The Judge (Highland Heroes Book 3)

by Maeve Greyson

  Her horse grumbled as though he doubted the capabilities of the redcoats as much as she.

  She spotted the tall soldier she had originally startled with her growling stomach. The man strode toward her at a plodding pace. He looked more the fighting type. An older soldier. Older than the lieutenant. This man had a weariness about him, a weariness that had nothing to do with age. Instinct warned her she best be on her guard with this one. “Atchison?”

  “Yes.” The man’s weariness fell away when his gaze settled on her mount. “This is your horse?”

  Isobel rested a hand on the beast’s neck. “Aye. Thunder’s his name. The young son of the man I bought him from couldna pronounce Thunder and said it was the sound this horse made whenever he galloped.” It was a partial truth. Graham and Mercy MacCoinnich’s four-year-old son Ramsay had christened the horse Thunder, and the gentle beast wouldn’t respond to anything else.

  “Thunder suits him,” Atchison said as he ran his hands along the horse. “Exemplary horse, indeed.”

  “That he is.” She studied him. This one appeared sharper for certain. Mayhap Atchison would give her some insight into Lieutenant Pewterton and the abilities of the rest of the group. She didn’t have the time to risk a foolhardy plan. Too much was at stake. Connor needed her now.

  She wished Alasdair was here. He possessed the gift of dancing with words and would have gleaned all she needed to know about this group of Englishmen within a blink of an eye. Saints alive, she missed him and prayed she’d someday see him again. Her throat constricted with a stronger threat of tears. By all the saints, she hoped he was still alive.

  Head ducked as though concentrating on her footing, and she scolded herself. Alasdair wasn’t here. It was up to her to discover all she needed to know. “That Lieutenant Pewterton,” she said, then paused and sucked in a deep breath only to huff it out. “The man seems a bit…soft.” She shook her head. “I be grateful for the meal and all, but I dinna relish throwing in with a man who might risk my chance at lining me pockets wif gold.” There. That sounded greedy enough for the part she played but still respectful.

  Atchison halted, his scowl locked on her mount as though trying to read the horse’s mind. “Lieutenant Pewterton is a good man,” he said, never taking his gaze from the horse.

  “Aye,” Isobel agreed, mulling over her next words and choosing them with care. “But if ye dinna mind me saying so, he seems more suited for the priesthood rather than an officer’s commission in His Majesty’s army.”

  Atchison snorted out a laugh and managed a genuine smile for the first time. “He does at that.” He scrubbed a hand across his mouth, all the while staring at her. With a glance upward, he shook his head as though in conference with the Almighty. Hand rubbing the back of his neck, he returned his attention to her. “The man lost his wife and daughters to a fever this past winter.” He paused, glanced toward the camp as though listening, then turned back to Isobel. “Pewterton felt it was his fault the four of them died, while he survived. God’s punishment for his sins, he says.”

  The man’s smile turned to a bitter frown in the moonlight. He rubbed the horse’s nose and scratched the beast behind the ears. “He decided joining the military was the only thing left to him. I think he felt it the surest way to kill himself by someone else’s hand.”

  Isobel struggled not to show too much compassion—after all, her male identity forbade it. But her heart went out to poor Lieutenant Pewterton for the loss of his family. She crossed herself and shook her head. “God bless the poor man. A wonder he’s sane as he is.”

  Atchison agreed as he waved her to the right of the camp where shifting shadows among the trees pinpointed the location of the brigade’s horses. “I assure you, Lieutenant Pewterton will not hesitate to charge into any fray—no matter the danger. The gold you seek is as good as in your pocket.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Hold still now!” Ellie scolded. “Yer back is nay healed enough to go without the salve.”

  Alasdair gritted his teeth. Daegus’s wife might be a grand healer, but the woman did a fair share of bullheaded nagging along with it. After eight days of her ranting, he’d had enough. “Are ye near done? I need to be on my way before the sun sets.”

  Ellie cuffed the back of his head as though he were her child. “Ye will be on yer way when I say ye be ready and not a moment before.” The old woman slathered another generous handful of the ill-smelling grease across his shoulders and down his arms. “This salve healed ye days faster than if ye’d not had it. Ye should be thanking me rather than complaining about getting out the door.”

  Aye. Ellie was right. After all, she and Daegus had saved his life. “Ye speak true, m’lady. Forgive my rudeness. It’s but anxiousness to see my dear one that makes me forget my manners.”

