“So noted, Your Grace.” Crestshire gave a gallant nod. He took a seat on the log beside Alasdair, then dug into the food like a man starved. “You understand you are a wanted man,” he noted between mouthfuls.
“Aye.” Alasdair finished his meal and tossed the bark aside, waiting. He wouldn’t kill Crestshire, but he wasn’t past tying him to a tree. He could always send word of where they’d left him to Fort William. “And ye understand, ye’re outnumbered in this camp, aye?”
Crestshire grinned as he ate the last of his fish. “Yes. I am quite aware, I assure you.” He rubbed his stomach, belched as big and loud as any Scot, and smiled at Isobel. “A fine meal, Your Grace. I thank you. I wasn’t relishing eating in my tent since my former cook was replaced by an incompetent man who I’m certain is trying to poison me.”
Isobel answered with a glare as cold as death.
“I see.” Crestshire turned back to Alasdair. “You know it is my duty to arrest you. You also know how I feel about duty.”
Alasdair tensed, resettling his feet and propping his hands atop his knees. If Crestshire moved, he’d take him to the ground. Ian edged closer, ready to help with the task. “And ye understand I willna allow ye to do so.”
All humor left Crestshire as he pulled in a deep breath and stared down at the ground. “You and I have been friends a long time, Alasdair.”
“Aye.”
Crestshire stood, careful to move away from Alasdair as he walked. He clasped his hands to the small of his back. “I received word of the duke’s demise and the unfortunate fire.” He settled a thoughtful gaze on Alasdair, studying him for a long while. “I’ve just come from London. It is my understanding no one mourns the man. In fact, his debtors are searching for Temsworth’s heirs to beg leniency regarding their notes. Last I heard, there was quite the celebration as a result of his death. It appears His Grace had a great deal more enemies than friends.”
“Of that, I have no doubt,” Alasdair said as he rose. “Yer point?”
“If the charges against you were appealed…” Crestshire paused, rubbing a finger across his chin as he aimed a faint grin in Alasdair’s direction.
“If Temsworth’s heirs didna fight the appeal and, in fact, dropped the charges,” Alasdair finished, a blinding sense of realization jolting through him.
“We are Temsworth’s only heirs,” Isobel offered, rushing to Alasdair’s side.
“I’m surprised you didn’t think of that before now.” Crestshire strolled over to the fire, plucked the last mushroom off the cooking stone, and ate it. He glanced back at Alasdair. “Finest solicitor in all of Scotland? Ha! Your wiles are slipping you, old man.”
“I’ve been a mite distracted.” Alasdair waited for Crestshire’s next move. The charges still stood for now, and he’d be damned if he returned to the hellish Tollbooth for the time it took to get them overturned.
Crestshire dusted off his hands. “Alexander informed me of the reprehensible treatment you endured at the Tollbooth.” His face tightened into a disgusted scowl. “My sense of duty to king and country is strong, but not so strong as my abhorrence for such deeds—especially in regard to a friend.” He strode to the edge of the clearing, pausing just before stepping into the trees. Without looking back, he lifted a hand. “I found enough mushrooms and berries in the woods to help me endure whatever disgusting meal has been prepared for me this evening. Godspeed to you and yours, my friend.”
Then he strode away before Alasdair could reply.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Strong arms encircled her waist, and a mouth possessing the power to weaken her knees nibbled a burning trail from her nape to the sensitive skin just behind her ear. “I thought I’d never find ye, wife,” Alasdair grumbled as he snuggled close.
“Wife,” she repeated as she hugged him. “I love it when ye call me wife.” A soft laugh escaped her. “Except when ye’re scolding me, of course.”
“If ye’d behave, I wouldna have to scold ye,” he teased as he rested his chin atop her shoulder and tightened his embrace. “I worried when I couldna find ye. Especially when Mercy and Catriona had no idea where ye’d gone off to. I know yesterday’s visit to Yeva’s grave was hard.”
Isobel didn’t comment, just returned her attention to the sprawling glen below. She’d sought solitude atop the skirting wall, hoping the land’s rugged beauty might calm her troubled mind. She’d been wrong. The deep, verdant stretch of green dotted with dwellings and divided by a ribbon of water snaking across it fueled her dread even more. They had been here a month. A wonderful month that felt like a different lifetime. Tor Ruadh and the MacCoinnich lands felt like home now, and she loved the place. But if they didn’t soon receive word of the charges against Alasdair being successfully reversed, to France they had to go.
