The rain fell in gusty sheets, rendering the trees under which Quinn waited useless in terms of keeping him dry. Water dripped from every leaf, running down the back of his neck and into his tunic, over his face, plastering his hair to his head. He imagined his normally dark thatch would appear black both thanks to the rain and the darkness.

He reminded himself that this worked in his favor, in spite of his discomfort.

As he crouched beneath the tree, the road which ran alongside the River Lochy in view, he could not help but think of his brother.

How different he’d looked when Quinn had visited the prison. How old, how drawn. The lad could not be older than twenty-seven, and yet he might have easily passed for a grandfather. The circles under his eyes, as though he’d smudged ash there.

“How long have ye been here?” Quinn had asked upon first seeing Lennox, taking note of his tattered tunic and trousers.

“I cannot say,” his brother had admitted. “I’ve lost track of the days. What is the date?”

“This is the last day of March.”

Lennox’s already haunting eyes had gone wide. “They brought me here just before Christmastide.”

“You’ve been here for three months.” It was not a question. It was a statement of horror. How had he survived so long without breaking entirely?

Then again, perhaps he had broken. Perhaps the poor, sad, helpless shell of a man who sat upon the bench opposite Quinn’s was all Lennox would ever be.

Then, he had smiled. “My brother. It’s been far too many years.”

Shame had rushed to the surface of Quinn’s thoughts, darkening his face. “Aye. Too long.”

Lennox had shaken his head. “Not at all. You’ve had your life to live, as every man does. I only hope ye haven’t made the mistakes of your older brother.”

“I hear you married. I wish I had known.”

Another smile, wider this time. “Aye. Aileen. We have twin girls, Innis and Cairstine. They’re three years old. It’s glad I am that they’re but bairns. They need not bear their father’s shame.”

“What happened? How did this come to pass?”

“Father’s creditors,” Lennox had spat, a bit of his old fire returning along with the memory.

“But how? Did they not forgive his debts?”

“They claimed to but recalled them when it was convenient. They received word that the farm was failing—it wasn’t,” he’d been quick to add, “but the harvest wasn’t strong, and a few of the cows fell ill and died, meaning I would have to purchase more. The man who holds the next parcel of land, Alec, was one of the men to whom Father owed money. Do ye remember him?”

“Aye. A nasty man.” And an extremely wealthy one.

“That would be him,” Lennox had confirmed, a hard glint in his eye. “He was quick to provide me with what I needed after Father died and I was left at sea, without enough understanding of how to run a farm. Seed, a few hands to assist in the planting, and the like. It turns out, he had loaned Father many things over the years. I was never aware of just how much. When he decided it was time to collect, I had nothing to give him. He decided that instead of demanding I repay, he would simply take ownership of the land.”

Quinn had frowned. “What was your response?”

“What do ye think? I blacked his eye and knocked out one of his teeth.”

“Because ye were in your cups,” Quinn had muttered.

Lennox’s jaw had set in a hard line so much like their Father’s, and, Quinn could admit, like his own when he was feeling stubborn. “What of it? Right is right. That land has been Murray land for generations. We’ve been free men, outside the rule of lords and the like. Land of our own, which we’ve been fortunate enough to tend to feed and provide for our families.”

“How much does he want?” Quinn had asked, overlooking sentimentality. It helped no one.

Lennox had looked at the floor. “You’re forgetting something.”

“What is that?”

“He spoke with each of the other men to whom Father owed something and worked out the value of each debt, and to each of the ones I owed, then paid it off in order to carry the full debt on his own.”

“I see.” A shrewd man, to be certain. “And how much is that, all told?”

“Ten pounds, seven shillings.”

“Ten and seven?” The number was enough to knock the air from Quinn’s lungs. He’d never seen ten pounds all at once in his life.

“Aye. I’m certain some of it is additional shillings he’s added on for his troubles,” Lennox had snarled.

It was enough to make Quinn wish for five minutes alone with old Alec, but it would do no good. The matter had been turned over to the comhdhail, and the assembly of men who composed the court had sentenced Lennox to prison until the debt was repaid.

Killing Alec would not erase the record of the debt.

Quinn had craned his neck to look through the open door to the communal room in which prisoners were kept. All of them—men, women, children—in one great room. The horrors of what must have taken place in there were not lost on Quinn, nor was the sound of great, wracking coughs and groans of misery from inside.

Illness spread like fire through a dry forest in such a place. There was no telling what might befall Lennox if he spent much more time in there.

“I will help ye,” Quinn had promised as the guards approached to take his brother away.

“No, ye cannot. Ye must not. Not for me.”

Quinn had stared into his brother’s eyes, willing himself to commit them to memory. “No Murray dies in a debtors’ prison. I wasn’t going to tell ye of my plan, but I want ye to have a little hope to hold on to. I will free ye from this place and see ye back with your family. On our land.”

He’d watched as the guards led Lennox to the communal room with its filthy walls and floor, where women huddled their sickly children in the corners, and the healthy men paced like caged animals, while the ill simply curled up against the wall and waited to die.

He remembered all of this as he crouched by the tree, soaked to the skin, waiting for the chance to overtake a rider or carriage. He’d already collected fifteen shillings, the better part of a pound, along with a few pieces of jewelry which might fetch a sum. They were tucked deep in the leather purse he wore on a strap across his chest, never willing to be far from his treasures.

If he didn’t die of the grippe after spending so much time in the cold, wet woods, he would have his brother out of prison before long.

He needed to believe it.