The Taming of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  Broderick turned. Two more attackers charged. He tossed the hammer end-over-end and caught it by the handle. Quickly, he dispatched first one man then the other with efficient blows to a chin and a gut. Both men fell, groaning and writhing.

  Another scrapper leapt upon his back. Broderick looped an arm behind the man’s neck, bent and slammed the bugger like a bag of tatties onto a cart. When he straightened, three more attackers stared up at him with comical awe. The one who’d managed to gouge his ribs staggered back. The one who’d kicked him darted to the pile of stones and hefted a ten-pounder.

  Lungs heaving more from rage than exertion, Broderick went for the stabbing fellow first. The man took a few frantic swipes with his blood-edged blade before Broderick’s hammer struck his ribs. He collapsed with a pathetic whimper. Broken ribs would send him to the infirmary for a good while, no doubt.

  A grunt sounded behind Broderick moments before a ten-pound stone thudded harmlessly beside his foot.

  Broderick turned. The man had wet himself. He babbled something about his mother and a dead brother and how he’d never wanted to attack Broderick, but he’d needed the coin Skene offered.

  Broderick rubbed his forehead with fingers still zinging from the radiant pain down his arm. He breathed and thought of Da, how he’d always taught his sons to manage their rage with thoughts of their home.

  Frost that turned heathered hillsides shimmery. The scent of Annie’s bread baking. The lowing of long-haired cattle and the musical sigh of wind over the loch.

  Slowly, he forced the rage back down. Then, he grasped the man’s shirt and pulled him close. “Ye’ll be my ears, now.”

  Wide eyes and a frantic nod.

  “Aye. Ye’ll listen for what Skene has planned. Ye’ll find out who’s funding him. Ye’ll tell me everythin’ and hold back nothin’.”

  Wide eyes rounded.

  Broderick shook him the way Campbell’s hound shook a rabbit. “Do ye ken?”

  A nodding whimper came from the wretch. Distantly, Broderick heard keys clanging as the gaoler fumbled to unlock the door.

  “Thought I told ye to drop the hammer, MacPherson.” The gaoler’s words were stern, but his voice shook.

  “I think I’ll keep it,” he replied softly.

  The gaoler staggered inside. He gulped and panted as he eyed the six fallen prisoners and the man dangling from Broderick’s fist. “Y-ye’re to pick oakum. Order of the governor.”

  Broderick released his new informant, shoving the wretch aside and approaching the guard. Sometimes his size was a nuisance. Other times, it was extremely useful. “Nah. I’m to be put in the Dark Cell, instead. Disobedient lad that I am, ye had to do it. Immediately.”

  The turnkey fingered the cudgel he carried then locked eyes with the prisoner who had wet himself. The prisoner shook his head as if to say, “Best not provoke the man who just dispatched six attackers in less than a minute.”

  The gaoler opened the door and gave Broderick a nod. “Dark Cell it is.”

  Finally, Broderick thought. Some real sleep.

  The gaoler led him down a series of long, dank corridors, through an iron gate, then down steep stone stairs. Without a word, he unlocked the thick wooden door at the end of a narrow passage. Inside, the cell was small—eight feet by six feet, perhaps. But it was far from the other prisoners. Quiet. Best of all, Broderick could sleep without fearing he’d be set upon, for his senses would alert him the moment the door opened.

  He ducked through the doorway only to halt when he heard shuffling. He peered into the dark. A quiet gasp came from the corner of the cell.

  “Eh? Who’s in here?” demanded the gaoler.

  A feminine murmur preceded scrambling amidst the straw.

  The gaoler shoved past Broderick then hauled a gaunt, gray-gowned woman into the light.

  Broderick frowned. She was stark white tinged faintly blue. Plain to the point of ugliness, she appeared young—perhaps Annie’s age. Her face was narrow, her chin pointed, her nose long and prominent. She was, however, remarkably tidy. Mouse-brown hair was neatly tucked inside her cap. Near-translucent skin was clean. A bit of straw dotted her skirt, but otherwise, few signs of her confinement in the Dark Cell were visible.

  “What’s yer name?” barked the gaoler, dragging her from her corner.