  “Are ye not done with him yet, Ellie?” Daegus strode into the room, his scowl softening as soon as he looked upon his wife. “I’m thinking ye like the lad better than me.” He thumped a gnarled fist against his chest. “Dinna think of putting this old bull out to pasture.” He rubbed a hand back across his silvery hair and winked. “A bit a snow on the roof doesna mean there’s not a roaring fire still in the hearth.”

  Ellie winked back at him. “I know that fire well enough, my fine man. What say we stoke it once this laddie be on his way?”

  Daegus came up behind her, wrapped his arms around her middle, and rumbled out a playful growl as he nuzzled her neck.

  Alasdair jumped to his feet and snatched up his shirt. A man could only take so much. He yanked his tunic on and eased it over his sore, greasy back. God’s beard. First order of business was a good scrubbing in the loch to rid himself of that odor. He didn’t know what Ellie put in her salve, but it smelled like shite and rotted eggs.

  “Ye didna let me wrap yer ribs,” Ellie scolded. She pulled free of Daegus’s hold and snatched up a handful of linen strips. “Take off that shirt and let me cinch them up good and tight for the ride. Ye’ll thank me when ye’re breathing easier with every jolt of the horse’s step.”

  Alasdair shook his head as he pulled on his waistcoat and buttoned it. “The clothes Ian found for me are plenty snug. My ribs will be just fine, thank ye.” He donned his jacket and neckcloth before she could argue. His ribs ached and burned with every breath and movement, whether wrapped or not. He’d broken ribs before. All a man could do was bear the pain until it left him in peace. Once he held Isobel again, all pain would be forgotten.

  “Are we leaving today or no’?” Ian appeared in the doorway.

  “Ye packed the herbs and salves?” Ellie asked, giving Ian a look that said if he valued his arse, he better answer wisely.

  “Aye.” Ian nodded. “Herbs. Salves. Potions. Every last bit of yer witchery is safe in a bag tied to his saddle.”

  “Hmpf.” Ellie glared at Ian as though contemplating whether or not to cuff him.

  Time to end this and go. Alasdair grabbed hold of Ellie by the shoulders and kissed her soundly on the mouth. He smiled down at the woman, finally silent for the first time since he’d met her. “I thank ye for all ye did, m’lady. I owe ye my life.” He released her and turned to Daegus before Ellie regained her ability to speak. “Thank ye, my friend. I’m indebted to ye.”

  Daegus took hold of Alasdair’s forearm and squeezed. “Glad I could be of help, lad. Safe journey to ye, and may God bless ye and yer lady with many healthy sons.”

  Alasdair accepted the blessing with a nod, released Daegus’s arm, then followed Ian to the horses. He pulled himself up into the saddle, expelling a grunt as his body reminded him none too gently that he wasn’t completely healed.

  “Keep to the alleyways until ye reach Landis Fields. From there, ye should be safe from discovery,” Daegus said as he lifted a hand in farewell.

  “Dinna forget to apply the salve,” Ellie called out. “Twice a day. Morning and night. Ye best heed me, lad.”

  Alasdair held up a hand as he turned his horse. “God bless ye both
and keep ye in perfect peace.”

  “Not too perfect,” Daegus retorted with a roguish grin. “Too much peace makes a man lazy!”

  Alasdair smiled, then followed Ian out of Daegus’s close and the safety of Edinburgh’s underground. They wove their way through the silent alleyways as the night slipped away, and the sun crept higher in the sky. He breathed easier once the city lay well behind them. The Highlands offered safety for a while until he and Isobel made their way to France. He gripped the reins tighter. Once he had Isobel, Connor, and Auntie Yeva safe and settled in France, he would return to pay his debt to Temsworth, and this time, he wouldn’t fail.

  They rode for days, pushing the limits of the horses and themselves, but Alasdair couldn’t wait to hold Isobel in his arms again. Tor Ruadh would provide fresh horses to take them the rest of the way to Cape Wrath and his lady love. His weariness and pain seemed more bearable as the majestic Ben Nevis filled the sky, and Tor Ruadh came into view. The first arduous half of their journey was finally behind them.

  Alexander and Graham met them in the bailey. The coldness of their faces struck fear to the depths of Alasdair’s soul. “What is it?” He needed them to say Isobel was safe, and it was some other dire circumstance casting shadows across them. “Tell me it’s nay Isobel.”

