by Elisa Braden
He walked Cecilia outside and helped her into her hired coach. Then, he watched the vehicle turn onto Constitution Street and disappear before he returned inside. The door squeaked and clanked shut. His footsteps echoed as he navigated twenty-foot piles of crates and twelve-foot stacks of whisky casks to reach the table behind the partition. For the next half-hour, he made notes on his inventory list, ensuring all the MacPherson casks had been accounted for. He didn’t want their buyer accusing them of shorting him again. The last incident had been caused by thievery from a rival smuggler, but their buyer hadn’t been very understanding.
Distantly, he heard the rusty squeak of the east door opening. Moments later, a familiar, nasal voice interrupted his final calculations.
“MacPherson!”
Broderick glanced up, surprised to see one of the excisemen on the MacPhersons’ payroll approaching from the west end of the warehouse. Broderick frowned. He’d thought he heard the opposite door open.
“Ferguson. What are ye doin’ here?”
“You tell me.” The wiry man tugged his waistcoat tighter over his potbelly and cast an incurious glance at the tower of casks. “Ye’re the one who sent the note.”
Broderick glowered at the man, wondering if he was sotted again. “I didnae send anything. We already settled on payment.”
“Aye, that’s what I thought.” He patted his pockets. “Where did I—”
A deafening crack echoed off stone walls and wooden crates. Instantly, Broderick dropped into a crouch and took a defensive position behind the partition. He’d done enough hunting to know that sound. Someone was firing at him. But who?
Broderick shifted to a better vantage point behind a crate and chanced a glimpse over the top. Nothing. Bloody hell. He couldn’t see past the casks. His heart pounded and his ears rang, but he slowed his breathing and listened for the shooter’s movements. Had Broderick been the target or was Ferguson? The exciseman had been lured here under false pretenses, that much was obvious.
“Ferguson! Are ye wounded, man?” he called. “Can ye see who fired?”
The other man’s answer was a gurgling groan.
“Bluidy hell,” Broderick muttered. He reached for the dirk he kept strapped beneath his coat. If only the blade was his rifle or the pistol Alexander had given him, but devil take it, this was supposed to be a routine delivery. They’d made hundreds like it over the years with nary a shot being fired.
“Whoever ye are, ye bluidy bastard, best ye run now,” he shouted. “If I get my hands on ye, ye’ll need ten shots to save yerself. And ye’ll be dead before the first one’s left the barrel.”
The east door whined open then clanked closed. Broderick took his chance, lunging from behind the crate and running toward the door. He raced past Ferguson on the way. The man lay on the floor gasping like a fish and clutching the wound in his potbelly. Wiry legs kicked, his heels sliding in the growing pool of blood.
Broderick didn’t stop. He ran to the east entrance and threw open the door. Blinded by the sudden daylight, he scanned the wide lane where deliveries were loaded. “Where are ye, ye pile of shite?”
He leapt from the platform and stalked into the road, his head swiveling. The place was nothing but noisy gulls and empty carts this time of day. He watched for movement. Saw nothing for several seconds. Then, he saw a flash of black.
A horse. Thirty yards down, the animal raced away with a filthy rider holding a long gun. The rider glanced back just before exiting onto Constitution.
Broderick squinted. He looked … familiar. Half his face was covered by a plaid, but the eyes. Broderick had seen those eyes somewhere before.
No time. No time to think and no time to catch the bugger. Ferguson had been hit. Broderick raced back inside to find the exciseman whiter than his neckcloth. He sheathed his dirk and moved the man’s hands to view the wound.
Bloody hell. It was bad.
“D-dinnae let me … die, MacPherson.”
Broderick grunted. He was too busy trying to stanch the bleeding to bother with Ferguson’s dramatics. “Stay still,” he ordered, removing his own neckcloth to form a rough bandage. When he cinched it around the man’s waist, Ferguson’s wailing grew plaintive. “Haud yer wheesht, man. I must slow the bleedin’ so I can leave to fetch a surgeon, else there’ll be nothin’ left of ye to save.” He’d only just risen to his feet when he heard the rusty hinges of the east entrance again.
