Faded blonde hair, thinning and slicked back in a ratty excuse for a queue, accentuated the man’s overlarge red ears.
The duke carried a black walking stick topped with a highly polished golden ball for the handle. His pale brows, wilder and bushier than any clump of sedge, inched higher on his wide forehead. “Now, now, Master Cameron. Let us not start our acquaintance with laughable lies. You know very well who I am, as I have most assuredly identified you.” He turned and held out a ring-laden hand toward the doorway he had just vacated. “Come forward, Hugh. Do you not wish to greet your former master and thank him for his benevolence?” Temsworth shook with a high-pitched laugh. “Without him, you would not have found yourself in possession of more gold than you could ever hope to earn in your lifetime.”
Hugh, one of the servants who had worked at Alasdair’s estate, stepped out of the stable and faced him. “I had no choice. Got mouths to feed at home, and ’cause a ye, I lost me job. All ’cause of a bit of skirt. All ’cause that whore ye took off with!”
Alasdair held himself back from lunging forward and snapping the wee traitor’s neck. “Ye wasted no time in turning on me, Hugh. We arrived in Edinburgh just today.”
“Wanted to make sure I’s first to get here so’s to get the money.” Hugh gave him a curt bob of his head. “Runned over here soon’s I spotted ye at the pub.”
Temsworth waved the young man away with a fluttering of his fingers. “That you did, boy. Now, be gone. You have your payment, and I find your stench most unpleasant. Do not return here. Ever.”
Hugh gave Alasdair and Ian a wide berth as he scuttled out the gate.
Greedy little turncoat. Alasdair turned his attention back to Temsworth. There was no sense in dancing around the subject any longer. “I give ye one last chance, Temsworth.”
“One last chance?” the duke repeated with another laugh. He held up a finger, flicking his hand until the lace edging around his cuff settled across his jacket sleeve in a manner that suited him. He cleared his throat and shifted with a haughty sniff. “You have my terms, sir. Return my son. Keep the bitch.” All humor left him. “Simple. Yes? And my terms are never negotiable.” A sinister smile curled one corner of his mouth. “You will find I always get what I want, Master Cameron. One way or the other.”
“Man the gate, Ian,” Alasdair murmured in a low, deadly tone his brother would recognize as a call to arms.
“Speak up, man.” Temsworth sauntered a step closer. “I have a devil of a time understanding you insufferable Scots. Isobel’s indecipherable babbling bruised my ears to no end.”
Alasdair drew both pistol and sword. The sincere desire to christen each of them with the duke’s blood raged through him with a vengeance. “I shall allow these to speak for me, aye? I’m sure ye’ll understand them.”
The self-assured man rested both hands atop the golden ball of his cane and swayed back and forth as though enjoying a tune. “The first rule of all battles is to understand your opponent.” He shook his head. “You, Master Cameron, clearly did not prepare properly.” He made an annoying clucking sound and shook his head again. “Underestimation loses many a war, my dear man.”
Soldiers filled the courtyard, charging out of the stable, out from behind buildings, and the house. The area bled with redcoats.
“Halt!” one of the men shouted, aiming his rifle at the gate.
Alasdair braced himself for the shot. Ian wouldn’t halt. He sent up a prayer of Godspeed and safe journey to his brother.
“That one is of no consequence,” the duke announced, holding up a hand. He jabbed a finger in Alasdair’s direction as he turned toward the house. “That one. Alasdair Cameron. Kidnapper and attempted murderer.” He turned back and cast a benevolent smile in Alasdair’s direction. “Lady Temsworth will be so disappointed she missed you. Rest assured, I shall give her your regards and describe your hanging to her in intimate detail. Repeatedly.”
By God above, if he was to be hanged, they would hang him for something a damned sight better than lies. Alasdair took quick aim, shot, then rolled behind the one tree in the entire clearing that didn’t have a soldier beside it.
Multiple shots rang out, splintering bark from the broad oak at his back and chipping chunks from the stone wall in front of him. He pulled free his second pistol, hunkered down lower, then peeped around the tree and fired his last shot. Tossing the pistol aside, he drew his dirk, then settled the hafts of both sword and dagger more comfortably in his hands. If he had to die, he’d be taking a few with him. He sprang to his feet and charged out from behind the tree, roaring out his rage.
