With every word, Conall grew more worried about Jamie. He tapped his fingers against his leg, frustrated that this evil crook might have the lad.
“The main problem, of course, is we’re unable to procure any evidence,” Colonel Ravenwood continued. “No one knows whence he operates or even where he lives. It seems impossible in a town of this size, but Sim MacRob has managed to conduct his illicit business in utter secrecy.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk and steepling his fingers. “If you were to find his lair, Sergeant, you’d have the appreciation of the Crown. And the help of the garrison and the local constables.” He shrugged looking unapologetic. “To be honest, I’d not mind the most notorious criminal in Fort William being brought to justice on my watch.” Conall didn’t blame him. For that, the man would receive a commendation at the very least.
He bid Colonel Ravenwood farewell, unsure of exactly how to use the information, but glad for it all the same. Anything that gave a better understanding of the enemy was advantageous.
It took hours of bribing and cajoling street urchins and beggars, but in the end, Conall discovered the tavern Sim’s men were said to frequent. He and Davy had spent the day trying to blend in with typical wharf workers, watching and listening for anything that could lead them to the mysterious criminal.
He scratched the back of his neck, hoping the clothes hadn’t become infested with fleas, and turned his head when the door opened.
An extremely large man entered. Conall wondered if they’d found Famhair. He certainly fit the description.
The giant swept off his hat, revealing a bald pate, and strode through the crowded tavern, not offering any apology to any so unfortunate as to get in his way but barreling in a direct line to the bar.
When Conall glanced across the room, Davy gave a slight nod—he thought they’d found Famhair as well. Conall rose and dodged between tables and bodies as he made his way to the back of the tavern. He didn’t want to call any attention to himself, and so he stood with his back against the bar, watching the man from the corner of his eye.
Famhair seemed to have been headed to meet a thin man with a pointed beard. The two whispered for a moment, then signaling to the man behind the bar, they made their way down a hall that led to what Conall assumed to be private rooms.
He moved to where he could see down the hall. The men entered a room, closing the door behind them. Conall glanced around to make sure nobody was watching, then followed.
The door didn’t fit perfectly into the doorframe, leaving a small gap where Conall leaned his ear, watching down the hall toward the crowded tavern to ensure he wasn’t discovered eavesdropping.
Someone moved to the end of the hall, just next to the bar. Recognizing Davy, Conall let out a relieved breath, grateful for a partner to act as a look out.
“And ye took care of it then?” a nasally voice said from inside the room. Conall imagined the high voice belonged to the smaller man.
“Aye. Balfour MacTavish’ll not be botherin’ anyone again.” This voice was much deeper, likely Famhair’s. “Exceptin’ perhaps the fishes in the harbor.” The low voice chuckled. “Mr. MacRob wasna impressed wi’ him assumin’ one skinny lad was worth enough to repay all that he owed.”
Had Conall heard correctly? Balfour was dead? Jamie had been used to pay off a debt? Conall felt sickened hearing the men speak so cooly about murder and the selling of a child. He leaned closer until his ear was just inches from the gap.
Davy took a step into the hallway and waved a hand. Conall pulled away quickly. Someone must be coming. He walked to the end of the hall, joining his friend, but didn’t see anyone approaching. “What is it?” He spoke from the side of his mouth.
Davy jerked his chin, pointing without looking at Conall. Two women were walking through the tavern.
His chest clenched in dread.
Aileen.
Forgetting caution, he rushed toward her.
Aileen and Mrs. Campbell were speaking with a group of men seated around a table. “Sim MacRob,” she said, pulling her shawl tightly around her shoulders. “If ye’d please tell me where I can find him. He works with a man named Famhair.”
The men offered only lewd responses and jeers.
Aileen gasped, drawing back.
“Well, I never—” Mrs. Campbell began but stopped when Conall grabbed her arm. He grabbed onto Aileen’s as well, towing the women from an establishment where upright, respectable ladies certainly didna belong. Pushing through the door, he dragged the pair outside, turning to face them.
