She pushed away from the window. “They must not find me here.”
Euna wrung her knobby hands, darting a panicked glance about the room. She pointed at the corner past the table. “Me weaving pile. Poor folk trade their rags for me potions. I tear the rags into strips and weave them into blankets. Curl up on the floor, and I’ll cover ye.” She stole another look out the window. “Make haste! They’re almost upon us.”
Isobel dug the rag pile out of the way, then curled into a tight ball with her spine pressed into the corner. Euna and Morley threw the musty clothes atop her. She eased a few of the scraps aside and peeped through them as a firm pounding rattled the door.
“Morley! Away from there. Stand over there,” Euna said in a loud whisper as she scuttled back across the room and pulled the door open a crack. “Aye?”
Isobel strained to hear the conversation.
“Good day to you, madam. Might we have a word?”
As soon as the man spoke, Isobel recognized the voice. Alarm charged through her like a raging fire. The redcoat was Alasdair’s Lord Crestshire. She flinched and closed her eyes. What would happen if Crestshire discovered Sutherland?
“What is it? I’ve chores to be about,” Euna replied. The old woman’s tone made it clear she didn’t think much of the visitors or their interruption.
Isobel held her breath, praying Euna would not be forced to grant them entry.
“Has anyone passed through here of late? Specifically, a tall, comely woman with dark hair and dark eyes. Traveling with a young boy of about five years of age.”
Euna kept the door open the tiniest bit. “Nay. Only boy I seen is me Morley, and he be ten and six.” She laughed. “Looks younger ’cause he canna grow a beard to save his soul, but he be sixteen summers for true. Seventeen here in a fortnight or so.”
“I see. But no one else has traveled through this area recently?”
Euna paused for effect as though searching her memory. She shifted in place but didn’t open the door any wider. “Nay. No one else comes ta mind.”
Isobel breathed easier and thanked God above that Crestshire appeared to be a decent sort who wouldn’t use his authority to force his way into someone’s home.
A deep, rasping groan rose from the other side of the room. Isobel tensed. Sutherland couldn’t have chosen a worse time to rail with fever.
The door swung open wide, and three pairs of black boots rushed inside as Euna stumbled back from the threshold.
“Sutherland!” Crestshire knelt at Sutherland’s side. “Good God, man. What happened to you?”
Isobel struggled to control her breathing, pulling in as little air as possible to keep the rags from shifting. Her jaws ached from clenching her teeth as she prayed Sutherland’s raging fever would render him too addled to answer. It would be a miracle if Crestshire didn’t hear the hammering of her heart.
She couldn’t make out what Sutherland said. His whisper was soft and weak.
Crestshire stood, leaving only his boots in Isobel’s view. “Fetch a wagon. I want them both transported to Fort William. Send a messenger to Tor Ruadh. Notify Chieftain MacCoinnich his brother is in a dire state. Bid him come at once.”
“Yes, sir,” barked one of the soldiers, then both hurried out the door.
Crestshire faced Euna. “You lied to me, madam.” The man’s tone was cold and deadly.
“What of it?” Euna snarled. “It was a pair such as yerself that killed my daughter and her man, leaving my poor wee Morley mute and with only me to care for him.”
“Where is the woman?” Crestshire asked, ignoring Euna’s excuse. “And her boy?”
His stance shifted. Isobel cringed. Crestshire appeared to be facing the corner that held Auntie’s cot. “That is the Duchess of Temsworth’s aunt. You can either tell me where the duchess and her son are hiding, or I can have your home searched. Thoroughly. The choice is yours.”
“Search all ye want.” Euna said. “Morley found these two beside the loch. Near dead. Brought them here so I could try and help them.” Her worn skirts swayed as she moved about the small room. “Look at this place and tell me where a woman, a tall one such as ye described, and a boy could hide without yer notice.”
Silence met Euna’s challenge, then Crestshire dropped to his knees and searched under Auntie’s cot. He returned to his feet and circled the room, his boots drawing precariously close to the pile of rags.
Isobel held her breath and refused to allow herself to tremble.
