Chapter Nineteen
Alex and Ian spent the rest of the evening formulating a plan based on Declan’s information. The plan, of course, relied heavily on luck. But by mid-morning the next day, they had accomplished the first step. They had jacked an ox cart of flagstone, stripped the driver and his man of their clothes, then gagged and bound them to trees deep in the forest.
“You’ll not be harmed,” Ian assured the two men. “When we complete our mission, we’ll return your cart and give you silver for your troubles.”
Declan and Alex disrobed and donned their captives’ clothing. Unfortunately, even the largest of the two pair of breeks were a snug fit for Alex, leaving little room for his private parts to rest comfortably.
“Cover yourselves with stone dust,” Ian said, and gave Declan a good sprinkling.
Alex tucked his red-blond queue into the driver’s filthy bonnet, then rubbed stone dust on his face and forearms. He doubted the guards would recognize either of them. Chances were more likely the other workers might peg them as strangers. When questioned, the driver had revealed they were from a stone quarry in Spittal. The other masons would know Alex was lying if they posed as workers from the same quarry.
“Remember,” he said to Declan. “If anybody asks, we’re from Achanarras Quarry. Ian, you wait here for Da and the others.”
“What would you have us do once they get here?”
“To tell you the truth, Ian, I havenae thought that far ahead. But be ready. If we find her and can get her out, you can best believe Sellar’s men will be hot on our tail.”
Armed only with dirks, Alex and Declan climbed aboard the cart. Declan took up the reins, gave the oxen a snap on the rump, and the cart lurched forward. The mile-long journey was agonizingly slow-going. When they turned off the road down the tree-lined lane leading to Dunrobin, nearly an hour had elapsed. The oxen paused in front of the gates at the castle wall, waiting patiently for them to open. Two guards granted them entry without question.
The cart trundled noisily into the yard. Sweat trickled from Alex’s forehead, tickling his cheeks and dripping off his jaw. He glanced at Declan, looking cool and untroubled. How he loved his sleekit cousin.
One of the armed guards lingering in the yard in front of the keep directed them toward an entrance to what looked like a courtyard. The sound of stone-cutting and hammering emanated from within the enclosed space. Most likely where all the construction was taking place. Declan maneuvered the oxen toward the entrance.
A chilling voice called, “Halt.”
Declan pulled on the reins. “Stad!” The Gaelic for stop.
A second guard strode over to their cart. “You there. I’ve never seen you here before. Who are you?”
“Got a load from…from…” Alex’s mind went blank. He shot a panicked look at Declan.
“We’re from Achanarras Quarry,” Declan said.
God bless his cousin’s perfect memory.
“Achanarras? Dunrobin trades with Spittal Quarry.” The guard removed his rifle from his shoulder, a slow, almost unconscious movement, but a sign of suspicion. “Who sent you?” the guard demanded.
Alex sensed Declan lifting his shirt to gain easy access to his dirk.
“Dinnae ken.” Alex shrugged. “Quarry manager ordered us to deliver the stone.”
“Let me see your inventory paper,” the guard said, holding his hand out and flicking a crooked finger impatiently.
Shit. No bloody papers. Alex felt Declan tense beside him. Shit, shit, shit.
“What paper, sir?” He attempted to sound as stupid as possible.
The guard stepped back, holding his rifle in both hands. “Get down. The job foreman will want to speak with you.”
Shouts and the sound of horses trotting into the yard drew the guard’s attention away from Declan and Alex.
Laird John Sinclair bellowed, “I demand to see Patrick Sellar!”
Every one of the six armed guards, including the one interrogating Alex, scrambled to form a line in front of the main entrance to Dunrobin Keep and trained their rifles on Laird John. Magnus, Ian, and Fergus edged their horses forward, hemming in the guards.
Laird John lifted his head to the second story. “Patrick Sellar, come down and face me like a man.”
Alex’s brilliant father had timed his arrival with military precision, allowing them the diversion they needed to slip past the guard without inspection. Declan snapped the reins, and the oxen lumbered into the courtyard, squeaky wheels protesting and stone rattling in the back of the cart.
