Auntie, weathered and wrinkled with years of laughter and tears, gave a slow shake of her head. “Men do not listen.” Her thin lips curled with a knowing smirk as she patted Isobel’s hand. “Persuade him. There are ways to convince men other than with words.”
“Auntie!”
“What?” Yeva lifted her chin. “I was young once. I have loved.”
The thought of her aunt as a vibrant young woman came easily to Isobel. She hugged her tight. “I’d be so lost without ye.”
She gave Isobel another affectionate pat and pulled away. “Come. We go now. Yer Cameron say not to tarry.” She winked. “Connor slept well. He will be worrisome.”
“He will at that.” Isobel held tight to Auntie’s arm as they made their way downstairs.
She easily spotted Alasdair at a table in the corner of the crowded room that was hazy with smoke from the kitchen and the poorly tended hearth. The unmistakable aromas of sizzling meat, bread baked a tad too long, and several bodies in dire need of a good scrubbing rendered the air thick enough to slice. The place overflowed with hungry patrons seeking to break their fast. With as much haste as possible, she pushed their way to the back of the room. Merciful heavens, she didn’t know if she’d rather eat or slip outside and fill her lungs with fresh air.
“They didna have jam, but they had honey!” Connor announced with evidence of said sticky sweetness shining on his cheeks and chin.
After seating Auntie beside Sutherland, Isobel sidled around the table and took the chair between Connor and Alasdair. A harried barmaid reached between them and plopped down a tankard of ale and another platter of fried meats and bread on the table. She pulled a rag from her belt and handed it to Isobel. “For the boy. He’s like my wee Remmy. Canna eat his food without rolling in it first.” She nodded toward Connor. “Midges’ll fair eat him up with all that on his face.”
“I thank ye.” Isobel gladly accepted the cloth, dipped a corner of it in her water, and set to ridding her son’s face of his breakfast. “Why must ye always smear it from ear to ear? Take wee bites,” she admonished as she scrubbed.
“Mamaaaa,” Connor attempted to twist away, but she held him tight, not releasing until his face was clean.
“Ye’re struggling in vain, boy,” Sutherland observed with a chuckle as he shoved an oversized chunk of blood sausage into his mouth. “A mam is fiercer than any warrior.”
“Especially this mam,” Alasdair said as he rested a possessive hand on her shoulder.
A comforting warmth surged through her, a precious sense of being protected. “No more bread and honey ’til ye finish yer parritch, aye?” She tapped a finger beside Connor’s untouched bowl of oats.
“Eat up, Connor, we need t’be leaving soon,” Ian said, then lowered his voice as he leaned toward Alasdair. “I noticed several of His Majesty’s dogs outside. Did ye see them?”
“I didna see any dogs,” Connor said around a mouthful of parritch.
“Hush, son.” Isobel returned the chunk of bread she was about to bite back to the plate. Any contact with soldiers could be a problem.
Alasdair nodded, then drained his tankard. “Aye. I saw them.”
“They appeared to be in search of someone,” Sutherland said. “Stopped several passersby and asked questions. Showed them some sort of paper.”
Isobel’s stomach clenched. Had Temsworth’s bounty notices made it to Stirling as well? “We should go now.”
Alasdair covered her hand with his. “Nay, love. Remain calm. We must not raise suspicions by appearing over-anxious to be shed of Stirling.”
“Of course.” She swallowed hard. Alasdair spoke a wise truth, no matter how hard it might be to carry out. She hazarded a sip of ale. She could do this. This was no different from the first time they had run for their lives.
“Ye need to eat if ye can,” Alasdair advised with a gentle urging as he slid the platter of sausages closer to her.
“Aye,” she whispered.
She would eat to gain the strength she needed to protect her son. She bit into her bread. Mouth dry, the longer she chewed, the larger the bite seemed. A trio of redcoats entering the inn almost caused her to choke.
“Steady, lass,” Alasdair intoned with a reassuring squeeze of her hand.
The men separated and meandered through the crowd, stopping at tables and discussing the tattered papers they showed to each of the patrons. Most shoved the papers aside and ignored the soldiers. Some shook their heads. Others shrugged and turned away. The barmaid who had handed Isobel the rag for Connor’s face pointed the redcoats in their direction.
