The sentries, as Alec had suspected, had taken advantage of their officers being away to gather for a celebration of their own. Their sergeant joined them as they passed around a fat jug of something, laughing together in a circle of firelight, well away from the house.

One of the men was about to go on leave, to return home where his wife had borne their first child. He took a lot of teasing, growling at their remarks, but he remained good-natured.

They were, in short, bored soldiers who’d taken the King’s shilling for the pay, and didn’t much care whether they guarded a house in the English woods or camped in mud in the middle of France. They obviously were not worried about their captives escaping or of anyone walking in to rescue them.

Malcolm might have set off an incendiary device deep in the woods to attract their attention, but Alec did not want these lounging soldiers to come alert. He’d had a better idea when he’d seen the penned-up sheep on the farm at the other end of Hungerford Park, which were released during the day to keep the lawn trimmed.

Padruig had not been happy with his part to play, but he took Alec’s coin and melted away to obey.

Timed to the second, the sound of bleating filled the woods, and the soldiers groaned. “Bloody hell,” the sergeant snarled. “That’s the second time this week. Can’t the man fix his fences? He’s a bleeding duke after all. Go on, corporal—take your men and herd them back. Next time, we’ll dine on fresh mutton and to hell with it.”

Most of the guards trudged into the woods, making plenty of noise. The sheep, happy with their midnight freedom, dashed hither and yon, leading them on a merry chase.

The door sentry left to help.

Alec darted out of the shadows, sank down, and inserted a stiff wire into the back door’s lock. Wilfort stepped in front of him, hiding him from anyone who might happen to glance from the woods. After a moment or two, the lock clicked open.

Wilfort stayed behind as a lookout as Alec slipped inside. The story Wilfort would tell if caught was that he’d grown bored with the duke’s ball and had taken a walk—more or less the truth.

Alec moved swiftly through an empty hall that ran the length of the house, doors on either side of it. None were locked, he discovered, but the rooms held no Scottish prisoners. He found cots, a makeshift kitchen, an office—the barracks of the soldiers.

Two doors very close to each other opened to stairs, one flight going up, the other going down. Alec had reasoned they’d keep the prisoners in the cellar, but a muffled groan from above changed his mind. He started up silently.

At the top was another hall, also lined with doors, but each of these had been fixed with a solid wooden bar that rested in slots in the doorframe, bolting them firmly shut. A man inside might pick or break open a lock, but escaping through the thick bar would be a different matter.

The doors were paneled and painted, once elegant, but the bolts fixed on them were roughhewn, the effect like a lady covering a lovely gown with a course, homespun cloak.

The hall held a dozen doors. Will might be behind one of them, or not here at all.

Alec grunted as he heaved the first bar out of its slots and then picked the lock. He swung the door open but took a quick step back as a thick miasma of unwashed bodies and un-emptied slop pails wafted out at him.

No light flickered here, and the shaft from Alec’s dark lantern barely illuminated two unmoving lumps of men, chained, on the floor of a room devoid of furniture, the window shuttered and covered with iron bars. The men wore linen shirts and breeches and were barefoot, with no blankets against the cool of the night. Their hair was thickly matted, beards hid their faces, and each had one hand manacled to an iron bar in the wall.

They didn’t stir as Alec looked in on them. Neither of the men was Will—they didn’t possess the length of limbs or flame-red hair of his brother. Alec moved inside, removed another tool from his pocket, and unscrewed the manacles.

The men never woke. Alec left them and went to the next room to find a similar scene. This time, when he went to loosen the manacles, a hand came out to seize Alec’s throat in a surprisingly strong grip.

Alec looked into blue eyes, which widened. “Alec Mackenzie?” came a hoarse whisper. “Bloody hell.”

“Stuart Cameron?”

A Highlander, friend to Will, a man Alec had seen often enough in his lifetime. Stuart’s face was covered with a filthy beard, his face creased with blood and dirt, but his eyes held fire.

“Aye, that’s me, as much as they try to make me forget me name. Ye best go from here, lad, lest they chain you up with us.”

“Rot that.” Alec unscrewed his manacles. “Can ye stand?”

“I’ll do.”

Alec pressed the screwdriver into his hand. “Free the others. I’m looking for Will. Is he here?”

Stuart shook his head. “I only ever see him, and the bloody Sassenach soldiers.” He gestured with his foot at the unconscious man next to him. “They put me in here with a McTavish. Can ye credit it?”

“There are horses at the edge of the woods. A boat waiting in the Thames. Sentries are distracted. Get yourself and as many as you can out of here. Now.”

