Chapter 26
Stone didn’t burn, but the wooden paneling and floorboards of the rooms did. The massive old staircase twisting through the heart of the keep was alive with flames. Smoke blanketed everything—thick, black, and nasty.
“Dad!” Malcolm bellowed. “Where th’ devil are ye?”
No answer, but from a room above, Mal heard a tinkle of glass. The lower stairs hadn’t caught yet, and Mal charged up them.
At the same time, the duke came out of a room on the first landing, dragging a bundle that clanked. He saw Mal and bellowed, “Get up here and help me, runt! Hurry!”
The duke dove back into the room. Mal took the stairs two at a time, nearly tripping over the bundle, which he saw was a rug wrapped around silver and gold objects.
Fire was coming down the upper stairs and bursting out of the back of the keep below. They’d never lug this all and get away at the same time.
Mal lifted the bundle and threw it over the stair railing, watching it land with a clatter on the floor below. Ewan started dragging it away with his small hands.
“Dad!” Mal charged into the sitting room to see the duke tugging the large portrait of his mother from the wall. The frame was heavy and gilded, but Mal knew the picture inside was worth everything in this house to his father.
“I have to save her!” the duke said frantically.
Smoke poured in through the door, stealing the air. Mal’s father dropped the picture, coughing. “Help me.”
Mal slid his dirk from its sheath, turned the painting over, and cut it out of the frame. He hastily rolled the canvas, stuffed it into his plaid, and grabbed his father’s big hand.
“Out!” he commanded. “Now!”
The smoke had thickened so fast Mal could no longer see the door. He pulled a fold of plaid over his nose and mouth and dragged the duke, both of them stumbling, to where the door ought to be.
Mal smacked straight into a wall. Breathing shallowly, he groped his way along it, bumping into furniture, tripping over whatever the hell things were that he swore had never been there before. The duke clung to Mal, the two linked in the thick mass of smoke.
Mal’s hand finally contacted open air. He pulled the duke through the door to the stairwell, which was burning fully now. With a crackle and hiss, the railed gallery on the other side of hall leaned forward and pitched into the hall below. More fire raced toward them at high speed.
“We have t’ jump!” Mal shouted.
His words were muffled by the plaid, but his father heard. Together they sprung up on the railing, then dropped, down, down, their kilts rippling around them.
Mal landed hard, rolled, came to a stop, his hand around the painting under his plaid. His father thumped into a heap beside him, grunting in pain.
Mal grabbed the duke’s arm, hauled him to his feet, and pulled him outside. The duke limped, but Mal, his father’s arm around his shoulders, ran them both out into clean, sweet air.
Behind them, inside the house, the rest of the gallery fell, and the keep became an inferno.
Malcolm dragged his father along the narrow path around the west side of the castle, where the thick walls would contain smoke and fire. They sank to the rocks and yellow tufts of grass, gasping for breath, as the last of the day’s light touched them.
Ewan came running, towing the carpet that held what his father hand managed to save. The duke didn’t look at any of it.
“The painting?” he demanded, his voice a faint croak. “Did ye get it?”
Malcolm unfolded his kilt from around it and put the canvas in his father’s hands. The duke quickly unrolled it and stared down at Allison McNab’s handsome face and defiant eyes. She looked back at him with the same serenity she’d always had, a hint of a smile on her face.
The duke began to weep, tears streaming from his amber-colored eyes. He clutched the picture to his chest, holding to his heart the wife he’d lost so long ago.
“Ewan, ye have t’ tell me what happened, lad.”
Malcolm had his hand on the boy’s shoulders, trying to keep the terrified Ewan calm, but it was difficult when Mal was shaking with rage and absolute fear. The duke still sat with his back to the castle wall, his head bowed, unable to speak.
Ewan’s eyes were huge in his small face, but he nodded. “They came—soldiers. From Inverness. English ones.”