“I saw three horses and a donkey outside. The horses are obviously from Tor Ruadh’s stables. The bloodline is unmistakable,” Crestshire said. “Where is she? Where is the boy?”
“Ye see everyone and everything right here,” Euna replied, her voice strong and unwavering. “That woman will nay survive the journey to Fort William. If ye take her from here, I wash me hands of it. Her death be on yerself.”
Isobel resisted the urge to spring up from her hiding place and throw herself across Auntie to protect her. Common sense told her Auntie would be gone soon enough whether they moved her to Fort William or not. It was best to stay hidden. She swallowed hard and closed her eyes. Burning tears still seeped through. God bless ye and keep ye, Auntie. I love ye. Go in peace.
“I shall return with the wagon. Both will be transferred,” Crestshire stated, then marched out the door and slammed it.
Isobel waited until the thundering of the horses’ hooves faded away. She waited longer still, watching Euna’s skirts standing in front of the window.
Euna’s worn boots padded closer to the rag pile. “It be safe, lass.”
She emerged from the nest of discarded bits of cloth and pulled Euna into a fierce hug. “I’m indebted to ye forever and a day.” Tears broke free as she stepped back and squeezed the woman’s shoulders. “There are no words I could say to thank ye enough.”
Euna’s smile trembled, and her eyes glistened with tears. “Ye know ye must go.” She hitched in a sniff. “That commander is nay the fool. He knows ye be here. I saw it in his eyes.”
Isobel nodded, then she reached up and yanked the ties from her hair, releasing her waist-length braid. She’d formed a plan whilst hiding among the rags, and now was the time to put it in motion. “Cut my hair. Same as Morley’s.”
“What?” Euna frowned. “Why?”
“I’ll need some of his clothes, too. I think they’ll fit. He and I are near the same height.” Isobel scooped up a knife from the top of the cupboard and held it out. “I’ll send ye money for the clothes soon as I can.”
Mouth clamped shut in a tight scowl, Euna agreed with a single nod. She took the knife, took hold of Isobel’s long, thick braid, and started to sawing. “Ye’ll send no money,” she said curtly as she cut away the hair. “I dinna know yer full story, lass, but the shadows in yer eyes tell me it’s not been an easy one.”
“If Auntie happens to wake before she dies, please tell her I love her, and that I’ve gone to fetch Connor.” Isobel swiped the tears from her cheeks, finding herself dizzy with a sudden feeling of light-headedness. She caught herself on the edge of the table, then reached up to touch her hair, once well past her waist but now barely brushing her shoulders. “I didna realize it weighed so much.”
“Sit so’s I can even it up,” Euna instructed as she pulled out a chair. She tossed the braid on the table.
“Do ye have any weapons ye can spare?” Isobel eyed Morley’s rifle propped beside the door.
Morley picked up her discarded braid, then tapped a finger on the table to get her attention. He patted his chest, then pointed at her.
“Nay, Morley.” She rose from the chair. “Ye canna come where I must go.” She turned and rested a hand on Euna’s shoulder. “I need ye to stay here and protect this fine woman from the soldiers. Please?”
Morley shook his head, thumped his chest, then pointed to her again. He glared at her, his dark brows knotted, willing her to accept him. Against his chest, he formed a heart with his hands, then
maintaining the shape, he stepped forward and held it out to her. Pure adoration shone in his face.
Euna eased her way between them and took hold of her grandson’s hands. “Her heart belongs to another, lad,” she said with a gentle pat.
“How did ye know?” Isobel clutched her fists to her chest, wishing for a way to keep from causing this dear sweet boy any pain.
Euna smiled. “Ye called out his name whenever ye dozed off, lass. Yer Alasdair is a part of ye.”
“Aye,” she whispered. “He is a part of me. I pray I see him again someday.”
*
Thank God they planned to hang him tomorrow. or those two cruel bastards would have tortured him longer. One eye swelled shut, and the other closed from weariness and pain, Alasdair lay on the cold floor of his cell. He didn’t fear death. Death promised relief. But, damn it all to hell, admitting defeat galled him. The thought of never seeing Isobel again hurt worse than the bite of the cat-o’-nine-tails.