Two of the closest men fired, their bullets skimming past him. A trio farther away set the butt of their rifles to their shoulders and took aim.
“Hold fire,” screamed the duke from where he sagged across the stable steps. “I want him alive and properly tortured before hanging! Take that man! Now!”
The sight of Temsworth with both hands clamped high on his blood-soaked thigh did Alasdair a world of good. The man would need that damned cane for walking now rather than decoration. Soldiers marched toward him with a wariness, rifles aimed, and bayonets ready to skewer him.
“To the Tolbooth with you,” growled one of the redcoats as they swarmed him from all sides and wrenched his weapons from his hands.
Alasdair head-butted the closest, struggling against their hold.
The man cursed and fell back a step, clutching his face as blood spurted from his nose.
Three of the burliest managed to force his hands behind his back and shackle him. One of them clamped hold of his hair while two others took hold of his arms. They dragged him across the courtyard, then shoved him inside a wagon fitted with a cage so cramped, he had to kneel. He hit the barricade and tested its strength. The effort disappointed him. Iron bars formed the box, and it was made well. But at least he had the enjoyable view of the duke writhing in pain as his men carried him into the house.
The wagon clattered onto the street at a good clip. Alasdair crouched like a caged animal, watching Edinburgh stream past as they headed for the prison. He knew the place well—but as a solicitor and not an inmate. The jail was renowned for its inhumane conditions, but he didn’t lose hope.
The establishment had also experienced a great many escapes. His spirits lifted even more as the memory of one of his clients pushed to the forefront of his thoughts. Daegus Fitzgibbons, pickpocket extraordinaire, had escaped the Tolbooth three times. The eccentric old man, a knighted warrior who had even achieved the elevated status of an earl for his service to the crown, considered picking pockets the best sort of amusement and escaping the Tolbooth even more entertaining. The last Alasdair had heard, Daegus’s adventures had slowed. The sly rascal now ruled Edinburgh’s underground. If he could get a message to Daegus—
The wagon came to an abrupt halt, bouncing Alasdair against the bars. He peered around, perplexed. This wasn’t High Street. They were nowhere near St. Giles or the jail.
“Clear the road! We’ve a prisoner to deliver!” shouted one of the soldiers driving the wagon.
The solid headboard of the wagon prevented Alasdair from catching sight of whatever blocked the road up ahead. He crouched lower at the sight of a gathering crowd on either side of the wagon. Some had been known to pelt prisoners with whatever they happened to have on hand.
A young lad sidled up close, glancing around as he crept nearer. The boy was tall enough to be a man, but the fuzziness of his face revealed his young age. “Ye be Cameron?” he asked in a hushed tone as he kept looking toward the front of the wagon.
“Aye.”
“Yer bruvver means to get ye out. Be ready, he says,” the lad whispered.
The wagon shook from side to side as the soldier’s clambered down. “All the barrels,” one of them shouted. “You missed these crates over here,” the other one growled as they stomped out of sight toward whatever was blocking the roadway.
Alasdair took full advantage of the opportunity. �
�Daegus Fitzgibbons,” he said in a loud whisper to the boy. “Tell my brother to find Daegus Fitzgibbons.” Alasdair paused and strained to see if the soldiers were returning. He still had time. “Fitzgibbons is a good friend, and he’ll help me. Tell him to look for Fitzgibbons in—”
“I know well enough where Daegus Fitzgibbons is,” the boy said with a grin. “He’s me grandsire.” He peered at Alasdair with newfound admiration. “I’ll take yer bruvver to him. If ye be a friend of me grandda’s, ye be a friend a mine.”
“Good lad.” Alasdair breathed easier. “I’ll pay ye for yer troubles once I’m free, aye?”
The boy winked, then melted back into the crowd.
One of the soldiers returned, grumbling as he dusted off his hands and climbed back aboard the wagon. “Bloody Scots. Drunken fools, the lot of them.”
Alasdair slouched back against the bars. With any luck, Ian and Daegus would act in haste. He had no doubt the duke would demand a speedy session of torture and execution to get him out of the way. A chuckle escaped him. Of course, the man might be a bit waylaid by his unfortunate injury. His only regret was that the shot had hit so low. He’d aimed for a shot to the duke’s gut. An injury such as that would have guaranteed a slow, painful death.
