Bride of the Solway

by Joanna Maitland

  James looked unconvinced. But he ignored most of what Cassandra had said, merely replying, 'You are a burden, indeed. You and your lovers. I warn you. You are likely to seal your own fate. An unmarried sister has a degree of value. But only if she is known to be chaste.' He rose. Ignoring Cassandra's gasp of outrage, he bent forward, seizing her chin and forcing her head up so that he could assess her features. 'You are not so bad looking when you lose that mulish expression. I might be able to get a good price for you.'

  'You would sell me? Like a.. .a horse?' Until that moment, Cassandra had dared to hope that she might have at least some say in the choice of a husband. She should have known better. She knew James.

  'Why, sister, what else did you think I would do? I had no intention of keeping ye here much longer in any case. I can easily find another— cheaper—housekeeper. A sister costs too much. But, after this escapade, I must get you safely leg-shackled before the rumours start. Like mother, like daughter, they'll say, and then you'll have no value at all.'

  Cassandra gasped, then bit her lip. Hard.

  'What? Nothing to say, girl? Don't you wish to plead with me to find you a handsome young buck for a husband?' Cassandra said nothing.

  'Well, no. Perhaps you are right to hold your tongue. You know as well as I do that handsome young bucks rarely have the blunt that old men too. So, I fear that your husband is unlikely to be young. Or handsome, Indeed, the man I have in mind is—' He stopped short, waiting for her question. When she remained stubbornly silent, he strolled to the door. One thing I will promise you, though,' he drawled, as he opened it. 'Your husband may be old and cross-eyed, but he will be a gentleman. I do have my position to consider. Good morrow to ye, sister.' Then he was gone. The door was locked behind him. Cassandra was lone again. And now she was desperately afraid. She must do some-thing to save Ross Graham. She must! She could consider her own predicament later. It was much less important than a man's life. James tended to use the law to kill Ross Graham. And he was ready to perjure is soul to do it. She must do something. She must! But what?

  Cassandra resumed her pacing. The tray of food remained untouched on the table. If she swallowed a bite, it would choke her.

  It was still dark. But it must be morning by now, surely? Ross knew he had not been asleep for more than a few hours, at most. Even with his coat wrapped around him, the cold had penetrated his bones. He had woken, shivering. So now he paced the floor of his tiny cell, trying to get some warmth back into his limbs. Three paces, turn about, three paces, turn about, three paces...

  He had too much time to think here. That was the real problem of his confinement. He could do nothing more now until the gaoler reappeared. Nothing except pace. And remember. He tried to focus instead on Elliott and that girl. By Jove, she was a handful!

  Ross tried to picture what she looked like, but failed. He could see only a mass of dark hair, tangled and dripping, and a white gown that clung to her limbs. He recalled his shock at discovering that her feet and legs were bare. But he could not recall her features. Had he actually seen her face in the darkness? He had had a vague impression of huge dark eyes in a pale face. Nothing more. He was not at all sure he would rec­ognise her if he saw her again.

  Still pacing, he grinned into the darkness. See her? How could he? He could not even see his own hand in front of his face!

  His decision was already made. When the gaoler returned, he would offer him a bribe in return for pen and ink, and the promise to take a letter to the provost. Ross fingered the hidden pocket and the riches concealed there. It had served him well in France and Spain, and had saved his be­loved Julie from many a hardship.

  Julie... The memories came flooding in, like the rush of water when the sluice is released. He remembered every detail of her beautiful face, her peach-bloom complexion, her golden hair. The sinuous curves that moved beneath the plain cheap gown she wore, causing his breath to catch in his throat and his body to heat. Her low husky voice, her bril­liant smile, the way she worried at her full lower lip when her thoughts were far away—

  Enough! He knew now what she had been daydreaming about. Cer­tainly not about Ross Graham, much though she had tried to cozen him into believing that her regard for him might soon turn into love. She had played him for a fool.

