by Marie Laval
‘McRae! No!’ Bruce shouted as he started running.
It was too late. Cameron’s body tipped over the edge and disappeared into the void.
Chapter Thirty-three
Bruce wouldn’t let Kilroy tend to him until everything at Wrath was in order, and it was dawn when both men finally went up to his study. His chest only started to hurt – really hurt – when he took his blood-soaked jacket and shirt off. He almost welcomed the physical pain. At least it took his mind off the anguish, the fear and the despair he felt inside.
While Kilroy gathered what he needed to see to his wound, Bruce stared out of the window. The fog had lifted and fiery streaks slashed through the night sky like claws tearing through a velvet cloak. A light breeze ruffled the surface of the sea. It was the perfect weather for a ship to set sail.
‘You are one lucky man,’ Kilroy announced after examining his chest. ‘Although it bled quite a lot, the wound doesn’t appear to be serious and there shouldn’t be any lasting damage – apart from ridding you of that weird tattoo of yours, that is. You’ve a deep cut there I’ll have to stitch.’
Too busy grinding his teeth as Kilroy dabbed antiseptic on his chest before sewing up the wound, Bruce didn’t reply. It didn’t matter about the damned tattoo any more. If there was one thing he knew now, it was that he’d been wrong about it all along. It was never a curse and had had no part in his descent into madness. The poison McNeil had fed him every day for the last six months had been the cause – the poison he still had inside him and, which he feared, was slowly destroying him.
‘Will I get better in time, Kilroy?’ he asked when the doctor finished bandaging his chest.
Kilroy nodded. ‘Of course. I just told you there was no lasting damage.’
‘I’m not talking about this scratch, but about my strength and my sanity. Will I ever be able to remember what I did under the influence of the datura, or will I forever be plagued by chest pains, headaches, hallucinations and memory loss?’
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. ‘More than anything, I need to know if I’m a danger to others.’
Kilroy snipped the end of the bandage and tied it to hold it in place.
‘I’m sorry, McGunn, I don’t know enough about datura to answer your questions,’ he answered at last. ‘There’s no reason why you shouldn’t fully recover with time, plenty of rest … and the love of a good woman, of course. For now get yourself a fresh shirt. Now your staff are back, I’ll ask one of the kitchen helps to make us a cup of strong tea and a bite to eat. It’s been quite a night.’
Kilroy left him to get dressed and Bruce dragged his weary body to his room. He rummaged through his wardrobe and slipped a fresh shirt on. He would never know if the doctor was right or not, because there would be no rest for him, at least not in the foreseeable future.
As for the love of a good woman, that was simply not going to happen. Ever. The only woman he wanted was Rose, and right now she was now on board the Sea Eagle, ready to sail for Algiers. Once she’d left, he’d never see her again.
He turned towards the bed and let out a ragged breath. That first night when Rose had tumbled into his bed, he had known she was the one for him.
No, he had known before that, when the wind had blown her hood off at the harbour and whipped her sunny blonde hair around her face, when he had delved into her dark-blue iris eyes and breathed in her delicate, feminine orange-blossom scent. A creature of summer, of fragrant and distant lands, she had no place in his dark, cold winter and was going back where she belonged that very morning. Forever.
Memories and sensations flooded through him and cut his heart and soul making him ache so much he couldn’t repress a moan. Snap out of it, he ordered himself tersely. This wasn’t the time to be lovesick or filled with regrets and impossible dreams. There was too much to do, too much to worry about.
At least now he had put MacBoyd in charge, he could be reassured about the future of Wrath. His friend would do his best. He’d already stopped Morven’s thugs from burning more farms and villages during the night, and together with Wallace and his highlanders he’d rounded up the few thugs that still lived and thrown them into the Lodge’s cellars where they would remain until they could be taken to Thurso. Bruce only had a few moments left to give instructions, put the estate’s affairs in order and say his goodbyes before he too rode to Thurso.
‘McGunn,’ Kilroy’s voice called. ‘Someone just brought a message from the Sea Eagle. It’s for you.’