“Sir, unhand me if ye please.” Aileen jerked her arm away. Her face was red, whether from the indignation of being hauled from the premises or the taunts of the men in the tavern, he didna know.
“Aileen.”
She looked closer. His disguise must have been better than he’d realized. Her eyes grew wide in surprise. “Conall?”
“Ye shouldna be here.”
Aileen lifted her chin, eyes flashing. “I’ve come for my son, Sergeant. Now if ye’ll be movin’ oot o’ my way.”
Dores folded her arms, sneering as she looked Conall up and down. “I see ye’ve done well fer yerself since we saw ye last.” The look in her eye could have cut glass. She took Aileen’s arm and moved as if to shoulder Conall aside and return inside the tavern.
He stood firm, blocking their path. “Jes’ listen.”
Mrs. Campbell’s brows rose then pinched together in a scowl. “An’ why should we be listenin’ to ye?”
No one could claim the woman wasn’t loyal. Conall turned to the more rational of the two—though based on her matching glare, ’twasn’t by much. “Aileen, this place is dangerous, these men . . .” He gave a pointed look to the side as two tavern patrons began to brawl in the street.
“I ken,” she said, and he noticed dark smudges beneath her eyes. “But Jamie.” Her voice cracked, and the desperation in her eyes nearly made him forget her betrayal.
“I’m lookin’ for the lad,” he said. “And I’ve a lead to follow.” He glanced back at the tavern door. “I’ll meet ye soon.” The fighting drew closer with more pugilists joining in. Conall pointed to the side of the building. “Wait back there, in the alley.”
Aileen stepped toward the door. “I’m coming wi’ ye.”
He shook his head. “I want to find him too. Ye must trust me.”
Aileen’s eyes grew hard, leaving him with no doubt that she didna trust him at all.
Mrs. Campbell shot him another icy look and muttered somethin’ he was certain he didna want to hear, but the women started toward the alley.
Conall went back inside, passing Davy with a nod and returning to the spot outside the hallway door.
The voices had stopped.
He leaned closer, still hearing nothing, then put his eye up to the gap, but he couldn’t get a broad enough view to discern whether the men remained in the room.
After a long moment, he decided to go inside. He’d pretend to have stumbled on the room by accident. If all else fails, he thought wryly, act like a simpleton.
Conall looked back at Davy then put his hand on the knob, twisting slowly to see if the door was locked. ’Twasn’t. The door swung inward, and he followed it, finding the room empty.
Davy would have told him if the men had left through the tavern, and so Conall crossed the room to another door, leaning close and listening as he’d done before.
Again he heard nothing. He thought ’twould be much more difficult to convince anyone that he’d entered two different rooms by accident, but he’d gain nothing if he didna take the risk. And Jamie’s very life could depend on it.
He took a deep breath, hand closing around the handle of the sheathed dirk at his waist and pushed open the door. The smell of refuse met his nose, and he stepped out into a filthy alley behind the tavern. He looked in both directions, seeing nothing to indicate which way the men might have gone, so he moved toward where he’d told Aileen and Mrs. Campbell to wait. He stepp
ed around piles of trash and broken crates, frightening a family of rats that scampered out of his way with irritated squeaks.
When he reached the side alley, he found it empty.
Frustrated, Conall smashed a fist through a rotten barrel. He’d lost the men—possibly his only means of finding Jamie—and now the two women had run off when all he’d tried to do was keep them safe. Hopelessness mingled with exasperation as he walked back toward the tavern’s main entrance, wondering how much time he had to find the lad. Or was he already too late?
Chapter 21
Aileen wrinkled her nose at the alley’s smell. She and Dores stood against the side of the building, hoping to avoid the notice of the tavern’s patrons. She winced at the noises of the men fighting and the crude jeers of those cheering them on.
She fumed. What gave Sergeant Conall Stewart the right to tell her what to do? Jamie was her son, and she’d spent the last days travelin’ in an uncomfortable coach then begging for information from anyone in the grand town of Fort William who’d even take notice of a country lass. They’d learned from an innkeeper in Glenfinnan that the man called Famhair was employed by a suspected criminal named Sim MacRob, but the people she asked either didna know of him or pretended not to.