  A part of him—the gallant, honourable part—attempted to defend her still. Perhaps he had misunderstood her behaviour? Was it not possible that she had intended to show him only gratitude, and friendship? That he had simply seen what he longed to see?

  He paused to think back over the months of their escape together, the hundreds of miles they had tramped from Julie's humble cottage along the French Mediterranean coast and across the north of Spain to find a ship to England. She had been so brave and determined throughout their ordeal, in spite of all the dangers, even when they had so nearly been captured by Bonaparte's soldiers. Was that what had blinded him to her wiles? For they were just that—wiles. She was a lady, of course, but that had not stopped her from flirting with Ross: those frequent little touches of her fingers, how she insisted he take her hand to help her over uneven ground, the way she looked up at him with those wide trusting eyes, running her tongue over her lips as if inviting him to kiss her. Damn it, she had known he could not. Not while he alone was responsible for bringing her out from under the nose of the enemy and delivering her safely to her relatives in London. She knew he was a man of honour. That was surely why she had agreed to escape with him? Was it necessary to make him love her, too?

  He shuddered. Whatever her motives, she had succeeded. Twice—at Perpignan and at Santander—he had tried to declare himself. Twice she had silenced him with a soft finger across his lips. 'Say nothing now, my dear friend,' she had said, that last time. 'We shall be in London soon, and free. There we may both say everything that is in our hearts.' And then she had smiled her blinding white smile and moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. Almost as if she were tasting him.

  Ross's body began to harden at the very thought. He cursed aloud at his own weakness. For a woman he had never even kissed!

  Fool that he was, he had believed that Julie, the granddaughter of a marquis, would stoop to consider a man with little wealth and no family.

  He had persuaded himself that once she was free, and safe in London, she would admit that Ross had captured her heart.

  It had not happened. They had arrived in London on that strangest of days, when the whole city was rejoicing at the news of the victory at Waterloo. Julie had almost been run down by one of the mail coaches, all hung with oak leaves, racing out of the city to carry the tidings to the furthest corners of the land. Ross had pulled her into his arms to save her, feeling the rapid beating of her heart against his chest, filling his lungs with the scent of her skin and her hair, holding her close as he had been longing to do... For seconds only. And then it was over. She had drawn away from him. With the utmost propriety, they had made their way to Berkeley Square

  to be welcomed into her noble English family.

  There, for one more second—just one—he had smiled, knowing that on the morrow he would finally tell her everything that was in his heart.

  And then he had seen it. Julie's eyes were fixed on that other man. Her face was lighting up with love. As hers blazed brighter, Ross's hid­den flame of love and hope had flickered and sunk to a dull ember. And then to cold and twisted dross.

  She had never loved him. Never. She could have been in no doubt that Ross was losing his heart to her. Did she care? Certainly not enough to tell him the truth, that her heart was already given. She had prevented him from declaring himself, no doubt to save her own blushes, not his heartbreak. For, if he had once spoken, she would have had to refuse him. And to tell him why. Oh, it was so much easier to play him like a fish on a hook, a little slack here, a little tug there. Keep the stupid fish think­ing that it is not being duped, that it has free choice. Never let it see that it is about to be served up on a plate.

  Incen
sed at himself, and at Julie, Ross slammed his clenched fist into the wall. For a moment, the pain stopped him from thinking. Then bleak sanity returned.

  Was I bewitched? he wondered. One beautiful woman, helpless, de­pendent on me for her safety, relying on my honour to preserve her vir­tue? Is that all it takes? Aye. One beautiful woman gazing up into my eyes and my wits go a-begging. After all those years in the wars, I should have learnt to deal better with women. God knows there were enough of them asking for our help, for our 'protection'. And beautiful women, too. But not one of them wormed her way into my heart.

  Until Julie. Beautiful, desirable, bewitching Julie. With a heart encased in cold stone.

  Ross felt as if a powerful fist had grasped his own heart and was squeez­ing fit to crush the life out of him. The pain was immense. Unbearable.

