The Taming of a Highlander

by Elisa Braden

  It took him long minutes to leave the Dark Cell. His muscles felt frozen. Rigid. His skin itched. Every breath hurt. Worse, he couldn’t decide if he was awake or if this was another dream. He’d had so many.

  Gradually, he unlocked his muscles. Stood by pushing himself against the back wall. Took one step. Then another. His eyes watered as they met light after so long without it. A week, at least.

  She didn’t reach for his arm. Neither did the gaoler, who shrank away from the stench. Miss Magdalene Cuthbert didn’t so much as twitch her long nose. Instead, she quietly nodded and started forward, modulating her pace to match his slow, hitching one.

  The last attack had nearly killed him. Twelve had come at him with hammers, rocks, and planks from the workrooms. Broken ribs. Shattered left hand. His knee might never be the same.

  “I’m to be released soon,” she murmured. “I thought ye should know.”

  He gritted his teeth at the repeated agony of every step. “When?”

  “Next month.”

  “Good. Dinnae do anythin’ foolish.”

  Magdalene Cuthbert never smiled. He suspected she thought her teeth too big, her lips too full. But from time to time, she’d slant him an amused glance, as she did now. “Such as?”

  “Helpin’ murderers.”

  “You are not a murderer.”

  “Fine. Helpin’ me.”

  She fell quiet, glancing ahead to where the gaoler kept a stench-free distance. “I do not have many friends, Mr. MacPherson.”

  He grunted, wincing as his knee protested the next step.

  “None at all, really. Before you, I knew very little kindness.” She slowed. Stopped. Gazed up at him with the faintest shimmer. “Permit me a wee bit of foolishness before we bid farewell, hmm?”

  One month later

  They had him cornered—in the infirmary, of all places. “Tweedie,” he snarled. “When I get my hands on ye, ye’ll be sorrier than all of ’em put together.”

  His “informant” took three nervous steps toward the door. “I had nae choice, sir. They said they’d kill me if I didnae get ye here.”

  The prisoners surrounded him. Three were familiar. Two were new. The last five appeared to have been brought in specially for the occasion of his death. Bruisers, all of them. Big and rough and dim.

  The sharpest of the lot hefted his hammer. He had black hair and a chipped tooth. Broderick had seen him before—he was one of Skene’s old partners, he thought. Gordon. Aye. This was Gordon.

  “Doin’ yer own jobs these days, eh, Gordon? Funds run dry?”

  The man sniffed and cocked his head to a taunting angle. “This is one job I’d do for the pure pleasure of it. Damned MacPhersons have been a thorn in my ballocks for too long.”

  Broderick raised a brow and palmed the surgeon’s scissors. “Good thing yer ballocks are so wee.” He eyed the other men, who seemed to be herding him toward the window. “What’s the matter? Have my brothers made trouble for ye?”

  Gordon squinted. His expression hardened. “Look out the window, MacPherson.”

  “Nah. I’d rather see the damage I intend to do.”

  “Dinnae ye wish to see yer ugly lass on her way out the gate?”

  An icy chill chased down his spine.

  “’Tis her last day, aye?”

  The infirmary was on the top floor of the prison. From here—from the window behind him, specifically—the main gate was visible. Because of the angle toward the north, one could watch visitors and newly released prisoners come and go, if one was of a mind to.

  His heart stuttered to a stop. It kicked again when Gordon smiled. “What have ye done?”

  The black-haired bastard sauntered closer, raising his hands when Broderick shoved him backward. Gordon chuckled. Nodded toward the window. “Have a look. We willnae set upon ye. My word as a Scot.”

  Heart twisting and lurching erratically, Broderick edged closer. He kept his back to the wall but sidled so he could turn his head and glimpse the gate. There. She was there. The main gate, which resembled the turreted gatehouse of a castle, opened. She paused. Nodded regally to the turnkey. Then slowly started through.

  “Trouble is,” Gordon said casually, “a prisoner might go free from the Bridewell. But it isnae much safer out there on the road. This time of the evenin’, just ere dark. A lass alone. Frightful things might happen.”

  A cold, sickening fist gripped his stomach. Men had been known to be set upon when leaving the prison. Women had been assaulted. Abducted. Raped.

