“Fair point.” The captain turned away with his gloves held to his nose. He gave a blowing snort and cleared his throat. He turned back to Tilda. “I fear the incident has twisted yer memories, m’lady. Pray leave it to us to handle this, so you might concentrate on healing and moving past this dark time.”
“How much coin did it take to bribe ye, Captain?” Tilda’s tone had turned even darker, and Duncan noticed her easing toward the pistol still lying on the floor. “Ye Sassenachs are all alike. No honor. No morals. Yer souls all be doomed straight to hell. Every last one of ye.”
“Considering your most delicate and upsetting experience, I shall disregard your comments, m’lady.” Captain Forthwaite waved at a soldier waiting beside the door. “Place the man in irons, Nethersby. We are finished here.”
Nethersby stepped forward, chains and shackles extended.
“Nay!” Tilda scooped up the pistol and charged toward the captain, aiming it at his chest. “Ye shall listen to me, or I’ll blow ye to Kingdom Come. Answer me this—why would my husband, my dearest heart, why would he have to assault me when my greatest joy is performing the intimate duties of a wife?” Tilda’s chest heaved as she shook the pistol in the captain’s face, oblivious to the muskets trained upon her. She pressed a hand to her stomach. “I canna wait to feel his bairn move within me.” She shook a finger at Nethersby. “Ye said yerself that my champion seemed too personal a guard when ye came upon us. Did ye not witness us walking with arms entwined and comment upon it? Will ye stand there, before God Almighty, and swear ye didna see us share a kiss?”
“Put the pistol down, lass,” Duncan interrupted. Battle readiness tensed him. He stole a glance about the room, pinpointing the guns aimed at Tilda. The situation was spinning out of control, and he’d not see Tilda harmed. All he could do if it came down to it would be throw himself in front of the line of fire and shield her as best he could.
“Nay, husband,” Tilda said. “I shan’t put the pistol down until these fools see sense.”
Husband? God’s beard, he’d never planned on hearing that word directed at himself. A hard nudge shoved at the center of his back. The Mackenzie and Angus had both bumped him forward.
He had no other recourse. He stepped to Tilda’s side, then turned and pointed at Nethersby. “Aye! My wife speaks true,” he said. “Swear it, Nethersby! Before God Almighty! I know ye saw our tender moment. Swear it!”
Fennella Mackenzie squealed like a stuck pig, rocking her chair back and forth with frenzied kicking and stomping.
“Should we address…that?” Captain Forthwaite asked with a pained glance at the bound woman.
“Nay,” said the Mackenzie, Angus, and Warden McElmurry in unison.
“Very well then.” The captain turned back to Nethersby. “What say you, Nethersby? Did you witness such behavior between her ladyship and this man?”
Nethersby looked down at the shackles, then glanced back at Corsbett and Gildercutty.
“Why do you pause, sir?” Captain Forthwaite strode across the room until he stood directly in front of Nethersby.
“The lady and the accused appeared quite…friendly when we came upon them, sir.” Nethersby stole another look back at Corsbett and Gildercutty. “And I realize Hodge’s station and all but…”
“Go on.” Captain Forthwaite turned and studied Duncan, his expression less severe than before.
“There have been at least three complaints filed in the last month regarding Hodges, Corsbett, and Gildercutty.” Nethersby shifted in place and made another nervous scan of the room. “Two from our own men on behalf of their wives, and one from a widow related to your wife.”
The captain snapped his clutched gloves in Duncan’s direction. “And yet you fetched me to try this man on the spot?”
“I feel certain he murdered Hodges.” Nethersby gave Duncan the least hostile nod he’d given him since their first encounter. “But I feel the rest of the incident is more than likely along the lines of what the lady described. The man was just protecting his wife.”
“I see.” Captain Forthwaite pushed past Nethersby. He came to a halt within an arm’s length of Duncan. “I shall ask you this question one time only, and as your wife so eloquently put it, I demand you tell the truth with God Almighty as your witness.”
