by Amy Jarecki
Ian smoothed his palm over his dirk’s pommel. “It may be their last.”
“Do ye think he’s there?”
A weight the size of an anchor dropped in Ian’s gut. “I’ll no’ surmise. But I doubt they’ll see another sunrise if they cannot tell us where Alexander is.” He turned to the men. “I want two skiffs of fighting men lowered. Bring yer muskets and swords. The rest of ye, man the cannons. Set the sights on the beach and light the slow matches. This very well could be the fight of our lives.”
“I doubt that,” Bran mumbled.
Ian elbowed the henchman in the ribs. “Now’s no’ the time to let our guard down. If we’re ready for a battle and it doesna come, then the men can have an extra tot of whisky when this is over.”
Standing at the back of the skiff, Ian didn’t take his eyes off the four men offloading Alexander’s birlinn, irked that not a one of them was his brother. “Row faster.”
A few of the locals came to watch. About a dozen men lined the shore, battleaxes and swords in hand.
“At least they’re no’ running,” Bran said.
Ian clenched the fists resting on his hips. “They should be.” He didn’t wait for the men to pull the boat ashore, but stomped through the surf with Bran falling in beside him. They marched straight to the shabby fishermen. “Where’s the man who owns this birlinn?”
“’Tis mine,” said a pox-faced, sniveling maggot.
“Ye think I’m daft?” Ian sauntered up to him. “This is me brother’s boat, clear as the pimple on yer ugly chin. Now I’m going to ask one more time. Where is he?”
The man spat in his face. Ian didn’t flinch. Drool oozing down his cheek, in one move he snatched the bastard’s arm, spun him around and slipped a dagger to his neck. “This could have been easier for ye,” he growled in the man’s ear.
Bran and the MacLeods drew their swords, but no one challenged. Milk-livered swine.
Ian pushed the knife hard enough to draw blood. “I’ll ask each one of ye if ye ken where me brother is and if ye dunna answer, ye’ll end up in hell with this blighter.” Ian gripped the knife for the deathly cut.
The man in his arms stammered. “W-wait.”
Ian twitched. “Where?”
“He came into St. Bees acting like he owned the place.”
“Ye dunna say?” Bran stepped forward. “Alexander MacLeod is more a gentleman than the lot of ye combined.”
“Was,” said a bent old woman from the crowd. Using a cane, she hobbled forward and pointed a gnarled finger at the man with Ian’s knife at his neck. “I knew your evil deeds would come back to you, Willis.”
The hackles on Ian’s neck stood on end. “What are ye saying?”
“He killed the Highlander for his coin and his boat then dumped him in Abbey Wood.” She sneered at Willis. “Then you came back to St. Bees and boasted about it, you heathen boy.”
The blighter squirmed. “I’ll burn you for this, you old crow.”
Ian’s knees buckled with the sick roiling in his gut. The bastard in his arms reared. Blinking, Ian reverted to fighting mode and jammed the knife harder. “I ought to slay the lot of ye!”
The crowd backed.
Bran and his men stepped forward, weapons ready for a fight. The cowardly onlookers scattered until the old woman and Willis were all that remained. Bran sheathed his sword. “We must collect Alexander’s remains and take them to Brochel. Give him a proper burial.”
It was all he could do not to run his blade across the murderer’s exposed throat. Grinding his teeth, Ian restrained his urges and nodded toward his captive. “Tie his hands.” He pressed his lips against Willis’s ear. “If ye want to live, ye’ll show us where ye dumped me brother.” Though I cannot say what I’ll do once we arrive.
***
Hands bound, Willis had been stomping around the wood far longer than it should have taken anyone to find a rotting corpse, and Ian was in no mood to allow him more time. Besides, the stench of death should still be sickly in the air. Ian’s gut roiled with dread, his chest hollow. He hardened his mind to his own remorse. There was an ugly duty to perform, and he’d see it done. The time would come to mourn his loss once Alexander was laid to rest at Brochel Castle.
Ian kicked a stone. It rolled to a stop on an overgrown path. He crouched down and studied the tracks—human prints. Fresh ones. A thick canopy of trees sprung overhead, concealing it from passersby. “Where does the path lead?” he asked.
