Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction

by Jennifer Ashley

  Blood spattered Celia’s white fichu and her father’s pristine silk cravat as the two of them toppled to the floor. Celia gasped but felt no pain, only lightness.

  “Celia!” The duke caught her in his arms, cupped her face. “My darling girl, are you all right?”

  “I seem to be …” Celia trailed off as she saw the gouge in her father’s face, the blood. “Papa.” She quickly stripped off her fichu, wadded it, and pressed it to his cheekbone.

  The duke blinked, his eyes flooding with pain. “Oh. Bloody hell.”

  “Arrest her!” Colonel Kell spluttered as he climbed to his feet, pointing a shaking finger at Lady Flora. “She is a madwoman. She has shot the duke.”

  “I’ll arrest you, sir,” Edward growled, springing up beside him. “For rapine and dissolution.”

  “All that will do is shame Sophia,” Lady Flora wailed. “My way is better. I don’t care if I do hang!”

  She brought up the second pistol and fired it at Kell.

  Celia and Mrs. Reynolds had caught both Lady Flora’s arms at the same time. The bang of the gun burst in Celia’s ears, but the bullet went wild, striking a thick molding that framed the windows.

  Celia twisted the spent pistol from her grasp. “Lady Flora, for heaven’s sake. Edward, see to Papa.”

  “I am all right.” Her father sat down suddenly on a chair, the linen pressed hard to his face. “I think. ’Twas only a graze. I had worse as a young man in the army.”

  “You, sir, are going nowhere.” Celia stepped in front of the colonel, who was trying to flee out the door.

  Mrs. Reynolds stood beside her, the two of them making a formidable wall. Behind the colonel, Lady Flora sank to the floor, head in her hands, weeping.

  “Don’t worry, Flora, dear gel,” the duke said weakly. “We will not have to put him on trial. He can be ruined all the same, when it’s put about that he’s a rakehell and a wastrel, not to be trusted around decent women.”

  “I keep explaining, I did not know who she was,” Colonel Kell said in desperation.

  “That is hardly the point.” The chill in Edward’s voice was worthy of their mother. “A man of honor would not touch a woman, no matter what her status. We take our orders to protect the weak, not be as horrible to them as any enemy.”

  Lady Flora raised her head. Her face was blotchy with tears, her eyes red and streaming. “It’s worse. He and Lord Chesfield are keeping prisoners—not ransoming them or trying and executing them. Keeping them penned up day after day, probably torturing them, terrifying them. Monsters.”

  “Lady Flora,” Celia said, her eyes widening. Even now Alec must have reached the house where the prisoners were—did Flora mean to send Colonel Kell and all his men rushing there at this moment?

  Lady Flora pointed a long finger at the duke. “And you condone it! You are as guilty of horrors as he is.”

  The duke blinked over the now-bloody linen. “What are you talking about, my dear? What prisoners? We housed some temporarily, yes, but they’re gone now. Transported, or pressed into the army. We need such bloodthirsty fighters on our side.”

  Edward shook his head. “No, Papa. They are still there. I saw them—I heard of some odd goings-on, so I came home to investigate. Lord Chesfield and his friends have three prisons, and they move their prisoners from place to place whenever they fear they’ll be discovered. These men—Scots all—have been thrown into foul cells, each put to the question several times a day. Lord Chesfield explained that they are trying out new interrogation techniques on the prisoners, to see what is the most effective. Monsters, indeed.”

  Colonel Kell sneered. “They are the monsters. You fought them, Captain,” he said to Edward. “You saw their brutality.”

  Edward looked down his nose at him. “Fighting on the battlefield is a damn sight different thing from banging up a man and torturing him, instead of giving him the clean dignity of an execution.”

  “You’re soft, like your father,” Kell snarled. “I am not afraid of you, whelp.”

  “You ought to be,” Edward said, his aristocratic hauteur rising. “I will be Duke of Crenshaw one day, while you will be the trumped-up country squire you always have been. You and Lord Chesfield will have those men transported or tried and executed, immediately. We will start in the morning.”