Duncan had a fair idea what the question was, and the answering of it would still damn him to the hangman’s noose. King William had tightened his reign of Scotland, determined to beat down and tame the Highlanders. Whilst Duncan’s brother, Graham, had received a pardon for killing an English duke, Duncan doubted verra much that they would afford him the same generosity for murdering a British soldier. The king had hated the duke Graham killed for several reasons. Graham had done His Majesty a favor. Duncan doubted the king would see this situation in the same light, nor would he desire to make pardoning English-killing Scotsman a habit.
“I bid you answer me, sir.”
“Ask yer question.” Duncan pulled in a deep breath, then heaved it out. “I’ll tell ye the truth to the best of my ability—so help me God.”
“Did you, in fact, whilst defending your wife, shoot Second Lieutenant William Hodges in the chest with the intent to take his life?”
“Why else would ye shoot someone in the chest?” Uppity prig. The man could go straight to hell. Fool Sassenachs. Couldn’t spit out their meaning if their lives depended on it.
Captain Forthwaite wiped a hand across his face, then took a step closer. “Did you murder Hodges?”
Another thump hit the center of Duncan’s back. He turned and met Angus’s intent glare. What the hell did the man wish him to do now? Time to put this to an end. He turned back to the captain. “Aye. I killed him.”
Angus hissed out a low groan before pushing his way around Duncan. “I wish to strike the confession on the grounds my client has not spoken with his counsel.”
“Denied.” The captain blew out a disgusted breath, then pointed at Gildercutty, Corsbett, and Duncan. “Shackle them all.”
“All?” Tilda shoved forward and took hold of Captain Forthwaite’s arm. “Why Duncan? He saved me from those fiends.” To Duncan’s relief, Angus sidled over to Tilda and relieved her of the pistol.
The captain yanked his arm away and brushed his sleeve as though Tilda’s touch had soiled it. “Be that as it may, he is a Scot, and he killed a British soldier. I am quite certain you well know of the law, m’lady. Your husband should have defended you in such a manner as to avoid taking a man’s life.” He pointed at Gildercutty. “He wounded that one and supposedly rendered the other unconscious. Your husband should have stayed the course and done the same with Hodges.”
“Angus, do something!” Tilda cried out, rushing back to Duncan and throwing herself against his chest.
“What are yer intentions, Captain?” Angus asked.
Duncan had to admit, holding Tilda was almost worth what he knew the captain was about to say.
“The three of them shall await their fate at the Tolbooth in Aberdeen. Execution by hanging on Monday next.” He turned to the warden. “They still hang every other Monday in Aberdeen, yes?”
“Aye,” the warden responded in a disinterested tone. “We could hang’m here, but the gallows are no’ done yet.”
“Ye canna hang my husband!” Tilda shrieked, charging forward to pound her fists against the captain. “Ye bastard! Bloody Sassenach bastard! This is not justice, and ye ken that as well as I!”
“What I ken,” the captain said in a warning tone as he took hold of her wrists and set her away from him. “Is if someone does not take hold of this woman and get her under control, I shall see her hanged alongside her husband!”
Duncan shoved Nethersby and his shackles aside, pulled Tilda away from the captain, and held her tight. He shushed and whispered into her hair. “All will be well, love. Dinna weep for me. This is not the end. I swear it.” He cupped her face between his hands and pressed a kiss to her forehead, then lowered his mouth to hers and
claimed the sort of kiss a husband would gladly seek from a cherished wife.
The shackles rattled beside him. A sense of defeat echoed in the sound of the irons, reminding him if he didn’t figure a way out of this mess, he’d never enjoy such kisses ever again.
Chapter Eight
“I shall see ye dead, Matheson Mackenzie, if ye dinna pay me heed and respond to my demands, I swear I shall see ye dead.”
The Mackenzie ignored Fennella. Instead, he kept his gaze fixed on the map of Aberdeen spread across the table. He tapped a finger on the yellowed parchment. “The jail doesna lie far from the quay. An easy ride through the alleyways.”
More than happy to follow Da’s example of ignoring her mother’s rant, Tilda leaned across the table and studied the map closer. She ran a finger along the seam of the eastern coastline, then up a waterway biting into the land. The plans for Duncan’s escape were coming together nicely. She prayed they hadn’t missed a single detail. To do so would cost Duncan his life. “Aye, it would be easy enough, Da. Look right here, Tait could bring his ship through and wait for us at this spot.”