“Nothing that way. All of Abbey Wood is haunted.” Shuddering, Willis pointed east. “They sacked the priory in the Reformation—killed all the monks.”
Ian believed in ghosts about as much as he did bogles. “Come. This path has so many prints, ’tis obvious something lies to the south.” He gave a grave nod to Bran. It may lead nowhere, but one thing was for certain…Alexander’s body had been moved. Be the shift caused by animal or human was yet to be determined.
They hadn’t hiked a mile when the path opened to a clearing with a cottage. A wee dog pressed his backside against the door and growled. One of Ian’s men cocked his musket and pointed.
“No.” Ian snatched a piece of bully beef from his sporran. Hand out, he moved forward. “There’s a good laddie.”
The odd-looking, liver-colored dog sniffed the beef and then licked. Ian didn’t have time for niceties and tossed the dried meat aside. Wagging its tail, the dog dashed after it.
Ian knocked. “Hello?”
Nothing.
He tried the latch. When it clicked, he stepped inside. The place was neatly kept. The fire in the hearth had burnt to ash. A dirty shirt draped over a wooden chair caught his eye.
Bran must have seen it too, because he strode over and picked it up. “Could be his.” He sniffed. “It has the laird’s smell, too.”
Pushed by a guard, Willis followed the floppy-eared dog through the doorway. “Mother Mary,” he said with a hint of incredulity.
“What?” Ian asked.
“I didn’t believe it when the town crier came by.” He walked over and pointed to a crest above the mantel. “This is where Lady Whitehaven was hiding.”
“Who?” Ian asked.
“She killed her husband.” Willis glanced away. “The crier said two thiev—er…farmers from St. Bees found her, took her to Whitehaven to stand trial for murdering the earl.”
This nightmare grows worse. Alexander was abducted by brigands and left for dead. Then his shirt ends up in the cottage of a murderess…a countess, no less. Ian paced, the damned dog keeping to his heel.
A Raasay guard pushed past the Englishman. “Someone camped in the stable, m’laird. There’s a pallet and I found this.”
Ian held out his hand. The guard rubbed his fingers and copper-colored beard shavings filled Ian’s palm.
Alexander is no’ dead.
Ian glared at Willis. “How far is it to Whitehaven?”
***
Jane spent a sleepless night shivering, crouched in the stone corner of the Whitehaven dungeon. Why had she allowed Alexander to walk out of her life? He had been so angry with her. Why had she been too afraid to tell him of her crimes—expose her vulnerability? What would he have done? Leave her alone in the wood? He’d gone and done that anyway—because she was a daft, selfish woman.
She never should have allowed Mr. Cox to hide her in Abbey Wood. She should have given herself up to the sheriff and faced her consequences. Jane hated hiding, living in fear, jumping at every sound from the forest. Existing tucked away in a hidden cottage was no life. She was a miserable failure. She couldn’t cook a pottage without destroying the food. She bit her fist. Even Max sometimes turned his nose up at her cooking.
A tear streamed down her face. Dear Lord, please protect Max. Help the poor little dog to find a new home and someone to care for him.
A key scraped in the dungeon door then the hinges creaked open. Carrying a torch, only the outline of the guard was visible. “The Lord of Whitehaven wishes to see you. Come.”
Jane felt like a stranger walking through the cloisters of Buttermere Castle. She’d reigned as countess there for eight years, yet the halls seemed foreign, as if her prior life had never happened. Servants had made themselves scarce. She spied nary a one, not even Mr. Cox.
The guard took no chances. They marched in a diamond formation, one in the front, one in back and two at her flanks. My, they must consider me quite dangerous. If only I had the skill to overpower them. They led her directly to Roderick’s solar—now John’s, she reminded herself.
When the door opened, Lord John Drake stood facing the hearth, a goblet in his hand. From the rear, he presented an attractive form—tall with square shoulders, his blond hair neatly brushed and cropped to his nape. He wore a black velvet cape over one shoulder with matching breeches and hose. A cutlass rested in a scabbard at his hip.
