Miss Leslie's Secret

by Jennifer Moore

  “Wha’ do ye think?” Davy asked. “Should we separate and move among the tables?”

  “Aye.” Conall tugged at his jacket’s tight sleeve. “Unless ye can think o’ a better idea.”

  Davy made a grunting sound far back in his throat, apparently indicating that he considered this course of action to be as good as any. Davy rose, but instead of moving away, he stilled, looking toward the doorway.

  Conall leaned forward to peer past him and saw Dores standing just inside, her gaze scanning the tables.

  Davy waved to her, and she hurried over.

  Where was Aileen? Conall wondered. He didn’t like the idea that she’d been left alone in this town.

  Dores reached them and slid into a chair. Her face looked pale, and her normally tidy hair was disheveled, strands pulling free from the net that held them.

  “Yer arm,” Davy said, sliding closer to the woman and inspecting a tear in her sleeve.

  Conall noticed blood soaking through the fabric above her elbow. He felt a burst of alarm. What had happened?

  Dores swatted Davy’s hands away. “There’s not time for that now. Aileen’s been taken.” She held up the plaid shawl Aileen had been wearing.

  “Taken?” Conall repeated. “Taken by whom?”

  Davy tore a strip from his ragged shirt and tied it around Dores’s arm.

  “By that hairless giant and his wee rat friend.” She scowled, her dark brows forming a V above her nose.

  Conall leaned toward her. “Did ye see where—”

  “O’ course I did.” She huffed as if irritated he’d had the audacity to question her competence. “Takes more than a shove to the ground to keep me out o’ the game. Should ha’ done me in if they didna want me following.” She jumped to her feet and motioned toward the door. “Come on wi’ ye then. ’Tisn’t the time to be sittin’ around on yer bahookies. Are ye plannin’ to help me rescue the lass or nay?” With a quick stride, she left the building.

  Conall and Davy looked at one another then scrambled to follow.

  Dores led them around to the back of the tavern then past the rear door, navigatin’ through back alleys, around rickety fences and beneath clotheslines as if the route were one she’d traveled daily. Conall couldn’t see what landmarks she might be using to find her way and, after a bit, stopped trying to guess and just followed.

  They walked along the side of an old wooden warehouse, and Dores slowed. She waved her hand for them to stop, then she crept forward, peeking around the corner. She ducked back, and at her beckoning, the men gathered close to her.

  “’Tis jes’ there.” She spoke in a low tone and jerked her head toward the corner. “Ye’ll think ’tis jes’ an ol’ grate leanin’ against a wall, but it opens on hinges, and the path inside leads downward. Stairs perhaps.”

  Conall started away, but she pulled him back. “There’s a guard, ye fool.”

  He nodded, sliding the dirk from its sheath at his waist as he crept forward. At the corner, he pressed back against the wall, leaning his head around to steal a look. Dores was right about the gate. He’d have walked right past the rusty auld thing without giving a second look. The guard was a portly man sitting on an old crate, carving something out of a piece of wood. He’d not be difficult to subdue.

  Conall drew back and returned to the others. He needed a plan. He motioned them close, and the three clustered together. “If the tunnel leads underground, I’d wager there are multiple exits through the town.”

  Davy rubbed beneath his knee where the wooden leg attached. “Goin in, ’twould be like smokin’ out a rabbit warren.”

  Conall nodded. “Sim MacRob and his men would most likely escape, and we don’t ken what they’d do with the prisoners. Or, without knowin’ our way, we’d likely get trapped inside ourselves. Either way, we’ve a lesser chance o’ findin’ Aileen and Jamie.”

  “An’ do ye recommend we do nothin’ then?” Dores folded her arms and tapped her foot, obviously frustrated that the men weren’t taking action.

  Conall pinched his lip, turning over various scenarios in his mind. He shook his head. “Nay, we’ll proceed. But we canna rush this. We need information.”

  Though the time was nearly ten, they still had almost an hour before ’twould be full dark. Should they wait and use the cover of night? He felt an urgency to act and decided against that course. He looked back over his shoulder then at his two cohorts, firming up a plan in his mind. “Davy, find a coach.” He pointed with his chin toward a street at the far end of the alley.

  Davy nodded and hurried away.

