, he wished they would bring him some whiskey. If any circumstance warranted inebriation, waiting for one’s execution certainly qualified.
The swish of silk brought his attention back to his surroundings. Andrew froze as Cait Campbell walked down th
e stone staircase and into sight. Cait Campbell, the reason he was in shackles. Cait Campbell, who only a few days ago he had desired to wed. She was wearing blue silk with gold embroidery. Even his limited knowledge of fashion informed him that the gown alone was worth more than the entire contents of McNab Castle. Her blond hair was loose, with a gauzy veil framing her face. She was beautiful, and the reason he would die.
“Andrew?” Her voice was soft, her eyes were large.
“Aye.” He should insult her, say something cutting to make her regret her deception. He should hurt her the way she hurt him. He looked away, her perfect face too painful to look upon. Even though she deceived him, he still could not hate her.
“I feared my brother would kill ye.” Her voice was strained.
“Ne’er fear, there is still time. I warrant he brought me back for a proper trial before he has me executed.”
“Nay, dinna say that. I’ll speak to him. I’ll tell him it was no’ ye who abducted us.”
“With all due respect, my lady, but why do ye care? Ye have deceived me well. I was completely taken in. Whatever ye hoped to achieve was accomplished. Ye are home. I am in shackles. What more is there?”
“I ken it was wrong o’ me to deceive ye—”
“Nay, m’lady. ’Twas verra clever. I am impressed, truly I am. Please forgive me, but the sight o’ ye pains me. I have spent the past several days trying to forget ye. Ye standing there is hardly helping my resolve.”
“But this is no’ yer fault.”
“Nay, I am to blame. These past several days I have been forced to take responsibility for myself, and I canna be pleased wi’ the man I see. I have let my brother talk me into many ill-conceived plans or simply watched and let things unfold wi’out making a stand. I may no’ have kidnapped ye, but I helped to hold ye prisoner. I did no’ release ye as I should have.” Andrew bowed his head. “I was enjoying myself too much,” he added in a voice that was barely audible.
Andrew held up his shackled wrist. “This is my fault. I might wish for a second chance to make things right, but I deserve none.”
“But why tell David ye were the one to abduct me?”
“To prevent him going back to destroy my clan. ’Tis too late for me now. I will pay for my crime, but my clan, ye ken how little they have. If Campbell marches against them, how many would die, the guilty and the innocent alike? If I am to die, at least I wish to be the only McNab to suffer for this crime.”
The prison was silent. Andrew regarded Cait with sad eyes.
Cait clasped her hands in front of her. “I need to know one thing, Andrew. I want an honest answer. I deserve that much, ye ken?”
“Ask anything and I will tell ye true.”
“When ye said… when ye said what ye said on the hill. The part about how ye felt.” Cait shifted from one foot to the other. “The part about love. Was that a description o’ how you truly felt, or were ye simply after my dowry?”
Andrew looked her in the eye. “Everything I told ye that day was the truth, Lady Cait. Everything.”
“Then I need to provide ye wi’ an answer to yer question.” Cait stepped closer to Andrew, her eyes wide and black in the dim light. “Yes, Andrew. I will marry ye.”
“Lady Cait!” yelled down the guard. “Are ye well?”
“Aye,” said Cait, and flounced up the stairs.
Thirty-Two
Archie McNab slunk into Glasgow with a dark purpose. He left his horse tied in a secluded glen. It had taken him days of riding and slogging through rivers and hiding in caves before he had convinced himself Campbell was no longer a threat. At least for today.
His last attempt at freeing his brother without resorting to the abbot’s heinous request had failed. He had hoped to trade Lady Tynsdale for Andrew, but his brother was not there. No one was there, just the bastard Campbell. The last person he wanted to confront.
McNab crept around an inn, keeping to the shadows. The cold, hard truth of his life was that everything he did was wrong. He could not get ahead for anything. Every instinct he had was wrong. Every natural inclination was wrong. He was born a horrible mistake, ought to have been drowned at birth. Considering all the harm he had caused, he wished he had been stillborn.
If there was any justice in the world it would have been a dark and stormy night. The previous night, he waded through a bog with rain pouring down on him so thick he thought he’d drown simply by taking a breath. But now, when he could have used the dark night and the inhospitable weather, it was a warm night with a moon so bright you could see your shadow. He tried to be inconspicuous as he neared the bishop’s castle, but he was quite sure he had been spotted by several people along the way. Mostly couples gazing longingly in each other’s eyes. Truly, there was no justice at all.
