Bride of the Solway

by Joanna Maitland

  From the doorway stepped a tall, black-browed man, grinning fiercely down at the girl. 'I thought so,' he said shortly, seizing her by the arms and pushing her roughly towards one of the three men who had followed him from the hut. Ross's coat fell from her shoulders to the ground. The speaker took no notice. 'Take care of her while I deal with this blackguard.'

  'Let her go!' Ross cried. The girl's captor simply grinned and put a filthy hand across her mouth, muffling her scream of outrage. Ross reached automatically for his weapon. He had none. He had not worn a sword since he had put off his regimentals, and his pistols were snugly holstered by his saddle. He had nothing but his fists. He squared his shoulders. Even one against four, he would show them what a man could do.

  The dark man must have sensed something. From nowhere, he pro­duced a pistol and casually pointed it at Ross's heart. 'So you're the man, are ye? Y'are good for nothing but poetry, it seems. Well, we shall see how many lines you can compose among the rats. Take him and bind him, lads.'

  The other two men grabbed Ross by the arms and, in spite of all he did to resist, Ross soon found his hands tightly bound behind his back with rough hempen rope, and a dirty piece of sacking tied around his mouth for a gag.

  'Put him on his horse and bring him,' ordered their leader. 'Ned, fetch the horses.'

  Perhaps, in the dark, they had not noticed the pistols by Hera's saddle'? If only Ross could free his hands, he might be able to—

  'There are pistols here, maister,' cried one of the ruffians, pulling one from its place and brandishing it in the air.

  'Give them to me. And those bags of his as well. I'll look through them when we have more light. His coat, too.'

  Ross's captor pushed him onto Hera's back. With his hands tied be­hind his back, it would be a dangerous ride.

  'And the leddy, maister?' The ruffian nodded in the direction of the girl, whose thin gown was now sticking to her limbs, making her look almost naked. She seemed oblivious to that, however, for all her efforts were bent on freeing herself from the man who held her fast.

  'You and Tarn, take her back to the house and lock her up,' cried the master. 'And make sure she does not escape from you this time, Tarn, or it will be the worse for you.'

  At that moment, the man Tarn cried out in pain and pulled his hand from her mouth. 'The wench bit me!'

  The girl paid not the least attention to Tarn. She was glowering at the dark man. 'Curse you, Jamie Elliott,' she screamed, with loathing in her voice. 'May you rot in hell!'

  'I may well, my dear,' Elliott replied coolly, mounting his horse, 'but not at your bidding. I will see to you later. For the present, I have more important work to do, in dealing with your lover.' Leaning forward, he took hold of Hera's rein and kicked his own mount into a fast trot, pull­ing Ross's unwilling mare after him. They were twenty yards away before Ned, standing open-mouthed, hauled himself into the saddle of the second horse and galloped after his master.

  Behind them, the girl shouted something, but her words were carried off by the wind. Ross and his captors were alone.

  'Oh, Miss Cassie! Ye're fair drookit! Just look at you! Did ye not think to take a cloak, at least?'

  'If I'd stopped to find a cloak, I'd not have got away at all.' Cassandra forced herself to smile at the maid who was fussing around with warm towels and a dry nightgown.

  'But you didna get away, dearie,' Morag said sadly. 'And after this, the laird will make sure to keep ye even closer. When he saw that you'd climbed down from your chamber, he was that fashed, he nearly threw Tarn out after you. We could hear him yelling, from down in the kitchen. Tarn's to put bars on yer window, first thing in the morn.' Morag began to towel Cassandra's sodden mane of hair. 'My, but ye're soaked, lassie. 'Twas a daft thing to do. You'll be getting the ague, next.'

  'That's what he said, too,' murmured Cassandra, snuggling into the thick wrapper that Morag had added over her nightdress.

  'The laird said that?' Morag sounded astonished.

  'Not he,' said Cassandra, on the thread of a laugh. 'Jamie Elliott cares not a whit whether I live or die, provided that I do not inconvenience him and his plans.'

  'Wheesht, lassie!' Morag's finger went to her lips. Her eyes registered shock. And fear.

  'It's no more than the truth,' Cassandra said, though more quietly than before. 'If I died of the ague, my brother would think himself relieved of an unwelcome burden.'

