The Judge (Highland Heroes Book 3)

by Maeve Greyson

  The boy frowned and stared at the lieutenant as though he thought him addled. “I dinna know what slander means or miscer…miscre…whatever that other word was.” His look grew more thoughtful. “All I know is I want ye to take me back to Scotland to my real da. He’ll find my mama. He can do everything. I think he’s in Edinburgh now.”

  “Your real da,” the lieutenant repeated with some difficulty. “Is the Duke of Temsworth.”

  “Nay.” Connor shook his head. “Temsurth is the mean bastard.” He crossed his arms over his chest and lifted his chin. “Alasdair Cameron is my real da.”

  Pewterton made a sad clucking sound as he clasped a hand over his mouth and studied the boy. “Poor mite,” he said in a lowered voice. “Confused due to the trauma he’s experienced.” He snapped his fingers toward one of his lower-ranking men. “See to the burial of those criminals at once. Perhaps that will ease his lordship’s mind.”

  The foot soldier paired off with another and took off.

  “Search them first,” the lieutenant called out after them. “I should like to know whether they did this of their own volition or if someone hired them to torment his lordship.”

  Isobel tensed. Surely, the criminals would not have anything on them that pointed to an association with the duke. She cleared her throat. “Best make camp and get the lad’s belly filled and then to bed. Looks worn out.” The quicker the entire camp slept, the quicker she and Connor could make their escape. Then she’d find Alasdair and get word to him. They’d be together again. Finally. Please keep Alasdair safe. She pointed at the lad. “Look at them shadows under his eyes.”

  “I agree. Lord Temsworth does look in dire need of rest.” Lieutenant Pewterton took hold of Connor’s shoulders and gently steered him toward Fields. “Fields here is a fine cook. If you would be so good as to go with him, your lordship, I feel certain he can find you something delicious to enjoy until your dinner is fully prepared.”

  Connor glanced up at the lieutenant. Eyes narrowing, he cocked his head. “Ye seem nice, but Auntie Yeva told me all redcoats are liars and cheats, so ye best know I’ll be on my guard wif ye.”

  Pewterton pressed a hand to his chest, astonishment filling his face. “Have you ever heard of such?” He turned to Isobel, eyes wide.

  She shrugged. “Sounds like the lad has been through a lot. I wouldna pay it much mind.”

  “Perhaps you are right.” Pewterton turned and watched the boy toddling off alongside Fields. “I am truly glad we recovered the young marquess, and as soon as we return to London, I shall see you justly rewarded.”

  The only reward she needed now was reuniting herself and Connor with Alasdair. She gave a slow nod and touched the brim of her hat.

  “Lieutenant Pewterton!” The call rang out from the direction of the deceased men’s camp.

  The hairs rose on the back of her neck. An ominous tingle shivered all the way down her spine. What now?

  “What is it, Ladney?” Pewterton turned and waited like a hunting dog about to flush a pheasant.

  “Something you should see, sir.”

  “Excuse me.” Pewterton jerked with a polite bow and strode off toward the kidnappers’ camp.

  Instinct told her to grab Connor and run. She turned and spotted the whereabouts of the horses. Her mount stood tethered among the others already settled for the evening. She hurried over and pulled him free, then led him a few paces away from where the remaining soldiers were setting up camp.

  “Stay here, lad. Wait for me, aye?” Isobel rubbed the horse’s nose, then pressed her cheek to his muzzle.

  Keeping watch for Pewterton’s return, she hurried over to the wagon where Fields and Connor stood perusing the offerings for the evening’s meal. She pulled her hat lower and kept her chin tucked.

  “Stew, I think, your lordship. Would that be to your liking?” Fields held up a chunk of dried meat in one hand and a handful of root vegetables in the other, waiting for the boy’s decision.

  “Aye.” Connor tiptoed to see into the back of the wagon. “I like me some carrots.”

  “How ’bout we fetch the water?” Isobel offered, scooping the pot out of the back of the wagon before Fields could argue. “Come along, lad. A stretch of yer legs will do ye good. Sharpen yer appetite.”

  He eyed her for a long moment, munching on bites of the dried fruit he clutched in one hand. “How come ye’re wif them?” he asked, pointing a chunk of dried date in Fields’s direction, then aiming it at her. “Ye be a Scot. Not an English.”