At last, Dores had taken charge, scolding a fisherman within an inch of his life until he told them of this tavern, where Sim MacRob’s men were known to spend time.
And then, after all their work, who should happen to be inside but the very man who’d deserted her in her hour of need. She clenched her fists, angry at the reaction from the men in the tavern and humiliated that Conall had seen it. But in truth, her petty feelings didna matter. She had to find Jamie.
Dores was in the middle of a muttered tirade. “An’ him tellin’ us where we can and canna go. Who does he think he is?”
Hearing a door close behind them, Aileen laid a hand on her friend’s arm, shushing her, and turned. Voices sounded from behind the building. Someone was approaching. She glanced toward the far end of the alley, but ’twas still blocked by the fighters, so she pulled Dores back against the wooden wall, hoping the shadows would conceal their presence.
Two men rounded the corner, and when Aileen saw them, panic jolted her insides. ’Twas Famhair and the man with the pointed beard, Balfour’s companions. Her grip tightened on Dores’s arm.
The smaller man stopped, a grin spreading across his face. “Well, look who we’ve here. I didna think we’d be seein’ this lass again. Did ye, Famhair?”
The large man shook his head, then seeing his friend’s expression, he grinned as well.
Aileen’s legs trembled, and she shrank away. But in spite of her terror, she had a realization. These men, threatening though they may be, could lead her to Jamie. She stepped forward, and Dores moved with her, sticking to her side like she’d been plastered there.
“Gentlemen, if ye please, I’m looking for my son.” Her voice sounded high to her ears.
“Did ye hear tha’, Famhair? She called us gentlemen.”
“We’re nay gentlemen,” the large man said, shaking his bald head. The pair closed in on the two women.
Their nearness made Aileen’s trembling worse, and she felt tears itching her eyes. She lowered her shoulders, trying to appear brave. “Please, will ye tell me where Jamie is?”
They acted as if they’d not heard her.
“MacRob’ll like this lass, to be sure,” the lean man said.
Dores stepped in front of Aileen. She stuck a fist on her hip and leaned forward, wagging her forefinger at the villains. “Now see here. Have ye no manners a’tall? The lady’s asked ye a question, expectin’ an answer.”
“Ye can leave the auld biddie,” Pointy Beard said.
In a flash of movement that Aileen wouldn’t have believed possible considering the man’s size, Famhair snatched her up and tossed her over his shoulder. The air flew from her lungs with a whoosh. Instead of exiting the alley, the man spun, heading back in the direction he’d come.
Aileen fought to hold her head still as the man’s steps bounced, disorienting her as he ran through the back alleys of the town. From her position, she tried to see where they were going, keep track so she could find her way back, but she only caught glimpses of buildings, wooden fences, clotheslines, and piles of refuse. Her back and neck were growing tired from the effort of keeping herself from bouncing against Famhair’s back, and hanging upside down for so long was making her head pound.
Just when she thought her body couldn’t endure the strain of hanging in such an uncomfortable position any longer, the large man stopped. She tried to twist around, lifting her head as much as she could, but could only see the dirt ground and more rubbish. She heard a creaking, like a metal gate opening on rusted hinges, then Famhair continued forward, slower now as he descended stairs. The metal creak sounded again behind them, followed by a clatter as the gate shut. The air around grew cold and damp, and she could see the pathway was dark. Occasional circles of light that she assumed were torches flickered on stone walls.
Famhair moved much slower in the underground tunnel, and Aileen went limp, letting her head hang loose. She rubbed her fingers against her eyelids, hoping to ease the pressure.
They stopped walking, and at a word from the other man, Famhair set Aileen on her feet. She held one hand to her aching head, the other pressed against a cold stone wall as dizziness nearly caused her to swoon.
The man with the beard did not wait for the spell to pass. He clasped her wrist and pulled her forward along the passageway. Aileen stumbled behind, followed by the large Famhair.