  “Ye putrid pile of shite,” he snarled. “Call them off.”

  “Now, now. We’ve a bargain to set. I’ve been paid—quite well, mind ye—to make yer misery a masterpiece. And I do intend to finish the job. But I’ll need yer cooperation.” Gordon sniffed. “How much do ye fancy her?”

  He didn’t fancy her. He respected her. He considered her a friend, and she considered him the same. Friends protected one another.

  “Call them off,” he growled, watching a half-dozen men emerge from the shrubbery along the upper road as the gate closed behind her. She didn’t see them, too focused on the ground in front of her. “Do it.” He gripped Gordon by the shirt. Shook him hard. “Do it!”

  Gordon laughed. “Drop the scissors. Turn yer back. Then, I’ll signal them with that sheet, there.” He nodded to a blue sheet wadded in another man’s fist. “A wave out the window, and she’ll nae be harmed.” He held up a hand. “My word as a Scot.”

  Broderick read his own downfall in the man’s eyes. This would be how it ended. At least his family would be free. At least he’d be done fighting. For months, he’d been wearied to the point of madness. Perhaps now he’d find rest. True rest. But first, he wanted a name. “Tell me who it is, Gordon. Who paid ye?”

  “He never said.” The man shrugged. Chuckled. “All I ken is he hates you all the way to the bone. And his coins are good.”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Havenae set eyes upon him. All was arranged by delivery. And before that, through Skene.” Gordon glanced toward the window. “Now, then, ye may wish to decide upon our agreement before long. Things turn dangerous after dark, ye ken.”

  Broderick swallowed the sudden thickness in his throat. The lurching nausea in his stomach. Slowly, he released Gordon’s shirt. And gave a nod.

  “Splendid.” The chipped tooth appeared inside the man’s grin. He took the blue sheet, opened the window, and waved the thing several times. It came back stained with rainwater. “Now, bear in mind, if I wave this again, I cannae vouch for her safety.”

  Broderick nodded again. Deposited the surgeon’s scissors on the windowsill.

  And turned his back.

  When the first blow fell, he was staring out the window at a gull fighting the wind—and losing.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  One month later

  All was pain. It was the air. It was the water. He wanted to be gone. But a rope clung. Cinched. Bound him with iron knots. Wouldn’t bloody well let him go.

  “… and I said, ‘English.’ That’s what I call him. He’s English, ye ken.” A cool, efficient hand stroked his forehead. Water splashed nearby. Annie’s voice chattered on. “Anyhow, I said, ‘After ye scurried off into the dark at the first wee bit of trouble, I didnae suppose ye’d dare provoke Angus again. I reckon it takes Englishmen a few months to locate their ballocks, eh?’” She chuckled and ran a wet cloth over Broderick’s arm. “Come to think of it, ye’ve met John Huxley once or twice. Aye, when he came to MacPherson House, and ye were there for supper, I think. Do ye remember, Broderick? Ah, he’s a bonnie man. Strong, too. I’m teachin’ him to toss the caber. Can ye imagine? A dainty Englishman. Well, nae so dainty. Dinnae tell him I said so.”

  Pain sang along his skin. Through his bones. The melody vibrated his blood. He wanted to leave.

  God, he wanted to leave.

  But the knots wouldn’t loosen.

  And
she kept talking. Chattering on and on about her Englishman and Da and the new license for the distillery. Explaining how the High Court had accepted the exciseman’s original statement. How he’d been freed after the charges were suddenly dismissed.

  Freed.

  He was not free.

  He was in hell.

  One month later

  “… would ye listen to me. I sound like a pure dafty, natterin’ on about him like he’s some magical answer to my fondest wish.” Annie sat on the bed beside Broderick, smoothing and tugging his blankets. “He’s still here in Edinburgh. I dinnae ken why. But I think—I think he stayed for … me.”

  She leaned down and kissed his forehead, her thumb tracing the spot.

  His heart squeezed. He wished he could ignore it. But he loved her, his wee sister. Always had.