“Tait?” Fennella Mackenzie circled the table, screeching like an angry shorebird fighting for food. “Ye canna trust Tait Mackenzie. A filthy liar as well as a thief! The man even pirated cargo away from Archipelago Spice Company—had the sheer audacity to lay siege to one of my ships.” She hovered closer, then slapped a hand atop the middle of the map, as she shoved herself into the Mackenzie’s face. “Are ye listening to me, Matheson Mackenzie? Are ye willing to stand there and have yer daughter shamed even further? We shall have this common law marriage claimed false, allow that fool of a man to hang, and be finished with this sorry mess.”
The Mackenzie pushed her aside, and none too gently, Tilda noticed. “Return to Wrath, go to Edinburgh, or be off to London, woman. I dinna care where ye go, just go—the sooner the better. Ye are nay wanted here, Fennella. We’ve important business to be about, and this is none of yer affair.”
Fennella straightened, pressed a bit of lacy, embroidered linen to the corner of her mouth, then shifted her gaze first to Angus, then Tilda. “I refuse to sit by and see ye ruined further. Ye force me to take matters into my own hands.”
“Absolutely not, Mother.” Tilda marched around the table and stood almost nose to nose with her. “Mark this moment and mark it well, never again shall ye have any say in my affairs. Ye hear me? Never! If ye dare interfere with our rescue of Duncan, I’ll shame ye so badly, ye’ll never see another invite into any of the parlors ye deem so high and proper.” She leaned closer, baring her teeth to leave no doubt she meant the words. “I’ll blacken our name at every level of society until even a scullery maid willna share a crust of bread with ye.”
Fennella slapped Tilda. The pop echoed through the room. “Ye are a vile wretch of a girl, ye are, and I am ashamed of ye.”
Cheek stinging, Tilda drew back to return the strike, but Matheson Mackenzie pushed his way between them before she completed the swing.
He took hold of his wife by the kerchief pinned around her shoulders and walked her back until she thumped against the wall. “Touch my daughter again, and I’ll kill ye.” He bumped her against the wall a second time, shoving his face into hers. “And they will never find yer bones, I grant ye that.”
Her mottled face a fiery red, and eyes narrowed to sinister slits, Fennella didn’t back down. “Ye best leave off, Matheson Mackenzie, or I shall tell her and all of Scotland along with her.”
Tilda edged closer. “Tell me what?”
“Ye would use yer last bit of power over me?” The Mackenzie released his hold of her, took a step back, and aligned himself to Tilda’s side. “Ye best ponder well what that would mean for ye, Fennella. Think long and hard about the protection and status ye’ve enjoyed over these years. Are ye so willing to cast it aside?”
Hand flattened to the base of her throat, Fennella stared at the Mackenzie. With an angry growl, she shifted her haughty glare to Angus, then jerked her gaze to Tilda.
“Tell me what, Mother?” The sting of the slap gone, Tilda stepped closer. She smelled fear, and that was a rare scent for Mother.
“Nothing,” Fennella barked out the word. She clamped her mouth shut and yanked her clothes back in place before huffing out of the room.
“Tell me what?” Tilda stepped into her father’s path as he made to return to the table. Whatever secret Fennella Mackenzie guarded, the woman valued it above exacting her revenge on the Mackenzie. That lent an amazing power and value to the secret, indeed.
Da ignored her question. He took her by the arm and escorted her back to the map instead. “We should address ourselves to nothing other than the rescue of young MacCoinnich. We’ve a short span of time in which to free him.”
Da was right. She would weasel the secret out of him another time. After Duncan was safe. She nodded and focused on the map.
Angus cleared his throat as he tapped his pipe against the palm of his hand over the hearth. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieved his bag of precious tobacco and dipped into it. His mouth pursed and twitched in tandem with his fingers as he tucked the pipe down into the bag and worked it full of the dark leaves, jamming his thumb into the bowl to pack it tight.
The rich, fruity scent of the fresh tobacco filled the room. “According to our contacts in Aberdeen, the crowds gathering to witness hangings have thinned a great deal unless the criminal is famous. The act has grown almost commonplace since they hang prisoners every other week.” He paused and relit the pipe, drawing on it. He gave a satisfied nod, then took to pacing the perimeter of the room. As he reached the window, Angus paused and pointed the stem of the pipe at Tilda. “As wife to a damned prisoner, they will expect ye to be in that crowd.” Angus’s smile grew, and he returned the pipe to its customary spot between his teeth. “And a supportive family would always attend such a heinous affair with the soon-to-be widow.”