Had the gunman returned?
He unsheathed his dirk, holding it loosely by his thigh as he backed toward the crates.
Voices. Men. Two or three of them, by the sound of it. The voices grew more distinct as they approached his position
“Who reported it?” an unknown voice asked. “If that were gunfire we heard, ’twould be a prophetic coincidence to have the complaint beforehand, I reckon.”
Frowning, Broderick glanced past the crates and saw three men, all of whom appeared to be High Constables. “Thank Christ,” he muttered before striding into their line of sight. It appeared they’d just noticed Ferguson, for two of them crouched beside him while the third frantically swiveled his head searching for the shooter.
“The man who did this rode away not three minutes ago,” Broderick advised.
The two constables beside Ferguson sprang to their feet and withdrew their batons. The third paled to a sickly shade of gray as he took in Broderick’s size. Then, the tallest of the trio—a sharper, older fellow by the look of him—glanced at Broderick’s right hand.
The one that still held his dirk.
A sinking sensation weighted Broderick’s gut. He eyed the three constables and stretched his arms slowly out to his sides. “This wasnae me, lads.” He waved his dirk in Ferguson’s direction. “He’ll tell ye.”
Except Ferguson had gone quiet and still.
The oldest of the three constables advanced toward Broderick. The other two fell into flanking positions behind him. “Toss the dirk aside, sir.”
Broderick considered his options. He could run. The west entrance was behind him. The constables didn’t have guns. They’d be unlikely to catch him.
But while his size was an advantage in many ways, it was a disadvantage in one—he was recognizable. It wouldn’t be long before the High Constabulary discovered whose whisky was in this warehouse. From there, it would be quick work to locate the MacPhersons. No sense involving his brothers and risking the distillery over something so easily resolved.
He made his decision and dropped the dirk.
As the two younger constables seized his arms, he sighed at the hours of tedious bother that awaited him. He’d planned a night of drinking with his brothers and perhaps a wee flirtation with the barmaid at the inn. Now, he’d have to explain how he came to be standing near a gut-shot exciseman inside a warehouse filled with untaxed MacPherson whisky.
God, what a bluidy inconvenience, he thought. He hoped the barmaid saved him some supper.
But as they hauled him outside, something told him it wouldn’t be that easy. Behind him, the rusted door clanged shut. He had the oddest feeling of dread. Certainty. And a sickening shiver he’d never felt before.
It felt cold. Writhing.
It felt like death’s hand tracing a rune across his skin.
CHAPTER FOUR
One month later
October 1825
Calton Gaol, Edinburgh
Broderick studied the man in the cell across from his. Bony. Short. Grinning. His teeth were orange, for some reason. Such a man shouldn’t be a threat. But he wasn’t alone, and a single unwary moment on Broderick’s part might result in a slash to the ribs from Orange-Teeth’s friends.
Or, to be more precise, his gang.
A dozen of them had gotten themselves tossed in here deliberately. Broderick knew them by sight, in many cases, because they all worked for a piece of shite named David Skene.
Broderick rested his elbows on his knees and his head against the w
all of his cell. God, he was tired. The iron bed groaned beneath his weight—far from luxurious, but he’d slept on worse. For the first few days inside the gaol, he’d run through the exciseman’s shooting second-by-second in his mind. He’d struggled to recall where he’d seen the shooter’s eyes before. Beady, black, and cold.
Then, it had occurred to him that they looked like a rat’s. And he’d recalled how much Skene—a rival whisky smuggler who’d cost the MacPhersons a tidy sum over the years in lost supplies and aggravation—resembled that very rodent. Why the rat-faced bugger would summon Ferguson to a warehouse and set Broderick up as the killer, he could only guess.
Alexander had immediately suspected Skene had been hired for the task. “Sure, he’s a nasty pile of shite,” Alexander had said last time his brothers had bribed the gaolers for a visit. “But he’s nae the sort to put this together.”
“What sort is that?” Campbell had asked skeptically.
“Vicious for the sake of causin’ misery. Clever enough to be patient about it.”
Broderick had shaken his head. “Mayhap he is.”
“Nah.”