  Sunken eyes darted and squinted. A thin hand came up to shield them as she blinked and blinked and blinked up at Broderick. The gaoler’s grip dug into her arm. She shook her head as though dazed. “Magdalene Cuthbert.”

  “How long ye been in here?”

  “I—I don’t know. Several days, I think.”

  “Who put ye here?”

  “Mr. Burnside.”

  One of the turnkeys assigned to the airing yard, Broderick recalled.

  “Well, yer time’s up. Get yerself back to the women’s ward.” The gaoler shoved her forward into Broderick. He gently braced her elbows.

  She flinched away, eyed his hammer then gazed up at him with wide, confused eyes. “Are ye here to take me home, then?”

  Her speech was a soft blend of the Lowlands and England, scarcely Scottish at all. Her voice was muted, gentle, and clear. But she made little sense.

  “I’m here to take yer place, lass.”

  Frowning, she lowered her gaze to his shirt. Blood wicked into the blue fabric where he’d been slashed. “The cell is filthy,” she murmured. “Ye must bandage this.”

  He was dizzy with fatigue. His fists ached. His shoulder felt on fire—likely dislocated. And the bleeding slice along his ribs stung. But somehow, he thought this plain, skeletal woman might be worse off than he.

  The gaoler gripped her arm with bruising force. “Go on with ye!” he growled, shaking her bone-thin frame.

  Once again, Broderick steadied her as she gasped and staggered. He grasped the gaoler’s wrist, squeezing until the man’s hand loosened. Then, he tilted his head and flashed his hammer. “Dinnae touch her again.”

  The big-nosed man swallowed. Backed up a step.

  “Miss Cuthbert,” Broderick murmured. “Can ye find yer way back to yer sleepin’ cell?”

  Several breaths passed before she nodded. She swept her hands over her skirts, shaking the hem free of straw. Then, she calmly stepped past him into the passage before turning back. “Wh-what is your name, sir? If I may ask.”

  “MacPherson. Broderick MacPherson.”

  She nodded, her face haloed in gray light. She looked like a nun, he thought. A nun who had seen too much suffering.

  “I shan’t forget your kindness, Mr. MacPherson.”

  He raised a brow. “Ye should, Miss Cuthbert. Ye should forget all about me.”

  She didn’t smile. But her eyes warmed briefly before she turned and walked away.

  One month later

  The airing yard teemed with men, despite deep snow and bitter wind. Frozen, the usual foul smells of unwashed bodies and human waste were near tolerable.

  Broderick folded his arms across his chest and leaned back against the prison’s stone wall. “What have ye heard?”

  His informant, James Tweedie, blew into his hands and kicked a pile of snow. “Skene’s been run off. Naught’s been seen of him for weeks. But the payments keep comin’.”

  “I ken that much from my sister’s letters, ye worthless cur. What have ye discovered about Skene’s backer?”

  “Naught, sir. Nobody kens who it is. Not even Gordon, and he’s runnin’ things now.”

  Broderick shook his head and stared across the yard to where several women hauled loads of bedding to be laundered. One of the many child prisoners tripped and fell in the snow. A familiar, plain-faced woman stopped to help the wee lassie to her feet.

  “Keep yer ears sharp, Tweedie.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “And bluidy well stop callin’ me sir.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Broderick shoved away from the wall, scanning his surroun
dings for signs of a threat. The prisoners gave him a wide berth, and the gaolers cast him wary glances. He headed for the arched entrance to the sleeping cells but stopped when he heard his name. Cursing silently, he turned.

  “Miss Cuthbert,” he said, watching her dust the child off and send the lassie on her way. “Ye’re due for release soon, aye?”

  She straightened. Hesitated. As usual, she looked neater than a solicitor’s spectacles, but her hands were vivid red from her laundry duties.

  In the past month, he’d learned she’d been imprisoned for stealing a pair of costly jeweled combs from her former employer. It had taken some coaxing, but he’d finally discovered why such a quiet, pious, dignified woman would resort to thievery. Her employer had been a hateful old crone fond of striking her paid companion with her cane. For years, Magdalene Cuthbert had endured the abuse until she’d reached her limit and made her escape. Unfortunately, she’d only sold one of the combs, tucking the other away for the future. When the constables had found it in her possession, her former employer had been spitefully eager to see her punished. Miss Cuthbert had been arrested, convicted, and tossed into the Bridewell for six months’ imprisonment with hard labor. She’d been slated for release in early January.