“Aye,” the Mackenzie interjected with a sly wink. “At least four supportive family members with horses in tow.”
“Exactly how close should I let him get to the gallows afore I rush to throw myself at his feet and become a hysterical, weeping mess?” They had been over the plan a thousand times, but they couldn’t risk any miscalculation.
“The gallows be at the center of a large cobblestone clearing built behind the Tolbooth,” the Mackenzie replied, studying the map. “As luck would have it, the clearing lies on the quayside of the building.” He shook his head. “Let him get a few paces from the jail but not too close to the gallows. We need at least the length of a horse between Duncan and the jail. He may be shackled and cuffed at both ankles and wrists. The men may have to throw him over his horse rather than sit him astride it. With any luck, the two bastards hanging with him will walk ahead first, and Duncan will be at the end of the line and slated to hang last.”
The thought of Duncan hanging from the end of the rope made Tilda swallow hard to keep from retching. Her heart pounded harder. Her poor heart. It had done that a lot of late whenever he crossed her mind. This rescue had to work. He couldn’t die because of her. “Five of us then, in the clearing at the gallows, and the rest in the alley with the horses, aye?”
“Aye,” Angus agreed. “With any luck, guards will be few since a crowd is nay expected, and they consider this case run of the mill.”
A revelation came to Tilda, bright and shining as the sun. The idea triggered a smile. “We might guarantee the guards be few.”
The Mackenzie and Angus traded interested looks, then turned their attention to Tilda. “And just how might we do that, daughter?” her father asked.
Tilda meandered over to the long cabinet aligned in front of the windows. She straightened the bottles and decanters, setting them in neat a row. “Easy as food and drink.” She folded her arms across her chest and leaned back against the cabinet. “Agnes could fix a tincture, and we could mix it into food and drink to be delivered to the jail. Not a lethal dose of poison, mi
nd ye, but one strong enough to burn their bellies and send them galloping to the pot for a few hours. We would say the special treats were for Duncan, but ye know as well as I the guards will steal them from him, and he’d see nary a bite nor a drop. After a night of fighting for a seat on the chamber pot, few could resume their duties and those who could, would be weak and drained. If we did it the day before, there’d not be enough time to send for reinforcements.”
“Aye, but would they cancel the hanging if the jail be rendered too sparsely manned?” the Mackenzie asked.
“Possible…but doubtful,” Angus replied, scowling out the window whilst he relit his pipe. “The Aberdeen warden and his men would nay wish to appear weak and unable to carry out their tasks no matter the circumstances. They pride themselves on their hard rule of the Tolbooth.”
Tilda could tell Angus liked the idea by the rate of speed at which the tobacco smoke puffed from the side of his mouth.
Angus gave an approving bob of his head. “Aye. I like it. Run, fetch Agnes. The Tolbooth nay stands a chance against the likes of that woman.”
*
“Will they truly believe we intended all this for Duncan?”
“Aye, lass.” Agnes snorted and huffed, rendered more than a little out of breath at their pace. She gave a curt nod toward the Aberdeen Tolbooth located up the street ahead of them. “What’s more natural than a soon-to-be widowed wife attempting to give her husband a bountiful feast for his final supper?”
Several bottles of wine rattled and clanked in the basket Agnes toted, her hands white-knuckling at their weight. Tilda’s basket overflowed with fresh, yeasty bannocks filled with soft cheeses and jams. They’d worked all night preparing the food, steeping the herbs guaranteed to cleanse the guard’s bowels, and applying the proper dosage for success. They laced every bottle of wine heavy enough to do the job but not so heavy as to alter the taste. Agnes had warned it was a fine balance since they wanted the guards to gulp everything down. The bannocks held a different mix of powerful drugs stirred into the dough and mixed into the cheeses and jam. With any luck, every guard at the Tolbooth would shite himself senseless within an hour or so of consuming the treats they had prepared with such care.
The Warrior Page 9
