Kinloch, Loch Rannoch
27 February 1757
Malcolm slowed his exhausted horse as the rising sun cast pale rays through the mist enveloping the tiny village of Kinloch and the dark loch.
The dragoon barracks wasn’t hard to find. The two-storey thatched stone dwelling—more a house than anything resembling a decent base for troops—lay in the deep shadow of a looming granite hill.
Malcolm dismounted inside the yard with care, holding onto his horse’s saddle for a moment as bile rose in his gorge and a wave of dizziness washed over him. Thanks to Sarah, his head pounded with the steady beat of a battle drum.
The vicious blow she’d struck had rendered him unconscious for a good half hour. With the help of Reverend Lennox, he’d returned to Taymoor Castle to regroup. But between his aching head, and the writhing anger in his gut, he’d eventually given up on sleep and had decided to surrender to the overwhelming urge to wreak bloody vengeance on Alexander MacIvor. And to reclaim Sarah. As much as he despised the bitch, he needed her money.
The light-headedness passed and when Malcolm looked up it was to discover a pair of young, red-coated dragoons eyeing him with suspicion from the shelter of a covered portico. It probably didn’t help he carried a sheathed sword at his waist. If he removed his greatcoat, they’d also see he carried a brace of pistols at his back. After the Rebellion, weapons had been proscribed in the Highlands, but because he was a nobleman loyal to the King, the ban had never applied to him.
One of the lads greeted him as he approached. ‘Good morning, sir. May we be of assistance?’
‘Aye.’ Malcolm wasn’t fooled by the soldier’s cordial tone. Not when both men had tightened their grips on their muskets. ‘And it’s “my lord” as far as you are concerned.’ He removed his tricorn hat, and after tucking it beneath one arm, pulled off his gloves and slapped them against the palm of his hand. ‘I want to speak with your commander. Tell him the Earl of Tay is here.’
The taller, slightly older soldier—a Sassenach judging by his accent—gave a deferential bow. ‘Of course, Lord Tay. Follow me.’
Malcolm was ushered through the entry hall to a small but scrupulously neat office; a bright fire burning in the grate illuminated the gold-embossed print on the spines of the books in a pair of bookcases and a brass candelabrum on the matching desk of polished oak. Malcolm winced and clenched his fist when he saw the candlestick.
The soldier—a corporal—invited him to take a seat in the brown leather wing chair in front of the desk before disappearing. Within a few minutes, a connecting door at the back of the room opened and the dragoon captain emerged.
Malcolm rose as the athletic-looking captain greeted him. ‘Lord Tay, good morning to you. I’m Captain Hamilton. You’ve journeyed a fair way to see me. What can I do for you?’
He indicated they should both take seats so Malcolm reclaimed the wing chair whilst Captain Hamilton took the straight-backed Jacobean chair behind his desk.
Malcolm flicked a piece of non-existent lint off the braided cuff of his greatcoat. ‘I rather think it’s a case of what we can do for each other.’ He reached into his pocket and pulled out his silver snuffbox. ‘Would you care for some?’
Beneath his perfectly dusted periwig, the captain raised an eyebrow. ‘Thank you, but no. Let me tell you something about myself, Lord Tay. I am not fond of snuff or beating about the bush. Perhaps you could speak plainly.’
Malcolm bristled at the Englishman’s condescending tone. Nevertheless, he put away his snuff case and got straight to the point. He really wasn’t in the mood to practise false civility either. ‘Alexander Price of Blackloch Castle is not who he says he is. He’s really Alexander MacIvor, a wanted Jacobite. He fought in the Forty-five, as did his father, Baron Rannoch. I want you to arrest him for treason.’
Captain Hamilton’s expression didn’t change. ‘I’m afraid you are mistaken, my lord,’ he said coolly. ‘I’ve seen Mr Price’s papers and everything is in order. The man I know is above reproach. And by all local accounts, Alexander MacIvor perished in the great fire at Blackloch Castle over ten years ago. I’ve also heard his mother, Lady Rannoch, his younger sister, Anne MacIvor, his affianced, Lady Margaret Stewart, and a good many of the castle’s servants, and defenceless crofter’s families around Loch Rannoch were murdered… by you and your men.’ The captain cocked an eyebrow again. ‘So I think I know everything I need to.’