  “Come, Mrs. Campbell. I’ve the perfect task for ye.”

  After a brief discussion, Conall watched from a dark corner as Dores approached the man. Conall had explained that one unarmed man wasn’t intended as a guard but as a sentry. If he felt threatened, all he had to do was call out a warning. Which is where a nonthreatening auld lady came in.

  Instead of walking with her usual brisk steps, Dores approached the sentry slowly. She even feigned a very convincing limp. Conall couldn’t help but smile at her dedication to the part.

  He glanced up as she approached.

  “If ye please, young man, I’ve lost my cat,” she said. “Do ye mind helpin’ me to search?”

  “Away wi’ ye,” he grumbled.

  “But I’m certain she’s nay gone far. Perhaps just behind one of yon boxes.”

  “I said away wi’ ye, cailleach. I’ve no time fer the likes o’ ye.”

  Conall saw Dores’s spine stiffen. She obviously didn’t appreciate being called an auld bag.

  She huffed. “Have ye no manners? Wouldna yer mam be ashamed to hear ye speakin’ so to yer elders, lad?”

  He scowled, looking back down at the wood he was carving.

  Conall started to worry that she’d not be able to lure him away from his post. The contingency plan was for Conall to rush the sentry and hopefully silence him before he alerted anyone inside the tunnels.

  Dores looked back at Conall, shrugging and shaking her head.

  He slid the dirk from its sheath and tensed, ready to charge, but stopped when he saw Dores moving quickly. She snatched the plump sentry’s hat from his head and dashed away.

  The man leapt to his feet. He cursed and ran after her.

  When he rounded the corner, Conall struck him with a board and he toppled over.

  “Well done, Mrs. Campbell,” he said, giving a salute.

  She grinned in return, twirling the cap on her finger. “Tha’ll teach him to underestimate a cailleach.”

  Conall squatted down to grip beneath the man’s arms. He glanced toward the road, frowning at the distance. If only they’d caught a smaller sentry, he thought as he grunted and started dragging the man to the coach.

  ***

  An hour later, the sentry with an aching head and no hat sat on a hard chair in Colonel Ravenwood’s office. His hands were bound to the chair arms. Conall considered the precaution rather unnecessary since two fully armed red-coated soldiers stood inside the doorway, but he wasna about to criticize.

  The colonel hadn’t complained at being roused from his bed in the middle of the night. He sat behind his desk, gray hair slicked back, mustache impeccably groomed. In spite of the hour, he looked alert.

  Dores occupied the third chair in the room. She held the prisoner’s hat. Conall thought she considered it a trophy or perhaps a means to taunt the man, who kept darting looks toward it.

  Conall and Davy stood against the wall. The pair had changed from their filthy tavern disguises and looked at least partially respectable. At any rate, they were comfortable. Conall rolled his shoulders, stretching—just because he could. He noticed Davy stood with all of his weight on his good leg. The wooden extension must have caused pain when he’d had narry a chance to rest for days.

  “I’ll ask you again, sir.” The colonel was speaking to the prisoner. He pointed to the town map that spread over his desk. “Where are the other entrances to Sim MacRo
b’s lair?”

  The man shook his head, refusing to answer just as he had ever since they’d brought him in. His forehead was drawn low in a scowl, and he looked straight ahead. Colonel Ravenwood blew out an angry breath.

  Conall knew that with every moment that passed, their chances of finding Aileen and Jamie grew slimmer. He was tired of being patient. “If I might, Colonel?” He stepped forward, waving toward the prisoner.

  “Of course, Sergeant.” The colonel scowled at the man bound in the chair then lifted a hand, giving a resigned sigh. “Have at him.”

  Conall sat on the edge of the colonel’s desk, facing the prisoner. He hoped to look relaxed, set the man at ease. “Ye work for a powerful man, sir. And yer loyal. ’Tis admirable.”

  The man shrugged.

  “But is it really loyalty that’s tied yer tongue? Or fear of what Sim MacRob would be doin’ to ye if he learned ye spoke to the army?”

  The man’s eyes winced at the name, and Conall knew he’d hit on the truth.

  “So he’s threatened ye then,” he said. “Yer afraid he’ll hurt ye.” Fear moved over the man’s face. “Or he’ll hurt someone else.”