Malcolm restrained himself from letting his fingers bite down on Ewan’s shoulders. “And what? Go on.”
“They came into the keep and started tearing things apart. Captain Ellis, he tried to stop them, and so did your da and Lord Alec, but there were too many. They said we were a secret Jacobite stronghold and had to be super . . . supper . . . suppressed. All the servants but me ran away, and the soldiers started burning things. They took Lady Mary and her da and Captain Ellis. And Lord Alec. They tried to take your da, but he had pistols and blasted away at them.”
Mal had no word for the feeling rising inside him, the mixture of desperation, fear, and over it all, incredible rage. “Took them? Where did they take them?”
“I don’t know. They had Lord Alec in shackles, but Lady Mary’s da and the captain, they walked away with them.”
“And Lady Mary?” Malcolm was amazed at how calm his voice was, as his emotions churned and danced inside him.
“She was fighting them—and swearing something hard. Very bad words, sir. I never heard an English lady say such bad things. But then, she’s a soldier.”
Mal rose to his feet. Inside he was raging and shouting all the words he imagined Mary had said and many she didn’t know. Outside he was steely, a cold, cold shell descending over him. Every feeling within him dissolved into a strange sense of purpose.
“Ye need to stay with him,” he told Ewan, gesturing to the duke. “Help him carry the stuff down the hill—take him into the hollows, set up camp in the distillery, if they’ve left it alone. If they destroyed it, go to the crofters. They’ll have t’ take ye in. Find someone to look after him. All right?”
Ewan nodded, scared. “Are ye going after them?”
“Aye, lad, that I am.” He remembered the game Mary played with Ewan to keep the boy calm. “Those are your orders, Sergeant. Carry on.”
Ewan’s salute was shaky, but he looked less pale. “Yes, sir.”
Malcolm settled his kilt around him again, adjusted his dirk, and checked his pistol. He’d carried the weapons as he’d ridden the lands, and he had a pouch full of bullets and powder as well.
Mal caught his horse, mounted, and rode off in the direction Ewan had pointed—the small company of soldiers had left a broad trail, in any case. He faded into the mists, as silent as the smoke that poured from his ancestral home, and went to fight his enemy and rescue the wife of his heart.
The man who greeted Mary and her father as they were shown into the commander’s tent was not who she’d expected.
George Markham, the Earl of Halsey, Mary’s former fiancé, rose from a camp chair and smiled gently at them.
“I can tell by your faces that you are shocked,” Halsey said. He wore a clean and elegant frock coat, leather breeches, and boots, the very picture of an English country gentleman. “It is good to see you again, my friends. I am pleased we are in much happier circumstances.”
Halsey reached for Wilfort’s hand and shook it. Wilfort stared at Halsey in disbelief, then jerked from the man’s grip. “I’ll not shake hands with a traitor,” he growled.
Mary stood rigidly, transferring her terrible fear for Malcolm to anger at the man before them. “Nor I,” she said clearly. “You saved your own neck, while my father bravely resisted interrogation and was kept a prisoner. What secrets are you now selling these men?”
Halsey lifted his hands. “My dear Mary, you do have a sharp tongue. I remember our discussion, Wilfort, about clouting her every once in a while to keep her tame. I think you have grown lax in that regard.” He gave Mary a patient look. “Did you truly think I gave up the positions of the British army and the resistance in the Lowlands to the Jacobites? I fed them what they wished to hear, nothing more. Prince Charlie’s men might find a few scattered squads to skirmish with on their way south, but they’ll have to discover more important intelligence from another quarter.”
He looked very pleased with himself. On the one hand, if Halsey was telling the truth and hadn’t, in fact, betrayed his own people, he’d be admired for it. On the other, he’d done nothing at all to save Mary’s father from being a Jacobite prisoner.
“Did you send troops to Kilmorgan?” Mary asked. “They set fire to the place. Was that necessary? That lovely, lovely castle, with . . .” She broke off, the jumble of horrors cutting away her words.