Isobel turned to Connor and whispered, “Dinna say a word. Our lives depend on it. Understand?”
Eyes wide, Connor gave a quick nod and shrank back against the curve of his chair.
The soldiers approached the table. The man in the center, tall and hawk-nosed with cold, predatory eyes to match, appeared to be the leader since the other two stayed a step behind him. He came to a halt beside Alasdair. “Your name, sir?”
Alasdair leaned back in the chair and flexed his hands as he looked up at the man. “State yer business, and I’ll decide if ye need my name or not.”
The soldier’s glare grew icier. “I am Captain Reginald Montpoy, and I have been charged with investigating the abduction of the Duchess of Temsworth and her son.” His scowl slid to Connor. “Young man. What is your name?”
Connor sat taller in his chair and squared his tiny shoulders. “Fergus MacCoinnich,” he said, then pointed at Alasdair. “And if ye dinna leave us alone, my da will thrash yer arse for ye.”
“Son!” Alasdair gave Connor what appeared to be a stern look. “Mind yer manners, aye?”
Under the table, Isobel reached over and squeezed Connor’s leg, the pride and relief coursing through her threatened to make her swoon. She had nary a clue where Connor had come up with the fictitious name, but she thanked the Lord above that he had.
“Fergus MacCoinnich,” Captain Montpoy repeated in a dangerous tone. He turned to Alasdair. “I would suggest you teach your son to respect His Majesty’s guard, else he runs into trouble when he’s older.”
“Be that all?” Alasdair’s voice thundered with defiance.
Isobel closed her eyes and prayed the soldiers would move on. They didn’t need to provoke the captain.
“Actually…” The captain paused, his gaze settling on Auntie Yeva. “No. That is not all. Along with the Duchess and her son, the abductors took the duchess’s aged, Armenian aunt. All three were kidnapped from the duke’s summer home at Hestlemoor Estate.” He tapped the corner of the folded parchment beside Auntie’s cup. “Your name, madam?”
Auntie scowled up at him, bit a chunk out of a steaming bannock, then snarled, “Je ne parle pas anglais.”
Isobel held her breath and clenched her teeth, hoping the captain understood French and would be thoroughly convinced her aunt could not speak English and was most definitely not Armenian.
“Votre nom?” he asked, his utter contempt obvious.
“Célia Marchand,” Auntie answered, then pushed the captain’s paper aside with a disgusted huff.
The captain’s face grew red. He turned to Isobel. “Your name?”
“Camille MacCoinnich,” Isobel replied with a French accent. She’d always liked that name. She nodded toward Auntie. “My maman.”
“I see.” The captain shoved the paper back inside his coat, then turned to Alasdair. “Where are you and your family headed, sir?”
“I dinna see how that’s any of yer business, Captain.” Alasdair pushed back his chair and stood, rising to stand a full head taller than the scowling captain.
Ian and Sutherland followed suit. The three Scots dwarfed the trio of Englishmen in both stature and muscle.
“We received word of highwaymen between here and Fort William.” The captain gave a noncommittal shrug. “I merely thought to warn you.”
“Ach.” Alasdair smiled. “I thank ye for yer kind words, but we’re he
aded to Inverness. We should nay be troubled by them.” He pulled back the flap of his jacket and patted the handle of the pistol stuck in his belt. “My men and I are fine shots. We can protect our own.”
“So, I see,” the captain replied. He gave a condescending nod. “Just so you are aware.”
“I am,” Alasdair said in a tone that left no doubt he understood the captain’s insinuations and was prepared to make a few of his own. “Now, if ye dinna mind, I’d like to finish my meal before it grows any colder.”
The captain responded with a rude nod, then turned and motioned for his men to follow. They vacated the inn.
Alasdair, Ian, and Sutherland returned to their seats. Alasdair waved over the barmaid. “More ale and fill a basket with oatcakes, bread, and a crock of honey for us to take, aye?”
Isobel breathed a bit easier as the woman walked away. She didn’t trust that wench as far as she could throw her. Not after she had pointed them out to the soldiers. “I dinna like that woman. I wouldna be surprised if she spits in our food.”
“She had to answer whatever the soldiers asked, love.” Alasdair scraped his bowl clean, then shoved it aside. “She lives here. We’re merely passing through.” He winked at Connor. “Well done, my boy, well done indeed.”