The courtyard buzzed with construction activity. At least two-dozen masons and carpenters were in the process of erecting the foundation and framework of a large addition to Dunrobin. Alex had never seen such an ambitious construction project, the cost of which must be in the thousands. This, he thought, would be the chief reason Lady Sutherland was so intent on increasing her sheep farming and wool production.
Alex tensed when a worker approached. He was going to have to speak with the job foreman after all. The man waved a friendly greeting then ordered two other workers to begin unloading the stone from the cart.
“You’re late,” the man said to Alex. “You’ll find the foreman in the kitchen. Hurry or you’ll miss second breakfast.” He pointed to the servant’s entrance to the castle.
“Thanks.” He and Declan hopped down off the cart and made for the door.
Once inside the dark hallway, he took his bearings. The sounds and smells of breakfast came from the right. Down the corridor to the left, the flicker of a torch illuminated what looked like the entry hall to the keep. Alex turned left, signaling for Declan to follow.
Their plan was to search the lower levels. That was where holding cells were most often located in castles as old as Dunrobin. Just before they reached the archway to the keep, Alex heard footsteps. He and Declan plastered themselves against the wall, out of sight. The front door to the keep opened and daylight spilled into the hall.
Alex’s father shouted, “Call off your dogs, Sellar!”
“Laird John, to what do I owe the honor of your visit?” The sticky voice and the feigned pleasantries belonged to Patrick Sellar.
“Where’s Lucy FitzHarris?” John demanded.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Miss FitzHarris left my home yesterday. I believe she is here at Dunrobin.”
“You’ve lost your son’s bride? She’s only just arrived. Awfully careless of you.”
“I’m in no mood for nonsense, Sellar.”
Alex smiled to himself. His father was an excellent actor. Anyone who didn’t know the man would believe his outrage.
“Why would you think Miss FitzHarris is here?” Sellar, also a decent actor, played innocent.
“She received a letter instructing her to meet Lord Langley at Dunrobin Castle.”
“I don’t know any Langley, and Miss FitzHarris is not within these walls. But I welcome you to search the castle yourself.”
“Thank you. I will. Ian, come with me.”
Three sets of footsteps clattered up the keep’s winding stone staircase. The front door to the keep closed, leaving the entry hall in torchlight again. Declan slithered into the entry and snatched the torch from the wall. He led the way down the stairs to the lower level, the dungeon. It was cold, dark, and dank when they reached the bottom. Alex shuddered at the thought of Lucy being held in such a place. She would be frightened half out of her mind.
“See any light, Declan?” Alex whispered.
“Nae. No voices, either.”
They continued down a corridor, casting about with the torch, looking for chambers or likely places where a hostage might be secreted away. It seemed obvious to Alex this level hadn’t been used for anything but storage for some time. Nevertheless, they made a thorough search.
Frustrated, he called out, “Lucy.” No answer.
“She’s no’ here,” Declan said.
“Come on. Da will be searching the second and third floors. Let’s return to the main floor and see what we can find.”
As he and Declan reached the landing at the keep entrance, Alex heard his father striding up and down the halls above, cursing in a way that would singe most people’s sensibilities.
“Lucy. Goddammit, woman! I ken you’re hiding from me. Come out here this instant. I’ll have a word with you.”
Declan laughed. “He’s a sly devil, your da. Acting like it’s Lucy’s choice to be here. Not letting on about her kidnapping.”
Alex headed down the corridor with Declan right behind. Finding an unlocked door, he opened it, took the torch from Declan, and peered inside.
“You there. Stop.”
The unfamiliar voice made them freeze in their tracks. Alex slowly turned to face the voice. A small man wearing a powdered wig, dressed in pink and white livery, stood in the hallway behind them, scowling with disapproval.
“Just where do you think you’re going?”
Alex went blank. Fortunately, Declan maintained his wits.
“Looking for the kitchen, sir,” Declan said, assuming the proper tone of an underling.
“Straight down the hall. You’d better hurry. Second breakfast is almost over.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. We’ll just be on our way,” Declan said, bobbing his head as he backed away.
