by Amy Jarecki
When she found the gate, she tied Albert’s lead to one of the bars and grasped the lock between her hands. Goodness, it was heavy. A hairpin wasn’t going to be strong enough for this monster.
Digging in her satchel, she found a slender iron pick at the bottom—one Robert had given her during his lock picking lessons. She inserted it into the keyhole and turned her ear. A padlock this size ought to have two shackles, and the trick was finding the second one. Working the pick forward a fraction of an inch at a time, she patiently listened.
Clink.
Stopping, she tightened her grip. There’s the first.
Emma bit her lip and levered the pick upward ever so slightly. Another clink came when she tried to move it forward, but the sound didn’t have the right resonance. She needed to hear a hollow, unmistakable chime, a noise no untrained person would be able to distinguish.
Levering the pick a mere fraction, she tried again. This time the tool slid easily.
Clink.
She dared to inhale.
“Will Dunollie meet you here?” asked Sam.
“Shhh.”
If she wasn’t successful now, she’d have to start over.
Footsteps approached on the wall-walk above, coming from the direction of Loch Linnhe.
Every muscle in Emma’s body tensed, her heart suddenly racing. “Haste,” she whispered. “Clamp your hand around Albert’s muzzle and crouch in the gateway.”
“Stay,” Sam growled with a bit of rustling.
The dog wriggled and grunted while the soldier paused right above them. Had he seen them? Could he hear the dog’s impatient snorts?
Dear God, please let him pass!
Emma’s breath rushed in her ears as she willed Albert to remain calm. Her head spun. In the next heartbeat all could be ruined. The padlock slipped in her sweaty palm, and the fingers of her right hand twitched from holding the pick steady.
Help!
The soldier marched on, moving toward the loch until his steps faded into the sounds of the breeze and the lake lapping the shore.
“That was too close,” whispered Sam.
“The sentry had no idea we were here,” she said with more confidence than she felt.
“May I release Albert now?”
“Aye.” With a flick of her fingers, the metallic clack of the padlock opening rang like a bell in the night air.
“Holy smokes, you did it.” The lad’s voice was filled with disbelief.
Emma held out the pick. “This is one skill my brother taught me that once seemed nothing more than an idle pastime. But at long last it has proved quite valuable.” She slipped the tool into her satchel and untied Albert’s lead from the bar.
“It seems like we’re a fair bit lower than the fortress grounds.” She inclined her ear upward. “Are there stairs?”
“Seven of them. You do not want me to go in there, do ye?”
“Nay. Can you whistle like a blackbird?”
“Aye.”
“Stay hidden in the stairwell, but if you see any danger, whistle ever so quietly.”
“What if they see you?”
“Then I’ll have to pretend I’m a ghost, will I not?” She smiled, though no one need remind her she was about to enter the lion’s den. Drawing in a deep breath, Emma faced the most perilous seven and sixty paces she would ever cross. With luck, this might be the one time in her life when darkness was her friend.
“Ye’re either brave or mad, I’ll say.”
“Perhaps I’m a bit of both.” She climbed the stairs, running her hand along the stone wall.
At the top she stopped and held the kerchief to Albert’s nose. “Find Ciar.”
“He’s nay a bloodhound,” Sam whispered a bit too loudly.
“At least he’s a dog.” Emma turned toward the sound of Sam’s voice. “Stay hidden.”
“I will.”
With a tug of the leash, she slipped against the north wall and headed west toward Loch Linnhe. Eleven paces took her to the corner. The smell of horses and hay reassured her.
Only forty-five paces to reach the rear of the officers’ hold.
Halfway, a gentle whistle came.
She pulled Albert against the ramparts and held his muzzle. “Stay,” she commanded, barely whispering.
The footsteps clapped the wall-walk again. Heavier this time, but still she heard only one guard.
She froze, imagining herself bathed in light, terrified she’d be seen.
Albert squirmed.
“Shhhh!” she whispered with her heart flying to her throat.