Connor beamed under Alasdair’s praise, took one last, overlarge bite of parritch, then pushed his bowl away. “I’m done.”
“I willna breathe easy until we’re well away from here.” Isobel stretched to peer out the dingy panes of the window at the front of the room. She swore she’d spotted another flash of red. Several, in fact. “I fear they’re outside. Waiting.”
“They probably are,” Alasdair observed as he stood up. “Let’s be about it, shall we?”
“Our food.” Connor pointed at the barmaid headed toward them holding the basket high as she wound her way around the other diners.
She smiled as she reached them and handed the basket to Connor. “Here ye go, me fine lad. Mind ye hold it tight. Ye’ve two crocks of honey inside.”
“Two? Thank ye verra much!” Connor hugged the basket to his chest and fell in step between Ian and Sutherland as they headed outside.
Alasdair dropped a few coins in the barmaid’s hand, then stepped back for Yeva and Isobel to take the lead.
“A word, Yer Grace?” the barmaid called out as Isobel took hold of Auntie Yeva’s arm and turned to go.
Yer Grace? The formal address to a duchess shot a chill down Isobel’s spine. No one had called her Yer Grace since her escape. Struggling to maintain a calm facade, she faced the barmaid and smiled. “Yer Grace? Surely, ye’re not addressing me?”
“Ye dinna recall me, do ye?” The round-cheeked maid’s eyes narrowed. Her gap-toothed smile took on a malicious curve. “I knew it was ye as soon as I saw ye.”
Isobel swallowed hard, thankful for the reassuring weight of Alasdair’s hand pressing against her back. “Ye must be mistaken. This be my first visit to Stirling.” That was a lie, but the girl need not know. She studied the young woman’s face. The barmaid seemed vaguely familiar, but no immediate recollection came to mind.
“Perhaps so,” observed the wench with a chuckle that raked across Isobel’s nerves. “But ye spent quite a bit of time at Hestlemoor with yer husband, did ye no’?” Her gaze snaked over to Alasdair, and she huffed out a snort. “Not that husband, o’ course. The Sassenach devil.” She winked. “Worked at Hestlemoor, I did, ’til that sorry bastard’s games got too rough. I was one o’ his women for at least a sennight. Hurts me pride something fierce that ye dinna remember me. ’Course, it could be ’cause I’ve got me clothes on now.”
Alasdair pushed his way between Isobel and the conniving girl. “How much?”
The barmaid planted a hand on her hip and wiggled back and forth. “How much ye got?”
“Dinna overplay yer lot, woman,” Alasdair warned, baring his teeth as he took another step forward. “Ye threaten my dear one again, and I’ll see that yer bones are never found to pray over. Do ye understand my meaning?”
The barmaid backed up a step and wet her lips, her self-assured air slipping. She jerked a nod toward the leather pouch cradled in Alasdair’s hand. “A guinea’ll do.”
Alasdair fished out the gold coin and pressed it into her palm, leaning in close as he did so. “This be yer only payment. If ye demand more or speak of this to anyone, ye’ll be paid in lead, aye?”
The woman paled a shade, gave a nervous nod, then scuttled back across the room.
With a tight hold on Auntie’s arm, Isobel shoved their way to the door. She needed air before she retched, and couldn’t be shed of this place fast enough. Recall of the barmaid still hadn’t come. Temsworth had brought far too many men and women into their bedchamber over the years for her to remember all of them. Sanity and survival depended on blocking those humiliating memories from ever resurfacing. “Hurry, Auntie. Please,” she whispered as they moved toward the wagon.
Auntie squinted against the morning sun as she glanced up and down the street. “More soldiers have gathered.”
Bile burned at the back of Isobel’s throat, and her stomach clenched. Auntie was right. Soldiers were at the head of the alleys and street corners. The trio they’d encountered inside stood within a few yards of the wagon. The bloody Sassenachs had them surrounded. Praise God above that all the soldiers appeared to be on foot. Not a horse stood near any of them. They needed to get moving and start their journey at a breakneck pace.
Ian and Sutherland helped Yeva into the back of the wagon. Connor waited on the wagon’s seat. Alasdair helped Isobel up beside Connor, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze as he did so. She took up the reins, staring straight ahead as she warned her son under her breath, “Dinna speak nor pay them any mind, son. Just keep yer eyes on the road, aye?”