“How do ye ken?”
Alexander shot him a black look. “Like recognizes like.”
Now, Broderick had only one certainty: The shooting had been the beginning of the plan, not its final aim. Broderick’s brothers had hired surgeons to keep Ferguson alive, so thus far, the most serious charge against him was assault with intent to murder. His solicitors had appealed to the courts to assign bail, but the judge had denied him, citing the seriousness of firing upon an honorable member of His Majesty’s government.
Broderick’s solicitors had been surprised by the rigidity of the judge’s stance, given the assurances offered by some of the MacPhersons’ allies in the government. None were particularly high-ranking, but a few were well respected.
It was strange—one of many things that were.
Today, Angus was due for a visit. Broderick sighed and rubbed his eyes. He didn’t know why Da and his brothers continued coming here. The Lord Advocate kept delaying his trial with one excuse after the next, and the judges kept agreeing to it over the objections of the MacPherson solicitors. Yet another oddity. Until the exciseman recovered enough to testify, it appeared Broderick’s case was as mired in place as a wagon without wheels.
And he was stuck here in a whitewashed gaol with porridge twice a day and a target on his back.
The gaoler approached, a friendly Glaswegian named Wilson. “Visitor for ye, MacPherson. One hour.”
Broderick nodded and unfolded his frame so he could stand.
Wilson’s expression grew apologetic. “Stay put, else I’ll have to put ye in irons whilst I open the door, eh?”
He sank back onto the creaking bed. “Aye.” Wilson was a decent fellow. He knew Broderick hated being shackled. He also knew Broderick was a target for attacks from Skene’s gang, so he did what he could to keep them separated.
The loud clank of the lock opening resonated in Broderick’s head. He hadn’t slept well in a month. Sound did strange things after that long. Sometimes overloud, sometimes muffled.
A man of towering height and glowering expression entered the cell. “Ye put my son in irons, and I’ll break yer bluidy jaw, ye miserable—”
“Da,” Broderick interrupted as Wilson’s eyes rounded. Angus was a fearsome sight when he was angry. “What news have ye?”
Glaring daggers, Angus grunted and waved at the gaoler dismissively. “Well, go on with ye!”
Wilson closed the door.
“He’s one of the better turnkeys, Da.”
Another grunt. Angus patted Broderick’s shoulder and sat beside him on the bed. Those broad shoulders stooped with weariness. “Met with the solicitors. There’s a new lawyer they’d like to bring on. More accustomed to dealin’ with the High Court.”
“Another one?” Broderick noted his father’s pallor and the way the old man’s gnarled fingers absently rubbed his knees. “Ye’re already payin’ for the surgeon and bribin’ every gaoler in the place. No. ’Tis too costly.”
“Cost doesnae matter.”
“Of course it does. Do ye think I want to beggar my family?”
“Yer brothers are preparin’ the next shipment. We’ll be fine.”
“Bluidy hell,” Broderick breathed.
Angus reached out to grasp Broderick’s nape as he’d done when Broderick was a lad. He gave him a reassuring shake. “We’ll be fine, son. But if we dinnae free ye from this place, you willnae.”
Broderick met his father’s dark gaze. “Who is doin’ this?” he whispered. The question had plagued him for a month. Every night while he lay cold and sleepless. Every day while he remained tense and watchful. He’d already fended off eight attacks from the men Skene had placed inside the gaol. How long could he last against dozens?
“Dinnae ken,” his father answered, squeezing Broderick’s neck. “Somebody with coin enough to buy a rival whisky gang. Somebody with influence enough over High Court judges to make them rule against their own laws, their own interests, for God’s sake. The lawyers are baffled.” He shook his head. “Nah. ’Tis a peer at the root of this vile contrivance. Nothin’ else makes sense.”
“I dinnae ken any peers. I’ve never even met one.”
“Who did ye rankle? A customer? Tell me, son. I willnae be cross.”
“Nobody. For God’s sake, Da. It was a shipment like any other. A day like any other. None of this makes any bluidy sense!”