  'No!' he cried the single word aloud. No! I will not let one scheming woman ruin my life. I will forget her, as she deserves. She is not worth one instant's suffering. And I will never again allow a beautiful woman to bewitch me as Julie did. If ever I take a wife, let her be dark and ugly and.. .and mute. I will not be beguiled again, not by beauty, or honeyed words, or gentle touches on my skin. If ever I find another woman in dis­tress, pleading for my help, I shall turn my back on her, and laugh as I ride away.

  A sudden spasm of pain in his injured hand caused him to gasp aloud. And then he began to laugh, a great gale of cleansing laughter welling up from deep inside his soul, sweeping away the bitterness and the anger. When at last it subsided, he felt totally drained. But now, finally, he was free.

  He had loved Julie. He would willingly have died for her. But the love was gone, extinguished like a single candle flame doused by a torrent of water. He was whole again. He could go forward. Like an adder, he had sloughed off his old damaged skin. In its place was a new whole one, strong and supple, with a clear warning pattern.

  He forced his shoulders to straighten into something resembling his normal upright carriage. He must look to the future, however threaten­ing it now seemed. He had come to Scotland to solve the mystery sur­rounding his family and if.. .when he managed to escape from this prison, that was exactly what he would do. No one, however noble, would be able to look down on him in the future. He would still be an officer and a gentleman, but he would find a family to be proud of. It would be a new life.

  In that new life, he would keep his heart well-armoured against tender feelings. For any woman.

  Stooping, Cassandra muttered darkly under her breath. There was light coming through the keyhole. James had clearly taken the precaution of removing the key. Perhaps he suspected that Morag had helped her to escape?

  She crossed to the single chair and dropped heavily into it. She must pro­tect Morag from James. The maid would be prepared to take risks for Cassandra—out of love and devotion—but she must not be permitted to do so. For James was a cruel and vindictive man. He would take pleasure in dismissing Morag and in doing everything in his power to ensure she starved.

  There must be another way.

  Ross Graham was in Dumfries gaol. He was to be brought to trial. That meant an appearance before the provost, perhaps even before the Sheriff himself. The provost would believe Jamie's accusations of abduction. He would authorise a trial. He had no reason to doubt the Elliott laird's word.

  Unless the Elliott daughter herself disputed it.

  She had to find a way of persuading the provost to call her as a witness. She had to tell him what had really happened. Perhaps Morag...? No. Too dangerous. Not Morag'. Besides, the maid would have no plausible reason for going to Dumfries, and no means of travelling there, either.

  Cassandra leant her elbows on the table, picked up her pen and began to chew the end of the quill. She must do it herself. Somehow.

  She could write a letter, of course, but there was no one to whom she dared entrust it. Morag was the only one who would take her part. And using Morag for such a hazardous task was out of the question.

  She raised her hand to wipe her damp brow. She must have caught a chill from being out in that thunderstorm. She felt a little hot. But what did that matter? It was but a minor indisposition when a man's life was at stake. She felt in her pocket for a handkerchief.

  Her fingers found, not fine linen, but a tiny scrap of paper.

  Alasdair! The fifteen-year-old youth from the nearby estate who fan­cied himself in love with Cassandra. The lad who wrote her bad poetry in which he swore to serve her unto death. Would he dare to serve her now, in spite of the risk of crossing her fearsome half-brother?

  She must try. If Alasdair were caught, James would give him a thrash­ing, but nothing more. Even James would not dare to do real harm to a gentleman's son, especially when they were such near neighbours. James could not afford to make even more enemies in Galloway.

  Cassandra swallowed hard. If only she could escape! She had abso­lutely no wish to put Alasdair in danger, but what choice did she have? None. She was about to wager a beating for Alasdair against a hanging for Ross Graham. She could not allow her rescuer to die.

  She rose and began to pace, planning what she must do. She must write a careful note to the provost. But not now. Not yet. There was al­ways the chance that James would have her chamber searched, or walk in on her, as he had done when he found her with Alasdair's poems. No. The note must be written just before it was despatched.