Emma’s mind ran the gamut as the dragoon neared. How would she respond if he spotted her? Apologize? Tell him she was lost? Admit she was taking a lock picker to Ciar? What about a pastry? She was blind, after all. How could she know if it was day or night? Bless it, if she had thought, she might have stopped by the baker’s and purchased a tart or something to make her excuse more plausible.
But the guard continued along the wall, not even pausing this time.
She allowed herself to breathe. Thank heavens.
Hearing no other movement, Emma continued counting her steps. At forty-five paces, her hands started trembling uncontrollably. She’d need to move away from the wall now. Out of the shadows. She’d be even more vulnerable.
Eight paces to the front.
But when she turned and reached out, Ciar’s cell wasn’t there. How far off track was she? Had she turned the wrong way?
Help! I ken I counted correctly.
After forcing herself to take a calming inhalation, she smelled the horses. Perhaps she hadn’t walked far enough? A soft neigh came from her left. She held the kerchief to Albert’s nose again. “Please, laddie, take me to Ciar!”
The dog walked on, his tail slapping her knee. Beneath her boots was the familiar sound of gravel crunching. Was she close?
Three paces to the door.
Emma let Albert lead her the few paces. He stopped and nuzzled her hand.
“Here?” she asked, reaching out, her fingers brushing wood. Tears welled in her eyes as she drew a breath of relief. “You are brilliant.”
She found the padlock right below the latch. This model was easy, nowhere near as large as the lock at the postern gate.
“Ciar?” she whispered. “Are you ready?”
Pulling a hairpin from her chignon, she set to work on the lock, praying she’d found the right door.
“Emma?” A healthy dose of disbelief reflected in Ciar’s voice.
Nonetheless, the sound made her heart jolt like a spark from a fire. “’Tis me.”
She released the lock with a flick of her wrist and opened the door, reaching inside. “We must hasten. A guard walks the ramparts every few minutes.”
“Aye, I’ve noticed that as well. But how did you slip through the gates?”
She found his hand and pulled. “A wee iron lock pick. A gift from my brother, six years past.”
“Wait.” Ciar didn’t budge. “When did the guard last walk by?”
“At pace twenty-two behind the barn.”
“A few minutes ago?” he asked.
“Possibly. My heart’s been hammering so, it seems as if hours have passed.”
He pulled her inside and closed the door. “Let us wait here until the next sentry makes his round, then we’ll go.”
She nodded. “Very well. Good thinking.”
Ciar kept hold of her hand as they silently stood, the sound of his breathing making her heart soar. Just standing here with him made the danger and the terror of venturing into the unknown worthwhile.
Good heavens, she’d done it! She’d spirited inside the most highly guarded fortress in the Highlands and found him. If only she could tell this man how much he meant to her. She ached to wrap her arms around him this very minute and never let go.
“I cannot believe you took such a grave risk.” His warm breath skimmed her ear while the deep, bass resonance of his voice made a shiver course across the back
of her neck.
She squeezed his big palm. “There was no other way. If you stay here, Wilcox will hang you for certain.”
“You’ve come now, and that’s what matters. But I should not have told you the only way to prove my innocence is outside Fort William’s walls.”
“I spoke to the governor, and it is the truth. Everyone kens you’re innocent except Wilcox.”
“And his army.”
She gulped. “Aye, you would mention that.”
Albert growled at the sound of an approaching soldier. Emma quickly pulled him to her side and held his muzzle. “Shhh.”
This time two guards came past, the murmur of their voices rising over the sounds of the night. They stopped and chatted for a time while Emma hardly dared to breathe. Albert jerked his head, trying to free himself.
“No!” she whispered, fighting him and keeping her fingers clamped. “S-stay!” she hissed, and the dog immediately settled. For heaven’s sake, “stay” had worked before; she shouldn’t have changed the command.
After what seemed like an eternity, the soldiers continued on their watch and Emma released her fingers. “That was close.”
“The dog’s young.”
“But he’s smart. And he helped me find you.”
“Bless him.” Ciar tugged her fingers. “Let’s go.”