  “Aye, that I am.” She waved him forward, willing him to cooperate before it was too late. She couldn’t reveal herself in front of Fields. She had to get Connor in private. “Come along, and I’ll explain it best I can.”

  The boy shrugged and followed her, pausing to call back to Fields. “We be back in a bit wif yer water.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Fields responded without looking up from the carrots he had spread across his chopping board.

  Isobel headed toward the place she had left Thunder waiting.

  As soon as Connor spotted the horse, he halted and fixed her with an icy glare. “That’s my mama’s horse.” He threw down his treats, grabbed up a nearby stick, and struck her across the shins. “What have ye done wif my mama?” he growled.

  Legs stinging, she bit her lip to keep from crying out as she dropped to her knees. “Connor!” she whispered, whipping off her hat and rubbing away the sooty grime from her face with a swipe of her sleeve. “It’s me, son.”

  Connor launched into her arms, knocking her to the ground. “Mama!” he sobbed against her neck as he burrowed into her embrace. “Mama!” he cried out again, hugging her tight.

  “Shh! Quiet now. Quiet.” Arms wrapped around him, she rolled and staggered to her feet. She pushed him up into the saddle, then stuck her foot in the stirrup, and struggled to launch herself up behind him.

  “Mama, look out!”

  A hard yank on her coattails knocked her off balance. She fell back to the ground and found herself staring up into Pewterton’s bright red face.

  “You lied to me, madam! Played me for the fool.” Sputtering and spitting with indignation, he jabbed a finger against a small tattered piece of parchment bearing a broken wax seal. “Never did I imagine you to be anything other than what you appeared until the child claimed you as his mother.” He shook the document in Isobel’s face. “And you had me assist in the murder of three innocent men. Your husband hired those men to recover his son!”

  “He is my son!” she roared, every last shred of her control snapping. “You have no idea what a monster that man is. Connor is my son, and I mean to see him safe from that evil bastard.” She scrambled to her feet, crouching low as she pulled the butcher knife from her boot and backed toward the horse. “And those men were far from innocent. They murdered my aunt by beating her to death. They tied my son like a felled deer, threw him across a horse, and rode away. Does that sound like innocent men to ye?”

  “Your husband is the Duke of Temsworth, and the marquess is his son!” Pewterton shook as though beset with a fit of tremors. “Every word you have spoken since we met has been a lie, and yet now you expect me to believe these horrid tales you spew? Disgraceful.” He shook his head and smoothed a hand back across his hair. “I refuse to listen to any more lies. Save yer breath, madam.”

  “My mama doesna lie!” Connor shouted. “Father used to beat her all the time and lock her away in a box. She almost died lots of times and wouldha if not for Auntie Yeva helping her get better. Father laughed whenever she’d scream, then he’d hurt her even more. Said he liked it when she screamed. He told me when I got to be seven, he’d make me be the one to kill her or he’d hurt me ’til I screamed, too.”

  The knife dropped from her hand as she turned and stared up at Connor. Revulsion and hatred for both Temsworth and her own cowardice buckled her knees. Why had she not left with Connor years ago and shielded him from that demented monster? She’d had no idea Temsworth had
tormented the boy in such a way. She’d thought him safe—at least until the duke had openly threatened the boy’s well-being to her. Then she had run away with him. She covered her face with her hands, sobs escaping her. How had she allowed her son to be treated so?

  A soft patting and tiny arms around her neck made her weep all the harder. “I am so sorry, Connor. I’m so verra sorry,” she whispered.

  “It’s okay, Mama.” Connor hugged her tighter. “Ye didna know, and I couldna tell ye ’cause he said he’d hurt Auntie if I did.”

  She gathered Connor into her lap and rocked from side to side. With a glance up at Pewterton and the other soldiers who had gathered around, she pleaded, “Please. I beg ye. Let us go our way. I swear, I willna tell a soul about ye.”

  The lieutenant glared at her, fists trembling at his sides. He spun about, gave her his back, and strode a few steps away. “Place her in irons, Atchison. Tether the boy to her, as well. We shall deliver both the duchess and the marquess to His Grace at Hestlemoor tomorrow. I refuse to be played the fool again. The Duke of Temsworth can deal with them as he sees fit.”