  “I was, aye.” She focused on her hands.

  He sighed. “What happened?”

  “Mr. Burnside caught me delivering soup to you in the Dark Cell on Christmas Eve. My sentence has been … lengthened.”

  He gritted his teeth. He’d warned her not to help him. He’d begged her to stop appearing friendly and avoid speaking to him around others. “How long?”

  “Three months.”

  “Christ on the cross.”

  She winced. “Please don’t say such things, Mr. MacPherson. Ye’re an honorable man who deserves yer place in heaven.”

  “I havenae said half of what I’m thinkin’, so dinnae preach to me like that damned chaplain.”

  Her eyes warmed. “He’s been so very kind to me. He visits every day he’s here, often requesting I assist him with his tasks.”

  Broderick snorted. “Well, at least somebody bothers to do what I tell them.”

  She adjusted the scarf over her head and glanced behind her before stepping closer. “I could not let them starve ye, Mr. MacPherson. Not after everything ye’ve done for me. Ye’re already too thin.”

  He hated the gratitude shining in her eyes. The poor woman didn’t understand what she risked. Three more months in this place? He’d asked the chaplain to look after her, true, but the man couldn’t be with her every second. “Bein’ my friend will make ye a target, ye ken?”

  She swallowed, the thin bones of her neck rippling. “Aye. I haven’t forgotten what ye told me.”

  “Stay away,” he urged as gently as he could manage. “Ye must protect yerself.”

  Her spine straightened, her features turning placid. She met his gaze with that inherent dignity that made him think she must have queens in her lineage. “I shall keep you in my prayers, Mr. MacPherson.”

  His gut turned colder than the snow beneath his feet. “Prayers havenae helped me so far, Miss Cuthbert.” He started for the iron gate leading to the men’s ward. “Dinnae waste yer breath.”

  One month later

  The surgeon’s hand shook as he knotted his last stitch on Broderick’s biceps. “Watch for putrefaction.” The doctor reached for his scissors and snipped the thread. “If ye’ve signs of fever, come see me.”

  Broderick glared at the man’s handiwork. “Next time, have a drink before ye take a needle to me. I’ve had steadier rides on the back of a donkey.”

  A new batch of men from Skene’s gang had launched a fresh attack early that morning. They’d managed to gash his arm with a sharpened spoon before he’d put them down. Now, he sat in the infirmary with a red-eyed surgeon, numerous bruises on his face and jaw, and a poorly stitched arm.

  Oh, and a team of three unctuous lawyers—two short solicitors and a tall, bespectacled barrister. They’d all gathered around his bed, fidgeting as though they needed to visit the privy. In fairness, they were there to deliver wretched news, and he probably looked ready to kill.

  The barrister adjusted his spectacles. “We did submit Mr. Ferguson’s original statement exonerating you of all blame for the attempt on his life. But, as the Lord Advocate obtained a contradictory statement shortly before Mr. Ferguson’s death, we do not expect the High Court to rule in our favor.” He cleared his throat. “You are to be charged with murder, Mr. MacPherson. I am sorry.”

  Broderick glared out the window on the far side of the room, unable to speak. The exciseman had been on the mend, damn it. The physicians Campbell and Alexander hired had saved Ferguson’s pathetic life. He’d recovered enough to give the solicitors a signed statement declaring Broderick had been an innocent bystander and that he could not have shot him, as he’d been positioned in the opposite direction from where the gunman had fired. Days later, according to the physician, the Lord Advocate had visited Ferguson. The prosecutor had left an hour later with a statement accusing Broderick of firing upon him after Ferguson discovered his cache of untaxed MacPherson whisky. Yesterday, Ferguson, who had previously been well enough to eat breakfast with his wife, had been found dead in his bed.

  The physicians were baffled. Currently, Alexander was questioning everyone involved to find out what had caused his death.