Malcolm leapt to his feet and planted his fists on the table. ‘Why you puffed-up toadeater. What’s MacIvor paying you? I’ll have you stripped of your rank for this. Court martialed.’
Captain Hamilton also rose and looked down his nose at him. ‘I rather think you won’t. Do you really want everyone to know what you did, my lord?’
Malcolm’s face was hot and his head felt like someone was pounding it with a hammer. ‘I was within my rights.’
‘Yes. Quite. Some indecent souls might believe that but many won’t. How old was young Anne MacIvor again?’
‘Fuck you.’
‘Not today.’ Hamilton’s gaze shifted to the door. ‘Corporal Jones will see you out. I trust your journey back to Taymoor Castle will be a pleasant one.’
Malcolm remounted his horse and spurred the beast into a gallop, heading towards the bridge over the Tummel River. But it wasn’t Taymoor Castle he was bound for.
It was Blackloch.
***
‘Are you almost ready, my love?’ Alex cast a glance at Sarah as he buckled the leather strap on the satchel containing documents he wanted to take to Edinburgh.
‘Yes. I think so.’ She tucked the slim volume of poetry she’d been perusing into her own satchel and glanced towards the library window. ‘I’m pleased to see the weather is holding fair. How far is it to the inn at Moulin?’
‘About thirty miles. I’m sorry to make you ride so far again after yesterday’s ordeal…’
‘No, it’s all right.’ Her face was pale and her eyes shadowed with fatigue but she smiled nonetheless. ‘It must be done. I’d rather be safe than sorry.’
Alex rounded the desk and kissed her. ‘My brave lass. Tomorrow you will be able to luxuriate in a carriage with soft blankets and furs and warm bricks at your feet.’
‘And foot rubs?’
‘You can have as many of those as you like. Or any other kind of caress, for that matter.’
Her blue eyes danced with amusement and another emotion he rather suspected was desire. ‘That’s very obliging of you.’
His hand slipped to her lovely round bottom and he whispered, ‘I promise you, you won’t be interested in that book of poetry for long.’
A knock at the door had Alex inwardly cursing. It was Dobson. ‘Sir, you said to let you know when the horses were ready.’
‘And is the portcullis raised?’
‘Aye, sir. Just now.’
‘Excellent.’
‘Sir. About Isla… If you had the time to have a quick word… She’s waiting to see you outside…’
Alex frowned. Dealing with Isla right now was an added irritation he could do without. ‘Miss Lambert and I have given the matter some thought and we think it’s best that my original plan still stands. She can work at the Boar’s Head. I do not have time—’
Alex broke off as the sound of Bandit barking madly echoed up the stairs from the Hall. He opened the library door wider and took a step into the Long Gallery. What the deuce?
And then his blood turned to ice. There was a shout below and then a shot rang out followed by a scream.
Christ, no. ‘Dobson, stay here and protect, Miss Lambert.’
Fear flickered in Sarah’s eyes. ‘Oh, God. Is it Malcolm?’
‘I think so.’
At that moment, Tay’s voice carried up the stairs. ‘Wherever you are, I’m coming for you, Alexander MacIvor, you bastard.’
‘My lord, take this.’ Dobson tossed Alex his basket-hilted sword.
‘Get my pistol.’ Alex shrugged out of his coat. ‘It’s in the desk. Top drawer. Load it. Don’t hesitate to use it.’
‘Aye, my lord.’
‘Don’t worry, Sarah.’ Alex turned back and gave her a swift kiss. ‘Stay here with Dobson.’
Heart hammering, the lust for vengeance coursing through his blood, he stepped back into the Hall as Tay reached the top of the stairs.