He finished fastening his shirt as quickly as the pain in his chest allowed, slipped a black waistcoat on and a new jacket, then walked out of his room and into the study. A tray with a steaming pot of tea, a jug of milk and a plate piled high with buttered bannocks lay on the desk.
Kilroy stood near the fireplace and turned to greet him. His fingers were playing with a small leather pouch and a piece of paper folded in two. ‘It’s from Rose.’ He smiled and held the pouch and the paper out.
Bruce’s heart tightened but he deliberately ignored his friend’s hand. ‘I don’t want it, you keep it.’ Reading a message from Rose would only soften his resolve, making the inevitable more painful.
Kilroy frowned. ‘I don’t believe it. The woman you love wrote you a letter and you’re telling me you don’t even want to read it?’
Bruce shook his head. ‘Aye, that’s exactly what I’m saying.’
‘The sailor who brought the letter said that Captain Kennedy would hold back for one hour only. Are you sure you don’t want to read what Rose has to say, or go down to the harbour to stop her from leaving?’
‘Positive. And for the record, I’m the one who put her on the ship and made her leave.’
Kilroy raised a puzzled eyebrow. ‘Why, McGunn? It’s obvious you are besotted with the girl, and she feels the same way about you.’
‘She’ll be far better without me. Anyway, it’s nothing to do with you, so keep your nose out of it.’
‘I never thought the day would come when I called you a coward,’ Kilroy said in a dry voice.
Bruce poured himself a cup of tea and brought it to his mouth. The hot liquid scalded his lips and tongue. ‘You’ll probably call me a lot of other things when I’ve finished talking to you.’ He sighed. ‘Is there any news of Morag?
Kilroy shook his head. ‘The men you sent looking for her haven’t returned yet.’
Thoughtful, Bruce sipped more tea. Was his nurse still alive, and if she was, did he really want to face her?
‘On the other hand,’ his friend remarked, ‘what’s left of McRae’s body has been retrieved and taken to the cold room at the fisheries.’
‘Has anyone told Lady Patricia about him yet?’ Bruce asked.
Kilroy nodded. ‘I don’t know how much she understood when I talked to her earlier. She showed no sign of grief or emotion. And before you ask, I patched up Morven and he is now locked up in the cellars with the remainder of his men. He’ll be able to testify about whatever happened these past few weeks, months, and years.’
‘That’s what I want to talk to you about,’ Bruce said. He gestured towards a chair. ‘You’d better sit down. I don’t know how much you’ve heard tonight, but it turns out I was Niall McRae’s first-born, albeit illegitimate, son.’
In a gruff voice, he proceeded to tell his friend everything he knew about the affair between Niall McRae and his mother, which wasn’t much, since he hadn’t read the documents Rose had retrieved from the old clock before McRae burnt them. He talked about Cameron McRae, the half-brother who colluded with Morven and ordered McNeil to poison him.
‘I think he used his influence to get me discharged from the army, too,’ he added after a short silence.
Kilroy listened without interrupting to Bruce’s recollections of Colonel Saintclair’s military diary, the enquiry into Captain Pichet’s death and Donald Robertson’s arrest. He asked a few questions about Rose’s fake wedding in Algiers, about Bruce’s mugging in Inverness and about the brothel
where he remembered seeing Malika.
‘Bloody hell,’ he breathed out when Bruce fell silent at last. ‘What a tale. So what do you intend to do now?’
Bruce looked into his friend’s blue eyes.
‘Now, you are going to write down everything I just told you – with the exception of the part about McRae’s and Rose’s fake wedding. Nobody needs to know about that. This way the girl may keep her reputation intact …’
Heavy footsteps resounded in the stairwell, the door to the study was pushed open and Wallace came in.
Bruce rose to his feet, swallowed hard. The moment had come. ‘Wallace. I want you to take me into immediate custody for the possible rape and murder of Fenella MacKay and Malika Jahal,’ he announced in a cold, flat voice.
Wallace stared at him, incomprehension clouding his eyes. ‘But, Lieutenant …’
Bruce hardened his stare. ‘Please don’t discuss my orders. We will ride to Thurso where you’ll deliver me to the Procurator Fiscal. You will also carry the letter Kilroy will give you for safekeeping.’