  It didn’t much matter, of course. Whoever had orchestrated Broderick’s torment intended for him to die, either in prison or by hanging.

  Vaguely, he noted the bird swooping past the infirmary window. It was white and gray. “Get out,” he murmured to his lawyers. Useless, all of them.

  “We shall prepare a robust defense. Your father is most keen to—”

  “Leave.”

  He felt them glance at each other. Felt them go.

  The surgeon offered Broderick his flask. Broderick drank it all down.

  “I’ll inform the governor ye must sleep here tonight,” the surgeon said, tucking his flask away.

  Broderick watched the snow swirl, the white and gray bird fighting the gusts. It appeared to be dancing in place.

  As the surgeon departed, Alexander arrived to tell Broderick what they’d found beneath Ferguson’s widow’s bed. “Five hundred pounds,” he growled, eyes flashing like the devil’s blackest fire. “She poisoned her man and condemned you to hang for it for five hundred pounds. Christ’s bones.”

  Broderick closed his eyes, but he still saw the white and gray bird. Only now, it was black.

  “We’re makin’ a plan, brother,” Alexander continued. “Dinnae despair. If the bluidy solicitors cannae free ye from this place, then we will. Campbell and I met with an old mate from our regiment. He makes regular runs to the Continent. Fine ship. Good crew. Once ye’re far away from here, we’ll find Skene. We’ve already dismantled his operation. A rat can only stay hidden so long. We’ll discover who—”

  “No,” Broderick rasped.

  Suddenly, Alexander’s face hovered inches from his. A long finger pointed at Broderick’s nose. “Aye,” he gritted furiously. “Ye’ll let us do this because we’ll nae fuckin’ survive watchin’ ye hang for somethin’ ye didnae do.”

  Broderick grasped his brother’s hand in both of his. Alexander tore away. Paced to the window. Slammed a fist into the whitewashed wall.

  “Think of Da. Annie. Rannoch,” Broderick said. “You and Campbell are soldiers. Ye’re accustomed to the sacrifices of war. They’re not. They’ll suffer.”

  “They needn’t be part of it.”

  “Alex—”

  “Stay breathin’,” he ordered as he stalked to the door and pounded it to signal the guard. It opened in seconds. “We cannae save a dead man.”

  “Bluidy hell. Alexander!” His shout echoed off whitewashed walls. But his brother was already gone.

  One month later

  He awakened in darkness. Deep, endless bl
ack. His heart pounded. He remained still. Breathed slowly. Silently reached for his hammer. The worn handle inside his fist was a comfort.

  Outside the door, he heard whispers. A scrape. A click. Jangling keys.

  Light cracked the dark, faint and gray.

  Wider. Wider.

  He rolled. Crouched. Readied.

  “Mr. MacPherson?”

  Gray skirts swayed into view.

  His fist gripped the hammer harder, unable to let go. His heart beat him to death inside bruised ribs, unable to slow.

  She moved inside, stupid and stubborn, clutching a Bible to her chest with a white, bony hand. Her eyes darted, widened as they settled upon him. “Oh, Mr. MacPherson. What have they done?”

  “Get out,” he growled. A hank of his own hair obscured his eyes, foul and filthy. No one should see him like this.

  “I will not.” She set the Bible on the floor outside the cell, murmuring something to the gaoler before returning to stand before him. “We’ll take ye to the infirmary.”

  He shook his head. “Shouldnae be here.”

  She didn’t touch him, but she moved close. “No, ye shouldn’t.”

  “I meant you.”

  “Me? I was only delivering a Bible when I discovered ye here, insensible with fever. It’s my Christian duty to see you’re looked after properly. The chaplain would do the same, were he here.”

  He ordered his heart to calm. Needed to loosen his grip on the hammer before he went mad. She was not someone he wished to hurt.

  “Come.”

  “Go away, Miss Cuthbert. Ye shouldnae see this.”

  “See what?”

  He breathed. Breathed. Thought of home. Lost the vision. “Me.”

  She went quiet, standing straight and still as she often did. “Come along, Mr. MacPherson.” She led the way into the passage then turned back expectantly. “Please. Let me do this much.”