  Celia’s heart thumped. If Alec could not find Will and get him free tonight …

  “Papa.” She swallowed. “Can you not do something? You have nothing to do with torturing prisoners, do you?”

  “Of course not.” The duke looked indignant. “I’d never condone such a thing.”

  Celia believed him. Her relief that her father was as guiltless as she’d always thought him made her knees weak.

  “But who did?” she asked, her curious mind surging ahead. “Lord Chesfield does not have that power, not without Papa’s permission—”

  Edward was shaking his head again. “Not Father,” he said, his voice quiet. “Uncle Perry, pretending he had Father’s authority.”

  “Oh.” Celia felt sick, the pistol heavy in her hand. She recalled the bluff conversation she’d overheard between her father, Chesfield, and Uncle Perry, where they’d advised her father to go play with his mistress and leave the difficult decisions to them. “Oh.” Her anger rose. “Damn him.”

  “Celia.” Edward looked shocked.

  He opened his mouth to say more, but was interrupted by the arrival of Uncle Perry himself, Lord Chesfield at his side. Celia heard others coming, the gunshots having attracted attention.

  “Sir.” Colonel Kell snapped off a salute to Lord Chesfield. “They know, sir. About the prisoners.”

  The duke levered himself to his feet and lowered the cloth, unmindful of the amount of blood that had poured out of his cheek.

  “Explain yourself, Perry,” he said in a severe voice he rarely used. “And you, Chesfield. You both told me the Highlanders would be taken to trial right away. And now I hear you’ve been using them to practice interrogation and torture? Taking orders from Perry in my name? I’ll not stand for this. Where is the honor in it?”

  “They’re traitors,” Uncle Perry said in the condescending tone he habitually used to explain things to Celia’s father. “They deserve to die vicious deaths, but only after they suffer a while first.”

  “These are not barbaric times,” the duke snapped. “I fought under Marlborough, against the mighty Louis of France—the current Louis, his great-grandson, is a pale imitation. And even then we were not so merciless to our prisoners. War has rules for a reason.”

  “Highland soldiers are not men,” Uncle Perry said with exaggerated patience. “They are animals. They don’t feel things and understand them the way we do. Leave the thinking to me, Charles. It’s always best.”

  “Not this time.” The duke drew himself up. “I am the head of this regiment. None can countermand my orders but the king. If you’d like to draw him into this, I am happy to send a messenger and invite him to the discussion.”

  Lord Chesfield and Uncle Perry exchanged glances. “Now, don’t be so hasty, Charles,” Lord Chesfield began.

  Uncle Perry set his jaw. “If you are that much of a stickler for the rules against filthy brutes that nearly overran us, brother-in-law, then yes, we will have them executed. We will do it right now.” He picked up the pistol Lady Flora had dropped to the floor. “Give me that gun, Celia. Come along, Charles. You can be witness to our mercy as we shoot the bloody lot of them.”

  Chapter 27

  The sentries, as Alec had suspected, had taken advantage of their officers being away to gather for a celebration of their own. Their sergeant joined them as they passed around a fat jug of something, laughing together in a circle of firelight, well away from the house.

  One of the men was about to go on leave, to return home where his wife had borne their first child. He took a lot of teasing, growling at their remarks, but he remained good-natured.

  They were, in short, bored soldiers who’d ta
ken the King’s shilling for the pay, and didn’t much care whether they guarded a house in the English woods or camped in mud in the middle of France. They obviously were not worried about their captives escaping or of anyone walking in to rescue them.

  Malcolm might have set off an incendiary device deep in the woods to attract their attention, but Alec did not want these lounging soldiers to come alert. He’d had a better idea when he’d seen the penned-up sheep on the farm at the other end of Hungerford Park, which were released during the day to keep the lawn trimmed.

  Padruig had not been happy with his part to play, but he took Alec’s coin and melted away to obey.

  Timed to the second, the sound of bleating filled the woods, and the soldiers groaned. “Bloody hell,” the sergeant snarled. “That’s the second time this week. Can’t the man fix his fences? He’s a bleeding duke after all. Go on, corporal—take your men and herd them back. Next time, we’ll dine on fresh mutton and to hell with it.”