Angus drew him close, as though he might shield his son with his own broad frame. “Aye, well. We’ll discover who did this. Then, yer brothers and I will make him wish he’d never heard the name MacPherson. That’s a promise I mean to keep.”
One month later
Wilson vanished two days after Angus’s visit, replaced by a turnkey who “fell asleep” at times convenient to Skene’s men. The day after that, they moved him into a new cell with two other men. One was a thief, the other a drunkard. He’d been forced to break the thief’s jaw after the bugger went for his throat with a sharpened broom handle. The drunkard had gone for Broderick’s face with a rock twice. The second time, Broderick had made certain he’d never try again. For this, he’d been tossed into the gaol’s Dark Cell, a windowless chamber intended to isolate and punish troublemakers. His best sleep had been on that cold straw, surrounded by darkness.
Shortly thereafter, the prison governor had sent him to the adjacent Bridewell to work. It was yet another anomaly. He hadn’t been tried yet, let alone sentenced to hard labor. The exciseman was still alive, so far as he knew. Alexander was hunting down Skene, who had gone to ground. Rannoch brought letters from Annie every so often. But as winter came on and the attacks on Broderick from Skene’s men grew more frequent, hope dwindled.
He’d been moved to yet another new cell with three other men. He rarely slept more than a few minutes at a time. The food was bland and scarce. Porridge in the morning. Barley broth at night. He’d lost a third of his muscle over the past two months.
Broderick wanted to believe he could fight this, that he could win. But he was too bloody weakened. Thus far, his strategy had been to wait it out, hoping the man behind his torment would run out of funds. But the bastard had deep pockets and endless patience. Waiting would not win this battle. If Broderick wanted to survive, he’d have to take command.
Even now, the hair on his neck lifted as he watched the orange-toothed sod across the workroom slip something beneath his shirt.
“MacPherson!” a gaoler barked from outside the door. The large-nosed man was one of several turnkeys in Skene’s pocket. “Ye’re to pick oakum next.”
Glancing at the hammer in his hand and the pile of rubble he’d been tasked with breaking into finer gravel, he answered, “By whose command?”
He shouldn’t have said it. The last time he’d questioned the arbitrary orders of his gaolers, they’d put him on the treadwheel, a po
intless, endless toil with punishment its sole purpose. The time before that, they’d given him twenty lashes.
But he’d almost prefer a whipping to the grueling tedium of picking apart tarred rope so that it could be rewoven into new rope.
The gaoler paused as he was turning the key. “Did I tell ye to speak?”
“Nah. But ye didnae tell me to tup yer wife, either. And I did that twice.”
Laughter erupted from a few of the prisoners. The gaoler’s eyes narrowed while sizable nostrils flared.
“In fairness, the second time was only because she begged me.” Perhaps they’d toss him into the Dark Cell. He could use the sleep.
“Put down the hammer and step back,” the gaoler snapped. His keys clanged as he twisted them in the lock.
Broderick tossed his hammer aside and moved behind the worktable. Then, he waited for the gaoler to open the door.
Waited.
Waited. Frowned.
The man was smirking. Turning his back. Disappearing. What the devil?
Too late, he felt the warning prickle along his neck. He half-turned as Orange-Teeth swung his hammer into Broderick’s shoulder. He’d been aiming for his head.
Pain exploded through muscle and bone, rippling down his arm. Rage burned upward from his guts. He used the momentum of the blow to spin. Leap. Evade a second hammer swing with a crouching maneuver.
Another prisoner came at him from his left. He felt the slash along his ribs. A sharpened stone, likely. A third man tried to kick his knee. Hissing in a breath, he hurdled the table to take a defensive position behind the rubble pile.
Pain receded. His vision focused until gray haze crystalized. Seven men surrounded him. He dealt with Orange-Teeth first. The man’s grin disappeared as he realized his error. Nervous eyes flickered over Broderick’s length. A nervous hand flexed on the handle of his hammer.
“Warned ye,” Broderick uttered. “If ye take a swing, dinnae miss.” In the next moment, he grasped the other man’s hammer by the head, ripped it loose, then swung his fist into a slack jaw. Multiple orange teeth flew. The man who once owned them collapsed into an unconscious heap.