  “I wish I could, cousin,” Alexander said, taking hold of his arm. Urgency vibrated in the man’s grip. “Come.”

  Graham motioned for a man in the yard to see to their horses. “Sutherland hovers at death’s door,” he warned as the four of them stormed into the keep.

  “Sutherland?” Alarm charged through Alasdair, lengthening his stride. A surge of bloodlust fired through his veins. “And Isobel?” The sight of one end of the great hall transformed into a familiar sickroom sent his senses reeling.

  Where was Isobel? Gretna and Mercy sat at one table grinding herbs and folding bandages while Catriona stood beside Sutherland’s makeshift bed, pressing a damp cloth across his brow. “And Isobel?” he repeated.

  “Best let Sutherland tell him,” Graham advised. “Mercy said he’s been more alert today.”

  At the sound of her name, Mercy turned her head in their direction. “Who is here, my love?”

  “Alasdair and Ian,” Graham said, taking a stance behind her and resting a hand on her shoulder. “Ye should be resting. The bairn could come at any time.”

  Mercy reached up and rested her fingers atop Graham’s but turned toward the men. The sorrow in her sightless eyes broke Alasdair’s heart in two. “I am so sorry, Alasdair.”

  He shook with anger, struggling to keep from throwing back his head and roaring until the stones of Tor Ruadh toppled all around him. “Tell me!” he ordered.

  “Come close,” Catriona called out from Sutherland’s side. “He’s awake and wishes to speak with ye.”

  He hurried to Sutherland, his turmoil mounting at the sight of his cousin’s condition.

  The man seemed almost lifeless. Hair, damp with sweat, body mottled with bruises, his right arm lay atop the blankets, bandaged to a board from the tips of his fingers to well past the elbow. His eyelids fluttered open as Alasdair drew closer. He lifted the fingers of his left hand. “Forgive me, cousin,” he whispered.

  Alasdair drew up a stool beside the sickbed and struggled to remain calm until he’d heard all his cousin had the strength to say. “What happened, man?”

  Sutherland took a deep breath, eased it out, then forced a swallow. His eyelids fluttered shut for a brief moment, then he pulled them back open. “Four men. Temsworth’s men.” A rattling breath escaped him. Alasdair feared him dead until the man pulled in another shallow breath. “Took the boy.” He wet his cracked lips. “Said they were told to kill the rest of us. Slow. Torture. Beat us. Stabbed. One pulled Isobel aside.” His face crumpled, and he turned away. “Forgive me, cousin. I beg ye.”

  Alasdair bowed his head. He would find those men. If it was the last thing he did before he died, he’d find those four black-hearted curs along with the duke and send them all straight to hell. “What else?” he forced out. He needed to hear it all. “Tell me the rest.”

  “I canna,” Sutherland whispered. “I’ve told ye all I remember.”

  A tug on Alasdair’s sleeve drew his attention.

  “Come. Walk with me,” Alexander said. “I shall tell ye what Crestshire relayed about what he found when he discovered Sutherland.”

  It was all Alasdair could do to maintain control. Vengeance demanded he destroy anything and everything in his path until he had his hands wrapped around the duke’s throat. He forced himself up from the stool and followed Alexander up the spiral staircase at the back of the room and out to the curtain wall. “Does she live or not?”

  “We dinna know for certain,” Alexander said with a weariness that twisted Alasdair’s heart. “Crestshire found them in a crofter’s house near Loch Lochy. An old woman and her mute grandson, tending them.”

  “Them?” His ire burned even hotter. “Ye are telling me Crestshire returned Isobel to the duke?” If Lord Crestshire had done such a heinous deed, his name would join the others doomed to die by his hand.

  “Nay.” Alexander shook his head, then flinched. “He said Isobel nor the boy were there. He found only Sutherland and Isobel’s aunt.”

  “Where is Yeva? Mayhap she can tell me more to help me find Isobel.” Alasdair pushed away from the wall. His physical pain couldn’t compare to the fear crushing his heart.

  Alexander crossed himself. “Isobel’s aunt is buried on a hillside overlooking Loch Lochy.”

  “She died from what they did to her?” He stared at Alexander, willing his cousin to retract his words and say he had misspoken.

  “Aye,” Alexander confirmed. “Crestshire said she looked to have taken quite the beating.”

