The Sinful Scot

by Maddison Michaels

  Connie nodded, and a moment later she was sitting astride his saddle with Fergus behind her, watching as two men took Alec into the house. The other two, nursing swollen jaws, mounted their horses, and with a frantic flick of the reins, Fergus set his horse into a gallop, riding away from Alec and off McGuiness lands as quickly as he could, she imagined.

  And the farther they traveled away from Alec, the more Connie knew she was never going to see him again.

  The thought was worse than a death sentence.

  Chapter Forty-Six

  “Looks like things are happening exactly as you wanted them to.” Tom lowered his binoculars and turned toward his companion.

  “When you know your enemies as well as I know mine, Mr. O’Shea,” the lady replied with a shrug, “it is far too easy to predict their reactions.”

  “So it would seem, my lady,” Tom agreed.

  She peered thoughtfully over at him. “Are you certain you are ready to do what needs to be done? To finish what we started?”

  “Of course I am.” Tom puffed out his chest. “Justice will be achieved under our hand today.”

  “Even against the duchess?” There was an edge of steel in her tone.

  Tom knew the lady was thinking of when both he and Seraphina had originally voiced their concerns over the duchess being included on the list of those who were to be punished. After all, both Tom and Seraphina had reasoned that the duchess hadn’t even been around when the duke had murdered their loved ones, but Lady M, as he’d taken to calling their leader, had had a very different opinion of the matter. In the end, it was her view that had prevailed.

  Eventually Tom had come around to her reasoning, and even though her grace was nice enough, she’d already be dead if the dagger hadn’t gotten stuck in the duke when Lady M had been stabbing the bastard. The plan had been for both the duke and duchess to die, with Fergus being the one to cop the blame, and suffer through being arrested, tried, and hung. A fitting punishment, really, for a man who helped his brother cover up the deaths of six women.

  But Seraphina had balked at the last minute, and Lady M had had to take over, but then the dagger had gotten stuck, saving the duchess.

  Not that Tom really cared if the duchess was killed or not; what he cared about was that his daughter was being avenged, and that’s all that mattered. “I’ve no problem with you killing the duchess,” he reassured the lady.

  “I’m glad, Mr. O’Shea.” She praised him with a smile. “Very glad indeed. Come, we need to get there before they do and get into position.” And with that, the woman urged her horse forward, and Tom followed behind.

  The time was at hand, and afterward, his daughter could finally rest in peace. All the dead women could.

  …

  They’d been riding for several hours, heading south through the rolling hills of the Highlands, returning to Campbell lands, Connie assumed. Fergus’s men were traveling at the rear, and the two others, who had secured Alec in the lodge, had eventually caught up to them.

  The time, though, was giving Connie plenty of opportunity to think and plan. Now that they were well clear of Alec, and he couldn’t be hurt, she was going to do all she could to flee from Fergus.

  She was done being a victim and was not going to roll over and make it easy for him to kill her, which is what she was certain was his intention. Though she did wonder why he hadn’t simply killed her and Alec earlier or, after they’d ridden away, why he hadn’t put a bullet into her and dumped her body in a ditch along the way.

  Though a part of her had never really been convinced that Fergus had murdered Duncan in the first place. But he had to have done so. Because if he hadn’t, then who had? It was time she found out exactly what Fergus knew.

  “Why did you help Duncan get away with murder?”

  She could feel Fergus tense behind her.

  “I really don’t know what you mean, Constance.” He had never been a very good liar.

  “We found out about the six mistresses of Duncan’s who have disappeared over the years. He got carried away with each of them, didn’t he?” She could all too well imagine the terror of the women’s last moments. The pain, the torment, the agony as his fists pounded into their flesh over and over. Even now thinking about it, Connie was starting to shake. “How could you, Fergus? How could you let him keep doing it?”

  There was absolute silence, and Connie really didn’t think he was going to answer her, but then he simply said, “He was my brother.”

  She could hear the sadness in his tone, but it didn’t excuse his actions. “He was a monster.”

  “Do you think I didn’t know that?” he replied, anguish infusing his voice. “Of course, I knew it. But can you imagine the scandal that would have fallen upon us all if such a thing were discovered? Amelie would never have been able to live down her father being a murderer.”

  “Since when have you ever been worried about your niece?”

  “How can you say such a thing? I worry about all of us, and you very well know that.”

  “I used to think you did.” And she had, until she knew better. “Though I realized it is the Campbell name you care most about. I overheard you suggesting to Duncan that he use Amelie to blackmail the MacKinnons. That is not the actions of an uncle who loves his niece.”

  “It’s the actions of someone trying to save the estate from bankruptcy,” he declared.

  As they crested a rise, Connie saw a small farmhouse in the distance, though it looked deserted, with no animals or noises fluttering in the afternoon breeze. A product of the Highland clearances, no doubt, where the tenants had been forced to leave their homes because they couldn’t afford to pay their leases. There was always an atmosphere of loneliness in the air around such plots of land, that were once busily farmed, only to now lay abandoned.

  “Is this where you intend to kill me, then?” she asked him.

  “You truly have gone daft, Constance, if that’s what you think are my intentions.”