“I dinna wish to leave here,” she whispered. A heavy sigh escaped her. “I dinna wish to leave Scotland.”
He shifted to stand at her side, slid his hand beneath hers, then lifted it for a kiss. “I know, lass. Neither do I.” He gave her an apologetic smile, then turned and gazed out across the glen. “It’s my hope we’ll only be in France a little while.”
“How much longer dare we wait before we leave?” She knew the answer. Dreaded it. But prayed he had changed his mind.
“One more sennight. No more.”
She leaned against the rough, cool stone of the battlement, staring down at the road connecting Tor Ruadh to the village and then beyond. Just seven more days. Connor would be just as heartbroken as her. Everyone had grown so close—Alasdair’s family had welcomed her and Connor as one of their own.
“A rider.” Alasdair stepped closer to the wall and pointed toward the horizon. “Just there.”
Her hopes soared as she squinted at the dark dot making its way toward them. “I see. They’re traveling at a good trot.”
The rider disappeared from view, hidden by the cluster of dwellings in the more populated part of the village. Isobel held her breath. Please… She excitedly patted the top of the battlement as the rider reappeared, heading toward the stronghold. “They’re coming here.”
“It’s Abernathy.” Alasdair smiled. “I’m certain of it.” He offered his arm. “Come. Let us meet the man and hear what he has to say.”
They hurried down to the bailey. Isobel focused on the gate, clenching her hands so tight, her nails dug into her palms. Her heartbeat thundered as Thomas Abernathy rode into view. God bless the man. He sat a horse so poorly, clutching the reins and the front of the saddle as though he feared his mount would throw him at any moment.
“Stop now, horse.” Abernathy made a nervous yank on the reins. “Halt this instant, I say.”
Alasdair stepped forward and took hold of the animal’s bridle as Abernathy made an awkward dismount.
Isobel pressed her fingers to her mouth to keep from smiling. How had he managed the trip all the way from Edinburgh without breaking his neck or losing his mount? His wee mare had to have the temperament of a saint.
“Good heavens,” Abernathy huffed as he brushed off his clothes, then fished around in the breast pocket of his jacket. He withdrew his spectacles and wiped them with a square of linen. After wedging them on the bridge of his nose, he turned to Alasdair with a sheepish smile. “I wouldna risk such a wild beast for anyone but ye, Master Cameron.”
“I’m well aware of that,” Alasdair said as he shook the man’s hand. “I pray ye bear good news?”
“I do, sir.” Abernathy sidled back to the mare and pulled a packet from the pouch hanging from the saddle. He placed the packet in Alasdair’s hands. “See for yerself.”
Isobel couldn’t contain herself any longer. She rushed to Alasdair’s side, took hold of his arm, and squeezed. “Alasdair’s name is finally cleared?”
Abernathy gave a startled hop to one side. “Yes, Yer Grace. Name cleared. Properties released. And he’s fully reinstated to represent clients in any courtroom he sees fit to enter.” He turned back to Alasdair. “Ye can
return to Edinburgh whenever ye wish, sir. Yer residence is fully staffed and waiting. I saw to it m’self.”
“At last,” she sobbed. “We can claim our happiness!” She pressed a hand to her chest and snatched hold of Alasdair’s sleeve, dizzy with the sheer joy of it.
He caught her to his side and steadied her. “Are ye all right, love?”
“More than all right, my dearest one.” She held tight to him, closing her eyes as she rested her cheek on his chest.
Abernathy excitedly patted his hands together again. “And I’ve even more grand news. The young marquess, or perhaps I should say, the young Duke of Temsworth’s inheritance is now his without claim or issue. The will also granted a generous stipend for the duchess.” He cocked a brow. “Quite surprising but fully verified by the estate’s solicitor.” He took a step closer and gave a knowing nod. “I’m sure the provision was made to satisfy terms in the late duke’s father’s will.”
“Of that, I’m sure,” Isobel agreed.
“Lady Bel! Lady Bel!” Little Willa’s piercing shout of the name all the children called Isobel shot through the courtyard.