“Lady Jane Drake, the Countess of Whitehaven,” the guard announced.
John whipped around, his steely blue eyes boring into her. “Former countess.” He sneered and sauntered up to her while the door closed behind.
Heart stuttering, her gaze darted from side to side. The door was the only way out, unless she attempted a leap from the second-story window. She hated how Drake men could belittle her with a look. Sickly fear churned in her stomach when their soulless eyes met hers.
Chuckling, he brushed a soft finger across her cheek. “Pretty Jane—unfortunate you have a murderous side.” He tsked his tongue.
Her mouth growing dry, she inclined her head away from his touch.
He smirked. “Am I unappealing to you?”
She cast her gaze to the floor. Though attractive, his likeness to Roderick opened too many horrid memories. Jane’s palms perspired. She inched toward the door. “You are agreeable, my lord.”
He threw back his head and laughed—rather callous for a man who was about to pronounce her death sentence. “You always were the charming one, Jane.” He examined his fingernails and then snapped his gaze back to her face. “Did you murder my cousin?”
She glanced over her shoulder and placed her hand on the latch.
“There’s nowhere to run, dear Jane. Guards are posted outside the door.” Trapping her, he placed his palms either side of Jane’s head and leaned in. “Roderick had a penchant for the lash. Did he use it on you, dear one?”
“Please, my lord. I do not care to reminisce about my former husband’s abuse.”
“Aha.” John’s steely eyes widened. “I thought he may have pushed you too far. You never seemed like the murderous type.”
His eyelids lowered and he gazed at her mouth. He leaned so near, Jane feared he would kiss her. “No!” She dipped under his arm and skittered around to the far side of the table. “I beg of you, do not toy with me. Issue my sentence and let it be done.”
From across the room, his wolfish smile brought back the terror of that horrendous night. “What was it like plunging the knife into Roderick’s flesh?”
Jane backed toward the wall. “Please stop.”
“Let me help you.” He sauntered toward her. Jane backed. He lunged like an asp, reached under her wimple and grasped a handful of hair. Jane ground her teeth against the searing pain of her tresses being pulled too taut. “Was he hurting you like this?” His free hand recoiled and he slapped her across the face.
Jane dropped to her knees. Pain radiated throughout her cheek. Her hand covered the burn. Blood.
“Did you spy the knife? Did you snatch it from his belt and plunge it into his soft flesh? What was it like, Jane? Did the blade slide in easily, or did you have to thrust and twist it in?”
“Stop this.”
He yanked off her wimple and pulled her up by the hair. “’Tis a pity they didn’t clean you up before they brought you to me.” He held her against the wall and nuzzled her neck. Jane bit back her urge to scream.
“Marry me and I’ll absolve you of your crimes.”
She inclined her neck aside so he could see her eyes. Baring her teeth, she hissed. “Never.”
He re-coiled for another slap. Jane ducked and wrenched from his grasp. Pushing chairs aside, she darted to the window. John grasped her waist and tugged. Jane held on to the sill and twisted with all her strength.
The door opened. “Beg your pardon, my lord,” Mr. Cox said.
The earl tugged harder. “What the bloody hell do you want?”
“Excuse the interruption, but the sheriff has come to call.”
With a heave, John pulled her from the window and touched his lips to Jane’s ear. “Think about my offer. Things wouldn’t be so awful with me. Though I’d never be as careless as my cousin.” He pushed her toward Mr. Cox. “Have the guard take her away.”
Moving through the passageways, Mr. Cox said nothing until he’d dismissed the guard and they were alone in the dungeon. “I’ll see to it you have a pallet made up and proper food.”
Jane nodded. “My thanks.”
He wrung his hands. “My lady. I must say I overheard his proposal.”
“No!” She threw her palms up and paced. “I’d rather die than live through an endless nightmare akin to the life I had with Roderick.”
“But, my lady, it would at least purchase time.”
“For what? Once I am married to John Drake, I’ll be his property. If I were to flee, where would I go? What recourse would I have if he found me?”