  He sounded sincere and very tired. Connie didn’t know what to think. “Then why are we stopping here?”

  “Besides the animals needing a break and some water, not to mention all of us needing some food, I’ve arranged for you to be collected from here.”

  “Collected?” An odd place to arrange for her to be collected by anyone. “By whom? The police?”

  Reining his horse to a halt, he dismounted and then helped her down. Her aching backside was glad of the respite, even though every inch of her was on edge.

  “No. Not the police,” Fergus replied. He spoke briefly with his men, directing them to see to the horses and wait outside, before he took a satchel from his saddle and escorted her inside the cottage.

  They stepped into the thatched house, which was slightly dark and very dusty, with its occupants long gone. She spotted a back door through the far room. Perhaps if she could distract him, she could flee. Though she doubted she’d get far, not without a horse. “Who is collecting me, then, if not the police?” She slowly measured in her head the distance it would take her to run to the door and bolt out the back. Perhaps she could lose herself in the trees.

  “It’s locked.” Fergus followed her gaze to the door.

  Darn. Well, she might not be able to escape, but perhaps she could arm herself.

  “And to answer your question,” he continued, “I’ve arranged passage for you across the Atlantic to the United States.”

  Connie’s jaw dropped. “You’ve done what?”

  “Some men will come and fetch you shortly and escort you to Aberdeen. There I have secured you passage on a ship sailing to America.” He wandered over to the table and pulled out a chair. “Forgive my manners, but I need to sit. Feel free to do the same.”

  “What game are you playing?” she asked. She took a seat across from him. If she couldn’t yet escape, she might as well re
st.

  He sighed. “It is no game, Constance.”

  “Do you intend for the men to murder me, then?”

  “Why on earth do you think I’m trying to have you killed?”

  “Because you killed Duncan and tried to frame me for his murder.” She crossed her arms tightly over her chest. “And then when that didn’t work, and you thought Seraphina would tell everyone the truth of your alibi, you killed her, too.”

  “I did not kill her, or my brother!” He stood and banged his fist against the table, the sound jarring in its intensity.

  Connie jolted as a relic of fear gripped her. For a moment, every single part of her braced to be struck, but then, instead of terror, she started to get angry. She wasn’t going to meekly sit and be hit by anyone anymore.

  But the wind went out of her sails as Fergus all but deflated in front of her and crumpled back into his seat. He clearly had no intention of hitting her, and considering she’d never seen him raise a fist toward anyone, not even Duncan, it did seem rather unlikely he’d do so now.

  “I was planning to marry her…” His voice had become distant and melancholy. “Which, as the second son, I could have done, but as the duke I could not. Don’t you see?” He all but pleaded with her. “Duncan’s death meant I couldn’t marry the woman I loved. So, no, Constance, I didn’t kill either of them.”

  “Well, I didn’t, either,” Connie replied softly. She could see the despair on his face, and she suddenly felt sorry for the man.

  “Then who did?” There was confusion on his face, which she thought must mirror her own.

  Because, despite everything, and even perhaps because of it all, she believed him.

  There was such anguish and heartache radiating from him, and an absolute ring of truth to his denials. But he was asking a very good question. If neither of them killed the others, then someone else had. But who?

  The roar of a rifle from outside echoed loudly through the thin glass windows of the cottage, followed by what seemed like a steady stream of more shots. The men were shouting, but she couldn’t make out what was being said.

  “Get down,” Fergus yelled before he rushed over to the window to look outside.

  Ignoring him, Connie raced to the other window and pressed her back flat against the wall next to it before peering out into the front yard.

  A wave of nausea filled her stomach when she saw the bodies of Fergus’s men, all lying on the ground with gunshot wounds to their chests or heads. Someone had shot each of them, picking them off, one by one, in quick succession. Connie twisted back against the wall.

  “Is this the work of McGuiness?” Fergus demanded.

  Making sure she stayed crouched low to the ground, Connie rushed over to the table, knocked it on its side, and began pushing it up against the front door. She didn’t like how silent it had gotten outside. “Alec saves people; he doesn’t kill them in cold blood. Now come and help me with this!”

  The two of them moved the table until the top of it was pressed against the door, then both of them stood there leaning against it. An ominous silence reigned, though Connie imagined she could hear her heart pounding through her chest.

  The idea that they were stuck inside this cabin, while there was someone outside who was armed and had just shot four men, terrified her. “We need to try to escape, Fergus.” She glanced over toward the back door. “Where is your firearm?”

  “I left it in my other saddlebag,” he replied somewhat sheepishly.

  Connie briefly closed her eyes in frustration. They were sitting ducks inside here. “I think we’re going to have to make a run for it through the back door and head for the tree line.”

  Fergus shook his head and motioned to the front door with his thumb. “We can’t. The key is out there with Darius. God rest his soul.” He made a hasty sign of the cross over his chest.

  A sense of claustrophobia started closing in around her. They really were trapped.

  The back door suddenly swung open, and Connie didn’t know whether she should be relieved or terrified.

  Because standing there in the doorway was probably the last person she’d expected to see—Castle Kilmaine’s housekeeper, Mrs. Morgan, who was holding a revolver, pointed straight at them.