After a few more turns, they came to a wooden door that seemed newer than the rest of the tunnels. A man stood in front of the opening. When he saw them, he nodded and stepped aside.
The smaller man knocked and waited. When they heard a voice call out from within, he pushed open the door.
Aileen could hardly believe the room they entered. She paused, amazed, as her gaze traveled around the space. Plush carpet spread over the floor, and the walls were paneled in wood with artwork hanging in ornate golden frames. Silk-covered chairs were placed tastefully about. Wooden tables held sculptures and vases of fresh flowers. Suspended between the ceiling’s engraved tiles, a chandelier hung down, lighting the room with a dazzling display of color.
On a far wall, flames crackled in a hearth fireplace surrounded by a wooden mantle. There must be a chimney leading somewhere, she thought.
Amidst the unexpected splendor of the underground cavern, Aileen’s eyes were drawn to the desk of dark wood that adorned the center of the room—or more specifically, to the man sitting behind it.
He didn’t rise when they entered or offer them a seat, but he sat, hands clasped calmly, his forehead wrinkled and his head tipped in a curious look, as if asking politely why they’d disturbed him. His clothing was finer than any Aileen had seen. He wore a colorful waistcoat beneath a black coat, which, she assumed by its sheen, must be made of silk or satin.
“I see ye’ve brought a guest,” the man said, his voice pleasant. He nodded at Aileen.
“Sir, are you Sim MacRob?”
“Aye, lass. In the flesh.”
“If ye please, Mr. MacRob, my son, Jamie was taken away by”—she glanced at the two men, one of whom still held her wrist—“by these men, and Balfour MacTavish.”
Sim MacRob’s lip curled at the name, but other than that, he didn’t change his patiently interested expression.
Aileen wasn’t certain exactly what he was thinking based on his reaction—or lack thereof. “Can ye tell me where he is?”
The man with the pointed beard released her arm and stepped closer to the desk. “Balfour’s taken care of, Mr. MacRob.”
Sim MacRob gave a nod of acknowledgment. “A pity he didna think to bring this lass as well. ’Twould have gone a long way to repayin’ his debts.” He sighed. “Ah well, nothin’ to be done aboot it now.”
Aileen looked between the men, trying to de
cipher their meaning. Balfour was taken care of? What did that mean?
Sim MacRob set down his hands, pushing himself to his feet. He walked around the desk in an unhurried manner and came to stand before Aileen. He bent close—too close—but she didn’t shrink away, not wishing to do anything that might upset the man who could tell her where to find her son. He took hold of her jaw, pulling her mouth open, squinting as he looked inside at her teeth. Then he strode around her in a slow circle.
Aileen’s skin prickled, and her heart pounded loud in her ears. She needed to get away from this place. From these men.
“Skinny, isna she?” He tapped a finger on his lip. “But she’s a fair one.” He shrugged and walked back around the desk, speaking without looking at any of them. “She’ll fetch a good price.” He waved his fingers in dismissal.
Aileen bolted toward the door, but Famhair caught her around the waist before she’d even gone more than a few yards. She scratched and kicked, hoping to make him drop her, but his arms were like iron bands.
“My son,” she cried out, despair covering her like a cold fog. “Please.”
Sim MacRob lifted a piece of paper, reading over it, as if unconcerned by the woman being dragged from his office or her screams. “Ye’ll be seein’ the lad soon enough, lassie. Don’ ye worry.”
Chapter 22
Conall sat next to Davy at a table in the back of the rowdy tavern. He’d debated over the past half hour whether remaining was fruitless, but in truth, he’d no other leads. Their best chance of finding Jamie lay in this dodgy building, which, as the afternoon grew later, was filled with increasingly foul-smelling and foul-mouthed vestiges of humanity. Though he’d been angry that Aileen and Dores had ignored his instructions to wait in the alley, he was glad the women were at least away from this place.
Remembering Aileen’s coolness toward him brought a pang. He figured thoughts of her would always be laced with regret, but he hoped the achin’ would ease. Perhaps one day.
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