With Alasdair and his mount to her left and Ian and Sutherland riding behind the wagon, she coaxed the team into motion, steering them at a fast clip into the center of the busy thoroughfare.
“Lord Temsworth!”
She cringed as Connor shifted beside her, turning to see who had shouted his name. She wrapped an arm around him and gave a hard flip of the reins, urging the pair of horses into a full gallop. Out of the corner of her eye, she noted Alasdair had pulled his pistol before falling back to join Ian and Sutherland.
Isobel stole a glance backward. The redcoats had mobilized, streaming into the street as they dashed forward with pistols and muskets raised. Shots rang out, and puffs of white smoke filled the air.
She pushed Connor onto the floor beside her feet. “Stay down!”
“I’m sorry, Mama!” His face streaked with tears, he hugged tight to her ankle.
Her heart went out to her son, but there was no time to console the poor lad now. They had to put as much distance as they could between themselves and Stirling before the soldiers mounted and gave chase.
They careened through the alleyways, turning toward the freedom of the Highlands. She kept the team at a hard gallop, urging them onward as the clattering rattle of the wagon jarred her nerves raw. It would be a miracle if the thing didn’t shake to pieces. As they left the cobblestoned streets to a hard-packed dirt roadway, Alasdair galloped up beside her. He motioned toward a thick grove of trees quite a way off the road. “Over there,” he shouted. “Stop there.”
Bracing herself for the even rougher ride of open country, Isobel steered the wagon off the road. “Hold fast,” she called out to Auntie, praying the harrowing ride hadn’t already battered the poor woman to death. Connor still crouched at her feet.
The horses charged forward, weaving their way around the trees, and worked ever deeper to the center of the secluded woods. She pulled the horses to a stop, lifted her face to the leafy canopy overhead, and pulled in a deep breath. If she didn’t calm her pounding heart, she’d be of no use to anyone.
Connor jumped up and threw himself into her arms. “I so sorry, Mama. They tricked me.”
She hugged him tight, rubbing
a hand up and down his back. “It’s all right, son. They didna fight fair. It was nay yer fault.” He was just a wee lad. How dare they play such a cruel game on an innocent.
“We must rid ourselves of the wagon,” Alasdair announced as he thundered up and dismounted. “Can ye ride a horse, Yeva?”
“’Course I can,” Auntie replied with an insulted huff. She clamped her gnarled hands onto the side of the wagon and pulled herself to her feet. “Put me on a horse, and I show you.”
Alasdair pointed at the team as Ian and Sutherland joined them. “Unharness them. We’ve nay got saddles for them, but we can put the extra blankets across their backs. Parse out the supplies amongst the horses. We’ll take what we can and leave the rest.”
Ian and Sutherland sprang into action as Alasdair helped Isobel down from the wagon. “Are ye all right, mo ghràdh?” He pulled her into his arms and held her so close his heartbeat pounded against hers.
If only she could close her eyes and melt into his embrace forever. But there wasn’t the time for such. The redcoats couldn’t be that far behind. “I’m fine,” she assured as she took a step back and gently extricated herself from his hold. “Please dinna be cross with Connor.”
Alasdair smiled down at the lad as he did his best to remain hidden behind Isobel’s skirts. “Dinna fash yerself, boy. Those bloody bastards have no morals or honor. They dinna fight as a Scot fights. They did ye dirty. Preyed upon yer youth and trust.”
Connor eased out from behind Isobel but remained quiet. It was more than apparent the lad blamed himself no matter what anyone else said.
Alasdair turned back to her. “Connor and yer aunt can ride the one horse, and ye can ride the other.” He patted the rump of the nearest animal. “Shire’s from Clan MacCoinnich’s stables. As good with riders as pulling a wagon.”
“We should hurry,” Isobel said.
Every moment they waited, the closer the British drew. A sense of urgency stole her breath. She glanced into the back of the nearly empty wagon. All that remained was a small crate and a pair of barrels. Every rope, blanket, and bundle had been parsed out and lashed to the horses. She turned as Alasdair placed Connor in front of Auntie on one of the horses.
The Judge (Highland Heroes Book 3) Page 12