“Skirt around to the left, ’tis eight paces to the wall, and then we’ll have the shadows of the stables to keep us hidden.”
“You will never cease to amaze me,” he murmured, taking her hand and moving into the lead.
Chapter Thirteen
Ciar held tight to Emma’s hand, praying the dog wouldn’t see a rabbit and bark, let alone charge off and make chase. It was a miracle the lass had managed to spirit inside with the pup and not be caught.
She never should have risked entering the stronghold at this hour, let alone traveling to Fort William with but a boy as her escort. Nonetheless, she possessed a backbone hewn of steel. Hands down, Emma Grant was the bravest, if not the foolhardiest, woman he’d ever encountered.
As they reached the edge of the stables, Ciar stopped.
“There’s eleven paces to the sally port,” she whispered.
Thank God. He could barely discern the shadow marking the gateway. The moon illuminated the clouds above. It was dark but not dark enough.
“Are you ready?”
“Ready never to set foot on Fort William’s soil again.”
“I’ll second that.” Though Ciar knew he’d return. It was the only way.
Emma’s estimation of eleven paces hit the mark. He squeezed her hand as he checked all sides to ensure they were alone. “The first step to the gate is here.”
“The first of seven.”
“How—?”
Sam’s shadowy face peered through the gateway. “There you are.”
“Arf!” barked Alfred. “Arf, arf!”
“Hush,” Emma squeaked as voices rose, coming from the gatehouse.
Out of the corner of his eye, Ciar spotted a flash. “Get down!” he shouted as a musket fired from across the grounds. “Run!”
“Sam!” Emma called. “Fetch the horses.”
Ciar started to pull her toward a moored skiff. A boat would take them home faster, but a good marksman might shoot them dead before they could row out of gunshot range. In the blink of an eye, he changed directions and headed for the horses.
A cacophony of bangs and shouts came from the barracks as the troops stirred. God save them, the entire regiment would be upon them in seconds.
“Haste!” Ciar roared, spotting redcoats with muskets racing atop the wall-walk.
As the lad approached with the reins in his fist, Ciar grabbed Emma’s waist and hoisted onto a saddleless steed. Taking the reins, he took two steps back and vaulted into place behind her. “Come, Sam!” he bellowed, digging his heels into the horse’s barrel. “Ride close to the wall and follow me.”
Bellows of “Dunollie” and “Grant” rose as he galloped the horse for the road, leaning forward and shielding Emma with his body. “Keep your head down,” he hollered back to Sam.
The lad stayed right behind, handling his steed like a jockey, exactly what Ciar would expect from the son of a coachman. As they hit the road, Ciar ignored his urge to head south and led the way north—far enough to confuse anyone who made chase.
Before he crossed the river, he led them upstream to hide their tracks, then turned at an old croft and followed a rutted road through the byways of town.
“Where are we headed?” asked Emma.
“Somewhere you’ll be safe.”
“But we need to prove your innocence.”
“Correction,” he growled over his shoulder. “Only I can prove my innocence.”
“But they’ll be looking for me as well. You heard them. They were shouting my clan name as well as yours.”
Ciar clamped his molars until they hurt. It would be a risk to send her back to Achnacarry and even riskier to send her home to Glenmoriston—not to mention in entirely the wrong direction. He knew of only one place in the Highlands where he could provide her with sanctuary. Only one place where he could ensure her safety.
“Does Janet ken where you are?” he asked.
“Most likely she has figured it out by now.”
Gnashing his teeth, Ciar demanded more speed from his mount, as if he was in the race of his life. “Good God, she’s doubtless worried out of her mind.”
“It wasn’t to be helped. She would have stopped me had I mentioned what I was up to.” Emma shifted against his chest, turning her face toward him. “Regardless, we must send word straightaway. The last thing I desire is to upset her.”
If Ciar knew Her Ladyship, she’d already be beside herself with worry.
Sam reined his mount up to their flank. “Are we past the danger?”