Just under an hour later, Bruce rode out of Wrath Lodge with the men from his former regiment. He stared at the road ahead, without even looking back at the Lodge, or glancing once at the Sea Eagle still moored at the harbour.
As he rode on the cliff path, he had the crushing feeling of turning his back on everything that had ever mattered, on hope, love and life itself.
Chapter Thirty-four
Bou Saada
November 1848
Rose coughed and sat up, gasping for air. Her head hurt where she’d hit the ground, her throat was sore and her eyes stung. The intense heat and stifling smoke made breathing difficult. How long had she lain there unconscious with the old town ablaze around her?
The last thing she remembered was delivering a message from her brother’s childhood friend Ahmoud to the tavern in the medina, urging his rebel companions to leave Bou Saada immediately. A fight had erupted and, in the general panic, she had been pushed out onto the square. After that, nothing. She must have been knocked out and fallen to the ground.
All around flames roared, fierce and loud like a thousand mountain lions. Red hot ashes and burning debris rained down as houses crashed to the ground. Men and women ran towards the town gates, carrying their children and whatever possessions they’d rescued from the inferno. It was all in vain, of course. The French soldiers shot at anyone brave or crazy enough to try to leave. They had their orders, no doubt, and she could only hope Ahmoud and his friends had already managed to escape. Nobody would be allowed out of the town now.
An old man staggered towards her. Blood stained the front of his djellabah. ‘Save yourself, girl,’ he groaned in Arabic before collapsing onto the dusty ground in front of her. His eyes stared into hers for a brief moment then glazed over.
Rose scrambled to her feet with a cry of panic and started running down the street. The fire had destroyed much of the medina already, and there was only burning rubble where the bazaar and townhouses once stood. Breathless, her heart beating so hard it hurt, she turned into a narrow lane. A few more steps and she would be home.
She could see the thick white walls surrounding her family home and the large and ornate wooden gate when half a dozen soldiers suddenly appeared at the end of the street, blocking the alleyway. Immediately she swung round and started in the opposite direction, hoping to sneak away.
‘Arrête ou je tire!’ a man’s voice shouted.
Bedbugs and stinky camels! It was too late. They had seen her. She froze, held her breath and closed her eyes. What should she do now? Pull her veil down to reveal her identity or carry on pretending she was an Ouled Nail dancing girl?
‘Well, lads, I’d say it’s our lucky night,’ the man sneered.
The men surrounded her, and a pungent smell of sweat, gunpowder and unwashed clothing filled the air. They were all young apart from the man one who had spoken. Sporting dirty grey whiskers, a pock-marked face and bulbous nose, he appeared to be in charge.
‘It’s about time we sampled the pleasures this shit-hole has to offer before we burn it to the ground, don’t you think?’ he said before tearing her veil off. He let out an oath as her hair tumbled onto her shoulders.
‘But she’s not a native, sir,’ one of the soldiers said. ‘She’s blonde and her eyes are blue!’
Pinching her chin between his dirty fingers the man lifted her face towards him. ‘I can see that, idiot. The question is, what’s she doing out? Maybe she doesn’t know there are dangerous men around, or maybe she does …’
The men's coarse laughter echoed around her. The soldier’s dirty fingers slid down her throat, leaving a hot, moist trail on her skin. His breathing became fast and raspy.
‘Come with me, my lovely,’ he ordered, narrowing his small brown eyes, ‘you and I are going to have a little … ahem … talk.’
She didn’t move but stared defiant into his eyes. ‘I want to speak to your superior officer,’ she said with more assurance than she felt.
The man laughed again. ‘Corporal Doisnel is busy tonight, chérie. In case you haven’t noticed we’re smoking and shooting rebels out of here. For some reason, they haven’t realised that their precious emir gave up the struggle a few months back and is now in prison in France.’
‘I must see him straight away. I have important information about the rebels,’ she lied. ‘I know where they’re hiding.’