The earl’s face was contorted with anger. In one hand he brandished an ornate basket-hilted sword. In the other he held a pistol. ‘You fucking arsehole!’
‘My lord. Watch out!’ Isla appeared as if from nowhere and launched herself at Alex at the same moment the pistol discharged.
Oh, God no. The maid’s eyes widened for an instant and then she slumped to the Turkish hall runner at his feet, a crimson stain blooming on her back. Before Alex could even blink, Tay was charging towards him, red-faced, sword raised.
White-hot anger seared through Alex, stirring him to action. Praying God would forgive him for his neglect, he stepped away from Isla, sword at the ready, muscles braced for the onslaught. As much as he wanted to help the lass, he needed to draw Tay away from Sarah. And to dispense with the sick bastard once and for all.
The games were over. The day of reckoning had arrived.
With a roar, Tay lunged, slashing wildly, but Alex easily parried his move and then drove him back towards the staircase with a series of quick thrusts. Moving down the Long Gallery in a macabre dance of advance and retreat, thrust and parry, Alex quickly ascertained that Tay might be tall and well muscled, but he was less skilled. His reflexes were slower, his countermoves less sophisticated. His unbridled anger—whilst it might lend a certain recklessness to his moves—was also likely to be a hindrance rather than a help. His offensive strokes were more aggressive, which meant he would probably tire sooner rather than later.
Clearly incensed he’d started to lose ground, Tay leapt backwards then twisted with an agility that took Alex by surprise. The cur’s blade sliced through the sleeve of his cambric shirt, nicking his left bicep, and Alex swore. He barely had time to suck in another breath before Tay lunged at him again. Alex ducked, the blade missing him by a whisker, and then Tay lost his balance, his forward momentum making him stumble.
He crashed into a chair but before Alex could strike, Tay spun, hurling the piece of furniture in his direction. Alex leapt out of the way but as he landed, Tay slashed out at his thigh.
Shit. The hot sting of the cut fired Alex with renewed purpose.
The clash of steel and the sound of their ragged breathing and grunts filled the air as Alex continued to drive Tay away from the library. At the bottom of the stairs leading up to the second floor, Tay pushed forward, the blade of his sword sliding down Alex’s until their weapons were locked at the hilt. For several fraught moments they grappled each other for the advantage; Tay’s eyes burned with murderous rage as his nostrils flared and his chest heaved. ‘I’m going to gut you… like a fish,’ he panted.
‘When it’s a cold day in hell, Tay.’ His arm and thigh muscles shaking with the strain, Alex gave an almighty push and threw Tay off.
Tay staggered back but he swiftly regained his footing and bolted up the stairs to the next floor. When Alex gave chase, Tay turned and lunged wildly again, his blade flashing through the air with a hiss. Alex neatly ducked and spun low, kicking out at Tay’s knee, knocking him into the panelled wall with a crash.
Now was his chance. Launching himself forward, Alex tried to catch Tay on the defensive; however, he darted away into the centre of the corridor again.
Fucking hell. Harnessing his frustration, Alex gave chase.
Lungs burning, sword flashing, he made cutting stroke after cutting stroke, forcing Tay down the second-floor gallery, past the morning room and his private study, the guest bedchambers and his own suite. Tay’s reaction time was slowing, his stamina failing, his parries growing weaker. It wouldn’t be long until Alex had Tay right where he wanted him—skewered by his sword, the blackguard’s heart cleaved in two.
Tay suddenly swung around but his feint failed and he tripped on the rug. As he parried Alex’s next blow with an upthrust arm, their blades locked again and they crashed against each other. ‘Where’s… Sarah?’ Tay panted as they wrestled, chest to chest. ‘When you’re dead… I’m going to fuck her… so hard. Just… like your mother… and your Lady Margaret.’
Alex saw red. Blood-red. Baring his teeth in a feral snarl, he shoved Tay away then slashed his sword downwards with all his might. The blade struck the basket-handle with such force, Tay lost his grip and his weapon went flying.