Stuart had enough raiding and fighting days behind him to know how to move rapidly. He nodded and had the second man unscrewed and shaken awake before Alec made it to the hall.

He tried three more doors, finding the same behind each—a pair of men, chained and asleep, barefoot, beaten, starved, and exhausted. Alec hurriedly loosened their manacles with a second screwdriver in his pocket—Mal had taught him to always bring more than one tool, just in case.

Alec moved to the next room on the corridor, making himself go methodically through each one. He didn’t want to miss Will or make too much noise because he got in a hurry.

When he opened one door and went through, a man rose up behind him, wrapped chains around Alec’s neck, and pulled them tight.

Alec fought hard, but the hands on the chains were relentless. The man on the floor rose, also inexplicably free of his manacles, and plunged a dirk at Alec’s heart.

At the last moment, the blade halted. “Will!” the man with the dirk cried in a hoarse whisper. “Leave off! It’s Alec!”

For a second, the chains didn’t waver, then they rattled and fell away. A pair of raw, red hands spun him around, and Alec looked into the face of Will Mackenzie.

Alec barely recognized him. While his beard had not grown as thick and tangled as the others’, his face was covered with scraggly whiskers that could not hide the bruises and raw wounds on his face. His fingers trembled as he held Alec, and his breathing was shallow.

His eyes, though, Mackenzie gold, burned like living fire.

Without a word, Will dragged Alec to him, closing his arms around him in a rib-crushing hug. Alec held him in an embrace for a long moment, rejoicing that his brother was alive, solid, real.

They pushed from each other at the same instant, their relieved looks turning to glares.

“Come on, man, we’re going,” Alec said.

“What the devil are ye doing here?” Will growled at the same time. “Get out before ye ruin everything.”

“What do ye mean, ruin everything? I’m rescuing ye, ye ungrateful bastard.”

“Who asked ye to? I’m trying to figure out what these poxy Sassenach soldiers are up to. A few more days, I’ll know.”

“They’re up to executing you, that’s what,” Alec snapped. “We’re going.”

“Ye don’t understand—”

The man with the dirk cut him off. “We have enough, Willie. It’s too risky to stay.”

Will scrubbed his hand through his hair in a familiar gesture that made Alec’s heart squeeze, and let out a snarling groan.

“Aye, you’re right. I’ll free the others. Alec, go on before you’re caught. I’ll be along.”

“Stuart Cameron is letting out the others. I have horses waiting and vehicles for those too weak to ride. Gair’s on the Thames, ready to float us off.”

Will shook his head. “Wagons will be too slow.”

“Not wagons. Chaises and coaches, pulled by fast horses.” Alec took Will’s arm and swung him around. “Now, go!”

Will’s cellmate pushed past them both with a fierce look and headed into the corridor. Will and Alec followed, and they found the other men freed, Stuart Cameron herding them to the stairs, the more injured slung over the shoulders of the less injured.

The house remained quiet as they trundled out, but Stuart halted after a peek out the door. “There’s an Englishman out there.”

“Aye. It’s Wilfort—Mal’s wife’s dad,” Alec said. “He’s with me.”

“Wilfort?” Stuart asked, startled. “I remember him from when Murray banged him up at Holyrood. Are you sure?”

Will waved him on. “He’s a decent man, for an English aristo. Besides, when couldn’t ye outfight and outrun one lone silver-haired gent?”

“When soldiers started poking me with bayonets to see how long it took me to scream,” Stuart said, but he made the decision to dart through the door, the others following.

The Earl of Wilfort turned to them and pointed through the trees. “That way. Hurry! I hear others coming.”

The sheep were still bounding through the woods, the shouts of the soldiers faint as they pursued them. What Wilfort had heard, and what Alec did now, was the jingle of harness and the rumble of wheels as a carriage came their way, moving rapidly on the rough road.

The Highlanders dispersed, fading into the mists as silent as smoke. Will looked around, listening. “Sheep?”

“Aye.” Alec took the time to grin. “A good distraction, I thought.”

Will gave him an admiring look. “Did Mal do all this? Where is he?”

Alec scowled. “No, I did, ye ungrateful sod. I have a mind to put you back in there and chain you up myself.”

For a moment, Will looked thoughtful, as though seriously considering the idea. Then he sighed. “No, they’d just kill me now. Wilfort,” he greeted the man as he jogged past. “Pleasant to see you again. Mary was well, last I saw her.”