  Morag looked grim, but she did not attempt to argue. The whole household knew what the laird thought of his young half-sister. And how unfairly he treated her.

  'Morag,' said Cassandra urgently, 'when the laird and the men come back, you must do your best to find out what they have done with him. Please.'

  'What d'ye mean?'

  'The man who tried to rescue me.' >

  'Rescue...? I think you'd better start at the beginning, Miss Cassie. You've got my head in a whirl.'

  Cassandra patted the woman's work-roughened hand and let out a long sigh. 'Aye, I suppose... Well...I thought Jamie planned to leave me locked in the little parlour downstairs. I was surprised when Tarn said I was to be locked in my own chamber instead. Until I thought about it, of course. From the parlour, I might have been able to speak to someone outside, even when the shutters were barred. From my own chamber, there was no chance of that. Not without shouting and being caught. It's too high up.'

  'D'ye tell me you climbed down the wall?'

  'I... No, I didn't. But Jamie must think I did.' 'But if the door was locked—'

  Cassandra smiled knowingly. 'There are ways of getting a key from the other side of a door, you know, Morag.'

  The maid looked unconvinced. .

  'You'll keep my secret, Morag?'

  The woman nodded.

  Cassandra knew Morag was to be trusted. 'I slipped a paper under the door and then I turned the key from the inside. It took a while. It was very stiff. Then I pushed it out and it fell on the floor. I was lucky. It fell onto the paper and there was just room to pull it back under the door.'

  'Oh!' said Morag in wonderment.

  'It's an old trick. I'm surprised Jamie didn't work it out. Maybe he was fooled because I relocked the door and left the key there. And the window open.'

  'But why did you go off in just yer thin gown? And not even a pair of shoon on yer feet?'

  'It was all I had, apart from a shawl. And I lost that when Lucifer bolted. Jamie had Tarn clear out my clothes press. He said I should get used to living in a shift. That's how I'd be dressed when I was taken to the Bedlam, he said.' Cassandra swallowed hard at the terrifying memory, even more terrifying now that she had tried, and failed, to escape.

  'He'll not send ye there,' Morag said firmly. 'Nobody thinks ye're mad. And he canna marry you out of the asylum, can he?'

  'But he says I'm a...a harlot. Like my...' her voice dropped to a strangled whisper '.. .like my mother. He could confine me for that. You know he could.'

  'He'll not do that. He'll...he'd have yer godfather to reckon with if he did, and he'll not take the chance of that.' Morag nodded, as if to con­firm the truth of her words.

  And it was true, Cassandra thought. Her godfather, Sir Angus Fergusson, had once promised to stand by her, even though he had been estranged from the family for many years. And he wielded just as much clout as Jamie, perhaps more. If only she'd been able to reach him...

  'Was that where you were going'?' At Cassandra's answering nod, Morag burst out, 'You were going to cross the Solway in the mirk? Alone? Ye are mad, lassie!'

  'It wasn't that dark. Not till the storm came. And I was going to get Shona to take me across. Only Lucifer bolted in the storm. It was all I could do to hang on to him.' She did not add that she had been hanging on while being dragged along the ground. Better to let Morag think that she had still been on his back.

  'Ye might have ended up in the quicksands,' Morag breathed in horror.

  'Well, I didn't. A man caught us. He... I couldn't see him very well in the gloom, bu
t he spoke like a gentleman.' She smiled to herself. He had acted like a gentleman, too. Such fancy manners he had. Ross Graham. Who stopped to introduce himself in the middle of a thunderstorm.

  'But the laird wouldna lay hands on a gentleman, surely?'

  'I doubt he knows, Morag. They bound him and gagged him before he had a chance to say a word. And in the dark, no one would be able to ell from his clothes. Besides, they were all dripping wet.' She stopped, twisting her hands together. 'You must find out what they did with him, Morag. You must. Even if they.. .even if they've killed him.' She shut her eyes tightly for a second against the horrifying picture her own words lad conjured up. Jamie would not stoop to murder. Would he?

  Ross opened his eyes. He could see absolutely nothing. It was pitch dark. But he did not need his eyes to know just what sort of place he was in. His nose told him that. It reeked of damp and decay. More muted was a clear reminder of the stench of human bodies kept imprisoned for too long. There was something else, too, that he could not quite identify.