After a while, the wagon stopped again. Alasdair braced himself. They had arrived. The redcoat unlocked the cage and jerked a thumb for him to slide toward the opening. The stone-faced man yanked him forward. Accompanied by two of the Tollbooth’s guards, they dragged and shoved him down the dingy halls. When they reached his cell, they removed his chains and kicked him inside. The door clanged shut behind him.
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dim interior of what amounted to little more than a narrow stone corridor barely big enough to hold a full-grown man. He crooked an elbow over his nose to filter every breath. The stench of the place burned his eyes. He made his way across the short expanse to the small window cut high in the back wall and thanked God above for the blessing. Not all cells at the Tolbooth had windows.
He backed into the corner closest to the window and scraped his boot across the floor from side to side, kicking aside accumulated filth he’d just as soon not identify. Back against the wall, he lowered his arse to the ground. The damp sliminess lent a bone-chilling feel to the room. He adjusted his kilt, bringing it up over his head and gathering it close about his shoulders. At least it was late spring. Winter in this wee box would not be pleasant.
Keys rattled in the door. He didn’t bother rising.
The iron portal swung open to reveal a pair of men, both so huge and fat, they had to squeeze sideways to enter the chamber. “Time for a bit of fun,” the bald one in the front said with a toothless smirk. He clapped a hand to the back of Alasdair’s neck and yanked him to his feet as though he weighed less than a sack of flour. With a shove, he pushed him into the waiting arms of his partner. “We’ve nay skinned one in a while. What’s yer pleasure today, Beardie?”
True to his name, the bearded man shook his shaggy head. “Nay, Baldie. They mean to hang him day after tomorrow. Couldna drag the skinning out for several days as is proper.” He gave Alasdair a demonic smirk. “I’m thinking we’ll start with the lash ’til he drops to his knees. I like it when the big ones fall and go to crying like bairns howling for their mam’s tit. What say ye?”
Alasdair clenched his teeth to keep from responding. The bastards wanted a reaction. He’d be damned if he gave it to them. They’d only use whatever he did to make the torture worse.
They shoved him down the corridor, bouncing him off the walls and guffawing whenever he tripped and fell to his knees.
They shackled his wrists to the iron ring atop a pole in one corner of a cell. The bald-headed man yanked away his kilt with a laugh. “Dinna want to get blood on such a fine bit a weave.” He shoved his face close and mopped the sweat from his bald head with the wadded kilt. “I’ll be keeping this. I be needing meself a new plaid.” He chuckled again. “Anyway—’twill only catch fire once ye land in hell.”
“Gimme his shirt,” the other guard ordered. “Once we get done wif him, he’ll nay want nothing touching his back no ways.”
Baldie took out a knife and raked it down Alasdair’s back and arms. He ripped the léine aside and tossed it to his friend. “Get Maggie to mend it. I didna want to bovver wif taking it off proper.”
Arms stretched over his head, Alasdair dug his nails into the post, bracing himself for whatever came next. He’d tasted the lash before. Staring down at the stained floor, he focused on Isobel. Whatever he had to endure was worth it. He had to survive for her.
“How ’bouts we beat him a bit first? Soften him up, aye?” Beardie landed a hard punch into his ribs, knocking the wind from him.
Then he trailed the handle of the whip down Alasdair’s arm and bounced it across his shoulders. “Shame he’s so muscled. Yanking bones from the sockets is me favorite play. Doesna work so well when they’re muscled.” He clubbed the handle hard against Alasdair’s face. A warm wetness trickled down his cheek and dripped off his jaw.
Beardie laughed. “Will ye look at that? Free bleeder, this one is.” He slammed his fist into Alasdair’s other side. “Damned lot o’ trouble, ye bleeders. Gotta take care to keep ye alive for the gallows.”
Alasdair sucked in a breath, wincing at the raw scraping pain when the air flowed into his lungs. He recognized the familiar jagged burn. Broken ribs. He ground his teeth tighter, sending up a prayer for strength. He had to get through this to see his Isobel again.
“He ought to hold his blood for twenty lashes. Ye think?” asked Baldie as he shuffled out of Alasdair’s view.