  But how to despatch it? She could drop it out of the window, perhaps, but only if Alasdair were already there. And the lad knew better than to be found on Elliott land. What if—?

  A tiny knock on the door interrupted her ravelled thoughts.

  'Miss Cassie!' The strident whisper could be clearly heard. Morag must be at the keyhole.

  Cassandra ran to the door. 'Morag!' she whispered urgently. 'Be care­ful ! If my brother hears you—' ,

  'Dinna fret, Miss Cassie. The master's at his meat. And Tam is waiting on him. I've told Tam that ye need feeding too, but—'

  'Never mind that, Morag. Listen. I need you to get a message to Alasdair. Tell him to come here as soon as it's dark. I'll drop him a note. He's to take it to Provost Scobie. Tell him it's urgent. Can you do that? Please, Morag? I know that—'

  'Wheesht, lassie. Of course I can do it. I'll tell Tam I'm away to see the cook at Alasdair's house, that I need to borrow—'

  Even through the barrier of the heavy bedroom door, Cassandra heard the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Oh, God! Morag would be caught! And it was Cassandra's fault. She held her breath, waiting for an outburst from Tam, or from her brother.

  None came. Instead, she heard weary footsteps toiling to the top of the stairs and then plodding along the corridor to her door. It could only be Tam. Her brother was younger, and much lighter on his feet. Slightly relieved that Morag seemed to have escaped detection, Cassandra moved quietly back to her chair and sat down, resting her head on her hand and breathing deeply in an attempt to calm her nerves. She must not let Tam see how frightened she had been that Morag might be caught. She must appear to be totally downhearted at the turn of events, and at her brother's victory over her. She must appear to be cowed.

  Tam did not knock. He simply unlocked the door and walked in.

  That changed Cassandra's mind completely, for she knew better than to permit such behaviour from her brother's servant. She rose from her place and glared at the man. 'You did not knock,' she said coldly.

  'I thought I heard somethin'. I had to see that ye—'

  'Nothing of the kind. I'll warrant you marched into my chamber in hopes of finding me in a state of undress. Do you know what happens to such men, Tam? Peeping Tom was struck blind, remember?'

  Tam began to bluster.

  'Enough of your lies! I shall tell the laird of your unseemly behavi­our as soon as I see him. He will not believe your excuses, either. He knows full well there is no escape from this room, now that the windows have been barred.'

  Tarn's colour had fled at the mention of the laird. 'There'
s no need to say anything t' the laird, mistress. He— I was coming up to see ye anyway, to find out what ye was wanting for yer dinner. There's fresh-baked bannocks. And Morag's made a great kettle o' venison stew, if ye'd like. And—'

  'That will do me very well, Tam, for I have not eaten today. Perhaps tomorrow you will be more mindful of your duties towards me. It falls to you, after all, to ensure that I am well enough fed that I have no grounds for complaining to my brother.' She stared him out until he looked away.

  'I'll fetch yer food right away, mistress,' he said, slinking out of the room.

  Cassandra listened. Tam was not so intimidated that he failed to lock the door. A pity. But at least he would not dare to walk in again unan­nounced. She could write her letter to the provost, knowing that she would have time to hide it if he came upstairs again.

  She sat down at the table and picked up the chewed quill. She dipped the pen in the standish and began to compose one of the most important missives of her life.

  'I've brought yer coat, sir.'

  Ross pushed himself to his feet and strode forward to take the coat from the gaoler. Under his shirt, the comforting wad of banknotes moved against his skin. He would keep it there from now on.

  'My missus did her best, sir, but it's no' what it was. It's dry enough, and she brushed it, but—'

  'No matter,' Ross said, beginning to shrug his arms into the sleeves. It struck him, absurdly in the circumstances, that it was as well that he had never indulged in the form-fitting coats made by Weston, for this one had shrunk a fraction. It felt distinctly tight across the shoulders. A Weston coat would have split.

  'The provost wants to see ye, sir. I'm to bring ye to his house.'

  'Excellent,' said Ross. 'I take it that the provost has the power to get me out of this pestilential hole?'