“So I hear,” Lord Wilfort said. “Both of you, go. I’ll stave off whoever is coming …”

Alec paused to press the man’s hand. “Thank you. I thought Mal was mad to steal away your daughter, but you’ve proved a good friend to us.”

“I thought the same,” Wilfort said with his dry humor. “Now I have a pack of crazed Highlanders for in-laws. I look forward to renewing our acquaintance when I am next in Paris.”

He sketched Alec a bow. Alec shot him a salute and turned to run after Will.

He saw his brother flitting from shadow to shadow, as agile as ever, thank God. Alec’s brain hadn’t quite caught up to the fact that he’d accomplished his mission, but his blood was pounding, his exhilaration high. Celia would be waiting at the boat, as would Jenny, all prearranged and planned to the last detail.

Alec heard a shout. He turned as the carriage, its lamps flaring, surged along the narrow drive to the old house. Alec saw the large frame of the regimental colonel drop from the box, along with what looked like Celia’s brother. He then saw Lord Chesfield emerge from the carriage, followed by the Duke of Crenshaw.

The colonel and Chesfield yelled for the sentries, bellowing orders and curses. The duke slammed the carriage door but remained behind, arguing with someone inside the coach, not noticing Wilfort approach him.

The carriage door opened again, and Alec went cold as he saw his wife emerge and climb to the ground in a flurry of skirts.

* * *

“Papa, you have to stop them,” Celia cried as she sprang from the carriage’s lower step, clutching at her father to keep from slipping. She’d found and restored her shoes, but they were useless in the churned-up mud.

The duke steadied her with concern. “I see no sentries or soldiers—something is wrong. But do not worry, my dear, I won’t let them execute the men tonight. I will see that they’re conveyed to London, where they’ll have a proper trial.”

Her father did not understand it had gone far beyond that. Uncle Perry and his pet colonel were crazed with hatred.

Celia clutched his sleeve. “Alec is in there—I mean Mr. Finn. He’s gone to find his brother. You can’t let them kill him, Papa—please!”

The duke’s eyes widened. “Child, what are you saying? Why would Mr. Finn’s brother …?” He trailed off as realization grew. “Mr. Finn is a Highlander? But—I thought he was Irish.”

Celia was too anguished to worry about explaining. “You have the power to stop them. Please do not let Uncle Perry kill my husband!”

The duke gaped at her for a moment longer before he squared his shoulders, turned, and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Perry! Chesfield! Come back at once!”

Colonel Kell and Edward returned to the carriage before the others, the colonel with his pistol out. “They’ve gone—escaped,” Kell snapped. He took in the duke’s expression and abruptly trained the pistol on him. “You did this.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Celia said heatedly. “My father didn’t even know the prisoners were here.”

Uncle Perry rushed into the light thrown by the coach lamps. “What are you doing, Kell? Get out there and hunt them down.”

“No,” the duke said in a hard voice. “Let them go.”

Uncle Perry spun to face his brother-in-law. His dark eyes held the same chill as Celia’s mother’s. “And let them burn and pillage their way through the countryside, raping and killing as they go?”

“They are broken wretches who will flee the country,” the duke said. “If they even live to reach the coast.”

“Have you lost your mind, old man?” Uncle Perry roared. “I’ll tell Freya to declare you insane, and I’ll take over your command. You are a bloody, weak fool, and the sooner you step aside, the better.”

“I believe I am my father’s heir,” Edward said with quiet fury. “When he is gone, you will answer to me.”

“I made you, Edward,” Uncle Perry’s eyes glittered with triumph. “You are mine.”

“No one made me.” Edward’s voice was quiet but strong. “I have listened to you disparage my father and sister for long enough. You are nothing, and now you are finished.”

Uncle Perry’s eyes burned first with fury then calculation. “No matter. The Highlanders have escaped, and they are murdering as they go. What a pity the duke and his son were caught in the melee.”

He aimed his pistol at Edward, and gave the colonel, who still had his gun aimed at the duke, the nod to fire. Celia shouted and lunged for Perry.

Two horses charged out of the darkness. One bowled right into Colonel Kell, sending him into Edward, who grappled with him as they went down. The second horse skimmed past Uncle Perry, a fist coming down to slam into the side of Uncle Perry’s head.

Uncle Perry dropped, the pistol falling uselessly from his grasp. The duke cried out and threw up his hands in defense, but Alec galloped past him and then wheeled his horse and returned, reaching down for Celia.

“Are you mad?” she shouted at him. “I can’t possibly—”

Edward and Colonel Kell continued to wrestle. The colonel rolled on top of Edward, and now the pistol pointed at Edward’s head.