  “I’ve a daughter,” the man said in a voice that was nearly a whisper.

  Conall nodded. He understood how men like Sim MacRob worked. They would stoop to any level to protect themselves. The man had likely heard tales of tragedy befalling other henchmen’s family members, and the fear for his own daughter was warranted. “What’s her name?” He lowered his voice as well, hoping he sounded compassionate.

  “Mairi.”

  Conall nodded. “Ye fear if he finds out ye told us anythin’, he’ll hurt yer Mairi.”

  The man watched Conall. “I’ve not told ye anythin’.”

  “True,” Conall said. “But I think ye will.”

  The man’s eyes widened.

  “The way I see it, ye’ve two choices: Ye could remain silent. Ye’d hang o’course. Ye’ve already confessed to workin’ for Sim MacRob.”

  The man looked confused. “I never—“

  But Conall kept speaking. “We raid the tunnels through the entrance ye were guardin’, and Sim MacRob escapes through a hidden exit. Mairi loses her father, and Sim MacRob goes free.”

  The man’s face turned pale. He opened his mouth, but no words came out.

  Conall held up a hand. “But there’s another choice. Ye help us. Give us accurate information—the location of every entrance, a schematic of the tunnel system . . . Ye help us capture Sim MacRob, and he goes to the gallows.”

  The man seemed to be thinking, but the fear remained in his face.

  Conall felt time slipping away. His insides were tense, but he held the façade of calm, not wanting to frighten the prisoner into silence. “The man isna loyal to you. In yer place, would he remain silent to protect a simple sentry? He’s let men hang to save himself. To him, yer replaceable. But ye’re not replaceable to yer daughter.” Conall leaned forward until his face was right in front of the prisoner’s. He felt pity for the man. “Ye’ve a chance here, one that none o’ his other men have. A chance to return to Mairi. Do it for her.”

  “If I help ye, I’d go free?”

  Conall glanced back at the colonel for permission to make the promise.

  “If your information is accurate,” Colonel Ravenwood said. “Once we have Sim MacRob in custody, you would be at liberty.”

  The prisoner looked at Conall and then Dores, darting a glance to the soldiers behind him, then he nodded. “Aye, then. I’ll tell ye.”

  ***

  Conall and Davy stood in a dark alleyway beside a warehouse along with Colonel Ravenwood and a detachment of soldiers. Dores had insisted on accompanying them as well. It seemed none of the soldiers were brave enough to refuse the woman. She even carried a dagger, though Conall had no idea where she’d found it.

  The plan was to wait until precisely 4:00 a.m. ’Twould give the other detachments an opportunity to get into position and remove any sentries at the assigned exits. And the colonel was convinced that just before dawn was the best time to raise an attack.

  “We’ve still a bit to wait,” Davy said. “I’m going to sit—rest my leg—or I’ll be no help to anyone.”

  Conall nodded. He stood still like the other soldiers, just as he’d been trained, but he didn’t feel strong and ready to rush into battle. He’d hardly slept for days; his muscles ached from clenching them in worry. He felt restless, knowing Aileen and Jamie were most likely in distress. Wherever they’d been taken, they were certainly afraid. And he could only pray they’d not been harmed. He fisted his hands, focusing on the mission and not allowing his emotions to intrude. He’d spent years planning and executing raids, often in unfavorable circumstances and with no time for rest. This should be no different, he told himself. But he knew the truth: no mission had ever been so personal. If anything had happened to either of them . . .

  Dores came to stand beside him. She shivered but did not complain about the chill. “She didna intend to deceive ye,” she said.

  Conall glanced to the side. He had no answer. His heart and pride had been so injured by the deception that nothing she had to say would change it.

  “Jamie isna her son.”

  Conall froze at the words. He’d expected excuses or attempts at justification—but not that.

  Dores gave a small nod. “The three of us fled Glencalvie when Patrick Sellar and the duchess’s men burned our homes. Because o’ the war, most o’ the menfolk were away, ye see—Aileen’s da; Sorcha’s husband, Balfour.” She gave him a pointed look when she said the name. “We’d nowhere to go, no money, no spare clothing or food. We had only each other. ’Twas snowin’ something fierce that day, and we fled to the kirkyard, hopin’ we’d be safe there, and tha’s where Sorcha birthed the child.”