Momentarily pulled from the joy of her hard-won freedom, Isobel waved the little girl down. “Here, child!”
Eyes wide and cheeks aglow, Willa scurried to Isobel’s side and latched hold of her hand. “Mama says come quick. The bairn’s coming. Aunt Mercy’s bairn’s a comin’ fast!”
Isobel squeezed Alasdair’s arm. “A blessed day, indeed. Freedom and a new babe.”
“Aye, love,” he laughed. “On wi’ ye now. We’ll celebrate as soon as the bairn and Mercy be safe.”
“Aye.” Isobel gathered her skirts in both hands and hurried after Willa up the steps. She halted at the sight of four MacCoinnich warriors, standing side by side across the end of the hall.
They stood in front of the chieftain’s table with arms stretched skyward, each of them clutching the corners of a tapestry and holding it aloft like a curtain behind their backs. They had the expressions of men waiting at the gallows to be hanged. Red-faced. Uncomfortable. Pained. The discomfited men effectively walled off the head of the hall from view. A cry sounded from the hidden part of the hall.
Willa waved her forward. “Hurry. Aunt Mercy couldna even make it to her rooms.”
Isobel rushed past the men. “God bless ye,” slipped from her lips.
Mercy half stood, half squatted in front of the chieftain’s chair, hands gripping the wooden armrests so tightly, her knuckles glowed white. Catriona and Gretna stood on either side of her. Catriona rubbed her lower back while Gretna dabbed a cloth across her brow.
Catriona acknowledged Isobel with an upward jerk of her chin. “Wee Ramsay was the same. Came hard and fast when he decided to finally enter the world, but at least he gave us time to send for the midwife. Only problem was he came feet first. We fear this one’s the same, and there be no time to send to the village for old Elena.”
Isobel swallowed hard. Such births often ended badly. Many a time, the child couldn’t be born. “Not today,” Isobel swore as she rolled her sleeves up above her elbows.
“Willa—run and fetch more linens, aye?” Isobel squeezed Mercy’s shoulder. “Do ye feel as if the wee dear is ready for me to catch?”
Mercy bared her teeth, bore down into a deeper squat. “I don’t know. Just pull the child out of me! I beg you!”
At Catriona and Gretna’s nod, Isobel lifted Mercy’s skirts. “Help her stand,” Isobel ordered, remembering Auntie Yeva’s teachings and her own experience of giving birth to Connor the same way. “We’ve got a bum peering out at us.”
“Not again,” Mercy sobbed. “Ramsay nearly died, and so did I.”
“None a that, now,” Isobel reassured. “We’re all here, and ye’ll be holding this fine babe to yer breast in no time.”
“Aye,” Gretna agreed. “We’re stronger than any warriors, aye?”
“Aye,” Catriona joined in. “Fight with us, lass. Fight to bring yer precious bairn into this world.”
Isobel worked her fingers up around the babe, gently maneuvering and pulling as Mercy pushed. With Mercy’s pains and long, steady pushing, Isobel untangled first one leg and then freed the other. She supported the wee one’s body in her palm and held out a hand for linen. “A cloth, Willa. Hand me a cloth.”
Willa complied, wide-eyed and uncharacteristically quiet.
Isobel wrapped the cloth around the bairn’s slick body. “’Tis a lassie!” she laughed. “What be her name, Mercy?” Mercy’s strength was waning fast. The poor woman needed something to bolster her.
“Effie Marsalla Jeanette,” Mercy said, sounding stronger. “A daughter? I have a sweet daughter?”
“Aye, a precious one,” Isobel said as she finished cleaning the babe.
Little Effie’s cries informed all and sundry she had arrived into the world.
“Praise, God,” Mercy gasped as Catriona and Gretna eased her down to her knees, then helped her lie back on the pile of pillows on the pallet they’d hastily assembled. A weary smile set her face aglow. “She sounds fierce and strong.”
“Aye, she is all that and more. Praise, God, indeed.” Isobel smiled down at the squalling, red-faced babe in her arms. Such a joy-filled day. The perfect day to share the secret she’d been dying to tell Alasdair. Aye. It was time. She felt certain of it now. She lowered Effie into her mother’s outstretched arms.