He didn’t have a clue how long he had been in this hell. All he knew for certain was that apparently, Ian and Fitzgibbons had not been able to come up with a successful plan for freeing him.
“Forgive me, Isobel,” he whispered into the darkness. The thought of her living on without him filled him with a choking mixture of injustice and resignation. His true love regained only to be ripped away again. But at least she lived. Her and Connor. Safe at Cape Wrath. Both the MacCoinnichs and the Mackenzies had sworn to protect her if anything happened to him. Isobel and Connor’s safety brought him solace.
Keys rattling on the other side of the door jerked him back to awareness. His empty gut clenched. Beardie and Baldie had promised no more cruelties since he was headed to the gallows at dawn. “I’m a damned fool,” he whispered without opening his eye or lifting his head. Hopes and lies were just as effective a means of torture as the bite of the lash or the burn of the branding irons. By saints, if they intended to abuse him more, they could damn well carry him down to their room of suffering. He’d not walk for them no matter what they did.
“Thank ye, my son.”
Breath held, he tensed still as stone. If possible, he’d stop the beating of his heart to listen harder. He knew that voice. It was Ian. Please, let it be so. He feared to look, feared he’d gone mad.
Light flickered through the dank space. “Christ Almighty,” Ian murmured, his voice muffled as though his mouth was covered by some sort of cloth.
“Aye,” said another voice. “Ye never quite get used to that smell.”
Alasdair swallowed hard and hazarded forcing his good eye open to better see them. “Daegus Fitzgibbons,” he rasped, then he squinted harder at the two men dressed in the humble brown robes of Franciscan friars. “Ian? Pray, tell me it’s ye, and I’ve not lost my mind.”
“It is me, brother.” Ian crouched beside him. The dingy lantern he held high revealed the revulsion in his eyes that Alasdair heard in his voice. “Damnation.” He lifted the lantern higher. His horrified scowl swept up and down Alasdair’s form. “Can ye walk?”
Daegus squatted beside Ian, pulled a flask from the folds of his robe, and held it to Alasdair’s lips. “Uisge beatha, lad. Strength for the journey, aye?” A few drops at a time, the man carefully funneled the whisky into Alasdair’s mouth until a comforting warm glow trailed from his tongue clear to his toes. The old warrior frowned at Alasdair’s raw shoulders and bloody back. “Beardie and Baldie appear to have grown a mite crueler with time.” He shook his head. “Can ye bear the touch of a robe until we be shed of this place?”
“I can bear anything if it means I leave this hell behind.” Alasdair struggled to push himself up from the floor. Arms trembling, gut spasming with the whisky, he drew on sheer desperation alone to force his body in motion.
“There’s a good lad,” Daegus said as he and Ian took hold and helped him rise. The man untied the rope belted around his waist and withdrew a bundle that had served well as the plump, round belly of a well-fed brother of the order. “Deep breath, aye?” he advised as he shook out the robe and held it ready to pull down over Alasdair’s head.
Alasdair braced himself, wincing. He forced his arms upward and widened his stance to keep from collapsing.
Ian and Daegus hurried the garment down in place and pulled the hood over Alasdair’s head, yanking it as far forward as it would go to keep his face well shadowed.
“How will this ever work?” Alasdair bit back a groan as Ian supported him on one side, and Daegus held tight to his other arm. “They admitted two friars, and yet three leave?”
“Both guards should be rendered quite harmless by now with the special flasks of whisky yer friend Daegus here was good enough to provide,” Ian said as he angled around, eased open the cell door, and stole a cautious glance up and down the corridor.
“Aye,” Daegus bobbed his grizzled chin, his scarred cheeks plumping with a proud smile. “Still for days, they’ll be.” He gave a wink. “Mayhap even longer if my dear, sweet Ellie, got a bit heavy-handed with the nightshade.”
Deadly nightshade. Alasdair let out a pained chuckle, flinching as he forced one foot in front of the other and down the dark hallway. “I’m glad to call ye friend and not enemy.”
“Aye, well.” Daegus tucked his shoulder up under Alasdair’s and wrapped an arm around his lower back. “I wish we couldha got here yesterday, so ye would nay have suffered so.” The aged warrior, still stout as a Highland bull, jerked his own hood up over his head. “But when I discovered they kept ye in purgatory, it took a bit more planning to free ye.”