  Where was he? He stretched out a hand, touching damp straw over the stone floor where he lay. He had already felt the cold eating into his body. Clearly, this place—whatever it was—never saw the sun. He made to sit up. Too quickly. A searing pain in the back of his skull stopped him dead.

  Ah, yes. Now he remembered. He had tried to escape when they reached the outskirts of Dumfries and had been struck down for his pains. He put a hand to the back of his head and gingerly felt for blood. There appeared to be none, though there was a distinct lump under his hair. Well, he had suffered worse in the wars. He would mend. At least Elliott and his dastardly companion had untied his arms.

  Ross felt about in the dark. He had been thrown down near a wall and so he sat up, rather more cautiously than before, and leant his aching head against it for a few moments. Where was he? Somewhere in Dumfries, he supposed, but clearly a prisoner of the man, Elliott.

  Ross's fingers began to quest around in the dank straw beneath him. His left hand met something different. Why, it was his sodden coat! He should have recognised that pervasive smell of wet wool. He pulled the coat towards him and quickly checked the pockets. Not surprisingly perhaps, his money was gone. He cursed roundly. Then, with a grim smile, he ran his fingers down the inside of the lining, where the hidden pocket lay. It remained intact. He still had his English banknotes. But it was a pity that he no longer had golden guineas with which to bribe his way out of whatever prison Elliott had thrown him into. Elliott. And that girl. He remembered her vividly, lying crumpled on the ground. Who was she? Whoever she was, Elliott certainly had some hold over her. She—

  Something scuttled over Ross's foot. A rat. Of course. There were bound to be rats in a place like this. It was bad, but no worse than many a Spanish billet during the war. Ross shrugged philosophically. The gesture reminded him, painfully, that he should not make any hasty movements. His head was not up to it. He must move slowly and carefully. He should explore his prison and find out whether there was any possibility of escape. In this clammy darkness, he could not tell whether there was even a window.

  He pushed himself on to his knees. Then, with a hand on the wall for support, he slowly began to get to his feet. Just at that moment, a door opened in the far wall and a lantern appeared. Ross was temporarily blinded by the sudden light and unable to see what was beyond.

  A man's voice said, 'Och, so ye're no' dead then,' and broke into raucous laughter.

  Ross stared towards the doorway, trying to make out the features of the man who stood there. It was neither Elliott nor his henchman, Ross decided. This man was much stouter than either.

  'I've brought ye a wee bit dinner,' said the man. The lantern stooped and there was the muffled clatter of a metal plate on the straw-covered stone floor.

  Ross took a step towards the door.

  'Stay jist where ye are!' cried the man quickly. 'I've a pistol here and I'll shoot ye, if ye come a step nearer!'

  Ross stopped in his tracks, allowing his arms to hang loosely by his sides, palms forward. 'You must know that I have no weapons,' he said calmly.

  'Aye, but the laird said ye was dangerous. I am no' to take any chances with ye.'

  'And you are the laird's man?' said Ross, proudly.

  'Nothing o' the kind,' protested the man at the door. 'I do my duty by ye, as I would by any other prisoner.'

  A cold chill ran down Ross's spine. 'Where am I?'

  'Where d'ye think? Ye're in the gaol, in Dumfries.'

  'And with what crime am I charged, to be held here? I have done noth­ing to warrant it.'

  The turnkey laughed. 'That's no' the way the laird tells it. He says ye'll hang.'

  'Dammit, man!' Ross took another step forward. 'I've done—' 'Stop where ye are!'

  Ross stopped dead. However, the gaoler had moved smartly back­wards and closed the door between them. The lantern now showed the bars in the tiny window in the door.

  'Ye'll learn yer fate soon enough,' said the man with a low chuckle as he turned the key. 'Soon enough.' The lantern receded and disappeared. Ross was alone again. In the dark.

  He had endured too many hardships in the Peninsula to dwell on might-have-beens. His first thought was to secure the plate and whatever food had been provided, before the rats ate it. He got down on his knees once more and then felt his way towards where the light had been, until his outstretched fingers found the plate. It contained a largish piece of hard bread and nothing else. Ross grinned into the darkness. It was quite like old times.