Shock flashed through Tay’s widened eyes. And then he spun and fled down the last few yards of the gallery, heading for the door leading to the battlements.
Triumph flaring, Alex sprinted after him up the stairs…
***
Sarah’s hands shook as she pressed a wadded up piece of fabric—her silk fichu—against the bullet wound in Isla’s right shoulderblade. The maid was unconscious, her breathing shallow and shaky; lying on her belly, her head turned to the side, Sarah could see her face was bone white whereas the stain upon the back of her pale grey gown was bright red.
When Alex and Malcolm had moved down the Long Gallery, away from the library, Sarah had helped Dobson to carry his daughter inside. They’d laid her upon the damask upholstered settee before the fire and then Dobson had gone to Alex’s desk and had taken out his pistol. As he loaded the weapon, he asked how Isla was.
‘I don’t know, Dobson,’ Sarah said with tears in her eyes. ‘I honestly don’t know.’
She’d never nursed anyone with such a grievous injury before. Kneeling beside the settee, her fingers covered in Isla’s blood, she supposed they should cut the maid’s dress away and examine the wound to see if the bullet was still lodged inside her. However, she didn’t have anything resembling a knife or scissors.
And all the while, her ears strained to hear what was going on in the Gallery.
Oh, dear God. If anything happens to Alex… If Malcolm comes for me again…
Her mouth dry, her throat tight, Sarah swallowed down her fear and tried to focus on helping Isla. There was just so much blood. Her silk fichu was totally inadequate in stemming the flow. Perhaps she could rip off some of the cushion covers and use those. Even though Isla had betrayed her, twice, she would do what she could to save the lass.
Somehow, she didn’t think it would be enough.
The door flew open and Sarah jumped whilst Dobson aimed the pistol at the unexpected intruder.
Thank the Lord, it was only Aileen.
The distraught woman’s hands flew to her face. ‘Och, no. My poor wee bairn,’ she cried, before rushing to the settee and dropping to her knees beside Sarah. With shaking fingers, she pushed her daughter’s red curls away from her ashen face.
She raised her gaze to Sarah’s, her eyes brimming with tears. ‘I heard pistol fire and shouting in the Great Hall. And then I saw Lord Tay mounting the stairs. But I didn’t realise he’d shot my poor Isla.’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ Sarah replied. Tears spilled from her eyes and ran down her cheeks as well. ‘I didn’t see what happened but I heard Isla call out right before the shot. I think she was trying to save Lord Rannoch.’
‘Aye, I think so too,’ Dobson said. Ever faithful, he now stood by the cracked open door, his gaze and his pistol trained down the Gallery.
‘I hope the master cuts the bastard to pieces and sends him straight to the Devil,’ muttered Aileen.
‘So do I.’ Sarah hated to ask the question but she did so anyway. ‘Did you see who else was injured, Aileen?’
‘Aye. Lord Tay shot young Andy Stark in the arm an’ stabbed MacWilliam in the side. Both were on duty at the front door in the Great Hall.’
Oh, no. Sarah closed her eyes. How could one man wreak so much havoc? Cause so much damage and death? She prayed Stark and MacWilliam, and even Isla, wouldn’t die.
Most of all, she prayed for Alex.
At that moment, Dobson opened the door wider, admitting MacLagan.
The footman’s face was as white as the bandage about his head. ‘I heard Isla had been hurt,’ he began. ‘Moira saw it happen. She sent me with these.’ He nodded at the bowl of water and bundle of fresh linen bandages he carried. Even though Lord Tay’s bullet had grazed his temple the day before, Sarah was impressed the young man had risked his own safety again.
‘Thank you, MacLagan.’ Sarah waved him over to the fireside. ‘Do you happen to have a dirk about you? Or what about you, Dobson? We need to cut away Isla’s gown.’
MacLagan retrieved something from the desk. ‘Here’s a penknife, Miss Lambert. It should be sharp enough.’