“Wait,” the man in livery called.
Alex and Declan froze again, hands on their dirks.
“Put that torch back where you found it.”
“Right, sir. Sorry, sir.” Declan took the torch from Alex and did as the man asked. When he strode back, Alex saw a smile on Declan’s face and wanted to smack him. This was not a lark. This was a matter of life and death. His cousin must have seen the irritation in Alex’s face, for he straightened his own.
“Come. Maybe one of the servants knows something,” Alex said through gritted teeth. He gave his cousin a shove in the back, urging him forward. “Hurry.”
Heads turned to greet them when they stumbled into the steamy kitchen, all three faces rosy-cheeked from the heat of the pots bubbling over the fires, all three pates covered in white kertches, and all three women looked boiling mad.
“We’ve just finished second breakfast. You’ve missed it. Be off with you,” the matron of the trio said.
Alex smothered his anger with charm. “But we’ve just arrived, and your cooking smells so good.” He approached the woman slowly, a hand on his belly. “My wame is growling at me. He’s saying, ‘Feed me one of the bonnie lassie’s bannocks, or I’m like to die.’” He dropped to one knee before the matron who appeared to be the head cook, and smiled up at her.
The cook’s beefy cheeks flushed even redder. “Och, stop your flirting and sit yourselves down. Tess, get the lads something to tide them over until dinner.”
Declan and Alex sat on a bench by the wall while the comely Tess heaped two plates with bannocks, chunks of cheese, and brown bread dragged through bacon grease. Alex consumed the welcome and much-needed scran, and considered his next move. One could count on servants knowing everything that went on in a household, but how to ask them without drawing suspicion?
“You worked for Lady Sutherland long, miss?” Alex asked the cook conversationally.
“Near fifteen years,” she said, turning her attention to a pot about to bubble over.
“Must be a chore serving all us workers.”
“Nae. I’ve got my Tess and Elspeth to help.”
The girls giggled at the mention of their names.
“Did you hear that lunatic upstairs yelling for some lass?” Alex asked. “What the devil is he on about?”
“Dinnae ken. What goes on up there is none of my concern.” The cook lifted her eyes to the ceiling and shook her head. “I just feed them.”
Tess piped up. “He’s calling for someone named Lucy. He sounds powerful mad.”
“Who’s Lucy?” Alex asked.
Tess and Elspeth shrugged.
Declan nudged him with an elbow and chucked his chin toward Alex’s left. A large man wearing a long black coat, black britches, and black boots seemed to appear from nowhere. He paid Alex and Declan no mind. Without a word, he approached Tess, held up two fingers, and waited while she loaded two plates just as she had done for Alex and Declan.
The hulking figure retraced his steps across the room. He opened an almost invisible door set into the oak wood paneling of the kitchen wall and slipped into a dark corridor.
“Who’s he?” Alex asked.
“Mr. Boatman,” Tess said.
“Why’d you give him two breakfasts?”
“He asked for two plates last night, as well. He wouldnae answer me when I asked him why. Must be he has help minding the docks.”
“Where’s that door lead?”
“You’re awfy nosey,” said the cook, giving Alex a sidelong look.
“I’m a mason,” Alex said by way of explanation. “The construction and layout of these old castles interests me.”
“It’s a passage to the docks. Used it a hundred years ago for quick escapes. Now we use it for deliveries straight up from the water’s edge.”
…
Lucy woke in darkness, shivering violently. The sour smelling blanket hadn’t offered much warmth. She remembered sitting earlier with her knees hugged to her chest, leaning against the wall and fighting back sleep. She must have lost the battle and shifted to a curled position on the freezing stone floor.
The candle stub had burned out. Had she slept long? Was it morning? The jailer had brought the candle to her quite some time after her last meal. By the length of its stub, she had estimated the wax would give her at least three hours of light. She groped along the floor with one hand, found the chamberstick, and touched the wick. Cold. It had been out a while.
Despair swept over her, a feeling unfamiliar to Lucy. She had never felt this hopeless and afraid. Lucy straightened abruptly.
“Do not cry. To cry is to lose.”