“There’s no other choice…”
Jane grasped his shoulders and shook. “I would rather meet my end. Can you not understand?”
“My lady.” He gaped at her. “You are serious?”
“Yes.” She clasped a hand to her throat, imagining it stretched in a noose.
“That’s it, then.” Mr. Cox’s shoulders sagged. “May God have mercy on your soul. There is nothing more I can do for you.”
Chapter Twelve
Three days of fishing in the Irish Sea not only had Alexander exhausted, every crew member on the English galley was dragging. The captain appeared to be the only lively soul on the boat, though Alex was certain the man had already counted the coin he expected to earn from the catch. The sailors all received an extra ration of ale on the journey home.
Alex manned an oar to assist their progress. With a heavy load and a single sail, the crew and galley needed all the power they could muster. His back ached and a nasty blister had burst on his palm, but that wasn’t what worried him. Unfortunately, this task left him unable to scan the waters for The Golden Sun, though he figured his ship would be long gone by now.
When the galley approached Whitehaven, it was late afternoon. Alexander looked forward to payment for his share of the catch, a good meal and a perhaps a soft bed in the inn. If he was lucky, he might find someone who’d seen his ship and knew where it was heading.
“Hoist the oars,” the captain hollered. “Prepare to dock and drop anchor.”
Alexander rubbed his neck and pulled his oar in with the other sailors. He stretched and stood. “I’ll be a monk of Judas,” he mumbled under his breath. A seaman tossed him a rope. He caught it, but didn’t avert his eyes from The Golden Sun. Ignoring the other crew members, he dropped the line and hopped onto the rowing bench. His gaze darted across the busy dockyard.
A sailor knocked him from his perch. “So now you’re the king of the shite-eaters, are you, Highlander?”
“All hands,” the captain bellowed. “No one will be paid until the galley is offloaded and the catch is recorded by the clerk.”
Alexander brushed himself off and set to furling the sail. At least from that vantage point he could keep an eye on the pier. One head stood tall above the others—black, wavy hair touched broad shoulders. Och aye, no one would miss Bran’s beefy noddle in a crowd.
&nb
sp; Two sailors slid the gangway into place. Alexander didn’t wait. He raced for the plank and bounded across it before they had a chance to secure the thing to the dock.
“Where the bloody hell do you think you’re…” The captain’s voice was swallowed up by distance and the noises of carts, horses and bartering merchants.
“Bran!” Alex yelled, sprinting for the shoreline. He’d lost sight of the head of black hair, but kept running. “Bran,” he hollered again.
Rounding a cart piled with hay, Alexander nearly barreled into the big man’s chest. Grasping Alex’s shoulders, Bran braced him firmly. “Holy falcon feathers, did ye drift down from the heavens? We’ve been combing Whitehaven for days looking for ye, m’laird.” Bran released his hands and gave Alex a hearty slap on the back.
Alexander coughed and returned the gesture with a firm fist in the arm. “Wheesht. I’ve been trying to earn me fare back to Raasay. Me boat was heisted by a pack of thieving E—” Alex glanced at the mob of Englishmen surrounding them. “By miserable thieves.”
“I ken.” Bran inclined his head toward the alehouse. “Ian’s directing the search from inside the Ship Inn. We’ll all want to hear yer story for certain.”
As they approached the inn, Ian pushed out the big door. “Where on God’s earth have ye been?”
Alexander and Ian clasped elbows in greeting and held firm. “For the past few days I’ve sailed the Irish Sea earning me wages as a paid seaman.” Alexander clenched his jaw, choking back the excited flutter that swelled from his belly to his throat. By God, it was good to see his kin.
Ian twisted his face, a look he’d affected since childhood—one Alexander had oft teased him about. “What the devil were ye doing that for?”
Alex spread his palms to his sides. “I had to earn some coin to pay me fare home.”
Bran clapped his shoulder and tugged him toward the inn. “What’s it like to be a common hand?”
Alexander blew on his blistered palm. “Bloody hard work.”
“Laird Alexander of Raasay, is it?” a man’s voice trilled behind them.
Turning, Alexander knitted his brows. “Mr. Cox?”