As she moved away, Mercy snagged her arm. “Thank you, Isobel. Thank you for helping get my darling Effie here safe and sound. There was no time to fetch old Elena from the village, and poor Gretna was so afraid because she’d never delivered such a bairn before.”
“I feel blessed to have been a part of Effie’s arrival.” Isobel cupped the child’s head. The wee one’s dark hair was quickly drying and growing silky as thistle flower. “Now Willa and I shall fetch Graham whilst Catriona and Gretna get Effie and yerself better settled.”
Willa took hold of Isobel’s hand, bouncing along beside her as they rounded the wall of warriors. Isobel grinned at the poor man on the end, sweating but maintaining the position of the makeshift wall. “Ye can rest soon. It will nay take them long to get her sorted.”
“Thank ye, m’lady,” the polite man said with a strained smile.
“Can I be the one to fetch Uncle Graham?” Willa asked as they exited the keep.
“Aye. Run and fetch him.” Isobel shielded her eyes from the brightness of the wonderful day, searching the bailey for Alasdair. She spotted him near the guard tower, chatting with Alexander. Both men looked toward her at the sound of her approach.
She smiled and made the announcement before they even asked. “A healthy wee lassie. Both Effie and mother are doing well.”
“Effie,” Alasdair repeated with a pleased nod. “A fine name.”
“Aye,” Alexander agreed. “Graham will be beside himself.”
“Willa’s gone in search of him. Yer daughter was a great help in getting the babe here.” Isobel looped her arm through Alasdair’s, wishing Alexander would leave. “Ye should praise her greatly when next ye see her.”
Alexander shook his head. “Six years old and already midwifing. The child never ceases to amaze me.” He smiled as Graham loped past them, vaulted the steps leading up to the keep, and disappeared inside. “I best go pay my respect to my new niece.”
“I as well,” Alasdair chuckled.
“Ye may go in a moment,” Isobel said as she pulled back on his arm.
Alexander paused and gave them both a puzzled look, then shrugged and left when Isobel nodded and waved him on.
“What is it, love?” Alasdair took hold of both her hands, concern wiping the happiness from his face.
“Has Mr. Abernathy already left?”
“Aye.”
“But he did say yer home in Edinburgh is ready as soon as ye care to return?” Isobel pulled her hands free of his, clasping them across her middle.
“Aye, but there’s nay reason to hurry if ye wish
to stay here and help Mercy with the babe.” Alasdair gave a faint smile. “I know how women are with bairns.”
“Do ye now?” Isobel lifted her chin. “And how are ye with bairns?”
Alasdair shrugged. “All right, I reckon. Although I prefer the older ones.” He grinned. “Connor is the perfect age.”
“I see.” Isobel put on as serious a face as she could manage. “Perhaps we best stay here a while so ye can practice with wee Effie.”
“Practice?” A more confused look on her beloved man’s face she’d never seen.
Isobel nodded. “Aye. Practice.” She took a step closer, tilted her head, and smiled. “Tiny Effie is good practice for ye holding yer own wee one come late next summer.”
Alasdair’s jaw dropped. “A child?”
“Our child,” Isobel corrected.
“Our child!” Alasdair roared as he grabbed her up into his arms and spun her about. “Our child,” he repeated as he stopped spinning, set her on her feet, and gazed into her eyes. “Finally,” he whispered. “Our dreams…”
“Aye, m’love.” Isobel stretched for a kiss, then pulled back and smiled. “All our dreams have at last come true.”
Epilogue
Three years later…
Edinburgh, Scotland
Late summer 1701
“Barely two years old and already sitting a horse.”
“Aye.” Alasdair smiled. A mix of love, pride, and contentment filled him as he leaned against the paddock fence and watched Connor walking the docile mare that had once been his. Upon picking out his own much larger horse from Tor Ruadh’s stables, the eight-year-old hadn’t hesitated in passing along the smaller mount to his wee sister.
“Faster!” the little girl ordered. She squirmed and bounced, thumping her tiny heels against the saddle’s sides. “Faster, bruvver!”
“’Tis fast enough, Keavy,” Connor scolded, although he relented and increased his pace a bit. “Sit ye still this instant, or I’ll be gettin’ ye down from there.”
The Judge (Highland Heroes Book 3) Page 29