Having spent many years as the target of her brother George’s nasty pranks, she had learned a valuable lesson: the first one to cry loses. She supposed she should be thankful to George. His teasing had made her tough. In George’s games, the loser wasn’t the weakest or the slowest. The loser was the first one to cry. Tears equaled shame and defeat.
In Lucy’s mind, it was acceptable to cry if one was sad for someone else. It was acceptable to cry if one was injured. But one did not cry when one felt sorry for one’s self. Wallowing in self-pity was the same as accepting defeat. She would rather die than lose. If the object of imprisoning her in this cold, dark hell were to make her cry, they would lose.
Lucy flung away the blanket. Every muscle in her body protested when she unfolded her legs and forced herself to stand. It was difficult to find her balance in total darkness. She reached out, found the cold, stone wall with one hand, and resumed her circuit around the cell.
I will not cry. Let rage burn away self-pity. Let anger kill fear. I’ll use my wits to get me out of this. Think. How to survive? How to escape?
What tools did she have? The pewter chamberstick holding her candle, a smelly blanket, the empty tin plate, and two wooden buckets—nothing she could use as weapons. Lucy reached into her pocket and felt the three flimsy hairpins she’d removed from her hair last night, far from lethal. If she had the strength, she might hit the jailor over the head with a bucket. But he was a big man, solid and tall. No doubt, she would only make him angry. There had to be another way, another weapon. Without strength, what weapon did a woman have? What was it Phillipa had said?
“Le charme d’une femme est sa seule arme.” A woman’s charm is her only weapon.
Lucy snorted. Charm worked well in the drawing rooms of London. Dear Phillipa had never prepared Lucy for the dungeons of Scotland. What good would charm do her here?
What the devil time was it? And why was knowing the time of day so important? She’d never considered time before, beyond punctuality. Even without access to a timepiece, one always had some notion of the hour based on the amount of daylight. Without light, how could one measure the passage of time?
Her stomach growled. Hunger. She hadn’t eaten in a while. Her last meal would have been considered supper. Her next would be breakfast. She was taken yesterday morning, so…one day, one full day in captivity and she was already going mad. How did prisoners survive years in a cell?
What day was it and why was it so important that she keep track? Cousin Diana and Sir Ranald had arrived on Wednesday. She’d left Balforss the next morning and had been abducted the next. “Saturday.” She blinked back sudden tears. “Tomorrow is my wedding day.”
The jangle of keys. Her jailer was back. Lucy stood in the center of her cell, facing the doorway and waited, heart thumping in her chest. Footsteps, a clunk as the door unlocked, then a shaft of light outlining the big man.
“Good morning,” she said, schooling her voice to hide her mounting fear. “It is morning, isn’t it?”
The jailer held out a plate of food without answering.
“Thank you. I’m Lucy. What’s your name?” she said, accepting the plate.
Silence. The man stooped to collect her empty plate from yesterday’s dinner, as well as the chamberstick.
“I only ask so that I might address you properly.”
He set the items on the floor outside the door.
“It was kind of you to allow me the candle. May I have another? It’s so dark, and I’m afraid of the rats.”
As the door closed, Lucy pleaded, “Please, sir. Don’t leave me. I don’t like being alone. Just stay and talk to me for a little while. Please?”
The lock went clunk and Lucy’s shoulders slumped. So much for her charm.
She touched the food on her plate. Bread with something smeared on it. Jam? She lifted the bread chunk to her nose and sniffed. Bacon. She tasted a corner of the bread and savored the grease-soaked mouthful. In no time, she devoured every crumb. Lucy felt the remaining contents of her plate. A smooth, hard wedge. Cheese. And…what were the last two things? Crumbly lumps about the size of a scone. She’d felt something like this before. Yes. Oatcakes.
Bannocks. Alex called them bannocks. She let her knees buckle and sat down hard on the stone floor, forgetting the rest of her breakfast. The last thing Alex had said to her was, “I will find a way back to you, Lucy.” She hadn’t believed him. She hadn’t believed him when he’d said Elizabeth had tricked him into kissing her. But Lucy had seen them with her own eyes.