She again heard her maid Jinty screaming as the soldiers broke down the doors, the confusion of the servants being herded by Alec to the cellars, which opened to tunnels leading out to the glen. The splintering of wood, the shouting of the duke, the orders of the commander to burn the place, his men grimly doing just that.
All the time, Mary feared Malcolm would return, try to fight, and be shot by the soldiers ready with their muskets. Or he might already have been taken when he was out seeing to the crofters. He’d ridden off alone, saying it was too cold for Mary to come with him, bidding her to remain warm and comfortable at home.
Home. Mary had begun to think of Kilmorgan as such, not her father’s house in Lincolnshire. And now Kilmorgan was gone, burned from the inside out.
“I did not have to,” Halsey said in answer to Mary’s question. “The commander here has long wanted Kilmorgan brought to heel. I traveled north from Edinburgh as soon as Charles rode out of the city. I knew you’d been taken to Kilmorgan’s stronghold, and I hoped to find you. Edinburgh Castle is still held by the British and so is Stirling. The Scots prince will find it a bit more difficult holding Scotland than he imagines.”
The politics of it didn’t interest Mary. “What about the duke? Is he all right? And Lord Alec?”
Halsey looked surprised. “I have no idea. You were wrested from the Mackenzies’ clutches, Mary—why should you be concerned?”
“The duke is a good man,” Wilfort said, frowning. “Hospitable.”
“And Captain Ellis,” Mary said.
Halsey looked blank. “Who?”
Wilfort answered, “A fellow prisoner, who became a friend.”
“Oh, him.” Halsey waved a hand. “He’s off somewhere being questioned about his capture, I imagine.”
“And Lord Alec?” Mary repeated, wanting to launch herself at Halsey and shake him. “Is he well?” And alive? The soldiers who’d captured him had beaten him again and again.
“You mean the mad Highlander who fought like the devil? I believe they brought him in and chained him up somewhere. Serves him right. He came to my cell in Edinburgh and offered to pay me the price of your dowry if I released you from our betrothal, cheeky devil.”
Mary’s lips went numb. “That could not have been Alec . . .”
“No—his name was . . . Ah, I have it. Malcolm Mackenzie. So difficult to tell these barbarians apart.”
Mary wanted to sit down, but no chair was handy. She kept to her feet, her knees shaking.
Even the syllables of Malcolm’s name made Mary’s heart squeeze. Was he still alive? Well? Lying bloody and dying?
She had to escape this place, find him. Once she knew he was alive, could touch him, then she could shout at him for offering to pay the price of her dowry. If Halsey told the truth—he had proved himself to be a vile liar.
“Wilfort, may I speak to Mary alone?” Halsey was asking. “I have been quite dreadfully concerned for her. I would like to express my sentiments in private.”
“No,” Wilfort answered coolly and without hesitation. “I’m not certain about your actions, Halsey. We will have to discuss the question of the betrothal at length, when we are home and safe.”
Halsey’s smile turned sour. “An agreement is an agreement, Wilfort. I haven’t broken my side of it. Has Mary?”
Wilfort stiffened. “Mary has been in my care during this entire ordeal.”
“But barbarians, with such a pristine lady in their midst . . . I cannot expect they respected her as they should. Perhaps you let them do as they wished, in order that your captivity was not as dire as it could be.”
Wilfort’s face went dark red. “Now, see here, Halsey—keep your disgusting thoughts to yourself in front of my daughter . . .”
“Yes,” Mary broke in. Her fear and rage whirled together. Images of the burning castle and soldiers battering the furniture with their muskets spun together with Malcolm making love to her in their aerie above the castle, where she’d be wrapped in his plaids and warmed by the fire.
“I am Malcolm Mackenzie’s lover,” Mary said fiercely to Halsey. “I am not ashamed of it. I love him, and if he’s been hurt, I will find a way to kill you.”