After checking over his shoulder, Ciar slowed the pace to a fast trot. “We won’t be past danger for sennights. And mark me, Wilcox will never rest until he has my neck in a noose.”
“Or you prove your innocence,” added the lass.
He couldn’t agree more. “Aye, God willing.”
Emma yawned and shook her head. “Will we ride throughout the night?”
Sam did the same, wiping his brow in the crook of his elbow. “I’ve no idea how long I’ll be able to keep me eyes open. We rode all last night as well.”
“Ballocks,” Ciar swore under his breath. Too many things could go wrong. They needed help—mayhap send the boy home or find a boat or bloody hide. “All right, then. I’ve a friend in Corran who owes me a favor.”
“Isn’t it too dangerous to stop?” Emma asked. “The redcoats cannot be far behind.”
“Mark me, if we stop, our chances of making it safely out of here will quadruple.”
It was still dark with no sign of sunrise when Ciar reined his horse to a stop in the shadows of an enormous sycamore outside Dicky MacIain’s cottage. The old crofter ran a few head of sheep as well as the ferry across the narrows of Loch Linnhe.
“The pair of you stay on your mounts whilst I rouse him.” Albert followed as Ciar started off, but he dismissed the dog with a flick of his wrist. “Och, go wait with Miss Emma.”
She followed with a sharp “stay.” If only she had left the laddie behind, they might have fled without an army on their heels.
But hindsight was always the best teacher.
Ciar didn’t knock on the door. Dicky had a reputation for being a sound sleeper, and time was not in his favor. Instead, he climbed through a window, lit a candle from the coals in the hearth, and headed straight for the back room. Raucous snores led him to Dicky’s bedside. Thanks for small mercies, the old fella was alone.
He nudged the man in the shoulder. “Wake up. I’m in need of a favor.”
Dicky sputtered and gasped, reaching for his dirk.
As a slight glint of steel flashed, Ciar pinned his friend’s arm to the bed, dripping a bit of candle wax on the man
’s forehead for good measure. “’Tis me, ye angry bear.”
The old crofter sputtered. “Dunollie?”
“Aye.”
“But I thought—”
“You thought nothing,” Ciar growled. “I need you to ferry a lad across the loch, and I’ll be trading a gelding for the lend of your skiff.”
Bloodshot eyes grew round. “Lend?”
“I’ve no time to haggle. The horse is sound. Whatever you reckon is a fair difference in price, send a note to my factor and it will be paid.” Ciar spotted an old sword propped in a corner and examined it in the candlelight. “And add this piece of rusted iron to my accounting.”
“That was me granddad’s.”
Smirking, he rubbed his thumb across the blade. It was duller than a butter knife but better than nothing. “I’d reckon he was the last one to run it across a sharpening stone as well.”
“Bloody miserable Highlander waking me in the dead of night. A man needs to be shown some respect. I ought to charge a shilling just for the pain in me backside.” Mumbling curses like a peg-legged sailor, Dicky rose and belted a plaid around his waist. “I thought Wilcox was aiming to hang ye.”
Ciar set the candle on a table and shoved the weapon into his belt. “He won’t if I can prove my innocence.”
“Good luck there.” Dicky shoved his feet into his boots. “Everyone from Tarbert to Inverness kens ye’re innocent.”
“There are three scheming dragoons who ken it as well. The same three who murdered MacIntyre and pointed the finger at me.”
“Good God, ye’ll never win against such odds.”
“Not behind bars I won’t.” Ciar marched through to the main room. “Haste. Redcoats aren’t far behind.”
“That would be right, bring a retinue of backbiting government troops to me door, ye thoughtless whelp.”
Ignoring Dicky’s grumblings, Ciar led the way to the sycamore. “Emma, Wilcox kens who ye are, but what about the lad?”
“I told them Sam was my footman.”
He grasped the lad’s bridle. “Did ye speak to anyone? Tell them where you hailed from?”
“No, sir.”
Ciar turned toward Emma. “Did anyone ken you rode in from Achnacarry?”
“No.” She shook her head. “No one asked.”