As she had done too many times to count, she replayed that dreadful scene in her head. Alex standing in the garden. Elizabeth walking to him, leaning against him. He hadn’t resisted. That fact stung. Worse, Elizabeth standing on tiptoe and kissing him. How long had the kiss lasted before they’d looked up and laughed. One, two, three heartbeats?
Merde.
She heard the jangle of her jailer’s keys. Lucy stuffed the cheese and bannocks in the pockets of her skirt and stood. The jailer opened the cell door and replaced her buckets. Before shutting the door, he produced another candle, this one twice as tall as the last. Lucy breathed a sigh of relief. She would have light. For a little while, at least.
She exchanged her empty plate for the chamberstick. “Thank you for your kindness,” she said. “Won’t you please stay a while? I wouldn’t feel so frightened if I had someone to talk to.”
The jailer hesitated at the door. “I’m not supposed to talk to you.”
“I won’t tell anyone. I would never tell. No one would know.”
He stood silent for several seconds.
“You don’t have to talk. You could just listen. That way you won’t break any rules. I know lots of good stories.” Lucy paused for a response. None came. “I know. You can sit in the doorway while I tell you a story.” Still no movement or sound. She searched her mind frantically for a story that might appeal to the man. A story featuring Scots as heroic might be best.
“Do you know the story of King James V and clan Douglas?”
“My mam was a Douglas,” he said.
Good. He’d taken the bait. Now, to set the hook.
“Then you’ll love this story.” Lucy sat on her blanket a reasonable distance from the door and held the candle closer so her jailer could see her face. “Please. Sit down. It’s a good story.”
The big man folded his arms across his chest and leaned against her doorway, looking skeptical. He waited for her to begin. Unable to recall the exact words of the poem, Lucy narrated Lady of the Lake using what words and phrases of Walter Scott’s she remembered.
“A great stag lived in the forest on Uam-Var Mountain near Stirling Castle. He was the largest and most noble of stags, and though he had been chased many times, no huntsman had ever been able to come near him.”
Lucy recounted the tale of the hunt, describing the stag as “a regal giant of the forest.” How one hundred huntsmen and their hounds chased the great stag across rivers, through glens, over heather, and up mountains, while the stag never tired, never stopped for a drink.
“The worn and weary huntsmen slowly dwindled in number until the once one hundred was but one.”
The jailer nodded as if he approved of the single hunter who wouldn’t give up the hunt. He lowered himself to the floor and waited for more of her story. The next part Lucy remembered well, for it had moved her when she’d first read the lines.
“Close on the hounds, the hunter came,
to cheer them on the vanished game,
but stumbling on a rocky dell,
his gallant steed exhausted fell.
The impatient rider tried in vain
to rouse his horse with spur and rein.
The good steed, his labors over,
stretched his limbs to rise no more.”
The jailer uttered a mild oath at the huntsman’s foolishness. Parched, Lucy palmed a mouthful of stale water from her bucket before resuming her tale. Using many of her own embellishments, she told the story of James Fitz-James and Ellen Douglas. Throughout the telling, her jailer remained still. Occasionally he would make sounds of approval, or grunts of agreement, and once a knowing chuckle.
Lucy paused for breath and saw her jailer lean toward her as if urging her to continue. The candle had dwindled by half when her tale was interrupted by voices echoing in the distance. The jailer scrambled to his feet.
“No, wait.”
“Quiet,” the jailer said. He left her cell and locked the door.
What should she do? Scream? Did the approaching voices belong to men who would rescue her? Lucy listened. Her jailer sounded as though he was having an argument with someone—with two someones. She could barely make out the words.
She recognized the deep voice of her jailer shout, “Nae.”
“It’ll take but a minute or two. In and out, as they say.”
“Come on, man, just a wee tup. No one will be the wiser,” another said.
Lucy caught her breath. She knew what the vulgar word “tup” meant.
“Nae,” her jailor bellowed. “No one’s allowed to talk with her. Be gone with you.”
Some laughter. “We’ll nae say a word. Tuck and I are real quiet fuckers.”