Halsey’s eyes widened during this speech. Then they narrowed in fury and he struck out. Mary ducked the blow, having expected it, and Halsey found his fist caught in the steely grip of Captain Ellis.
“Please do not attempt to strike this lady again, my lord,” Ellis said, his voice chilly. “Lady Mary and her father are under my protection, and I might take offense.”
Halsey tried to jerk away but Captain Ellis held him fast. “Let go of me, sir. Do you know who I am?”
“You are the man about to apologize to Lady Mary,” Ellis said, his gaze unwavering.
“No, I am the man who can make your life very difficult. I can have your commission taken and you facing court-martial in a moment’s thought.”
“If it’s done after you apologize, then very well.”
Halsey jerked again, and Captain Ellis deliberately opened his hand, letting him go. Halsey straightened his coat and glared at Mary. “I do not apologize to whores.”
Captain Ellis didn’t blink. “I see.”
In the next moment, his fist struck Halsey’s jaw, and the man went down.
Shouting outside the tent pulled Mary away from the delightful sight. Captain Ellis calmly turned and exited the tent, and Mary ducked out after him.
The night beyond the camp’s fires was dark. The commander had halted them here, a bit north of Inverness, wanting to wait for light to travel the final fifteen miles to the town. With the loyalties of the Highlanders in this area in question, it was safer to camp and set guards than be spread thin on the trail in the dark.
Mary hurried as quickly as she dared after Captain Ellis, her father behind her. She stopped not far from the tent but close enough to the commander to hear him shouting at his men. The commander was from Yorkshire, and his northern English accent cut through the night.
“Gone? What d’ye mean, he’s gone? Ye shackled him proper, didn’t ye?”
“Locked him in the stocks, sir,” a young English lieutenant, face smeared with mud, answered. “Locks were picked, chains empty.”
“Bloody hell, Lieutenant. Then take some men and go after him!”
The lieutenant hesitated and exchanged a glance with the sergeant of a Highland company next to him. The commander noted the look.
“Well? Speak up, Sergeant,” he said to the Highlander. “It’s clear you have sommat t’ say.”
The sergeant stood to attention. “Begging your pardon, sir, but Lord Alec didn’t set himself free. His brother must have done it.”
“His brother, eh?” The commander looked thoughtful, then returned to full bellow. “Well, then get after them both! You should have brought the pair of ’em in in the first place.”
“Sir,” the Highland soldier said. “With respect, sir, you’re speaking of Malcolm Mackenzie. There’s no one knows this part of the Highlands better than him. You’ll never find them. Mal Mackenzie will creep up behind your men in the dark and slit their throats before they even know they’re dead.”
The commander, a rather squat man with a round, red face under a simple, one-tailed wig, considered the sergeant’s words with ill-concealed impatience. “Take ten men,” he told the lieutenant. “Including you, Sergeant, since ye know this Mackenzie so well. Find these brothers, and then bring ’em to me. Do ye understand?”
Both sergeant and lieutenant looked resigned, but barked a brisk, “Yes, sir,” and turned to their men, the sergeant bellowing orders.
The commander’s gaze fell on Captain Ellis. “Go with them, eh, Ellis? Be off and capture your captor.”
Ellis came to attention. “Sir. Please make sure Lady Mary is well looked after. She has been through much.”
The commander gave him a dry glance. “Lady Mary and Lord Wilfort are personal guests, Captain. They will lack for nothin’.”
Ellis looked straight at the commander for a moment, seemed to be satisfied with the answer, saluted him, and jogged off after the small knot of men fading into the darkness. Firelight brushed his red coat, then he was gone.
The commander watched him go then turned to Wilfort and Mary. “It’s me pleasure to host you, my lord,” he said. “We’ll repair to me tent, if you don’t mind, and dine. But don’t worry about having to eat army rations, my lady. Me chef cooks a fair bit of grub.”