Anything, she would say anything to get away from these thugs and send the French on a false trail, all the way to the salt marshes outside Bou Saada, where with luck they would get lost and drown.
The soldier leaned towards her, close enough for his greasy grey whiskers to tickle her face. His breath stank of wine and cheap tobacco and she wrinkled her nose in disgust.
‘Sure you do.’ He chuckled then grabbed the top of her dress. The fabric was so flimsy it tore, uncovering her thin chemise.
‘Leave me alone, you stinking jackal, and go away,’ she hissed, pulling the ripped dress across her chest.
‘I suggest you do what the lady says and scoot,’ a deep, calm voice said in hesitant French – a voice she thought she’d never hear ever again.
Her breath hitched in her throat. Her heart stopped, then started again with a painful lurch. It couldn’t be him. It just couldn’t! Bruce didn’t speak a word of French, and he was miles and miles away, almost on the other side of the world. He had sent her away, rejected her, and by now certainly forgotten her.
No, she was imagining things. She did get a bump to the head in the medina after all.
The soldier stared at a point behind her, his eyes wide with shock. ‘Nom d’un chien! Who the hell are they?’ he said before gesturing to his men to step back.
Slowly, Rose turned her head to look over her shoulder. Three giants blocked the alleyway, their pistols pointed at the French soldiers. With the town ablaze behind them, they looked like demons stepping out of Hell. Or at least that was what the French soldiers must be thinking because they retreated to the far end of the lane before taking to their heels and disappearing around the corner.
Rose did not dare move. She didn’t dare close her eyes either, or even blink. Any second now and the three men would vanish and she’d be alone. She wanted to believe that he was here –and for the illusion to be real for a few moments.
‘Rose, gràidheag, at last I’ve found you,’ the tallest, dark-haired man said, in English this time, as he took a step forward. ‘Are you all right? Your head is bleeding.’
She shook her head in disbelief. Unable to talk, she stared at the man she’d given up all hope of ever seeing again. Like the last time she’d seen him, his dark hair reached down to his shoulders and a thick stubble covered his cheeks. She had dreamt of him, ached and cried for him so much over the past year that seeing him now didn’t seem real at all.
She took a deep breath. ‘Of course I am,’ she managed to answer in a choked voice. ‘I told you life at Bou Saada was dangerous,
didn’t I?’ Turning to the other two men, she added, ‘Wallace, Fraser, it’s nice to see you.’
‘It’s nice to see you, too, Miss Rose,’ they replied in unison.
‘How did you get that gash on your forehead?’ Bruce frowned as he stared at her dress, her bare feet and the veil hanging loose on her shoulders. ‘Come to think of it, why were you out dressed like a dancing girl tonight when soldiers roam the town, torching buildings and shooting at everybody?’
She waved an impatient hand in front of her but the harshness in his voice and eyes cut deep. ‘I had things to do … but I can’t believe you came all this way to comment on my clothing. Why are you here?’
He bent down slowly towards her, held her in his serious, intense dark grey gaze. ‘I wanted to see you, to talk to you.’
Her head spun and all she wanted was to give in to the need to fall into his arms, feel his heat, his strength. Instead, she hardened her heart, crossed her arms on her chest and tilted her face up to look at him.
‘Perhaps I don’t want to talk to you. Perhaps I’m not interested in what you have to say.’
The words tumbled out before she realised what she was saying. All the pain she’d endured this past year bubbled up and pushed her to lash out and hurt him too. Of course she wanted to see him, talk to him, hold him close. That’s all she’d dreamt of for months.
She took a deep breath and looked at Bruce’s two companions who now guarded the end of the lane, hands on their pistols and anxious looks on their faces.
‘However, we can’t stay here. It’s not safe, the soldiers might come back. I’ll take you to my house. Follow me.’
As she started down the alleyway, tears filled her eyes. She brushed them off with the back of her hands. This wasn’t the reunion she had dreamt of. She had imagined Bruce lifting her into his arms, kissing her senseless and telling her he loved her. Instead he was cold, distant, critical, and talked to her as if she was a dim-witted, silly girl.