  “Please show mercy.” Isobel eased Connor out of her lap and clambered to her feet. “Return me if ye must, but I beg ye, protect my son. Please take him somewhere safe. Please. I swear I willna betray ye no matter what Temsworth does to me. I promise. Please keep my son safe, and I shall die with the secret of how ye helped me.”

  Pewterton kept walking, then disappeared from view.

  “Forgive me,” Atchison mumbled as he clamped the shackles around her wrists and ankles.

  “Leave her be!” Connor shouted, launching himself at the man, kicking and biting as soon as he made contact.

  “Leave off, boy!” Atchison snatched hold of Connor and held him at arm’s length while Ladney tied a rope around the lad’s waist, then tied the other end to the chains between Isobel’s wrists.

  “Please, let us go,” she begged in a desperate whisper. “Ye know I’m not lying about Temsworth. I can see it in yer eyes. Ye’ve heard of his cruelty. Please—dinna condemn us to him.”

  “I know you speak the truth, Your Grace,” Atchison said. “But I cannot help you. The duke is too powerful, and I’ve a wife and children.”

  “Ye send us to our deaths then.” Isobel sank to her knees. “Ye understand that well enough, do ye not?”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Atchison turned away and bowed his head. “I understand it all too well.” He took a step away and paused, head still lowered. “And again—I beg your forgiveness.” He hurried away.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Alasdair held up a hand and reined in his horse. He concentrated on sifting through the sound of leaves fluttering in the breeze, birdsong, and what he thought he’d heard—a sound that didn’t belong in the woods.

  Ian did the same, remaining silent with his gaze locked on Alasdair.

  There. Alasdair nodded and motioned to the left as he mouthed, “Men.”

  Ian gave an assenting dip of his chin.

  They dismounted, tethered their horses to a tangle of rowan saplings, and eased deeper into the trees, their steps as silent as if they were a part of the land.

  Up ahead, several men were deep in conversation. Alasdair paused, taking in every word.

  “Just the few of us now. Think them others’ll report him mad once they reach the garrison?” The man talked in a low, cautious tone. “Surely, they’ll not. Most of’m like the lieutenant. Don’t they?” Shuffling leaves and a chorus of low-pitched grumbling responded. “I know,” the original speaker said. “Most of’m know his story. I hope they keep it in mind.”

  Alasdair eased to one side and peered around a trio of trees. Three men sat on boulders and stumps at the edge of a clearing. A smoldering fire crackled and popped in front of them. Alasdair scanned the area further, counting six more men scattered across the way, cleaning their weapons, napping, talking—redcoats, the lot of them.

  Pistol drawn, Ian appeared, nudged him, and cocked a brow. “Poor odds,” he mouthed.

  With a shake of his head, Alasdair held up a finger, pointed to the men, then touched his ear. He wanted to hear more of what the soldiers had to say.

  “You seen him today? He looks poorly. The man needs rest. And he hasn’t eaten in days near as I can tell.” The soldier in the center of the trio shifted with a sad shake of his head. “He’s stood watch over that road ever since we took her and the boy in there.”

  Alasdair tensed even more. A dangerous combination of rage and the need for vengeance surged hot and fierce. She and the boy.

  “He feels guilty, he does,” said the Englishman to the left. He paused in his whittling and shook the carved stick at the other two. “He knows of the duke’s evil ways. He knows the duchess and the boy spoke true about that soulless devil.”

  Clenching his teeth to keep from roaring, Alasdair struggled to hold fast.

  Ian’s eyes widened. He took hold of Alasdair’s arm and squeezed.

  “Then why did he turn them over?” the redcoat on the far right asked.

  “Pride,” said the man in the middle with a disgusted snort. “Hurt his pride that she tricked him.” The soldier shrugged. “Dunno why. She tricked all of us. I thought Ferguson a man. Didn’t you?”

  The other men agreed.

  Enough. Alasdair crashed through the trees. He aimed his gun at the nearest man’s head. “What did ye do with my Isobel?”