  In the predawn light, Conall could see tears in the auld woman’s eyes. He offered a handkerchief, but she shook her head.

  “None o’ us knew anythin’ aboot birthin’, and there was no midwife to assist. Sorcha died within the hour. She begged Aileen to take the boy, pleaded wi’ her to keep the child away from Balfour. A bad apple, that one. As ye’ve seen.” She shivered again, pulling Aileen’s shawl tight and wrapping her arms around her thin torso, but Conall didna think ’twas the cool wind botherin’ her.

  “We left Croick, hopin’ to travel far enough away tha’ none would know us or our families, and we vowed never to speak the truth to anyone.” She nodded, her eyes distant at the memory. “Over time, the child became hers, sure as if she’d birthed him from her own body. She loves that Jamie. If ’tweren’t for him, I don’ ken if she’d have carried on. He gave her a purpose, ye see.”

  Conall stared at her, feeling an immense surge of compassion for the young woman who’d given her heart so fully to a motherless bairn.

  Dores patted his hand in an uncharacteristic show of tenderness. “Like I said, she didna intend to deceive ye. She feared more than anythin’ what would happen to the lad if anyone kenned the truth. Perhaps she feared ye’d feel differently aboot Jamie. Perhaps she couldna bring herself to say the words aloud. But ye should know that what she did was out o’ love for her child and nothin’ else.” She gave a nod and moved away to join Davy, leaving Conall with his thoughts.

  Aileen, why did ye nay tell me? But he knew the answer. He’d not given her a chance. A wave of shame welled in this throat, nearly choking him. Three days earlier, he’d thought there was nothing she could say that would earn his forgiveness, but now he wondered if there was anything he could say to earn hers. I’m a fool.

  A whispered order jarred him from his thoughts. ’Twas time to move.

  As they’d previously decided, Conall and Davy—and o’ course Dores—stayed close to the colonel. Conall held the crude map the prisoner—Horace—had drawn, and when they entered the tunnel behind the mass of red-coated soldiers, Conall directed them to Sim MacRob’s chambers.

  They wove through passageways lit only
by torchlight. Conall was amazed such a place existed. It must have been a great undertaking to construct something like this—and in secrecy. From the sounds ahead, the soldiers met with some resistance but not much. Based on the lack of defensive tactics, Sim must have had faith in his ability to escape. Conall hoped they’d effectively quelled that course.

  They found the wooden door Horace had described and rushed inside. Conall was stunned by the opulence of the underground chamber. Sim MacRob was certainly not afraid to spend money. He scanned the room. In a matter of seconds, the men inside were detained by the soldiers. Among them, Famhair and his wee companion. None even put up a fight. On the far side, a man in extremely costly clothes was casting a sheaf of papers into a massive fireplace. Sim MacRob.

  Conall and Davy rushed over.

  Conall pulled Sim away from the fire while Davy used his wooden leg to kick the documents from the flames.

  Soldiers took Sim into custody, moving him to join the other prisoners held at gunpoint in a far corner. Conall and Davy stepped on the papers to smother the flames.

  Conall could hear Dores scolding the prisoners behind him as he knelt and studied the documents. Some were too charred to read, but he could make out the writing on others if he held them carefully to keep the ash from crumbling.

  Colonel Ravenwood had been in conference with his officers at the far side of the room. When he approached, Conall stood.

  “None of the other detachments found any prisoners. We have no evidence sufficient to hold any of these men. While barbaric, it is not illegal to inhabit a den below the town.” The colonel smoothed his mustache, his lips tight.

  Conall handed over the documents. “I think ye’ll be findin’ plenty o’ evidence here. And as for the prisoners, I know where they are.” He jabbed his finger at the sheaf of papers. “The Aurora. She’s to sail at high tide, just after dawn. If you would oblige me, Colonel, I’d be verra grateful for the help o’ ye and yer men once again.”

  Colonel Ravenwood thumbed through the papers, his smile expanding as he began to grasp what they contained. Every transaction had been documented. Names, dates, ships—Sim MacRob kept meticulous records. The colonel looked up and nodded at Conall. “His Majesty’s Army is at your service, Color Sergeant Stewart.”