  Most of the guards trudged into the woods, making plenty of noise. The sheep, happy with their midnight freedom, dashed hither and yon, leading them on a merry chase.

  The door sentry left to help.

  Alec darted out of the shadows, sank down, and inserted a stiff wire into the back door’s lock. Wilfort stepped in front of him, hiding him from anyone who might happen to glance from the woods. After a moment or two, the lock clicked open.

  Wilfort stayed behind as a lookout as Alec slipped inside. The story Wilfort would tell if caught was that he’d grown bored with the duke’s ball and had taken a walk—more or less the truth.

  Alec moved swiftly through an empty hall that ran the length of the house, doors on either side of it. None were locked, he discovered, but the rooms held no Scottish prisoners. He found cots, a makeshift kitchen, an office—the barracks of the soldiers.

  Two doors very close to each other opened to stairs, one flight going up, the other going down. Alec had reasoned they’d keep the prisoners in the cellar, but a muffled groan from above changed his mind. He started up silently.

  At the top was another hall, also lined with doors, but each of these had been fixed with a solid wooden bar that rested in slots in the doorframe, bolting them firmly shut. A man inside might pick or break open a lock, but escaping through the thick bar would be a different matter.

  The doors were paneled and painted, once elegant, but the bolts fixed on them were roughhewn, the effect like a lady covering a lovely gown with a course, homespun cloak.

  The hall held a dozen doors. Will might be behind one of them, or not here at all.

  Alec grunted as he heaved the first bar out of its slots and then picked the lock. He swung the door open but took a quick step back as a thick miasma of unwashed bodies and un-emptied slop pails wafted out at him.

  No light flickered here, and the shaft from Alec’s dark lantern barely illuminated two unmoving lumps of men, chained, on the floor of a room devoid of furniture, the window shuttered and covered with iron bars. The men wore linen shirts and breeches and were barefoot, with no blankets against the cool of the night. Their hair was thickly matted, beards hid their faces, and each had one hand manacled to an iron bar in the wall.

  They didn’t stir as Alec looked in on them. Neither of the men was Will—they didn’t possess the length of limbs or flame-red hair of his brother. Alec moved inside, removed another tool from his pocket, and unscrewed the manacles.

  The men never woke. Alec left them and went to the next room to find a similar scene. This time, when he went to loosen the manacles, a hand came out to seize Alec’s throat in a surprisingly strong grip.

  Alec looked into blue eyes, which widened. “Alec Mackenzie?” came a hoarse whisper. “Bloody hell.”

  “Stuart Cameron?”

  A Highlander, friend to Will, a man Alec had seen often enough in his lifetime. Stuart’s face was covered with a filthy beard, his face creased with blood and dirt, but his eyes held fire.

  “Aye, that’s me, as much as they try to make me forget me name. Ye best go from here, lad, lest they chain you up with us.”

  “Rot that.” Alec unscrewed his manacles. “Can ye stand?”

  “I’ll do.”

  Alec pressed the screwdriver into his hand. “Free the others. I’m looking for Will. Is he here?”

  Stuart shook his head. “I only ever see him, and the bloody Sassenach soldiers.” He gestured with his foot at the unconscious man next to him. “They put me in here with a McTavish. Can ye credit it?”

  “There are horses at the edge of the woods. A boat waiting in the Thames. Sentries are distracted. Get yourself and as many as you can out of here. Now.”

  Stuart had enough raiding and fighting days behind him to know how to move rapidly. He nodded and had the second man unscrewed and shaken awake before Alec made it to the hall.

  He tried three more doors, finding the same behind each—a pair of men, chained and asleep, barefoot, beaten, starved, and exhausted. Alec hurriedly loosened their manacles with a second screwdriver in his pocket—Mal had taught him to always bring more than one tool, just in case.

  Alec moved to the next room on the corridor, making himself go methodically through each one. He didn’t want to miss Will or make too much noise because he got in a hurry.

  When he opened one door and went through, a man rose up behind him, wrapped chains around Alec’s neck, and pulled them tight.

  Alec fought hard, but the hands on the chains were relentless. The man on the floor rose, also inexplicably free of his manacles, and plunged a dirk at Alec’s heart.