Sarah took it with thanks and with Aileen’s and MacLagan’s assistance, they carefully repositioned Isla onto her side before cutting away her blood-soaked bodice, stays, and shift to investigate the wound beneath.
‘It looks like the shot has gone all the way through,’ murmured MacLagan, gently wiping the blood away with a damp cloth.
‘Is… is that a good thing?’ asked Sarah.
MacLagan nodded and smiled ‘Aye, it is, Miss Lambert. Now if we can just stop the bleeding…’
All of a sudden, Isla’s eyelids fluttered and she moaned. Aileen squeezed her daughter’s hand. ‘Isla, my bonnie wee lassie. It’s yer mam.’
Isla opened her eyes and blinked dazedly. ‘What… what happened?’
***
Alex emerged onto the battlements, all his senses on high alert and his sword arm poised to strike. Even though his chest burned and his breathing was ragged, he was ready for anything Tay cared to throw his way.
His gaze darted around the snow-dusted ramparts searching for his mark. There. At the eastern edge, a shadow moved. Tay was crouching behind a sizeable block of stone.
As quietly and as swiftly as he could, Alex skirted the perimeter of the battlements, making his way towards Tay’s hiding place. What was the bastard up to?
Alex recalled the last time he’d been up here with Sarah—a small number of masonry tools had been left behind. A chisel and a trowel perhaps. A hammer.
To undermine Tay’s confidence by disabusing him of the notion he’d have the advantage of surprise, Alex called out. ‘I can see where you are, Tay. What are you going to do, now? Leap out and throw stones at me?’
Tay ignored him so Alex crept closer. When he was only a few yards away from Tay’s hidey-hole, he spoke again. ‘This is ridiculous. Why don’t you come out and face your fate like a man instead of behaving like a snivelling coward?’
When Tay leapt up and hurled his spent pistol then a hammer in his direction, Alex was expecting the attack and he easily ducked out of the way.
Alex straightened and cocked an eyebrow. ‘What’s next? The trowel or the chisel?’
‘Fuck you, MacIvor,’ growled Tay. He adjusted his stance and that’s when Alex noticed the chisel in his hand. ‘I should have made sure you were dead ten years ago.’
‘Quite possibly. But it seems you have a talent for making mistakes. Of making poor choices.’ Alex took another few steps forward, pointing the tip of his sword straight at Tay’s chest. ‘Whereas I have a talent for vengeance. Why don’t you drop the chisel? It won’t help you, you know.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Nothing will.’
Tay let out a low growl and he lunged, the chisel raised, but Alex simply flicked his sword and neatly sliced Tay’s wrist. With a howl, Tay dropped the tool and then he stumbled backwards into the parapet, gripping his lower arm. Blood seeped between his clenched fingers. Although his lip curled into a sneer in a display of false bravado, he was sweating. ‘You call me a snivelling coward, yet here we are and you won’t finish this. I’m starting to think you don’t have the guts—’
Alex flicked the sword tip up again and scored Tay’s bristle-clad jaw with a long, fine cut. ‘Oh, I do have the guts, Tay. In fact, I’m just trying to decide how you’ll die. What would be the most suitable punishment for someone like you, someone who despoils and takes the lives of innocents with impunity? Someone who murdered my mother, my sister, and my affianced. A sorry excuse for a man who kidnapped and threatened to harm the woman I love.’
‘You kidnapped Sarah first—’
‘Yes I did, but I’m not the one on trial here. You are.’ Alex took another step forward. ‘However, unlike you, I’m not without mercy. I’ll let you choose. Either I run you through—’ his gaze shifted to the crenellations along the parapet, ‘—or you jump.’
Tay’s chest heaved and his gaze narrowed. His mouth twisted into a parody of a grin. ‘See you in hell then, MacIvor.’ He climbed up between the snow-crusted parapets, turned, and with a mocking salute, fell backwards.
Alex closed his eyes as he heard the heavy crunch on the gravel path below.
Instead of triumph, all he felt was an overwhelming sense of blessed relief.
Thank God. It was over. The Earl of Tay was dead.