“I’ve lost track of how long I’ve been here.” He stifled another groan as they helped him climb the stone steps to the next level. Every step, every move, every shifting of the robe across his body tortured him with as much cruelty as Baldie and Beardie had administered.
“This be the second night of yer stay,” Ian supplied. “Although from the looks of ye, I’m sure it felt an eternity.”
The close spacing of the torches along the wall gave the corridor an eerie glow. Their dancing flames hissed and popped with the movement of fresh air wafting through the wider hall.
He lifted his face to the cool night air as it swirled past him. Most scents escaped his swollen nose, but the caress of the wind held the exhilarating touch of freedom. He stumbled a bit as Daegus brought them to an abrupt halt.
“Up ahead lies the exit from the tower and beyond that, our wagon,” Daegus said. “Whilst the two guarding the door should nay be a problem, we dinna know who else might happen upon us as we leave.” He drew his face close to Alasdair’s, peering into his eyes with an intense look. “We canna support ye as ye walk to the wagon. It would give us away for certain. Ye must make it on yer own, lad. Yer life—our lives, as well—depend on it, aye?”
“Aye.” Alasdair drew his arms down from around Daegus and Ian’s shoulders. He could do this. He would do this. Entire body trembling, he folded his arms across his front and tucked his hands up inside his sleeves as he’d seen friars do on their way to prayers. He bowed his head low, ducking deeper into his hood as he shuffled forward.
Ian walked ahead of him. He focused on the hem of Ian’s robe, concentrating on the sway of his brother’s slow, cautious steps to keep moving forward.
They passed the guard table. Two men sat slumped across the small bit of furniture, their eyes open wide in the glassy-eyed stare of the dead. The nightshade had done its job well.
They exited the tower without incident. As they neared the wagon, a shout rang out.
“Halt!”
Alasdair swayed to a stop behind Ian. He dug his fingers into his forearms and gritted his teeth. He had to stop this infernal trembling. With a hard, dry swallow, he turned in sync with Ian and Daegus.
A British soldier, his firearm held casually across his body, hurried up to them. “Sirs,” he said with a polite bow as he came to a halt in front of them. “While I do not share your faith, I would ask your help. Would you be willing to oblige me?”
Daegus stepped forward, blocking Alasdair from view. “What is it, my son?” he responded in a pious tone that Alasdair would have found quite humorous were the situation not so dire.
The redcoat moved a step closer. “I am new to Edinburgh, and my orders here will be complete upon the hanging tomorrow, but I must say, both my heart and mind are elsewhere. Back in London. With my wife.”
Lord Almighty. Get to the point, boy. I’m near to dropping. Alasdair pulled in as deep a breath as his broken ribs allowed and held it, praying for the strength to stand in place a bit longer.
“What is yer request, my son?” Daegus nudged, his tone laced with the same impatience coursing through Alasdair.
“Aye, my son,” Ian chimed in, urging the long-winded fool along. “How may we help?”
“I beg your prayers for my Lucy,” the boy said, his voice dropping to a reverent whisper. “She carries our first child and has grown weaker with each passing month.” He shifted with a despondent sigh. “She’s always been a frail little thing. I fear I shall lose both her and the babe.” He set the butt of the rifle on the ground, leaned it against his leg, and clasped his hands tightly “I beg you, sirs, please remember Lucy and my unborn child in your prayers? Pray for their comfort and safety?”
“We shall keep yer wife and bairn in our prayers, lad. I swear it,” Ian said, and Alasdair could tell by his brother’s tone he meant every word. Ian had lost his own wife and unborn child. He knew this young man’s potential darkness. “We shall light candles for them both.”
“Thank you, sirs. I am most grateful,” the soldier said as he snatched up his rifle and nodded. “Most grateful indeed.”
“Think nothing of it, my son,” Daegus replied as he made the sign of the cross in midair in front of the lad. “God bless ye and keep ye in perfect peace.”
The Judge (Highland Heroes Book 3) Page 21