  At the last moment, the blade halted. “Will!” the man with the dirk cried in a hoarse whisper. “Leave off! It’s Alec!”

  For a second, the chains didn’t waver, then they rattled and fell away. A pair of raw, red hands spun him around, and Alec looked into the face of Will Mackenzie.

  Alec barely recognized him. While his beard had not grown as thick and tangled as the others’, his face was covered with scraggly whiskers that could not hide the bruises and raw wounds on his face. His fingers trembled as he held Alec, and his breathing was shallow.

  His eyes, though, Mackenzie gold, burned like living fire.

  Without a word, Will dragged Alec to him, closing his arms around him in a rib-crushing hug. Alec held him in an embrace for a long moment, rejoicing that his brother was alive, solid, real.

  They pushed from each other at the same instant, their relieved looks turning to glares.

  “Come on, man, we’re going,” Alec said.

  “What the devil are ye doing here?” Will growled at the same time. “Get out before ye ruin everything.”

  “What do ye mean, ruin everything? I’m rescuing ye, ye ungrateful bastard.”

  “Who asked ye to? I’m trying to figure out what these poxy Sassenach soldiers are up to. A few more days, I’ll know.”

  “They’re up to executing you, that’s what,” Alec snapped. “We’re going.”

  “Ye don’t understand—”

  The man with the dirk cut him off. “We have enough, Willie. It’s too risky to stay.”

  Will scrubbed his hand through his hair in a familiar gesture that made Alec’s heart squeeze, and let out a snarling groan.

  “Aye, you’re right. I’ll free the others. Alec, go on before you’re caught. I’ll be along.”

  “Stuart Cameron is letting out the others. I have horses waiting and vehicles for those too weak to ride. Gair’s on the Thames, ready to float us off.”

  Will shook his head. “Wagons will be too slow.”

  “Not wagons. Chaises and coaches, pulled by fast horses.” Alec took Will’s arm and swung him around. “Now, go!”

  Will’s cellmate pushed past them both with a fierce look and headed into the corridor. Will and Alec followed, and they found the other men freed, Stuart Cameron herding them to the stairs, the more injured slung over the shoulders of the less injured.

  The house remained quiet as they trun
dled out, but Stuart halted after a peek out the door. “There’s an Englishman out there.”

  “Aye. It’s Wilfort—Mal’s wife’s dad,” Alec said. “He’s with me.”

  “Wilfort?” Stuart asked, startled. “I remember him from when Murray banged him up at Holyrood. Are you sure?”

  Will waved him on. “He’s a decent man, for an English aristo. Besides, when couldn’t ye outfight and outrun one lone silver-haired gent?”

  “When soldiers started poking me with bayonets to see how long it took me to scream,” Stuart said, but he made the decision to dart through the door, the others following.

  The Earl of Wilfort turned to them and pointed through the trees. “That way. Hurry! I hear others coming.”

  The sheep were still bounding through the woods, the shouts of the soldiers faint as they pursued them. What Wilfort had heard, and what Alec did now, was the jingle of harness and the rumble of wheels as a carriage came their way, moving rapidly on the rough road.

  The Highlanders dispersed, fading into the mists as silent as smoke. Will looked around, listening. “Sheep?”

  “Aye.” Alec took the time to grin. “A good distraction, I thought.”

  Will gave him an admiring look. “Did Mal do all this? Where is he?”

  Alec scowled. “No, I did, ye ungrateful sod. I have a mind to put you back in there and chain you up myself.”

  For a moment, Will looked thoughtful, as though seriously considering the idea. Then he sighed. “No, they’d just kill me now. Wilfort,” he greeted the man as he jogged past. “Pleasant to see you again. Mary was well, last I saw her.”

  “So I hear,” Lord Wilfort said. “Both of you, go. I’ll stave off whoever is coming …”

  Alec paused to press the man’s hand. “Thank you. I thought Mal was mad to steal away your daughter, but you’ve proved a good friend to us.”

  “I thought the same,” Wilfort said with his dry humor. “Now I have a pack of crazed Highlanders for in-laws. I look forward to renewing our acquaintance when I am next in Paris.”