The two other voices were those of her abductors. They had returned and wanted to do her harm. Her heart beat so hard she felt it in her fingertips. She backed away from the door. Would her jailer let them into her cell? The argument seemed to continue farther down the hall until she could hear no more. Cowering in the corner, Lucy waited. Who would be the next to enter? Her jailer or her kidnappers? Minutes turned to hours as the candle burned lower.
“Please, Alex. Please find me. Take me away from this place. Save me.”
Liam had been certain Alex would search for her. Would Langley be looking for her, too? He said in his letter he would wait at Dunrobin Castle with Lady Sutherland. What had Alex said about Lady Sutherland? Ah yes. Lady Sutherland employed Mr. Sellar—
Lucy’s hand flew to her mouth. Patrick Sellar was Lady Sutherland’s factor. He was a bad man. Alex had told her, warned her, Sellar might use her to harm his family. Oh, God. Why hadn’t she put these things together before?
“How could I be so stupid?” she said out loud. “I’m a fool. I trusted Liam over Alex. I believed damn-her-eyes Elizabeth over Alex. This is all my fault. My stupidity. My pride.”
Hercules, Alex, her freedom, all lost because of her pride. Lucy gave in to self-pity and choked on her sobs. She had lost.
When she woke, the liquid beeswax welled in the bottom of the chamberstick as the candle guttered for a moment and then expired. Based on the length of the candle, six, maybe seven hours had passed. It might only be mid-afternoon. Hours until supper. She withdrew the cheese from her pocket and nibbled. She wouldn’t want food on her person in the dark. The rats might be too bold.
Footsteps outside her cell. She tensed. Keys jangled. Her jailer returning for his story? The cell door opened.
“You’re back. Would you like to hear the end of my story?”
The jailor placed a bowl on the floor, shut the cell door, and locked it.
“Please,” she called. “Please don’t leave me alone. My candle’s gone out. Please come back.” Lucy paused. Waited. No response.
Then she heard the jailer say, “I’ll bring another taper soon.”
“Thank you.”
He returned about a quarter of an hour later with a candle, shorter than the last one, but taller than the first. He lit the candle from his lantern and twisted it solidly into the base of the holder. Then he produced a spoon from the pocket of his long dark coat. Lucy wiped it on her skirt and the big man resumed his seat on the floor. She took up her story while she ate her supper, a very good bowl of chicken and leek soup with bits of bread soaking in the broth. It had been several months since Lucy had read Lady of the Lake. Remembering the details of the poem might have been difficult had the story not left a deep impression on her.
She took her time, preferring to share the jailor’s questionable company rather than be alone with her fear. Hours passed, but her voice never failed her. At the penultimate point in the story when James Fitz-James and Ellen Douglas presented themselves at court to beg for her father’s release, Lucy paused.
“You still haven’t told me your name,” she said.
Though her jailer remained shadowed by the torchlight behind him, she thought she heard a smile in his voice when he said, “James.”
For the first time in days, Lucy laughed. “No wonder you like the story.” She waited another breath or two before she asked, “Who were those men before? What did they want?”
“Criminals and they wanted nothing good. I willnae let them near you.”
“Thank you, James.”
Lucy picked up the story again.
“Ellen entered the throne room with James at her side. She searched but saw no one who resembled a king. All in the room, to their knees did bend and remove their hats. Only one man, James Fitz-James, dressed in simple green, remained standing with his hat on, all eyes upon him. Bewildered and amazed, tears filled Ellen’s eyes. James Fitz-James brushed them away with a gentle hand. Her brave knight was none other than Scotland’s King James V.”
A gasp of surprise escaped Jailer James. “The Knight Fitz-James was King James all along?”
Lucy nodded.
“What did she do when she found out?”
“Ellen laid herself at her monarch’s feet, unable to speak. King James smiled, lifted her up and said, ‘Yes, my fair Ellen. Poor wandering Fitz-James claims the fealty of all Scotland. Ask not for your father’s freedom for he and I have already forgiven each other. Instead, claim your seat beside me as my queen.”