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  The ropes binding Alec’s hands to the bedpost had been tightly knotted. He’d spent the better part of five minutes trying to wiggle his wrists loose from the ropes but was having no luck.

  Not for the first time, he tried to press his chest as close to the post and his hands as he could. If he could just twist his hands around slightly, he might be able to reach into his jacket pocket and pull out the small leather wallet of medical tools he always carried with him, which included a scalpel that could make quick work of cutting through the ropes.

  But damn it, he couldn’t get the right angle to reach into his pocket! He had to do something, and he had to do it now. It had been at least ten minutes since he’d been left here, which meant he was already far behind them.

  For a moment, frustration nearly overwhelmed him. He kept thinking he should have done something more, something to stop them from taking Connie, even though he knew it would have been a suicide mission to do so, as he’d been outnumbered by men armed with revolvers. But now Fergus had Connie, and Alec had never felt such dread in his life.

  However, feeling upset about the situation wasn’t going to do anything to help, so he needed to focus on the matter at hand of getting out of there and then catching up to them.

  Alec eyed the wood of the bedpost his hands were tied to. Perhaps he could kick the thing and break it? Using his leg, he kicked the mattress away first, until the wood of the bed frame underneath was visible, then he maneuvered his hands higher on the post and stood up on the slats of the bed. Angling his lower body as far from the post as he could, Alec swung back with his leg and propelled it forward, striking the wood beam with his boot.

  The whole frame jolted, Alec along with it. But he’d barely made a dent in the wood. Rather than give up, though, Alec channeled his frustration, and for the next five minutes, he kept kicking it, again and again, until finally the wood started to splinter.

  With one final kick, it broke. Wasting no time, Alec wrenched his hands through the gap in the broken piece of wood and quickly retrieved his kit from his pocket. A minute later, he’d used one of the scalpels to saw through the bindings against his wrists.

  “I get the feeling things didn’t go as planned?”

  Alec swiveled to the front door to see his brother Iain standing there, an amused expression on his face. And for the first time in a long time, he was grateful to see him. “Fergus has Connie!”

  Instantly, Iain’s jovial look vanished. “What do you need me to do?”

  “I need your horse.” Alec strode over to the front door, and he and Iain ran down the steps of the lodge.

  “You can have it,” Iain replied. “However, your stallion is around back.”

  Alec changed course and raced around to the back of the lodge. He sent up a prayer of thanks when he saw his horse happily munching on some grass in the back enclosure, as Iain’s was a temperamental creature who rarely liked anyone but his brother riding him.

  Alec swung his leg into the stirrup and mounted the horse. His brother was already astride his own steed, waiting for him.

  “Do you need my help?” Iain asked.

  “Yes.” Connie’s life was at risk, and Iain was bloody good in emergencies and fights, which would definitely prove useful against Fergus and his men. And even though there were still issues between his brother and himself, Alec would be stupid to refuse his help. “Come on, we need to ride hard. I can’t lose her.”

  And he realized, with a sudden sense of certainty, that he really couldn’t. The walls of his heart had already been breached, and as much as he tried to convince
himself otherwise, the truth was glaring.

  …

  “Mrs. Morgan, is that you?” It was Fergus who spoke first, and he sounded as incredulous as Connie felt.

  Because the woman standing in front of them appeared to be Mrs. Morgan but also looked vastly different. Where Mrs. Morgan was rotund, the woman standing before them was slim, and she wasn’t wearing any thick framed spectacles, either, which completely transformed her face. Connie had no idea what was going on.

  “Do you not recognize who I truly am, Lord Fergus?” Gone was the woman’s lower-class accent, and in its place was the very refined voice of a born and bred lady. “It has been several years, and though we met only a handful of times, I would have thought that without all the layers of padding underneath my clothes and in my cheeks, and minus those horrid glasses I had to wear, that you might have recognized me from before.”

  Fergus stared at the woman, and Connie could see he was desperately trying to remember who she was but failing to do so.

  There was something about the woman that was extremely familiar, but Connie couldn’t quite place what. Perhaps it was her eyes? Without the spectacles, they looked so familiar to Connie.

  “Perhaps this will help.” The woman reached up to her head and with one fell swoop pulled off her brown hair to reveal auburn locks drawn back into a bun underneath. She threw the wig onto the floor, while her other hand still held her gun pointed steadily at them. She exhaled deeply. “My, that feels better. You have no idea how uncomfortable that darn wig was. Now, tell me, does the auburn of my hair trigger a memory?”

  Fergus shook his head, and the woman tittered.

  “Disappointing but hardly surprising,” she remarked. “Duncan didn’t even recognize me, and I was his mother-in-law—well, until he killed my daughter, and you helped him cover it up, of course.”

  “Lady MacKinnon?” There was shock in Fergus’s eyes, but a flare of recognition, too. “But…you’re… Why, you’re meant to be dead…”

  Connie was dumbfounded. No wonder she’d seemed familiar; the woman had the exact same hair color and eyes as Lady Lorelie, even down to the fierce green gleam in them. But what had she been doing pretending to be dead and then masquerading as their housekeeper for more than a year?