“Aye,” agreed Beardie. “Ten for me. Ten for yerself, aye?”
“Aye,” said Baldie as he split Alasdair’s back with the first burning bite of the cat-o’-nine-tails. “There be one o’ mine.”
Thankfully, he lost count of the cruel, flesh-eating lashes somewhere after six when blessed darkness closed in around him.
Chapter Seventeen
“Here. A wee cup of broth for ye.”
Isobel shook her head, never taking her gaze from her aunt’s still form. She pushed up from the short stool beside the makeshift cot. Hands shaking, she wrung out the cloth in the wood basin of water laced with healing herbs. Auntie couldn’t die this way.
Please dinna take her, she prayed, then daubed the cool rag across the dear woman’s brow. Breath held, she watched for a twitch of an eyelid, a jerk of a finger, or a deeper intake of breath. No response. Auntie Yeva, beaten and bruised, was one whose soul had already departed, and her body had yet to realize it.
“If ye dinna mind yer own strength, how will ye help the two of them?” Euna Ranald, self-proclaimed white witch and healer of Loch Lochy, the kindly soul who had taken them in, pushed the steaming cup toward her again. “Drink this, and I’ll leave ye be.” The crone’s dark eyes flashed and crinkled even more with her toothless smile. “Well…I’ll leave ye be until the breads done a baking, and then I’ll be nagging yer thin arse about eating a crust or two a that.”
“Thank ye.” Isobel accepted the cup, more to silence Euna than anything else. She sipped at the rich, hearty broth as she looked across the small, dirt-floored dwelling at Sutherland.
She feared for the man. Even with his upper body propped high on his pallet beside the hearth, his pained wheezing still rasped through the room like tree limbs rattling across the roof. He had coughed up blood repeatedly, and rising fever rendered him fiery to the touch. But he had managed to whisper for her not to worry, assuring he had survived worse than this. As far as she was concerned, there could be no worse. Connor had been wrenched from her side. Both Auntie and Sutherland were at death’s door, and who knew if her beloved Alasdair was still alive or had already fallen to Temsworth.
Connor. She almost choked on the aching knot in her throat. Her dear, sweet laddie. He had to be terrified. She covered her mouth to staunch a sob and shut her eyes tight against another
onslaught of tears. She had to recover her baby. Somehow. Some way.
A gentle touch patted her arm. She opened her eyes to Morley’s sympathetic face. Morley Ranald, Euna’s mute grandson and the guardian angel who had fired on the blackguards and saved her and the others from certain death.
With a shy smile, Morley held out a bunch of cheery, yellow cowslips.
“Lady’s Keys,” Euna said. She patted Morley on the shoulder. “Verra nice, Morley. Kind of ye to bring Mistress Ailsa such a lovely posy of flowers to brighten her spirits.”
Isobel blinked. She still struggled to answer to the name she had told them. Ailsa MacNaughton. “Aye, Morley. I thank ye for attempting to better my day. Ye are a dear lad, for certain.”
Morley ducked his head with a shy smile, then pointed to a wooden cup of water waiting on the small table.
“Ye’ve thought of everything,” she said with a forced smile. “They’ll last quite the while in the water.”
Morley hurried to place the flowers in the tall cup, then slid it to the center of the table. He smiled down at them as a beam of sunlight lit the yellow of their blooms even brighter.
“Run and fetch more wood, Morley,” Euna said in an affectionate tone. “Then find us some meat to add to the broth for our supper, aye?”
The boy bobbed his head and headed outside, only to burst back through the door with an alarmed look.
“What is it, lad?” Euna rushed to the window beside the table and searched for whatever had startled him.
Isobel hurried to the only other window in the thatch-roofed house and scanned the area. Redcoats in the distance. An entire unit of some twenty or so men. Headed directly for them. If the soldiers identified her, they’d return her to the duke for certain. The idea of turning herself in tempted her. If she returned to Temsworth, maybe she could steal back Connor. Instinct and experience churned through her. Nay. Temsworth was not a fool. He’d never make the mistake of allowing her near Connor again. In fact, if she ever returned, she felt clear to her bones that the devil would torture her until she died. She would have to recover her precious son with a great deal more wiliness and stealth.
The Judge (Highland Heroes Book 3) Page 20