That wasn’t the way Lady of the Lake ended, but Lucy liked her ending better than Walter Scott’s. And besides, she was the one stuck in a jail cell. She could tell the story any way she liked.
“Was Ellen angry with James for deceiving her?” Jailer James asked.
The memory of Alex and his silly prank came to her. What she thought was an unforgivable act at the time, now seemed…like something a prince might do.
“Do you think she should have been angry?” she asked, her voice faltering.
“Nae. He had good reason,” James said with absolute certainty. “He would win her love as a man first before he wed her as a king.”
Lucy sniffed. “A brave knight once fooled me. When I discovered he was a prince, I was angry. I punished him.” Lucy’s shoulders shook and her words tumbled out on her sobs. “Now, I wish I hadn’t. I wish I had been nice to him.”
“Och, dinnae weep, lassie. I’m certain all will be well.”
She wiped her tears away with the dirty sleeve of her coat. “Do you think so? Will I be released soon?”
Jailer James stood. “It’s late. Sleep now. I’ll be back in the morning.” He shut the door to her cell and locked it.
Remaining seated on her blanket, she listened as the big man walked away. A few seconds later, though, she heard a commotion. James bellowed, “Nae. Nae! You’ll not pass. Get out!” More confused yelling and then coarse whispers.
“Get the keys, get the keys,” one said.
Two sets of footsteps, running. Was it Alex? Was Alex finally here?
“Not that one. Try the other one.” The voices were right outside her cell.
“Alex? Is that you?” she called.
Trying to get to her feet, Lucy stepped on her hem, tripped, and banged her head on the stone wall. The door flung open. Two figures swayed in the doorway.
“She looks like a scairt rabbit, Tuck.”
“Remember us? We’ve come to pay you a visit as we had no time to sample your wares yesterday.”
No. No. No. The soldiers. Her kidnappers. Oh God, no. In a panic, Lucy lunged for the slop bucket and tossed it. The first man ducked. The bucket hit the man behind him square in the face.
“Och, you bitch.”
She grabbed the water bucket by the handle and swung it at the first man. He caught the bucket, wrenched it from her hand, and tossed it in the corner. Only then did she remember to scream bloody murder. Pinwheeling her arms at the advancing man, she connected a few blows to his face and head before he had both her wrists. She kicked at his knees and shins.
“Give us a hand, dammit.”
The second man got hold of first one ankle, suffered a good kick to the side of his head, then latched on to the second. These men had rape in mind, and she wasn’t going to submit without a fight. They stretched her body horizontally while she continued to squirm and screech and writhe.
“I’ll kill you,” she screamed. “I’ll kill you!”
The threat drew laughter from her attackers. They pinned her to the floor. One man knelt on her thighs, his full weight grinding into her muscle and bone. She let out a yelp of pain different from her screams of terror.
The other man held her wrists above her head. “Open her front, Ned. I want to see her titties.” He reeked of alcohol and giggled like a lunatic.
The contents of her stomach churned. She was about to vomit. The other man, Ned, continued to crush her thighs with his weight. He tore open her blouse, sending its buttons pinging across the stone floor. He slid his blade from his waist and held it in front of her face.
“Stop your fighting, or I’ll stick you. I can give it to you dead just as easy as alive.”
She willed herself to stop struggling, but her body would not obey. Nor could she stop shrieking when the man lowered his knife to her bodice. He cut the laces to her stays with a few quick flicks. When he finished, he drew aside the boned garment and yanked down the front of her shift. She felt cold air hit her chest. Filthy, rough hands fondled parts of her no man had ever touched. Oh, God, no.
“Make ’em jiggle.”
“Like this?”
“Aye, that’s good.”
Lucy screamed, “Stop. Stop.” Out of breath, terrified, her screams became whimpers. “Please don’t. Don’t touch me.” Tears streamed down her temples and caught in her hair.
The man on top of her suddenly arched his back and then fell forward on top of her like a sack of grain. The air in Lucy’s lungs escaped on a hoomph! His body covered her face, making it difficult to breathe. The one holding her arms released her and shouted, “Who the hell are—” A strangled gurgling sound followed. Oh, God, what was happening?