  He broke off a chunk from the stale bread and chewed it thoughtfully. He needed to get a message to someone. Was there anyone in Dumfries who would help an unknown gentleman from England? Perhaps with one of the banknotes from his hidden store, he could bribe the gaoler to take a letter to the provost or the local magistrate? Yes, he would do that.

  A thought struck him. He was surprised into a burst of hollow laughter. What if the local magistrate was the Elliott laird?

  Cassandra paced the floor of her chamber. Her gaol. Her only conso­lation was that her clothes had been returned to her. She was decently clad, and shod. But now there were bars on her window, making the room feel even more like a prison.

  She refused to dwell on that. With luck, she might be able to unlock the door using the same trick as before. But first, she must have news of the man who had tried to rescue her. What on earth was keeping Morag? Surely she should have been able to glean some news by now?

  The sound of the key turning in the lock brought a halt to her pac­ing. Morag?

  The door opened.' Morag!' Cassandra cried as the servant entered, bearing a tray of food. 'Have you found out what happened to the ma—?'

  Morag frowned warningly and gave a tiny shake of her head.

  'She has tried, sister,' said a voice from the darkness beyond the door­way. James Elliott stepped forward into the room and pushed the door behind him. 'She has tried so hard that even Tarn noticed her eagerness for information. And you will agree that our Tarn is not the quickest of nature's creatures. So, since you are so desperate for news of your lover, I have come to bring it myself.'

  'He is not my lover!' Cassandra protested hotly. 'I never saw him be­fore yesterday!'

  James ignored her. 'Return to the kitchen,' he ordered sharply. 'And remember what I said, woman. You will not attend on my sister until I give you leave. If I find you have been alone with her, you will find yourself in the workhouse. Or the gutter.'

  ' Morag had shrunk away from his terrible words. Without venturing even a glance at Cassandra, she hurried out. Cassandra's only ally had been defeated.

  James threw himself down into the high-backed oak chair and stretched out his long legs. He had every appearance of a gentleman sitting at his ease. But James Elliott was no gentleman. He was—

  'Now, sister. We have matters to discuss. First, that woman of yours, she will no longer serve you. Not alone. Tarn will make sure that you lave no opportunity for private speec
h with her. Or with anyone else who might try to help you. Understand that I am the laird, and my will is to be respected. No one will be allowed to cross me. Not even you.'

  This time, Cassandra did not protest. She refused to look at him. She clenched her jaw and stared at the floor. Hot words clamoured for release, but she would not give in to them. A moment's satisfaction was not worth weeks of even greater restrictions on her person.

  'Lost your tongue sister?' James's voice was now thoroughly nasty. He paused for a few seconds. Then, realising that Cassandra was not about to respond, he said, 'You wanted information about your lover. You thought I had killed him, did you not? Faith, lassie, I am not such a fool as to put myself on the wrong side of the law. Not when it stands ready to help me.'

  Cassandra raised her eyes to his face. At least Ross Graham was not dead.

  'Your lover, my dear sister, is in Dumfries gaol awaiting his trial. And, after it, he will hang.'

  'No!' Cassandra shrieked. 'No! You cannot! He has done nothing!'

  James raised his eyebrows and glared mockingly at her. 'Nothing? I think not, my dear. Abduction is a serious offence. A hanging offence. And I stand ready to swear that he abducted you. I have no doubt that the law will dispose of your lover to my complete satisfaction.'

  'You would perjure yourself? Before God?' whispered Cassandra in horror.

  'It is no perjury. I found ye both, remember? And I have three wit­nesses to the fact, besides old Shona.'

  'James.. .please.' For herself, she would not plead. But she could not allow an innocent man to be hanged. 'He is not my lover. I will swear it, on a stack of bibles if you wish. I had never seen him before. I was alone.' At the look of disbelief on her half-brother's face, she became even more desperate. 'I was alone, I swear it. I was going to cross the Solway. I thought if I could get to my godfather's—'

  James's head jerked up. He scowled blackly at the reminder that he had one enemy who was powerful enough to take his sister's part.

  Cassandra rushed on. 'The storm caught me. Lucifer bolted. If that man had not appeared from nowhere and stopped us, Lucifer would have bolted straight into the firth. 'Twere better if he had, perhaps. Then you would have been rid of an unwelcome burden.'