McNab reached the bishop’s residence, and slipped through the open gate and in the front door. It should have been barred. Why didn’t God warn his own bishop to keep thugs like him from entering their homes? He muttered curses and grasped his knife. He must do this. He had to follow the abbot’s demand to have any chance of saving his brother. He had to save Andrew. Nothing else, not his life, not the bishop’s mattered anymore, if they ever did.
McNab crept down the hall and up a steep set of stairs. He guessed the bishop’s rooms would be at the top. At the top of the stairs another hallway filled with closed doors greeted him. McNab sighed. Would nothing be easy tonight? There was only one way to do this.
He drew his blade.
He put his hand on the latch of the first door when suddenly it swung into him smacking him hard on the nose.
“Arrgh!” he said. It was the involuntary sound a person makes when their nose has been broken.
“Dear me, I beg your pardon, I did not see ye there. Please come in, sit down. Let me see how I can help.”
McNab allowed himself to be ushered into the room and sat down by a small fire. Through the tears that filled his eyes he could see the white-haired bishop hover over him, the picture of concern.
“Here now, take my handkerchief for yer nose. Gracious, but ye are bleeding like a fountain.”
McNab took the handkerchief and pressed it to his nose. This was all going wrong. He needed to complete his errand and be away. He reached for his knife but realized he had dropped it on the floor when he was hit. It was somewhere on the hallway floor. He leaned back in his chair and groaned.
“Whiskey?” asked the bishop.
“Aye,” mumbled McNab. “By the barrelful.”
A mug was offered and he used his right hand to drink and the left to press the bishop’s cloth to his nose. Neither spoke for a while, until the whiskey warmed his insides and dulled the pain. McNab took the linen cloth from his nose. It had been a fine piece, embroidered with lace around the edges. Now it was a bright red rag.
“Sorry for ruining this.”
“’Tis I who should be sorry for injuring ye, my friend. Usually I’d be asleep in my bed at this hour, but ’twas such a fine night I thought to have a little walk in the moonlight.”
Archie nodded. God was protecting the bishop after all. And in a way that caused Archie pain. Aye, his luck was holding as well as ever. Which meant, of course, he had none.
“I fear I may have broken your nose,” said the bishop.
“Would’na be the first time,” McNab mumbled.
“What brings ye here at this hour, my friend?”
McNab figured it would come to that. He needed to come up with some plausible reason, and quick.
“I was sent to kill ye.” McNab’s shoulders slumped and he put his head in his hands, which caused the blood to start flowing again. That was the truth; he was supposed to lie. He was an idiot. Maybe he had been injured worse than he realized. He had heard if you hit a man’s nose hard enough, a piece of skull could get lodged in the brain, causing death. He could only hope.
>
“I beg your pardon?”
“I think I have a piece o’ skull lodged in my brain.”
“What’s that?”
“But I canna die right now ’cause I must save Andrew or they will hang him for sure.”
“Who?”
“My brother. Which is why I have to kill you. I am terrible sorry about it. Ye seem nice and all.”
“Perhaps I could convince ye to lean yer head back, ye’re pooling blood on my floor.”
“Sorry.” McNab tilted his head back up. “Can I speak wi’ ye?” He desperately wanted to talk, the words spilling from his mouth. And since he was going to kill the bishop anyway it seemed he might as well speak the truth.
“Aye, my son. Tell me what is troubling ye.”
McNab told the bishop of the poverty of his clan, his failed attempts at improving his fortune, and his dealings with the abbot. He talked about trying to give Andrew a better life by sending him to university, of failing to protect his sister, of wishing he was never born. He spoke of abducting Lady Cait and her maid, and being tricked into thinking the maid was Cait. He told the bishop of how Andrew had been taken by Campbell and would most likely be killed. Last of all, he spoke of how killing the bishop was the only way he had left to try to save Andrew and how it didn’t matter anyway because he was already damned.
If the bishop was surprised or concerned by any of McNab’s words, it did not show on his face. A man accustomed to hearing the confessions of many, the bishop hid his feelings well.
When he was done, McNab laid his head on the table. He was so tired. He wished to sleep and never wake.
“Abbot Barrick, ye ken he be a man o’ God?” asked the bishop.
“He be the devil incarnate,” groaned McNab.
“Strange then, ye would go to him for spiritual advice. How can ye account for it?”
“I ne’er went to him for no spiritual advice.”
“Get yer story straight, lad. Ye just told me it made no difference whether ye committed murder because the abbot said ye are damned.”
Highlander's Heart Page 24