She grabbed at the heavy weight on top of her and pushed until she wriggled out from underneath the body. Gasping for a lungful of air, Lucy scrambled to her hands and knees and blinked her vision back into focus. Alex had one of her attackers by the throat, pinned against the wall, his legs dangling. He thunked the man’s head against the stone once and released him.
“No. No. We was just having a little fun—”
Those were the last words the man uttered before Alex slit his throat, nearly removing the man’s head. Blood spurted out, drenching the front of Alex’s shirt as the man slumped to the floor. A growl and a flash of movement caught her attention. The man who had been on top of her got to his feet and lunged for Alex with his knife.
She called out, “Alex!”
He spun around and dodged right. Lucy thought she saw the knife enter Alex’s side, and she screamed. In the next instant, he buried his dirk in the man’s belly with a vicious upward thrust. Slowly, the surprised look on the man dissolved. Alex pulled his dirk from the man’s chest and tossed him aside, then wiped the bloody weapon on the dead man’s clothes. Sheathing his blade, he turned to her with the same feral look in his eyes as the day he’d killed the highwaymen. Only this time, she was overjoyed to see it.
“Lucy. Are you all right?” Strong arms helped her to her feet. She teetered unsteadily, the pain in her thighs still throbbing.
“Alex?” She sobbed his name.
“It’s all over, sweeting.” He buttoned her jacket closed over her ruined shirt with shaking hands.
“You came for me. You found me.”
“Of course I did. You’re mine.”
He looked angry. Angrier than she had ever seen him, and she had angered him often. But the quaver in his voice betrayed his fear. He swept her up and held her tight to his chest, his arms the only thing keeping her boneless body in one piece.
Declan, his voice once irritating, now welcome as sunshine, said, “Go on, you two. Ian waits for you in the boat. I’ll be right behind you.”
…
Alex strode down the tunnel toward the sea, his treasure cradled in his arms. The man the kitchen maid called Mr. Boatman lay unconscious. He stepped around him. He would have liked to cut his throat as well but refused to let go of Lucy. They weren’t out of danger, yet. They must get well away from Dunrobin before he could let his guard down.
“Dinnae make a sound, love,” he whispered. “Not until I tell you. Sound carries on water.”
Declan trotted up behind him and signaled him to stop at the gate leading to the docks. After making certain no other guards were about, they crept down a steep embankment to the water’s edge. He transferred his precious burden into his brother’s arms and stepped into the small skiff. Ian returned Lucy to his lap and draped his coat over her. The skiff glided into the water and Declan hopped in.
Lucy fell asleep shortly after they left the shore and remained so while Ian and Declan took turns rowing all night. They were silent the whole way, until Ian said, “Almost there, brother.” Campfires flickered off the coast of Helmsdale in the distance. “How does she fair?”
“Well as can be. I should have fetched her sooner. She was so frightened.”
“What happened?”
“There were two of them holding her down,” Alex clenched his teeth. “Touching her. I killed them both.”
“Same ones that nabbed her. I found her jewelry on one of them,” Declan said in a low voice.
“Did they—”
“No.” Alex cut his brother off before he could ask the dreaded question. “We got there just in time.”
“Da and the others are watching the road. They’ll intercept Sellar’s men, if they give chase.”
“After we reach Helmsdale, take Lucy back to Balforss for me,” Alex said. “I’m returning to Dunrobin.”
“What for?”
“I’m going to kill Patrick Sellar.”
“No you aren’t.” Ian stopped his rowing. “Da says—”
“I ken what he says, but the man needs to die,” Alex growled out.
“Don’t be a fool. You’ll be hanged for murder and all Da has worked for will be lost.”
“Try and stop me.”
“Ye cannae do it,” Declan said.
Alex looked over his shoulder at his cousin. “Why not?”
“I dreamed you and Lucy have a girl child,” he said, as easily as if he was commenting on the weather.
Alex had learned from past experience to pay attention to his cousin’s dreams. However, that didn’t mean he couldn’t kill Sellar and leave a child behind. It would be tricky, but…