The man on the first horse leapt from it, tackling the colonel. Edward grabbed at the pistol, but Colonel Kell held on to it as he clawed and kicked and fought both Edward and the very dirty and battered man who’d landed on him. The three men tumbled and tangled, the battered man gaining his feet again, just as the pistol went off.

“Edward!” Celia screamed.

Alec slid off his horse. He caught Celia as she rushed to her brother, moved her gently aside, and ran to Edward himself.

Alec and Will rolled Colonel Kell from Edward. Edward grunted and pushed the colonel away, coming to his feet, his wig hanging from the epaulette on his shoulder. His white cravat was now scarlet, but Edward stood upright, breathing hard.

“Bloody hell,” Edward said. “Bloody, bloody hell.”

Colonel Kell, the man who’d violated Lady Flora’s daughter, who’d caused Sophia’s death and Lady Flora so much grief, was dead, a bullet from his own pistol in his chest. Lady Flora now had her revenge.

The Highlander who seized Uncle Perry by the collar and hauled him up was tall and grim, and had eyes so like Alec’s Celia knew at once who he was. Those eyes held impossible fury as he shook Uncle Perry until Perry woke with a gasp.

Uncle Perry gazed at Will for a stunned second, and then a look of terrible fear came over him. “No,” he croaked, before Will Mackenzie’s fist caught him on the side of the face once, twice, thrice.

Again and again, Will hit him, until Uncle Perry’s face was covered with blood, and he collapsed once more into a senseless heap.

Will let him drop, kicked the man’s ribs, spat on him, and turned to Alec, fierce satisfaction in his eyes.

“There. Now, I’m ready.”

Will flowed up onto the horse and turned it, nudging it forward. Alec once more held out his hand to Celia.

The duke gave Celia a look of such distress that her breath caught. She went to her father and took his hands.

“I’ll come back, Papa. One day, I promise. But Alec is my husband. I pledged myself to him with all my heart—and I love him.” There, she’d said it.

The duke’s eyes moistened. “But how will you live? He’s an outlaw …”

“I will provide well for her,” Alec said. “My real name is Alec Mackenzie, and my father’s a duke. I have a fair bit put by, all safe in France and the Low Countries. She’ll live like a princess. My da’ and brothers would let me do nothing less.”

The duke swallowed, blinking back his tears. “Go then, my dear. I’ll deal with your Uncle Perry. And your mother.”

He lifted his chin as he said this last. The worm had turned, Celia decided. She knew her father was stronger than he let on—a learned man, preferring his books to people, he nonetheless had power, and he knew it. To keep the peace he let others do as they wished, but Celia had a feeling that peace had come to an end. She almost wished she could see her mother’s face when the duke confronted her.

Almost. Alec was her husband, and she was leaving with him.

“I’ll look after him,” Edward told her. He caught Celia in an embrace. “Be well, sweet sister.”

“Thank you.” Celia kissed his cheek. She turned from him and seized her father’s hands again, pressing a kiss to each one. “I love you, Papa. Come and visit me in Paris.”

As usual, her father looked embarrassed at her open display, but his smile was warm. “I will be there, daughter.”

And she knew he would be.

“Come along, my love.” Alec guided her with his arm around her waist to the horse. “Before my impatient brother drags me off by the hair. Ah, here he is.”

Will had galloped back, a pistol gripped in his hand. “Time and tide, brother.”

Alec swung onto the horse. He reached down for Celia, who had to kick off her brocaded slippers to put her foot on his boot and let him haul her upward. Her skirts billowed, making the horse dance. She wished she’d been able to change to the more sensible clothes she’d planned to wear to the boat, but it couldn’t be helped.

“What are you doing?” Will demanded as the horses sprang forward. “Carrying her off, are ye? Isn’t that going a bit too far?”

“She’s my wife, ye ass. I’m not leaving her behind.”

Will whirled around, barely missing a low-hanging limb. “Your wife?” His eyes widened as he took in Celia, Alec holding her close. “Good Lord, you’re quick off the mark. It’s only been a month since I last saw you. When did you find time to get yourself married?”

“’Tis a fine tale,” Alec said. “One to tell to while away a sea voyage. If we ever get there.”

Will gave Celia one last amazed look, then he turned and urged his horse onward.

Alec laughed as he followed, holding Celia rock steady on the saddle. She relaxed back into him, curling her stockinged feet in the cool air, knowing he’d never let her fall.