  “He brings me such comfort.” Her voice thickened. “How I’ve needed it. Seein’ what was done to ye, I … I want to kill the man responsible. I want to kill him with my own hands.” She sniffed then whispered, “Do ye want to hear a secret, Broderick? I intend to. I will discover who he is. And I will kill him.”

  As she gathered up the remains of his soup and lowered the flame on the lantern, a single thought resounded in the dark cell of his mind.

  Not if I find him first.

  One month later

  He was home. Not his house on his land, but the house where he’d grown from a lad into a man. He lay in his old wood bed. A leather patch covered the hole where his eye had been. The eye that remained saw well enough. A brace kept his left hand from re-breaking. He was afraid to test the damage to his throat.

  Outside, a bird sang to the rising sun.

  Inside, the scents of wool and peat reminded him he was alive.

  He took a breath. Deeper. Expanded his chest.

  He hadn’t seen Annie since yesterday. Where was she?

  Beyond the bedchamber door, his father’s deep, booming voice grumbled about Englishmen taking liberties with his precious daughter. Then, he mentioned something about cleaning his hunting rifle.

  Broderick couldn’t fight the small ache in his chest. The need to see Da’s face. To speak to him. To thank Annie.

  His stomach growled.

  How long since he’d eaten a proper breakfast?

  Slowly, he rolled onto his side. Tossed aside his woolen blanket.

  His legs were long bones with white skin and dark hair. So much of him had wasted away.

  He shook as he sat upright. His head swam. Every muscle was weak, every breath painful. But pain was the air, the water. When something was everything, it might as well be nothing at all.

  So, he ignored the pain. Shifted his feet to the floor.

  The maid entered—Betty. Freckled and shy. Although they looked nothing alike, she reminded him of Magdalene.

  “Mr. MacPherson!” she squeaked. Ordinarily, her eyes were downcast, but now she rushed toward him. “Are—are ye well, sir? Dinnae stand. Let me fetch ye a shirt.”

  He didn’t want to speak. What if his voice was gone? They’d stomped his throat until he’d choked on his own blood. Could a man heal from that?

  He started to nod in answer, but she was busy digging through a trunk and wouldn’t see. So, he gathered himself. Opened his mouth. At first, nothing emerged but air. He tried again. This time, sound came, distorted and rusty as a saw cutting metal. Nothing like his voice. But he could speak. “Fetch Da.”

  Betty blinked. “Sir! Ye’re talkin’!”

  Again, he started to nod but decided using his voice might be best. “Aye.”

  She pulled a shirt from the trunk and returned to his side. While she helped him dress, she gently questioned him about how he was feeling.

  “Hungry,” he answered. His throat felt raw, but the more he spoke, the stronger the sound emerged.

  “Shall I fetch ye broth?”

  “No.” He’d had enough broth to last a lifetime. “Eggs.”

  Betty’s shy gaze met his then softened with womanly sympathy. “Gladly, sir. I shall fetch yer father and prepare eggs for ye. Dinnae move.”

  Angus entered moments later. “Son?”

  A breath shuddered in Broderick’s chest. Tight. Tighter. “Da,” he managed. He felt like a wee laddie, watching his father rush forward and wrap him up tight.

  “Ah, God, son,” Angus cupped his nape and squeezed. “Ye’re home. By God, ye’re home, now.”

  One month later

  His axe whizzed past the outermost bark of the log he’d placed on the wide stump. The log teetered but didn’t fall. With a thud, the blade buried six inches deep in the ground. He tore it loose with a curse.

  “Och, that was a close one, laddie,” said the old woman standing on his blind side. “If ye dinnae take better care, ye’ll split that log in two.”

  A river of sweat cascaded down his back and face, making the skin beneath his leather patch itch. He swiped his forehead with his free hand before turning to Mrs. MacBean. “For the last bluidy time, that’s the point,” he snapped. “I mean to chop the wood.” He gestured toward the half-finished pile of firewood stacked between two trees.

  The old woman frowned as though she hadn’t already heard him repeat himself several times. Her milky left eye wandered away from her right. She scratched her head. “If that’s true, ye’re doin’ a poor job of it, I regret to say.”

  With a gust, he tossed the axe a few feet away. “Ye’re supposed to be helpin’ me improve my aim.”