  “You do realize you are gravely outnumbered, sir?” A tenth man, one Alasdair had not seen in his assessment of the camp, stepped into view. The bedraggled soldier, a lieutenant from the insignia on his smudged and wrinkled coat, held up a trembling hand toward the other soldiers. “Hold fire. Understood?”

  The men lowered their weapons but stood at the ready.

  Alasdair scanned the odd assortment of redcoats, then disarmed his pistol, and shoved it into his belt. “Ian,” he said over his shoulder before turning back to address the lieutenant. “I may be sorely outnumbered, but it seems to me, the lot of ye are not all that fierce.”

  The man bowed his head and swiped a hand across his brow. “You are correct, sir. I fear we are beleaguered. I’ve no one to blame but myself.” With a heavy sigh, he raised his gaze to Alasdair’s. “I am Lieutenant Frances Pewterton. I assume you must be Alasdair Cameron?”

  “Aye.” Alasdair studied the troubled man. “Would ye mind telling me how ye came to know my name?”

  Pewterton took on a thoughtful, pained look. “The young marquess informed us you were his true father.” He shook with a humorless laugh. “His da, I believe was how the boy phrased it.”

  Pride warmed Alasdair, filling him near to bursting. Aye. He loved Connor like a son. The lad had spoken true. Remembering the conversation he’d just overheard, the warm feeling left as swiftly as it came. “What did ye do with them?” He took a step forward, flexing his fingers. The man’s answer determined whether or not he allowed him to live.

  The lieutenant stared at him. Silent. Sorrowful. He closed his eyes, and his chin dropped. Hands lifted as though awaiting judgment, he heaved out another great sigh. “We took them to Hestlemoor. Four days ago.” He lifted his head, looking as though ready to weep. “Forgive me. My foolish pride took hold and held fast until it was too late.”

  “But the duke isn’t there yet,” volunteered one of the original trio of men. “We’ve stood watch over the road. According to the duke’s man at Hestlemoor, he’s due to arrive any day.”

  “Depending on where they’ve put her, we might be able to get her and Connor out at nightfall,” Ian suggested as he moved to Alasdair’s side. He spared a narrow-eyed glance at the gathered redcoats. “If they feel as bad as they say, they could help.”

  Ian’s proposal galled him. Whether or not the English helped, he’d see to Isobel and Connor’s freedom this day or die in the trying. He gave each of the men a long, hard look. “How much do ye regret condemning an innocent woman and child to certain torture and death?”


  “More than you shall ever know, sir,” the lieutenant answered for the men as he stepped forward. “I claim full responsibility and shall assist you in any way possible.” He held his head higher and addressed the soldiers. “Those of you who wish to leave may do so without fear of reprisal. I do, however, implore you to remain silent until such a time as Master Cameron and his associate are well on their way to safety with the duchess and the marquess. I feel it the least we can do to reverse my grave error in judgment.”

  “I’ll stay and help,” a soldier said. “Name is Atchison.” He thumped a fist to his chest. “At your service, sir.”

  “I as well,” said another as he stood alongside Atchison. “I be Fields. Not the best shot, but I can brawl good enough.”

  “Ladney.” The third redcoat took his place next to the other two. He grinned. “I can shoot the wings off a midge.”

  One by one, the remaining six sounded off, assuring their willingness to help.

  Alasdair had never thought to find himself leading a troop of redcoats, but if that’s what it took to save Isobel and Connor, then so be it. Time to plan the battle. “When ye turned her over, did they allow ye inside the house? What do ye know about the grounds? The guards? The servants?”

  “We saw the entry hall only, I fear.” Pewterton frowned, stroking his chin as he paced in a slow circle around the campfire. “A strange arrangement with the servants.” He stopped his meandering. “Not a woman among them. At least, none that we saw. And the interior of the place looked more a stark prison than what one would expect of the summer home of a wealthy member of the peerage.” He resumed wandering about the clearing. “The one called Hawkins did order the duchess and her son be escorted to her private wing. A trio of men laid hands upon her and the child and dragged them up the staircase to the right of the entry hall.” With a frustrated shake of his head, he faced Alasdair. “I fear that’s all we know.”

  “I need to see the place.” Alasdair paused and glanced back at the lieutenant as he headed for his horse. “How far?”