  “Heartless bastards.” Alasdair raked a hand through his hair, sick at the thought of what the poor old woman had endured. “And no sign of my Isobel?”

  The chieftain shook his head. “But Crestshire did say the crone tending them was nay all that forthcoming with information. She wouldna admit to Isobel ever being under her roof.”

  “Would nay admit it, or was Isobel stolen away by the four that took Connor?”

  The man shrugged. “I dinna ken. It’s what Crestshire said when he brought Sutherland to us.”

  “How long ago?” Alasdair asked as he strode across the curtain wall to the outer steps leading down to the bailey.

  “Near on a sennight now.” Alexander hurried after him. “I know what ye’re thinking, cousin. Ye canna leave for Loch Lochy, then on to who knows where without a bit of rest and a meal. Look at yerself.”

  Alasdair came to a dead stop, then turned and faced Alexander. “I’ll accept a meal and tarry here the time it takes to pull together supplies and ready a fresh horse. No longer.”

  “Dinna act the fool, man. Ye’re no good to her dead.” Alexander latched hold of Alasdair’s arm and held fast. “Wait at least a day or so. Ye need sleep. Lord Almighty, man, ye look near dead.”

  He yanked his arm free of his cousin’s hold, then shoved his face within a hair’s breadth of the chieftain’s nose. “Think back, cousin. Did ye rest and wait a day or so when it came time to save Catriona?”

  Alexander’s nostrils flared, and his jaw tightened. He huffed out a growl and took a step back. “How many men do ye wish to take with ye? The MacCoinnich forces are yers for the asking.”

  His cousin’s generous offer eased Alasdair’s pounding bloodlust down to a controlled thundering. “Nay. ’Twill just be Ian and me.” He yanked his neckcloth away and bared his chest. There, just below his collarbone, scabbed over but still an angry red was the brand Baldie had burned into his flesh. A sign for all to see while he hanged, the cruel bastard had said. The brand of a traitor. “I’ll not endanger Clan MacCoinnich by using yer warriors.”

  Alexander clapped a hand to Alasdair’s shoulder. “Whatever else ye need ye shall have, and we’ll do whatever it takes to ensur
e Fort William doesna hear of yer passing through the area.”

  “Ye understand they’ll be watching Tor Ruadh.” He turned and bolted down the stairs, waiting for Alexander to catch up. “Another reason my stay here must be brief.”

  Ian appeared in the keep’s doorway, both hands clutching several steaming bannocks. He took a bite out of one as he trotted down the front steps and met them in front of the stable. Two lads followed close behind him, both of them laden with rolled blankets, bulging cloth sacks, and waterskins so tight and full, the leather glistened. He offered a handful of the bannocks to Alasdair. “Fresh from Cook’s oven, and the lads here bear all we’ll need for the journey.”

  Alasdair accepted two of the bannocks, bit off a chunk of the crusty bread, then managed a smile. “I’d be lost without ye, brother.”

  Ian shrugged away the compliment. “Where to next? London? Back to Edinburgh?”

  “Loch Lochy,” Alasdair replied between bites. He gave Alexander a solemn nod. “We need to pay our respects to Yeva’s grave, then speak to the woman and boy who helped Sutherland. I’m thinking her respectful care of Yeva was not just because she thought she should. I’m wagering she promised Isobel. It’s my hope she can tell us what’s become of her and whether she left of her own accord.”

  “Godspeed to ye, cousin.” Alexander took hold of his shoulder and squeezed. “Yer wisdom and level head have always taken care of others, make sure ye use them this time to care for yerself, aye?”

  Alasdair snorted out a humorless laugh. “My heart and my rage lead this campaign. I can promise nothing more.”

  Alexander nodded and allowed his hand to drop away. “I understand.”

  “To the horses, aye?” Alasdair said to Ian and shoved the last of the bannock in his mouth.

  The two saddled up and were on their way. Alasdair paused after passing beneath the portcullis and cast a glance up at the curtain wall. Alexander stood watching, one hand raised in farewell.

  Alasdair thumped a fist to his chest, lifted it to Alexander, then spurred his mount into a ground-eating trot. Loch Lochy was not that far. Northeast a bit. But Fort William lay close to the west. Troops would be about—searching for him and Isobel both. He glanced down at the rifle and swords sheathed at the fresh horse’s side. Ian had thought of everything.