  Mary MacBean was the local herbalist and midwife. Some in the village called her a witch, and Annie seemed to think she had a wee bit of “sight.” But all Broderick saw was a befuddled, wild-haired old crone. True, Mrs. MacBean’s liniment was helpful. Her salves and odd-smelling concoctions had eased his pain while he recovered. And she’d offered to teach him how to navigate the world with only one functional eye, which had been the purpose of her visit today.

  He should have known better. She was half-blind and mostly mad.

  He glanced through the stand of pines toward his house, which the old crone had surrounded with rowan saplings. Several weeks ago, after Annie’s wedding to John Huxley, he’d moved back into his own house here in the wooded foothills, intent upon regaining the strength he’d lost.

  His home was fully staffed, so he’d expected to find it unchanged. “Who the devil planted so many trees?” he’d growled to Campbell as his oldest brother had helped him to the door.

  “Mrs. MacBean,” Campbell had answered. “She claims the rowans offer protection.”

  “There are at least a dozen.” They flanked either side of the main entrance, extending the full width of the house. His house was large—three stories of polished stone—but when that hedge reached maturity, he’d get no light on the ground floor. “’Tis ridiculous.”

  Campbell had grunted his agreement. “’Tis Mrs. MacBean. One follows the other.”

  In the past, she’d been fond of giving him and his brothers wooden “bride charms,” claiming her magic could summon “a wife to please yer very soul.” None of them had the heart to tell her to stop. Harmless enough, he supposed, given she also claimed she could speak to the dead, complained His Majesty George IV had targeted her for assassination, and offered disconcertingly frank advice on avoiding venereal disease. Madwomen were rarely effective magicians.

  Now, Broderick retrieved his shirt and asked, “Do ye have anythin’ useful to offer?”

  “Oh, aye.”

  He waited.

  She blinked.

  “Which would be …?” he prompted, grinding his back teeth.

  Frowning as though she’d just remembered something, she dug through the leather pouch she often wore around her waist and offered him a small wooden carving. The lopsided, two-inch spiral resembled a corkscrew carved by a drunkard.

  “Is this meant to help me see better?” He was trying to be patient, but the heat and the midges, his weak, straining musc
les, and his frustratingly bad aim had worn his temper through.

  “Och, no,” she answered, slapping a midge that was biting his shoulder. “’Tis for yer bride, laddie. She’ll be here soon.”

  “I have no bride, and I dinnae want one.” He wanted only one thing—to kill the man who had done this to him. It was all he lived for, the reason he worked and sweated and pushed his body past the tearing burn of bone and muscle.

  There was nothing after this. No wife. No life. No purpose apart from delivering punishment where it was most deserved.

  And now, according to Annie and John, his tormentor might be within striking distance. Recently, Annie had gathered the family together and announced she had a suspect—a Lord of Parliament named Kenneth Lockhart, who had visited Glenscannadoo with his sister last September.

  Broderick had never heard of the man, let alone met him.

  But he trusted Annie. He also trusted John, who had used his connections within the English peerage to free Broderick from the Bridewell, have his charges dismissed, and discover who the enemy might be.

  They might be wrong, of course. The family had a plan to lure Lockhart into returning to Glenscannadoo for the Highland Gathering next month. Lockhart was friendly with the local laird, a wee, pompous dafty who liked to host a grand ball at Glenscannadoo Manor after the annual Highland games.

  They would make their stand there. Broderick only hoped they had the right man—and that he’d be recovered enough to do what must be done.

  Mrs. MacBean patted his biceps. “Yer strength’s returnin’. That’s good. Strong is what’s needed.” She wandered to where he’d flung his axe then gave him an assessing squint. “One eye makes it harder to judge distances, ye ken? Cannae see what’s comin’ and goin’. Remember what was once a part of ye. Notice how its absence changes how ye perceive things.”

  He frowned, wondering if this was one of her rare lucid moments.

  “Be aware of yer blind side, laddie. Accommodate it.” She bent and lifted the axe handle from the dirt, dragging the tool back to him and placing it in his hand. “When ye swing for yer mark, ye may not strike what ye’re aimin’ for. But ye might discover what ye couldnae have seen ere ye were blind.”